“Yes.”
“When I stretch down my hand to you, come at once.”
“Yes.”
His long legs took him upwards to a better spot, a little rounded outcrop of rock where a pool left by the last tide had not evaporated. He knelt in it and leaned down to drag her up again. She clambered towards him, tearing the fine fabric of the underskirt, but no longer caring about that as she heard the waves foaming just behind her.
Up they went, yard by painful yard. It seemed a thousand miles to them, although it was only a little over a hundred feet, but every move was dangerous, footholds were few, and the cliff crumbled dangerously under their combined weight on the resting-places.
The very last few feet were the worst, for the rock had an overhang and he was almost too exhausted for the physical feat of grasping it, swinging himself out from below and then up. The rock-edge broke away in his hand. Earth and broken turf fell on Amy’s head and shoulders. She cried out in terror.
“Jeffrey! Jeffrey!”
Silence. And then, as she began to huddle against the cliff in despair, she saw a long arm come down.
“I’m here, I’m here. Catch hold. Now, don’t be afraid, Amy—you’ll dangle in mid-air for a moment but you’ll be safe, I swear to you. Just hold on, that’s all.”
“Yes ... yes.”
She put her hand in his. She felt his fingers close over hers. If I fall, she thought, I’ll be dashed to pieces on the rocks below or drowned in the sea ... Goodbye, Jeffrey, my love, my darling...
“Are you ready? No nonsense, now—hold on like the devil!”
Jolted into awareness, she grasped his one hand with both of hers.
“Now,” he said, and heaved her upwards.
She felt her feet fly outwards, felt herself suspended like a fly in a spider’s web. Then she was being dragged on to the short turf, face-downwards. She could smell the salty tang of sea-pinks and purslane. She dug her hands into the yielding earth. She was safe.
After a moment she felt herself being pulled up into a sitting position. “Amy, are you all right? Did I hurt you? Say something—tell me if anything hurts?”
She leaned against Jeffrey’s chest. She could hear his heart pounding. His arms were around her. She huddled close, shivering.
She felt very small and frightened in his arms. He wanted—more than he had ever wanted anything in his life—to put his mouth on hers and by doing so give and take reassurance that they were still alive. In the fitful light of the cloud-skimmed moon he could see a pale, tear-stained face, eyes huge with emotion, one little battered hand pushing back the wet hair from her cheeks.
“Oh, Amy,” he whispered, capturing her hand and holding it gently. “Poor little girl...”
She made a little sound. Perhaps it was pain from the cuts on her fingers. Perhaps it was weariness. It cut through all his defences, and he pulled her against him to comfort her.
For Amy it was paradise to have him hold her close. Death had been so near that to be alive was a miracle—but to be alive and in Jeffrey’s embrace was an unbearable bliss. For a moment consciousness almost seemed to slip from her. She lay against him, her head on his shoulder, her arms winding themselves about him.
Which of them set lips upon lips, it was impossible to say. But the kiss swept them away more strongly than ever the tide could have done, to a land of glory and wonder. Amy was afraid to breathe, afraid it was some wild delirium that had seized her in reaction to the danger she had undergone, afraid it would fade if she so much as let her heart beat. She wanted to pour out her feelings, to tell him that she loved him—but she dared not, for fear of wrecking the dream.
For his part, Jeffrey had lost control of his emotions to an extent he would have thought impossible. He felt her arms around his neck, he felt the tangle of curls against his cheek, and he drank in the intoxication of the kiss to the full. But in a moment he sensed her utter stillness. Misinterpreting it, he struggled to make himself release her. She had only wanted comfort ... Well, he would not add to her ordeal by offering more than that.
She could not guess what it cost him to draw away from her. He looked at her. She was trembling—perhaps with cold, perhaps with shock. She watched him uncertainly, wondering why he rejected her.
“Up,” he said briskly. “We mustn’t sit here gaping at each other or we’ll die of the cold.”
“Oh,” she said in a groan of despair. “I can’t...”
