Still, when she reached home and got into bed she found that there was no time for bitterness or tears. She was so tired between fear and excitement and the fact that she had slept hardly at all the previous night, that she fell asleep as soon as her head was down. Compensating, she slept very late the next morning. Rose did not wake her. She had become accustomed to her mistress sleeping late this past year, although not so late as these last two weeks.
Thus Megaera came slowly awake when she was fully rested. She woke up happy, as she had ever since she had given herself to Philip in Falmouth. In the next moment she remembered that this morning was different from those other mornings. She was not going to spend the day in a rosy haze, just killing time until she could go back to Philip. Philip was gone. Then, before her heart could sink, before the bitterness of loneliness could overwhelm her, she remembered the letter she had promised to send out in the mail.
With a gasp of alarm Megaera jumped out of bed and looked at the little gold clock on the nearby table. It was too late to catch the morning mail at Penzance, but a groom could catch a second coach that started after one o’clock. She flung on a peignoir and rang furiously for Rose. Between dressing, telling the maid to send a footman to the stables to warn a groom he would have to ride to Penzance to catch the afternoon mail, and finally going out to the stables herself to give the groom the letter and the money to pay the express charges, Megaera did not have time to become depressed.
Even after the groom had ridden away, spurring his mount to its best speed, life conspired to hold off sorrow. Looking around, Megaera noticed subtle signs of neglect. The horses were not suffering; the grooms of Bolliet were chosen equally for their love of their charges and for their skill in handling them and their trappings. However, cleaning and repair, particularly of the stable and yard, were not favorite duties. Lord Bolliet seldom came down to the stable. Even when he did, he saw little. In the last month Megaera had been distracted, first by her worry over what Black Bart might do next and then because of her total concentration on her affair with Philip. She had not, she realized, visited the stables herself for some time—and it showed.
The head groom was summoned, and his ears were well reddened by the time Megaera let him go. But his neglect was only a symptom of a more basic disease. Megaera realized she had been concentrating so much on her smuggling activities that she had been neglecting her other duties. She returned thoughtfully to the house to examine the private books she kept. The outlook was brighter than she had expected. She had two quarters worth of interest in reserve, and it was time for rents to be paid by the tenant farmers.
With a sense of horror Megaera realized that she had no idea what kind of harvest it had been. She knew that she must have discussed such matters with her tenants, but her mind had been so far away that she could not remember what had been said. It was time, and long past time, that she should pay some attention to the estate. If she did not, she would soon be ruined in a way other than unpaid debts. Land in which an owner had no interest was soon mistreated and exhausted. Megara knew that not all Bolliet’s troubles were owing to what Edward had done. In the years between her mother’s death and her own development to an age where she could control her father, the land had been mismanaged. It was only now really recovering, and she had nearly let it fall into bad heart again.
In many places such close attention was not necessary. The rich heartlands of England produced well even with indifferent care, but in Cornwall land could not be neglected. There was great contrast in the arable land. There were rich valley folds, but these were narrow and steep-sided. Most of the land was thin soil over rock, some of it so poor that it provided grazing only for a few sheep. The remainder would bear crops if carefully tended, but neglect of any kind, particularly in manuring the land or not permitting the fields to lie fallow, brought about swift disaster.
During the years Lord Bolliet drank and gambled and Megaera was too young to have either understanding or authority, several farms had been completely ruined. Two still lay derelict. One, that to which the cliff house belonged, was probably spoiled for all time. The other, Megaera had been thinking of renting again. The hay taken from the fields had been good that last August. It was time to consider that and also to talk to the farmers about what should be planted. Megaera had developed a painless technique for this and for preventing the tenants from appealing to her father, who had a tendency to agree to anything to get rid of the men. She went round late in the autumn, asking what needed repair before the winter storms. At the same time crops and fields to be left fallow were discussed.
By experience the tenants had learned that, if they did not abide by these informal agreements or have very good reasons for any changes they made, Mrs. Edward Devoran would make their lives a living hell. The smallest aspect of what they did would suddenly come under scrutiny from the mash fed the chickens and the shoes on the horses (if one had any) to their wives’ housekeeping. It was not worth it—and it did not pay either, the longtime tenants told the new ones. Mrs. Devoran read all the books on new methods of farming but she wasn’t one for fads. She took advice from the best farmers in the neighborhood to be sure the books were “right for Cornwall”. What was more, she was not above taking advice from her tenants—if she thought it was for the good of the land.
It was time, Megaera told herself firmly as she came away from the stables, for Mrs. Edward Devoran to take over from Red Meg. There were a few deliveries still to make, but not many. Nearly all Red Meg’s customers were well stocked, knowing the coming of the winter gales would cut down the smuggling traffic. The decision was no wrench for Megaera. She was glad to avoid the “smuggling lay” right now. Deliveries would bring Philip too much into her mind, whereas Mrs. Edward Devoran’s activities could have no association with him. What could a smuggler’s bastard know about the management of land?
