That sound might have been what betrayed to a revenue cutter the smugglers who had used Treen Cove, or it might have been an information laid. That was what the gang had thought, and it had led to murder; but the gang had been broken, although about half of its members and its leader had escaped. Since the war had started up again, there were fewer Customs men around. They and their ships had more important duties than watching for a boatload of wine and brandy that would not pay duty. On the other hand, naval patrols were frequent, and sound carries a long distance over water. It would be stupid to take the chance that such sounds as ponies trotting through the night should be heard and reported. Many things were said of the new leader who had reorganized the scattered smugglers, but never that she was stupid.
The ponies emerged into the open area of the cove. Shadows stirred in the darkest place against the cliffs, resolved themselves into men who came forward and led the ponies into the concealment they had come from. The lead rider dismounted, and from the end of the string of ponies a giant trotted forward to loom over the small, slender woman. The breeches she wore were no attempt to conceal her sex, merely a concession to the security of riding astride.
If any of the men looked at her with sexual interest, he did so only from the concealment of the dark. One man had been knocked senseless for making a suggestive remark, another had an arm broken for touching her. Now all were very careful.
The giant made a soft, gobbling noise, and the woman turned to him and took the lantern he handed her. Kneeling, she struck flint, lighted a spill from the tinder, and lit the lamp. There was only a faint back-glow, for three sides were blackened and dark wings, which the woman had opened when she lit the lantern, shielded the front. It would not be possible to see the light anywhere but from a ship on a direct line from the cove. The little light that reflected upward and from a scratch or two in the blackened surfaces was blocked by the woman’s body.
In that dim light her features were remarkably fine. Close examination would have showed her eyes to be a quite astonishing violet color, distinctive and unmistakable, but no one in the smuggling group ever got very close. In the dark her eyes looked black at a few feet. A straight nose, just barely tip-tilted, and an adorable full-lipped mouth were made less appetizing by streaks and smudges of dirt and a mass of tangled, stringy, seemingly filthy red hair. Occasionally the delivery men wondered why Red Meg stayed so coarse and dirty. She must be making plenty of money on the smuggling lay, but she hadn’t changed her clothes, or apparently, washed her face, in the year they had known her. Such thoughts, when they came, were usually suppressed quickly. Red Meg didn’t like questions—and the dummy made sure none were asked.
Almost as soon as the lantern was directed seaward a light flashed back from beyond the low breakers. It went out, and then flashed twice, then once again. Red Meg worked the wings of the lantern in some response pattern. The men did not bother watching. The pattern from the ship seemed to change each time, and probably the reply changed also. There was no chance of slumming that arch doxy. She was up in every suit. There was no sense in it anyway. She paid fair. It was just the fact that she was a woman that some resented—that and that she was dead set against any trouble in the local villages. No robbery. No fooling with the women except on order—and there was never an order for those things, only once or twice for a burning.
There was another flicker of light from the sea, this time only one short blink. Red Meg turned her head toward the men waiting in the shadow and said, “Go.”
They hurried forward and began to run the villagers’ small boats into the water. If there was sun the next day, the boats would be dry and the villagers would never know they had been used. If there was no sun, damp might well linger in the bottoms of the boats. However, no one would remark on it, just as no one would turn a head or get out of bed to look when the ponies passed through the town, as they sometimes did. It was much, much safer to notice nothing. Curiosity resulted in inexplicable damage to one’s crops, in a house burnt to the ground.
The squire’s daughter, Mrs. Edward Devoran, had made good the loss but there was no guarantee that she would do it again, and thus it was an adequate warning for them all. Next time it might be a killing, and even Mrs. Devoran would not be able to cure that. So when the soft thud of many hooves passed in the night, those with windows by the bed turned their faces to the blank wall. There had been some angry muttering before acceptance was forced on them, but it was no distaste for smuggling that caused it. Quite the contrary, the men from the village were angry because they were never employed in the lucrative work.
As time passed the villagers grew resigned, particularly since a few coins were periodically found in the boats left in the cove. It was better to profit from the smuggling that way. Mrs. Devoran was kind, but she was a great stickler for obeying the law, and she hated smugglers. This wasn’t surprising, because it was rumored that a smuggler had shot and killed her husband. The village women looked at each other whenever the subject of the late Edward Devoran came up He was surely no loss to his wife, whether or not she knew it.
Oddly enough, Red Meg was thinking almost identical thoughts to those of the village women. She thought of Edward every time she came out to meet Pierre’s ship. Edward’s death and the events that followed it had restored Megaera Devoran’s faith in God. She grinned in the dark when she thought of the vicar’s horror if he knew the source of both her faith and her generous contribution to St. Buryan’s. But really, seven years as Edward’s wife had just about made an atheist of Megaera. She had had to become Red Meg to believe again. It hadn’t been to so easy to believe in the goodness of God before that, either. After her mother had died her father had disintegrated rapidly. He had never been a very strong person. He was sweet and kind but always sadly addicted to the bottle and the gaming table. Lady Bolliet had ruled her husband, and her daughter was also strong-willed, but Megaera had been too young to take control when her mother died.