“I mean it, Amy. The cold of this wind could kill us both. Come on, up with you.” He got up and dragged her with him. He took off his heavy riding coat and draped it round her. “We must get you home.”
“Home? But it’s miles
“Where else are we to go? Not, I think, to Markledon!” That brought back to her mind the scene she had left in Markledon. “Jeffrey, I thought you were dead!” she wailed.
“I very nearly was. And I nearly died of fright when you appeared. I thought you were an apparition!”
“Don’t joke, Jeffrey. Mr. Pierce boasted that they had killed you.”
“But he surely didn’t tell you where to find me?”
“Only that he had left you to die in the traditional Pegman fashion. It had to be between Markledon and Bourne Bottom, or at least so I thought. Thank heaven I was right!”
“Amen to that.” He paused as he urged her into movement. “I haven’t thanked you yet for saving my life.”
“Oh ... As to that, I think you saved mine also.”
“But you wouldn’t have been in danger if you hadn’t come to find me.”
“Ye-es...” She rubbed the remains of tears from her cheeks, and didn’t look at him. “I made an awful fool of myself, though—becoming as panicky as a schoolgirl...”
“I was a little panicky myself,” he said.
“But you didn’t let it show. I feel I behaved like an idiot.”
“We shall both look idiots if, having saved ourselves from the incoming tide, we die here of the cold and the ague—so come along, let’s get ourselves moving.”
With an arm about her, he made her walk along the path at the top of the cliff. The gorse tore at their clothes and dragged at their weary limbs. The wind beat against them. The darkness itself was an enemy, for they could not see where they were putting their feet. Amy’s little riding boots of thin red morocco were soon cut to shreds by the stones. Their progress became painfully slow.
Jeffrey was alarmed. He was serious about the result of the wind’s cold on their exhausted bodies. He had heard of men who had died simply from exposure. He urged Amy forward, and when she began to make little weak protests he scolded her.
“Are you a weakling, then? What will your father say if he hears you gave up? Come, Amy, show what you’re made of...” But he could feel that he himself was losing the remains of his strength under the need to support Amy more firmly.
As the outline of the rounded barrows at Hengistbury showed against the flying clouds, a shape suddenly started up in front of them. Amy gave a shriek of fear, but Jeffrey lunged forward after it. He had heard a well-known sound—the clatter of hooves on the stony path.
“There, there, poor boy,” he soothed, moving towards the white shape in the gloom. “What a state you’re in.” His hand touched the neck of the horse. It trembled but stood still. He felt along until he could gather up the reins. Then he led the beast back to Amy.
“Why, it’s Watcher!” she cried. “You wicked boy—you ran away!”
“Well for him,” Jeffrey said with reproof. “We had little chance of saving him. He must have galloped back and got on to the land at Hengistbury. Now, let me help you up and get you settled...”
She felt she ought to say that he should ride also, but by now her mind was too full of cotton-wool to make sense of her thoughts. Jeffrey was better able to judge that the nervy little pony, all covered in dried sweat and sand, would never take the two of them. He led the horse, trying not to let the weariness of his hand drag down the poor beast’s head
.
Amy found that, now she no longer had to make the painful effort of walking, fatigue threatened to engulf her. The light swaying step of the pony became almost a lullaby. She felt herself sagging forward, starting awake as she almost lost her balance. Her hands were too chilled to feel the bridle.
All at once there was a light shining in her face. Voices were exclaiming. She pulled herself erect on Watcher’s back.
They were at the Manor House. The front door was open. Palmer was there with a lantern, holding it high while he stared in consternation. Molly, her maid, was having hysterics behind her apron.
As Amy blinked at them stupidly, her mother came hurrying out on to the front steps.
“Mr. Maldon!” she cried, throwing up her hands. “What have you done to my daughter? Sir, you will pay for this!”
Amy slithered down from Watcher’s back, throwing out a hand towards her mother in protest. “No, no, Mama—”
“Please to go, sir!” her mother ordered. “And never come back here again!”
