Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
And there poor Caleb Furzey lay, curled up in a ball, cowering with terror, for upwards of half an hour, until, after there had been silence for some time, he finally peeped out.
The moon was high. The Naked Man was still standing in its threatening attitude; but the pig was gone and the fairies, it seemed, had disappeared into the ground. Out in the silver light of Wilverley Plain, about two hundred yards off, his horse was peaceably grazing.
A mile away, Nathaniel was giving his final instructions. ‘Not a word – not even to your brothers and sisters. Remember, if anybody tells, then we’re all dead.’ He looked at them solemnly. ‘Swear.’ They swore. ‘All right, then,’ he said.
Wyndham Martell couldn’t sleep. The Burrards’ big house was quiet; everyone else had long gone to bed, but he still sat in his room, wide awake.
The moonlight flooded in through the window. He told himself it was the full moon that was keeping him from sleeping. Perhaps. But it was also the girl.
Old Francis Albion had been taken home. At first the doctor had thought he had suffered an apoplexy, but then concluded he hadn’t. They had waited an hour, given him a little brandy to revive him and packed him off home, with the good Mr Gilpin accompanying him.
Although his presence was clearly not desired, Martell had waited about all the same, requesting the landlord of the Angel to give him news, before returning himself. He had caught sight of Fanny as she left, but she had not seen him. She had looked composed, but very pale. He had no doubt she must feel embarrassed by the whole business even though, in his opinion, she had no need.
But that brought him to the other question. Why had Fanny changed so abruptly towards him? Of course, it might be that he had been mistaken all along and that she had never been interested in him in the first place. Perhaps he was guilty of mere vanity in supposing otherwise. But a man has to trust his instincts, and he believed she had liked him. Why the sudden coldness? Had he neglected her? In her eyes, yes. And, he had better confess it, she was right. But he felt there was more. Mrs Grockleton’s word in such matters was probably unreliable, but Mr Arthur West undoubtedly existed, might be considered eligible and was therefore a factor. I should have returned sooner, he thought. I shouldn’t have tarried. But was that enough to explain her coldness? And what should he do?
What, come to that, did he want to do?
It was no good. The moon was making sleep impossible. He seized a pair of boots, went softly down the stairs and outside. The night was really very fine. The stars over the Forest were sharp as crystal. He started to make for Beaulieu Heath, by the moon’s light.
The September night was not cold. He walked very comfortably along the edge of the heath, past Oakley, with the woods on his left. He was not going anywhere in particular. He had continued like this for about a mile when
he realized that Boldre church must be not far off and, sure enough, after following a track for a little time he came upon it, standing in a friendly way upon its knoll in the moonlight. He walked round it, then realized that he could not be far from Albion House. So he went down the lane into the valley and took the track that led northwards, under the trees, although it was rather dark, and just as he heard the river splashing over some stones he turned away into the still darker drive until, emerging into the clearing, he saw the ghostly old gables of the house, apparently wide awake in the harsh moonlight. He moved cautiously, now, keeping to the edge of the grounds, not wishing to wake any dogs or alert whatever guardian spirits might be up there, like sentinels upon their watchtowers, in the ancient timbers or the chimneys on the roof.
Which room was hers, he wondered, and where did old Francis Albion sleep? What history and what secrets was the old manor keeping? Could it be that Fanny’s rejection of him was caused by something more than mere indifference or the presence of another lover, some part of her soul, perhaps, secreted in this house?
He supposed he was being fanciful, yet he did not leave. Taking up a station where he had a good view of the most likely windows, he remained there, he really could not say why, for an hour or so.
And some time before dawn, when the moon was still casting long shadows on the bright lawn, he saw a pair of wooden shutters open and a window go up.
Fanny was in a white nightdress. She was staring out at the moonlit scene. Her hair fell loosely upon her shoulders and her face, so beautiful yet so tragic, seemed as pale, as unearthly, as any spirit. She did not see him. After a time, she closed the shutters again.
There was a cold snap in the October evening air as Puckle came to Beaulieu Rails; and out in the misty brown
gloaming of the heath beyond, the ancient roar of a red stag announced that the rutting season had at last begun.
