The Cornish Heiress (21 page)

As a first step Perce rode home and warned the head groom
and Butler about anyone who came inquiring about Spite or Philip. Such a person
should be held, without violence, if possible, but any way if strong measures
were needed, until Perce or Lord Moreton had seen and spoken to him or them.
Then he told his father, who was not in the least surprised, having guessed—as
Perce had known he would—the truth. Lord Moreton approved his son’s plans,
although in fact he had not expected Perce to bother making any. After he had
absorbed the full impact of the working of Perce’s mind, he had something to
add.

“Perhaps we can take it from both ends, Perce. You pass the
word among the young bloods, and I’ll pass it among the local Customs men.”

Perce burst out laughing. “By God, Fa, that’s clever. I
never stopped to think the thing all the way through. But wouldn’t they think
it’s odd that the inspectors didn’t go to them first?”

“Of course not! They’re all so corrupt that they expect both
periodic investigations and undercover attempts to catch them and the smugglers
they protect. What I will suggest is the truth—that the men are not
investigators but French agents. The locals may not believe that, but they’ll
jump at the chance to use that excuse to seize them and bring them to me, which
will expose what they really are.”

“Yes…” Perce drew the word out, frowning. “But I think you’d
better make it damn clear that whoever catches them must hand them over. After
all, Fa, we don’t want these men knocked on the head and dropped off the
nearest cliff. Not that they’d be any loss, but I think they should be
questioned.”

“Yes, indeed. Good gracious, Perce, I never knew you had
even a thread of social conscience. I’ll have to revise my view of you. Would
you like a seat in Parliament?”

“I might some day, but not yet, Fa. The trouble is, I don’t
know what I want. If I thought I’d be a shade of use, I’d have asked for a pair
of colors, but I can’t believe that another inexperienced subaltern would be
any real advantage to our army. I’d do as a staff officer, but—”

“For all his fat and bluster, York is a good man, Perce. He
loves the service—”

“No! I know, Fa, with Fred on the
Royal Sovereign
and
Robert in India you aren’t too eager to have me in the mess too. That’s why I
haven’t plagued out your life, but I—I don’t know how much longer I can bear to
do nothing. Aide-de-camp to York won’t do. I know his good points, but his
ADC’s aren’t among them. He does the work with the men at the Horse Guards and
keeps the ADC’s around to play cards with him.”

“I didn’t know, Perce. I’m ashamed to admit it, but you had
me completely fooled. I kept thanking God that you were content to… Dammit,
boy, that face of yours is like a wax mask. You could—“ Lord Moreton’s voice
broke off abruptly. “That face must be worth a fortune at a gambling table—
and
it would be at a diplomatic conference, too. Possess your soul in patience for
a little longer, Perce. We’ll see what turns up.”

With that Perce was reasonably content. His father was a
sensible man, what could be called a real downy bird, and would neither forget
nor suggest another palliative like the Duke of York’s staff. Perce knew his
responsibilities as his father’s heir. He could also see that the struggle
against Bonaparte was likely to be a long business. He could wait to deliver a
telling blow against his country’s enemy in a way that would not be too likely
to leave Moreton Place without a master. For a moment he fixed his attention on
doing what he could to help Philip along with his bit.

Unfortunately, as far as laying hands on Jean and Henri, Perce
was too late. Although the people in inland towns answered questions willingly
enough, those in smuggling centers were deaf, dumb, and blind. Having made
inquiries at those coastal villages they could reach and drawn a blank—no one
had
ever
seen or heard of a smuggler, or a stranger either, on the
entire coast of west Cornwall, as far as they could tell—Jean and Henri had
returned to Penzance. Henri again proposed abandoning their quest. By now,
however, they had spent a good part of the money d’Ursine had given them on the
task he had assigned. Jean pointed out that they had expended a great deal of
time and energy, too, and they were no better off than when they first took the
job. If they did not bring back the papers and the name of the ship and captain
who was willing to transport English spies into France, they would get nothing
for their pains.

They had been going about it the wrong way, Jean said. He
should have realized no one in a smuggler’s haven would talk to an official of
any kind. What they needed was someone involved in the smuggling. He could
question, find Philip, and hire a gang to kill him and to discover what they
wanted to know.

Naturally enough Henri was delighted with this idea,
particularly since Jean took it upon himself to make these arrangements. Henri
had been greatly irritated by having to do all the questioning and then being
blamed when there were no results. Jean’s purpose was far from beneficent. He
intended to be the one to hire the gang so that they would obey him. It would
be much easier that way to arrange Henri’s death at the same time as Philip’s.

