Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Her pretty face distressed, Anne said, “Oh, Cornelia, do not blame yourself! Just knowing you are near is a comfort to me and I’m sure your cane would prove an able weapon.” She smiled shakily. “I confess I’m relieved that Emily will be with me tonight—I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if I was alone in my room.”

  “I don’t think we should sleep in your room,” said Emily. “That’s the first place they’d look for you.” She sighed. “I’m afraid that until the danger is passed that you and I shall be sharing my room.”

  “Which means we should move as many of her things as we can into yours this afternoon while the cowards are gone,” said Cornelia.

  “But won’t they be suspicious when they learn I have moved in with Emily?”

  Cornelia snorted. “Don’t intend to tell them. The servants won’t give away the change and the only way they will discover you are not asleep like a little lamb in your own bed will be if they come to your room—where they have no business being.”

  “They’ll know we’re on to them if they are bold enough to attempt to snatch you from your bed,” Emily admitted. “But finding your room empty will disrupt their plans—and give us more time.”

  They had no illusions about the precariousness of the situation. The servants would help, but Anne’s best protection lay with Emily and Cornelia, with most of the responsibility for keeping Anne safe falling on Emily.

  Her face grim, Emily rose to her feet. “I’ll speak with Sally and Walker. We need to get your belongings moved to my room as soon as possible.”

  Walker and Mrs. Spalding already knew what was afoot and, with Emily’s consent, the two senior servants had shared that information with the remaining trusted members of the household staff.

  The presence of Jeffery’s and Ainsworth’s valets presented a problem. Despite Jeffery’s and Ainsworth’s rooms being in another wing of the house, Emily worried that one of the valets might stumble across them in the midst of the move. The two valets were both strangers and Londoners and had not proven any more popular with the inhabitants of The Birches than their masters. It must be assumed, Emily warned everyone, that either man would betray them in a flash.

  “The last thing we want,” she said to Walker, “is for one of them to discover what we are about and carry tales back to Jeffery or Ainsworth.” Emily nibbled her lip. “We’ll have to have someone keep an eye on them,” she said, “while we’re moving Anne’s belongings.”

  Luck was with them—both the valets had been given the afternoon off and not a half hour after their masters had ridden away, the two valets departed.

  The coast clear, everyone sprang into action, with Agatha, Cornelia’s longtime maid, remaining downstairs to sound the alarm should the gentlemen or their valets return. Despite the small number of willing hands, within a matter of hours, Anne’s belongings, including a large, unwieldy mahogany wardrobe and a tall chest of drawers, were moved down the hall from her room and into Emily’s. The heavy work completed, except for Sally, the other servants hurried back to their duties.

  As Anne folded and put away some of her things in the chest of drawers shoved against the wall next to a similar chest that Emily used, she said, “Thank goodness, everything is moved. I was terrified the whole time. How could we have explained what we were about if we had been discovered?”

  Helping Sally hang a few of Anne’s gowns in the wardrobe, Emily said over her shoulder, “Don’t think about it. It didn’t happen and that’s the main thing.”

  Cornelia nodded. “No doubt about it—fate was—”

  The opening of the door halted her words and all four women turned alarmed faces in that direction. There was a general sigh of relief when they realized that it was only Agatha.

  Aware her sudden appearance had startled everyone, Agatha slipped around the door and into the room and murmured, “Oh, my, I am so sorry for giving everyone a fright.” Shutting the door behind her, she added, “With everything that is going on, I simply forgot to knock.”

  Agatha Colby had served Cornelia for forty of her fifty-eight years and over that time had evolved from personal maid to trusted companion. She was a slight woman with gentle blue eyes and dark hair now liberally frosted with silver. There were no secrets within the Townsend family that she wasn’t privy to and her loyalty to the family was as fierce as it was quiet.

  “Don’t give it a thought,” Emily said, her gaze on the door. “You just revealed a precaution we should have taken.” Handing the yellow frock in her hands to Sally, she crossed the room and carefully turned the key in the lock. Looking back at the others, she said, “From now on this door is to be kept locked—it may provide only a moment’s warning, but we’ll need it.”

