Читать книгу Distant Voices - Barbara Erskine - Страница 15

With each smart tap of her foot on the sun-baked ground the swing arced higher. Above her the dappled shade of the oak tree cooled the air. Mercifully hidden now behind the high yew hedge the garden party was in full swing.

Caroline Hayward grimaced as, throwing back her head at the apogee of the swing’s travel, she felt her long heavy hair slip from its combs. Her bonnet had already gone, hanging from its ribbons behind her like an unruly animal. Shaking her head she laughed suddenly, feeling her hair whip across her face. What did it matter how she looked? She was alone at last and for a few precious moments she was free!

‘That swing was not designed for adults!’

The deep voice startled her so much she nearly released her hold on the ropes.

Dragging her slippers in the dust to slow her momentum she tried desperately to stop, suddenly acutely aware of the acres of petticoat showing beneath her light, blown skirt. Grabbing at what remained of her dignity as the swing slowed she curbed her first instinct which was to jump to her feet. Instead she smoothed her skirts, taking a deep breath as she saw who had addressed her. Dressed in sober black like all the men present at the bishop’s garden party, the Reverend Charles Dawson, her host’s elder son, was standing facing her, his darkly handsome face showing uncompromising disdain; Charles Dawson who had spent the best part of the party surrounded by a cluster of his father’s younger women guests.

‘You obviously find our party boring, Miss Hayward,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I must suggest you find other ways to amuse yourself. That swing was not designed to take someone of your weight.’

‘I am not that heavy, Mr Dawson!’ Caroline retorted. To her chagrin one of her slippers had fallen off and she was feeling for it desperately with her foot, hidden beneath her full, long skirt.

He allowed himself another tight smile. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you were.’ He gave a slight bow, his eyes gleaming. ‘Nevertheless, the swing was put up for my brother’s children, who are aged six and seven respectively. When you have recovered your shoe –’ he raised an eyebrow slightly, ‘– perhaps I can escort you back to the party and fetch you a glass of lemonade.’

She could hear in the still heat of the garden beyond the hedge the deep voices of the sober, assembled clerics, the higher voices of the women, the occasional constrained laugh. She and Mr Dawson were uncompromisingly alone.

No one had noticed when she had slipped away. Her father, the Reverend George Hayward, had been deep in conversation with his bishop, his daughter long forgotten, when she had glanced round the company, many of whom she had known all her life, and experienced her sudden, quite unexpected wave of rebellion.

The violence of the emotion which had swept over her had astonished her. She was overcome with anger and despair. She was still a young woman, wasn’t she? She was still reasonably attractive, wasn’t she? She was still full of day dreams and of hopes. So why was she here, at her father’s side, faithfully accompanying him as ever on parish business, in the role into which she had slipped almost without realising it when her mother had died? Her sisters were married, her brother now lived in London. She alone was left. And it had been expected and accepted by everyone that she would fill her mother’s shoes. All thoughts of her marriage seemed to have flown from her father’s mind. The few persistent suitors who had called on her slowly slipped away. And no one seemed to have noticed but her.

She glared at Charles Dawson. She had not been one of the young women clustering round him with adoring looks and simpering giggles. No, she had been beside her father listening dutifully as he talked church business with the bishop! Not that she would have talked to Charles anyway, she reminded herself sternly. It was no problem for her to remain immune to his handsome good looks, behaving as he was like an extension of her father in his obvious disapproval of her. She had always detested him for his pompous ways. And he would never, ever, have been one of her suitors. Rich and well connected, he would look far higher than a mere rector’s daughter.

The thought made her even more cross. She had never allowed any of the young men who had found their way to the Rectory door in Hancombe to arouse their hopes when they had come calling upon her and now it was too late to change her mind. She was old. She was destined to look after her father for the rest of his life. She was on the shelf. She was twenty-nine years old.

‘… don’t you think so, Miss Hayward?’

With a start she realised Charles Dawson had been speaking to her as he escorted her away from the swing and back towards the party. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and, oh yes, he was good-looking. As he looked down at her she realised she had been staring at him.

‘Don’t you think so?’ he repeated.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said,’ she murmured.

She caught the expression of impatience, quickly hidden, which crossed his face before she looked away.

‘I said, that I fear there may be a storm later,’ he repeated.

