by Rebecca King
“You have forgotten one thing,” Harriett whispered, fighting uncharacteristic tears. She could hear the raw emotion in his voice and was shaken by it. Waiting until he raised questioning eyes to hers, she continued, “I am a witch. My mother was a witch. You wouldn’t acknowledge your – association – with her, or me, publicly, for the last five and twenty years.” She ignored his wince but could feel little sympathy for him. Easing away from him, she pushed her chair back and stood, suddenly impatient to close the door on the memories.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter right now. As I said before, I am tired and I would like to go to bed now.” She couldn’t keep the weariness from her voice. She had absolutely no intention of getting involved with the de Mattingley family – ever, but couldn’t seem to summon the energy to argue any more.
“Then I shall bid you good night,” Simon declared, still disbelieving that he had managed to broach such a raw subject and have any kind of conversation with Harriett about it. It was the first time he had ever dared raise the matter so blatantly, and couldn’t explain why he had felt the need to approach it now. But he was very glad he had.
He hadn’t missed the rumbling of Harriett’s stomach, or been ignorant of the fine trembling of her cold fingers beneath his, and decided to leave her to eat and warm up in peace. There was so much more he wanted from her, but at least tonight, for the first time in nearly five and twenty years, she had let him touch her - and that was more than he had ever dared dream possible.
“Good night, Harriett,” he murmured softly, offering her a small smile.
His heart flipped when her lips quirked briefly in response. All wasn’t lost after all. Convinced that tiredness must be driving her uncharacteristic behaviour, he closed the door carefully behind him, his face wreathed in a broad smile.
As he walked away, he realised that it was the first time he had seen Harriett smile at him. She was usually so solemn and reserved. Immediately his thoughts turned to the day of Jemima and Eliza’s wedding, and the delighted smile that had suffused her face as she had looked up at Sir Hugo Dunnicliffe, and he began to wonder if that was the reason for her abrupt return.
Whatever the future held in store for all of them, after tonight he was filled with even more determination that nothing, and nobody, would ever come between him and his daughter again.
Harriett boiled some more water and, unable to ignore the insistent rumbling of her stomach any longer, opened the lid of the box. She gasped aloud at the sight that greeted her stunned eyes.
Inside, nestled on two brightly coloured cloths, were two apple pies, one large meat pie, two jars of pickle, two jars of jam, one jar of stewed tomatoes and a bottle of blackberry cordial. Cook had excelled herself because, as far as Harriett was aware, blackberries were not even in season.
She should have sent the entire box back to the Manor, but was aware of how empty and hollow her stomach felt. Quickly cutting herself pieces from two of the pies, she made herself a cup of tea before she began to eat. Several satisfying minutes later, she put the remainder of the pies carefully away and picked up her cup.
Savouring the warm steam, Harriett walked through the kitchen to the front of the cottage, and sat down on the window seat. It was her favourite place in the house, and afforded her an undisturbed view over the harbour. She tucked the skirts of her muslin dress around her bare toes, savouring the meagre warmth.
Over the past year she had spent many days sitting in that same spot, making copious notes of the comings and goings of the ships, and the smugglers, at the request of Eliza and Jemima’s father before his murder. Although at the time she hadn’t been sure that anyone would be able to make use of them, she had ignored the considerable risk to her own safety and carried out the promise she had made, spending many hours making lists of dates, times, ships and people.
It had been those notes that Sir Hugo Dunnicliffe, the Redcoats, and the men from the War Office, had used to arrest and sentence Rogan Scraggan and his son - two of Cornwall’s most ruthless smugglers, who had ruled over the area with brutal fists for far too long. Although the villagers didn’t know it, it was purely because of Harriett’s tireless work that they had finally been freed from Scraggans’ rule by the veritable army of Redcoats who had descended on the fishing port two months ago.
