Smugglers' Summer

by Carola Dunn

  “Glorious!” exclaimed Sir Tristram. “It is years since I saw it at this season and I had forgot . . ."

  “Glorious?” said Octavia. “Surely that word is better applied to a conquering hero returning in triumph . . ."

  “Wretch! I am hoist by my own petard. We will take this path and I shall see if I cannot impress you with my knowledge of botany."

  “That will be easy, for I am shockingly ignorant. I am willing to believe anything you tell me!”

  They wandered down a twisting gravel path. Between the bushes and trees were banks of wildflowers and he pointed out red and white campion, tall foxgloves and tiny, deep blue speedwell. There was a fish pond, edged with yellow flags, overlooked by a thatched arbour, and a stone dovecote shaped like a huge beehive and half buried in greenery. Somewhere an invisible stream gurgled and chattered, rivalling the cooing of the white fantail pigeons.

  The garden turned gradually into woodland, and soon they could again see the Tamar through the trees. Sir Tristram pointed out a path leading along the river to the quay.

  “It goes by Sir Richard’s chapel,” he said. “Shall we go that way?”

  “Is it far? I ought to go back to the house soon. I have not seen my aunt since I arrived and she must surely have risen by now. What is Sir Richard’s chapel?”

  As they walked on through the wood, he told her the story. Sir Richard, the great-grandson of the first Edgcumbe of Cotehele, had supported Henry Tudor against King Richard III in the Wars of the Roses. The King’s supporters followed him to Cotehele and surrounded the house, but he managed to slip past them. He headed for the Tamar with his enemies in hot pursuit.

  Hiding in the bushes on the high bank of the river, he filled his cap with stones and threw it down into the water. King Richard’s men heard the splash; they looked over the cliff and saw the floating cap. There was no sign of Sir Richard, so they assumed he had drowned, and went off.

  In due time, Sir Richard emerged from the bushes and fled to France. When Henry beat his enemy at Bosworth and became king in his place, Sir Richard returned to Cotehele. In gratitude for his escape he built on the cliff above the river a tiny chapel, dedicated to Saint George and Thomas Becket.

  They reached the chapel as the tale ended. It was a little stone building, whitewashed inside. Octavia gazed down the cliff and saw that the ebb tide had exposed mud flats along both sides of the river.

  “It must have been high tide when it happened,” she said. “How very fortunate for Sir Richard! If his enemies had seen his cap lying on the mud, they would not have stopped searching.”

  They took a different path up the hill, crossing a flat stone bridge over the tiny rill she had heard, which tumbled and scurried in its hurry to join the river. When they reached the arbour by the pond, Octavia was ready to rest for a few minutes. It was nearly a week since she had had any exercise worthy of the name, and her legs were weary.

  Sitting on the wooden bench, she relished the peaceful scene. Huge carp swam lazily in the pool; pigeons strutted and bowed on the roof of the dovecote; a climbing rose scented air filled with the chirp and twitter of bird-song.

  A flutter of wings and a scolding sound made her look up. A tiny brown bird with cheekily tiptilted tail perched on a crossbar, regarding her with bright-eyed disapproval. Its long, sharp bill held an insect.

  “Hush, don’t move,” said Sir Tristram in a low voice. “It’s a wren, and I’ll wager it has a nest nearby.”

  Octavia held her breath. After another moment of close scrutiny, the wren decided they were harmless. It flew up into the thatch atop the arbour, returned a moment later with emptied beak, and darted off in search of further prey.

  Letting her breath out in a sigh, Octavia said simply, “I like the country."

  “Just wait until it rains, and there is mud everywhere.”

  “A very good excuse for staying home with a book!”

  “I must show you the bookroom up at the house. Miss Gray, you are in your cousin’s confidence, I think. Tell me, have I any hope of winning her?”

  Startled, she looked at him. His gaze was fixed on his clasped hands and his cheeks were flushed.

  “I—I hardly like to say, sir. I have known you such a short time. To be giving you advice seems scarcely proper, even if I knew the answer.”

  He turned to her. “A short time! Yet I feel as if we have been friends forever. You may say what you think without fear of offending. How should I hold you responsible for Julia’s coldness! What am I to do?”

