Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  Millie exhaled, limbs wobbly like so much blancmange. The Captain strode towards the foredeck, already bellowing orders. The old man stopped chewing tobacco long enough to emit a piercing whistle, producing two younger sailors.

  With rough efficiency, they pulled her arms behind her. Coarse rope was twisted tightly around her wrists as they did the same with Garrett before jerking them upright.

  ‘Git!’ the old sailor said, spitting out his tobacco.

  She walked unsteadily across the wet, slippery planking, stumbling with the ship’s continued movement. To either side, she saw figures and heard the rustle as huge sails were hoisted.

  Beyond the ship, hidden in the dark, was her home...more remote than the moon, stars or any constellation. She hadn’t told her family about the plan. She’d expected to do this quickly, efficiently, under the cover of darkness. She’d be in and out and back for breakfast.

  In an evening’s work, or a few evenings, she’d ensure that her mother did not have to go to debtors’ prison and her sister need not marry a lecherous, middle-aged man.

  Instead, her absence would be noted, her reputation ruined so that even Mr Edmunds would not want to marry her. Granted she did not particularly want to marry Mr. Edmunds, but the union would have offered her mother and sister some financial stability.

  Risk-taking and misplaced optimism were the hallmarks of the Lansdowne family. Her father had lost his money in investments gone wrong. Her brother had lost his life in gambling gone wrong. And now she—apparently—might well lose her life in smuggling gone wrong.

  She’d promised she’d keep Lil safe. She’d promised.

  But, like her father and brother before her, she had failed to save Lil, instead making her more vulnerable.

  ‘Git!’ the sailor holding her said, his rough voice jolting her back to the present as he shoved her into the small doorway leading below deck.

  She lurched unsteadily down the steps. The stench struck her first. It was a solid wall, a mix of sweat, stale food and human waste. Instinctively, Millie pulled back, only to feel the pistol at her spine. She continued forward into a corridor that was dimly lit by a single lantern. It swung, casting weird shadows within the narrow confines. The smell worsened.

  ‘Stop ’ere!’ The sailor thrust open the door and rough hands pushed her through so that she stumbled over the sill, falling to the floor.

  She heard Garrett also stagger.

  ‘Best get ’em tied up.’

  The older man’s gaze passed over her body so that she was painfully aware of the thin cotton shirt and the damp cloth clinging to her chemise. She pushed herself back, flattening her spine against the wall, as though this slight distance might provide protection. She struck her shoulder as she did so and, wincing, realised a hook stuck out of the wall. With efficient movements, one sailor grabbed the rope, looping it over the peg she had hit and wrenching her arms back with a painful twist.

  ‘That ought to keep you still.’ His smile widened. She shivered, although it was not cold in the belly of the ship.

  The men turned. The torch flickered with their movement, distorting their silhouettes. They stepped into the corridor, taking the light with them and letting the door slam.

  The bolt slid into pace with a final metallic click.

  * * *

  Sam could see nothing. The darkness felt impenetrable, as though made of a substance more solid than air. As for his fellow captive, he could discern no part of her form or face. The only evidence of her presence was the intake of her breath and the shuffling sound as she shifted against the wall.

  ‘How do you know me?’ he asked into the fetid air.

  ‘I have an excellent memory for faces.’

  ‘We have met? How? Who are you?’

  She made no reply. He heard her swallow.

  ‘I know you are a woman. There is no need to dissemble,’ he said.

  ‘It is not in my nature to dissemble.’ Her voice was sharp. There was that clipped tone, a clarity of enunciation which did not sound like that of a local villager.

  ‘You are not from the village.’

  ‘I was born just outside Fowey.’

  ‘But you are educated.’

  ‘Being from the village does not preclude education,’ she said.

  ‘No, but it makes it less likely. What is your name?’ He sensed her reluctance. ‘I am hardly in a position to tell anyone and I imagine your absence may soon be noticed.’

