Page 39 of The Cornish Widow

Chapter Eighteen

“Where’ve you been to in the dark?” Harriet asked Theo as he breezed in through the kitchen door. “I said you could go out for ten minutes, not two hours. It’s autumn and the nights are drawing in. I was worried.”

“Sorry, Mama.” Theo gave her his most innocent look, one she recognized of old and which in all probability meant he’d been up to no good. She’d think about that later. At least he was back now and still in one piece.

“Well, go and get yourself ready for bed, then. Lyddie’s already gone up, and Bertha and I won’t be far behind you. Off you go. And don’t forget to wash behind your ears. Bertha left a bowl of water up there for you, but it’s probably cold by now.”

Bertha, who was sitting at the kitchen table mending a pair of Theo’s stockings, looked up with a glint in her eye. “And no clumping about up there like a baby elephant. Your sister’s trying to sleep.”

Still looking suspiciously angelic, Theo bestowed a kiss on both Harriet and Bertha’s cheeks and took himself off into the parlor. A moment later his footsteps clattered on the stairs, causing Bertha to emit a long sigh.

“That boy’ll be the death of me,” Harriet said. “I don’t think I’ll let him out after dinner again. He takes too many liberties.”

“He’s a boy,” Bertha opined, as though Harriet might not have noticed. “And boys will be boys.”

Harriet frowned. As nurse to Harriet, who’d been an only child, and then to Harriet’s children, Bertha only had experience of the one boy, so her sage words held little weight. And Harriet had to admit that she herself possessed little knowledge of boys, bar Theo, who’d been far less trouble when they lived in Bath—before he’d met Cado and Yves, the latter of whom he’d visited several times by himself now. Perhaps she might ask Jack’s advice if she saw him again. Not Fitz Carlyon though. A boy needed the guidance of a man from time to time. So long as it wasn’t a man like Ben… and she feared Fitz was more like him than he’d have liked to admit.

She got up from her seat at the table. “You know, we can save on lamp oil if we go to bed now, don’t you think? And sewing in this light isn’t good for your eyes, Bertha dear.”

Bertha set down the half-mended stocking. “Aye, you’re right about that. My eyes aren’t what they were. I’ll finish this mending in daylight tomorrow.” She heaved herself to her feet. “I’ll just damp down the range and put the bolt across the door.”

Harriet watched for a moment as Bertha pushed the kettle off the heat and closed the dampers. Left like that, there’d still be glowing embers in the morning that would catch with a bit of dry driftwood put on them. No need to have to relight it. “Good night, Bertha.”

“Good night, Miss Harriet.”

Holding a candle, Harriet went upstairs, every tread creaking under her weight, but as yet showing no signs of collapsing, not even under Bertha’s considerable weight several times a day. She tiptoed along the landing to the door of the bedroom she and Lyddie shared and opened the door just enough to squeeze through. Only a hump under the bedclothes and some heavy breathing hinted at Lyddie’s somnolent presence. By the flickering candlelight, Harriet undressed quickly, braided her hair and hopped into bed, aware that the nights now had a definite autumnal chill to them. A sure sign of rapidly approaching winter. She snuggled down, glad to take the weight off her feet and was asleep in minutes.

The creaking of the stairs woke her to a darkness punctuated by shafts of soft moonlight filtering through the bedroom’s one window. She lay still for a moment, wondering if this was Bertha coming upstairs to bed. But no, the creaking was definitely moving away—going down the stairs, not up them. She glanced at the vague hump that was Lyddie, still breathing the heavy breath of sleep. Not her. And as there were chamber pots under all the beds, no one had any reason to be up in the night. Was it Bertha or Theo? It had to be one of them. Most likely Theo in search of extra nutrition. That boy had hollow legs.

She lay and listened, waiting for Theo, or Bertha on the off chance it was her, to come creaking back up the stairs. But no one did. Instead, she heard the unmistakable clunk of the bolt being drawn back on the kitchen door, echoing through the silent cottage. Whoever it was, they were going outside. The door clicked shut behind them, right under Harriet’s bed.

She sat bolt upright. It had to be Theo. Bertha wouldn’t get up in the night and go outside. Whatever was he doing? The disturbing thought of how close they were to the cliffs and how dark it must be outside sent shivers through her body. Might he be sleepwalking? Without another thought, she jumped out of bed and pulled on her woollen dressing gown over her long nightgown, luckily a far more robust garment for late night autumn sorties than her old chiffon peignoir would have been. Slipping her bare feet into her shoes, she picked up her unlit candle and let herself out of the bedroom.

