On A Lee Shore

by Elin Gregory

  He paid a trip to the Penrose house, presenting himself at the backdoor and asking to speak to the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Nancarrow,” he said when she came to the door. “As I live and breathe—you get prettier every time I see you!” Actually she had gotten older and grayer, and it seemed all wrong that he was now so much taller than she was, but he hoped none of those considerations showed in his smile.

  She stared at him, the recognition in her eyes tempered with concern at how he had changed. “Why, Master Kit!” She gathered him into a crushing hug. “Home again, and for a longer stay this time I hope. Come in and sit down. Let me fetch you some ale.”

  The house may have been rented out, but the attic space and an outbuilding held plenty of treasures. Serviceable if shabby furniture included a table, joint stools, even a rickety tester bed with a ticking mattress and straw to stuff it. Bed linen, pots and pans, and cutlery made Kit’s life more comfortable while an old cutlass and hanger and box containing a massive pistol and all the necessary bits and pieces made him feel far more confident about defending himself should anyone unfriendly come calling.

  That this was a possibility was confirmed by the man who helped him cart his household goods home. “Quiet cove like that,” he murmured as he helped Kit unload the parts of the bed. “God’s gift to the Gentlemen.”

  So, the cove was used by the local smuggling community. Kit spent the rest of the day working on his home and that night made sure his pistol was loaded and the cutlass gleamed before he went to bed. The straw mattress rustled as he tossed and turned, but the hard day’s work paid off in deep and dreamless sleep.

  The next day he walked to Gweek and negotiated a good price for a nice little crabber and a full set of sails. Kit sailed her home a week later, his heart in his mouth when the wind got up suddenly, but was delighted to find that she handled well. He beached her next to his house, christened her “Puffin,” and was well content.

  He settled to his work, fishing if he felt like it, setting crab pots or ferrying people along the coast if the weather would allow. He worked hard and retired early. As February chill eased into March gales that howled outside his little home, driving sea spray against the shutters, he pulled his blankets up over his ears and tried not to think of the wind in the palms and the sun on his skin. He also tried not to think of Griffin, but with less success.

  The last shot leveled at Miranda had been the stroke of a master. Surely a man who was dying—a man gut shot and in agony—could not have laid the gun who fired the chain to such horrendous effect? Surely Griffin must still be alive.

  Kit took comfort from that thought, told himself that he was happy just knowing that Griffin was, most probably, still making hell hotter somewhere, and pretended that he didn’t miss him with every bone in his body.

  The tenant of his old home, Arundel, made Kit welcome in every way he could, which was pleasant in one way but alarming in others. A man with four hopeful daughters could do far worse than to marry one of them off to the part owner of the house he was renting, especially one who had a reputation for courting danger and the scars to prove it. Invitations to eat under his own roof were plentiful, and Kit tried to come up with excuses to turn at least some of them down. Other than the Arundels, company was hard to come by. Some folk seemed annoyed that he was squatting on a very useful secluded landing point. Others avoided him as being one of the gentry. Kit knew that he was poor company so couldn’t blame them but missed the companionship of the Africa so much that by the end of March he was contemplating buying a dog just to have someone to talk to.

  On April the second, he returned at the end of the day to find half a dozen men waiting for him.

  “Penrose?” the one with the fanciest coat asked. “Ezekiel Plowright, Excise. Get out of the boat.”

  They had already searched the house—the door being half off its hinges warned Kit of what he might find inside—and they searched his boat with just as little care.

  “Nothing, sir,” one of Plowright’s henchmen said, and the officer nodded and gave Kit a warning glower.

  “All right,” he said. “But don’t think we won’t be keeping an eye on you.”

  “Thank you,” Kit said. “I’ll take comfort from knowing that such reliable officers have my welfare at heart.”

  It took the rest of the evening to put his home to rights. Nothing had been smashed, but everything had been turned out and pawed over. The following morning he was gnashing his teeth over the mess they had made on the Puffin when he heard hooves on the path down to his house.

