Chapter 16
Some say they see a light on the cliffs at night, but it’s all a load of hogwash, if you ask me.” The old man looked out to the ocean as he spoke, the wind catching his hat and tipping it back.
Henry crossed his arms, filing away the information Mr. Swasey was giving him steps from the ruins they’d come to visit.
Some folklore about the island being haunted, similar to something Carruthers had mentioned.
But could the ethereal lights be something else entirely?
Henry gestured back to the rocks and formations behind them.
“These ruins must spark some stories in their own right. They are the perfect place for a pirate hideout or something equally fantastical.”
Swasey chuckled, his moustache jumping. “Oh, those tales are plentiful, they are. But it would never be pirates here. Our island is better known for the smugglers.” He gave the information readily enough but shot a quick glance over his shoulder afterward, as if the smugglers of which he spoke were on the beach at that moment.
Henry lifted a brow. This was not the first he’d heard of smuggling, which was a common enough problem in the Channel Islands.
Frankly, Henry had a bit of empathy for the men—or he would if he hadn’t heard so many terrible things about how they went about their business.
But a poor countryman just trying to earn a few pounds for his family? He could see the plight.
Though everyone knew it wasn’t the poor man who profited the most from smuggling. It was those in charge. The gentlemen who wanted to get their hands on more brandy and tea without paying the fines.
Curiosity had Henry leaning forward, seeking more information, though this wasn’t the hunt he was meant to be on. “Has the war ending not dampened the smuggling then?”
Swasey looked around them and pulled off his hat, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Truly, I’d say it’s gotten worse. Not that I know much about that. Only heard a bit.”
“Sounds downright terrifying to me,” Henry said, hoping he was right in reading the apprehension on Swasey’s face as worry.
The sound of waves breaking on the shore dulled Swasey’s voice, and Henry had to focus hard to hear his quieter words.
“It’s against the natural man, I always say.
To turn on your country for the sake of a few cups of brandy.
I never drink at the White Hart anymore.
Everyone knows how they get their wares. ”
Henry nodded solemnly, “You make our nation proud, Mr. Swasey.”
The man puffed up at that. Henry thought he might be able to get more out of him but didn’t want to push his luck.
Especially when the man didn’t seem to have any information on the piracy, only smuggling.
Instead, he invited him to a game of cards that night, then steered the conversation to more neutral topics, mind turning as he did.
Could the smuggling and piracy be connected?
It seemed only a step away, to go from sneaking contraband into the country to stealing.
If so, was there any use in seeking out the smugglers in hopes that they would be easier to find and then able to lead him to his real quarry?
Smuggling, after all, was a consistent endeavor.
Piracy would be based on when ships passed near the island and conditions were ideal.
He couldn’t help the straying of his gaze to Mrs. Seymour as he considered it all.
She spoke to Miss Watts regarding some part of the ruin in which they stood.
Her hands moved animatedly, and the vibrancy of her hair was impressive in the bright sun, even partially hidden beneath a straw bonnet.
She glanced his way and nodded before turning back to Miss Watts.
He ought to be happy with just that nod when she’d ignored him for the past several days.
But the conversation in the carriage was heavy on his mind.
She thought him a drunk and did not trust his word that he was not.
He couldn’t blame her. He hardly trusted himself.
It had been a point of mental contention since waking with a clear head.
Was he a drunk? No. What he’d said to Mrs. Seymour was true—he did not lose his memories or inhibitions with alcohol, not since the year after his father’s death.
But he had become dependent on it. He had become too reliant on the drink, and the barest of semantics seemed to separate dependent from drunk.
And clearly something had happened in Mrs. Seymour’s past to detest drunks, which cut even deeper than his own internal warfare.
His hands curled into fists both at himself and whomever previously caused her pain.
This trip was becoming quite the exercise in finding his weaknesses.
First he’d let Julia down entirely, and now he’d caused Mrs. Seymour to lose any semblance of a good opinion regarding him while likely drawing up bad memories.
It was nearly enough for him to consider giving up alcohol entirely. Permanently.
