Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles)

by Louise Franklin

She kept her silence, her eyes on her hands.

  “Come now, Lady Fairchild, you have no recourse. I think highly of you and you should see my attention in its true light as a compliment I pay you.”

  “What do you want me to do,” she asked softly, trying her best to act submissive when she felt anything but.

  “I mean to discover who runs the smugglers who use your castle to store their cargo. He, I believe, will lead us to Rochette.”

  His request made, the Major stood resolutely, bowed, and then departed as suddenly as he had appeared.

  She considered the implications of Price’s demands. Picking at the lace on her dress, she pulled a loose thread and watched the pattern on her skirt unravel. She could not see that she had a choice. Branded a traitor during wartime, she would be hung.

  15

  The ship’s mast strained as the sails filled with a strong wind while its hull groaned from the immense pressure of breaking waves. The Juliana bore up and spread her wings steadily up the coast east by northeast, running at seven knots. They had tacked three times and the rush of feet over the deck was followed by hands climbing the rigging to shorten sail and hold the course.

  The first lieutenant stood on Captain Markham’s left and discussed with him a problem with the rigging. Nicholas nodded his head and the man set out to carry out the order. Calculations preoccupied the Captain’s mind as he stood on the quarterdeck. He listened perfunctorily to the creak of the rigging and the shouts of the bosun and his men.

  He gazed at the yards above him, satisfied finally that they were as sharp as required. The day had been filled with the mundane tasks that occupied any ship in the navy, repairs and training. A broken horse on the top mainsail had required splicing together. The rope was used by the top men to unfurl the sails.

  Sails were checked for weakness, the deck scrubbed, the hull pumped and the guns exercised to make sure every man knew his part seamlessly. They had seen one sail that morning, and inspected a company frigate on its way to London. It should have been travelling in convoy but had lost sight of the other ships. They had escorted the frigate closer to the coast then tacked southwest.

  “Two points off,” he said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied the helmsman.

  The ship’s orders were to maintain a naval presence on the southwest coast. There was no longer a fear of a French invasion by sea as their navy had been decimated by Wellington, which left little else to do in the North Atlantic. The Juliana spent her days escorting the East India Company’s frigates and chasing cutters suspected of smuggling, boarding them and confiscating contraband.

  The work was dull, and cannons stood silent but for a warning shot fired across a bow once in the last week. But if the work was tedious, he heard no complaints from his crew. The Juliana had seen her share of battle.

  As a third class ship, she carried sixty-four guns on two decks. She was a man of war with considerable power. French built, she had sailed under their flag in the Mediterranean, only to be captured in battle. She had survived Trafalgar and the Americas and taken her share of prize. Now, she waited for new orders, and the next battle.

  The white cliffs of the shoreline came into view as they sailed along, heading north again. A seaman pointed toward the shore, and Nicholas glanced up to see a dark figure on the cliffs, astride a black horse. He pulled his telescope out, but could see only the black horse and a cloaked figure with hood. He lowered the telescope and turned to see a sailor cross himself as if death itself stood upon the cliff. Men of the sea were a superstitious breed, and constantly on the lookout for a sign that would foretell their fate. He could not blame them. Life in the navy was often filled with death. He turned to look at the cliffs again, and the figure on horseback who watched them.

  This was the Devonshire coast, he knew. It was where Georgiana was. His mind would always return to her. Not a day passed when he did not spend time thinking about her. It had been that way since the day he had met her.

  He had been eight years old when his father arrived from London with two children. He and his sister had been summoned to the drawing room, where two young strangers sat on the settee under the scrutiny of his mother. His father had stood with his hands behind his back and introduced them. Georgiana and Charles would be staying with them for a while, his father said. His mother had spoken up, refused. She would not be charged with their care. She was not to be so mistreated.

  Nicholas had never seen his father openly angry with his mother. While they quarreled, Nicholas had studied the pair sitting so still. The boy looked about Nicholas’ age and clung to his sister’s hand, his eyes on the floor, cowering, as if he was trying to make himself smaller, less of a target for the anger that flew around the room.

  When Nicholas looked at the girl, he smiled. She had hair down to her waist, the color of dark honey, and huge blue eyes the color of the sky on a clear day. A bruise on her face had turned an ugly yellow, and he wondered how she had gotten it. She sat straight, her chin raised and her eyes defiant, glaring at him in return. There was not an ounce of fear in her. He had known then he was going to love her.

  She had cared nothing for him, ignoring him as he followed her and her brother through the garden and fields. He would have followed her anywhere just to watch her walk through the high yellow grass of summer, her hair trailing on the breeze. In the sun, her tresses turned to gold, and her skin glowed until he thought her not real.

  She would turn sometimes to see if he was still there, but her face rarely held a smile. In the schoolroom, she would stare out at the garden, her mind far away, and he wondered where her thoughts took her. The governess would ask her a question and he would try to slip her the answer under his breath, sure that she would not know it. She would look at him with a scornful look and reply with her own answer, which was always correct.

