by Joan Smith
That's all. Not a mention of any impediment to the match in the way of a previous attachment. Was it possible he had detached himself from Lady Lucy? It seemed wonderfully like it when he went on to suggest we look about the shops for things to add to our hope chest. My mind ran back over our courtship, if that is the proper word for such a bizarre relationship as we had.
It had been Christmas night when he first stepped up his flirtations—and how he had backed off at that time when I took him up on it. Frightened to death. Then when he returned from that visit to London, and I half thought he would be a married man, he had begun pursuing me harder than ever. It began to seem he had indeed managed to beg off from his entanglement with Lady Lucy.
But what of her letter? A lady did not keep correspondence with a man she had just jilted, or who had jilted her, however politely it had been accomplished. Maybe he had left a jacket behind. And maybe (here we were getting into murky maybe's) Lord Hadley had remarried, to explain away Lady Hadley.
I was distracted from these ruminations by my fiancé's pointing out to me a tea set, not nearly so pretty as ours, did I think? “Ours” had been delivered two days ago, and sat in state, still wrapped in paper in my bedroom, where I had the fortitude to do no more that undo the teapot, to see what the shape and pattern were. Certainly they were much prettier than the one being pointed to in the window. On that we agreed completely in the fond and foolish way of true lovers, who compliment themselves by complimenting each other on their taste and refinement.
A tour of the drapery shop was de rigueur, to ascertain the wares at Salford were superior and the prices lower, with quite as much earnestness as if we owned the shop. And I, as if I were any normal fiancée, entered into all the window shopping and price comparing, agreeing loudly that nine shillings was too much for the muslin.
"I want to buy something to commemorate this day,” Stamford said.
"Buy me some luncheon then. I am famished."
We had a nice dinner of roast beef and raised pigeon pie at the inn, taking a private parlor for the occasion. A wicked extravagance, and done without even thinking about it by my escort, which led me to wonder what sort of poverty he was accustomed to, if this was considered normal. It was very cozy and intimate in our private saloon, with red brocade hangings at the windows, and a fire crackling in the grate, to warm us after having been blown to bits at the wharf. We dined in style, taking claret with our dinner. I could not tackle a dessert, and it looked very good too, a compote of preserved pears and spiced muffins. Stamford had three of them, while I warned him he would turn to fat, in the way of so many husbands, if he ate so much. Really it was very much like a meal shared by newlyweds that day, with no constraint between us. At one point he even put a piece of muffin into my mouth, which is surely the mark of commonness, but it didn't seem like it. I only refrained from returning the compliment by remembering seeing Miss Simpson play that stunt at my Christmas party, while all the old quizzes clucked.
We spoke first of the Seamew and its operation, which men would be asked to fish it, etc. Stamford had given it some thought, and told me it would be for the men to maintain it and pay for its operation. When he could reel off those men who were in real poverty as well as I could myself, I realized what a sharp idea he had of which of the men in the village indulged in smuggling, but I managed to include a few of my own boys as well, for there was no saying that I would not have need of the Seamew from time to time. I had already decided she would be docked at Jed Oxton's cottage. As well as having a dredged dock able to take it, he was employed when he could get the work on ship repairing, and his wife mended sails. This lent an appearance of legitimacy to my decision, though of course the fact that Jed was also a gentleman was the real reason.
I had noticed Stamford whispering something to the waiter early on, and when the dessert plates were cleared away, I saw the result of this private discussion being brought in. We were confronted with a bottle of champagne, then the waiter backed out of the room, bowing and smiling.
"You are extravagant!” I scolded, still playing the housewife.
"I don't get engaged every day, and I hope you don't either,” he replied, handing me a glass.
