His voice was dry.
She looked at him questioningly.
"There are many fanatics in France who are angry that some of their countrymen are escaping the guillotine. They want to recapture them if they can."
"The Jacobins," said Susannah thoughtfully.
"Yes. There are those among them who will go to any lengths to make sure the so-called guilty are executed. There's a Frenchman named Duchamp in particular who hates what we are doing, and who would very much like to put a stop to our rescues. He nearly caught us once before, when we were operating out of a house in Devon, and he made things so difficult for us that we had to leave and move on. But he didn't give up. Even though he didn't know our identities, he offered a reward for information leading to our capture. If you had alerted the excise men to our activities, there would probably have been one of them who would have heard of the reward and thought it worth his while to investigate, to find out if we were the men Duchamp was looking for."
Susannah was silent, thinking of all she had heard.
"Your injuries," she said. "Did you really fall from your horse or were you beaten by the excise men? Had they found you?"
"Not the excise men. The militia. They must have heard about the reward and, learning of three men living in a solitary house on the coast, they decided to see what they could find."
She looked at him sideways, as though seeing him for the first time. The situation was full of jeopardy, and yet Oliver was prepared to engage in it, risking his life to help innocent people escape from the savagery of the revolution.
They had reached the top of the stairs.
"So. Will you walk with me?"
She wondered if it was wise, but quickly dismissed the feeling. She was intrigued by him. What had made him dedicate his life to such a difficult endeavour? It must be a compelling reason, she thought. If he wanted to, he could have lived the life of a wealthy and attractive gentleman, drinking, gambling, and attending society's entertainments, where, as an eligible bachelor, he would have been feted and spoiled. Instead, he had chosen to bury himself in a remote corner of Cornwall and risk his life time after time for people he did not even know.
"Yes," she said. "I will."
Stopping only to put on her outdoor clothes she joined him in the hall. He, too, had dressed for the outdoors, with a many-caped greatcoat and tricorne hat. Together they went outside. The wind was strong. It blew Susannah's cloak about her, and tugged at Oliver's greatcoat. Susannah put her hand on her hat and set off beside him.
"You told me once that you did not know Mr. Harstairs, but you hesitated when you said it. Was it true?" she asked.
"I can see I am going to have to be more careful when I'm with you," he said. "I thought I had fooled you."
"Almost," Susannah admitted. "So you did know him?"
"Yes, I did. I told you that he made his money abroad. What I did not tell you is that he made a great deal of it in France. Some of it he made legally, and some of it he made in a less straightforward fashion."
"Do you mean Mr. Harstairs was a smuggler?" she gasped.
"He preferred the term free trader."
"So that is why the house is full of secret passages."
"Yes. When I began rescuing people from France I used his ships. He hired them out if they were standing idle. We came to know and respect each other. Then, a chance remark led to him being arrested."
"What did he say?"
"That he was a businessman, and didn't give a damn about the revolution. It was enough to put him in jail, and enough to have him executed. We knew nothing of this at the time. It was only when we attacked a prison that we found him and brought him home. It made our alliance closer than ever, and when our previous headquarters was discovered, he offered us the use of Harstairs House. At the time he was living in London."
"Do you know how he died?" asked Susannah. "I know very little about him, and yet his kindness has changed my life."
"He had a weak heart. He had had it for some time. His death came as a blow to me, nevertheless."
"How did you become involved with the revolution to begin with?" she asked him as they cut across the grass and walked westwards through the grounds.
"I know France well," he said. "I lived there for a while as a boy. My grandparents were French, and when my mother died I went to stay with them for a time. Have you ever been to France?"
"No."
"It's a beautiful country. My grandparents lived in a small village in Normandy. I used to spend my days roaming the countryside — when I could escape from my tutor, at least!" he added with a smile. "I loved France, and the French people. They were good to me. The peasants on my grandparents' estate were always pleased to see me, and I to see them. I didn't know at the time that not all peasants lived such comfortable lives — my grandparents saw to it that they had plenty to eat, and sound houses to live in. Those days were idyllic for me. But it wasn't to last."
He fell silent.
"I was too young to notice the terrible poverty or the growing resentment at the time," he began again, "and soon came back to England to be with my father. But once I had finished my studies I returned to France. I thought of settling there. It seemed to me to be superior to England in every way: the people were more cultured, the wines were more varied and the food more refined."
"Did you not see any signs of unrest?" she asked.
"Of course. But there was unrest here, too. I thought it was nothing more than a few dissidents making trouble and, like so many other people, I thought that once the National Assembly's demands had been met, things would settle down. That was four years ago."
"But they didn't settle down," remarked Susannah. "They grew worse."
He nodded. "They did. And I can understand why." He paused, and she felt a change in the air. It was as though he was dragging something to the surface that had been hidden for years.
