Moon and Stars

by Elizabeth Johns

  “Oh, my dear. I could not disagree more. You hide yourself underneath drab clothes and mob caps. Forgive my plain speaking, but I think you have been afraid to show the world the real you. Something or someone has awakened your spirit and I think you should allow it to show.”

  Charlotte choked on a denial, except Jolie had hit upon the truth. Transformation was doubtful; however, what had she to lose? The worst that could happen was her pride would be injured and she remain at Langborn until she was wrinkled and grey.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “How could I not? You set the fashion for the ton.”

  “Very well, I suggest you continue riding every day. Exercise improves your colour and health... and when your health improves, you glow on the outside.”

  Charlotte felt her face warm inside the carriage. She knew she looked unkempt, and Jolie was being ever so tactful about it. “I do feel better since taking up riding again.” Her habit also fit better. Her own mother never exerted herself to restrict anything.

  The carriage turned into the gates of Langborn. Having alighted, Jolie led Charlotte to her own apartments.

  Jolie’s maid, Jenkins, was rumoured to be the genius behind the Duchess’ ever impeccable appearance, and she quickly requested her aid.

  “Jenkins, I need your assistance in bringing Lady Charlotte à la mode.” Jolie led Charlotte to her dressing table and seated her before the looking glass.

  “Yes, your Grace,” the maid said with remarkable calm, acting as though such a pronouncement was a daily occurrence. Both ladies stood behind her, examining, as though she were a piece of art they were uncertain about.

  “I think short hair,” Jenkins pronounced after a few minutes’ interval, “and a new wardrobe with lower waists. No more of those sack dresses for you, my lady.”

  “We tried this once before and it made little difference,” Charlotte argued. She had become rather fond of hiding her curves under shapeless gowns.

  “Change takes courage, dearest,” Jolie reminded her with a kind smile. “Besides, we are not changing who you are on the inside, only allowing your true self to shine.”

  Jenkins began reaching for a pair of scissors. “Wait!” Charlotte cried. “Perhaps we should choose the wardrobe first? I need time to become accustomed to this.”

  “No. I think that would be a bad idea. You will change your mind.” Jolie protested.

  The maid began pulling pins from Charlotte’s hair, causing the heavy locks to unleash several feet down her back.

  “My lady, if you cut your hair to here...” She indicated a place between Charlotte’s shoulder and ears. “...then you will have beautiful curls and accentuate the shape of your face.”

  Charlotte frowned doubtfully.

  “If you do not approve, it will still be long enough to pin up.”

  Charlotte could not remember the last time she had cut her hair. “I am not altogether certain I can pull this off, but it will eventually grow back. Go on, then.”

  “There is the spirit.” Jolie beamed with approval. “Whenever I feel in need of a change, I always begin with my hair.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes as the ominous sound of the shears slicing hair rang in her ears. It was time to write her own story, and this was the beginning.

  Lying flat on his stomach, in a most undignified fashion, David waited for the tell-tale signs of the trade. There were no good hiding spots anywhere near the cave, so he had had to resort to the cliff’s edge above the beach, his only shelter the tall grass. It was a perfect evening, with only the barest sliver of a moon and thick cloud cover. He much preferred the conditions of Westmorland, with multiple caves and trees for cover.

  He had seen the men congregate at the opening some time ago, so he knew he had been correct about there being a run tonight. When the waves were about to lure him to sleep, he finally saw the flash of light indicating the arrival of the goods. The crew was efficient as he watched them roll out of the caves like ants marching toward a picnic. It was a far larger crew than he expected as he watched man after man gather the loot and begin making their way on shore. Surprisingly, half of the men began to take the pathway towards town through the Saltdean Gap—a very bold proposition in light of the lack of concealment! Most of the men had a barrel under each arm as well! He watched as a fine horseman rode back and forth across the cliffs in the distance—most likely a lookout—and perhaps their mysterious leader. It was impossible to identify them from this distance on a dark horse, especially with his face hidden by the brim of his hat and upturned collar.

  David muttered to himself. He still could not believe he was having to do this distasteful mission. He was paying for the sins of his youth indeed!

  Near frozen from the biting wind and from being still so long, he was about to move when he saw the Revenue Officer. He had but an instant to make a decision, so he let out the whistle of alarm familiar to anyone in the trade.

  David could only see one officer, but who knew where else they could be hiding? The smugglers heeded his warning and began to scatter. David may not be in the trade any longer, but he did not like to see anyone in the hangman’s noose, not when the main reason they were doing this was to feed their families. No sane man would be out in the winter’s cold otherwise.

  He heard shouting and he stood, not fearing for his discovery any longer. He shuffled down closer to the gap, in order to see what was taking place.

  “Howard! I know it is you!” Shouting to the dark sky, the officer demanded, “Show your face!”

  David heard a rumble of laughter, followed by the sounds of a horse galloping away.

  The officer cursed loudly and then made his way down the gap. By this time, the smugglers had escaped.

