Megaera sighed as she passed through the cave and went around a rough outcrop of rock. Behind it she stuck her arm into a deep fissure and felt around until her hand found a large knot of rope. Pulling on this dragged a ladder out of a dark hole well above Megaera’s head. She climbed the ladder, crawled into and beyond the small opening and, stood up. She pulled the ladder up behind her with considerable effort. As she laid it down so that the legs were on the higher area that made the opening so small, the rope slid back into the narrow crack, that extended down to the floor of the main cave and disappeared from sight.
The ladder was new. John had built it to be sure it would hold his weight, but it was not the first to lie in that position. Its ancestor, which had been found by the scholarly gentlemen investigating the cave, was the best proof that the long-dead owners of Bolliet Manor were probably no better than they should be. Megaera was horrified to learn that they had probably been wreckers, who had kept goods and perhaps prisoners in the caves.
She was not thinking now, as she had so often before, that the family had come full circle. Her mind was a muddled mass of doubts, fears, and desires made more confusing by her fatigue. By the time she had stretched her aching limbs in her comfortable bed, she was almost ready to back out of the whole enterprise. The few extra pounds commission would not be worth the agony of spirit, she told herself. The decision quieted her enough so that she slept, but not for long. For the first time in more than a year she dreamed of making love and woke up weeping.
The few hours of rest had revived her somewhat, and the dream, leaving her unfulfilled, had sharpened her appetite. First she realized that she could no longer back out, she had promised Pierre she would buy the goods for him. And don’t be a fool, she told herself. This is a golden opportunity. Philip is handsome, gentle, and, best of all, has no acquaintance in the neighborhood. There is no chance that he will ever, meet Mrs. Edward Devoran. Besides, he won’t stay in Cornwall after his business is finished. He’ll go back to France with Pierre. That produced a sinking feeling of disappointment rather than relief, but Megaera’s spirits rose again when she remembered that, if the buying trip were successful, Philip would surely come back to repeat it—especially if he wanted to see her again.
The second time it was even easier to go to sleep. This time she slept peacefully, although dreams continued to flit through her brain. They were sweet dreams—of soft whispers, gentle touching, kind looks. Megara was a child, then suddenly a woman, but the man, whose face was a dark blur, was always the same—father, lover, protector, he was uniformly loving. He comforted the child, who had scraped a knee, then suddenly was kissing the woman with passion. His breath was sweet, untainted with liquor—and Megaera knew she was safe forever.
Before Megaera had even got into bed, Philip waved goodbye to John and set off at as fast a pace as he dared to where a secondary track, which went eventually to Buryan, met the road that ran past Bolliet. Here he turned due north, steering by the stars and by his memories of rides with Perce. He went a little astray, but it was a fortunate mistake and brought him out right at Drift rather than at Catchall, which was half a mile farther west along the main road. He was not really surprised to find it was Perce who opened the door for him.
“You’re late,” was all he said.
“Yes, and I must leave very early. I do not think I will be back—not for some time.” Philip’s eyes twinkled. “I think I have found a way to restore my fortunes.”
“Yaas,” Perce drawled. “Pay those debts that have been on your mind so much. You wouldn’t like some company?”
“With your French accent?” Philip shuddered and laughed.
His friend shrugged. Actually he was good at languages. He spoke French, German, and Italian fluently and could manage a little Russian as well—but he spoke every one like an Englishman. Worse, he knew “English” was stamped on his face, so that it was true he would be more a danger than a help.
“Damn!” he said softly as he closed the door. “Is there anything you need? Money?”
“No. I told you. I am about to make my fortune. You need not worry. I will be quite safe.” The disbelief on Perce’s face led him to say a little more. “I have met an old friend of my father’s. Believe me, I am more likely to be stifled by protection than exposed to any excitement.”
Actually Philip was not much interested in his adventure in France at the moment. That excitement had been temporarily superseded by another. He was no less determined to do what he could to help his nation and foil Bonaparte’s plans but he could not do anything about that until Pierre’s return—and he was meeting Meg tomorrow.
Perce had not answered Philip’s nonsensical assurances as to his own safety immediately, merely staring at him in frustrated silence. Then he sighed. What could Philip say? “Do you want a nightcap?” he asked.
“No. Lord, I must reek, of brandy already—but it was good brandy, I must say. That is what comes of drinking at a— Never mind. I had better go to bed before I say what I should not. But Perce, do you know where your unstamped brandy comes from?”
“The same place yours does, you idiot—France. Where else? And there is no stamped brandy in Cornwall,” Perce answered sardonically.
“No, you fool I mean, who brings it?”
“How should I know? Do you think m’father or I accept the kegs? For God’s sake! He’s a justice of the peace!”
“Who does accept them?”
“Butler, I suppose.” Then Perce cocked his head. “Is it important? Do you want me to wake him?”
“No, of course not. Just curiosity.”
“Oh? I thought maybe you were drumming up trade or looking for information about your future business rivals.”
Philip laughed as he set his foot on the stairs. “No, you have the wrong end of the stick. I am not selling. I am buying—and not brandy. My interest was personal. I have heard…“ Then he paused, feeling ashamed of himself. He had no right to pry into Meg’s life, really. She had a right to her own secrets.