At first it seemed that Penzance would be no more fertile a
field than the smaller coastal villages. No one knew of any smuggling; no one
had ever heard of any man employed in such an enterprise; there were no ships
plying between Cornwall and France. Had not he heard there was a war? Being
cleverer than Henri, Jean drank the excellent French wines served and changed
his tack. He was not interested in ships or smugglers. He knew nothing of
whether transport to France was possible. There was a man who had stolen papers
from him and he wanted the papers back. He wanted a native Cornishman to find
the man for him. He was not interested in anything else.

He left his name in many places together with the name of
the inn in which he was staying. The next day there was a message. If Jean
would come to The Pirate on Water Street after dark, he would learn something
to his advantage.

Much encouraged by this sign of interest, Jean hurried to
the assignation. The alehouse—for that was all it was—was not prepossessing,
but Jean was not in the least put off by the blistered sign that creaked over
the door, the desperate need for paint of the weathered boards, or the smell,
smoke, and filth of the common room. Nor was he in the least surprised when the
room fell silent on his entrance. He was quite accustomed to that hostile
silence by now. This time, however, it did not last long.

A heavy, brutal-looking man rose from one of the side tables
and asked if he was John Treeport. Concealing a shudder at the mangling, he
agreed that was his name.

“And you’re looking for a Frenchy what’s took summat of
yorn?”

“Yes,” Jean agreed.

“Tall cove, very dark o’ t’skin?”

Jean took a breath. It seemed as if after all his trouble he
was finally approaching the pot of gold. “Yes Have you seen him?”

“Yair.” It was a lie. He had never seen Philip, but that did
not matter in the least. All he had to do was to repeat Jean’s description back
to him. “Black eyes, black hair, riding a big bay what bites.”

“Yes! Yes, that is he. Where—”

“Wait up now. What’s in it fer me?”

“Let’s sit down,” Jean said. “This man has done me and this
country a grave injury. I will pay, of course, for information alone, but he is
a very dangerous person, and my own companion is in his power, I believe,
although I discovered this only recently. I will pay much better for…“

Jean hesitated, not wishing to say in plain words what was
obvious—that he wanted Philip dead. Probably it would make no difference. No
one would take this dirty brute’s word above his, even if he did intend
betrayal. However, Jean did not need to search for a euphemism.

“Want ‘im ‘ushed then?”

“Hushed?” Jean repeated.

“Put t’bed wiv a shovel! Deaded!”

“Yes—that is, he is very dangerous—”

“Carries bulldogs, does ‘e?”

“Bulldogs? No. I don’t believe the man has a dog with him.
Why—”

“Don’t be a fool, will ‘e? Has ‘e barkers? Pistols?”

“I’m very sorry that I am unacquainted with thieves’ cant,”
Jean said coldly. “Yes, he does carry pistols, and a knife, too. In fact he has
already shot one man dead—right through the head.”

If Jean had not been so intent on his own indignation, he
might have noticed a most unnatural gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of his
companion, who now introduced himself as Black Bart and said firmly that, in
this case, he didn’t think he and Jean alone would be able to do the job. Since
Bart had never heard of Phillip before, Jean’s questions about him started a
plan in his head, and although he had no idea where Philip was, he was not in
the least afraid of Philip’s ability with pistols. What had come to him after
he heard of Jean’s search for a man who would hunt down someone for him was a
marvelous plan to fool everyone all around and accomplish his own purpose,
which was to kill Red Meg. When Jean agreed to what he said with alacrity, Bart
was halfway home.

Jean, of course, had no intention of assisting personally at
all, although he intended to go along. He made no protest when Bart suggested
six men. He bargained a little over, the price, but it was, not, to Jean’s
mind, exorbitant for a murder, and he yielded on that, too. His pliability did
him no good in Bart’s eyes. He was now, in that “gentleman’s” opinion, a mark
to be gulled on all points. In any other situation Bart would have taken Jean’s
money, knocked him on the head, and dropped him off the pier. However, he had
his own row to hoe. He would hire the men Jean wanted, but not to look for or
to kill Philip—in whom he had not the slightest interest.

Through the men in Megaera’s group who preferred “the good
old days”, Bart was aware of the days when Pierre brought a cargo. From his own
investigations and guesses he had discovered that Meg paid Pierre on the night
following the delivery at The Mousehole. What he planned was to use the men for
whom Jean was paying to ambush Meg before she got to the inn. This would have
to be done quite near the place, since Bart had no way of finding out just how
Meg came to The Mousehole. Knowing her, he even suspected that she used a
different route every time.

