thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves in the village street and she looked up to see Marianne Rixby and her brother, Stephen, trotting towards her. They drew to a halt beside her. Stephen raised his hat. ‘It’s a very hot day to be walking, Miss Caroline.’
Caroline smiled. ‘I wasn’t going far.’ She eyed Marianne cautiously. The girl’s riding habit looked cool and elegant, her hat on her bright curls throwing a delicate shade across her face. And she couldn’t help making a comparison between this spoiled, cosseted young woman with her rich, elegant clothes and slim, daintily gloved hands and Susan in her threadbare home-spun. It was an uncomfortable thought.
She bit back a wry smile. What would Marianne think if she knew her precious Charles was out at midnight after the dinner party last night with a gang of smugglers; what would she say if she knew that, for a moment or two, admittedly in anger, he had been holding Caroline pressed close to his chest!
At the thought she felt the heat rise again in her cheeks. She put her hand to her face. ‘Perhaps I should go back to the Rectory. I hope we shall see you again soon.’
‘Indeed you shall.’ Marianne simpered prettily. ‘Charles has asked to speak to Papa this evening. When he has done so and we announce our engagement we shall have a party, and you shall be invited, dear Caro.’
Dear Caro! Caro! Caroline seethed as she walked on her way. Marianne had never, ever, called her that before. She swung her empty basket onto her other arm. No doubt Marianne would be less happy when she had sampled Mr Charles Dawson’s vicious temper and found out what a hypocrite and a liar he really was!
The rector returned in time for luncheon very pleased with himself. ‘Someone on the quay has talked. We know who their ringleader is!’
‘You know?’ Caroline stared at him, white-faced.
He nodded smugly. ‘Not only do we know, but we know they’ve planned another landing tonight. The devils! They thought that would fool us – going out two nights running. How wrong they are! We’ll catch them red-handed and we’ll hang every one of them.’
‘Papa –’
‘No, Caroline. I know how soft your heart is. But they must be punished.’ He turned as Polly knocked on the door to announce the meal. ‘Come, my dear, let us eat, then you can learn your Bible passages this afternoon while you rest.’
He couldn’t know about Charles. If he had learned that a man of the cloth, and the bishop’s son, was involved in the smuggling surely he would not be so calm? Surely he could not keep something as terrible and shocking as that to himself? She glanced at him warily. He couldn’t know the truth. He couldn’t.
Later, in her room, Caroline stood looking out of the window at the garden. The heat of the afternoon lay like a gauze curtain on the countryside, making it shimmer like gossamer. Her Bible lay open near her on her desk but she had not looked at it.
Her mind was far away.
Jake Forrester, hanging on the gallows. Susan and her baby, due any day. And Charles Dawson. Would he be caught too? Would he hang? Or did he wait at a safe distance, his own cover still intact, directing these men to their doom?
Why? Why did he do it?
She paced back and forth a couple of times, the image of Susan and her pale, strained face, her hacking cough, constantly before her. When she had mentioned the cottage to her father at luncheon he had frowned. ‘I’ll speak to Joe Randall again about those hovels,’ he had said. ‘They are a disgrace to the parish. It wouldn’t have happened in his father’s day. He looked after his workers.’
And with that she had had to be content.
Twice more she paced up and down the room. She had to do something. She couldn’t let Jake be caught. His companions might have killed a man, and they should be punished, but would more deaths solve anything? Weren’t they all men driven to crime by poverty and despair? All except Charles Dawson, who had no such excuse. She was desperately angry. How dare he! How dare he send these men to their deaths?
Almost without realising she had done it she had slipped out of her muslin gown and reached for her riding habit. She would ride to see him. However much she detested him, she had to speak to him and force him somehow to call back his men; to warn them of the trap. She had to save Jake for Susan.
She paused outside her father’s bedroom door and listened for a moment as she tiptoed down the stairs. Sure enough she could hear the faint sound of snoring. He had retired to rest in the heat of the afternoon.
The groom was asleep too, on a heap of hay. It was several minutes before he could bestir himself enough to saddle Caroline’s pretty bay mare, Star, and lead her out of her cool shadowy box into the blinding sunlight of the stableyard. He offered to ride with her – part of his duties if she rode out alone – but with little enthusiasm and was obviously relieved when she turned down his offer.
Charles Dawson’s parish was some five miles away through narrow lanes and across trackways over the Downs. It seemed a long way in the heat. Time and again she slowed the sweating horse, letting her walk in the dappled shadows beneath the trees which bordered the lanes. There was plenty of time. The raid would not take place till after dark, but he had to have time to send messages to his men. The closer she got, the more slowly she rode. Her anger had evaporated slightly in the heat and she had to admit that she was a little apprehensive. She was not looking forward to meeting Charles Dawson again.
The Rectory at Pengate was a large Georgian house, set between two graceful cedar trees. As Caroline rode up the long drive she saw the curtains in the main rooms were drawn against the sun and her heart sank. It had not crossed her mind that he might be out. Dismounting, she pulled the bell and waited, Star’s rein looped around her arm. Her heart was thumping painfully now, and she found she was having to hold tight to her courage before it oozed away completely.
It was several minutes before the door opened and she found herself confronting the tall figure of Charles Dawson’s butler. The rector, she was informed, was indeed out.
‘He can’t be!’ she cried out in dismay. ‘He must be here.’
‘I am sorry, Miss. He is not expected to return until tomorrow!’ James Kennet was eyeing her crumpled habit and the dishevelled wisps of hair flying from beneath her hat. He frowned.
‘Then where is he? He was going to the Rixbys’ this evening, but surely not already?’ She knew she sounded desperate.
‘I am sorry, Miss.’ He tightened his lips in disapproval. ‘I do not know where he is.’
And with that she had to be content. Disconsolately Caroline turned the mare’s head back towards home.
The afternoon had grown hotter. The baked mud in the lanes was like stone; the air, as the horse left the shade of the deep lanes for the open downland, was stifling.
But she was not going to be defeated that easily. She would have to go to the Rixbys’ and lie in wait for him. That was the only choice she had left. She had no idea how late he would be – perhaps too late – but what else could she do? She was not going to give up. Not yet. Kicking the reluctant Star into a canter before she could change her mind and cravenly seek the cool shadows of her curtained bedroom she took the road that led towards the archdeacon’s house in the cathedral precinct.
The
