Elaine
Elaine pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders against the cold and drizzle of the day. Her feet sank and sloshed with every step into the damp field. Last night’s rain had left the fields a marshland. The shortcut to Gareth’s had not been the best idea. Better to have kept to the lane.
The Williams had not been recovered. She doubted she’d ever see them again. Her father had sent men after them but with no luck. They’d be in hiding now. Likely whipped raw by whomever it was who had sent them to retrieve the marked bone in the first place.
At the pleas of her mother, her father had not called Squire Stroud back to investigate. Her mother was ready to move on. As she’d said for the millionth time, finding out who had done it would not bring her son back. She was right, of course. Especially since Elaine was the one ultimately responsible for John’s death, and if she had a way to bring him back, she would have done so long before now.
Elaine had talked to her father about the mark, but he’d not let go of the squire’s theory that Gareth was somehow involved. After tossing and turning in her bed all night, she’d decided to ask Gareth herself. He knew more about the people and their goings-on than anyone at Havencross. He might recognize the brand.
The wind was silent this morning, and the clouds hung low, stroking the fields with foggy fingers. She stopped and looked out across the heath. A few trees here and there, though they kept themselves sparse. Patches of yellow gorse. The rest blanketed from sight behind a vale of gray mist. This was the weather she’d convinced herself she was happy to leave behind.
Now here, standing in the crisp air with the gulls calling from beyond the fog, this was why she loved it. A mysterious, almost magical landscape. No wonder the legends of Arthur and his knights wandered these forgotten parts.
And no wonder it was so perfect for smugglers. She glanced over her shoulder. The mist crowded in and thoughts of Gareth’s poor father found along the nearby ditch hurried her on. She’d walked these fields for years with never a thought for danger. Now too much had happened.
One by one, the vitals of her life had been stripped away, leaving her carved out and hollow, like the reed whistles Gareth had made her when they were children. She thanked heaven again for Lord Chiverton, counting her blessings that he still cared for her.
She turned into Lowentop through a gap in the stone wall. Gareth’s dogs bounded at her, barking as if to wake the dead.
“Hush, there,” she said, reaching out so they would recognize her scent.
Gareth did not appear. Hopefully he was not down at Polkreath already. She’d tried to get here early enough to beat him out, but that was not easy to do.
She knocked on the rear door, just as she used to do. Perhaps she should have gone around to the front, but this didn’t feel like a formal visit, not this early in the morning.
Mrs. Penmoor answered the door. She gave Elaine a little bow. “Miss Cardinham.”
“Hello, Mrs. Penmoor.” Elaine stepped across the threshold into the warmth of the kitchen. “I was hoping to see Mr. Kemp before he set off today.”
The housekeeper shook her head.
Elaine had been too late after all. He’d already gone.
“Wait here, please, miss.” Mrs. Penmoor set down her lump of bread dough and left the kitchen. She heard the woman’s feet plodding up the stairs.
Elaine scooted a chair closer to the fire and sat, lifting her feet toward the heat to dry off the morning dew.
Mrs. Kemp entered. “Oh, you poor dear, you’ll catch your death for sure. Get her a blanket, Mrs. Penmoor, and a nice cup of warm tea. Better make it comfrey.”
It was a sign of Elaine’s former place at this house that Mrs. Kemp thought nothing of meeting her in the kitchen.
Mrs. Penmoor handed her a thick wool blanket, but Elaine declined. The fire was plenty warm.
Mrs. Kemp pulled a chair beside her. “Mrs. Penmoor tells me you have news of Gareth.”
“News?” She hadn’t heard anything about Gareth—at least not anything more than what his mother must know. Perhaps there was an announcement to be made about him and Miss Tippet. That was the only newsworthy bit of information she imagined Mrs. Kemp might mean.
Elaine’s heart stumbled like a horse that leapt over a low wall only to find the ground falling away on the other side. Would Gareth really marry Miss Tippet? She was all wrong for him.
“Miss Cardinham?”
Elaine had not heard a word of what Mrs. Kemp had just said.
“We haven’t seen him yet since two nights past. I thought you might have heard something of him.”
“He is still missing?” That explained Mrs. Kemp’s furrowed brow. “I’m sure he’s busy either at the mine or somewhere else. He might still be with Lord Chiverton trying to fix the phaeton.” That would also explain why she hadn’t seen Lord Chiverton for the last two days either. They were to be married in only three days’ time, and she thought Lord Chiverton would have come by yesterday. He must still be busy with his carriage situation.
Mrs. Kemp was shaking her head. “The phaeton is still in our stable.”
Squire Stroud’s blue eyes appeared in her mind. If Gareth had anything to do with the smugglers and John’s death, he would have known they’d find the mark. He might have fled. The truth was she knew very little of what he’d been up to these past five years. And his wealth had significantly improved.
If only she’d never heard the squire’s half-witted theories. They were playing tricks on her mind. There was absolutely no chance, not one in a million, Gareth could be involved in smuggling.
