by Janet Woods
Her nose took over. The house smelled of polish … and a spicy perfume, probably coming from a pastille burning in the bronze cassolette on the hall table. There was an odour of dog and a faint reek of tobacco smoke, all of the smells so familiar to her that she could be at home. She wanted to cry because they no longer had a home or a family to go home to. It occurred to her that the house didn’t smell as though it belonged to a woman.’
She opened her eyes. ‘Are you married, Sir James?’
‘What an odd question to ask me on such a short acquaintance; do you intend to ask me to wed you when you grow up, then?’
She was sure her face had turned red and she placed her icy hands against her cheeks. She must not give away her age, which was eighteen, almost nineteen. Luckily, she and Lucy took after their mother, who had been small and neat in stature. ‘Certainly not! You are much too old.’
‘A pity; it’s been a long time since I had an offer of marriage.’
A woman joined them, grey-haired and capable-looking. ‘Shall I put your guests in the nursery wing, Sir James?’
‘No, Pridie, it’s too cold under the attic, and the younger girl has a fever. We’ll use my sister’s old room for Miss Jarvis. It will be convenient for the servants to come and go. It also connects to the maid’s room, and Miss Lucinda can sleep in there until the fever subsides. Miss Jarvis will be near enough to her sister for them both to be reassured.
‘But, sir—’
‘Enough, Pridie. My sister has been dead a long time. There is no need to keep the room as a shrine, because she won’t be coming back, despite you thinking you saw her ghost in that room. Perhaps you’ll find some useful clothing there for the children to use.’
He led them up the stairs to a comfortable chamber.
‘My guests will need a wash, and their clothing must be cleaned and repaired. You can get them something to wear from the cupboards. The hems can be shortened. Clean the wound on the older girl’s head if you would. I may have to stitch it.’
Miranda’s attention had been captured by a portrait over the fireplace. It was a lad, not quite into his manhood but confident in the beauty he’d inherited. His body was a long vibrant column, his slim hips thrust forward just a little – to emphasize his budding maleness, perhaps. Dark green eyes looked directly at her from slightly hooded lids, as though contemplating her, holding her gaze steady. But, then, he couldn’t look away; only she could. It took a while. There was something a little derisive about his smile, but the softly curved mouth was quirked into a dimple at one side. His hair curled.
Sir James anticipated her question. ‘No, it’s not me when I was young. It’s my sister’s boy – my nephew, Fletcher Taunt. This was his mother’s room when she lived. He and I had an argument two years ago, and the damned fool left to find his own way in the world. From what I gather, he’s not making a bad job of it, either.’ He fell into a moment of silent contemplation and then smiled. ‘He wouldn’t have changed much, I reckon.’
A little later, he pulled the edges of Miranda’s wound together with strands of her hair, knotting them together over the top of the wound. He placed a pad and a bandage over the top. ‘There … that’s better.’
‘I hope your nephew comes home.’
‘Do you now? If he does, it will be after I’m dead and he inherits this place, unless one of us admits we were wrong.’
Which of them had been wrong about what? She was about to ask him what they’d argued about when he changed the subject abruptly. ‘This might pull a bit, child, but it will be easier on you, and it will heal in a couple of weeks. Don’t scratch it when it starts to itch, and keep it dry.’
‘But my hair’s sticky with blood.’
‘And can stay that way. Once a scab has formed, the flesh under it will begin to heal.’
She was allowed some privacy while she washed herself and pulled on a large nightgown. Pridie treated the bites the dogs had left on her, bathing them in warm water, making tutting noises and pursing her mouth now and again. Miranda was glad he’d left that examination to Mrs Pridie, as she gently brushed the dark length of her hair that flowed out from under the bandage and then loosely braided it.
Sir James came in to question Pridie about Miranda’s bites and examined a couple on her arm and hand before pronouncing himself satisfied that the wounds were superficial.