‘Yes indeed, the air is heavy.’ Now he would think her deaf as well as rude and stupid!

As they emerged through the gap in the hedge she noticed several pairs of eyes speculatively upon them. Her father’s were not amongst them, she saw at once with relief, and suddenly she was overcome by an irresistible urge to laugh. Here she was, dishevelled, her hair down and her gown awry, appearing in the company of the most eligible man there, and quite unchaperoned!

As if reading her thoughts Charles Dawson stepped away from her rather too hastily. ‘May I suggest, Miss Hayward, that you retire to the house to tidy yourself,’ he said curtly, and with a bow he left her. For a moment she stood where she was, aware that she was still being watched closely, then slowly and demurely she began to walk across the grass.

Somehow she managed to reach the ladies’ withdrawing room in the palace and there she managed to redo her hair and replace her bonnet. Outwardly she was docile and smiling. Inwardly, her moment of amusement gone, she was seething with resentment and anger. Of all the pompous, sarcastic men why did it have to be Charles Dawson who had followed her? He would tell his father what he had caught her doing and no doubt they would smile about it together over the port that evening, and then the bishop would tell her father! And her father would not find it amusing. He would be very, very angry. Oh, the humiliation of it all!

Leaving the shelter of the palace at last she ventured back onto the lawn and, in spite of herself, she found herself looking for Charles. She saw him at once, talking to a group of elderly ladies, and to her chagrin he looked up and caught her eye. For a moment she felt his gaze sweep up and down her body, as if checking her appearance, then infinitesimally he smiled.

Anger erupted in her once more and riding home beside her father in the carriage later she could feel her resentment still seething. But to her relief it appeared that nothing had been said to him about her escapade for he was in high good humour as they trotted through the leafy lanes back to Hancombe, nestling in its fold of the Downs.

‘Tomorrow, Caroline, you and I shall visit the cottage up the Neck,’ he was saying, sure as always of her obedience and her time. ‘I should like to take baskets of food to Widow Moffat and the Eldron family. Poor things, it is two years since Sam worked …’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Caroline, are you listening to me?’

Guiltily Caroline turned to him. Her gaze had been fixed on the crest of the Downs where the golden haze of the afternoon had settled in a shimmering blur on the woods.

‘Of course, Papa. I shall prepare the baskets myself.’

The shadows were running up the valleys between the hills, turning the green of the fields to soft purple beneath the haze. She could smell the rich drift of honeysuckle and roses from the hedgerows on either side of the lane. There was a beauty and a poignancy in the air which soothed her and at the same time unsettled her strangely.

She longed to be alone, away from her father’s strident demands, but it was hours before she was able to escape to the privacy of her bedroom. With relief she closed the door at last behind the maid, Polly, and, drawing her loose wrapper over her nightgown she went to the window and leaned out, staring down at the dusk-shadowed garden. She still felt tense and unsettled; lonely.

It was very hot; the coming darkness was bringing no relief from the heat. If anything it was hotter now. Her mind turned back to the party and the cool freedom of the swing. If Charles Dawson hadn’t found her she could have remained there all afternoon, with the breeze combing its untidy fingers through her hair. Unbidden, a picture of her host’s son floated before her eyes; his tall, stern features, the arrogant smile, the quirked eyebrow when he saw that she had lost her shoe. Almost she had thought he was laughing at her, but then she realised that he must have despised her for being such a hoyden. His own white shirt and silk cravat had been immaculate; not a hair of his head nor his beard was out of place. No doubt he had never sat on a swing in his life.

Slopping some water from the ewer into the flowered basin on her washstand she bathed her face and neck. Then she lay down on the bed. There was no point in thinking about Charles Dawson; no point in thinking about men at all. Lighting her bedside candle she picked up a book and allowed it to fall open.

It was several weeks now since her sister, with a finger to her lips, and a stern warning not to tell their father, had given her the leather-covered volume of Lord Byron’s works and from the day she had first opened it it had become her most treasured possession. Her favourite poem was To Caroline.

‘Thinkst thou I saw thy beauteous eyes …’

She shivered as she read the impassioned words, words she knew by heart she had repeated them so often in the lonely darkness of her room. If only they had been addressed to her.

‘Caroline!’

