Page 8 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

chapter-seperator

Surely not.

But Mrs. Digby had said the ghost of Mother Hobart tended to visit when there was someone new, and Sophia was still new.

As she watched, the figure on the bluff paused to stare out at the waves, hair and clothing still fluttering in the light breeze. Then the woman turned back toward the house, her face briefly visible in the light of the full moon.

Mrs. Royston.

Sophia blew out a sharp breath and rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. How much more likely was it that one of the older ladies in the household suffered from insomnia and went for a stroll along the bluff at night, than a ghost appearing?

She watched Mrs. Royston pace back and forth along the bluff a while longer before her eyelids grew heavy again. This time when she climbed into the huge bed, checking that the candlestick was still under her pillow, she fell asleep almost immediately.

Over the next few days they settled into an easy routine, making steady progress on transcribing Mrs. Digby’s journals while also giving Sophia breaks to walk along the beach and chat with Miss Burrell, who was still working to excavate the fossil of an elongated, giant skull, and pleasant evenings in the drawing room filled with music and singing.

Neither of the senior ladies played, but Sophia coaxed them into joining her in song.

Kendall politely bowed his head when Sophia asked him to save the newspapers for her each day. She combed through them for Positions Available advertisements, searching for anything that might suit her abilities and allow her to support herself once this temporary employment with Mrs. Digby ended.

One morning she handed Kendall a letter for the outgoing post as she entered the dining room. She did not truly wish to take a position in northern Scotland where winters would be much colder, but she’d seen precious few openings posted. At least Inverness was by the sea.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mrs. Digby said, and retrieved a letter from her pocket.

Mrs. Royston peeked at the address as Kendall took it. “Writing to Vincent?”

Mrs. Digby stirred sugar into her tea. “I’ve asked him to fetch me some paper from my favorite stationer in London.”

“Paper.” Mrs. Royston tried to hide a grin behind her cup before she sipped.

Sophia did not understand why Mrs. Digby requesting her pianoforte-tuning nephew to send her a parcel of writing paper should cause the ladies to exchange mischievous grins—for that was the only word she could think of to describe their expressions, mischievous—or why they both then smiled at her before tucking into their meal.

Kendall took the two letters for Bickford to post in town, and Sophia went back to worrying about when she would finally receive good news about future employment.

Mrs. Digby rested her voice every third day. This gave Sophia a chance to begin transcribing her hastily penciled notes onto paper, using quill and ink, in elegant handwriting that would be well-suited to sending to a printer or binding the pages to leave behind for her family.

On rainy days when Sophia wanted to stay dry longer without forgoing her walk, she went through the kitchen to the tunnel to emerge directly onto the beach.

Not as comfortable as Mrs. Digby in the darkness, she availed herself of the supply of torches Marshall pointed out that he kept stocked, stashed in a basket next to the brooms by the door.

She deliberately did not look at the ceiling again after she realized the undulating blackness was bats.

She would definitely never use the tunnel after dusk when the bats would awaken and fly out to find food.

On her first trip through the tunnel on her own, she took a wrong turn and discovered that one of the caverns Enid had said filled up at high tide was actually bone dry.

And it did not have any bones or skeletons.

She did have to step up and over a few rocks that had fallen down from the roof, partially blocking the entrance, reminding her of the small rockslides she had witnessed while on holiday at Lyme Regis.

The shale and limestone that tended to be filled with snakestones, verteberries, and other odd stones that fascinated Theo, could be unstable, especially after storms.

Feeling particularly brave when Henry accompanied her down to the beach one afternoon instead of napping with his mistress, and dismayed to discover it raining heavily once she got there, she took an extra torch and explored the tunnel, which had several branches, each identified with chalk markings.

Bold “X” marks in chalk warned against entering some tunnels, as though the fallen rocks and boulders was insufficient sign of danger.

She shuddered at the idea of being trapped—or worse—in a cave-in.

Now that she had better light, more caverns became visible, some barely big enough for Henry to go in and sniff before lifting his leg to leave his scent, one as large as the drawing room of her childhood home.

