Rectory garden. With a quick glance at her father Caroline clutched at the sodden green silk, trying to hide the tell-tale smears.
‘Forgive me, but I am very cold. I think I shall do as you say, and go to bed.’
‘Would you like a glass of ratafia to warm you?’ As she reached the door, he stopped her, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no, Papa.’ She took the candle from him and turned away.
As she fled up the stairs, the shadows leaping round her, she was uncomfortably aware of his eyes following her in the soft lamplight from the table in the hall, and of the streaks of dirt left by her swirling skirts.
There were dark rings under her eyes when she confronted her father over the breakfast table next morning. Her hair was tightly knotted at the back of her neck, her dress neat and irreproachable.
‘I have not learned the Bible passage, Papa.’ She met his eyes defiantly. ‘There has not been time.’ She held her breath, waiting for the outburst she knew would come, but to her surprise her father merely shook his head. ‘Tonight, then, tonight. You are none the worse for your soaking?’
‘None the worse, thank you, Papa.’
Her father was helping himself from a dish of eggs beneath one of the silver covers on the sideboard. ‘I thank the Lord you were not tempted to stray beyond the garden last night,’ he went on, not turning. ‘The smugglers were out. My verger was here at eight. He said the excise men failed to catch them.’ He sighed as he sat down. ‘These rogues must be caught. They killed a man down on the foreshore last night.’
‘No!’ Caroline’s distraught cry made him look up.
He frowned. ‘I am afraid so. But don’t distress yourself. They will be caught.’
All night her brain had been whirling with the events at the castle and in the churchyard. Each time she had closed her eyes she had seen Charles Dawson’s tall figure – wet through, wild, dressed in shirt and breeches, his hair tousled by the storm, his eyes alight with anger. And her body had remembered the hard touch of his fingers with a strangely disturbing glow of shame.
She shivered imperceptibly again now at the thought.
‘Is it known where they come from?’ she asked cautiously as she sat down.
‘Local,’ he replied. ‘It would surprise me if some of them didn’t come from this village. The rogues! They deserve to hang!’ He frowned at his daughter. ‘Do you not wish to eat?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry, Papa.’
‘I trust you are not sickening for something. Take some hot chocolate at least. I am going into Larchester later this morning to consult with my fellow magistrates. There must be something more we can do to catch these men. It is a scandal that they are still free!’
Caroline watched her father ride away an hour later with mixed feelings. Half of her was relieved that he was so distracted by his anger against the smugglers that he had forgotten his indignation at her; the other half was eaten up with anxiety over what was to happen about the smugglers. How could Charles Dawson be involved with them? How could he, a man of God, be a thief and a murderer?
Miserably she paced the floor of the morning room, oblivious to the beauty of the day outside. Still his image rose before her eyes. The anger and hardness in the man, his determination, his ruthlessness. If Jake had not been there to restrain him, what would he have done to her? Her mind shied away from the answer to that question. But the truth remained. He or his men had killed that night. And if they had killed once, why should they not have killed again?
Suddenly making up her mind she ran for her bonnet and taking her basket, loaded with jars and packets, on her arm she let herself out of the Rectory. The lane was already drying in the hot sun, the muddy ruts hardening beneath chalky crusts as the hedgerows steamed, glittering with raindrops.
Jake Forrester’s cottage was at the far end of the village, a tiny run-down hovel. She hesitated only a second before she knocked at the door. It was several moments before it opened.
Mrs Forrester peered out, blinking in the sunlight. She was a thin, stooped young woman, her heavily pregnant figure obvious beneath her threadbare gown and flimsy shawl. ‘Why, Miss Hayward!’
‘How are you, Susan?’ Caroline groped in her basket for her jars of calves’ foot jelly, her honey and her loaves of fresh baked bread from Polly’s oven. ‘I thought I would come and see how you are. Is your cough still bad?’ She followed a flustered Susan Forrester into the cottage and peered round the small dark room. It was empty. She could feel the chill striking off the walls. ‘How is your husband, Susan? Is he here?’
Susan shrugged. ‘Jake’s all right, Miss. He’s gone over the hills today and tomorrow to help with some droving.’ She sat down heavily. ‘I don’t like him going so far and leaving me so long, but we need the extra, with another baby on the way.’
Another baby. Caroline had noticed the empty cradle by the window. Three babies had been born in this house in the last three years and all had been dead within six months. She felt a clutch of pity at her heart. ‘He’s a good man, your Jake.’
‘Aye.’ The woman’s thin face broke into a smile. Then as swiftly as it came it vanished and Caroline saw fear and worry in the woman’s eyes.
‘What is it, Susan?’
‘Nothing.’ She made a big effort to smile again. ‘I worry about the baby.’
‘It will be all right this time, Susan. There’s been no disease in the village this summer –’
‘Not yet!’ Susan could not keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘Squire Randall said he’d improve the cottages, but he hasn’t done it. He said he’d see we’d have the thatch patched; look at the damp in here after last night’s rain.’ She was racked with coughing again as she pointed to the glistening marks on the mud walls. ‘And new wood for the door. They even talked about some kind of drains in the village once, but nothing ever came of it. Dr Styles says we’ll never be free of the fever until they sort the drains.’
Caroline bit her lip. ‘I’ll talk to Papa again. I’m sure Mr Randall will listen to him.’
‘He’ll listen. And he’ll promise. He’ll promise the world. But he’ll do nothing.’ Susan put her hand to her belly defensively. ‘You see if I’m not right. If anything’s to be done it must be done by ourselves. My Jake’s promised he’ll do the roof, somehow. He’s got some pennies saved, he reckons.’ She smiled tolerantly, obviously not really believing it. ‘Maybe that’ll do to keep the place water tight this winter and keep the baby warm.’
Caroline frowned. ‘I’ll do all I can. I promise.’
‘I know you will try.’ Susan smiled wearily. ‘You’ve been good to me.’
But not good enough. Caroline frowned as she walked slowly away from the damp cottage, still cold, even on such a warm day. It was not right that women such as Susan Forrester, who worked so hard and asked so little in return, should suffer so in the loss of her babies. Did Susan know Jake had turned to smuggling? She thought not. And could she really blame him for it, if it brought some money into