  ‘Millicent Lansdowne.’

  He startled. He knew the name. They were small landowners in the area. He had known her brother, Tom. He had eaten at their house when they’d still had a place in London. And drunk with Tom when he’d imagined his heart broken.

  Granted, the Lansdownes had lost money, but they were a decent family. Why would Tom’s sister be here? In a smuggling vessel? Involved as part of a criminal enterprise? It was a role totally unsafe and unsuitable for any female, never mind one from a decent family.

  ‘Miss Lansdowne?’ He looked in her direction as though to discern some clue even in the darkness. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘As I recall, we weren’t given much choice and were rather thrown into these confines.’

  ‘No, I mean, out here...at sea? Working for these people.’

  ‘Financial gain.’

  He almost admired her composure except her brazenness shocked him. Good Lord, surely she felt something: shame or embarrassment or something.

  ‘But these men are...are pirates. Your family owns land. Your brother would be...distressed,’ he said.

  ‘They are smugglers. And my brother rather forfeited the right to such distress when he took a nose dive off his horse. It is hard to emote from the grave.’

  Her voice was blunt to the point of coldness. Sam had forgotten about Tom’s tragic accident. He’d become quite wild after his father’s death, gambling, drinking, duelling and taking crazy risks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘You may have other things on your mind at present.’

  Good God, he did not know if this was dry wit or unpleasant hardness. He did not know if he was shocked, appalled or fascinated.

  ‘My condolences,’ he added. ‘On both your father and brother’s passing, I mean.’

  ‘Mr Garrett, I realise that gentlemen of fashion feel the need to fill in the silence with small talk. However, that is not required here.’

  ‘I was merely expressing my condolences.’

  ‘I am not particularly at ease with small talk or condolences.’

  Just then the ship pitched sharply and he applied himself again to the ropes, determined to loosen them. They would have no chance of escape if the ship sank, tethered as they were.

  ‘The Rising Dawn is a seaworthy vessel,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘It has been crossing between Cornwall and France these many years.’

  ‘I am reassured.’

  ‘And I know someone on board. I hope... I am certain he will help.’

  ‘You know someone? A young lady shouldn’t know smugglers,’ he said.

  ‘Young ladies in Cornwall sometimes do.’

  His mind was still reeling. He had vague memories of Tom’s mother, Mrs Lansdowne—a typical matron, as he recalled. ‘What does your mother say?’

  There was a pause. ‘She doesn’t know, but I am certain she would express disapproval quite volubly.’

  He did not know what to say. All young ladies of his acquaintance held their mothers in high esteem or at least pretended to do so, when in public.

  ‘And this friend will help? So far, they have not been exactly hospitable.’

  ‘“Friend” may be an exaggeration. I hardly know Sally’s husband. And he would not consider me a friend, more an acquaintance. He strongly disapproved of the idea and was quite cross w
ith me when I made it clear I would be going through with it.’

  The man, whatever his other shortcomings, showed some sense. ‘But you think he will help?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Her certainty of assistance was naive. Sam wanted to disillusion her, but it felt unkind. Besides, right now, she was his only ally so it made little sense to antagonise her.

  ‘I will attempt to loosen the knots in case he does not come,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed, it is always wise to have an alternate plan.’

  ‘It might have been wiser for you to stay on shore,’ he muttered.

  ‘But fortunate for you I did not. And you’re welcome, by the way.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I saved your life,’ she said.

  ‘I—Yes, I suppose you did. Thank you. What happened exactly?’

  ‘You were drowning. I rescued you at some inconvenience to myself.’

  ‘Right.’ He vaguely remembered searing pain in his lungs, the choking taste of salt water and then a desperate fight for air. He felt a confused muddle of emotion: shock, gratitude, curiosity, intrigue and even admiration. ‘Er...thank you. You are unusual. I mean, you are very composed, given the situation.’

  ‘I suppose that has always been my role. My mother has a predilection for hysterics. Father was absent and tended towards grandiose gestures. Someone had to be sensible.’

