Endure My Heart

by Joan Smith

  Gathering up my courage, I tackled the sagging stairs of the verandah (which was quite simply in peril of falling off) and reached the front door. It was locked. Back down and away to the rear, where a stone stoop was still in good repair. The back door was on the latch. It opened without a key, making me wonder whether it was not inhabited by someone, a traveling tramp or an illegal squatter.

  I opened the door and peered in. There were no foot marks on the floor, and it was dusty enough that any traffic the last year would have left traces. I went in, finding myself in a stone-floored kitchen, with an ancient black monster of a stove standing guard over a long table, on which rested some few rusty vessels and utensils. I scuttled quickly through this room to the chambers above. They were nearly empty. Anything worth removing had been taken away; what remained were a few dilapidated pieces of furniture, the stuffing hanging out where animals had been into them for nesting or nesting materials.

  The gothic decor was complete with cobwebs and spiders, a mouse scampering across one corner of the room, squeaks and squawks as I trod lightly on the uncovered floorboards—the works. I was thankful it was broad daylight. I took a quick run upstairs to see more of the same squalor—ten bedrooms, not one of them fit for human habitation. I returned below, after just taking a peek through that dusty octagonal window. It was so placed, right at the front of the house, looking straight out to sea, that any lugger approaching for miles, or any official vessel chasing it, would be easily visible. A light in that window would similarly be as clear as a lighthouse beacon to men at sea.

  If Miss Marjoram had used the house for anything other than a lookout post, he had more wits than I. As I entered the main saloon belowstairs, I felt a cooler breeze, and looked, thinking to discover a broken window. What I saw was not a broken window, but a raised one that someone had forgotten to lower after leaving by it. I smiled softly to myself to think Williams had gone to the bother of breaking in, when the back door had stood on the latch.

  Back to the kitchen for a last look around. There was a rough door, presumably leading to the cellar, but I had not quite the heart to tackle a cellar, despite the torch I had brought with me. I turned to leave, then turned back to that door.

  What if the cellar was the answer to the riddle? Where more likely was a cellar in the bowels of the earth, to hold access to the sea? Foolish of me to have wasted time abovestairs. It was here or nowhere. My heart heat faster with combined fear and excitement as I went down the rickety old stairs, holding my torch high, into a deep, dank, dark cellar. I could swear I still smelled brandy clown there.

  I peered around in the gloom at incredible blackness. Faint outlines of objects began to swim into view as my eyes adjusted to the dark. Big round things, lined against the wall—barrels. Brandy barrels, each with a bunghole in it. Miss Marjoram had done some decanting here, it seemed, emptied the barrel into smaller containers for retail selling. Miss Marjoram was up to anything. I poked around, no longer afraid, for I felt I was in the presence now of friendly spirits. I mean the late Miss Marjoram and company, not the dregs of brandy.

  The doorway was not hard to find once I realized it had to be there. It was off in a nice dark corner, locked, but after coming this far I was not about to be stopped by a locked door, when there was a crowbar beside the barrels. I had the lock off in a minute, and was standing at the top of a steep stairway, hewn out of natural stone, with the unmistakable smell of salt air blowing up on me. The stairway must lead right to the sea.

  So it did, I soon discovered. Light was seen at the bottom of the stairs once I got around a sharp bend in them. Water lapped across the bottom steps—black water beyond—the sea was deep here. The steps ended in the mouth of a cave. The cave was not large enough to allow a lugger to enter, but a smaller boat could be anchored in the cave, for the final leg of the transporting. Miss Marjoram's men must have stood on these very steps, waiting for their load, and carried it up to the cellar.

  I was weak with admiration. Here I had been thinking myself well named Sage. I did not hold a candle to Miss Marjoram for ingenuity, but I had at least sense enough to realize I must have this property. Must have easy and legal access to it, without arousing too much interest locally in my own direction. I had plenty to occupy my mind on the way home.

