Mermaid of Penperro Read online

  In the blackness ahead without landmarks she had no way to tell how far off the light was, or how large.

  She pulled herself slowly forward, floating just above the rocks, pushing with her knees and forearms, and as she progressed the sliver grew wider as the passage turned to the right, and she realized that what she was seeing was the opening at the other end. This was not just a cave; it was a natural tunnel through the headland. The light from behind her was cut off as she rounded the corner, but the opening at the far end kept her from being frightened, even though it was too distant to throw any light into the tunnel itself.

  Although her clothes were well behind her, the knowledge that there was another escape from the cave was a relief. She would not have liked to have risked being trapped inside by the incoming tide, or forced to exit while the blue-coated man still searched for her.

  The water progressed only a few feet more, ending at sand. She crawled up onto this unexpected beach within a headland, her eyes still blind from the brightness outside. She felt her way forward, patting the sand with her hands, and then her touch landed upon something warm and alive.

  She yelped and jerked back at the same time a male voice cried out. The man’s cry startled her anew and she screamed, scrambling backward toward the water, splashing into it with all the grace of a turtle returning to the sea, shrieking all the while.

  Hands fumbled at her, then plucked her from the water and dragged her back to the sand. She struggled, and one of the strong hands slid over her breast and her cold, stiff nipple. “Good Christ!” the voice exclaimed, and dropped her abruptly.

  She landed on her rump, and after a moment’s surprise scrambled again in the direction she hoped the water lay—she was turned around now, her only landmark the far oval of light—but then her ankle was suddenly clasped and pinned to the sand by the man’s strong hand. Konstanze tugged against it like a fox in a trap but could get no leverage, and she started to shriek again.

  “Shh! For God’s sake, be quiet!” her captor said, just barely audible over her screeching. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Let me go!”

  “Don’t scream, please! I implore you. You’ll draw him right down on us.”

  She was drawing in a breath to scream again, knowing that if she tried she could produce a sound that would echo through the passage and out into the open air. It was that thought coupled with his last words that gave her pause. She held the breath. Fear was making it difficult to think of anything but escape, but it occurred to her that a man in the dark who was pleading with her was perhaps better than one in the daylight who could see her.

  “Please,” he said again.

  Although his grip on her ankle was firm, he made no other move to touch her. She realized that he didn’t want to be found by the blue-coated man any more than she did, and molesting her appeared to be the last thing on his mind. “Get back and I won’t,” she said, the words an experiment, a test of his intentions.

  He let go of her ankle. She quickly turned around and inched backward toward the water, keeping her eyes open wide to catch any hint of movement, the urge to put distance between herself and the man irresistible. Her eyes were becoming adjusted to the dark, and she could faintly make out her companion’s outline as he sat on his knees and watched her. She felt vulnerable without her clothes, despite the blackness of the cave, and fear continued to flush through her veins and muscles.

  “Did you come in here to hide?” the dark shape asked. “Did he see you swimming?”

  She didn’t answer, her feet finding the edge of the water. It felt warm in comparison to the chill of the cave and the cold, damp sand.

  “He may be out there for a good time yet,” the man said. “You’ll be chilled to the bone if you try to wait him out in the water.”

  As if in answer to his words she felt a hard shiver shake her body. “I cannot remain in here with you,” she found voice to answer, through teeth that had suddenly begun to chatter. She was surprised the words came out sounding as calm as they did, given the way her heart was thundering in her chest.

  “Of course you can.” He started doing something with his arms. She found herself opening her eyes even wider, trying to catch his movements in the dark. A shadow suddenly flew at her and she crouched down, covering her head with her hands.

  Something heavy and warm landed on her head. His coat.

  She pulled it off her head and immediately slipped it on, too glad for clothing to question his generosity. The silk lining was still warm from his body. Unlike the stylish short-fronted coats that men in London wore, this one was long in front and back. She was grateful its owner was either unaware of the current fashion or chose the country style intentionally. Judging by the fine feel of the materials, she was guessing he chose it.

  She ran her hand under her hair along the back of her neck and tugged her wet locks out from under the coat, letting them drop onto her back. Her eyes carefully on the shadow that was the man, she walked on her knees to a dry patch of sand a safe distance from him, the coat wrapped tightly around her, then sat, tucking her feet up beneath herself. “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” He made himself more comfortable. “It is not every day that I have the chance to offer my coat to a lady in such needy circumstances.”

  She could hear the amusement in his educated, yet still faintly Cornish-accented voice. “I imagine not,” she replied, having no witty repartee with which to deflect him. Cautious fear and an embarrassed horror at her situation were taking all her brain power. She huddled down into his coat, catching the faint scent of lavender from the collar. Her shivering was no longer constant, but coming now in short, bone-jarring bursts.

  As the minutes passed and it became apparent he was not going to try to approach her, her fear faded and she wondered what he was doing in the cave himself, and who the man in the blue coat was from whom they both were hiding. The situation, however, did not seem appropriate for asking questions. As long as he stayed away from her, he could keep his business to himself.

  “Are you quite all right there?” he asked into their mutual silence. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes, thank you. Your coat is more than adequate.”

  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No. I am uninjured.”