“What?” Perce urged.
“That there was some trouble,” Philip finished lamely, needing to say something.
Perce wrinkled his forehead. “You know, I heard that too, but it was some time ago. Nothing serious—a petty theft or two, a servant girl complaining she was mauled about. Wait,” he added as they reached the top of the stair. “I have heard something else. Now, who was it that told me? Well, never mind. It seems the trouble has stopped and there’s a big brute delivering now, really big—and—yes, he’s a deaf-mute. Damn! I do remember. It was Levallis told me. Seems a maid went out to the jakes or something and ran into the brute. Screamed the place down. Everyone ran out, even Levallis himself, but the creature just put the kegs down. It was a sure thing he never heard the girl. Didn’t touch her or tell her to be quiet or anything. Didn’t say a word to the others either. Just set down the kegs and walked away.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Philip didn’t know whether he was more disappointed or relieved that Perce knew nothing about Meg. Apparently she was as secretive with her customers as with Pierre, or perhaps John made the deliveries alone.
“As long as the trouble is over,” he said to Perce. “My—my new employer is, according to his lights, an honest man.”
“I see.” Perce’s lips quirked. “Wants to be sure his clients are satisfied. Yes. Very reasonable.” They had reached the door to Philips bedchamber. Perce put his hand on his, friend’s shoulder. “Be a little sensible, will you, Phil? If you weren’t around to give me a start now and then, I might freeze over solid.”
“We will be wicked old men together, I am sure,” Philip replied. “Will you say everything proper to your parents and sisters for me? Beg pardon for my sudden departure. I will write, of course, to thank them and to beg permission to return. I will be back, you know.”
An enormous urge to tell Perce about Meg, to confess that he had finally met a woman who could arouse more than carnal interest i
n him, filled Philip. He shut his teeth hard. Perce would think he was insane! Imagine a St. Eyre feeling that kind of interest in a girl of common birth who headed a gang of smugglers. When he thought of it in those terms, Philip himself wondered whether he was insane. He struck his friend lightly in the solar plexus, forced a grin, and went into his room.
Of course he was mad, he told himself as he slipped off his clothes. Meg was beautiful, and she might even be a decent woman, but she was out of the question for him. Doubtless he was reading all sorts of things into her that did not exist. He smiled wryly, trying to ignore the weight of disappointment that settled on him. It was all Pierre’s fault—calling her a “lady” and telling Philip to protect her. No doubt she was about as helpless as a fully armed dragoon. He remembered the pistols strapped around her waist. Almost certainly in the hard light of day he would see her as she was. Philip set his teeth and imagined Meg in the kind of clothing his bawdy-house girls decked themselves in. He fell asleep with that picture in his mind and a big empty hole in his chest. By morning the notion was fixed, and he could laugh at himself without feeling his throat tighten.
Philip left Moreton Place before anyone but a few servants was awake. In fact he saddled Spite himself, rode to Penzance as quickly as possible, and breakfasted while the hired horses were put to the carriage he had chosen. Megaera had been up even earlier than Philip. She had packed a small old portmanteau of her father’s with her soberest gowns—and most frivolous nightdresses and underlinen. The second dream had hardened her final decision, although she was well aware of its falsity. Even if Philip wished to be her lover and protector, she could not accept. There could be no permanent relationship between them. All the more reason why Red Meg should taste what would be forever denied to Mrs. Edward Devoran.
Before the maid came in with her morning chocolate and to make up her fire, Megaera had carried the portmanteau to the cave and returned to her bed. When the girl came in, Megaera told her to send in Rose to pack a bag. She told her personal maid that she was going to pay a visit and would be away for a night or two. She discussed with Rose some slight changes in her evening dresses to make them appear fresher. It was difficult to have much interest in gowns she knew she would not wear and she was rather impatient with the way Rose dwelled on details.
“And the carriage, ma’am? Rose asked. “Which will you take?”
“None,” Megaera, replied. “I will ride over to the vicar’s house where I am to be taken up. Do not be so prying, Rose, but go fix my gowns.”
The maid did as she was told, but she was puzzled by her mistress’s manner. Her lady hadn’t been interested in the dresses, not really, but she was excited and eager to go. Also it was very odd for her lady to say she was prying by asking about the carriage. After all, someone had to tell the footman what to tell the coachman. And if her lady was to be taken up, why at the vicar’s house? Why not at Bolliet?
Then Rose’s face softened. Could it be a man? That could explain why her lady was meeting him at the vicar’s. Rose knew that Megaera couldn’t bear to lock her father up, but it was plain as a pikestaff that any decent man would be scared off by such a father-in-law. But then surely her lady would have wanted to look her best. So why did she hardly look at her gowns? And besides, what man in the district didn’t know about Lord Bolliet?
Fortunately Rose was very romantic and very fond of her mistress. She shook off all practical objections, telling herself that the look in her lady’s eyes could only mean a man. She even found reasons for Megaera’s lack of interest in her gowns. Her lady was incurably honest, much to her own detriment, Rose thought with irritation. Probably the gentleman was not local. He would not know that there were money troubles—all the servants knew that much because of the cutbacks in spending, but they had no idea how acute the problem was—because of that monster her lady married and because of his lordship’s little weaknesses. Her lady would wear the old gowns to show she was not rich. That was it.
