Page 14 of Bella Darcy is on the Run

"Clara," Bella said, pressing closer to the window. "Look at it. Isn't it the most beautiful place you have ever beheld?"

Clara leaned across her and squinted towards the harbour. "Looks like a lot o' boats to me, miss, an' I've seen plenty of them in Bristol. I’ll grant you the sea is pretty enough."

The driver drew the carriage to a halt before the Royal Hotel, a substantial three-storey building that occupied a prominent position close to the waterfront. It looked the height of respectability compared with some of the establishments Bella had endured during the previous four days, with shining steps and a neatly painted frontage. Somewhere behind the hotel came the unmistakable noise of a stable yard, while beyond the buildings opposite she could see the tops of masts and hear the cries of gulls circling above the quay.

They alighted and the driver helped them bring their luggage to the front of the building. "Is there anything else I can be helping you with, miss?" he asked politely, and Bella realised, rather belatedly, that she had made no fixed plans beyond this point. She had been so focused on reaching Falmouth that she had given little thought to what they would do once they arrived.

"No, thankin' you kindly, sir," said Clara, stepping in before Bella could formulate an answer, and within moments the man was back on his box and disappearing into the bustle of the town traffic.

"Where does your auntie live then, miss?" Clara asked, turning towards her.

Bella was forced to admit that she had no idea. She knew Aunt Lydia lived in Falmouth, but beyond that she had nothing, and the town appeared much larger than the quaint fishing port she had imagined. "I had assumed we would ask for her," she admitted, feeling foolish. "How many Mrs Wickhams can there possibly be?"

Clara clucked her tongue but did not waste much time dwelling on Bella's lack of foresight. "Right then. Let me see if they'll keep our things here an’ we'll make some enquiries. If your auntie's half as pretty as you, someone'll know 'er." She rushed into the hotel before Bella could answer, leaving her alone beside the luggage to look around properly for the first time.

The air tasted of salt, though beneath it were the rather less romantic smells of horses and fish drifting up from the waterfront. The street bustled around her, shopfronts lining the road and narrow passages disappearing between buildings towards the harbour. Men rolled barrels noisily over the stones, a boy hurried past carrying a coil of rope almost as large as himself and somewhere nearby a sailor was shouting something Bella could not make out over the clatter of wheels.

Bella smiled broadly. Whatever happened next, she had done it. She had travelled hundreds of miles from Pemberley and reached the Cornish coast under her own steam. For the first time since she had ridden away from home, the adventure she had imagined while planning her escape felt real.

Clara emerged from the hotel a few minutes later with a porter, who efficiently relieved them of their cases and carried them inside.

"They don't know any Mrs Wickham in there, miss," Clara said. "But the lady were ever so nice and said we should try the Post Office. She gave me the direction an' all." She held up a scrap of paper in triumph.

The postmaster was curt but not impolite and informed them that he knew of no Mrs Wickham living in Falmouth. From there they tried a tearoom, where a kindly woman behind the counter thought for several moments before shaking her head and suggesting that they ask at one of the shops nearer the harbour. Bella thanked her and they continued on, though she felt the first tendrils of real worry as the shadows began to legnthen and they had not recovered the slightest bit of useful information.

By the time they had enquired at a bookseller and then a small grocer's, Bella was losing hope and patience. It seemed impossible that a woman could live in a town for years and leave no trace of herself whatsoever. Clara, on the other hand, appeared to have endless energy for their endeavour and had begun stopping people almost at random.

"Excuse me, sir," she called to a passing man carrying a basket of fish. "You don't happen to know a Mrs Wickham, do you?"

The man looked from Clara to Bella, shook his head and carried on.

Bella sighed. "Clara, I do not believe accosting every person in Falmouth is going to improve our chances."

"Got to find 'er somehow, miss," the maid said with determination, before striding off to interrogate a sailor smoking his pipe on the harbour wall, leaving Bella to trail after her.

✽✽✽

George Harwood was annoyed. He had spent most of the day in a coffee shop that appeared to serve little more than dishwater disguised as coffee and stale cakes, waiting to see if Silas "Sly" Trevethan would make an appearance.

Since leaving the Navy, George had provided his expertise to the Customs service in a strategic and discreet capacity. It suited him well enough. The sea was in his blood, he knew the ports, the ships and the men who worked them, and unlike many of the officials who spent their days behind desks, he preferred to be out where he could see for himself what was moving through the harbour and who was moving it.

For the last several weeks, Sly Trevethan had been his principal concern. The man was a prosperous merchant to most of Falmouth, but George was almost certain that a significant amount of contraband moved through the port with his knowledge, and more than likely, under his direct command.

By mid-afternoon, Trevethan had still failed to appear and George was beginning to suspect he had wasted an entire day. Across the street stood the narrow, nondescript house he believed to be central to Trevethan's operations, rather than the respectable offices the man maintained closer to the quay. Men had been coming and going since morning, some carrying papers or small parcels, but Trevethan himself had yet to show his face.

To add insult to injury, George was now likely to have to come to the aid of what appeared to be a foolish young woman and her guileless maid. He had first noticed them more than an hour ago, largely because the lady in question was the sort who made a man look twice. She had large, dark, expressive eyes set in a fine-boned face, with full lips that seemed to be fixed in a perpetual scowl. Curls of dark hair had escaped from beneath a rather ridiculously large bonnet and her dress, though clearly fine, was now peppered with dust.

At first George had assumed they were shopping, but after seeing them hurry in and out of nearly every establishment in sight, from the butcher to the bookseller, and then begin stopping random passers-by with their enquiries, her maid enthusiastically flagging down anyone who came within their orbit, it became obvious that they were lost or perhaps looking for someone. Whatever was going on, something was clearly amiss, and he could see no carriage or chaperone nearby that was likely to belong to a lady of her class.

He had no desire to involve himself in this feminine misadventure, but he knew it was the gentlemanly thing to do. The young woman now looked exhausted as well as lost. When he had begun his observations she had been standing very straight and looking about her with determined confidence, but much of that had now faded. Her shoulders drooped and she kept glancing along the street as though hoping against hope that whoever or whatever she sought would materialise in front of her.

George sighed and looked once more towards what he presumed were Trevethan's premises. Still nothing. When he looked back, the maid had stopped another man and was gesturing enthusiastically while her mistress stood several feet away, leaning against a wall with her eyes closed. She looked exhausted. He rose to his feet with little enthusiasm and threw some coins on the table before exiting the shabby coffee shop and striding across the road to see if he could be of assistance.

He took off his hat and bowed as he approached the pair. "Ladies, is anything amiss? Can I be of any assistance?"

"No," said the tall, pretty one, her scowl becoming almost a snarl, and he took a small step back.

Wonderful, he thought. This one is all charm.