Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

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.

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?”

“I mean to say, was it Sir Simon or Eccles who first became prejudiced against the magistrate? And who then won the other over?”

He went silent as he considered the questions he had raised. Carefully, watchfully, I resumed shaving him.

“And why sh- ow !”

I had cut him-or perhaps more accurately put, he had cut himself upon my innocent blade. Not, thank God, upon or near his throat. No, it was the tip of his chin that bled. Yet I was prepared. I reached into the kit and pulled forth the plaster preparation given me by our medico, Mr. Gabriel Donnelly. I dolloped a wad upon the cut and saw the bleeding stop.

“How is it?” he asked.

“All right now.”

“Stopped bleeding, has it?”

“It has, yes.”

“You should be more careful.”

“ I should be more careful? Why, I told you twice you were taking a chance continuing to talk whilst I was shaving you.”

He said nothing for a long moment. ”So you did,” said he at last. ”So you did.”

When we two were deposited at Number 18 Middle Street, and I waved goodbye to Lord Mansfield’s driver and coachman, I felt an odd, sinking feeling. It was as if Sir John and I had been cast away upon an isle from which there might be no return. They would go back with the coach to London. How much, of a sudden, did I envy them!

Yet why? Why this sense of desertion when, coming to Deal, I had been buoyed by a grand sense of adventure?

In any case, they were gone, and there would be no calling them back; even less was there a chance of stealing away with them. Ah well, with Sir John about to inspirit me, I had not yet failed to rise to the occasion, nor did I intend to ever in the future.

“Well, we are here, are we not?” said he. ”Shall we go meet the magistrate?” He placed his hand upon my forearm, and thus together we made direct for Number 18.

Middle Street lay just above Beach Street, which fronted upon the sea, and just below High Street, where I was to meet Mr. Perkins in an hour’s time. The better part of Deal was scattered along these three streets. Will Fowler had told us that at its farther end, near Alfred Square, Middle Street was not near respectable and downright dangerous. ”You’d ought not venture there at night,” said he. Yet Number 18 was, in his view, well within the safe zone, day or night. Middle Street was as tight and narrow as any of those in London. The houses which lined it on either side-all of them brick or stone, so far as I could tell-were crammed together, wall to wall, street after street. Number 18, in which Mr. Albert Sarton resided and presided over his magistrate’s court, was a little larger (though not much) than the houses on either side of it. It was by no means imposing.

I grasped the hand-shaped brass knocker firmly and slammed it thrice against the plate. We waited. I could hear the voices of a man and a woman from some distant part of the house, though it was quite impossible to tell what was said between them. Just as I grabbed at the knocker again and made ready to try my luck a second time, I heard footsteps beyond the door; they seemed to be moving at a steady clip down a long hall.