Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  “What for?”

  “He’s just run away, Fitch. That’s the top and bottom of it. After getting us into this he’s abandoned us. You know how he is.”

  “He takes life easy,” Fitch agreed with no rancor. “Will you be safe with Robertson?” he asked.

  “You’d best move him to the cellar before you go, in case Vulch comes.”

  “What about the silk? Shouldn’t I put it in the loft first?”

  “Yes—no. Oh, I don’t know, Fitch.” she said, and burst into tears.

  Fitch’s heart wrenched to see missie so bothered, but before he could comfort her, he was faced with another problem. Jeremy Black was legging it toward the barn, with a face that looked like thunder. If Robertson realized there was someone out there, he’d call and all would be lost. Fitch ran to greet Black.

  “You were supposed to have her back by dawn,” Black charged.

  “I was just about to sail her down to your place. She’s in the rushes down at the shore. Sorry, Jeremy.”

  “Don’t bother borrowing her again if you can’t get her back when you’re supposed to,” he grumbled, and went off to reclaim his vessel.

  It was one duty, at least, removed from Fitch’s broad but not infinitely broad shoulders. Undemanding as Fitch was, even he was beginning to feel ill-used. He feared, too, that if he allowed Robertson to walk up to the Hall, the man might manage to escape. Yet, to carry a writhing, angry, large man such a distance was a formidable task.

  “You’ll have to help me move Robertson. You hold the gun on him while I untie his feet and walk him up to the Hall.”

  “A gun?” Mary Anne exclaimed. “Oh, Fitch, he knows I’d never use it.”

  “You untie him, then, and I’ll carry the gun.”

  How had the simple stealing of a cargo of smuggled silk turned into such a wretched piece of work as this? Yet something must be done, and until they could decide how to untie this Gordian knot, they must keep Robertson in custody.

  “All right,” she said, and went reluctantly into the barn, carrying the ointment and pen and paper that she might better have left at the Hall.

  Mr. Robertson’s accusing black eyes and satirical sneer did nothing to lighten her mood. Fitch held the cocked pistol right at Robertson’s head while Mary Anne ap­proached him. Her heart was in her mouth, lest the gun accidentally go off.

  “If you so much as look sideways, you’re dead,” Fitch said. In his irascible mood, he sounded as though he meant it.

  Mr. Robertson did risk one sideways look. He looked at Mary Anne. It was a peculiar look: part anger, part amusement, and part sympathy. That tinge of sympathy devastated her.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  With Fitch holding the gun to Robertson’s head, Mary Anne went to his feet and untied them.

  “Up on your pins,” Fitch ordered.

  Robertson, with a look that would freeze fire, tried to gain his feet with his hands tied behind his back. When he stumbled, Mary Anne reached out and steadied him. Every fiber of her being wanted to do more than steady him. She wanted to free his bindings and apologize. She wanted to take a brush to his lovely jacket, which was all wrinkled and muddied. She wanted to pitch herself into his arms and bawl like a baby, but all she could do with Fitch there was help him up, then follow as Fitch urged him across the park.

  She sensed how his proud spirit detested this final ig­nominy they were inflicting on him. It could be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Mr. Robertson, who used to look on her with favor, had murder in his eyes. And what would be the final upshot of it? There was no way they could keep him a prisoner forever. Before a week, before the day was out, it would be they who were prisoners. The very futility of this exercise was a further aggravation.

  Around the edge of the rope, Mary Anne could see that his hands were rubbed raw. Fitch had bound them so closely, the blood was turning his hands red and swollen.

  Mrs. Plummer spotted their advance from her kitchen window and fled into her room so she could truthfully say in court she hadn’t seen a sign of Mr. Robertson at the Hall after he went up to his bed the night before. She remained there till the three had gone into the cellar, and hoped Fitch and Mary Anne had the wits to leave by the side door that went directly outdoors. Mary Anne knew her feelings in the matter and could be counted on to do the decent thing. She didn’t want to have to report any unusual comings or goings when she was under oath.

