For her part, Callie could not remember having enjoyed a meal so much since the rowdy suppers aboard the Crimson Vengeance when Kit and his crew told stories and sang songs each more outrageous than the last. She sat back in her chair and watched as Finn teased Jem into eating the vegetables Gemma had cut up into the stew pot, something he normally tried hard to avoid. It was good, she thought, for him to spend time around a man. He’d been too long cooped up with only Gemma and herself for company.
Gemma came in with the pie they’d received from the baker when she and Callie had walked into the village. Finn smiled up at her as she sat it on the table and she fumbled, nearly dropping it into his lap. Callie hid a smile and Jem grinned at her and rolled his eyes.
“You’ve been exploring the tunnels that run from the shore up into the village, haven’t you?” Finn asked Jem when Gemma had at last managed to serve the pie and retreat to the kitchen.
“There are a lot of them,” Jem replied.
“You must take care; some of them are considered private property; the men who claim them hide their goods inside and they play rough if they suspect an intruder. They won’t care that you’re a child, boy.”
Jem looked mutinous and Callie knew he objected to being called a child. Still, she appreciated Finn’s warning.
“Take care, Jem,” she said softly, “I would not have you harmed.”
“I will,” he agreed with a sigh.
When supper was ended, Finn rose to leave.
“Thank you for my supper,” he said.
“Thank you for fixing the door,” she countered.
“I’ll speak to the butcher about saving a pup for the lad.”
He smiled and, with a ruffle of Jem’s red hair, turned and went out the door. Cyrus, waiting patiently for his master, leapt to his feet, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. As Finn started down the beach, the dog gamboled at his heels, a piece of driftwood in his jaws, trying to tempt his master to throw it.
Callie watched him until he disappeared around the next point of land. ‘Ruffian’ Sir Thomas had called him and, a ruffian he might be by Lord Sedgewyck’s standards, certainly he was not cultured or sophisticated, but there was a quiet strength about Finn
Blount and, she suspected, a gentle and tender heart beneath that rough exterior. He had about him a dignity that had nothing to do with titles or wealth and which, in the end, mattered more than either.
* * *
The storm that struck the Cornish coast a few days after Finn’s visit raged for two nights and two days until Callie began to wonder if even the ancient stone walls of Hyacinth Cottage which had safely sheltered generations would be proof against it.
“Will it never end?” she asked aloud as she mopped up rain water that had seeped beneath the front door and puddled on the slate floor tiles.
“It’s a bad one,” Gemma agreed. “Perhaps we should have gone to the manor after all.”
Callie rolled her eyes. Sir Thomas had sent a footman with the carriage to Hyacinth Cottage soon after the storm had begun to invite Callie, Jem, and Gemma to take refuge at the manor for the duration of what promised to be the most violent storm to hit that part of the coast in years. Callie had sent him back with a note thanking Sir Thomas for his offer, but insisting that she thought they were perfectly safe within their own walls.
“The storm is bad enough,” she said, pausing in her labors as a crash of thunder shook the leaded panes of the windows, “without spending it closeted with Sir Thomas and the Louvains. A few more sour looks from that old Medusa, Venetia Louvain, and I swear I’ll turn to stone.”
“Jem could have made friends with Shark bait,” Gemma suggested with a grin.
“About the time he called that dog ‘shark bait’ again, Venetia would have had him tossed out in the storm. He’d have had to go hide in Walter’s cave.”
Callie carried her wet mop to the kitchen. “I hope Finn is all right. Where does he live, Gemma?”
“He has a little cottage up the coast, near the inlet where he lands his boat.”
“He won’t be doing any smuggling in this weather, that’s for certain. I just hope he and Cyrus don’t get washed away.”
“Do you like him, ma’am?” Gemma asked.
Callie gazed at her for a moment. “I do like him. And I know you like him as well.”
