"They were… just outside the village. There were three of them… No one of rank was with them."
"They could have been troublemakers, then, nothing more than men who wanted a fight Or they could have set on you on purpose. What do you think about what happened? Do you think they knew what you were doing here, and wanted to take you to Duchamp in return for the reward? Or do you think you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
With a second glass of whisky, Oliver was able to speak more clearly.
"I don't… know. It's impossible to say for sure. But whatever the case, they won't carry news of me back to Duchamp. Some of Tregornan's men had been following me to make sure I left — they were protecting his hide more than mine — and they dealt with the militia."
"And what of your mission? Did you manage to get into the village and see Tregornan before they set on you?" asked James.
"Yes. They attacked me on the way back. Don't worry, it's all arranged. Tregornan knows when to have the ship ready for us, and where we want it. He'll supply it with a crew, as before, and no questions asked."
James's shoulders relaxed. "That's something. Even so, I don't like this new development. If our identities have been discovered, then we'll have to move on."
"We were going to do that anyway. We've only two more runs to make, and then we're finished here. After that, we'll find a new base elsewhere, and start again."
James pursed his lips. "I think we should cancel the run. It's too dangerous."
"We can't do that. It's all arranged. It'll go ahead," said Oliver. "But we must be on our guard." He winced as Kelsey bandaged his leg roughly, using his cravat. "Can't you do it any more gently than that?" he demanded.
"Perhaps you'd rather Miss Thorpe did it for you?" asked James with a grin.
"Curse you, James," said Oliver, but without rancour.
"You'll live," said Kelsey, finishing the bandaging and standing up.
"All the same, it was a pity Miss Thorpe had to find you," said James, as the bantering note in his voice disappeared. "It's a complication we could have done without."
"You're right," said Oliver, testing his leg by stretching and bending it. "It is. But it couldn't be helped. She saw me coming back to the house and I was too weak to avoid her."
"What did you tell her?"
"Very little. Just that I had had a fall. It was the best I could think of at short notice."
"And did she believe you?"
"No, I don't think she did. She looked towards the cliffs, and then looked back along the direction I had been taking. She's an intelligent woman. She quickly realized I hadn't been coming from the coast, but from the direction of the village."
"Then I'll have to tell her you had a fall from your horse," said James. He gave a wry smile, and his tone lightened again. "Be of good cheer. Something good might even come out of this, for you, at least. It should gain you some sympathy. The fair sex like nothing better than to minister to a man in need. You'd think blood and bruises would disgust them, but it makes them even more vulnerable to our charms. A wounded soldier, or an injured gentleman, it's all the same to them. After this, if I don't mistake my guess, she'll be ripe for the plucking!"
Oliver gave a wry smile, but he was not easy in his mind. He had seen the look on Susannah's face when she had cleaned his wounds, and his feelings towards her had recently undergone such a radical change that he had no intention of using his injury to draw her closer to him. He had no business trifling with the feelings of a woman who had done so much for him, particularly as he knew that without her help he might have collapsed outside. When his business was done, he'd leave this part of Cornwall for ever. Until then, it would be better for both of them if they saw no more than was necessary of each other.
But to his surprise the thought of their parting was more dreadful than the pain of his cuts and bruises.
Susannah was attempting to concentrate on her book, and trying not to strain her ears for any sounds from the kitchen. As she sat by the fire with her engravings, turning the pages at regular intervals, her thoughts were not tranquil. Oliver's wounds had looked dreadful, and she could not believe he had sustained them in a fall. But how else could he have come by them?
She stiffened as she heard sounds in the hall outside, and then heard the stairs creaking. It sounded as though someone was mounting them very slowly. Were James and Kelsey helping Oliver to his room? she wondered.
There was silence again, and then some ten minutes later a renewed creaking told her that someone was coming downstairs. Soon afterwards there was a knock at the sitting-room door.
"Come in," she called.
Her voice was surprisingly level, and she was pleased that it did not betray her agitation. Constance had already made too many comments about Oliver, and she did not want to give her a reason to make any more remarks.
James entered the room. As soon as she saw that he was smiling, Susannah felt a knot of tension inside her relax.
"I thought you might like to know how Oliver is doing," said James, as he remained by the door.
"How very kind of you," said Susannah. "Do, please, come in and have a seat."
"Thank you."
He sat down opposite her, in a wing chair, crossing one booted ankle over his other knee.
"It's very thoughtful of you to come and tell us," said Constance, putting down her mending. "We have been very concerned. Poor Mr. Bristow seemed grievously hurt."
"Is he going to be all right?" asked Susannah, trying to sound as though it was nothing but a polite enquiry.
"Yes," he said reassuringly. "He will be sore for a few days, but the wounds are superficial and there are no bones broken. If we can persuade him to stay in bed he should heal quickly but, knowing Oliver, he will refuse to be sensible and it will take a little longer."
"Gentlemen never like to fuss," said Constance. "My poor, dear father was just the same. He was attacked by footpads once on his way home from town, and although the doctor told him to rest, he carried on just as before. It was quite a week before he was hale and hearty again."
