Читать книгу The Smuggler and the Society Bride - Julia Justiss - Страница 10

Two days later, Honoria accompanied Aunt Foxe to church in Sennlack. A local curate normally served the small parish, but occasionally the bishop from Exeter came to conduct the services. In honour of that visiting dignitary, an acquaintance of many years, Miss Foxe had elected to drive to town rather than remain at home to conduct her own private devotions, as she had the previous Sundays since Honoria’s arrival.

Having been through the village only when her carriage halted at the Gull’s Roost for directions to Foxeden Manor the day of her arrival, Honoria was looking forward to visiting the town and viewing the inside of the rustic stone church. Except for her walks along the cliffs, she’d not left the manor’s grounds since her arrival.

After the service, the congregation filed out, shaking hands with the rector and the bishop before they departed or stood in small groups chatting. Honoria recognized the man currently speaking with the vicar as the innkeeper from whom John Coachman had obtained directions to Foxeden—the man Tamsyn later identified as her father. The senior Mr Kessel was flanked by two young men who bore him a striking resemblance, one of whom must be Tamsyn’s fishing boat captain brother, Dickin.

The curate laughed and joked with the men, much friendlier than Honoria would have expected a clergyman would be with individuals whose true occupation, she suspected, involved activities of more dubious legality than innkeeping or fishery.

‘I wonder that the vicar is on such good terms with free-traders,’ she murmured to her aunt as they made their way down the aisle.

Miss Foxe laughed. ‘A Welshman likes his brandy and spirits as well as the next man. You won’t find any hereabouts who don’t do business with free-traders. I’ve even heard there’s a smuggler’s tunnel that leads into the basement under the sacristy of this church.’

‘Surely not!’ Honoria replied, properly shocked—as, from the twinkle in her aunt’s eye, that lady had meant her to be. Was it true? she wondered.

They reached the vestibule, where her aunt’s attention was immediately claimed by the visiting bishop. Realizing that she would soon be introduced to him and probably a number of members of the local community, Honoria’s initial enthusiasm for the excursion vanished. Hoping to postpone the moment as long as possible, she turned aside, ostensibly to allow her aunt a moment of private conversation.

Remote as Sennlack—and even Exeter—were from London, she suddenly felt sick with apprehension that the bishop might, upon being given her name, have heard about her disgrace.

Her anxiety over how to counter that possibility was interrupted by a little girl tugging at her sleeve. Having claimed her attention, the child smiled, bobbed a curtsy and held out a handful of flowers that wafted up to her the delicious odour of primroses.

‘For me?’ Honoria asked.

The girl nodded. Thin, with ragged blonde hair and dressed in a worn, simple gown, she appeared to be about ten years old.

As Honoria looked from the flowers to the child, she noticed with a small shock that while the girl’s one blue eye stared directly at her, the other, grey in hue, seemed to be inspecting the distance beyond. The mismatched colour and wandering eye gave the child an unsettling, other-worldly look.

‘How very kind of you…’ As she paused, waiting for the child to supply her name, a woman hurried over.

‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean for her to bother you! Come with Mama, now, Eva,’ the woman coaxed.

‘She’s no bother. It was sweet of her to give me flowers,’ Honoria replied.

Pulling free of her mother, the girl wiggled her fingers like a flowing sea, then made a dog-paddling motion.

‘She brought them because she thought you were so brave, trying to help the man who looked to drown,’ the mother explained.

Giving Honoria a lopsided smile as slightly off-kilter as her eyes, the girl nodded.

Honoria felt both charmed and embarrassed. ‘I’m not brave at all, but thank you, Eva. The primroses are lovely!’

The little girl patted the skirt of Honoria’s gown and made another gesture, to which her mother nodded.

‘She thinks you are lovely, too, miss.’

When the mother’s fond smile abruptly vanished, Honoria glanced in the direction of the woman’s gaze. One of the innkeeper’s sons was bearing down on them, an angry scowl on his face.

‘I thought you’d been warned not to bring her here,’ he snarled at the mother.

‘Sorry, Mr John,’ the woman said, curtsying as she grabbed the girl’s hand. ‘We was just going.’

Seeming content now that her errand was discharged, the child let her mother lead her off.

Honoria watched them go, frowning.

The innkeeper’s son shook his head. ‘Not right for her to bring that halfwit here among normal people. Bad luck, it is.’

‘She didn’t seem half-witted to me,’ Honoria retorted, her temper stirred by the man’s harshness to the child.

He gave her a dismissive look. ‘Meaning no disrespect, miss, but you’re a stranger here, and probably ought not to talk on things you don’t know nothing about.’

