Chapter Thirty

Morvoren

The next morning, the earliest time they could safely make their crossing of the river was just after ten, so the landlord informed them. He even went so far as to show Morvoren the chart he kept in the tap room. "There ain't much of a safe time ter cross, Missy. On account o' the water bein' too deep most o' the time. We doan get too many carriages like yourn wantin' ter cross—most does like the mail coach and teks the longer road through Falmouth, away south o' here." He rubbed his bristly chin. "Be more than my life's worth ter let you an' your fine friends put yourselves in danger o' drownin' in the current."

It was with great impatience that she sat in the window of her and Ysella's small bedchamber, watching the all too gradual receding of the tide and exposure of the mud and sand banks. "We'll be there in time," Ysella said, taking Morvoren's clammy hand in hers. "Don't worry. I'm convinced we will."

Her conviction, however, was not enough to satisfy Morvoren. She sat, casting her mind back again and again, trying to remember the date of the attack on the smugglers and failing. Until it suddenly dawned on her that without knowing what today's date was, knowing the other date would have no meaning. She glanced across at Ysella, who was sitting on the bed, picking at her lace gloves and making a hole in them for want of anything else to do, clearly as impatient as she was. "Ysella? What day is it today?"

She looked up. "Why, I believe it's Wednesday, although I feel I've quite lost count."

Morvoren shook her head. "No. Not the day of the week. What is the date today?"

"Well, you already know it's 1811," she said with some asperity. "And let me see…" She counted on her fingers. "Today must be the seventh of July. I think… If today is Wednesday in truth."

The seventh day of the seventh month, 1811. Seven, seven, eleven. It rhymed. Of course. Now it all came rushing back. She'd read the date and laughed to herself at the inadvertent rhyme in the write up about the raid. But perhaps back then, well, now, they didn't think of the months by numbers and wouldn't have spotted the rhyme. And today was the seventh day of the seventh month. The day that rhymed with the year. It was today. Today, or more correctly tonight, was the night of the attack.

She grabbed Ysella's arm. "I remember," she cried, her fingers digging into her friend's flesh. "Seven, seven, 1811. The date rhymed. I noticed it when I was in the museum, and when you told me the date just now, I remembered. Today's the day of the attack. We only have today to get to Kit and warn him."

Ysella clutched Morvoren back. "The seventh of July? Today? We have to tell Sam. Come on."

They clattered down the stairs to find Sam in the tap room supping a brimming tankard of cider. Morvoren grabbed his arm, some of it spilled and both girls pulled him into the bay window away from the bar. "It's today," Ysella hissed. "Morvoren remembers. We have to get there as fast as we can to warn him. It's imp-imp…" Her voice trailed away.

"Imperative," Morvoren said, and she nodded.

To do him credit, Sam could move fast when he wanted to. He sent James and John out to make sure the carriage was ready to go as soon as it was deemed safe to cross the estuary, whose waters still looked frighteningly high. What if the carriage was washed away by the outgoing tide? What if they couldn't get out of it and all drowned? What if she'd been meant to drown on that first fateful day in 1811, and time was waiting to exact its cruel punishment on her?

She didn't have time to dwell on this for long.

"Go and pack your things and have them down here to load on the carriage," Sam said. "It's after nine now, so we've not long to go." He smiled a hollow, desperate smile. "We can do it. I know we can."

If only they hadn't had one mishap after another. But at least they knew it hadn't happened already. How awful would it have been if today had been the eighth and for them to have been one day too late?

Just before ten, the man standing guard at the crossing point informed them it was at last safe to cross, and the carriage wheels rumbled off the stone slipway and onto the silent sand. Ahead, the river hadn't withdrawn entirely of course, and when they reached its banks, they were still going to have to negotiate what looked to Morvoren like very turbulent waters.

She hung onto Ysella's hand, and Ysella held onto Sam's. Morvoren forbore from saying, but her head filled up again with those frightening pictures of the carriage rolling over and over in the water with all of them stuck inside as it filled up and they were drowned. Of their horses thrashing in the water. Of the people on the bank standing staring but unable to save them.

No. She had to push images like that out of her head. She had to be brave. Perhaps Josh had been right and by facing up to her terror of water like this, for the sake of someone else, she could perhaps overcome it.

She gritted her teeth and clutched the balance strap, keeping her eyes averted from the watery prospect outside the carriage window, determined not to make a fool of herself. It took a lot of doing, and brought a whimper from Ysella, whose hand she had in a death grip.

But at last, after what felt like ages but was probably really only a couple of minutes at most, they rolled out of the water and onto the sand on the other side. Morvoren relaxed her grip on Ysella's hand and the strap, and heaved a deep, shuddering breath.

Ysella released Sam's hand and threw her arms around her, patting her back in encouragement. "I didn't realize you were so afraid of water, dear Morvoren."

