‘What?’ She jerked to a stop so suddenly that he almost collided with her. She turned around sharply, her expression again becoming one of hostility. ‘Why?’
‘My sister lives there.’
‘Your sister lives at Manton Hall? Married to Jason Ludlow?’
‘Yes, you know him?’
‘Not well,’ she spoke quickly, all trace of humour gone, almost spitting out the words as though they tasted bitter on the tongue.
‘You do not like him?’
She shrugged. ‘I do not like him or his friends. However, your situation is easily explained. You and Ludlow made some crazy wager to see who could balance on a cliff, swim across the cove or something equally foolish.’
‘Gracious, for someone conspiring with pirates you sound rather judgemental.’
‘Smugglers. And I prefer sensible.’
‘Which was why you chose to row in a storm?’
She stiffened, swallowing. He saw the movement in her throat and an expression of bleak sadness flicker across her countenance. ‘You are correct. I made a poor choice. Poor choices are a family failing.’
‘Miss Lansdowne, I did not mean to upset you.’
‘I am not upset. Your statement is entirely accurate. My choice may greatly impact my family, who have already experienced so much pain.’ There was a raw, pent-up emotion within the flat tones.
‘I...look...’
‘Might I suggest we focus on working together to ensure our survival as opposed to deciphering the past? Doubtless whatever led to your near drowning will become clear if—when—we get home. Talking is slowing our progress. At this rate we’ll never get anywhere before nightfall. Let us continue in silence unless there is something urgent to mention.’
He wanted to argue. He felt angry at her flat dismissal. He also felt peculiarly sad that he’d upset her and irritated that his brother-in-law was condemned while pirating was entirely permissible. Moreover, he was confused that he even cared what this odd woman thought. He was hardly likely to strike up a long acquaintance.
Indeed, it was decidedly more important to determine how he’d ended up drowning and requiring rescue. Despite Miss Lansdowne’s strongly stated opinion, he did not like Jason Ludlow sufficiently to drink excessively with him, gamble or take foolish risks.
So why had he have left his sister’s house in the middle of a rain storm? Why go to the sea?
And so his thoughts kept circling to no effect. The more he pushed the fuzzier dinner became, as if the very act of thinking thickened the fog.
They continued in silence. He did not like the scenery. It seemed so endless, static, without change. Almost he could think that his mind was playing cruel tricks. He glared at the horizon. Maybe that was it. Maybe the moor turned one odd. Cornwall had not helped Frances. He remembered a woman who loved fashion, the theatre, and all the trappings city life. And now...she seemed hollow, a shell of skin and bone.
And Miss Lansdowne was decidedly...odd. Yet, she did not evoke sympathy. Instead, despite the pain and cold, there was a strength about her as she moved, sure footed, as though she belonged in these wild places.
‘Sam! Look!’ Millie’s sharp tones cut through his abstraction as she again halted abruptly. She pointed towards the horizon. At first, he could see nothing, but then, hunkered against the hillside, he saw the outline of a hut, the grey stones visible against the yellowed grasses. Almost, it seemed like a mirage or illusion.
‘Should we go there?’ she asked.
‘It’s out of our way. How far to Fowey? Will we make it by nightfall?’
She looked about the landscape. ‘I’m not certain. It is still some distance. And the days are short.’
He glanced towards the sky. They had been walking for hours. Day was sliding into the heavy gloom of late afternoon. The lull between storms was also ending. He could feel the wind picking up, pushing the heavy, black, rain clouds inwards across the moor.
‘I wish we could get home tonight,’ he said. ‘Your family must be so worried for you.’
‘And yours.’
‘And your reputation...’
‘Flora will say that I went out fishing and got caught in the storm. At least, I hope she will.’
‘You do that often? Fish?’
‘Yes. Though not usually in a storm.’
He stared towards the solitary dwelling. He hated to think of Frances being worried or scared for him. He’d stayed away much too long, only to arrive and then disappear.