Gemma shrugged. “I think him handsome, that’s all. I’ve plans for my life, ma’am, and they don’t include courting a man at this point.”
“You want to be a lady’s maid and travel,” Callie said.
“That I do. And I will, someday.”
“I believe you,” Callie told her. She sighed. “I am fighting a losing battle against this water. If this storm doesn’t end soon, I fear the animals will begin coming out of the hills two by two.”
The morning of the third day dawned sunny and calm. The seashore was littered with flotsam and jetsam tossed up by the storm and Callie put on her oldest dress, determined to pick up the driftwood and do away with the jumble of dead sea creatures sprawled pitifully on the sand.
But as she stepped out the front door of her cottage, she saw a stream of people making their way past, strung out along the sand as far as the eye could see. They moved with a single purpose, some carrying baskets and crates. Hearing the rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves, she moved to the side of the cottage and saw that the cart track behind her home was also alive with men and women pushing barrows and driving ox carts and pony carts.
Going back to the track, she stopped a man with a weathered face and an empty barrow.
“Your pardon, sir,” she said, “but what is happening?”
“A ship, lass,” he said, “driven on the rocks by the storm down there, beyond the next point. She’s broken up and the shore is covered with goods.”
“And everyone is going down there to salvage it?”
“Aye, they are.”
“But what of the crew? What of the passengers?”
“I know naught of them; my business is with the ship and its cargo. Now, let me be, woman, or there’ll be nothin’ left by the time I get there.”
Callie stepped back and the man went on his way, quickening his step, determined not to be the last salvager to arrive at the bounty the sea had given them.
“What is it, Callie?” Jem asked, coming to her side.
“Apparently a ship was driven aground by the storm. They’re going down to salvage what they can of the ship and its cargo.”
“I want to go! Please, Callie, please!”
“Go along, then, I suppose they’ll not notice one more. But stay out of trouble and don’t aggravate anyone.”
“Finn will likely be there,” he called back, already taking to his heels.
“I hope so,” Callie murmured.
It was several hours later before Jem returned, laden with booty, Cyrus running beside him. Finn was close behind him and the three of them were covered in dust. Dumping his treasures on the sand beside her, he showed her a deck prism, one of the heavy glass prisms laid flush with the decks of ships to provide light in the dark cabins below, a handsome carved box, and a cane with a chased gold handle shaped like a bear’s head.
“Where have you been?” Callie demanded. “You didn’t get all this dust on you scavenging on the seashore.”
Jem laughed. “We were in a tomb.”
“A tomb?” Callie fixed Finn with a disapproving eye. “Grave robbing, Finn?”
Finn and Jem laughed. “Not grave robbing,” Jem told her. “The tunnels, under the cliff, one of them comes up in old Lady Sedgewyck’s tomb in the church.”
“You’re joking.”
“She’s not in there.”
“She’s buried in the crypt with her husband,” Finn told Callie. “The tomb was built to cover the entrance of the tunnel by the parson of the time. He used to hide his smuggler’s goods in the tomb from the revenue men.”
“Good lord.”
“This one’s a natur
al,” Finn told her, nodded at Jem, “fast as lightning.”
Callie knew she could not object to Jem’s joining the salvagers, after all, did they not occasionally go to visit the crypt of the abandoned church where Kit had left his store of pirate’s treasure? Those were stolen goods as well, though taken after a chase and, often a battle—to the victor go the spoils and all that—while this seemed somehow like a pack of vultures scavenging a helpless corpse.
“Were there any survivors?” she asked.
Finn shook his head. “Not among the crew; their bodies washed up and were taken away by the authorities. As for the passengers . . .” He shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing; it was a transport ship bound for America. If any of the convicts made it to shore, they’d not have lingered.”
“I suppose not.”
Finn swung down the heavy bag he carried slung over his shoulder. He rummaged inside it and brought out a spyglass of brass and rosewood and held it out to her.
“Here, take it to keep an eye on this young scamp,” he told her.