  He wanted to say that, given their situation, sense did not seem to be her greatest attribute but this again felt unkind. Besides, the woman had saved his life, no mean feat given the storm and weather.

  ‘Well, thank you for my life, I mean,’ he said, conscious that this statement seemed inadequate.

  ‘Truthfully, I am not as “composed” as I might seem. In fact, in retrospect, I rather wish I’d chosen not to do this.’ She sounded less airy and he felt an unexpected sympathy.

  ‘Why did you?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if you do not mind me asking?’

  ‘My father lost a lot of money, as you might know. My brother gambled. We are in some financial difficulties and my sister may have to marry an unpleasant person. I wanted to help. This seemed like the best solution.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He heard her swallow and the rustle of cloth as though she had shrugged or shifted against the wall.

  He felt a certain empathy. She must have been desperate.

  ‘So now you know my story. Why did you end up in—?’ she started to ask, but was silenced by the grating grind of rusty metal against rusty metal.

  Sam stiffened. He felt his eyes widen as though this would help see in the heavy darkness. He tugged at the ropes, twisting his fingers against the rough hemp until the tips felt raw.

  The door swung inwards, banging against the inner wall. Lamplight spilled into the dank confines. A figure of immense size filled the doorway, his uneven features visible within the light.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Jem!’

  Relief filled the woman’s voice.

  ‘Hush, woman. Do not be shouting from the rooftop,’ the man said, his words a harsh whisper, which seemed at odds given his size.

  He moved forward, his shoulders so broad that he had to angle himself sideways to proceed through the door. Once inside he was unable to straighten, but stood, hunched, his head bowed by the ceiling.

  ‘Fool woman...do not you remember my last words to you? Pick up the merchandise, I said. Pick up the merchandise and chase straight back to shore. And here you are locked up in the brig.’

  ‘I did not choose to board. Your Captain would have shot me if I hadn’t complied.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have if you hadn’t collected strays.’

  ‘I could hardly let this gentleman drown.’

  ‘It would have been wiser.’

  ‘As you may know, wisdom does not run in my family,’ she said wryly, but with a bitter undertone.

  ‘Look,’ Sam said, ‘I hate to break up this reunion, but can you cut through these ropes?’

  ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘The aforementioned stray. Samuel Garrett.’

  Breathing heavily, the man squatted beside Sam. He pulled out a knife, hacking through the ropes with a steady rasp of steel on hemp. The ropes sprang loose, falling to the ground.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sam flexed his wrists, then pulled himself upright. It hurt to stand. His muscles had cramped and the movement made his head thump so that the Spartan confines spun. For a second, he feared he would fall, but the room steadied, or rather steadied as much as the lurching vessel would permit.

  The man, Jem, cut through the remaining ropes at Millie’s wrists so that she also stood, stretching gingerly.

  ‘Where are we going? Are we heading down the coast?’ she asked.

  ‘Across to France,’ Jem said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘France,’ Jem repeated as though they were hard of hearing. ‘Which reminds me—the Captain wants to see you once we’re clear of the coast. Oh, aye, and I have some water and bread outside if you’ve a thirst.’

  The man exited, ducking into the passage, returning with water and bread. He passed the crusts, then poured the water into tin mugs. The water was brackish and the bread hard. Indeed, the ship’s movement combined with the putrid stench gave Sam little appetite. Besides, he’d eaten dinner. Dinner... For a moment, the memories felt closer, much as one might see something obliquely, from the corner of the eye.

  He tried to focus on the confusing mix of images: candlesticks, crystal, silverware...the smell of rich food and heavy sauces. He remembered his sister, Frances. He had been worried about her. He hadn’t seen her for two years. In the afternoon she’d clung to her new baby, but had appeared happy with motherhood. At dinner, she’d seemed different, as if diminished, withdrawing into herself. His brother-in-law was there also, but he couldn’t remember him well. Indeed, Sam’s memories of dinner remained obscure, as though looking through a thick, blanketing fog.

