Hope's Betrayal (3 page)

His voice
softened. "You are frightened. Give me names and I will help you."

"No."
Her mouth went dry.

The corner of
his mouth twitched. "Miss Tyler, your loyalty does you credit, but it is
misplaced." Huntley regarded her coolly. "By rights, you should be in
jail."

"Do you
want thanks?" She said, bitterly. "I didn’t ask to be brought
here."

"You broke
the law. I have extended more leniency than is your due. Don’t try my
patience."

With surprising
grace for one so tall, the Captain approached and sat on the edge of the
mattress. In a quiet, contemplative voice he spoke.

"Miss.
Tyler, whatever you may think I'm not a monster. Names. Give me names and let
me see what I can do."

"No."
Despite everything, the Captain sitting on the bed was making it very difficult
to think straight.

"Either
with your cooperation, or without it, I will have those names."

His bear-like
manner made her shrink away. "I tell you I don’t know."

"And I
don’t believe you."

"Are you
calling me a liar?"

"Don’t play
games, Miss Tyler." 

Above the
pounding of her heart, she managed to speak. "You think this is a game for
me? Well, it isn't. Far from it."

He raised a cool
brow. "Tell me, then."

A lid had been
lifted on a well of frustration. "You think I wanted to join the free
traders, well I didn't. You think you are so high above me with your laws and
morals…well some of us can’t afford the luxury. Some of us have to scrape by
the best way we can, just to survive."

He stared at her
thoughtfully. "A pretty speech."

She hissed like
a cat. "It's not words, it's not an excuse, but the truth."

"One which
doesn’t alter the fact that you were caught breaking the law."

The memory of an
empty belly and growling stomach made Hope indignant. 

"That's
what you see, from your comfortable house, wanting for nothing. But to me it's
a way of putting food on the table."

An image of the
scaffold filled her mind. Her situation was hopeless, she knew that, so better
be hung for a wolf as a dog. She took a deep breath.

"With the
land enclosures, and poor catches of late, there's not enough food to go
around. Honest folk are starving—while His Majesty raises taxation.  If those
bypassing those taxes give us a way to earn a little extra, to make life
bearable, tis a justice of sorts."

"You cannot
take the law into your own hands."

His unblinking
scrutiny was breaking her heart. "You are a man of honor, doing what you
think is right, and in that we are the same."

"I don’t
think so."

“Do you know
what it is to go to bed hungry every night? To spend all day up to your knees
in salt water to harvest a few measly cockles?” Her eyes blazed. “I don’t
suppose you’ve ever wanted for firewood or clean clothes?”

He spoke more
softly, his clear blue eyes brimming with emotion. “I understand more than you
think, truly I do, but you have to help me first.”

She shook her
head; he was playing the oldest trick in the book and she would tell him
nothing, not even if he made her blood heat like a lovestruck girl. His face
resumed its guarded expression as he stood.

“Doesn’t it
bother you that they left without you?  Think about it and on my return, I
suggest being more helpful.”

“I know what
you’re thinking…but there is honor amongst the free traders.”

“And that’s
worth dying for?” For a moment, he looked immensely sad. “Because you will
swing unless you give me a reason to save you.”

“They would die
for me, just as I will for them. Would your men do that for you?”

She saw doubt
flash across his face and was glad.

“I have the
comfort of knowing I do the King’s bidding.”

“Even if that
means hanging those trying to put food on the table?”

“Yes.” The
Captain said mechanically.

She dreaded to
ask and yet had to know. “What happens now?”

Captain Huntley
regarded her with cold, dead eyes. “Once well enough to travel, you will be sent
to Ringwood Jail, put on trial and most probably hung.”

That night Hope
had plenty of time to reflect, for never had the hours of darkness seemed so
long. The following morning, there were steps on the stairs. Hope braced
herself to face Captain Huntley, but this time a bulky, bustling man, who
squinted like a mole, appeared behind the banisters.

"I'm the
surgeon, my dear. Bristol's the name. Been sent to sort out your leg."

"Really?"
Hope raised herself onto her elbows; if they meant to make her well, perhaps
they also meant to be lenient.

"Aye, the
Captain wants to make you fit for the gallows, he does."

"Oh."

"Well, what
did you expect?"

"Nothing,
absolutely nothing." Hope's opinion of humanity reached an all-time low.

"Now then,
let's take a look at the offending article."

"Excuse
me?"

The surgeon
sighed. "The leg, dear, the broken leg."

Hope tried to
free herself from the covers but found she hadn’t the strength. The surgeon
pulled away the blankets, leaving Hope feeling exposed, wearing just a night-rail.
She hugged her arms across her chest as the surgeon pushed the skirt above the
knee. Even though the ankle was heavily bandaged, her foot was clearly at an
unnatural angle and the sight of it made her queasy. For the first time, the
surgeon glanced at her with something approaching sympathy.

"I won't
beat about the bush. You are obviously a brave sort which is just as well. The
ankle is dislocated and must be put back in place."

Hope nodded, her
mouth too dry to speak. He seemed to approve of her lack of histrionics.

"That's a
good girl."

"This is
going to hurt, isn’t it?"

He nodded.
"A lot, I'm afraid, but with a good dose of laudanum, you won’t
remember."

Reaching into
his bag he produced a brown vial, and measured out two drops. He studied her
face…and then measured out a further two. "Here, take this."

True to his
word, Hope found she remembered little of the next half-hour. She was vaguely
aware of two stable hands coming up the stairs, bringing with them the smell of
horses and straw. She remembered the indignity of their large hands on her
shoulders, pushing her down onto the bed and then being surprised at the
doctor's strength as he gripped her leg. Then excruciating pain wiped out all
else. Too surprised even to scream, she set her mind free and welcomed the
oblivion of unconsciousness.

