Distant Voices. Barbara Erskine

it known where they come from?’ she asked cautiously as she sat down.

      ‘Local,’ he replied. ‘It would surprise me if some of them didn’t come from this village. The rogues! They deserve to hang!’ He frowned at his daughter. ‘Do you not wish to eat?’

      She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry, Papa.’

      ‘I trust you are not sickening for something. Take some hot chocolate at least. I am going into Larchester later this morning to consult with my fellow magistrates. There must be something more we can do to catch these men. It is a scandal that they are still free!’

      Caroline watched her father ride away an hour later with mixed feelings. Half of her was relieved that he was so distracted by his anger against the smugglers that he had forgotten his indignation at her; the other half was eaten up with anxiety over what was to happen about the smugglers. How could Charles Dawson be involved with them? How could he, a man of God, be a thief and a murderer?

      Miserably she paced the floor of the morning room, oblivious to the beauty of the day outside. Still his image rose before her eyes. The anger and hardness in the man, his determination, his ruthlessness. If Jake had not been there to restrain him, what would he have done to her? Her mind shied away from the answer to that question. But the truth remained. He or his men had killed that night. And if they had killed once, why should they not have killed again?

      Suddenly making up her mind she ran for her bonnet and taking her basket, loaded with jars and packets, on her arm she let herself out of the Rectory. The lane was already drying in the hot sun, the muddy ruts hardening beneath chalky crusts as the hedgerows steamed, glittering with raindrops.

      Jake Forrester’s cottage was at the far end of the village, a tiny run-down hovel. She hesitated only a second before she knocked at the door. It was several moments before it opened.

      Mrs Forrester peered out, blinking in the sunlight. She was a thin, stooped young woman, her heavily pregnant figure obvious beneath her threadbare gown and flimsy shawl. ‘Why, Miss Hayward!’

      ‘How are you, Susan?’ Caroline groped in her basket for her jars of calves’ foot jelly, her honey and her loaves of fresh baked bread from Polly’s oven. ‘I thought I would come and see how you are. Is your cough still bad?’ She followed a flustered Susan Forrester into the cottage and peered round the small dark room. It was empty. She could feel the chill striking off the walls. ‘How is your husband, Susan? Is he here?’

      Susan shrugged. ‘Jake’s all right, Miss. He’s gone over the hills today and tomorrow to help with some droving.’ She sat down heavily. ‘I don’t like him going so far and leaving me so long, but we need the extra, with another baby on the way.’

      Another baby. Caroline had noticed the empty cradle by the window. Three babies had been born in this house in the last three years and all had been dead within six months. She felt a clutch of pity at her heart. ‘He’s a good man, your Jake.’

      ‘Aye.’ The woman’s thin face broke into a smile. Then as swiftly as it came it vanished and Caroline saw fear and worry in the woman’s eyes.

      ‘What is it, Susan?’

      ‘Nothing.’ She made a big effort to smile again. ‘I worry about the baby.’

      ‘It will be all right this time, Susan. There’s been no disease in the village this summer –’

      ‘Not yet!’ Susan could not keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘Squire Randall said he’d improve the cottages, but he hasn’t done it. He said he’d see we’d have the thatch patched; look at the damp in here after last night’s rain.’ She was racked with coughing again as she pointed to the glistening marks on the mud walls. ‘And new wood for the door. They even talked about some kind of drains in the village once, but nothing ever came of it. Dr Styles says we’ll never be free of the fever until they sort the drains.’

      Caroline bit her lip. ‘I’ll talk to Papa again. I’m sure Mr Randall will listen to him.’

      ‘He’ll listen. And he’ll promise. He’ll promise the world. But he’ll do nothing.’ Susan put her hand to her belly defensively. ‘You see if I’m not right. If anything’s to be done it must be done by ourselves. My Jake’s promised he’ll do the roof, somehow. He’s got some pennies saved, he reckons.’ She smiled tolerantly, obviously not really believing it. ‘Maybe that’ll do to keep the place water tight this winter and keep the baby warm.’

      Caroline frowned. ‘I’ll do all I can. I promise.’

      ‘I know you will try.’ Susan smiled wearily. ‘You’ve been good to me.’

      But not good enough. Caroline frowned as she walked slowly away from the damp cottage, still cold, even on such a warm day. It was not right that women such as Susan Forrester, who worked so hard and asked so little in return, should suffer so in the loss of her babies. Did Susan know Jake had turned to smuggling? She thought not. And could she really blame him for it, if it brought some money into that penniless household? Wouldn’t she have done the same thing in his shoes?

      Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves in the village street and she looked up to see Marianne Rixby and her brother, Stephen, trotting towards her. They drew to a halt beside her. Stephen raised his hat. ‘It’s a very hot day to be walking, Miss Caroline.’

      Caroline smiled. ‘I wasn’t going far.’ She eyed Marianne cautiously. The girl’s riding habit looked cool and elegant, her hat on her bright curls throwing a delicate shade across her face. And she couldn’t help making a comparison between this spoiled, cosseted young woman with her rich, elegant clothes and slim, daintily gloved hands and Susan in her threadbare home-spun. It was an uncomfortable thought.

      She bit back a wry smile. What would Marianne think if she knew her precious Charles was out at midnight after the dinner party last night with a gang of smugglers; what would she say if she knew that, for a moment or two, admittedly in anger, he had been holding Caroline pressed close to his chest!

      At the thought she felt the heat rise again in her cheeks. She put her hand to her face. ‘Perhaps I should go back to the Rectory. I hope we shall see you again soon.’

      ‘Indeed you shall.’ Marianne simpered prettily. ‘Charles has asked to speak to Papa this evening. When he has done so and we announce our engagement we shall have a party, and you shall be invited, dear Caro.’

      Dear Caro! Caro! Caroline seethed as she walked on her way. Marianne had never, ever, called her that before. She swung her empty basket onto her other arm. No doubt Marianne would be less happy when she had sampled Mr Charles Dawson’s vicious temper and found out what a hypocrite and a liar he really was!

      The rector returned in time for luncheon very pleased with himself. ‘Someone on the quay has talked. We know who their ringleader is!’

      ‘You know?’ Caroline stared at him, white-faced.

      He nodded smugly. ‘Not only do we know, but we know they’ve planned another landing tonight. The devils! They thought that would fool us – going out two nights running. How wrong they are! We’ll catch them red-handed and we’ll hang every one of them.’

      ‘Papa –’

      ‘No, Caroline. I know how soft your heart is. But they must be punished.’ He turned as Polly knocked on the door to announce the meal. ‘Come, my dear, let us eat, then you can learn your Bible passages this afternoon while you rest.’

      He couldn’t know about Charles. If he had learned that a man of the cloth, and the bishop’s son, was involved in the smuggling surely he would not be so calm? Surely he could not keep something as terrible and shocking as that to himself? She glanced at him warily. He couldn’t know the truth. He couldn’t.

      Later, in her room, Caroline stood looking out of the window at the garden. The heat of the afternoon lay like a gauze curtain on the countryside, making it shimmer like gossamer.