18. Crossing
18
Crossing
Morgan came to the house the next day. Dread squeezed Luce’s heart as she heard the sound of hooves in the courtyard, the polite greeting of St. Jean as he opened the front door. She leaned over the banister on the first-floor landing, and glimpsed a slice of dark hair, a handsome, angular face above a stylish frock coat.
Relief, as St. Jean launched at once into the well-rehearsed apology. Afraid the family is unwell. Unable to receive visitors at this time.
Luce waited for Morgan to retreat. She had been on her way to her cabinet, where a copy of Louis Renard’s Poissons, Ecrevisses et Crabes lay open on her desk. She had done nothing but read, it seemed, since Charlotte and Gabriel had gone. Her mother glared at her every time she touched the harp or the harpsichord, as though the very sound of music reminded her of their erstwhile tutor. But Luce had used the time well, poring over each of the books in her own collection, as well as her father’s— Systema Naturae, Newton’s Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica , Chambers’s Cyclopaedia —in search of information about the sea-folk. Renard’s work was the only one to feature drawings of a seamaid, her long tail sweeping behind her in shades of green and blue. Before St. Jean could close the door, however, another voice rose from the vestibule, soft and curious.
‘Who is it, St. Jean?’
Veronique emerged from the grand salon, embroidery in hand. ‘Oh. Monsieur de Chatelaine.’
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Léon.’ Morgan removed his tricorn. He ignored St. Jean, who had stepped out of the way, his hand still on the door, and gave Veronique his most charming smile. ‘Do forgive me—it was not my intention to intrude. I was riding nearby and thought I’d call on the family who cared for me so well after the Dauphin ’s loss.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Luce heard the indecision in Veronique’s voice. Even from this height Luce could see the pink staining her sister’s cheeks, the sparkle in her eye. ‘We are not currently receiving visitors.’
‘I see.’
‘Although...’ She glanced upstairs, caught Luce’s eyes. Luce shook her head— no, don’t invite him in —but it was too late. ‘Maman is resting upstairs, but I myself am much recovered, as is my sister Lucinde. I do not see how a turn around the gardens could hurt anyone?’
Morgan tilted his head, meeting Luce’s eyes.
‘What a charming idea. I have heard the roses at Le Bleu Sauvage are among the finest, and sweetest, in all of Clos-Poulet.’ That dark smile. ‘I trust you will join us, Mademoiselle Lucinde?’
‘Of course she will.’ Veronique took up the lace shawl and bergère hat she had left on the side table that morning. ‘Come, Monsieur de Chatelaine. There is much for you to see! And it has been so long since we had visitors...’
Veronique’s arm rested on Morgan’s crooked elbow as she led him through the roses and the lavender, the boxwood hedges in their intricate curving broderie, the parterres of grass and gravel framed by jonquils, tulips, and lilies. Luce followed them in silence.
‘Maman oversees these gardens herself,’ Veronique told Morgan. ‘See the tulips? Papa brought the bulbs for her from the Netherlands.’
‘They’re lovely,’ Morgan said admiringly. He was so courteous. So charming. Nothing like the bitter, rageful man who had kicked Samuel on the cobbles after the Blessing. Keep your filthy fucking hands off your betters.
‘Beware, tall one.’ The whisper came from the low branches of a horse chestnut. Luce looked up. The rose lutine was clinging to a cluster of creamy flowers, her tiny face tight with misgiving. ‘This one is not what he seems.’
Luce gave her a reassuring nod.
‘Is that a dovecote?’ Morgan asked, pointing across the lawn to a squat, stone building shaded by an enormous elm tree.
‘An icehouse,’ Veronique said proudly. The status of such an item was not lost on her; only the wealthiest of wealthy households could afford such a luxury.
‘Truly?’ Morgan looked at the building. ‘My family keeps ice in the cellars beneath the kitchens. May I?’
‘Of course!’ The look on Veronique’s face, so sweet, so eager, was difficult to bear. Luce had no doubt her sister was as taken with Morgan as Luce herself had been, before her opinion of him had so dramatically changed. She could hardly blame Veronique; Morgan was undeniably dashing in his blue frock coat and cream-coloured breeches, his calves shapely in elegant white stockings. Beneath his beauty, however, lay something dark and treacherous.
Veronique, oblivious to the danger, led the way to the icehouse, chattering happily as she unbolted the door and stepped inside.
At once, Morgan took Luce’s elbow and hurried her around the building’s curved wall.
‘I had to see you,’ he muttered. ‘Have you given more thought to what we discussed?’