Puckle was tired. He had been working down at Buckler’s Hard all day. Then he had stopped briefly to see a friend at the farmhouse which had once been St Leonards Grange. Now, walking along the straggle of cottages by the heath’s edge as dusk was falling, he was ready to go to bed. He had just reached the door of his tiny cottage when a noise made him turn: the sound of a horse walking up the track towards him – a single horse and rider. As he swung round, instinct told him who it would be.
Even in that dim brown light there was no mistaking the chinless face and the faint, cynical smile of Isaac Seagull as he came towards him.
The lander did not speak until he was right beside him. ‘I’ll be needing you soon,’ he said quietly. Puckle took a deep breath.
It was time.
There had been no small amusement in the village of Oakley when Caleb Furzey told them he’d been bewitched.
‘You was drunk at the time, remember,’ they jovially told him. ‘Have another drink,’ they’d cry, ‘and tell us how many fairies you see.’ Or, ‘Careful of that horse, mind. He might turn into a pig!’
But Furzey stuck doggedly to his story, and his description of the pig and the sprites up on Wilverley Plain was so vivid that there were some folk in Oakley who were almost ready to believe him. Only Pride gave young Nathaniel a slow and thoughtful look; but if he had his suspicions he evidently concluded that it was better to say nothing. So the days had passed and then the weeks. And aside from a few titters and jokes about the gullible cottager, nothing of any note occurred in the quiet New Forest hamlet on the edge of Beaulieu Heath.
It had not been long before Mr Arthur West had called at Albion House. He had turned up, driving himself in a smart chaise, explaining that he was staying a day or two with the Morants at Brockenhurst. He was dressed in a heavy coachman’s coat and hat, smiling very amiably at the joke, and looked every inch the brisk sporting gentleman that he was.
He was received with enthusiasm by Aunt Adelaide and, since he was the nephew of a friend, even old Francis felt obliged to be polite to him. To Fanny he was friendly, relaxed and cheerful. He did not make the mistake of issuing any invitation that might seem to remove her from her father’s company, but contented himself with remarking that he felt sure they would meet again at one of their neighbours’ soon and that he would greatly look forward to it.
All in all, Fanny thought to herself with a smile, he had played his hand very well. She realized that she was grateful, too. You knew where you were with Mr West. He was there; he was marriageable; he would make himself known to the young ladies of the county and if he received an indication that his attention might be welcome, he would advance, sensibly, one step at a time. They would meet at a dinner here, a dance there; and if something developed, well and good.
Mr West also brought another small piece of news. ‘I received a call recently from a gentleman you know, a friend of the Tottons: Mr Martell.’
To her embarrassment, Fanny felt herself go rather pale and then colour. Seeing Mr West glance at her in surprise she quickly explained: ‘I’m afraid Father and Mr Martell had an altercation when he came here.’
If Francis Albion had given everyone a fright at Mrs Grockleton’s ball, he certainly seemed quite his old self again now – which was to say you could never be sure that he mightn’t have a fit and drop dead on the spot, or, as the
doctor confided to Mr Gilpin, ‘He may just as well live to be a hundred.’ One thing was certain at least: as long as he did live he meant to have his way. ‘Martell? A most insolent young man,’ he piped, without a shade of embarrassment.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Mr West, ‘he was most anxious to see one of the pictures in the house: one of his ancestors. And I must say, when we inspected it, the thing was quite extraordinary. It was his double. You saw the picture.’ He turned to Aunt Adelaide. ‘The dark-haired gentleman we looked at upstairs, Colonel Penruddock.’
‘That young puppy was a Penruddock?’ cried Francis, while Aunt Adelaide’s face was like a mask.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mr West said, looking from one to the other, ‘there is evidently some family dispute of which I was not aware.’
‘There is, Mr West,’ Aunt Adelaide replied graciously, ‘but you could not possibly have known of it. However,’ she said with a polite smile, ‘we do not mix with the Penruddocks.’
‘I shall remember in future,’ Mr West promised with a bow.
Certainly this faux pas did not do Mr West any harm in Adelaide’s eyes and she made clear to him when he left that he would be welcome to call again at any time.
