The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  Down the ladder from the high opening John and Megaera came out into the small area she had screened off from the wide expanse of the cave as her “living place”. John lit a candle from the lantern and then moved toward the front of the cave where he had tethered a sturdy pony earlier in the day. By the light of the candle Megaera emptied the dried scraps of food from a plate on the table into a bucket and put some fresh “remains”, which she had bought from the house, onto the greasy, unwashed plate. She shuddered slightly at the thought of living in such squalor—not the damp dark of the cave but the idea that she would not wash the dishes if she should be reduced to such a condition. However, the point of her disguise was that Red Meg was a sloven. If the men searched the cave, it must seem that she did live there, and in conditions that matched her filthy person.

  While she was arranging evidence that the cave was lived in, John saddled the pony, then set down the lantern and went outside. When he was sure that no one was riding in the immediate area—a most unlikely accident, but Megaera insisted on caution—he led the pony outside. He did not remain near the opening of the cave but moved east about a hundred feet and stood holding the lantern. It was not likely that anyone would see the light, but Megaera did not want to take the chance that a shepherd or late home-goer would notice and thus become aware of the cave entrance.

  A few minutes later Megaera came to the mouth of the cave. The moon had not yet risen, and after she had blown out the candle and stuck it in a convenient niche to be relit on her return, she could barely see enough in the faint luminous skyglow not to trip. Cautiously she made her way out, feeling for stable footing on the rough ground as she turned right, to where John waited. All her attention was directed to her goal and her footing. She never saw a shadow rise from where a man had lain concealed by the dark and the low growth of brush.

  There was a single snap of a dry branch, a brief rustle enough to warn Megaera. She ducked and darted forward, avoiding the blow that had been intended to stun her. However, she had no time to turn or draw a pistol before she was seized. Black Bart cursed viciously, furious at missing his chance to subdue Meg without fuss or trouble. Rage and terror had flooded Megaera, giving her more strength than would be expected from her slender fragility. She twisted and writhed like a wildcat, clawing and kicking, while Bart tried to swing his pistol so that the butt would stun her.

  He missed her head again, striking her shoulder so that she screamed—but the pain apparently only gave her more impetus. A violent kick from her boot heel caught Bart right on the shin, and it was his turn to howl with pain. Now Bart regretted that he had not tried to shoot her, but he had been afraid he would miss in the dark. Then she could have darted back into the cave. He could just about enter one without failing apart, but he knew he could not follow her inside.

  Even as he had attacked her, Bart had not been sure what he would do after he stunned Meg. He would rob her and rape her—of that he was certain—but whether he would have killed her at once or kept her prisoner until he had tamed her he could not decide. Now he knew he would kill her. A wildcat like this would never tame. She was not whimpering in pain but screaming with rage, fighting him harder even as he tightened his grip and struck at her again.

  Megaera hardly felt the blows that hit her. In fact, although Bart was bringing the gun down as hard as he could, the barrel of a pistol was not weighted properly for striking. In addition she was moving so violently that many of the blows missed and the others only glanced off her arm and back, except for the first which had bruised her shoulder. She struggled like a madwoman, knowing her only hope was to break free and run to John.

  It did not occur to either Bart or Megaera that John could notice what was going on. Since he was deaf, no sound could reach him, since he carried the lantern so that Megaera could find him and the pony, he would be blinded, by the dark. Thus, as frantically as Megaera struggled to free herself, Bart struggled to hold her. If she got loose, he would be finished in this area in the smuggling business or any other. Most of the men would stand up for her, and the dummy would kill him on sight.

  What neither Megaera nor Bart realized was that John was not totally unaware that something was wrong. He had noticed Megaera come to the cave entrance because he saw the brief glow of the candle before she blew it out. Instinctively he knew how long it should take his mistress to reach him, and she had not come. At first he thought she had paused for some reason—often he did not understand the things she did—and he waited.