“Hugo,” she whispered, staring pensively out of the window toward the small harbour. Although she tried not to think about him, her thoughts turned inevitably toward the tall, dark and somewhat officious man who had briefly invaded her life and left it in turmoil.
She wondered where he was, and what he was doing, but quickly closed off the thought. She had no business thinking about him, much less wondering anything about anyone like him. Although he was clearly married to his job, he stirred up feelings in her she didn’t want to think about. To acknowledge those feelings would make her think too closely about what she was missing in life, and she couldn’t afford to become too discontent with her existence. There was no alternative lifestyle; not for her. She wasn’t meant for a life of matrimony and children, especially with someone as naturally masculine, and stunningly handsome as Sir Hugo Dunnicliffe. He was charming and debonair, living a dangerous and secretive life of a Government agent. She was a witch - an outcast who lived a solitary life on the fringes of society.
She glanced out at the weather with a sigh. The storm clouds had rolled inland over the course of the evening, changing the drizzle to a steady deluge. In the Camel estuary, white horses could be seen on the sea, whipped up by the increasing winds that howled around her cottage. The low, haunting noise made her feel more isolated than ever, and Harriett felt a strange unease settle over her once more.
Throughout the day, the feeling that something wasn’t right had slowly increased until she couldn’t ignore it any longer. Settling back against the cushions, she sipped at her tea and used the last of the waning light to study the area. Down in the harbour, fishing boats bobbed in the water. Once or twice, someone left one of the fishermen’s cottages lining the harbour and scurried toward the tavern but, other than that, there was nobody out and about.
It was almost too quiet.
An air of expectancy hung over her small cottage, driving her to wonder at the source of the discomfort. She briefly wondered if it was Simon’s arrival, but then promptly dismissed the idea. He had left, and the feeling still remained; but she had never had these feelings of foreboding when he had visited before. There was no reason she should begin to feel this way when he visited now.
Although the conversation earlier had been rather odd, and touched on subjects they had not dared discuss before, Harriett felt no anger toward the man who had sired her. There were regrets, on both sides if she was honest, but nothing had changed recently that should encourage either of them to want to alter their current arrangement, and there was certainly nothing he had mentioned that could cause her feelings of foreboding to increase.
Harrold seemed to be his usual grumpy self, and now sat in the doorway glaring balefully at her. She knew he was waiting for his fish heads, but couldn’t bring herself to get up and feed him just yet. The annoyed hiss he spat her way assured her of his contempt for his hungry state, and she knew she didn’t have long before he started to growl. Instead of getting up though, she turned her gaze toward the window.
If she was susceptible to flights of fancy, she could almost believe that the village was waiting for something – or someone.
With a shudder, she turned her thoughts away from the awful possibility that Scraggan would return to haunt them all. It was impossible for Scraggan, his son, or any of their men to return to the village. They had all been put to death weeks ago, and were now buried at Bodmin gaol. There was nobody left who wanted to admit they had even been part of the group, let alone show any interest in continuing their activities.
Still, Harriett knew enough about her instincts not to ignore them. Although she didn’t sense any imminent danger, she knew that something w
as about to happen, and she most probably wouldn’t like the outcome.
She felt on edge; unsettled.
As though something was missing and she wasn’t sure what.
She immediately dismissed her discomfiture as restlessness brought about by her friends getting married, and witnessing their newfound happiness first-hand. Although Harriett had been supposed to remain with them for several days after the wedding, she had been unable to stand living in the close-knit family, aware of the increasing feeling that she didn’t belong.
Everyone had been wonderfully welcoming, and had accepted her, and Harrold, with open arms. But Harriett had felt so out of place in the Peter’s luxurious mansion at Willowbrook, that she felt overwhelmed by the opulence the Cavendish family seemed to take for granted, and hemmed in by the closeness of everyone. It was astounding to Harriett that, in a huge place like Willowbrook, it was seemingly impossible to be alone; something Jemima and Eliza had mentioned experiencing during their time at the Cavendish family mansion, Havistock Hall. Harriett hadn’t been able to understand what they had meant until she had spent time at Willowbrook and experienced it for herself. It was almost claustrophobic.