  More silence; then she heard him shifting again. She could see him just well enough to know that he was facing her now, one arm resting on an upraised knee. “I have never in all my days seen a woman intentionally take a swim in the sea. I don’t suppose you were in a boat that capsized, were you? But no, you would not have been able to strip off your clothes if that were so. So swimming it must have been.”

  Why was he talking to her? Why couldn’t he just be quiet and let this horrible situation play itself out in silence, so she could pretend it wasn’t happening? “Excuse me, but I really don’t think we should be speaking,” she said. “Our voices may carry outside the cave.”

  “I doubt that, as long as we keep them low,” he said, and blithely continued on. “You gave me quite a start when you came crawling out of the water.”

  “I gave you a start?” she asked incredulously, startled out of her embarrassed reticence. “I?”

  “Yes, you. Visions of all manner of terrible creatures entered my mind when I heard you splashing about in the shallows.”

  Terrible creature? She? “Do you think I expected to find you, lurking in the shadows like… like some type of bat?” Woefully inadequate, “bat.” She could do better than that!

  “Oh, I am nothing like a bat, I assure you. They hang from their feet, you know,” he said.

  “That is not the point.”

  “It’s not? I was sitting here quite calmly, keeping to my own affairs, waiting for Foweather and his men to go away, and then you turn up like some sort of confused sea lion, flopping itself onto the sand and scaring me half to death.”

  She made a little grunt of offense. She did not flop! And she was nothi
ng like a sea lion. “What are you doing hiding in here, anyway?”

  “Oh, that,” he said, and she saw him wave his hand airily. “It’s not important.”

  Fine. Let him keep his secrets, and she could keep hers. Silent moments passed, and she began to relax, thinking he had finally caught that she was not in the mood for social chatter.

  “Do I have the honor of addressing Mrs. Konstanze Crécy Bugg?” he suddenly asked.

  “Ug—” she gurgled. “O Gott!”

  “I suspected as much. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Tom Trewella, the executor of your late uncle’s estate.”

  “How…” she tried, but could not finish the question, horrors of embarrassment cascading through her.

  “How did I know it was you?”

  “Mr. Mogridge,” she said, answering her own half-spoken question.

  “Yes, I happened to see him and he said how he had delivered you and your maid to the cottage.”

  Konstanze saw in a flash how this one man with all the pieces could figure out her identity so easily. Her accent had marked her as an outsider, and then between that, Mogridge, and the proximity of the cottage it had been a simple puzzle for him to piece together.

  “Mr. Mogridge did say, though, that you gave your name as Miss Penrose,” he continued.

  She stared at him in the dark, the statement hanging between them. “Yes,” she said, and closed her lips.

  “But you are Konstanze Bugg.”

  Unfortunately. “Yes.”

  He wanted, but she waited longer. She was good at silence.

  “I wouldn’t have had any questions about a Miss Penrose,” he finally said, “except that I knew that Konstanze Bugg was the only living relation of Mr. Penrose.” He sounded as at ease as if he were at the tavern sharing an ale with his friends, whereas she was growing more alarmed with each word he spoke. “I had actually been intending to pay a call on you later this afternoon, to be certain that this Miss Penrose was someone with a right to be in the cottage, and was not just a clever squatter.”

  “You are a conscientious executor, Mr. Trewella,” she said through a tight throat. “I had intended to call upon you myself tomorrow.” She paused, debating the wisdom of the question she wished to ask. “Tell me, do others in Penperro know to whom the cottage was left?”

  “I have not discussed your affairs, nor those of your uncle,” he said with the first trace of sharpness she had heard in his voice, as if he were offended at the mere suggestion that he would share private information. “Mr. Penrose himself let it be known that a niece would be his heir, although he did not know it would be you, and not your mother, who inherited.”

  “Ah.” She chewed her bottom lip, considering. With the exception of the fact that he was presently hiding in a cave, by all other evidence Mr. Trewella seemed an honorable enough man, and perhaps worthy of some small degree of trust. He had, after all, taken the care to track her down and ensure that she was made aware of her inheritance. “Would it trouble you greatly if I were to request that you keep my true name in confidence, and refer to me only as Constance Penrose should the need arise?”

  “You want me to lie for you?”

  “Well, not lie, exactly,” she said, “just stretch things a bit. My mother’s maiden name was Penrose, and Constance is simply Konstanze in English. It will be much easier for me to fit in here if my name is Cornish, don’t you think? And I did spend my childhood in Mousehole, so it is not as if I have not in some degree earned the name.”

  “Mmm. Where is your husband, Mrs. Bugg?”

  “Husband? Mr. Bugg is at home,” she said lightly, but did not like where this was heading.

  “Please pardon my impertinence in asking, but did he not protest your traveling, with just a maid as escort, all the way to Cornwall to take up residence on a remote farm? Your home is in Kent, I believe. Mr. Rumbelow wrote to me that your husband is a man of business there, and of no small fortune. I am surprised that he would be content to let you live in such conditions as are to be found in your great-uncle’s cottage.”