Then, somewhere, Lord Bolliet had met Edward Devoran and fallen so deeply in debt to him by gambling that he could not pay. How the two men had come to the decision that Megaera’s hand in marriage would clear the debt, she never discovered. When she asked her father, he burst into tears, when she asked Edward, he laughed. Now, Megaera knew, she should simply have refused, but then she had been only fifteen. With her father weeping and babbling of ruin, utter ruin, and Edward, handsome and soft spoken, assuring her that it was her beauty that had driven him to using such underhanded methods, Megaera had agreed to the marriage.
She had lived to regret it bitterly. Within weeks of the ceremony Edward was after the servant girls. When Megaera, not so much hurt as outraged, had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to leave the girls alone, he had tried to beat her. He had learned swiftly not to do that. Megaera had defended herself with furniture, teeth, and nails. Edward had ended more bruised than she. Then, to enforce the lesson, she had set John on him. He had been beaten so soundly by the giant deaf-mute that he was in bed for several weeks He had no recourse because he had already made himself so obnoxious to everyone in the house that with one voice they would have perjured themselves about the cause of his injuries.
That had ended any open contest and any marital relationship between Edward and Megaera. Unfortunately Edward was clever and Megaera was innocent. Edward had his revenge. Over the next five years he had encouraged his father-in-law’s weaknesses. Lord Bolliet sank deeper and deeper into alcoholism. Megaera did what she could, but it was impossible to watch her father day and night, and she could not bear to set a keeper over him; in spite of everything she loved him. That, and not recognizing Edward’s part in her father’s decay, was a serious mistake. Somehow, over the years, Edward had forced or deceived Lord Bolliet into mortgaging his properties. By the time Megaera discovered what was going on, the debt was very large compared to the value of the lands. Over the next two years she had paid the interest and a bit of the principal by selling her mother
’s jewels. There was no need to set a watch on her father to be sure he signed no more papers. No banker or even usurer would lend a penny more on the Bolliet estates. Megaera pared expenses to the bone, but there was no way to pay off the debt out of income. She watched her resources dwindle with helpless terror. There would soon come a time when she and her father would be thrust penniless out of their home.
Naturally enough, the first restriction on expenses was the allowance that had been paid Edward. Nor could he take anything from the house to sell or pawn. All the servants watched him eagerly, and he knew Megaera would either set John on him again or would go further and endure the scandal of accusing her husband of stealing, for the advantage of being rid of him. The only reason his presence was suffered at all was that he had not destroyed Lord Bolliet’s notes of hand, as he had promised he would when Megaera married him. If he were pushed out, he threatened, he would present those to be paid—and he had arranged them to look like legal debts rather than gambling losses.
Ever inventive, Edward discovered a new way to turn a dishonest penny. He made contact with a group of smugglers. This was not difficult, as he had been an avid customer for duty-free brandy for some time. Edward himself drank only socially and seldom enough to interfere with the devious workings of his brain; however, he had fed his father-in-law’s desire for oblivion until the profit in it ended. Now he offered to arrange direct deliveries to the houses of the gentry for a split in the profit.
Although Edward did not know it, Black Bart was not a man who could be overawed by his new “partner’s” exalted connection. Edward collected the price of the wine and brandy Black Bart delivered, and the split was not honest. It took a little time for Black Bart to discover this. He had his own blind spots. Most of his men and the local farmers were so afraid of him that they would not dream of cheating him. It was several months before he realized that Edward did not share the caution of his other employees. When he did discover it, his action was direct. He shot Edward dead.
In fact, Bart was glad of the excuse Edward had offered. He had been considering getting rid of his partner for a week or two. Once Edward had established the delivery route, he was really unnecessary to the scheme. Unfortunately for Black Bart, he and Edward had very similar things in mind; Edward, however, acted less directly. Feeling that Black Bart was unnecessary now that he knew the “French” smuggler, Edward had betrayed the group to the Customs officers. Only a few hours after his own death a raid on the barn, in which the smugglers had gathered to divide and distribute the cargo Pierre had delivered, gave Edward a posthumous revenge.
The revenge was not complete because his murderer escaped only lightly wounded. Not realizing at first that the most important malefactor had slipped through their hands, the Customs men rounded up about half the men and all the cargo and were quite content. Then Edward’s body was discovered. Soon there was no doubt of either the reason for his death or who had committed the crime. A search was instituted for Black Bart, but it was rather cursory. It was assumed that he would be very far out of the district or hidden in one of the numerous caves in the area, of which an adequate examination was impossible and very dangerous.
This assumption did not take into consideration the fact that the wound Bart had sustained, although not deadly, was in a spot that made both walking and riding very painful. In addition, he hated the caves. They generated in him a nameless terror that could reduce him to a whimpering jelly. This combination forced him into an abandoned hut about halfway between Bolliet and Treen. He had slept there a few times in the past and knew no one ever visited the spot but a gigantic deaf-mute named John, who came to tend his mother’s grave.