The abruptness with which her door flew open startled her so much she dropped the book. It slid to the floor with a crash. Her father, still fully dressed, stood silhouetted in the doorway, the candles on the table in the passage behind him streaming in the sudden draught. ‘Caroline, where are my drops? I’ve been calling you!’ His voice, usually so strong, dropped to a whine.

Caroline got up wearily, her feet bare on the cool boards. ‘They are in your dressing room, Papa.’

‘What were you reading?’ His voice rapidly regaining its strength, her father approached the bed and, stooping, picked up her book, staring in curiosity at the gold letters on the spine.

Slowly the colour drained from his face. He held the book out towards her and shook it. ‘Where did you get this … this obscenity?’ he hissed. His voice was tight with anger.

Caroline had gone white. ‘Please give it back, Papa. It is mine –’

‘No!’ He was beside himself with fury. ‘This goes on the fire where it belongs. I don’t believe – I cannot believe that you knew what you were reading! That a daughter of mine should dream of opening such a book –’

‘Papa –’

‘Enough!’ His voice was strident, his need for medicine forgotten.

Caroline clenched her fists. ‘Papa, I am a grown woman, old enough to decide what to read for myself.’

‘No woman under any circumstances should be permitted to read anything that … that monster of depravity has written, Caroline.’ He turned away. ‘I would never have allowed your mother to do so, and I shall not allow you to do so, either.’ At the door he stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘We shall talk of this again tomorrow,’ he said ominously, and he closed the door.

For several moments Caroline stood still. Fury and indignation vied with sorrow for her beloved book and fear of what her father would do to punish her, grown woman or not. For a moment she blinked back humiliating tears, then galvanised into action by the same streak of rebellion that had driven her to seek refuge from the party earlier she began once more to get dressed.

How dare he!

He dared because he was her father and he knew best.

But he didn’t know best! He had never read Lord Byron’s work, of that she could be almost certain. He, like so many others, was reacting to the unnamed scandals to which her sister with a whisper had hinted. Terrible scandals. What they were she could not guess. And she did not care. Nothing anyone said about him made his poetry less beautiful. Caroline felt the heat of the night caress her languid body as she eased her wrap more loosely around her shoulders. The air had became almost unbearably humid. She pinned her long hair back off her neck in a heavy looped knot and still barefoot, let herself silently out of the room.

The Rectory was in darkness. She padded down the broad staircase and hesitated for a moment at the bottom outside her father’s study door. All was silent within and she could see no light beneath it. He must have gone to bed. Turning she pushed through the door which led to the kitchens at the back of the house. The fire in the range was not damped down as it should have been. It was burning brightly. Peering in she could make out the blackened edge of the binding of her book in the heart of the coals. He had been as good as his word. With a sob she slammed the range door shut.

The key to the garden door was missing from its hook. For several seconds she stared at the empty place in the long line of keys, then again she rattled the door. It was locked fast.

With a sob of anger and frustration she turned and made her way to the front hall. The Rectory was completely silent save for the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Cautiously she opened the door into the vestibule and putting her hand on the front door knob she turned it. That door too was locked. She was trapped in the dark, silent house.

Back in her room it was hours before she slept.

At breakfast her father was quick to tell her her fate. He had obviously spent at least part of the night thinking of a suitable punishment for his errant daughter.

‘You have behaved like an irresponsible child, Caroline.’ He put his hand to his forehead dramatically. ‘Yet I cannot believe you knew what you were doing. If I did …’ he paused, shaking his head sadly, ‘I don’t know what punishment would be sufficient, but as it is, I put your sin down to ignorance rather than the intention of knowingly reading such … such filth. Each evening from now on, child, you will read and then learn a passage from the Bible which I shall mark for you, to cleanse and purify your mind.’

Spooning some devilled kidneys onto his plate as he spoke he never looked at her face, never saw the anger and indignation in her eyes. Already he had moved on, to talk of their parish visits, of the Sunday school picnic she was to organise, and of the garden party the day before. It never crossed his mind that she might defy him.

Still seething with anger, she was putting on her bonnet, ready for the first of those parish visits when Charles Dawson was shown unexpectedly into the morning room.

‘Mr Hayward. Miss Hayward. Forgive me. I see that you are about to go out!’