Swasey bid him farewell to see to his nephew, and Henry picked his way through the rocks. Here and there, the occasional wall still stood, and there was even one spot that held a complete archway. But mostly, it was just strangely shaped stones.
The scent of salt hung thick in the air this close to the ocean. He could hear the crash of water upon shore just beyond the rise where they now stood.
Who better to ask about the island than Mrs. Seymour herself? That was a perfectly plausible reason to seek her out, and it would have the benefit of showing Julia that he was still committed to getting to know the female members of the party.
She saw him coming, and he didn’t miss the way she glanced at the retreating back of her previous conversation partner. He hesitated but continued forward.
He wanted to improve her opinion of him, but he did not want to force his company on her.
He stopped before her with a smile and a bow. “Mrs. Seymour, these ruins are just as fascinating as you promised.”
Her smile did not entirely reach her eyes, but she did not appear to be seeking an escape. “Then they are not, to quote Mr. Joseph Warren, a pile of rocks?”
Henry chuckled. “Well, he is not exactly wrong. But I do find them to be a rather fascinating pile of rocks, for what that’s worth.”
She smiled at that. “High praise.”
“I have been known to compliment very few rocks in my life, so it truly is.”
That nearly sounded as if she had just stifled a laugh. Had he yet heard Mrs. Seymour laugh? Not since their walk that first day.
“Isn’t it interesting to speculate on what occurred in this spot?” she asked.
Henry nodded seriously. “Yes. To think, we could be standing exactly where an ancient chamber pot resided.”
Her mouth fell open. “I meant—” she began.
He cut her off. “I only jest, Mrs. Seymour. I know exactly what you mean. Yes. It really is interesting to think on the past.”
Her gaze surveyed the group, and he had an inkling that she was searching a way out of the conversation.
“Tell me more about the island. Its history,” he asked, drawing back her attention. On that first night, she’d seemed most at ease talking about where she lived than anything else.
Her brows showed her surprise, but she did not evade the question.
“You wish for a history lesson? It is quite extensive. The Channel Islands were settled in ancient times and have seen a great deal of history—Shalk in particular, as its size is easily maintained but large enough to house civilization and—” She stopped, peering at him.
“I apologize, I have always found history rather fascinating, but I do not mean to bore you.”
“No, I asked. You could not bore me if you tried.” He gestured to the side, indicating that they should walk. It was a mark of success that she only hesitated a moment. “What of recent history?”
Her hands tucked behind her back as they picked their way back through the ruins.
“Shalk has always been a key location in maritime war; so much of our history circles around that fact. Most of the inhabitants here have been more directly affected by war than nearly anywhere else that I am aware of. Naval presence was strong for a great deal of the eighteenth century, and when it was not, the island itself raised local militia. Several of the large houses here used to be fortresses and defenses, as I am sure you noticed is the case with Windvale. It used to serve as a stronghold, with its vantage point so near the sea. Lord Hemmersley, Lady Hemmersley’s grandfather, gained his title through fighting for the crown. ”
“Is that why your . . . why Commander Seymour purchased it?”
Her lips quirked. “In truth, I think he cared more for the appearance than the location.”
Henry nodded. This was all truly interesting but not particularly helpful to his cause.
“You would think the island would have been safer from French raids; I was told that the water is rather treacherous around here.” It was, evidently, partly to blame for his worsened seasickness on their journey to the island.
She tilted her head in thought. “I suppose it can be. I think that is more to do with the fogs, though I have been told the reefs are extensive and can be dangerous in low tide.”
“Why then do so many merchants use this route?” he wondered aloud.
She paused in their walk, turning to him. Was she suspicious of his questioning? But her answer was not tinged with wariness. “As one of the larger islands, we do a great deal of trade with merchants, but not many come this far south. The water is tamer around Guernsey and Alderney.”
Henry frowned. Why had Carlton sent a shipment down here then? If he was bypassing England entirely to travel to America, Henry supposed this would indeed be a shorter route.
It hardly signified. He was here not to dissect the merchant’s travel plans but to determine where they’d gone wrong. Should he ask outright about the smuggling? About piracy?