“I’m sure he’s with Lord Chiverton. Even though they have not yet come to recover the broken carriage, it does not mean they are not together working on it. Perhaps they had to go as far as Launceston.”
Mrs. Kemp did not look at all mollified. “Wait here.” She left the room soundlessly.
Elaine waited, her feet still resting on the hearth. A faint wisp of steam rose as they dried.
Mrs. Kemp returned. “You’re an educated woman, are you not, Miss Cardinham?”
“Uh, well. I suppose I’ve had my share of schooling.” She and John had had a governess until John was sent off to school. Then it was just Elaine and Miss Bassett.
Mrs. Kemp glanced around the kitchen, but it was empty of anyone else. Mrs. Penmoor had left them alone to talk. “I found this in his room, and it’s got me worried sick about him.” She held out a small folded note. “Only problem is I can’t read it. It’s written in some sort of code.”
Elaine took it. The direction on the front contained nothing more than T. S. The wafer was broken and left no clues as to the sender. She glanced up at Mrs. Kemp, the woman’s hair pulled back in a frantic knot and her eyes brimming with belted panic.
Mrs. Kemp had no one left in her family beyond Gareth. There was a child who had died in infancy, and then her husband had been taken from her. It was no wonder she was quick to raise the alarm. Still, it was hard not to let the contagion spread.
She unfolded the letter. It was not written in code. It was a few short lines of French.
Elaine’s French was rusty at best. As hard as they’d tried to push it on her, she’d found it of little use. Her eyes went straight to the end to identify the sender, but there was no signature. Wait, there was something there. She held the letter closer to the fire. With the bright light glowing behind it, she saw a symbol that turned her insides to stone.
A chough holding a lantern in its thin, curved beak.
What had John gotten himself mixed up in?
“What is it?” Mrs. Kemp leaned over her shoulder. “What does it say?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t . . . Let me try to decipher. It is in French.”
Mrs. Kemp returned to her chair and perched on the edge of the seat.
The lettering was rushed and difficult to make out, but she was able to read it without too much trouble.
Schedule unchanged.
Dragon’s head prepared.
Three spouts mark the spot.
Twelve smocks ready.
“What is it?” Mrs. Kemp asked again.
“It’s hard to say.” She wasn’t sure how much to tell Mrs. Kemp. She didn’t understand it herself, but it smacked heavily of smuggling. “Did Gareth write this?”
“I found it on his desk. I don’t know where it came from, but it’s not in his hand. And Gareth didn’t know French.” She was already speaking of Gareth as if he were gone.
Elaine studied the letter again. Schedule unchanged. That seemed straightforward enough. Dragon’s head prepared meant nothing to her. Three spouts . . . Water spouts? That made no sense. Maybe she’d translated it wrong. A smock was a long, heavy shirt worn mostly by the local farmers.
Under no circumstances would she tell Mrs. Kemp that her son might be a smuggler. No. That was not what she meant. She didn’t believe he was a smuggler; he’d just gotten mixed up with them somehow. Just like his father had, and they all knew what had happened to him.
Elaine took a deep breath. Steady on. Don’t make Mrs. Kemp fret more than she already was. “I’m not sure what it means. The words seem to be nonsense. Perhaps if you let me take it to my father, he will know.”
Mrs. Kemp nodded. “Yes. Yes. Mr. Cardinham will know what to do. Oh, if only my husband were still here; he’d have everything worked out.”
Elaine tucked the note into her reticule, donned her bonnet, and pulled her cloak snugly around her shoulders. “I’ll send word as soon as I know anything.”
Mrs. Kemp nodded.
As soon as she cleared the gap in the stone wall, Elaine had the letter out again. The day had not cleared during her time inside Lowentop. Rather, the fog had closed in even more, and she could scarce make out more than a few yards around her. She’d better keep to the lanes and avoid losing her bearings in the heavy mist.
The words of the letter tumbled through her mind. Dragon’s head. Dragon’s head. Dragon. The head of a dragon. She smacked her palm on her forehead. Gareth would have chided her for her lack of knowledge of the Cornish language. Pen was the Cornish word for a hill or headland. Half the names in Cornwall started with pen. Dragon’s head would become Pendragon. Uther Pendragon.
Whatever it was that was happening—and she felt safe assuming it was a lugger ship making a drop of contraband—would be happening at or near the seat of Uther Pendragon. Tintagel castle.
The clatter of horse hooves came thundering down the lane. She leapt to the side, quickly tucking the letter away in her reticule.
A horse appeared like a ghost from the mist.
“Elaine?” Lord Chiverton reined his beast to a halt and slipped off. He rounded the head of his horse and stood in front of her. “I was just coming to see you.” He took her hands in his. “Your fingers are like ice. Where have you been?” He rubbed his gloved hands over her red fingers.
“I’ve been over at Lowentop. Mr. Kemp has been gone a few days, and his mother is quite the worrier.” She didn’t mention that this time her worries might be justified. “We thought he might be with you, helping get the repairs started for your carriage. Have you seen him?”
