The time for subtlety had passed.
Several minutes later, when the vicar announced his intention of returning home to mix more of his herbs for Dominic, Chad followed him outside to his curricle.
‘‘Tobias, a word, if you please. Privately. I’ll accompany you back to the vicarage.’’
Waning daylight tinted the western clouds a yellowish hue that reflected in the vicar’s spectacles as he opened the carriage door. Chad folded his length into the tight confines, made more awkward by the other man’s obvious discomfiture. Tobias sat stiffly against the squabs, hands wrapped tightly around his sack of medicines.
The carriage lurched forward, listing sharply as it turned onto the road. Without preamble Chad said, ‘‘How much did my father know about the smuggling in Penhollow?’’
The vicar visibly jolted, and not from a shudder of the carriage wheels. ‘‘Only w-what I told you. He understood and sympathized.’’
‘‘Are you quite certain? The vault beneath St. Bren-dan’s is not the end of the story. Far from it. What of the tunnels beneath Edgecombe? Did he know of those? Were they used with his permission?’’
‘‘Tunnels? Beneath Edgecombe?’’
‘‘Don’t play games with me, Hall. With all the legends of the Keatings bandying about this village, the idea is nothing new. What do you know of the passages that lie beneath the estate, and what did my father know?’’
Beads of sweat glistened across Hall’s brow. The man’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. ‘‘But . . . they are only stories. No one knows for sure—’’
‘‘I know. I’ve seen them.’’ He studied the quiver in the man’s cheek, the twitching of his nose. ‘‘Are you hiding something? Protecting someone? Have you been threatened, told you’d better not speak of these matters?’’
‘‘No, nothing like that.’’ Hall’s face took on a resigned look as he stared out the carriage window. ‘‘Penhollow’s silence is enforced by far more substantial means. Those three sailors yesterday. The attack on Dominic and Ian. These are not isolated events.’’
‘‘Then why the hell don’t you do something about it? Why not call in the authorities?’’
‘‘The authorities?’’ Hall spat the words. ‘‘They show up periodically to inspect our warehouses, to see what we might be hiding. When they find nothing but legitimate goods, they consider their job well-done. As for ships wrecking, they blame storms and shake their heads at the villagers’ tales of ghost ships. In cases where men have been beaten, as Dominic was today, the officials cite flaring tempers and refuse to interfere.’’
‘‘Interfere? By God, is that what they call administering justice?’’
‘‘I’m afraid so. This is not London. Other than imposing the taxes to which the crown feels entitled, this part of the country has long been left to its own devices.’’
Chad leaned back against the squabs. ‘‘That is about to change. The authorities cannot ignore three men tied together and thrown overboard to drown. And while Penhollow’s warehouses may stand empty of smuggled goods, the tunnels beneath Edgecombe and an isolated farm on the moors do not. This is not the work of ghosts. Someone is responsible, and it’s time we discovered who.’’
The carriage bucked over a rut in the road, and the vicar’s teeth clacked. Chad regarded him, wondering how far he could trust the soft-spoken, herb-tending minister. Hall had been his father’s friend, or so the man claimed.
‘‘You knew my father. Did he habitually drink himself into a stupor?’’
‘‘No, my lord, not in my experience, but who can say with any certainty what men do in the privacy of their homes?’’
Chad considered that. ‘‘Perhaps we cannot know, but we can damn well surmise.’’
‘‘What are you implying?’’
‘‘Nothing for certain. But between tales of ghosts and phantom ships, someone is perpetrating a debilitating deception on this village. A deception that seems centered on Edgecombe. I wonder whether my father hadn’t simply been in the way, and needed to be gotten rid of.’’
The sound of his own voice pronouncing those hideous words seared Chad’s chest. If only he had been here when he should have been, how much tragedy might have been avoided?
‘‘Dominic is awake.’’
At Ian’s announcement, Sophie wrapped a dish-towel around the iron handle of the teakettle and removed it from the stove. Since returning home she had prepared countless pots of tea, a task that had kept her hands and her mind occupied while Rachel and Ian kept their vigil at Dominic’s side.
