Chapter Seven

Morvoren

On the way back to the farm, a place Morvoren was not keen to revisit, Kit called a halt at the little row of cottages they'd passed on their way out. The women had finished their washing and it now lay spread over the bushes, drying in the sun.

Kit pulled the cob, who must have known he was nearly home, to an unwilling halt. "I'll just be a minute here at Jowan's cottage." He dismounted, looped the cob's reins over a rickety gate post, and strode up the front path of the nearest cottage, the neatest and tidiest in the row.

He knocked smartly on the door and, after a moment or two, this door, better painted than the rest in the row, creaked open. A rotund, red-headed, apple-cheeked woman who might have been somewhere about forty, emerged, bobbing a curtsey as she came.

From where she sat on Prinny by the ford, Morvoren could only see Kit's back and hear nothing of the low conversation he was having, but the woman's excitable reaction spoke volumes.

This was the woman Kit had picked out to be the maid who would give respectability to Morvoren and enable her to spend the night in the farmhouse with two single men—Loveday Curnow.

"Jowan's daughter," Kit had explained on the long ride back from Penzance. "She used to be lady's maid to my mother before she set up house with a fisherman from Nanpean village. You'll be relieved to hear she's a better worker than her father. Sadly for her, her fisherman's boat was lost in a storm last winter and she's been back here keeping house for her father ever since. I'm hoping she'll remember some of the skills she had in her youth, if you're lucky."

Not that Morvoren had any idea what those skills might be.

She watched Loveday in curiosity. Perhaps she was the one responsible for the neatly painted front door and the curtains hanging in the windows that made this house stand out as better than the rest. Somehow, from what she'd seen of Jowan, she couldn't imagine he'd be the sort to bother with such things.

From the eager smile on Loveday's face, it seemed Kit's persuasive powers were working. Either that, or being Morvoren's maid was a better alternative to being her father's. Beaming, Loveday vanished back inside her cottage and Kit strolled back to the horses.

"She's very pleased to be offered the job," he said, his eyes more troubled than Morvoren would have expected after this success in finding a maid and thus rendering her "respectable." Maybe he was thinking about how he would explain Morvoren's continued presence to his uncle.

Loveday emerged five minutes later with a bobbed curtsey and a "G'day to you, Miss Lucas," that Morvoren returned with a "Hello, Loveday." Then, with Morvoren still on Prinny, and Kit and Loveday on foot, the three of them continued down the track to Nanpean Farm.

Jago was much worse than Kit had been at hiding his annoyance at having to play host again. As the horses turned into the farmyard and he spotted Morvoren and Loveday, he sent a glowering look at Kit and stomped off into the house with his head down, his fury hanging over him in a black cloud.

It turned out that the full extent of Kit's hospitality involved him giving up his bedroom at one end of the house for Morvoren. He was to sleep on the small camp bed affair in the box room along with the dusty shrouded furniture and the chests of blankets and clothes. He seemed unperturbed by this prospect. "I've slept in worse places than this," being his only comment.

After an awkwardly silent dinner, and with Morvoren's offer to dry the dishes refused, Jenifry took her upstairs with Loveday. Back in the little box room, the two servants rummaged through the clothes chest a second time.

"I'll just put these things to air a bit," Jenifry said, fishing shapeless garments out. "There should be more than enough for you at Ormonde."

"You'll be needin' underwear an' stockin's, too," Loveday declared, piling these items up. "Good thing Miss Elestren had all new when she married Mr. Thomas."

"An' a good thing I hung onto all of 'em like this," Jenifry said. "Though I did think as 'twere a cryin' shame they didn't fit me."

"Like Jago'd've let you wear 'em," Loveday scoffed. "You might be warmin' his bed for him, but he ain't likely to tek you to wife, no matter what you thinks."

For a moment they looked as though they might come to blows, so Morvoren reached out and picked up a prettily embroidered shift. "This is beautiful. Did one of you make it?" Their argument was somewhat defused as Jenifry was forced to tell her Miss Elestren herself had stitched it as a girl. However, this distraction didn't stop the two women exchanging dark looks as the pile of chosen clothing mounted.

Best to ignore their bristling rivalry.

"Do you know where Kit's mother and sister live?" she ventured, instead.

"Ormonde," Loveday and Jenifry said in unison, clearly competing to be the one to answer.

Morvoren was none the wiser. "But where exactly is that?"

"T'other side o' the Tamar," Jenifry got in first. "A long way off."

"England," Loveday elaborated.

Not much help, as the Tamar marked the boundary between Cornwall and the rest of England even in Morvoren's world. Ormonde could be anywhere east of it. She left them to it and, hitching up her skirts, descended to a kitchen empty of Kit and Jago. Peace and quiet. She sat down by the range and stretched out her trainer-clad feet. If she didn't get these dreadful stays off soon, she was going to scream.

