Summers, True

by Poppy

  "Since His Lordship is not in residence, we keep no butler." Mrs. Wilkins was almost hissing with anger. "With no one to polish the silver and take care of the valuable china, it is only proper to keep it locked up."

  That explained the empty mantels and tables but not this welcoming tray. "You are expecting Lord Westmoreland?"

  "I had word his man of business is coming to go over the year's books with our bailiff. Naturally he must be properly entertained."

  Possibly the man of business traveled with two clerks, which, with the bailiff, would account for the four goblets on the tray. Except Poppy did not believe a word of it. It was more likely the bailiff would travel up to London to give his accounting to anyone as important as the wealthy Lord Westmoreland's man of business. If the man was to come here, he would be staying at the manor, not just dropping in for a sip of brandy.

  She prodded idly, since she dared not accuse Mrs. Wilkins of lying, "I'm surprised you haven't lit both fires for such an important occasion."

  "Never, miss, never," Mrs. Wilkins hissed. "It's a superstition, hundreds of years old, but we don't break it in this house. If the east fire is lit, a Westmoreland dies."

  Poppy laughed. "Bad flues, no doubt."

  "No doubt. Now you get to bed, miss, or I'll have a deal of explaining why you're allowed the run of the house in your night gear."

  "I had forgotten," she said honestly and moved to pluck one of Mr. Thackeray's books from the shelf. ''I only came down for this."

  She knew Mrs. Wilkins was glaring after her, but she did not care. Lord Westmoreland was right. A house should not be left with only the staff in control. Perhaps those strict rules that hedged in every move and hour for herself and Andy had not been completely of Lord Westmoreland's doing.

  She wondered if she dared to watch from the head of the stairs and see who did arrive. But she was no sooner in her room than Dorcas followed, exclaiming Mrs. Wilkins was afraid she had caught her death of chill from wandering around the cold house undressed and had ordered a hot bath and a hot drink. Poppy dared not refuse, and by the time she was finished with her bath, she knew the mysterious callers must have come and left again.

  Chapter Eight

  PERHAPS it was only that Mrs. Wilkins liked to entertain in the grand manner when no family was in residence, but that explanation did not satisfy Poppy. She had seen Mrs. Wilkins's handsomely furnished sitting room, and trays carried in there always held the finest silver and thin, transparent china. Mrs. Wilkins did herself well in her own quarters, though she never seemed to ask anyone in except to give orders or a reprimand.

  The next morning Poppy went out to pick a few roses for her room, but the elaborately landscaped grounds had been neglected since none of the family had lived there for so many years, and the few blooms did not seem worth taking inside. This was the smith's day at the manor, and the horse she usually rode was being shod. So she ignored the mist of rain that seemed to fall every day and walked idly toward the shore. She thrust through the rough gorse in a direction she had not ridden because there was no path. Within half an hour, she realized she was in a desolate, lonely place and should turn back.

  She heard the sea ahead of her and followed the sound until she looked down on a long beach covered with rough pebbles and sheltered only by a few twisted, stunted trees. The drop was a sheer forty feet, except for a rough path too steep for anything but a sure-footed pony. Small wonder no paths led here. This rough gorse was no place for pleasure riding, and the beach was too rough for walking.

  She wandered on along the cliff and followed a small stream for a while until it disappeared abruptly underground. It could only flow down into a cave on the face of the cliff and from there into the sea. She walked to the edge again and looked down into a tiny cove. She gave an exclamation of surprise and delight.

  This beach was small, of fine white sand, ringed all around by a hollow in the cliff that held it like a cup. The cove had only one small entrance alongside the sheer cliff. From the sea, the entrance would be completely hidden and yet, by sailing parallel to the cliff, access would be easy for a small boat.

  The place was charming, but that was not what held Poppy's eyes. Drawn up on the sand beside the stream was a small sailboat tipped on its side. The blue letters painted across its stem read Corn Dolly. A man was stretched close beside it on his back, half under it, scraping strongly on the hull to clean it. He worked with long, unhurried strokes. The thin sound of a whistle, in rhythm with the strokes, came from the supine figure.

  A whistling man was no threat. "Hello," Poppy called.

  His arm stopped with a jerk, and for a moment, his whole body froze. Then he slipped away from the hull and jumped to his feet. For just two breaths, Poppy had the oddest feeling she had seen him before and knew him well and could call his name. Then she laughed at the fancy. He was only a young fisherman, to judge by his rough canvas trousers and heavy blue jersey, with short tow hair and blue eyes. Her call had frightened him, for he was looking around, his fists clenched, his whole body alert for danger.

  "It's all right," Poppy called again, laughing. "I won't tell anybody you're trespassing on His Lordship's land to work on your boat. Who wouldn't? It's a lovely spot." .

  He looked up, brilliant blue eyes squinted. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

  All at once she was aware how lonely and isolated this place was. She did not want him to know she was alone. "Just walking. Walking with my brother. We're staying at the manor."