Megaera almost wished that Pierre’s regular run would be interrupted too. Philip had told her it would be “a long time” that she must be prepared to wait, yet she knew she would expect to see him when Pierre came again, that she would be miserable when he was not there—even though she knew he could not be. No, she would not think about that. There was work for Mrs. Edward Devoran. Philip had nothing to do with Mrs. Edward Devoran—nothing at all.
It was fortunate that Philip knew nothing of Red Meg’s alter ego. It was the security he felt in her love, the certainty that she would be waiting and they could come to some permanent arrangement, that made it possible for him to put her—not out of his mind; he could never do that—in the back of his consciousness. The knowledge that Meg was his was a warm, comforting glow that helped rather than hindered his concentration on other things.
The Bonne Lucie had made the crossing without difficulty. There had been sail on the horizon to the west in the morning, possibly an English vessel patrolling, but the chasse-marée was in no danger. She was of small draft and rigged for speed. She could easily find protection in the shallow waters of some cove on the coast long before the ship could come up to her—if it should be in the least interested in doing so. Since the sail disappeared it was apparent that whatever ship it was had not thought the Bonne Lucie worth investigating.
By noon they were lying to under a steep headland. With a glass Philip could see that there was a village where the land fell away into a valley to the north. The ship’s boat went ashore, and a little while later a horse and rider set out from an area hidden by a fold of the land. The rest of the day was spent idling, Pierre complaining that the delicate cargo Philip and Meg had chosen precluded fishing, an activity in which an honest Breton fisherman should be engaged. It was impossible, he said, to contaminate such fine fabrics and feathers with the unromantic aroma of fish.
The tone was light, but the lookouts kept sharp watch. Bonaparte had no objection to smugglers who brought in woolen cloth and leather. Boots, jackets, and guns were welcome also, but frills and feathers, which would drain the purses of
the people without providing material benefit or assistance to the war effort were forbidden fruit. Because they were forbidden, they were so much the more valuable. Pierre might complain as a jest, but he would be well pleased—so long as they could avoid the unwelcome attention of French revenue officers.
They had a plan even for that, but it was only a delaying tactic. Philip, who had his forged papers ready, would say the cargo was already confiscated and under his control. Unfortunately, as soon as the Customs men had time to think, they would know he was lying. His “guardsmen” would have been members of Pierre’s crew, and they did not have the proper uniforms. Pierre growled with irritation when he mentioned that. Bonaparte was uniform mad. Everyone wore uniforms even the least, last, jumped-up civil guard. The worst of it, Pierre confessed, was that it worked—at least a little. The uniforms seemed to rouse the pride of the men. It cost much more to bribe them when they were in uniform.
First Philip laughed, but he stopped abruptly to remark that if what Pierre said was true, the identification papers he had were useless until he discovered what uniform he would need and could obtain one.
“Yes, yes,” Pierre said. “It will be waiting for you in the village. One of the women is a good seamstress and has prepared one, but it could not be finished until you could be fitted.”
“She knows this?” Philip asked. “Is she to be trusted?”
“Do not teach your grandfather to suck eggs,” Pierre snapped. “She knows only that I have need of a uniform for a false officer of the Customs. And trusted?” He laughed. “Do you think anyone in this village loves the Customs service? Besides, she was one of my women. Yes, she is to be trusted.”
Chapter Thirteen
The overland journey to Boulogne was easy and pleasant. Philip felt that Bonaparte’s penchant for uniforms, however much it might annoy Pierre, was a most excellent thing. It enabled him to place nearly every official he met, and it gained him courtesy from innkeepers and other civilians. Of course, it made the common people chary of talking to him. But, since be was not really a revenue officer, that did not trouble him at all. He was not in France to collect hearsay information about smugglers but to see with his own eyes what was taking place in the shipbuilding facilities and, if possible, the armed camps around Boulogne.
After Pierre’s goods had been safely landed the night they arrived, by much the same method as the casks of liquor had been landed on the Cornish coast, Philip had spent almost two weeks preparing for his role. First he had pretended to be a civilian who had come to visit a relative for a holiday on the Breton coast. This relative was a friend of Pierre’s, a wealthy local farmer of unimpeachable honesty, who happened to have an ineradicable grudge against Bonaparte. His son had died in the holocaust created by General Brune in response to the First Consul’s suggestion that “it would serve as a salutary example to burn down two or three large communes chosen among those whose conduct was worst”. Bonaparte meant that there had been uprisings against his taking power in those places. Monsieur Luroec’s son had had nothing to do with the anti-Bonaparte uprising, being solely interested in farming his land. It was merely his misfortune to be in the local market town selling produce when General Brune created the “spectacularly severe act” that Bonaparte felt would be “the most humane method” of handling the situation.
Needless to say, this accident did not endear the First Consul to Monsieur Luroec. He was too careful, too conservative, to burst into violent opposition—and he had other children to protect—but whatever he could do to undermine Bonaparte or his government was done with enthusiasm. He welcomed Philip into his home, provided him with a horse and saddle, for which Philip paid, introduced him to all the other men of substance in the neighborhood and town as his “cousin” and wrote to his wife’s family in Normandy asking that they offer hospitality to his young cousin who would be passing through their area soon.
