Chapter 9
The next day, Emma clutched her horse’s reins as she traversed the path from Claverfield to Milne Manor with the son of her stable master, Billy Martin, at her side.
When she’d first become a smuggler, Billy’s father, William, had arranged for employment at Milne Manor’s stables so that Billy would be available when she needed to travel between both estates.
The suggestion had made perfect sense and benefited her greatly.
She and Billy had practically grown up with Sir Christmas, she simultaneously learning how to ride astride, an unfashionable thing for a gentleman’s daughter to do.
As if she cared for Society and the rules they employed.
Practicality outweighed pride.
And who needed chaperones? They were the bane of her existence, though she adored Billy and trusted him implicitly.
She was aware that these were dangerous times.
No one knew when they’d be caught or seen, or—if by some bad stroke of luck—attacked by smugglers or brigands or escaping French prisoners on their way to Whitstable.
Artemis and Apollo, Zeus’s offspring, had reached maturity on these hills and downs.
They knew the way, galloping through every twist and turn in the woodland abutting both estates exactly as they’d done almost all their lives.
And Billy, well, he was a family man, married with three sons and a daughter.
He adored Emma, agreeing to follow her to gaol—if needed—though she resented her need for his help.
He never allowed her to ride back and forth alone.
Business was a risky venture for a gentlewoman, but Billy didn’t see her as a helpless female.
In fact, he encouraged her to make a difference, prisoner by prisoner, using her inheritance to fund the smuggling ring that would one day free the man she loved.
They were in this venture together. Besides Lord Astley-Milne and Mrs. Reeves, his housekeeper, Billy, and his father, and the loyal servants at Claverfield who’d stayed on after her parents’ deaths were like family, crucial and valuable at a time when she often felt bereft and quite alone.
She was a risk-taker. Papa had instilled that motivation in her.
Her mother, too, had trained her to contemplate consequences.
While Papa had encouraged her wild nature, her mother had taught her to be a lady, and sensible, attributes that were supposed to attract suitors.
She had no need of admirers now. Only one man governed her heart—Sir Christmas.
And since he’d entered the naval ranks, earned a knighthood, and suffered unconscionable hardships at sea, her risky adventures seemed less perilous, and more imperative.
Everything was a game of chance, to Claverfield, to her reputation, her livelihood, as well as to Lord Astley-Milne and Milne Manor. The viscount was her guardian, but he treated her like the daughter he’d never had.
Emma rubbed her hands together, restless and tingling.
Everything was at stake, especially her trust, and the expectations earned by those dependent on her.
And yet she continued to tempt Fate against her better judgment.
She would carry on, come what may, funding the safe return of soldiers and sailors to the ones who loved them most. If that made her a traitor to the Crown, so be it.
It was what she prayed someone would do for the man she loved.
How could she not sacrifice the same?
To those who are given much, more is expected.
She hoped the two haggard-looking British officers, whose constitutions were now reinforced by proper treatment, food, and fresh clothing, traveled safely and unnoticed to Bristol.
Once there, she fancied them engulfed in their familys’ arms and nourished with love and affection.
Her participation ended there, however. Her responsibilities were Milne Manor and Claverfield.
She did what she could and prayed for the rest, hoping upon hope that decency and humanity prevailed over shadows of sickness and death.
Indeed, these were dark times, and she refused to be entrapped by them. Nonetheless, exhilaration hummed in her veins. At least two families would sleep more peacefully this Twelfth Night.
The woods were alive, expectant as the horses clip-clopped across the fresh fallen snow.
Few were aware of her comings and goings at Milne Manor, so that Lord Astley-Milne never suspected her involvement in such a devious and dangerous scheme.
She despised her machinations, each word and every action chosen to mislead those important to her until she supposed no one truly knew her at all, especially herself.
Saints preserve her, she was a smuggler just like her cousin, and running contraband was a lucrative business, facts secreted from those around her lest she jeopardize the viscount and the villagers who unknowingly helped her enterprise.
Considerable hazards perched precariously on cleverness, instinct, and ruses.
They reined to a stop at the edge of the forest, scrutinizing the adjacent meadow for irregularities that might hint they were riding into a trap.
The hour was late, but moonlight lit their way.
She was not expected home until morning, and she did not want to keep Billy away from his family if it could be avoided.
“The pasture looks clear to me,” Billy said. “Would you like me to go first?”
She shook her head, suffering a sudden chill as snow meandered down her neck. “You know I cannot do you such a disservice. We are in this together.”
“Let’s go then.” Billy inclined his head then bolted off, stretched out over Apollo’s mane.
Emma kicked her heels then lowered her body close to Artemis’s neck, absorbing the warmth the animal radiated as muscles and hooves sped her across the lawn.
Magnificently, she drew alongside Billy, matching his speed and tempo, and within minutes, they reached the stables together, dismounting the heavily breathing beasts in one fluid motion.
“Get to the house.” Billy took Artemis’s reins. “Be sure not to make a sound. Cook greedily guards her kitchen, and Collins has the ears of a fox.”
“I know.” The household paid tribute to Cook’s working quarters, and Collins, Milne Manor’s butler, prioritized Cook’s desires. A good chef is hard to find, he’d say. Brushing snow off her greatcoat, she reached for Billy’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you. For today.”
He nodded silently; nothing more needed to be said between them. She flashed a ready smile then turned to make her way to the manor house, eager to rest her weary bones. Even though contentment of a job well done lit her spirit, sadness gripped her heart.
She thought of the two men Ansell had rescued, and the many others whose feet now trod upon English soil.
How much longer would they have to search for the man she loved, and would Lord Astley-Milne live long enough to experience another Christmas like the ones he’d always known with his only surviving son?
There was no way to know with certainty. Fate had to play its part.
She focused on the entrance to the main house.
Quickly, so as not to awaken the entire household, she took off her boots.
She slipped through the side door that Euna, her maid, had unlocked before bed, and worked her way down the adjoining hall, ascending the servants’ staircase which led from the kitchen to the upper floors.
There, she crept silently down the corridor, stopping briefly at her bedchamber door to look over her shoulder, and then slipped into her room, sighing with relief once she found sanctuary alone.
The fireplace glowed, illuminating the interior. Euna’s doing. No candles had been lit for her use. Such a thing would only draw suspicion.
Her life had become one deception after another.
No one really knew her, not even herself. She wouldn’t be whole, she couldn’t focus on desire and explore her own character, until Sir Christmas was safely in her arms again.
Would that ever be possible?