Still, she felt a pang of envy for her friends, and wondered what it would be like living in the bosom of a warm and loving family.
That, as far as Harriett was concerned, was the crux of the problem.
She didn’t belong.
Anywhere.
As a witch, she had never been accepted into any social circles. Although nobody had been outright rude to her – the villagers had needed her medicinal healing too often to offend her and risk her refusing to treat them – she hadn’t been welcomed with open arms either. They treated her with a wary respect. They were polite; dropped by when they wanted something; stared at her if she was in the village, and nodded to her politely if they passed in the street. None of them ever stopped to chat, and none of them ever invited her to take tea with them.
Until Jemima and Eliza had reappeared in her life, Harriett had been more than happy to live this way. But her visit to Willowbrook had changed all that. She had been left with a sense of loneliness that had made her feel more ostracised from the villagers than ever. Although she knew her mother had been vilified by some of the village matriarchs years ago, they were all now dead, and luckily their offspring hadn’t continued the spiteful harassment of Harriett.
The image of a tall, dark-haired man with gorgeous emerald-green eyes flew into her mind and hovered there, taunting her with all the things she would never have. Immediately she tried to blank it out, but found herself wondering about him anyway. Where was he? What was he doing?
He had attended the wedding, at Peter’s insistence, and had made a point of singling her out to escort her into the church. Harriett knew that he had been asked to look after her by Jemima, or Eliza, who hadn’t wanted her to be alone on their special day. While Harriett had been grateful for their forethought, she wished they had chosen someone other than the rather too-handsome officer, who made her feel things she had no business feeling.
She had spent the day acutely aware of his towering presence beside her. He was so tall that he had towered over most of the congregation, giving him an air of command that he seemed to carry naturally. His thick brown locks fell in stylish disarray, touching the collar of his pristine white shirt that was accompanied by a neatly tied cravat. His breeches were of the finest cloth, and his highly polished boots were cut from the thickest leather. He was exactly as he appeared; an extremely handsome man, comfortable in his world.
Hugo had left the day after the wedding. Harriett could still feel the sharp pang of disappointment that had swept over her when she had appeared at breakfast only to find Hugo on his way out. He had taken his leave of her, thoroughly polite, but clearly eager to leave. Thankfully, he had been oblivious to the thrill of pleasure that had swept through her when he had bowed politely over her hand, his gorgeous eyes staring directly, but dispassionately, at her for a brief moment before he had walked away, leaving her far more bereft than she had any right to feel.
She was more shaken than she wanted to admit, and had pasted an over-bright smile on her face that had remained for the rest of the day, until Jemima had asked her if she was feeling quite all right. Then Harriett had felt the need to be at home, by herself, well away from interested eyes, and far from any reminder of the awakening feelings she didn’t want. She had made plans to leave a couple of days later and, although she was sad to say goodbye to her friends, had left for home with an eagerness she had been unable to hide.
When she had returned to her little cottage with Harrold, she hadn’t felt the sense of homecoming she had anticipated. Instead, she felt as though she didn’t belong there either. The plants and herbs she had spent many years nurturing had withered, having had nobody to tend to their needs. The house was cold and had an air of dampness that had made her shudder.
It felt as though the house was empty - waiting for something that she alone couldn’t provide. The sense of isolation had continued to grow relentlessly until Harriett felt quite discontent with her lot in life – which she had previously found acceptable.
Not perfect; just acceptable.
Even Harrold appeared quite discontent with his situation, and had taken to wandering aimlessly around the cottage, growling at nothing and howling in the middle of the night. It was as though he also sensed something was going to happen, and didn’t like it either.
