Beth laughed. ‘Oh, Lady Salome, there are difficulties. We do not know each other very well—’
‘Love conquers all!’ Lady Salome said grandly. ‘The Book of Kings—’
‘Quite,’ Beth said, thinking it unlikely. She saw that Marcus had come in and hastily changed the subject. ‘Are there many tales of smuggling in these parts, Lady Salome?’
Lady Salome gave her a penetrating look. ‘Not since the time of your grandfather, my dear! There’s no money in the trade these days and little interest in it!’
Beth could feel Marcus’s gaze resting on her thoughtfully. She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘I was asking your aunt about smugglers’ tales, my lord—’
‘I heard you.’ Marcus took a cup of tea from Lady Salome and sat back, stretching his long legs out to the fire. ‘The profession has almost died out, has it not, Aunt Sal?’
‘Along with piracy and wrecking!’ Lady Salome agreed. ‘Life on Fairhaven is nowhere near as exciting as one might imagine, my dear! Why, even the American War scarce touches us here!’
‘That reminds me,’ Marcus said. ‘McCrae has given me the direction of one of the islanders who knew your grandfather, Lady Allerton. I am sure he will be pleased to talk to you! Jack Cade, I believe his name is, up at Halfway Cottage. Perhaps you may choose to walk up in the morning?’
‘Perhaps I shall,’ Beth agreed. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She was not sure why she did not feel more exhilarated at the news, but for some reason she could summon up little enthusiasm. It was all very odd. She had been wanting to come to Fairhaven for years, with an intensity that had eclipsed all else, yet now she was here it was all falling oddly flat. Beth wondered if she was one of those tiresome people who, once they had achieved something, had no use for it any more. She hoped not.
She stood up and smiled at Lady Salome. ‘Pray excuse me, ma’am, Lord Trevithick…’ she gave Marcus a distant nod ‘…I am tired and would like to retire. There is no need to accompany me,’ she added sharply, as Marcus rose from his chair with some reluctance, ‘I can find my own way. Goodnight!’
As she went up the stairs, Beth reflected that there was nothing more insulting than Marcus’s pretence of courtesy towards her, no doubt assumed for Lady Salome’s benefit. She hated this coldness between them that threatened to harden into indifference, then plain dislike. Already she felt absurdly distanced from Marcus, as though their earlier intimacy had never been. It seemed almost impossible to believe that Marcus had once held her in his arms, had kissed her, had evoked a response from her that she had not even known could exist. Yet all that was in the past. From now on a slightly bored courtesy was probably all that she could expect.
Beth sat on the window seat in her bedroom and looked out at the moonlight skipping across the black water. The poor weather that had dogged their crossing the day before had vanished and it was a clear night with the stars showing bright and hard in the heavens. Somewhere in the depths of the castle, a clock struck one. The chimes echoed through the stone walls and died away. Beth shivered a little. She had been waiting for four hours and was thoroughly tired and chilled, but she had been determined not to miss whatever it was that Marcus and Colin McCrae were up to that night.
The sound of stone on stone far below cut through her boredom. Someone had opened the door of the castle and was even now setting off down the twisting track to the beach. Beth pressed her nose to the cold window glass. Her bedroom looked out on a short stretch of grass that ended abruptly where the track began its descent of the cliff. She could hear nothing, but she could just see the dancing flame of a torch as someone picked their way down towards the harbour. Beth slid off the window seat, reached for her cloak, and made for the door.
She drew back the bolt, turned the huge knob and pushed. The door did not move. Beth pushed again but it remained shut fast. She stood back, frowning.
The door had not stuck earlier in the evening. Then, it had swung smoothly on oiled hinges. Which meant that now it could only be locked—on the far side. She pushed the door again, sharply. Nothing happened.
Kneeling down, Beth peered through the keyhole. She could see the key still in the lock on the other side of the door. Indignation swelled in her, confirming her suspicions. Marcus had locked her in, and she knew why.