‘I have, as a matter of fact.’
He raised his brows, expectant. ‘And?’
Though overwhelmed and flattered by your generous offer , she longed to say, I’m afraid I must enthusiastically decline.
‘It depends,’ she said instead.
‘On what?’
‘On whether you’re any closer to finding the storm-stone.’ It did not sit well, this deception, this falsity, but if it meant keeping Samuel safe...
His eyes glittered. ‘What a wicked creature you are.’
She gave a bored shrug. ‘You said it yourself, Morgan. My ship, your stone. Have you found it yet?’
‘I am close.’
‘That’s what you said last time. I need more than that if I am to make my decision. You promised me the horizon. How can I be certain you will give it to me?’
A wren trilled somewhere in the chestnut trees, as sweet as falling water.
Morgan sighed. ‘I have it on good authority that the stone was salvaged by an English scoundrel named Samuel Thorner. He has proven to be elusive so far. Mark me, though, Lucinde—’
‘Are you two coming inside or not?’ Veronique appeared, frowning at them. ‘We mustn’t leave the door open.’
‘Of course.’ Morgan hurried to Veronique’s side, casting a meaningful glance at Luce before he ducked his head and followed her inside.
Luce remained where she was, barely aware of the cool stone at her back, or her sister’s muffled chatter. All her worry, all her caution, was completely founded. Morgan knew Samuel’s name. It was only a matter of time before the City Guard closed its fist around him. Her blood chilled at the thought of those sea-worn stakes buried in the sand beneath Saint-Malo’s ramparts, their rusty chains swinging in the breeze. She must warn Samuel; leave a message at the chapel, tell him to leave for Dorset at once.
She looked up, distracted, to see her mother hurrying across the lawn, skirts clutched in one hand. In the other, held triumphantly aloft and fluttering like a ship’s ensign, was a letter.
‘Veronique!’ Gratienne cried. ‘Lucinde! Your father has sent word! He’s found—’ She saw Veronique and Morgan emerging from the icehouse, visibly fumbled for her next words. ‘—the new sideboard we have been searching for!’
‘He found it?’ Luce echoed.
‘Yes! In Nantes!’ The delight and relief shining on Gratienne’s face was sunshine after days of rain. ‘And even better—he has found it with another. Two pieces!’
‘Are they...’ Luce searched for a way to ascertain whether her sister and Gabriel had achieved what they had set out to do, and married. ‘... a matched pair?’
‘Yes!’ Gratienne screeched.
This was good news. The scandal would be considerably less if Charlotte and Gabriel were married. There would be no hiding from the fact that one Léon daughter had married beneath her, it was true, but, once the talk had died down, Veronique and Luce would remain unscathed.
‘Oh, Maman,’ Veronique gasped, clapping her hands. ‘This is wonderful news!’
‘I know !’ Gratienne seemed to remember Morgan was there. ‘Apologies, Monsieur. I’m afraid we must away. My husband has sent word—we are to travel to Nantes at once.’
‘For a side table?’ Morgan asked, bewildered.
‘Maman is very particular about her furnishings,’ Veronique told him, with an apologetic shrug.
It was a day for deceptions.
First Morgan, then Veronique, happily oblivious to what had transpired between Luce and Morgan at the icehouse. The last of the lies was the most important, and the most difficult.
Gratienne had always been near impossible to deceive.
Even so, Luce put her plan into motion as soon as the women farewelled Morgan and returned to the house. Instead of helping Nanette pack her things as her mother had bid, Luce laid herself on her bed and did her very best to look wretched.
‘Lucinde?’ Gratienne frowned when she came to the door a few minutes later. She was dressed for travel, eager to be away. ‘Why have you not changed?’
‘Oh, Maman,’ Luce said. ‘I feel so unwell. I do not know what has come over me...’
‘Lucinde,’ Gratienne said, with a heavy sigh. ‘If you didn’t want to come to Nantes, why didn’t you simply say so?’
Luce blinked. It was a trick, a clever ploy to catch her out. ‘Maman?’ She gripped her belly, willed her face to pale, her skin to sweat. ‘I think it would be best if I stayed behind...’
‘Oh, very well,’ Gratienne huffed. ‘I do not have the time nor the patience to argue with you, Lucinde. Your father has organised a belated wedding breakfast for your sister and her new... husband in four days’ time. Perhaps something can still be salvaged of this... disaster. We must leave at once, or risk missing it.’
