Prologue

A Rush Torch was burning smokily through the mists when the light carriage creaked to a halt before the door of the Nag's Head. The pony in the shafts stood with drooping head as the driver descended, swathed in a greatcoat, his head wrapped in a scarf against the chill of an October night.

The gloomy taproom seemed not much warmer, in spite of the embers of a peat fire glowing fitfully on the hearth. At least, the short figure made no move to unwind the comforter that concealed his face. The room was empty except for one man sitting in a dark corner facing the door, who looked up when the door opened. The newcomer approached him.

"Captain Cleeve?" he enquired uncertainly.

"No names!" hissed the captain with venom. His appearance was unremarkable until one noticed the coldness of his grey eyes and the implacable set of his mouth. The short man shivered and withdrew a step.

Instantly the captain's hand shot out, seized his wrist in an iron grip, and forced him to sit on the rough bench.

"It's too late now," the soft, dangerous voice continued. "You sent for me, now it's for me to decide. Tell me what you have to offer, and you had better hope it is worth my while."

The other shivered again. The captain poured a mug of mulled ale from the jug on the table and shoved it toward him. As he raised it to sip, the muffler slipped from his face.

The captain was momentarily taken aback, but a brief scrutiny seemed to reassure him.

"Talk," he growled.

His expression of contempt deepened during the exposition that followed, but at the end he did not reject it out of hand.

"It could be done," he said thoughtfully, "if your information is accurate. I have sufficient contacts in Cornwall to carry out the plan as you suggest. I daresay you know what to expect should there be any hitch due to prevarication on your part."

The mulled ale did not seem to have warmed the other, for he shivered once more.

"My man will be in touch with you," he muttered, stumbling hurriedly to his feet. The captain rose and bowed ironically as he fumbled with his scarf. "It will work, I know it will work," he assured him feverishly, and made his escape.

The captain sat over his ale, a grim smile on his face, until the tavern's landlord sidled into the room.

"The Ge'men 've used my place afore, though Jamaica Inn's more to their liking seemingly, but I niver knowed. . . ." he stammered. "Waren't thet . . . ?"

"Landlord, you saw and heard nothing and no one." The captain drew on his leather gloves in a way that seemed to fascinate the innkeeper.

"Law' no, zir," he gabbled, "I ain't niver peached to a Preventive yet nor'm not like to. Ye'll be leaving now, zir? I'll saddle yer horse, zir. Please to come this way, zir." He scuttled out.

The captain followed.

_{Chapter 1}

"Letty," Said Lady Ruth, "I am going down to the village to see Walter. Will you not walk with me?"

"Every Tuesday you go off and leave me all alone," answered Lady Laetitia petulantly. "St Teath is much too far to walk, and anyway, Walter Vane is a silly little man. I cannot imagine what you see in him."

"Pray, do not speak so of my betrothed, my dear. Walter has a good heart and a great deal of learning. Why, what should we do with our time if he did not lend us these books?"

"Sermons and histories, dull as ditchwater! I should like to read some novels."

"Letty, you know that Walter cannot approve of novels. He is a man of the cloth, remember."

"How can I forget? Godfrey disapproves amazingly of your marrying a mere curate. It is really quite ineligible for the sister of an earl."

"We will not discuss that, if you please. Come, join me for the walk. It is a beautiful day, and you may come part of the way and then return."

"I know, Ruth! I shall ask Godfrey if we may take the gig. Will may drive us, I'm sure he has nothing better to do." The volatile eighteen-year-old danced out of the shabby room in starch of her brother, leaving her sober elder sister to follow with a sigh.

Ruth was fairly certain that the gig would not be forthcoming, on one pretext or another. Lord Penderric seemed less and less willing to satisfy Letty's whims, even when they would cost him nothing. Like their father, he had always been parsimonious, but lately his behaviour had grown positively erratic, she thought sadly, and even Laetitia had noticed how bad tempered he was becoming, though his temper was rarely directed at her.

As she entered the library on Letty's heels, Ruth looked round in astonishment at the bare shelves.

"Godfrey!" she exclaimed, "you surely cannot have sold all the books? Is that what was in the packages Will has been carrying to Launceston these days past?"

"Don't fuss, Ruth," Letty broke in crossly. "I'm sure if Godfrey has sold all that fusty Latin and Greek it is a good thing, and I hope he has got a good price. Godfrey, dearest, I am sadly in need of a new gown," she coaxed.

Godfrey ignored her, staring unpleasantly at Ruth.

"So, sister mine, you object?" he enquired in a smooth voice, which abruptly changed to a near shriek as he continued. "Always interfering, you always know best! Well, if you insist on marrying that penniless curate, I shall give you nothing—nothing, do you hear?"

"Mama left me ten thousand pounds, and there is nothing you can do about it, Godfrey, as you well know." Ruth spoke quietly, though her heart was hammering in her chest. "You do not wish me to remain here. Surely you understand that it is a great object with me to leave this house, whatever the circumstances. I am going to the village now. Come, Letty."

She turned and left the room, then realised that her sister was not following. She found she was trembling from head to foot, and leaned against the wall to recover her composure. Through the open door she heard Letty's bell-like tones.

"Let me use the gig, Godfrey, to go to St Teath with Ruth. I vow I have not left the house this age."

Lord Penderric's reply was inaudible.

"Well, I'm sure I cannot guess what you need Will for. It is very unreasonable in you not to let him drive us. I shall not go then." She flounced out of the room and stalked off down the stone-flagged corridor.

Ruth pulled herself together and started after her sister to soothe her. Then she rebelled. She loved her sister dearly, but when thwarted, Letty could be thoroughly unpleasant. Outside, the sun was shining, though it was hard to tell through the grimy windows of Penderric Castle. Walter, her only escape, was in the village not three miles away. Letty might stew in her own juice for a few hours, she decided.

******************

As she went to fetch her pelisse, Ruth thought back over the recent conversations. There was nothing new to be gleaned from them. She could not wholly disagree with Letty's view of her husband-to-be, but her own description was equally valid, and surely anything must be better than to live in a mouldering castle on a dank moorland waste with a brother who manifestly, and increasingly vocally, disliked her.

Descending the granite staircase, which still retained some wisps of carpeting, Ruth went over the figures again. Walter had forty pounds a year as his stipend, and another twenty in private income. With her ten thousand invested at three percent, that would be three hundred and sixty a year, even before he received a living of his own. From her present penniless perspective, it seemed like riches indeed, certainly enough to take Letty away from their brother's influence, where her temper and conduct must surely improve. Perhaps she herself might even have a little pin money, enough to buy a ribbon now and then, though perhaps a parson's wife ought not to think of such frivolity.

She slipped out of a side door so as not to disturb Tremaine. The surly butler, his equally cross-grained wife, the manservant Will, and a maid were all that remained of a staff that had been dwindling ever since she could remember. Her father had never hired a new servant to replace one who left, and her brother, in the four years since he had inherited the title, had dismissed most of the rest. Her mind shied away from the contemplation of the terrible events of four years ago, and she determined to enjoy her walk, a brief enough respite from her cares.

Ignoring the long-neglected gardens through which she picked her way, Ruth raised her eyes to the north, where Bodmin Moor swept up in fold after fold to the tor of Brown Willy. It was scarce even a hill in comparison with the Welsh mountains, for instance, but the knowledge did not spoil its grandeur for her. She had only been to the top once—with its treacherous marshes and shakily balanced granite boulders, it was not considered a walk fit for a female—yet she remembered how she had breathlessly reached the topmost stone, had sat down to weep, and had been captured by the sight of mile after mile of rolling moor fading in the far west to a twinkle that she knew to be the sea. How distant and unreachable it had seemed! She had been nine then, barely out of the nursery, and that had been the day her mother died.

Oh dear, she thought guiltily, I am indulging myself again. Walter did not believe in dwelling on sad memories, and as his betrothed she must strive to set her mind on improving the present. And it could certainly be improved. She looked distastefully at the tumbled stone walls which lined the weed-grown cart track. When her father was alive, his tenants had put up with a deal of neglect, but it was Godfrey who had ceased to repair the walls. With no way to enclose their sheep, all but one of the tenants had packed their bags and move to greener pastures.

Ruth wondered if she should visit the one remaining inhabited farm. She knew it was only her old nurse's loyalty that kept the Penallens from leaving. Young Davy did not dare to cross his mother, but he bitterly resented staying, and she felt guilty every time she went near the place. Of course, she felt equally guilty if she stayed away—and Annie Penallen was the only person who ever cheered her up. It was not far out of her way.

As she turned up the sheep track that led to the farm, there was a clatter of hooves behind her, and Will cantered by on the pony. Was he off to Launceston again?

Young Davy, aged forty, met her at the entrance to the farmyard.

"Morning, my lady," he greeted her jovially. "Th'owld 'oman'll be happy to zee you." Noting her surprise, he laughed and waved his arm at a wagon in the yard, which was being loaded with household goods by a pair of perspiring youths. "Us be leaving at last. Yer brother's done throw us out, the best thing nor he ever done for us. Her's within."

He swung the gate open and bowed her through. The boys, grinning bashfully, touched their forelocks as she made her way into the neat but dilapidated cottage.

"Annie," she cried, "is it true you're going?"

"Tis, indeedy," confirmed her nurse grimly. "Zairy, take yer head out o' thet chest a minute and pop on the kettle. Ye'll take a drop o' tea, dearie? I was niver so flambustigated in me life as when Young Davy tell me what his lordship said. Us be a bit late wi' rent, but then he niver put a penny in the land, no more nor yer pa, God rest his zoul, and he'll not be finding another fool to take his farm. It's sorry I'll be to leave you, dearie, only ye'll be a-wed to the Reverend and out o' this place in two shakes of a lamb's tail, and ye won't be needing owld Annie no more."

"Annie, I shall always need you! Where are you going?"

"Us be off to furrin parts. My young boy Ted, Davy's brother, is in a good way o' business over to Plymouth, bin at us ferever to join him. Don't 'e cry, dearie. Yer Mr Vane'll take care o' you, ye'll zee, and ye'll not miss a zilly owld 'oman. Nor Hell nor High Water could of tore me away ifn it'd meant leaving you ter thet man. Now drink yer tea, lovie, and cheer up."

Ruth forced herself to composure.

"Thank you, Sarah," she said to Young Davy's wife. "I expect the boys are excited to be travelling?"

"That they be, my lady," answered the woman decidedly, "as be us all." A baleful look from her mother-in-law silenced her.

Suddenly Ruth felt suffocated in the narrow room. She finished her tea hurriedly, kissed and hugged her deserting ally in silence, and stepped through the open door.

"Little snip of a thing!" Sarah's words followed her. "All these years ..."

Inexplicably her heart lightened as she walked on. Annie was right. Walter loved her and would take care of her, and if she could not love him, she could respect him and help in his life's work. She was no "little snip" to him.

******************

The sun shone bright on late-flowering heather and golden gorse, and invisible in the blue depths above her, a lark sang. The world was bright and full of hope. The last mile to St Teath vanished beneath her feet.

Walter Vane was in the vestry of the little granite church. The village of St Teath was too small to rate a full-time vicar, even had Lord Penderric been willing to support one, so he came weekly from Camelford to minister to the spiritual needs of the parishioners. Those needs seemed to be few, for he had managed during his visits to get to know Lady Ruth well enough to propose to her; he rarely spent less than two or three hours in her company before riding back to his snug lodgings.

As he watched his beloved enter the church, Mr Vane thought to himself, not for the first time, that it was a pity that she had not more "presence." That was how he put it to himself, for it would have been highly unseemly in a man of God to wish for a pretty wife, and being somewhat below middle height himself, he could not bemoan her lack of inches.

Originally attracted to her by pity, Mr Vane had found himself regarded as a fount of knowledge, an epitome of the Christian virtues. Ruth had had few acquaintances with whom to compare him, and with those he could not but compare favorably. She was, besides, simply grateful for his kindly interest, a trait she had not met with, except in the untutored and uncritical Annie, since her mother's death.

It cannot be said that Mr Vane was unaware of the material advantages of marriage with the daughter of an earl, who would moreover bring a dowry of ten thousand pounds. Such considerations, he was sure, would not have influenced him had he not felt a sincere devotion to her. However, it was gratifying to reflect that "to him that hath shall be given," as the Scriptures put it. A curate with four hundred a year and a wife of noble birth might expect to be invited to spread his ministry beyond the obscure Cornish villages, and Mr Vane was ready to heed the call.

Beaming with satisfaction and delight, Mr Vane welcomed¹ his betrothed with a chaste kiss upon the fingertips.

"My dear, you are looking remarkably well," he offered.

"Walter, it is glorious outside. Could we not take a short stroll?"

"What can you be thinking of, Ruth?" he chided gently. "I must be at all times available to my parishioners. I could not possibly justify leaving the church until it is time for luncheon."

"But Walter, we so rarely have days like this at this time of year. Only for half an hour, I beg of you. It is chilly in here."

"You must allow me to know best, my dear. Let me place my cloak about your shoulders, and you will feel warmer. Come now, is not that better?"

"Thank you," she said submissively. He was her only anchor; she was suddenly terrified of giving offence.

In spite of her capitulation, Mr Vane thought it well to read her a brief homily on duty and obedience, laying-particular stress on the hierarchy of parents, husband, king, and God—all of whom were owed both obligations. Ruth suppressed her rebellious mood and listened in patience.

They then discussed the books he had lent her on his last visit. His comments were as always judicious, weighty, and carefully considered, and if his views were uniformly conservative, Ruth was unfamiliar with any others. Even so, she was beginning to be a little irked by his pedantic condescension, though she was not certain what was causing her restlessness, when he pulled out his silver watch.

"Why, my dear Ruth," he said with a deprecatory smile, "our debate has been so interesting that we have quite passed the usual hour of our mutual repast. Should you wish, my love, to cat al fresco? I confess myself unable to see the harm in an occasional indulgence of the sort?"

Touched by his solicitude, Ruth eagerly agreed.

"There is a bench outside the inn that I have often thought appears exceptionally comfortable," she proposed.

"Lady Ruth!" he exclaimed, shocked. "Can I believe my ears? It must be considered totally ineligible for a gently bred female to be seen in the vicinity of a common alehouse. Do not I always letch our modest meal to you? Only the most absolute ignorance of the world can excuse such a proposal!"

Cowed, Ruth waited for him in the church porch, and they sat in its shade, almost as chill as the interior, to consume their bread and cheese and cider.

Even so, it was a pleasanter meal than she would have had at home. Mr Vane forgave her faux pas and discoursed knowledgeably on the ways of the Fashionable World and the sights of London, with both of which he had an admittedly meagre acquaintance. She ventured to ask a question or two about his travels to the Lake District and the Welsh Mountains, and was rewarded with a promise that they should take a bridal trip "at least into Gloucestershire," where he had relatives they might stay with.

"It is indeed a pity," he continued severely, "that his lordship, your brother, has not seen fit to keep in touch with the other branches of your own family."

"My uncle writes every Christmas," pointed out Ruth. "Indeed, I believe he wrote a fortnight since to recommend a young man who is visiting Cornwall. It is evident that he has not been to Penderric Castle for decades or he'd not expect Godfrey to open his doors to a stranger," she added with asperity, and then dejectedly, "When I turned eighteen he offered to accommodate me for a season in London, but papa did not think the expense justifiable."

While they were talking, clouds had approached from the west. Meeting higher ground, they enveloped it in a heavy fog. Ruth jumped up in alarm.

"Walter, I must hurry home before the mist grows any thicker. The track is well marked, but it is near an hour's walk."

"You shall ride Dapple, my dear, and I will lead him. You cannot go alone in this."

"But I have not ridden a horse in ten years."

"He is a quiet pony, you will come to no harm. I shall then return here and claim a bed from one of my flock. I'll not be expected in Camelford in this weather. Come, Ruth."

The moorland track seemed sinister in the all-pervading mist, and Ruth noticed that her betrothed, walking ahead, started visibly every time a sheep bleated or a pile of granite boulders loomed suddenly beside them. They reached the point, not a mile from the castle, where the track branched left toward Brown Willy.

"Walter," called Ruth, "you must go back now. I am almost home now, and you might easily miss your way here if you come farther."

"If you are quite sure," he agreed, stepping back to her, "I daresay it would be wise. Keep my cloak, my dear. Your dress is very thin, and your pelisse not much thicker."

"Thank you, you are very kind. It was so warm when I set out, but you'd think I would know the weather's tricks by now. It was foolish of me."

Mr Vane helped her down from Dapple's sturdy back, mounted in her place, and set off with a wave. Warmed by his consideration as much as by his cloak, Ruth watched him out of sight, then turned to her own upward path.

The fog was patchy now and blowing around her. The track was clear in front for fifty feet, while to either side she could scarcely see the crumbling walls. Five minutes' walk brought a group of ancient menhirs looming on her right, then the damp greyness closed in all about her.

A stone clattered behind her as though beneath a hurrying foot. Telling herself not to be silly, Ruth swung round nervously and peered into the mists.

A heavy cloth descended suddenly over her head and strong arms grasped her roughly about the waist. Struggling for breath, she kicked as hard as she was able. There was a grunt.

"Her been't no bigger nor a minnow, but a game one zhure enough," said a muffled voice. "Us'd better put her out or her'll cause problems."

"Not too hard then," cautioned another voice, which seemed to advance and recede in a most curious fashion. "Her be gentry, not zome thick-skulled tavern wench."

Head whirling, Ruth wanted to explain that she did not intend to cause problems, she simply wished to breathe. An unseen cudgel fell, her mind exploded, and she sank into merciful darkness.

_{Chapter 2}

Mr. Oliver Pardoe awoke in near darkness and wondered where he was. The tiny room he lay in was unfamiliar, and his feet were icy where they stuck out of the bedclothes, a not uncommon occurrence for a gentleman of six foot two.

There was a clatter outside the window, and a woman's voice shouted, "Jerry! Jerry! Ye'll miss tide if ye don't run, boy! Grab a pasty and git!"

"Aw, ma," replied a sleepy voice, and the cobbles resounded to Jerry's heavy-footed departure.

Oliver smiled drowsily and curled up under his quilt. Port Isaac. He had arrived very late last night after losing his way thoroughly in those interminable, high-hedged Cornish lanes. This was Robert Polgarth's chamber, and doubtless Bob was attempting to snooze on the ancient sofa in the room below.

Silence had descended on Dolphin Street once more, though distant sounds could be heard from the harbour. Oliver tried to return to his dreams, but the urge to be up and doing gained the upper hand when he heard his host's aunt moving in the next room.

A shuddering splash with water from the rose-painted ewer on the washstand, and he threw on his clothes. He looked doubtfully at his boots, which had visibly suffered from four days of travel. Having no idea how to remedy the damage, he pulled them on. Bob would certainly never notice the state of his blacking; nor was Mr Richard Trevithick, the engineer he was going to see today, likely to cavil at less than glossy footwear.

Opening the door onto the minuscule landing, he came face to face with a tall, elderly, bespectacled woman, draped in miles of blue woollen shawl. She inclined her head regally.

"Good morning, Mr Pardoe, and welcome to Cornwall. I am Auntie."

"Good morning, ma'am. I am happy to make your acquaintance."

"Not ma'am, not-ma'am!" said the old lady sharply. "I am Auntie, young man. Surely at eighty-five I can choose what I wish to be called? How can I possibly request assistance of a personal nature from a gentleman who 'ma'am's' me?"

"I beg your pardon, Auntie," replied Oliver-, his sleepy blue eyes lighting with amusement. "Pray inform me in what manner I may assist you."

"I cannot think how it comes about but my shawl is pinning my arms to my sides. If you would be so kind, sir, as to hold one end, I shall turn myself about until I am free."

"Auntie, I cannot possibly render such a personal service to a lady who 'sir's' me." The words were accompanied by a wicked twinkle. "My name is Oliver."

"Hoist by my own petard," sighed Auntie. "Oliver, dear boy, be so good as to untangle me from the embrace of this pythonine garment."

Chin in hand, he studied the situation.

"I fear this will be an engineering problem of no small complexity," he confessed. "I cannot find an end. Will you step into my chamber? The light is better and there is slightly more space."

"I'll wager you say that to all the girls, and not many refuse you, eh? Good-looking young fellow, though a trifle oversized. I always fancied a blond."

In spite of himself, Oliver blushed.

"My father calls me a galumphing clodhopper," he offered, "and at Cambridge I was known as 'Elephant.'"

"And what does your sweetheart call you, dear boy? Well? Are you going to deliver me from durance vile?"

With considerable difficulty, he extricated the old lady from her wrappings.

"That's better," she said, eyeing the blue monster with dislike. "I think I shall give it to Martha. It will make her a gown and a cloak to match, I daresay. Wherever did I come by it? Shall we have breakfast? I declare I am quite famished after that struggle."

Oliver admitted to a certain emptiness in his middle region, and in perfect amity they descended the narrow stair.

A folding table had taken its place in the centre of the small, square room, and delightful odours were issuing from the minute kitchen to the rear. Martha had arrived, it seemed. Kedgeree, fresh baps, and homemade marmalade made their appearance, and silence reigned as three hearty appetites set to.

Bob Polgarth finished first, having less bulk to keep up. A small taciturn man, he had greeted his friend and his aunt with a nod; now he spoke.

"Don't want to rush you, Oliver, but ye've a long way to go. Tis a full day's drive to Camborne though 'tis only thirty-five miles by balloon. And after yesterday, you know our Cornish lanes."

"I do indeed," said Oliver, grinning, "and I am not at all surprised that you are a flying enthusiast. I think myself that Mr Macadam's improved roads are the answer, though ballooning is certainly more exciting. My father does not object to investing in it to a small extent. I'll discuss that with you and look over your equipment on my return. There is no hurry, is there? The voyage is planned for the spring? Trevithick expects me today, you know."

"Nay, no hurry. How did you come to meet Richard?"

"It was at Manchester, shortly after you left. Sooner or later one meets everyone at Dalton's lectures, if not at Davy's. My father has asked me whether he should put his money on Trevithick's engines or Stephenson's, and he is in a hurry, so I am sent down to your western wilds to consult the great man at home. Very convenient since I am able to visit you and to make the acquaintance of your charming Auntie." He winked at her, and she lowered her lashes coquettishly behind an imaginary fan.

"You said you're going to visit Penderric Castle?" asked Bob. "I'm amazed you have acquaintance there."

"I've none, indeed. The maternal uncle of the present earl is a good friend of my father, and having received no news in some time, he begged me to call and report on the well-being of his nieces. He is not much concerned, I think, with his lordship."

"And a good thing; too," declared Auntie roundly. "A miserly rogue, as bad as his papa or worse. Fit for Bedlam, some say. The elder girl is a little brown thing, engaged to that funny little curate from Camelford. I believe the younger is a pretty child, though she is seldom seen."

"Castle's said to be crumbling away," added Bob. "Don't go near it if you are not obliged to."

"I daresay I should drop by, for Sir John particularly requested it and informed Lord Penderric of my itinerary. In fact, he apologised to me for using my father's wealth as an inducement to his lordship to receive me! However, it can wait until I come back. Auntie, I must be on my way. You'll give me a kiss to wish me safe journey and safe return?"

"Rogue!" she beamed, as he planted a smacker on her upturned cheek.

The night before, he had left his curricle at an inn on the outskirts of the village, and a boy had led him through a dark maze of alleys, passageways, and stone stairs to his friend's cottage. The sun shone as Bob led him back.

"What a rabbit warren," Oliver complained.

"Aye," agreed Bob, "Only the one road, down one hill to the harbor, then back up t'other side. Valley's so narrow and steep I suppose this was the easiest way to build."

"It's attractive, if inconvenient," Oliver replied. The sun reflected warmly from the rows of whitewashed stone cottages; nooks and crannies everywhere still glowed with marigolds and pansies in this southernmost corner of the realm. A series of steps led them to a height whence they could look down over the harbour with its fishing boats.

"The mackerel boats go out as the lobster men come in," explained Bob.

"And the smugglers?" queried Oliver.

"Doing badly since the war ended and brandy is imported legally. Not worth their while bringing it round here, adding to the cost, when Kent and Sussex are so close to France."

"I suppose now it's available, most people prefer it legal even if it costs more. Also, I think some ex-Navy ships and men have been transferred to the Excise. Pity. Cornwall is a romantic setting for the Gentlemen, more so than the Sussex marshes, if less practical."

"Nothing romantic about it," grunted Bob. "Dangerous men and not averse to a bit of wrecking when times are slow. Preventives are always welcome in my house."

They walked on.

"Should've warned you about Auntie," said Bob abruptly. "Whole village thinks she's mad as Penderric. All worship her, though. Always a helping hand."

"A little eccentric, perhaps, but I liked her enormously," Oliver assured him. "Is she really eighty-five?"

"I think so." He grinned suddenly. "She took a fancy to you, dear boy. She's always on the look-out for a new beau."

"I'm flattered."

******************

At the Scrimshaw Inn, a pair of unattractive horses were set to Oliver's curricle. Looking at the long, steep hill ahead, he hoped they would reach the top in a condition to take him as far as Wadebridge and the nearest post-house. He made his adieux and set off.

In the end he walked most of the hill to save his team. With only the light curricle behind them they attained the summit in reasonable shape. Oliver was glad to see that the road was not buried between high walls and hedges. There was close-cropped turf on each side, with patches of heather and furze and occasional sheets of rock. Sheep wandered everywhere, moving off the track with a frightened scuttle or dreamy slowness as he approached.

