Smuggler's Moon

by Cynthia Wright

  “You must call me Tristan, my lady.” He glanced over at his old friend. “It is a great day indeed. Are you truly here to stay?”

  “For the foreseeable future,” Sebastian allowed.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Lord and Lady Caverleigh.”

  “Thank you. Unfortunately, since my parents’ deaths, my dear brother has gambled away virtually every family possession except the Hall. That is why we have come here to live.” He arched a brow at the younger man and grinned. “And what of you, my friend? The last time we met, I had just left Oxford and your voice was deepening.”

  Tristan laughed. “Yes, quite a few things have changed since then.”

  “How are your parents?”

  “My mother is well, but I am sorry to say my father died last year. I am now Viscount Senwyck of Lanwyllow.”

  After more condolences were exchanged, Tristan came to stand beside Lucifer. “Sebastian, I heard about your brother’s difficulties, and so I purchased Lucifer when the opportunity arose and I have been keeping him against the day that you would return from the Royal Navy. I know how much you have meant to each other.”

  “Don’t spout fustian. He is your horse now, Tristan.”

  “You know that if I didn’t bring him to you, he would find a way on his own.” He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Truly, this has been my plan all along. Indulge me.”

  A rare, joyous smile transformed Sebastian’s face. “You have persuaded me, my friend. I’m very grateful.” Looking toward Julia, he added, “Perhaps I should thank you, as well, for bringing me here today despite my resistance.”

  “Are you saying that you’ve enjoyed our morning, my lord?” She was suffused by a wave of contentment as she leaned against him for a long moment, drinking in the warm strength of his arm under her cheek.

  “Perhaps I am,” Sebastian admitted with a short laugh. His eyes met Tristan’s then and he said, “Let’s all go back to the Hall and celebrate with a toast, shall we?”

  Chapter 16

  Tucked into the sunlit courtyard behind Trevarre Hall was a little brick-bordered kitchen garden that had long ago fallen into disuse.

  “How could you have let this happen, Primmie?” Julia demanded. As she pushed new seeds into the dark earth, Clover wound her way between them, purring all the while. “If you and Mrs. Snuggs had taken care of this plot, you could have had all the herbs and vegetables you needed right outside the back door.”

  “Mrs. Snuggs be a good deal more worried about having enough port, not vegetables! And, it weren’t up to me to oversee the care of this estate. There ought to be a factor to do that job, don’t you suppose?”

  “Yes, there should. I wonder who it used to be?”

  “Jasper Polarven, I hear, but his sons be free-traders and they drowned in a wreck last year. The Revenue men was chasing them at sea, during a storm. He’s not been the same since.” Primmie wrinkled her nose in the direction of the kitchen. “Mr. an’ Mrs. Snuggs couldn’t be depended on to feed the cat here, let alone look after the gardens, the stables, the animals…”

  “Clearly not,” Julia agreed drily. They continued to work for several minutes before she spoke again. “That’s a very sad story about Mr. Polarven’s sons. Are there many local boys who have turned to smuggling?”

  Primmie grew animated. “Oh, my lady, practically every man I do know is involved somehow, and the rest of Cornish folk just look t’other way.” Leaning closer, she whispered conspiratorially, “Plenty of cottages and even churches do have hidey holes for concealing contraband liquor, lace, an’ tobacco. The taxes the king demands be impossible, you know, so folk do find other ways to make ends meet.” She paused, then added, “The very best smugglers do get quite wealthy, and they be generous with the village folk.”

  “What kind of taxes are you referring to?”

  “Well, Cornish fishermen do need salt, an’ lots of it, to cure the pilchard and pig meat that we must eat over the winter. But my brother says that the King wants revenue to pay for the war with France, and now the salt taxes be higher than the cost of the salt itself!”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Fishermen’ve already lost markets overseas because of that horrible war. And now, because they can’t afford the tax on salt, the pilchards we do need to salt down for winter rot instead and be spread on the fields as manure. Mayhap the King don’t care if us starve. What choice do Cornishmen have but to turn to smuggling if they want t’ feed their families?”