‘Are you not coming, Luce?’ Veronique, also dressed in a traveling gown and hat, paused in the doorway. ‘We are to go shopping after the wedding breakfast. You will miss it!’
Luce tried to look disappointed.
‘I can feel your devastation,’ Gratienne said drily. ‘Come, Veronique. There’s no time to waste. I leave the household under your care while we are gone, Lucinde. The responsibility will no doubt do you good. Nanette will stay behind to help you.’
Luce winced. The maid would be disappointed to miss a trip to Nantes. It was the wealthiest port city in Bretagne, and the most fashionable.
But, ‘I don’t mind at all, mademoiselle,’ Nanette said, when Veronique and Gratienne had bundled into the carriage with Madeleine and Anna-Marie. Both coachmen and the postilion were going with them, as well as Jean-Pierre. The remaining laquais, St. Jean, would also remain at the house.
‘Really?’ Luce raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘I grew up in Nantes,’ Nanette said. ‘I can still feel its filth on the inside of my nostrils. I have no wish to return.’ She looked sideways at Luce. ‘Besides, St. Jean will be here too...’
Of course. Luce had all but forgotten about the attachment that had formed between Nanette and the handsome laquais, both of whom, she now realised, seemed nothing short of delighted about the sudden change in their circumstances.
‘I see,’ she said, hiding her smile. Then, ‘Nanette? Perhaps you and I can both benefit from the situation we find ourselves in.’
It was the first honest thing she had said all day.
That night, as a sliver of moon rose, Luce stole down to the cove.
The Dove rocked companionably as Samuel took Luce’s pack and helped her aboard, then showed her where to sit among the packages of silk stockings and lace, the casks of spirits and brandy that crowded the boat.
‘Glad you could join us after all,’ he said, fingers grazing her cheek before he turned to help Bones ease the lugger into deeper water.
‘You can thank my sister,’ Luce said. She told them both of her father’s discovery of Charlotte and Gabriel in Nantes, their marriage, and her mother and sister’s journey to meet them. A pang of regret, at the thought of missing Charlotte and Gabriel’s wedding breakfast. Who knew when next Luce would see them? Her mother had read aloud Jean-Baptiste’s letter, had said that Gabriel and Charlotte were planning to settle in Paris. Luce could almost hear the relief in her voice.
‘I’d pay a pretty penny to have been there when your father found them,’ Bones said, taking the tiller. ‘I don’t know the tutor, but I can’t help but feel sorry for him.’
Samuel laughed softly in agreement as he readied the mainsail.
‘My father isn’t the one you should be worried about,’ Luce told him. ‘Morgan came to see me this morning.’
Samuel stiffened. ‘And?’
‘It was as I said in my note.’ The message Luce had left at the chapel after her mother and sister departed for Nantes consisted of just two lines: Morgan knows it was you. We sail tonight. ‘He has your name, Samuel. He’s looking for you as we speak.’
‘Much luck to him, then,’ Samuel said. ‘Unless he’s planning on looking for me in England.’ The sail unfurled beneath his hands, billowed as it caught the breeze. Luce twisted in her seat, eager, despite her worry for Samuel, her guilt at leaving Bretagne under the cover of darkness, to feel the first rush of the Manche as it opened out before her. Was she really doing this? Crossing the Manche with only Nanette’s word to protect her? As thanks for the precious time with St. Jean that Luce’s absence would afford her, the maid had promised to maintain the illusion that Luce was unwell and abed, delivering bowls of broth and pots of tea to her empty chamber. There were risks to such a plan, of course, but Luce had the distinct impression that Nanette, who of all people would notice Luce’s wet hair and sandy clothing, had been well aware of her secret outings for some time—and had kept the knowledge to herself. Comforted by the thought, Luce turned her face to the north, where England waited, her pale cliffs and pebbly beaches ready to take delivery of Samuel and Bones’s French contraband. And, with luck, to answer Luce’s questions.
The Dove was not the only boat making the crossing this night. As the hours passed Luce caught sight of other vessels— luggers, small fishing boats like Samuel’s, and larger ones too, slipping into sight upon the dark water and disappearing just as quickly. Their number grew when they passed Guernsey, though no lights glimmered, no voices echoed across the water. The sea, the dark moon, the pale light of the stars were the smugglers’ loyal companions.
‘You should sleep,’ Samuel said, when the islands were dark shapes against the darker sky behind them. ‘We’ve hours ahead of us, yet.’
Luce had been trying to ignore the burning in her eyes, the nodding of her head.
