The Miser's Sister (4 page)

“I must think so. They were asking for ten thousand pounds, which is just the amount of my dowry. He could not refuse to pay!”

“Of course not. I expect they will arrive tomorrow loaded with gold and escort you politely home. How happy and relieved your people will be to see you.”

“I suppose so. I daresay Godfrey will be in the boughs about the money, but he must have given it to me in the end anyway, when I marry Walter.” She trailed off, wondering how she could marry a penniless curate if she were to become equally penniless. Somehow the thought did not worry her. If she escaped her present fate, anything was possible.

Oliver was not anxious to contemplate her future wedded bliss with the unknown Walter.

“You have no father, I know,” he interjected hurriedly, scraping meanwhile at the mortar. “What of the rest of your family?”

The few people Ruth knew were all too aware of her family history. She had never been asked about it before and was unsure where to start.

“Well, there’s my brother, Godfrey, the sixth earl of Penderric. Godfrey is a year younger than I. My father always wanted his firstborn to be a son. Then there is my sister, Laetitia. She’s much younger, six years younger than Godfrey. My dearest mama died in childbirth when I was nine. Papa did not consider it necessary to call a midwife for her fourth confinement.

“I tried to teach Letty after that, but I did not know a great deal. I am a very ignorant person,” explained Ruth humbly. “Walter was astonished at my lack of learning, and he has lent me many books.”

“What sort of man was your father?” asked Oliver, irritated by the reappearance of Walter’s name.

“Godfrey is very like him. They both spoiled Letty dreadfully. They always let her have her own way, but they would not spend any money on her.”

Ruth took for granted her listener’s knowledge of her family’s miserly reputation. “After mama died, papa began to act very strangely, and then four years ago, when I was twenty-one, he
...
Maybe I should not tell you, but everyone knows it. He rode his horse off a cliff.”

“My poor dear!” Oliver dropped his makeshift tool and came to kneel beside her. “You must not tell me things that distress you, Ruth.”

She smiled up at him.

“You know, now that I’ve told you, it does nor seem so very dreadful after all. He was
...
he was never very kind to me, and it may shock you, but I did not mourn him at all. The country people were more surprised that he rode all the way to Strangles to do it than that he had done away with himself.”

“I expect he found the name appropriate. Is there really such a place?”

“Oh, yes. It is just a cove with steep cliffs, north of Boscastle. There is nothing there.”

Seeing that she was perfectly composed, Oliver went back to chipping at the mortar. It was falling away in chunks, and though the ring was still firmly fixed he knew it would not take long to free it.

He was appalled by her revelations, as much by what was unspoken as by what she had said. Her mother must have been an amazing woman to have fixed her daughter’s character so firmly in early youth. After fifteen years of misery and isolation, Ruth was still a captivating young woman. What had persuaded the sister of Sir John Hadrick to marry the late Lord Penderric? Of course, women often did choose to wed the queerest fish.

Ruth was lost in reverie. He hoped she was not dreaming of Walter.

The iron ring came loose and dropped to the ground with a clang. Ruth jumped.

“I’ve done it!” crowed Oliver. He whirled the chain in his hand. “And this ring will make a pretty fair weapon.

Ruth looked up at him with vicarious pride. He seemed a very tower of strength, and she felt she would trust him to the ends of the earth.

“You must go,” she urged. “Go quickly and get help.”

“I’m not at all sure that is the best plan,” he said thoughtfully. “Even if I can get out, I have no idea where we are, or which direction to take. Besides, I do not want to leave you alone here.”

“Suppose five or six men come next time. Or more. Even you could not take on so many at once, Oliver.”

“I’ll go and explore,” he compromised. “I shall have to do that in any case. I hate to leave you in the dark, but I shall be as quick as I can.”

He draped the chain over his arm, picked up the lamp, and set off toward the exit, clanking at every step. Ruth watched him go. In the dark, freedom seemed as far away as ever.

Around the corner from which the men had emerged, Oliver found a narrow passage leading upward. After a few yards, it veered right and began to climb steeply. The floor was uneven and littered with loose rocks, and he cursed as he stubbed his stockinged toes, wishing for his boots. At last he came to a blank wall.