Caroline felt her mouth go dry. So this was it. He was going to tell her father himself about her unladylike behaviour at the party and that would seal her fate. Her father would be convinced of her utter depravity! She felt Charles’s eyes on her, and defiantly she raised her own to meet them.

‘Thank you for your hospitality yesterday,’ she murmured. ‘My father and I enjoyed our visit to the palace so much.’

‘Did you indeed, Miss Hayward?’ His tone was lightly mocking. ‘I’m so pleased. It would have been so easy for one such as yourself to become bored.’

‘Indeed not …’ Caroline replied, flustered, but already her father was interrupting.

‘Oh come, sir, my daughter enjoyed every moment of it, as I did. I have of course already written to your mother to thank her for her hospitality – Charles.’ He hesitated slightly before using the younger man’s first name. ‘Her parties are renowned throughout the county, you know.’

‘Indeed they are.’ Charles bowed and Caroline caught the slightest quirk of his eyebrow. ‘I shall however tell her that you enjoyed yourselves. Particularly you, Miss Hayward. I am sure she will ask you again.’

Was he deliberately taunting her? Trying to keep her intense embarrassment hidden, Caroline glanced at him angrily from beneath her lashes, but his face was bland as he turned back to her father.

‘Forgive me calling so early, Mr Hayward, but I had to be in the area on business and I felt I must call in to say good morning.’ He smiled. ‘It did worry me that Miss Hayward did not seem to be herself yesterday.’

Both men looked at Caroline.

Her father frowned. ‘She seemed all right to me.’

Caroline clenched her fists. ‘Of course I was all right, Papa. I can’t think what Mr Dawson means.’

He was enjoying himself hugely. She was sure of it now.

‘You looked pale, Miss Hayward. Several people remarked upon it,’ he went on solicitously.

‘Did they indeed. How kind of them to comment.’ She could feel herself growing more cross and agitated by the second. ‘If so, it must have been because of the heat.’

‘Indeed it must.’ He bowed assent with a smile. ‘And it is going to be hot again today. Already the hills are covered in heat haze. I suspect that storm is not too far away.’ He smiled again. ‘However, I must not delay you any longer.’ He turned towards the door and snapped his fingers at Polly who was waiting in the hall. As she brought him his hat and cane he turned back and held out his hand to Caroline.

‘Miss Hayward.’ He bowed slightly over her fingers. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Hayward.’ Then he had taken his hat from Polly and with another bow he had gone.

George looked after him with a frown. ‘Charming young man. Such style. And showing such concern to come and ask after your health.’ He sighed. ‘A pity you could not have married someone like him, my girl, while you had the chance.’ He shook his head. ‘A great pity. And now it is too late. You won’t marry now, I don’t suppose.’ Unaware of the cruelty of his remark he reached for his own hat.

‘I have not looked for anyone to marry, Papa, since Mama died,’ Caroline put in softly. ‘It is my duty to look after you.’

‘Quite so.’ The rector picked up his gloves, either not hearing or deliberately ignoring the wistfulness of her tone. ‘Young Dawson is likely to marry Marianne Rixby, I hear.’

Caroline was occupied with tying the ribbons of her bonnet, facing the mirror in the hall. For a moment she saw her face reflected in the glass – clearly showing still the traces of angry colour. As she watched the colour faded. Then she saw Polly’s eyes were fixed on her face too. Bleakly she smiled. ‘Shall we go out, Papa? Polly has already put the baskets in the trap.’

It was a long day and she was exhausted when they returned home. Her father had lost no opportunity of lecturing her about her reading habits and reproaching her about the potential husbands she had apparently thrown away through her selfishness and her arrogance. As the afternoon grew more and more hot and uncomfortable she found herself biting her lip in an effort not to scream. Desperately she wanted to get away.

The haze was pearly now over the Downs. The lanes shimmered with heat and the pony’s coat was black with sweat beneath the harness as they drove slowly back towards the Rectory. She was dreading the evening. They had guests for dinner, amongst them Archdeacon Joseph Rixby and his wife and daughter, and she would be expected to play the radiant hostess yet again. There would be no escape.

Her room was cool as she changed into a green silk gown and looped her dark hair gracefully around her pale face. She longed to send a message to her father that she had a headache and could not come down to dinner, but her sense of duty prevailed as usual. She must be there as hostess to his guests. She must ignore his jibes and his sudden spite and be gracious to them.