‘There’s one on her thigh that will bear keeping an eye on,’ Pridie said. ‘It’s deeper than the others and might fester.’
‘I’ll make her a poultice, just in case. Are you dizzy, girl?’
Miranda’s head thumped when she nodded, making her wince.
‘You’re concussed, which is why you’re having dizzy spells. Your skull seems intact, but I want you to stay in bed for a few days.’
‘How is my sister?’
‘We shall go and find out. You come with me in case she takes fright. How long has she had this fever?’
‘Two days.’
Lucy whimpered when she opened her eyes. ‘My head feels wobbly.’
Miranda took her hand. ‘It’s all right, dearest. Sir James is just going to take a look at you.’
He examined Lucy’s arms, legs and face quickly and efficiently. ‘Does she have blisters on her chest, stomach and back?’
Fear thrust at Miranda. ‘Yes … It’s not smallpox, is it?’
‘It looks to be more like chickenpox. Have you had it?’
‘Yes, when I was an infant.’
‘Miss Lucinda should feel more lively in a day or two when all the spots have appeared. You must tell her not to scratch the pustules, especially if they come out on her face; otherwise they’ll scar. I’ll find a soothing salve to help stop the itch.’ He gave a bit of a laugh. ‘I’ve got one I made for the dogs. It killed their fleas by suffocation and took the itch from their bites at the same time.’
‘I didn’t know fleas breathed.’
Giving her a quick glance, he chuckled. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘You made that up,’ she accused.
‘Yes … but nature is fascinating. If you’ve ever examined a flea through a microscope, you would know that there’s a strong probability that it takes air in through little openings in its side.’
That sounded more likely. ‘So they get stuck in the salve and can’t get air.’
His glance travelled over the shapeless swath of flannel she was wearing, and he grinned. ‘You’re a child – too young to know of such things, or have responsibility for yourself, let alone your sister.’
She didn’t bother to enlighten him – to tell him she was nearly nineteen and her sister three years younger. She needed all the help she could get at the moment, and he obviously liked children. He wouldn’t have allowed them inside if he was going to throw them out. He might fall back on convention if he knew she was of marriageable age.
Mrs Pridie said, ‘Cook has warmed some chicken broth, but I don’t think the younger girl will eat much. Nancy is upset about what she did to Miss Jarvis.’
‘Perhaps you would tell her I’m not badly hurt, and it wasn’t her fault; it was mine,’ Miranda said immediately, which earned her a look of approval from Sir James as well as Pridie.
‘I’ll help my sister to eat her broth.’
Lucy shook her head and whined, ‘I’m not hungry, just thirsty.’
‘Could you manage some milk?’
When Lucy nodded, Sir James said, ‘I’ll send a maid up with some. In the meantime, you can try a little of the broth, Miss Lucy, since you need to get your strength up. I insist.’
Lucy managed a couple of spoonfuls before pushing it away. When the milk arrived, she only sipped at it at first and then found enough energy to gulp the rest down. Miranda sighed, wiping away her sister’s creamy moustache when Lucy’s eyes began to close. She tucked the covers over her, wishing she could set aside her cares and responsibilities so easily. ‘Sleep, then, Lucy. Call me if you need me.’
Afterwards, Miranda wolfed down
her own bowl of broth, though her head ached with every spoonful she swallowed. It was the most delicious soup she’d ever tasted.
‘Into bed with you now, young lady,’ Mrs Pridie said.
The bed was the softest she’d ever known, like lying in a cloud. The room was blissfully warm and the light from the flames sent shadows leaping and dancing across the room. She yawned. Now they were safe, she felt tired and falling apart, as if all the pent-up tension that had been keeping her together was draining away.
It was dark outside the windows. Mrs Pridie lit a nightlight and pulled the window hangings across. ‘There’s a bell on the table next to you. Ring it if you wake in the night and need anything. There will be a maid sleeping on the day bed and she can see to you tonight. Don’t worry if you hear noises outside or see lights.’
‘What sort of noises?’