Outside, the dull clouds had merged into the night skies. Heavy rain clouds had descended, covering everything in a thick haze that blanked out all sign of the harbour. The faint flickering of the candle behind her did little to penetrate the inky blackness outside the window, and showed her a clear reflection of herself in the window.
She didn’t possess a mirror of any kind, and took the opportunity to study the features staring back at her.
Although she wasn’t beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, she was passably pretty. Her red hair was more of a dark brown, with red flecks running through it that made it an intriguing colour of reddish brown. If it wasn’t so thick and wildly curly, it could be brushed and swept into an elegant knot like most ladies wore and would look alluring. But Harriett couldn’t manage the wilful strands by herself, and when she had tried to tame it into some semblance of order, had found the results looking more like a beehive than anything attractive. More often than not, she swept it back into a simple knot at the base of her neck that emphasised her long, slender neck and the delicate point of her gently rounded chin. The high arch of her cheekbones were faintly smattered with freckles that matched the dark green of her eyes. When combined with her red hair, they helped to convince everyone that she was part Celtic, and thus had to be a witch who dealt in the black arts, rather than a white witch interested in nothing more than the healing powers of herbs and plants.
Harriett had no doubt that had her potions not worked so well, the villagers wouldn’t venture anywhere near her; but she was cheaper than the doctor, who most people couldn’t afford, and she didn’t object when people called for her help in the middle of the night.
She didn’t mind people believing she dabbled in the dark arts, and knew Harrold played a large part in her charade. He was a huge beast, with yellow eyes that glared balefully at everyone and anyone. She had heard the rumours that Harrold was the result of a spell gone wrong and was a child who had to remain as a feline as punishment for crossing her mother. Harrold’s hatred of strangers was legendary within the villagers, who had all learned not to approach the house until Harriett locked him away.
A particularly strong gust of wind rattled the window pane to her side. The thin draught of cool air that swept over her skin made her shudder and gave her a gentle nudge. With a sigh she stood, closed the shutters and curtains and, picking up the single candle from the small table by the door, shuffled off to feed a still grumbling Harrold before heading off to bed. Once in her bedroom, she changed into her
nightgown, added more logs to the fire, and climbed between the cold sheets.
As she lay in the darkness, Harriett felt the sense of unease settle over her once more, stronger than ever. When she usually had this strange sense of foreboding, she inevitably received bad news. The last time she had felt something so strongly, her mother had died. But there was nobody left to grieve for. Her father, such as he was, had limited contact with her, and she didn’t know him well enough to consider him close. She knew Jemima and Eliza were in the safest place possible, in the loving arms of their very protective husbands. Even Harrold, although still grumpy, was fighting fit.
Harriett simply couldn’t understand what was wrong. These feelings had plagued her since she was a child, arriving suddenly, without warning, and sometimes remaining with her for days. The sense of foreboding dragged at her senses, until it disappeared just as suddenly, immediately before the bad news arrived.
Tugging the blankets up to her ears, she closed her eyes, tried to block out the haunting rattle of the window panes as the wind sought to gain entrance, and attempted not to feel so alone in the world.
CHAPTER TWO
It had started to rain a few hours ago, just as Hugo arrived in the harbour of Port Isaac. He hadn’t wanted to head outside on such a stormy night, and would have been tucked up in bed if Pie Masters’ cover hadn’t been compromised. As it was, Hugo had been the only man nearby who was available to go to the small village of Port Isaac, and witness the arrival of one of France’s most notorious spy masters.
He wasn’t planning on engaging in any skirmishes. He was just going to watch the man come onto English shores, and get some idea of who he was meeting. Once he had the information he needed, Hugo was going to follow the man and see where his contacts took him and, more importantly, to whose house. The information would be used by the Star Elite to make sure the man was constantly watched, and everyone who came into contact with him would be duly noted and also followed. In this way, they could follow the chain of people sheltering the smugglers from beginning to end. They could then ensure everyone was brought to justice and all of the foreign spies rounded up and interrogated.