By the time Loveday and Jenifry had sorted out all the required garments and returned downstairs, still with a certain amount of bickering, evening was falling rapidly in the narrow valley. Neither Kit nor Jago had returned, the latter to Morvoren's relief. And it was high time to go to bed and leave them all to their smuggling. No doubt Jago and Kit were avoiding her and counting the minutes until they could be rid of her presence.

So, with Loveday hovering in attendance, Morvoren bid Jenifry goodnight. Refusing to be offended by the relieved expression on both women's faces, she trod the creaky spiral up to Kit's loaned bedroom. The moment she'd gone, the front door banged open, and the murmur of voices rose as the men returned.

Kit's bedroom occupied one gable end of the house, with a window onto the yard, and a second in the end wall giving a view down toward the cove. A large bed occupied most of the room, along with an old oak chest of drawers and a chair. All was scrupulously tidy, and the bed looked most inviting.

The relief of at last getting out of her tight-fitting gown was almost as great as getting out of her stays. How women in the past ate and breathed at the same time was beyond Morvoren, but she couldn't say this to Loveday for fear of being thought mad. She had to maintain the illusion of being a nicely brought up young lady who'd been wearing stays for years.

She decided on a different tack. One headed towards being more comfortable. "Could I possibly have my corset laced a little less tightly tomorrow, as I have a long journey to make?"

Loveday's apple cheeks swelled in a smile. "Lordy, Miss Lucas, 'tis only they Frenchies what wears corsets. Though I do hear that when she were just Miss Tremaine, Mr. Kit's mother called her stays her corset. On account of her mother being a French lady. Well, a Breton lady if we're to call a spade a spade. A lady from across the sea in that there Brittany. But they do speak French mostly there, so I hear, so I ses they're French as much as the rest o' Boney's lot." She laid the pink and white dress out on the chest of drawers and smoothed its generous skirts. "But tomorrow, I'll find you a travelin' dress what's a bit more generous in the fit. Can't have you a-faintin' away afore you reaches Exeter."

Heat swarmed its way up Morvoren's neck to her cheeks. Kit must have told Loveday about today.

"Lordy, don't you go a blushin' that you swooned, Miss Lucas. Fine ladies swoon all the time. 'Tis a mark o' their gentility. I'll see if I can find you Miss Elestren's old vinaigrette for you to put in your reticule."

Deciding that swooning must be more a mark of too tight stays than gentility, and that asking about a reticule was for later, Morvoren focused on what Loveday had said about Kit's mother. So, her mother, and therefore Jago's mother too, had been French—or Breton, whichever way you wanted to classify her. Interesting. Perhaps Loveday, who seemed to like chattering away, could provide some information about Kit.

"Do you have no idea at all where Ormonde is?" she tried.

She frowned as she folded the many petticoats and shrugged. "Not in Cornwall, like I said earlier. I don't rightly know where it be, but you an' me're goin' to find out, it seems." She smoothed the soft fabric as though it were a cat. "Miss Elestren did used to live right here until twenty year back. Not here at Nanpean, o' course, but wi' Mr. Thomas at Carlyon Court, which be only a stone's throw from here."

She crossed herself quickly before continuing. "Right up until Mr. Thomas's older brother, Mr. William, God rest his soul, died in foreign parts, that was. Then Mr. Thomas had to move the whole family up to Ormonde because he were the new heir."

She tutted her tongue. "You see, like his pa, Mr. Thomas were a second son, not expected to inherit, so he'd been livin' at Carlyon Court all his life up till then. He were our Mr. Thomas." She shook her head. "Father, he were near an age wi' Mr. Thomas an' Mr. Robert—twins, they was, God rest their souls. Father were right good friends wi' them when they were all nobbut bad lads." She paused, a faraway look in her eyes. "I were right sad when Mr. Thomas did die."

Morvoren frowned, confused about who was related to whom. "Am I right in thinking Mr. Thomas was Kit's father?" she ventured. "And that he had a twin brother but both of them are now dead?"

Loveday picked up a high-necked and decidedly prim linen nightgown, liberally festooned with lace. "You has it right, Miss Lucas. Tooken sudden, Mr. Thomas were, five year ago now. Mr. Kit, who's his only son, he were still at Oxford when it happened. Father did tell me it were an apoplexy. Mr. Thomas, he'd got very big, jus' like his brother Mr. Robert did afore he died, an' they do say as how big folks're more likely to suffer an apoplexy. He did linger on a few days, I heard, in time for Mr. Kit to get to Ormonde an' see him, but there weren't nothin' the physician could do. 'Twere right sad."