  However, Megaera was the focus of John’s whole existence. She was the one who had saved him when he was bound and left to die; she was the only person with whom he could communicate; most important of all, she made him feel useful and important. Without any sexual overtones, of which he was incapable, John loved Megaera with his whole heart and soul. He adored her as a goddess. He had no other deity—even his mother could not communicate abstract ideas to him in dumb show. Megaera was John’s everything, and the few seconds’ delay stretched to minutes and hours in his anxious mind.

  He stared toward the cave, seeking her shadowy form advancing toward him. He knew the ground was rough and began to fear that she had tripped and fallen. As soon as that thought occurred to him, he would have run back, but he was constrained by what he was supposed to do. Never, never had he ever disobeyed or deviated from what he knew Megaera expected of him. Still, the notion that she had hurt herself grew with each passing second. Surely if she were hurt, he must disobey the order to hold the pony and wait. John’s mind moved slowly and, although he was no physical coward, he was utterly and completely terrified of Megaera’s disapproval.

  She had not come. She had to, but she did not. Sobbing with anxiety, John set the lantern down and wound the reins of the pony into the bush beside which he stood. It was too long a time. She should have come by now. He stared back into the dark—and something flickered against the sky, a double darkness that moved. A sigh of relief moved John’s giant chest. She was coming. But another moment passed and she did not arrive. John saw the fleeting movement of shadows again, but it seemed to be in the same place. A furious gobbling came from his throat and he began to run back, slipping and stumbling in his haste.

  Megaera was nearly done for. No matter how furiously fear pushed blood through her body to provide energy to her muscles, she was a small girl and her strength was nothing in comparison to her opponent’s. Despite her flailing and kicking, Bart had gotten one arm firmly around her and was trying to cock his pistol so that he could press it against her head and fire. She had frustrated his attempts to do so twice—once by wrenching one arm free and drawing her own gun. But there was no chance she could cock it, and Bart had laughed as he knocked it out of her hand. The second time he did not laugh; in fact he nearly lost his hold on her when she turned halfway round toward him and kneed him in the groin. Unfortunately the angle was wrong and Megaera’s strength was already failing, so that the blow was more startling than disabling.

  It was infuriating, too—so infuriating that Bart stopped trying to cock his pistol and raised it to strike at Megaera again. It was a mistake. Before he could hit her the sound of John’s blundering advance, as heavy and inexorable as a charging bull’s, changed the situation. Bart knew his opportunity was gone. Even if he let Meg go and cocked his gun, there would be no time to get them both. If he shot John, Meg would shoot him—if the bullet stopped John at all, which Bart doubted. And if he shot Meg, John would tear him limb from limb. Certainly it would be impossible to steal the money she must be carrying to pay Restoir.

  He did the only thing remaining for him to do in the circumstances, shoving Meg forcibly away from him so that she staggered backward. She would have fallen painfully, but John was closer than Bart thought. The big mute caught his mistress before she hit the ground, gobbling his distress while Bart ran off into the darkness. He paused once, cocked his gun, and turned, but Meg and her servant were still locked together and were so dim that he knew he
would miss. Bart dared not fire on a chance. That red-haired bitch would know he couldn’t reload quickly in the dark and would send the dummy after him. He turned to run again, but before he moved, Meg’s voice came.

  “Get out of the country,” she screamed. “It’s your only hope. I know you killed Devoran, and I’m going to lay an information with Mrs. Devoran. Maybe the beaks won’t listen to me, but they will to her. You show your face again near Bolliet or Treen and you’re a dead man.”

  It was the best she could do. Had Megaera been less breathless and exhausted, she would have pursued Bart. Now that he had attacked her, her conscience was clear. She would have shot him or had John break his neck without a qualm. But there was no way to send John after him alone. Because he could hardly see her gestures, it would be impossible to explain to him that he must chase, catch, and kill a man. Besides, there was another consideration. Bart had a gun and Megaera would not for a moment think of risking John’s life to assure her own future safety.