"To begin with, I sided with the landed classes. My grandparents were good people, and I dismissed the tales of depraved nobles that were circulating at the time. I thought they had been invented in order to create trouble, until one day I visited friends of my grandparents. They were cultured, educated people, and they had a beautiful daughter named Angeline. My grandparents hoped I would marry her, and I was not averse to the idea. She was very pretty, her conversation was varied, and her accomplishments were numerous. Over the next few months I visited her family almost every day and I came to know and love her. Or so I thought."
He stopped, and Susannah did not know whether she wanted him to continue. To know that he had been in love with Angeline hurt her. As she thought of the Frenchwoman's many perfections, she felt the full force of her own lack of them. She was not beautiful, her education had been unconventional, and she expressed many views that a gently bred young lady would not espouse. She had no accomplishments, and she must have been mad to think that a man like Oliver could ever feel anything for her.
But he kissed you, came the thought.
Yes, he had kissed her. But she had so little experience of being kissed that she did not know if the passion that had lain behind it had been for her, or if it had simply been the result of a man starved of female company.
He began to speak again.
"There came a day when I was about to ask her parents for leave to address her, but an incident changed my mind. Angeline and I were out riding. She was a skilled horsewoman and could master any horse. She liked to roam round her parents' vast estate, and it was a pleasure to ride with her. I did not have to hold back. She could match me in speed and skill. We rode to the edge of the estate, and there a beggar approached us. He was filthy and starving. My grandparents had always treated such people with kindness and I expected her to throw him a few coins, or to ask me to do it for her. But instead, she lifted her whip and struck him across the face. I thought she must have acted out of fear and I was ready to reassure her, but when I looked into her face I saw that she wasn't frightened, she was exultant.
" The light had dimmed in his eyes, and his voice was hollow. "She enjoyed whipping him, and if I had not taken hold of her horse's reins, she would have trampled him to death. She tore at me for preventing her, saying that she had a right to do whatever she wanted to him. He was nothing but a filthy peasant, she told me, and deserved no better."
"I was horrified. To make matters worse, when we returned to her parents' house and she stormed inside, telling them of what had happened, they took her part. I went home sickened. If not for the goodness of my grandparents, my belief in the worth of the nobility would have entirely vanished. I found myself thinking that they did not deserve their power if this was how they used it, and my thoughts turned to revolutionary paths. So much so, that when the Bastille was stormed and the poor turned against the rich I was on their side—not in action, for I had returned to England by then, but in thought. And when I heard that Angeline's family had been arrested and sent to the guillotine, I shed no tear."
They walked on in silence. Susannah wondered what else he had seen and endured, and what other events had shaped the man who walked beside her.
"I almost joined the revolution myself," he said. He stopped, and looked into the distance, but Susannah knew it was not the cliffs he was seeing. It was the long-ago events he had witnessed in France. "Thank God I did not. It became more bloody with every passing month. It was losing its discrimination. Not only the bad was being swept away, but the good as well. I tried to persuade my grandparents to come to England with me, but they refused. They said they had done nothing wrong and had nothing to fear. They said they would be needed to rebuild France once the revolution had blown itself out, and I agreed with them. But three months later they were sent to the guillotine. They were falsely denounced in return for money, and they were butchered. I could do nothing to help them. I have never felt so helpless in my life." His voice was low and his hands clenched at his side.
Susannah longed to reach out and touch him, but he was wrapped in a cocoon of pain and she could not breach it. She had never dreamed that such a life lay behind him. It made her own problems of cold attics and unkind treatment seem insignificant.
At last he continued. "But I knew then that I must do something to help those trapped in France, and I must make sure that other innocent people did not share their fate. James and Edward felt the same way. They, too, had been in France, and had seen the effects of the revolution at first hand."
"So that is why you wanted a house here, in Cornwall, so that you would be in easy reach of France."
"Yes."
He seemed to pull himself back from a very long way away.
"How much longer do you intend to stay here?" she asked softly. "I know you have a lease on Harstairs House until the end of the month, but what then? Will you remain in Cornwall?"
"Cornwall, or a place nearby, until our work is done."
"Will it ever be done?" she asked with a shiver.
"In time. One day France will be restored to its former beauty," he said, his voice softening. He turned towards her. "You must go there, and see it…"
The words with me hung unspoken in the air. His eyes looked into her own and she was lost. She felt herself being drawn closer and closer to him not physically, but in some spiritual way she did not understand. Nothing like it had ever happened to her before. But he was becoming increasingly important to her, and she found she could not contemplate the idea of a future without him. It seemed empty. Bleak. But with him… exciting vistas opened up before her, and she was filled with exhilaration. How wonderful it would be to go to France with him, when the terror was over, and to see the scenes of his youth!
But then her exhilaration faded. His life was so dangerous, perhaps he did not have a future.
"Are you never afraid?" she asked, searching his eyes. "When you go over to France? Do you never think you will be shot? Or that you will be caught, or that you, too, might go to the guillotine?"
"No."
"But I am afraid for you," she said.
She had never meant such an admission to slip out, but as he turned towards her she saw a look of such hunger and tenderness in his eyes that her heart seemed to stop.
