The House at Bell Orchard Read online

  Charmian looked out through the open doorway of the barn at the green countryside, misted with falling rain. It was difficult to connect that gentle prospect with thoughts of battle and armed rebellion.

  “Bloodshed?” she repeated. “Here?”

  “Perhaps,” Piers said quietly. “When the Pretender strikes I think he will do so in Scotland, as his father did, for the Highland clans are his most loyal adherents, but if he comes with French aid, the Jacobites in England and Wales may rise also. Remember that the greater part of our army is still in Flanders.” He rose to his feet and walked across to the door and stood looking out. “Civil war, Miss Tarrant! Englishmen fighting their friends and kinsmen, as they did a century ago! That is what I think of, the suffering of ordinary folk, rather than of the rights of kings and princes. That is what I would do anything in my power to avert.”

  There was silence for a space, broken only by the patter of the raindrops and the restless movements of the horse tethered in the far corner of the barn. Charmian’s thoughts spun anxiously, as she considered Piers’ words, and remembered her father, who had poured his whole fortune into the Stuart cause, and for what? That men might fight and die, and their womenfolk be left, lonely and bereaved, to weep for them as she had wept for him? She looked across at Piers, glad now of the circumstances which had given them this chance to talk, and grateful that he had unwittingly resolved her doubts and fears. She must tell him what she knew; it was her clear duty.

  “Sir Piers,” she said abruptly, before her resolution had time to fade, “you say you are puzzled to know what becomes of these men whom the smugglers bring ashore. Suppose they were guided to a house where they could be sure of aid and protection, and of being provided with the means to continue their journey?” She hesitated for just one moment longer, and then took the step which could never be retraced. “To Bell Orchard, for instance.”

  At her first words he had turned to face her, but with all the light behind him, she could not see his expression. She expected some positive reaction to her words, astonishment, incredulity, perhaps even anger at such an accusation, but none of these came. Piers shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and even faintly amused.

  “A plausible theory, Miss Tarrant, and one which had already occurred to me—if there were any house near here which might fill the part you suggest. Bell Orchard certainly does not.”

  “How can you say so? It stands alone and close to the shore, so that there are a dozen ways in which one may approach unobserved from the sea. You say the man Godsall is the leader of the smugglers, and he is employed by Colonel Fenshawe—”

  “My dear Miss Tarrant, all this is undoubtedly true, but there is one thing you have forgotten, which makes nonsense of all the rest” Piers came back and stood looking down at her, and now she could see that he was smiling. “Colonel Fenshawe is not a Jacobite!”

  “How do you know, sir, that he is not?”

  “Because I have known him all my life!” Piers set one foot on the pile of hurdles and leaned his elbow on his knee, regarding her with a quizzical smile. “I fear, ma’am, that my disclosure to you of our smuggling activities has led you to believe us capable of all manner of villainy. The Colonel takes no active part in politics, but I have not the smallest doubt that he is loyal to the established Government, if only because he is too practical a man to lend himself to a cause so nearly lost as that of the Stuart kings. As for Harry and Miles, the one is concerned only with amusing himself, while the other devotes so much thought to the set of his wig and the cut of his coat that he has no room in his mind for anything else. No, one might as well look for Jacobites at Wychwood Chase as at Bell Orchard.”

  She made no reply, but sat with bent head, tracing a pattern on the dusty floor with the toe of her shoe. This was the one thing for which she had not been prepared, this refusal to take her accusation seriously. Yet how could she expect to convince him? She had no proof to offer. There had been nothing among her father’s effects to betray his allegiance to the exiled King, and as for Colonel Fenshawe, she could only repeat what he had told her before returning to London, setting her word against his and knowing that he would deny it and probably give convincing proof of his loyalty to King George.

  She realized suddenly that there was a grim irony in the situation. No one would listen to Piers’ warnings concerning the Jacobites, and now he was refusing to believe that she could provide him with the proof he sought. She could think of no way of convincing him, and he, supposing from her silence that the subject held no further interest for her, said with a smile:

  “Do you know, Miss Tarrant, that the circumstances of our meeting had driven out of my mind the reason for my presence here? When I came upon you just now I was on my way to Bell Orchard to bring you a message from my sister.”

  “Oh!” Charmian exclaimed guiltily, for until that moment she had forgotten her earlier anxiety concerning Dorothy. “How is she, sir? I should have inquired sooner after her health!”

  “She finds herself completely recovered, ma’am,” he replied, in a dry tone which puzzled her a little, “but my mother considered it unwise for her to venture out in such inclement weather. So I undertook to carry her apologies to you, after I had dealt with some business at the cottages by the river mouth.”

  “That was kind of you, Sir Piers! I meant to ride over to see how she did, but the rain prevented it. I am so glad that she is better.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I must count myself fortunate, too, that you happened to come by when you did, for I do not think I could have convinced those men that I meant them no harm, and in fact did not even realize what they were about.”

  He laughed. “They would find that hard to believe, I admit. As I said, smuggling is a tradition along the Sussex coast.” He glanced over his shoulder, and then took his foot from the hurdles and stood erect. “I believe the rain is stopping. I had better take you home before Mrs. Fenshawe grows anxious.”