That answered one question. Kit's mother and sister would be alone when Morvoren arrived uninvited to stay with them, with no possibility of a threatening male presence such as Jago's.

"Do you know what happened to the oldest brother? To the one called William?" she asked, as Loveday slipped the nightdress on over her head. She'd given the lacy knickers a raised eyebrow, but either Jenifry had warned her in advance, or she was of a more accepting nature, for she'd not said a word.

"Why, he were a good seven year older than the twins, I b'lieve and the heir to Ormonde. A proper trial to his old father." Loveday chuckled to herself. "All o' they lads were a handful, thass for sure. But Mr. William, he had the devil in him. Even when he were up at Eton. 'Tis said his ma and pa were right glad when he took hisself off to the colonies as a young man. Jamaica, I heard, to do some kind of work over there. I don't rightly know all the details, but my ma were a one for the gossip and she did collect it like lint to a pair o' moleskins."

Inwardly, Morvoren blessed Loveday's mother, whose knowledge was proving very useful. "So, let me get this straight," she said, busily organizing some sort of family tree in her mind of the people she was going to see. "There were three brothers who lived at Carlyon Court, which isn't far from here, and Kit's father was one of twins. The oldest brother died—without children, I'm presuming—in Jamaica or somewhere like that, and Kit's father became the heir, then inherited Ormonde? And that's where Kit's mother and sister live, but the father is now dead?"

Loveday nodded with a beaming smile. "You have it right there, Miss. Twins, they might have been, but with Mr. Thomas bein' the older by just a few minutes, he were the heir after Mr. William's death. And now," she turned back the covers on Kit's bed, "you hop in here nice'n'quick and snuggle down on this here feather bed, and in no time at all you'll be fast asleep. But jest in case, I'll pop down the kitchen and fetch you a nice glass o' warm milk to drink, laced wi' a tot o' the best brandy. Oh, an' if you need it, there's a chamber pot tucked under the bed."

Less than five minutes later, Loveday returned bearing a tall glass of hot milk smelling strongly of brandy and with a sprinkle of brown sugar decorating its frothy surface. As Morvoren was already in bed, Loveday stood the glass on the low bedside table and went to pull the curtains more tightly closed. "You drink up, Miss, an' keep they curtains tight shut. Don't want to see no hants on a night like this."

"Hants?"

"Ghosties. There be a lot o' ghosties hereabouts. You stay tucked in your bed no matter what you hear of a night. Best place ter be." And with that enigmatic remark, Loveday left Morvoren to herself.

She picked up the milk and sniffed it. Perhaps not. She didn't want to wake up with a hangover and it smelled strong enough that she might. She set the glass back down again and snuggled into the blankets and counterpane. This certainly was a very comfortable bed.

She woke to cloying darkness and silence. Only it wasn't true silence. From down in the cove came the distant rumble of surf, but from nearer at hand came a different noise. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the dim outline of the dark beams on the arching bedroom ceiling. What was that strange sound, like many slippers shuffling across a floor?

The muffled sound of hooves, that was what.

Many hooves pattering lightly on the track up from the beach. Hants? Did she believe in them? No. So impossible. Much more likely to be the smugglers they didn't want her to see. Casting aside Loveday's words of caution, Morvoren slid out of bed and crossed the smoothly worn floorboards to the end window. Drawing aside the curtain, she peered into the gloom of a dark and moonless night.

At first, despite her eyes being accustomed to the dark, all she could see was the shadowy bulk of the far side of the valley where the moors began, looming high over the little farm. Behind the moors rose the blue-black of a clear, star-spangled night sky.

Then her eyes caught movement. What was that? With no moon to illuminate the view, it took a long minute to make out the shadowy string of ponies trudging up the track from the cove, but there they were, all heavily laden with lumpish shapes that might have been large packages or barrels. Smugglers. The lead pony, the vague form of a man at its head, was just passing beyond view around the far side of the farm buildings.

The sound of the gate scraping across the flagstones carried through the still night air. She'd have a better view from the front window.

This time, proper caution raised its head, and she tiptoed across the creaky floorboards. With nervous fingers, she drew back the curtain at one corner to peer out more warily than before. A thrill of excitement sizzled at the prospect of watching real, nineteenth-century smugglers at work, that history was enacting itself before her eyes.

The yard was filling fast with shuffling ponies and men, whose heavy, hobnailed boots made far more noise than their ponies' muffled hooves. Where were Jago and Kit? With them or merely awaiting their arrival?

The low rumble of a gravelly voice came from by the front porch. "Keep it hushed now, all o' you gen'lemen, as Kit warned. We've got ourselves a guest upstairs, and we don't want her wakin' up an' seein' this." A low chuckle. "Though she shouldn't be wakin', not after the dose o' brandy Loveday give her."