He soon realised that the apparently open road was misleading. Every few hundred yards it was blocked by a gate, where a wall crossed it at right angles. He had to jump down, open the gate, lead the horses through, and beg them to stand still while he ran back to close it. Fortunately, they showed no disposition to leave without him. In fact, at the fifth gate he forgot to close it and tried to urge them on only to find that they refused to budge an inch until they heard it click behind them. He wondered what could have possessed him to leave home without his groom.

At the seventh or eighth stop (he had lost count by then), there were a few stunted trees leaning rheumatically away from the onshore winds and sheltering a stone trough. Oliver was feeling hot and sticky, so before tackling the gate he went to splash his face with the clear water. The horses' whickered nervously, and he looked up to see a villainously mustachioed man jump over the wall and run to their heads, followed in short order by four more. Three bore cudgels and the fourth a horse-pistol, which he waved threateningly as they advanced on Oliver.

Oliver's pistols were, of course, in the curricle.

"Be you Oliver Pardoe?" the man with the gun demanded.

"What's it to you?" he countered, startled.

The leader looked somewhat taken aback.

"Well, be you?" he persisted. Oliver was silent. Only one of the ruffians was near him in size, but their advantages were all too obvious. "The cap'n zignalled," the man said dubiously to his colleagues. Then he appeared to make up his mind. "Ye'll have to come along o' us."

"I cannot prevent you from taking my money," said Oliver with outward calm, "but I do not see why you want my company."

"Niver you mind," growled the leader. He motioned, and two of the others closed in on either side.

Oliver was not easily provoked to violence, and in this case it seemed useless anyway. Yet he could not tamely submit to being abducted by these rogues. He fought.

He fought well. Two of his assailants went down, and the man by the horses was coming to the aid of the remaining pair when a cudgel met the back of his head and he sank to the ground.

"Handy with his dukes!" was the last thing he heard.

_{Chapter 3}

Oliver Awoke In near darkness and wondered where he was. His bed seemed excessively hard, and his head was so painful that he shut his eyes again quickly before catching more than an impression of gloom.

He groaned.

Miraculously, a gentle hand descended on his brow.

"Are you awake?" asked a soft, feminine voice anxiously.

"I think so," he replied with extreme caution.

The owner of the voice burst into tears.

"I was afraid you were dead," she sobbed. "You haven't moved since those dreadful men brought you here."

Memory began to return.

"How long ago was that? Where the devil are we? And who are you?" He opened his eyes. Rough, rocky walls stretched into the darkness, dimly illuminated by an oil lamp hanging some fifteen feet distant. His head warned him not to sit up.

The sobs had already subsided to an occasional sniff.

"I think it was just one tide ago, but I cannot be sure for I sometimes fall asleep. We are in a cave, I don't know where. And I am Ruth Penderric. Who are you?"

"Oliver Pardoe, Miss Penderric. Next question: Who are those men? Why did they bring us here?"

"They are smugglers, and they want ransom for us," answered Ruth with valiant composure.

"Miss Penderric, I must congratulate you on the clarity of your responses under these trying conditions. Wait a bit . . . Pen'derric . . . Lady Ruth!" Ignoring his splitting head, he raised himself to look at her. In the flickering lamplight little was visible but a pair of frightened dark eyes in a pale face.

He reached out and took her hand. As he moved there was a metallic clank and a tug on his ankle.

"You are chained to the wall," said Ruth, "like me. There's no way out." She clung to his hand, and he became aware that she was shivering. "I saved you some bread and water. Not very hospitable, I fear, but it's all there is. Would you like it now?"

"In a moment," he replied absently. "My lady, you mentioned the tide. Surely it does not enter this cave?"

"No, there is another cave below here that is quite filled up at high tide." She paused, then faltered, "If my brother does not pay my ransom soon, they will put me down there to drown, they said."

Oliver took the slight figure in his arms and held her until she stopped shaking, murmuring reassurance.

"Things look bad," he admitted, "but don't be afraid. I shall find a way to escape. Trust me." He was far from believing his own words.

Ruth laughed tremulously.

"You are so very large that it is easy to have confidence in you."

She freed herself from his arms but remained close to him. How thin she was! Oliver resolved to ignore the gaping pit beneath his waistband. When she pulled from a cranny in the rock a hunk of stale bread, wrapped carefully in a scrap of cloth, he shook his head.

"I am not hungry. You must eat, my lady, to keep up your strength for our escape."

"Pray call me Ruth, sir. I cannot feel that this is a moment to stand upon ceremony."

"Ruth, then. Eat. And I am Oliver." Again he spoke absently. I n spite of his lack of hope, he must investigate his surroundings and not tamely await his fate. Remembering his last attempt at resistance, he fingered the lump on his head. It was sore, but the sickening pain was gone.

His companion in misfortune was nibbling on the bread. The chain running from her ankle to the wall was easier for him to reach than his own, so he started examining it. In this damp, salt-laden air, it might well be rusted through.

He was to be disappointed. The links were bright, apparently newly forged. It was locked securely at one end onto one of the daintiest ankles of his acquaintance, and at the other to a huge ring that had obviously been recently mortared to the rock. The mortar was set as hard as stone. He turned his attention to his own chain.

It was as shiny as Ruth's and as firmly attached to his leg. His boots had been removed, he noted with a sigh. Then his eyes brightened as he saw that the ring in the wall showed signs of rust. He studied it closely.

The iron was strong beneath its brown coating. He was turning from it in disappointment when the mortar in which it was set caught his eye. A crack!

"Ruth, look!"—as though she had not watched his every move—"It's hard to see in this light, but there is a great crack in the mortar, and I think a maze of fine cracks, and—yes! It's crumbling at the edges!"

Her lips twitched at the triumph in his voice, even as hope stirred unwillingly in her heart. Joining him, she peered at the spot. The light had dimmed, and she could not see anything clearly. Suddenly the lamp produced a last flare and went out.

Startled, Oliver grasped her arm. In the pitch blackness the sound of their breathing seemed loud, and he could hear the repetitive thunder of waves not far away.

"Never mind," he said grimly, "I can work on it in the dark. Can you find that tin cup you had? It will make a good tool."

"I can find it, but you had better not begin yet. The old man usually comes with food soon after the lamp goes out, and he might notice. Do you really think you can. . . ?"

"I'm sure of it. When mortar begins to crumble like that it has already lost most of its strength. Too much lime in the mix. I am a bit of an engineer," he added in explanation of his technical knowledge.

"Like Mr Trevithick? Walter gave me a pamphlet about his inventions. He called them 'abominations,' but I confess I should like to see the steam engines. Are you an inventor?"

At the mention of Walter, Oliver let go her hand, which he had been holding in a companionable way. Though it all seemed long ago and far away, he rather thought Auntie had mentioned a betrothal.

"Not precisely," he said. "A student and admirer, rather. My father likes to invest in the development of new machines, so 1 have studied the art and know a little about everything. I do have a workshop at home, and I have built a few models for the experts to demolish with a word."

"I wish I could see them. Do you live in London?"

"Yes. My father is a banker and prefers to live close to his offices, though he spends little time there now. Both he and my mother are Londoners born and bred. Come to that, so am I, and Rose, my sister. Only after travelling all over Britain, I have come to believe I should like to live in the country eventually."

"I've never been anywhere," Ruth told him enviously. "Just once to Plymouth when mama was . . . Listen!"

A crash in the distance was followed by several thuds, a voice cursing hoarsely, and another crash.

"There's more than one coming," whispered Ruth. She sought for and found his hand, and his arm crept round her shoulders. "It's not a week; oh, it can't be a week!"

They heard footsteps approaching, and then there was a glimmer of light behind a projecting outcrop. Round it strode the man who had carried the pistol at Oliver's capture, followed by a ragged ancient with a limp.

"Zee, Jem, here they be zafe and zound," the old man whined. Jem cuffed him, and he stumbled away to pour oil into their lamp and relight it.

"Zo, ye woke up at last." Jem sat down his lantern and surveyed them, hands on hips. "Cap'n zays yer pa got the ransom note a'ready and us'll zoon be rich men. But you now, missy— beg pardon, my lady." He swung toward Ruth with a sneer. "Yer miserly brother don't zeem zo keen to have you back. One day more the cap'n'll give him to choose atween his zister and his gold. Then down ye goes."

Ruth could not suppress a shudder. The man leered evilly at her.

"And who knaws but wot us'll have a bit o' fun afore ye goes. Though ye bain't much more nor skin and bones."

Oliver was trembling with fury. Ruth felt the muscles in his arm tense and prayed that he would not attempt any useless gesture of defiance. Her legs had turned to jelly and only his support kept her on her feet, but she was determined not to display her weakness before her contemptuous captor. They stood in silence, looking at him.

The old man tugged at Jem's sleeve.

"Jem, Jem lad, be ye really agoing to drownd the poor young lady? Jem, don't do it. Think on yer poor ma and don't do it."

"I'll do as Cap'n Cleeve zees fit to decide," snarled Jem, "and ye'd best do likewise if ye knaws which zide yer bread is buttered."

"Bain't zeen butter in a year and more," snivelled the decrepit creature. "Here's yer bread, zir."

He shuffled forward and struggled to pull a loaf from a grimy sack. Oliver momentarily considered seizing him as a hostage, but a glance at Jem's face convinced him that it would do no good.

The old man finished his tasks and picked up the lantern. He was muttering inaudibly to himself.

"Till tomorrow, my lady," promised Jem softly, and they departed.

Ruth and Oliver waited until they heard a crash, a pause, and a second crash.

"It's a trap door," said Ruth. "I think I had better sit down."

He took her face in his hands.

"Jem and Captain Cleeve—do not forget those names." Ruth was startled by the intensity of the anger in his eyes. "We'll get away, don't worry, but I'll see them both hang for what they are doing to you, if it takes the rest of my life."

They ate a little bread, drank some water, and then Oliver ruthlessly crushed the tin cup.

"We'll have to drink from the pitcher," he apologised, his usual cheerfulness restored. "I must go to work on that mortar. I want plenty of time to explore before they return. Tell me, do you think the note to your brother went astray?"

"I must think so. They were asking for ten thousand pounds, which is just the amount of my dowry. He could not refuse to pay!"

"Of course not. I expect they will arrive tomorrow loaded with gold and escort you politely home. How happy and relieved your people will be to see you."

"I suppose so. I daresay Godfrey will be in the boughs about the money, but he must have given it to me in the end anyway, when I marry Walter." She trailed off, wondering how she could marry a penniless curate if she were to become equally penniless. Somehow the thought did not worry her. If she escaped her present fate, anything was possible.

Oliver was not anxious to contemplate her future wedded bliss with the unknown Walter.

"You have no father, I know," he interjected hurriedly, scraping meanwhile at the mortar. "What of the rest of your family?"

The few people Ruth knew were all too aware of her family history. She had never been asked about it before and was unsure where to start.

"Well, there's my brother, Godfrey, the sixth earl of Penderric. Godfrey is a year younger than I. My father always wanted his firstborn to be a son. Then there is my sister, Laetitia. She's much younger, six years younger than Godfrey. My dearest mama died in childbirth when I was nine. Papa did not consider it necessary to call a midwife for her fourth confinement.

"I tried to teach Letty after that, but I did not know a great deal. I am a very ignorant person," explained Ruth humbly. "Walter was astonished at my lack of learning, and he has lent me many books."

"What sort of man was your father?" asked Oliver, irritated by the reappearance of Walter's name.

"Godfrey is very like him. They both spoiled Letty dreadfully. They always let her have her own way, but they would not spend any money on her."

Ruth took for granted her listener's knowledge of her family's miserly reputation. "After mama died, papa began to act very strangely, and then four years ago, when I was twenty-one, he. . . . Maybe I should not tell you, but everyone knows it. He rode his horse off a cliff."

"My poor dear!" Oliver dropped his makeshift tool and came to kneel beside her. "You must not tell me things that distress you, Ruth."

She smiled up at him.

"You know, now that I've told you, it does not seem so very dreadful after all. He was ... he was never very kind to me, and it may shock you, but I did not mourn him at all. The country people were more surprised that he rode all the way to Strangles to do it than that he had done away with himself."

"I expect he found the name appropriate. Is there really such a place?"

"Oh, yes. It is just a cove with steep cliffs, north of Boscastle. There is nothing there."

Seeing that she was perfectly composed, Oliver went back to chipping at the mortar. It was falling away in chunks, and though the ring was still firmly fixed he knew it would not take long to free it.

He was appalled by her revelations, as much by what was unspoken as by what she had said. Her mother must have been an amazing woman to have fixed her daughter's character so firmly in early youth. After fifteen years of misery and isolation, Ruth was still a captivating young woman. What had persuaded the sister of Sir John Hadrick to marry the late Lord Penderric? Of course, women often did choose to wed the queerest fish.

Ruth was lost in reverie. He hoped she was not dreaming of Walter.

The iron ring came loose and dropped to the ground with a clang. Ruth jumped.

"I've done it!" crowed Oliver. He whirled the chain in his hand. "And this ring will make a pretty fair weapon."

Ruth looked up at him with vicarious pride. He seemed a very tower of strength, and she felt she would trust him to the ends of the earth.

"You must go," she urged. "Go quickly and get help."

"I'm not at all sure that is the best plan," he said thoughtfully. "Even if I can get out, I have no idea where we are, or which direction to take. Besides, I do not want to leave you alone here."

"Suppose five or six men come next time. Or more. Even you could not take on so many at once, Oliver."

"I'll go and explore," he compromised. "I shall have to do that in any case. I hate to leave you in the dark, but I shall be as quick as I can."

He draped the chain over his arm, picked up the lamp, and set off toward the exit, clanking at every step. Ruth watched him go. In the dark, freedom seemed as far away as ever.

Around the corner from which the men had emerged, Oliver found a narrow passage leading upward. After a few yards, it veered right and began to climb steeply. The floor was uneven and littered with loose rocks, and he cursed as he stubbed his stockinged toes, wishing for his boots. At last he came to a blank wall.

Remembering Ruth's words, he looked up. A trapdoor was clearly outlined in the ceiling, some three feet beyond his outstretched fingertips. Undeterred, he retraced his route.

"Nothing that way," he announced cheerfully as he passed Ruth.

He went on down the sandy, sloping floor of the cave, then paused, held the lamp high, and whistled.

"Brandy!" he called back. "Twenty, maybe thirty kegs. And lots of boxes and chests. Aha! My boots!"

Sitting on the nearest chest, he pulled them to him, then realised that he could not put on the left one over the chain. With a sigh, he decided that no boots was preferable to one hoot. His feet were cold.

He looked around. The barrels were about two feet high. If he could carry two of them to the trapdoor, he would be able to reach it easily. Turning one on its side, he picked it up, surprised at its weight. He could manage it, but it took both hands, and he would have to abandon the lamp. Setting the barrel down again, he decided to roll it one-handed up the incline. It moved easily and sloshed with a pleasantly suggestive sound.

He stopped when he reached Ruth, who had stood up to see what he was doing, and explained his idea.

"I had thought of knocking the top off one of them and helping ourselves to a warming cupful, but if we have to wait for our kidnappers they might smell it and be warned."

"I don't think I could drink brandy anyway," said Ruth dubiously. "I've never had anything stronger than cider, and if I was foxed, I fear I would not be of much assistance."

"Depends if you're drunk as a wheelbarrow or merely bosky. What do you think makes the Scots and Irish so belligerent?"

"Whisky? Oh, you are bamming me, aren't you?" she asked uncertainly. Quite unused to being teased, she was at a loss how to react. She continued, "Is it not difficult to move that with one hand? I wish I might hold the lantern for you."

"If wishes were horses I'd not have this chain on my leg," he grimaced. "Well, on with the job."

The corridor proved more difficult to negotiate. In the end he set the lamp on a knob of rock at the bend and carried the barrel. Then he went back for a second and balanced it on top. For a moment he thought he would have to fetch a third, for a step. Rubbing his aching back with a groan, he tried one last effort. The weight of the kegs made his structure fairly stable, and at last he found himself within reach of the trapdoor.

It was immovable.

Back went the barrels to their storage place. As he swept the sand with his coat to remove the marks he had made, there was a thunderous boom behind him. He jumped a mile, then saw Ruth laughing at him. She had been alarmingly wan and subdued for some minutes so he was glad, even though her amusement was at his expense.

"It's the sea in the bottom cave," she explained. "The first few waves to enter as the tide rises always do that. It terrified me at first, too."

"I thought one of the barrels had exploded," he confessed sheepishly, "or some hidden store of powder. Bother. I was going to explore that cave next."

"There is no way out, even by boat, they said. This is just an emergency storage place."

"I'll just take a look. I am sorry, but I must leave you in the dark again."

She smiled her acceptance of his apology. "Please take care."

It took Oliver several minutes to find the way. A side passage sloped down steeply until it became a vertical shaft. Peering down it, he saw that it was too narrow for him to pass. Then a shock of salt spray wet his face, and he realised it was too late anyway. High tide. Would they come for Ruth on the next ebb?

_{Chapter 4}

"There’s No Escape that way at present," Oliver confirmed, returning to Ruth. "Don't despair, I have a plan, and I never intended to leave you anyway."

He explained his plan and went over just what he wanted Ruth to do. So positive and convincing was he that without much difficulty she was able to banish doubt and foreboding.

He had brought the lamp close to the place where she was chained, and in its glimmering light she watched his face. In repose it was sleepy, good-natured, and a little foolish, but when intent or enthusiastic, it lit up, and the intelligence behind those heavy lids became plain. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a particularly attractive way. Ruth thought him in his late twenties, perhaps thirty. With an unexpected pang, she wondered if he was married and cast her mind back over their previous conversation. Did he not live still in his father's house? He had not mentioned a wife, certainly. Not that it concerned her. His behaviour was that of an affectionate and solicitous brother, and besides, she was betrothed to Walter.

For his part, Oliver was shocked by her emaciation. She must have been thin even before a week of eating nothing but bread and water, he thought, and now she appeared on the point of starvation. How she could keep her spirits up in such a condition was a mystery to him. Her strength of spirit shone through her pinched face, but he must doubt whether her physical strength would be of any assistance in their escape. How fortunate that he was strong enough for two! He would easily be able to carry her.

The next few hours seemed endless. Oliver talked about his family, his childhood, his work, the places he had been, and the people he had met. Ruth knew he was trying to distract her thoughts from the coming confrontation with their kidnappers. She valiantly played her part, posing questions and offering comments. She found his stories fascinating, a glimpse into an unknown world, and did not have to pretend interest, though now and then the sucking roar of a wave withdrawing from the cave below made her shudder involuntarily. Would the next ebb tide carry her limp and lifeless body?

Periodically Oliver would pace around their prison to loosen his cramped muscles. He made Ruth exercise a little on the end of her chain, just to set the blood flowing, he said. Then he would stand still and swing his own chain, getting the feel of its length and weight, and the way it interfered with his movements.

"I could make a fair cudgel with some of that stuff," he told her, waving at the smugglers' treasure trove, "but this would still get in my way. It'd probably tie my ankles together at quite the wrong moment. Besides, now I have the hang of it I think it will wreak far more destruction, and they will not know how to counter it, I hope. It is not a commonplace weapon."

At last the sound of the waves retreated to a muted thunder. Oliver returned the lamp to its usual place and arranged himself so that a casual glance would show him still firmly attached to the rocky wall. Close inspection might lead to premature discovery, but he hoped the villains would be intent on their nefarious designs toward Ruth.

He took her hand in a comforting clasp, and they sat in tense silence. The lamp was flickering, and Ruth was beginning to think her ordeal must be planned for the following low tide, when they heard the distant crash of the trapdoor opening.

Ruth strained her ears.

"There are several," she whispered, "but I think not more than four. Oliver . . ."

Her grasp on his hand was convulsive. He hugged her gently and kissed her forehead.

"Be brave."

The heavy tread approached. Jem appeared, followed by two of the men who had helped capture Oliver. There was a brief pause, and Ruth held her breath; then the decrepit ancient tottered in. Four. And one of them, she hoped, incompetent.

Jem surveyed the two of them with grim satisfaction.

"Time's up, my lady. Nary a penny from thet clutch-fisted brother o' yourn. And you," he turned to Oliver, "when us be done wi' her, ye can write a nice letter home telling what comes to them as don't raise the ready."

He took a key from his pocket, handed it to one of his ruffians, and pulled a pistol from his belt. The two smugglers started toward Ruth.

She could tell that despite his resolve to keep calm, Oliver's wrath was only partly feigned and his threatening move was only partly acting.

"Freeze, you, or I'll zend a bullet through yer lady friend's belly," came Jem's harsh voice. The pistol pointed unwaveringly at her.

She put her hand on Oliver's arm and stood with quiet dignity as rough hands unlocked the ring from her ankle. He sank to the ground in apparent despair as they dragged her beyond his reach and down the sandy slope away from him. Face sunk in his hands, he watched between his fingers as they reached the cleft in the rock wall. Jem was following them.

"Oliver!"

Ruth's despairing cry reached him right on cue. He rose to his feet and began to curse Jem, insulting his ancestry and manhood in a way that would have roused a saint. Jem returned toward him, his face suffused with fury.

Oliver erupted, chain whirling. The smugglers' leader, aghast, had time for one shot before the heavy iron ring caught him on the forehead and he went down with a cry. The bullet grazed Oliver's shoulder and ricocheted among the rocks behind him.

The old man, cowering by the lamp he had been filling, presented no threat. As Oliver turned to him, he gave a feeble shriek and scuttled down the cave to hide among the barrels and chests. However, one of the others had abandoned Ruth and was returning at a lumbering run, cudgel waving.

It was the larger of the two, almost as tall as Oliver, and burly. He parried the swing of the chain with his heavy stick and closed in to fight.

Ruth saw that Oliver was holding his own, and turned back into the passageway. As they had hoped, one of her escort had lowered himself into the hole before Oliver had been forced to attack Jem. Now he was desperately trying to haul himself out. With great satisfaction she stamped on his fingers, then thrust at his head with her foot. He fell back with a shout and there was a thud below.

Anxiously she hurried back to the fight.

The struggling pair was on the ground, the smuggler uppermost. Ruth could not see that Oliver had him in a stranglehold, eyes popping, mouth gaping. She picked up the earthen pitcher and hit him as hard as she could on the back of the head. He collapsed.

Oliver extricated himself, stood up, and brushed himself off.

"Thank you," he said.

"I kicked the other one down into the lower cave," Ruth told him proudly, "but he may climb out." Then she fainted in his arms.

Laying her tenderly on the sand, Oliver went to investigate. He was as proud of himself as of her, never having been one for a brawl.

There were scrabbling sounds from the bottom of the hole and a frightened voice called:

"What's agoin' on? Jem! Shorty! He'p me!"

"Your friends are . . . ah . . . out of commission," Oliver informed him pleasantly. "Do you wish to come up and try conclusions with me?"

"Nay, niver, zo he'p me! I think I breaked me leg," whined the appalled rogue. "He'p me, zir, and I'll be yer zarvint fer life. They made me do it, honest they did."

"I expect you will manage to climb up before the sea returns. Try hard!" Oliver urged. "I confess I am far from interested in your fate. Goodbye."

Ruth was alert when he returned. She had possessed herself of Jem's pistol and was sitting against the wall, aiming it gingerly in the general direction of the two motionless bodies. Oliver gave her an encouraging grin and examined his erstwhile opponents. Then he collected the old man's sack and sat down beside her. He took the pistol.

"I wish I could shoot them both," he said regretfully. "However, I find I have not the stomach to kill them in cold blood. The other fellow has broke his leg and will not trouble us. Ruth, you were quite magnificent. Here, eat as much bread as you can while I check our escape route."

Her heart too full for words, Ruth tried to put into her gaze all her admiration and gratitude. Beneath its intensity, Oliver blushed.

"Here." He pushed the half loaf into her hands and stood up. As he strode off, chain clanking, she smiled to herself.

"Oliver!" He turned. "The key!"

She threw it to him and in a moment he was freed. He disappeared round the corner.

Ruth forced herself to swallow a few morsels. Now that she could relax, every bone in her body ached and she felt slightly dizzy. She was determined not to be a burden, but she hoped fervently that the way out would not prove difficult.

Oliver came back, found his boots, and put them on.

"The trapdoor is open, and there is a ladder," he reported cheerfully. He regarded his victims. The big man was beginning to stir. "I'd best chain this one," he decided. "Friend Jem will be out for a while yet but we don't want Shorty coming after us. His head must be solid bone."

He dragged the dead weight over to Ruth's chain, and there was a satisfying click as the fetter closed.

Ruth put the remains of the bread in her pocket and went to join him. Each carrying a lamp, they set off.

The trapdoor opened into another cave. Ruth went to explore while Oliver pulled up the ladder and closed the door. He rolled a heavy boulder onto it. The present inhabitants of the lower caves would have to await their friends or the Law, he hoped.

"This cave opens about thirty feet above a beach," Ruth called. "There's a sort of path down. I don't see any way out of the cove. It is half light and misty. I think it must be near dawn."

With some scrambling, they reached the beach. Ruth scanned the towering cliff for a path, while Oliver made his way over jumbled rocks to the far side of the small cove. The tide was low, but waves were breaking fiercely around the base of the headland, and there was no passage. On the side where they had emerged he could see, dimly through the mists, a dark hole just above the waterline. The entrance to the lowest cave.

Seaweed growing up the bottom few feet of the cliffs on the landward end of the cove showed that it was filled at high tide. There was no path leading up.

"They must have come by boat," Ruth said. "Only I don't see any sign of one."

"I expect they hid it thoroughly from both the sea and above. In this fog and with all these rocks, we could search forever, and the tide must be on the turn."

Once more, they scrutinised the precipice. It was close to vertical, but there were plenty of handholds and footholds. On one side, a steep slope of grass swung down about a third of the way.

