“Lieutenant Sowerby.” She sinks down onto the bed, her head in her hands. “Oh dear God.”
“What? What did you say to him?”
“Nothing! That’s the problem. He’s an officer of the Revenue Service and I lied to his face.”It wasn’t just what she didn’t say to him; it was the way he looked at her.
Jack says, “I’m terribly grateful.”
“Oh, do hold your tongue,” she says. “You knew I’d never say anything.” A sob rises in her throat. “He hanged a man two days ago.”
“Jed Ferries from Penzance. I heard.” Jack pushes himself up before she can tell him not to and reaches for her hand. “Your hand is very cold.”
“It’s often so.”
He wraps his own around it and says gently, “I didn’t know thatyou wouldn’t say anything. I hoped you wouldn’t—” He stops himself and, letting go of her hand, says, “I shall leave at the earliest opportunity. Rowell will be back tomorrow. I’m feeling better already.”
He does look a little better. There is some color in his cheeks. “I’m glad,” she says.
“You’re still determined not to accept any money for your hospitality? You’re taking a considerable risk hiding a fugitive.”
“Don’t remind me. And yes, I’m determined.”
“Then would you consider a business proposition instead?”
“What sort of business proposition?”
“We’ve used the shed—your shed—in the past for the storing of goods, until they could be moved farther inland. A couple of days at most. It’s a convenient spot, out of the way, down the inlet.”
That explains the padlock,she thinks. Jack says, “I should like the use of it in the future, if you’ll allow me.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“It would only be a few times a year. You’d never see us—we’d come in with the new moon and leave before you even realize there’s contraband stored on your property. I would pay you as well as any of our accomplices. Better, when we have some good runs of it with the new ship.”
She’s going to say no again but the word has gotten stuck on her tongue. She remembers the farmer Mrs. Dowling told her about, who was shot by revenue men for storing contraband on his property. It’d be madness to say yes.
Jack says, “It would be a way to augment your income. And it wouldn’t be charity. You’d be doing us a service.”
She will say it now.No. Simple, short, andwhyin Heaven’s name is it so difficult to get the word out? “I shall think about it,” she says.
“Please do.”
“How will I get word to you when I’ve made my decision?”
“Speak to Tom Holder, the keeper of the Shipwrights Arms. Tell him you’ve got news for his friend from the cove—say it exactly likethat, not ‘my friend’ or ‘a friend,’ but ‘your friend from the cove.’ Then tell him your news; in this case a simple yes or no will suffice.”
“Very well.” She feels stupidly pleased. She worried that once Jack left she wouldn’t see him again. The feeling annoys her. She should not see him again. He’s a smuggler. She has done her Christian duty, helping him, and that’s enough. She cannot get involved with smuggling. “How much?” she says, feeling more foolish still.
“The compensation? Two percent of the profits. On a good run that can easily amount to”—he taps his fingers, thinking—“ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds?” Her widow’s pension is two shillings a day. Her mind whirls with the numbers. Ten pounds, that’d be a hundred days’ worth of income. For a couple of nights’ work. No, not even work—she wouldn’t have to do anything but turn a blind eye to the cargo being stored in the shed.
Jack says, “Does that change things?”
“I have to think about it.”
“Let me know when you’ve decided. I could use another friend along the river.”
“I shall.” She looks at his hand on the bed. She wishes it was still wrapped around hers. He was awfully forward taking her hand in his, but she cannot deny she liked the feeling. “Shall I see you again after you leave?”