  David continued watching as the lone officer held a pistol to the mouth of the cave. David should escape too, but never before had he been on the other side of an operation.

  The poor beggar did not stand a chance, David reflected. If he was not brave enough to enter the cave, he had already lost his prize for the night.

  Returning to where Gulliver was tethered, David mounted and made his way to the parish church. It was the farthest tunnel, but he had a suspicion that was where the bulk of the goods would be stored. He had no doubt the barrels taken directly up the road went to the Black Horse, where they would be safe once inside.

  What did one officer hope to accomplish alone? If the King was so keen on bringing this gang down, why did he not provide more help here? What exactly did he expect David to do by himself? He arrived first, being above ground and on horseback, and hid behind one of the large stone graves on the periphery. The church was in the centre of the town, and did not offer many spots for concealment. He watched and listened as he confirmed his earlier suspicions. The men poured from the crypt and loaded several of the tombs with barrels and trunks of smuggled goods. While there was nothing unusual in this, one aspect of the scene was. The most surprising part of the whole operation was the sight of the vicar arriving and then directing proceedings, not Captain Dunn.

  David frowned. This was the first whiff he’d had of the local vicar being involved. It was not uncommon for men of the cloth to take part in the free trade—many of them were vastly underpaid and brought up to a gentleman’s way of life, liking their brandy as well as the next man. However, this must be a new development and perhaps the key to discovering what was behind the King’s interest in the Rottingdean gang.

  David waited for several minutes past the last noise he heard, to be certain he was alone. He then went methodically to each of the storage sites and inspected the illegal cargo. It really was shameful how easy it had been for him to trace this gang so far. Was it because of his own experiences or could the Revenue Officers really be so daft? To be fair, they did have rules about having proof and witnesses, but it just seemed so obvious. Or could there be more to this operation than he had yet seen? There must be.

  Forcing open o
ne of the heavy stone lids and sliding it aside, he found nothing unexpected. Lace, tea... in another he found salt, and some already bottled brandy—perhaps the most significant item. There were no markings to identify from where it had originated.

  Carefully replacing the heavy stone lid, he then walked back to where Gulliver was patiently waiting for him. It was quite late by this time, and he almost expected to see the sun peeking over the horizon. As he placed one boot in the stirrup, Gulliver’s ears flew back on alert. David paused and listened. It was likely nothing more than an owl, but he could not risk making himself known yet. There would be no thought in the smugglers’ minds but to kill him before asking questions. Who would it be at this hour? Normally, the goods would be stored for a day or two before being picked up and transported on to London and the illicit trade routes. Once the goods reached that far they were virtually untraceable.

  It was still pitch black and David heard the cart before he saw it. He squinted to make out what was before him, but it was a donkey cart and an innocuous-looking old gentleman. He proceeded to load the back of the cart from goods left under a table tomb, and then left as quietly as he had come.

  After mounting Gulliver and turning him in the direction of Langborn, David pondered what he had learned and what his next move should be. If there was someone else directing something nefarious under the Crown’s nose, he would only find it through Captain Dunn or perhaps the vicar.

  “Ho there!”

  David looked up to find Yardley riding an Arabian mare back to the stables.

  “Your Grace. What are you doing out this late?”

  “Attending Wyndham’s funeral. What do you think of this mare I brought back for Charlotte?”

  “She is a beauty, to be sure.” He dismounted and stroked the sleek bay nose.

  “Were you able to observe anything this evening?” Yardley asked as they handed the horses to a sleepy-looking groom. David waited to answer until they had walked away from the stables.

  “The usual sort of activity. Most of the goods are stored in graves at the parish church.” David reached into his greatcoat and pulled out a bottle of brandy he had taken.

  “What have you there?”

  “Research,” he replied, giving the Duke a devilish grin.

  “Then I suppose you had better come in and let us have a sample... on behalf of the Crown, of course,” he added dryly, leading the way to the front door and letting them both in. David assumed the staff had been told not to wait up.

  “With our expertise, perhaps we can narrow down its source. I suppose it is our duty, after all,” David parried, enjoying Yardley’s company with chagrin. He had not wanted to like the man, and were it not for Lady Charlotte…he did not blame the man for thinking him inadequate to kiss the ground she walked on. So why was he being so amicable?

  David looked over the bottle for markings as Yardley went to a cupboard for tumblers.

  “The brandy comes clear and undiluted in casks,” David explained. “For the brandy to already be diluted to drinkable strength, and in bottles, means the churchyard is the site of an extensive operation. I witnessed the vicar directing the storage of goods…”

  “Reverend Howard?” Yardley asked as he poured the caramel-coloured liquid into the glasses.

  “I did not hear his name, but it was the first I had heard of anyone giving orders other than Dunn.”

  Yardley took a sip, looking contemplative.

  “Is Howard from a well-connected family?”

  “I could not say at the moment. I own his living, of course. I believe he has been here less than two years—a recommendation from some connection or other.”

  David nodded absently, taking his own sip.

  “Do you think there is another peer involved, like Brennan?”