Morvoren nodded, aware of her still thumping heart. "I can't help it. I've been like it since I was a small child. I don't know why. I know it's unreasonable, but nothing makes me more afraid than the feeling of being helpless in water." She sniffed. "Or the things I imagine might happen." No need to reveal what she'd been thinking, not now the ordeal was over.

Sam gave her an awkward pat on the arm. "Many of us have a morbid fear of something, Morvoren. I myself, despite being a man grown, cannot bear spiders. If one is in the office or at my home, I have to get someone to come in and deal with it or I cannot be in the room."

Whether that were true or not, Morvoren had no idea, but it had the effect of making her smile at the idea of big strong Sam having to get someone to rid a room of a spider before he'd go inside.

"That's better," Sam said, resuming his seat as the carriage jolted over some ruts in the road. "You were courageous to even contemplate the crossing. I admire your pluck after your experience under the sea."

"Well, I'm glad I did it," Morvoren said, now of the opinion that it hadn't been that bad. Memory can play false tricks, even short-term memory. "For Kit's sake at least." And she gave them both another watery smile. "How much further do we have to go?"

Sam leaned back in his seat. "Only about twenty miles to Carlyon Court, but that's as the crow flies. A good deal longer by these lanes and all their steep hills."

"Not Nanpean? Are we not going there?"

He shook his head. "Kit always goes to the Court. I've been with him once or twice and we've always stayed there. And besides which, we couldn't get the carriage down the track to Nanpean. You mark my words. We'll be there well before nightfall, in time to find Kit still at the Court." He gave Morvoren a reassuring smile. "We'll probably be there in time to dine with him. Smuggling goes on at night, or so I've been told, and it's not dark until late at the moment."

She leaned back against the upholstery as well, her heart refusing to steady. Twenty miles minimum, probably more like thirty, and it was already after ten and they had less than decent horses to negotiate the terrible roads. Could they do it?

The carriage rumbled on, James driving the horses hard, as despite him not knowing the true reason for the journey, they'd impressed upon him how speed was vital.

But fate was against them yet again. With evening drawing in and at least six miles still to go by Sam's reckoning, one of the horses went lame. Did someone up there not want them to arrive in time? Despite her constant anxiety, Morvoren had to feel sorry for the horses; they'd been finding the constant hills hard going even though there were four of them. Their speed had dropped to barely three or four miles per hour now—hardly above walking speed.

It wasn't the lead horse but the one on the right of the second pair that went lame. James brought the carriage to a halt and everyone climbed out while he took his knife from his pocket and dug a sharp stone from the sole of the horse's hoof. But it was too late. The stone had done its damage. The horse didn't want to put any weight on that foot.

They'd stopped at the bottom of a steep hill and no doubt the horses were reveling in not having to drag the heavy equipage up it. Just to the right sat a couple of poor cottages, with chickens scratching at the side of the road. A road whose uneven stoniness was to blame for their horse's lameness. Morvoren could have sworn. In fact, she did, but inside her head. What time was it now?

Sam provided an answer for that. As James ran his hand over the horse's front leg, he whipped his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and sighed. "Gone six. And now we're stuck with a lame horse. Can two of them pull the carriage up this hill, James?"

James shook his head. "Four of them can barely do it. They aren't good strong animals like we have at Ormonde. This lot're nothing better than farmyard cobs, and underfed farmyard cobs at that. The money they charged for them you'd expect better." He sighed. "But beggars can't be choosers."

"We could ride them again," Morvoren said. "Ride the three that aren't lame, that is. As we did on Bodmin Moor."

Sam shook his head. "That was nearly dark. This is broad daylight and people would see you ladies and be horrified. I can't let you do that."

Morvoren sucked her lips. "But we have to get to Carlyon Court, so we have to try everything we can."

Ysella tapped her foot on the road, such as it was. Suddenly, her face lit up. "But we have our riding clothes with us, don't we, Morvoren?" she exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of it before? If we put those on, no one will know any difference. Let us do that immediately. Sam, go and knock on the door of the nearest cottage and beg the use of a room so that Morvoren and I might change into our riding clothes." She turned to John who was still in place on the driving seat of the carriage, holding the reins. "Pass us down our valises immediately, John."

"Riding habits won't help any," Sam protested. "You'd still have to ride astride as there are no saddles and that's not at all ladylike. As I pointed out before."

"Well," Morvoren said, as John passed her valise. "Lucky we've brought our breeches with us then. You know we can both manage astride and bareback, so stop complaining. This is the only alternative we have and we're going to do it, whatever you say." She turned to Ysella. "Come along, and we'll do the knocking ourselves."

Holding her bag, Morvoren marched up to the door of the first cottage and rapped smartly on it. After a short pause, it opened a crack and a young girl in a white lacy bonnet peeked out. Her mouth fell open as she took in their smart appearance, even though by the standards of Ormonde they must look like a couple of gypsies by now. "Yes'm?" she whispered.

