The Miser's Sister

by Carola Dunn

  Her uncle was her only refuge. She would flee to him, show herself a dutiful niece, and not resent her aunt’s interfering authority. Only she must make it plain to Sir John that she did not mean to marry, so that Lady Hadrick would not be forever casting out lures to catch her a husband.

  Her future looked grey, but with two hundred and eighty pounds to her name she could see no alternative. At least she could pay her own way to London.

  With tired determination, she went to find the curate.

  “Walter, I must go to London,” she told him.

  “Of course. Your uncle is now your guardian, and it is proper that you should go to him.”

  “I mean that I wish to go at once. I shall not return to the Trevelyans. It cannot be thought necessary that I should see Captain Cleeve since... in the present circumstances. Will you see that they are informed of my departure? I will write to them from town.”

  “Certainly. But do you mean to travel post? I believe it is sadly expensive. I shall take you to Launceston, of course.”

  “Thank you, Walter. I do not know how I should go on without you. You are right, a postchaise would be far too costly. I shall go on the stage.”

  “My dear Ruth, single ladies do not travel alone on the stage. You must...”

  “I shall do as I see fit! Pray do not make me quarrel with you. Do you know at what time the stage leaves Launceston?”

  “I believe there is a coach leaving in the evening to catch the London coach at Exeter in the morning,” he answered stiffly. “You will have plenty of time to get there if we leave at once.”

  “Let me find a portmanteau for the money, and I’ll be ready. I’ve nothing here to pack up, and Mrs Trevelyan will send on my bags.”

  An hour later, the dogcart pulled into the Trelawney Arms in Camelford, and the weary Dapple was unhitched.

  “I’ll take ‘im back to Vicar,” offered the ostler, and harnessed a fresh horse in his place. Walter scribbled a quick note to Mr Trevelyan, and the man promised to see it delivered right away.

  They set off again. Ruth was beginning to feel as if she had been on the road for months. The thought of her comfortable bed at Trevelyan House was tempting. With a sigh, she rejected it. She dreaded the old couple’s kindly solicitude, their questions about her brother’s death and Oliver’s absence.

  Reaching Launceston at half past four, Ruth discovered that the coach for Exeter would leave the Duke of Cornwall at seven. She put her name on the waybill. Thanking Walter for all he had done, she insisted on giving him money for the hire of the horse, and took her leave of him.

  No one at the inn seemed to recognise her, though she had been there with Oliver twice. No one showed any surprise that she was travelling alone, and catching sight of her rumpled, grubby reflection in a window, she could see why. She bought a comb in a nearby shop and paid the landlady for a private corner in which to wash and tidy herself.

  The coffee room was crowded, noisy, and smoky. Ruth had not eaten since breakfast, but she could not face the bustle within. Outside, the late afternoon sun shone full on a wooden bench set against the wall of the inn. With a slight smile, Ruth remembered Walter’s strictures against ladies sitting by common taverns. Would it make any difference that this was a respectable posting house?

  She sat down, leant back against the sun-warmed wall, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 22

  When Oliver had arrived on the moor early that morning, he had found the balloon fully inflated. It was still on the ground, but even as he drove up the slope, it shook itself and rose a few inches. A cheer went up from the crowd, most of whom had been out all night waiting for the great spectacle.

  Bob Polgarth came to meet Oliver. Though he was red-eyed from lack of sleep, he was full of energy and excitement.

  “Another couple of hours,” he cried, “and we’ll be ready to go. The apparatus is working perfectly. I hate to wait around until the advertised time!”

  “You promised I could go up before you leave,” Oliver reminded him. “Besides, you must not deprive latecomers of the treat.”

  “Come and look. The envelope is in excellent condition. I should like your advice as to whether to add more ballast.”

  Seen from close to, the balloon was impressively vast, towering over their heads. Relays of volunteers had worked through the night stoking the fires, which had not faltered for an instant. The carter was still in charge and showing no signs of fatigue.