Having no windows, the short landing corridor was far darker than the bedroom had been, so she had to grope her way to the stairs and down them, afraid at any moment of stumbling and falling. The palely illuminated kitchen was empty, of course, the bolt on the backdoor drawn back. Drat that boy. What could he be up to?

Her cloak was hanging on the peg by the backdoor, so Harriet added that to her ensemble and let herself out into the cold night air. A light bobbed a hundred yards away where the path headed west towards that old fisherman’s cottage. At least that meant Theo was less likely to take a tumble than she was, although the half moon’s kindly light illuminated the path quite well. She hastened in pursuit of Theo.

The flickering light gave away the route he was taking. Opposite the old man’s hut, the light bobbed to the left and disappeared from view, making Harriet hurry her steps. But, as she caught up with where it had disappeared, she spotted it below her, heading down a narrow, cliff-edge path towards the waters of the cove. Careful not to tread on a rock and twist her ankle, she started down the path behind her errant son.

Looking up from her careful watching of where to put her feet, she was greeted with the spectacle of Theo’s objective. The moonlight glimmered over a narrow, shimmering inlet where a ship lay berthed, the soft light reflecting off anything metal on it and giving it an otherworldly glow. The sound of water constantly running up into the little inlet and lapping around the ship’s sides muted the rumble of waves from the nearby cove. It must be the same ship the children had seen on their first day here. Jack’s ship. Had Theo been out spying on it earlier that evening? Perhaps he and Cado had been together.

Even as she watched, Theo reached the ship. The light thrown by his lantern illuminated his face as he turned to climb down what looked like a rusty ladder embedded in the sheer rocky side of the inlet. Then he was gone.

Harriet stumbled down the track, careless now of the stones underfoot. A sense of urgency drove her. She had to stop Theo before someone on board that ship, some black-hearted, desperate smuggler, caught him trespassing. She reached the top of the ladder and halted, courage waning like the moon and uncertain what to do next. “Theo!” His name came out as a hiss. Fear pressed in on her that there might well be men stationed on the boat’s deck who’d hear her. Were they really smugglers? Were they the men Fitz had come sniffing about after? Might they be dangerous? More than likely. “Theo!”

Nothing.

She was going to have to climb down that precarious looking ladder towards the uninviting black water and look for him on board. She eyed the gap between the ladder and the ship’s sides. The waves kept drawing the ship further away from the ladder, then letting it float in closer, rope fenders preventing it from damage against the rocky wall. She’d have to time her jump onto the deck, which looked a long way away, to perfection, or she might end up in the water, which could be deep. And was inky black. And on top of that, she couldn’t swim. In fact, had never been in water even up to her ankles in her entire life. Apart from in a bath, of course.

Steeling herself, she turned around and, hitching her hampering clothing out of the way, went down on her knees. Then, bending her body forward, she groped with her right foot for the first rung of the ladder. She had nothing to hold onto to steady herself, and for a blood-chilling moment couldn’t find the ladder’s rung. Afraid to put her full weight down, she tipped forward until her hands rested on the flat rock of the jetty and drew a steadying breath. Then her foot found the rung. Thank goodness.

She got her second foot on beside it, still with her hands flat on the rock. She was going to have to keep going. What if she slipped and fell in? Would anyone hear a shout for help, or would they leave her to drown? Under her vise-like grip, bits of rust came away from the ladder onto her hands. Suppose it broke under her weight? Another step down. The ladder was damp, as well, with bits of weed clinging to it. Another step down.

She glanced over her shoulder as the ship swept in closer, her mooring ropes hanging slack. The waves slapped against her wooden sides and the rocky side of the inlet, threatening and loud. Theo had done this with ease. Could she?

Now or never.

Harriet released her hold on the ladder and made a leap for the ship’s deck as it drew near. But, as she jumped, the waves began to suck the ship away from the side again, and the dreadful realization that she should have jumped before it was up close dawned on her. She landed on the ship’s wooden rails with her legs kicking in empty air, and the air shot out of her lungs. Gasping for breath and scrabbling in desperation for a hold, she felt herself slipping towards that black water. No. With very little breath in her lungs, the scream was in her head but loud enough like that. No. She refused to fall in and drown like this.