Beth went to her trunk and took out the enamelled box that held her hairpins. Near the window stood an old wooden writing desk and she was almost certain she had seen some thick blotting paper there earlier. She whipped it up and hurried back to the door. There was a gap of at least an inch between the smooth stone step and the bottom of the door and Beth bent down, stealthily inserting the paper into the space. The first hairpin bent when she pushed it into the lock but the second loosened the key and after a little jiggling, it fell to the floor. The blotting paper muffled the sound and all Beth heard was a soft thud.
Holding her breath, she drew the paper towards her. The key caught on the bottom of the door and she bit her lip, trying to manoeuvre the paper through the gap without making any noise. After a few nerve-racking seconds, it slid smoothly into her grasp.
Dusting her skirts down, Beth turned the key and opened the door a crack. The corridor outside was faintly lit by lamplight and was quite empty. She pulled the door closed behind her and tiptoed to the top of the stairs.
It took her several minutes to negotiate Saintonge Castle’s dark corridors and stairs, for she was anxious to make no noise and draw no attention. At one point she was obliged to dodge into the Great Hall when a servant came out of the kitchens with a pile of clean crockery, and she had almost reached the front door when Martha McCrae came hurrying down the nursery stairs, a candle in her hand. By the time that Beth slipped out into the night, her heart was in her mouth and she had to stop to rest for a moment in the lee of the castle wall.
It was a fine night, but there as a strong wind blowing. Beth quickly realised that it would be the utmost folly to try to descend the cliff path without the aid of a light, for even in the daytime the track was treacherous. It was also the perfect way to walk directly into the smugglers’ path before she had realised it. She had just resigned herself to another long wait out in the cold dark when she saw the glint of torchlight below and heard the crunch of footsteps on shingle. They were already coming back. She dived for shelter behind the nearest wall.
She was just in time and the sight that met her eyes was a curious one. A torch-lit procession of men was coming up the cliff path, but where Beth’s imagination had supplied all the trappings of a smuggling operation—the donkeys, the panniers full of bottles, the packets of lace—they were carrying two coffins high on their shoulders. Beth recognised the crew of the Marie Louise and some of the village men she had seen earlier in the day. Amongst them, Marcus was carrying the corner of one coffin and Colin McCrae another. Beth crouched behind the wall and watched them pass by, and stared after them into the darkness.
She had not been aware that the Marie Louise was carrying any men home for burial, but then she supposed that Marcus would not necessarily want to distress her with the fact. Perhaps this was what McCrae had been referring to when he had asked Marcus if he would tell her, and Marcus had said that there was no need. Perhaps so, perhaps not. The whole thing was odd in the extreme.
The more Beth thought about it, the odder it became. The men had been smiling and chatting amongst themselves and there had been none of the grim-faced respect that she would have expected on such an occasion. She pulled her cloak about her and tried to huddle more closely into the shelter of the wall. Where did Marcus’s reference to ‘Marchant’s cargo’ fit in? Were the coffins the cargo, and if so, were the deaths suspicious? Why not wait until daylight to bring the coffins home to rest? And why lock her in her room to ensure that she knew nothing of the night’s activities?
Beth scrambled out onto the track and set off towards the village in the direction that the men had taken. She could just see the flickering of the lanterns up ahead and the moon cast
enough light on the track for her to pick her way. All the same it was an uncomfortable walk and she almost slipped and fell several times. She resolved that the road was the first thing that she would spend money improving when once she was the official owner of Fairhaven.
By the time that Beth reached the first cottages, the pallbearers were entering the church, which, Beth thought, was entirely appropriate if they had a couple of dead men for burial. She felt cold, stiff and rather silly to have become so wrapped up in her own imaginings, and she was about to turn back when she heard a crash in the church porch and Marcus’s voice carried to her on the wind.
‘Careful there! Marchant will not be pleased if the goods are damaged…’
Curiosity aroused once more, Beth picked her way across the graveyard and peeked around the church door. She knew she was taking a big risk, but it was dark and the men were safely inside the church, so it seemed safe to take a look.
Fairhaven’s chapel was small and ill lit and though she could just make out the shapes of the coffins laid out before the altar, a huge pillar obscured the rest of her view. The smell of musty cloth and dust hung in the air. Taking care to remain unseen, Beth slipped behind one of the Mostyn family memorials and peered round.
