Fourth was Edward’s saying—or as good as saying—that Tom had been involved with a gang of smugglers who were operating somewhere in this neighbourhood.
I wish that I could be equally dense about seeing where those clues all seem to lead. But I cannot; I feel as though the inescapable conclusion is a heavy weight settled over my chest: Jamie must be somehow involved with the smugglers, as well.
Wednesday 23 June 1802
Jamie is gone.
Maybe if I stare at those words long enough, I will come to fully realise that they are true. If I did not have the written record in this book of meeting Jamie—
Without that, I might almost wonder whether his having been here at all was some sort of strange hallucination or dream.
I awoke very early this morning, took apples and carrots for Star as an excuse for my leaving the house, and made straight for Jamie’s camp.
But it was gone. Everything—the tent, the cooking fire, Jamie’s belongings, not to mention the dog Pilot and Jamie himself—had all entirely disappeared. The only evidence that the site had ever been a place of encampment at all was a circle of disturbed ground, where Jamie had filled in the shallow hole he had dug for his fire.
Jamie left. Without even telling me good-bye.
Later
More or less the last thing on earth I wished for this evening was to be forced into company. After returning from Jamie’s abandoned camp, I would have vastly preferred a visit to the dentist over being obliged to sit at table and make polite conversation with a group I scarcely know.
But I had no choice; Marianne had reciprocated the Rushworths’ invitation to dine by inviting them here for tonight. And she had included in her invitations very nearly the whole of the earlier party, as well: Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby, Mr. Chalmers … the only one who was not there was M. de Courtenay.
I would also not have believed that this evening could actually prove less pleasant than the one before. I felt duty-bound not to leave Marianne to endure the company alone—otherwise I would have been sorely tempted to manufacture a headache … or a stomach ailment … or an incipient case of the plague, just to escape from the table early.
Mr. Palmer was seated next to Willoughby—and for the first part of the meal dominated the conversation with questions about Rosford Abbey, the estate Willoughby and his wife have rented in the neighbourhood. Apparently Mr. Palmer has been reading some of the local history books he found in the Delaford library, researching the abbey—and had determined to share his findings with us tonight. Which was not so surprising; Mr. Palmer seizes every opportunity to prove how much more intelligent and how much better informed he is than everyone else.
In this case, he was chiefly focused on the chapel and ancient crypt that are attached to the abbey—remnants of the days when it was a monastery, before all such places were disbanded by Henry the 8th. Mr. Palmer’s research had led him to believe the crypt might yet contain the grave of a mediaeval crusader knight, who was according to local legend said to have returned from the holy land to die and be buried at Rosford. Over the years—even after the monastery was disbanded—he became something of a local saint; his ghost was said to haunt the place, and come to the aid of anyone in dire need.
Which would have been rather interesting—save that Mr. Palmer could make any subject, up to and including prurient drawings, sound deadly dull.
He droned on about ancient chronicles and charters and such until I felt my eyes glazing over—and Willoughby was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“Yes, well.” Willoughby ran a finger around the inside rim of his neck-cloth. “I cannot say that I have done any exploring of the old crypt myself. Just a lot of dank, dusty underground tunnels, so far as I could tell.”
But Mr. Palmer would not have that at all. He frowned and said, “Then it is very possible you missed something—something that might tell us whether the knight’s tomb is indeed on the premises. I shall be happy to accompany you into the tunnels at any time that is convenient. Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”
His wife, across the table, laughed at that. “My dear! Tombs and underground tunnels—that is so very amusing! You are so very droll!”
Willoughby looked more uncomfortable than ever. “Yes, well—I am not at all sure exploring the crypt would be safe. Some of the ceilings … there might be danger of one of the tunnels caving in.”