‘Maybe someone living there could help us get to Fowey quicker. They might have a donkey or cart.’ He doubted this, even as he said the words. Even from this distance, the place looked abandoned. He saw no light or smoke from the chimney. ‘And, at least, we could find shelter.’
‘But what if...?’ Millie let the sentence peter into the air. He knew she was visualising the slaughter at the beach.
‘It is more likely a peat-cutter’s cottage than anything ominous. Besides, if we cannot get to Fowey before nightfall...’
‘We’ll die of exposure.’
* * *
Of course, they could not go as the crow flies. To do so, they would have had to take a short cut through the peat bog with all its inherent dangers.
Instead, she guided them around the high land towards the hill. As always, the moors played its tricks and the hut remained tantalisingly distant. The only thing marking the passage of time was her heavy-limbed exhaustion, the dimming daylight and a growing thirst and hunger.
Millie tried to imagine what her family might be doing. Flora, their only remaining servant, was the most practical. She would take control. Likely she would have urged Millie’s mother to lie down, giving her a sleeping draught. Then she would have walked down to the village to talk to Sally. Likely Sal would tell her about the smuggling.
Then a more awful thought struck her; a ‘what if’ bringing with it an endless series of ‘what ifs’. Jem and the others might have been found. If so, Sal and Flora would think she had also died. Mother would likely take to her bed. Lil would be devastated and forced to marry Harwood.
Sweat made Millie’s palms clammy. In her imagination, Lil was married before they’d even got back home and spirited away to Harwood’s estate. But this was not sensible. The bans had to be read. Not that Millie trusted Harwood to even offer legitimate marriage. He would be the type to get a friend to masquerade as a minister. Really, whether his offer was legitimate or not, it did not matter. He was cruel. She’d heard the tales. She’d seen the maids with bruises, the women bustled back up to London or hidden in some cottage, their bellies growing.
Thankfully, these thoughts were interrupted by the more pleasant sound of the burbling stream twisting through the granite crevasse. It danced over the pebbles, its surface puckered with a scattering of raindrops.
‘Thank goodness.’ She hurried forward, bending over the clear water and cupping her hands. The relief as she quenched her thirst pushed out less immediate worries.
‘A man can manage without food, but water is another matter,’ Mr Garrett said.
‘The streams running off the tor are usually fresh.’ She drank quickly, relishing the clear chilled liquid with its earthy taste of minerals. She felt it dribble down her chin and did not care, splashing her face with the cool, refreshing droplets.
She sat back, licked her lips. ‘Better than the best wine.’
Glancing up, she caught his gaze and, although he said nothing, something in his stillness and the intensity of his dark gaze made her oddly self-conscious. She rubbed off the sweat, salt and grime on her face with a hurried movement of her sleeve. ‘I do not think I will ever feel clean again.’
‘I am not certain if your current efforts have improved the situation.’ He gave that slightly lop-sided grin, the one dimple flickering.
‘You are one to talk.’ She
flicked water at him. Indeed, his face was covered by a layer of dirt, which somehow served to emphasise the grey-green of his eyes and make the tiny crease on his left cheek more visible.
He laughed as he wiped the droplets from his face with the remnants of his tattered cravat. Squatting beside her, he cupped his hands and splashed the water into his face. They were not physically touching and yet she felt conscious of his tall, long-limbed body, the tightness of his trousers against his muscled thighs, the triangle of chest visible in the ‘v’ of the torn shirt. She remembered the warmth of his skin against her cheek, the thud of his heart and the feeling of his arms about her.
She looked away.
Her focus must be to get home. She must hope that Mr Edmunds would still marry her. He was her best chance. And Lil’s. Even if he lacked sufficient money to pay off Tom’s debt, she would be in a better position to help Lil as a married woman. Edmunds was decent, if dull.
‘Not much further,’ she said, standing and looking up the incline. She hated that they had to interrupt their journey, the need to continue pulsing through her. Still it was not practical to collapse from either exposure or fatigue, she thought, stepping ahead with a firm step.