  “But still, Primmie, there are so many risks! The Revenue men are in pursuit, the weather is treacherous, and perhaps most important of all, smuggling is unlawful. As I recall, it’s punishable by transportation…or even hanging!”

  The girl stared as if she couldn’t credit that she’d heard correctly. Pursing her lips with disapproval, she went back to planting seeds and mumbled, “As you say, my lady.”

  * * *

  After Julia completed her own early morning tasks and gave Primmie and Mrs. Snuggs a list of chores for the day, she hurried through the enchanted wood to Pont, as was now her habit. The swan’s nest that nestled upstream against the scrubby creek bed, was always her first stop. It was a work of art, fashioned of countless long, bent twigs and large enough to comfortably hold the regal female swan while her mate glided up and down the creek all day, guarding his family.

  Julia exchanged calls with the birds, and set off in her little rowboat on a new water adventure. Today, she wore a simple cocoa-colored gown, carrying a bundle with the breeches she preferred, because she intended to visit the town of Fowey, on the opposite bank of the river.

  The tide was in and Pont Pill was calm as Julia rowed, passing coppiced creek-side woods where yellow wagtails danced among the branches. Out on the river, the currents were more vigorous and the wind tossed her little boat upon the water. As the ferry from Polruan came alongside, one of the two strong men who rowed it called to her.

  “Can you manage, mistress?”

  “I think so,” she replied with a nervous laugh. “Thank you!” Again, Julia wished that females could wear breeches in public without being censured. If her little boat should turn over, swimming would be nearly impossible in the confines of her gown.

  To the south, a pair of blockhouses guarded the harbor mouth, beyond which stretched the English Channel. Julia put her head down, curls blowing in her eyes, and pulled at the oars until she saw the stone quay in Fowey’s town center loom up before her. The burly Polruan ferryman who had spoken to her on the river now came to her aid. After tying up the rowboat, he handed Julia onto the quay and swept her with a long, curious look.

  “Mistress, I do not believe we have met before. Might you be a new resident at Trevarre Hall? Word spreads that Lord Sebastian Trevarre be in residence.”

  “Yes, I am his wife,” she replied.

  “Indeed? Welcome. My name is Robert Mixstowe and I be honored to know you, my lady.” Then, as if unable to help himself, he added, “I confess to surprise that his lordship does approve of you setting out alone in that rowboat. Such adventures could be perilous.”

  “I thank you for your words of concern, Mr. Mixstowe, and I assure you that my husband would agree with you. I am doubtless too adventurous for my own good.”

  Carrying the bundle that contained Freddy’s breeches and jacket, Julia started up the stone steps. At the top, she turned and waved to the ferryman, calling, “Sir, may I ask the name of your friend who told you that my husband had returned to Trevarre Hall? Was it Viscount Senwyck?”

  Mixstowe laughed, his face ruddy in the sunlight. “No, my lady, ’twas Ezra Keswick, stable master at the Hall backalong I were but a boy! We do drink a pint together at the Ferry Inn in Bodinnick last midday.”

  Waving goodbye to the ferryman, Julia set off to explore the twisting lanes of Fowey, many of which were too narrow to accommodate a carriage. As she walked, she pondered everything that Mixstowe had told her. It was still a challenge for her to think
of Keswick, the perfectly proper, white-wigged manservant she was used to, as a Cornish stable master who fraternized with a plain-spoken working fellow like Robert Mixstowe. Clearly, Keswick had deeper roots here than Sebastian, who appeared to be relying on his manservant to guide him in his new endeavors.

  Villagers nodded to Julia as she walked past the handsome old church of St. Fimbarrus and its grand neighbor, the Treffry family’s castle home, called simply “Place”. She sensed their curious glances, and knew that soon enough her identity would be revealed, but for now she cherished her anonymity. The hills above Fowey, which she knew would lead to the sea, called to her. She was walking up a steep lane when she spied a young man entering a half-timbered house. Something about him was familiar, even from behind, but when he turned his head for an instant to reveal an austere profile, Julia blinked in disbelief.