‘I’ll wake you if anything exciting happens,’ Samuel promised. He had taken Bones’s place at the tiller an hour before, and he leaned toward her, holding out a woolen blanket. ‘You won’t miss a thing, I swear.’
‘Do you promise?’ She was already laying her head on a package of silk, throwing the blanket over herself, drawing it tight over her shoulders. The last thing she heard before she drifted into sleep was Samuel’s low voice.
‘I’ll always keep my promises to you, Luce.’
When she opened her eyes again, the stars were fading and the first faint, grey blush of dawn was staining the eastern horizon. It was cold, the still air over the water crisp and winter hard. White cliffs loomed out of the darkness above.
She sat up at once.
‘There’s food, here,’ Samuel murmured. ‘Bread, cheese. Some water.’ He was still seated in the stern, his hand at the tiller, though Luce assumed the two men had taken turns throughout the crossing. They looked tired and disreputable, hunkered in their heavy overcoats, their tricorns pulled low against the chill. Unlike Luce, they had not had the luxury of a few hours’ sleep. But they smiled at her, all the same.
Luce reached for the food. ‘How much longer?’
‘Not far now.’
They tacked alongside those breathtaking white cliffs until they reached a bay, perfectly round and glimmering like a mirror in the darkness. A pebbled shore edged it, waves hissing against stone. High above, the looming paleness of more white cliffs.
‘What is this place?’
‘Lulworth,’ Samuel said quietly. ‘Home. The water is clear, and the bottom sandy. Perfect for sinking casks of brandy.’
‘Is that what we’re going to do?’ Luce’s tiredness was rapidly fading. She was away—far away—on another shore.
‘Not this time. I’ve silk and lace, not brandy. And you can’t sink silk.’ He made a tack, bearing away from the cove.
They sailed toward a rocky headland, the absence of stars and the pale foam of waves breaking against its base the only sign that it was there. Luce waited for Samuel to skirt the rocks and move farther out to sea, allowing her to drink in more of those spectacular, ghostly cliffs, but he only drew closer and closer, until the sound of breaking waves was loud in her ears, and the little boat began to toss and roll. The darkness loomed, the outline of rocky cliffs huge and forbidding against the night.
‘Samuel,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘Are we not very close to those rocks?’
‘We are.’
‘But...’ She clung to the boat’s edge as the Dove rolled sickeningly. ‘Samuel...’
‘Do you trust me, Luce?’
She tore her gaze from the impending collision, looked at him. ‘Yes.’
‘Then trust me now.’
She managed a nod, held grimly to the side of the boat as Samuel and Bones manoeuvred them closer and closer to the headland. The sun was considering rising now, the first greyish light edging its way up above the sea to the east. In its early light she could see enormous rocks sitting at the headland’s base, as though they had been ripped from the cliffs above and cast down by some ancient sea-god. A leviathan, perhaps, thrashing its enormous tail into the cliffs, or a kraken. Between the rocks the sea sucked and plunged, gurgling and muttering, as though it, too, wished to wreak violence upon the land.
‘Samuel...’
‘Trust, Luce. I’ll not let any harm come to you.’ He spoke firmly, rapidly, on the edge of distraction—he was using all his strength to keep the Dove from the rocks. Luce clung to the side, kept her mouth closed, letting him and Bones work. And then, just when she thought the little boat would be thrashed to splinters on the cliffs, it was swept inside them. Luce cried out in fear, her knuckles aching.
‘Hold fast,’ Bones muttered.
The little boat spun and dipped, and then with a terrifying lurch, surged into darkness.
Luce could see nothing. She felt the boat moving, rolling forward with the movement of the sea as it plunged into the depths of the headland. The sound of water rushing against rock was deafening. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the Dove drifted into stillness. Luce sensed, rather than saw, the rocky walls open up around them. The air was fresh, salt-tinged and cool.
‘Still with us, Luce?’ There was a smile in Samuel’s voice.
She nodded, realised they could not see her, and managed a croak.
‘You did well,’ said Bones. ‘I all but soiled my breeks the first time.’
The snap of a flint being struck sounded in the dark. A lantern flickered into life, illuminating Bones’s face. He hung it on the mainmast and the pool of golden light widened, lapping against black water. Beyond the light’s edges, the unmistakable sheen of damp rock.
‘What is this place?’ Luce asked.
‘You’ll see.’ Samuel steered the Dove, still moving with that final push of the sea, toward one rocky wall. Rough steps had been cut into the stone, rising into darkness. Two lines of thick iron rings had been embedded on either side of the stairs, one above the other, higher and higher, until they too were lost to the shadows.