Wearily she went downstairs into the drawing room. With relief she saw that the double doors into the garden stood open and the fragrance of the night drifted into the room. Calmly she greeted their guests at her father’s side, looking with more than usual interest at Marianne Rixby as the girl arrived, beautiful and sylph-like in a gown of white lace at her parents’ side. So this was the woman Charles Dawson had chosen to marry. She raised her eyes to Marianne’s, forcing herself to smile a welcome as she took the girl’s hand and was astonished to find herself greeted with a look of undisguised venom.

She took a step back. Behind them Polly was moving around the room with a tray of glasses, and already the Rixbys had drifted off with her father to talk by the window. ‘I saw you yesterday,’ Marianne hissed at her. Her mouth was fixed in a narrow smile. ‘What were you doing with Charles?’

‘Doing?’ Caroline frowned uncomfortably. ‘I wasn’t doing anything.’

‘No? Coming out of the shrubbery, with your hair down and your dress all disordered?’ Marianne’s eyes spat fire. ‘Did you think no one would notice?’

‘I … I had been feeling unwell,’ Caroline stammered, aware that her father’s gaze was fixed on her suddenly from across the room. ‘Mr Dawson … Charles … was kind enough to lend me his arm, that was all.’

‘All?’ Marianne’s whisper turned into a small shriek. ‘And how, pray, did your hair come down?’

‘I had been sitting on the swing,’ Caroline replied wearily. ‘I thought the cool air might help my head.’

‘And did it?’ The other girl’s voice was full of malice.

‘A little.’ Caroline’s composure was returning. ‘Your fiancé is a compassionate man, Marianne. He saw my distress and offered to help me, that is all.’

‘Not her fiancé, Caroline, not yet.’ Sarah Rixby’s ears had picked up the end of the conversation and she sailed over to her daughter’s side. ‘Though we are expecting dear Charles to speak to her father at any moment, are we not, my darling?’ From the rector’s elbow the archdeacon inclined his head towards his wife and went on with his conversation. ‘Dear Marianne,’ Sarah continued, ‘it will be such an excellent match, do you not think?’

‘Indeed,’ Caroline nodded, malicious in her turn. ‘A very excellent match indeed.’ She wondered briefly if Marianne had ever been subjected to the man’s sarcasm and insufferable snobbery. She thought not.

The candles burned low over the dinner table as the evening grew even hotter. The ladies’ faces glowed with heat and it was with relief that after they had withdrawn, the gentlemen retired into the gardens with their cigars and their glasses of port. And it was still comparatively early when they called for the carriages, all now aware that the long-promised storm was finally on its way.

By the time she had returned to her bedroom Caroline’s head was splitting with pain. She sent Polly away as soon as the girl had brought up her hot water, not even allowing her to stay and help her undress, then, kicking off her shoes she threw herself onto her bed. Beside her a moth beat its way suicidally around her candle; beyond the open windows the night was humid and very still as if waiting with baited breath for the storm to break.

She must have dozed for a while. She awoke suddenly aware that the moth had dropped, its wings singed, to the floor beneath her bedside table. The candle had burned low. Her bedroom was shadowy as she made her way at last to the ewer and, dipping a corner of the towel into the rapidly cooling water, she bathed her forehead to try and ease the pain. It was then for the first time she noticed her book-case. It was completely empty. She gasped. Throwing herself down on her knees in front of it she ran her fingers over the hollow shelves. During dinner someone had come upstairs and removed every single book. No, not every book. Her Bible still lay there on the top shelf. Inside it was tucked a sheet of paper with a passage noted in her father’s neat hand. Glancing at it furiously she saw that he expected her to read and learn by heart twenty-five verses by next morning!

‘Papa!’ Her fury and anguish were for a moment overwhelming. She was paralysed by the sheer frustration and anger which swept over her.

She climbed to her feet and paced up and down the floor several times before she stopped in front of the window to stare out at the night. The garden lay there cool and inviting, a haven of calm. Her headache, she realised, had miraculously disappeared.

It was then that her rebellion boiled over. Still wearing her evening gown she slipped her shoes on once more, and opened the door. The landing was dark.