The reasons Bart had not made any attempt to kill Meg and
John previously were two—he had no money with which to hire men, every penny he
had ever made he spent as soon as it came into his hands, and he did not want
to admit that he wanted to “get” Red Meg. Since he had been in Penzance, Bart
had found there was an exaggerated opinion afloat about her. John had been
invested with an aura of invincibility, and Meg herself was reputed to be a
witch.

Although Bart knew better and said so, he also knew it was
useless to argue. Had he had enough money he could have compensated fear by
payment. But this would be much better. The men would think they were going
after some stupid French spy. He would bring them to a confrontation, shoot Meg
himself, and the others would take care of the dummy out of self-defense. Then
he could shoot Jean, too. Probably he would even have some more money and a
watch on him. It would be a nice profit all around.

Jean’s questions roused Bart from this pleasant reverie.
“No, I don’t know where ‘e be now,” he admitted, “but I knows where ‘e
will
be, and I’ve friends what’ll warn me when ‘e comes. There’s a place what we can
‘ide. We’ll need ‘orses. It’s, oh, four miles—thereabout.”

“When will this be?”

Bart shrugged. “’Nother week, maybe. Can’t be sure. Gi’ us
t’clinkers so I can pay t’men.”

But Jean was not such a fool as that. He had not carried
more than a few guineas with him. These he gave Bart, ostentatiously showing
that his purse was empty. “That’s enough to hire the horses and give the men a
taste. I’ll pay half the remaining sum when we start and half when we return
here—if the French agent is dead and I have recovered the papers.”

Bart scowled horribly, but he realized that this man had dealt
with his kind before and was not really a silly mark. It didn’t matter, since
his purpose was to kill Red Meg, not to make money. Nonetheless, it really
sealed Jean’s death warrant as far as Bart was concerned, and he made a mental
note not to underestimate Jean again.

As Philip remarked, two weeks can be a long time, especially
if one is sad or in pain. Unfortunately, when days are peacefully slept away
and nights are full of work and joy, two weeks can fly swiftly away.

While Philip and Megaera waited for John to bring the ponies
to carry Pierre’s goods to safe concealment in the main cave, they had decided
on what to do. Philip would return the wagon to Falmouth, picking up Spite from
the stable in Penzance so that he would have a mount for the ride back.
Meanwhile Megaera would arrange the return of the chaise. She did not say how
and Philip, growing wise, did not ask. During the day and a half it would take
Philip to return the wagon, Megaera made more habitable the one remaining room
in the house on the cliff.

That house had almost certainly been inhabited by
wreckers—Megaera feared they were members of her own family, although she made
no effort to find out—in the seventeenth century. As the Bolliets grew more
respectable they began to frown on so brutal and inhumane an activity. The
small house, so convenient for setting fires to lead ships astray so that they
would founder on the rocks instead of making a safe harbor, had been abandoned
and allowed to fall into ruin. One room, where the chimney provided a strong
base, remained reasonably sound.

When she began smuggling, Megaera had had John tighten this
room until it was weatherproof, and she had furnished it partially with a table
and a comfortable chair. Whenever Pierre was due, she had to spend several
hours, as a minimum, and sometimes nearly all of two or three nights, waiting
for his signal there. Now she completed the furnishings with a bed, another
chair, a small hob for the fireplace, and such pots, plates, and utensils as
would be necessary to reheat food brought in. Wine, naturally enough, was
plentiful, and Megaera had John bring up a small cask of ale from the house.

Her next task was to cover her absences, for she would be
away far longer each night than usual. In the past Megaera had used the small
hours of the night to deliver, which was why she kept to a limited geographical
range and sold in bulk to subsidiary suppliers. Having thought the matter over,
she fixed on the romantic nature of her maid and decided to take Rose partly
into her confidence. After she returned to the house and was changing from
riding dress to evening clothes to dine with her father, she confessed to Rose
that she intended to be away nearly all night every night.

There was no need for Megaera to say she had taken a lover.
Rose would leap to that conclusion without being told. Trouble and compassion
filled Rose’s face; she was terribly, terribly worried. She knew this was
wrong. Her lady was not the kind to play with a man who would not or could not
marry her. Yet it all fitted together now. Rose was sure Megaera had not been
“taken up” from the vicar’s house. She had ridden somewhere to join this lover.
And now he had come closer so her lady could spend some time at home and not
arouse suspicion.

“Oh, madam—” she began.