Mr. Palmer opened his mouth—doubtless to argue. But to my surprise, Marianne forestalled him by saying, “Oh, it cannot be so very dangerous—the place is more than three hundred years old. Surely if it were going to collapse, it would have done so by now. And it sounds so utterly thrilling—an ancient crypt and a crusader’s tomb. A shame that the ghost is a benevolent one—a malicious spirit would be far more exciting. But still, I should love to see it for myself. Perhaps we might even make a party of it”—her gesture included all of the table—“we might all go together one afternoon soon and explore.” She smiled into Willoughby’s eyes. “Please, Willoughby—say that you will agree and invite us all to come. It would be shockingly bad manners, you know, to keep such a delightfully gothic-sounding place all to yourself.”
Willoughby hesitated, still. But then he gave a slight bow and said, “When faced with such arguments as that, I am powerless to refuse. Shall we set the date for two days hence?”
Marianne clapped her hands and laughed. “Oh, thank you! I knew that you would not disappoint me!”
Willoughby’s face relaxed into a more natural-looking smile, a look of admiration filling his dark gaze. Marianne did look lovely tonight. She was wearing an evening dress of peach sarcenet, trimmed about the neckline and sleeves with silver lace. Pearls encircled her throat and gleamed in her dark hair.
Across the table, Mrs. Willoughby’s face flushed. I had a cat as a child that had to be bathed for mange—and Mrs. Willoughby’s expression held precisely the same look of outraged disbelief as a soaking wet feline.
I remember Elinor telling me four years ago that Sophia knows quite well that Willoughby only married her for her money, and that he truly loved Marianne all along. And now Sophia said, in tones poisonously-sweet enough to curdle milk, “My dear Mrs. Brandon, pray, when does your dear husband return? I am surprised that the government has called him to service again. At his age, anyone might suppose that he would be allowed to live a peaceful, retired life in his declining years.”
Marianne’s eyes narrowed in a look equally murderous to Sophia’s own. I am not sure what she would have said in reply, because before she could speak, I turned to Sophia myself. I might feel slightly queasy at Marianne’s unabashed flirting with John Willoughby—but she is still my sister. I could not sit by and let her trade barbed insults with Sophia without coming to her defence.
“Mrs. Willoughby, I entirely forgot to ask.” I adopted my most solicitous manner. “I do hope that the stains came out of your pelisse and gown?”
White dents of temper appeared at the corners of Mrs. Willoughby’s nostrils at that. And Marianne looked from her to me, eyebrows raised in confusion. I did tell Marianne about the role Sophia Willoughby played in Joanna’s disappearance, but I skimmed over the exact manner in which I persuaded Mrs. Willoughby to depart Eliza’s cottage.
Willoughby cleared his throat again, breaking into the awkward moment of silence that followed. “And where is M. de Courtenay tonight? A pity that he could not be here. I was looking forward to furthering our acquaintance.”
I suppose he must be curious about the man he believes to be engaged to Eliza. Though I was sorry myself that M. de Courtenay was absent—since his was more or less the only company I might actually have enjoyed among the party—I was relieved at that moment that he was not there, for Eliza’s sake. As I had told Eliza, all that was required to avoid awkward explanations was to keep Willoughby and M. de Courtenay apart. But if they did happen to meet, there was no denying that matters would rapidly grow very awkward indeed.
Marianne replied—exp
laining something about M. de Courtenay having a previous engagement. But I was not paying attention. Beside me, Mr. Chalmers muttered—too low for the rest of the table to hear—“Good riddance if you ask me. Last thing we need in this neighbourhood is some Frog of a spy, trying to weasel out information for Napoleon.”
I turned to him in some astonishment. “A spy? What do you mean?”
Mr. Chalmers was wearing his customary layers of heavy clothing, with several scarves wrapped about his throat—and beneath, a pair of black satin knee-breeches so tight that they looked as though they might have been painted onto his fat haunches. He had spoken little throughout the meal thus far—having been fully occupied first with weighing his food as before, and second with devouring it to the last crumb.
Now he ran a spoon across his plate, scraping up the last globules of the mint jelly in which he had doused his portion of lamb. “I mean the fellow’s a spy for the French—sent here to report on our coastal defences. That’s my belief.”
