The Smuggler and the Society Bride (5 page)

After a month of living burdened by the weight of scandal and disapprobation, a giddy sense of freedom made her spirits soar. Laughing, she ran in circles about the meadow, whooping with the sheer joy of being alive and startling a peregrine falcon into taking flight in a reproachful flurry of wings.

Of course, she couldn't remain here hiding under a false name forever. But that harmless bit of subterfuge would provide a welcome respite, allowing her to move about freely while she figured out what to do next.

Even if ‘next' was returning to Stanegate, being pressed to marry some obscure connection in the farthest hinterlands who could be induced to take a woman of large dowry and stained reputation, or living quietly on her own somewhere, forever banished from Society.

She shrugged off those dreary possibilities to be dealt with later. For now, it was enough just to anticipate the simple pleasure of a ride into town and the paying of an uncomplicated call upon the vicar.

Her buoyant sense of optimism persisted as she returned to the manor to seek out her aunt, whom she found bent over a book in her sitting room. ‘Aunt Foxe, might I borrow your mare? I've so enjoyed the primroses Eva Steavens gave me yesterday, I thought to go ask the vicar if I might transplant some from a patch Mrs Dawes tells me grows by St Christopher's.'

‘Of course, my dear. The ride would do both you and Mischief good. I'm so glad to see your spirits reviving! While in the village, you should shop for some trifles and stop for a glass of Mrs Kessel's cider. It's not right for a lovely, lively young girl to live in a hermit's isolation.'

Her aunt's words made Honoria wonder again why Miss Foxe—and at an age not much older than her own—had chosen to live in just such isolation. However, the inquiry still seemed too invasive of her aunt's privacy to pose at present.

‘“Miss Marie Foxe” need not fear visiting the village,' she said instead. ‘Thank you for allowing me that little deception.'

Her aunt nodded. ‘Your name will still be yours, once you've decided how and where you wish to resume it.'

‘May I ride into village immediately?' A sudden thought struck her and she frowned. ‘Although I suppose I shall have to wait until later. The footmen are all occupied, and Tamsyn has not yet finished her duties.'

‘Even Lady Honoria need not worry about riding unescorted here,' her aunt said. ‘Especially not on my mare, which is everywhere recognized. I wouldn't advise that you ride alone
after dark, or even in daylight past the kiddleywinks—the local beer halls—down by the harbour, where the miners congregate. 'Tis a hard life, and many seek to soften its edges with drink. Men whose wits—or morals—are dulled by spirits are unpredictable and possibly dangerous.'

‘I shall go at once, then, and take care to avoid the harbour.'

‘Could you discharge some small commissions for me? I've an order to deliver to the draper and several letters waiting at the post.'

‘Of course, Aunt Foxe.'

‘Enjoy your ride, then, dear. I will see you at dinner.'

Honoria set off a short time later in high good spirits. Her aunt's equally spirited mare, once given her head, seemed as delighted as Honoria to begin with a good gallop. Urging the animal on, revelling in the sweet, sun-scented air rushing past her, Honoria savoured the simple joy of being young and outside on a glorious early summer day as if she'd never experienced it before.

Perhaps, in a way, she hadn't. Until a month ago, a carefree canter through the countryside had been so ordinary an event she would never have thought to take note of it. How shortsighted she had been to prize it so little!

She slowed the mare to a trot along the route the carriage had followed yesterday, her anticipation heightening as she approached the village. Though she tried to tell herself she was only mildly curious about him, she found herself hoping that during her time in Sennlack, she would encounter one charming Irish free-trader.

A
short time later, Honoria pulled up the mare before the vicarage. She was about to ring the bell when she spied Father Gryffd in the distance, descending the church steps.

‘Miss Foxe, how nice to see you,' he said, walking over to meet her. ‘Won't you step in to the vicarage and let me offer you some tea?'

‘Thank you, Father, but I have several commissions to complete for my aunt. I wished to inquire about primroses. After speaking with Mrs Dawes, I believe Eva Steavens may have found the flowers near your brook.'

The vicar nodded. ‘I seem to remember a riot of them blooming there when I walked by last week.'

‘If there are enough, would you permit me to carry some home?'

‘Of course. Help yourself to as many as you wish. I must say, I am glad you stopped by. Might I walk along with you for a bit? It so happens that I've been thinking about you.'

Dread twisted in her gut as the prospect of discovery flashed through her mind. ‘Of course,' she managed through a suddenly dry throat.

He fell into step beside her. ‘I have a project in mind I've been thinking of implementing for some time. If you could lend
a hand during your stay with Miss Foxe, I might be able to begin it.'

Relief washed through Honoria. ‘What sort of project?'

‘Since the old master retired, there's not been a school in the village. Some of the boys attend grammar school in St Just, but there's nothing for the girls. I've been wanting to establish one in which they might be taught to read and write and do simple sums. Despite what some might think, with mines and manufacturers hiring both sexes, it's as necessary for females as it is for the boys to understand the words on an employment list or to total their wages correctly. And to read their Bible, of course, should they earn enough to purchase one.'

