Lace for Milady

by Joan Smith

  I neither heard nor suspected a thing amiss till I took up the poker to stir the embers, now cold. Then I heard it, the old familiar rattling of the grate. Not loud, but definite, and it was no fire nor howling wind that caused it. Certainly nothing but a human voice that produced that echoing laugh. My hair did not stand on end, but it lifted. I could feel a strange prickling sensation on my scalp, feel it move along my neck and spine, right down to my toes. My arm, extended beyond its sleeve in reaching with the poker, was covered with gooseflesh. I stood frozen to the spot, with my ears stretched.

  It came again, quite distinctly audible in the silent, sleeping house—came, it seemed, from a differ­ent quarter. Glancing in its direction, I noticed we had left the lid of the parson’s bench open after getting out our music, and strange and impossible as it was, the second burst of laughter came right out of the parson’s bench. Naturally I hurried to it, looked in at an innocent varnished chest-bottom, with one magazine lying there.

  I lifted out the magazine and examined the floor of the bench carefully. It had an indentation, a groove large enough for four fingers along the left end. My taper trembling in my left hand, I put my fingers of the right hand into the groove, and it lifted as silently and easily as though it were on oiled hinges, though in fact it was not attached at all. It was a loose piece of wood, varnished, and resting on a protruding frame­work beneath.

  Without a sound I took it out and laid it on the floor, and knelt down with the taper above my head to examine what was revealed below the now-bottomless bench. There was a pair of narrow steps leading into pitch blackness, and there was quite dis­tinctly the sound of more than one voice coming in a muted fashion up from the blackness. I could see no more, but obviously there was something between the voices and me, a wall or a closed door. And equally obviously, the voices were coming from under the ground outside my Roman wall. They were in some excavation just outside the walls of my house. So I had found my secret passageway at last, right where Pickering thought it was. All the heavings at the bench had been unnecessary—the passage was right through it.

  I sat back on my heels, breathing in light, fearful gasps. Who was it? The foolish thought of long-dead Roman centurions or soldiers gamboling there flashed into my head. Ghosts of Caesar’s legions, trapped inside their fort, which was not and never had been a fort. Why they should be gamboling their way through eternity I knew not, but there was a sound of merry­making, of laughter and happy voices, suggesting a party, with wine and possibly even women. No surly, sullen ghosts in any case. I was torn by the conflicting desires to dash upstairs to my room as fast as my legs could carry me, and to summon up my courage and descend the stair.

  I don’t know how long I knelt there, but when I finally stood up the blood rushed through my legs, causing pins and needles to prick, and when I tried to take a step my feet were numb and cramped. The voices finally died out—in my mind I pictured legionnaires wearing metal armour and plumed hel­mets taking a ceremonial leave of each other. And still I stood on, craning my ears, imagining impossible scenes. I should call Slack and Wilkins, I thought when it became totally silent and my imagination had set­tled down. And what would I tell them? I heard ghosts laughing behind a closed door?

  For an eternity I stood thinking, listening, trying to decide what to do; then I remembered Slack had taken a sleeping draught, and really I could not like to go to Wilkins’s door in the middle of the night in my dressing gown. It would have to wait till morning for a thorough investigation, but my curiosity would not let me leave without just tak­ing a peek into the blackness. Whoever had been there was gone now—for a long time I had not heard a sound. I would venture down the stairs, just a little way to see if I could discover a door. Just a quick peek, and come right back up. There was definitely a barricade there. I would not be seen, even if there was someone still there.

  I held my skirts up with one hand, my candelabrum in the other, rather wishing I had a third for the poker, and walked daintily down the narrow little staircase. Before I was halfway down I saw a door. Just an ordinary door; it was even panelled, which gave a sense of security, ordinariness to the bizarre affair. It might have been a door into a bedroom or cheeseroom, and had quite plainly come from some such place. It looked so harmless, so completely innocent that I was embold­ened to try the knob. A plain white porcelain knob, much as those abovestairs. I tried it. It turned half a revolution, then stopped. The door was locked, and still no sound came from beyond it, so whoever had been there had left, and it would be an ideal time to enter, if only the door weren’t locked.