The Dove came to rest alongside the rock. Samuel got to his feet, taking down the lantern as Bones secured the boat to the rings.
‘Wait here,’ Samuel told Luce, stepping onto the rough-hewn stairs and climbing out of sight. Bones went with him. Moments later another light appeared in the murkiness above, and then another, until Luce saw that they were in a sea-cave. A sea-cave as grand and beautiful as the crossing of the cathedral in Saint-Malo, stony buttresses soaring above a vast pool of dark water.
‘Not bad, eh?’ Samuel came back down the stairs.
‘It’s magnificent. I never dreamed such a place existed.’ She frowned at him. ‘You never told me!’
‘Wouldn’t be much of a smuggler if I told you all my secrets.’ He took her hand. A thrill of warmth shot through her at the touch of his calloused palms. ‘Come. I’ll show you.’
The stairs were not as slippery as Luce had expected. Looking down, she saw that small grooves had been cut into the stone, which was clear of weed and shellfish.
‘We scrub them,’ Samuel said, seeing her glance. ‘Well, my cousins do. It’s the least they can do, with Bones and I out risking our necks.’ He led her up, and up, until the stairs opened out onto a large, smooth rock platform, perhaps a dozen paces wide and the same deep. On one side, the rock wall continued, grooves and indents in the stone creating a series of shelves where all manner of casks and watertight packets were neatly stowed. Above, a rocky ceiling protected the entire cave from the elements.
‘It’s always dry here, no matter the tide,’ Samuel said, holding the lantern high so Luce could see. ‘And the cave is invisible from the headland—if you didn’t know it was here, you’d miss it entirely. Brandy, silks, lace, tea, coffee, playing cards... all the luxuries of the Continent, hidden right beneath the revenue men’s noses.’
‘Where will it all go?’
‘To London, mostly. Bones’s brothers will see that it gets there safely. They’ll be along later to collect it.’
He sat the lantern on one of the shelves and led Luce to the edge. Below them, the Dove rocked gently at its moorings. Luce peered into the shadows and saw the narrow entrance Samuel had used to bring the boat into the cave.
‘It’s as wide as the Dove, ’ Samuel said, watching her. ‘Or rather, the Dove is as wide as the passage.’
‘How deep is the water?’ It appeared endless, lantern light glimmering and rippling on its inky surface.
‘Not as deep as you think. The bottom is sandy, too. You’ll see when the sun rises.’ He released Luce’s hand. ‘Speaking of... we had best unload.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘No need. Bones and I will manage.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There’s a passage, over there...’ He pointed. ‘It leads to a small outcrop on the headland. It’s hidden. Private, I mean.’
‘Thank you,’ Luce said, torn between laughing at his discomfort, and blushing. She took up a lantern and made her way to the passage. It was dark and close, but she soon felt fresh air on her face. Keeping the lantern low, she crept out onto a narrow, scrubby ledge overlooking the sea and, as Samuel had said, completely hidden from the cliffs behind the headland. Gathering her skirts, she crouched on the sandy ledge and sighed in relief as her bladder—which felt as though it was very near to bursting—was finally able to empty. When she was done, Luce cast one wistful look at the still-dark coast before returning to the cave.
Samuel and Bones spoke quietly as they unloaded the Dove, their voices echoing slightly off the walls. When they were done, Bones shrugged on his coat, winked at Luce, and left the cave through another, wider passage.
‘He’s going home to get some sleep,’ Samuel said.
Home. Luce had never heard Samuel use that word. This was his home. His family was here, his mother and siblings.
‘Don’t you want to do the same?’
‘Not sure what my Ma would say if she found me with a seamaid in my bed.’ He grinned, then yawned magnificently. ‘I’m well enough here. It’s not yet dawn—too early to knock on Mother Aggie’s door—and my eyes are set to burn themselves out of my head. What would you say if I closed them for a few moments?’
‘I would say nothing at all, lest I wake you.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
He set about stacking packages of silks and lace into a makeshift bed, then slid out of his coat and lay upon it, kicking off his boots and stretching out with a sigh. ‘I won’t sleep long. Just a few moments.’
‘I’ll be here when you wake.’
He mumbled something incoherent in reply, his body softening as his breathing slowed. Luce’s heart gave a little squeeze of affection before her own fatigue called. As quietly as she was able, she slipped off her boots and curled against Samuel’s side. He rolled in his sleep, arm slipping around her, tucking her close. In moments, she too was asleep.