  The only time Sir Stamford intruded his greasy smiling face was when I thought how much fun it would be to outwit him. I had been born and reared here on the coast, and had no inkling of this house's secret. Sir Elwood Ganner had not known it; I doubted a living soul knew it, even including the place's owner.

  I stopped at the Registry Office on my way home, and discovered the property to be in the name of a Mr. Simon, in London. With a visit to London pending, I wondered whether I could not arrange to buy or rent the place there, do it through a London agent, using some other name than my own. Edna was privy to all my news and plans before we sat down to dinner. She was excited, but cast a hundred difficulties in my path.

  "How can you possibly buy it or rent it without everyone knowing you have done so? Your name will appear on the records. Besides, it would cost a pretty penny to buy. More than the thousand pounds you speak of giving to charity."

  "I doubt it would cost that much. It's falling apart. A down payment and a mortgage..."

  "Buy a house in some name other than your own? What if you should die? Who would get it?"

  "I would prefer to rent, certainly. It would be so much cheaper."

  "I don't see why you don't just use it. Who is to stop you? There's never a soul there from year's end to year's end. I never heard of any Simons living in this area at all. I wonder if they would be kin to the Johnsons—Meggie Johnson married a lad named Simon, did she not?"

  "What has that to do with anything?” I asked impatiently.

  "Why, if the house is Meggie Johnson's husband's, there could be no harm in using it."

  "Why, Edna, that would be trespassing!” I replied, laughing.

  "Much that would bother you, hussy! The least of your problems."

  "You overlook the main point. When someone is living in a house, he has the right to keep off trespassers. The likes of Williams would be less likely to be creeping down to the cellar to see what he missed the first time around if the place had an occupant."

  "No one in his right mind would live in that ramshackle rabbit warren of a place."

  "I have settled on a lunatic as my tenant,” I said, to shock her. “Oh, an eccentric is all I mean. A fierce-tempered fellow to keep people away."

  "You'd have every youngster in the neighborhood hanging around if that is the sort of tenant you have in mind. They love to provoke folks who give them a strong reaction. The Nortons have every apple on their trees stolen, not because they are any better than anyone else's, but because old Ned is such a fool he goes hollering and chasing after the lads. Choose a duller tenant."

  "Not a bad idea. An invalid, for instance."

  "I still think you should speak to Meggie Johnson's mother and see if something can't be worked out."

  "Don't be foolish. Edna."

  "It is you who is foolish. I think you've run mad. You've been acting oddly ever since you found out Mr. Williams is engaged."

  "Mr. Williams may marry his sweetheart today for all I care."

  "I daresay that's why he went up to London,” Edna answered.

  My heart gave a terrible lurch in my breast. I felt suddenly giddy, weak-kneed. It was all the commotion of the trip to the Eyrie, of course, and the plan to rent it. It took quite a toll of my nerves, all the planning and bother.

  "I am only joking, my dear,” Edna said at once, being so addlepated as to think my little spasm of nerves was related to Williams’ getting married.

  "I couldn't care less about that,” I said, shaking off her offered help to seat me, as though I were a disabled octogenarian.

  If he had married Lucy, we would not have known it till he came to Salford with her hanging on his arm, for we saw not a sign of him al
l the time we were in London, despite repeated cruises past Belgrave Square in a hired cab. We did not know which mansion belonged to Lord Hadley, of course and had not the least intention of actually hounding Mr. Williams, but I thought we might catch a sight of the wedding party. Edna assured me such a social occasion would be reported in the journals.

  "In the usual way it might, but as Wicklow is working under cover, it might be done quietly, secretly."

  "My dear, you worry yourself for nothing. He would not get married in the middle of this job he has undertaken. I'm sure all this Lady Lucy business is a misunderstanding. Wicklow is a gentleman; he would not lead you on so shamelessly. And how could he bring a Lady Lucy to live in Salford?"