  Sufficient sense had re­turned to me that I no longer thought of Roman centu­rions, but English desperadoes of some kind. I rattled the knob harder, turned and rattled it several times, but it held. As I was about to turn and go back up the stairs, it pulled suddenly, noiselessly, into the black cavern beyond, and a short dark stranger with an evil face stood pointing a gun at my eyes.

  He wore a black toque, dark and rough clothing. He was short, wiry, very strong looking. Entrez, ma'mselle,” he said in a velvet, deep, calm voice, standing back, but always keeping his muzzle pointed at me.

  A Frenchman! What on earth was one of Boney’s men doing in my Roman fort? A Roman soldier would hardly have surprised me more. But this man was no soldier, nor was he a dream. He was very solid flesh and blood, and he did not mean to be disobeyed.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  I didn’t say a word, or try to. Nor did I risk trying to scramble back up the stairs. I knew perfectly well the gun was loaded and didn’t doubt for a minute he would use it. Neither did I accept his invitation to enter his parlour. I stood immobile, staring.

  Quick as a lizard he had a steely hand on my wrist and was dragging me beyond the door, roughly and with determination. I opened my mouth to scream, to direct one desperate appeal up the stairway, and felt a hand clamped over my mouth, even as he kicked the door shut behind us. The candelabrum went hurtling to the floor, narrowly missing my skirt in the process. One taper remained burning, and with a flash of his black arm, the man had the one candle pulled out and held up to examine me.

  “Silence,” he decreed, in French, and using a voice I was not inclined to argue with. He took one step backward and slid a bolt on the door. It didn’t make a sound, which accounted for my not having heard him slide it open a moment before; but this time he was sliding it shut, barricading me into a dark, dank room with him, this Frenchman with the wicked eyes. Curi­ous as I was to examine the chamber, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his face. I didn’t dare. He no longer had a hand on me. He stood perhaps two feet away, looking, moving the candle up and down to allow a view of my face, and dressing gown. This done in a bold and deliberate and leisurely way, he stood back and smiled. “Charmante” he decided.

  Whatever I had feared prior to this—beating, being tied up, killed perhaps—my fears took a sudden jolt in a different direction. He looked lecherous, eyeing me hungrily.

  “Asseyez-vous ma’mselle,” he said, and stepped back to reveal two barrels lined up against a stone wall. A certain odour emanated from them, a pungent smell— brandy, of course. The man was a smuggler. Odd it hadn’t occurred to me sooner. It was his being French that had fooled me, but the two warring nations could always work in harness for criminal profit, and he must have English allies. I made no move to accept the proffered seat. I stood watching him, mesmerized like a moth by a flame, or a mouse by an attacking snake would be a more appropriate comparison.

  While these discoveries were being made, already I was thinking of escape. The parson’s bench—the lid was open. If anyone chanced into the saloon he would see it, come down the stairs. And be confronted with a locked door. Why had I not tried to rouse Slack, or called Wilkins? Too late. And no one would enter the saloon before morning. Oh, God—morning—hours away, while this black-eyed reptile devoured me.

  “Asseyez-vous, ma’mselle,” he repeated, more sharply now, the velvet beginning to sc
ratch.

  I thought it best to sit, and did so, fearfully on the edge of the barrel nearer me. He immediately took up a seat on the other, making me realize it was closer than I liked.

  “Parlez-vous français?” he asked, the voice calm again.

  I had a nodding acquaintance with the language. "Un peu,” I answered, hearing the fear making my voice shake and trying to steady it.

  “Ah, bon! Vous êtes toute à fait charmante.” A hand came out and stroked my cheek. I lifted my head quickly away, and the fingers took ahold of my chin, forcing it back. He looked into my frightened eyes and laughed, a deep, anticipatory chuckle.

  “Les anglaises,” he said mockingly, almost caress­ingly.