That was the story that went around in servants’ hall, and even Mr. Crystal, the butler, could not really deny it. His glimpse of Mrs. Devoran when he served breakfast tended to confirm Rose’s contention. Mr. Crystal could only hope that his poor, poor lady would not suffer anymore. He had not seen such a light in her eyes for many years. All he could do for her, however, was to suppress gossip as much as he could in the servants’ hall and promise to pin back the ears of anyone who dared to let a word slip to his lordship. Fuddled as he was, he might take it into his head to interfere in some way.
Not in the least aware of the conspiracy of helpfulness surrounding her, Megaera wore away the hours until nine o’clock. Then she had her mare brought around, had her elaborate portmanteau strapped behind the saddle, and set out. Mr. Crystal, seeing her off, frowned. She should have taken a groom. Of course, it was only about two miles to the vicar’s house, and Mrs. Devoran’s horse knew the way by heart, even if Mrs. Devoran herself should be somewhat distracted. Still, a groom would have lent propriety. He sighed. There was no use talking about propriety to Mrs. Devoran. In fact she was a stickler usually, but when she got an idea into her head she just did things her own way.
Having held her mare to a staid trot as long as she could be seen from the house, Meg quickened her pace once she was clear. It was odd that the passage from the house to the cave could be traversed in a few minutes on foot, but it took almost ten minutes to ride around the hill. And no one would ever guess that Bolliet Manor was on the other side. It looked completely wild country as soon as the formal park was hidden. All, to the good, Megaera thought. That increased the likelihood that no one would ever associate Bolliet with the cave.
John was waiting to take the mare in and transfer the sidesaddle to the pony. Meanwhile, Megaera removed her fashionable riding habit and replaced it with a sober walking dress from her period of half mourning. It was pale gray with black ribbons and, in spite of its sobriety, highlighted her red hair and creamy complexion. The high waist did her no disservice either, emphasizing her slenderness and her firm, high bosom, although the dress covered rather more of her breasts than was fashionable. A darker gray pelisse covered her, and a bonnet with a long poke shaded her face. At this hour of the day there was some chance of passing someone she knew on the road. Meg hoped Philip—she shivered inside a little as she said his name to herself—would have obtained a closed carriage, but if he had not, the hat would conceal her face and hair.
She dressed in front of John without the slightest embarrassment. Dr. Partridge had been right about John. He was not the least bit interested in such things. He did look at her from time to time, but only at her face and hands to see if she wanted him to do anything. It was impossible to feel anything more about John’s occasional glances than about those of her pony or mare.
When she was ready, John led the pony out. Megaera glanced around to make sure no one was walking the hills. Shepherds sometimes came by or boys from the village to snare rabbits or birds. Today, fortunately, the hillside was empty. John lifted her to her pony and picked up the old portmanteau. The elegant one had been placed out of sight in one of the passages. It was difficult to ride in the tight skirt. Megaera could not fit her knee over the rest. She could only perch on the saddle with one foot in the stirrup. However, John walked beside her and she rested a hand on his shoulder. He would catch her if she slipped.
They arrived by the blasted tree without any untoward incident. Megaera was lifted down and the portmanteau set beside her. She signed to John that she was going away for three days (he would not worry if she came home sooner but would be frantic if she were late) and, that he must take the pony back to the cave and keep the mare there until she returned. There was no way she could tell him to meet her because she was not sure exactly when she would return, but Philip would surely see her to the cave, so that would be all right. Now she glanced anxiously down the road and pulled her watch from a small pocket in her skirt. She was early, and it would be very bad if someone saw he
r standing by the side of the road.
Megaera waved John away. As usual he was reluctant to leave her alone anywhere except in the house. She had to push him on his way, but having him around was the worst thing. He was just too noticeable. Megaera herself could probably hide behind the tree if necessary. If anyone noticed her at all, she would be thought to be a servant girl waiting to be picked up. However, John was hardly out of sight when Megaera heard a carriage. She retreated cautiously to the tree, but it was Philip and she came toward the road, lugging the portmanteau.
As soon as he saw her Philip pulled up his horses, wound the reins around the whip holder, and jumped down. He took the portmanteau from her hand, looking somewhat stunned. He had convinced himself that she would be swathed in purple satin, tawdry tinsel, and unsuitable, moth-eaten ostrich plumes. A thin little hope, peeping through those images, showed a sweet little maiden in pale sprig muslin and white lace mittens. What he saw was a beautiful and dignified woman, most tastefully attired. Leonie could not have looked lovelier nor more appropriate. Philip swallowed hard.
“What’s wrong?” Meg asked anxiously. “Is something the matter? Pierre? Don’t tell me—”
“No, no. I have heard nothing, but I am sure he is safe away. It is you—forgive me, but you are so exquisitely beautiful and so—so right!”
She laughed, her creamy skin flushing deliciously. “That isn’t very polite. You aren’t supposed to apologize for compliments.”
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 15