Truly angry now, Honoria was about to return a sharp remark when she heard her aunt’s voice from just behind her. ‘Ah, here you are, my dear. Come, let me present you to my good friend, His Eminence Bishop Richards, and the vicar, Father Gryffd.’

Dread tightened her chest as Honoria turned to face them. When Miss Foxe continued, ‘Gentlemen, my kinswoman—’ she found herself blurting ‘—Miss Foxe. Miss Marie Foxe,’ she added, in deference to her aunt as an elder Miss Foxe.

As ashamed as she might be of the desperation that had produced the lie, her feelings of relief were stronger. Until she figured out what to do with her life, she’d just as lief the bishop—and the rest of Sennlack—were not aware of her true surname, in case some word of the scandal made it here from London. And with the nature of that scandal making the name Honoria sound too much like mockery to her ears, she’d might as well make the falsehood complete by using a middle name.

To Honoria’s relief, after only a slight rise of her eyebrows, Aunt Foxe fell in with the deception. ‘My niece is presently on an…extended visit.’

‘Welcome, Miss Foxe,’ the bishop said. ‘Sennlack may be only a small village, but I’m sure your aunt will make you quite comfortable. The views from the coastal walk are breathtaking, her gardens lovely, and Foxeden Manor boasts a fine library.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure my stay will be most enjoyable.’

‘Shall we tempt you to Exeter for the summer festival, Miss Foxe?’ the bishop addressed her aunt. As the two began discussing this event, Honoria turned her attention to the vicar.

‘Father, who is that little girl walking off with her mother?’ she asked, pointing down the lane.

As if somehow knowing she was being discussed, the child paused at the bend in the road to look back and wave. With a defiant glance in the direction of the innkeeper’s son, Honoria waved back.

‘Eva Steavens,’ the vicar replied. ‘And her mother, Mrs Steavens, a recent widow. Her husband and the child’s father, a fisherman, was lost at sea last winter.’

‘Poor child—and poor wife,’ Honoria murmured. ‘Does the girl never speak?’

‘Not that I know,’ Father Gryffd replied.

‘That still doesn’t make her a halfwit—no matter what some people might think,’ Honoria asserted.

‘No, indeed,’ the vicar agreed. ‘But many of the folk hereabouts are superstitious. It’s her eyes, I suppose, and that crooked smile. Fearing what they do not understand, some think it the devil’s mark and avoid her. Especially…’ he hesitated, as if searching for the correct word ‘…watermen like John Kessel, who shooed her away. It seems she gave a pretty rock or some such trifle to a friend of his, the captain of one of the local, um, fishing boats, just before he set off on a voyage. There was a storm; the ship was lost at sea with all hands. Kessel believes she possesses the evil eye and brought his friend ill luck.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Honoria said flatly.

The vicar nodded. ‘Indeed, but the sea is a hard mistress. One can understand that those who ply her depths would wish to avoid anything they think might increase her dangers.’

Unable to disagree with that argument, Honoria said instead, ‘Is the child a halfwit?’

‘’Tis difficult to know for sure when one is unable to speak with her. But she appears intelligent. You must have noticed the language of gestures she has developed to communicate with her mother.’

Her newly-acquired sympathy for the innocent ignited on the girl’s behalf. ‘But it’s so unfair! ’Tis no fault of hers that she entered life with mismatched eyes and a crooked smile.’

‘It is indeed wrong for innocents to suffer for the mistaken perceptions of the world,’ Aunt Foxe said, rejoining their conversation as the bishop’s attention was claimed by another parishioner. ‘But, alas, ’tis often the case.’

Her kind eyes and the look she directed to Honoria were so filled with sympathy, Honoria’s own eyes pricked with tears.

‘One waits in hope for a just God to right matters in the end,’ the vicar said.

‘Amen to that,’ Aunt Foxe agreed.

Honoria had nearly regained her composure when a velvet-timbred, lilting voice emanating from just behind made her jump.

‘Father Gryffd, Miss Foxe, good day. I heard we had a new visitor at services.’

A wave of sensation rippled across her skin. Honoria turned toward the voice that, although she had heard it only once before, already seemed familiar. Standing before her, a smile on his handsome face, was the rescuer from the beach.

Something about that smile made her stomach go soft as blancmange while little ripples darted across her nerves. Before she could figure out why a man’s expression could have elicited such an absurd reaction, the man himself bowed to her aunt. ‘Miss Foxe, might I have the temerity to beg an introduction?’

Her aunt hesitated. Honoria held her breath, wondering how that lady would respond. A smuggler was not a fit person for Lady Honoria Carlow to know, but snubbing a renowned local personage in so small a village hardly seemed warranted—especially on behalf of a mere Miss Foxe whose aunt was apparently on familiar terms with him.