  A million thoughts jumbled through my poor brain. Fear was uppermost, fear of what would come next. Escape was not far behind it. To make a dash for the door to the stairway was the most simple means, but the delay of sliding the bolt would allow him time to catch me. He was agile, moving like quicksilver. He wouldn’t be a split-second behind me. I next began to examine the room for other means of exit. He certainly hadn’t entered by the door I had, and a different means of escape might be more practical.

  The lone taper gave only a very weak illumination. I saw stone walls about, with one on the far side that looked to be of some other material, smoother, lighter; but of more interest, on my right, was a yawning black hole. Escape—but by what means? Was it a tunnel? And if so, how long, and where did it exit? Would I meet the rest of the band if I tried that exit? It might lead directly to the sea, for there was a mystery as to how the men got brandy here without being seen by either Officer Smith or Clavering’s patrol.

  Fear and indecision kept me where I was, and, of course, only a very short time had elapsed in any case, though to me it was an eternity. I half worried that other smugglers would come, and half wished they would, for there was something ominous in being alone with this amorous Frenchman. I recalled, too, the various tales I had heard about these “Gentlemen”—so wrongly named. Officer Smith had played down their ferocity, but still their little prank of pushing his head into a rabbit hole and pinning him there had never seemed very humour­ous to me, and with a woman I feared the treatment would be quite different—worse. Besides, this smug­gler was French, and at the height of a war with France, I had heard many tales of the rapacity and viciousness of the French. Clavering had said they would be likely to single out two unprotected women. He had been right all along. The smugglers were using our doorstep for their activities, and I regretted Burne had not gone ahead with his excavation and found them out.

  This brought to mind Lazy Louie, and I found myself wondering if I would have to deal with him, too, before the night was over. That “unsavoury character,” there would be no help from him, though he had saved my life once. Oh, how I wished I had thanked him, had ingratiated myself. But to claim friendship with him might delay my fate, and I decided to try it. I cleared my throat nervously and began, ascribing to him his formal name.

  “Monsieur FitzHugh, Monsieur Louis FitzHugh est mon ami. Je le connais très bien,” I said.

  He threw his head back and laughed raucously. This gave him a very poor idea of my character, indeed, and before I knew what was happening, one black arm had shot out to encircle my waist and pull me to my feet. Simultaneously, I heard heavy footsteps approaching, and before long my good old friend Lazy Louie hunched through the yawning black hole that I had hoped would be my exit. I stared at him in horror. Like the Frenchman, he wore a black toque and dark clothing. He looked at us, struck dumb momentarily. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew that if that bull had in mind the same fate for me as his friend, I would rather be dead.

  “Christ on a crutch, man!” Louie shouted, and rushed forward to pull the Frenchman away by violent force and push him quite unceremoniously against the wall.

  “Are you all right, miss?” he asked, with horror glowing in his eyes. In that moment, I loved him. I felt like throwing myself against his massive chest and weeping, but years of self-control overcame my urge and I only drooped. He put out an arm to steady me; I didn’t flinch, but grabbed it. This time his arm didn’t fail me. It held firmly. “He didn’t—didn’t molest you, did he?” he asked fearfully.

  The Frenchman entered into a string of what I took to be protestations of innocence. I didn’t understand him; he used words found in no French Grammar, but it seemed Louie was familiar with the more idiomatic phrases. He listened with interest then said, “God in heaven, she’s the Dook’s chicken. L’amie de Monsieur le Duc.” He turned to me. “Tell him, miss.”

  While Louie could understand the patois and I could not, it was I who could speak French a little better, but still I felt some reluctance to say I was the Duke’s chicken, and doubted that it would carry much weight in any case. Louie was good enough for me.

  He turned back to the Frenchman. “He’ll kill you!” he warned. “Tuer—mort!” Then he made a cutting gesture across his own throat that was quite unmis­takable. “I’d better get the Dook,” he said to me, but uncertainly.

  “He is not at home. He’s in London,” I said. “Let me go back home—up the stairs.” I indicated the bolted door.

  He stood frowning. “That’s how you got here?” he asked.

