The Foundling Bride

by Helen Dickson

  And so Lowena was transported to another world. The house was an Aladdin’s cave of sumptuous wealth, beauty and refinement, all paid for with the proceeds of her father’s silver mine.

  But was this what she wanted? she asked herself. Growing up, she’d spent hours and hours talking with Kenza and Annie, imagining what it would be like to attend the parties and balls that made up the lives of the elite, and the eligible young gentlemen they would meet. And now she had it for real. Her father was her entrée into this new life, into a society she had only ever imagined, into a more exciting life.

  True to her word. Deborah arranged Lowena’s wardrobe, employing the modiste who enjoyed her own patronage. And there followed hectic days, which passed into weeks, of intensive instruction in perfecting the intricate steps of numerous dances. She learned how to curtsey without wobbling, deportment, and how to utilise her femininity by learning the correct use of the fan—how to hold it, how to close it. Lowena thought it all quite unnecessary, but to humour Deborah went along with it.

  She slept in a spacious room beautifully decorated and furnished with only the finest. She had a servant to dress her, to bathe her, and someone to educate her in the proper way to behave in society.

  To alleviate the tedium, her father took her on some tours of London. He wanted her to experience and explore the delights of the vibrant and sociable city, with its big squares and monuments. Here were sights and sounds and smells that Lowena had read about in storybooks brought to life. London was a delicious assault on every sense—a living, breathing city that filled her with excitement and curiosity.

  She loved the beautiful gardens and parks—in particular Hyde Park, where she would often ride with her father or parade with Deborah in the carriage. The park was a rendezvous for the fashionable and the beautiful, with their splendid shining carriages and high-stepping horses. In her new attire Lowena presented a new distraction, drawing the admiring, curious and hopeful eyes of several dashing young males, displaying their prowess on high-spirited horses.

  Under the watchful eye of Sir Robert and his wife Lowena blossomed into an extremely desirable young woman, who was refreshingly unselfconscious of her beauty. The attention she drew when they were out delighted them.

  On seeing how dazzled and confused Lowena was by this, Deborah laughed lightly. ‘You see how the gentlemen look at you, Lowena? I think it is time to introduce you to some of our friends. Already people are asking questions about you and when they can be introduced.’

  Lowena wasn’t so sure that she wanted to be paraded before these elegant gentlemen, prancing about on their magnificent horses. Her thoughts on what going out in society would entail and the many difficulties she might encounter made her feel extremely nervous, but she knew she would have to face it some time.

  And face it she did.

  Lowena embraced London and London embraced her. Heads turned wherever she went and she was creditably besieged by impeccable young men who flocked to her side. Courted and sought after, she was surprised to find herself enjoying herself to such an extent that her life began to resemble an obstacle course—but she allowed none of the pressing young men to come too close...

  * * *

  There was still no word from Lowena, and the horrifying days ran into weeks without her, exposing Marcus to himself in an unforgiving light that he could not ignore. By asking Lowena to leave Tregarrick he had hurt her very badly—and himself.

  This feeling of loss was so profound it filled him with a hopeless sense of desolation that made him feel as though everything was spinning out of his control. Every day he forced himself to do his work, trying not to think of her. It was difficult when the house in which he lived echoed with images of her in every room he entered. There was no escape from the whisper of memory of her—from visions of that spectacular, magical, unforgettable night when he had made love to her, from the smell of her, the taste of her that still lingered on his tongue.

  She was in every part of him, haunting him like a ghost. What had he done? He would have killed for her—died for her—and yet he had let her go. For what?

  He didn’t know where to begin to undo the damage he had done—and he couldn’t do that until he had found her. The longer they were apart the harder any reconciliation with her would be.

  Two days before his departure for London with his mother, he was riding home from the mine and was concerned to find a squadron of dragoons had arrived in the area unannounced. They were camped half a mile inland. Before going to bed he went to Tregarrick, to see if Edward was aware of the soldiers’ presence and to advise him not to risk any smuggling ventures while they were in the area.

  He met Peter Grimes on the drive, one of Edward’s trusted men, and asked him if he knew of the dragoons’ presence.

  Peter nodded gravely. ‘They’ve had word that some locals have been flouting the law and involving themselves in smuggling—landing vessels carrying contraband in the cove. They are here to investigate.’

  ‘Where is my brother?

  ‘He isn’t here. He left for Guernsey the day before yesterday. That is where the cargo is waiting. He doesn’t normally go himself, but this time there was some negotiating to do with the French. He was certain it would all go well—that all he’d have to do was ship it aboard and bring it in. The wind direction is ideal for the journey. There is also a sea mist, which is in his favour—but it will mean nothing if he runs into an ambush in the cove.’

  Marcus stared at the man. He didn’t want to consider in detail what Edward risked by sailing into the cove tonight. He preferred the tension inside him to the risk of facing the potentially painful truth that what he had feared for years was about to occur.

  ‘He doesn’t know about the dragoons?’

  ‘No. I have been wondering at the best way to warn him.’

  ‘What time is he expected to arrive?’

