“I was thinking of going into the village with Lizzie. Certainly, that cannot seem in any way threatening or suspicious.”
He paused a moment. “Fine. Just bring along a groom.”
They did, Hall’s groom Clancy, a banty Irishman with a legendary way with horses and far less successful one with humans. He liked Lizzie, though. He liked Pip even better, since she was one of the few people his stallion Boru, a delinquent with an aversion to most people, didn’t bite. He also liked how Pip had named her own horse.
Lizzie, of course, rode a perfectly mannered white Arabian named Alabaster, who carried her like a rare gift and refused to consort with Boru as Macha did, prancing like a deb at Almack’s and flipping her mane. It made the ride into the village enough of a challenge that it took some minutes to realize that the street was quiet for the middle of the afternoon.
“Is there a market day somewhere else today?” Pip asked.
“Not that I know of,” Clancy said, looking around.
“I hope the inn is open for a bit of tea,” Pip said. “I worked up a thirst on my girl this morning. I suspect she would like a bit of pampering herself.”
The inn was open. Young Charlie McKay appeared from the stables to take their horses with an ungainly head bob and a big smile. Charlie loved his horses, which was good. A bad fall as a child ensured he would be nothing more than a groom his whole life. Clancy followed the boy into the barn as Pip and Lizzie turned into the White Horse Inn, which they had been going to for tea since they had been teens. Pip opened the door to see three unknown men sipping pints in the smtaproom as Mr. Thorn stood wiping down the bar. He gave a stiff nod as the men took a disinterested look at the newcomers. Before Lizzie or Pip could say anything, Mrs. Thorn appeared through the kitchen door.
“Oh, Miss Pip,” she said, her hands clutched in her apron. “I’m so sorry. We’re having some trouble with the stove. Man’s fixin’ it right now. But I’m that afraid there’ll be no tea this afternoon.”
In all the times she had come to stay at Ripton Hall, Pip could never remember there being a reason for Mrs. Thorn to fail the feeding of everyone who walked through her door. Worse, the taut woman would never have ignored Lizzie in greeting them. Mrs. Thorn maintained a very rigid etiquette around the people she called her betters. She would have addressed Lizzie first as Lady Elizabeth and dipped a quick, smiling curtsy. The hair on the back of Pip’s neck stood on end. Something was terribly wrong.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Thorn,” she said before Lizzie could speak. “Is there anyone we can send to help?”
The smile she got was closer to a rictus. “Oh, no. We’ll do fine, but thank you for asking. I hope we’ll be able to see to you in a day or two right enough.”
Pip nodded and slipped her arm through Lizzie’s. “Then you can expect us. Where to next, Lizzie?”
But before Lizzie could answer, Pip had her guided out the door.
“What was that all about?” Lizzie demanded sotto voce as they stepped out onto the still-quiet street.
Pip did her best to look around without seeming to. “I don’t know.”
“Should we gather the horses or stop somewhere else and see what is going on?”
“The Martin’s,” Pip said, turning toward the little mercantile where they had spent hours picking out ribbons, cloth, and buttons.
The little bell jangled over the door as they stepped inside of the cluttered, comfortable store that carried any number of items from ribbons to flour to pots and pans. The store bore the comforting scents of coffee and honey and welcomed visitors with a familiar creaking floor.
“Mrs. Martin,” Pip greeted the owner’s wife who was standing behind the counter, clutching it. “How is your supply of ribbons today?”
“I…”
Pip met her gaze and held it as she approached the counter. “What is the matter?” she asked softly. “Can we help?”
Her expression never changed. “Oh, Miss Pip, you need to go back up the Hall as soon as can be. There are bad dealings here.”
Pip patted her hand and wandered about after Lizzie, picking up this and that so that they looked normal from outside, if anyone was watching.
“What dealings?” she asked, comparing a spool of ribbon with one Lizzie held.
Mrs. Martin all but groaned. “Oh, miss, you can’t be involved in this. Go home.”
Lizzie picked out a bright green ribbon and took it over to the desk. “This, I think,” she said out loud, then spoke softly. “You might as well tell me, Mrs. Martin. I am not leaving ‘til you do. Maybe we can help.”
Mrs. Martin took the ribbon with trembling hands. “We never had trouble like this before. Not once when it was our own gentlemen come up from Chesil Beach. Used the old tunnels and never bothered a soul, lest they wanted to help. Left behind a bit of brandy and such for those whose land they crossed. Hid everything away here until it was safe to move on. We never even saw them go.”
Smugglers, of course. Pip was amazed that this was the first she had heard about it. Not that smuggling wasn’t a fine old tradition along the coast. But the locals had evidently kept their secret to themselves.
“And now?”
