Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kit

Just after seven in the evening, Kit alighted from the coach in Penzance in Tregothnan's company. Having stowed his valise in a room at the inn, he and Aleck walked down to Penzance's little harbor to where Judd Kimbrell, Tregothnan's second in command, lived. They found him sitting on a wooden stool in front of his house mending a lobster pot, his strong brown fingers flying as he threaded new laths through the intricate network of basketry. A half-grown, barefoot boy sat cross-legged at his feet, working on a tangle of netting.

Judd gave the boy a poke with the toe of his boot. "Away inside and fetch us out a beaker o' cider each." The boy jumped up obediently and disappeared inside the house.

Judd got to his feet and held out a gnarled hand to Kit. "Mr. Kitto. Good to see yer. Tek a seat, tek a seat." He swiped a lobster pot off another stool and ran his sleeve over it in a cursory check of its cleanliness.

With a grin, Kit sat down, as at home here, or perhaps more so, as he'd been in his mother's parlor. "How's the fishing going?"

"Alright, me luvver." Judd set down the almost-repaired lobster pot. "Ketched m'self some fine crabs an' sold 'em up country fer a good price." He eyed Tregothnan. "C'd do with another passel o' goods comin' our way soon, though. Gotta put a bit by fer the winter with m'wife in the family way agin."

Kit nodded his agreement, sinking back into his place in the local community as though he'd never been away. No longer the up-country lord, but merely a friend of these two gruff Cornishmen—the fisherman and the innkeeper. He'd grown up here, and no one ever treated him as though he were anything more than one of them, something that Kit loved above all other things.

"Yer in luck then," Tregothnan said to Judd, sitting himself down on a coil of tarry rope. "I had word, when I were in Launceston, that there's a load comin' over either termorrow night or the one after, depending on the wind. I'll send a message when I knows. A big consignment o' good quality French brandy, fer the most part. Baccy an' tea too. Worth a lot o' money ter us. I'm goin' ter need all the men I can get, with all their ponies. So some from here, too."

Judd nodded. "I'll pass the word, an' you can do the ones in Nanpean village an' St Just."

Kit frowned. "I don't like the idea of the moon being so near to full. It's better for a consignment to come in the dark of the moon. Where's the stuff to be stored this time?"

Tregothnan rubbed his chin. "The old barn up at Carnwiddy Farm. Well away from the farmhouse. Nice'n'quiet. Not one we've used fer a long time."

Judd and Kit nodded. Both of them knew the tip of Cornwall's long toe as well as they knew the way to their own privies, and Carnwiddy Farm was a place all three of them had been to on a number of occasions.

Just then, the boy returned with three empty horn beakers in one hand and a jug of cider in the other. He put them on the ground beside his father and beat a hasty retreat. Boys around here knew when they were surplus to requirements.

Kit smiled. He'd been a boy like that once himself, and it had taken a lot of wheedling to persuade Jago to at last let him come on that first trip to Brittany. How exciting it had been to sail across the channel in the middle of the night in a little fishing boat, load up with a few kegs of brandy and then sail back again in full view of the revenue cutter, the brandy secreted under a catch of silver darlings.

Tregothnan knocked his beaker against Kit's and Judd's. "Yeghes da, then."

"Yeghes da," they rejoined, using the old Cornish salutation.

As Judd and Aleck took out their baccy pouches and began tamping tobacco down into their pipes for a companionable smoke, Kit looked past his two friends toward the little harbor.

A peaceful setting, and as typically Cornish as they came. Small fishermen's cottages like Judd's clustered the slope above the harbor, clinging on like limpets on a rock at low tide, as if they'd grown there rather than been built. Already, the women were setting empty baskets outside their doors in anticipation of their men returning with a good catch, and the smell of frying bacon and potatoes filled the air. At least some of these people were eating meat tonight thanks to him. If only he could help more of them.

Lost in his reverie, Tregothnan made him start when he suddenly slapped his knee. "Come along-a me then, Kitto. If we're to get somethin' ter eat tonight we'd best git along back ter the inn."

And within a minute or two, they were walking uphill toward the abbey ruins and the inn where they'd left their belongings.

