Chapter Fourteen
The only sail they see the rest of the day is a small fishing boat, whose crew of two raises their caps to them as they pass.
Just after nightfall, they sail up the wide expanse of river, the wind to their stern.
The ship is like a shadow, all lanterns doused as a precaution.
It slides past the headland on the south side of the river where Isabel has walked the coastal path.
“Another twenty minutes and we’ll drop anchor at Helford, provided Tom Holder gives us the signal to proceed,” Jack says.
Suddenly Dick blurts, “Captain!”
He’s a second faster than the rest of the crew, but the moment they see it, a gasp runs through the ship. “Damn it,” Jack says under his breath. And then, calling softly, “Hush! Quiet, there.”
In the mouth of the river lies a three-masted frigate, its two decks punctuated with rows of open gunports.
Even at this distance she’s a slumbering giant, towering above the water, her masts reaching past the top of the cliff.
If anybody on board the frigate were to see them, if the ship were to give chase, the Rapide wouldn’t stand a chance.
Lights burn on the frigate, but the ship is as quiet as the night.
Jack whispers, “His Majesty’s Navy has come to call on us.
We’d better pretend we aren’t home. Oppy, take us along the north shore, if you please, as close in as you can without running us aground. Do you know the lay of the land there?”
“I grew up in Mawnan, Captain,” Oppy whispers. “I’ve been sailing these waters since I was a boy.”
“Good. Take us into…Helford’s too close. Dick, what do you think? Frenchman’s Creek? It’s near as well, but it cuts inland far deeper. I reckon they’ll be looking in Gweek, too, with the trade in the harbor.”
“Frenchman’s Creek is nicely sheltered,” Dick says. “We can use the cave near the top for storage and it’s close enough to Helford Tom will be able to get the boats out to us.”
Somewhere in the bow of the ship, a voice says loudly, “For God’s sake, Moyle!”
Jack says to Harry, “Make them shut up, will you? Pray they don’t spot us.”
Swiftly, silently, the Rapide slides closer to the frigate. The river is wide here, far wider than where it snakes further inland. It’s not even much of a river, Isabel thinks; at this point it is still the sea, narrowing down to a channel.
Jack has timed their return well. They sailed for France just after the full moon and now the moon is new, the sky a canvas of stars.
For the second time in a day, Isabel barely dares to breathe.
The entire ship holds its breath. At the stern, Oppy’s squeezing the helm so tightly his knuckles have paled.
Harry Tremayne looks like he has swallowed his whiskers.
Any moment now, a voice will call out, she thinks.
Any moment they will be seen. They could not outrun a ship like this. They’ll be trapped on the river.
But whether there really is something protecting them or it’s simply late enough at night that the watch stands dozing, they sail by without a sound from the navy ship.
This time, no one cheers. The coast is dark and empty, not a lantern moves along the coastal path.
Only the wind can be heard, pushing them up the river.
It’s quiet enough she can hear the splash of a fish that jumped.
Shadows cradle the ship as they drop anchor just outside the inlet at Helford.
There is the old pilchard shed, the cottage low and dark; there the wall of the paradise garden where she sat with Harriet not three weeks ago.
There’s a light in the top left window of the Shipwrights Arms and Jack says, “That’s Tom, giving the signal all is clear.
I sent word to him after you told me about Coverack; he must’ve been watching for us.
” He turns to Harry Tremayne. “Signal back that we need the boats to come out. I’ll tell the boatmen to follow us into the creek.
Once the goods are hidden, we’ll set a watch and take the Rapide back to Nelly’s Cove. ”
“You mean to go past the frigate again?” Isabel asks.
“Without the cargo we’re just like any other ship. They can’t arrest us if we haven’t got any contraband on board.”
Harry signals with the lantern from the larboard side of the ship. Moments later, a figure comes out of the inn and disappears down the road. Another short wait and the splash of oars can be heard across the water.
“Should you like to go ashore with one of the boats?” Jack says.
She thinks of the cottage, of the bed in which she slept next to Jack when she first met him. She says, “Could I not go back to Roskorwell with you? Just for the one night?”
“Are you thinking of your empty bed?”
He knows her too well. “I didn’t much like it at Captain Cuvelier’s house,” she says.