It was the first time I ever tasted champagne. I liked it at once. There was no getting used to it necessary. It went down as easily as water, but more enjoyably, of course. After a second glass, there were still several left to go in the bottle. When Stamford glanced over his shoulder a couple of times toward the closed door, I thought he was making sure we were not to be disturbed, and wondered if he had some other surprise in store for me. A public inn did not seem quite the place for what I thought he had in mind, namely a repeat of the interlude in the darkened vestry of the church. An engagement party seemed the proper time, however. I confess (as this is a confession) that I was not entirely averse. Just as these thoughts were flitting through my giddy head, there was a tap at the door.
I had never seen the man who stood there before. He looked like a merchant and so he turned out to be. He passed something to Stamford, which he looked at carefully and lifted up in his fingers; then he put it back and took up something else. This went on three or four times, then Stamford drew out his pen, signed something, and the man left.
"What was all that about? I asked, alive with curiosity.
"Of what use is an engagement without a ring?” he said, lifting my left hand. Then he slid onto my finger a little golden ring, with five stones, emeralds and diamonds alternating in a band across the top of the circle. “You see how well I have sized you up—a perfect fit!” he congratulated himself. “I hope you like it?"
It was impossible not to like such a beautiful thing. A deep green fire danced in the three emeralds—they were large enough for that, not just chips. Large enough, but not too large and gaudy. Recalling his frequent references to poverty, I feared he had spent more than he could afford, but disliked even to hint at it, for fear of embarrassing him.
"Yes, I can afford it, sweetheart,” he said, and laughed. “I have taken up mind reading, so you had better clear your mind of anything you don't want me to know. I am not quite in the basket. Colonels receive a little more than a living wage, and this colonel banked every penny he didn't require. You'd be surprised how little opportunity there was to spend money in Portugal. And we high-class revenuemen, you know, have only to crook a finger and the government pours gold into our pockets. Just ask Crites."
Having reasoned away Lady Lucy, this financial report lifted another load from my mind, which left on it only the burden of my career of crime, which was not quite sufficient to ruin the day. I felt as happy as any lucky girl when she has nabbed (to borrow the word Miss Simpson was too high to use) the man she wants. I knew then how very much I wanted this one. He was all I had dreamed of, all those dull months, years, of tending house for my father, and those wretched months of trotting to the school, of lying in my bed worrying about my cargoes and my gentlemen. I wanted to pull free from all that, and become Lady Wicklow. I wouldn't have minded a bit had it been plain Mrs. Wicklow either.
"Do you like it?” he asked eagerly, just a little worried.
I felt tears stinging my eyes, tears of regret, and joy. “It's perfect,” I said, and was as surprised as my fiancé to hear a sob intrude itself into this tender scene.
"Mab—darling, what's the matter?” he asked, taking my hands and drawing me up from my chair.
"Nothing. It's just...” A handkerchief was lifted to my eyes, to wipe away the tear. “It's perfect,” I repeated more firmly.
"Not yet,” he objected, drawing me into his arms. With this detail taken care of he said, "Now it is perfect.” He lowered his head and kissed me. Then it was perfect. Perfect swelling bliss for about two minutes. Or longer, or shorter. Such matters are not measured in minutes, but in satisfaction. It was a perfectly satisfying kiss.
It was followed by about the most unsatisfying words he could possibly have spoken. “I will catch Miss Sage,
and I will do it very soon. Then we will get married,” he announced. You never heard such conviction.
Oh, he would catch me surely, but having caught Miss Sage, he would never in the world marry Miss Anderson.
Chapter Nineteen
Dumping a load and going to creep for it was not the preferred method of importing brandy, as you may well imagine. I disliked to have to use it again so soon, but as the time of arrival for the next load drew near, I was visited with no alternative inspiration. The Eyrie was watched, Aiken's place was suspect, the school likewise. At the back of my mind the crypt kept beckoning, but I did not want the brandy to be there, incriminating Andrew and of course myself. I had the Seamew to help me, but wished to let it settle first into a routine, for it was much discussed and watched when it first made its bows at Salford. A nubile heiress could hardly have evoked more interest.