*

Morvoren

Shouts and screamsdisturbed Morvoren's dreams. Pushing the covers of the narrow bed back, she sat up. The shouts continued… along with bangs. Whatever was going on? Moonlight streaming in through the small, curtainless window showed her Ysella sleepily rubbing her eyes, as confused as she was.

"What on earth's all that noise?" Ysella asked, sitting up. "Sounds like people fighting."

Morvoren reached for her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders. "I'll take a look out of the window."

Just at that moment a loud report, like a gunshot, went off, and both girls instinctively ducked, reaching out to grab hold of each other. "What the hell?" Morvoren managed.

Ysella snatched up her own shawl. "Are we safe? Is it the French invading?"

Disentangling herself from Ysella's hold, Morvoren went to the window. Wary of being spotted from outside, she peered out with caution. The moonlit front yard of the inn was full of soldiers, all in red jackets and carrying long guns of some kind.

"Oh my God," she whispered, glancing back at Ysella, whose face had blanched deathly pale. "I think it must be. There're armed soldiers outside the inn in the middle of the night. What else can it be?"

Ysella jumped out of bed and hurried to stand beside Morvoren. "They're not French soldiers. They're ours." She craned her neck around, trying to look along the front of the inn. "I don't see any French uniforms, and these just seem to be standing around looking fierce." She paused, head tilted to one side. "But there are an awful lot of them."

A hammering rattled the bedroom door so loudly it nearly sent Morvoren's heart leaping out of her mouth. "Who's there?" she called, clutching her shawl even more tightly, terrified they were about to be faced with burly soldiers thinking they were up to no good. Which of course they were, really. Although how could the soldiers know that?

"Sam," came the reply. "Are you all right? Can I come in?"

Ysella glanced at Morvoren, who nodded, conscious of the fact that they were only wearing their shifts and not their usual voluminous nightgowns and might be putting themselves in a compromising position. "Come in," Ysella called.

Sam was wearing only his breeches and shirt and carrying a candle, but his feet were bare. James the coachman was right behind him, similarly attired and also with a candle. No sign of John. Hopefully he was standing guard over the hired horses.

"Come away from the window," Sam ordered. "Shots have been fired and it's not safe."

Ysella and Morvoren stepped back, but neither sat down. "What's going on?" Morvoren asked. "Where have all those soldiers come from?"

The moonlight glinted on the pistol Sam was holding, which undoubtedly must have been loaded. Hopefully he'd be keeping his finger away from the trigger. "A raid," he said. "A midnight raid."

Morvoren's hand tightened on her shawl. "What on earth are they raiding this inn for? And why are we surrounded by soldiers in the middle of the night?"

"They're raiding in search o' free traders, Miss Lucas," James said. "It'll be a surprise raid to catch 'em unawares. There's a lot o' smugglin' goes on hereabouts."

Didn't she know it.

Ysella and Morvoren exchanged horrified glances. If they were carrying out a raid here, at Jamaica Inn, which was a long way inland, then might it be part of the county wide purge on smugglers described in the museum? Was Kit at this moment on the beach at Nanpean being shot by a soldier? Were they destined to be too late to save him?

"No need to be frightened," Sam said with seeming confidence. "James and I will station ourselves outside your door and prevent anyone from entering." But Morvoren could see he was as worried as she was that this might be a sign that they were going to be too late to save his employer… his childhood friend.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the still open door, and the landlord's daughter came hurrying in, also dressed in only her shift and an enveloping knitted shawl that rendered her far more modest than either Ysella or Morvoren. "Ooh, Miss," she gasped as soon as she saw the girls. "They's arrestin' all the men wot's still in the taproom an' searchin' every room and outhouse." She looked at Ysella and Morvoren. "Best prepare yerselves fer bein' searched."

"Let them dare to lay a hand on Miss Carlyon and Miss Lucas and they'll have the nose of this pistol in their faces," Sam blustered, but Morvoren could see he was badly shaken.

She caught the girl's cold hand. "You'd best stay here with us as we have two men to keep us safe." A shiver ran through the girl's slender body, and Morvoren put a protective arm about her shoulders. The poor girl couldn't have been more than fourteen and was probably terrified for her safety. She shrank against Morvoren, her body trembling.