"I think there is a ledge leading up to the turf—over there." Ruth pointed uncertainly. "If we could get to that . . ."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We've looked before we leap and no one could say we are crossing a bridge before we come to it. Up you go." With a crooked, reassuring grin, he lifted her fragile form as high as he could.

Ruth found a toehold and a crack for her fingers, and started climbing. It was not much harder, she discovered, than climbing a ladder, but what a long ladder! Soon her arms and legs were trembling with fatigue, her hands numb with cold.

"To your left!" shouted Oliver. "Keep going! Just a few more yards."

Her arms felt like lead. Without his encouragement she could not have moved another inch. At last she pulled herself onto the ledge and lay breathless, heart pounding.

"I'm on my way," Oliver called.

He was stronger, but he was heavier, his feet and fingers bigger. Cracks and knobs that had sufficed for Ruth were quite inadequate to support him, and several times he had to make detours around blank rock faces that she had somehow scaled. Once a projection crumbled as he put his weight on it, and Ruth, watching from above, held her breath as he dangled over the void. Reaching with cautious desperation, he managed to find a seam wide enough for his toes, and the agonising climb continued. An endless time later, he swung up beside her.

From there the narrow ledge ran smoothly upwards. After a brief rest, they started off again. The going was comparatively easy but Ruth was rapidly losing her last shreds of strength. They came to a place where the ledge had broken away, and they would have to clamber around a wide fissure. She looked at it in despair.

"I cannot, I simply cannot. Oliver, go on without me and fetch help?"

"We'll do it," he said calmly. "Come, sit for a moment, and I'll warm your hands."

Perched precariously, they huddled together for all too brief a moment. As soon as he felt her fingers warm to life between his palms, he made her go on. If she sat for too long, she might be unable to rise.

They reached the grass, steep and slippery with dew. However, it grew in tussocks against which they could brace their feet. Oliver took the lead. He scrambled up a short way, set himself securely, and leaned down to pull Ruth to him. Though she made feeble efforts to help herself, he could see that she would not be able to go much farther. They neared the top.

Oliver was tiring himself. His shoulder ached, and for the first time he noticed the graze where Jem's bullet had hit him. It was not deep and had bled very little, but overuse was making it painful.

With a final effort he struggled over the ridge, hauled Ruth up beside him, and collapsed in the springy, scratchy heather. She lay with her face against his waistcoat, eyes shut; his arms were around her. She never wanted to move again, indeed she doubted she could. The heather supported them, insulated them, from the damp chill. She dozed off.

A cold, wet nose poked Oliver's cheek. A black and white sheepdog wagged its tail ingratiatingly, barked once, and bounded off.

Carefully laying Ruth, whose eyes opened drowsily, in the heather, Oliver stood up. A hundred yards off, a shepherd was directing his three dogs with whistles as they rounded up his bleating flock.

Oliver shouted.

The shepherd glanced at him, then returned to his task.

"Wait here, Ruth. There's a fellow over there can surely tell us where we are."

With renewed energy he strode off, only to return in a very few minutes, frustrated.

"The old curmudgeon first refused to notice me, then said nothing but 'Ar.' Let us see if your presence will convince him that there is a lady in distress."

Unceremoniously, Oliver picked Ruth up in his arms, and carried her to where the old man had resumed his whistling. He set her on her feet immediately before him.

"Pray be so good as to direct us," she begged. "We are quite lost in this mist."

With a huge and toothless grin the shepherd waved his arm to the south.

"Scuzzle," he mumbled.

Shrugging in disgust, Oliver again picked up Ruth, who was swaying, and set off southward.

_{Chapter 5}

The Mist Was thinning, and soon a pale, wintry sun shone down. To his right, Oliver looked down on the Atlantic, far below, white-capped into the distance. On his left and ahead the ground sloped gradually away, covered with short, wiry grass, scattered with patches of heather and bracken and occasional clumps of gorse.

Unfortunately, he could see that very shortly it began to rise again, and the swelling slopes were completely abandoned to gorse and rocks. Undeterred, he walked on and reaching the bottom, found a narrow sheep trail, winding as it ascended.

Ruth was so light in his arms that she would have been no burden had it not been for his wounded shoulder, now stiffening. She seemed to be in a daze, quite content to lean her head against his shoulder, the good one, and trust herself to him.

At last the path led him to the top of the hill. He found himself overlooking a wide inlet with high, rocky walls. On the far side, the headland rose considerably higher than his position, and it was crowned by a tower. Inland, a curved stone pier protected a harbor dotted with boats, and beyond, a wooded valley with several cottages and a sizable house was visible.

He set Ruth down and sat beside her with a sigh.

'"Scuzzle,"' she said, "of course. It's Boscastle. That tower is the Coast Guard lookout, and the house is Mr Trevelyan's. He's a magistrate, I think." Unexpectedly, she giggled. "Pray do not think me impertinent, Oliver, but your stomach has been rumbling quite excessively. You will do well to eat this bread."

He smiled down at her affectionately. She was a shocking sight, her wan, dirty face with its bravely attempted smile, surrounded by lank brown hair, her meagre body swathed in a filthy, torn cloak. He did not notice. Her dark eyes drew him with their trusting expression and the mysterious depths behind, and he bent to kiss her. Their lips met, briefly, lightly, before she moved away.

"Eat," she urged. "I- think I shall be able to walk part of the way if the path is easy." Her eyes were downcast, hidden from him. Suddenly ravenous, he chewed on the hard, dark crust she had given him.

The sheep track swung left, descending the steep hill diagonally. At first, bracken brushed them on either side and rocky steps were frequent. Gradually the path widened until it became a cart road, and they came to a gate with a stile beside it. Ruth managed to climb the wall by the projecting shingles, then Oliver had to carry her again.

The slope levelled at last. The water was a few feet below the track on the right, and they passed the quay, deserted and silent. It was still early, and the tide too low for boats to sail down the inlet to the open sea.

Oliver walked wearily through the sleeping hamlet. Iron gates, with 'Trevelyan House" intricately worked into their bars, stood open, and a short gravel drive led them to a comfortable-looking stone house, obviously a gentleman's residence. Oliver set Ruth on her feet and rang the bell.

After a few moments, a young footman opened the door, gaped, and quickly slammed it again. They heard a cry of "Mr Webster! Mr Webster!" receding down the hall.

Oliver seized the bellpull and jerked it several times. A fearsome clangour broke out on the other side of the door.

Shortly it opened again. A dignified, portly butler regarded them sternly.

"Beggars and tinkers to the back door," he directed.

Oliver exploded.

"My good man, this is Lady Ruth Penderric! She has just escaped from abductors and is, as you may see, in sore need of comfort. I must see the justice at once, and we are both close to expiring from hunger!"

The butler stared.

"Lady Ruth! Is it possible? James! Come at once and assist her ladyship! Call Mrs Burston! Indeed, I beg your pardon, sir. Who could have guessed? Whatever is the world coming to?"

His last question was repeated many times, with equal lack of response, in the next few hours. Mrs Trevelyan and her housekeeper bore Ruth off to a bath, a bowl of hot soup, and bed, clucking anxiously and wondering whether to send to Camel-ford for the doctor. Oliver, after a brief explanation to his host, vanished above stairs for half an hour to reappear clean, shaven and wrapped in the butler's dressing gown, that being the only garment in the house large enough to cover him decently. His hairy ankles were plainly visible below, and a pair of carpet slippers had been slit to make room for his toes.

Directed by the footman, he entered the library and apologised to Mr Trevelyan for his appearance.

"Pray do not regard it, sir. We magistrates become used to odd occurrences. Come and sit by the fire. I thought you would not mind eating from a tray in here so that we may have privacy. I am all agog to hear the full tale of your shocking experience."

Oliver was only too glad to ensconce himself in a well-stuffed chair by the blazing fire. The dishes, uncovered, proved to contain a large quantity of ham and eggs, hot muffins dripping with butter, cold roast beef, and fruit. The elderly gentleman poured him a cup of coffee and sat down opposite to watch with evident gratification as the pile of food diminished.

At last Oliver was able to speak.

"Ah," he sighed, "now I feel quite human again. Allow me, sir, to express my gratitude for your reception. Lady Ruth is known to you, but I am a complete stranger and could hardly have appeared in less reputable guise."

Mr Trevelyan, it seemed, was well acquainted with Rpbert Polgarth, and his hopes that Mr Pardoe senior might be persuaded to invest in his aeronautical ambitions.

"I had wished," he revealed wistfully, "that I might join young Robert on one of his ascensions. However, Maria has persuaded me that I am past the age for such adventure."

Reluctantly the magistrate abandoned the subject and turned to his duty. He listened carefully as Oliver described the ordeal he and Ruth had been through. Occasionally he made a comment or asked a question.

"Dear me, dear me!" he said, when the recital reached its end. "Whatever is the world coming to? This is very dreadful. Jem and Captain Cleeve, you say?" He wrote the names down.

"Should not someone be sent to see if they are in the cave still? I am quite recovered and should be happy to lead the way."

"If, as you suspect, they are smugglers, then none of the village people will be of much assistance," Mr Trevelyan explained. "Not one but turns a blind eye or a helping hand. Now if her ladyship had been hurt, it would be a different story. They'd not put up with that.

"I fear I shall have to call in the Preventives. They will not wish to climb down the cliff, and in any case, the tide is rising. It will be quite impossible to beach a boat."

"Of course. And equally impossible for the ruffians to escape. Then, if there is no hurry, I must beg some paper and a pen. I must speedily assure my family that I am safe, and Richard Trevithick will be wondering where I am." A thought struck him. "You had not heard that Lady Ruth was missing? That is curious. I would have expected her brother to comb the countryside."

Mr Trevelyan tapped his forehead significantly and seemed to think this gesture an adequate explanation. Oliver, not so easily satisfied, continued to ponder the matter as he wrote.

He completed the letters and arranged for their dispatch. Suddenly overcome by weariness, he was sent to a guest chamber by his kind hostess, who assured him that Ruth was sleeping soundly. He slipped between the warmed sheets, and was soon dead to the world.

When he awoke it was dark, and there seemed to be a great commotion going on outside. He could see nothing, so he hurriedly put on his clothes, which he found lying clean, mended and pressed on a chair, and went downstairs.

Mr Trevelyan was holding court in the front parlour. Before him, guarded by Excisemen, stood Jem and Shorty, in a sorry state, and the old man. The third smuggler lay on a rough litter on the ground, looking even worse. Oliver identified them as his abductors, and they were quickly bound over to quarter sessions and sent off in chains to Bodmin Gaol.

The Customs lieutenant was grateful for Oliver's information. They had known of the top cave and searched it periodically without finding the trapdoor, and the bottom cave had been considered inaccessible. There had been a reward offered for the discovery of the smugglers' cache, and Oliver had earned it.

He won himself some new friends by suggesting that it should be divided among the Excisemen, and then had to turn to his host and confess that he had not a feather to fly with. Mr Trevelyan willingly obliged with a small loan.

That evening, Oliver was allowed a brief visit with Ruth, carefully chaperoned.

"I know you spent two days alone in a cave together," declared Mrs Trevelyan firmly, "but this is quite another kettle of fish and I'll countenance no carryings-on in my house."

Ruth, though drowsy, was very happy to see him. There was a tinge of pink in her thin cheeks and her newly washed hair shone with golden lights. Oliver wanted to kiss her but dared only squeeze her hand.

"We made it, my lady," he said softly.

"Ruth."

"Lady Ruth," he compromised, grinning. "You are feeling more the thing?"

"Oh yes, Mr Pardoe. I shall be able to go home tomorrow."

Oliver frowned. The idea displeased him. Before he could say more, he was swept away by Mrs Trevelyan and only had time to wink at Ruth over his shoulder as he was tugged through the door.

Outside, he consulted the old lady.

"Will she really be fit to travel tomorrow, ma'am?"

"Why, I believe so. Not, perhaps, as strong as one could wish, but she is understandably anxious to return to Penderric as soon as possible. Mr Trevelyan has sent word to his lordship."

Oliver made up his mind to escort her home, and let his father's business go hang.

"There is another matter on which I should like your advice, ma'am. Do you think there might be damage to Lady Ruth's reputation if it were to get about that she spent two days alone with me?"

"It is quite possible. Even in our out-of-the-way part of the world we have scandalmongers aplenty, I fear, Mr Pardoe."

"Fortunately it is not now widely known," he said thoughtfully. "And it cannot be necessary for her to give evidence when I can do so. I shall speak to Mr Trevelyan about it."

"I also." Mrs Trevelyan looked at him with approval, and he knew he had gained an ally.

Over supper, all was settled. The servants would be cautioned not to spread the word, and the Trevelyans were sure of their discretion. It seemed unlikely that the shepherd they had met above the cove was a gabblemouth!

Mr Pardoe went to bed more than satisfied with his day's work.

******************
The next day dawned misty again, and this time the mist very soon turned to drizzle. To Oliver's relief, Ruth was persuaded to spend another day recuperating. He was permitted to carry her down to the back parlour where, under Mrs Trevelyan's watchful eye, he taught her to play at backgammon and coaxed her to try the tidbits that flowed in a steady stream from the kitchens.

Ruth was subdued. She had decidedly mixed feelings about returning home, though she felt it her duty to do so immediately. Since losing her mother, she had known nothing in the least like the cosseting she was now receiving, and she was far from certain that her brother would greet her with open arms. Why had he not paid the ransom? He'd not have lost by it in the long run.

Also, she was reluctant to face the inevitable parting with Oliver. She had met him so very short a time ago, but the circumstances had been such that she already considered him her dearest friend. Wistfully, she wished that Walter were as understanding and reassuring, then chided herself for her disloyalty.

By the next morning, Ruth had entirely recovered her strength. Mr Trevelyan provided her with his carriage and his coachman, and to Oliver he lent his best hack to carry him to Camelford, where he might hire a horse to take him to Camborne.

Oliver and Ruth set off. As soon as they were out of sight of Trevelyan House, Oliver slipped the coachman a half crown, tied his horse behind the ancient chaise, and joined Ruth inside.

Careful not to take advantage of her situation, he sat as far from her as possible. While she appreciated his delicacy, this convinced her that his previous marks of regard had been solely the actions of a considerate and brotherly gentleman. How she envied his sister, Rose!

Their conversation seemed to both of them stilted and formal, yet neither quite knew how to return to their former easy companionship. Oliver began to consider the vast social gulf that many people would see between the daughter of an earl and the son of a mere banker, however wealthy. The thought daunted him, especially as Mrs Trevelyan had mentioned that, though penniless, the loathsome Walter ("loathsome" being strictly Oliver's epithet) was distantly related to the Duke of Devonshire. Walter was beginning to assume the proportions of a formidable obstacle, and Ruth's present lack of ease made him wonder if it was only in his imagination that she looked on him as more than a convenient rescuer.

They passed through Camelford, leaving the hack at the Trelawney Arms to be returned to Boscastle. To Ruth's relief, she saw no sign of Walter Vane. She had been dreading the possibility of meeting him while driving with a gentleman unknown to him, and she did not feel up to an explanation in public.

Her relief was soon overshadowed by trepidation as the carriage approached St Teath. She fell silent as they turned off the road onto the track to Penderric.

Oliver was appalled to see the state of the land. Never fertile, it seemed to have been completely abandoned to the wild, though tumbled walls and choked ditches showed that it had once been cared for. They passed two ruined cottages, but he was quite unprepared, for his first view of Penderric Castle.

Built of Bodmin granite by the first earl, the castle had started as an impressive, if gloomy, copy of one of the lesser chteaux of the Loire. Successive generations had added inappropriate turrets and battlements here and pillared porticoes there until it was a hodgepodge of styles.

Now, even from a distance, it was obvious that one wing was uninhabitable. Holes gaped in the roof, and windows gazed sightless at the tangle of greenery that was all that remained of formal gardens in the French style.

The other wing was less evidently desolate. There was glass in the windows still, though much of it was broken. Missing slates told their mute tale of a roof that had been leaking for years, and a side door swung loose on creaking hinges.

From the main body of the house, a thin trickle of smoke ascended, the only sign of life.

Aware of Oliver's horror, Ruth looked at her home with new eyes and was ashamed. She had grown accustomed to living in the few rooms still furnished, had ceased to worry about shabby upholstery and decaying curtains, no longer noticed the damp chill of long unheated corridors and chambers where no fire had been lit since it snowed last January. What would Oliver— Mr Pardoe—think when he saw the interior?

The chaise drew up noisily before the huge oak doors. Oliver helped Ruth out. No movement was visible, no servants running to greet them, no warmly welcoming family such as he always found after his shortest absences from home. Glancing ques-tioningly at Ruth—Lady Ruth—he pulled the bell.

Ruth was about to suggest that they go in at the side, when at last the great door groaned open.

"My lady," bowed Tremaine, sour-faced as ever.

"Where is Lady Laetitia?" asked Ruth, "and my brother?"

"His lordship is in the library, and I believe Lady Laetitia is in her chamber." The servant (butler? wondered Oliver) showed no signs of taking Oliver's hat and coat, so he placed the former on a scratched and mildewed side table and retained the latter. In any case, it was colder inside than out.

"Pray come this way, Mr Pardoe," requested Ruth, avoiding his eye. "I must make you known to my brother."

Numbly he followed her. The roses had fled from her cheeks, and the carefully altered morning dress given her by Mrs Trevelyan seemed suddenly too large. His gorge rose at the thought of leaving her here.

She knocked on the library door and entered quickly without waiting for a response.

"Godfrey," she said, "I'm back, and this is Mr Oliver Pardoe, who rescued me."

The wizened man who glared at her looked closer to fifty-four than twenty-four. Oliver received an impression of a sort of overall greyness.

"I suppose you think I should have paid the ransom," he spat out. "Well let me tell you, dear sister, that I never received a demand, just this letter saying you were off to Plymouth with old Annie Penallen. And so I told Letty, and your curate when he had the infernal impudence to come enquiring. So don't you try to pin anything on me!"

_{Chapter 6}

Ruth Had Not expected her brother to greet her with anything other than spite, and she scarcely noticed his words. In fact, she was quite happy to hear that Letty had not been frightened by the story of her misadventures. Her chief feeling was of embarrassment that Mr Pardoe should receive no acknowledgment for his heroic actions.

She did not, however, consider it worthwhile to elaborate on her experiences to Godfrey.

Meanwhile, Mr Pardoe was speaking.

"I am happy to make your acquaintance, my lord," he said with forced civility. "Your uncle, Sir John Hadrick, recommended me to you. I daresay you had his letter?"

"Yes," growled Godfrey, "and one from that interfering old nodcock Trevelyan. It seems that you are a veritable pattern card of perfection, Mr Pardoe, but you need not expect a welcome here, whatever my dear, domineering elder sister may desire."

Ruth saw that Oliver was about to retort angrily in her defence. She laid her hand on his arm.

"Pray do not heed him, sir," she urged softly. "Come and meet my sister, and take some refreshment."

"You see?" shouted his lordship at their retreating backs. "Always laying down the law and trying to spend my money. I won't have it!"

He made no attempt to follow them, to Ruth's relief.

She led the way to a salon that showed signs of decayed grandeur. Gilt was peeling from the chairs, and the blue velvet drapes were full of moth holes. She begged Mr Pardoe to be seated and pulled the bell.

Again they had to wait. Ruth was grateful for his silence, feeling that anything he might say must be unpleasant to her. Eventually Mrs Tremaine appeared, wiping her hands on her dirty apron.

"Mrs Tremaine, please send Doris to ask Lady Laetitia to join us, and bring some luncheon for Mr Pardoe," requested Ruth.

"Ain't nothing but cold shoulder o' mutton left." She was as surly as her husband. "And Doris run off two, three days zince."

'Then bring mutton, and bread and butter and cheese, and a jug of cider, if you please. I will fetch Letty."

"Ain't had time for to bake wi' that good-for-nothing gorn, my lady."

Ruth looked despairingly at Oliver.

"I am not hungry, Lady Ruth," he assured her hurriedly. "Mr Trevelyan pressed a vast breakfast on me, and I must soon be on my way. I should like to meet Lady Laetitia, however."

At that moment, the young lady in question was heard.

"Tremaine, Tremaine! Whose carriage is that in the drive? I vow it is too bad that no one tells me when we have visitors!" She burst into the room.

Without Ruth's care, her long blond hair was somewhat dishevelled, and there was a rent in the hem of her gown. In spite of these disadvantages and a petulant expression, she was a pretty girl. The privations of life at Penderric, whatever their effect on her temper, had not destroyed her youthful bloom. Ruth was proud of her looks.

Seeing that the unknown visitor was male, young, and handsome, Letty composed herself and smiled charmingly. Then she saw her sister, squealed, and threw herself on her.

"Ruth! You're back! How could you leave me like that! I declare everything has gone to rack and ruin since you have been gone. It was too selfish in you to go jauntering off without me!"

Ruth kissed and hugged her.

"I am glad to be back, my dear, and I shall soon set all to rights, you shall see. Let me introduce Mr Oliver Pardoe to you, Letty."

Letty was only too happy to turn her back on her newly restored sister and present her hand to be kissed. Oliver, unsmiling, ignored it and bowed slightly. Ruth was afraid Letty had already ruined herself in his estimation by her ill-judged complaints.

After a few minutes of Letty's prattle, Oliver rose to take his leave. He pressed Ruth's hand.

"May I have a word with you in private, my lady?" he asked.

Letty scowled but did not follow them out of the room. They walked in silence to the front door. There was no sign of Tremaine. Oliver picked up his hat and stood turning it in his hands, then suddenly he put it down and took both Ruth's hands in his.

"Ruth, let me take you away from this mausoleum."

She looked up at him with tears sparkling in her eyes.

"I cannot go, they need me. You can see that they do. Do not press me, I beg of you. And then, there is Walter."

That made him pause, but he did not release her hands.

"Promise me," he said at last, very seriously, "that if your life here becomes unbearable, you will send for me. Your uncle would be happy to have you, I know, and I will come to escort you to him at a moment's notice. And if you wish to leave before I can reach you, go to my friend Robert Polgarth in Port Isaac. I shall tell him to expect you."

She smiled quaveringly.

"I promise."

Pulling her hands from his clasp, she busied herself opening the door.

Mr Trevelyan's coachman, having received scant hospitality in the kitchen, was grumbling to himself as he prepared to leave. Oliver's hired horse was standing patiently with its reins thrown over a cracked stone balustrade. Oliver kissed Ruth's hand, mounted quickly, and was off.

Ruth watched him into the distance, but he did not turn. With a sigh, she reentered the house.

******************

It took Ruth ten days to make up for her week's absence. She was too busy to have time to repine. To start, she had to send Will to find a new maid in Launceston, as no local girl would take the post. He returned with a slatternly trollop, the only creature he could come by who would accept the miserable wage Ruth had extorted from her brother.

Will was so insolent that she felt he had only accepted her commission out of regard for his own comfort. He had never been any friendlier than the Tremaines, but now his sneering impertinence was so marked that she decided to mention it to Godfrey.

"Do you want to go look for another manservant?" he asked sulkily.

"Could you not speak to him?" she insisted. "He no longer obeys my orders. You were not used to excuse disobedience in a servant."

"He obeys me, curse you!" shouted Godfrey, and threw his inkwell at her, spattering her dress. As she retreated, frightened, he burst into raucous laughter.

A Tuesday passed without Ruth making any effort to go to St Teath. It was raining heavily, the track would be impassable on foot, and she did not dare request the gig. By the following Tuesday, the mud had dried somewhat and she was desperate to leave the house and see a friendly face.

Picking her way along the grassy verge wherever possible, she reached the church at last. Mr Vane greeted her stiffly.

"I had heard you were returned from your jaunt to Plymouth," he addressed her. "I confess I fail to understand how you could bring yourself to leave without informing your betrothed of your intentions."

Ruth hastened to tell him the true story. As he listened to the tale of her abduction, he could not restrain the expression of his sympathy. However, when she described the arrival of Mr Pardoe and that gentleman's heroic part in her escape, his manner grew cold.

"I'm sure this Pardoe is a worthy fellow," he declared, "but it will not do to lend him qualities that cannot possibly be possessed by a Cit. It is most unfortunate that you should have spent two days alone with him."

"Mr Pardoe was all that is chivalrous and gentlemanlike," cried Ruth, angry.

"I am happy to believe you, my dear. It is certainly my Christian duty to forgive your involuntary lapse from the highest standards of propriety."

"How dare you, Walter!"

"My dear, pray do not put yourself in a pelter. Naturally your nerves are overset. I will admit that this fellow's actions have done us all a good turn by making it unnecessary to squander your fortune on a gang of thugs."

"How can you speak so? They nearly drowned me and had threatened to . . . assault me first. And you talk of squandering?"

"Dear Ruth, compose yourself, I beg. It is most unladylike to refer to such a subject. I daresay it comes from too much hobnobbing with the lower orders."

"Do not call me dear! I am not your dear!"

"Ruth! . . ."

"Mr Vane." Ruth was suddenly calm. "I have come to the conclusion that we shall not suit. Pray consider yourself released from our engagement. Goodbye."

Seeing his great future vanish in the wind, the hapless Walter made a final effort.

"Lady Ruth, a moment! I can see I have been too hasty. Of course, I did not mean to belittle your danger, and had the ransom been paid, we should have lived happily together in a cottage, should we not? But you must expect me to rejoice that the woman I love has not after all been reduced to a life of penury."

"It would have been nothing new to me, I assure you. Goodbye, Mr Vane."

Deaf to his pleading, she walked out.

Feeling as if she had been relieved of a great load, Ruth almost skipped on the way back to Penderric Castle. It took several hours in that gloomy abode to reduce her to her usual state of silent endurance.