“Let me be, Rose,” Megaera said fiercely. “I know what I’m
doing and it will only be for two weeks. Only two weeks…”

“I’ll help you, my lady. You know I’ll do anything. I only…”

“Thank you, Rose, but you mustn’t worry about me.” Megaera’s
violet eyes stared out into space. “I understand what I’m doing. I’m not a
fool. This is the way I want it to be. All you have to do is make sure no one
else knows I’m gone.”

But it really didn’t matter whether any of the other
servants found out. The upper servants, Megaera knew, were all devoted to her,
and any lower servant would be bullied and terrified into silence. For a woman
in her position, taking a lover was an “acceptable” secret, and the entire
household would rally round to protect their mistress from her friends and
neighbors. Megaera was in such a glow when she went down to dinner that it
penetrated Lord Bolliet’s alcoholic haze, and he complimented her on her looks
and regretted that he had arranged to meet some friends after dinner.

Megaera accepted this statement with good grace. Her
father’s “gentleman’s gentleman” and “groom” always accompanied him now when he
went out. They knew who were acceptable companions. If Lord Bolliet attempted
to join any company with whom they were not familiar, they would gently steer
him along better-known paths—men who knew he could not pay gaming debts and
would sometimes let him play with them out of pity. Actually it was far more
likely these days that Lord Bolliet had no intention of going out and “meeting
friends”. It was a euphemism for drinking himself insensible in his own
chambers. He often said he would go out, then took another couple of drinks to
“steady his judgment”—and then decided he was too “comfortable” to go out.
Megara did not even sigh. In a sense her father had been dead for many years.

This night she hardly heard, although she replied suitably.
Every part of her except her body was already in the cave waiting for Philip.
Since it had been clearly stated that Philip would be leaving with Pierre,
Megaera had not felt it necessary to keep any check on her feelings. She knew
she would suffer after he left, but she would not think about that except in a
positive sense. After he was gone, there would be practical sense in weeding
him out of her heart. She would recognize how ridiculous it was to mourn the
departure of a smuggler’s bastard. His image would pale—after all, she could
hardly remember what Edward looked like. She had only a vague idea that he was
fair and flabby.

At present Megaera felt fully justified in enjoying her
brief fling to the uttermost. And enjoy it she did. Each evening, as soon as
dinner was over, she fled the house to meet Philip at the cave. There she
changed her clothes and they waited until it grew dark enough to load the
ponies for deliveries. Megaera had had to decide whether to include Philip in
these expeditions. If she did so, it would be necessary for her to expose to
him the network of tunnels and the subsidiary caves. The decision did not take
long. She excused her precipitate capitulation to the desire for every second
of his company she could glean by telling herself that he
could
not
betray her. He would be gone, probably forever, in two weeks. The only tunnel
she did not show him was the one that led to Bolliet Manor.

Philip was even happier than Megaera. He did not need to
fear the pain of any permanent separation—at least not if he survived his
mission to France. Although he did not define to himself exactly how he would
maintain the relationship between himself and Meg, he did not spend much time
worrying about it either. He would “arrange something”. Many men he knew kept a
mistress in high style. Why should he not do so also? In any case the problem
was at a distance. He reveled in Meg’s company in the present and looked
forward with anticipation to the future. When he had done his duty to England,
he would come back and make some settlement that would make Megaera his
forever.

The only shadow on Philip’s picture of a perfect future was
his fear concerning Meg’s activities. More and more often as he laughed with
her or loved her he would remember there had been an attack on her. And there
was the ever-present danger that local Customs officers might be forced into
making an arrest, or that London would initiate another cleanup of smugglers
like that of 1802. He tried to convince her to give up the trade or at least
suspend operations until he returned, but he met a blank wall. Although she was
deeply moved by Philip’s concern for her safety, Megaera had her own duty,
which was saving Bolliet.

Most of the time these shadows and the awkward places where
conversation touched on the secret spots in each life did not in the least mar
the joy Philip and Megaera felt. They discovered similarities in outlook and
interests that should have raised the strongest doubts in each mind about the
genuineness of the other’s role. Instead both marveled at the wonder of meeting
a person whose finer nature had triumphed over an unsavory background.