  As they watched, the balloon rose slowly to the limits of its tethers. Its base was a foot or two above the basket, whose rigging hung slack.

  “We’ll have to loosen the guys a bit,” Bob said.

  Before he could issue instructions, the carter started to organise a crew. One man seized each of the lines, while another untied it or rolled a rock off the end. Gradually the ropes were let out, until the basket rose a few inches from the ground.

  “Down a bit!” bellowed the carter. “That’s it, boys. Fasten ‘em down now.” He turned to Bob. “You need much more gas, zir? We be running low on fuel.”

  Oliver walked over to one of the guys and tugged sharply. It took considerable effort to move the balloon, which was bobbing and swaying in the breeze.

  “Finish what you have,” he said. “I doubt you’ll be needing more. Any leaks, Bob?”

  “Not a one,” answered the aeronaut. “The men who helped stitch the envelope have been sewing nets all their lives. Experts every one.”

  A few gnarled seamen standing within earshot nodded proudly.

  “That we be,” one agreed.

  “Y’oughta try fishing fro’ that contraption, Mr Polgarth,” suggested another, guffawing at his own wit.

  At last the supply of wood ran out. The balloon was pulling fiercely at its tethers, and Bob was more concerned that it might escape than that there might not be enough lifting power. He checked the anchor, the only rope that would not be loosed until he was about to depart. It was holding firm.

  “Are you ready to go up?” he asked Oliver. “The lines are long enough to let us ascend to fifty feet or a little more. We should be able to see clear over the top of Brown Willy.”

  They climbed into the basket. The two naval lieutenants reluctantly agreed to wait on the ground.

  “Promise you’ll not change your mind about going, Pardoe!” cried one of them. “We’d never forgive you, damme if we would.”

  “Never fear,” grinned Oliver. “Much as I’d like to, I have other obligations. We’ll be down to let you take my place.”

  Gradually the guys were loosed. The balloon rose into the air, followed by the gasps and shouts of the crowd. The ten strong men holding the ropes let them out little by little until a signal from the carter stopped them.

  Oliver and Bob hovered sixty feet above the ground. The breeze was cold, and Oliver was glad he had thought to dress warmly. Gazing around, he could see the sea to the west, though in every other direction a haze on the horizon hid details. Southward stood the grim bulk of Penderric Castle.

  As he watched, a stream of tiny vehicles turned up the track toward them, looking like ants crawling across a painting. He had not realised how the crowd had grown since his arrival. Immediately below, he could make out the faces of the expectant aeronauts, the carter, and his assistants.

  Then he saw Mr Trevelyan and Ruth making their way through the throngs. He shouted and waved.

  “No point,” Bob told him. “They probably cannot see you against the sun’s glare, and they certainly cannot hear you.”

  A man Oliver did not recognise accosted the pair he was watching. After a few moments, Ruth left the magistrate and followed the newcomer to a rocky platform, where they both sat down.

  “Who is that?” Oliver demanded.

  Bob shaded his eyes and stared. He had not looked closely when the couple were nearer and now their features were barely distinguishable.

  “Could be the curate,” he proposed. “Fellow from Camelford Lady Ruth was supposed to b
e engaged to. Vane, I think the name is.”

  Oliver was not at all happy with this tentative identification. What came next made him still less happy. After a few minutes of conversation, Ruth and the curate, if it was he, went down the hill, climbed into a carriage, and drove off. He had followed with difficulty their progress through the crowd, but he was fairly certain it was they. When, a short while later, he saw the carriage turn toward Penderric Castle, he was sure.

  “I must go down at once!” he declared without further delay.

  Bob was surprised, both at his abrupt insistence and because there was another half hour at least before the final preparations must be completed. Looking at his friend’s face, he saw it set in grim determination of which he could not guess the cause.

  “Very well,” he agreed amicably, and leaning over the side, he gave the arranged signal.

  The result was chaos. Half the men attending the guys had seen him, and without further ado began hauling in their lines.

  The rest were awaiting the carter’s order, as intended. Unfortunately, almost all the overzealous crew members were on one side. The balloon tipped and the basket swung wildly.