She did not tell either Letty or Godfrey that she was no longer planning to marry the curate. Neither ever expressed the slightest interest in her affairs, and she was content now to have it that way.

November passed with rain and icy winds. Letty came down with a chill and had to be nursed. She was at best a crotchety patient, but Ruth was glad of an excuse to stay out of Godfrey's way. Whenever he saw her he cast malevolent looks in her direction, and several times shook his fist.

It was growing more and more difficult to run the household. Previously Godfrey had given Ruth a weekly sum, which though meagre had allowed her with careful management to pay their bills. By the end of the first week in December, she had had nothing for a fortnight and more. The local tradesmen were beginning to grumble, and one or two had refused to deliver any more goods.

One foggy evening, Ruth summoned up her reserves of courage and went to the library to tackle her brother. To her surprise, for he rarely left it, he was not there, nor could she find him elsewhere in the house. At last she consulted Tremaine, who rather thought his lordship and Will had gone off in the gig, he could not say whither.

Ruth sat up late, but finally gave in and retired to bed before she heard them return.

Godfrey did not emerge from his chamber until after noon, and then went straight to the library without a word to his sisters. Ruth soon followed him, determined to get the unpleasant business over as soon as she could. She found him seated at his desk as usual, languidly sharpening a quill with his penknife and looking like death.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Godfrey," Ruth apologised. "You do not look at all well. Should you not be in bed?"

He glared at her with glittering eyes.

"Giving orders again, sister?" he snarled through clenched teeth.

"Of course not," she placated. "You know your own health best. Godfrey, I must have some money or we shall all starve. The butcher—"

"It's all your fault, bitch!" shrieked her brother and lunged at her with his knife.

Ruth threw up her arms to protect herself The dull blade gashed the palm of her hand and spun from Godfrey's loosened grip to clatter to the floor.

Petrified, she watched him scrabble after it, then coming to her senses she turned and ran.

There was no sign of pursuit. Outside the parlour she paused to catch her breath, then entered.

"Letty," she said quite calmly, "I have hurt my hand. Pray help me bind it up."

"Oh, Ruth, how clumsy of you. However did you do it? See, it is not very deep, I daresay it will heal soon."

Between them they contrived a bandage. The wound was indeed not serious, though painful.

Ruth's mind was clear as a bell. She had come to a decision and was determined to let nothing stand in her way, but she did not wish to frighten her sister.

"Letty," she began, "how should you like to go to London to live with Uncle Hadrick?"

"Ooh!" squealed Lady Laetitia, "Can we really? But Godfrey will never give us the money to go. He has been saying so forever, and he grows more and more bad tempered, 1 vow. You are always vexing him, Ruth. Oh, do not say that he will let us go?"

"My dearest, I do not mean to ask him. I am sorry to tell you that today our brother has forfeited every claim to my obedience or consideration, and he will have to learn to go on without us."

"You are on your high ropes again, Ruth, I can see. But I do not mind if we can go to Town. Only, who is to pay for the journey?"

"You remember Mr Pardoe, who brough me home after . . . after I was in Plymouth? He is a friend of Sir John, and he told me when he left that he would be happy to escort us to our uncle's house at any time. I shall write to him and to Sir John at once."

"Pray do. I will fetch ink and paper. Do you think Aunt Hadrick goes to many balls?"

"I cannot say, my dear. I hope so for your sake, for I feel I should be sadly out of place at a grand assembly."

Provided with writing materials, Ruth began her letters. The one to her uncle was soon done, but she struggled for some time over Mr Pardoe's. Eventually she was sufficiently satisfied to fold and seal the epistle. She had doggedly resisted the temptation to tell him of her dismissal of Walter Vane.

The cold feeling at the pit of her stomach, caused by her brother's attack, was being displaced by a sense of anticipation, of having taken control of her own fate. This was somewhat dampened when she realised that she could not possibly entrust her letters to any of the servants. She must walk to St Teath to see them safely dispatched.

And St Teath was nearly halfway to Port Isaac, where Oliver's good friends had been advised to expect her. To continue thither would not be much farther than to return home, and she would be able to feel herself quite safe there from Godfrey's strange fury.

That possibility was dismissed out of hand by Lady Laetitia who did not see any urgency in the matter.

"What can you be thinking of, Ruth? Why should we walk eight or nine miles in the mud to stay in a poky cottage with people we don't even know? You are quite run mad, I am sure!"

Unwilling to disclose her brother's terrifying actions, Ruth sighed and agreed. She thought Letty quite safe, as Godfrey had never displayed any animosity toward her. For herself, she would strive to keep out of his way and would certainly not speak to him of money, though they all should starve. She prayed Oliver might come quickly.

To that end, she donned her shabby pelisse and worn jean boots and walked down to St Teath with the letters.

For two days, Godfrey behaved in his normal, unsociable manner, and Ruth began to think she had acted prematurely.

On the morning of the third day, wintry sunshine drew the sisters out to exercise in the overgrown shrubbery. They were returning to the house by way of the terrace at the rear when there was a crash behind them. Swinging round, they saw that one of the massive stone windowsills had fallen from the ruined wing of the castle.

It had missed them so narrowly that Ruth, instantly suspicious, glanced up. She was almost certain she saw a pale face at a third floor window directly above them.

Hurrying Letty into the house, she declared positively that she would not stay another moment to watch her home falling apart about her head.

"Better a straw pallet in a cottage than a broken head," she pointed out. "I am going to Port Isaac immediately, Letty, and you must come with me."

Letty was too frightened by their narrow escape to argue. Within half an hour they had packed their scanty belongings in a pair of bandboxes and set out.

_{Chapter 7}

Long Before The sisters reached St Teath, Ruth was carrying both bandboxes, and Letty was complaining of weariness.

"We should have asked Godfrey for the gig," she said crossly. "I am surprised you did not think of it."

"Do you wish to return and ask him?" queried Ruth.

Faced with retracing her steps and confronting a bad-tempered brother who might well refuse her request, Letty subsided. Ruth realised with dismay that she had been overly optimistic in expecting her sister to walk all the way. She must hope they might meet a farm cart that would give them a ride for a few miles.

They passed through St Teath without seeing a soul, let alone a helpful carter. However, before they had walked far down the narrow, high-hedged lane to Port Isaac, they heard the rumble of wheels behind them.

"Ho, my pretties!" shouted a jovial voice. "Hop up along and ride wi' me. 'Tis a powerful steep hill for a pair o' dainty wenches."

From the smell of his vehicle, the grinning carter had taken a load of fish to market. Letty wrinkled her nose, but accepted a helping hand to climb up. Ruth would far rather have walked, only she could not leave her sister alone. She scrambled in and settled herself between a pair of brand new lobster pots.

"Thank you," she said. "We are going to visit a Mr Polgarth. Do you know him?"

"Oh aye. Him and his hot air balloons and Crazy Auntie." Ruth, who had heard all about Auntie from Oliver, was undismayed. "Ye'll be relatives?"

"No, we are just going to stay for a few days until a friend comes to fetch us."

"Come from Camelford, have ye? Well, ye must've, for that's the only ..." Taking his eyes from his huge horse, the carter scrutinised them. "T'ain't, either," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Zo ye've finally up and left, little lady. Nay, don't be afeard, I'll not tell."

He turned back to guiding his horse, who seemed to know the way well enough. From time to time he could be heard to mutter such things as "zin and a shame", "mad miser", and "Trelawney's curse." Ruth took the latter to be a reference to the first earl's part in hanging the Cornish hero after the Monmouth Rebellion.

Letty soon recovered from her unwonted exertions and began to grumble, sotto voce, about the smell, which seemed indeed to grow overpowering. She suggested that they resume their walk, but Ruth was anxious not to offend the carter who had recognised them.

"You have made your bed, now you must lie in it," she whispered sharply.

"It's none of my making," retorted Letty. Fortunately, at that moment they rounded a bend and below them spread the grey slate roofs of Port Isaac and the stormy green sea. Absorbed in the sight, Letty dropped her quarrel.

Soon they pulled into the courtyard of the Scrimshaw Inn. The carter, it appeared, was the son of mine host, a spry old fellow with crabapple cheeks.

"Gave these young women a ride from Camelford, Pa," he announced, with a heavy wink at Ruth. "Boy! Show the way to Auntie's, and mind you'm polite!"

"Thank you very much," said Ruth gratefully. He winked again with a conspiratorial grin, and she managed a creditable wink in return, which sent him into guffaws.

As she turned to follow Letty and the boy, Ruth heard him say to Pa, "She'm a proper lady, the little brown un."

"How can you be so familiar with an odious yokel!" hissed Letty as they hurried after the urchin.

Ruth did not trouble to answer, and Letty was soon too busy wondering at the maze of Port Isaac to say more. They were breathless when they drew up before a neat, whitewashed cottage. Their guide banged heartily on the door, and then dashed off the way they had just come. Before Ruth had time to do more than wish she had been able to give him a penny, the door opened.

A buxom maid in a white cap and apron scrutinised them. She was evidently about to ask their business, when over her shoulder appeared an elderly face, spectacled and crowned with thick grey braids.

"You're come at last!" cried Auntie, delighted. "Well, Martha, move aside and let them in, girl. My dear children, welcome." She hugged and kissed the bewildered and overwhelmed sisters.

"You know who we are then, ma'am?" asked Ruth shyly.

"Of course, my dear, of course. A certain gentleman, who shall be nameless, told me all about you. And that same gentleman intimated that you might wish to remain incognito, so I have been at some pains to think of suitable aliases. You, my dear, shall be Miss Priscilla Cholmondsley-Smythe, and your sister, Miss Arabella. Is not that clever?"

"It is indeed, ma'am ..."

"Auntie, Auntie, pray call me Auntie!"

"Those are excellent names, Auntie." Ruth's shyness had by now been overcome by amusement. Letty, meanwhile, had seated herself by the window and was looking out sulkily into Dolphin Street. "Only do you not think," suggested Ruth, "that we should perhaps have less aristocratic aliases? I should happily call myself Mary Smith." . "That would never do," said Auntie decidedly. "There is nothing, simply nothing, so liable to arouse suspicion as a person named plain Smith. I take your point though, my dear. Here, I have a list of possibilities. Pray peruse it and make your choice."

Auntie had apparently discarded a score of names before settling on Priscilla Cholmondsley-Smythe. Ignoring her sister's crotchets, Ruth called her over to help choose. Soon they were giggling over such gems as Persephone Arbuthnot and Ekater-ina Dachikoff.

"In case you should wish to be thought foreign," explained Auntie, not in the least offended.

Letty rather fancied herself as Lavinia Streathamstead, but in the end Ruth prevailed and they were newly christened 'Jane and Louisa Bailey'.

"Very good," Auntie approved. "A step above Mary Smith yet not likely to draw attention. We will tell people you are my nieces. I am always happy to discover new nieces, you know."

Martha was heard to snort in the kitchen.

By the time Bob Polgarth returned from the barn he rented to house his balloon, 'Jane' and 'Louisa' had long been settled in his chamber. Letty was reconciled to her strange hostess, whose humble abode she was honouring with her presence. Ruth felt some qualms about having displaced their host, and wondered if he would be very angry. She apologised as soon as the introductions had been made.

"Pleasure to help a friend of Oliver's," he muttered, his face scarlet, and dashed into the kitchen to wash for dinner.

The meal was a simple one, consisting of a pea soup, grilled mackerel, lamb chops with mint sauce, and apples, with plenty of fresh baked bread. To Ruth and Letty, it seemed a veritable feast, used as they were to the skimpiest of fare, and badly cooked at that. The company was an equally great improvement, as even Letty later acknowledged.

Auntie, always cheerful, continually confused their new names, but Ruth suspected that she would have done the same with the originals. Far from asking inquisitive questions, she ignored the unexplained reasons for their arrival, and entertained them with a caustic commentary on the ways of Cornish fisherfolk.

"However," she admitted with a sigh, "I am very fond of all of them."

Bob was silent until Ruth tactfully introduced the subject dearest to his heart. Both young ladies found the idea of flying through the air fascinating. Letty lost interest when their host entered upon technical matters, but Ruth, remembering Oliver's penchant for engineering, eagerly absorbed the details and requested elucidation. In fact, she found she had a genuine interest in the subject, which Mr Polgarth was unable to satisfy. He could describe the apparatus by which inflammable gas was to be produced to fill his balloon, but was ignorant of the theories behind it.

"Daresay Oliver knows," he told her, and she resolved to find an opportunity to ask that gentleman.

The spring flight in which the Pardoes were investing was to be an attempt to fly from Land's End to John o' Groats. Bob explained that he actually intended to ascend from the summit of Brown Willy, which was both closer to home and higher.

"Also," he added, "there is less chance of being swept out to sea, as happened to Zambeccari in Bologna in '03. If there is any mishap we shall come to earth on the moor, an ideal place to land, as it has no trees to entangle the balloon."

"It sounds monstrous dangerous," said Letty with a shudder.

"Who will make the journey with you?" asked Ruth.

"Oliver insisted on coming as the price of his investment. He does not believe in the future of balloons as transportation, but he viewed Mr Sadler's ascent in London last year and is anxious to try it for himself."

Ruth was silent. It sounded like a very hazardous undertaking.

******************

By the evening of their third day in Port Isaac, Letty was feeling decidedly offended that Godfrey had apparently not set up a search for them. Ruth was beginning to worry that Oliver had not yet arrived.

All sorts of possibilities flitted through her head. The letter might not have reached him. Perhaps he was not at home when it arrived. Had her uncle refused to give them a home? Could it be, horrid thought, that Oliver no longer wished to come to her aid? Worst of all, perhaps he had set out and had met with some dreadful accident.

She did not confide her fears to Letty, trying as usual to protect her sister from distress. However, she mentioned some of her thoughts to Auntie, in the course of apologising for their prolonged stay. She had already grown very fond of the old lady, but besides being tiny, the household was not oversupplied with money, and she could not help but feel that they were imposing on their kind hosts.

Auntie brushed aside her apologies and her worries.

"The mail is always delivered on time," she declared, firmly if over-optimistically. "Remember, child, that it is a good two hundred miles from London to Launceston, and thirty more to Port Isaac. I daresay your sweetheart will spend tonight in Launceston and be here on the morrow."

Ruth blushed and disclaimed.

However, at least part of this speech was proven correct, for the next day at noon there was the hammering' at the door, which generally betokened the arrival of the boy from the Scrimshaw Inn, and in stepped Oliver.

Even as he bowed over Auntie's hand and kissed the cheek she proffered, his eyes sought Ruth's face. She was standing with her back to the window, and he was unable to make out her expression.

"My lady ... I hope ... I am sorry . . ." he began, with an unwonted lack of assurance.

"No ladies here," scolded Auntie, interrupting. "Permit me to present you to my nieces, Miss Louisa Bailey and Miss Jane Bailey. Oh dear, now should it be the other way about?"

"I am Louisa," corrected Letty as the others laughed. Jane was far too common a name for her. She pushed forward past Ruth. "How do you do, Mr Pardoe. How delightful to see you again. When shall we go to London?"

Oliver was unable to greet Ruth properly, but conversation flowed easily. He assured Letty that they should start the very next morning, and told them that he had left his chaise in Launceston and ridden over so as to arrive early.

"I shall stay tonight at the Scrimshaw Inn," he explained, "and hire a vehicle there tomorrow. Lady . . . Miss Bailey, might I have a word with you?"

Auntie would not permit them to retire to a bedchamber, and Letty balked at being exiled above stairs, so they strolled together down to the harbour. In spite of his words, Oliver was silent at first, and Ruth wondered what it was he wanted to say.

He spread his coat on a low stone wall in the sun, and they sat down.

"Lady Ruth," he opened, "I am sorry to have to tell you that your uncle and aunt are gone to Paris until February. Do not be uneasy, I have an alternative to propose. Pray read this."

The letter, signed by both his mother and his sister, expressed an earnest wish that Lady Ruth and her sister should regard the Pardoe house as their refuge for as long as it should prove convenient. A postscript, signed by Rose, assured Ruth that it was her dearest wish to meet the heroine who had shared Oliver's adventure.

Ruth looked up with tears in her eyes.

"You are not offended?" asked Oliver anxiously. "It is not fitting that the sisters of an earl should live in the City, but it will be only for a few weeks. I did not tell my family anything that might embarrass you, I promise. Do you feel able to tell me what persuaded you to leave Penderric? Your letter did not specify."

"Mr Pardoe, I have been wishing to meet your family since you told me about them. It is amazingly kind of your mother to invite us. We have no conceivable claim on her hospitality, but what else can we do? I cannot return to the castle."

"What happened, Ruth?"

"He ... he attacked me with a knife." She displayed her scarred palm. "And then I think he tried to drop a block of stone on me. Why is he doing this, Oliver?"

He took her injured hand in both his.

"I don't know his reasons, but I feared something like this. I cannot tell you my suspicions now, they are not founded on any solid evidence. Come with me to London, leave all this behind you, at least for now."

"Thank you," she said, with the trusting look he remembered from the cave. "We will come."

_{Chapter 8}

Letty Was In Alt.

"Only think of all the parties, Ruth, and balls and ridottos and masquerades!" she cried. "You are not such a disagreeable sister after all, I vow. Let us leave at once!"

"Mr Pardoe has been on the road for days," chided Ruth. "We will go when he is ready. I shall be sorry to say goodbye to Auntie and Mr Polgarth. They have been so very kind to us."

"Indeed, Lady Laetitia, London is not going to run off if we keep it waiting," pointed out Oliver. "I must go to Boscastle this afternoon, but as you are so anxious for it, we shall depart tomorrow."

"We can perfectly well wait another day," Ruth assured him. "You must be tired after travelling such a distance."

"You must think me a poor, weak creature," he teased. "If I am unable to stand up to a week or so in a well-sprung chaise, however shall I manage six hundred miles in a balloon?"

"It would be an excellent idea if you did not try," she answered with asperity.

"I doubt if it will go farther than twenty miles," put in Bob gloomily. He was having trouble with the envelope.

That afternoon Oliver rode over to Boscastle to repay Mr Trevelyan's loan. The elderly justice and his wife were delighted to see him and asked after Lady Ruth.

"She is looking very well," he told them. "She says that a few days of Auntie's care and Martha's cooking have accomplished wonders. After our mutual experiences I have a high opinion of her strength and endurance, but in spite of young Letty, there is no hurry to reach London, and we shall go by easy stages. What news of the smugglers' trial?"

'The old man laid evidence against the two we didn't pick up, and we nabbed them," said Mr Trevelyan. "Five of them were sentenced to transportation, and Jem Blount, as the leader, was to be held over till Assizes. When he found out it was a hanging matter, he changed his mind and told us all about Captain Cleeve. He was the only one who ever saw the captain, who was the mastermind, it seems. So Jem will be held a while longer, to see if this Cleeve is caught, and then he'll be off to Botany Bay with the rest."

"I'd be particularly happy to see Captain Cleeve caught," said Oliver.

"I don't think it likely, I'm afraid. He's a wily bird, and not from this part of the country," the magistrate explained. "He could be anywhere. His description has been circulated, of course, but his looks are very commonplace, by Jem's description. He has certainly changed his name by now and is keeping his head down."

Oliver had to agree that the chances seemed against his capture.

******************

He returned to Port Isaac for dinner, to find that the ladies had already packed their meagre belongings. The next morning, after a fond farewell from Auntie, they left the Scrimshaw Inn at an early hour. The landlord's son handed the "Misses Bailey" into a rather decrepit barouche, winking conspiratorially and wishing them a hearty "Bong Voyge."

Oliver apologised for their conveyance, and Letty assured him it was a grand step up from their gig. To Ruth's relief, she seemed determined to enjoy herself and behaved charmingly.

The barouche's leather apron might be cracked and stained, and its seat far from soft, but it was sturdily built. Their carter friend had given them his best horses, and they made good time. In Launceston they stopped for an early luncheon and transferred to Oliver's chaise.

This was a comfortable vehicle, painted blue and yellow, upholstered in blue velvet, and excellently sprung. Letty would have been completely satisfied if only it had had a crest on the door. Familiar by now with Oliver's largesse, the ostler at the Duke of Cornwall harnessed up four magnificent bays. John Coachman, who had awaited his master there, climbed up to the box, and they rattled out of the inn yard in fine style.

******************

Okehampton, Exeter, Yeovil, Salisbury. Ruth had been amused when her old nurse referred to Plymouth as "furrin parts," but by the time they had been travelling for three days, she felt as bewildered as if they were indeed in a strange country.

In Salisbury they stopped to change horses at the King's Arms, and lunched in its low-ceilinged, crooked-walled coffee room.

"It was already old when Charles II stayed here," explained Oliver.

"Pooh, history!" snorted Letty.

Ruth noted a glint in Mr Pardoe's eye and wondered what he was plotting.

An hour after leaving Salisbury, the carriage pulled up at an inn in a small village. The short day was already on the wane, but there were still a few hours of daylight left.

"Why are we stopping here?" asked Letty. "We'll never get to London."

"I want to show you something," said Oliver mysteriously. "I think you'll find it worth the delay. We'll stay here tonight and be in London by tomorrow evening."

Ruth was intrigued. "Whatever is it, out here in the middle of nowhere?" she demanded.

"A marvel of engineering," he told her, grinning. "I'll hire a pony-trap to take us there. It's a mile or two farther."

"I don't want to go," said Letty sulkily. "Fancy stopping just to see some odious machine."

However, she was no more enthusiastic about staying alone at the inn, so in the end she joined Ruth and Oliver, to that gentleman's disappointment.

The trap was driven by an ostler from the inn, where John Coachman was left to enjoy in peace a mug of porter and the attentions of a pretty chambermaid.

Bouncing along a grassy track across the rolling turf of Salisbury Plain, they soon saw the object of the excursion, standing high against the sunset.

"Stonehenge!" breathed Ruth. "There was a picture of it in one of Walter's books. Oliver, how magnificent!"

"Pooh, history!" snorted Letty.

But even Letty was awed as they drew closer to the huge stone circles. They left the driver dozing on his perch and wandered through the arches.

"It's enormous!" Letty gasped, sitting down on a flat slab in the centre. "However did they lift the top ones up there?"

"That's the engineering marvel," said Oliver. "Of course, we could do it today, though it would be a bit of a job, but how our ancestors did it several thousand years ago we don't know."

"The book said it was a temple," Ruth observed. "At dawn on Midsummer's Day the Druids used to sacrifice a maiden on that stone you're sitting on, Letty."

Letty jumped up with a shriek. "You are perfectly horrid!" she stormed. "I want to go back to the inn right now." She ran off between the towering menhirs.

Ruth made a move to go after her, but Oliver took her hand. "Don't let her spoil it," he begged. "I can see her climbing into the carriage. She'll be all right. Let her wait a while."

They strolled on, Oliver pointing out the line of stones that showed where the sun rose at Midsummer.

"They were great astronomers as well as engineers," he said.

"But barbaric," said Ruth with a shudder. "I keep expecting to see a Druid appear round the next corner waving a sacrificial knife. I am so pleased to have seen this, but it's growing dark. Shall we go?"

******************

The next day was their longest on the road. It was an uneventful drive, and constant drizzle blocked their view of the countryside. Buoyed at first by the thought of their closeness to London, Letty soon grew fretful, and silenced the other two with her constant complaint of being bored.

It was dusk when they approached Wimbledon Common. Oliver, carefully drawing Letty's attention, took a pistol from beneath the seat. She watched, wide-eyed.

"Highwaymen!" he explained in an ominous undertone. "They lurk on the common and rob unsuspecting travellers. We shall be prepared, as you see."

"How thrilling! I'll keep a watch for them." She turned and squinted through the mud-spattered glass.

Oliver winked at Ruth and she, quite practised in the art by now, winked back. It seemed unlikely that any highwayman in his right mind would be lurking in the icy rain. At least so she hoped.

Letty kept a sharp lookout for several miles, but to her disappointment all she saw were leafless trees and an occasional brick-kiln glowing eerily. There was a momentary excitement when hooves were heard behind them. A pair of horsemen overtook them, but they cantered on toward London without accosting the carriage.

Night had fallen by the time they crossed Blackfriars Bridge and swung right up Ludgate Hill. Lit by gas lamps, the wet, deserted streets gleamed.

Oliver pointed out St Paul's, and they peered up at the dark bulk of the dome, untouched by the bright city lights. Just as it seemed they must drive up the steps of the cathedral, the carriage turned left and entered a narrow alley. It widened after a few feet into a small, walled courtyard. The chaise came to a halt.

By the light of a single lamppost, they saw the coachman descend. He trudged wearily up to an imposing door and plied the knocker, then returned to let down the carriage-step.

"Here we are," said Oliver cheerfully. "Wait a moment, and I will bring umbrellas." He jumped out and strode up to the door which was swinging open onto a well lighted entrance hall. "Hello, Bartlett. I've brought the ladies with me," Ruth heard him say.

She and Letty sat holding hands tightly.

By the time Oliver and a footman had returned with a pair of huge brollies and escorted them into the hall, Mrs Pardoe and Miss Rose were there to greet them. While Oliver was debating whether to present his mother to Ruth, she being a titled lady, or Ruth to his mother, who was after all older and the hostess, that good woman enveloped her guests in a warm embrace.

"My dears," she said, "I am very happy to see you at last, and I hope Oliver has taken good care of you. You must be fagged to death after all that travelling. Rose shall take you to your rooms, and you shall have your dinners on trays if you wish."

Rose, a statuesque blonde of about Ruth's age, and like her mother, not much below Oliver in height, bent to kiss their cheeks.

