The cave had a sandy floor and rock walls, down which water dripped. Even when she lifted the candelabra, she could not see the roof. It must be somewhere above her, but she saw only blackness. There was a natural stone shelf around most of the cave, and on it were dozens of barrels. She went over to the first and examined it. It was made of wood and banded with iron. The other barrels were the same. They were all weather-beaten, and they were all empty.
What had she been expecting? she asked herself.
Brandy, she thought. Barrels and barrels of it. But there was none there. Moreover… she leant closer and sniffed… they did not smell of brandy. In one of them, she caught the faint whiff of something else, something acrid. She could not place it. For some reason it reminded her of being with her father, at night, watching… fireworks! She wrinkled her nose. She knew what the smell was. It was gunpowder.
She stepped back, alarmed, and almost toppled off the ledge. Righting herself, she fought down an urge to run back to the steps and instead went on. If Oliver was transporting gunpowder to France, then things were worse than she had suspected. He and his friends were not smugglers depriving the government of taxes, they were aiding revolutionaries.
She shivered. The cave seemed suddenly cold and dank. She longed to be back in the sitting-room, or better yet, with the Russells, with only a cold attic and unruly children to worry about.
Chiding herself for being so lily-livered, she forced herself on. Suspecting Oliver was a revolutionary was not enough for her peace of mind. She needed proof so that she could take it to a Justice. She looked in further barrels but she found nothing of interest, except a remnant of a French newspaper dated a few days before, a date when Oliver and his friends had been away. So now she knew where they had gone. And she had seen the flashing light at the same time. It had indeed been a signal, and not just a dream.
The sound of the sea grew louder as she moved along the ledge, and she could see it lapping against the sand in the cave. There, moored in water just deep enough to contain it, was Oliver's rowing boat. His words about dangerous tides came back to her and she knew he had exaggerated. The tides were no more dangerous here than elsewhere, but he had wanted to keep her away from the beach, so that she would not see him putting out to sea.
She had learnt all she could from the cave. Making her way back to the steps, she climbed them hurriedly, wanting to get back to the warmth and light of the rooms above. But what then? She must put this in the hands of the authorities, but she did not know how to do it. She paused once on the way up as the steps were steep and made her breathless, but she ascended as quickly as she could. She emerged in the library and quickly shut the passage, then blowing out the candles she replaced them on the mantelpiece. Returning to the sitting-room she paced the room and tried to decide what to do. Should she leave? A glance at the clock showed her that it was twelve o'clock. Oliver and his friends could be returning at any time and if she left the house she might meet them on the road. They knew she had to remain in the house if she was to claim her inheritance, and if they saw her outside they would be suspicious, and even dangerous.
Should she write a note for Mr. Sinders and give it to Jim? she wondered. Or should she send Constance for help whilst she herself remained, hiding Constance's absence by telling the gentlemen that her companion had had a headache and had taken to her bed? Or better yet, saying that Constance had a toothache and had gone to try and find an apothecary in the village?
Her thoughts went round and round in circles, and she did not notice the passage of time, until she heard the door opening. She turned towards it, expecting to see Constance, only to give a start as she saw Oliver instead. He was looking larger than she remembered him. His hair fell forward, uncontained by a ribbon, shadowing his eyes. He was dressed in nothing but a shirt and breeches, and she felt her heart begin to race. He looked as though he had come to her in haste. She backed away from him as he entered the room.
"Mr. Bristow," she said warily, trying to sound as though she was at ease.
"Miss Thorpe," he said, his blue eyes glittering.
He shut the door behind him and stood in its way, his massive shoulders blocking it. Susannah wondered if she could slip past him and out into the hall but she knew it was impossible. He had cut off her route of escape. There was, however, another one. The french windows leading into the garden were unlocked and she could escape that way… but once in the garden she would have no way out again, for the other doors were locked, and she would be trapped there.
"What brings you here?" she asked, trying to bluff her way through the situation.
"The library," he said.
She lifted her eyebrows, hoping he could not hear her heart beating like a drum. "The library?" she enquired.
"Let's not play games," he said harshly. "You found the passage yesterday, and you went down to the cave this morning when we were out. Someone should have taught you to curb your curiosity. It's a dangerous quality."
Susannah swallowed. The air was full of peril. It sparked around her with a threatening intensity, making her feel vulnerable and afraid. She was alone in the room with him, and she thought desperately of how she could save herself. There was a heavy candlestick on the mantelpiece, but she doubted if she could reach it, let alone hit him with enough force to knock him out.
"How did you know?" she asked, playing for time. If Constance came into the room, it would be enough of a distraction for them both to escape, and they could barricade themselves in the kitchen.
"The candles had burnt down. No one would light them in daylight, unless they were going into the passage, and I knew that neither James nor Edward had been there."
Even through her fear, she was vexed with herself for not having thought of that. She should have taken a candle from the sitting-room, and then he would never have known. But it was too late to worry about that now.
"I have every right to go in there," she said, trying to turn the conversation around and facing up to him. "It's my house, after all."