Obviously drawing the same conclusion, with an amused smile, her aunt nodded. ‘My dear, allow me to introduce Mr Gabriel Hawksworth, a…mariner lately come to our shores. Mr Hawksworth, my niece, ah, Miss Marie Foxe.’

‘A breathtaking addition to our local congregation, ma’am. I’ve heard Miss Marie is an admirer of gardens. Would you permit me the further liberty of escorting your niece to view the roses in the churchyard? They are just coming into bloom.’

Honoria nearly sputtered with indignation as her aunt weighed that request. Had the man in question been an eligible gentleman of rank, the inquiry would have been bold enough, but for an out-and-out rogue to solicit the company of an earl’s daughter was audacious beyond belief!

Perhaps it was her certain knowledge that the Carlow men would go into fits, were they to know Honoria was strolling about with a free-trader, but Aunt Foxe nodded her head.

‘I don’t suppose you can involve her in too much mischief whilst walking about the churchyard in plain view, Mr Hawks-worth, but I do count on you to exhibit your most gentlemanly behaviour. My dear, make the most of this opportunity to become acquainted with a local legend.’

The brigand bowed low. ‘I am deeply in your debt, ma’am.’

‘See that you remember that the next time you price your cargo,’ her aunt replied.

Beginning to believe her aunt nearly as much a rogue as the man into whose charge she was being given, before she could think how to protest, with an elaborate bow, Mr Hawksworth claimed her hand and nudged her into motion.

Any thoughts of refusal were scattered to the wind by the little shock that leapt through her as he took her hand. Though after that jolt, her mind remained indignant over the Hawk’s effrontery, her treacherous feet followed his lead quite docilely—a reaction which only increased her irritation.

‘Sir, this is an abduction,’ she said in an undertone.

‘Hardly that! Not when I’ve agreed to be upon my best behaviour. I shall even refrain from detailing all the possible mischief one could get up to in a garden.’

His teasing remark doused her heated irritation as effectively as a cold sea wave. She knew all too well what mischief could occur in a garden. Because of it, she was no longer Lady Honoria, sought-after maiden of quality allowed to maintain exacting standards about whom she would and would not grace with her company.

Still, though in truth she might now rate even lower than a plain ‘Miss Foxe,’ that didn’t mean she had to swell this man’s vanity by swooning at his feet like all the other village girls—no matter how eagerly her senses responded to him.

The best way to deal with the stranger, she decided, was to show him how unimpressed she was by his charm and dashing manner. A man who had every maid from Padstow to Polperro sighing over him could probably use a good lesson in humility.

‘For that, you would need a willing partner,’ she replied at last.

He paused in mid-stride and looked at her, one eyebrow quirked. ‘And you think you wouldn’t be?’

As he bent upon her the intensive gaze she remembered so well from the beach, a warm melting feeling expanded in the pit of her stomach. ‘Certainly not,’ she replied in the most disdainful voice she could summon.

He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘I thought you had a fondness for mariners—or so it seemed when I saw you on the beach at Sennlack Cove. Most…intriguingly dressed, I might add,’ he said, sweeping his gaze from her legs to her belly, then letting it linger at the apex of her thighs.

Honoria felt her face burn as other parts of her tingled. ‘A gentleman would have forgotten my…unsuitable attire.’

He laughed, a warm, rich sound that was as engaging as his smile—drat him. ‘I thought we’d already established I’m no gentleman! But unsuitable as that might make me to accompany you, I did feel compelled to seek you out. A genteel young lady who knows how to swim is uncommon enough. ’Tis even more astounding to find one who was prepared to jeopardize her safety—and dignity—by plunging in to rescue a stranger.’

His unexpected admiration, as much as his sudden dropping of the overly gallant tone and manner, was making it difficult for her to maintain her haughteur. ‘I would hope any good Christian would do the same,’ she said.

‘You have a higher opinion of Christians than I. So why are you so disapproving of me?’

‘Of a smuggler and a law breaker?’ Who is way too attractive for my comfort, she added silently. ‘I would have deemed you intelligent enough to have already deduced the reason,’ she told him, deliberately using the most formal wording she could summon to display a superior education and breeding that was meant to put him in his place.

Instead, he laughed out loud. ‘Miss Foxe, you are a newcomer! If not upon that charge, then certainly upon aiding and abetting, you could convict half the congregation! Do you not remember seeing some of them among the group on the beach?’

A grudging honesty forced her to admit she’d noted that fact during services. ‘It’s a dangerous risk they all run—and for what, some bits of lace?’