"You make me feel like a giantess," she declared with candid friendliness. "Come up, and I'll see you settled."

Suddenly weary, Ruth took Letty's hand and followed up the wide marble stairway. All her apprehensions about imposing on strangers had vanished. She felt as if she had come home.

Letty had seemed unappreciative of the warm welcome, but she was thoroughly impressed by the grandeur and luxury of their surroundings. Ruth hoped that she would be on her best behaviour. As Rose led them down a deeply carpeted hall, she whispered:

"Ruth, I think her gown is silk. Is it not pretty? How I wish I had one like it!"

Suddenly conscious of their shabby appearance, Ruth hushed her. They were both wearing dresses that they had sewed in Port Isaac from lengths of woollen cloth that Auntie had insisted she was far too old to use, having hoarded them for years. They had had no patterns, and though Ruth had a great deal of experience in making clothes, they did not fit well. Besides, the material had not been of the best quality. However, they were better than the patched and altered garments that they more often had worn.

Rose stopped at an open door. They saw a fire flickering in the grate, a bed with palest pink hangings, a maid setting a ewer of steaming water on a washstand.

"Lady Laetitia, this is your room," said their guide. "My ab-igail, Cora, is there to assist you. Just say if there is anything you want, and I shall be back shortly to see that all is well. Lady Ruth, your room is the next. Mama thought you would like to be near your sister."

"Thank you," replied Ruth gratefully. "Mrs Pardoe is so kind, I am quite overwhelmed. Will you not call me Ruth?"

"If you wish. And I am Rose, of course." They entered a chamber hung with blue. "I sent my maid to Lady Laetitia—"

"Letty."

"—to Letty, because I wanted to help you myself. Oliver has told us so much about you. He says you rescued "him from the smugglers?"

"I have already discovered that Mr Pardoe is a great tease. I am sure you have guessed that it was he who rescued me."

"Tell me," coaxed Rose.

It was the first time anyone had been interested in Ruth's story, except, she remembered, for Walter and look how that had turned out. As Rose, in her slow-seeming but efficient way, settled her in a bed softer than she had dreamed existed, she described their escape from the caves.

"I can see that it really was a mutual effort," decided Rose when she finished. "How brave you were! I cannot imagine being in such a situation."

"I pray you never will be," said Ruth with fervour. "It seems like a dream now. Or a nightmare, rather."

Rose was unpacking Ruth's one bandbox, and Ruth could tell that her new friend was politely restraining her horror.

"It is amazing how different country fashions are from our Town modes," she murmured tactfully. "I daresay you will wish to have a few gowns made up."

"I have no money," Ruth told her bluntly. A lifetime of pinching and scraping had left her no room for embarrassment on the subject. "We shall have to be country mice until my uncle returns, I fear."

"Oh, it is not that bad. You will not be offended, Ruth, if I give you some gowns? Papa gives me so much pin money that I am sadly extravagant and have more than I can ever wear.

Besides, I am sure one gown of mine will make two for you." An idea seemed to dawn on her. "But how silly of me!" she cried. "I have just remembered, Papa mentioned that Sir John had left some money in his care in case you should need it before he comes back into England. I will speak to him about it at once."

As she said this, Rose avoided Ruth's eye. The thought that Rose perhaps intended to make over some of her allowance to the sisters crossed her mind, but she was too tired to follow the idea through.

"Rose, you are a dear," she mumbled drowsily, and was asleep before Miss Pardoe had reached the door.

_{Chapter 9}

Ruth Woke Briefly at eight o'clock that evening when a maid brought her a tray of delicacies and informed her that Lady Letty had gone down to dinner. She nibbled at a breast of pheasant and fell asleep again propped up on three or four pillows with the tray still on her lap. She was vaguely conscious, an hour or so later, of Rose's removing the tray and several pillows and tucking her in cosily.

After that, she slept nearly the clock round. When she woke, her chamber was dark. She lay luxuriating in the soft warmth of her bed until she heard people moving about below. The pale light of dawn was visible through a crack in the window curtains, and remembering how late the sun rose in December, she rose hurriedly.

A banked fire of sea coal smouldered in the grate, so the room was not too cold, but the water in the ewer was chill. Ruth washed quickly and put on her best wool dress, which hung freshly cleaned and pressed on a hook on the wall. Then she noticed a bell-pull beside the bed. A memory from her childhood came to her: her mother, lying in bed, had been able to summon a servant at will.

Momentarily depressed, she wondered how long it would take her to learn to behave in the manner in which she should have been reared. Would Oliver regret having brought her to his family? He had seen her so briefly in her own home, and the smugglers' cave had been no place for social niceties. He could not have realised how ignorant she was of proper behaviour.

Resolutely she dismissed such thoughts, and greatly daring, pulled the bell, then waited heart in mouth.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she called.

A maid entered and bobbed a curtsy.

"Yes, my lady?" she enquired.

"I . . . I'm very hungry," stammered Ruth, and discovered that it was true, she was ravenous. "May I have something to eat?"

"O’ course, my lady. There be breakfast in the morning room, or I c'n bring you summat here."

"I'll go down," Ruth decided. She must learn to face the household soon. "Show me the way, if you please. Is my sister risen?"

"Nay, my lady. Nor the mistress nor Miss Rose neither. Tis early yet. This way, please, my lady."

Ruth wondered if she had committed a social solecism by rising too early, then realised that if breakfast was already available it must be a reasonable hour. In any case, the hollow feeling in her middle persuaded her to continue.

The maid ushered her into a pleasant room, papered with yellow marigolds, which made it seem sunny, and pervaded with the aroma of ham and toasted muffins. Oliver was there before her.

He rose from his loaded plate to greet her.

"Good morning, Lady Ruth. I trust you are recovered from the journey. Indeed, I did not mean to tire you so!"

"Good morning, Mr Pardoe. I slept very well, thank you, and for more hours than I would have believed possible. You are not to blame yourself for my fatigue. I think it was caused as much by the bewildering change of scene as by the coach ride."

A footman seated her.

"What will you have?" asked Oliver. "There is almost anything you could think of. Mama believes in keeping up our strength."

Ruth was soon provided with a large plateful of her own, which she attacked with vigour.

"I fell asleep in the middle of my dinner last night," she told Oliver defensively.

"I do believe you are trying to grow as tall as Rosie," he teased. "Oh, by the way, she mentioned that you are in need of outfits more suitable to London life than Cornwall was able to provide. Sir John left some cash with my father, and he has deputed me to be your banker. I know nothing whatever of fashions so you may buy what you will and present the bills to me with no fear that I shall quibble about an ostrich feather here or a lace mantilla there."

"Rose spoke of it last night. I ... I wondered if perhaps she was thinking of ... of sharing her pin money," 'said Ruth diffidently.

"It would not hurt her to do so. However it is quite unnecessary, I assure you."

Ruth was not entirely satisfied, but she was afraid he might be offended if she pressed the subject. She could not even bring herself to ask how much money her uncle had provided. She must assume that Oliver would tell her when it was exhausted.

Oliver, who had been given carte blanche by his father to pay the Penderrics' bills, was most relieved when she asked no more questions.

At that moment, Mr Pardoe himself came in. Expecting unconsciously that he would be built on the scale of the three she had already met, Ruth was surprised to find that he was not much above her in height, a wiry, sprightly old gentleman.

"Good morning, sir." Oliver jumped to his feet. "Lady Ruth, this is my father. Father, Lady Ruth Penderric."

Ruth rose and curtsied.

"How d'ye do, ma'am, how d'ye do?" Mr Pardoe bowed jerkily, looked her up and down with a bright, friendly, bird-like gaze, and sat down to break his fast. "Happy ye'll be with us for Christmas, my dear."

Ruth realised that the holiday was a mere five days off. It had not brought any celebrations at Penderric Castle for as long as she could remember, and she wondered what sort of festivities would mark the occasion here.

"Father is very proud of his Christmas arrangements," Oliver explained. "We have a great party for all our employees and their families, and he has adopted the Duchess of York's German custom of giving presents to all the children. Of course, Rose and I count ourselves children still, and you and Lady Letty shall certainly be added to our numbers if you will grace the party with your presence."

"It sounds delightful. We never did anything like that at Penderric. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"As to that, you will have to consult Mama. Pray do not feel obliged to make yourself useful, Lady Ruth. I want you to enjoy yourself in London."

"If you wish me to feel myself at home, Mr Pardoe, you will not leave me idle. I am used to be busy, you know."

Oliver was heard to mutter something about a "wretched slave-driving skinflint." His father, who had consumed a considerable amount of food during this exchange, interrupted.

"A gal after my own heart! Idle hands make mischief, and I could wish that more of the nobility felt that way, 'stead o' squandering their blunt on horse races and dice."

"You have hit upon Father's favourite subject, Lady Ruth. I must bear him off before he starts speechifying, or he himself will accomplish nothing today. I believe Rose and my mother have made plans to take you and Lady Letty shopping, so you will certainly be fully occupied all day, I promise you."

"Mrs Pardoe will be down very shortly," the old gentleman assured her as his son swept him out.

Ruth sat musing over a cup of tea. She felt she had been caught up in a fairy tale, and the identity of Prince Charming was plain to her. Fervently she wished for a wand-waving godmother to turn her into a beautiful princess, but she rather thought Cinders had been beautiful to start with. Even an enchanted ball-dress could not make her anything other than a skinny, brown little thing, as her father had told her often enough.

In fact, good food and pleasant company had already done unrealised wonders for Ruth's face and figure. When she emerged, several hours later, from a Bond Street modiste, clad in a speedily altered walking dress of amber merino and a jaunty bonnet to match, the sternest critic could not have called her less than passable.

Oliver was no stern critic. When the ladies descended the stairs to join the gentlemen before dinner, he was immediately aware that Ruth looked particularly delightful. The time had long passed when he had thought of her face as anything but elfin, and undernourished was a word far more likely to spring to his mind than skinny. Now she was revealed as charmingly slender. If naturally curly hair, washed and brushed till it gleamed, and cut by an expert, now framed her features in an exceptionally attractive way, the eyes were the same pair that had captivated him in a dark cave, where they had shone in a dirty, scared, pinched, gallant little face.

No, Oliver could not fall any more deeply in love. Yet even though she had left her betrothed in Cornwall without a backward glance, his beloved, dressed at last as befitted her station, seemed farther than ever beyond his reach.

Ruth sensed his reserve at once. She had not expected a great deal of her new clothes, and now she wondered if she looked like a crow dressed in peacock feathers, though she had carefully avoided anything gaudy. In fact, as the other three had flown into raptures in shop after shop, arcade after arcade, she had found herself growing distinctly bored. It was a joy to be neatly dressed, to consign her rags to the housekeeper for dusters (not one of the Pardoes' maids would have accepted them as clothes), yet she could not summon any enthusiasm for the endless niceties of fashion.

With Letty, it was otherwise. Years of deprivation had sharpened her instinct for adornment, rather than defeating it. Ruth had had to put her foot down sharply at some of the extravagances her sister had desired. She was still far from happy about their financial situation and was determined to limit expenses as much as possible. In this she had no assistance from Rose and Mrs Pardoe, both of whom were apparently in the habit of spending freely. Just how wealthy was Mr Pardoe? Ruth wondered. Fortunately both ladies had excellent taste and helped Ruth dissuade Letty from the more wildly unsuitable purchase that caught her eye.

Letty would willingly have discussed frills and furbelow throughout dinner. However, even Rose had had enough of the subject, and conversation turned on preparations for Christmas Ruth was pleased to hear that there would be plenty for her to do.

For a start, she and Oliver were to be dispatched next day to choose presents for the children.

"Thirty-five girls and forty-one boys, I think," Mrs Pardoe told them. "Lady Ruth may pick the toys for the girls, and Oliver for the boys. And while they are out, Letty and Rose and I shall decide how to decorate the ballroom. Then, in the afternoon we shall go out and buy what we need for that. I hope you will be home for luncheon, my dear?" she asked her husband anxiously. "Cook will have the pudding batter ready for stirring, and you know how offended she gets if anyone misses."

"Stir the pudding!" Letty exclaimed. "Whatever for?"

"Why, for luck," said Rose, surprised. "Did you never stir the Christmas pudding?"

"I daresay Lady Letty does not know about the objects we put in the pudding?" Oliver asked, hiding a grin. 'The bell, for a wedding, the horseshoe for luck, a silver sixpence for riches, and the old boot for a bachelor."

"You put an old boot in a pudding?" Letty was astounded. "What a very odd custom! I suppose no one eats it?"

"On the contrary, everyone must have a slice," Oliver assured her. "And if your slice has the old boot then you will never marry."

Letty looked at him suspiciously.

"They are all silver charms, my dear," explained Mrs Pardoe soothingly. "Oliver, it is bad of you to mislead the child so."

"But all the same, watch you do not get the old boot, Lady Letty," warned the incorrigible Oliver. "Rose has had it three years in a row."

"The charm only works until the following Christmas," said Rose. "I've not given up hope yet."

When Oliver escorted Ruth down the front steps to the waiting carriage the next morning, she turned and looked back at the faade of the house.

"I do not understand it at all," she observed. "The front is so narrow, scarcely wider than the hall, yet inside it is as spacious as one could wish. You even have a ballroom!"

"It was built after the Great Fire, when no structures remained, not even St Paul's. It was the home of the Marquis of Spinbury, but he found that most of the nobility had moved west so he sold it and joined them. Then the land was sold piecemeal and built upon, until the house remained as you see it, completely surrounded."

"All the rooms I have seen have windows, yet I do not see where they can look out."

"You have been too busy to inspect our garden. In truth there is not much to see at this time of year. Lord Spinbury designed his mansion around an open square, onto which most of our windows now look. It is very pleasant in the summer, a haven of peace."

"I hope I shall see it then," said Ruth shyly.

It took them several hours to complete their commission, and they managed to find a great deal to amuse them in the task. As they returned, squeezed into a carriage piled high with packages, Ruth decided she had never spent so delightful a morning.

They found that the others had already eaten a nuncheon and were waiting for them to bring back the carriage. Cook was also waiting, anxious to wrap and boil the puddings.

"For well you knows, sir," she said severely to Oliver, "as 'ow they takes a good long steamin', and I bain't a-stayin' up till midnight after 'em. I put extry weddin' bells in," she confided, "seein' as 'ow we got an 'ouseful o' young ladies this year. And an owld shoe for you, Mr. Oliver."

"Get along with you, Cook, it's a bell and a horseshoe I'm looking for."

"Lucky in love, unlucky at cards, Mr Oliver."

"Now when did you last see me playing at cards? A fine idea of me you'll be giving to Lady Ruth."

"I think you a fine flirt, Mr Pardoe," laughed Ruth. "May I stir, too?"

"Sartinly, my lady. Everyone in the 'ouse, right down to the scullery maid. And I 'opes your la'ship'll 'ave a nextry lot o' luck from bein' last to stir, s'welp me if I don't."

The party was to be on the Saturday before Christmas. Friday brought an endless stream of delivery boys and carts, bearing geese and oranges, branches of evergreens and holly, even mince pies and currant buns, for Cook would be far too busy to manage everything. Among the baskets and boxes a pair of packages arrived that were whisked upstairs unopened. Ruth, Letty, and Rose shut themselves in Rose's chamber with Cora.

Oh, the glory of those first evening gowns! Letty was aux anges, and Ruth could not remain indifferent as tissue paper was carefully folded aside to reveal silk and lace, gauze and embroidery. Mademoiselle Denise, learning that the young ladies were newly arrived from the barbarous English countryside, had put forth her best efforts. Soon Letty was a vision in pale blue gauze over white satin, and Ruth the epitome of daring elegance in flame-coloured silk. So dashing was Ruth's appearance that Letty was envious.

"Oh no, my lady," said Cora firmly. "It is not at all suitable for a young girl, and your ladyship looks charmingly in blue. See how it brings out the color of your eyes."

Letty turned to admire herself in the mirror once more.

"I cannot wear it," declared Ruth, suddenly panic-stricken. "It is not me at all, it is far too . . . too forthcoming. I cannot think what I was about to purchase it."

"Not at all!" objected Rose. "It is quite unexceptionable and complements your colouring to perfection, Ruth. Letty or I would look positively washed out in it. And besides, if this is truly your very first party, you must wear something very special indeed." Rose was still incredulous about the total lack of social life at Penderric Castle.

Ruth was unconvinced, but she bowed to Rose's judgment. The gowns were carefully removed and hung up to await the morrow.

That afternoon, Pardoes, Penderrics, and a large part of the staff were busy decorating the ballroom under Mrs Pardoe's direction. Several hours of bustle and confusion brought about an amazing transformation. The walls were hung with scarlet-ribboned boughs of fir and thickly berried holly. Paper chains festooned the ceiling and the bandstand was a positive bower of tissue-paper flowers, fabricated by the ladies. The menservants had set up trestle tables and benches around the sides of the room, with plenty of space left for dancing in the centre. And piled before the high table were seventy-six little parcels, their contents carefully chosen by Ruth and Oliver according to a list of names and ages provided by Mrs Pardoe. The maids had wrapped them all in bright coloured paper, and the housekeeper had abandoned her duties for long enough to write a name on each.

At last all was done. Penderrics and Pardoes retired to the drawing room to recuperate before changing for dinner.

"Mama," said Oliver, "I hope you mean to let us waltz this year. It is become quite respectable, and I am sure the young people will know how to do it."

"Pray, Mama, do!" seconded Rose. "The country dances are fun, but it would be very fine to have a waltz or two."

"Oh, very well," sighed Mrs Pardoe, apparently worn down by an argument of long standing. "No more than two, mind."

"Thank you, Mama. We have won at last, Rosie. Lady Ruth, may I solicit your hand for the first waltz?"

"We do not know any dances!" revealed Letty, near to tears. "We shall have to watch all evening!"

"Nonsense!" Rose exclaimed bracingly. "Oliver and I can easily teach you most of them in a few hours, can we not, Oliver? We'll start right after dinner. I expect Papa will help. He is a great dancer, and Mama will play the piano, will you not, dearest Mama?"

Ruth retired that night with her head a buzzing confusion of "Gay Gordons," "Dashing White Sergeant," and "Sir Roger de Coverley." But in her dreams she waltzed with Oliver through caves hung with mistletoe, his strong arm about her waist swinging her to the music till she thought she was flying and the cave turned into a hot air balloon.

In the morning, "The Lancers" and "Strip the Willow" were added to their repertoire before Mrs Pardoe called a halt. Mr Pardoe's counting houses and copying rooms were all to shut down at noon, and guests were expected to begin arriving at four o'clock, so she sent the girls to rest before donning their new finery.

Ruth and Letty were too excited to relax. They plied Rose with questions until she told them good-naturedly that they must wait and see.

"I hope you are not expecting too much," she added. "It is always fun, but it is not a grand ball such as your aunt will doubtless take you to when the Season starts."

"Have you ever been to a society ball?" asked Letty.

"Yes, indeed, for when Papa was Lord Mayor of London we received several invitations. However, I had no better luck there than in our own circle: I've never met a young man I liked half as well as Oliver!"

"I'm sure you will not get the old boot this year," Letty consoled her. "I hope I do not!"

It was not high society, but it was a fine party, from the ooh's and ah's of the children as they caught their first glimpse of the ballroom, to the carols of the wassailers as the little ones were bundled sleepily into coats and mittens to walk home through the lamp-lit streets.

And in between came sizzling, golden-roasted geese, holly-sprigged puddings flaming blue with brandy, mulled ale and mince pies by the dozen, barons of beef, whole hams studded with cloves, mountains of potatoes and rivers of gravy, an orange for every pocket and a barley-sugar for every sticky hand.

The band fiddled away and holiday-dressed clerks swung their wives and sweethearts from arm to arm. The ladies spread their favours equally and not one of them sat out a dance, but Ruth saved the first waltz for Oliver. The floor cleared magically to leave them floating round the room before an admiring audience they scarcely noticed, until applause at the end woke them from their daze and a blushing Ruth hurried to rejoin Mrs Pardoe.

An interval while the musicians whetted their whistles, and in came a troupe of mummers in fantastic costumes. They performed the tale of St George and the Dragon, and if the dragon's mask looked not unlike the Prince Regent, no one was in a mood to complain.

At last came the moment seventy-six little souls had been anticipating. Each waited breathless as Mr Pardoe called out names, one by one. The room filled with the rustle of paper, and dolls emerged, bright-painted spinning tops, wooden horses, penny whistles, drums, and bead necklaces.

"Nothing sensible!" Mr Pardoe had ordered. "I give them their Christmas bonuses for that. Children need a bit of frivolity now and then."

Parents might groan and cover their ears as Johnny appeared with a whistle and Sue with a tambourine, but Johnny and Sue were certainly satisfied.

The dancing continued. Ruth found it did not matter if she did not quite remember the steps of the Eightsome Reel or which direction to go in the Barn Dance. Her admiring partners were blind to all faults and steered her kindly and tactfully to the right spot.

"This way now, m'lady!"

"That's right, dearie, keep going!"

Gradually all but the most energetic dancers dropped out. One by one the musicians gravitated toward the huge bowls of mulled ale, until a lone fiddler remained. Then he, too, put down his instrument, and the carollers paraded in.

"Mary and the Cherry Tree," "Three Ships a-Sailing," "The Wassail Song," "Past Three O'Clock," and "The Coventry Carol," all the old favourites were as new to Ruth as the old dances. As she helped to wrap the little ones against the cold, she wondered how she could have lived so many years in ignorance of all the traditions and customs of her country. With a shiver she dismissed memories of bleak Christmases at Penderric and joined the Pardoes in wishing the departing guests a very merry holiday.

_{Chapter 10}

Christmas Was Over all too soon for Ruth. She and Letty had each received a fur muff from Mr and Mrs Pardoe, a luxury she had not even dreamed of possessing.

"I am quite overwhelmed by your parents' kindness," she said to Rose. "It was generous of them to offer their hospitality, but they have gone far beyond that and made me feel one of your family."

"Because you seem to us one of our family. I could not ask for a dearer sister."

"I hope I shall be able to repay the debt a little when my uncle and aunt return. You must come with us to all the tonnish parties, and we'll soon find you a congenial husband."

"Oh, Ruth, I so long to fall in love and marry and have a family of my own! I daresay I am too choosy, for it is not as if I have had no offers."

"With a wider circle of acquaintances, anything may happen. Though if I were in your situation, with a loving family, plenty of pin money, few responsibilities, I do not think I should be in such a hurry to leave it!"

"There is no romance in your soul," protested Rose, laughing.

Letty bounced into the room.

"Are you two whispering secrets again?" she enquired.

Ruth looked guilty. She was sorry that Letty did not share her close friendship with Rose, though Letty did not seem to notice the lack. Now she was too interested in the news she had to resent the intimacy from which she was excluded.

"Oliver says he'll take us to see the Tower of London. I suppose it's just more history, like those stupid Roman walls, but if we cannot go shopping, it's better than doing nothing all day."

"I expect you'll enjoy the Tower," Rose told her. "The menagerie is worth a visit, and perhaps we will be able to see the Crown Jewels."

In the days that followed, Oliver escorted the young ladies on a number of excursions to see the sights of the City. Letty was most impressed by a tour of the Mansion House, which had been Mr Pardoe's official residence during his term as Lord Mayor. She listened open-mouthed as Rose and Oliver described the magnificent processions and banquets celebrating his inauguration.

St. Paul's, being just around the corner from home, was left for a miserable wet and windy day when they did not wish to venture any farther afield. When they did go, Ruth was as impressed by the interior of the huge dome as by its exterior, which dominated London's skyline. Oliver explained how the two were actually not the same, the outer one being supported by a hidden cone of brick.

"Don't spoil my illusions, Mr Pardoe!" she retorted with a smile. "Which reminds me, I have not yet seen the workshop you mentioned to me in Cornwall."

"Do you truly wish to? I must warn you that I am liable to grow excessively talkative on the subject of inventions."

"I should like it of all things, and I must warn you that I have some questions to pose about inflammable gas and why it is produced when water passes through hot iron filings."

"I can see you have been talking to Bob Polgarth," said Oliver, considerably startled by her clear recollection of the details and her sincere curiosity. "I'll take you to my laboratory this afternoon, if we can tear Letty away from the Whispering Gallery now."

So that afternoon, leaving Rose and Letty with novels, which were the favourite reading of both, Ruth followed Oliver along corridors hitherto unvisited, down stairs and through doors, until they came to a large room with a skylight.

"It is an addition constructed especially for me when one of the adjoining buildings was torn down," Oliver told her. "Pray excuse the disorder and the dust. The maids used to tidy up in here, but those who were not terrified always managed to break something, so I banished them."

Ruth gazed in awe at tables loaded with strange machines and apparatus. Books and pamphlets lay everywhere in apparent confusion.

"How do you ever find anything?" she asked.

"Oh, I know exactly where to lay my hands on everything. No one else ever comes in here. Father is interested only in results, and Mama and Rosie are curious only about when I am going to blow them up. I sometimes bring scientific friends here, but they know better than to touch things."

He demonstrated a miniature steam engine, a copy of one of Trevithick's with improvements suggested by George Stephenson. Ruth was fascinated to see the tiny pistons move up and down and the gears rotate.

"I had a slightly larger one," said Oliver, "but I added my own improvements, and it exploded. Only a very small explosion," he added quickly. "Do not tell Mama, I beg of you!" .

"I shan't," Ruth promised. "What is this?"

Oliver was explaining the purpose of a series of retorts linked by rather crooked glass tubing, when a knock sounded at an exterior door that Ruth had not noticed. Oliver opened it and admitted a good-looking young man.

