The Rose Garden

Daniel pointed out with flawless logic that if I had been a larger woman I would not have fit into the borrowed gowns. ‘Then she would have no clothes and you would have a pair of breeks you could not wear for fear the constable might see them.’

Fergal shrugged. ‘So let him see them. I could tell him they were made for me by seamstresses in Ireland, where all the finest fashions have their start.’ But he’d already started folding up the jeans. My shirt had been a plain white T-shirt, which was slightly less exciting, though I saw him take note of the tag. ‘’Twas made in India. So are the trade routes open still, in your time?’ Without waiting for an answer, he went on, ‘Myself, I’ve never been to India. Jamaica, now, I’ve sailed there twice, but never yet to India.’

I was thinking, as he said that, of the black beach in Kerala on the southern coast of India, where I had gone to visit with Katrina on her holiday from filming in Mumbai. I felt the touch of Daniel’s gaze and raised my own to meet it, but I only glimpsed the speculation in his eyes before he looked away respectfully and changed the subject.

With his head tipped slightly back, he sniffed. ‘What the devil are you cooking, Fergal?’

‘Beef broth.’

‘And what are you using in place of the beef?’

Fergal sent him a suffering glance. ‘’Tis salt beef, so that Eva will know what to do with it.’

‘Eating it,’ said Daniel, ‘would not be my first suggestion.’

‘Are you wanting something purposeful to do?’ asked Fergal drily. ‘Because I was just saying now to Eva that we need a bit of firewood for the scullery, and if you have the time to speak your mind about my cooking, you could surely spare a bit of time for walking to the woodpile.’

Daniel smiled, and looked at me. ‘Will you come?’

‘To the woodpile?’

‘It is a chore that can be made more bearable by company.’

I yielded to the smooth persuasion of his smile, and went out with him into the strong sunlight of the stable yard.

‘Did Fergal show you where the well was?’ Daniel asked me as we passed it.

‘And the garden, and where to find things in the house. He even showed me where the cider was.’

‘Did he indeed?’

I nodded. ‘He wanted to be sure I wouldn’t die of thirst if I ran out of ale.’

‘And what if you ran out of cider, too? What then?’

‘You wouldn’t be away that long.’

‘If all was well, we wouldn’t, no. But many things can happen while a ship’s at sea,’ he said. After a moment’s thought he carried on, ‘There is one other place you would find ale if you had need of it, though ’tis not in the house and the only way down to it wants a sure foot and some courage.’

I gave a nod. ‘The cave below the Cripplehorn, you mean. Yes, I—’

‘What do you know of that?’ he asked me, in a tone too casual.

I didn’t see the need to lie. ‘I read about it in a book, and then my friend who lives here … well, he used to play down there when he was little, so he took me down to show me what it looked like.’

‘And what does it look like?’

I couldn’t really tell if he believed me, but I said, ‘It’s mostly empty, only a few old barrels left, although I don’t think they were yours.’ I couldn’t tell him that his dagger had been there, as well. I only told him, ‘If it helps, the book did say that no one ever gave away your hiding place.’

We’d nearly reached the woodpile, but he stopped and turned to face me, and his eyes held open disbelief. ‘The book says that?’ He clearly found the thought improbable. ‘It mentions me?’

I gave a cautious nod.

‘By name?’

I tried remembering exactly. ‘It didn’t say your name. It said “the Butler brothers of Trelowarth”.’ I found his gaze too steady to meet comfortably.

‘And why, pray, would it mention us at all?’

I shouldn’t tell him anything, I knew. And yet I couldn’t bear to have him look at me like he was looking now, as though he thought I’d made the whole thing up.

I took a breath. ‘Because you were such well-known smugglers. Well, that is, you used to be well-known. The book was old.’ I didn’t tell him Jack would one day write a book himself. I thought that might be pushing things. ‘It was really only a field guide, about birds and rocks and trees, with little bits of local history. All it said was you were smugglers, and the people here respected you, and that you used the cave below the Cripplehorn.’

Daniel stood a moment looking down at me, his eyes unreadable, and then he let it pass and looked deliberately to one side as though gathering his thoughts. When his eyes came back to mine, they weren’t so hard.

‘How did you come across this book, then?’ There was something gentler in his voice, as well, that made me more aware of just how close to one another we were standing, there beneath the trees that edged the stable yard, in quiet shade.

I raised my chin and told the truth. ‘I wanted to find out about you.’

‘Did you? Well,’ he teased, ‘you should not trust the things you read in books. If there is something you would know, you’ve but to ask.’

The problem was, when he smiled down at me like that I found it difficult to phrase a simple question, or to speak at all. And anything I might have asked seemed unimportant, suddenly.