  “Do not despair, I beg of you. Only let me observe her behaviour to you before I venture to say anything more.” She wondered if he knew he had a rival.

  “Forgive me. I do not mean to oppress you with my demands. I fear I have spoiled your morning.”

  “Oh, no. I have enjoyed it immensely. And I will help you, if I can, but give me time. I must go now. My aunt must be wondering where I am.”

  “Of course.” He rose at once.

  To her relief he did not begin a catalogue of Julia’s virtues, another point in his favour against Mr Wynn. Instead, he showed her the little well, with its moss-grown lintel, which sheltered the cold, clear, bluish spring that fed the streamlet and pond.

  “When we were boys,” he said, “we used to throw in pennies and make a wish. I do not remember whether any of them came true.” He sighed, and they went on in silence through the tunnel and into the house.

  Crossing the Great Hall, they met a tall, slim, dignified woman with greying hair, whose dress proclaimed her an upper servant. Sir Tristram introduced her as Mrs Pengarth. Her curtsey was as stately as that of a dowager meeting a queen.

  Octavia looked with interest at the housekeeper. It was difficult to imagine the lively Red Jack wooing this respectable matron, though she thought they might suit very well if the smuggler ever decided to settle down.

  “Her ladyship and Miss Langston are in the drawing room,” said Mrs Pengarth in response to the baronet’s query. “You know the way, sir.”

  As they negotiated stairs and landings, which seemed to crop up in the oddest places, Sir Tristram explained that the housekeeper was in sole charge of the house for many months of the year. The earl was rarely there, and though he had an agent to look after the estate and gardens he did not consider it necessary to employ a butler or steward especially for Cotehele.

  “No wonder my aunt brought Raeburn, then,” said Octavia. “I cannot conceive how she would go on without a butler. With Raeburn and her dresser here she must feel completely at home, and without the fatigue of having to welcome callers or pay visits. Poor Julia is the only one to feel the lack of society!”

  Chapter 7

  The entrance to the drawing room was a strange sort of interior porch of carved wood. Beyond it was a light, airy room, comprising the entire second storey of the tower of which the top floor was the girls’ chambers. The inevitable tapestries, faded to a yellowish grey, depicted the History of Man, perhaps a more edifying tale than that of Hero and Leander, or the Trojan Wars in Octavia’s own room.

  Lady Langston reclined upon a carved ebony settee, apparently exhausted from the effort of rising from her bed. An embroidery frame lay in her ample lap, but the needle sticking into it was unthreaded.

  Julia knelt on a seat in an alcove in the far wall, gazing listlessly out of a small window which faced east, across the river and eventually to London, some two hundred miles beyond.

  After bowing to the viscountess, Sir Tristram went to join her.

  Octavia curtseyed to her aunt and kissed her cheek.

  “Dear child,” murmured her ladyship. “How good of you to join us in our exile. I hope you are quite recovered from the journey?”

  “Yes, aunt, perfectly. I have some money left from what Lord Langston gave me. I will fetch it down to you.”

  “No, no, keep it, my dear. Langston undoubtedly intended that you should travel post, but since you came on the common stage you shall certainly keep your savings. Wh
en I think of your discomfort, I declare I grow quite agitated. How came you to do such an imprudent thing?”

  “Why, to tell the truth, ma’am, it never crossed my mind to hire a chaise. How Mama would have stared at such an unnecessary expenditure."

  “Ah, sister, sister!” The thought of Mrs Gray seemed to drain Lady Langston’s last drop of energy. She closed her eyes and remained inert until Octavia could only suppose she was dismissed.

  Twenty guineas! Even if she set aside a tithe for Mama’s Africans, she had never in her life owned so much at one time. Her thoughts turned at once to clothes. She had been conscious all morning that the glory of her new dress was spoiled by her old, shabby shoes, and if she ever went beyond the gardens she would need gloves, a bonnet, even a parasol. If only Plymouth were not so inaccessible.