"Michael! I am very glad to see you," he greeted him. "I have a guest who would be interested to see what you can do with my Voltaic Pile. Lady Ruth, this is Michael Faraday, who assists Sir Humphrey Davy at the Royal Society. Michael, Lady Ruth Penderric is staying with my mother while her uncle is abroad."

Mr Faraday made a clumsy bow.

"Pray excuse me, my lady," he stammered. "I was just passing. No business of importance. I'll be on my way. . ."

"Do stay, sir," Ruth urged. "I have discovered that Sir Humphrey is Mr Pardoe's hero, and some of his glory must transfer to you. Will you not show me your experiments?"

"Nothing Oliver can't do," the young man muttered, looking harassed, but he was soon put at ease when he found Ruth's interest was genuine. He demonstrated an Electric Arc, and described the huge battery at the Royal Society and what he and his mentor were discovering with its aid.

"They expect daily to produce a twitch in an elephant's leg," said Oliver with the solemn face that Ruth had come to associate with his teasing.

"Nonsense! We have better things to do."

Ruth requested an explanation and was told a great deal more than she wished to hear about Signor Galvani's experiments with frogs' legs.

"It sounds excessively nasty," she commented, "but if electric current can make frogs' legs move, can it not make other things move, as steam does in Mr Trevithick's engine?"

Mr Faraday looked thoughtful.

"That is worth thinking about," he said. "My lady, may I one day have the pleasure of demonstrating the huge arc we can produce at the Society?"

"I should like it of all things, Mr Faraday," Ruth assured him warmly.

He bowed and took his leave.

"Michael becomes quite civilised," said Oliver. "He was a bookbinder's apprentice when Davy took him up, you know, and his mind is too full of electricity to concentrate on learning polite behaviour. He is a genius, though, I am quite certain, and Davy expects a great future for him. You made a strong impression on him, Lady Ruth."

"I fear it is very unladylike in me to be interested in such things," Ruth apologised shyly. "I expect he was shocked because I asked so many questions."

"Not shocked at all, but delighted. As am I. It is rare enough to find a man with such a curiosity about science. I hope you will visit my humble laboratory again soon."

"May I, please? Perhaps if I get to know more about what you are doing here, you will allow me to dust and tidy for you."

"Ah, who is the tease now? I'm afraid I am teaching you bad habits, Lady Ruth."

Ruth laughed but did not answer, and, carefully locking the door, Oliver led her back to the main part of the house.

They found the place in turmoil. Maids were scurrying here and there with beaming faces, the housekeeper was sitting on the stairs with her apron over her head, weeping, and as they entered the entrance hall they heard Bartlett giving orders to a trio of grinning footmen.

"Of course Mr Oliver is in the house," he scolded with uncharacteristic vivacity. "If he's not in his room, nor the library, one of you run quickly to the laborority and see if he's there." The butler turned and saw Ruth and Oliver standing amazed. "Oh sir!" he cried, "your Pa ... no, 1 mustn't tell you, he'll want to himself. They're in the drawing room, Mr Oliver. Hurry now!"

Totally bewildered, they obeyed.

The scene in the drawing room was no more restrained. Mrs Pardoe did not have an apron, and was seated in a chair, but otherwise her posture was indistinguishable from the housekeeper's. Only the smiling face she raised to her son persuaded him that some tragedy understood only by the two of them had not overtaken the household. Rose and Letty were holding both hands and swinging around in a wild dance. Mr Pardoe, grinning as widely as any of his servants, rushed to Oliver and attempted to embrace him upon both cheeks, no easy matter as he was a good foot shorter.

"I've done it!" he crowed. "At last I've done it, my boy. You are now looking at Sir Edward Pardoe, Baronet!"

"Father! A baronet! That is magnificant! And you were hoping for a mere knighthood."

"Did I not tell you that a large loan to the Prince Regent would wipe out his memory of years of contributions to Whig coffers, hey, Oliver? And the joke of it is that as a baronet I'll have far more influence for Whig causes."

"Oh, Prinny cannot see beyond the end of his nose, Sir Edward. Mama—Lady Pardoe, I mean—you always knew he would do it." Oliver bent to kiss his mother, and Rose stopped dancing long enough to give him a hug.

"Oliver," said Lady Pardoe, drying her tears, "the best is that of course you will inherit the title, though I expect your papa to become a baron as soon as the Whigs come to power."

Meanwhile, Ruth had offered sincere congratulations to the new baronet, who kissed her soundly on each cheek. It was much easier for than doing the same to Oliver, and, as he told her, much pleasanter.

Ruth exchanged hugs with Lady Pardoe and Rose, and with Letty for good measure. Oliver seized the opportunity of the general confusion to kiss and hug her himself. His first thought on hearing the news had been that as heir to a baronetcy he was several steps closer to being an eligible match for an earl's daughter.

There was a knock on the door and Bartlett, restore usual solemnity, appeared with a bottle of champagne glasses.

"Permit me, Sir Edward," he requested ponderously, "to otter the congratulations of the entire staff upon your elevation. It is very gratifying, sir, most gratifying I might say, to see a worthy gentleman and good master come by his reward. Begging your pardon, Sir Edward."

"Thank you, Bartlett, thank you very much. I hope you will all drink my health in a glass of port."

"Thank you, Sir Edward." The butler bowed profoundly, poured the champagne and departed.

"I expect it raises his stature no end, to be employed by a baronet," Oliver declared. "Father, will you not now purchase an estate in the country?"

"No, no, my boy. I am too old to learn to play the country squire. There is nothing to stop you, however, Oliver. I did not 'lend' the Regent so much that I cannot afford to indulge my family."

"Indeed, Oliver," said Rose, "I think it would be an excellent idea. You may blow up a hundred workshops in the country, and no one will even notice. Mama and I might sleep easy once more."

"I shall consider it seriously, Father," Oliver avowed, with a swift glance at Ruth that did not escape his mother's eye. "Not too far from London, of course. I do not mean to abandon my present occupations, I should simply prefer to live amid trees and fields. Kew or Richmond, perhaps, or Hampstead. There is no hurry, however."

He was thinking that though he might now aspire to Ruth's hand he should certainly not declare himself before her uncle's return. Her situation was so unsettled that he had no intention of pressing her until her affairs were in order. She had not mentioned the abominable Walter since her original refusal to flee to London, had not tried to bid him farewell when she changed her mind and left Cornwall. Was it too much to hope that she had broken her engagement? He wished he dared ask. There was her brother to be considered also. It seemed unlikely that he would give his blessing as it would mean losing control of her inheritance. Oliver realised that he was anticipating. Suppose Ruth did not wish to marry him?

His mother was speaking.

"We might all drive out some fine day," she suggested, "and take a look at Hampstead and Kew. Whichever seems pleasantest in midwinter will certainly be delightful in summer."

"I should enjoy that," agreed Ruth eagerly. "London is very interesting, but when one has grown up in the country, one misses the wide spaces and the open sky."

"Not I," Letty objected. "I vow I should be happy never to set eyes on Bodmin Moor again. It is the dreariest place, no shops and no amusements. I am persuaded you would very soon miss London if you returned to Penderric, Ruth."

"I expect you are right, my dear, though I daresay Richmond is not at all like the moors. Only think of the varied scenery we passed through when we came here. I should like to travel to every part of Britain, to see the mountains and lakes and forests, and to go down a coal mine and see Mr Trevithick's pumping engine and Sir Humphrey Davy's lamp."

"I see you have infected our guest with your enthusiasms, Oliver," said Sir Edward drily.

"One day I'll take you," promised Oliver, "and Rosie shall come with us to play propriety."

"I will not!" declared Rose hurriedly. "You must find yourselves another chaperone. Wild horses would not drag me down a mine! Indeed, I have never felt any desire to go farther from home than Richmond Park, so Mama's excursion will suit me very well. And if Oliver settles there I may even be prevailed upon to visit him."

_{Chapter 11}

Lady Pardoe's Outing was not destined to take place that winter. The very next day she came down with a putrid sore throat and retired miserably to bed.

The doctor pronounced miasmas from the river to be the cause, aided, he said severely, by excessive excitement. Sir Edward began to wonder whether they should not remove, if not so far as Hampstead, then at least to Holborn, away from the Thames's noisome exhalations, which had never troubled him before.

Rose was forbidden to enter her mother's room for fear of infection. Ruth, however, did not consider herself subject to such decrees.

"I have very often nursed Letty," she pointed out, "and I am never ill myself. If Lady Pardoe will have me, I insist on nursing her. I am sadly in need of an occupation."

Lady Pardoe was feeling too sick to argue, and gratefully accepted Ruth's ministrations, while Rose took over the management of the household.

Ruth found that caring for her patient took most of her time, but she dined with the rest of the family and spent half an hour in the drawing room after dinner.

"You are a superb housewife," she congratulated Rose on the second evening. "I quite thought that choosing pretty clothes and reading romantic novels were your only accomplishments."

"Wretch! Mama made sure that my practical education was not neglected, though in general I rarely need to display my abilities. I am out of practice, and everything takes twice as long as it should."

"The establishment runs perfectly smoothly, even with sickness in the house. I'm sure I cannot guess how you manage to direct so many servants. I should not know where to begin."

"Everyone is too busy to do the things I want to do," complained Letty. The charming effect of a new gown of pink taffeta was ruined by her sulky face. "It is too bad. I daresay Lady Pardoe is not half so ill as you pretend, Ruth. It is very selfish in you to leave me on my own so much."

"Lady Pardoe is not at all well, Letty, and anything I can do to make her more comfortable is a small repayment for her hospitality. I must go back to her now. I promised I should not be away long."

"You see, there you are running off to look after a stranger and leaving your own sister to fend for herself."

Ruth cast a harried look of apology at Rose and left the room without attempting further remonstrances.

"My mother would not go on half so well without Ruth," Rose said coaxingly. "We are all very grateful to her. Come, tell me about the book you are reading."

"It is amazingly dull. I expect I shall not finish it. Rose, let's go shopping tomorrow. I need a shawl and some new gloves."

"I doubt I shall have time, Letty, but I will try."

Oliver, following his father into the room, heard this last exchange and decided it was his duty to entertain Letty. That evening he taught her to play casino. She picked it up quickly and was lucky in her cards, winning from him a large pile of buttons scavenged from his mother's workbox.

Her victory pleased her, and she behaved well enough for Oliver to offer to take her out the next day. Unfortunately the weather was atrocious, sleet and high winds making it out of the question to venture forth unnecessarily.

"You promised!" Letty whined at the breakfast table, but it was a token protest.

They decided to play backgammon. The luck was with Oliver this time. He kept rolling doubles, and however much he cheated in her favour, Letty only managed to win twice. When he reached the point where one more game with a sore loser would have made him scream, he took her to his laboratory.

He knew immediately that it was a mistake. Not only was she not interested, she did not wish to be reminded that she was residing in a family whose affluence proceeded from trade, a fact she had managed to suppress.

"I cannot think why you should imagine that I might desire to see such things," she said crossly. "Ruth may pretend to be fascinated, but I shall not lower myself so. Pray take me back to the drawing room at once."

"Willingly," responded Oliver. "You may be sure I shall not again insult you with an invitation." Looking on her as a selfish child, he was not hurt by her sneers, but his patience was at an end. He made no further attempts to entertain her, suddenly becoming very busy about his father's business.

Fortunately for everyone's tempers, a diversion occurred, in the shape of a visitor.

Ruth and Letty did not realise it, but until now their hostess had been very careful that they should not make any acquaintance of which their uncle might not approve. Even had she been in good health, however, she would have found it difficult to deal with the self-assured young Yorkshireman who now put in an appearance.

Mr Snaith was the son of a manufacturer in whose mills Sir Edward had a considerable investment. Word had reached the Pardoes that the workers in Mr Snaith senior's employ, mostly women and children, as was usual, were subject to the most deplorable conditions. Sir Edward, though a man who knew the value of a sovereign, would gladly forgo a proportion of his profits to assure reasonable treatment for these unfortunates. He had recently written to demand an accounting, and young Mr Snaith had been sent south to refute the accusations as best he might.

Arriving on the Pardoes' doorstep at seven o'clock one foggy evening, Mr Snaith assumed himself to be a welcome guest. After half an hour of his company, they were anxious to persuade him otherwise.

"I am sorry that my mother is ill," said Rose in desperation. "I fear it will be impossible to entertain you as we would wish."

"Pray offer Lady Pardoe assurances of my most sincere sympathy and desire for her rapid recuperation. I have always been given to understand that the climate of London is singularly insalubrious."

"You are quite right, my dear fellow," Oliver quickly agreed. "Especially for those who are unused to it. However, we have any number of excellent hotels in the neighbourhood. Visitors to the City often put up at the Peacock or the Blue Boar, and I have heard both highly recommended."

"In our part of Yorkshire, the Cross Keys at Leeds is generally reckoned to be a superior hostelry."

"Then, of course, there is the King's Head, noted for the softness of its featherbeds, and the Royal Oak with its famous winecellar. . ."

"The Hare and Hounds at Sheffield is also much admired. Lady Laetitia, I daresay you have travelled a good deal?"

The thick-skinned Snaith was a young fellow of middle height, with a distinct tendency towards corpulence and aspirations to dandyism. The height of his collar, his grass-green coat and yellow pantaloons, completely cast Oliver's black and white elegance in the shade, at least as far as Letty was concerned. All evening she drank in his words, until Rose and Oliver decided there must be something to be said for anyone who could so absorb her attention.

Mr Snaith stayed to dinner and settled himself comfortably at Letty's side in the drawing room afterward. The tea tray came and went, and still he showed not signs of taking his leave.

"I'll order the carriage for you," offered Oliver hopefully.

Mr Snaith waved an airy hand and continued his conversation.

"I'd better tell Mrs Larkin to prepare a bedchamber," Rose whispered to her brother with a sigh of resignation.

On the morrow, it was plain that Mr Snaith considered himself fixed for the duration of his stay in London. Sir Edward being engaged elsewhere for the whole day, Rose had the brilliant notion of suggesting that Letty should show Mr Snaith the sights. She thought no harm could come of it with John Coachman and Cora in attendance.

Enchanted with the idea of being seen abroad with such t fine beau, Letty was all compliance.

"It is too kind of you, Lady Laetitia," bowed Mr Snaith. "The presence of such a charming young lady must increase immeasurably the inevitable exaltation of one who beholds the wonders of the capital for the first time. I anticipate no ordinary measure of satisfaction from your unexpected participation in this excursion, Lady Laetitia."

He reminded Ruth of Walter, except that he toadied instead of condescending, and she had no reason to suppose his intentions to be half so kindly.

Mr Snaith stayed a whole week, by the end of which even Letty's infatuation was beginning to fade. His endless compliments were flattering but couched in such flowery language that it quite exhausted her to puzzle out his meaning. He had no better success with Sir Edward, who remained far from convinced that all was well in the Yorkshire mills. Oliver received instructions to pack his bag and accompany Mr Snaith on his return to the north. A personal inspection was indicated.

"I fear I shall not be back before you remove to your uncle's house," he told Ruth. "May I hope to call on you there?"

"Of course, Mr Pardoe, how can you doubt it? I shall never be able to express my gratitude to you for rescuing me from my horrid situation, and. . ."

"Say no more." He pressed her hand. "Only pity me for being shut up in a chaise for three or, God forbid, four days with our new acquaintance. Goodbye, my dear."

This farewell left the two with greatly differing feelings. Oliver was once agin persuaded that gratitude was the most he could expect from Ruth. On the other hand, she felt for days the pressure of his fingers on hers and treasured his final words in her heart.

_{Chapter 12}

One Morning, A few days after Oliver's departure, Ruth and Sir Edward sat at breakfast in the morning room. The other ladies being late risers, Ruth had come to know her host well over the breakfast table, and though both missed Oliver's cheerful presence, there was no lack of conversation.

Sir Edward was expatiating upon one of the reform bills now before Parliament, when footsteps and voices were heard in the hall, the door swung open, and in came a tall, thin gentleman. Sir Edward jumped to his feet, but before he could utter word, his hand was being pumped vigorously and the visitor cried, "My dear Edward, congratulations, congratulations! I cannot sufficiently express my delight at the news. A baronetcy, no less! Magnificent! And where are my nieces, Sir Edward? You have them safe?"

The new baronet extricated his mangled hand with some difficulty.

"Of course, John. Oliver brought them up to Town two months since, as I told you in my note. Delightful young ladies, and here is Lady Ruth waiting to greet you. Your uncle, Sir John Hadrick, my dear."

Ruth curtsied shyly and was promptly enveloped in an embrace that left her in no doubt of being welcomed. He took her chin in his hand and studied her face.

"Yes, child, you have something of the look of poor Millicent, something about the eyes." Sir John sighed. "And where is your sister, my dear? Still abed?"

"Yes, sir. Letty is no early bird. How happy I am to see you, uncle! Is my aunt well?"

"Somewhat fatigued after our journey, or she would be here to welcome you with me. We arrived from Paris only last night, you know. Well, I shall see Letty later, and you will both remove to Curzon Street as soon as may be."

"Sir Edward and Lady Pardoe have been exceptionally kind to us, uncle. We shall be sorry to leave . . ."

"Yes, yes, of course. I'd not have entrusted Millicent's girls to anyone else. Now you must excuse me, my dear Ruth. I have a deal of political business to discuss with Mr ... Sir Edward, after my long absence."

It did not take Ruth long to discover that her uncle, though sincerely delighted to receive her and Letty into his home and most affectionate when he saw them, was an excessively busy man. As Member of Parliament for a pocket borough in East Anglia, he took his duties extremely seriously. It was through his political activities that he had become intimate with Edward Pardoe, both being active Whigs of long standing in a period when Reformist ideas were anathema to the Tory government.

In recent years, Sir John had made a number of excellent investments, advised by Sir Edward, and he was now in a position to offer a home to his nieces, and even to bring out Letty at his own expense. He later apologised profoundly to Ruth for having been unable to do the same for her.

"Pray do not be concerned, uncle," she assured him. "I doubt very much whether I should have taken, and it would have been so much effort and expense wasted. Letty is far more suited to take the Ton by storm."

"Pretty chit, pretty chit," he muttered as he raced off to some appointment.

With this his wife agreed. Plump and indolent, she had been far from pleased at having two unknown girls thrust upon her, but noting Letty's fair, youthful attractions, she foresaw a triumph and was reconciled to the notion.

"I do not know what we shall be able to do for you, however," she declared, looking critically at Ruth. "The present fashion is for blondes, and besides your age is against you. I am sorry to have to, say it, Ruth, but you are practically upon the shelf. I shall do my best, of course, but I fear it will be to no avail."

Having no illusions, Ruth was undismayed. However, if she hoped to avoid her aunt's ministrations, she was out of luck. Aunt Hadrick was not at all willing to introduce to the Polite World a little brown thing in whom she could see no sign of beauty.

"We must at least attempt to remedy your complexion," she announced. "We shall pad your hair, and you must wear high-heeled slippers; that will add a few inches to your height."

"Do you think it necessary, Aunt?" Ruth asked in alarm. "I have no desire to cut a figure in society, and had rather you concentrated your kindness upon Letty."

"She will certainly better repay my efforts," sighed Aunt Hadrick, "but we must do what we can for you, Ruth. It will not do to have you looking a fright."

Ruth did not consider herself quite an antidote, but she submitted to lying for hours together with her face plastered with crushed strawberries, or distilled water of pineapples, or even slices of raw veal.

"Though that is generally thought to be a remedy for wrinkles, of which I do not believe you yet show signs. You must avoid smiling, Ruth, or you will be getting crows' feet at your eyes, which you cannot afford."

Though Ruth saw no change in her complexion, Lady Hadrick declared herself satisfied after three afternoons of facepacks. Ruth suspected she had abandoned hope.

While Ruth was flat on her back, Letty had once again been measured for a new wardrobe. Aunt Hadrick considered the gowns chosen under the aegis of Lady Pardoe to be quite ineligible.

"She is the wife of a baronet now," admitted Lady Hadrick, whose own rank that was, "but she is still a Cit, and we cannot expect a Cit to have any idea of what is worn in fashionable circles."

Unfortunately, Mile Denise, the modiste patronised by Lady Pardoe, was quite above the touch of Lady Hadrick, who had, besides, no natural good taste to guide her. Inferior dressmakers could not spoil Letty's charming figure, but when it was Ruth's turn to be outfitted, she finally put her foot down. She was not about to be turned into a regular quiz at her uncle's expense. Better a few well-designed dresses than a wardrobe full of unwearable clothes.

Looking at herself in the glass Chez Maisie, she saw a dumpy figure in a multitude of white frills that destroyed her natural elegance and turned her sallow. Two months ago she would not have known the difference. Now, she knew that it was possible for her to appear acceptable, and she turned to her aunt.

"I do not think this is quite my style Aunt," she announced quietly but firmly.

"It is sweetly pretty, my dear Ruth. I do not know how you can say such a thing."

"It suits madamwahzel to perfection," gushed Maisie anxiously.

"Thank you, Aunt, but I have quite enough dresses to last a little while. I should wish to look about me at what other people are wearing this season before I order any more."

"Very well," Lady Hadrick agreed, feeling perhaps that anything she purchased for her irremediable niece would simply be good money thrown away. "You shall make do for the moment with what you have. Come girls, let us go to Grafton House and choose some silk stockings, and Ruth must at least have some new gloves."

Duty satisfied, she raised only minor objections when Ruth refused to let her maid build up her brown curls over a massive and mismatched pad of horsehair.

"I daresay you will not wear high heels either, miss," she snapped. "Very well, I wash my hands of you, and so I shall tell your uncle. I must be satisfied that Letty's sweet looks will compensate me for your ingratitude."

Ruth was cowed but unrepentant. And how much her uncle cared for his wife's strictures was shown when he presented both girls with narrow jewelry boxes on one of the rare occasions when he was home for dinner.

"I have given Letty pearls," he said, "Lady Pardoe agrees that they are most suitable for a young girl. And for you, my dear, she suggested this."

The box opened to display, resting on black velvet, a dainty topaz pendant. It seemed to have flames concealed within its depths and Ruth was at once certain that it would perfectly complement her first evening gown.

"Thank you, Uncle!" she cried with shining eyes. "How kind you are to us."

He kissed her forehead.

"I have always been sorry that I could do so little for poor Millicent," he murmured. "It is too late now, alas, so I must make it up to her daughters."

"I am sure it is very generous of your uncle," said Lady Hadrick severely. "I hope you will always try to deserve his good opinion, Ruth. And Letty," she added as an afterthought.

Heartened by Sir John's support, Ruth announced the next morning that she and Letty must call on the Pardoes. She had suggested a visit several times during the week since their removal, only to be put off upon one pretext or another by Lady Hadrick or her sister.

"I cannot go this morning," Letty objected. "The hairdresser is coming to try a new style."

"And this afternoon I intend to take you both to call on Lady Perrin and Mrs Vaughn," invented their aunt hurriedly. "It is time you made some acquaintance among the Ton, for the season will soon be in full swing."

"You will have to excuse us, Aunt," responded Ruth with what Lady Hadrick described as her stubborn face. "It is unthinkable that we should put off our visit to our friends any longer."

"How can you call them friends?" asked Letty scornfully. "They are mere Cits and I do not see that we owe them any special condescension."

Ruth was shocked by this speech, which she at once ascribed to Lady Hadrick's influence. Nor was she to be dissuaded from her objective.

"You will come with me, Letty," she said quietly. Her sister knew that voice and sulkily prepared to give in. "The Pardoes took us in when we had nowhere to go, and were they charcoal-burners we should owe them every observance of civility. I am happy to call them my friends, and I shall ask my uncle's leave to invite them to visit me in his house."

"There is no need to do that, miss!" her aunt told her sharply. "Sir Edward is a political associate of Sir John, and, of course, his family may call. I daresay I shall come with you to the Par-does. Sir John reminded me just last night that I had not yet offered my congratulations. I am sure I have had enough on my mind this last week to try a saint."

Glad to have carried her point, Ruth held her tongue, even when she heard Lady Hadrick whisper to Letty:

"They may very well be out, you know."

Determined to do all in her power to avert that possibility, she ventured to ask the butler, Jameson, to have a note delivered.

Thus it was that when Lady Hadrick's coachman rang the Pardoes' bell, he was at once informed that her ladyship and Miss Rose were at home.

Lady Hadrick's congratulations to Lady Pardoe on her husband's recent elevation were stately in the extreme. Lady Hadrick went on to spend the next fifteen minutes recalling anecdotes illustrative of the seniority of the Hadricks' baronetcy, a creation of the Restoration. She then called Letty and Ruth to her and announced her intention of departing.

This, Ruth was quite unready to do. After a brief moment of awkwardness, she and Rose had quickly recovered their old intimacy, and a quarter of an hour was by no means an adequate visit.

"Pray do not wait for me, Aunt," she said cheerfully. "I may very well walk home. It cannot be much above two miles, and I daresay anyone will be able to direct me."

"You are not on your Cornish moors now, Ruth," Lady Hadrick pointed out in awful tones. "It is quite unthinkable that you should do anything of the sort, and I shall be unable to send the carriage for you later. Come!"

"Why, Lady Hadrick," interposed Lady Pardoe placidly, "let the girls chat a little longer. I shall be happy to send Lady Ruth home in our carriage when she is ready."

"Surely that is unexceptionable, Aunt. I shall accept Lady Pardoe's kind offer."

Lady Hadrick had already learned when it was useless to argue with her obstinate niece. She took her leave in no cordial mood.

_{Chapter 13}

Ruth Had Not spent so pleasant an afternoon since her uncle's return from Paris, as she told Rose.

"It will be different when you have more acquaintance," her friend consoled. "There will be parties and visits and driving in the park, and young men calling, no doubt."