*****

Captain Huntley
sat at an oak desk, lost in thought. From his position in the Custom's Office,
he had an uninterrupted view of the harbor which stretched for miles, over the
sandbanks and out to sea, and on a clear day he could see the Isle of Wight.
But today, becalmed in the fog, fishing smacks and cutters bobbed at anchor,
but in his distracted state Huntley saw nothing. Once again, Hope Tyler niggled
at his conscience in a most irritating way.

"Damned
messy business," he said to no one in particular.

Interrogating a
woman would be an unsavory business, distasteful, and yet it had to be
done—even if there was an unexpected loyalty about Hope Tyler that inspired his
respect. Her circumstances had moved him and for the first time in his career,
Huntley felt torn. Putting down the quill, he rested his head in his hands.
Damned smugglers! This whole thing was a mess: a woman doing a man's job, not
what he'd anticipated when he'd volunteered for this posting. With his ship,
HMS Swann, in refit, he'd seen this as a chance for adventure with the
Preventatives—and not, as it now seemed, an exercise in breaking a woman's
will.

"Hell and
damnation." His fist collided with the desk. "What are you—a man or a
mouse?" His sense of duty overcame his misgivings. As senior officer he
had to set an example and he had Cooper's death to avenge, for just as the
surgeon had predicted, it was the priest who had a job to do. Huntley snorted.
Free traders indeed, they were nothing but common felons.

"Tomorrow,
damn it, tomorrow she goes to jail."

Huntley screwed
up the report and tossed it onto the growing pile beneath the desk. To add to
his troubles, he could trust no one. The office door squeaked open and along
with a blast of icy wind, Bennett entered.

"Captain."
He hung his hat on the rack and made for the fire.

"Lieutenant
Bennett. What's it like out?"

"Grim,
Captain, in more ways than one."

As Bennett
stretched his hands towards the fire, steam rose from his damp outer coat. He
had aged these past few days, his air of carefree joviality gone. Huntley knew
his own presence was resented, but this was more than that.

"Is there
something you want to say, Lieutenant Bennett?"

Slowly, the
older man faced his superior, the glint of determination in his eye.

"Captain,
the men were wondering if you had any names yet?"

Huntley leant
back in the chair, his muscular bulk making it creak. "The prisoner has
proved remarkably stoic."

Feet apart,
shoulders square, Bennett stared at a spot on the wall above Huntley's left
shoulder, refusing to meet his eye.

"The thing
is, the men have been talking and…well…"

"Spit it
out, man."

"It don’t
seem right as she's featherbedded while Cooper's widow has three mouths to
feed—four including her own."

Huntley narrowed
his eyes. "You have to trust me on this."

"Sir?"
Bennett's nose twitched in the hint of a sneer.

“I’ll see Mrs
Cooper is taken care of, she'll not go short, you know that.”

“Aye, sir, I
do.” Bennett continued to stare at the wall.

“Well? There's
more?”  A pulse throbbed on Huntley’s temple.

“Happen a stay
in the cells would loosen the chit’s tongue. Happen then she’d be less brave.”
The grim set of Bennett's lips betrayed his determination.

Huntley noted
the vehemence of Bennett's reaction, not the response of a man in cahoots with
smugglers. The Captain controlled his expression; he needed to pacify Bennett,
give him something to take back to the men. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of
that, but there is another option.”

“Better be good,
Captain, strong feelings hereabouts.”

 “Really?
Because from the support the smugglers get on the mainland, it makes me wonder
whose side folk are on.”

Covertly he
studied Bennett, watching for a twitch, or other telltale sign of guilt.
Nothing. Inwardly Huntley sighed. Fighting the French was one thing, but
suspecting your own kind quite another. 

“Aye, that’s
true enough when it was just about cheap whisky, but Cooper grew up in these
parts as his father did before him. His murder’s made folk a mite less friendly
towards the smugglers.”

“About bloody
time." Huntley curled his hand into a fist. "Shame it took a death to
open their eyes.”

"So the
girl goes to jail?"

Huntley's mind
raced. How to make Bennett understand that Miss Tyler was a pawn—a victim of
the gang's ringleaders, every bit as much as Cooper had been? Then the idea
came to him; like sunshine breaking through cloud, a way to appease his
conscience while avenging Cooper's death.

"Confidentially,
just between us, the girl is bait in a trap. We'll let her friends think the
Grange is unguarded, an easy target, and when the felons crawl out of their
holes to spring her, we catch the whole damn lot like the rats they are."
It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it wasn't bad, as he waited, steely-eyed, for
Bennett's response.

The Officer
nodded thoughtfully. "It could just work. The smugglers will be worried
she talks. They'll want her free to protect themselves."

"Exactly."
Huntley picked up his quill. "Now, if you don't mind, I have reports to
write."

Bennett saluted
and made for the back office.

Once the door
shut on Bennett, Huntley’s head sank into his hands. He blamed himself for
Cooper’s death: if he’d thought faster his rating would still be alive. Instead
of which, he was using a girl in a game of brinkmanship which could end with
her family being hung. Little wonder, he reflected, he slept badly of late.

Despite the
cotton sheets and china plates, Hope knew she was a prisoner. Down the attic
stairs behind the door, a guard was stationed day and night. From what she
heard he ate at his post, and a servant took his place when nature called.
Sometimes she caught snippets of conversation; chatter about a bullock run
amuck in the High Street, of grim weather and poor fishing.