  ‘He should be coming into the cove some time around midnight. I’ve sent out word to stop the pack ponies. I can’t stop the boat. I’ve also learnt that a Revenue cutter is in the area. Lord Carberry will be off his guard. He’ll bring the boat into the cove and the dragoons will invade the beach at the very last moment.’

  ‘Are the dragoons aware that my brother is involved?’

  ‘No. He’s always been careful.’

  ‘And how do they know there is to be a cargo arriving tonight?’

  ‘Someone talked—damn them.’

  ‘Can the beacon be lit to warn him?’

  ‘The soldiers are strung out along the coastal path—they’re everywhere. There’s no way we can light it without being seen and arrested.’

  Marcus did not have the luxury of time to think about the two options and weigh the relative morality of each. He could only act or let Edward face certain arrest and death. Despite everything Edward was guilty of where he was concerned, death was not an option. He was still his brother.

  He chose to act.

  ‘Edward will have to be warned. Can we get a boat?’

  ‘In the village. There are enough fishing boats.’

  ‘Will you accompany me?’

  Peter nodded. ‘We’d better go.’

  Marcus realised he must have all his wits about him, and tried to stop himself thinking about anything but the urgency of the task in front of him. But the closer he got to the village the more his anxiety grew,—as did his anger. Images of his brother being arrested, hot—hanged—manifested themselves.

  It was an hour off midnight when they reached the village—a twisting collection of alleys. The air was pungent with the odours of fish and kelp. Making their way to the uneven cobbled landing, where lobster baskets and fishing nets were stacked high and fishing boats had been dragged clear of the water, they knocked on a couple of doors and managed to secure a boat from a local fisherman, who was a volunteer for
the smugglers and happy to loan them his boat.

  It was drawn up just above the waterline. Fortunately the tide had just turned, and it didn’t take much effort to push it into the water. Taking an oar each, they pushed it clear of the shore. The night, dark and moonless, favoured them. The sea was calm, with only the slightest swell. Moving the oars rhythmically, they were soon clear of the village.

  Not until they were well out to sea did they consider it safe to light their lantern. It was a lantern with a spout attached, which funnelled the light out to sea and was less likely to be seen by people on shore. The cutter would carry no lights, and Marcus knew it would be impossible to see it until it was almost upon them.

  As he pulled on the oar Marcus asked himself why he was doing this. But he could come up with nothing more than a host of memories of how, as a boy, he had craved Edward’s friendship—and he was his brother. This alone made its own demand that he try and save him. Although he did consider the wisdom of his actions. How he would explain his own presence to the Revenue men, should they be caught, was a difficulty he didn’t want to contemplate.

  After rowing for a further fifteen minutes they heard a sound ahead of them. It came again—the sound of oars moving in the water. The two men stopped rowing, straining their eyes in the gathering mist. Suddenly the cutter became visible, and the men at the oars. It was a ghostly silhouette against the sky.

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice shouted. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There is danger,’ Marcus called. ‘Is Edward Carberry aboard?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘His brother—Marcus Carberry.’

  The cutter was ever closer to them now, and Marcus could see a man hanging over the rail. He held the lantern close to his face.

  ‘Dear God!’ Marcus heard his brother cry. ‘What the hell...?’ He gave some orders and then came back to the rail, the better to see Marcus. ‘Come alongside and we’ll take you aboard. How many of you are there?’

  ‘Just me and Peter Grimes.’

  The men on the cutter shipped their oars so the boat could draw up alongside. When they had climbed aboard, and the boat had been secured to the stern of the cutter, Edward scrutinised his brother’s face in the dim light.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Edward demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You can’t go into the cove. Dragoons are waiting for you there.’

  Marcus watched the play of emotions on his brother’s face.

  ‘So you came to warn me?’ he said, walking between the oarsmen to the bow of the boat, where a cabin was located, piled with cargo of every description. ‘You mean to say you are prepared to sully your reputation—perhaps your life—to salvage mine? What a turn-out that is. What’s it to you what happens to me?’

  ‘What should I have done?’ Marcus replied irately, standing with his brother in the cabin doorway, where the smell of tobacco and liquor and the fragrance of French perfume mingled with the stench of bilge water. ‘Ignored them and let them take you?’

  Edward regarded him evenly for a moment, before he offered a cool, mocking smile. ‘So you have come to save my skin? How very noble of you.’

  ‘Noble be damned. You are my brother.’

  Uttered as a simple declaration of fact, the statement brought a tight smile to Edward’s lips. ‘This should be your moment of exultation, Marcus—an exultation that has its roots in revenge. Here it is. Retribution after all. Here is justice. If there has to be an accounting, surely this is it.’

  Marcus wanted to say that their blood tied them inextricably together, that it was that same blood that had brought him here to warn him. But he did not mention that fact now. He didn’t tell him that he had not expected to feel this way—not the desire to rescue Edward nor the need to protect him.

  ‘Only if they catch you,’ he said instead.

  Edward’s face was impassive. Each feature settled as he considered his options—as Marcus had done earlier. And then, for the very first time, he faced the inescapable reality of the dangerous and exciting life style he had chosen, and the fact that the justice system was about to catch up with him. It didn’t seem so exciting now—it had not done so for a long time.