"To see Letty," added Ruth drily. "You will come to see me, will you not, Rose? Do not abandon me completely."

"Of course I will come, and Oliver, too, I am sure. We expect him home tomorrow from Yorkshire."

"What did he discover there?" asked Ruth with interest. "I could believe any infamy of the Snaith."

"I expect Papa knows. I did not enquire." Rose dismissed the subject. "I'll bring Oliver to Curzon Street the morning after next, if you have no engagements."

Ruth assured her that she did not, resolved that her aunt should not discover any, and took her leave.

On the way to the West End in the Pardoes' carriage, her thoughts remained with Oliver, to whom they had turned not infrequently since last she saw him. For the hundredth time she pondered his last words to her.

"My dear," he had called her. Had he meant anything by it? Once again she was afraid she was refining too much upon a simple expression of kind friendliness. It was so little foundation upon which to build castles in Spain. With a wistful smile, she decided that Oliver could have nothing to do with such unsatisfactory construction methods.

Nonetheless, she mentioned to her uncle that Mr Pardoe was expected.

"Did you not say, Uncle, that upon his return you intended to invite the family to dinner? I beg your pardon if I speak out of turn."

"Ruth is quite enamoured of the lower classes," Letty tittered.

Sir John silenced her with a cold look.

"You are quite right, Ruth," he assured her. "I wish to have a small dinner party in celebration of Sir Edward's baronetcy. Not one of my big political parties, my dear," he told his wife. "However, we will have an excess of young ladies, so I thought to invite the young fellow I met in Paris, the diplomat, you know, and perhaps Peter Norwood. The day after tomorrow will do nicely if Oliver comes home tomorrow."

Lady Hadrick acquiesced with a sigh.

"I daresay it will be as well for the girls to practise their company manners before they meet anyone of rank," she murmured.

Heartened to find herself once more in sympathy with Sir John, though out of favour with his wife, Ruth ventured to follow him to his study, whither he retired after dinner.

"Uncle, may I ask you something?" she requested.

"Of course, my dear. Come in, come in."

She approached his huge oak desk, covered with official-looking papers, and picked up a miniature in an ornate gold frame. It showed the face of a girl of perhaps seventeen, not beautiful but smiling with an innocent happiness more appealing than mere prettiness. Ruth studied it for a moment.

"I noticed this the other day. Is this my mother, sir?" she asked, turning to Sir John.

He was standing with both hands grasping the back of a chair, leaning on it, knuckles white. His eyes searched her face, then he nodded slowly.

"Yes, child." The words came with difficulty. "It was painted the year before . . . before she was married."

"I wish I could remember her like this," said Ruth wistfully.

"It is a long time since she died. Do you think of her often?"

"Oh, yes. She was the most wonderful person I have ever known."

"Then the promise has been kept," he muttered, adding, "Should you like a copy of the portrait?"

"I should like it of all things. Thank you, dear Uncle."

"I will have one made for you. Go now, child. I have much work to do."

Ruth looked back from the doorway. Sir John had sunk into a chair. One hand shaded his face, but she thought he looked old and unhappy. She ran back, dropped a light kiss on his thinning hair, then left him to his musing.

What promise kept, she wondered, could make him look so stricken?

******************

Rose made her appearance in Curzon Street on Wednesday morning as she had assured Ruth she would. Ruth was delighted, though disappointed that Oliver was not with her.

"Did he not return yet?" she asked anxiously, thinking of the dinner planned for that evening.

"He's back, but he arrived very late last night and was still asleep when I left. I did not wait, as Papa wished to see him when he awoke. He will certainly be here tonight, do not worry."

Ruth could not suppress a blush.

"I was only concerned because Sir John had waited on his return to invite you all. Rose, come to my chamber and see what Sir John has given me."

She showed Rose the topaz on its thin gold chain.

"It will go perfectly with my gown, will it not? The one I wore at Christmas? I wanted to wear it tonight, only my aunt thinks it too dashing for a small party."

"Never mind, I am sure you will have other occasions to show it off."

"Rose, that is not. . . ! Oh, you are teasing again! I fear I am growing quite unused to teasing since I left your house. Oliver will think me very slow and stupid."

"Not if you are still willing to talk to him about his engines. It is next month, you know, that he goes down to Cornwall for the great balloon flight. I saw Mr Sadler's ascension and it was monstrous exciting, but I should not wish to go up myself like Madame Blanchard. I daresay you would be quite happy to join Oliver in the skies."

"I am not so venturesome, Rose, believe me, though I think there is little danger in a tethered balloon. I am simply interested in what makes a balloon rise, and had far rather your brother did not risk his life."

"I doubt even you could dissuade him, my dear. Nay, do not blush. I am done teasing. I believe Oliver is wedded to his inventions and I should be sorry to raise hopes in anyone's breast only because of a romantic rescue from smugglers. Mama is right, I read too many novels."

Ruth was relieved that Rose apparently had no real suspicions of her feelings, even as she was disappointed with a sister's candid view of her brother's emotions. With a mental sigh, she turned the subject.

That evening she wore the amber merino that had been her first purchase in London. The addition of some lace trim, a lace fichu, and the prized topaz, turned it into an evening gown that her aunt found acceptable for that night's indifferently regarded guests.

The first to arrive was Mr Peter Norwood, a Member of Parliament in his mid-thirties, whose bright-hued waistcoat and excessively high collar reminded Ruth of Mr Snaith. He had much the same effect on Letty, and he, having an eye to a pretty girl, immediately monopolised her attention. Having plenty of opportunity to exercise his eloquence in the House, he was able to compliment her in quite ordinary language and she seemed perfectly satisfied with his company.

The next arrival was Lord Theodore Barrington, a tall, shy young man. When Lady Hadrick discovered that her husband's diplomat was the younger brother of a marquis, she visibly decided that after all the evening was not to be a complete waste of time. Her favourite niece already being deep in conversation, she introduced Lord Theodore to Ruth. He had time only to bow over her hand and stammer a few words when the Pardoes were announced.

Oliver followed his parents and his sister into the salon, shook hands with Sir John, bowed to his lady with coldness equal to her own, and nodded to Mr Norwood, with whom he was acquainted. Social obligations attended to, he came straight to Ruth.

She smiled up at him with eyes whose sparkle matched that of her jewel.

"Mr Pardoe," she began, "I hope you are not over fatigued by your travels? Oh, excuse me, do you know Lord Theodore?"

She introduced them, fascinated to note a hint of a challenge in Oliver's eyes. His lordship, however, was looking at Rose as he stumbled over his "how d'ye do's." Oliver followed his gaze.

"Let me present you to my sister, my lord," he proposed affably. That done, he returned immediately to Ruth and remained at her side until dinner was announced.

It was as if they had never parted. Ruth enquired about his mission's success, and they discussed the role of machines in making life a misery for the working classes. Oliver had to admit that that certainly seemed to be their effect, but he was convinced that in the end it would improve living conditions immeasurably. Being his father's son, he blamed a great deal of their wretchedness on the Tory government's policies.

Ruth agreed and pointed out that the country people were in even worse straits.

In general, they were in perfect agreement.

Lady Hadrick viewed with alarm the sight of her only worthwhile guest apparently mesmerised by Miss Pardoe, while her insubordinate niece hobnobbed with the banker's son. As soon as dinner was announced, she sailed forward with a rustle of mulberry silks.

"Lord Theodore, you will take Lady Ruth in to dinner, will you not? So suitable, I'm sure." His lordship cast a glance of dismay at Ruth and one of wistful longing at Rose. "And Miss Pardoe, you will go with Mr Norwood." The MP looked up good humouredly at his partner, who topped him by two or three inches. "Letty, I daresay Mr Pardoe will give you his arm, my dear. Sir John, you must take in Lady Pardoe."

"Delighted, ma'am," said her husband, the only gentleman pleased to follow her directions.

Sir Edward stifled a sigh as Lady Hadrick placed the tips of her plump, pink fingers on his sleeve.

"Allow me to escort my charming hostess," he said nobly.

Lord Theodore spent the greater part of the meal gazing at Rose in tongue-tied admiration. Ruth wondered how he had ever obtained a diplomatic post. She had always thought diplomats to be silver-tongued gentlemen prepared to twist foreign dignitaries around their little fingers.

Fortunately, Sir Edward was on her left and they happily renewed their acquaintance. In fact, the party was small enough for conversation to become general, at least at each end of the table. A huge silver epergne in the centre obstructed Ruth's view of her sister flirting with Mr Norwood.

Lady Hadrick's presence did not allow Ruth and Oliver to continue their former free interchange of opinions. In spite of this, her ladyship observed with disapproval that they were on the easiest of terms. Determined that her niece should not throw herself away until and unless she were at her last prayers, she resolved to put a spoke in that wheel with all due dispatch.

The ladies rose and departed, leaving the gentlemen to circulate the port and brandy. In the drawing room, Ruth cornered Rose.

"I see you have made a conquest," she said gravely. "I must beg you to surrender the key to the gentleman's tongue, or he will surely lose his position in the foreign service."

"He was not tongue-tied with me, you odious wretch," smiled Rose. "He was charming and told the most amusing tales of King Louis's court. He made me quite long to travel and see the customs of other lands."

"What, Rose, have you fallen at last?" asked Ruth, no longer teasing. "You scarce know him!"

"Nor he me," answered Rose soberly. "No, I'll not fall with no more to land on than a half hour's conversation, I assure you. Yet I should like to further the acquaintance. I daresay nothing will come of it."

"If I can persuade him to speak to me, I shall invite him to call," Ruth promised. "And you are always welcome, as you know. I shall be an interfering, match-making old maid, I vow."

At last the gentlemen were heard in the passage. At once Lady Hadrick called Ruth to sit beside her. Pretending not to notice Oliver's approach, she addressed her niece in a voice nicely calculated to reach his ear.

"My dear Ruth, I am so glad to hear that you are no longer betrothed to Walter Vane. A mere curate, and penniless, will not do for you at all. Why, even though he is related to his grace of Devonshire, he is but one step above a person engaged in trade. I know you understand me, child, for we always see eye to eye."

Oliver turned away.

Ruth was furious with her aunt. How dared she deliberately interfere, and so rudely! She started up to go to Oliver and soothe his ruffled feelings, but already he was deep in a political discussion with the two baronets and the Member of Parliament.

She thought he deliberately avoided catching her eye, and some of her vexation spilled over onto him. Surely he knew her better than to believe that she agreed with Lady Hadrick. And, anyway, what right had he to assume that those words were directed at him? She had never given him reason to suppose that he might supplant Walter in her affections. But Aunt Hadrick appeared to think a warning necessary, and Rose had been teasing her on the subject. Perhaps she had, without knowing it, worn her heart on her sleeve.

Confused and humiliated, Ruth decided she must be on her guard. She would treat Oliver with cool friendliness in future. Her gratitude toward him allowed no less, her pride no more. Her aunt's machinations were succeeding only too well.

Meanwhile, Lady Hadrick had quickly moved on to extract Rose from Lord Theodore's orbit and substitute Letty. The unfortunate young gentleman was floundering like a fish out of water as Letty interrogated him about Parisian modes. Recalling her promise to Rose, Ruth went to his rescue.

"Letty, I do believe Lady Pardoe wishes for a word with you," she said mendaciously. "I'm sure Lord Theodore will excuse you."

"Happy to, Lady Laetitia." In his relief, his lordship found his tongue.

After some searching, Ruth found a subject on which he was able to converse reasonably fluently. He was, it seemed, a connoisseur of art, and he told her about the paintings and sculptures that Napoleon had collected from all corners of Europe. Ruth was completely ignorant, and not particularly interested, but she managed to think up enough questions to keep the lecture going until Rose joined them.

She was amazed at the way his shyness vanished in Rose's presence. Within a very short time they were both addressing him as Theo, and he did indeed have many amusing anecdotes about the court at Versailles.

Inevitably Lady Hadrick found another excuse for bearing Rose away. However, now that the ice was broken, Theo did not lose his tongue again, and he kept Ruth entertained until the arrival of the tea tray.

Ruth had been enjoying herself, but now, looking around, she realised that Oliver was missing, and at once her pleasure disappeared. True to her resolution, she would not ask where he had gone. Lady Pardoe, noting her long face, supplied the answer.

"Oliver was fagged to death after his journey," she told Ruth kindly. "He has excused himself and gone home to bed."

This brought Ruth no satisfaction. He had left without taking his leave of her, therefore he was still offended. And worse, Lady Pardoe believed she wished to know his whereabouts. Was there anyone at all who had not noticed her interest in him?

Never had the ritual of the tea table seemed so wearisome.

******************

Oliver had indeed been exhausted after a thoroughly unpleasant stay in Yorkshire and an endless drive south through snow, sleet, mud, and slush. Nor did several glasses of champagne and a couple of snifters of brandy add to the clarity of his mind. Had he been his normal assured self, he might have laughed away Lady Hadrick's insult, especially as it had confirmed his suspicion of a breach with Walter.

As it was, his thoughts to some extent paralleled Ruth's. He was loath to believe that she could be influenced by her aunt's views. However, he had had similar misgivings on his own account, and so could not dismiss them out of hand. Unwilling to attempt to discover Ruth's feelings in so public a situation, he had turned from her and immersed himself in politics, which usually was of minor interest to him.

The next time he had looked for her, she had been laughing heartily at something Lord Theodore had said, her small face lit up in a way he had thought reserved for him.

His immediate reaction was a totally uncharacteristic murderous rage. He could happily have shot down his lordship on the spot. This should have warned him, as a peaceable man, that he was too tired to think straight. Fortunately, he was also too tired to follow his next impulse, to plant his right fist on the fellow's impudent grin.

It was not, of course, entirely Lord Theodore's fault, he admitted. What did Ruth mean by encouraging him in that forward way? With that sweet, treacherous face laughing up at him like that, the poor man hadn't a chance. So Ruth had decided to heed her aunt's advice, had she? The son of a marquis was more to her liking than a tradesman, a failed inventor. Well, let her cast out her lures; he wished her luck!

Rather unsteadily, he took his leave of his host and hostess, pleading fatigue. It was a fine night, frosty, with a star-filled sky, and he half intended to walk home to clear his head. However, after one look, Jameson insisted on calling a hackney, and he fell asleep on the way home.

_{Chapter 14}

The Next Morning, when Rose asked Oliver to accompany her to Curzon Street, he growled at her.

Rose scarcely noticed. She was wondering whether it was too much to expect that Theo would be there.

The night before, when Lord Theodore had departed, both Lady Hadrick and Ruth warmly pressed him to call again. Noting the blank look and stammer which promptly overcame him, Ruth whispered, out of her aunt's hearing, "Miss Pardoe is a frequent visitor, Lord Theodore."

He smiled gratefully at her and accepted the invitation. To Rose's disappointment, her parents did not add their own. They were quite unaware of her interest and did not like to presume upon a new acquaintance.

That morning, Lady Hadrick took Letty shopping. Ruth, as usual, stayed behind. They had already received invitations to a few parties, and she needed some new gowns, but she was determined not to be dressed by her aunt. She hoped to persuade Rose to accompany her, though she would have been more than delighted to put off the expedition had Oliver come with his sister.

Rose, when she appeared, refused to leave the house.

"Suppose Lord Theodore comes and no one is at home? He might never come again, Ruth."

"Nonsense, my dear. Quite apart from the fact that this is the only place he can be sure of meeting you sooner or later, he is a friend of my uncle and will certainly wish to present his respects now and then."

"He might consider it sufficient to leave his card."

'That would scarcely further his acquaintance with you, Rose."

"Perhaps he does not wish to do so. A single evening is hardly adequate to form even a first impression."

"How can you say so? Ah, you may well blush! Besides, I am sure he must occasionally feel a need to converse, and I hazard a guess that you are one of the few people with whom he finds it possible."

Rose sighed.

"Yes, the poor dear certainly is bashful in company. I doubt he will ever rise to ambassador."

"He is not in the least bashful in your company, and with your support I look to see him overcome his stammer and do very well."

"You go too fast, indeed you do!" cried Rose, blushing again. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Eleven already. I fear he will not come today."

"Now, Rose, you know that fashionable young gentlemen do not leave their beds before noon. If he is not here by one o'clock you shall come shopping with me, and we will go by the Royal Academy so that when he comes tomorrow you will be able to ask intelligent questions."

"I feel sure that paintings are a fascinating study," said Rose dreamily. "Only think how much money the regent spends on them. It is the sort of subject any lady should be conversant with, do you not think so, Ruth?"

A knocking at the front door prevented an answer, as both young ladies dashed to the window. They were rewarded with the sight of Lord Theodore Barrington standing patiently upon the step. He had ridden three times round the block in his anxiety not to arrive too early and was now afraid that he might have missed the ladies. In one hand he clutched hopefully two bouquets, rather the worse for wear after their journey through the busy streets.

"Where is Jameson?" asked Rose in a fever. "Ring the bell, Ruth, perhaps he did not hear the door."

Her fears were proved groundless as Lord Theodore stepped forward and out of their sight below.

Moments later, Jameson announced the visitor. A swift, nervous glance around the room assured his lordship that no aunts or younger sisters were lying in wait, and he relaxed.

Whether it was a desperate desire for conversation, or some other need, Theo far outstayed a fifteen-minute courtesy visit. At last the sound of Lady Hadrick and Letty arriving home drove him away, but he managed to extract a promise from Rose to drive with him in the. park the next day.

"And Lady Ruth, too, of course," he added quickly, his last intelligible words as he lost himself in a mangled maze of reasons why he could not stay for luncheon.

Lady Hadrick was pleased that Ruth had furthered her acquaintance with the marquis's brother, though dismayed at Rose's presence. She deplored her niece's intimacy with the banker's daughter but did not dare express her displeasure openly for fear of vexing Sir John. It was noticeable, however, that the luncheon invitation was not extended to Miss Pardoe.

Miss Pardoe was in no state to think about food. What she wanted was to talk to Ruth about Theo, without interruption. Having made her curtsy to Lady Hadrick and greeted Letty with what that young lady considered far too great a degree of familiarity, she turned back to her friend.

"Did you wish to make some purchases this afternoon, Ruth?" she suggested. "I shall be happy to accompany you."

Ruth, contrasting Rose and Theo's perfect accord with Oliver's absence, found that she was not hungry either. She could summon up little interest in the prospect of trying on gowns, but the idea of escaping from her aunt's oppressive presence and prying questions was attractive. The two set off for Bond Street.

Rose chattered happily all the way to Mademoiselle Denise's establishment. Ruth lent her only half an ear, brooding meanwhile on Oliver's defection. By the time they reached the modiste, she was feeling defiant. The styles and colours she chose for new walking dresses and evening gowns reflected her mood, and Rose, by now dissolving in giggles at the slightest provocation, was in no condition to restrain her. Ruth retained her commonsense where cost was concerned—it was, after all, her uncle's money she was spending—but no shred of her usual inhibitions was apparent in the rainbow-hued fabrics draped about her by Mademoiselle as her assistants pinned and stitched.

"C'est merveilleux! Milady vill be ze toast of ze Town," cried the enthusiastic Frenchwoman at last. "So seldom 'ave you English ze flair to vear such colors. Everysing vill be delivered vizin ze veek, milady, zis I promise. Ah, que milady sera ravissante!”

A half hour spent studying the art of Lawrence, Gainsborough, and Turner sobered the young ladies.

"Now I see why you are so interested in machinery," sighed Rose as they left the Royal Academy.

Ruth could find no answer.

The drive in the park on Friday was an unqualified success. Theo handled the reins in fine style, and when they met some of his friends, they discovered that they were not the only people to whom he could talk. However, his acquaintance seemed to be all male and largely military, so possibly it was females who usually twisted his tongue.

One or two of the gentlemen displayed obvious admiration for Miss Pardoe, who was looking particularly fine in midnight blue velvet. On hearing that she had little acquaintance among the Ton, they promised to see that mothers and sisters issued invitations.

Ruth observed Lord Theodore closely during these exchanges and was interested to note that far from displaying signs of jealousy, he already showed the beginnings of proprietorial pride. Having grown fond of the shy young man, she hoped that his confidence was not misplaced.

She herself, meanwhile, was quite unable to find an opportunity to practise cool friendliness on Oliver. He was very occupied with business, said Rose.

The next evening, Ruth and Letty were to make their first appearance at a society soiree. It was no very grand affair, simply a dress party for the daughter of Lady Hadrick's friend, Mrs Vaughn. They had met Miss Vaughn previously, and Letty, finding she was a carrot-haired, horse-faced young woman, had willingly befriended her.

Letty looked charming in rose pink, in spite of what Ruth considered an excess of bows and flounces. Ruth, whose new clothes had not yet been delivered, was wearing her flame gown. Dashing as it was, she was afraid that it would pale into insignificance beside her more recent acquisitions. Whatever had come over her? She could never go out in that cherry-red satin!

Letty, to Miss Vaughn's carefully disguised chagrin, was definitely the success of the evening. As Lady Hadrick had mentioned, blondes were fashionable at present. Careful coaching had improved her manners no end, and she managed to avoid for the most part the spiteful comments that came naturally to her lips. Yet her upbringing had in no way taught her to be missish or shy, and to young gentlemen scarce out of the schoolroom themselves she seemed easy to talk to, easy to amuse, and a light-footed dancer who did not appear to notice their clumsiness.

As for their mamas, most felt that a certain amount of flirtatiousness could be overlooked in Lady Laetitia Penderric, whom rumour credited with a fabulously wealthy brother.

Ruth had her own successes. There were a few older brothers who had been conscripted as escorts, and two or three soon gravitated to her side. Expecting to spend a dull evening watching others dance, she found she sat down only when she specifically requested to do so. If she was at first sought after simply because she was not a schoolroom miss, it was not long before her conversation was found to be most entertaining, her dancing delightful, and her appearance striking. Before the evening was over she had been engaged in advance for two cotillions, three country dances, and supper at Lady Owington's ball the following week.

In fact Letty and Ruth, inaccurately labelled the Cornish Countesses, might have been the talk of the season had not their place been usurped by the scandalous goings-on between Lord Byron and his wife.

Letty was too young to be admitted to such talk, but Ruth soon heard all the details of the business, real and imaginary. Lady Byron, it seemed, had fled to her parents in Yorkshire in the middle of January, taking her month-old daughter. Everyone knew that the poet was deep in debt, that he drank far too much, and took laudanum to excess. Now, it was rumoured, his wife Annabella was suing for a legal separation and charging him with incest. Had he had an affaire with his half-sister Augusta? No one could talk of anything else.

Ruth was shocked to hear salacious details from society matrons of impeccable lineage and reputation. It seemed clear that Lord Byron was guilty of some wrongdoing, yet she must feel sorry for anyone who was so vilified on every side. Suppose these same ladies caught wind of the two days she had spent confined with Oliver. Would she then be set up as though in the public stocks, a target for every vicious tattlemonger? Had these people nothing better to talk about?

She was relieved to find that none of the gentlemen she danced with mentioned Lord Byron in her presence. Not realising that it was a great part of her charm, she listened with interest to a young peer's views on Enclosures, a soldier's tales of war in the Peninsula, a Corinthian's description of a curricle race to Brighton. With one of her partners, a veritable Tulip of Fashion, she had some difficulty in hitting upon a subject of mutual interest until she discovered that he was a fervent admirer of Mr Turner's paintings. How fortunate that she and Rose had been to the Royal Academy! Mr Turner certainly had a new way with a paintbrush, and whatever one's opinion, his work was worthy of study.

Ruth mentioned that she and a friend had hoped to visit Mr Turner's private gallery in Queen Anne Street, accompanied by Lord Theodore Barrington. Mr Quilby was delighted. He was personally acquainted with Mr Turner and had heard that Lord Theodore was a connoisseur. Might he have the pleasure of making one of the party?

Ruth, hoping to give Rose and Theo more privacy than her constant presence had hitherto allowed, gladly permitted Mr Quilby to join them.

Lord Sarbury took her driving on Monday behind a pair of showy chestnuts. Mr Oldham went one better on Tuesday with a four-in-hand team of elegant blacks. On Wednesday Mr Quilby, magnificent in green and gold, accompanied them to Queen Anne Street and happily monopolised her conversation, leaving Rose and Theo wandering behind.

Captain Juillard, despairing of finding Lady Ruth at home, invited the whole family to the theatre on Thursday. Lady Hadrick was dubious until she found out that the captain was the first cousin of the Earl of Wovinghurst. Really, she thought, that little Ruth is a slyboots. I never thought she'd come to anything.

Friday was Lady Owington's ball. Ruth's new outfits had all arrived and, greatly daring, she decided to wear the cherry-red. In part, it was simply that her self-confidence was vastly improved. The most modest of females must begin to think herself worthy of notice after being pursued for a week by a quartet of beaux—even if, as was the case, she would have exchanged them all against a single chance to try out her cool friendliness on a certain pig-headed young man who had not come near her in longer than she liked to think about.

In part, the cherry-red gown was another manifestation of defiance aimed inexplicably at that same young man.

The young man in question had been ready to forgive all on the day after their last meeting. However, his self-confidence had been severely shaken, and he was far from certain that he would be welcome. Then his sister reported to him that she had met Lord Theodore in Curzon Street. Not speaking of her own blooming relationship with the diplomat, Rose had said that he and Ruth seemed very friendly. The demon Jealousy reawoke in Oliver's breast.

Daily Rose returned home to mention, as if in passing, that she had again come across his lordship at the Hadricks'. At last, goaded beyond endurance, Oliver had to see his rival for himself. He abandoned the careful comparison of Davy's safety lamp with Stephenson's, which he was compiling for Sir Edward, and made his way to Curzon Street.