They worked during the early hours of the dark, making a
quicker job of it with two men moving the kegs and cases of bottles. Philip was
at first puzzled by the fact that Meg stayed out of sight so carefully, even
sending John to collect payments. Then he called himself a fool. John was
awe-inspiring; Meg was not. Just one look at the big deaf-mute gave customers a
marked disinclination to hesitate, argue, or cheat about payment. John could
not be questioned or threatened. For those who knew a woman ran the gang,
seeing John gave the impression that any woman who could manage him must be a
fierce Amazon. Those who did not know would assume a powerful and brutal male
leader. Altogether it was a logical move, and it never crossed Philip’s mind
that Meg concealed herself because her customers might recognize her as a
social equal.

When business was finished, pleasure reigned supreme. John
was left at the cave to disperse the ponies to their fields or stabling, and
Megaera and Philip rode cross country and climbed the back slope to the ruined
house on the cliff. Generally Megaera brought food from the cave, which had
come earlier from the kitchens of Bolliet Manor. Sometimes Philip purchased
some from an inn. They ate and talked and made love. At first light, Megaera
would leave. She never permitted Philip to accompany her, because she did not
wish to explain why she went into the cave and never came out.

After her first refusal Philip did not ask again. Their two
weeks were too precious to spoil with arguments about anything. It would be
soon enough, when he returned, to invade Meg’s privacy to discover what he
would need to offer her in cash and security to wean her from her unsavory
profession. He had not forgotten that she said a desperate need for money had
driven her into smuggling, but he expected that his task would be made much
easier by being able to reveal the truth about himself.

Usually Philip was too grateful to be allowed to sleep off
his hard work and hard lovemaking in the warm bed, which was still faintly
scented with Meg’s sweet body, to resent being excluded from part of Meg’s
life. He felt a little guilty, because he was aware that she must be as limp
with sexual satiety as he was, but it was her decision to go alone.

Insensibly the days flew by until the last. Megaera had
thought of canceling her deliveries for that night, but she did not dare
because she felt that any break in the routine would make the pain of parting
more excruciating. Everything was as much the same as they could make it—except
for an occasional silence, and the fact that neither wished to eat the
customary supper. It was after they got into bed that their mutual awareness of
parting became apparent. There was a ferocity about the way they claimed each
other, and both seemed insatiable.

Since that first night in Falmouth there had been no
exigency about their lovemaking. Sometimes they coupled when they first got
into bed, but as often that was only a time for sleepy fondling and soft,
loving words. Sex came later, after a few hours of sleep or sometimes not until
morning, when both were rested. This last night was different. They united
explosively as soon as they had torn off their clothing, but Megaera did not
release Philip after climax. As she had that first time, she clung to him and,
as he had that first time, Philip did not fail her.

Exhaustion claimed them both after that, but not for long.
Again, as on that first night, each was constantly aware of the other’s
presence, but there the similarity ended. In Falmouth there had been peace in
the awareness; now it was like the effect of strong drink on a high fever. As
soon as his body would rouse, Philip was all over Megaera again—and she
received him as if she had not touched a man in years. Both knew they were
behaving foolishly, that flogging their bodies into orgasm after orgasm could
not keep the hunger and loneliness of the future at bay, but neither could
stop. Even when it was no longer possible to distinguish whether climax was
pain or pleasure, they touched and caressed and coupled.

Light brought sanity. In the dawn their last caresses were
tender rather than passionate, Philip whispering assurance to Meg that he would
return as soon as he could, Megaera replying that she would wait forever. In
the stress of the moment she had forgotten Mrs. Edward Devoran completely. She
was all Red Meg, all simple, direct woman. Philip was her man and she was his
woman and there was no consciousness of class or birth.

“When I come,” Philip said, “I will leave a message for you
in the cave, if you are not there.”

“Leave a message for me?” Megaera repeated blankly. “But
won’t you come ashore with the kegs? I will be on the beach.”

“I—” Philip started to say that he might not return by sea,
and swallowed the words. “I might not be able to do that,” he said. Then,
hurriedly, “Do not lose hope, Meg, if it takes long. I
will
come. If I
am alive, I will come.”

“Alive?” she breathed. “Why should you say—”

He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “Only because my duty may
take a long time to discharge. And I know you will begin to wonder whether I
have forgotten you. Never think it, Meg. It may be many months, but I will come
I will never forget you. Will you wait for me?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him in the pale light of dawn. He appeared
more tired than when they had gone to bed—which was not surprising. His large,
dark eyes looked anxiously at her from under lids heavy with lack of sleep.
They were ringed with mauve, and his cheeks appeared hollow under the heavy
black stubble of beard. Usually Philip shaved when they returned to the house
after delivering the orders. Megaera enjoyed watching him and liked the faint
odor of shaving soap that clung to him. Last night he had not bothered because
of their eagerness to make love.