“Thank you,” Callie said, taking the spyglass from him. “Will you come in? Perhaps you could stay to dinner.”
“That’s kind of you,” he said, “but I want to get this lot home. Another time?”
“Another time, then,” she agreed.
He paused while Jem gathered his loot and disappeared into the cottage. “I’ve spoken to the butcher,” he told Callie softly, “and he’s willing to save a puppy for the lad. I’ve picked out a fine one who looks a lot like his dad, the randy old beggar.” He gave Cyrus a fond look and the dog wagged his tail.
“Have you told Jem?”
Finn shook his head. “When the pup’s ready to leave his mam, I’ll bring him round as a surprise for him, if that’s agreeable.”
“Very agreeable, thank you, Finn,” Callie said.
He nodded and they gazed at one another for a long, silent moment before Finn swung his bag back up onto his shoulder. “Well, I’d best be getting home. Good day to you, Mrs. Jenkins.”
Callie laughed. “Good day yourself, Mr. Blount.”
Finn chuckled and turned away and, with a soft whistle for Cyrus, moved away down the beach, the heavy bag of his salvager’s prizes swinging on his back.
Chapter Six
“Ma’am,” Gemma called, “there’s a cart outside full of ladies.”
“Ladies?” Callie went to the window. “Oh, it’s Mademoiselle La Salle, the dressmaker, but what is she doing here? I expected her to send me a message when my dress was finished.”
A knock on the front door took them both to the entrance by the parlor. Callie opened the door and the young dressmaker stepped inside followed by three other young women all laden down with boxes.
“Good morning, Madame,” she said with a bright smile for Callie.
“What is all this?” Callie asked, as the boxes soon covered every available surface in the parlor and the three assistants went back to the cart for more.
“Your new winter clothes, Madame.”
“I bespoke one gown,” Callie reminded her.
“Yes, I know, Madame.”
Mademoiselle La Salle went from box to box pulling off the lids and the room was soon awash with silks and wool and damask of every color, some beautifully embroidered some trimmed with exquisite lace, as well as frothy undergarments, corsets and petticoats and shifts and delicate nightdresses. One of the assistants struggled in with a larger box that held two capes, a long one in deep burgundy velvet and another in a rich royal blue both sumptuously lined in fur.
Callie went to one box and ran her hand over a deep blue velvet gown with a jeweled clasp at the center of the neckline whose stones looked suspiciously real. She turned back to the dressmaker and her assistants who stood before her, expectant smiles on their faces.
“Sir Thomas,” she said simply.
Mademoiselle La Salle nodded. “He came into my shop the same day you bespoke your gown. He was delighted that you were coming out of mourning, Madame, and said you must have more than one gown. He looked through my fabrics and chose these. As you see, I had to take on assistants to have them all ready by now. We’ve been sewing night and day.”
Callie sighed. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle, but you will have to pack them all up again. I cannot accept such a gift.”
To her surprise, the dressmaker burst into great, heaving sobs and collapsed into the arms of her assistants.
“But you cannot refuse them, Madame, I beg you! What would I do with them? Sir Thomas will be so angry and if he is angry with me no one in the village will patronize by shop and I shall be ruined!”
Callie went to Gemma’s side as she stood in the doorway between the parlor and the small dining room. “What am I to do? If I accept such a gift Sir Thomas is certain to think I welcome his attentions. If I refuse them, it is true; Mademoiselle La Salle will be ruined.”
“I think you have to take them, ma’am,” Gemma reasoned. “Sir Thomas is not a man you want as an enemy.”
Callie sighed. “Well, I’m not going to marry the man just so he won’t be angry with me. But I don’t want to be the cause of someone’s ruin either. Very well, Mademoiselle, I will accept the gowns.”
The young dressmaker smiled through her tears. “Bless you, Madame.”