  He ran, gave a great leap, caught at some projection, and came up the cliff, swarming hand over hand, as fast as a man could have run along level ground. When he jumped up beside her, she stumbled back. He was good looking and clean, not smelling of fish as every cottage and cottager along the shore seemed to, but the expression on his deeply tanned face was dangerous.

  "Who are you?" he repeated.

  "Poppy. Poppy Smith."

  "Smith? Who else is at the manor?"

  "Just us."

  "Smith." The name seemed to baffle him, "You're visiting there?"

  "You could call it that."

  His eyes narrowed at her sour tone. "You know Lord Westmoreland?"

  "Oh, no, not him. We know Dexter Roack, and that's enough."

  Instantly his blue eyes were aglint with laughter. "Indeed it is."

  That was not a rough Cornish voice. This· man was no fisherman. "You know him, too?"

  "Most people know his reputation. Are you a missing heir?"

  "No. He knows my mother."

  "I'm sure he would," the man said simply and nicely.

  ''Why did he want you here?"

  "Because I met the Dean's son at the Exhibition, and we hadn't been properly introduced, and Dex had gotten the Dean a new roof."

  He flung back his fair head and laughed. "A terrible sin, requiring dire punishment. And a typical Roack performance."

  "Exile," Poppy said. "Elba. Rocky Elba."

  "Even Napoleon escaped. What will it take to see you free?"

  "Money."

  Grimacing, he reached down and pulled out empty pockets. "A universal problem."

  Poppy's face flamed. "I wasn't hinting."

  "I didn't think you were. Where's your brother?"

  "He isn't with me," Poppy confessed.

  "That makes it simpler then. I've pulled my boat up here because there's no proper shore at our place, but there's bad feeling between the families. His Lordship wouldn't like it."

  "I won't tell."

  "Just don't mention it to anybody, not a word about my being here for a couple of days, and I'll be well away. Promise?"

  "Of course."

  Amazingly, with only a brief smile and a wave of his hand, he turned, went to the cliff, and climbed down it as quickly as he had come up. Incredulous, Poppy stared after him. He might at least have given her his name and told her where he lived. Still, perhaps he thought what she did not know, she could not tell.

  Or was that the rea
son?

  She looked out to sea and thought she understood the reason for his haste, if not his secrecy. A scarf of black fog was rolling in, driven by a stinging wind so rough it almost snatched the shawl from her shoulders. A fog like that could tum day into night almost in minutes. He had hurried to get away, and she would have to hurry herself to get back to the manor safely. She had heard stories of people getting lost on these moors and dying of exposure.

  By the time she fumbled her way across the garden, she was shaking with fatigue and relief. The black fog had surrounded her. If she had not heard the sound of the smith's hammer and followed it, she might still be wandering, hopelessly lost. But she was going to let no one know of her near mishap. She crept cautiously into the house and up to her room. She changed her clothes before she went down to the midday meal.

  For once, Andy only picked at his food, his hastily washed and still-streaked face disconsolate. "This is the smith's last day here."

  "Why?"

  "He's sailing for California."

  "What?"

  ''There's two brigs put in at Fowley regular, bringing mine timbers and taking people back to California. They come in half empty and sail out full because everybody's needed in California. Especially smiths, he says. They are using all kinds of ruined things, safes and hinges and stoves and walls, in the foundries, and there aren't enough men for all the ship repair and mine machinery and everything they're making. He says he can name his own wages."

  "I don't understand. Why use ruined things?"

  ''Because they haven't any steelworks. And there's all kinds of ruined stuff. From the fires." Andy's face lit up. "They have lots of fires in San Francisco. Last May the whole town burned down." His face was ecstatic. "The smith said they told him the flames were as high as the hills and you could hear the roar out at sea. Everything there is built of wood, and it burns and burns."

  Poppy shuddered. "Then it's a good thing you'll never be there."

  "Why? I've never burned anything yet."

  "But you frighten people enough, and that must be one town that doesn't need any more frights."

  "Silly," Andy said. "I'd like it fine there, from what the smith says, and they wouldn't tell me I'm too small to work, bad as they need men. Poppy, how much would tickets on the brig cost?"

  "More than the ten shillings I have." Then she remembered. "When the smith leaves, come to my room. I saw something last night."

  Poppy drew the blue curtains against the darkness outside and busied herself with a dozen small tasks. She wrote to Daisy, saying Andy was happy, and that Lord Westmoreland had been right about the staff needing some of the family in residence. She underlined the word family. She mended the lace on a petticoat.

  She tried pulling her hair straight back, but it still formed ringlets around her face. Decidedly she would need a wig.

  Then Andy came in and slumped dejectedly in a chair by the fire. "He's gone, left early because of the fog even if his horse does know the path blindfolded. So what did you see last night?"

  "Mrs. Wilkins. She had guests in the library last night. With the best silver, tray and goblets, and brandy and cakes. After we were supposed to be asleep."

  "Smuggling," Andy said.

  "Of course!"