The grey stone cottage was discernible against the yellowed grass. From its exterior, the hut appeared average, of the type often used on the moors.
‘Distance is odd here,’ Sam said.
‘Yes, people say that. The moor is a trickster with mystery and secrets.’
‘You speak almost with fondness. You like the moors?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You do not find it solitary?’
‘I find...’ She paused, gazing about the desolate landscape. How could she explain that she had always felt a greater comfort outside than within the confines of a salon where she had two left feet and a propensity for tripping?
‘Comfortable in her own skin.’ She’d coined the phrase after Arabella Raskin’s birthday party when she’d turned thirteen. Outside, Millie felt that comfort whereas in the parlour it seemed she had more elbows and knees than the requisite number.
‘There is a freedom in the isolation,’ she said finally.
He looked again towards the cottage. ‘Then its inhabitant must live with considerable abandon.’
‘It is likely empty. The peat-cutters leave during the winter months.’
‘I suppose we’d best be off before the rain gets really heavy and the light fades further.’ He glanced towards the dark clouds rolling in from the sea and hugging the land, the grey mist tangling in the bare branches of the hawthorn trees.
They started forward, stepping beside the silver brook and up towards the cottage. The thick marsh grasses rustled as they bent under their feet. Millie would never underestimate the value of shoes again. The thought of escaping from the wind and rain was alluring. The thought of taking the weight off her feet and letting her body rest even more so.
Yet apprehension slithered down her spine. Goose pimples prickled her skin. She shivered. Her imagination was not being sensible. It seemed to her warped fancy that she felt hostility from the hut’s stony walls and malevolence squinting through the one shuttered window.
Crossing her arms, she hugged herself, in part to keep out the chill, but also for comfort. The memory of the drowned men and Jem, his blood puddling in the rock pool, flickered before her mind’s eye.
In common accord, they paused in front of the remnants of a stone wall which encircled the property. It was crumbling. Grasses, moss and weeds grew through every space and aperture. There was no sign of occupation, no chickens or cow.
‘I’ll go in first, in case,’ Mr Garrett said.
Millie nodded. ‘It is sensible to seek shelter.’
‘Who are you trying to convince?’ He glanced at her, with that quick fleeting grin. Instinctively, Millie held her breath as Sam stepped forward.
Chapter Four
Aside from the odd cobweb, the cottage was no house of horrors. It consisted of one central room with a hearth on one wall and a small alcove at the back. The air was stuffy, but not unpleasantly so. It had a peaty scent that seemed an integral part of country living. Low beams criss-crossed the ceiling with yellowed straw close to the hearth as though to form a pallet.
The only light came from the open door, but it was sufficient to assure him that the central chamber was empty. Sam turned quickly and entered the alcove. It was also unoccupied.
From behind, he heard the whine of hinges. He jumped, but it was only Miss Lansdowne who had failed to listen, which was not entirely surprising.
‘You were supposed to stay outside.’
‘I hear well and listen poorly. That’s what Flora used to say.’ She was kneeling beside the hearth, her fingertips resting on the peat stored beside it. ‘It is dry.’
‘Good. I will make a fire. You look quite chilled.’
She nodded, leaning forward with sudden concentration. ‘There is even a flint.’ She picked it up, rubbing her fingers against it with a tiny rasping sound, as though needing this solid proof of its existence.
‘And a tin cup. Is it unusual for a peat-cutter to leave such items behind?’ he asked.
She met his gaze. ‘It is unusual.’
With every moment, daylight was fading into gloom. He shrugged. They had little choice but to stay. ‘I’ll light a fire. We’ll need it tonight for light and warmth.’
She glanced at him with that slight smile, giving her a slightly elfin appearance. ‘Mr Garrett, may I enquire if have you ever actually made a peat fire?’