  Only the ladies were at dinner that night and they spent a strained evening starting at every sound and bracing for Jeffery’s and Ainsworth’s return. As the hour grew late, there was no sign of the gentlemen and grateful for the reprieve, the ladies retired for the night.

  Biding good night to Cornelia, Emily and Anne disappeared into Emily’s bedroom, Emily locking the door behind them. Not satisfied with that, she grabbed a small chair and wedged it under the doorknob.

  Anne stared at the chair for a long moment, then sighed and, picking up her nightgown, disappeared behind the blue silk dressing screen in one corner of the room.

  Listening to the rustle of Anne’s clothes as she changed into her nightgown, Emily prowled about the changed confines of her room. She smiled as she took in the added pieces of furniture standing cheek by jowl against the wall. The space was crowded, but at least they didn’t have to climb over furniture to get to the door.

  Though she was pleased with this afternoon’s work, she knew the precautions they had taken were only a temporary measure. The only advantage they had was that they knew what Jeffery and Ainsworth were up to—but not the how or the when. She stopped, struck by a thought. Ainsworth had to have his bride by a certain date and if they could keep Anne safe until after that date . . . If they could spirit Anne away and hide her until it was too late . . .

  Because she had never considered they’d be in this predicament, Emily hadn’t paid attention to the actual date by which Ainsworth must have his bride and she resolved to find out that vital bit of information tomorrow. Cornelia would know.

  Anne appeared from behind the screen and Emily took her place, quickly stripping off her gown and scrambling into her nightclothes. Still considering the idea of hiding Anne she walked over to the bed.

  Looking terrified, Anne wrung her hands together. “I am such a silly goose! I know that I am safe with you, but oh, Emily, I cannot help being frightened.” She looked beseechingly at her. In a voice filled with horror, she asked, “What if they break down the door?”

  A savage smile curved Emily’s mouth. From beneath the folds of her nightgown, she brought forth a pistol. “Well, then, we’ll see how they like finding this shoved up their noses.”

  Tuesday morning dawned bright and clear and cold. Following their routine, the three ladies met in the breakfast room for a light breakfast.

  After greeting Cornelia and dropping a kiss on her forehead, Emily asked, “Do you know the exact date that Ainsworth must be married or lose his fortune?”

  “March first,” Cornelia said. “Why?”

  “Because it tells us how long we have to keep Anne out of his clutches.”

  “That’s nearly six weeks away,” Anne said woefully. “A very long time.”

  Walker entered with a bowl of piping hot scones right from the oven and Emily asked him, “What time did my cousin and his friend come home last night?”

  “The gentlemen haven’t returned yet,” Walker replied, “but the valets are back and upstairs in their rooms.”

  Walker departed and the three ladies stared uneasily at each other.

  “I do not know how I am to pretend that all is well,” Anne said, “when I am frightened to death. How are we to act normally for the next six weeks?”
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br />   Emily leaned forward, her gaze intent. “There is a solution. You must go away.”

  Her voice quivering, Anne asked, “You are throwing me out?”

  “Don’t be a goose!” Emily said. “I mean that we have to find a safe place for you to stay until after the first of March. Someplace where Jeffery won’t think to look for you or a place from which he wouldn’t dare try to abduct you.”

  Anne’s face cleared. “Of course!” Her expression fell. “But where?” she asked anxiously, her big brown eyes fixed on Emily’s face. “My parents are dead. I have no brothers or sisters. You and Cornelia are my family—there is no one else.” Looking even more miserable she added, “How will I live? Thanks to Jeffery, I have very little money of my own . . . and what we receive from the, uh, um, you know.”

  Anne’s “you know” referred to the smuggling profits, and those, Emily thought bitterly, were erratic and never a sure thing. “I have to think about it,” she muttered.

  A few hours later, Emily was still brooding over where to hide Anne and how to finance it, when Walker found the three ladies in the blue sitting room. Handing Emily a note, he said, “Sam just delivered this from Mrs. Gilbert.”

