Endure My Heart (34 page)

“It’s true you are to marry him then?”

“Certainly it is.”

“Might be a good idea to bury the coffin next to old Mrs. Lynley that was buried in the parish field last week all the same, and have a little mix-up in the parish records.”

“You’ll see to it?”

He nodded, the sun glinting off his shiny pate. I was eager to get out into the street, where that same sun was turning the air warm with the first taste of spring. The streets were less full than formerly, when we had the dragoons for company. The Owenses were back in their shop, trying to retain the goodwill of all the smuggling families with a big spring sale. There was a sign in the window as well offering lottery tickets, a highly salable commodity since Miss Anderson’s win.

I met Sally Trebar and Miss Simpson, the former flashing a little sliver of a diamond she had got from one of the officers before he left. Whether she ever gets the man to go with it is a moot point, but I’m sure I wish her well, as it will prevent her from marrying Andrew, who was certainly ripe for plucking. Miss Simpson was so sweet to me I could not make head or tails of it, till I caught on she was angling for an invitation for tea, to throw her cap at Andrew.

In a benevolent mood, I asked her along, and was amazed to see her having better luck than I would have expected. Once Sally had awakened Andrew to the fact that there were young ladies in the world, whose duty it was to marry young gentlemen, he seemed much of a mind to oblige her. Andrew is the sort who has to he hit over the head with a notion before he catches on, and she was hitting him pretty hard. I won’t be surprised to see him measuring up her waist one of these days, as she has extended her visit with the Trebars for another fortnight. They must be wishing the girl at Jericho. Edna suggests we have her to stop at the rectory, and if Andrew agrees to such an imposition, I shall assume him caught, and do it.

Miss Parsley is busy forming plans for the reinstitution of the enterprise at a future date. I have his word it won’t be for three months. As summer and spring are not the preferred season for the trade, and he will have to renegotiate a deal in London, I expect it will be late autumn before he recommences operations. The first dark of October, I fancy, will be the time. In return for his cooperation in the matter, he has a key to the school and another to the crypt.

Stamford did not return in time for Miss Sage’s funeral. Everyone in town who is not lame, halt or blind was there. Sir Elwood took the opportunity to give a little speech, as there were some reporters present, and he always likes to see his name in the paper. It was Andrew, all unknowing, who blessed the coffin, which really did seem terribly profane, considering its contents. I assuaged my conscience and Edna’s complaints that I was a heretic by explaining that in a way it was Miss Sage who was being buried. She would roam no more over the coast. I felt saddened as a handful of dirt was sprinkled on the box by Andrew.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Miss Sage had come from nowhere, and was now being interred, in spirit. Still, like a phoenix, she would rise up again in legend and live for aeons. I shall miss my coast. Stamford and my aunt assure me Devonshire is lovely, but some corner of my heart will always be here, and occasionally my body will come to visit Andrew and Miss Simpson (who will by then be Mrs. Anderson if I can read the signs). Edna, I think, wishes to remain here with Andrew, though I invited her to come with me. She was born and bred here, and says she is too old to begin a new life. I think all the same she does not consider herself too old to be casting sheep’s eyes at Mr. Owens’ brother, who came back from Bath with them for a visit.

The Salford
Sun
brought out a special edition, a copy of which I kept to show Stamford when he returned. “You will be surprised to learn how you tumbled to it Rose Marie was Miss Sage.” I informed him, pointing out the pertinent paragraph. “Your suspicions were alerted by Miss Andersons relating to you the old legend that the Eyrie was used in the days of Miss Marjoram. They wished to introduce my name so they could go on and bring up my little victory regarding the reward money. You may be a hero in London, but you will always be half a scoundrel here, and we take this opportunity to remind ourselves you lost that round.”

“You can’t win ‘em all, and I won a round in London.”

“You are to be the assistant to the president of the Board of Trade?”

“No, I wouldn’t touch the job with a pair of tongs. I want to get out of that policing type of work and join the common herd. Wellington was at Lucy’s wedding. He is as sly as they come about a fellow advancing his career, you know, and he takes a little interest in me from having been with him in the Peninsula, and at Waterloo. What I really want is to be a Member of Parliament, as a start at least. I didn’t see how I could afford it, for the job does not pay, of course. He arranged a few sinecures for me. Booty, if you like, delayed booty from my war career.”

“You don’t mean bribery, do you?”

“Lord no! I'll be working like a slave, and deserve some remuneration for all my toil. I am not Miss Sage, after all, to work for nothing. Wellington calls any bloody thing you can lay your hands on and keep hold of booty. That is his formal definition, mind. Hadley put in a good word for me too. He was happy enough to see me refuse the Board of Trade offer, as he has it in his eye for Lucy’s husband. I’ll stand at the next election—a formality only, as the seats are definitely Hadley’s to give. A deplorable way of running the country, isn’t it? But we must take things as they are, and I do mean to be a good M.P., and work for the betterment of the poor. It will give us some time at Oakvale before we must go to London, and my little bonus for the job at Salford will help fill up our house. We have a tea set to start with in any case.”

“If I weren’t such a philanthropist, we would have a thousand pounds besides.”

“I have no regrets. Don’t you have any either. It was a good job, well done. And thank God it is done.”

My story is done too. I hope I accomplished what I set out to—to encourage you to take the reins of your life into your own hands, to take a chance. I wish to each of you good fortune, strong hearts and a marvelous husband. So does Stamford.

Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Fawcett Coventry

Electronically published in 2005 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.