‘Well, no,’ he conceded. ‘But it seemed like the right thing to say. Besides, we need heat so I’ll give it a try.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘You know how?’
‘Thankfully, I am no distressed damsel. You get the water while I make the fire.’
‘You are unusual,’ he said.
‘It has been mentioned.’
Her smile grew and something about that slow, transformative smile and the way it suffused her whole face made him feel...odd. It made him wonder again what those soft, gently curving lips would feel like and remember the way she had clung to him, her fingers on his shoulders. It made him want to watch her, to observe her careful, meticulous movements as she bent over the peat. She was not graceful, but she moved with efficiency and with purpose. He felt pleasure in noting her attention as she immersed herself in a task.
She was not self-conscious. She did not pose with more awareness of how she appeared than of the task at hand. Instead, she seemed oblivious of the dark hair falling forward across her face, the gape of her shirt as she pulled out the peat, arranging each strand with deliberation.
Turning hastily, he picked up the cup and hurried outside, letting the door bang behind him. He needed to escape. Likely it was her very peculiarity which fascinated.
Physical desire was a fleeting thing, stimulated by danger. However, he was a civilised individual with emotional control. The woman was vulnerable and he had no need to further complicate his life or waste time thinking about her eyes, or her lips or the pale creaminess of her skin...
He dipped the cup jerkily into the stream.
With Annie, he had welcomed that feeling of being overpowered. It was like losing himself and he had wanted to lose himself then. It was a new chapter. His childhood—with his mother’s death, school and then his father’s death—had ended. It was the reinvention of self and the finding of meaning in a new identity.
It was also smoke and mirrors. Annie had found her duke and he’d learned that his new identity was no better than the old. When Annie left, she’d taken not only his heart but this sense of renewal, hope and reinvention.
Sam could not let that happen again.
He’d felt broken after Annie. With Frances’s help, he’d rebuilt his life. He was now a board member
for several charities, he had continued his mother’s work, translating ancient Greek, he wrote occasionally for the newspapers, went to the opera and socialised on occasion. He was playing more on the pianoforte and even had a few scribbled original compositions.
He knew a level of contentment.
Sam drank and then refilled the cup, walking back to the cottage. Millie was leaning over a tiny whisper of smoke. The door clattered behind him, but she showed no sign that she had heard his entry. He watched as the peat caught fire, the flame flickering and a whisper of smoke rising.
‘There!’ she said, her delight obvious. She looked at him as the peat sizzled, the yellow flame providing a flickering light. The fire’s heat had warmed her cheeks. Her hair was almost dry and took on coppery highlights.
‘You are an individual of many accomplishments,’ he said, crossing the floor.
‘Building a fire is generally an under-appreciated skill, unless one is a domestic servant or stranded on a moor.’ Wry humour laced her tones as she added more peat, blowing on it delicately, with tiny movements of her hand.
‘I could almost believe you one of the faerie folk, practising a magical incantation.’
‘Merely utilising the physical properties of combustion. Besides, we have pixies here. They are considerably shorter and dance better. I have the stature.’
‘But not the dancing?’
‘Two left feet.’
‘I like dancing,’ he said.
‘I suppose it is a requisite skill where you come from.’ Indeed, this was an understatement. Music and dancing had always been more than just a required skill.
‘I come from London. Not some outer constellation within the cosmos,’ he said, laughing. ‘And I like music.’
‘What type do you like?’
‘Opera. Although “like” isn’t the right word.’
‘What is?’ she asked, fixing him with that direct gaze, as though she genuinely wanted to know the answer.
He frowned, staring into the flickering flames. His mother had loved the opera. She would go often, and played and sang at home...mostly Mozart and Handel. She’d always been so emotionally restrained except when it came to music. For her, music had allowed communication with others. For him, it was an ability to connect with himself. Sometimes when he listened, he felt an almost physical pain. Its intensity made him want it to go on and yet he also needed it to stop.
Caught in a Cornish Scandal Page 5