  “Not again.” He sighed and got out of the boat, ready to meet bad manners with bad manners if necessary.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Why so black faced, Kit?” The rider smiled and doffed his hat.

  A pretty gray mare, high boots without so much as a speck of mud, lavender silks, and a curling blond wig looked so completely out of place against the granite and sea holly of Kit’s cove that he was surprised into a laugh. “Tristan,” he shouted, his voice echoing against the rocks. “What are you doing here?”

  Tristan waved a languid hand. “Brother James has produced the first of the new generation. So I am down to wet the baby’s head and be suitably impressed at the power of the family loins.”

  Kit grimaced. “You paint a pretty picture.” He wiped his hands on his breeches before he took the mare’s bridle, scared of transferring tar to her pale hide. “Are you going to sit up there all day or…”

  Tristan laughed and jumped down. “Is there somewhere she can stand out of the wind?” he asked. “And maybe some water? She doesn’t need food. We haven’t come far.”

  Once the mare was tethered in the sheltered spot behind the house with a bucket of water to occupy her, Tristan entered Kit’s home and looked about him in alarm that Kit suspected wasn’t entirely feigned.

  “Well, I always knew that you were of a Spartan persuasion.” Tristan put his hat on the table after inspecting it for cleanliness. “But don’t you think this is taking it a bit too far? Why didn’t you insist upon your old rooms in the house? Your tenants would have jumped at the chance, one suspects.”

  “They have daughters of marriageable age,” Kit said with a grin. He poured two tots of rum. “Papa is uneasy at the thought of having a young buck in the house, and I’m uneasy at the glances Mama has been giving me. I don’t think I’m that good a bargain, but I suppose there’s little choice hereabouts. I can introduce you to them. They would be most impressed.”

  Tristan dusted a chair and seated himself. “I think not,” he said. “Especially not when I am so far from London and have come especially to see my dear friend Kit.”

  He looked Kit in the eye as he said it, but Kit could see the effort it took. With a breath of laughter he turned his head to show the marks left by La Griffe. “I’m surprised you recognized me.”

  Tristan grunted and put down his cup then reached out to touch Kit’s chin. He studied the wound for a moment then gave Kit’s cheek a gentle pat. “It’s healing well and adds to your dashing good looks. But honestly,” he waved to their surroundings, “they are wasted here. I assumed you were on holiday, but it seems to me that you are putting down roots. That will never do.”

  “I have a living to make,” Kit said. “I don’t suppose you know anyone with a ship who would take me on?”

  “What as? A deck hand?” Tristan shook his head. “That’s no place for you and you know it. And neither is this.” He scowled at the fireplace, currently scattered with cold ashes. “You need proper employment, Kit. Not as a crabber, either.”

  Since this was Tristan, Kit felt he could be honest. “I spend more time dreaming than catching crabs,” he admitted. “Oh, the sailing is fine. I know every inlet, but the good spots are taken. I catch enough for my own table and that’s about it. I wondered about seeing if John Company would take me on. Charles says they will hire the most colorful character as long as his experience is good.”

&nb
sp; “Can’t fault you on that at least,” Tristan said with a smile. “It just seems a pity to see all that talent and loyalty go to waste. I wonder—if the Navy doesn’t want you, more fool them, how about another service?”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified to follow the drum no matter what rumor might suggest.”

  “Temper!” Tristan sighed. “I can see I’ll get no sense out of you on an empty stomach. Go and look in my saddlebag. There are two packages. Bring both.”

  “And what is wrong with your legs?” Kit asked as he got up.

  Tristan stretched out a smile, crossing his booted feet at the ankle. “Nothing,” he said. “But I’m about to do you a considerable favor, and the least you can do is cooperate.”

  The bag was found and the packages obtained. Tristan opened one to reveal a loaf, a round of cheese, and two heavily crusted pasties. “Plates,” he ordered, “and more rum.”