Two lanterns had been placed at either end of the altar and in their flickering light Beth could see the men from the ship busy with the coffin lids. They were showing little respect for the dead now. One man had a crowbar that he was wedging under one corner. There was a creak of protest from the wood and then a splintering noise as the lid came free. Beth smothered a gasp.
‘Fine workmanship on these,’ she heard one of the sailors say appreciatively as he leant over the coffin.
‘Aye…nothing but the best…’ One of his colleagues was lifting something from inside. The lantern light glinted on steel. Beth drew back sharply as she saw the rifle in his hands and the pile of guns spilling over the top of the coffin.
Suddenly there was a prickling feeling on the back of her neck, a warning instinct that was as ancient as it was inexplicable. Beth froze, her eyes still on the scene before her. Several of the crew had guns in their hands now and were inspecting them with admiration. Colin McCrae was exchanging a few words with one of the sailors as they fastened the lids back down. But of Marcus there was no sign.
Beth turned slowly. The empty ranks of pews and the rows of memorials stared back at her, cobwebby and dark. There was nobody there. She started to back towards the door, stepping silently, pausing to check every few seconds that she was unobserved. She could see no one at all but the feeling of being watched persisted. And then someone moved.
Beth caught her breath on a gasp that seemed to echo around the chapel’s rafters. She saw the sailors put down the guns and look in her direction and then Marcus Trevithick stepped from the porch directly into her path.
‘Good evening, Lady Allerton,’ he said politely. ‘What an unexpected pleasure to find you here!’
For a moment Beth seriously considered trying to push past him and run, but then Marcus put out one hand and took her arm in a grip that was not tight but that she could not have broken without a struggle.
‘Do you know,’ he said conversationally, ‘that you are forever running away from me, Lady Allerton? On this occasion I do beg you to reconsider. I would be put to the trouble of trying to catch you and you would probably go straight over the side of a cliff in the dark!’
They stood staring at each other, then Beth let go of the breath she had been holding. ‘Oh! I might have known that you would find me here! Though why you did nothing to prevent me seeing the rifles—’ She broke off as she tried to work out what was going on. She saw Marcus grin.
‘Why should I prevent you? There is nothing illegal to hide and if you wish to wander about Fairhaven in the middle of the night, that is your choice!’
‘Nothing illegal?’ Beth’s voice had warmed into indignation. ‘You smuggle munitions in here, no doubt intending to sell them on—’ Once again she stopped, this time as he laughed.
‘Is that what you think? My dear Lady Allerton, I am always astounded by your fertile imagination! This is no Gothic romance!’ His voice changed, became grimmer. ‘I am less flattered by the fact that you always suspect the worst of me!’
Beth felt suddenly ashamed. She freed herself from his grip and stepped back, smoothing her cloak down with a self-conscious gesture.
‘Yes, well you must admit that your actions were of the most suspicious! If I have been mistrustful of you it is only because I found myself a prisoner in my own room!’
‘Let us discuss this back at the castle,’ Marcus suggested. He drew her through the doorway and into the porch, picking up his lantern as they went. The light skipped over the gravestones and illuminated the uneven stone path to the lych-gate. Marcus took Beth’s arm again, this time in a gentler grip as he guided her back to the road.
‘Stay close to me,’ he said abruptly. ‘I am amazed that you did not break an ankle creeping about in the dark!’
They walked back to the castle in silence. The moon was high and the combination of that and the torch lit the way well enough, but by now Beth was shaking with cold and reaction. She was glad when they reached the huge oak front door and Marcus ushered her into the hall.
‘Please join me in the drawing room, Lady Allerton.’
Beth, who had been nursing a craven desire to run upstairs and hide in her room, realised that this was not an invitation so much as an order. She reluctantly allowed Marcus to take her cloak from her, noting that the once-smart black velvet was now crushed and stained from its travels and would never be the same again. Marcus held the drawing-room door open and Beth went in. She watched as he kicked the embers of the fire into life before moving over to the silver tray on the sideboard.