Once again, he paused. After looking her up and down—setting her nerves humming wherever his gaze touched—he remarked, ‘That’s quite a disapproving tone for one who, if my eye for feminine finery remains true, is wearing no small bit of lace herself.’

Aghast, Honoria looked down at her pelisse. Warmer and heavier than those she’d brought from London, it was borrowed from her aunt, who was of almost the same size—and boasted a fine trimming of lace at the collar and cuffs.

With chagrin, she realized he was probably right—which made her almost as angry as the realization that, hard as she tried to will it otherwise, she was not immune to the appeal of that blue-eyed gaze or self-assured charm.

‘I shall take care not to do so in future,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t wish to enrich common brigands.’

To her further annoyance, his grin only widened. ‘Ah, Miss Foxe, we are not at all common! Those who follow the sea are a hardy lot, braving wind, tide and storm, and those who do so while eluding pursuit are more resourceful still. I don’t wish to sound boastful, but ’tis a fact that quite a few ladies hereabouts admire us!’

‘Ladies?’ she echoed disbelievingly. ‘Now I know you are joking.’

‘Indeed, I am not!’ he protested. ‘Have you not heard of the landlady in West Looe who, when the preventives came to her establishment searching for free-trader cargo, concealed a keg beneath her skirts and sat calmly knitting until the agents departed? Indeed, even the customs collector of Penzance often calls fellows in the trade “honest men in all their dealings.”’

Honoria studied his smiling face, trying to decide whether he could be telling the truth. ‘I believe you are trying to cozen me,’ she said at last.

‘Absolutely not!’ he affirmed. ‘Ask anyone. Free-traders are considered quite respectable fellows hereabouts. It’s even said that the church spire at St Christopher’s—’ he gestured upward to the building she’d lately occupied ‘—had its tower built by special contribution from the local landowners, to make it high enough to serve as a navigation landmark for…mariners.’

‘The church tower?’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I know you are bamming me!’

‘Since the days of running wool to Flanders, smuggling has been a part of life here. Nearly everyone is involved, either as provider or customer, from the miners who buy the cheapest spirits to the rich landowners quaffing expensive brandy. Even your aunt.’

Though she suspected as much, Honoria still didn’t wish to admit it. ‘Surely not my Aunt Foxe!’

The brigand chuckled. ‘Do you think the local dressmaker provided the lace that trims those sleeves? Or the shop in town, the clarets that grace her dinner table—or the cognac that warms her coachman on a cold evening? If the Crown truly wished to bring illegal trade to a stop, they would abolish the tariffs.’

He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he continued, ‘But you shouldn’t think poorly of your aunt! With its proximity to France and Ireland and its abundance of natural harbours, Cornwall seems designed by the Almighty expressly to support the free-traders. One shouldn’t fault the logic of folk who choose to buy the more reasonably priced goods they provide, any more than one should blame the local men who aid the smugglers. The mines are a hard life, trying to coax a living out of this rocky, wind-swept soil no easier a task, nor is extracting fish from a capricious, often dangerous sea. You shouldn’t condemn men for taking an easier route to earning a few pence.’

‘It’s hardly easier, when those who participate may end up on the gallows or in a watery grave,’ she retorted.

He shrugged. ‘But all life’s a gamble, a vessel buffeted by winds and tides beyond one’s control. One cannot retreat; one must put the ship in trim and sail on.’

How does one meet disgrace and sail on? she wondered. Easy enough for men, who ruled the world, to urge bold action!

But her brigand was halting again. ‘Ah, there are the roses. Lovely, aren’t they? I’m told that, protected from the wind against this south-facing stone wall, the plants bloom earlier than anywhere else in England.’

At that moment Honoria spied them, too. With an exclamation of delight, she walked over and filled her nostrils with the rich spicy aroma of alba rose. Eyes closed, inhaling the heady scent, she was distracted for a moment from the curiously mingled sensations of attraction and avoidance inspired by the man beside her.

‘They are lovely,’ she exclaimed, reluctantly turning back to him. ‘So at least this part of your tale is true. Is it the lilt of Ireland I hear in your voice?’

He made her a bow. ‘Indeedyoudo. ’Tis a fine ear you have, Miss Foxe—which means it matches the rest of you.’

She felt her left ear warm, while the tendril of hair just above was stirred by his breath. Other parts of her began to warm and stir as well.

Blast the man! He made resisting his seemingly unstudied charm deuced difficult—and she had been wooed by some of London’s most accomplished. No wonder all the maids from Padstow to Polperro were smitten.

