Smuggler's Moon

“Can you find her room? As I recall, it is directly across from ours.”

I assured him I had the location of both firmly in mind and would bring her safely to her own.

“I could wake one of the staff,” Sir Simon offered. (One by one they had disappeared.)

“No, Jeremy is quite capable.”

By the time the discussion of my ability to deal with the situation had gone thus far, I had already persuaded Clarissa out of her chair, taken her firmly by the arm, and was marching her out of the grand dining room.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I called out quietly to them.

Yet I must have called loudly enough to bring her further awake, for she pulled herself up a bit and began to walk a bit more firmly.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Why, upstairs to your room, to put you to bed.”

“Mmmm. That should be interesting.” She had been making far too many such remarks of late to suit me- not quite lewd but of a sort which might be understood in a number of different ways. It had been so with her ever since that evening when we two had been trapped briefly in the darkened cellar of Number 4 Bow Street. I made no response to her sally but started her up the great stairway.

“Did I disgrace myself?”

“No,” said I, ”nothing of the kind.”

“That’s gratifying.”

We continued to climb the stairs until, quite near the top, she spoke up again.

“What if the ghost should suddenly appear at my door?”

“Ghost indeed,” said I with a sniff. ”If he should be so unwise as to hang about your door, I should simply tell him to be gone. I should say to him, ‘Here you, get back to your grave, if you know what’s good for you. And none of your smelly farts.’”

At that she giggled, and she continued giggling all the way to her room. I opened the door and glanced inside: a candle was burning on the bedside table, and her bed had been turned back.

“Would you truly address the ghost so rudely?”

“I would! You must be firm with his kind.”

“Then you are my hero and my champion, and I shall reward you by permitting you to kiss me good night.”

“Ah well,” said I, not wishing to kiss her but also not wishing to offend her, ”perhaps another time.”

“No,” said she insistently, ”now. I’m prepared to wait right here until you do-all night, if need be.”

Well, why not? It would be the quickest way to be gone, would it not? I leaned toward her and chose a spot high on her left cheek just below her eye.

She stiffened and shrank back a few inches. ”On the lips,” said she in a manner which made it clear that she would brook no argument.

Steeling myself for a proper meeting of the mouths, I saw no way now to withdraw. Well then, thought I, in for a penny, in for a pound. I would do it all quickly and be gone.

But she would have none of that. Our lips had barely grazed when I felt her arms encircle me. Her lips pressed against mine. Her arms near squeezed the life from me. I felt utterly trapped. Yet it was for but a moment-for it was but the duration of a moment that she held me so. She stepped back, and I saw her cheeks redden with embarrassment: her boldness had exceeded even her own expectations, perhaps her own intentions, as well.

She leapt over the threshold and into her room. As she shut the door behind her, I heard her call a good night to me.

Well, thought I, hurrying away, the girl is obviously quite mad. Or perhaps it was the wine that she drank which has made her behave in this unaccountably wanton manner. She was truly making it difficult. Perhaps if I were to talk to her, reason with her, I might make her understand just how terribly awkward this will be for both of us.

I started down the stairs at a jog trot, but then did my pace slow somewhat, for as I descended, I heard a voice from the dining room-it was none other than Sir John’s. Quite unmistakable, for when he spoke in argument, his voice fair thundered.

“Again, if you will forgive me, Sir Simon, what I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend is how you could so swiftly and so completely alter your opinion of Albert Sarton in so short a time. You supported him. Without you, he would not have had a chance of becoming magistrate of Deal.”

I sighed, admitting to myself how weary I was. I had eaten too much. I had drunk far too much. I wanted nothing better than to go to my own bed. Yet that, I feared, would be sometime in the future. It appeared that we were in for a long night of it.

THREE

In which Sir John meets Albert Sarton, Magistrate of Deal

We were late leaving for town the next morning. By the time Sir John was up and had breakfasted, Sir Simon Grenville was long gone on his daily round of inspection. His vast holdings, which numbered near a thousand acres of rich Kent farmlands, had just been planted and so required his close attention-or so he told me that I might explain his absence to Sir John. Before leaving, he appointed Will Fowler, who had given us the speech of welcome at our arrival, to be our guide round the manor house. He took Clarissa on a proper tour of the place. I asked only that I be shown the library that I might choose a book to read whilst I waited for Sir John to rouse.

And so there I was, sitting outside the door to our room, reading A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy, by the Reverend Mr. Sterne, listening for the familiar sounds of snuffling and coughing which prefaced his rising. I liked the book not so well as Tristram Shandy, yet liked it well enough to wish to read it through. Therefore I was, I confess, a bit disappointed when at last the morning overture did begin. Yet dutifully, I set the book aside and entered the room.

“Jeremy? Is it you?”

“It is, Sir John.”

“Is it late?”

“It’s getting on.”

In answer to that, he simply grunted, made use of the chamber pot which I fetched to him, and expressed his desire to be shaved. It took a few minutes for me to make preparations, during which he began a recapitulation of his discussion the night before of Mr. Albert Sarton’s record as magistrate. Though it angered him to do so, he dwelt upon the details of the baronet’s argument-or rather, the lack of them.

“I asked him to be specific,” said Sir John, ”and he could not be. Oh … well, he kept referring back to one case-only one, mind you-wherein Sir Simon had attempted to tip him on one gang of smugglers, yet he felt the magistrate had, ever afterward, turned a deaf ear to him and his tips. I must say, there seemed to be a good deal of personal pique involved in that. I should like to hear what Mr. Sarton has to say about it.”

Sir John continued to grumble even as I proceeded to shave him.

“You heard him, Jeremy. Did I miss some several proofs of his? I ask you, was he specific?”

“No sir, he was not.”

It is a risky matter to shave one who insists upon talking on, even as the sharp blade of the razor plays about his bobbing Adam’s apple. I warned him twice against it.

“He did mention that Eccles fellow often, though, did he not?”

“Yes sir, he did.”

”His contention seemed to be that if Eccles was against Mr. Sarton, then that was all the proof that was needed. He and Eccles may have formed a sort of alliance. I wonder who turned who against Sarton.”

“Sir?”