Remembering Ruth’s words, he looked up. A trapdoor was clearly outlined in the ceiling, some three feet beyond his outstretched  fingertips. Undeterred, he retraced his route.

“Nothing that way,” he announced cheerfully as he passed Ruth.

He went on down the sandy, sloping floor of the cave, then paused, held the lamp high, and whistled.

“Brandy!” he called back. “Twenty, maybe thirty kegs. And lots of boxes and chests. Aha! My boots!”

Sitting on the nearest chest, he pulled them to him, then realised that he could not put on the left one over the chain. With a sigh, he decided that no boots was preferable to one boot. His feet were cold.

He looked around. The barrels were about two feet high. If he could carry two of them to the trapdoor, he would be able to reach it easily. Turning one on its side, he picked it up, surprised at its weight. He could manage it, but it took both hands, and he would have to abandon the lamp. Setting the barrel down again, he decided to roll it one-handed up the incline. It moved easily and sloshed with a pleasantly suggestive sound.

He stopped when he reached Ruth, who had stood up to see what he was doing, and explained his idea.

“I had thought of knocking the top off one of them and helping ourselves to a warming cupful, but if we have to wait for our kidnappers they might smell it and be warned.”

“I don’t think I could drink brandy anyway,” said Ruth dubiously. “I’ve never had anything stronger than cider, and if I was foxed, I fear I would not be of much assistance.”

“Depends if you’re drunk as a wheelbarrow or merely bosky. What do you think makes the Scots and Irish so belligerent?”

“Whisky? Oh, you are bamming me, aren’t you?” she asked  uncertainly. Quite unused to being teased, she was at a loss how to react. She continued, “Is it not difficult to move that with one hand? I wish I might hold the lantern for you.”

“If wishes were horses I’d not have this chain on my leg,” he grimaced. “Well, on with the job.”

The corridor proved more difficult to negotiate. In the end he set the lamp on a knob of rock at the bend and carried the barrel. Then he went back for a second and balanced it on top. For a moment he thought he would have to fetch a third, for a step. Rubbing his aching back with a groan, he tried one last effort. The weight of the kegs made his structure fairly stable, and at last he found himself within reach of the trapdoor.

It was immovable.

Back went the barrels to their storage place. As he swept the sand with his coat to remove the marks he had made, there was a thunderous boom behind him. He jumped a mile, then saw Ruth laughing at him. She had been alarmingly wan and subdued for some minutes so he was glad, even though her amusement was at his expense.

“It’s the sea in the bottom cave,” she explained. “The first few waves to enter as the tide rises always do that. It terrified me at first, too.”

“I thought one of the barrels had exploded,” he confessed sheepishly, “or some hidden store of powder. Bother. I was going to explore that cave next.”

“There is no way out, even by boat, they said. This is just an emergency storage place.”

“I’ll just take a look. I am sorry, but I must leave you in the dark again.”

She smiled her acceptance of his apology. “Please take care.”

It took Oliver several minutes to find the way. A side passage sloped down steeply until it became a vertical shaft. Peering down it, he saw that it was too narrow for him to pass. Then a shock of salt spray wet his face, and he realised it was too late anyway. High tide. Would they come for Ruth on the next ebb?

Chapter 4

“There’s no escape that way at present,” Oliver confirmed, returning to Ruth. “Don’t despair, I have a plan, and I never intended to leave you anyway.”

He explained his plan and went over just what he wanted Ruth to do. So positive and convincing was he that without much difficulty she was able to banish doubt and foreboding.

He had brought the lamp close to the place where she was chained, and in its glimmering light she watched his face. In repose it was sleepy, good-natured, and a little foolish, but when intent or enthusiastic, it lit up, and the intelligence behind those heavy lids became plain. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a particularly attractive way. Ruth thought him in his late twenties, perhaps thirty. With an unexpected pang, she wondered if he was married and cast her mind back over their previous conversation. Did he not live still in his father’s house? He had not mentioned a wife, certainly. Not that it concerned her. His behaviour was that of an affectionate and solicitous brother, and besides, she was betrothed to Walter.