  Bob and Oliver just managed to save themselves from flying over the sides. There were gasps of horror from the onlookers. The men who had not pulled realised what was happening and began to reel in their ropes. Most of the others wisely stopped and held still, but some, aghast, simply let go. Released from tension, the heavy lines whipped back like living serpents, knocking several men and some of the crowd off their feet.

  The weight holding the balloon suddenly halved. As if overjoyed at its freedom it bounded upward, tugging its remaining tethers from the grip of those few who still held on.

  Oliver and the aeronaut found themselves racing skyward. Hanging on for dear life to whatever they had managed to seize when disaster struck, they watched the earth recede at a dizzy pace.

  There was a tremendous jolt.

  “The anchor!” they cried simultaneously.

  It held. Within a few minutes their vehicle steadied. The wind had taken them some distance to the northeast of their starting point, and below them now was nothing but heather and golden gorse, looking exceptionally prickly. They had no way of communicating with those on the ground, so they sat down and waited.

  It was half an hour before the basket touched down. Five minutes of that, the carter had spent berating all and sundry. Then he and the anxious naval officers agreed on a plan of campaign. The anchor rope was reeled in until the guy ropes were low enough to be reached and then, strictly coordinated, the shamefaced crew hauled the balloonists to safety.

  The sailors seemed all the more eager to fly.

  Oliver slipped away from the round of apologies, congratulations, recriminations, and explanations. It was nearly an hour since Ruth had left; anything could have happened. He wasted further time extricating the curricle from the throng of vehicles parked at random, to which more were still being added.

  At last he reached the place where the track branched left to the castle. Rounding the bend, he pulled up for a moment and looked back. The balloon was once more in the air, and even as he watched it flew free from its bonds, ascended rapidly, and was soon a diminishing speck in the blue sky.

  Oliver heaved a sigh of regret and urged his horses to a canter.

  Penderric Castle was deserted. The front door was swinging in the breeze, creaking, and his footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone flags of the hallway. No one in the salon, no one in the library, no one in kitchen, bedrooms or stables.

  No animals and no carriages in the stables, but there were signs that a horse had been there recently. Oliver stood in the centre of the mucky cobbled yard and shouted.

  “Ruth!” His voice bounced back mockingly from stone walls, and empty windows looked down with blindly malevolent eyes.

  “RUTH!”

  No answer.

  Not knowing what else to do, he returned to the curricle and drove back down the track. When he reached the intersection he paused.

  She could not have returned to Brown Willy, he decided. She would have been waiting for him when he stepped out of the balloon after his narrow escape, or he would have met her on the way.

  Uncertainly, slowly, he continued toward St Teath. Again he stopped, when he came to the road. Which way?

  An old man was sitting on a milestone at the side of the road. Seeing Oliver’s puzzlement, he shambled over.

  “Cam’ford,” he said, pointing north. “Wadebridge,” pointing south. “Been’t you Mr Polgarth’s frien’ fro’ Lunnon, zir?”

  “Yes. I know the way, thank you.”

  “Oh aye. Joe Carter zet me here to show the road.”

  “Do you know Lady Ruth Penderric, by any chance? I don’t suppose you saw her come this way?”

  “Oh aye. Her come by wi’ ‘s lordship an’ the rev’end a-follering. While zin’.”

  Further interrogation could not elicit any closer approximation of the time that Ruth had passed. She had gone toward Boscastle, he must hope she had returned to Trevelyan House.

  With a shilling and a word of thanks to his informant, he drove on.

  Mrs Trevelyan was surprised to see her guest return so early, and alone.

  “Has Lady Ruth come back, ma’am?” he demanded without ceremony.

  “Why no, Mr Pardoe, and nor has Mr Trevelyan.” Oliver sank despairingly into a chair. “Whatever is the matter?” the old lady asked in alarm.

  He told her the whole story, then rose to his feet.

  “I must go and look for her,” he said wretchedly.