"How did it happen?" asked Susannah.
"He was thrown from his horse," said James easily. "A bird flew up in front of him, startling the animal and making it rear. He lost his seat and was thrown to the ground."
"Horses are tricky things," said Constance, shaking her head. "I don't ride them myself, and I am glad of it."
James smiled. "I assure you it is perfectly safe. Falls are few and far between. Oliver will be on horseback again before many days have passed."
Constance frowned, as though this was a foolhardy and dangerous undertaking, but said no more.
"And is his horse all right?" asked Susannah.
"Yes. It returned to the stables a short while ago, none the worse for its adventure."
"I'm glad."
James stood up.
"I must not trespass any more on your time. I'm sure Oliver will want to thank you himself when he is fully recovered, but for now, I hope my thanks will do."
"None are needed, I assure you," said Susannah.
"You are very good," he said, then he bowed himself out of the room.
"Well, that is a relief," said Constance.
Susannah felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders and smiled. She had been dreadfully worried, more worried than she had cared to admit, even to herself, but as long as nothing was broken then, as James said, Oliver should soon recover.
She turned her attention back to her book, but she still found it difficult to concentrate. For some reason she felt that James had not been telling the truth. But that was absurd. What reason did he have to lie? And anyway, Oliver's injuries had been exactly the sort he would have sustained if he had fallen from his horse.
"There, that's done," said Constance, laying her mending aside. "Another sheet to be washed, when Jim's sisters arrive. Are you content to look at your book, or would you like a hand of cards?"
/> "That's a good idea," said Susannah. "Shall we play cribbage?"
"The very thing."
Constance took out the pack of cards they had found in the writing-desk shortly after arriving at the house and the two ladies arranged themselves one on each side of the console table. They cut the cards and Constance began to deal.
Susannah picked up her hand. Two sevens, a king, a queen, a four and a three. Not a very promising start. But as she sorted her hand, she felt there was something strange going on at Harstairs House. It might not be haunted, but it was full of secrets. A passage under the sundial, an unexpected tenant, a mysterious accident… Susannah shivered.
"Let me make up the fire," said Constance.
But it was not cold that had made Susannah shiver.
Had Oliver really fallen from his horse? she wondered. And what was going to happen next?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Susannah saw little of Oliver for some time. She caught a glimpse of him from the drawing-room window almost a week after his fall, when she was taking stock of the furniture with Constance, and saw that he was looking better: his black eye had grown less noticeable, and his mouth had returned to its normal size. In fact, if it had not been for his limp she would have found it hard to believe that he had been incapacitated so recently. But after that she did not see him at all, for James found her and told her that the three gentlemen would be going away for a few days.
On the first night of their departure she slept uneasily. Although she and Constance had been careful to eat nothing that might disagree with them at supper time, she still had vivid dreams. She dreamt that she was rowing through a mist and every now and then she saw the beam from a lighthouse. It flashed regularly and she rowed towards it, only to remember that it was there to warn her away from the rocks, and not to beckon her to them. She woke up with a start, thinking she was going to row right into them, and was relieved to find herself back in her own bed. But the memory of the lights persisted, and she even thought she saw one flash after she had woken. So uneasy was she that she got out of bed and went over to the window. But there was nothing. Only the undulating mass of the sea heaving beneath the night sky.
Her dream had been inspired by finding the rowing boat, of course, and by the knowledge that she and Constance were, for the first time, alone in the house for the night. On the following two nights she slept more soundly.
"There's a letter for you," said Constance, joining her in the dining-room as the first light of dawn painted red streaks in the sky. "Jim brought it with the milk."
"Is it from Mr. Sinders?" asked Susannah.
"I don't think so," said Constance. "It smells of perfume."
"Then it must be from Mrs. Wise," said Susannah.
She put down her chocolate and took the letter. She examined the direction and saw that it was indeed from her great aunt's friend. As she unfolded it, several sheets of paper fell out. She picked them up and discovered they were pages torn from a fashion journal. Putting them to one side, she perused the letter. The writing was small, and the pages were crossed, but she was used to deciphering Mrs. Wise's letters and had no difficulty in making it out.
My dear Susannah, she read.
I was delighted to receive your letter and to learn that you are an heiress! It could not have happened to a more deserving person. lam very glad you are thinking of coming to London. Both you and your companion will be very welcome to stay with me. I am sending you some engravings of the latest fashions so that you can begin to decide what gowns you will want to order when you come to town. If you come to me in December, it will give you time to have a new wardrobe made before Christmas. The rage at the moment is for stripes. Striped skirts, striped bodices and striped sleeves are all the mode. Sleeves are worn long, gathered in at the wrist, and waists are tight. You will need a good corset!
Susannah read on, finally looking up when she had finished the letter.
"Mrs. Wise has invited us to stay with her," she said. "She will not hear of us staying in an hotel."
