It wasn’t too late to restore it. With a bit of work, it could become everything it had once been. Surely all the house needed was a woman’s touch. Isaac pushed away the dream before his heart could swell to an unpardonable size. His hopes of sharing Morvoren with Sophia had died long ago. It was dangerous to bring them to life again without more certainty. She could still choose Finchley. The battle wasn’t won—but it also wasn’t over.
Mr. Nance walked by with Isaac’s tray. The pie looked appetizing at least, with not a fish head in sight.
“Shall I leave it in yer chambers?” he asked.
Isaac nodded, his mind still distant. Mr. Nance tried to slink away, but Isaac stopped him. “Is there wine in the cellars? Brandy?”
Mr. Nance’s face fell. His eyes shifted one way, then the other. “Aye, master. Er—you stay here, and I’ll be sure to fetchit.” He took another step, the tray clattering as he stumbled over a loose floorboard.
“I’ll go,” Isaac said dismissively. “I’d like to see the selection myself.”
Mr. Nance’s bloodshot eyes widened. His nose twitched. “‘tisn’t necessary, sir. There’s nothin’ to see there. I’ll retrieve it shortly.” He tucked his chin, picking up his pace as he hurried to Isaac’s bedchamber with the pie.
Isaac’s brow furrowed. Mr. Nance was the picture of suspicion with those shifty eyes, and suddenly Isaac was quite eager to pay a visit to the cellar.
Isaac listened to Mr. Nance’s creaking footfalls moving overhead. Before he could return, Isaac made his way to the servants’ stairs and down the cold, spiral steps. The stone walls flanked a bare, dark corridor. More rat traps lined the corners as Isaac made his way through the maze of rooms. He had never set foot below stairs at Morvoren before. It hadn’t been his place to do so, and his grandfather had discouraged it.
That memory only added to Isaac’s suspicion.
He passed the kitchen, freezing when he saw that Mrs. Nance was still inside. He didn’t want to alert her, so he rushed past the open doorway. The scullery was next, and then the still room, the shelves lined with canisters of tea, jars of pickles, jams, and herbs. A candle rested on the nearest table, so he picked it up to light his way as he walked down the corridor.
The pantry smelled of something rotten, so Isaac didn’t linger long in the doorway. Finally, he reached what could only be the wine cellar. It was smaller than the other rooms, with far less depth. The air was damp and earthy, flooding Isaac’s nose with the scent of aging wood.
He stepped inside, examining the shelves filled with bottles. Why had Mr. Nance been so nervous about Isaac exploring below stairs? Did it have anything to do with the wine cellarat all, or more to do with the rats and that rotten smell in the pantry?
Isaac turned to leave, but stopped when he noticed a section of the wall that looked…different. It was too neat, the stones slightly paler and less weathered than the rows of masonry on the upper half of the wall. The mortar was smeared unevenly across the surface, as if it had been applied in haste. Isaac ran his hand across the stones, holding his candle close to the surface to light every inch of the wall. He stopped when he noticed an iron ring between two stones.
He tugged on it, and a rectangular section of the wall swung outward, revealing a latch. Isaac’s heart pounded as he jostled the mechanism, pressing against the wall at the same time. The concealed door swung inward, causing a few flecks of stone to crumble to the ground.
He held up the candle, the light casting shadows over the other half of the cellar. Besides a few wooden crates, the room was empty. Puddles of water gathered on the floor, along with a strand of seaweed. Isaac bent down to examine the crates, which were marked with symbols and foreign words he didn’t recognize. None of the crates were marked with a tax stamp.
Was this what Grandfather had been hiding? A smuggling operation?
There was no mistaking the suspicious nature of a false wall. One did not have such a thing built unless there was something they wished to hide.
Isaac set his candle on a crate near the back of the room, catching sight of yet another latch, this one far less concealed. He opened it, and the door opened to a dirt floor. Coils of rope, lanterns, and two pairs of sand-coated boots rested at the base of a ladder. Isaac moved his gaze up the rungs, which led to the open air.
It was a secret entrance.
He whirled around at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Mr. Nance must have known about this. Who else did?
Isaac’s heart thudded as he stared at the piles of emptied crates. Late at night, by firelight, his grandfather had told him wild tales of smuggling and other elicit activities Cornwall was known for. He had entwined the stories with legends about mermaids pulling fishermen out to sea, so naturally, Isaac hadn’t given credit to any of it.
He never would have guessed that his own grandfather had been managing one of those legendary operations he spoke of.
Isaac’s mind raced. The punishment for such a crime would be imprisonment, sometimes for years. Exile was reserved for extreme cases. Execution was also possible, but social ruin wascertain.
Even if Grandfather had simply been pocketing a portion of the profits in exchange for a place to store the goods, he still could have lost all his political influence as well as his property. Even being aware of smuggling made one vulnerable if they did not report it.
But these crates were not coated in dust and abandoned like the rest of the house. They were fresh. The seaweed wasn’t even dry yet.
Isaac picked up his candle and walked back to the corridor. “Nance!” He cast his light in both directions until the shadows flickered over the man’s stooped frame.
Mr. Nance immediately raised both hands in front of him. “I’ve turned a blind eye, that’s all, sir. I tell ye, I’ve ne’er touched any of it.”
Isaac strode forward, casting the candlelight closer to the man’s face. His eyes were wide, his other features slack. He didn’t seem capable of executing a believable lie, so Isaac willed himself to relax. If he wanted Mr. Nance to tell him the truth,he would have to approach him calmly. “How long has this been happening?”
“Only since the taxes became worse than sense, sir. Long ‘fore you came to Cornwall.”