“But—but we are at peace,” I protested. “A treaty was signed between our government and France months ago.”
Our conversation had by now attracted the notice of the rest of the table. Mr. Palmer snorted at that. “Peace! Only a fool—or a schoolgirl—would think such a peace likely to last.” He gave me a condescending look. “Mark my words, Napoleon is only biding his time—mustering his forces so that he can go on the offensive again. He has conquest in mind. If he does not try to invade England in the next year, I shall be very surprised.”
Mrs. Palmer gave a little cry. And for once did not call her husband’s words amusing or droll.
Willoughby said something along the lines of, Now, now, let us not frighten the ladies.
I turned back to Mr. Chalmers. “But what makes you think that M. de Courtenay is a spy?”
Apparently there were smears of jelly that Mr. Chalmers had missed; I gritted my teeth as he scraped with his spoon again—half expecting him next to pick up the plate in both hands and start licking it clean. “Fellow hates England,” he grunted at last. “He’s admitted as much. And Napoleon would like nothing more than to invade, just as Mr. Palmer says.” He glanced up at Marianne. “Just ask your husband—he ought to know. They say half the smugglers that sail the Channel are in Napoleon’s pocket. Paid not just to bring in goods, but to report back to France on how our coastlines are patrolled.”
I did not hear what Marianne said. A dull roaring had filled my ears, making the words wash past me as meaningless noise. I managed—somehow—to get through the rest of the evening. The guests finally departed, and I was able to make my escape up to bed. But Marianne followed and stopped me on the stairs.
“What on earth was all that with you and Mrs. Willoughby, about stains coming out of her gown?” she asked.
Marianne pressed her lips together as I told her—but I could see her struggling to hold back her laughter.
“Really, Margaret,” she began after I had finished, “As your elder sister, I have to say—”
“Oh, stop,” I interrupted. “You are not nearly so convincing in the role of stern elder sister as Elinor is—and I doubt even Elinor would object to my stopping Mrs. Willoughby from badgering poor Eliza by any means possible.”
“Stop her from badgering Eliza, certainly,” Marianne said. “But was it absolutely necessary to do it by means of spoiling all those eggs?” She had given up the struggle and started to laugh, though.
I smiled, as well—though nothing could dispel the cold, shaking feeling about my heart. “Marianne.” I could not stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. “Is it true—what Mr. Chalmers said tonight?”
Marianne raised her eyebrows. “Do not tell me that you suspect M. de Courtenay of spying for the Emperor, as well?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not that—but about the smuggling gangs being engaged in spying for France?”
Slowly, Marianne’s smile faded as she shook her head. “I do not know. Christopher does not talk to me about his duties—for fear of frightening me. So I cannot say for certain.” Then she gave herself a little shake and said, in brisker tones, “I do know that it is scarcely your concern—or mine.”
Thursday 24 June 1802
I am writing this while sitting in the grass, with my back propped against the fence of the north pasture—hence this entry being done in pencil. I could not exactly carry a pen and inkpot all the way out here.
It is afternoon, and thus stiflingly hot. My ribs feel itchy with sweat, I have been bitten by mosquitoes at least a dozen times—and I have an unpleasant feeling that a black beetle may have landed on the back of my neck. But for all that, it is far, far better being out here than trapped indoors.
A letter arrived this morning, bringing us the news that Colonel Brandon will be coming home on Friday, along with some of his most trusted officers, that he may better investigate the merit of the information from poor Tom Harmon, which Marianne of course passed on just as she promised Edward.
I brought more apples today for Star—and she consented to take them from my hand. I may even try grooming her before the week’s end, if she continues to accept my touch.
I am watching her now, as she browses contentedly in the grass at the other side of the pasture with her colt like a little black shadow beside her. I wish that I could always feel so certain as I do when I am with her. With Star, I had not the least doubt that I had to try to save her, if she could be saved. I might have questioned whether it were indeed possible, but I never for a moment felt the least uncertainty that it was the right course for me to make the effort to reach her.