  She should have known. This was the smugglers' coast. That heavy silk and the fine lace cost more guineas than even a housekeeper in a fine position could afford.

  "You're sure?"

  Andy nodded. "Everybody knows. The first day we were here, the boys in the stables told me to watch out."

  "Smuggling," Poppy gloated, seeing her enemy in her hand. "Don't they pay informers?"

  Andy looked at her pityingly. "People don't inform. One man did, and nobody spoke to him or his family for hundreds of years. That's the reason nobody is friends with Mrs. Wilkins."

  "What?"

  "I thought you knew she was a bad 'un. How did you think she got all her silks and laces? Not from any man for her pretty face."

  One minute Andy was so mature he took her breath away, and the next he was a child. She only insisted, "Smuggling?"

  ''No. Informing the excisemen. Nobody'll breathe a hint when she's near, but she's a sneaky one for listening around when a word is passed, and anything she hears goes straight to the excisemen. Everybody knows that. Mrs. Wilkins takes her pay in kind along with them."

  "Informing! There were four goblets last night. And today down on the beach." She jumped to her feet, breathless with excitement. "So that's the reason he didn't want anybody to know he had his boat on that hidden beach. Give him a couple of days, he says.That's it. Here I had the silly idea he might be the heir, hiding out on his own land, and all the time he was a smuggler, probably waiting to guide the others in."

  "You saw somebody on a hidden beach?"

  "Yes."

  "Smugglers for sure. And Mrs. Wilkins has told the excisemen."

  "They must be coming in tonight!"

  Andy was on his feet beside her. "They've got to be warned. If they're warned, they can hide the casks and bales and get away. Tell me where. I'll go."

  "No, wait a minute. If you go running off, Mrs. Wilkins will know I guessed."

  "They just need warning. They're smart as whips, with tricks that would make you laugh all day. They get the excisemen off their horses and steal the horses to carry their stuff. They pretend there's a funeral and fill up the coffin. They have caves, old mines, barns, holes under their gate posts--all kinds of places for hiding."

  "Yes. Yes."

  "They're poor and brave, and they sail clear to France and back in their little boats. They bring in wonderful things-silk, lace, rum, brandy, tea, china, and tobacco-and they sell it cheap to people who couldn't afford it at the shops. They use the money to feed their poor hungry families. Anyway, why shouldn't they be allowed to make money their families need to keep from starving? Because the mines are running out and sometimes the fishing's bad. If they paid taxes, the money would just go to pay those stupid excisemen who run around making trouble and never catch them anyhow. Well, almost never."

  Andy stopped for breath, and Poppy smiled. He had' a new hero, a whole group of them, the smugglers.

  She was thinking of money. If the excisemen paid a reward, so would the smugglers for a warning. Andy would never think of that. He would warn them for pure admiration of their daring and for the pleasure of thwarting Mrs. Wilkins. If she went, she could have the pleasure and the means of buying her freedom at the same time. She would go.

  "Wait, Andy. Even with this fog, they won't come in until after dark. So we can wait until we have our tea and Mrs. Wilkins thinks we've come up safe to our rooms."

  Andy nodded. "She mustn't suspect, or she'll tell the excisemen to hurry."

  "I'll have to go. There's no path to this beach. I would never have found it except I was walking today and stumbled on it by accident, watching a stream."

  "You could draw me a map."

  "For you to follow in the dark? With cliffs that drop straight down forty feet? If you found it, you'd break your neck before you knew you were there."

  "But I've got to do something." Andy was agonized. "We can't let them get caught."

  "Would it help to tell the stable boys?"

  "Yes, yes! They all hate Mrs. Wilkins."

  "Then tell them something might happen tonight."

  "Yes. They can watch and get hiding places ready in the barns."

  "All right. I'll ask for our tea a little early. If she expects to be busy tonight, Mrs. Wilkins will be happy to oblige."

  The Rev had been fond of quoting Shakespeare, and Poppy was often surprised at how much she remembered. Lines were always springing into her head. "There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune: Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries." This night was her flood tide. If she missed it, her life indeed would be an endless series of miseries. She would not admit to herself how frightened she was
of the very things she had warned Andy about.

  Even this afternoon, she had been afraid she might get lost in the moors, and now it was night. The cliff was a good forty feet high, and she could stumble straight over it. She dared not risk trying to find or carry a lantern. Even if she did, it would light little more than the ground immediately under her feet.

  But this was her flood tide, the best chance she might ever have. Once tea was over, she changed into the brown boots and her heaviest skirt and blouse and caught up her woolen shawl. She told Andy she thought her best chance was to slip out of one of the long French windows of the library, the ones that opened out on the brick terrace, and leave it unlatched behind her. If somebody was in the library when she returned, or if Mrs. Wilkins had latched the window on her nightly rounds, she would go to the stables and hide until morning when she could try to get back into the house unnoticed.He was to stay in his room. If anybody missed her, he was to say she had been with him until just a minute before. He was to do or say nothing else. Let them search the house. She would worry about an explanation for that in the morning, if she must.