She exchanged a glance with Kellyn, who had remained behind when Reese returned to the Stormy Gull. ‘‘How can he be awake? The vicar said he’d be out for hours. He had enough sleeping draft to bring down a horse.’’
‘‘He’s groggy,’’ Ian said, ‘‘but I reckon the vicar underestimated this particular horse.’’
The three of them entered the parlor to see Dominic struggling against his sister’s restraining hands in an effort to sit up.
‘‘Stop being so stubborn,’’ Rachel countermanded with an authority that took Sophie aback. From minute to minute she never knew what to expect of her quiet cousin.
Dominic gave an unintelligible grumble. His eyes were still swollen nearly shut, his lower slip split, his skin mottled with bruises.
Rachel flattened her hands against his shoulders. ‘‘You’ll loosen the bandages, and then your ribs will heal crooked. Is that what you want?’’
He tried levering up onto his good elbow, but the splint on his other arm threw off his coordination. The arm struck the back of the sofa. A pained expression twisted his countenance, and a gasp slid from his throat. Upper lip awash in perspiration, he fell prone onto the cushions.
‘‘Ribs don’t . . . heal crooked,’’ he hissed between clenched teeth. The words were thick and halting, as if his mouth were stuffed with cotton. As with his sister, Sophie experienced a reluctant appreciation for his headstrong resilience.
‘‘The devil they don’t.’’ Kellyn poured water from a nearby pitcher into an earthenware cup. She handed the cup to Rachel, who held it to her brother’s lips and supported his head while he drank.
He murmured his thanks. Rachel draped a damp rag across his forehead.
‘‘Do you know what those men wanted?’’ Ian asked, crouching beside the sofa.
Dominic nodded, then shook his head.
Ian angled a concerned expression at Rachel. ‘‘Maybe his wits haven’t cleared. The beating and Mr. Hall’s tincture—’’
‘‘I can hear you . . . even if I can’t . . . see you . . . so don’t . . . talk as if I’m not here.’’ Dominic’s chest heaved with the exertion required to speak each word. The uninjured hand fisted against his leg. ‘‘They threatened . . . if Father or I ever again . . .’’
Ian and Rachel exchanged looks. ‘‘If you or Father what?’’ she asked gently.
‘‘Didn’t make sense,’’ Dominic said. ‘‘They accused us . . . of spying. Said . . . if we did it again . . . they’d . . . kill us both.’’
A cry rose in Sophie’s throat, but she clamped her lips and bit it back. On trembling legs she moved past Kellyn and approached the settee. The color had drained from Rachel’s face, but she sat unmoving beside her brother, her head barely turning as she darted a somber look at Sophie.
Sophie pulled back with a start. ‘‘Dear God,’’ she whispered to the other girl. ‘‘You aren’t shocked by this. You know what he’s talking about, don’t you?’’
Rachel’s silence prompted Sophie to grip her shoulders. ‘‘You know who those men are, and I’ll warrant you know why your father traipsed across the moors last night to see them.’’
Dominic lifted his head from the pillows. He pinned Sophie with as fierce a glower as could penetrate his swollen eyelids. ‘‘What would you know . . . about where Father went last night?’’
Sophie realized she had spoken unwisely. But, unable to take back her rash discl
osure, she returned her cousin’s glare with defiance. ‘‘I followed him.’’
Rachel bolted to her feet. ‘‘Sophie, what on earth were you thinking?’’
‘‘That it’s time this family’s secrets came out in the open,’’ she said. She hefted her chin. ‘‘I guessed something was amiss here ever since I saw those errant harbor lights. Your parents feigned ignorance, but it was a flimsy act. Whatever indiscretions you have committed, don’t you all think it is time you came clean and did the right thing?’’
Dominic’s uninjured hand clenched. ‘‘Why don’t you ask that . . . of your friend the earl?’’
‘‘Dominic,’’ his sister warned.
‘‘Aye, I know where you’ve been . . . disappearing to lately,’’ he persisted. ‘‘I’ve seen you walking along the road to Edgecombe . . . on more than one occasion, this morning included. Go ahead, Sophie, ask the earl what he knows. I assure you . . . it’s more than Father or I can tell you.’’
‘‘Say what you mean,’’ Sophie demanded.