One could hold a small party in here, or—thinking of some of the more lurid books from Minerva Press in her trunk—free-traders could hide a load of contraband.

Her imagination raced with the possibilities of such spaces.

Even in a place as civilized as Torquay, there were stories of how townsfolk were told to “look at the wall as the Gentlemen went by” so they could truthfully deny seeing any smuggling activity when the Revenuers came calling. Here in Sidmouth was probably no different.

Holding her torch high, she paced the perimeter of the cavern.

Dry. No bones, no stray rocks indicating the ceiling was in danger of collapsing, and unexpectedly free of bats and bat guano.

No barrels or crates of contraband, either.

Henry stood up on his hind legs, sniffing at something on a natural ledge, the longest of several ledges at varying heights in the cave.

Worried she’d been too hasty in thinking there were no human remains in the cavern, she forced herself to join the dog at the ledge.

“What have you found, boy?” She let out a relieved breath when she saw it was just a tattered wool blanket.

When she lifted it, half expecting small multi-legged creatures to crawl out, she found a pair of tin soldiers that fit in the palm of her hand.

One had a rifle, the other a broken sword, both with enough nicks and scraped paint to show the toys had been well played with.

Mrs. Digby and her husband had no children, so these must belong to a visitor, possibly from a neighboring property or a boy who had ventured far from his family on holiday down the beach in Sidmouth. How long had they been here? Many years, judging by the musty-smelling blanket.

Sophia set the tin soldiers back down and covered them with the blanket again. “Come along, Henry,” she said, patting her leg, and they went back up to the house.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Bickford paused in arranging freshly baked tea cakes on a platter and held it out, offering them to Sophia.

“Thank you,” Sophia said, taking two. Ooh, delicious. She was about to take the steps up to the main level, but Henry sat in front of a bare section of wall, looking at her expectantly, his tail thumping on the floor.

“Is this the shortcut?” Sophia ate the other cake and peered at the wall. Henry thumped his tail faster. There … a slight smudge where the paint had worn a little thinner. Giving that section a light push, she heard a click, and the previously hidden door swung open.

Henry dashed in. Sophia followed more slowly, trying to take in every detail.

In the small space she felt the age of the house, almost heard the echoes of previous generations who had lived here.

Like the tunnel to the beach, sections branched off.

Now she understood better why the house seemed smaller than it should, why it took so many turns to get anywhere.

Had priests hidden in here back in the days when it could be deadly to be a Catholic?

Had household members hidden smugglers or contraband? Engaged in smuggling themselves?

Henry waited for her at the door to the library. She fumbled a bit in the deep shadows before she found the latch.

“Perfect timing,” Mrs. Digby said from her seat by the window, utterly unfazed to see how Sophia made her entrance into the library.

On the small table beside her, a lamp with a glass chimney had been lit to offset the gloom, as rain continued to lash against the window, the sky a solid mass of dark grey clouds. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

A week had passed since her arrival at Hobart Grange.

Lulled by the crashing waves, she slept soundly every night.

In the evenings, Henry often sat beside her in the drawing room, apparently drawn to the music she created on the newly tuned pianoforte or harpsichord.

She and Mrs. Digby were making steady progress on the memoir.

They were up to 1772, still garrisoned near Boston.

As soon as Mrs. Digby and Mrs. Royston went for their lie-down after lunch, Sophia hurried to the beach. The rain had finally let up and she hoped to see Miss Burrell.

She took the outdoor path down to the sea, marveling anew at the stunning views of the Channel and the beach all the way to Sidmouth.

How lucky she was to have found a position here, even if it was temporary, after the months she’d spent at her cousin’s home with no access to the sea or music, her future uncertain.

Though she’d applied for several positions since the Academy closed, only three had replied so far.

All had informed her the positions had already been filled.

Her cousin had agreed to forward any other replies to her here.

As Sophia picked her way across the rocky headland that stretched further out into the Channel, she heard a faint voice calling her name. Shielding her eyes, she turned in a full circle to see who was calling her.