For his part, Oliver was shocked by her emaciation. She must have been thin even before a week of eating nothing but bread and water, he thought, and now she appeared on the point of starvation. How she could keep her spirits up in such a condition was a mystery to him. Her strength of spirit shone through her pinched face, but he must doubt whether her physical strength would be of any assistance in their escape. How fortunate that he was strong enough for two! He would easily be able to carry her easily.

The next few hours seemed endless. Oliver talked about his family, his childhood, his work, the places he had been, and the people he had met. Ruth knew he was trying to distract her thoughts from the coming confrontation with their kidnappers. She valiantly played her part, posing questions and offering comments. She found his stories fascinating, a glimpse into an unknown world, and did not have to pretend interest, though now and then the sucking roar of a wave withdrawing from the cave below made her shudder involuntarily. Would the next ebb tide carry her limp and lifeless body?

Periodically Oliver would pace around their prison to loosen his cramped muscles. He made Ruth exercise a little on the end of her chain, just to set the blood flowing, he said. Then he would stand still and swing his own chain, getting the feel of its length and weight, and the way it interfered with his movements.

“I could make a fair cudgel with some of that stuff,” he told her, waving at the smugglers’ treasure trove, “but this would still get in my way. It’d probably tie my ankles together at quite the wrong moment. Besides, now I have the hang of it I think it will wreak far more destruction, and they will not know how to counter it, I hope. It is not a commonplace weapon.”

At last the sound of the waves retreated to a muted thunder. Oliver returned the lamp to its usual place and arranged himself so that a casual glance would show him still firmly attached to the rocky wall. Close inspection might lead to premature discovery, but he hoped the villains would be intent on their nefarious designs toward Ruth.

He took her hand in a comforting clasp, and they sat in tense silence. The lamp was flickering, and Ruth was beginning to think her ordeal must be planned for the following low tide, when they heard the distant crash of the trapdoor opening.

Ruth strained her ears.

“There are several,” she whispered, “but I think not more than four. Oliver
...
”

Her grasp on his hand was convulsive. He hugged her gently and kissed her forehead.

“Be brave.”

The heavy tread approached. Jem appeared, followed by two of the men who had helped capture Oliver. There was a brief pause, and Ruth held her breath; then the decrepit ancient tottered in. Four. And one of them, she hoped, incompetent.

Jem surveyed the two of them with grim satisfaction.

“Time’s up, my lady. Nary a penny from thet clutch-fisted brother o’ yourn. And you,” he turned to Oliver, “when us be done wi’ her, ye can write a nice letter home telling what comes to them as don’t raise the ready.”

He took a key from his pocket, handed it to one of his ruffians, and pulled a pistol from his belt. The two smugglers started toward Ruth.

She could tell that despite his resolve to keep calm, Oliver’s wrath was only partly feigned and his threatening move was only partly acting.

“Freeze, you, or I’ll zend a bullet through yer lady friend’s belly,” came Jem’s harsh voice. The pistol pointed unwaveringly at her.

She put her hand on Oliver’s arm and stood with quiet dignity as rough hands unlocked the ring from her ankle. He sank to the ground in apparent despair as they dragged her beyond his reach and down the sandy slope away from him. Face sunk in his hands, he watched between his fingers as they reached the cleft in the rock wall. Jem was following them.

“Oliver!”

Ruth’s despairing cry reached him right on cue. He rose to his feet and began to curse Jem, insulting his ancestry and manhood in a way that would have roused a saint. Jem returned toward him, his face suffused with fury.

Oliver erupted, chain whirling. The smugglers’ leader, aghast, had time for one shot before the heavy iron ring caught him on the forehead and he went down with a cry. The bullet grazed Oliver’s shoulder and ricocheted among the rocks behind him.

The old man, cowering by the lamp he had been filling, presented no threat. As Oliver turned to him, he gave a feeble shriek and scuttled down the cave to hide among the barrels and chests. However, one of the others had abandoned Ruth and was returning at a lumbering run, cudgel waving.

It was the larger of the two, almost as tall as Oliver, and burly. He parried the swing of the chain with his heavy stick and closed in to fight.