A few minutes only brought more footsteps on the stairs and a tall gentleman in a smart red uniform knocked on the open door.

"You might as well come in," Morvoren called. "Everyone else has."

He stepped inside with a diffident, somewhat apologetic air, a lantern swinging from one hand. "Please forgive me, Miss Carlyon." He made a bow aimed somewhere between Morvoren and Ysella as though he didn't know which of them was which. The name Carlyon clearly meant something to him.

Ysella let go of Morvoren's hand, which she'd grabbed when the landlord's daughter arrived, and stepped forward. "I am Miss Carlyon," she said with all the hauteur her breeding had instilled in her. "For what reason are we being disturbed in the middle of the night like this?"

"Captain Adderley at your service," the officer said, his heels clicking together as he performed a smart bow. "I must apologize to you ladies, but we are in the process of apprehending a parcel of smugglers who have made this inn their lair. I need to ask you if you have anyone hiding in your room."

"What?" Ysella's voice rose in angry disdain. "Are you accusing Miss Lucas and myself of harboring men in our bedroom?" She didn't frown but she could have slain him with her expression of disgust. "My brother is Viscount Ormonde and he will be furious to hear of your accusations. I shall be making a note of your name, Captain Adderley, and my brother will be reporting your outrageous behavior to your superior."

And now she did frown, the words spitting out of her mouth like bullets from a machine gun. "And no, we do not have any men hiding in our bedroom with us. The only men in here are yourself and Mr. Beauchamp the agent for my brother's estate and our coachman, James, who are here only to keep us safe. And they have nothing whatsoever to do with any smuggling going on here in this inn or in its whereabouts."

Sam stepped into action. "As you can see, Miss Carlyon and Miss Lucas's room has nowhere anyone could be hiding—unless you'd like to look under their bed. James and I will be standing guard over their door for the rest of the night, so kindly request your men to keep well away, as I am armed." His hand went to his belt where he'd slipped the pistol—not an act Morvoren felt to be all that safe as it was loaded.

"Sir." Captain Adderley's face suffused with an almost purple rush of blood, as he executed yet another bow, and withdrew, well and truly put in his place by Ysella and Sam. Morvoren wanted to high five them, but restrained herself. She was going to have to learn how to do putdowns like that if she was going to be staying here much longer.

"Ooh Miss," the landlord's daughter said, gazing at Ysella in admiration. "You was that good. Can I stay here with you? My pa told me to hide. He ses as soldiers ain't to be trusted with a woman."

"Of course you can stay," Morvoren said. "We don't want you going back out there with those awful soldiers." She nodded to the one chair in the room. "But you'll have to sleep on the chair—this bed is too small for three."

The child seemed very happy with this, and, with the officer gone, Ysella and Morvoren climbed back into their rumpled bed and lay down to try to get back to sleep. But Morvoren was wide awake now, with enough adrenaline rushing through her veins to run a marathon, and sleep wasn't going to come easily.

Their new guest curled up on the chair, and Sam and James set up guard outside the room, which was probably very uncomfortable for them. In fact, it was not at all a comfortable night for anyone, not helped by the fact that with the girl in the room, Morvoren couldn't talk privately to Ysella about what had happened nor plan what their next move would be if the carriage couldn't be repaired.

Instead, they had to lie in silence listening to what was still going on outside and downstairs, as heavy boots thundered through the rooms and more doors banged as a thorough search of the premises went on.

The sky was just lightening in the east when at last the noise died down and Morvoren managed to doze off for a short while. This was made shorter still by the landlord coming, looking for his daughter so she could start work. Ysella and Morvoren exchanged tired glances, and, as if by mutual consent, started to get dressed.

But once they were downstairs, they discovered good news awaited them. The local blacksmith and carpenter had both been to look at the carriage and were at present working on a lasting repair. They would, so Sam informed them, be on the road again by midday.

Midday? Did he not realize how important speed was? Did he not see the significance of last night's raid? Was Morvoren the only one with a burning sense of urgency?