Lord Chiverton shook his head. “He was helping me, and he very kindly took my high flyer and stored it in his stable. I haven’t seen him since late two nights past though.”
He offered his arm, and she took it. Here was a man she could depend on. She leaned closer, and he rested his arm around her shoulders, warm and heavy, grounding her.
“I can see you’re worried too,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Not really. I’m sure he’s fine. It is his mother I’m concerned for. It is not like Gareth to keep her in distress.”
“Well, let’s get you home and warmed, and we can figure out how to find him. I am at your service.”
He pulled the reins over his horse’s head, holding them with one hand and her with the other, leading them both down the lane toward Havencross.
She turned over the words of the letter in her mind as they walked. Smocks and spouts. What could it all mean? If she could figure it out, perhaps she could warn the squire and put a stop to their plans.
Lord Chiverton was speaking to her. She nodded and agreed without really hearing. Perhaps it would be better to take the letter to Mr. Tippet. It would be something if the Landguard could intervene in time to capture the smugglers.
“Elaine?”
“Hmm?”
He grinned. “I get the feeling there is more on your mind. I had to say your name three times to get your attention.”
She did have much on her mind. The letter most of all. She could show it to him. Get his opinion about it. At the very least he might know if she’d translated it correctly.
It was a risk. She didn’t want to implicate Gareth in a smuggling scheme. But if she didn’t tell Lord Chiverton, she would be following in the footsteps of her father. That was not the kind of marriage she wanted. No secrets. No lies. Elaine would be no better if she started her marriage by keeping secrets from her husband.
“There is something on my mind.” She removed the note and unfolded it. “I’ve been trying to figure this letter out.”
He took it from her. His eyes ran across the writing, widening as he went. “This is interesting. Where did you get it?”
“Mr. Kemp had it. I don’t know where it came from.”
“He did, did he? That is even more interesting.”
“Why? What do you think it means?”
He shrugged. “It’s written in French.”
“Yes.” She leaned over the letter as he held it. “It’s about smuggling, I think. This part here I’ve figured out. Dragon’s head refers to the ruins of Tintagel. The birthplace of Arthur Pendragon.”
This brought a splash of surprise to his face.
“The part about the spouts I have no idea. But here, the twelve smocks. I remember something that Gareth—Mr. Kemp—told me about smugglers: that they wear these farm smocks when they are unloading goods from lugger to shore. I believe this means there will be twelve men to move the cargo once it lands at the old dock at Tintagel.”
He stared at her. “You are more clever than I gave you credit for. I only wonder if your Mr. Kemp has gotten entangled with spies. These are dangerous times, and our country is crawling with informants for the French.”
“No. I don’t think so.” She pointed to the faint symbol at the bottom of the letter. “That’s a smuggler’s mark. I’m sure of it.”
“Hmm. Nothing gets past you.”
He should not be so astonished. Smuggling held a long and inglorious history in Cornwall. It was not so hard for her to work out the letter’s subject.
“I still can’t figure the three spouts. But I think this is enough to take to the Landguard.”
“Indeed. They would be happy to have this information, I’m sure of it. You’ll be the heroine of Camelford.”
“Perhaps even put an end to the smugglers who have been marauding these parts,” she said. “Did you know they’ve killed five people in as many years. Including my brother, John, and Gareth—Mr. Kemp’s—father.”
Now that she’d started talking, she couldn’t stop. Unburdening herself to Lord Chiverton was like standing in a ray of sun cutting through the dense fog. And like a bird after it warms itself in the glow, she could fly away, so light she had become. No wonder Uncle Charles and Aunt Rose had no secrets between them if this was how it felt.
Now, if only she could discover the whereabouts of Gareth. “Are you sure you have not seen Mr. Kemp at all yesterday or today?” This was the only thing still holding her earthbound.
“I’m sure. Not since the night before last.”
If only the letter could point her to his whereabouts.
“No need to hide it,” Lord Chiverton said. “I can see you are worried about your friend.” He put one hand on her cheek, his thumb smoothing away the creases in her brow. “It suits you that you care about your friends. Kindness looks well on you, my love.”
She smiled.
He loved her. And in three days’ time, she would be his wife.
He leaned closer. “I hate to see you so distressed, but it feels like providence has brought me to you this gray and secluded morning.”
“Why is that?”
The fog pressed in around them, absorbing all other sounds except their own breathing. It was a land of silence and stillness, the mist cloaking them in a world of only her and Lord Chiverton.
He put his hand on the small of her back, drawing her close. “I so rarely get you all to myself. But here you have landed in my arms, just as you have landed in my heart.” His eyes fixed on hers, then drifted to her mouth. He lowered his head until his breath tingled her lips. Until his locks of straw-colored hair tickled her skin. Until his lips pressed on hers. Softly at first, then harder.
His hand moved from her cheek to her throat. Pressing. Squeezing. Her eyes flew open. She pushed—pounded against his chest.