‘Why, Father Gryffd, I believe you are a Methodist!'

A light flush coloured the vicar's cheeks. ‘I had the honour of hearing a disciple of Charles Wesley speak once, and was much struck by his message to do as much good to as many as one can. A directive I have tried to implement.'

‘Establishing a school for girls would do much good,' Honoria said, immediately drawn to anything that would better the lot of females. ‘How can I help?'

‘I know you are well educated—and kind, judging by your treatment of Eva Steavens. Would you consent to helping the girls learn their letters? I'm sure they would admire you as much as Eva does and put forth their best efforts, in order to earn your approval.'

She, the bane of several governesses—to become a sort of schoolmistress? She suppressed a giggle at the thought.

Misinterpreting her silence, the vicar went on quickly, ‘You might think such a task below your station, but truly it is but a variation on the service genteel ladies have always performed in making calls upon the poor.'

Given her present circumstances, not much would be considered beneath her station, Honoria thought. ‘Indeed, I know it is not!' she assured him, smiling at the irony of it.

At this hour, Lady Honoria Carlow, Diamond of the Ton, would usually have been yawning over her chocolate while she flipped through a stack of invitations, all begging her presence at the most select functions offered by Society. She would have dressed, and paid calls and shopped, later stopping each evening at several events where she would be trailed by a crowd of admiring gentlemen and a bevy of ladies anxious to divert a share of those gentlemen's attentions.

If anyone had suggested that in a few short weeks she would count it a blessing to fill her idle hours assisting a bespectacled Welsh vicar to teach a passel of grubby Cornish children their letters, she would have laughed herself silly.

Even though, if one truly considered the matter, helping children learn to read was far more worthy of her time than listening to a buxom soprano sing arias or some infatuated moonling intone bad verses to her eyebrows.

As worthwhile as attempting to rescue a drowning man, she thought, feeling again the glow of satisfaction that had warmed her after that effort.

Offering village girls the gift of literacy would give them a bit more control over lives now wholly controlled by men. To females even more dependent for their welfare upon the whims of that gender than she was, that was a precious gift indeed.

She'd already decided to agree when the thought struck her. ‘Will Eva Steavens be able to attend?'

The vicar considered the question. ‘I don't see why not. The other children might tease her, though—or their parents might object.'

Honoria recalled the disagreeable man at church who had snarled at the child. ‘Are Mr John Kessel's views widely held?'

Father Gryffd sighed. ‘I'm afraid they are more widespread than a good Christian would like.'

Trying to alter deeply ingrained prejudices would be a difficult task, she suspected. ‘What if Eva were to come after the other children went home?'

‘We don't know that she'd be responsive to teaching,' the vicar reminded her gently.

‘But you said yourself you don't believe her to be a halfwit. Certainly she communicates with her mother, albeit in a way none but the two of them understands. I think she might be very quick to learn.'

The vicar nodded. ‘She might well be, and you are correct to remind me it is Eva's welfare, rather than the townspeople's prejudices, with which we should concern ourselves. I am willing to try, if you are. After you've dug your flowers, would you like to accompany me to the Gull's Roost? Eva's sister Laurie works there. We could ask her about Eva attending the school while I offer you a mug of cider as my thanks for agreeing to help with the children. And you should still have time to complete your commissions for Miss Foxe.'

Honoria smiled. ‘That sounds delightful.'

 

And so it was, after digging up several prime specimens of primroses and having the vicar's housekeeper wrap them in newsprint for the transit back to Foxeden, Honoria found herself walking with the vicar into the tap room of the Gull's Roost.

With its low-timbered roof, wide hearth, kegs of ale by the bar and the luscious scent of roasting meat emanating from the kitchen, the inn reminded her of those she'd visited in the villages near Stanegate Court.

Mr Kessel hurried over to greet them, calling for the barmaid to bring a mug of ale for the vicar and a glass of cider for the lady. After a few minutes' chat, Father Gryffd asked if the innkeeper might spare Laurie Steavens for a moment, as he wished to speak with her.

Mr Kessel stiffened. ‘If you're wanting to chastise her, I promise you, I got nothing to do—'

‘No, not at all!' the vicar interrupted. ‘I hope you think better of me than to believe I would take you to task for another's failings.'

The innkeeper's face reddened. ‘Aye, you're right. My apologies, Father. I'll get the wife to fetch Laurie for you. Sadie,' he called to the barmaid, ‘see that you keep their mugs filled.'

With a bow, the innkeeper went off to the kitchen. A few minutes later, wiping her reddened hands on an apron, a girl entered the tap room. Slender but lushly curved, with blonde hair and a matching set of bright blue eyes, there was a sweetness about her face that reminded Honoria of her little sister.