"We need the use of one of your rooms," Morvoren said, full of determination. "One of our horses has gone lame and my companion and I need to change our clothes. Can we come inside?"

The girl stood back to let them in. There wasn't much else she could have done, because if she hadn't, Morvoren was sure Ysella would have shouldered her way in uninvited. They found themselves in the cottage's spartan front room, where three more children were playing on a rag rug in front of a cold fireplace. They all looked clean and tidy, although a definite aroma of urine was coming from the baby, who was sitting playing with a wooden rattle. Goodness knows what they used for nappies, but this baby needed a change.

Morvoren forbore from saying so though, not wanting to offend her young hostess, who herself couldn't be more than eleven or twelve.

"Is your mother at home?" Ysella asked.

The girl shook her head. "She be at the farm, helpin' wi' the haymaking'. She do leave me to tek care o' the littluns, so they don't get in the way."

"We need a room," Morvoren said. "Can you show us where we can change our clothes?"

Three minutes later they were upstairs in a low-ceilinged bedroom. It must have belonged to the parents, as there was only one bed and a crib in the way of furniture. They stripped to their slips and hurriedly pulled on their shirts and breeches. Ysella was fairly crowing with excitement. "I knew these clothes and knowing how to ride astride would come in handy," she said as she slipped her feet into the buckled shoes that had once been Kit's.

Morvoren had some trouble with her breeches, but in a few more minutes they were finished and stuffing their gowns into their valises with no heed for how they were going to look when they took them out again. Who cared?

"Hair," Morvoren said, nodding at Ysella's. "No boy has a topknot like you've got. Let's undo our hair and tie it back behind. I've noticed a lot of older men still wear their hair like that so we can get away with it, as Cornwall's bound to be behind in the fashion for short hair."

They did each other's hair, confining it in low ponytails.

"I wish we'd brought hats," Ysella said, pulling on her waistcoat. "I'd feel more hidden if I had a hat."

An idea seized Morvoren. They descended the stairs in their boy's attire to be met with a row of horrified faces. The girl was only marginally less shocked than Sam, who must have come inside after them and now stood there with his mouth hanging open. Whether it was because they made such good boys or for some other reason, Morvoren didn't know.

"You can't ride anywhere looking like that," he said.

"Oh yes we can," Ysella said. "It's a matter of life and death, so we can. And you're not stopping us. Come, let's get the horses and set off."

Morvoren held up her hand and turned to the girl. "We need hats to hide the fact we're girls." She nodded to a row of hooks on the far side of the room where she could clearly see at least one hat, an old tricorn. "We'll pay you well if you can find us two hats." She turned to Sam. "How much do we have left?"

He shook a purse that still sounded satisfyingly full, not looking at all enthusiastic at having to part with some of it in order to get two ancient hats.

"A guinea," Morvoren said, poking about in his purse. "Give them a guinea per hat."

The girl was at the hooks in a flash and back with the tricorn and a sort of woolen beanie hat. She held out her hand for the money, her eyes alight with excitement. Clearly a guinea for an old hat was overpricing them, but Morvoren didn't care.

She put on the tricorn and Ysella jammed the wooly hat down over her ears. The hat turned her from a girl in boy's clothing into a real boy. Sam handed over the two guineas with some reluctance, and they hurried out of the house and back to James and John at the carriage.

The three men unhitched the sorry horses from the shafts and removed their harness, stacking it all beside the road, then Sam gave Morvoren a leg up onto one of the horses and Ysella onto a second. Luckily, despite Morvoren's doubts as to whether anyone had ever ridden them before, neither horse made any objection. Quite a relief.

"You two must stay here and guard the carriage and harness until we get back," Sam said to James and John. "The family in the first cottage appear helpful so here's another guinea so you can beg food and lodging for you and the lame horse. Ask them, too, for somewhere to stash the harness out of harm's way. We'll try not to be long. Good luck." He sprang up onto his own horse, a bony old nag, and they turned the beasts up the hill.

They were certainly not schooled as riding horses, nor even much as driving horses, but their responses to being kicked in the ribs did imply that they had at one point been ridden, and none of them made any attempt to dispose of their riders. Either that or they were just too tired to try it.

They couldn't push them hard though, or they'd have foundered like their fourth member. As they plodded westwards, Morvoren couldn't help but think that they might, in fact, have been faster if they'd been on foot themselves. A map would have been helpful too, but none of them had thought of that. They had to keep stopping to ask the way, and that, along with taking numerous wrong turns, slowed them down a lot. They didn't arrive at Carlyon Court until the sun was disappearing over the western horizon.

A pair of tall, iron gates opened onto a wide gravel drive in decidedly better condition than the roads they'd been traveling. An ornamental pond, on which the flowers of the decorative lilies had all folded up for the night, occupied the center of the drive and, beyond, an old Elizabethan brick and timber house stretched away to left and right, gilded by the last rays of the dying sun.

They'd made it so far. Surely they could make it the last bit?