  Mrs. Plummer decided, as she looked around her kitchen when all had fallen silent beyond her bedroom door, that she could honestly say she didn’t know what had happened to her candles, though she noticed they were missing from her kitchen, and she hoped they wouldn’t leave the three of them burning all day in the cellar. Her supply was down to half a dozen, and they were downright obstinate in the village about giving credit.

  Below stairs, the three tallow candles did very little to dispel the gloom of a damp, dusty hole. When Robertson was safely disposed on an empty hogshead and Mary Anne had the writing paper in position, Fitch deemed it safe to return to his work. He tied Robertson’s feet again with the cravat.

  “I’ll get the silk stashed in the loft. If you have any trouble, come to the barn,” he said to Mary Anne. “I’ll leave you this, just in case,” he added, and handed her the pistol, which she set on a high shelf as carefully as though it might go off by itself.

  When he had gone, Mary Anne cast a doleful look at her prisoner and sighed. “We’d best get on with the let­ter,” she said.

  Mr. Robertson dictated a terse note, using words that implied it was being written by Lord Edwin Horton. Mary Anne copied it verbatim, and when it was done, she re­membered that her uncle was to sign it.

  “You’d best give that to your uncle at once,” he said. “Too much time has elapsed already.”

  She was too embarrassed to tell him her uncle had sheered off. Fitch would have to take it to Dymchurch when he got the silk hidden. “Yes. Before I go, I’ll just put some salve on your wrists,” she said, and drew out the can.

  “Never mind the wrists.”

  “But they looked very sore,” she said. “It won’t take a minute.”

  She was glad his hands were tied behind his back. In this way, she didn’t have to look at his face and he couldn’t see her. She pulled the rope a little to allow the blood to flow; it was not loose enough to let him escape.

  “We never meant for it to go this far, you know,” she said.

  “We? I understood you were only drawn into the affair last night—just before matters took a turn for the worse,” he added leadingly.

  “I mean, I’m sure Uncle didn’t want to take you a pris­oner. In fact, I know he didn’t.”

  “Then why don’t you untie me?” he suggested.

  “You know I can’t!” she said, on a hiccup of regret.

  Mr. Robertson found his sympathy aroused by her plight. It was ludicrous that he should feel this pity for his captors, but pity was the only emotion possible for at least this one of them. Annoyed with himself, he spoke harshly.

  “You will live to regret it if you don’t, Miss Judson. I might be able to keep you out of this if you help me now. Lord Edwin is only your uncle—he can’t mean that much to you. The man is a fool, but gentleman enough, I trust, that he wouldn’t willingly drag you into this unsavory affair. You, at least, might escape unscathed. I can be a good friend. I can also be a ruthless enemy. Otherwise, you leave me no alternative but to—”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath and noticed she had become still. Her fingers no longer smoothed the ointment on his wrists. He looked over his shoulder, hoping she was coming around to his way of thinking. “Mary Anne?” he said hopefully.

  She was standing perfectly rigid. Her face had become stiff with outrage. “Are you seriously suggesting I should desert Uncle when he needs me the most?” she de­manded. “Leave him like a rat deserting a sinking ship and save my own skin, when I owe my very life to him? What kind of a man are y
ou?” she asked, her voice high with disbelief. “You said you could be a good friend. I’m afraid you overestimate yourself, sir. Friends don’t hurt the people they love. I wouldn’t have you for a friend, not if you begged me. I’d no more trust my safety to you than I’d trust it to Bonaparte himself.

  “And you don’t know what kind of a man my uncle is, either. A fool, you call him. He may be foolish, but he’s the kindest, dearest, most generous fool I ever met. I wish the rest of the world could be his kind of fool, that—Oh, never mind. You wouldn’t understand,” she said abruptly. She snapped the lid on the ointment, picked up the letter, and turned to leave, while Robertson sat stunned at her outburst.

  “Try me,” he said.

  “You’ve been tried, Mr. Robertson. A man who could even suggest that I save my skin by turning in my accom­plices has revealed his stripe. No doubt it is the way you would behave. Ladies and gentlemen have a higher stan­dard.” She tossed her head and turned toward the stairs. On an afterthought, she turned back and extinguished all the candles. In her outrage she forgot the pistol, which was out of sight.

