The Miser's Sister (3 page)

“What a rabbit warren,” Oliver complained.

“Aye,” agreed Bob. “Only the one road, down one hill to the harbor, then back up t’other side. Valley’s so narrow and steep I suppose this was the easiest way to build.”

“It’s attractive, if inconvenient,” Oliver replied. The sun reflected warmly from the rows of whitewashed stone cottages; nooks and crannies everywhere still glowed with marigolds and pansies in this southernmost corner of the realm. A series of steps led them to a height whence they could look down over the harbour with its fishing boats.

“The mackerel boats go out as the lobster men come,” explained Bob.

“And the smugglers?” queried Oliver.

“Doing badly since the war ended and brandy is imported legally. Not worth their while bringing it round here, adding to the cost, when Kent and Sussex are so close to France.”

“I suppose now it’s available, most people prefer it legal even if it costs more. Also, I think some ex-Navy ships and men have been transferred to the Excise. Pity. Cornwall is a romantic setting for the Gentlemen, more so than the Sussex marshes, if less practical.”

“Nothing romantic about it,” grunted Bob. “Dangerous men and not averse to a bit of wrecking when times are slow. Preventives are always welcome in my house.”

They walked on.

“Should’ve warned you about Auntie,” said Bob abruptly. “Whole village thinks she’s mad as Penderric. All worship her, though. Always a helping hand.”

“A little eccentric, perhaps, but I liked her enormously,” Oliver assured him. “Is she really eighty-five?”

“I think so.” He grinned suddenly. “She took a fancy to you, dear boy. She’s always on the look-out for a new beau.”

“I’m flattered.”

* * * *

At the Scrimshaw Inn, a pair of unattractive horses were set to Oliver’s curricle. Looking at the long, steep hill ahead, he hoped they would reach the top in a condition to take him as far as Wadebridge and the nearest post-house. He made his adieux and set off.

In the end he walked most of the hill to save his team. With only the light curricle behind them they attained the summit in reasonable shape. Oliver was glad to see that the road was not buried between high walls and hedges. There was close-cropped turf on each side, with patches of heather and furze and occasional sheets of rock. Sheep wandered everywhere, moving off the track with a frightened scuttle or dreamy slowness as he approached.

He soon realised that the apparently open road was misleading. Every few hundred yards it was blocked by a gate, where a wall crossed it at right angles. He had to jump down, open the gate, lead the horses through, and beg them to stand still while he ran back to close it. Fortunately, they showed no disposition to leave without him. In fact, at the fifth gate he forgot to close it and tried to urge them on only to find that they refused to budge an inch until they heard it click behind them. He wondered what could have possessed him to leave home without his groom.

At the seventh or eighth stop (he had lost count by then), there were a few stunted trees leaning rheumatically away from the onshore winds and sheltering a stone trough. Oliver was feeling hot and sticky, so before tackling the gate he went to splash his face with the clear water. The horses whickered nervously, and he looked up to see a villainously mustachioed man jump over the wall and run to their heads, followed in short order by four more. Three bore cudgels and the fourth a horse-pistol, which he waved threateningly as they advanced on Oliver.

Oliver’s pistols were, of course, in the curricle.

“Be you Oliver Pardoe?” the man with the gun demanded.

“What’s it to you?” he countered, startled.

The leader looked somewhat taken aback.

“Well, be you?” he persisted. Oliver was silent. Only one of the ruffians was near him in size, but their advantages were all too obvious. “The cap’n zignalled,” the man said dubiously to his colleagues. Then he appeared to make up his mind. “Ye’ll have to come along o’ we.”

“I cannot prevent you from taking my money,” said Oliver with outward calm, “but I do not see why you want my company.”

“Niver you mind,” growled the leader. He motioned, and two of the others closed in on either side.

Oliver was not easily provoked to violence, and in this case it seemed useless anyway. Yet he could not tamely submit to being abducted by these rogues. He fought.

He fought well. Two of his assailants went down, and the man by the horses was coming to the aid of the remaining pair when a cudgel met the back of his head and he sank to the ground.

“Handy with his dukes!” was the last thing he heard.

Chapter 3

Oliver awoke in near darkness and wondered where he was. His bed seemed excessively hard, and his head was so painful that he shut his eyes again quickly before catching more than an impression of gloom.