Picking up her bedside candle Caroline crept downstairs and into the kitchen. The door into the garden was locked once more. This time she was not to be deflected. She had to get out. She crept into the dining room, still warm with the smells of food and hot wax from the candles, and found to her relief that the windows into the garden had only been latched. There was no key. Pushing them open she stepped out onto the moss-covered terrace.

She knew where she must go. Tiptoeing towards the gate she let herself out and began to walk swiftly up the lane. No one saw her. The windows of the Rectory were all in shadow.

The night was strangely airless. Above her the sky was sewn with stars and a quarter-moon hung hazily above the Downs, but to the south the night was thick and brooding and she thought she heard a distant rumble of thunder.

Buoyed up by her fury and her frustration she walked fast, holding her skirts clear of the dry ruts in the lane, and turned up the path towards the church. Behind it the hillside led up steeply to the ruins of the old castle, the place she went to sometimes to be alone, when she had to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Rectory. The villagers seldom went there, and never at night, or so she had heard. They thought it was haunted. She herself had only ever been there during the day.

The lychgate into the churchyard squeaked as she pushed it open and she glanced behind her in spite of herself. But the lane was empty in the faint moonlight beyond the ancient yews. Reassured, she shut the gate and made her way over the dew-wet grass, threading her way between the mossy, moon-shadowed tombstones. On the far horizon lightning flickered faintly, but she ignored it.

The church was in darkness. She glanced at it warily, for the first time feeling a little nervous. The building looked somehow larger and unfamiliar, the well-known shapes and corners of the walls irregular, menacing. She bit her lip, for a moment wavering, then the thought of her empty bookcase and the string of verses from the New Testament, together with the memory of the tortured burnt remains of her poetry book simmering in the heart of the range returned and with it her anger and indignation. Gathering her skirts she began to run on towards the second gate.

The hillside was steep and shadowed. She could hear herself panting as she scrambled up the winding path, groping blindly where the shadows made it totally dark. She could smell the night-scented stock in the cottage gardens in the village below and the newly scythed grass in the churchyard. The smell of smoke hung on the air and she wondered bitterly if it was from the Rectory chimney.

She was panting when she finally reached the top of the hill and emerged from the wooded path into the clearing which held the castle ruins. Up here the moonlight was clear. She could see the black shadows of the crumbling walls hard across the grass. She stopped right in the middle of what had once been a courtyard and stared southwards at the sleeping countryside. Again the sky was lit by the flicker of summer lightning, and this time a low menacing rumble of thunder followed it. She ignored it. Panting slightly she walked across to a low, ruined wall and hitching herself onto it she started reciting the little litany she always repeated when she came up here. ‘Papa relies on me. I have to obey him. He means well and I have to look after him. That is my duty …’

Duty, her soul was screaming, her duty! To suppress all her hopes and dreams; to give up all thoughts of having her own mind, all thoughts of any independence, all thoughts of a home of her own in order to look after a bigoted selfish old man? Yes … Yes … I am his daughter. It is my duty … Besides, I love him.

So often she had fought this battle within herself, up here, in the ruined castle, where long ago battles had raged. Each time her better self had won. She had firmly suppressed the rebellion, allowed the peace of the countryside to soothe her and returned to the Rectory, meekly ready to take up her duties once more as a dutiful daughter. But this time … this time she wondered whether she could ever bring herself to go back.

She sat there for a long time as the moon hazed and disappeared behind the clouds, watching the storm draw closer as it moved steadily inland from the sea.

The sound of a stone falling was very loud in the silence. She stared round into the darkness, forgetting her father and the troubles at the Rectory, as her mind flew nervously back to thoughts of ghosts.

In spite of herself she couldn’t help remembering cook telling her once of the headless man who was supposed to run across the courtyard and disappear into the thickness of the wall and she shivered. The lightning flickered again, throwing the castle ramparts into eery relief and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw something move. Her heart hammering, she slipped off the wall and crouched close to it. It was stupid to think about ghosts. No one of any education and sense believed in ghosts! What she had heard was a piece of masonry falling; the movement was a trick of the eldritch lightning. The thunder growled once more and she took a deep breath. She should return to the Rectory now, before the rain came.