‘I think him a very agreeable man,’ Fanny said in answer to her aunt’s questioning glance; and when Francis remarked that he hoped the man wasn’t going to come buzzing around the place like a fly she was able to assure him, with a laugh, that Mr West had a great many other places to go.
Mr West was not the only visitor to Albion House, however. Whether it was by chance, or whether some friend like Mr Gilpin had lent encouragement, a number of people called to see that Fanny was not deprived of company and even Francis Albion could hardly complain if she went out to dine from time to time. One of the most charming of
these visitors was the count, who came once with his wife and once without.
Nathaniel had just emerged from Mr Gilpin’s school one afternoon when he was hailed by the fellow trudging down the lane. He didn’t know him, although he reckoned he might be one of the Puckles, judging by the look of him. But when the man asked if he’d like to earn sixpence Nathaniel was all attention.
‘I was up at Albion House and Miss Albion gave me this letter to take into Lymington. Didn’t like to say no to her, but I ain’t going that way. Here’s the sixpence she gave me if you want to take it down there. It’s to a Frenchman, she said.’
‘I can see.’ Nathaniel could read and Fanny’s hand was clear. The letter was addressed to the count. Sixpence was a handsome sum indeed. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘Straight away.’
A deep November night. Moonless. Better, a thick blanket of cloud had snuffed out even the starlight, so that there was only the pitch-black texture of nothingness over the sea. The faint sound of small waves upon the formless shore gave the sole hint that there was anything yet created in the void beyond. Smugglers’ weather.
Puckle waited. He was standing on a small rise on the coast below Beaulieu Heath. In front of him the mudflats extended hundreds of yards at low tide, cut by long inlets known locally as lakes. To his left, a quarter-mile away, lay the little smugglers’ landing place known as Pitts Deep. The same distance away on his right was Tanners Lane, and past that the park of a handsome coastal estate called Pylewell. The Burrards’ land lay beyond that and then, about two miles away, the town of Lymington.
It was a quiet spot. The farmer at Pylewell’s home farm had long been suspected as a large operator in the Free Trade. It was said that hundreds of casks of brandy were buried at Pitts Deep.
In Puckle’s hand was a lantern. It was a curious object because, instead of a window, it had a long spout. When he pointed the spout out to sea, by covering it with his hand and then moving his hand on and off, Puckle could send pinpoint light flashes out there, which were invisible to all but the smugglers in the vessels on the water. The tide was coming in.
The plan, as Puckle had explained it to Grockleton, was very simple. First, as the tide came in, the luggers would bring the contraband to shore. They would leave it and depart. The main body of Free Traders would then come down Tanners Lane along the beach and remove the contraband. That would be the moment when Grockleton and his troops could pounce. This was a typical procedure, but the cargo on this occasion was particularly valuable: best brandy, a huge quantity of silk, lace – one of the most profitable runs ever made.
‘Another hour,’ he remarked quietly to the tall figure at his side, trying to sound calm. Grockleton nodded, but said nothing.
He had taken enormous trouble. So far everything had gone according to plan. The note from Fanny Albion had been a good idea. Using one she had written to his wife some time ago, it had been an easy matter to forge a short letter. Nor were the contents anything to arouse comment if they had fallen into the wrong hands: thanks for a book he had lent her, good wishes from her father and Adelaide. The note had been left with Puckle. When he gave it to Nathaniel to deliver to the count, who was under instructions to inform Grockleton at once, the smuggler sent a signal that the big shipment was due and that he and Grockleton must meet at the Rufus stone again the next day.
The preparations for the military contingent had been even more careful. In the first place Grockleton had told nobody, neither his wife nor his own riders, that anything
was afoot. The colonel had arranged for sixty of his best troops to be transferred up to Buckland. At dusk, he had called a muster and then, taking another twenty mounted men from Buckland, he had slipped out with them, split them into small parties and brought them under cover of darkness to the rendezvous, in a little wood immediately above Pitts Deep. A dozen men were already lying, well concealed, overlooking the beach. Their orders were strict. No one must interfere with the landing of the goods or give any sign.