  After her first shock had passed, Megaera was a little surprised that John had not pursued Bart on his own. She had had to order him to hit the man who had made lewd suggestions to her—but of course he had not heard them. He had attacked the man who had grabbed her without instructions, as soon as he had seen her draw her gun, indicating the man’s act was offensive to her. By now John had helped her back to the cave and run to the pony to get the lantern. It was then that she realized that John had never known someone had attacked her. He had never seen Black Bart in the dark and, she had been catapulted into his arms well away from her attacker. With all his attention on her and unable to hear the crashing brush as Bart ran, John would never have noticed Black Bart’s escape.

  That was unfortunate, since Megaera had no way to tell John that a man he knew as part of the gang—and therefore as trustworthy—was no longer a “friend”. Tears of fear and pain and loneliness rose in her eyes. Now that she no longer needed to defend herself, she ached all over from the beating she had taken. She was shaking with fear and fatigue, but she could not even lie down and rest. She had to ride to The Mousehole and pay Pierre.

  God knew what Pierre would think if she did not come, and there was no one she could send. Even if John knew the way—and that was most doubtful—she had no way to explain to him that he must give Pierre the money and a note. No, she must go herself. As she made the decision, her tears spilling over because she hurt so and the thought of riding the four miles to The Mousehole was so frightening and depressing, John came back with the light. He began to tremble when he saw her tears, fearing he had done something wrong, and Megaera had to wipe her face and force a smile and assure him all was well—which made her feel even more hopeless and lonely.

  In her attention to detail, Megaera had furnished the cave with a broken comb, a small mirror, and other articles of a female toilette. Aside from the fact that her hair had come down, she was surprised to see how little her violent struggle showed. Probably she would be black and blue all over the next day, but for now, once her hair was done again, she thought she looked much as usual.

  To John’s dull perceptions or to a person who did not care about her that might have been true; but Pierre Restoir liked and admired his partner and his mind was not in the least dull. Even in the dim light of the old inn where smoking oil lamps hung from age-old rafters provided all the illumination, Pierre could see Meg’s unusual pallor and the fear in her huge, violet eyes. He jumped to his feet and led her to the corner table near the back door that was his customary place.

  “What ‘as happen’, Mees Meg?” he asked anxiously, speaking to her, as he always did, in English.

  Because she did not need to control her emotions for fear of frightening John, having left him in the stable with the pony, Pierre’s question brought tears to Megaera’s eyes again. “Bart jumped me as I came out of the cave,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “John was ahead and didn’t notice anything was wrong for quite a while. I had a devil of a time fighting Bart off.”

  Pierre growled deep in his throat. “I warn’ you,” he said severely. “Did I not say to you to be rid of ‘im, that ‘e was dishonest?”

  “Yes.” Meg sniffed back tears. “But how could I? I made a bargain with him, and he hadn’t done anything until tonight.”

  “That ees true,” Pierre admitted, frowning. Then he shook his head. “The poor John, ‘e ees not clever. Also, because of ‘is deafness, ‘e cannot protect you when ‘e cannot see you. Eet ees not safe, Mees Meg.”

  Megaera shuddered. “I will be more careful,” she sighed.

  “That ees not enough,” Pierre protested. “You need someone to assist you. I see you shake, mees. You should not ‘ave come.”

  “But if I hadn’t, you would have thought I—”

  “That you intend’ to cheat me? No! I am not so much the fool. But I would ‘ave worry much what had ‘appen’. Ees there no one you can trust, Mees Meg? You are young—beautiful—ees there no man…”

  “No!” Megaera exclaimed forcibly.

  “You do not trust any of us except poor John, eh?” Pierre said, restraining a smile out of sympathy for Megaera’s shaken condition and her youth. “One man as betray’ you, I suppose, so all are under suspicion.”