As she stepped away from the loose rubble of the wall she heard from somewhere quite close the sound of a low laugh. For a moment her terror was so great she thought she would die, then relief flooded through her and she heard herself sigh. What she had heard was no ghost. It must have been one of the village lads, up here courting. Almost trembling with relief she frowned at the unexpected, miserable wave of loneliness and envy which fleetingly seized her as instinctively she moved back into the shadows again. Whoever he was he had come up here to be alone with his girl. It would embarrass them enormously to think they were being spied on by the rector’s daughter.

Gathering up her skirts she had started to creep silently around the side of the wall when the sound of more subdued laughter pulled her up short. It was male laughter, strident for all it was guarded, and it came from several throats. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder towards the sound, and was in time to see the flare of a flame. For a second it illumined a face as it was sucked down into the bowl of a pipe, then all was dark again. On the leaves overhead the first raindrops began to patter down.

Caroline flattened herself against the wall, suddenly afraid again. The face she had seen was no familiar village lad. It had been that of a stranger and there had been something furtive about his action – the fleeting way he had glanced round over his shoulder into the darkness. Whatever he and his companions were doing, they did not want to be seen doing it; and she did not want to see them.

Cautiously she stepped back, holding her breath, her heart thumping with fear. The path back down the hillside seemed a thousand miles away. Away from the trees the rain was harder. She could feel the drops cold on her head and shoulders. Praying that the lightning would not betray her she picked up her skirts again and ran towards the outer wall. Reaching it safely, she pressed herself against the wet stones, listening as she peered round. They did not appear to have seen her. Breathing a quick prayer of gratitude she stepped carefully towards the steps and flattened herself back as a brighter than ever flash of lightning tore across the sky. It was enough to show her that some dozen men were standing inside the ruined walls about twenty yards from her. A second flash showed her they were intent on piling some boxes beneath the rubble in the old castle moat.

‘Smugglers,’ she breathed to herself with a shiver of real fear. She had so often heard her father talking about the men who avoided the excise by bringing in brandy, wine and tobacco all along the lonely Sussex shore and how they cheated the government and the people of the country. It was a favourite theme of his. These men had obviously met a boat down in the estuary, collected a load of some sort of contraband, and were hiding it up here in the castle. Suddenly she was seething with indignation, her fear completely swamped by her anger. All she wanted to do was to get back down the hill so that she could alert the authorities and they would be caught.

As she watched the storm surged on overhead. It was raining hard now and she was becoming drenched. Her hair pulled loose from its knot and hung down on her shoulders. Her thin dress and petticoats were soaked, the silk clinging to her body like a second skin. As each shaft of lightning tore the black sky open she cowered back against the wall. She was not afraid of storms, they exhilarated her, but the speed and power with which this one had finally driven inland from the coast was awesome. Another green flash split the night sky and as suddenly as it had come her anger and indignation had gone and she felt the excitement of the night. Her anger had been her father’s, not her own. To her amazement she realised that she envied these men. They were free, able to sail on the wild sea, ride their shaggy ponies through the storms. Like all men, they were their own masters. What they were doing was exciting and dangerous. What did it matter if the revenue men lost a few guineas? Was that so very dreadful?

In that second, as she watched them, her heart beating with excitement, distracted by her romantic dreams, one of the men saw her in the next flash of lightning which lit up the sky.

She saw him turn towards her, saw his hand raised to point at her, then his warning cry was lost in the crash of thunder which followed.

Her exhilaration vanished and was replaced by icy panic. Abandoning all caution she turned and fled towards the gap in the wall. Her wet skirts tangled between her legs; her hair whipped across her eyes and her thin shoes slipped on the wet grass. Her heart pumping with fear, she ran blindly to the left, her hands outstretched to feel the wall. Another flash of lightning betrayed her. In the long suspended moment of white light they all saw her now. Dropping their loads the men were after her. She heard their angry shouts as she dodged around the end of the wall and across the strip of old cobbled courtyard.

She did not stand a chance. They cut her off in seconds and when the next flash of lightning illumined the scene she was surrounded. She pressed herself back against the wall, trying to catch her breath, feeling the cold, wet stone against her shoulders. Her head high she looked defiantly at the men. One of them had produced a lantern, and he held it up towards her.

‘Miss Hayward?’ The astonishment in his voice as he recognised the rector’s daughter was genuine.