The last thing Amy saw before a fluster of hands and voices claimed her was Jeffrey Maldon’s back as he set off down the drive on foot, with her mother’s reproaches following him like nightbirds’ calls.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
When Jeffrey awoke next morning in David Bartholomew’s house, he found the Preventive officer already up.
“Faith, so you’ve come back to life, Mr. Maldon!” he cried. “You’ve been sleeping like the dead, and the story all round the alehouses last night was that you’d been done away with!”
“Yes, near enough, I confess,” Maldon said, yawning and stretching stiff muscles. “David, where are you off to?”
“Well, to tell truth, sir, I’ve just come in. I’ve been out all night looking for you, or what might be left of you.”
“Thank’ee, but someone else succeeded in that role yesterday,” Jeffrey said with a wry smile. “If you’re free to undertake it, David, there’s work for you. You must go in search of the dragoon officer and have troops sent to Parall.”
“To Parall?”
“Yes. While I was in the hands of the Pegmen yesterday they were very free-spoken. I learnt that they were on their way to stow their goods in a cellar at Parall.”
“Are you sure, sir? I’ve never seen smugglers going in and out of the house.”
“No, and for good reason. The cellar is under the ornamental lake.”
“Under the lake?”
“Exactly. When Beau Gramont bought the house it was quite natural for him to have improvements carried out to the house and grounds—and one of those improvements was to have a huge cavern hollowed out with an entrance in the spinney at t’other side of Parall’s grounds from Mr. Tyrrell’s house. They were able to carry the goods under the boundary fence and into the cellar without ever being seen.”
“It was Mr. Gramont, then ... the man who laid out the money to buy the cargoes?”
“No, the venturer was—and still is—Edward Pierce. A clever old fox. I’ll thank you to tell the dragoons to put a watch on his house until the warrant can be sworn out against him.”
“And young Mr. Gramont, sir?” Bartholomew inquired, taking notes. “Shall I have a watch set on him?”
He saw the other man hesitate. The fair brows drew together. “Not for the present,” he said. “I have no grounds for suspecting him of anything.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Maldon. Are you saying he didn’t help his father?”
“I don’t know. It may be that Beau Gramont didn’t trust his son enough to let him take part in the business.”
“Aye, that’s possible. A foolish enough young man, Mr. Bernard Gramont. But is there anyone else the soldiers should be on the lookout for?”
“Stephen Boles, who was with the party attacking the Custom House at Poole yesterday,” Jeffrey said. “But I fear you won’t get him. He was due to start for France as soon as the contraband was taken out of the warehouse.” He sat down wearily on the rough wooden chair near the fire. “I wish we could take him. It was he who killed Beau Gramont.”
“Truly, sir?”
“Yes, he boasted of it to me yesterday.” Jeffrey shrugged. “He thought, of course, that I wouldn’t live to tell the tale. And although he was wrong, I think he’ll elude us. That doesn’t matter, however. My sworn deposition ought to be enough to have the inquest verdict set aside.”
The riding officer, who had taken his instructions so far without demur, glanced at him now from shrewd black eyes. “So you have enough authority for that?”
“I believe so, David. Besides, I can identify at least half of that inquest jury now as being active smugglers. Their verdict against a magistrate is bound to be biased, and the charge against Mr. Tyrrell that they brought in could not be allowed to stand. But better yet, I have actually heard the real culprit admit to the act—and so Mr. Tyrrell must be set free. If you will take a letter, which I’ll now write, to the captain of the militia, he will see that it reaches Mr. Pitt in London—and from there I believe it will only be a matter of hours before an order is signed for the release of Mr. Tyrrell.”
The sturdy little riding officer threw himself on Jeffrey. “God bless you, sir! You’ve done what I almost believed impossible! Well, let me shake your hand! I’m your friend for life, sir—believe me, for life!”
When he had written his letters and sent off the Customs man, Jeffrey washed and changed in preparation for a task yet to be accomplished. Little though he relished the thought, he must speak to Bernard Gramont. Amy had a fondness for the man, perhaps still hoped to marry him. That being so, Jeffrey must give him what chance he could to take himself out of the way of trouble.