The following Sunday, Callie went to church with the Miss Sophie and Miss Penelope. Both were surprised and pleased to see her out of mourning. As she scooted aside to make room for Callie in the pony cart, Miss Sophie asked excitedly: “Is it true, my dear, that Sir Thomas has commissioned Mademoiselle LaSalle to make you a new wardrobe? Is this one of the gowns? Everyone is talking of it. They are saying it is a wardrobe fit for a queen . . . or at least the wife of a baronet.” She giggled.
Callie had worn the blue silk damask gown which was the one she herself had chosen.
“It is true that Sir Thomas had Mademoiselle LaSalle make me a new wardrobe,” she admitted, “but this is the gown I bespoke myself when I went decided to come out of mourning. I wish he had not. There is no understanding between us, Miss Sophie. I do not know why Sir Thomas should have made such a gift to me.”
“Don’t you, my dear?” Miss Penelope asked. “Perhaps he has plans. In any case, they say his mother-in-law is mightily out of humor over it.”
When they reached the church, they found Sir Thomas already there, standing by the lych gate. The elderly sisters greeted him then went on ahead into the church leaving him and Callie alone.
Sir Thomas’ dark eyes swept over Callie. “I am happy to see you out of mourning, Caroline,” he said. “But I do not recall choosing this fabric.”
“No, Sir Thomas, this is the gown I myself bespoke when I went to see Mademoiselle LaSalle that day.”
“Was there something amiss with the others?”
“Nothing at all, they are beautiful. It is only that I do not know why you should have given them to me.”
“I was pleased to hear that you were coming out of mourning and a beautiful woman should have beautiful things to wear.”
“I fear your gift has given rise to gossip in the village.”
He laughed. “It does not take much to give rise to gossip in the village. They love to whisper about the activities of their betters.”
“I do not like being the subject of false rumor and it seems your gift has made them think there is some understanding between us.”
“Is it so difficult to imagine that there might be an understanding eventually?”
“Sir Thomas, if I have given you reason to believe—.”
“Come, Caroline,” he said, taking her gloved hand and linking in into the crook of his arm. “The service is about to start. Would you do me the honor of sitting with me in my family pew?”
“Which will fan the flames of rumors.”
“For what do we exist but to entertain others?”
“Mrs. Louvain and her daughter are not here today.”
“No. Venetia was not feel
ing herself today and Flora remained at home to care for her mother. Come.”
As Sir Thomas and Callie walked down the aisle toward the Sedgewyck family pew, Callie could feel the eyes of the congregation following them. When she brought Jem to live here in this isolated place she meant for them to live quietly, privately, attracting no attention that could give rise to rumors and curiosity. How could she hope to live quietly when the richest, most powerful man in the area was paying her such marked attention?
And another, even more unwelcome thought occurred to her as she stood beside Sir Thomas while the congregation sang the first hymn. What must Finn think of Sir Thomas’ generosity? She hadn’t seen him for several days. Was he avoiding her? Did he think she could be bought by a man she hardly knew for the price of a few pretty dresses?
“You are taking this all too seriously, my dear,” Sir Thomas whispered, as the Reverend Mr. Dougless took his place at the pulpit.
“Am I?” she asked. “I am the subject of gossip and rumor, sir, much of it I am sure less than savory. Are my favors to be purchased for . . .?”
“Your favors?” he interrupted. “Have I asked for your favors, Caroline?”
Callie felt a flush creeping into her cheeks. “No, but . . .”
“I am not so vulgar, my dear, as to think to buy my way into your bed.”
“Sir Thomas!”
“Well, that is what you seem to think I have in mind. Or what you fear the village gossips may believe. I do assure you if I think to become more than your friend, I will rely on more respectable means to earn your regard. For now, let us have done with this worrying and call the gowns what they are, a gift from a friend.”
“A very generous friend.”
He shrugged. “I am a very wealthy man, Caroline. In the scheme of things they were not as generous as someone like you might think.”
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