When news of Edward’s death and the reason for it came to Megaera, she had been frozen with surprise—and relief. Respectful of her seeming shocked grief, the sympathetic Justice of the Peace had encouraged her to retire to recover herself. Kind neighbors had arranged the funeral and kept her father from disgracing himself in public. If any of them had known what Megaera was thinking those few days she kept to her room, people would have recommended she be confined to a straitjacket. However, the thoughts did not show in her remarkable violet eyes, bitter thoughts, at first only about the debts that would soon complete Edward’s revenge even though he was dead.
If only she had known what he was doing, it occurred to Megaera later, she could have got the money away from him. She could have prevented him from betraying the gang so that the money, whatever it was, could be used to pay the debts. Megaera had wept long and bitterly, and everyone felt deep sympathy for her, believing she had loved her worthless husband in spite of or in ignorance of, his faults. Sweet and innocent, most of them thought her, and marveled at how she had found the strength to manage the estates and her father without collapsing under the burden. This was the last straw, they surmised.
Robert Partridge, the family physician, had known better when he was summoned to attend Megaera. He was somewhat in her confidence because he treated her father and had treated Edward that time John had beaten him nearly to death. He knew Megaera with her big violet eyes, little tip-tilted nose, and sweet rosy lips was as tough as whipcord. He came in haste, but to congratulate her on her fortunate release, not to support her faltering spirit. In his hurry he nearly stumbled over big John’s feet. The deaf-mute was leaning on the wall beside his mistress’s door, trembling with fear. Partridge patted the giant’s shoulder comfortingly, but it had little effect. Only Megaera could comfort him. She was the only person who could really communicate with John after his mother died.
As the doctor walked into the room and held out his hands to Megaera in a wordless gesture of understanding, John’s history passed through his mind. The boy had been the last child of a shepherd and his wife, conceived some freak of nature when both were too old to expect such a result from their intercourse. Partridge had not really been surprised when the woman had brought the three-year-old to his office because the child could not speak or hear. Children born so late in their parents lives sometimes were defective. He had confirmed sadly that the condition was permanent. What had surprised him was that the boy was clean, well-fed, and responded well to signs his mother made to him.
Partridge had not seen John again for many years, had forgotten his existence, until he had been called urgently to Bolliet Manor to care for an accident victim. Thinking Lord Bolliet had injured himself in a drunken fit, Partridge had made haste. However, he had been directed to the stables, where he found thirteen-year-old Megaera kneeling beside a battered and torn giant, stroking him and making signs with her hands.
“Good God, who is this? What has happened?” Partridge had asked.
Megaera’s eyes shot sparks of rage, but she answered collectedly. “This is John Shepherd. His father used to tend our sheep. When the old man died, I allowed his widow to stay on in the cottage. I visited from time to time to make sure she and John didn’t starve. He can’t speak or hear, you know. Some lunatics—I don’t know where they could have come from—attacked him.”
“He’s grown to a fair size,” Partridge murmured, kneeling down and looking at the cuts and bruises on John’s enormous torso. You’d think even deaf and mute he could defend himself.”
“I’m sure he could,” Megaera snapped, “but I think he didn’t understand at first what was happening. When he realized, it was too late. Her eyes filled with tears. “They had put a rope around his neck and tied him up—I found him that way. He had been there two days. They left him to die!”
The doctor set his jaw with rage, but shook his head. “But how the devil did they get him tied up?”
“He must have let them. John never expected any harm. Old Goody Shepherd was always kind to him, and she never let him go to town or mix with people who would hurt him or make fun of him. He probably thought it was some kind of game.”
“Too bad,” Partridge said, keeping a wary eye on his patient while he probed around to determine the extent of the damage.
He was a little nervous, expecting that John might react violently to being hurt again after his bad experience, but the big man kept his eyes fixed, on Megaera’s face. Although John occasionally winced and gasped under the doctor’s hands, he obviously understood from Megaera’s expression that Partridge was trying to help him. It was clear that John was not an idiot, although his mind moved slowly. There were other peculiarities about him. He must be in his mid-twenties, Partridge thought, trying to remember what year he had seen him as a child, but he had no beard nor any more hair on his body than a young boy would have.
“Can you leave him for a while?” Partridge asked. “I want to examine the rest of him. Will he let me?”
“I’ll tell him—I hope,” Megaera replied. “I learned to talk to him a little.” She made signs for I have to go away and then for I’ll come back soon. Then she pointed to Partridge, stroked him, kissed his cheek, took John’s hand and made it stroke the doctor, took the doctor’s hand and stroked John’s cheek. Last she made the sign for Good. “I hope that’ll do,” she said. “I’ll be right outside. If he acts up, yell and I’ll come. Better my sensibilities be offended by John naked than you get your neck broken.”
In fact, Partridge had no trouble with John, who was as meek as possible, even though he was clearly distressed at having to take off his pants. His mother had taught him modesty. The doctor salved a bruise or two while confirming his suspicions that there was more lacking in John than voice and hearing. The scrotum was minute and empty, the penis no bigger than a child’s. John was a natural eunuch. In a sense that was an enormous relief. There was no chance that the big brute would be driven by frustration to forcing himself on women.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 3