Miss Anderson, by the by, was considered next thing to a saint by the poor villagers. I felt like the greatest hypocrite who had ever drawn breath. Really I was extremely unhappy for a lady who was in charge of a highly successful enterprise, doing at last some real charity, and engaged to the man she loved.
About our engagement, no announcement whatever was made or even mentioned once we got home. In fact, Wicklow suggested I might prefer to wear the ring on a chain round my neck for the time being, “till things are settled,” as he vaguely put it. I had no real desire to announce it, when it was so uncertain whether a wedding would ever take place. If I was miserable, Wicklow was only slightly less so. I heard from Jemmie that he now ate his meals alone at the inn, whereas he used to be joined by the local men. He was also eyed askance when he walked out, though the girls still smirked at him. His chances of hearing anything about the smuggling were virtually nil.
To return to my cargo, still left without a hiding place! Actually the foregoing is fairly typical of my thoughts at that time. I could not concentrate on one thing without another's intruding itself. Despite the difficulty of thinking straight, I finally had an inspiration. I chanced to be speaking one day to Mrs. Everett, the purchaser of Fern Bank. She was always hailing me up on the street to complain of a leak or a draft, a spot of mildew or wood rot—always a complaint. Her threnody reached its zenith that day.
"Well, it's finally happened,” she proclaimed in a loud, injured, accusing and withal thoroughly satisfied voice. “The roof has fallen in on our heads. It only missed suffocating Jerome and myself in our beds by the good quality of the new canopy I had put on a month ago. ‘Thank God,’ says I to Jerome, ‘I replaced that old frayed rag Miss Anderson had on, or we'd not be alive this day to tell the tale.’ Not a square inch of plaster remains on the ceiling—and half the hallway the same. The attics all awash and two bats nesting in them. Jerome is having a new roof put on. It is costing us a fortune, to say nothing of the expense of putting up at the inn while it is being done, for I will not tolerate the noise and racket of the infernal hammering all day long. But that is what happens when you buy an old wreck of a place."
"You only get what you pay for,” I pointed out. I alit on the news that Fern Bank was untenanted, and inquired to see whether the servants remained. “They are given a holiday. Jerome's valet and my dresser are at the inn with us. I could not do without my dresser."
She had done without one till about two months ago. “Yes, you are dressing very elegantly lately, Mrs. Everett."
She took this for a compliment. “The girls are all gone home for a week,” she went on, “but that butler you left behind is still there, to keep an eye on things during the day."
"He stays at night as well, does he?"
"To be sure he does."
One butler was not likely to be out patrolling the grounds at night, and in the worst case, I could confess to Hackley. He would never turn in Magistrate Anderson's daughter, whom he still called Miss Mabel, from having known me from the cradle.
My intention, of course, was to have the brandy landed at Fern Bank. The secret hut in the woods, the poachers’ hut where Andrew and I used to play smugglers and revenuemen, was ideal for it. There was good landing too at the cove, and Fern Bank was far enough removed from all the regular landing spots that I did not believe it was included on Wicklow's route.
Jem confirmed this. One small difficulty arose in that Jem did not know the hut I spoke of. Fern Bank was never part of his higgling rounds, and poaching there was poor as my father allowed his friends to hunt the place naked. The hut was well concealed too, so that I was by no means sure Jemmie could find it, and there must be no uncertainties at this crucial time. I would have to go with him and show him the spot, but could not do so in broad daylight. It was set up we would go together after dark, a few hours before the shipment came in.
As darkness came on that night, I sat uneasily waiting for nine bells to chime, our hour of departure. Who must take into their heads to come and plant themselves in our saloon that night but the Everetts. Putting up at the inn brought them too close for her to resist coming to lodge more complaints. This turned out to be a mixed blessing, for while it made my departure impossible, I learned one item of importance. After a long dissertation on the evils of buying an old barn of a place—"no saving in the long run—quite the contrary"—the news came forth. “We had to have the stone drywall restacked, six yards of it tumbled down, what a mess! And then there was that old hut in the spinney inviting tramps or smugglers to come in and make themselves at home. That is torn down, and a nice little walkway made through the spinney by chopping down half the trees, so I can see from the window what is afoot. With this Miss Sage character running the town, no one is safe."
