During
these walks through the village, Thomas usually performed with grace. But on
other days he could be arrogant and exacting, lashing out against the slightest
offense. He was an amateur musician, a keen sportsman, and in his younger days
a halfhearted soldier. Unhappily, the semi-regal state in which he had passed
the greater part of his life made few demands on his intelligence. When he
visited London he made frequent company with the elder sons of George the
Third, not on the whole uplifting companions. He was only vaguely aware of the
world, for what mattered beyond Eden? There was some sort of trouble brewing in
France, and taxes were climbing ever higher. The American conflict, which had
taken the life of his older brother, eluded him altogether.
In
short, there were those who, when asked to define his basic character, would
say without hesitation that he was essentially weak and intensely selfish. The
next man, asked the same question, would reply, "A good man, brave, the
most generous of Lords."
In
one area of his life, all were in firm agreement. His moral standards were
rudimentary. During his twenties and thirties, an assortment of young women of
mixed classes had been brought to the castle for his enjoyment. Not that he
mistreated them. On the contrary, he treated them, one and all, like
princesses, catering to their every whim, but finally tiring of them and
sending them away, richer by several trunks of gowns and a few jewels.
This
dissipation took a heavy toll. It was common knowledge that no decent family
would consider him as a proper suitor for a marriageable daughter, in spite of
his titles and great wealth. At forty, he was still a bachelor and seemed
destined to remain one.
From
the mixed passions that made up his past, out of the diversity of bloods, from
the crux of almost eight hundred years of arrogant breeding, Thomas Eden had
become the accumulated and single—Lord of Eden Castle.
He
was alone and lonely, but this night he was awaiting important news that would
lift his spirits. In a state of semi-relaxation, he sat up, listening. There it
was, old Ragland's step on the stairs. He'd been waiting all evening, waiting
for word. Quickly he stood and drew the dressing gown tightly about him, stood
at a position of attention as though he felt that the great past might mend a
little if he bowed low enough, if he received even his manservant with humility
and homage.
Truthfully,
Ragland was more than a manservant. As a boy, the old man had served Thomas'
father. He now occupied a place in Thomas' life somewhere between butler, aide,
adviser, and confessor. In spite of his low birth, there was a dignity and
honesty about him that pleased Thomas, although unfortunately the old man's
honesty had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion.
At
the sound of a discreet knock at the door, Thomas called out in a slightly
impatient voice, "Ragland? Come in," and stepped forward to receive
him.
Ragland
appeared, carrying a lantern aloft, something ferocious in his blue eyes. He
knew too much to be cowed by Lord Eden. Indeed, he knew too much ever to be
cowed by any mere man.
Thomas
stepped forward to greet him, taking the lantern from his hand and motioning
him toward a chair. The old man was breathing heavily from the long climb. At
the exact moment that Thomas invited him to rest, he also commanded him,
"Speak! Is there news?"
Ragland
sat in the chair, nodded his head, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
Something about the glinting in his eye delivered the message moments before
the actual words, for Thomas was already grinning when Ragland said, "The
ship's arrived, milord. It's anchored off the cove of Mortemouth."
Thomas
smiled beatifically. He began waving his hands, saying, "Thank God, oh,
sweet God," and abruptly he had a notion that he looked foolish in his
dressing gown, shouting thank God. Now he waved his arms in distress and said,
"Please, please," and stared at the floor, embarrassed.
Ragland
endured the embarrassment with patience, as though he understood precisely how
Thomas felt. It was good news.
Thomas
drew up a chair opposite him, eager for more information. His face, only
moments before cast in loneliness, now came alive with excitement. "And
the cargo, Ragland? Give me news of the cargo."
Ragland
fanned himself with his hand, thin, white, and blue-veined.
"Intact,
milord. Ninety gallons of rum, sixty pounds of tobacco, and eighty-four pounds
of sugar."
"And
no one saw?" Thomas pressed on.
The
old man shook his head with satisfaction. "No one saw except the gulls and
those who will profit from not seeing."
The
two men stared at each other, then laughed openly at the success of the run.
Thomas stood up abruptly and walked to the bedside. He looked back at Ragland,
sitting in the light of the lantern. So! A man with a fleet of fishing boats
had dual occupations. The obvious one, fishing. And the profitable one, smuggling.
He paced now as though his excitement were generating more energy than his body
could accommodate. Only a year ago, he had discovered Ragland's small operation
and with a certain amount of gentle coercion had convinced the old man that he
would be wise to tell all.
Ragland
had told the story, sensing in Thomas an interest that went beyond mere moral
indignation. The account had been beautiful in its simplicity. Using Eden's
fishing fleet, a group of men in Mortemouth had contracted with French merchant
vessels for a variety of goods. The exchange was made at sea, then the small
fishing vessels came home to the cove off Mortemouth, loaded with duty-free
merchandise to be sold at enormous profit, though still cheaper than the tax
imposed on such items in normal trade.
Simple
yet profitable for Ragland and the band of men from Mortemouth, and exciting
for Thomas, who certainly did not need the money but clearly needed some form
of sport with which to relieve his boredom.
Then
too, as most wealthy men, he had his own rhythm, an increasing, driving rhythm
which demanded more and more until finally the acquisition of money became the
sport itself.
A
silence came over the room. Thomas bent forward, still eager. "When will
it be brought ashore?"