  ‘Then there is nothing for it. We’ll have to run for it. Put out the lantern. It might be seen. Although they will realise soon enough that we are not running into the trap they’ve set.’

  They had not yet sighted a ship, so when the cannon shot sounded, missing them by a safe distance, Edward and the crew were shocked. Then suddenly there was a shout that seemed to shatter the stillness.

  ‘Heave to! I command you to heave to in the name of His Majesty King George!’

  ‘It has to be the Revenue men,’ Marcus provided. ‘They’ve been prowling about all day—no doubt tipped off by the dragoons. Can we outrun them?’

  Edward had recovered quickly. ‘We’ll have a damned good try. The shot came from the east. The cutter’s most likely from Saltash—not that it matters. What matters is they’ll not know the coast as well as we do. They’ve clearly heard us, but may not have seen us. Take up your oars, men, and row for your lives. We’ll head back out to sea and slip into the mist. Hopefully they won’t be able to follow us. With strong oarsmen we’ll be quick enough to avoid the Revenue cutter and any other ships that might be out looking for us.’

  Marcus felt the boat move forward at a pace that he had never believed possible. For several moments all that could be heard was the rattle of the oar locks and the grunt of the oarsmen.

  ‘If you were to jettison the cargo you’d be faster,’ Marcus suggested. ‘And then at least if they were to board the boat you could not be arrested for smuggling.’

  ‘What?’ Edward barked. ‘I’m not that stupid. I’ve paid a fortune for this cargo. No, I have a better idea. When we’ve lost them we’ll take it further down the coast to Wellan Cove. They won’t be expecting us there, and we can store it in the caves until it’s safe to be moved. Keep rowing!’ he commanded. ‘Hard at it!’

  It was two hours later that the boat ground onto the soft shingle of Wellan Cove and Edward sprang out. The men worked quickly and quietly to empty the boat of its cargo and store it deep inside one of the many caves there. Not until the last cask had been stored did Edward come to stand beside his brother.

  ‘What now?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘We’ll wait until first light and then we’ll sail the boat back to Tregarrick village—catch some fish on the way. That way nothing can be proved, should anyone in an official capacity be prowling around.’ He looked at his brother. ‘You’ll stay and go back with us?’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘I’ll walk to the nearest village or farm and borrow a horse.’ He began to turn. ‘Have a care, Edward. You’re not out of the woods yet.’

  ‘Marcus?’

  He turned back.

  ‘You risked a great deal coming to warn us. Thank you—on behalf of all of us. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘I am not your responsibility.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with responsibility. Why do you do it, Edward? You are a wealthy, powerful man. What more do you want?’

  At any other time Marcus would have stepped back, with no lowering of his defences, for any attempt to reach Edward in simple brotherly friendship had always condemned him to failure. But this time he didn’t step back. His eyes were compelling as he looked directly into his brother’s.

  The effect was disconcerting. Maybe it had something to do with what Marcus had risked for him tonight, or something else, but whatever it was it drew confidence—demanded truth from Edward when he wanted to avoid giving it. He had to speak.

  ‘The spirit of adventure...the excitement.’ He smiled cynically. ‘Of late the pleasure smuggling has always held for me has been beginning to wane—no doubt
you will be relieved to hear that. I’ve been sailing too close to the wind for a long time—especially tonight.’

  Marcus nodded, digesting Edward’s words. ‘You’re right. I am relieved to hear that. I hope you can find something more worthwhile to do with your time.’

  Edward watched him go. Marcus’s words had sounded with a ring of finality—the end of any possibility to put things right between them. His mind reached back over the years and he tried to remember the boy who had come home from school, eager for his older brother’s friendship. But Marcus was that boy no longer. There was no way to go back. No way to make amends.

  When he was a boy himself, it had been Edward’s father’s marriage to Marcus’s mother that Edward hadn’t been able to face. He had seen it as a betrayal of his own mother’s memory. It hadn’t mattered to him that his stepmother and his father had loved each other. He hadn’t understood it. It just hadn’t seemed possible to him, and he hadn’t been able to abide his own ignorance. How could his father love another woman?

  From the moment his mother had died he had forced himself to be brave—striving for indifference, making a show of the fact that at five years old he could stand the trauma, the devastation of loss that he barely understood. And so he had given himself over to hurting others. And in doing so he had achieved a revenge that in the beginning and over the years that had ensued was satisfying.

  But now he saw the true attainment of such a twisted victory. The vengeance he had wrought upon Marcus for merely being the son of the woman who had intruded into his life, stealing the affections of his father which he had craved to be directed at him alone, had merely turned on him, wounding himself.

  It was as if he were finally seeing how irreparable was the damage he had done to his relationship with his brother over the years.

  He could not go back. That was impossible. But he would try to go on—to make some kind of restitution.

  Chapter Eight

  It was early afternoon. Marcus had arrived in London the previous day with his mother and now, arm in arm with his sister Juliet, he strolled along the paths of Hyde Park, which was a hive of colour and activity. A slight breeze skimmed his face. The fine spring weather had beckoned people from all walks of life. They came to enjoy themselves—some to walk and others to ride, Marcus to enjoy the company of his sister.