He groaned.

Miraculously, a gentle hand descended on his brow.

“Are you awake?” asked a soft, feminine voice anxiously.

“I think so,” he replied with extreme caution.

The owner of the voice burst into tears.

“I was afraid you were dead,” she sobbed. “You haven’t moved since those dreadful men brought you here.”

Memory began to return.

“How long ago was that? Where the devil are we? And who are you?” He opened his eyes. Rough, rocky walls stretched into the darkness, dimly illuminated by an oil lamp hanging some fifteen feet distant. His head warned him not to sit up.

The sobs had already subsided to an occasional sniff.

“I think it was just one tide ago, but I cannot be sure for I sometimes fall asleep. We are in a cave, I don’t know where. And I am Ruth Penderric. Who are you?”

“Oliver Pardoe, Miss Penderric. Next question: Who are those men? Why did they bring us here?”

“They are smugglers, and they want ransom for us,” answered Ruth with valiant composure.

“Miss Penderric, I must congratulate you on the clarity of your responses under these trying conditions. Wait a bit
...
Penderric
...
Lady Ruth!” Ignoring his splitting head, he raised himself to look at her. In the flickering lamplight little was visible but a pair of frightened dark eyes in a pale face.

He reached out and took her hand. As he moved there was a metallic clank and a tug on his ankle.

“You are chained to the wall,” said Ruth, “like me. There’s no way out.” She clung to his hand, and he became aware that she was shivering. “I saved you some bread and water. Not very hospitable, I fear, but it’s all there is. Would you like it now?”

“In a moment,” he replied absently. “My lady, you mentioned the tide. Surely it does not enter this cave?”

“No, there is another cave below here that is quite filled up at high tide.” She paused, then faltered, “If my brother does not pay my ransom soon, they will put me down there to drown, they said.”

Oliver took the slight figure in his arms and held her until she stopped shaking, murmuring reassurance.

“Things look bad,” he admitted, “but don’t be afraid. I shall find a way to escape. Trust me.” He was far from believing his own words.

Ruth laughed tremulously.

“You are so very large that it is easy to have confidence in you.”

She freed herself from his arms but remained close to him. How thin she was! Oliver resolved to ignore the gaping pit beneath his waistband. When she pulled from a cranny in the rock a hunk of stale bread, wrapped carefully in a scrap of cloth, he shook his head.

“I am not hungry. You must eat, my lady, to keep up your strength for our escape.”

“Pray call me Ruth, sir. I cannot feel that this is a moment to stand upon ceremony.”

“Ruth, then. Eat. And I am Oliver.” Again he spoke absently. In spite of his lack of hope, he must investigate his surroundings and not tamely await his fate. Remembering his last attempt at resistance, he fingered the lump on his head. It was sore, but the sickening pain was gone.

His companion in misfortune was nibbling on the bread. The chain running from her ankle to the wall was easier for him to reach than his own, so he started examining it. In this damp, salt-laden air, it might well be rusted through.

He was to be disappointed. The links were bright, apparently newly forged. It was locked securely at one end onto one of the daintiest ankles of his acquaintance, and at the other to a huge ring that had obviously been recently mortared to the rock. The mortar was set as hard as stone. He turned his attention to his own chain.

It was as shiny as Ruth’s and as firmly attached to his leg. His boots had been removed, he noted with a sigh. Then his eyes brightened as he saw that the ring in the wall showed signs of rust. He studied it closely.

The iron was strong beneath its brown coating. He was turning from it in disappointment when the mortar in which it was set caught his eye. A crack!

“Ruth, look!”—as though she had not watched his every move—“It’s hard to see in this light, but there is a great crack in the mortar, and I think a maze of fine cracks, and—yes! It’s crumbling at the edges!”

Her lips twitched at the triumph in his voice, even as hope stirred unwillingly in her heart. Joining him, she peered at the spot. The light had dimmed, and she could not see anything clearly. Suddenly the lamp produced a last flare and went out.

Startled, Oliver grasped her arm. In the pitch blackness the sound of their breathing seemed loud, and he could hear the repetitive thunder of waves not far away.

“Never mind,” he said grimly, “I can work on it in the dark. Can you find that tin cup you had? It will make a good tool.”