  "What is wrong with Salford? Lady Ann doesn't seem to mind it. I hope be has married her and gone off to Devonshire, that we might be rid of him once and for all."

  "You could write your aunt another letter."

  "We don't have a copy of the Observer, Edna. Maybe the account of the wedding is in the Observer."

  She gave me such a pitying look I longed to crown her with my reticule. “I only want to know for business reasons. If I read they are gone off on a honeymoon to France, for instance, I shall have clear smuggling for a spell."

  "I'm sure he'd never do such a thing to you. I know when a young fellow is in love."

  "And how do you come to be such an authority on the subject?” I asked sharply, then immediately felt very sorry, for a spinster, as I was coming to learn, was tender on that score. “Well, never mind Wicklow, and never mind the Observer either. Is not this a lovely room, Edna? I am happy we changed our lodgings to Stephen's. And the mail too is much better for traveling than the coach. We are becoming quite the seasoned travelers. One only learns these things by doing them."

  "A pity Andrew would not have come with us. Two ladies alone cannot do all the things that escorted ladies can do."

  Two unescorted ladies felt it not too fast to attend a Christmas comedy at Drury Lane. I thought we might catch a glimpse of Wicklow there as I had mentioned specifically we meant to attend, but we did not see him. It was a wretchedly stupid play we saw. The children at the school could have done better. I was amazed that sophisticated city people could be so well entertained at that farce.

  I had certainly not gone to London to waste my time chasing after Mr. Williams. I had better things to do. First in priority was to attend to acquiring the Eyrie. For the exorbitant sum of a crown, an attendant at Stephen's Hotel was kind enough to discover for me where to apply for such information. I might just caution you while I am on the subject of tipping that at such a place as Stephen's Hotel, you are expected to distribute more liberal gratuities than obtained good service for us at Reddelstone's. It seemed every time we turned around there was a liveried boy with his hand out, and they were none too happy with a shilling either.

  At home a hired hand on a fishing boat worked a long day for that sum, and counted himself fortunate to have got the work. The dining room as well at Stephen's was very dear, and the food no better than elsewhere, though a little more daintily served, with more footmen than was quite comfortable hovering about the table like vultures. Another time, I think we shall go back to the Reddelstone, where you are made to feel welcome, and not as though you had gotten out of your depth.

  To return to my story—I was directed to a municipal office, where I learned the “Simon estate,” as it was grandly labeled, was in the hands of a firm of solicitors miles away, but still within the precincts of London. Away on the east side it was, on Cornhill not far from the Tower. The reason for this was that Mr. Simon was attached to the East India Company, and stationed off in India. When he was in the country, the firm of Milne and Linus was convenient for him, no doubt, but it was extremely inconvenient for anyone else.

  And expensive too. The round trip in a hired cab cost us a guinea flat (plus that ever-menacing gratuity). I had the notion everything in the city was more expensive than formerly, and soon had the added idea that the price of brandy as well was due for an increase. All the wicked expense was worth it. I hired the Eyrie for a year at a hundred pounds. Mr. Linus suggested a sum of two hundred, mentioning the salubrious location by the sea, but neglecting to mention those sea breezes would not stop at the door, but sail right into one's saloon due to the poor condition of the building. He had the audacity to describe the place as “furnished"! I could hardly tell him I had seen those furnishings, but implied that I understood the place had been empty for some time and was not apt to be worth two hundred pounds a year to anyone, least of all me.

  He settled for one hundred without too much trouble. I signed myself as Miss James, and left with the lease in my reticule.

  With the minarets of the Tower beckoning us in the distance, we took the opportunity to have a look at it while we were within a shilling of the place. It cost us a good deal more than that before we were let in. The rate was two shillings and ten pence each, and that a special reduced rate for a party of more than one. Edna felt a sight of the crown and regalia was well worth the price (perhaps because it was not herself who was paying).