  And then nothing.

  His mind was a hole, a blank slate. One moment he was at dinner and the next he was choking and retching at the bottom of a smuggling tender.

  It made no sense—a misadventure on a fox hunt, a fall from his horse, even a curricle accident...but drowning off the coast of Cornwall? He did not even like the sea and why would he have walked out in the middle of a ruddy storm?

  They drank in silence. The boat was moving less and the wind had decreased, although they could still hear the steady patter of rain mixed with the creak of beams and waves slapping against the sides.

  The torch illuminated the small space and Sam studied Miss Lansdowne’s features, trying to remember when or where they’d met. He couldn’t and her features had an arresting, unusual quality so it seemed strange that he would forget her so entirely. Large eyes dominated a thin, pale face. Her mouth was well shaped but somewhat unsmiling and her brows were dark and straight, giving her countenance a somewhat severe expression. Her forehead was high with wisps of hair escaping from a sailor’s cap and her chin jutted forward.

  ‘You said the Captain wants to see us?’ the woman asked the giant of the man, breaking the silence.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Would you know the Captain’s plan as it pertains to us?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But you have a notion?’

  ‘I told him as how you was very handy with lace.’

  ‘Lace? I know nothing of lace,’ Miss Lansdowne said.

  ‘Yer mum’s a fancy lady. You must have picked up summat. Besides I needed to convince the Captain that you had greater use alive than dead. Sal will not forgive me if you ends up dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I would be somewhat put out, too. He still has a mind to kill us?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And my knowledge of lace will save us
?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She swallowed. ‘I know nothing about lace,’ she repeated.

  ‘Well, learn fast. The Captain’s been a tad tetchy of late.’

  ‘Tetchy?’

  ‘Not himself. Worried like. Too many excise men about, you know, since the wars ended. Too many wrecks as well, ’e says.’

  ‘Not quite what we are wanting to hear,’ she muttered, her lips twisting into a slight smile which softened her expression.

  ‘The Rising Dawn’s a good ship. Besides, he’ll keep you around. Lace is a growing market, ’e says.’

  ‘Easily hidden, I suppose,’ Sam added. ‘I heard that the patrols have been stepped up along the coast.’

  ‘Aye. More excise men ’ere than a dog has fleas, begging yer pardon, miss,’ Jem said. ‘So just make certain we do not get any shoddy cloth, you’ll be fine. Might even keep you on for a bit.’

  Miss Lansdowne nodded somewhat distractedly. Her fingers rubbed against the rough fabric of her trousers. Sam could feel her anxiety growing. Strange that she could row through a storm, rescue him, conspire with smugglers, but panic over lace.

  Perhaps that was a characteristic of fear, like grief. He’d been stoic when his mother died and dry-eyed when sent to school to ‘toughen up’. Indeed, even his father’s passing had had little impact. Then when Annie Whistler broke their engagement, he’d been a man drowning, shattered. All rational process stopped. One managed for so long and then one did not.

  ‘I... I do not...know if I can pretend...to...to know...about...lace.’ Miss Lansdowne’s words, punctuated with breathy gasps, brought him back to the present, as her fingers continued to work nervously against the coarse cloth of her trousers.

  ‘Miss Lansdowne. I’d give you a brandy if I had one. Look, if we’re going to get out of here alive, you need to be calm.’

  She inhaled and nodded, but her eyes still looked too huge in her thin face, as though the panic was there, lingering under the surface.

  His years at school had felt like that, a calm surface hiding the panic underneath. He’d survived only by showing a confidence he’d seldom felt. That was always the key to survival: pretence. Indeed, that was Annie’s attraction. He’d fallen so totally, absolutely in love, he’d felt himself complete, invincible, whole. Until, of course, she met a duke with double the fortune and double the lands and he’d learned that life was a solitary enterprise.