  “I do not know what to think at the moment. It is still too early for me to show my hand, and I have not seen anything to warrant such interest from the palace. Anything is possible.”

  “This is high-quality brandy,” Yardley remarked as he looked into the remnants of his glass.

  “It certainly warms your insides after a cold night.” David stood to leave.

  “I will have Howard looked into and let you know.”

  “In the meantime, it looks like I will be going to church,” David said ruefully, offering a sardonic salute to the Duke.

  It was late, and David wanted nothing more than his warm bed. He bade Yardley farewell and walked out of the library and straight into Lady Charlotte.

  Chapter 8

  Never before had I truly appreciated the servants’ network of gossip—never before had it been so pertinent. It seems my mystery man has caused speculation below stairs and the maids have all taken to wagering on which one of them he will choose! If I have to listen to Chapman drone on about his brawn or his fine eyes one more minute, I might lose my chocolate all over her dress. Now, if she could tell me something useful, I would give her a rise in wages.—8 Feb

  Charlotte sat at her dressing table for some time after she had returned to her room. Her maid had squealed with astonishment when she saw her mistress’s hair, though she had not yet discerned whether or not she approved. It was amazing to Charlotte that something as simple as a change in hair could affect so much difference. However, the same could be said of Sir David. Had she not known it was him, very likely she would not have looked twice.

  She shook her curls from side to side, relishing the freedom from the heavy weight she had carried for years. Would he notice the change?

  “You must banish the silly, romantic girl inside, Charlotte,” she told her reflection.

  It was a difficult task when he had awakened the dormant passions inside her…and then spurned her when next he saw her. Yet there was something about his actions which belied his words and gave her a flicker of hope; made her wonder. He had made no promises—only warnings—so why did it hurt so much? Most would call it calf-love, her first infatuation. But no other man, with his mere presence, had caused her pulse to race or her insides to feel as though a swift was fluttering its wings inside her.

  Standing, she walked to the balcony, looking up to the sliver of a moon, the peppering of stars twinkling across the sky and the clouds rushing by. They would forever have more meaning to her. She opened the door and a rush of cold air whipped her in the face. She welcomed the harsh reality. It was time to stop going through life in a haze of fantasies.

  Inhaling deeply of the cold, salty sea air, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold window, wishing for things that could never be. At least she had been kissed. That would have to carry her through the remainder of her days.

  A derisive laugh escaped her when she thought of how she used to pray to the heavens for someone to love her, and to be kissed before she died. It was not enough, yet it had to be. David was right. There was no future in that quarter.

  Change was definitely the order of the day. There was no chance of going back to the contentment she had felt before.

  Another gust of frigid air reminded her that she was underdressed for moonlight reflections outside, and she was tightening her wrapper when she heard voices. She glanced at the clock; its hands ticking ever nearer three of the clock!

  Was that Yardley, welcoming Sir David inside?

  Charlotte gasped as an idea floated through her mind. Did she dare force her brother’s hand? She was no schemer and could not coherently think through the repercussions of her actions, but she was well-read enough to consider this to be a golden opportunity.

  Checking herself in the mirror with a slight pang of doubt, she took a deep breath, grabbed her candle and hurried downstairs to fetch a book to…aid her insomnia.

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the door to the library opened and she could not stop her momentum before she crashed into a hard, male chest. Large, warm arms surrounded her and a hushing sound fell into her ears. One arm left her and she heard the door to the library latch. She looked up t
o find piercing grey eyes watching her like a hungry wolf.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked quietly, while savouring the feel of his arms around her.

  He shook his head. “I must go. We cannot be seen together,” he said, as though trying to convince himself. Slowly he released her.

  She wrinkled her forehead.

  “The Duke is in there,” he whispered, inclining his head toward the library.

  She still did not quite understand what the fuss was about. Yardley was just her brother. Without a word, she took David’s hand and led him to her small, private parlour at the back of the house.

  “Lady Charlotte...” His voice was laced with warning. “I cannot be here.”

  She noticed him diverting his eyes. Suddenly she recalled her state of dishabille and blushed.

  “You have cut your hair,” he observed, reaching up to tenderly finger a curl.

  She swallowed hard and watched his face as he realized what he had done. He pulled his hand back as though he had touched a hot iron.

  “Y-yes. Why are you so concerned to be seen with me? If Yardley can be friendly with you, then why can I not?”

  “How can you ask such a thing? He is my employer. We were just discussing estate concerns.”

  “At three of the clock in the morning?”

  “He was at the funeral.”

  “And the business cannot wait until later?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I noticed some smuggling on the beach on my way home from the inn and happened upon him at the stables.”

  She narrowed her gaze. So he spent his evenings in the village, at the public house. Why was she not surprised, yet still hurt? No doubt he favoured those tavern wenches who were no better than they ought to be.

  “You need not dine there. You are welcome at our table, regardless of your employment; you are family to our guests.”

  “I could not, my lady.”

  “You could!” she insisted. “Are you in some kind of trouble that you must hide?”