  Charmian stifled a sigh and got up, smoothing down her creased and muddied skirts, while Piers went to untether his horse. Leading the animal into the middle of the barn, he said:

  “Will you finish the journey mounted, Miss Tarrant? You will find it more comfortable, I think, than walking through the mire.”

  She assented, and allowed him to lift her on to the horse’s back, and he led the animal out of the barn and along the lane towards Bell Orchard. Charmian was silent, thinking of her dishevelled appearance and the caustic comments it would provoke from Lavinia, even if she returned to the house as she had left it, alone and on foot. To arrive there escorted by Piers Wychwood, and mounted on his horse, while Lavinia was in her present mood, would precipitate a scene from the mere prospect of which she shrank in dismay.

  Just before the buildings of farm and stables came in sight, a path branched off from the lane to serve a gate in the wall of the rose-garden, a short distance away to the right. Charmian leaned forward.

  “Will you think me very ungrateful, sir, if I suggest that we part here?” she said anxiously. “Mrs. Fenshawe may consider it a trifle odd if you escort me to the house.”

  He halted and turned to look at her, and she saw comprehension in his eyes. He nodded.

  “I understand, Miss Tarrant, and the last thing I desire is to cause you embarrassment. We will part here, if that is what you wish. No misadventure, I think, can befall you between here and the house.”

  “Yes, this is the second time you have found me in need of rescue,” she said as he came to help her to the ground. “What a tiresome creature you must think me! You will grow weary, sir, of coming to my assistance.”

  He lifted her down and stood for a moment, holding her lightly by the arms and studying her face with an expression which brought the colour stealing into her cheeks.

  “That I could never do,” he said seriously. “I have always wanted to help you, from the very first moment I saw you. Do you know when that was? The last time I was in London I chanced t
o pass Colonel Fenshawe’s house late one night, and you came out with an old gentleman. You wore a ballgown and jewels and powdered hair, but your face was so white and grief-stricken that it tore my heart. I could not forget you!”

  The brown eyes, wide and wondering, were searching his face; she said in a low voice: “You were there, that dreadful night? It was the night my father died. Mr. Brownhill had come to fetch me home.”

  He nodded. “I realized that later, after we met again. That is why I never spoke of it before. Perhaps I should not have done so now. Forgive me!”

  “There is no need,” she said softly. “You say that you wished to help me. You have done so, Sir Piers, more than I can say. Until we met, I had been very lonely.”

  “I hope,” he said slowly, “that you will never be lonely again.”

  The rain began to fall once more, large, heavy drops splashing into the puddles and pattering on the leaves. Piers loosed his hold upon her and glanced up at the sky, where slate-grey clouds hung low and heavy.

  “You must go indoors,” he said, “for this will be no passing shower. Try not to think too badly of the smugglers, Miss Tarrant, in spite of the fright you have had. If you are to stay in Sussex, I fear you must resign yourself to our lawless ways.”

  “I will remember,” she said wistfully, “but I do not think it likely, sir, that I shall be staying for much longer in Sussex.”

  “No?” he said gently. “But do you not think that you might one day be persuaded to return, and even, perhaps, to stay?”

  He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, but the makeshift bandage was still knotted about it, and so he dropped a kiss instead upon the inside of her wrist. Her other hand lifted, and the fingertips touched his for an instant in a fleeting caress.

  “Yes,” she said in a breathless whisper, “I think perhaps I might.”

  She freed her hand from his and turned and ran quickly along the path, while Piers stood looking after her. At the gate she paused to glance back at him, and then with a shy little gesture of farewell she slipped through the gateway and the high brick wall hid her from him. For a moment longer he stood there, and then mounted his horse and rode homeward through the driving rain.

  9

  The Hand of Treachery

  For the rest of that day Charmian hugged to herself a new, secret happiness. It armoured her against Lavinia’s ill-temper, enabling her to disregard the scolding she received for arriving home wet and bedraggled, and sustained her throughout the almost intolerable tedium of the long, dismal evening. Had Mrs. Fenshawe been less preoccupied with her own ill-usage she might have observed it and guessed the cause, for she could be exceedingly shrewd when she chose. So busy was she, however, bemoaning her exile from London to this dreary spot, and enumerating the many ways in which she could have been diverting herself in town, that she had no thought to spare for her companion.

  Charmian was thankful when the time came to retire for the night, and darkness and solitude left her free to pursue her thoughts with no fear of betraying them to Lavinia. Lying in bed, listening to the sea-wind thrumming in the trees and dashing rain against the window, she lived again and again that parting by the gate of the rose-garden, treasuring each word like a separate, precious jewel. Not even the failure of her attempt to disclose the secret of Bell Orchard could lessen her contentment. She would speak of it to Piers again, more frankly, and this time he would believe her and tell her what she must do. She hoped that no serious harm would befall Colonel Fenshawe and his family. At that moment she felt kindly towards them all, for bringing her to Sussex and so making possible her meeting with Piers.