  “Now you are saying I am a fool,” Megaera interrupted. “You are right that I have reason not to trust men, but I am not so silly as to think all are the same.” She smiled. “I trust you, Pierre.”

  “Much good that ees, he grumbled. “When you need me, I cannot be ‘ere. Eet ees not safe for you that my French and Breton crew come ashore. I wish… Perhaps I will think of something. In the meantime, you will be careful, yes?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry about Black Bart. I happen to know that he killed a—a gentleman in a nearby town. I have a way to tell that man’s wife. She’s clever. She’ll think of a way to set the law on him if he shows his face in this district again. I don’t think he’ll trouble me anymore.”

  “Perhaps not,” Pierre said, but somewhat doubtfully. “That idea ees a good one, but ‘e ees sly, treacherous, that creature. Do not trust too much to the law. For money they can be blind, and they are not too clever also.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  Megaera reached inside her long jacket and undid the money belt she had strapped around her slender waist. She touched Pierre’s foot in warning and then handed over the belt cautiously under the table while she went on talking about the precautions she would take. There were one or two soft clinks as Pierre transferred the golden guineas to some small sacks, but Megaera knew the sound of their voices would cover them. After he had cleared the belt, it came back by the same route. Without looking at what she was doing, Megaera folded the cloth into a soft roll and stuffed it into the pocket of her jacket that was hidden by the wall near which she sat. Only when that was done did Pierre return to real business.

  “I will come again two weeks from Tuesday,” he said, “unless the weather ees too bad. What code this time?”

  “Three short, one long, one short for the house on the cliff to warn me to come down. I’ll give you two long. You give me one long, one short, a blank long, and one more short to confirm at the cove.”

  Pierre grunted as he wrote the signals down, using a tiny piece of charcoal on a dirty scrap of paper which he stuffed back into his tobacco pouch when he was finished. Some smugglers might have objected to the involved code, which changed for each delivery but Pierre liked the idea. It was a sign of Red Meg’s caution, and daring though he might be, Pierre also believed in taking every precaution possible in business matters. No one except himself and Meg knew the code; no one could learn it by watching. Thus no one could lure either of them into a trap. Pierre liked the idea so much that he had begun to use it for his pickups in France, when those were made secretly.

  Now, of course, Pierre mostly took on his cargo publicly. Since Bonaparte had taken over the government of France, things had changed a gre
at deal. In a sense they were better. Bonaparte had no objection at all to smuggling wine and brandy and tobacco into England. He needed money to continue his wars. He needed good English woolen cloth for overcoats and uniforms and blankets for his army and good English leather boots to put on his soldiers’ feet.

  Pierre was delighted with the new system—but that did not mean he approved of Bonaparte. Other things were not as satisfactory. All controls on everything had been tightened. There was not a port a ship could sail into, not even a simple chasse-marée, that it was not boarded and examined. This annoyed Pierre on principle, although it did him no harm. He had far more tricks for hiding his ill gotten profits than all the Customs men in France could uncover. Sometimes a layer of fish was stuffed with gold pieces, sometimes the guineas were nailed to the hull of the Bonne Lucie well below the waterline.

  Often Pierre did not sail into a port directly. There were as many lonely coves on the rocky Breton coast as in Cornwall. A brief trip in the ship’s tiny boat and the loot was hidden safely to be picked up when convenient. Of course, the gold Pierre carried home was only a small part of his total profit. Most of it went in purchase of those British manufactures Bonaparte desired.

  These Pierre brought openly into port, showing bills for about one third higher than he had actually paid. Since the value of his outgoing cargo was often known, at least approximately, and Pierre willingly opened his strongbox to show what remained between what he had been paid and the cost of his cargo (there were never more than five or ten English guineas there), the bills looked legitimate enough. He got his money plus the legal profit allowed, which gave him a most respectable earning ratio and, equally important, the pleasure of cheating the government that was trying to control him.