After looking Laurie up and down with a disdainful sniff, the barmaid walked out.

‘You wanted to see me, Father Gryffd?' the girl asked, her face guarded.

‘Yes, Laurie. I wanted to ask about Eva.'

Then Laurie's eyes widened in concern. ‘Nothing done happened to her, did it?'

‘No, she's fine,' Father Gryffd assured her. ‘At least, she was when I saw her after church yesterday.'

Laurie sighed with relief. ‘Thank goodness. Ever since the
Lizzie D
went down, I've worried about her every minute. Last week some of the village boys chased her, throwing stones.' After glancing over her shoulder, she added in a lowered voice, ‘Johnnie Kessel urged 'em to it, the varmint.'

As Honoria's dislike for the innkeeper's son deepened, the vicar shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, Laurie. I'll speak to him.'

The girl tossed her head. ‘You do that, vicar, though it won't do no good. Thinks he knows better 'n everybody. And won't let nothing or no one get in his way, neither. So, what did you want to say about Evie?'

‘I'm opening a school for the village girls and wanted your sister to attend—after the others have gone, perhaps, so she wouldn't be subjected to any unpleasantness. Would your mama agree? And do you think Eva would be, ah, receptive to learning?'

Laurie's face lit. ‘Evie would love it! She's so much smarter
than anybody hereabouts could credit! Ma would be thrilled to have her go—' she broke off suddenly, the smile fading ‘—but sorry, Father, we just can't afford it. I barely earn enough here to keep food on the table and the…other—' the girl lifted her chin, a defiant look on her face ‘—it don't pay regular.'

‘There won't be any charge, Laurie.'

The girl stared at them. ‘You'd let her come…for nuthin'?' she asked incredulously. ‘Why, when Maimie Crawford went to school in St Just, her da complained every time he stopped for a brew about how it cost the trees to keep her there!'

‘Fortunately, since Sennlack has so few of them, it won't cost the trees here,' Father Gryffd answered, smiling. ‘With Miss Foxe's help, I think I can manage without paying a teacher.'

Laurie gestured toward Honoria. ‘What does she know about my sister's…trouble?'

‘I met Eva at church yesterday,' Honoria replied.

Laurie gave her a speculative look. ‘And you're still willing to teach her? Why?'

‘She seemed very bright to me,' Honoria replied. ‘Deserving of the same chance to learn as the other girls.' She smiled. ‘And she gave me flowers.'

Laurie subjected her to a hard scrutiny. Honoria returned her stare without flinching.

Finally, Eva's sister nodded. ‘Don't see how you could—a rich, manor-born lady like you—but maybe you do understand. Thank you, then. You, too, Father.'

The vicar nodded. ‘We're all here to help each other, Laurie. There's a place in God's heart for everyone.'

The girl swallowed hard. ‘God and I ain't exactly been on speaking terms of late, Father, but if you're willing to do this for Evie, I might have to rethink that.'

The vicar smiled. ‘I hope you will. And you'll speak to your mother about Eva coming to school?'

‘Aye, I will. Best be getting back to work now, though.'

With another nod, the girl disappeared up the stairs. Turning to Honoria, the vicar said, ‘I ought to stop and check on Mr Kessel's ailing mother. Will you be all right waiting here, Miss Foxe, until I return?'

‘You needn't feel you must escort me back to the vicarage,' Honoria assured him. ‘Sennlack is small enough that I'll have no difficulty finding my way back to retrieve my horse after I complete Aunt Foxe's errands.'

After proposing that they discuss the school again after services the next Sunday, Father Gryffd thanked her for her help and walked out. Watching him go, Honoria reflected with amusement that, though the vicar had thanked her, it was really
he
who was doing
her
the kindness.

Satisfaction filled her at the thought that, while she was marooned here unscrambling her future, she might use such modest talents as she possessed to help other girls—especially Eva. Something about the little girl touched her heart, even beyond the fact that they had both been cast out of the societies into which they'd been born by circumstances over which neither had had any control.

She was surprised how cheering the idea of being useful was. She didn't think herself a particularly selfish person, but for all her life up to this point, she'd filled a role—daughter, sister, gentlewoman in the country, member of Society in London. She'd always been busy with a variety of activities—but never, that she could recall, with any tasks she would describe as being truly useful to anyone.

Since her ability to choose which role she would play in future had recently been drastically restricted, perhaps she ought to seek out other ways to be useful. Once her true identity was discovered, which was bound to happen eventually, Father Gryffd might have second thoughts about employing her to assist in a school for innocent girls.

She'd like to have accomplished something towards improving Eva's situation before that happened.

Sipping the last of her cider, she was wondering over her unexpected connection to an illiterate Cornish child when a deep, melodic voice tickled her ear, stirring every nerve as the sound resonated through her body.

‘Why, Miss Foxe! How delightful to see you again.'