  Her last waking thought was that if the weather had cleared by morning she would carry out her previous intention of visiting Wychwood Chase, but it proved easier to plan than to execute. Next day the rain was still falling, and it continued to do so with unabated energy the whole day through, until to Charmian, despairingly eyeing the leaden sky, it scarcely seemed possible that there was any left to fall. To venture out in such weather would be madness, and instantly arouse Lavinia’s suspicions. Somehow she must find the patience to stay quietly indoors, to wait a little longer before sharing the burden of her knowledge.

  Towards evening she was astonished to see a travelling-coach, plastered with mud and drawn by weary, plodding horses, coming slowly along the drive. It lumbered to a halt before the front door, and after a little delay, and a considerable hurrying to and fro of servants, there emerged from its interior a slight gentleman swathed in a voluminous cloak, who made great haste to enter the house. Several minutes elapsed, and then the door of the parlour opened and Miles Fenshawe came in.

  He had divested himself of cloak and hat, and now stood resplendent in dark-blue velvet laced with gold, a froth of lace at throat and wrist, his wig exquisitely curled and powdered, and his whole appearance so immaculate it seemed incredible that he had just completed a long and uncomfortable journey. For a moment he regarded the two women in silence, and then made them a bow of marvellous and complicated grace.

  “Ladies,” he greeted them in his high-pitched, drawling voice, “behold me your most humble and obedient servant! I trust I see you both well?” He trod gracefully across the room and lifted his stepmother’s hand to his lips. “Madam, my father sends you loving greetings, and his regrets that business of a pressing nature detains him at present in London. I am the bearer of a letter from him which will make all plain.”

  He produced it from his pocket and bestowed it upon her with another graceful flourish before turning to bow again before Charmian.

  “My dear Miss Tarrant, there is no need to inquire whether you have benefited from this change of scene—I read it in your face. I am enchanted to find you so much recovered.”

  She made some civil response to this, contriving to hide her dismay at his unexpected arrival. It was not merely that she disliked Miles Fenshawe—if dislike were not too strong a term for the impatient contempt she felt for the young dandy—but also the fear that his chief purpose in coming was to resume the determined courtship which had so vexed and embarrassed her in London. Miles, she felt sure, would not allow the fact that she was in mourning to deter him, and with him constantly at her elbow she would have small chance of another private conversation with Piers.

  Lavinia had been sitting with her husband’s letter in her hand, looking down at it as though deliberating whether or not to read it at once. Eventually she put it into her pocket with the seals unbroken and turned again to Miles.

  “I cannot tell you what a relief to me it is to see a fresh face,” she declared. “Tell me, is your father well? What is the latest gossip in town, the newest mode? I vow, Miles, I have near died of boredom these past weeks. Come, sit by me and tell me all the news!”

  He obeyed with every appearance of complaisance, and having assured her that Colonel Fenshawe was in the very best of health, launched at once into a spate of amusing and often scandalous anecdote. Lavinia listened avidly, her eyes bright with interest and her whole expression more animated than it had been for weeks. Now and then she interjected a comment or question, and more than once her clear, tinkling laughter rang out, but for the most part it was Miles’s lazy drawl that dominated the conversation. Charmian, her head bent over her needlework, listened with only half her attention, for though Miles was undoubtedly amusing and it was diverting to learn what was going on in London, she could not rid herself of the feeling that there was some purpose for his visit which was not apparent.

  Did it, she wondered, portend some renewal of Jacobite activity? Was some secret agent to be smuggled in from the Continent, or information and promises of support carried from England to the Stuart prince waiting in France? She tried to picture Miles playing a part in such desperate and secret deeds, but her imagination proved unequal to the task. It was easy enough to visualize Harry doing so, but not his exquisite younger brother.

  Had she been present at another conversation, which took place that ni
ght after she had gone to bed, she might have seen the younger Mr. Fenshawe in a different light. She retired early, leaving Miles and Lavinia at cards in the parlour, and at this occupation they continued for some time after she had left them. The game was interrupted at length by Harry, who came storming into the room with raindrops glistening on his hair and clothes, and an expression of fury in his face. Lavinia jumped and dropped a card, but Miles merely raised his eyes for a moment to favour his brother with a mocking glance before returning to the study of his own hand.

  Just for an instant Harry paused, his eyes narrowed beneath scowling brows, and then he strode forward and his riding-whip hissed through the air to crash down upon the card-table, scattering cards and coins alike across the floor. Lavinia uttered a startled cry, but he paid no heed to her.

  “Attend to me, curse you!” he said in a voice thick with rage. “What was the meaning of that damned impertinent message you sent me?”

  Slowly Miles raised his eyes again to his brother’s face, his expression one of mock perplexity. “Why, was it not clear to you?” he drawled. “I thought it made my meaning abundantly plain, though, upon my soul, you have been in no haste to answer it!”

  “I do not jump to your bidding,” Harry retorted angrily. “You insufferable puppy, I’ve a mind to lay this whip across your back to remind you of that!”

  Miles continued to look up at him, a faint smile hovering about his lips, but when he spoke his voice was cold and passionless. “Do not attempt it,” he said softly. “As you value your life, dear brother, do not attempt it.”