  “I can see no possible advantage in doing so. Mr Vane is with them. I cannot believe Lord Penderric will try any dastardly deed in his presence. Besides, you have no idea where to look. Come, eat some luncheon, and the world will look brighter.”

  Miserable at his inability to help Ruth, sure that she needed him, Oliver choked down a few mouthfuls. While he was eating, a breathless young fellow in Coast Guard uniform was admitted to the house. The butler unwillingly ushered him into the dining room.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” he apologised. “The lad says he has an urgent message for the master, and with all the goings-on, I thought it best he should see you at once.”

  “Thank you, Webster. Mr Trevelyan is from home, officer. Can you give me the message?”

  Blushing with pleasure at being called “officer,” struck dumb by bashfulness, young Jackie shifted from foot to foot. Sergeant Miller had not given instructions for such an eventuality.

  Then he recognised Oliver.

  “Been’t you the ge’mun as shared out the prize money?” he blurted, turning still more scarlet at his own temerity, “after we catched the smugglers?”

  “That’s right, lad. Who is the note from? You may safely deliver it to Mrs Trevelyan, you know.”

  “Thank you, sir. Here y’are, ma’am. ‘Tis from a little lady up on the cliff. Terrible it were!” His eyes bulged at the memory of the fright.

  Oliver seized the letter and ripped it open.

  “Thank you, officer,” said Mrs Trevelyan. “Webster will take you to the kitchen for a bite to eat.” The minute the butler and his charge disappeared, she turned to Oliver. “Is it from Lady Ruth? What does it say?”

  He passed it to her numbly, and she perused it.

  “What a dreadful experience!” she exclaimed. “Almost as bad as the abduction.”

  “She has gone back to the castle. I must go to her immediately.”

  “Nonsense, young man. No doubt you will only miss her again en route. She will certainly not wish to stay in that ruin. I expect she will return with Mr Trevelyan.”

  “Perhaps you are right, ma’am. I do not know what to do for the best. That she should have gone through such horror without my support!”

  Webster reappeared with a bottle of brandy.

  “Begging your pardon, madam,” he said again, “I thought that if the young fella brought bad new
s, Mr Pardoe might require a glass of spirits to fortify himself, so to speak.”

  “Webster, you are an angel. Here, Mr Pardoe, take a drop of brandy and compose yourself.”

  “Thank you, just a little. I am behaving like a nodcock, I am sure. It is so very frustrating to be able to do nothing.”

  Oliver took the glass and began to pace up and down, holding it. Mrs Trevelyan regarded him with sympathetic disapproval.

  “You must excuse me, Mr Pardoe,” she said at last. “I always take forty winks after luncheon and watching you walk is making me sleepy. Pray feel free to use the library or the drawing room.”

  He nodded absently, and the old lady went to lie down, feeling quite exhausted.

  Unable to settle down, Oliver wandered vaguely from room to room. He was reaching the point of desperation when he heard carriage wheels in the driveway. Rushing out, he found Mr Trevelyan descending from the trap.

  The magistrate was appalled to hear the news the coast guard had brought, and most distressed that he could not ease Oliver’s mind as to Ruth’s whereabouts. Oliver quickly decided that he could stand inaction no longer and must ride to Penderric even if his errand seemed fruitless.

  A horse was saddled while he changed into riding clothes. He was descending the stairs when a stableboy from the Trelawney Arms trotted up the drive.

  “Missige f’m Mr Vane,” he called, seeing Mr Trevelyan standing on the steps. “Him an’ m’lady’s off to Launceston.” He winked knowingly and handed over a folded paper.

  Oliver arrived on the double and tossed the boy a half crown. Mr Trevelyan passed him the note.

  “She’s going to London,” he told him, “to her uncle. Vane asks that we forward her clothes thither.”

  “No need,” said Oliver crisply. “If you will be good enough to have everything packed up, I shall take it. I am going after her at once. I hope you will excuse my rude departure under the circumstances. I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude for your hospitality and forbearance.”