  She spent hours in the library, hidden in the window seat, reading books. She disliked the pianoforte and refused to take lessons as his sister did. She would not play the harp either, or sing or embroider in the drawing room. She went swimming in the lake, and rode for hours across the fields on the pony his father had given her. She climbed trees faster than anybody he had ever seen. She was like no girl he had ever known.

  Her brother stayed close to her the first few weeks until Nicholas convinced him to leave her side for longer periods of time. She was amused by his efforts to draw her brother away, but she also seemed relieved somehow, and after the first year, Charles and Nicholas became fast friends.

  They played as boys did at that age at mischief and games. His father taught them to shoot, and Georgiana insisted he teach her too. His father had given her a rifle and she had proved a keen shot. For four years, he had watched her and loved her until at fourteen, she had been sent back to London, and he and Charles had been sent to boarding school.

  He still remembered clearly that last day he had seen her. She was dressed in white, the long folds of her skirt moving gently as she stood under the oak tree she had climbed so often. At fourteen, she already resembled the beautiful women she would become. He had gone to find her, knowing she would be there. He had stood watching her, until she looked in his direction, and smiled at him. He had not known a smile could contain in it so much sorrow. He had approached her slowly and she had turned her gaze back to the fields.

  “You will take care of him,” she had said. “He will need you now.”

  He had nodded slowly, and then she had walked back to the house and he had followed her for the last time, watching her walk with her head held so gracefully.

  His father waited for them with Charles at his side. The carriage was ready to take her back to London. Nicholas’s mother and sister stood silently to one side as she walked up to his father and kissed him on the cheek. It took his father by surprise, and he took a moment to recover as she thanked him.

  His mother and sister were shocked by her open display of affection, and refused to acknowledge her farewell. He had stood watch
ing her kiss his father goodbye, feeling jealous for the first time in his life. Charles clung to her hand briefly then let her go. With a last look at her brother, she had stepped into the carriage and was gone.

  He should have given her up that day, he thought. She was not for him but he had never been able to accept it. He watched the figure on the cliffs through the light rain, wondering if it had been too late for him from the day that he had first met her.

  He had known she would be at Lady Kingston’s dinner. He had sworn to himself that he would stay away, that he had given her up. Still he found himself at the dinner pretending all night to ignore her all the while following her every gesture. He hated his own weakness, his inability to forget her. Even now, he watched the figure on the cliff, wanting it to be her. He turned his back angrily, went below, and slammed his cabin door. .

  ***

  “They are back,” Peter said, his voice edged with anger.

  He meant the smugglers, she knew. She did not take her eyes from the scene in front of her. The ship swayed heavily in the rough seas, but continued its course. She strained to see the name but the vessel was too far away. A gust of wind whipped her hood off her head and Bella stirred restlessly, her front hooves nervously pawing the ground. Georgiana backed her away from the cliff, and turned to Peter, who sat astride one of the new horses she had purchased. “We will need help,” she said, the wind whipping her words away, but he nodded so she knew he had heard her. “In London, did you know any boys who could be trusted and would want to move to the countryside?”

  He thought a moment. “Aye, miss, there is Davey and his lads. They are six of them altogether. They might do it if’n they needs to.”

  She smiled as she heard him lapse into his former speech, and wondered if thinking of London had that affect on him. “Explain that they will work on the land as laborers at first, but tell them nothing else for now.”

  He looked at her doubtfully, and she knew he was thinking they would not come to work in the fields. It was backbreaking work from sunup to sunset and no London criminal used to easy money would likely want to slog in a muddy field.

  “I can’t see another way around it, Peter,” she said. “Ride for London tomorrow. If your mates won’t do it, find others who will.”

  He turned his horse back to Ravenstone, and she watched him for a moment before she glanced out to sea again. The square-rigger had already disappeared beyond the headland around which lay Linton village. The second time she had seen a ship in a week, she knew they patrolled the coast looking for smugglers. This last one had been much bigger though than the average cutters that were armed with twenty guns apiece, their sleek lines built for speed.

  The patrols by sea were worrisome but she knew she had more to fear from the excise men on land. She had that morning witnessed a column of men riding in dragoon uniforms on the road away from the village. They had arrived only this week, she had been informed by an excited country girl who watched them pass as well. She hoped Peter’s recruitment efforts would be successful, even though she knew that what she was about to do would be dangerous.

  A crew of clever, street boys, hardened or otherwise, would be a challenge to control, and they would be noticed right away as Londoners. She could explain them as an answer to her labor shortage, for there were not enough fit men to work the fields. With the coming of harvest, no one could question her reasoning.

  The boys would be outsiders, but they would be skilled in the work she would ask of them after dark. As for trusting criminals, perhaps she was incautious, but she needed whatever help she could get.

  The laborers on her estate and the people in the village were themselves loyal but not to her. Their loyalty had long ago been won by whoever was smuggling on her estate. She would not have help from them. She would have to find her own gang and who better than those who had to survive by their wits in London’s underworld?

  She turned Bella west, and galloped back to Ravenstone thinking about the weekend to come. Charles had promised a visit and he was bringing the girls. She had the room next to hers prepared instead of having them up in the nursery. Rupert and James were having their baths so they would be presentable, and the staff was readying the house as if the King himself were arriving.