‘Could be men’s voices, or thumping and scraping sounds, maybe. If you do hear those things, don’t mention it to the master.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not women’s business, that’s why, and he doesn’t like people prying into his affairs. Course, it could be the apparition of the monk from the Abbey. He’s seen from time to time walking abroad. The master gets angry if he’s mentioned. Says it’s twaddle.’
‘And is it?’
She smiled to take the sting from her words. ‘Who knows? Sleep well, Miss Jarvis.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pridie; you’ve been very kind.’
The woman gently patted her cheek and said in her soothing, almost musical voice, ‘It costs nothing to be kind to a body. You’re a nice young lady, with good manners. No harm will come to you and your sister here, though the master can be strict and expects to be obeyed. How old are you, dear – about fifteen?’
She shrugged as she avoided Mrs Pridie’s eyes and mumbled something the woman couldn’t possible hear clearly.
She said a small prayer for her mother, lying out there in the open air, oblivious to the cold. She must tell Sir James about her; he would make sure she had a decent burial.
‘Mrs Pridie,’ she said, when the woman reached the door. ‘Where is this place?’
‘Goodness, don’t you know? We’re in Dorset, my dear. And this is Lady Marguerite’s House. If you lie as quiet as a mouse, you can hear the shush of the sea against the shore in Lady Marguerite’s Cove.’
Miranda’s eyelids began to droop. ‘Why does Lady Marguerite have a cove named after her?’
‘She drowned there. She was married to Lord Oliver Fenmore, who built this house for her. He was Sir James’s great-great-grandfather. A proper love match, it was, and that over a hundred-and-fifty year ago. She loved the cove. But one day, when she was seated on a rock, a huge wave reared up from the sea and carried her away. Later, her body was washed ashore, tangled in the seaweed.’
‘How sad.’
‘It’s said that Sir Oliver Fenmore was beside himself, and only the fact that he had a young son and daughter to rear stopped him from going insane. If you listen hard enough, when the moon is full and the night is calm, you can hear Lady Marguerite singing for her lost love to join her. Just remember that the dead can’t hurt you.’
Miranda shivered and pulled the cover up round her ears as the door gently closed after the woman.
Two
Fletcher Taunt heaved a sigh of relief as the Midnight Star was tied securely to the shore. Although the ship was heavy with cargo, the tide was high. The flurries of snow-laden wind had thinned out enough for her master to safely berth the ship without having to anchor outside the sand bar that guarded the harbour.
His elegant ship nudged shoulders with vessels of lesser beauty: dusty colliers, a couple of ageing packets and several malodorous fishing smacks.
The Midnight Star was an aristocrat of ships. Her long lines and pointed prow balanced out her three tall masts, which thrust as straight as arrows into the sky. He’d won his uncle’s half-share of the ship on the turn of a card. After the flaming row that action had produced, his uncle had accused him of cheating, something Fletcher would have challenged another man for. They’d traded insults and walked off in opposite directions – Fletcher to take possession of the ill-gotten gains that his bloody-mindedness dictated he now kept, and his uncle to his study, to brood over a bottle of good French brandy, no doubt.
They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since.
Fletcher had never really coveted the ship, and if his uncle had sought him out and apologized for his accusation, it would have been over and done with. As it stood, legally, his uncle still owned half the ship, while Fletcher owned the other half, purchased with the part of the legacy that had come from his father, and which his uncle controlled.
But James Fenmore hadn’t pursued his claim. He’d stayed stubbornly silent and had informed his staff not to allow Fletcher entry to his home until he was ready to apologize – not even to collect his clothing.
He absently stroked his three-month growth of beard as the little steam tug chugged off in a fury of dirty smoke, leaving him and his ship to bed down for the night. It had been a long journey from Melbourne town, for on impulse Fletcher has asked the captain to divert, making landfall in Asia, where he’d filled every available space on the ship with anything oriental he could buy.
