Page 47 of The Cornish Widow

“Footpads?”

“None of them, either, thank goodness.”

“But now you’ve met a smuggler, do you think more or less highly of the profession?”

She tore a small piece off the bread. “Butter would go well with this and make it less dry. And I have yet to form an opinion about smugglers.”

He leaned back, resting his back. Standing for long periods at the tiller always made it ache, a constant reminder of a fall he’d had from a horse as a boy. A horse he’d not been supposed to be riding. The doctor had confined him to bed for several weeks of rest, which had done nothing for the pain and not improved his temper. When he’d finally been allowed up, he’d resumed riding the horse and mastered it, but the back pain remained. “Well, you’ve jumped in at the deep end where smugglers are concerned. You find yourself in a good position to form an opinion of what we do… and of us.” What he really meant was for her to form an opinion of him and divulge it, but he refrained from saying so. He didn’t want to admit how much it mattered to him that she thought well of him.

She shrugged her shoulders and set about eating a little of the cheese, breaking off dainty portions and nibbling them like the well-bred lady she was. Perhaps he should have provided her with a knife. Niceties like that didn’t exist on board ship. In fact, plates rarely came out of storage, so she was honored he’d found one for her.

Gulls circled the top of the mast, silhouetted against the piercing blue of a sky marred only by a few fluffy clouds, their cries harsh. They must be nearing Roscoff with its far more favorable climate than Cornwall. Every time he was over, be it summer or winter, the weather seemed inclined to sunshine, as though the weather god had chosen that particular corner of the world for special treatment. The wind was dropping as well, and the sails were less full. The ship would be slowing down as she approached the coast of Northern Brittany.

Harriet set down the plate and uncorked the flask of water. “Well, as to what I think of smugglers, we shall have to see.” She took a long swig. “I’ve seen your cargo of tobacco. What is it that you’ll be returning to Cornwall with? Brandy, I presume? Even in Truro we often had brandy in the house that had paid no taxes. My father said it tasted better than the stuff that had paid duty.”

“Of course. Brandy. And silks for the ladies, spices in all likelihood, coffee perhaps, and lace. All things on which the tax in Britain is set exorbitantly high. We’re doing the people who buy from us a favor, and they know it. Most of the brandy drunk in the houses of Cornish gentry, just like your father’s, has paid no import duty.” He laughed. “Once upon a time, we used to bring over tea, but the tax on that’s so low now it’s no longer worth including. But it depends very much what’s on offer when we get there. We never know for sure what we’ll be bringing back.”

She sat quietly digesting his words and her meal before taking another pull on the flask of water. “So you see yourselves as philanthropists?”

Well, maybe they were. He shrugged. “I don’t do it for the money. I do it for the excitement. The thrill.”

A frown marred her alabaster brow. “Aha, so that absolves you of all guilt?”

“No, of course not.” How irritating she was being. “But what guilt should I bear? The guilt of putting food in the mouths of my crew’s families? The guilt of providing the people of Cornwall with cut-price goods? Who am I depriving?”

“The government.”

He’d not taken her for a goody-two-shoes. “And what do you care for the government? What do you even know of it? How has it ever helped you?”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t think we’re supposed to ask what the government can do for us. Surely it’s what we can do to help them, and paying our taxes is one of them, so they can do things like defeat Napoleon, by paying the wages of their soldiers.”

“Like your husband?”

Her face clouded and that hunted look returned. Damn it. He hadn’t meant to upset her. Beside her, Theo shifted in his sleep and she glanced down at him, stretching out her hand before drawing it back. “Like my husband.” But her tone had flattened, and her eyes were guarded.

Jack sat up again, stretching his back and rolling his shoulders. “Theo told me about your husband.”

Her eyes widened. “Theo?”

He nodded. “Children notice more than you would think.” Just as he had, as a child, when his mother had thought her sadness hidden.

She set down the flask and plate. “What did he tell you?” She’d thrown a mountainous barrier up between them at the mention of her husband that he’d have to gently demolish.

“That you were unhappy with him.”

She glanced back at Theo. “He knew? I was so careful not to show it.”

“Like I said, children pick up on everything, all too easily. It’s hard to keep secrets from them.”

“You speak as though you have children of your own.” She paused. “Do you? Have children?”

He chuckled. “No, none that I know of. But I was once a child myself. Just as you were. Think of all the things you knew then that perhaps your parents thought you didn’t. I bet you knew a lot of things you weren’t meant to be party to.”

She nodded. “You might be right. But tell me, what was it that you knew, that your mother thought she’d kept secret from you?”

Now she was asking. But he wanted her to be honest with him, so he’d have to be honest with her first. “About my father.”

She pressed her lips together but didn’t look surprised. This wasn’t news to her. Ysella must have told her. She glanced at Theo again before she spoke. “Did she keep his identity secret from you, then?”