‘I’m convinced half of what you say is nonsense, but I’ll concede you spin a good story. My brother says Irish troopers tell the best tales of anyone in the Army.’

His lazy regard sharpened. ‘Your brother is an Army lad? In which regiment?’

Belatedly realizing her error, she said vaguely, ‘Oh, I don’t recall the number.’ As if she didn’t know to a man how many troopers Hal commanded in his company of the 11^th Dragoons. ‘I’ve heard you were with the Army, too,’ she said, trying to turn the conversation back to him.

‘Yes.’

She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘That seems an odd choice for one who is…taken with the sea,’ she said finally.

‘’Tis only a temporary occupation.’

‘Until?’ she probed.

‘Until I choose a more permanent one.’

He was no more forthcoming than she. Was he, too, running from something or someone? The wrath of the Irish authorities over some misdeed? The vengeance of a cuckolded husband?

Though Honoria realized she should recoil from one she knew to be a law-breaker, she could not sense emanating from this charming blue-eyed captain a hint of anything venal or sinister. She felt no threat at all.

But then, how much credence should she put in her senses? She’d thought she could handle Lord Barwick in the garden—and had trusted in Anthony’s support and loyalty.

Mr Hawksworth jolted her out of those unpleasant reflections by asking, ‘What are your plans, Miss Foxe? Do you make your aunt a long visit? With summer just coming into Cornwall, it’s particularly beautiful here.’

‘It is lovely,’ she agreed, sidestepping the question. ‘By the way, how did you know I liked flowers?’

‘Oh, I have my sources,’ he replied.

Had Tamsyn talked to him about her? Somehow she couldn’t believe that the maid, if she were granted audience with her hero, would waste it prattling about her employer’s niece. ‘A guess, then,’ she countered, ‘since most females like roses. Particularly females visiting a lady who possesses one of the finest gardens in the area. Though not this particular rose,’ she added, inspecting the blossom. ‘Perhaps I should take a cutting back to Foxeden. In a sheltered bed, it should thrive.’

‘Under your hands, anything would thrive.’

Honoria gave him a sharp glance. He was flirting again, which given the differences in their stations, he should not. But he persisted any way.

She should be angry, since his forwardness was almost forcing her to snub him, something she really didn’t wish to do. Nor, faced with his straightforward honesty, could she seem to hold on to her anger.

Unlike other men she’d known, he didn’t appear to practice deceit. He’d freely admitted who he was. If he were a rogue, at least he was an honest one.

Which made him a refreshing change from the London dissemblers who flattered to one’s face while plotting ruin behind one’s back.

Not that a girl could trust any man. But would it hurt to flirt a bit?

With the question barely formed, she caught herself up short. What was she thinking? Hadn’t she just forfeited the life to which she’d been born for not immediately fleeing the presence of one she’d known to be a rogue?

With her treacherous inclination toward the man, the wisest course would be to remove herself from this free-trader’s insidious influence.

‘Thank you for showing me the lovely roses, Mr Hawks-worth. But I mustn’t delay my aunt’s departure.’ Nodding a farewell, she set off quickly away down the path toward the street and her aunt’s waiting carriage.

As she’d feared, he simply fell into step beside her. ‘Lovely they are indeed. But not the loveliest thing I’ve seen today.’

‘You are a blatant charmer, Mr Hawksworth,’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘I’d advise you to save your pretty compliments for those more desirous of receiving them.’

He cocked his head at her. ‘And you are not?’

‘Indeed no, sir. I prefer unvarnished truth.’

He laughed again, a deep, warm, shiver-inducing sound. ‘Then, Miss Foxe, you are the most exceptional lady I have ever met.’

‘I hardly think so,’ she replied as they exited the churchyard and regained the street. ‘Ah, Aunt Foxe,’ she called to that lady, who stood chatting with the vicar beside their carriage. ‘Were you looking for me?’

Before she could step away, Mr Hawksworth snagged her sleeve and made her an elegant bow. ‘I very much enjoyed our walk. Good day, Miss Foxe.’

Politeness required that she curtsy back. ‘Mr Hawksworth,’ she replied with a regal incline of the head. Conscious of his gaze resting upon her back, she stepped into the sanctuary of the carriage.

A great one she was to talk of preferring truth, she thought disgustedly as her aunt settled onto the seat beside her. She, who’d just identified herself to the entire community under a false name. Who’d wondered what Mr Hawksworth might be hiding when she’d not vouchsafed to any but her aunt her own reason for being here.

How much do we ever truly reveal of ourselves to others? she wondered, finding it hard to resist the impulse to look out the window and peer back at Gabriel Hawksworth.

Strangers and villains. Was he one—or both?