Marianne And The Marquis. Anne Herries

we are entertaining, for my best gown is fastened at the back.’

      ‘Would you like me to dress your hair, miss?’

      ‘Thank you, Ruby,’ Marianne said. ‘I should like to put it up on top, if you please.’

      She took her seat at the dressing table, allowing the maid to dress her hair in a smooth double knot at the back of her head, smiling and thanking her when she was finished.

      After the girl had left, Marianne glanced at the little silver watch that she wore from a pin on her gown. Papa had given it to her for her seventeenth birthday and she treasured it. It was now ten minutes to six and she went to gaze out of the window before going downstairs. Her view was mostly of the gardens, but in the distance she could see the cliffs—and a house outlined against the sky. It was completely alone, as if it had been built for the use of someone who needed to be near the sea—perhaps the captain of a ship? She imagined the sea captain’s wife standing at her window, looking for the sails of her husband’s ship, and then laughed at herself. More likely it was the coastguard’s house. She knew that on occasion smuggling went on along this Cornish coast, and the house would be ideal for a Revenue officer, though of course her aunt would not permit smuggling in her cove.

      She had far too much imagination for her own good! Which was undoubtedly why she had found the gentleman with the intensely blue eyes creeping into her thoughts at the oddest of times.

      Hearing a gong sounding within the house, Marianne went downstairs. She found that Aunt Bertha and Jane had already gathered in the drawing room, and dinner was about to be served in the small dining parlour.

      Rising early the next morning, Marianne went out to explore the countryside surrounding her great-aunt’s estate. It was warm and still that day, the sea calm, almost flat as Marianne walked along the edge of the cliffs. She stood for a few minutes, looking out towards the sea, watching as some gulls landed on a protrusion of rock a little way from the shore. In rough weather the rocks would be surrounded by foaming water and probably invisible from a ship. It was not surprising that so many ships foundered in these waters.

      Something caught her eye in the cove below. A man had appeared from nowhere and was walking towards a small boat that had come inshore. She was too far away to be able to distinguish the man’s features as he waded out to it, but there was something about his appearance that she found odd. He was clearly a seaman, and that in itself was not surprising, but it was the cap he was wearing on his head…the style of it was unusual. It seemed to be made of some material that fitted snugly to his head, hanging down in a sort of tail at the back—and it was red…

      It was the style of cap often worn by the French revolutionaries! Marianne recalled the sketches she had seen in one of her father’s newspapers. He had showed it to her because there was a long article about the rights of man and the French revolution.

      The man had got into the boat and was being rowed away from the shore. Marianne stood watching as it pulled away. Now that she looked, she could see that a sailing ship was moored out in the bay, clearly waiting to pick up the man she had just seen. Where had he come from—and who was he?

      Marianne frowned as she turned away. She did not think the man was a Cornish fisherman, nor that his ship was a small fishing vessel. She thought that both the man and his ship looked French, though she had only her instinct to guide her. She had seldom been to the seaside and had seen very few ocean-going ships, but she had seen pictures in her father’s books and journals.

      What was a French ship doing in the bay at this hour? It was early in the morning, but if it were an enemy ship it ran the risk of being discovered by the Revenue men. It was almost sure to be a smuggling vessel if it were French, she thought, wondering why it had not sailed under cover of darkness. Of course, it might be perfectly innocent…

      Glancing to her right, she saw that she was not alone in watching the ship. Another man was standing near the house she had seen from her bedroom window, and he was looking out to sea through his spyglass. At that moment he turned his head to look at her. From something in his manner, she felt that he was annoyed to see her there, but he made no move to approach her or to speak to her. And, as she watched, he shut the glass and moved away, clearly intending to climb down the rocky face of the cliffs to the cove below. Recalling her great-aunt’s warnings, she called out to him.

      ‘Be careful, sir. The cliff is unstable and the cove can be treacherous.’

      He glanced at her and shook his head, frowning as he saw her, but he did not speak, making a gesture that she took to mean he did not wish her to speak or follow him. Marianne felt a spurt of annoyance. She had merely been trying to help him.

      Going to the spot where the steep path was just about passable, she watched as the man descended safely to the beach below. His face was hidden from her, her view only of the top of his head as he climbed down the dangerous cliff face. At the moment only a thin line of sand was visible, and she wondered if that was the reason that the ship had risked being seen in daylight. Perhaps it was only possible to take someone off when the tide was in?

      Suddenly, the man with the spyglass disappeared. He was there and a second later he had gone…completely disappeared from her view. For a moment she was puzzled, and then she realised that there must be a cave somewhere in the cove. The French seaman had come from it, and the man with the spyglass had disappeared into it!

      Turning away, back to the house, Marianne was thoughtful. Something was going on in her aunt’s cove, but what ought she to do about it? If smugglers were landing contraband there, she ought to report it to the Revenue—but was her great-aunt aware of what was happening?

      She knew that many people who lived in the area did know about the smugglers, and some of them turned a blind eye in return for a barrel of brandy left in their barns. She did not imagine that Aunt Bertha would be one of them, for her husband had been a Justice of the Peace, but she could not be sure.

      She would ask about the occupant of the house on the cliffs, because if he were a Revenue officer he would not want interference from her—and for the moment she would say nothing of what she had seen to anyone but her great-aunt. But one day, when the tide was out and it was safe, she might go down to the cove and see if she could discover the cave for herself.

      It was only as she reached her aunt’s home that it occurred to her that the man she had seen on the cliffs that morning might just have been the same man that had helped to push Lady Forester’s coach from the road. How strange that would be, she thought—but of course she had not seen him clearly and she could have been mistaken. She smiled as she wondered if her imagination were playing tricks on her. For some reason the small incident had lingered in her mind, though she had no idea why it should.

      ‘Did you enjoy your walk this morning?’ Lady Edgeworthy asked when they were alone later that day. ‘I used to walk quite often when I was younger, but I do not care for it since my cousin died[ ]Cedric fell from the cliffs, you know. He was such a lovely young man, and he knew them so well…’ She sighed. ‘He lived in Cliff House, but I shut the house afterwards. It was empty for over a year, but I have recently let it to a gentleman. Mr Beck has been ill and the sea air may help him. He called on me yesterday, as it happens. Had you arrived an hour sooner you might have met him.’

      ‘How strange. I was about to ask who lived there,’ Marianne said. ‘I saw someone this morning. He was using a spyglass and looking out to sea.’

      ‘He will have been watching the gulls then,’ Lady Edgeworthy said with a smile. ‘He told me that he is a keen bird-watcher, and he is enjoying the peace and quiet here. I asked him to dine with us, but he asked if he might leave it for another time, as he is still not himself and he wishes to be alone. I think he must have been very ill indeed.’

      ‘Poor man,’ Marianne said, but wondered if the man she had seen had been her great-aunt’s tenant, for he had seemed to climb the cliff very confidently and did not appear to be ill. Indeed, when he had directed the disposal of Lady Forester’s coach he had looked very strong—if it had been the same man. She might have been mistaken, of course. ‘Aunt Bertha…’