  The King's Menagerie was certainly interesting. It is not every day one has a chance to see live wild beasts. The monkeys in particular were very amusing. They reminded me of the girls at Salford, all hanging round in a bunch chattering, pointing and generally making a spectacle of themselves with no concern for what anyone thought. The elephant made quite a determined effort to relieve me of my reticule. It took the hat right from one gentleman's hand and returned it, slightly the worse for wear. I thought this a sufficiently amusing trick that I spoke to the gentleman in a bantering way, congratulating him on getting his headgear back. It set Edna into such a pucker that she dragged me off, chewing my ear for being a “forward creature, making up to every pair of trousers” we met.

  I had to remind her I was no longer her charge, and with one thing and another we were hardly speaking by the time we got back to the hotel. There were no messages for us. Of course we had not told anyone we were putting up at a hotel, so this was hardly surprising. Still, I think if anyone had been very eager to see us, he might have tried a few hotels right on the main street.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was my intention to get not only a lease on the Eyrie, but a tenant for it. My next step was a trifle odd, no doubt. I cannot think it warranted the “insane” or “criminal” Edna took upon herself to bestow on it. Certainly it was unnecessary for her to state so repeatedly it had anything at all to do with Mr. Williams, except that he was the revenueman I had to fool. She would have it it was all spite because of his marrying Lady Lucy, while assuring me between bouts of ill humor that he had no intention of marrying anyone but myself. I had finally to forbid her from mentioning that man's name to me again till we were home.

  To avoid making a short story long as I seem to be doing, I shall outline at once what I did. I hired an actress, who was not a prostitute, no matter how many times nor in how many euphemistic phrases Edna called her one. She was amazingly uncivil to me throughout the entire trip, Edna. The newspapers were advertising for actresses for a new play opening, and I went along to look them over, which unfortunately had to be done from outside the building. I'm sure no one took the notion I was a lightskirt, standing there with a perfectly respectable middle-aged chaperone with a face like sour vinegar.

  The gentleman who asked me if I was lost was as elegant as may be, and did not persist in the least when I told him I was waiting for a friend. I thought it rather sweet of him to inquire whether he could not be of help to me if my friend did not turn up, but Edna would have it he was trying to scrape an acquaintance with me for his own vile reasons. Never mind.

  Several painted women came complaining out of the theater, refused any role in the forthcoming production. It was this batch of rejects I was interested in. I chose one who was all alone, looking somehow desperate. I cannot imagine what role she had applied for. She was no ingenue—had not been f
or a quarter of a century, and they continue playing ingenue roles well into their thirties, you know. The ancient playing such a part at the Christmas comedy had to caulk her wrinkles before every performance. All painted up and from a distance, the wrinkles don't show, but when she made her bows at the end of the show, she looked a perfect hag, with the light striking her face at just the wrong angle.

  My actress wore a garish blue outfit, once elegant, now shabby. Her poor hair was tinted a horrid reddish color, with the dye job not lately repeated, so that half an inch of white showed at the roots. She was pitiful. She had a lost look about her, strolling slowly as though she had nowhere to go.

  I felt she was destitute enough to accept any sort of a job, but was slow to approach her, as I did not know quite how to put my proposition to her. I followed her for half a block, while she looked in at windows, then pulled out a handkerchief to apply it to her nose. When I saw the finger out of her glove, I had hopes she would not demur too much at my offer. I stepped up, trying not to look either brazen or condescending, and asked in a friendly way if she was one of the actresses I had seen coming out of Covent Garden.

  "I didn't see you there, did I, dearie?” was her answer, given in a mock-duchess sort of a voice. She looked me over pretty closely, frowning at my clothing, and more so at Edna, who stood by like a disapproving statue that wished itself elsewhere. “What if I was then? Ain't against the law, is it?” she continued, abandoning all attempts at a noble accent.

  "No indeed, I should hope not. Ah—positions are hard to come by, I suppose?"