"Are you?" he asked. His voice was low and throaty and his gaze searched her own.
"Yes," she whispered, meeting his eyes.
"Susannah…"
He pushed her hair from her face with the back of his hand, and as it traced her cheek she felt her skin burning as though caressed by the midsummer sun. But she could not give in to the feelings stirring inside her. She had allowed him to kiss her once. She could not do so again.
Seeming to sense her mood, he dropped his hand, and she stepped backwards.
"What will you do now you know the truth?" he asked.
"Help you, if you need it," she replied. "Constance and I can take our turn nursing the injured man, if nothing else."
He hesitated. "I would rather Miss Morton did not know about it."
"She is trustworthy," said Susannah.
"I'm sure she is. But the fewer people who know the truth, the better. A careless word could cause untold damage. She had not guessed, wrongly, that we were smugglers?"
"No. Otherwise she would not have talked about them so openly last night."
"It must have been uncomfortable for you," he said, stroking her hair once again, and holding her with his gaze.
"It was terrible," she agreed. "But it led to this understanding between us, so in the end, I cannot regret it."
He smiled. Then he offered her his arm. She took it, resting her fingers lightly on the fabric of his coat, and together they went back into the house. They said nothing, but once in the hall, neither of them made any move to go. It was not until the clock whirred in preparation for striking the hour that Susannah stirred herself. By the lateness of the hour she knew that Constance would be coming out into the hall at any moment, on her way down to the kitchen to make tea.
"If you need any help, you will let me know?" she asked.
"I will," he said.
He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers one by one, then pulling off her glove he kissed the back of her hand, then the palm. Then, making her a bow, he withdrew.
Susannah heard the sitting-room door open, and she went upstairs. She did not feel equal to seeing Constance at the moment. She did not feel equal to anything but thinking of Oliver, and reliving the feel of his mouth on her hand.
Oliver was thoughtful as he returned to his room. He had never expected Susannah to find the secret passage, or to explore it, and when he had learnt she had done both he had been furious, and then afraid. Afraid for himself and his friends, and afraid for her. But his fear had given way to even more unsettling feelings when he had walked with her on the cliffs. He had been determined to avoid her, and to prevent his feelings from developing, but instead he had found himself taking her into his confidence, and almost taking her into his arms once again.
He went into his chamber, hoping to have some respite from his feelings, but instead of finding it empty, he found that Edward was there. He stiffened. By the look on Edward's face, there was trouble brewing.
It broke as soon as he had entered the room.
"What the devil do you think you were doing, taking Miss Thorpe to see Buvoir?" demanded Edward without preamble, leaping to his feet with a thunderous face. "Are you mad? If it turns out she's one of Duchamp's spies, then you've just given us away."
Oliver took off his gloves deliberately and put them down on the table, then removed his greatcoat and flung it over the back of a chair, followed by his tricorne hat.
He regarded Edward evenly. "She's no spy," he said.
"And how do you know that?" demanded Edward. "She turned up on the doorstep spouting a story about being an heiress-"
"You said yourself you believed her. Besides, you know as well as I do that James wrote to his brother, who made discreet enquiries, questioning one of the clerks in Sinders' office, and it's exactly as she says: sh
e'll inherit Harstairs House as long as she stays here for a month."
"If she is Miss Thorpe. Has it never occurred to you that if she is in Duchamp's pay, she could have waylaid the real Miss Thorpe and taken her place? It's not like you to be so careless."
"I don't believe that. I heard her talking to her companion on the first evening, remember, when I was about to go into the room and tell her we had agreed to share the house. They were talking about her inheritance."
"And was this before or after she said she would not marry you to save her life?" asked Edward, with a glittering eye.
Oliver looked at him sharply.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Only this, that you wouldn't be taking these chances if you weren't playing a game with her."
Oliver scowled. A game? It was a long time since his feelings for Susannah had been a game.
"Toy with her if you must, but don't jeopardize our business here," said Edward. "It's too important. You were a fool to take her into our confidence."
"What's done is done. Besides, she has offered her help."
"And of what use is that to us?" said Edward scathingly.
"She can look after Buvoir when we are not here, for one thing. I don't like the look of him."
"She'll never get away from her companion — or does the companion know, too?"
"No, of course not. But it will be easy for Susannah to say she's going for a walk or—"
"Susannah? So you're calling her Susannah now? By God, you're a bigger fool than I took you for," said Edward with contempt.
"Don't you have anything better to do than to argue with me?" asked Oliver dangerously. "Because if you don't, I can find you something. We're going over to France again on Thursday, and everything will have to be ready by then."
Edward walked up to him and stood within an inch of him. He was the smaller of the two men, but his look was pugnacious.
"Just make sure she doesn't leave the grounds in the meantime. Someone told the militia where to find you, and it could have been your precious Susannah. So tread warily around her, unless you want another beating."
Harstairs House Page 12