As he was preparing to set out, Amy Tyrrell was waking up at the Manor House. She felt bruised and stiff. Her hands were smarting where the salt water had penetrated the cuts and grazes of yesterday. But nevertheless she was well, with that additional sense of well-being that comes from a great danger successfully overcome.
Molly set to work upon her hands with unguents and lotions and strips of court plaster. Then she had breakfast while the maid did what she could with her tangled hair. After a long session with hairbrushes and hairpins, Amy felt she looked at least presentable. She put on a gown of apricot dimity, to reflect some colour into her pale cheeks. Then she felt ready to face the world.
To her amazement, her mother was already up and about when she came downstairs.
“Well, miss?” said Mrs. Tyrrell. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“What, Mama?” Amy replied. It wasn’t the kind of question she had expected. She’d thought her mother would make tender inquiries about her health.
“I never saw anything so disgraceful,” Mrs. Tyrrell surged on, scarcely waiting for an answer. “I suppose you know that your reputation is quite gone?”
“My ... reputation? But, Mama—”
“I thought it dubious when you came back from Winchester with him, though perhaps it didn’t matter too much because no one actually saw you. But last night—in Markledon—everyone who knows us must have seen you in that disreputable attire!”
“Mama,” Amy said, beginning to grow angry, “I was not in Markledon in my underskirt, if that is what is worrying you. I was on the beach near Bourne Bottom.”
“On the beach? On the beach? In your underskirt? Daughter, don’t dare to say such a thing to me—”
“And I took off my riding skirt because I had to climb a cliff.”
“A cliff?” Mrs. Tyrrell sat down on the nearest chair. “You climbed a cliff? To get away from him?”
“From whom? From Jeffrey? You must have taken leave of your senses, ma’am! If Jeffrey hadn’t helped me up Bourne Bluff, I should be washing about in the sea off the chines by now.”
“Daughter, you will please not take that tone with me. It is most undutiful! From now on I intend to take a much firmer line with you instead of letting you ride about the country and visit Winchester—”
“If I am undutiful, I apologise, but I will not have you speaking as if I had done something reprehensible, particularly as that casts a slur on Mr. Maldon too.”
“Don’t speak of that man to me!” her mother cried. “Bringing you home in that shocking condition!”
“I hope you didn’t address him with the kind of nonsense you have just been speaking to me, ma’am.”
“I spoke to him as he deserved. I ordered him from the door and told him not to come back.”
“You did what?” Amy said faintly.
“Warned him off! He’ll not be back, I warrant you! Even a fortune-hunter as brazen as he—willing to wreck a girl’s reputation so that she has to marry him—even he wouldn’t dare to come back after being forbidden the house.”
“Mama!” Amy said. “You did not say anything like that to Jeffrey?”
“I didn’t waste words—no, not I,” Mrs. Tyrrell replied with satisfaction. In her own mind, the scene of last night had been transformed a little. The reproaches she’d cast at Jeffrey Maldon were now, in her memory, full of dignity and scorn instead of the cries of shock they had been in reality.
She stared now as her daughter hurried to the door. “Where are you going?” she cried.
“To find Jeffrey—to apologise!”
“You’ll do no such thing! Sit down, miss!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I must disobey you. I must speak to Jeffrey.”
“You are to stay where you are,” her mother cried. “I insist. You would not actually flout my direct command?”
“Yes, Mama, I’m afraid I would,” Amy said. She paused and came back. “Dearest Mama, you are under the greatest possible misapprehension! Jeffrey has done nothing to harm me or my reputation, I assure you. Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever deceived you?”
“We-ell ... no ...”
“Then believe me when I tell you that last night Jeffrey and I were in great danger of drowning under Bourne Bluff. Between us we managed to scramble up the cliff face, but I could never have done it without his help. He then brought me home, although he was so weary he could hardly put one foot in front of the other—and now I learn that you turned him from the door!” Amy’s voice broke. “Oh, how could you, ma’am! The best friend, the most honourable friend...”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 17