  Could it possibly be Adolphus Lynton? By the time he had disappeared into the low doorway, she had chuckled aloud at her own imagination. What in the world would Adolphus Lynton be doing in the wilds of Cornwall? It was a ridiculous notion.

  Soon, Julia had reached the crest of the hill above the village. Continuing in a westerly direction, she came upon a sheltered grove of trees and happily changed into her breeches and jacket. After concealing the bundle containing her gown between some tree branches, she started down a path that followed a wooded valley toward the sea. The soft breeze was cooler here, with a tang of salt, and she quickened her step.

  The cliffs, rising on either side of the little valley that led down to the sea, were decorated with ox-eye daisies and sea campion. When, at length, Julia emerged from the tree-canopied path, she saw a small stone cottage snuggled against a pebbled beach. It appeared to be an abandoned fisherman’s dwelling.

  Charmed, she circled around, saw that the door was slightly ajar, and dared to peek inside, where she was surprised to find signs that the cottage might have been recently inhabited. Overcome by curiosity, Julia stepped inside for a closer look. There was a rustic bench against one whitewashed wall, a rough table with a jug of cider and an empty mug on it, a hard chair, and a few books propped on a deep windowsill.

  Julia wrinkled her nose. Was it possible that she detected the faintest suggestion of tobacco lingering in the cottage? Or perhaps it was just the damp of the stones. Looking around a doorway, she discovered that there was another room that held a bed and a chamber pot. And, in the wooden floor between the two rooms, one wide board was slightly askew. Primmie’s voice came back to her, with her tales of smugglers and their hidey-holes.

  She shouldn’t be there, she realized. Turning, she took barely a step back toward the door before the sound of hoof beats reached her ears.

  Julia stood frozen near the narrow bed, her heart thundering. She could hear the horses snorting as they were reined in beside the cottage, then the sound of boots hitting the ground as riders dismounted.

  Moments later, the outside door creaked loudly and a deep male voice demanded, “Who trespasses here?”

  * * *

  Looking around helplessly for a weapon, Julia grabbed the heavy ironstone chamber pot and managed to lift it overhead. As the first man took a step through the doorway, she tried to bring the pot down, but he was too tall to hit over the head, and before she could react, he had wrested the foul thing from her grasp.

  “Julia!” he shouted, holding her fast with his free arm. “What the devil are you doing—here?”

  “Sebastian?” She focused in disbelief, first on her husband, and then on Keswick and Tristan, who were right behind him in the doorway. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “I can’t believe my eyes! Don’t you realize, I could have done you serious harm, thinking that you were a—a—”

  “Why should you be suspicious of a person in this little cottage?” she interjected. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  For an instant, he glanced back at his companions before replying, “That’s not the point. Come out here and sit down for a moment.” Without waiting for her response, Sebastian pulled her along into the main room of the cottage. He drew Julia down next to him on the bench, while his companions looked on with expressions of expectant curiosity. “Stop gawking, you two, and sit down!”

  When Keswick and Tristan had obeyed, Sebastian turned to his wife. “This is not about me.”

  “But why are you here?”

  He ignored her question. “You must not roam around these parts alone. It’s dangerous, especially for a female. Do you think that you can behave as a man just because you are wearing breeches? I swear, I will lock up that rowboat if you do not obey me.”

  “Have you gone mad? You are not my master!”

  Keswick cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should wait for you outside, my lord.”

  “No. Her ladyship and I are not going to quarrel. I only intend to explain to her that she must stay away from Coombe Cottage for the simple reason that it is haunted.”

  Julia’s eyes widened and she gave a little gasp of laughter. “Are you joking? Surely you do not believe in such nonsense.”

  Across from them, Keswick’s brows pricked upward. “My lady, this is Cornwall.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” she cried.

  “I would suggest that you calm down and heed those of us who may, just this once, know more than you do,” Sebastian instructed sardonically. Then, schooling himself to look stern, he continued, “A century past, during a terrible storm, a ship was dashed on the rocks of Coombe Hawne—”

  “Hawne? What is that?”

  Keswick offered, “It’s an old Cornish word for a harbor, my lady, or a haven.”