Dazzled by the lantern light held so close to her face Caroline could see nothing of the men behind it. She was shaking with cold and fear.

‘You know her?’ A harsh voice queried near her, clear above the rumbling thunder.

‘Aye, I know her. It’s Miss Hayward – rector’s daughter.’ So one man at least came from the village. Blinded by the lantern, Caroline felt a desperate rush of hope. ‘What are you doing up here, girl? Surely you know better than to come here at night?’ His voice was hard with anger.

The first man swore obscenely. ‘I don’t care who she is. She’ll talk. She’ll have to be disposed of.’

‘She’ll betray us, Jake.’ A third voice rose above the whispers of the men around her. ‘There’s too much at stake to let her go, you know that …’

‘No!’ Her voice sounded shrill and unsteady to her own ears as she stared frantically around. ‘No, I won’t betray you, I promise. I’ll say nothing. Please, let me go.’ She could sense their fear and anger mirroring her own as the lantern hissed and smoked in the blinding rain.

‘She’ll get us all hanged!’ The angry words were fierce and uncompromising. ‘Better get rid of her. Take no risks.’

‘Aye!’ The voices of the men around her were raised in agreement.

‘No –’

Her cry of terror was cut off as the man Jake turned on the first speaker and roared at him, ‘Would you turn us into murderers, Bill Sawyer? Is that your game? This woman will not betray us. I’ll vouch for her. She’s been good to me and mine.’

Jake Forrester. Caroline recognised his voice now. His wife had been ill for most of the summer, and Caroline had day after day taken her food and medicines from the Rectory. Pushing the others aside Jake stood in front of her. ‘Will you promise you’ll tell no one of what you’ve seen here tonight?’

‘I promise.’ Her mouth was dry. The faces around her were hostile, shadowed in the lamplight, streaming with rain. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I’m … I’m on your side. I swear it.’

The excitement was gone. There was fear and suspicion all around her. She could feel them considering, weighing up the risks. Even Jake looked grim. They surrounded her, hemming her in. She was trapped. If they decided she could not be trusted there would be no escape. She bit her lip, feeling the cold rain trickling down her neck, soaking into the bodice of her gown.

‘Go on, girl. Get back to the village, quickly now,’ Jake said softly. ‘You keep quiet and no harm will come to you or yours. But if you ever betray us by so much as a hint …’

The threat was obvious. She shivered. Without a word she turned and made her way towards the steps. The men parted. Blindly she walked between them, hardly daring to breathe, feeling their eyes following her. Somehow she forced herself not to run. With as much dignity as she could she walked across the wet grass and stones and out of the light of the flickering lanterns into the deep shadows of the trees.

Once she was out of their sight she began to run, her feet finding the way by instinct in the dark as she hurled herself down the slippery path towards the churchyard. Scrabbling with the latch of the gate she pulled it open and slipped through, her breath catching in her throat. A flicker of lightning, more distant now, lit up the churchyard as she made her way between the tombstones and down towards the road to the village. The rain was stopping.

As she let herself out of the lychgate into the lane she could feel her heart thudding beneath her ribs; she was gasping for breath, her wet hair falling across her eyes, blinding her so that she didn’t see the tall hidden figure until it was too late.

She screamed as the hand reached out in the darkness and seized her wrist. Struggling frantically she was swung forcibly to face her captor and felt her arms gripped by fingers of steel.

‘Don’t make a sound!’ The command was hissed at her viciously. Below them on the road she could hear now the sound of horses’ hooves. A troop of horsemen were riding along the road from the direction of the village. So Jake and his friends were betrayed. Even if she screamed again they would not hear her, up in the castle ruins. And they would think it was she who had betrayed them. She struggled desperately to free herself. Somehow she had to warn them.

As if he read her thoughts her captor released her arm and clamped his hand across her mouth. With a little moan of despair she kicked out at him and she heard him swear quietly under his breath as her foot met his shin but he did not release her. He held her in silence as the horseman passed close below them. It seemed like an eternity before the riders disappeared into the distance and the sound of the hooves on the track faded into silence. A desultory flicker of lightning pierced the yew branches overhead. For a moment their faces were lit. The man’s expression was grim as he looked down at her and at last, abruptly, he let her go.

‘Miss Hayward!’

It was the Reverend Charles Dawson.