Page 21 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

She took another deep breath, to calm herself. She would remain here for the rest of the night. It was dry, if not warm, and she was safe. Hopefully, by the time the sun crept over the horizon, her dress would be dry enough to wear. As for her shoes, they must be?—

Wait! What was that?

A flash of light over the water caught her attention. Was it more lightning, far off? Had the waves just sent a dart of reflected moonlight towards her? Had…?

No, there it was again. That was no lightning, no glint of stardust. It was—it must be—a boat.

What under heaven could convince someone to put out to sea in this weather?

And why the light? There was no harbour here, no warning lighthouse.

Another flash… wait, there was a rhythm to these bursts.

Two in a row, a count of three, and two more.

Then, after a wait, the pattern came again.

What were they doing? Surely it could not be…

Smugglers.

That word, which she had been struggling to silence over the past weeks, surged back to the forefront of her mind.

She knew in her heart that there were smugglers about.

This must be, after all, why Cornelius was wandering about the cliffs at night.

He had almost convinced her that his purposes were completely innocent, had tried so hard to deny his culpability, but all the evidence seemed to point otherwise, and this was just another piece. Her heart broke a little bit more.

Fighting her disillusionment, she continued staring out into the dark night sky.

For a moment, she wondered if they could see her here, staring at them, but the boat was far out in the sea.

Further, on reflection, she realised the blanket she had cloaked herself in looked dark, and her face would be an indistinct circle, if it weren’t obscured by the low eaves of the roof. She kept watching.

The boat, for such it turned out to be, approached the shore, some three hundred or so yards away.

Julia sought to recall what lay below the cliffs here. It was not a part of the estate she visited all that often, and an image did not spring readily to mind. There was a steep and narrow path nearby, a bit of a sandy beach, a rocky inlet, and some caves.

Caves. Were they using the caves to store their ill-gotten cargo?

It must be so. There could be no other reason for a boat to be approaching this desolate strip of land in the middle of the night.

She must alert Mr Derriscott as soon as she returned to the house.

He must be told; he must inform the excise men.

Cornelius had admonished her to remain silent about all his activities, but he could not mean this, surely. Could he? Was he trying to implicate her in some nefarious business? Or— the thought struck her with the power of one of those bolts of lightning—was he trying to keep her safe?

Despite this new alarming development, Julia yawned.

The ship was now close enough that she could no longer see the lights below the rim of the cliffs, and her eyes felt as heavy as the earlier storm-laden sky.

Suddenly desperate to sleep, she shuffled back to the cot and lay down again, and once more, let slumber overtake her.

This time, Julia knew what had awakened her.

There was a noise, and it was coming from within the cottage. The sky was still dark, quite untouched by any glimmer of an early dawn, but she had no way of knowing the exact hour. Her eyes were wide with alarm; her breath caught in her throat.

Who would be here at such an impossible hour?

It could not be another walker, stranded in the woods as she had been, for they would have found the place hours before, or made their way to a safer, warmer spot.

It was far too early—or late—for the groundskeeper; Mr Derriscott did not hunt in these parts, and certainly he would not be here while the sky was still black as ink.

The lights of the approaching boat danced through her mind, and she swallowed.

The smugglers. Who else could it be? They must be here.

Oh heavens… if they found her… She could not think what might happen.

She dared not move, dared not make a sound, and prayed that they would not climb the steep stairs to the loft.

She held her breath, letting out only as much air as she could manage without making a noise, then inhaling equally slowly.

Her hip ached and her arm was numb. She longed to roll over in the narrow cot, to shift her weight, but she refused to move an inch.

In the silence, men’s voices filtered up the stairs, only partially intelligible.

“…shove the table…”

“…what about the crates?”

“…can’t… morning…”

Then came the sound of something heavy being pushed across the floor.

“…too wet… fix the window…”

Another voice now sounded, more clearly and closer to the stairs.

“Help me with this. The floor is so wet, the door is stuck. Yes, shift it against the far wall. The tobacco and tea will do well enough below. That should be suitably dry. The brandy is quite secure. Bring me the lamp.”

The others spoke indistinctly enough that Julia could not discern their accents. But this man, whose voice rang so clearly into the loft, had more cultured tones. If not a gentleman, he was well educated.

Then, after a pause, he spoke again. “What’s this mud by the window?”

Oh heavens! Julia’s heart was in her throat. Had she brought in the woods with her, when she clambered through the broken window? A creak sounded on the stairs. Only one… perhaps the man was merely sitting down. Or so she prayed.

“…storm… from the tree…”

“We had best clean it. See to the window. We cannot have this place look anything out of the ordinary.” The man at the steps appeared to be the leader, for the others replied with “yes, sir,” and “soon.”

“Very well; nobody is about at this time of year, but no more than two or three days.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Best be clearing out, men. The place is still standing, and little enough harm to it. We must be gone by the time the sun is up.”

There were more noises, more shuffling, and then silence.

Still, Julia did not dare move. She lay there, as still and silent as she could manage for what felt like hours more, until at last, the sun’s first rays began to light the room.

Aching and exhausted, she finally allowed herself to rise from the cot.

She replaced the blankets according to how she recalled finding them, dressed quickly in her still-damp and filthy frock, and shimmied out of the cottage before beginning the two-mile trek back to the house, and—hopefully—a hot bath and some tea.