"Of course. But I wonder what you made of what you saw?" he said menacingly.
"I made nothing of it," she said, but her heart was beating quickly, for he was dangerous and she must be on her guard.
"You suspect me of smuggling," he said. Then, as if reading her mind, his face changed and he said, "Or something worse. Tell me Miss Thorpe, what do you think?"
"I think it is none of my business," she said, wondering if Constance would hear her if she shouted for help.
"But it is. As you've said, it's your house. And so I think you should see for yourself exactly what it is I'm doing here."
"No."
She shrank back.
He moved towards her implacably.
"Oh, but I insist."
"There is no need," she said, stopping as she felt the wall behind her. Her heart leapt into her throat. She had nowhere else to go.
"There's every need. Come with me."
"No!"
"It wasn't a question," he said ruthlessly.
He took her by the hand and started to pull her out of the room. She tried to resist, but he was too strong for her. He dragged her across the hall, but when he put his foot on the first stair she began to be seriously frightened and she caught hold of the banister. Turning towards her with a pitiless face, he unfastened her hand with strong fingers, then sweeping her up in his arms he carried her upstairs, taking them two at a time.
"Put me down!" she said.
She pushed against his chest, but he ignored her straggle and shrugged off the blows that followed it. He carried her upstairs, along the corridor and into one of the bedrooms at the end, slamming the door behind him with his foot. He dropped her to the floor and she heard a grating sound as a key turned in the lock.
She looked about her wildly, expecting to see a group of filthy cut-throats looking up from their drinks, but the room was empty. At least that was one particular peril she would be able to avoid, she thought, as she tur
ned back towards him.
"Let me out!" she said, shaking with fear and rage.
His eyes looked directly into her own. "Look at the bed," he said.
"Let me out!" she said again.
"Look at the bed," he said relentlessly.
She ignored him. As he did not stand aside, and as she realized it would be useless to try and get past him, she turned and swept over to the window. Flinging it open, she felt the wind stinging her face and she lifted the hem of her skirt, ready to climb on to the sill. Then she looked down. It was a long way. She scanned the walls for ivy, but there was nothing. The only way down was to jump, and if she did that she would land on the paving stones beneath. She would be badly injured, at best; at worst she would be killed.
Closing the window she turned to face him again, and saw that at least he had not taken any steps towards her.
He was still standing at the other side of the room. She felt her pulse begin to lose its tumultuous rhythm. If he did not make any threatening moves, then she should be able to escape yet.
Glancing round, she looked for anything that could help her. A poker on the hearth, a jug on the washstand-if she stood on the bed, she thought, as she glanced towards the four-poster, she could use the extra height to bring a heavy implement crashing down on his head. Her eyes went back to him… and then, her attention was caught by something she had seen, and she looked back at the bed.
His words had barely registered at the time. They had made no sense, and she had been too frightened to take them in. But now she saw that the bed was not empty, as she had thought it would be. There was someone in it. Curiosity began to rise within her, and questions crowded into her mind. Why had Oliver brought her here? What had he wanted her to see? And who was beneath the covers? She was afraid of what she might find, but inquisitiveness got the better of her and she went over cautiously to the four-poster. Under the covers lay a man. His breathing was laboured and his face was as white as the sheet. He was sleeping restlessly. She went closer, then seeing how ill he was she knelt down next to the bed. She put a hand to his forehead. It was clammy. Then she caught sight of something red beneath the sheet. Pulling it back a little, she saw that his chest and shoulder were bandaged, and that the bandage was soaked in blood.
"This man needs help." She looked at Oliver. "Who is he? What is he doing here?"
"He's no one," he said with a shrug. "A peasant, that's all."
She stood up. "He needs a doctor."
"No."
"But he must have one. Otherwise he might die."
"Kelsey has taken a look at him."
"Kelsey's a groom, not a medical man!"
"He saw to me."
"But you were not feverish, and your wounds were superficial. This man is badly hurt, perhaps he has even been shot."
He did not answer her implied question. Instead, he said, "Kelsey knows more about wounds than most doctors will ever do."
"I don't understand. Who is this man? What is he doing here? Where did he come from? What happened to him?"
Oliver joined her by the bed. There was nothing threatening in his movement, and she did not back away from him. He looked down at the injured man.
"You're right. He was shot. In France. He was escaping from prison."
She was puzzled.
"You mean he was a convict? I don't understand what he's doing here." She felt anxious at the thought of a possible murderer in the house. "What was his crime?"
"Something trivial. It is not necessary to do anything criminal to be imprisoned in France these days. People can be convicted without the courts hearing any evidence against them."
"Then you mean he's innocent? Poor man." She looked down at him again, wondering what dreadful things he had seen and endured.
"You don't approve?"
"Of what? Putting people in prison without trial? Of course not."
"But if it's to serve a greater good? If the end justifies the means?"
"Nothing justifies putting people in prison without trial."