‘‘I mean . . . that if Father and I watched for signals . . . and lit shore lights to guide an incoming ship . . . the earl did far worse. He helped finance that ship . . . and the stolen cargo it carried.’’
‘‘That is enough.’’ Rachel stepped between Sophie and Dominic. ‘‘I’ll have no more of this talk until Mother and Father return.’’
Sophie ignored her. ‘‘You’re lying,’’ she said to Dominic, but her shaking voice lacked conviction. She shivered as a clammy chill enveloped her, leaving her fingers numb, her heart frigid. She wanted to believe her elder cousin spoke out of spite, or from confusion fostered by the vicar’s medication, yet his insinuation echoed her own fear since the hothouse.
Secrets . . . denials . . .
No. Every part of her rebelled against the notion that Chad could be involved in any wrongdoing that resulted in innocent people being hurt, or worse. Perhaps he hid something inside him, some darkness that flickered sometimes behind his eyes, but surely such gentle hands could not turn suddenly ruthless; surely she had not given her virtue to a villain.
Rachel was speaking, but Sophie could make out nothing past the roar of blood in her ears. Needing to find Chad and learn the truth—force it from him if need be—she fled the parlor and stumbled, half blinded by fear, misgivings and a stubborn refusal to give in to either, out into the gathering twilight.
Chapter 20
‘‘Drink this before you go.’’
The vicar pressed a steaming cup of tea into Chad’s hands and stood watching expectantly until he grudgingly took a sip. Chad longed to be on his way and return to Sophie, but the vicar had made a request that delayed his departure.
‘‘Drink it all, my lord. We can’t have you taking ill. Stand near the fire while I mix more herbs and laudanum for Dominic.’’ Hall poked at the glowing embers in the hearth until flames kicked up. Then he tossed on more wood. ‘‘I’m much obliged to you for agreeing to take the medication back to him. I’ll check in on him first thing in the morning.’’
The man bustled into his tiny kitchen, leaving Chad alone in the parlor. He swallowed another bitter mouthful of tea and made a face.
‘‘I say, Hall, what is in this potion of yours?’’
‘‘Yarrow, feverfew . . . an infusion to ward off colds and fever.’’
‘‘I’ll take my chances,’’ Chad mumbled under his breath. A potted plant on a stand beside the writing table presented a convenient means of disposal. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he poured out the remaining contents of the cup. ‘‘Sorry, old boy. This will either kill you or make you invincible.’’
‘‘There, now.’’ The vicar reappeared, holding out a small flask. ‘‘When Dominic wakes, his sister must see that he drinks all of this down. It’ll help him sleep through the night. I’ll have my man bring you back in the carriage.’’
‘‘And tomorrow you’ll personally accompany Miss St. Clair and her cousin to Mullion?’’ Chad said, reminding the man of the request he had made as they arrived at the vicarage. ‘‘After what’s happened these past two days, I want both women gone from here as soon as possible.’’
Hall agreed but eyed Chad quizzically, no doubt pondering his interest in a woman with whom he should barely be acquainted. By the time Chad returned to the Gordon farm, the sky had darkened to tarnished silver, and a light drizzle glazed his face as he alighted from the carriage. Across the road billowing mist veiled the pastures.
Inside he found the parlor oddly empty except for a slumbering Dominic. He moved on into the kitchen, where Kellyn stood before the stove.
Wooden spoon in hand, she turned from the pot she had been stirring. ‘‘I thought I heard someone come in.’’
‘‘Where is everyone?’’
‘‘I sent Rachel upstairs to rest while Dominic sleeps. Ian is out in the barn, seeing to some of the chores that went undone earlier.’’
When she elaborated no further, a foreboding gripped him. ‘‘What about Sophie?’’
Kellyn studied him for a moment. Concern burgeoned on her face. ‘‘You look dreadful.’’
She tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, set it down on the counter and went to the table. Lifting a glass in one hand and the bottle of brandy in the other, she poured a small measure and held it out to him. ‘‘Here, you look as though you need this. If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d been attacked as well. You weren’t, were you?’’
