Page 66 of The Cornish Mermaid

“A good energetic lift.”

He took her at her word and was strong as well. Morvoren sailed up into the air and landed on the chestnut’s broad back, the skirts of her gown hitching up high enough to reveal the legs of her long knickers. She settled herself comfortably and rearranged her skirts for maximum modesty while Sam turned to Ysella with even more diffidence.

A minute later and she was up on her horse and gathering her reins, a grin of pure excitement on her face. She was certainly having a few unexpected adventures since she’d met Morvoren. Sam and James jumped up onto their respective horses without aid, and, leaving poor John with his pistols for protection, in the gathering dusk they set off up the road toward the inn.

Morvoren should have known which inn it would be. Jamaica Inn, of course, famous as a smugglers’ haunt in Daphne du Maurier’s book of the same name. It sat on the summit of the moors, and she’d been there once for a meal with her parents.

Already, a lantern shone brightly outside its door, guiding them the last few hundred meters as darkness fell. Thank goodness no one was outside to see their arrival, though. Ysella and Morvoren slid down from their horses and smoothed their skirts before they left James to find the stables and followed Sam inside.

It was a long time since Morvoren had read Jamaica Inn, and Daphne du Maurier’s description wasn’t vivid in her mind. However, in the flesh, it was every bit as gloomy, ill-lit and smoky as she’d imagined it would be.

A burly middle-aged man with an actual patch over one eye stood behind a wooden countertop, serving a motley selection of what must have been his locals. Difficult to make them out in the gloom, but they could all have stepped fully formed from the pages of the book.

“Good evening,” Sam said, with a friendly smile. “Our carriage has lost a wheel and we’re in need of food and beds for the night and stabling for our horses. I trust you can accommodate us?”

The innkeeper rubbed his bulbous nose, an unenthusiastic frown on his face. “I might be able to. I can’t rightly say.”

Not very welcoming.

Sam glanced at Ysella and took out his coin purse. “This is the Honorable Ysella Carlyon, sister of Lord Ormonde. We’re traveling to Carlyon Court on urgent business. It’s imperative Miss Carlyon and her companion have a bed for the night.”

The innkeeper’s attitude underwent a slight modification. “We-ell,” he said, eyeing Ysella and Morvoren. “In that case, I has two rooms you c’n take, but they’re not biguns. We don’t get many ladies stoppin’ here. Most fancy folk pass on by.”

Thank goodness. Morvoren didn’t fancy staying in this crowded taproom a moment too long. The eyes of every man present had fixed on them in something between curiosity and open hostility.

“And is there a blacksmith and a carpenter to be had locally?” Sam asked, presumably with his confidence bolstered by their host’s apparent softening. “We shall need the axle mending on our carriage. If possible, tonight.” He paused. “And a meal, too, for the ladies at least.”

Morvoren didn’t expect all of this to be doable, but to her surprise, it turned out it was. Perhaps the innkeeper was eager to be rid of his unwanted guests as quickly as possible. They soon found themselves in a small private parlor eating an unusually tasty beef stew with dumplings and drinking a fine claret. Morvoren had a strong suspicion the wine’s quality probably had something to do with no revenue having been paid on it.

To their collective relief, the innkeeper dispatched several men with James and the horses to go back to the carriage and patch it up enough to get it back to the village smithy. Then, after the meal, a young girl showed them upstairs to two tiny rooms. Ysella and Morvoren had to share a narrow single bed, but Morvoren didn’t care. After the stresses of the last few hours, she collapsed onto it as soon as she was out of her stays and was asleep in minutes.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kit

Just after seven in the evening, Kit alighted from the coach in Penzance in Tregothnan’s company. Having stowed his valise in a room at the inn, he and Aleck walked down to Penzance’s little harbor to where Judd Kimbrell, Tregothnan’s second in command, lived. They found him sitting on a wooden stool in front of his house mending a lobster pot, his strong brown fingers flying as he threaded new laths through the intricate network of basketry. A half-grown, barefoot boy sat cross-legged at his feet, working on a tangle of netting.

Judd gave the boy a poke with the toe of his boot. “Away inside and fetch us out a beaker o’ cider each.” The boy jumped up obediently and disappeared inside the house.

Judd got to his feet and held out a gnarled hand to Kit. “Mr. Kitto. Good to see yer. Tek a seat, tek a seat.” He swiped a lobster pot off another stool and ran his sleeve over it in a cursory check of its cleanliness.

With a grin, Kit sat down, as at home here, or perhaps more so, as he’d been in his mother’s parlor. “How’s the fishing going?”

“Alright, me luvver.” Judd set down the almost-repaired lobster pot. “Ketched m’self some fine crabs an’ sold ’em up country fer a good price.” He eyed Tregothnan. “C’d do with another passel o’ goods comin’ our way soon, though. Gotta put a bit by fer the winter with m’wife in the family way agin.”

Kit nodded his agreement, sinking back into his place in the local community as though he’d never been away. No longer the up-country lord, but merely a friend of these two gruff Cornishmen—the fisherman and the innkeeper. He’d grown up here, and no one ever treated him as though he were anything more than one of them, something that Kit loved above all other things.

“Yer in luck then,” Tregothnan said to Judd, sitting himself down on a coil of tarry rope. “I had word, when I were in Launceston, that there’s a load comin’ over either termorrow night or the one after, depending on the wind. I’ll send a message when I knows. A big consignment o’ good quality French brandy, fer the most part. Baccy an’ tea too. Worth a lot o’ money ter us. I’m goin’ ter need all the men I can get, with all their ponies. So some from here, too.”

Judd nodded. “I’ll pass the word, an’ you can do the ones in Nanpean village an’ St Just.”

Kit frowned. “I don’t like the idea of the moon being so near to full. It’s better for a consignment to come in the dark of the moon. Where’s the stuff to be stored this time?”

Tregothnan rubbed his chin. “The old barn up at Carnwiddy Farm. Well away from the farmhouse. Nice’n’quiet. Not one we’ve used fer a long time.”

Judd and Kit nodded. Both of them knew the tip of Cornwall’s long toe as well as they knew the way to their own privies, and Carnwiddy Farm was a place all three of them had been to on a number of occasions.

Just then, the boy returned with three empty horn beakers in one hand and a jug of cider in the other. He put them on the ground beside his father and beat a hasty retreat. Boys around here knew when they were surplus to requirements.