  The other package was flatter and about the size of the folders normally to be seen in the Navy Office. Kit eyed it with misgiving while he ate. Tristan smiled at him but insisted they dine before they talked business.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to try to get me to do,” Kit said as he toyed with his last morsel of cheese. Half the loaf and a good third of the cheese remained, rewrapped and placed on his shelf for future reference. “But filling my belly so adequately makes me feel more inclined to hear you out, rather than just knocking you down and tossing your wig into the Atlantic.”

  “Such a nasty, rough, piratical fellow,” Tristan mused. He raised his glass to Kit. “Smuggling,” he said.

  “What of it? The Excise have me under their eye, I’m told.”

  “I should imagine they have,” Tristan nodded. “You must look very suspicious to them, poor dears. Rumor has it that Plowright thinks you were sent to spy on him, not on the smugglers’ behalf, but for some shadowy government organization critical of his diligence. He is very worried. Then there are the local Gentlemen who suppose that you are an Excise spy and that, dear Kit, is a supposition that could prove to be very dangerous for you. I hope you are being properly respectful and are buying their goods like a decent and upstanding member of the gentry.”

  Kit scowled. “No—hence the rum. The local brandy is altogether too fine to be legally obtained.” And the smell and taste of it brought back memories he preferred not to revisit.

  “More fool you then,” Tristan said. “A man with the right kind of friends in these parts could make himself very useful. A man loyal to King and country. With the right kinds of skills. A man who can come and go as he pleases, without having to account over much for his actions.” Tristan put out one hand and turned the folder-sized package over to tweak the retaining strings. “For the proper remuneration, of course. One wouldn’t ask anyone to risk life and limb for nothing more than gratitude.”

  “Spying!” Kit stared at Tristan. “You are asking me to be a spy? You’re a spy?” He looked Tristan over from head to toe and chuckled.

  Tristan’s derisive snort shut Kit up. “Oh good grief. You’d be the worst spy imaginable. A man who won’t even provide his friends with a decent drink in case it was obtained dishonestly has no place in our grimy business. I always said that you were disturbingly moral. As for me, a dressed up fop can go almost anywhere on a whim, talk to almost anyone for a lark. The benefits are considerable. But there are places I can’t go and things I can’t do and, when circumstances call for it, I am allowed to—hmm—contract out for certain services. Has it occurred to you, Kit, that there’s more than one kind of smuggling? That a trustworthy man with a sound little boat and a safe and sheltered landing spot could bring in more than the occasional tun of brandy or packet of lace?”

  “You want a go-between?” Kit leaned forward in his seat, a little flicker of interest and excitement warming him far more than the rum. “So—what? I would rendezvous with a ship and bring in additional items as well as the contraband?”

  “Ah, I thought you might be brighter than you look.” Tristan smiled. “You have it exactly. There might be times I would ask you to go farther afield. I assume there would be no difficulty about leaving this halcyon spot for a few weeks? You could tell the neighbors that you were going to Falmouth to try and find a clean whore.”

  “They wouldn’t believe that,” Kit snorted. “Truro, maybe.”

  “So you ask someone to keep an eye on your, for want of a better word, house, sail off into the blue, and return two weeks later, tanned and happy with a barrel of Bordeaux and a fresh dose of the clap. Everyone knows where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing, or thinks they do. Whereas in fact you returned with a quiet gentleman and his baggage and set him on his way with no questions asked. In return, I will ensure that you are not bothered by anyone—other than myself. I’ll visit more frequently if I’m assured of something decent to drink.”

  “I’m flattered,” Kit said. “You mentioned remuneration? For wear and tear on my boat, for instance?”

  “I am authorized to pay a small retainer plus other more substantial rewards according to risks undertaken and so forth. But in reality one does it for the love of one’s country, of course.”

  “Oh, of course.” Kit got up, no longer able to remain still. He was feeling more interest and enthusiasm than at any point since the Africa had disappeared into the distance, taking his life with her. “Not in the least because it might be fun.”

