Page 64 of The Cornish Mermaid

Kit

Promptly at nine o’clock the next morning, after a breakfast of cold beef and ale, Kit caught the coach that would be heading via Falmouth to Penzance and beyond. Glad to find his cousin no longer among the passengers, he settled himself down into the shabby interior as it rumbled over the cobbles and out of Exeter.

This time, although all the outside spaces were taken, no one but he had paid to sit inside, and he had the malodorous interior to himself. Thankful for small mercies, he stretched out his legs, closed his eyes and, wedging himself into one of the corners, prepared to snatch some more much-needed shuteye for the next few hours.

Surprisingly, he managed to fall asleep and was only awoken as the coach rumbled up the steep hill into Launceston and the round castle keep on its high motte hoved into view. He yawned and stretched. Why was it every time you slept during the day you woke up bleary-eyed and unrefreshed with all your muscles aching? His neck and back were stiff, and his mouth felt paper dry. He’d get down here and find some refreshment.

His pocket watch told him it had gone one o’clock, not that this was any guarantee it would match the time they kept here in the west. He strode into the inn’s taproom while the horses were being changed and ordered a mug of good Cornish cider and a plate of bread and cheese. No time to wait for roast beef to be fetched, which probably wouldn’t be good anyway. Not even a miserly innkeeper could go too wrong with bread and cheese, although this bread’s bitter taste indicated the addition of alum by the baker. The rogue.

He was just washing the crumbs down with the last of the cider, which was of far better quality than the bread, when a heavy hand thumped down on his shoulder. He swung around.

“Why, if ’tain’t Mr. Kitto himself!” A huge, broad-shouldered, and pot-bellied man stood before him, grinning from ear to ear across a face burnt brown by the Cornish sun and wind.

“Aleck!” Kit stood up and took the offered paw, only to have his arm so vigorously shaken it felt as though it might come loose in its socket. “Aleck Tregothnan. I never expected to see you so far away from your lair at Nanpean. What brings you up country?”

Tregothnan released Kit’s hand and stood back, his good-humored gaze traveling from Kit’s ruffled hair down to his dusty boots. “Business,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Parson’s business.”

Kit grinned. Parson’s business meant smuggling business, so presumably that was what had brought his old friend, the landlord of the Ship Inn, a small hostelry situated between Nanpean and St Just, so far east. It either meant a new shipment was imminent or Aleck was seeing to the sale of the last of the previous one, which could take as long as several weeks.

“Aye,” Tregothnan went on, hitching his bulk onto a seat opposite Kit. “I’ve been away from home two nights and I’ll be right glad to be back. These eastern folks ain’t what we’re used to on the tip.” He gave a great guffaw of laughter, but his merriment didn’t hide a touch of worry in his eyes.

Was his old friend in trouble of some kind? Kit opened his mouth to ask, but Tregothnan interrupted. “When I seed him t’other day, Jago did say as you’d gone back up east to your big house.” A small frown furrowed his broad brow. “What’s brung you down here agin so soon? From what he said, I’d thought you’d be up England a good long time.”

Again, that hint of something in his friend’s voice that wasn’t quite right, as though he were worried about some problem. As though for some reason he wasn’t pleased to see Kit back in Cornwall.

But Kit had other things on his mind. “Women,” he said, then laughed, a tad bitterly. “One particular woman, I should say. I had to leave because I was…” he hesitated. “I was in danger of becoming too involved.” He shook his head. “And I can’t do that to any woman. Not with the life I lead. It wouldn’t be fair.”

A touch of something that might have been annoyance flashed across Tregothnan’s face to be quickly replaced by more bonhomie. “And glad I am to see you again.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Wouldn’t be the same without our Mr. Kitto. We’ve another consignment due in the next coupla days. Depends on the wind from France. I’ve all the men on standby.” He glanced over his shoulder at the tap room’s few customers as though they might be king’s spies. “I’ve been up here arranging to sell it on. But I’ll not say anymore. Walls has ears.”

Kit nodded. “Are you taking the coach back west?”

His friend inclined his head. “Got to get back to the inn. Can’t leave it too long in Bessie’s hands or she’ll drink the barrels dry.”

Kit chuckled. Bessie, Aleck’s wife, had never been known to finish a day upright, such was her capacity for drink. Aleck must have been desperate for business if he’d left her in charge. “I hope you locked your cellar door,” he said as the shout came that the coach was ready. Together they walked out into the inn’s stable yard. The few outside passengers climbed aboard and Kit climbed into the interior.

A little to his surprise, Tregothnan joined him inside. “Can’t sit outside at my age,” he said, by way of explanation. “Getting too old and fat for the scramble up. It’s worth the extra money to me for a comfortable seat for my old bones.”

All the same, for a country innkeeper it would be an expensive journey.

*

Morvoren

Morvoren was awake just after dawn as she’d deliberately left the motheaten curtains in their room open to let the daylight in. The dirt on the windows didn’t reduce the light by much, and as soon as she woke, she got up and forced them open to let in some much-needed fresh air.

On the bed, Ysella stirred and rolled over. “Oooh. Shut the curtains and let me sleep,” she moaned. “I’m tired and it’s too early.”

Morvoren gave her a shake. “We have to get on the road again as quickly as possible and catch up with Kit.”

The reminder served as a good wakeup call. Ysella sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Goodness. I thought myself at home in Ormonde. I’d quite forgotten the events of yesterday.” She giggled, still, in Morvoren’s opinion, not taking the mission seriously enough. “I do hope Mama doesn’t go to call on Caro’s mother, because she’ll find out we’re not there, and then she’ll discover Sam gone as well, and put two and two together and make five and decide one of us has eloped with him and taken the other for moral support.”

As that hadn’t yet occurred to Morvoren as a conclusion Lady Ormonde might jump to, her blood ran cold for a minute. This was a world where if girls ran off with young men, they would be ruined if they didn’t marry them. She definitely didn’t want to marry Sam, dependable and sensible as he was, and she didn’t think Ysella did either. Although strictly speaking, weren’t they chaperoning each other?

Conscious of the need for speed, they struggled into their clothes and did each other’s hair as best they could. However, they didn’t end up looking nearly as spick and span as they would have done had Martha and Loveday had a hand in their toilettes. There was a lot to be said for a scrunchy for the hair and sensible jeans and T-shirts.

Morvoren was just deciding to go and knock on Sam’s door, when a tentative tap came on their own. On invitation, Sam, fully dressed, came in. “I’ve ordered breakfast in the parlor downstairs,” he said. “And James and John are preparing the horses. We’ve a long way to go today, so we need an early start.”

Breakfast was bitter black coffee and yesterday’s dry bread rolls. Morvoren’s nerves, jangling in her head like warning bells, didn’t allow her to eat more than one roll and that she had to force down, but the strong coffee jolted her into full action mode. As they walked out into the yard, she felt ready for anything.