“You have but to say the word and Roskorwell will be your home and your bed never empty, not even when I am gone to sea, for it appears you are to come along every time.”
“Jack…”
“I’m not trying to rush you. Only, it seems to me that you’re fighting something that already exists quite naturally between us.
However, this isn’t the time to discuss such things—we’re both weary and we have a long night ahead of us.
” He pauses to call softly to the first of the boats, “Lanyon, hello!” Turning back to Isabel, he says, “Fine. Come back to Roskorwell with me tonight.” He gives her a quick smile. “See if you like it for a home.”
“I already do,” she says, but she speaks so quietly he doesn’t hear, and then he’s calling to the other boatman and Oppy grips the ship’s wheel. A gust of wind whistles through the rigging as they sail away from the inlet and tack into the creek.
—
Roskorwell is as they left it. A soft-edged sun rises from behind the house and the grass is wet with dew.
They walk side by side, just Jack and her, as if they’re returning from an early morning walk and not an eleven-day journey to France smuggling contraband.
The only indication that all is not ordinary is that she’s still wearing Jack’s breeches and shirt, as well as over a week’s worth of suntan.
Jack carries the bundle with her gowns. “You can change at the house,” he says.
She wishes she wouldn’t have to. “Perhaps I could have my own pair of breeches made for the next voyage.”
“Perhaps you could dress as a boy at all times.”
She looks up at him. “Truly? You believe I could?”
“I spoke in jest. Isabel, no one wants to see you in a man’s garments.”
“Do you object to my wearing them?” she says.
“Dear God, no. You could dress in a bearskin as they do in America or wrap yourself in silk shawls like in India for all I care. Or wear nothing at all—that may be my preference, in fact.”
“Jack!” she says, swatting at his arm, but she’s laughing and so is he.
The crew has split up and is returning home from Nelly’s Cove piecemeal, so as not to arouse suspicion, but there’s no need, for at this hour of the day Jack’s estate lies deserted.
Even Jack’s dog, Jib, has not yet roused herself.
“You’ll want to watch out for the press gang,” Jack told his men before they left the ship, leaving only Harry Tremayne and Oppy on board.
“The captain of that frigate will be looking to impress new hands into His Majesty’s Navy.
Beware the King’s shilling if you drink at any of the inns along the river. ”
Nearer to the house, the smell of salt and seaweed gives way to that of the roses along the white stone walls, come into bloom thanks to the warm weather.
They go up the path as if they live there together, and Isabel can see how it will be: the ease of their rapport turned into an everyday thing, their conversation flowing freely, the nights spent in Jack’s arms—everything just as it was on board the Rapide.
I’m going to tell him, she thinks.
She’s going to explain about James, and if it is as she hopes, if he understands and he’ll still have her, she’s going to say yes.
Yes, I should like to marry you. Maybe not at once, but when I am ready I shall, and gladly, for I love you.
“Jack,” she says as he opens the door for her.
She steps into the dark hall and turns back to him, saying, “There’s something I must tell you. I—”
But she doesn’t get any further, because there’s a voice outside, a man’s voice, calling to Jack.
For a fraction of a moment, she thinks, that odious man, he has the worst sense of timing, but then she looks across Jack’s shoulder and sees Lieutenant Sowerby on the doorstep—and the pistol he’s aiming at Jack.
The hall sways and she has to put her hand against the wall to keep her balance.
“Why do you look like that? Are you quite—” Jack says, already turning to the door.
But Lieutenant Sowerby barks, “Mr. Carlyon, sir!”
A click as he cocks the pistol, unmistakable in the quiet morning air. Cold seeps into her veins, circulating until gooseflesh rises on her arms.
Without looking back, Jack motions for her to move deeper into the hall. She draws back in the shadows as he says, “Lieutenant Sowerby, to what do I owe the—”
Lieutenant Sowerby says, “Be so good as to lift your shirt, sir.”
“My shirt? What has gotten into you, Sowerby?”
Lieutenant Sowerby motions with the pistol. “Lift it or I shall fire.”
Jack takes the hem of his shirt, the one she mended for him, just washed yesterday aboard the ship. He begins to lift it. She’s gazing at his back, but she knows what Lieutenant Sowerby is looking for, and he will see it: the red, angry welt of a new scar, made by a gunshot wound.