  Tristan made no reply as Kit went to the door and looked out across the sea shingle cobbles to the little dock where Puffin lay shrouded in oilskin. The sea was green and tipped with white, but in his mind’s eye he was seeing it dark and starlit and imagining himself guiding the Puffin into the lee of a larger vessel. There would be no rest from his grief over the loss of his lover, but excitement, mystery, and adventure might give some point to a life that a chance musket ball had rendered pointless.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Thank you, Tris.”

  Tristan replied with a contented grunt, and Kit looked around as the chair shifted. Tristan was on his feet reaching for his hat.

  “Read the papers in the packet. I’ll need you to sign a couple of them—you’ll see which. I must go. I’ll be in touch. Probably not personally.”

  “You’ll send a messenger for my decision?”

  “Exactly.” Tristan smiled. “You’ll know he’s from me because he’ll say—um—I know—‘by Tre, Pol, and Pen, you may know Cornishmen.’ That’s the sign.” He grinned. “And I know you won’t forget it.”

  “No I won’t.” Kit returned the grin and accompanied Tristan to his horse, even tightening the girth for him and offering him a knee in lieu of a mounting block.

  “Get your house in order,” Tristan advised once he was mounted. “When I send my message, you’ll need to leave almost immediately.” He nodded to Kit and gave him a brilliant and mischievous grin. “You’re going to enjoy this aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.” With that he kicked his mare into a canter and rode off with a wave and a called farewell. Kit shouted a reply then laughed and turned back to the house.

  Get it in order, Tris had said. Kit looked around and nodded. It was on the poverty-stricken side of shabby.

  He checked his crab pots, spent most of the rest of the afternoon scrubbing the stone floors, and walked up to the house to beg some beeswax from Mrs. Nancarrow, offering her a crab in exchange. She handed the wax over with a smile and added an ancient great coat that she said she had found in the attic, a bag of leftovers, and half a dozen eggs in a crock. “I don’t like to see you looking so thin,” she said. “Though I admit you look a lot more cheerful today.”

  “I am,” Kit said and gave her a peck on the cheek when he said good-bye. “I may be away for a few days soon,” he told her. “There’s the chance of a berth on a ship out of Falmouth. So if you don’t see me about that’ll be why.”

  “You take care, dear boy,” she said and sent him on his way with her blessing.

&nbs
p; Kit spent the following morning doing the rounds of his pots then sailed home to work on the Puffin. There was something calming about the careful routine of maintaining his little craft, and he forced himself to concentrate on checking the rigging, replacing a little of the caulking, stitching a patch around a worn place on the sail. Once Puffin was as fine and shipshape as he could make her, he took a rod along to the headland, climbed down onto the rocks, and spent a pleasant couple of hours fishing. Again he tried to keep his mind on his occupation, but Tristan’s warning niggled in the back of his mind.

  Twice he found that he was listening too attentively to voices above him on the cliff path and once he spent a wistful half hour watching a white cloud of sails against the gray horizon.

  This wouldn’t do, he decided, and once satisfied with his catch, packed up his gear to go home.

  A bass made a good meal for him that night, and he hung the mackerel in his chimney to smoke. The night was a dark one, so he decided not to waste candlelight. A tiring day with much on his mind aided him to sleep, and he settled warmly into his bed.

  He dreamed again of sun-drenched beaches and the shifting shadows of palm branches over bare skin that melted to form the shadows of rigging on a well-known and much missed deck. Gulls cried and the stays hummed with a fair wind on the quarter. Kit smiled and turned to speak to the man he knew would be at the whipstaff, then opened his eyes. Under his scarred cheek was the cool of his pillow. A gull cried again, once, a squawk of alarm, and Kit raised his head the better to listen. Faintly over the soft sounds of wind and water he could hear the creak of rowlocks then the crunch of shingle as a boat beached.

  No point in taking chances. This might be Tristan’s messenger, but it might not be. Kit climbed from his bed, shivering, and pulled on a pair of breeches. He took the pistol, kept primed and ready above the mantle, grabbed his cutlass, and crept to the window to peer between the leaves of the shutters.