  After quickly reading the note, Emily looked up. “I must go to The Crown. Our, ah, friend, has returned from London with, um, gossip that I should hear.”

  Everyone knew precisely what she meant. The contraband goods had been safely delivered and sold in London and it was time to discover how well they had done and divide the profits.

  A scant half hour later, garbed in a decade-old sapphire riding habit adorned with gold braid, Emily was riding to the village. She was hatless, but her moonlit-fair hair was caught up in a black snood at the back of her head and the cold brought roses to her cheeks and a sparkle to her gray eyes. For late January the day was almost pleasant, but she was glad of her black leather gloves and the warmth of the heavy velvet riding habit.

  Surreptitiously she approached the inn, halting her horse when she reached the stables where Caleb waited for her. He helped her from her horse.

  Smiling, Caleb said, “You know where to go. Go ahead. I’ll hide the mare away and join you in a few minutes.”

  Emily hurried across the area that divided the inn from the stables and slipped inside the back door. Mary was there to greet her. “Ma and the others are waiting for you,” she said, waving an arm in the direction of the private sitting room Mrs. Gilbert kept for family and friends.

  Almost as familiar with the inn as her own home, Emily walked quickly down the hallway to the rear of the building. After giving a warning rap on the door, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  It was a friendly sort of room. Large enough to hold several people easily with whitewashed walls and golden oak floors. A faded amber-and-brown woolen rug covered the floor in the center of the room and a fire burned in the brick fireplace. Crisp cream-and-green calico curtains draped the brace of windows that overlooked the herb-and-vegetable garden at the side of the inn. In the center of the room was a big table with several wooden chairs placed around it. Overstuffed chairs selected for comfort rather than style, a pair of small unremarkable tables and a massive gothic cabinet across from the fireplace comprised the rest of the furnishings.

  The inhabitants were gathered around the big table and Emily joined them. Taking the seat they’d left for her at the head of the table, she smiled warmly at everyone.

  Except for Caleb, the people seated around the table represented Emily’s intrepid band of investors. It had been to these people that she had turned when she had first conceived her desperate scheme.

  Mrs. Gilbert had been the first person Emily had solicited to join her in the dangerous venture. Mrs. Gilbert hadn’t hesitated. Emily had barely laid out her proposal and Mrs. Gilbert was in. Her husband’s death, suspected at the hands of the Nolles gang and the harassment of her clients by the Nolles gang, had pushed her to a precarious position. Without the money earned from the smuggling, she would have lost the inn and she and her five daughters would have been homeless.

  Jeb Brown had been essential to the scheme and once he was on board, Emily and Mrs. Gilbert had looked around for other possible investors.

  Emily’s eyes rested on the worn features of little Miss Martha Webber and her widowed sister, Mrs. Gant. Once Miss Webber had been a needlewoman much in demand, but age had twisted her once nimble fingers and she had fallen on hard times. She and Mrs. Gant lived together, barely scraping by, taking in wash and whatever chores the two old women could still do. Emily had hesitated to approach them, but Mrs. Gilbert had urged her to do so. “They’re worse off than I am,” Mrs. Gilbert had said. “I know that Martha and her sister don’t have much between the pair of them, but I suspect they’d be willing to risk a few pounds. Ask them.” Emily had and Miss Webber and Mrs. Gant had eagerly added their mite.

  Mrs. Goodson, the widow of a laborer left to fend for herself with a family of starving children, had followed Miss Webber and Mrs. Gant. James Ford, the shoemaker, and Caleb Gates, the blacksmith, had been drawn in next. Mr. Meek, a retired law clerk, had been the last to join the investors.

  Mr. Meek had been an excellent addition to their little group. He kept the account books and traveled with the goods to London and oversaw the selling of the contraband to the eager buyers.