She shivered as she thought of what was happening in France even as they spoke. Living in a remote corner of England, she had been protected from most of the dreadful details, but she had read the Russells' newspapers when they had finished with them, at least when she could manage to salvage them from their role as firelighters, and she was not entirely ignorant of what was going on across the Channel.
"Not even if a fairer society is the result?" he said, his eyes narrow.
"If," she said. "But I don't believe it will be. And even if it is, the kind of slaughter that is taking place in France is insanity." She looked at him defiantly. "So if you want to recruit me to your cause you will be disappointed. I want no part of all this bloodshed."
"My cause?" he asked.
"I had suspected as much," she said. "You are a revolutionary."
"And you like me less for it," he said with a satisfaction she could not understand. A faint smile hovered around his mouth. "Even though you know what it is to be a servant. Your life hasn't been easy, and you've had to be at someone else's beck and call."
"It's true, life is unfair, but this…" She looked down at the man in the bed. "This is barbarous."
"Then you don't wish you could send your employer to the guillotine?" he asked.
She grimaced. "Mrs. Russell was a tyrant, but she needed lessons in Christian charity, not a ride in a tumbrel. So, now, what are you going to do with me?" she demanded. "Now that you know I won't support your cause?"
The glimmer of a smile around his mouth broadened, and reached his eyes. It brightened them, making them warm and inviting. She choked back a gasp, seeing how it changed his face. The lines no longer seemed sharp. They had relaxed, making his face warm and appealing.
"Susannah, my friends and I are not smugglers, nor are we revolutionaries. We are engaged in a far more dangerous enterprise. We are rescuing innocent people from France."
It took a minute for her to digest what he was saying.
"Then why did you ask me if I approved of the revolution?" she asked, puzzled. And then her face cleared. "You thought I might be in favour of it, because I had known what it was like to have to work for my living. You even thought I might have come here to spy on you."
"Yes."
"How many people have you rescued?" she asked.
"It's hard to say. Eighty, ninety, perhaps a hundred."
"So many?"
"To me, it seems so few."
She looked at him with a new respect, imagining him rowing his small boat out to a ship in the dead of night and then setting sail for France. It was a daring thing to do, but one that was fraught with peril. She imagined him making his way through France, liberating prisoners…
"So that is why I smelled gunpowder in one of the barrels," she said. "You must need it for your guns. You store your powder in the cave."
"No. The cave is too damp. But we put the empty barrel there when we have finished with it, along with others already stored there."
The man in the bed began to mutter incoherently. Susannah went over to him and put her hand on his head. He was hotter than before.
"He needs a doctor," she said again. "Why won't you send for one? It makes no sense to rescue him from France and then let him die in England."
"We can't do anything to draw attention to ourselves," said Oliver, crossing to the washstand and pouring some water into the bowl. "He knows this, and he would approve of our actions. There is more than just his life at stake." He took up a cloth which was laid next to it, and carried both cloth and bowl over to the bed. He knelt down beside the feverish man and began wiping his forehead.
Susannah was surprised to see how gentle his actions were. He was a man of many layers, she thought. Ruthless when necessary, but he was able to be gentle, too.
"There are those who don't approve of our helping people to escape the revolution," Oliver went on. "If our purpose here is discovered by the wrong people, we will not be able t
o help anyone else. We have to move quietly, because if we are found out, then our lives will be in danger, and so will the lives of everyone we save."
"You said his crime was trivial?" Susannah asked, as the man in the bed began to quieten.
"He was a publican. He was accused of serving sour wine to defenders of the country."
"And that is a crime? How dreadful," she said in dismay.
"It is. Terrible. People are being killed on the slightest pretext, and anyone who dares to speak out against it is condemned as an enemy of the revolution and they are executed as well. Men, women and children are falling before it."
Oliver stood up and returned the bowl and cloth to the washstand, just as Kelsey entered the room, carrying a jug.
Kelsey looked from Oliver to Susannah and then back again.
"Where have you been?" asked Oliver.
"To get fresh water," said Kelsey.
"Very well. Then we'll leave Buvoir in your care."
He went over to the door and opened it. With one last glance at Buvoir, who was now resting more peacefully, Susannah left the room, and Oliver fell into step beside her.
"Will you take a walk with me?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"You have nothing to fear. I won't force you to go anywhere against your wishes again. But I had to show you what I was doing here, and it seemed the only way."
"You could have just told me," remarked Susannah.
"Would you have believed me?"
She thought of her earlier suspicions, that he was a smuggler, or even worse, a revolutionary. She hesitated.
"No. I didn't think so," he said. "I couldn't allow you to go on thinking we were smugglers. You might have told the excise men about the secret passage, and that would have been disastrous. I had to let you know the truth, and as you weren't about to go with me willingly, I had to make sure you did so unwillingly."
"I don't think the excise men would have troubled you, even if I had told them," Susannah said, as they went along the landing. "After all, I had no proof."
"You'd be surprised what they would believe. And also what they would be prepared to do to stop us, particularly as some of them might have discovered there is a price on our head."