  “Leave me one light at least!” he called.

  “To burn off your rope? I think not, Mr. Robertson. With luck the rats may gnaw it off for you. I make sure you will soon reach an understanding with vermin.” On this lofty speech she went upstairs, to be met by Mrs. Plummer.

  “Now what’s got you all in a pelter?” Mrs. Plummer demanded. “Has the lad passed out? I thought he looked a darker shade of pale when you brought him up.’’

  “No, he’s alert and kicking.”

  “Did that vile creature try to get his hands on you?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Then what are you crying for?”

  “Because—because we’re all going to prison, and Mr. Robertson is horrid.”

  Mrs. Plummer’s eyes bulged with curiosity, but with superhuman forbearance she said, “Don’t tell me noth­ing about it. I don’t want to know, but if that heathen has lifted his hand against you, I’ll go down with my butcher knife and cut it off, as the good book orders a decent Christian to do.”

  Mary Anne looked doubtfully at the important letter for Sir George Fitzhugh and went to her uncle’s office. The letter must take precedence over everything else. White­hall must be notified that the message had gone astray. With Uncle Edwin’s return so indefinite, she took up the quill and added to her crimes by forging his signature. By the time she got back to the barn, Fitch had the silk hidden safely in the hayloft.

  “This must be sent to London at once,” she said, and handed him the letter.

  “You don’t think it might bring some government men down on our heads?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Fitch, and I don’t care. We can’t do anything to hinder the war effort, or we’ll be in even worse trouble. Post the letter, and if you see Uncle, tell him to come home immediately.”

  “Aye, ‘twould be helpful if he’d decide how to get this cargo to Folkestone.”

  “Yes, it would. We’ll need the money for our escape. I think the best thing to do is for all of us to get into the carriage and flee. After six hours or so, Plummer can ‘dis­cover’ Mr. Robertson in the cellar and set him free.”

  “Nay, it’ll never come to that, missie.” He laughed.

  But Fitch hadn’t heard how Mr. Robertson had spoken in the cellar. He was implacable, with so little of decent feelings that he even suggested she turn in her own uncle—and Fitch, who was like a big brother to her. “I fear it will, Fitch.”

  Fitch left, and Mary Anne went reluctantly back to the house. She felt she had fallen into a deep, dark well and would never see daylight again. The waters were closing over her head. There was no way out of this. Even if Uncle sold the silk and they managed to run away, they’d soon be caught. Caught like common thieves and locked up till it was time to execute them.

  Mrs. Plummer was in the kitchen making her dreaded fish tart. “Is everything quiet downstairs?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Quiet as the grave. He must’ve fallen asleep. If any­body happens to be in the cellar, that is to say. Not that I’d know nothing about it.”

  The banging of the door knocker was heard faintly from the staircase. The sound was like a death knell to Mary Anne. She felt faint and wanted to run upstairs and hide. Mrs. Plummer’s face was as white as her floured hands, but she tried to put a brave face on it. “Now, who’s that come to pester us?” she asked, but her voice trembled.

  “I’ll answer it,” Mary Anne said.

  She hastily tidied her hair and straightened her gown before going upstairs. It was a relief to see it was only Mr. Vulch come to call. The man always looked worried and despondent. Today he looked more harried than usual. His face sagged with sorrow.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Vulch.” She smiled. “I’m afraid Uncle’s gone into town this morning.” Hospitality urged her to offer him a glass of wine or a cup of tea, but common sense told her this wasn’t the time to have a caller in the house. She spoke to him at the door.

  “Is Mr. Robertson here?” he asked. Worry made his voice tense.

  “No, is he missing?”

  “He’s been missing since last night,” Vulch said. “He didn’t sleep in his room. I went to have a word with him before retiring, and he was gone. His mount was gone as well.”

  “Oh,” she said faintly. It seemed Vulch hadn’t gone to her uncle’s stable, then, thank God. She must tell Fitch to do something with Mr. Robertson’s mount—hide it or set it free. It would find its way back to the inn. “Where—where do you think he could be?” Vulch’s men knew he’d been here last night, of course.