The gold had already been unloaded in London the day before. It was a relief to get rid of it. Some people would do almost anything to get their hands on gold, even when it was destined for the Royal Mint. Taken from the ship by an official and guarded by several soldiers, it was quickly transferred from the ship to the new Mint at Little Tower Hill, where it had been weighed, recorded and receipted.
The wool bales were legitimate cargo, destined for Barrett and Son’s auction warehouse in Poole, as were the oriental goods. They brought a good profit when sold at auction; so too the bolts of silk.
Passengers and crew were waiting to be given the all-clear from a doctor before stepping ashore. One of the crew was taking the luggage down the gangplank and stacking it on the quayside.
The doctor signed the log and the customs man gave it a cursory glance. Most of the customs officials were more interested in what was being smuggled across the channel, and left for them on the mud flats, than what Fletcher might have hidden in the hold.
There was a continuous battle of wits between customs and local shipping. What Fletcher carried ashore was nobody’s business but his own. Those in positions of power who had involved themselves in the dishonest landing of goods had already taken their cuts and turned a blind eye.
‘I can’t see any nasty surprises lined up on shore, Fletcher,’ George Mainwaring murmured on passing, and the captain took up a stance opposite the gangplank to help the ladies ashore. George Mainwaring was ten years older than Fletcher, and Fletcher had been taking instruction from him for the past two years. He travelled as the owner, not wishing to take over the management of the craft but learning as much seamanship and navigation as he could. Eventually, he would apply for a master’s ticket, since they attracted the respect of the men who crewed the ships.
Another officer and two of the crew stood at the bottom of the plank, to offer a similar courtesy and help the passengers with their luggage. There were only a few passengers left, for some had disembarked in London.
Fletcher tried not to grin when Alice Puckingham brushed the back of her hand across his trouser front on the way past. She was a handsome woman, one skilled in many ways, and undervalued by her rather rotund husband. She looked well in a travelling dress and hooded cloak edged with fur, which was a little unfashionable. No doubt she would soon take advantage of her husband’s wealth in that regard.
Alice had been sent to Australia after being convicted of stealing. She’d wed the wealthy woolgrower she’d been assigned to as a servant and was returning to England in the guise of a respectable woman of means. She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Taunt. It was nice to be in such … expert hands.’
&nbs
p; Fletcher answered, ‘It was my pleasure, Mrs Puckingham. The smooth running of the ship and the real safety and comfort of her passengers resides solely in her captain’s specialized knowledge of the sea and his capable hands as he interprets the moods of wind, weather and tides.’
He reminded himself not to be so pompous when she gave a little grin and said, ‘Oh, I’ve already thanked the captain for his management of weather and tides, his capable hands and his valuable services,’ she cooed.
George Mainwaring allowed his left eyebrow to lift a fraction, but otherwise his face maintained an innocent expression.
‘Which is more than I can call on myself to do, since I was sick for most of the way,’ Mr Puckingham said sourly. ‘I don’t know how you fellows put up with all that bouncing around. As for myself, I’ll be glad to get on dry land and have a bed that doesn’t pitch and toss.’
Fletcher exchanged a glance with George. No wonder Alice Puckingham had been such a busy lady, he thought.
When the ship had been unloaded, the crew were given a chitty to take to the agent’s office to collect their pay. He’d added a bonus. It would ensure that most of them would return. George Mainwaring set the ship’s watch and proceeded to the captain’s cabin, where George poured them a glass of brandy. Fletcher opened a wooden trunk with a false bottom and took out a box disguised as a book – one hollowed out and filled with small golden nuggets. He grunted as he set it down.
After a moment, the ship gave a barely discernible dip. The deck above them creaked, and there came a rap at the door.
‘Who is it?’ George called out.
‘Seaman Baines … Sir Oswald is here, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Baines; allow him to pass.’
A man entered, his face shaded by a tall hat. Removing it, he smiled at them both before his eyes fell on the box. ‘How many ounces?’