Philip told everyone that his mother was from the Côte d’Or, which was quite true, and his father had migrated when young to Paris—which was also true, in a way. He claimed that owing to the disruptions of the Revolution, he had never traveled out of Paris before. He asked a million questions about how things were done in the provinces, concentrating on the Customs. This, too, seemed very reasonable to everyone. After all, Philip claimed he had been newly appointed to a clerkship in the bureau de service in Paris. What could be more natural than that he should wish to know what was done and how it was done by local officials. Obligingly his various hosts invited men from the Customs service to meet their Parisian fellow worker.
The local officials were delighted to know someone who would soon be working in the central seat of power. Philip had sensibly protested that he had not yet been in the offices, that he had chosen to take a brief vacation before beginning his new work, and that he did not yet know a single person in the service. Nonetheless they told him all their problems, for future reference. By the time he was finished listening, Philip knew a great deal about Customs and, incidentally, about the officials in Paris who were responsible for the orders that went out to the local officers.
Philip learned something else of great interest. Monsieur Luroec might hate Bonaparte because he associated him with his son’s death, but by and large the French did not. The First Consul had given them back stability, reasonable laws, reasonable taxation, sound money. The émigrés in England were sadly mistaken in thinking that the people feared and hated the Corsican. The truth was that they loved him—and had good reason to do so. He was politically as incorruptible as Robespierre (as long as no one threatened his power) but completely human, warm in his dealings with everyone, and, if given to occasional bursts of temper, not above apologizing for them. Most of all, of course, it was the economic security and growing prosperity that the French loved. Philip might know that this was based on a false foundation—the huge sums extorted from the conquered nations—but the French neither knew nor cared. Bonaparte had put food in their stomachs, coins in their hands, and they loved him.
Philip made only one mistake and that, fortunately, was after he had obtained most of the information he needed. Quite casually one of the men asked how he had obtained his appointment, since he seemed to have no connection with or knowledge of the service. Philip had thought that out in advance, but he did not realize the effect his answer would have.
“My father knows Joseph Fouché,” he said.
Instantly there was a deathly silence. Those men who had complained of inefficiency or corruption went pale. Philip had known, of course, that Fouché had been Minister of Police; he also knew that Fouché had been very powerful. It had not occurred to him that the name would still inspire such terror. Philip had been thinking of men in England who had been influential and were now out of office. Often they still had friends and could do favors. It was fortunate that Philip was a quick-witted young man. He realized at once that a disclaimer would get him nowhere, that he was already branded as dangerous to talk to. Thus, when one of the men asked stiffly whether the nation would have the infinite happiness of seeing Monsieur Fouché back in office, Philip replied, “We hope so.”
The guests stayed another uncomfortable half hour to prove they had nothing about which to be guilty or fearful. Later some sought private interviews with Philip, to assure him that they adored their superiors in Paris and considered every official of Bonaparte’s government perfect. Philip did his best to calm their unspoken fears. He was sorry to have caused them, but he was too sensible to deny he was a spy in Fouché’s service. First of all, no one would believe him anyway; second, no one would talk about him or “wonder” about his appointment to any other person as long as he was thought to be Fouché’s man.
Sooner or later it would occur to everyone that, if he had been Fouché’s spy, he would never have permitted his master’s name to come into the conversation. However, the fear Philip saw was so powerful that he hoped he would be finished with his task and back in England before anyon
e had the nerve to mention him again. As he thought over his “gaffe”, he became better and better pleased with it even though it had cut off the flow of information. He moved on to Normandy two days later, hoping that his rather sudden departure would fix the idea that he was an agent of the police and had obtained all the information he wanted.
In Normandy, Philip learned some very disquieting news. Bonaparte himself was said to be in Boulogne. He had established himself in a small chateau, Pont de Briques, right at the gate of Boulogne and was personally overseeing the preparation of an army and a fleet of invasion. In this situation the First Consul had shed the imperial splendor of the court he held at the Tuileries and with which he had toured Flanders and Holland. He was visiting in person the workshops and camps to raise enthusiasm for the invasion of England to the highest pitch.
This was not good news, and at first Philip was gravely disturbed and considered making his way back to Brittany at once to bring a warning of imminent invasion. When he rethought the matter, however he realized there could be a second reason for Bonaparte’s presence. If, in fact, the preparations had been lagging behind schedule, the First Consul might have felt it necessary to prod them forward in person.
Philip’s next impulse was to rush to Boulogne at once. This idea he also dismissed on second thought. It would do England no good at all if he were caught and killed. Thus he followed his original plan, except that he did not claim total ignorance of the central office of the Customs this time. He said instead that he had always been chained to a desk and wanted to know the realities behind the reports he read. He asked more intelligent questions and received further enlightenment. When asked how he had come into the service, this time he was evasive until he felt he had drained the wells dry. Then he let slip the “connection” with Fouché. It worked just as well the second time, and Philip left for his final goal with confidence that he would not fail out of ignorance of the role he was playing.
The Cornish Heiress Page 23