He supposed nearly being buried alive in a tunnel had left its mark on his appearance. ‘‘Not in so many words,’’ he murmured, and tossed back the brandy in one gulp. ‘‘Now, then, about Sophie.’’
‘‘I’m sure she’s quite all right. Sit down and I’ll tell you what went on here while you were gone, though I’ll admit I’m not certain I understood it all. Dominic made some accusations . . . about you.’’
He swore under his breath. ‘‘Tell me exactly what he said.’’
Sophie came to an uncertain halt as the mist thickened around her. She had headed down the road toward the village, believing she would either find Chad at the vicarage or meet him on his way back to the farm. But darkness had fallen with startling speed, augmented by the blanketing fog.
Her dry clothes were fast becoming as wet as those she had changed out of earlier. Her feet squelched inside her ankle boots. With a sinking sensation she scanned the starless sky, the rolling fog, the utter absence of familiar landmarks. The house should still be visible, a dark huddle framed by a charcoal glimmer of sea. Both were now gone.
She had set off from the house, desperate to find Chad and hear from his own lips that Dominic has spoken nonsense, that Chad had nothing to do with smuggling or murder or even misplaced harbor lights. That he was a good and decent man, and she had not been a fool to place her trust and her heart in his keeping.
But somehow, in her haste and perplexity, she had wandered off the muddy road and onto the moor. Her panic rising, she listened for the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle. She pricked her ears for the distant tolling of the buoy bells.
Only eerie silence greeted her. Mist, shadow and the vastness of sky and moor merged into a giant emptiness with Sophie at its center.
Fear smelled of rain-soaked peat, salt-tinged air, and the rank muck that coated the bogs. She hugged her arms around her. Turning and trying to approximate the direction from which she had come, she began walking. Forlorn and shivering, she pushed on until a low rock wall appeared before her, encircling a forest of headstones.
A flicker of shadow sent Chad tearing up the hill-side, catching himself on his hands when roots and rocks thrust from the turf to break his stride. Pushing upright, he scrambled around boulders, dashed through brambles and stinging nettle, and not for a moment did he slow his pace.
A cramp stabbed his side. He shouted Sophie’s name, but received no reply except the echo of his own voice slung back at him from the moor.
Why didn’t she answer? Surely she
couldn’t have strayed so far from the road so quickly? Perhaps it hadn’t been Sophie he had glimpsed, but merely the brush thrashing in the breezes. Perhaps she had already returned home, was even now sitting in the farmhouse kitchen enjoying a cup of tea.
No. He knew her. She would not ignore Dominic’s accusations. They would gnaw at her and she would seek answers, demand them with the same tenacity that had driven her since that first night at the chapel.
The chapel. He would find her there; he felt the certainty of it down to his bones. But where was ‘‘there’’?
Always where they needed it most.
The saturated ground sucking at his boots, he slowed to a halt. The exertion of his climb had torn his breath ragged, leaving him giddy, unsteady, as around him the moor began to spin. At the edge of his vision the streak of a ragged hem disappeared around a gnarled rowan tree. He took off at a run, only to stagger wildly and come splashing down onto his knees. A bolt of lightning-sharp pain sent his hands pressing against his eyes. When he opened them, a face ravaged by death and decay hovered in front of him.
He blinked, and the face was gone. Had he imagined it—again? Pulling slowly to his feet, he struggled to master his galloping heartbeat. What had he seen? What had led him to the chapel not once but twice now, and shown him the entrance to the tunnel beneath Edgecombe’s cellars?
‘‘Do you exist?’’ he murmured aloud. He threw back his head and shouted, ‘‘Are you real? Have you been guiding me all along? Then guide me now. Help me find Sophie.’’
The air grew as sharp as hoarfrost. A tendril of mist curled, and in it a wan face materialized. The sight sent a shock rippling through him, and toppled a lifelong conviction that ghosts did not exist.
‘‘Help me.’’ His plea steamed in icy clouds before his lips. ‘‘She’s lost, and I must find her.’’
The little ghost tipped her disfigured face to him, held him with her vacant eyes. You love her.
‘‘God, yes.’’
I was loved. So very loved. Her voice quavered like the windblown heather blossoms. Yet I died. Was swallowed by the sea.
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