  “I made sure he was here. He’s got it in his noggin your uncle knows something about that missing cargo. I begin to fear something has happened to him. He’d never have gone back to London without telling me.” He eyed her suspiciously.

  “I shouldn’t think so. But perhaps he got called back—an urgent message...”she said vaguely.

  “No, he received no message. I hope to God nothing’s happened to him. It has something to do with the silk. That’s all that would take him away so suddenly.”

  Mr. Vulch wouldn’t be that worried about a draper, Mary Anne thought. He knows something about Mr. Robertson’s other occupation. “You seem unduly perturbed, Mr. Vulch,” she said.

  “I am. The fact of the matter is—”

  There was a clatter of hoofbeats form the road. They both looked out, both hoping it was Lord Edwin. Mary Anne was annoyed to see Joseph Horton’s white mare prancing along. To keep him from the stable, she opened the door and called in a friendly way.

  “Good morning, Joseph.” She turned back to Vulch. “He’ll be looking for Uncle as well,” she said. “Shall we go and speak to him outside?”

  “Why, I thought it was yourself young Horton would be calling on!” Mr. Vulch exclaimed.

  She gave a worried smile and hastened him out the door. “Mr. Vulch was just telling me Mr. Robertson’s disap­peared,” she said. “You haven’t seen anything of him along the way?”

  “Disappeared? Why, what do you mean?” Joseph asked, staring from one to the other.

  Mr. Vulch repeated his story, and the gentlemen ex­changed a curious, meaningful look. There was something going on here that she didn’t understand. Whatever Mr. Vulch’s claim to perturbation, Joseph had no reason to be concerned. Vulch had been about to say something when Joseph arrived.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “Why are you both look­ing so—so nervous?”

  “It is supposed to be a great secret,” Vulch said in a conspiratorial way, “but as Joseph knows, and with Robertson disappearing on us, no doubt it will soon be plas­tered on every tree in the parish, so I might as well tell you. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Robertson is not just a draper. No, no, he’s working for the government.” He nodded his head knowingly and put his finger to his lips.

  “This is not to be broadcast, mind. I haven’t even told my own family,
but he’s actually here on war business.”

  “Why, you don’t know the half of it, Mr. Vulch,” Jo­seph said, and laughed. “That man is not Mr. Robertson. He’s Lord Dicaire. A viscount, the Earl of Pelham’s eldest son. Quite the white-haired lad at Whitehall. I recognized him the minute I laid eyes on him. He was pointed out to me in London when I went to see the F.H.C. off on one of their jaunts. Of course, no one else here in the county would know him. He got me aside at once and asked me not to tell anyone. The sort of work he is presently en­gaged in is very confidential.”

  So that was why Joseph had been toadying up to Rob­ertson! She even remembered Robertson’s following Jo­seph to the door the first night they met at the Hall. Joseph had half recognized him then, but Robertson’s perform­ance had clouded his memory. Mary Anne felt doom en­gulf her. Bad enough they had a spy tied up in the cellar. Now he was a noble spy. An eminent aristocrat, the white-haired boy of Whitehall. She had never fainted in her life, but she thought she was going to faint now and almost wished she could.

  “A lord! You don’t mean it!” Vulch exclaimed, eyes bulging. “Wait till I tell my wife this. She entertaining a lord and not knowing it. And Bess not having the wits to throw her bonnet at him. I wondered how he got that search warrant for Lord Edwin’s house so quickly. He said he traveled with one because of the sort of work he does. I know all about his work,” he informed Joseph. “So he is Lord Dicaire. Well, well, here are we entertaining an­gels unaware,” Vulch said in an excess of emotion.

  The gentlemen were so intent on discussing this inter­esting secret that they failed to observe Miss Judson looked close to asphyxiation. When she regained her wits, she listened to what the gentlemen were saying.

  “What you must do is get up a party of searchers,” Joseph suggested. “It’s pretty clear he’s come to harm. French spies, I expect. I hope they haven’t spirited him off to France.”

  “But how did the French discover who he is?” Vulch asked.

  “You may be sure there are villagers in their pay.”