  The coach from London pulled up to the front door in late afternoon. Georgiana waited in the drawing room, trying to remain patient as she heard Charles in the grand hall. Then the door opened and two little girls in white dresses came running in, and threw themselves at her. She hugged and kissed them as they chattered about their journey while Lady Wyndham looked on disapprovingly. She had followed them into the room with a scowl already on her face, and Georgiana guessed it was a long road to travel with two such excited little girls.

  “You should not encourage them so,” her mother said, and turned to Betty who stood behind her. “Take them up to the nursery, Betty, and put them to bed. It’s been a long day for them.”

  The two small faces looked suddenly sad and their energy left them as they slumped one on each side of her.

  “I want to stay with Georgy,” Margaret sulked.

  Jane clung to Georgiana’s arm, her face a stubborn line.

  “Betty, they can stay a while longer,” Georgiana said, her voice hard, daring her mother to defy her. “Go to the servants’ hall and take some time for yourself, and then come back when their dinner is ready.”

  Betty curtsied, glad to leave the battlefield, while Jane and Margaret relaxed back onto the settee. “You are impossible,” her mother glared.

  “I missed you too, Mother.”

  Charles entered and gave her a kiss on each cheek then poured himself a snifter of brandy. “You look in excellent health,” he said, smiling at her as he relaxed into a chair. “Doesn’t she, Mother?”

  Lady Wyndham turned away and glared out the window refusing to answer.

  Charles made a face, and the girls giggled. “I could swear we have only just arrived, not yet ten minutes and already, Georgiana, you have managed to make Mother disagreeable.”

  “I have had good practice of it.”

  “Such impudence,” Lady Wyndham said. “I shall not stand for it.”

  She left the room, slamming the door behind her. Charles and Georgiana smiled at each other.

  “The country air agrees with you then?” Charles asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “That and the freedom to be my own person. You, on the other hand, do not look so well.”

  He was thinner than the last time she had seen him, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He took a sip of brandy and stood to take off his coat and loosen his cravat. “I am overworked is all,” he said. “Being a Member of Parliament and expected to fill Father’s shoes in business has caused me sleepless nights.”

  He stood in front of the fire, and she saw she was mistaken to have brought attention to his worries for suddenly the lines of stress around his eyes and mouth became noticeable. Oblivious, Jane, and Margaret squirmed their way off the settee to explore the drawing room.

  “Is it so intolerable?” she asked.

  “I much preferred fighting Napoleon,” he laughed. “In war, it is clear who the enemy is. In politics, enemies arise from all sides. Father was a Tory and his friends are most conservative, intent on making sure that legislation remains firmly in their hands, even if their need for control damages England. And you should see the riots in the streets. People are starving, and we hear only of defeat on the Continent.”

  “But I thought that Prussia and Austria had agreed to reenter the war?” she said, confused. “Would that not have improved our odds?”

  “Sweden and some other German states too, and do you know Napoleon defeated the alliance again at Lutzen and Bautzen, despite his defeat in Russia? The man has lost almost all his officers, and his troops for the most part are inexperienced, yet he inflicts enormous casualties on the alliance.”

  “You are upset by the war.”

  “That is but a
small part of it. I have been arguing with Father’s old friends and allies for months now, and they are ready to see me gone as much as I am ready to go.”

  “Arguing about what?”

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “We must continue to send troops and funds to protect Canada from the Americans. The Tories refuse to see that impressment of seamen from American ships is causing us more harm than good. They wish to re-establish friendly relations, but will not consent to secure the restoration of peace by any sacrifice of the maritime rights of the Empire.”

  The Royal Navy was finding it difficult to find enough sailors for its ships and a bill was passed making it legal for British ships to stop American ships and force sailors into the British navy.

  “They could just pay sailors better and perhaps they wouldn’t have to force men onto their ships,” Georgiana said.

  Charles began to pace in front of the fire. “Were they even to lower themselves to such an idea, payment is not something the British Empire can afford right now with the war draining our resources. The Prince Regent continues to spend money on lavish balls and refurbishing the bloody Pavilion, which have emptied his pockets. He has begun to dip into the Treasury now. And do you know what the Commons chooses to spend endless hours debating this week?” With this question, Charles stopped pacing to stand in front of her, his eyebrow raised.

  She shook her head slowly, afraid to set him off again.

  “They are debating whether or not they should allow some benevolent Christians the right to communicate to the population of India the useful knowledge of morality and religious improvement.”

  She watched him return to his pacing, and sighed, not at all sure how to comfort him. The drawing room door opened and two scrubbed and combed little boys stepped into the room, followed by an equally spotless dog. Jane and Margaret paused in their exploration to stare at the boys, who returned the favor.

  The only one who seemed at all comfortable was the dog. The boys had christened him Mud because of his color but also because, like them, he was always covered in it. Mud now proceeded into the room and made acquaintance with Jane and Margaret by licking their faces. They giggled and petted him while the boys gave each other a look that seemed to communicate their disinterest, and finding nothing to hold their attention, they departed.