  “Yes, I heard noises from the fireplace and came to investigate.” I was rapidly recovering my powers of thought and speech with Louie’s presence.

  “I don’t know that I can do that,” he said. “I’d better get the Dook.”

  “He’s not home I tell you.”

  “He’s home.”

  I was sufficiently alert now to wonder how Louie should know this, but it would be a matter of some interest to the smugglers, perhaps, and I didn’t quibble with the idea of getting him if he was home. “Very well. Get him. I’ll wait at home.”

  Louie frowned again, or still, in uncertainty. I was beginning to realize that while he reacted quickly in a physical way, he was no deep problem-solver. “I can’t let you go,” he said simply.

  “You can’t leave me here with that animal!” I pointed to the Frenchman, who suddenly looked rather harm­less, slouching in a corner.

  “Yes, but I can’t let you go, and the Dook might not come back here for hours.”

  “He will be coming here—back here?” I asked, while a thousand new conjectures arose. He had been here already, knew the place existed. He had somehow discovered where the smugglers were hiding the bran­dy. This was the direction of my first thoughts, but before long I was wandering off in a new direction. He had known all along! This was why he had wanted to get me out of Seaview; this was why he had been with Louie in the meadow; this was why he had objected to my excavation. He was one of them.

  “Certainly he will have to come to tell us where..." He stopped, still frowning. “Damme, Miss Denver, what are we to do?” Louis asked, like a puzzled school­boy. “I think I ought to fetch him.”

  “Send him,” I said, indicating the Frenchman with a jerk of my head to the corner. There was no doubt in my mind which smuggler I would prefer to spend the interval with.

  “He don’t know the way, and besides the Dook would have my head if I sent that Frenchie to Belview for everyone to see. And he don’t speak a word of English, either.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else you could send?”

  “No, the stuff is stored in the passageway, and they’ve all gone off home, the fellows.”

  The stuff—brandy. Confirmation they were smugglers, and the Duke of Clavering one of their number. With his insufferable airs and his claiming to think it a crime, he was not only a half-cousin to Lazy Louie but he was also his partner. The partner in command, I hadn’t a doubt. And he refused to speak to his cousin when he met him on the street! Strange it did not occur to me that this was hardly a safe person to bring to my aid, but as he represented my means of getting home, I wanted him to come. I was really very eager to see how he behaved himself amongst his “Gentlemen” friends.

>   “We can’t stay here,” I pointed out. "They’ll miss me at home. Call out a search party, and you’ll have the whole countryside down here, seeing your smuggled brandy.”

  “No, dash it, we can’t do that. I’ll have to fetch him.”

  "Take me with you.”

  “In your nightgown?” he asked, scandalized. I had forgotten this detail, not that it would have stopped me from going. “I won’t be gone a minute. You tell the Frenchie you’re the Dook’s girl, and he won’t lay a hand on you."

  “Don’t you dare go and leave me!” I shouted, and it was necessary to shout, for he was already gone, back into the black hole and down the passage. I looked at the Frenchman, and he looked at me measuringly.

  “Ne touchez pas. Le Duc est mon ami. Très bon ami,” I told him, trying to add heavy emphasis, in case the words were not quite accurate or comprehensible to him. I hadn’t tried to speak French for years.

  He sat down, lit a foul-smelling cigar, and sulked. I arose boldly and retrieved the candelabrum from the floor, relit the other tapers and began walking around the room to see what it was. It had a dirt floor and three stone walls. The third wall had once been muralled on plaster, I thought. Faint traces of outline were visible in the poor light. A painted series of arches, and the outline of a flowing gown in one of the arches. An unlikely decoration for a fort, which, of course, this was not. There were two straw mattresses on the floor, a table made of packing crates, and some food on the table. I looked over my shoulder at the Frenchman as I made my little tour, not at all sure he would remain harmless. And I was right. He stamped out his cigar half-smoked, and came toward me. My heart thumped with fright. I had no clock, had no idea how long Louie had been gone. Ten or fifteen minutes, I guessed—but how long would it take him to get to Belview and come back with the Duke?