“I can find it, but you had better not begin yet. The old man usually comes with food soon after the lamp goes out, and he might notice. Do you really think you can
...
”

“I’m sure of it. When mortar begins to crumble like that it has already lost most of its strength. Too much lime in the mix. I am a bit of an engineer,” he added in explanation of his technical knowledge.

“Like Mr Trevithick? Walter gave me a pamphlet about his inventions. He called them ‘abominations,’ but I confess I should like to see the steam engines. Are you an inventor?”

At the mention of Walter, Oliver let go her hand, which he had been holding in a companionable way. Though it all seemed long ago and far away, he rather thought Auntie had mentioned a betrothal.

“Not precisely,” he said. “A student and admirer, rather. My father likes to invest in the development of new machines, so I have studied the art and know a little about everything. I do have a workshop at home, and I have built a few models for the experts to demolish with a word.”

“I wish I could see them. Do you live in London?”

“Yes. My father is a banker and prefers to live close to his offices, though he spends little time there now. Both he and my mother are Londoners born and bred. Come to that, so am I, and Rose, my sister. Only after travelling all over Britain, I have come to believe I should like to live in the country eventually.”

“I’ve never been anywhere,” Ruth told him enviously. “Just once to Plymouth when mama was
...
Listen!”

A crash in the distance was followed by several thuds, a voice cursing hoarsely, and another crash.

“There’s more than one coming,” whispered Ruth. She sought for and found his hand, and his arm crept round her shoulders. “It’s not a week; oh, it can’t be a week!”

They heard footsteps approaching, and then there was a glimmer of light behind a projecting outcrop. Round it strode the man who had carried the pistol at Oliver’s capture, followed by a ragged ancient with a limp.

“Zee, Jem, here they be zafe and zound,” the old man whined.

Jem cuffed him, and he stumbled away to pour oil into their lamp and relight it.

“Zo, ye woke up at last.” Jem set down his lantern and surveyed them, hands on hips. “Cap’n zays yer pa got the ransom note a’ready and us’ll zoon be rich men. But you now, missy—beg pardon,
my lady
.” He swung toward Ruth with a sneer. “Yer miserly brother don’t zeem zo keen to have you back. One day more the cap’n’ll give him to choose atween his zister and his gold. Then down ye goes.”

Ruth could not suppress a shudder. The man leered evilly at her.

“And who knaws but wot us’ll have a bit o’ fun afore ye goes. Though ye bain’t much more nor skin and bones.”

Oliver was trembling with fury. Ruth felt the muscles in his arm tense and prayed that he would not attempt any useless gesture of defiance. Her legs had turned to jelly and only his support kept her on her feet, but she was determined not to display her weakness before her contemptuous captor. They stood in silence, looking at him.

The old man tugged at Jem’s sleeve.

“Jem, Jem lad, be ye really agoing to drownd the poor young lady? Jem, don’t do it. Think on yer poor ma and don’t do it.”

“I’ll do as Cap’n Cleeve zees fit to decide,” snarled Jem, “and ye’d best do likewise if ye knaws which zide yer bread is buttered.”

“Bain’t zeen butter in a year and more,” snivelled the decrepit creature. “Here’s yer bread, zir.”

He shuffled forward and struggled to pull a loaf from a grimy sack. Oliver momentarily considered seizing him as a hostage, but a glance at Jem’s face convinced him that it would do no good.

The old man finished his tasks and picked up the lantern. He was muttering inaudibly to himself.

“Till tomorrow, my lady,” promised Jem softly, and they departed.

Ruth and Oliver waited until they heard a crash, a pause, and a second crash.

“It’s a trap door,” said Ruth. “I think I had better sit down.”

He took her face in his hands.

“Jem and Captain Cleeve—do not forget those names.” Ruth was startled by the intensity of the anger in his eyes. “We’ll get away, don’t worry, but I’ll see them both hang for what they are doing to you, if it takes the rest of my life.”

They ate a little bread, drank some water, and then Oliver ruthlessly crushed the tin cup.

“We’ll have to drink from the pitcher,” he apologised, his usual cheerfulness restored. “I must go to work on that mortar. I want plenty of time to explore before they return. Tell me, do you think the note to your brother went astray?”