She was lucky Miss Sage did not brain her on the spot. My eyes flew to Edna. Andrew, it is hardly necessary to say, had slipped over to the church to play the organ as soon as the front knocker sounded. I arose and made an excuse to leave the room. I scribbled off a note for Jemmie telling him to wait for me—Important—and left it at the back door. It was close to eleven before that pest of a woman and her husband finally left us, with the hour so far advanced there was nothing for it but to don my disguise and go with Jemmie to find an alternative storage spot for our cargo.
The night was dark and cold, the wind piercing, but I hardly noticed. Between looking over my shoulder for a follower and trying to set on some hiding place, I was not much bothered by the other minor discomforts. I dickered between stables and icehouse, summer pavilion and fuel house, rejecting each for one reason or another—too small, too open, etc. We arrived half an hour before the lugger, time enough for Jemmie to stay at the prearranged spot to meet them while I scouted and set on the pinery as our spot.
Our pinery at Fern Bank was an elaborate affair, Grecian in design, and every bit as elegant as the main home. When Mrs. Everett spoke of tearing it down, she was showing me how little impressed she was with it, but she had of course not touched a single stone in it. She had let the orange trees and pineapples wilt away, just as she said she had. They stood like desiccated corpses still in their planting boxes, the leaves of the trees rustling in the draft when I opened the door. Those lovely tropical scents that had used to greet one here were all gone, with only a dusty, unpleasant odor from a few fruits not removed before the place was abandoned. There was ample storage room, and good concealment from the dead foliage.
The landing went well enough. I caught a glimpse of the lugger as it hoisted sails to depart. Jemmie and I remained behind and breached a barrel together, then he saw me home. Wicklow was just coming out of the school, to hop astride his mount. I could not suppress a smile to think how frustrated he must feel.
I was smiling on the other side of my face Monday morning when I received a summons to the rear door to meet the higgler at the ungodly hour of six-thirty. It was fortunate it was myself who heard his knocking.
"An accident, miss. Don't tell me I should not have come, for I know it, but I wasn't followed. A barrel fell off the tranter's wagon just at the gateway to Fern Bank. The smell is somet
hing awful. We tried to lower it with water, but daylight was coming on, and we dared not linger."
"Get a load of manure up there at once, Jem, and drop it. We don't want to draw attention to our new spot. Thank God it's Saturday. If I had to go to work today I could not do it."
"It's too late, miss. The milk carrier was not far behind us. He'll have spread the tale around town as sure as God made apples."
"Very likely. Well, Fern Bank was never meant to be a regular spot, and so long as Phillips is safely on his way to London, we'll not complain. It leaves us without a single safe spot for landing. I'm afraid we must take a holiday for a few weeks."
"Pettigrew won't like it. And it's the good stuff too, from Cognac. Our gentlemen won't like missing out on that."
"They wouldn't like hanging either. We're not far from it."
The accident brought another call from Mrs. Everett down on my head, for some general complaining, the nature of it being that if the roof had not fallen, she would not have been obliged to vacate her home, and the smugglers would not have used her property. It took some sophistry for her to lay the blame on my shoulders, but as that was precisely where it belonged, I did not give her her customary argument.
Throughout this entire interval, Wicklow kept calling, making as much love as usual. “Miss Sage becomes desperate,” he crowed on this occasion. “I have driven him as far north as Fern Bank—your old home, Mab. Half a mile farther and he is backed into Felixstone territory. If a couple of the smuggling rings can be put at each other's necks, we revenuemen can retire. It is the fact of the Everetts not being home that caused it, of course: I thought my hinting to Mrs. Everett she should rip down the poachers’ hut and thin out her spinney would be sufficient to keep Miss Sage away. They used the pinery, I fancy."