"Before
dawn," Ragland replied.
"Before
dawn, yes," Thomas parroted, looking satisfied. He thought suddenly of the
work being done beneath his castle, the narrow staircase being laboriously
chipped out of stone which led down to sea level and the long tunnel which
emptied directly out onto the beach at Mortemouth cove. How greatly they might
expand their operation when that passage was completed! He had appointed
Ragland overseer, and Ragland in turn had appointed several of his most trusted
fellows to guard both the beginning of the staircase and the mouth of the
tunnel, while inside, in the bowels of the cliff, over one hundred men worked
on the project itself. The labor was a year old and going slowly. With revenue
men all about, Thomas was eager for its completion. What a simple matter it
would then be to carry the goods the few yards across the beach, then disappear
into the tunnel to emerge in the safety and protection of the castle itself.
Of
late, the work had slowed to a snail's pace. The need for secrecy was
paramount, yet the job must be completed. They were fast exhausting their
supply of trusted cottages and cottagers in the village in which they might
stash their loot.
Again
Thomas stepped forward, deprecatory and slightly annoyed. "The men must
work faster," he ordered. "Double the shifts if necessary."
Ragland
shook his head. "Too much traffic passing through the castle. Incidents
like yesterday are bad."
Thomas
glared at him, remembering the girl now imprisoned in the charnel house.
"She knows?"
Ragland
nodded. "Of course she knows."
Thomas
crossed to the table where Ragland sat and slammed his fist down, causing the
lantern to jump. "Damn it, Ragland," he protested. "The
construction could be innocent. I do what I want here, and perhaps I wish for
nothing more than easy access to the ocean."
"For
what purpose?" Ragland smiled, a cordial Devil's advocate, a role he
played well, a master by experience.
"For
whatever purpose I wish!" Thomas thundered.
Ragland
shook his head. "Not good enough, milord. Not when her brother reports
weekly to the authorities in Exeter."
"They
must prove their suspicions," Thomas protested, his anger subsiding
slightly.
Again
Ragland nodded, all-knowing. "Not very difficult with a quick-eyed,
quick-witted girl in the Buttery, working directly above where the digging is
going on."
Stymied
by this logic, Thomas turned away, still angry, though now partially defeated.
"Then I shall be rid of her," he muttered, gazing out the window
across the darkened inner courtyard toward the Keep on the opposite side.
"Is
that wise?" questioned Ragland, something in his manner which suggested
that he was dealing with a stubborn child. Receiving no answer from the man at
the window, Ragland went on, his voice smooth and soothing despite his almost
seventy years. "To incur the wrath of a loyal brother and a devoted father
over the mysterious disappearance of a beloved daughter is what I would call
taking unnecessary risks." He shifted in the chair, pushed back the rough
collar of his jacket, exposing withered neck flesh. "Better," he
suggested, "to let the child go unharmed, give her tasks away from the
lower floor. Instill in her the fear of God, but treat her with stem
kindness." He smiled, revealing gaps between his teeth. "Dolly Wisdom
will know what to do." He nodded again, as though he had just solved the
problem. "Yes, trust her to Dolly."
Thomas
looked sharply back from the window, looked at the old man at the table as if
he were looking down his life, sighting it the way a man looks down the barrel
of a gun for aim. He wouldn't trust the tail feathers of his weakest falcon
with Dolly Wisdom, an addle-headed old serving woman who had been his mother's
maid and who had now somehow connived her way into the prestigious position of
House Warden of Eden Castle.
Thomas
looked back at Ragland with suspect calm. "There is one thing that has
always troubled me. I've seen it happen among a few of my friends, that
unfortunate turn of events when servants become masters."
Ragland
looked as though a cleaver were being held over his head. Quickly he stood,
sensing in his master's dulcet tones the beginning of a tirade. "I was
only suggesting, milord, that—"
Then
Thomas turned on him, steadily drove him back until he was pressed against the
door. "I will have my way," he announced, "in all things. The
girl shall not be released, not to Dolly or to you. If she survives the night,
she will face the whipping oak in the morning and she will learn the lesson of
silence at the instruction of the whip." He stepped closer, though mildly
disgusted that he had to behave in such a manner,
"Further,
I suggest that you see to it that the staircase and tunnel are completed by the
first of the year, or I shall take myself and my ships out of your little enterprise
and incur the King's lasting favor by directing the revenue men myself to the
band of smugglers who infest the coast of Devon." He stood directly before
the old man, pinning him against the closed door. "Is it clear? Have you
heard?" he demanded in a final thrust of authority,
Ragland
heard. He lifted the collar of his jacket in a pitiful attempt to recover his
dignity. Reaching behind him, his arthritic hand finally located the doorknob.
'Tes, milord," he muttered, head bowed in a stance of true repentance. Yet
there was something suspect about his manner, as though he were merely playing
the role he had played all his life.
Thomas
called after him. "See to it, Ragland. Increase the number of termites
working beneath my castle, or worse than stone will come down on your
head."
Ragland
bobbed in deference, exiting quickly through the Morning Room. Thomas smiled.
The old man had forgotten his lantern. The passage going down the Grand
Staircase would be dark. Thomas sincerely hoped that the man didn't fall and break
his neck. He enjoyed playing smuggler with Ragland, enjoyed more the respite
from his boredom, enjoyed even more the promise of greater riches.