  “Not that it is any of your affair, Mr. Trewella,” Konstanze said, her voice rising in pitch with her nervousness, “but the truth of the matter is that my husband and I have separated.” She nodded her head. That was true. “I am trying to start a new life, one where I am not burdened by the mistakes of my past. Surely it is of no consequence if the people of Penperro know me only as Miss Penrose. It will do them no harm, whilst saving me a multitude of embarrassments.”

  “Is your husband going to divorce you?”

  “It is my sincere hope that he does so, only I doubt he wishes to spend the vast sums of money such an action demands. He is an old man, Mr. Trewella, and has no reason to marry again. A separation is financially more prudent.” There. True statements all, albeit lending a false impression. “So will you keep my secret?”

  He was silent, and she waited tensely. “If you wish to be Miss Penrose,” he said at last, “then I shall not call you otherwise. My only request is that if there comes to be any trouble that follows you here from this past you are so set on escaping, that you come to me at once and tell me. As the executor of Mr. Penrose’s estate, and as a former friend of the man, I feel a certain responsibility for your well-being.”

  “I doubt that any trouble will follow me. I am certain I will fare perfectly well.”

  “All the same—”

  “Yes, I will tell you if there is trouble,” she said, feeling a wild relief that she had weathered the worst of his questions, and he had responded so well. Perhaps he would accept the entire truth as easily? He could perhaps be of some assistance to her in hiding from Bugg. She felt the urge to tell him everything building in her chest, the possibility making her heart pound, but then it occurred to her that he would want to know exactly why she had left a comfortable home with a wealthy husband. She could not tell him what Bugg had done to her with the bindings and the riding crop—she could not imagine telling anyone, not even Hilde. It would be too humiliating.

  Tom stood up and started toward the far cave opening, where the light was visible.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, unaccountably wishing not to be left alone in the cave. Their conversation had made her forget the awkward inappropriateness of the situation.

  “To check if Foweather is gone. He’s had enough time. If he hasn’t found the cave by now, he likely won’t this time around.”

  She got to her own feet, the muscles around her knees stiff and making her stagger a few steps until they loosened. “Who is this Foweather?” she asked, brushing the sand off the back of the coat.

  “He’s with the Preventive Water Guard Service. Not a bad fellow, actually, but he has a tendency to put his nose where it does not belong.”

  Her lips parted in a silent O of understanding. She had not spent her childhood on these coasts without learning a thing or two about that most Cornish of occupations: smuggling. She could remember occasions when her own grandparents had hidden contraband in their cellar. She had been too young at the time to think anything other than that it was normal, and it had been beyond comprehension that her grandparents would engage in activities that others might find immoral.

  She followed Mr. Trewella toward the entrance, the sand cool under her feet and studded with the occasional half-buried rock. As they approached the opening he gestured behind him for her to stop, and she obeyed, standing in place as he stepped into the light and peered out.

  It was her first real chance to see him, and her eyebrows went up, her chin tucking into her neck in surprise. Somehow in her mind she had formed an image of Tom Trewella as short and a trifle thick through the chest, like most Cornishmen, and of middle age because he had been her great-uncle’s executor. The easy confidence of his voice had spoken of a more mature male as well, for while self-assured it had lacked the abrasive cockiness she had long noted in young men. And once he had finished with his sea lion comments, his conversation had been reassuri
ngly civil.

  She had been decidedly misguided in her notions. Tom Trewella was as fine-looking a man as she had seen in a very long time. He was perhaps five-foot-ten and slender with hard, narrow hips, but with wide shoulders and an easy grace to his movements that spoke of physical agility and strength. His hair was black—that at least she had imagined correctly—and cut short, ruffled and disordered by the wind. He wore a tight waistcoat that showed off his form to great advantage, and the white sleeves of his shirt billowed and then flattened against his arms as the sea breeze caught him outside the cave entrance. His trousers were close-fitting buckskin, disappearing below the knee into his tall black boots.

  When he turned his head she caught a glimpse of his profile, and she saw he could not have been over thirty years in age. He had a hawkish, high-bridged nose, a clean jawline, and wore an expression animated with intelligence and energy.

  He moved out of her sight, and she waited where she was, hidden in the shadows in case anyone other than Mr. Trewella should enter the cave. Several minutes later he returned.

  “All clear,” he said. “Tell me where you left your clothes and I’ll fetch them for you.”

  “Do you know the small cove just to the east of here?” When he said he did, she explained the location of the crevice. He left again, and, knowing she would have several minutes to wait, she went back to where they had been sitting, intent on seeing what she could see.

  Her eyes were fairly well adjusted to the dark now, and as she moved up the sandy beach she found the pile of contraband goods that Mr. Trewella must have come to check. She could make out a few dozen small casks, and investigation into other boxes and packages turned up tea, tobacco, and a carefully sealed package that, when put to her nose, declared itself to be scented soap. Altogether, a store of goods that would well line the pockets of the smugglers involved, provided they could be safely sold.

  The tide was still incoming, each gentle swell bringing the water closer to the stored goods. She thought the entrance through which she had swum was likely tall enough that even at high tide she would have been able to swim out, but she was happy to have Mr. Trewella retrieve her clothes for her. Never again would she swim nude! She had learned that lesson well enough, thank you.