"Us? But I am not to go to London with you, am I?" asked Constance, with barely concealed excitement.
"Of course you are. I will need a companion," said Susannah, "and I cannot expect Mrs. Wise to chaperon me everywhere. That is, if you don't mind?"
"Mind!" exclaimed Constance. "I should love to go."
"Good. Then it is settled," said Susannah.
"But I did not know that you and Mrs. Wise were so well acquainted," said Constance. "I did not expect her to invite you to stay with her."
"I have only met her twice, but she says Great Aunt Caroline would have wished it, and that she is looking forward to welcoming us both to her house."
It was typical of Mrs. Wise to have included Constance in the invitation, thought Susannah, remembering her as a jovial, good-hearted woman. If the letter had come a week before, Susannah would have been looking forward to the trip to London wholeheartedly. As it was, she felt a certain reluctance to leave Harstairs House. London was the same as it had ever been, but somehow it had lost its allure, and Susannah would rather have stayed in Cornwall.
"Are these the latest fashions?" asked Constance, picking up the coloured engravings and distracting her from her musings.
"Yes."
Susannah turned her attention to the gowns that had been lovingly drawn and coloured for the pages of The Lady's Magazine. The gowns had the tight waists and long sleeves Mrs. Wise had mentioned, with small bustles padding out the skirts behind. They were worn with tall hats, ornamented with curling ostrich feathers.
"I can see I will have to have a whole new set of clothes made," said Susannah, comparing the gorgeous costumes with the gown she was wearing. "And you must have something new, too." She cut short Constance's protests by saying that she could not go to fashionable parties accompanied by a dowd, and Constance allowed herself to be talked round.
They spent a happy hour discussing their forthcoming trip, at last separating, with Constance going down to the kitchen to spend the morning baking. She had rediscovered a love of cooking since arriving at Harstairs House, and wanted to bake a seed cake.
Susannah had another plan in mind. She had wanted to visit the library ever since her ride with Oliver, so that she could see if there were any plans of the house: it would be much easier to find the boundaries on paper, rather than riding round the estate in an effort to find them. She had felt awkward about visiting the library whilst the gentlemen were there, but now that they were away it was the perfect opportunity for her to look through the library at her leisure. Not only did she want to see how far the grounds extended, but she wanted to see if there was any mention of the passage under the sundial. She had been unable to look for the other end of it, having been kept indoors by bad weather, but she was curious to see where it emerged.
As soon as Constance had left the room she made her way to the library. She had not visited it since her first inauspicious visit on the night of her arrival and she wondered what she would see. As she opened the door she saw a well-ordered room with a clean, empty grate. There were no glasses on the table as there had been the last time she had seen it, and no decanter. Instead these items were standing on a silver tray on the sideboard.
She looked around with interest. She had not had time to take in very much on her first evening, but now she was able to appreciate the size of the room and admire its decorations. She guessed that Mr. Harstairs had spent most of his time there when he had been at Harstairs House, for the room was more modern than the rooms in the rest of the house. It had evidently been refurbished quite recently. The pale-green paintwork was fresh, and the splendid white bookshelves that lined the wall to her left formed a marked contrast to the heavy oak used in the rest of the house. There was a large table pushed to the side of the room with chairs around it, and a desk, and two wing chairs were set one on either side of the fireplace.
She went over to the shelves. There were seven of them lined with books. In between
the books were Grecian vases, and in the centre of the middle shelf there was a bust. It was of a noble-looking man with a wreath of laurels round his head. She looked along the rows of books until she came to a row with Harstairs House written in gold on the spine. The scent of leather drifted up to her as she took out the first one, but she was disappointed when she opened it. It turned out to be nothing more than a ledger listing expenses from five years before. She tried a second and a third, but they were similarly dull and contained nothing but accounts from years gone by.
Abandoning her search, she was about to leave the room when she realized she could put the time to good use by making an inventory of the room whilst Oliver and his friends were away. She went over to the desk, where she found paper and ink. She picked up a quill and, dipping it in the ink, she started to write. Table, she began, chairs, sideboard, tray, decanter and six glasses, bust… It was crooked, she noticed. She went over to it and straightened it. There was a click as she pushed it slightly too far, and a section of the wall sprang back. Her eyes widened in surprise as a dark corridor appeared beyond it.
So Harstairs House was full of secret passages! But why? The house was not old enough to have needed a priest hole, and it seemed strange that it should be riddled with secrets. It must have had a Machiavellian owner in the past, she thought, someone who delighted in cunning. She wondered if the passage joined up with the steps under the courtyard garden and was tempted to explore, but it was almost lunchtime. She would have to leave her investigation until the afternoon.
She pulled the door to, and there was a click as it settled back into its proper position. She went back to the desk and sanded her inventory, then folded the paper before tucking it into her sleeve.
With one last look around the room to make sure she had left everything as she had found it, she went over to the door… and saw the handle turn. She felt her heart skip a beat. The gentlemen were away, Constance was in the kitchen, so who was on the other side of the door?