  Pondering the problem of reaching the shops, she wandered over to an ornate cabinet and stared at it blankly. The only person she knew who went regularly from Cotehele to Plymouth was Captain Pilway. However obliging, he could hardly be trusted to choose a bonnet for a young lady.

  “An extraordinary piece of furniture, is it not?” asked an amused voice behind her.

  She glanced back at Sir Tristram, then focused on the cabinet. To her dismay, it was lavishly decorated with naked figures.

  “I must write some letters,” she stammered, knowing her cheeks were crimson. “I wondered if there might be paper and pen within.”

  “I expect so, if we can but find them. It is full of secret drawers and boxes, and one can never be sure what one will come across.” He let down the front to form a writing surface. “Have you investigated this desk, Miss Langston?”

  Julia had moved to a chair and picked up a magazine. She looked up, then languidly joined them.

  “No. Why should I investigate a desk?”

  “Sir Tristram says it is full of secret compartments. Perhaps we may find a map showing the way to buried treasure.”

  In spite of herself, Julia was interested. She opened a little door, revealing an inkstand and several quills. Octavia took possession of them.

  Sir Tristram pulled open a drawer and presented her with several sheets of paper. Then he slid it all the way out. Behind it was a tiny cubbyhole containing several agate marbles.

  “That is one of the simplest,” he said. “We used to hide our treasures in it. Now watch this.”

  Julia was fascinated. Nobly, Octavia retreated with her writing materials to a small table, leaving Sir Tristram to impress his inamorata without distraction. It was difficult to ignore the oohs and ahs, but she managed to concentrate sufficiently to inform her parents that she was arrived safely and would write again soon with a description of her surroundings.

  Lieutenant Cardin was next. He had probably forgotten her existence by now but she had promised to write. A quick note thanked him for his assistance and assured him that her river journey had been without mishap.

  She folded the paper and was about to address it to the Customs House when it dawned on her that the only way for letters to reach the post was by way of the Tamar. According to no less an authority than Captain Day, most if not all of the sailors on the river were engaged in smuggling, or free trading as they preferred to call it. It seemed tactless, if not downright dangerous, to expect them to deliver a letter to the stronghold of their adversaries.

  She set it aside for the moment and, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer, joined the pair at the cabinet.

  Julia’s cupped hands contained, besides the agate marbles, a pale blue, speckled bird’s egg, a champagne cork, a jay’s feather, a cartridge, and a horse-brass depicting a Cornish piskie and the motto “Trelawney shall not die.”

  “A veritable treasure trove!” exclaimed Octavia, laughing. “I trust the cartridge is empty.”

  “That was William’s. The first time he ever bagged a pheasant. We were ten or twelve, I suppose. The game-keeper was teaching us to shoot and I cannot say whether he or William was more astonished when he hit the bird. Out of season, I may say.”

  “You mean Lord Valletort?” asked Julia. “He died last year, did he not? I met him only once or twice, though he was some sort of distant cousin.” She noticed the sadness on Sir Tristram’s face. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to grieve you, sir. I spoke without thinking.”

  “We grew up together.” The baronet basked in her pity but had the good manners not to push his advantage. He turned the subject. “Miss Gray, there is a sort of box in there—you see it?—which we were never able to open. Perhaps you can fathom the trick.”

  Octavia inserted her hand in the space he indicated and felt around. There was a knob, which she pulled on without effect.

  “It seems to be stuck,” she said, just as her fingers found an edge of paper. “Wait a minute. There is something here, if I can only grasp it.” Trying to slide it out, she touched some hidden catch. There was a click, the box came loose, and she pulled both it and the paper out of the interior of the cabinet.

  The box was small but surprisingly heavy. There was a leather bag in it which clinked when Sir Tristram lifted it out. He thrust his hand in and pulled out a couple of gold coins.

  “Louis d’or! From the reign of Louis XV.” He emptied the bag on the desk. “A Venetian ducat, and some Roman pieces. Nothing later than 1750.”

  “This paper fell out of the bag,” said Octavia, bending to pick up a scrap which had fallen to the floor. “Do you think I ought to read it?”

  “Yes, do!” cried Julia eagerly.