‘A nightcap, Lady Allerton, to accompany our discussions? The brandy will warm you.’
He put what looked like a huge quantity of amber liquid into the glass before passing it to her. Beth risked a taste and felt the spirit burn her stomach. But Marcus was right. It was warming and in a little while she had stopped shivering.
Marcus gestured her to a chair by the fire and sat down opposite her. In the faint light his face looked brooding, severe. He looked up and their eyes met, and Beth’s heart skipped a beat. Marcus smiled faintly.
‘I see that the small matter of a locked door cannot stand in your way, Lady Allerton! I have seldom met anyone so indomitable!’
Beth shrugged, avoiding his gaze. ‘’Tis simple to open a locked door, my lord, when the key is still on the other side!’
Marcus laughed, a laugh that turned into a yawn. He slid down in the chair and stretched his legs towards the fire. ‘Excuse me. It has been a long night. I blame Colin McCrae for leaving the key in the lock. I warned him to make sure that all was secure but, unlike me, he underestimated you!’ He looked at her and his smile faded. ‘Believe me, Lady Allerton, it was for your own good.’
Beth took a mouthful of brandy. ‘I do so detest it when people say that,’ she confided, ‘for generally it is not true at all! From what were you protecting me, my lord? My own curiosity?’
Marcus inclined his head. ‘That, and the vivid imagination that has already led you to invent wild stories this night!’ He grimaced. ‘But your reproof is fair, Lady Allerton. I should not have had you constrained in your room. Indeed, I should have trusted you with the truth and I apologise that I did not.’
Beth took another sip of brandy. The fiery taste was growing on her and the warm feeling it engendered even more so. She could feel the colour coming back into her face, the relaxation stealing through her limbs.
‘And the truth is—what, precisely, my lord?’
Marcus shifted in his chair. ‘The truth is that there is a certain Dutch privateer by the name of Godard, who has been taking advantage of the hostilities between our nation and America to prey on the ships trading from Bristol.’ He leant forward and threw another log on the
fire. ‘The guns that you saw were entrusted to me by Captain Marchant of his Majesty’s navy. Marchant wanted an arsenal for the navy to draw on locally if they find themselves within striking distance of the enemy. There is more to unload from the Marie Louise tomorrow.’
He looked across at her and smiled. ‘That is the explanation for tonight’s activities, Lady Allerton!’
Beth frowned. ‘Do you think this privateer is likely to threaten Fairhaven, my lord?’ she asked after a moment.
‘It is most unlikely.’ Marcus stood up to refill her glass. ‘Godard would gain little from taking Fairhaven, for then he would have to defend it. It is more likely that he would stage a raid in order to gain fresh supplies, but even that is improbable. I confess that it was that aspect of the case that held me silent, however, for I did not wish to disturb you with the knowledge unless the threat became real.’
Beth drained her glass. ‘I see. But Lady Salome has a stout enough constitution to be told the truth?’
Marcus grinned. ‘You heard that, did you? McCrae and I should be more careful of speaking behind peoples’ backs!’ He shrugged. ‘The truth is that Aunt Sal, for all her disclaimers, has dealt with everything from smugglers to pirates in her time here on Fairhaven and is quite up to snuff! Whereas you, Lady Allerton…’ his smile robbed the words of any sting ‘…you are young and have led a more sheltered life!’
Beth decided to let this go. It was indisputable; anyway, there were other matters she wanted to pursue.
‘Why go to such an elaborate charade with the coffins, my lord?’
‘It was all for show.’ Marcus laughed. ‘It is, in fact, a convenient way of carrying a large quantity of guns and Marchant and I thought it might confuse any spies…’
‘Such as myself,’ Beth said ruefully. She had begun to realise just how much she had built up on so little. What was it that Marcus had said—that she always suspected the worst of him? That, and the fact that she was always running away from him. She bit her lip. Perhaps both charges were true and the thought made her feel uncomfortable. She put her empty glass down carefully on the walnut table, suddenly aware that she was feeling rather light-headed from unaccustomed liquor.
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