A murmur of agreement susurrated around the farmyard, and the light laughter of at least two women. Loveday and Jenifry, of course. Smuggling must be as much a woman's thing as a man's.

"Well done, lads," Jago continued. "You can unload my brandy into the end shed. I've four barrels, I hear. And Kit'll have those two bolts of silk for Miss Elestren. You can give him those now." There was a scuffle as the men hurried to do as they'd been bidden.

"Where d'ye want the baccy, Jago?" called an overly loud voice.

A chorus of others joined in with low voices admonishing the speaker.

"Shush Clemo!"

"You deaf old fart."

"Keep it down."

If only they knew that she'd already worked out what they were up to and had no interest in giving them away.

Vague shapes milled about the yard as the unloading went on. Morvoren strained to see better. Was that figure near the porch familiar in its height and build, taller by far than the surrounding men?

Even as those thoughts crossed her mind, the man in question turned to glance up at the front of the house, perhaps seeking out her window. Perhaps afraid she might be looking out at the scene in the yard, despite Jago's assurances that she'd had her milk spiked.

Morvoren dropped the curtain and stepped back into the comparative safety of the dark room. The man had been Kit, dressed all in black and with an old tricorn hat jammed onto his head. Had he seen her?

She sat down on the bed, heart hammering. No denying they were smugglers. Kit and his uncle must be in league with the locals, or even organizing them.

Her excitement died, extinguished by harsh reality. Smugglers weren't just the romantic figures in books like Moonfleet; they were desperate criminals who wouldn't think twice about silencing someone they thought had been spying on them. Especially not when the spy in question had no relatives or friends in the world. How easy would it be to erase her from history with one crack of the neck? She could almost feel Jago's strong hands on her throat…

Downstairs, the front door banged. She jumped back into bed and pulled the covers up to her nose, closing her eyes and trying to steady her frantic breathing. Footsteps creaked on the spiral staircase, paused for a moment, then padded down the short landing to her door. Outside, they halted.

She fought to quieten her breathing, her whole body shaking. Was it Jago or Kit? Would Jago kill her in her bed if he knew she'd seen the pack ponies laden with contraband, or would Kit, unwillingly, she liked to think, do his bidding for him? Would she never get the chance to warn him there was a traitor in their midst?

The door creaked open.

She lay still.

Nothing. Whoever occupied the doorway didn't come into the bedroom but stood there for a long minute. Oh please, let it be Kit, not Jago. Perhaps she'd better shift a little. She made a sleepy noise and stretched her legs out. Would that convince him? Unless of course he'd seen her as clearly as she'd seen him.

The door creaked closed.

Was he inside the room, still watching, perhaps holding his cravat in his hands, about to strangle the life out of her? On Jago's orders. Were smugglers that ruthless? Was Kit that ruthless?

Nothing. She made another sleepy movement.

Still nothing.

Outside, the ponies' padded hooves shuffled across the cobbles and out of the yard. The gate creaked shut behind them. Someone would have looped that rope over the gatepost to make the yard secure.

She lay motionless, ears straining in the darkness, the sweat of fear sticking the borrowed nightdress to her back.

Muffled voices out in the yard. Male voices.

"Better lock the shed." Jago's deep, gruff grumble.

Kit's lighter, more refined tones. "She won't go poking around. We're taking the morning coach, so she won't have time."

A third voice. A woman's this time. It had to be Jenifry. "I don't think she be the type to snitch."

"Me neither. See yer all in the mornin'." Loveday's voice.

As she'd suspected, they were all in on this.

Jago's growl. "You can't tell jest by lookin'. An' she be a woman, an' 'tis well known that they doan know how to hold their tongues like a man do."

Jenifry's voice again. "You sayin' I can't keep quiet, Jago me 'ansum? If you want more'n a pot o' hot flannel this night you'd best be mindin' what you ses to me."

Jago's voice, with an unaccustomed chuckle. "You knows I doan mean you, woman."

The front door banged as they came inside, and their voices died to nothing more than a general mumble. They didn't sound as though they thought they'd been seen. But Morvoren lay awake for a long time, ears still straining, picturing what would happen if Kit told his uncle he'd seen her face at the window, spying on their smuggling activities.

Eventually, they all came clumping up the stairs. Morvoren held her breath until Kit went into the box room and closed the door. Jago and Jenifry stomped into the bedroom at the far end of the landing with a giggle and a squeal from her as though she'd been goosed.

Only then did Morvoren feel safe enough to go back to sleep. An uneasy sleep, troubled by dreams of being on the bottom of the sea, of her legs tangled tight in a net, and being carried up from the cove slung over a pack pony with a pair of brandy barrels attached to her feet, and a loud voice telling Kit to go put her back in the sea.