  Being novices they’d made some mistakes in the beginning—fortunately none that had put an end to their risky enterprise. It had taken time for Jeb to make contacts in France that could be trusted to give them good value for their investments and not cheat them. The same was true for Mr. Meek when he had first attempted to market the contraband in London. These days there were several shopkeepers in London who bought regularly from them and a trio of tavern owners who purchased any spirits they smuggled into the country. For the past two years or so the little group had been making steady profit.

  Caleb joined them and Mr. Meek cleared his throat and reported, “We made our best profit yet on this last run—which was also our largest to date.” Looking over his round spectacles perched at the end of his nose, he declared happily, “And some of our clients have already placed orders for our next run. There is a demand for silk, net and French point lace from one of the dressmakers and as usual, our tavern owners have indicated they would take any and all brandy we can transport to London.”

  Mr. Meek brought forth a plump leather bag and over the next few minutes the chink of coins could be heard as he dispersed the contents. Counting out the coins before Emily, he added, “Before you is proof of just how splendidly we did.” He set a small bag beside the coins and murmured, “And here is everyone’s share for the next shipment. Keep it safe.”

  Emily nodded, and put the bag, which had a nice feel to it, in the deep pocket of her riding habit. From the beginning, she had been the banker and from every run, they’d kept out a portion of the profits, when there was a profit, to pay for the next trip to France to buy contraband goods. She hid it, along with her own profit, in a false baseboard in her bedroom at home.

  The bag filled with money for the next run already forgotten, Emily looked at the remaining pile of coins before her and the knot of anxiety that seemed her constant companion loosened. Mrs. Spalding and Walker and the other servants would be paid a bit more this quarter than the paltry sum Jeffery deemed adequate. The old stableman, Hutton, so unfairly let go when Jeffery had hired Kelsey, wouldn’t be penniless and the head shepherd, Loren, would be able to hire a few men to help him during the height of the lambing season—not far off. And Anne . . . Emily eyed the coins, wondering if salvation wasn’t piled right in front of her.

  “Another storm should be blowing up before much longer,” Jeb said slowly, interrupting Emily’s thoughts. “Might be a good time for me to make another run to Calais. I can fill our orders and then wait for a storm to return.”

  During the storms that lashed the coast, most of the revenue officers would be found huddled inside, nursing a tankard of ale near
the fire. Though dangerous, stormy weather gave the smugglers their best chance for a run and to move their goods inland unobserved and unhindered. They routinely braved the raging waves of the Channel to bring their contraband from the French ports of Calais or Boulogne to England.

  It was agreed that Jeb should prepare for another run and after a few minutes the group dispersed, leaving Emily and Mrs. Gilbert alone.

  Eyes narrowed, Mrs. Gilbert studied Emily. Despite the charming flush in Emily’s cheeks and the jeweled clarity of her eyes, it was obvious something was preying on her mind. Having nursed Emily at her breast, there wasn’t much the younger woman could hide from her and Mrs. Gilbert asked, “What is wrong? And don’t fob me off with some silly tale that you ate something that disagreed with you.”

  Emily hesitated only a moment before telling of the danger to Anne.

  Mrs. Gilbert sighed. “Your poor father would turn over in his grave if he knew what a scoundrel that cousin of yours is. We shall help you in any way that we can—just say the word and we shall descend upon The Birches armed with only brooms and mops if necessary.”

  Emily choked up at her words, touched by the generous loyalty. “I know,” she said when she had command of herself.

  Flora, her eyes bright with excitement, stuck her head around the door and exclaimed, “Ma, Lord Joslyn is here! Coo! His manservant, Lamb, is with him.”

  Ignoring the flutter in her stomach at the mention of Lord Joslyn’s name, Emily rose to her feet. Pouring her share of the profits into a small silk bag and placing it in her opposite pocket, she said, “I must be off.” She grinned at Mrs. Gilbert. “Go see to your distinguished guest. Who knows? Perhaps his patronage will tear clients away from The Ram’s Head and bring them to your door.”

  Mrs. Gilbert smiled back at her. “Perhaps, you are right. Run along with you now . . .” Slyly she added, “Unless of course, you’d like to see Lord Joslyn yourself?”