The sky is hazy with a close, humid heat that feels as though it must break soon with a thunderstorm. The air around me is absolutely still, without even a hint of breeze—and yet it has that restless, charged feeling that betokens the calm before the storm.
Colonel Brandon and his men will be here on Tuesday, to make a search of the neighbourhood, to root out those complicit in the smuggling. Smuggling—and more, besides.
I cannot forget Edward’s words. I feel as though they are being pounded into my ears like spikes: his conjecture—the one I did not understand fully at the time—that there was more at stake about the business that got Tom Harmon killed than the simple smuggling of brandy.
Friday 25 June 1802
If I have sometimes felt in these last weeks that Fate has an unpleasant sense of humour in its dealings with me, it is nothing to how Eliza must have felt this morning.
Today was the day of the arranged expedition to visit Rosford Abbey and explore the mediaeval crypt beneath the old chapel. I considered begging off accompanying Marianne and the others, but the excursion actually sounded preferable to being left alone with only my own thoughts for company.
I suppose I might make some sort of a joke here about the irony of hoping that a visit to a mouldering old crypt will serve to lighten my spirits. Except that I do not feel in the least like joking right now.
At any rate, Eliza knew nothing of the planned expedition. It was purely bad luck—or a malignant Fate—that caused her to arrive at Delaford House only moments before we had arranged to set out.
Eliza was alone. Apparently Elinor had gone to call on her this morning and had offered to stay with Joanna so that Eliza might do some shopping in the village. She arrived just as Marianne, the Palmers, and I were assembling in the drive, waiting for the carriage to be brought around. And we had scarcely exchanged greetings with her, when Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby rolled up the drive in their own phaeton.
Eliza greeted the Willoughbys quite calmly, her usual cool, unruffled demeanour firmly in place. I suppose the first meeting was the worst, and now seeing them again is not quite so bad. All the same, I believe that Eliza would have turned around and left immediately, had not Sophia said, “Pray, Miss Williams, will you not join us? We are just come to escort Mrs. Brandon and her party to Rosford Abbey. Her coachman was not precisely sure of the direction, so we offered to lead the
way. We would be delighted to have you make another member of the party, would we not, Willoughby?”
She turned to her husband—who, understandably enough, gaped at her in blank astonishment. Then he recovered himself enough to cough and say, “Quite—that is, yes, delighted, I’m sure.”
Eliza opened her mouth—to refuse; I am certain that she was going to refuse.
But then two things happened. First, Mrs. Palmer—who, whatever her faults, is absolutely without malice—said, “Oh, yes, do come! I am sure we will all be so glad to have you along. We are to explore the crypt beneath the Willoughbys’ house—only think how funny it will be! And I’m sure Mr. Palmer wishes very much for you to join us. Isn’t that right, my love?”
Mr. Palmer had his book of local history open on his knee—the better to hunt down clues to the location of the crusader’s tomb, I suppose. He did not even bother to look up.
But Sophia—who is not in the slightest without malice—said, very solicitously, laying a hand on Eliza’s arm, “Oh, but we must not press you. I had quite forgot that you must be very much unused to going out amongst polite company, after living in such a quiet, retired way for so long.” She patted Eliza’s hand. “We will quite, quite understand if you do not feel equal to the task of facing so many strangers. After all, the very last thing I should wish for would be to expose you to any more malicious slander or gossip.”
She meant, I know, to put Eliza in her place. The whole purpose of the invitation had been to allow Sophia to point out what a pariah to polite society Eliza still was—no doubt as punishment for Eliza’s refusal to surrender Joanna.
She does not know Eliza, though—not really. Of course, one might say that none of us does. But even I could have told Sophia that no one could possibly spend five years as mother to a child like Joanna without developing strong nerves and an iron will in sheer self-defence.
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 16