Page 5 of The Noble Smuggler

Consigning farm animals and their diseases to the mental list of taboo subjects she’d been accumulating over the years, Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. There were so few things proper ladies could discuss it was hard to imagine any of them ever having a conversation that lasted more than three or four minutes.

“Your roses are beautiful,” she tried again.

Mrs. Parkin gave a pleased smile. “They are, aren’t they? Just two weeks ago, I told Fanny that whenever she emptied the teapot, she was to place the used tea leaves around the base of the rosebushes.” She leaned forward slightly. “I recently learned that’s what the gardeners do with the rosebushes at Langton Manor.”

“How interesting.” Now was probably not the time to point out that if the parsonage was using smuggled tea, the tea leaves were likely adulterated with dried rose leaves—something her bushes already had in excess. Smuggling was unequivocally on the do-not-discuss list.

“Isn’t it?” Mrs. Parkin was more enthusiastic than Elizabeth had seen her in months. “And I must say, the tea leaves seem to have done the trick. I’ve never seen the flowers so vibrant.”

Grateful that she’d hit upon a suitable subject—and one that was obviously close to Mrs. Parkin’s heart—Elizabeth nodded. “Their fragrance is also quite lovely. I noticed it when I approached the door of the parsonage.”

“I said the same to the vicar this very morning.”

The gentle clink of china announced Fanny’s arrival with the tea tray. She set it on the table beside Mrs. Parkin’s chair, bobbed a brief curtsy, and disappeared again before Elizabeth had had time to conjure up something else to say about her hostess’s unparalleled rosebushes. Thankfully, Mrs. Parkin didn’t seem to think another comment necessary. She began pouring the hot brew into the delicate yellow teacups and picked up right where she’d left off.

“As a matter of fact, I had Mr. Parkin step outside just so he could experience the fragrance for himself.”

“Well now, did I hear my name?”

Startled by the unexpected voice, both women turned to face the parlor door. The vicar, dressed in black clericals and clutching a book, entered the room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Doyle.” Mr. Parkin inclined his balding head politely, then turned and did the same to his wife. “And to you, my dear. Have I arrived in time for tea?”

“I was just pouring it,” Mrs. Parkin said, reaching for a cup and handing it to him as he took his seat.

A quick glance told Elizabeth that a third cup and saucer already sat upon the tray. Although the vicar hadn’t made an appearance the last few times she’d been at the parsonage, she guessed that he joined his wife often enough for Fanny to place an extra cup on the tray just in case.

“We were discussing Mrs. Parkin’s beautiful roses,” Elizabeth said.

The vicar nodded. “They are quite splendid.” He took a biscuit from the plate but offered nothing more by way of conversation.

The silence lengthened, and Elizabeth took a sip of her tea. Why had her mind gone completely blank? If she’d been seated across from Mr. Crawford, she’d have had all manner of subjects to discuss. She still missed the kindly old vicar with the shaggy white eyebrows, who’d taken a special interest in her from the time she was very young.

During a visit she’d made to the parsonage with her mother almost ten years before, she’d discovered a book lying open on Mr. Crawford’s desk. Much later, she knew it to be Gleanings of Natural History by Mr. George Edwards, but at the time, she’d simply been awed by the detailed etchings of hundreds of different birds. The vicar, perhaps sensing a potential fellow ornithologist, took it upon himself to teach her what he knew about local fowls—how to identify them by sight and by call. They’d scoured Mr. Edwards’s book for hours and hours together, and somewhere along the way, she’d learned to read.

It was odd, she supposed, that a vicar would teach a child her letters using a bird book rather than the Bible, but whenever she’d visited him, they had watched the birds that had come to feed on the crumbs he’d left out, and he’d recited Bible verses about doves and sparrows, ravens and owls, chickens and hawks. He taught her that God knew and loved each and every bird, and the vicar had given her a glimmer of hope that despite the difficulty of her circumstances, perhaps God knew and loved her as well.

The memories brought a lump to Elizabeth’s throat. She took another sip of tea and swallowed hard.

“There was a goldfinch admiring the roses when I arrived,” she said.

“A goldfinch, you say,” Mr. Parkin said.

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. I believe she was contemplating taking a bath beside them.”

Mrs. Parkin gasped, and Elizabeth’s heart instantly sank. Apparently, no mention of bathing—even in a birdbath—was permitted in polite conversation either.

The vicar cleared his throat. “It seems to me that it’s just as likely that the bird was simply admiring the roses.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said, offering her host a tight smile before taking another sip of tea. As much as she did not wish to return to the inn, teatime with the Parkins could not end soon enough.

Chapter 3

Jonas stood beneath a straggly tree, gazing out into the blackness. Rain was falling, hissing angrily against the incoming waves and the loose shale of the nearby beach. The leaves overhead quivered in the storm, and moisture dripped onto his hat, collecting on the brim before trickling onto his shoulder. Beside him, two-dozen men stood silently watching. Waiting.

“Over there!”

A short, stocky man pointed to his right, and Jonas spotted a pinprick of light coming from the rocky promontory at the far end of the bay. It flashed three times, then it disappeared. Seconds later, another light twinkled on the other side of the beach. A third instantly followed, this one from the road.