  “Will you kindly cease interrupting and give me your attention?” Firmly, Sebastian continued, “After the ship was wrecked there came a pounding on the door of this tiny cottage. It was a dower house then, I suspect, because a very old woman lived here, and she was very frightened. When she peeked out the door, she saw a half-drowned man, his clothing torn, his eyes wild. He clung to her, dripping water, begging to come in. Terrified, the old woman pushed him backward into the storm and slammed the door. At dawn, when the gale had ceased, she looked outside and found the man lying face-down on her door-step—dead!” He pointed through the low, crooked entrance for dramatic effect. “I can almost see his body on that very spot, can’t you?”

  “Why, that’s a horrible tale!” cried Julia.

  “Indeed. Yet very true. This cottage has been haunted ever since. That’s why the Pryces, who own the farm at the head of the valley, don’t come here any more, and why you must vow to stay away as well!”

  “But clearly, someone does come here!” She gestured toward the items on the table, and the books on the windowsill. “Perhaps the ghost is gone now.”

  Suddenly, he was facing her, his hands lifting her off the bench, his eyes blazing into hers. “Julia, this is not a matter for discussion. I am ordering you to stay away from Coombe Cottage. Do you understand?”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but was swept up by the heat of his gaze and the strength of his fingers. The notion that Sebastian could truly believe in a ghost was ludicrous, but the emotion behind his order was very real.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly, “I despise that word ‘order,’ but because you are so insistent, I will agree.”

  Chapter 17

  Pont Pill was not the only tidal stream flowing out from the picturesque Fowey estuary. Farther upriver the even wider Lerryn Creek curled eastward, hugged by dense, ancient woodlands that hid the estate of Lanwyllow from the view of sailing vessels trading with the village of Lerryn.

  Built in the mid-1700’s of gray stone, the handsome manor house was set back from the water, and on this night it was quiet, with only a few windows aglow. Formal gardens ringed the house like jeweled bracelets. Closer to the creek, through a tunnel of magnolias, a charming thatched cottage snuggled against a grove of beech trees. In contrast to the grand manor, the cottage was ablaze with light
and the muted sounds of male voices.

  When Sebastian and Keswick rode up the darkened path, a stable boy came to meet them, holding a lantern aloft.

  “Lord Senwyck bids ye join him an’ the others, my lord.”

  Through a mullioned window, Sebastian could see the cluster of men sitting together at a table, smoking their clay pipes and drinking ale. They were the roughened Cornishmen he’d known all his life, weather-beaten, plain-spoken, and struggling to feed their families.

  “Ah, you’re here!” It was Tristan, opening the door to let mellow candlelight spill into the garden. “I can imagine it wasn’t easy to leave your house tonight.”

  “Julia wasn’t happy,” Sebastian confirmed wryly. “She can smell a secret and it is driving her mad.”

  “After that ghost tale you spun for her yesterday, I’m not a bit surprised if she’s suspicious!” Laughing, Tristan brought the two men into the room and closed the door. There was a footman, looking out of place, who served them mugs of ale before he returned to the house.

  A hush fell over the group as they realized that it was Lord Sebastian Trevarre who had arrived, although he was looking more like a libertine than an aristocrat on that cool spring night. After removing his midnight-blue coat, he was clad only in buff breeches, riding boots, and a fine broadcloth shirt with a simply tied cravat.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Tristan was telling the group, “and for keeping this meeting place a secret. Tonight you’ll learn more about our plans, but first, allow me to present Lord Sebastian Trevarre.”

  Sebastian looked around the table at the expectant yet wary faces, bathed in flickering candlelight. Some of the men, like Jasper Polarven, he’d known since childhood. “It’s good to see you all. Jasper, I was very sorry to hear about your sons.”

  “They be only doin’ what they must do,” the wizened middle-aged man replied dolefully. “Bringin’ salt from France to cure the pilchard when that King’s boat do run ’em down during a storm an’ sank their lugger. What man can prosper as a fisherman if the King do tax more for salt than the fish will bring? What bleddy choice did my boys have but to be free-traders?”