Free Smuggler's Lady by Jane Feather

houses, if not in the drawing rooms.
    Meredith greeted her steward with a warm smile. “Are you come to depress me, Stuart? You are looking uncommon grave.”
    â€œ ’Tis the matter of the Longwood cottages, Lady Blake,” Farquarson said ponderously, laying his hands on plump thighs in worsted britches. “The expenditures cannot be delayed any longer. The roofs must be repaired and the alley repaved before winter. The tenants have been understanding, but I fear they will begin to grumble before long and with good reason.”
    Meredith sucked the tip of her thumb in the unconscious manner she had had since a child whenever she was troubled. She had intended to pay off the final mortgage payment on Ducket’s Spinney with the profits from the last run. Now, it would have to be delayed. Reclaiming the estate had so often to take second place to necessary maintenance, and the latter was so much less satisfying than sitting in solicitor Donne’s office in Fowey, handing over a banker’s draft, and receiving in exchange the deeds to whatever part of the estate she had managed to buy back. The solicitor had no more idea than anyone else where the money came from but assumed that extraordinary thrift was responsible. One had only to look at Lady Blake herself to see one area of strict economy.
    â€œVery well, Stuart. Set the repairs in motion.” Having bowed to necessity, there was no point repining. She poured coffee, nibbled a piece of bread and butter, and, in typical fashion, put the disappointment out of mind as she and the steward went over the accounts.
    After Farquarson had left, however, Merrie sat at the chipped oak desk that had also escaped the auctioneer’s hammer, staring out of the long windows facing the sea. The sea ... two runs a month would solve all her problems. She could pay off debts and maintain the estate. But doubling the profits meant doubling the risk, particularly with the revenue become so active. While Jacques, she knew, would agree to the proposal, would Bart and the others be willing to accept the increased risk? Well, she would not find out unless she asked, and there was work to be done that would not be done if she sat like a dressmaker’s dummy gazing out of the window.
    â€œSeecombe, I shall be in the stables until nuncheon. The farrier comes this morning and I must talk with him.”
    â€œVery well, my lady.” The manservant held the side door for her and she went out into the warm, summer day. It was such a relief to be outside, after the gloomy confines of the library, that she skipped a little on her way to the stableyard. It would not matter who saw her here where she was surrounded only by friends.
    It was nearing noon when Lord Rutherford’s stallion trotted up to the front door of Pendennis. The doors stood open on the balmy air, and a rather ancient red setter cocked an ear at the new arrival before resuming her nap in the sun. There was a pleasantly somnolent, relaxed atmosphere about the gracious, mellow stone house standing as it had done for two hundred years amidst well-tended, flower-filled gardens, hedges and shrubs neatly trimmed. Rutherford examined his surroundings appreciatively before hitching Saracen’s bridle over the stone knob of the balustrade, mounting the short flight of steps, and pausing in the doorway to look for something with which to herald his presence. There appeared to be neither door knocker nor bellpull. Cornish habits were most singular. Where else would one find front doors standing open to all comers? He took a tentative step into the dim light of the hall. As if on cue, the baize door at the rear swung open to reveal a substantial, gray-haired figure, his britches and waistcoat covered by a green apron, who trod towards him.
    â€œSir?” Seecombe managed to convey disapproval in the very inflection. Strange gentlemen at Pendennis were not to be encouraged in this manservant’s