  “Perhaps it should be given to Lord Edgcumbe unread.” She looked at Sir Tristram and thought he agreed with her but in the face of Julia’s enthusiasm he said nothing. “Very well. There are some numbers on the back. Inside, an old-fashioned hand, a gentleman’s I would guess but somewhat shaky. ‘For my son,’ it says, ‘lest I gamble away all that is not entailed.’ It is signed, ‘Richard, Second Baron Edgcumbe.’”

  “The bad baron,” said Sir Tristram. “Losing money at cards or dice, probably foxed to judge by the uncertain writing, suddenly struck by maudlin repentance and setting aside the relics of his Grand Tour: I can picture the scene clearly.”

  “The coins are no pirate’s hoard, then, but merely belong to Lord Edgcumbe,” said Julia, losing interest.

  Sir Tristram shook his head. “No, not to Lord Edgcumbe. I hope you ladies will trust me to pass it to its rightful owner."

  “Who is that?” asked Octavia. “You are being very mysterious, sir. Surely the earl must be the baron’s heir.”

  “His heir, but not his son. I cannot say more. It is not my story to tell. Will you entrust the gold to me?”

  Julia shrugged and turned away.

  “Of course,” her cousin said quickly. “Wait, Ju, we have not yet looked at the other paper I found.”

  “Have you not read Northanger Abbey? I thought Jane Austen was a favourite of yours. It is probably a laundry list.”

  “You know how little opportunity I have had to read.” Octavia’s hurt sounded in her voice and Julia was immediately contrite.

  “I’m sorry, love.” She hugged her. “That was beastly of me, forgive me. What is on the paper, Sir Tristram?”

  He had unfolded the sheet and stepped to the window to examine it in a better light.

  “It is a map of the house and grounds, with certain vastly interesting additions. It seems a number of hiding places were built at various times and this gives instructions on how to find them!”

  “It looks very ancient,” said Julia, trying to appear interested.

  “At least two hundred years old, for this tower is not shown.

  “If I am not mistaken,” Octavia added, studying the map, “the tower was built right on top of the only secret place in the house itself. How very provoking!”

  “There is a tradition that Sir Thomas Cotehele, who built the tower, buried treasure chests somewhere about the place. He was a Dutchman whose daughter married one of the Sir Richards and he lived here for many
years. I’ll wager he used the old priests’ hole, or whatever it was, to hide his wealth!”

  ‘‘Mama’s chamber is on the ground floor of the tower," said Julia, her indifference forgotten. “Mama, may we search your chamber for an entrance to the treasure room? Mama!”

  Lady Langston sat up, looking flustered. “I was not asleep,” she protested. “You should take a turn about the shrubbery this afternoon, Julia. It is not at all healthy to be cooped up in the house all day.”

  “I shall, Mama, but we have found an old treasure map and we need to look about your chamber. May we?”

  “There is no treasure in my chamber, child, for I brought scarcely any jewels since we do not entertain."

  “Not in it, Aunt, under it. But if you will permit us to look about for an entrance, we promise not to disturb your belongings.”

  “Oh, dear.” Her ladyship looked to Sir Tristram for guidance.

  “It will do no harm, ma’am,” he said, smiling over the girls’ heads as one adult to another.

  It dawned on the viscountess that her daughter was for once in charity with her highly eligible suitor and willing to accept his company, however dubious their enterprise.

  “Very well,” she agreed with a sigh. “But Julia, before you go, pray thread this needle for me. The silk seems to be lost."

  “Let me do it, ma’am,” offered Octavia. “You two go ahead; I shall join you in a moment.”

  Sir Tristram’s look of gratitude almost repaid her for the possibility that they might find the treasure without her.

  It took several minutes to sort out her aunt’s silks and find the right one to match the pink rose she thought she had been working on. More time was lost in trying to find her way amid the confusion of stairs and landings. In the end she had to ask a maid.

  “You mean the White Bedroom, miss? ‘Tis just through the Punch Room, under the arch and up them stone steps. Careful, miss, they’re right steep.”

  She reached the top of the granite staircase in time to hear her cousin say pettishly, “The map is perfectly useless. It shows nothing in the least resembling this room."