A remnant of caution made him ask for Sir John.

"The master is at the House, sir," answered Jameson.

"And the ladies?" enquired Oliver offhandedly.

"Lady Hadrick and Lady Laetitia are at home, sir. I believe Lady Ruth is walking in the park with Lord Sarbury. You might meet her there, Mr Oliver."

So! Not content with one lord, the hussy had found herself a second!

Oliver was a man of peace, a believer in the superiority of cooperation over competition. The thought of rivals to be overcome did not rouse him to greater exertions. On the contrary, he was far more inclined to admit himself defeated. If Ruth had ever cared for him, it had been because she had known no one else. Now she had met gentlemen of her own rank, and it was natural that she should prefer them.

He was lucky to have had the privilege of rescuing her from danger, of coming to know and love her.

Some last tattered remnant of hope made him agree to accompany his family to Lady Owington's ball. One of Theo's friends had turned out to be her ladyship's nephew. He had called once or twice on Rose, and being an amusing fellow had been made welcome. He was also penniless, and his doting aunt had been persuaded to add the wealthy Miss Pardoe and her family to her guest list. Not that Lieutenant Drake had any intention of poaching on Lord Theodore's preserve. It was more by way of a long shot, besides which he genuinely liked Rose and was pleased to do her a good turn.

So Oliver went to Lady Owington's ball. The Pardoes arrived late, Sir Edward having dined with a business associate. Sir John Hadrick had been on the lookout for them, and he at once whisked Sir Edward and Lady Pardoe off to be introduced to several acquaintances of his. Rose was pounced on by Lieutenant Drake, and Oliver was left to make his own way into the ballroom.

He had no difficulty in spotting Ruth at once. The cherry-red satin glowed in the arms of Lord Theodore Barrington, and Oliver was not to know that Theo was making do with Ruth as a substitute for Rose. He scowled.

At last the dance was over. Lord Theodore led Ruth to a seat and promptly disappeared, having seen Rose's arrival. By the time Oliver had made his way across the crowded room Ruth was surrounded by jostling admirers. With an enchanting smile she impartially denied all requests for her hand.

"My card is quite full up!" she pointed out, waving it, "You see, Sir Ernest, Mr Franklin . . . Oliver!"

Already turning away, he did not hear her through the clamour. Her card was quite full up, there was no room for him in her life.

Ruth wanted to jump up and run after him, but that would create a scene and give rise to all the suspicions she was most anxious to avoid. If he made no effort to speak to her, it was because he did not care enough.

All the glittering glamour of the ball turned to worthless tinsel in her eyes. She smiled and chatted to partner after partner, but she scarcely knew one from the next.

Her air of distraction lent a certain mystery, and she was more sought after than ever. Only Lord Sarbuty had noticed the incident with Oliver, and he resolved to make it his business to comfort and console her. He was almost glad to see a breach in the self-sufficiency she had till now displayed to the world.

Oliver went straight home and packed, and the next morning he left for Manchester. He wished to consult John Dalton about safety lamps, he explained curtly.

_{Chapter 15}

Lady Hadrick Was in a seventh heaven. All morning a stream of callers passed through her drawing room, mostly gentlemen, but with a sprinkling of noble ladies upon whom she would never have ventured to call. Her nieces' success was beyond her wildest dreams. How wise she had been when she had so generously extended to them the hospitality of her home!

If anything remained to irk her ladyship, it was that Ruth's admirers seemed both more numerous and generally of higher rank than Letty's. Letty, she felt, was her own creation, while Ruth had stubbornly refused to be guided by her aunt. However, her visitors did not know that, and Lady Hadrick was soon able to forget as she received compliment after compliment on Ruth's dashing style.

Lady Laetitia was much in demand, but she could not deny to herself that her sister's triumph was greater. She was furious. It was supposed to be her season, was it not? Ruth was a selfish old maid who was stealing her glory when she was quite beyond the age to have any use for it herself. Most of Letty's beaux were callow youths, still tied to their mothers' apron strings. What business had Ruth monopolising all the handsome Corinthians, the smartest dandies, and worse, the Peers of an age to be looking out for a wife?

Lord Sarbury had been one of the first to arrive, bearing a huge bouquet of cherry-red roses. He had seated himself beside Ruth at once, and refused to be ousted by any of the envious fellows who had not made the effort to rise early. He was a good-looking gentleman in his late twenties who, after several years on the town making a reputation for himself as a Non-pareil and a bit of a rake, had recently inherited his title and the estates that accompanied it.

Immediately abandoning his former way of life, he took his new responsibilities seriously. He claimed his seat in the House of Lords and made a thoughtful and well-received maiden speech on the Corn Laws and Enclosure Acts. His next obligation, his mother had convinced him, was to find a bride and settle down to improve his land and provide her with grandchildren.

Lady Ruth Penderric seemed to him to fit the requirements to perfection. She was a charming companion, a serious-minded young woman who would assist him admirably in his duties, her rank was equal to his own, and as an unexpected bonus, he had fallen in love with her.

Lord Sarbury was more than ready to enter upon a formal courtship.

Lord Theodore was also present that morning, escorting his mama, the formidable dowager Marchioness of Radnor. Lady Radnor wished to meet the young person who was occupying so much of her youngest son's time.

Theo, whose mama rendered him as speechless as anyone and was probably to blame for his disability, had managed to give the impression that Lady Ruth was the recipient of his attentions. His groom, who reported regularly on his master's activities, had confirmed that Lord Theodore frequented the house in Curzon Street and was to be seen driving Lady Ruth and a companion in the park almost daily.

Ruth was subjected to an inspection and interrogation that made her understand absolutely why Theo had chosen a diplomatic career. The great object of his life must be to escape from England and the marchioness. He stood by helplessly, looking at Ruth with beseeching spaniel eyes, while Lady Radnor enquired as to her family, her fortune, her brother's politics, the extent of the Cornish estate, and added a number of personal questions.

Lord Sarbury was filled with admiration at the way she fielded those questions she did not wish to answer, without offending her ladyship. Without ever straying from the truth, she succeeded in reinforcing Lady Radnor's conviction that she was the object of Theo's affection.

At last the marchioness graciously and majestically pronounced herself pleased and rose to take her leave.

"I shall be happy if you will take a dish of tea with me one afternoon, Lady Ruth," she declared. "I shall be at home on Tuesday next."

Ruth curtsied, feeling that she had received a royal command. At the last minute, Theo found his tongue.

"Thank you," he whispered gratefully, and added, with a defiant look after the marchioness, "I am going to the City now."

"Yes, do," said Ruth, shaking his hand warmly.

Aware that Theo was not a rival, Lord Sarbury was free to express his admiration of the way Ruth had managed Lady Radnor.

"Our corps diplomatique loses a great deal by not employing females," he told her. "You would clearly be a vast improvement over poor Barrington. I don't know when I have seen a neater cross cut."

Ruth looked enquiry.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Ruth. Boxing cant. A successful cross cut requires a certain talent at misdirection."

Ruth blushed.

"I hope you do not think I am in the habit of misleading people, Lord Sarbury. Theo looked so despairing, I could not fail him. I suppose his mama would not approve of Rose."

"I'm afraid not. Lady Radnor is notoriously high in the instep. However, with you as their friend, I daresay they will come about. If there is anything I can do to help, you must not hesitate to ask."

"How kind you are, sir," said Ruth absently. "I wonder if she knows how rich the Pardoes are? After all, Theo is a younger son."

"I hope you do not mean to ask me to drop a word in Lady Radnor's ear!" Lord Sarbury laughed, slightly nervously.

"No, of course not. All the same ..."

His lordship, who had noticed a family resemblance between Miss Pardoe and the mysterious Oliver, was not at all willing to allow Lady Ruth to dwell on the Pardoe wealth. Not that he would for a moment suspect her of being mercenary, but he thought it just as well to remind her of his own wide estates and his plans for increasing the revenue therefrom.

******************

When Theo arrived at the Pardoes', he found Rose holding court. Two or three of the gentlemen surrounding her were gazetted fortune hunters, as he noted with displeasure. However, one was a viscount he knew to be almost as rich as Golden Ball. Not for a minute did he regard any of these rivals as serious competition. Without any exchange of vows, he and Rose were as certain of each other as if the Archbishop of Canterbury had married them years before.

Rose saw that he was anxious to speak to her alone, and soon showed her diplomacy to be quite the equal of Ruth's. Within ten minutes, five gentlemen had departed, unaware that they had been dismissed. Lieutenant Drake took a little longer.

"That was amazingly neat," he commented admiringly. "I know any number of ladies who would give their souls to have that knack. Now, how do you propose to get rid of me, Miss Pardoe?"

"I had thought of asking Lord Theodore to take you by the scruff of the neck," she answered sweetly. "I hope it will not prove necessary, sir?"

"Not at all, not at all," he said in mock alarm. "I concede the
field, Theo. Do not waste your victory!"

Lady Pardoe was deep in conversation with Lady Holland, the great Whig hostess, who had honoured her with a visit after being introduced at the Owingtons' ball.

Seating himself on the sofa beside Rose, Theo told her about his mother's interview with Ruth.

"I know it is spineless of me," he confessed, "but I am terrified of Mama. I always was, even when I was a child. My mind just goes blank when she speaks to me, and my sisters are almost as bad. You are the first woman I have ever been comfortable with, Rosie."

"I expect Lady Radnor and your sisters were not kind to you when you were little. Such things make a great impression on a small child and are not easily overcome later in life. You are very sure that your mama will disapprove of me?"

"I'm afraid so, Rose, for when Elvira married Sir Henry she was up in the boughs forever because he was only a baronet. And he is from old County family, so you see . . ."

"I see, Theo, but perhaps you have not considered that Papa is very wealthy. Would not Lady Radnor ..."

"Rose, you do not think that I am after your money, do you? I could not bear that you should think so."

"Indeed, I do not! I hope I know you better. I never thought it for a minute, pray do not look so downcast. Only you will not be offended if I say that perhaps it may be otherwise with your mother. She must wish to see you comfortably established, you know."

"I know nothing of the sort," he responded gloomily. "Sometimes I think all she cares for is her own consequence. However, I do not like to deceive her, and I cannot pretend forever that it is Lady Ruth I wish to marry."

Since this was the first time Lord Theodore had actually mentioned marriage, Rose took it as a sort of backhanded proposal. This was not, she felt, the proper time to tease him about it.

"Suppose you were to visit me here in Curzon Street," she suggested. "Your mama would be bound to find out, and then you might gauge her feelings."

Theo shivered and then squared his shoulders.

"I do not like to think of her reaction," he admitted, "but I cannot go on being a lily-livered coward all my life. Lend me your strength, Rosie."

She took his hand and pressed it. "Everything I have is yours, Theo, and together we can face anything."

"Besides," he pointed out practically, "I shall soon be sent abroad again, and then we shall be quite safe."

They turned to a delightful discussion of the various parts of the world he might be sent to and the pleasures of living in the different capitals of Europe.

Lady Holland, rising to leave, saw the two heads bent together over some sketches of Madrid.

"Is not that Radnor's brother?" she asked her hostess in her loud voice. "If he can catch your daughter, ma'am, he does well for himself, very well. Tories to a man, the Barringtons, and always have been. Goodbye, Lady Pardoe. I hope I will see you and Sir Edward at my next dinner."

Nodding regally to Theo and Rose, who stood bowing and curtsying in confusion, she swept out.

Lady Pardoe, who had met Lord Theodore only once and was but vaguely aware that Rose had seen him frequently at the Hadricks', was somewhat confused herself.

"I do beg your pardon, my lord," she began in a flustered way.

Theo at once tried to put her at ease.

"Do not consider it, I beg you, ma'am." Stunned to find himself fluently addressing a lady he scarcely knew, he rushed on. "Lady Holland is known for her . . . frankness, and besides, I agree with her. I shall consider myself the happiest and luckiest man in the world if Miss Pardoe will wed me."

Two second-hand proposals in one day, thought Rose, and kissed him on the cheek.

Neither the speech nor the action was calculated to soothe Lady Pardoe's nerves. Fortunately she was not in the least given to hysterics, and soon the situation had been explained to her.

"I intend to marry Rose whatever my mother says," Theo announced firmly. Proposal number three, counted Rose. "But naturally I should prefer her consent. And, of course, I shall ask Sir Edward's permission to pay my addresses."

"And I should wish for your blessing, Mama, and Papa's too, but I intend to marry Theo regardless. I'll live with him in a garret in Moscow if necessary!"

"I hardly think it will prove necessary, Rosie!" Lady Pardoe did not know whether to laugh or cry. "You know that even if Papa disapproved of your choice he would never cast you off. I ... I hope we shall have the opportunity of becoming better acquainted with Lord Theodore before he carries you off to China."

Theo promised fervently that he would spend as much time in her house as he was permitted.

As a result, Ruth saw nothing of Rose for several days. Shw was very busy herself, and her aunt would not allow her to cry off any of her engagements in order to visit the Pardoes. Though she had little time for repining, when she found an odd minute to herself she wondered if Oliver had persuaded Rose to stay away. She was sure he would not do so deliberately, but perhaps he had let drop something that had had that effect.

Lady Hadrick was pleased at the Pardoes' absence.

"It will not do, you know, to have them always on our doorstep," she said with satisfaction. "Such callers as we receive these days will not be wishing to meet with Cits at every turn."

"Ruth takes good care that none of the most eligible gentlemen speak to me," complained Letty. "I'm sure I cannot guess what they see in her to keep them dangling after her."

"Keep them dangling! Indeed, it would be a very good thing if she did make an effort, after all I've done for her. There's Lord Theodore Barrington, not been seen for days, and what I'd like to know, miss, is just what you did to give him a distaste for your company?"

"I did nothing, Aunt."

"Nothing! Upon my word, that is a very casual attitude!"

"After all, Aunt, Ruth is nearly thirty years of age," put in Letty. "You must not blame her if upon closer acquaintance her fine beaux hedge off." She tittered.

"There is still Lord Sarbury," mused Lady Hadrick. "He's a better catch than Lord Theodore, certainly. A peer, and born hosed and shod. I daresay he must be worth fifty thousand a year, or more. Ruth, if you play fast and loose with Lord Sarbury, I shall disown you, I vow! You must make a push to capture his affections, for he shows no interest in your sister."

"Ruth does not care a groat if she ruins my chances of a creditable connection. She is the most provoking sister in the world, and I'm sure it is all one to me if she dwindles into an old maid."

******************

Lord Sarbury was Ruth's only comfort, and her aunt bid fair to spoil that. He seemed to realise that she was unhappy and, without inquisitive prying, redoubled his efforts to cheer and console her. Whenever it was fine they walked or drove in the park. He took her to see Lord Elgin's Marbles, which the government was considering purchasing at an exorbitant price, and to Westminster Abbey, and Vauxhall Gardens. They met every evening at parties and balls, and soon their names were being coupled by anyone who could spare breath from the Byron scandal.

Lady Hadrick was aux anges, and it was this that brought Ruth to earth. She found Lord Sarbury entertaining and was grateful for his attempts to distract her from her sorrows, but she did not wish to marry him. Suddenly she was besieged by sly enquiries as to when the announcement would be made. Turning to his lordship for a disavowal, she surprised a proprietorial gleam in his eye just like the one in Theo's that had amused her. In Lord Sarbury, it appalled her.

Had she led him to expect that she would look upon his advances with pleasure? Was it her fault that he seemed so certain of her? She looked back in her mind at her behaviour of the past week. It was impossible to deny to herself that she had certainly appeared to encourage him.

Faced with the prospect of attempting to persuade him that he was mistaken in her feelings, when he had not even proposed to her, she wondered if it might not be preferable simply to marry him. She was sure he would be a kind, considerate husband. She could not tell him he must not ask for her hand, and equally impossible, she could not let him offer his heart in the expectation of her acceptance and then reject him. It would be so much easier to let things take their course, to float with the tide, to say yes and receive the congratulations of all her acquaintance.

Then Lord Sarbury took her to St Paul's. Looking up at the dome, the double dome, she felt tears she could not suppress well into her eyes and overflow.

"I . . . I'm sorry," she choked. "I can't. . ."

"Ruth, what is it?" Lord Sarbury put his arm about her shoulders and offered his handkerchief. "Did I say something . . . ?"

"No, oh no. It's just . . . please, will you take me to Rose? It's not far, just across the street. Please."

"Of course, my dear," soothed the bewildered gentleman. At least, he hoped he was bewildered but rather suspected he was not.

Ruth, still weeping, was delivered into Lady Pardoe's welcoming embrace and put straight to bed.

"Don't tell me anything now," said Lady Pardoe firmly, as she tried incoherently to explain without mentioning Oliver. "You are burnt to the socket, my poor child. I cannot think what your aunt is about to let things reach this state! Sleep now, and we shall talk later."

A long sleep did wonders for Ruth's composure. When she woke it was dusk. She lay luxuriating in the warm comfort of her bed, remembering her first morning in this house, when she had awoken early in this very chamber, with all the world awaiting her. Perhaps her misery had been caused by fatigue, all her problems blown way of of proportion.

There was a light knock at the door and Lady Pardoe entered. She came to sit on the edge of the bed and took Ruth's hand.

"I am sorry to disturb you, my dear, but I must send a message to your aunt. You are looking much more the thing. Do you wish to return to Curzon Street? You know you are more than welcome to spend the night here."

"May I, Lady Pardoe? We are supposed to go to a musicale tonight, and I do not feel at all like doing so. I should like of all things to stay here."

"Ruth, you may stay as long as you wish. I hope you will not think me presumptuous if I say that I do not believe that Lady Hadrick takes good care of you. She must be quite preoccupied with finding a husband for Lady Laetitia, not to notice that you have overtaxed your strength. I wish you will consider staying with us for a week or two on what young gentlemen call a 'repairing lease.'"

"I should love to, only I shall have to consult my aunt, and I would not want my uncle to be offended. May I stay tonight, and I will see them in the morning?"

"Of course, child. Do you feel up to coming down to dinner? There will be no guests, only a young man who is almost one of the family."

"Not Lord Theodore? Are he and Rose engaged? That is why she has not been to see me!" cried Ruth.

"They are not formally betrothed yet. Rose will tell you all about it, I am sure. Theo has practically lived here for the past week, so we have scarce missed Oliver."

"Oliver is not at home?" Ruth hovered between disappointment and relief.

"He went to Manchester on business a week since. Now you lie here and rest, and I shall write a note to your aunt. I'll ask her to send a gown for you to change into."

Ruth lay back. Oliver was in Manchester! No wonder then that she had not seen him. She should have renrembered that he travelled frequently. He had been gone a week, surely he must come home soon.

Cool friendliness, she reminded herself sternly.

_{Chapter 16}

A Few Minutes later, Rose came into Ruth's chamber. Ruth hugged her.

"My dear, I am so very happy that all is settled between you and Theo," she congratulated. "I never doubted it from the moment you met."

"Nor did I really," Rose confessed. "I tried to be sober and sensible, but he is such a dear. And do you know, I believe his self-confidence has improved no end. He is talking now of tackling his mama in my behalf, and he is more frightened of her than of the rest of the world together."

"I cannot blame him. She is a veritable dragon. Oh, Rose, I have just thought—she invited me to call last Tuesday and I did not go. How very shocking! I hope Lady Radnor did not fly up in the boughs with Theo on my account?"

"Theo said she cut up very stiff, but he did not heed it as he was quite pleased that she was disillusioned with you! I think that was the moment when he realised that he might stand up to her, so it was a very good thing that you did not appear. You must have been amazingly busy to forget such an engagement."

"I have been a regular gadabout, Rosie. Your mama thinks I have gone the pace too much, and I am inclined to agree with her. Do you know that I have got the reputation of a dashing female? It is all because of those gowns I purchased from Mademoiselle Denise. When I wear them, my character seems quite changed and I do not know myself."

"I expect it is because people treat you quite differently. Do you enjoy being the Toast of the Town?"

"Oh, I'm not quite that! It was very pleasant at first, being so popular and never sitting out a dance, but it is very wearing, and I came to long for a quiet evening at home. One does not have time to consider one's actions properly. Rose, I very much fear I have misled Lord Sarbury, and I do not know what to do."

It was a great relief to Ruth to tell Rose all about her suitor and to ask her advice.

"Well, I do not think you need feel guilty," said Rose consideringly when she finished. "It is quite commonplace for a lady to prefer one of her beaux above the others without having
any serious intentions toward him, and the old tabbies are always jumping the gun. Certainly you need not marry him!"

"No, now that I am rested I can see that."

"You will not wish to cut his acquaintance abruptly, however. You had best treat him with cool friendliness."

Ruth blushed and sighed.

"You are quite certain you do not love him?" asked Rose anxiously.

"Oh no." Ruth hurried to assure her. "He is very kind and amusing, and a true gentleman. I should be happy to have his friendship, but I have no warmer feelings for him. I daresay my behaviour today has given him a disgust of me in any case, and I shall not have to do anything further."

"I do not think so. He has already sent to ask after you," Rose revealed.

"I wish I did love him." Ruth sighed again. "Life would be so much simpler."

"Not everyone falls in love at first sight like Theo and I. Might you not come in time to return his affection?"

Ruth simply shook her head.

Lord Sarbury was not about to abandon hope without a battle. If anything, the realisation that the unknown Oliver was a serious rival increased his determination to win Ruth's hand. He arrived in Curzon Street at noon the next day and was dismayed to hear that Lady Ruth was not only still at the Pardoes' but was fixed there for a week or longer.

He immediately headed for the City, undeterred by the fact that his only acquaintance with the Pardoes was through his escort thither of the distraught Ruth the previous day.

He found her composed and cheerful. She apologised for subjecting him to her megrims, thanked him for his solicitude, and held him strictly at arm's length. His only comfort was that apparently young Mr Pardoe was from home. He persevered.

More than one of Ruth's less persistent admirers had been put off by her new, unfashionable address, but Captain Juillard and Mr Quilby both turned up as, of course, did Theo and the ever-hopeful Lieutenant Drake. One or two young ladies also dropped in, and Lady Pardoe invited everyone to stay for an impromptu luncheon party.

It was a foul day, March coming in like a lion with a vengeance. Not one of Lady Pardoe's guests preferred venturing out in the chill drizzle and blustery wind to staying snug in her drawing room where a roaring fire formed an irresistible contrast to the lowering sky outside the window. The afternoon passed delightfully in games of speculation and charades, occupations that would have usually been laughed to scorn by the sophisticated company.

At last the hostess rang for tea and cakes, evening engagements were recalled, and carriages were regretfully ordered. Lord Sarbury noted with envy that Theo showed no signs of joining the general exodus. He would gladly have disappointed the dinner party that expected him, at the slightest indication that he was welcome to prolong his stay.

Ruth bade him farewell charmingly and agreed to drive with him on Monday, if it was fine. She smiled with equal cordiality on her other visitors, and promised Captain Juillard to accept his escort to Hookham's Lending Library on Tuesday.

The weather seemed to Lord Sarbury entirely appropriate.

******************

On Sunday the clouds gradually cleared and by Monday the sky was blue and the sun shone with a real promise of warmth. Lord Sarbury could detect no equivalent promise in Ruth's behaviour.

Not that she was anything other than friendly. The trouble was, from his point of view, that she was equally friendly to everyone they met in the park, and as she now had a large acquaintance and his own was still more extensive, he was continually forced to draw up his chestnuts in order to exchange greetings with pedestrians, riders, and the occupants of other vehicles. The whole world seemed bent upon taking advantage of the springlike air.

By the time his lordship returned Ruth to her temporary home, he was resolved to seek a private interview with her in the near future. It seemed inconceivable to him that he had known her for only a little over two weeks. He might be accused of rushing his fences, but he felt his present position to be intolerable. It was time to make his declaration, before his rival returned to London.

He was already too late. Oliver came home that very afternoon.

Ruth was sitting on a bench in the garden with Rose and Theo. Sheltered by walls on four sides, the courtyard was abloom with daffodils, crocuses, polyanthus, and hyacinths, whose scent filled the air.

Theo was bursting with news.

"I enlisted my brother in our cause," he told the ladies. "He's a good sort, I should have thought of it earlier. He came with me to beard Mama in her den—well, her sitting room actually. We tackled her last night, right after evensong. Thought she might be in a Christian frame of mind. I can't say she was. First she was on her high ropes about the family honour, then when that did not work she succumbed to the vapours and said I'd be the death of her. I didn't budge an inch, Rosie; you'd have been proud of me. But she grew quite hysterical and her abigail came to the attack, and Reggie thought we had better leave."

"Then nothing came of your bravery, Theo dear?"

"Not last night. Except that it gave me the courage to take up the struggle again this morning. I'm not afraid of her any more, after seeing Reggie back down first. I kept at her until she agreed to see you this afternoon, so pray get ready, and I will take you at once."

He rose and pulled her to her feet, silencing her admiration with a hearty kiss.

At that moment Oliver stepped into the garden. He submitted in bewilderment to Rose's embrace.

"Oh, Oliver, I am so happy!" she cried, and disappeared into the house with Theo in tow.

Oliver slowly descended the steps, his stunned expression gradually giving way to a sort of eager apprehension as he approached Ruth. She steeled herself.

"How do you do, Mr Pardoe?" she greeted him with a cool smile. "I hope your trip was worthwhile?"

"Thank you, Lady Ruth, most satisfactory." He took his cue from her, though more warmth than he had intended crept into his voice when he added, "I am glad to be home."

"You were startled by Rose's conduct. Did Lady Pardoe not tell you how things are with her?"

"I have not seen my mother yet. Bartlett told me . . . my sister was out here, and I came straight out. Was not that Barrington?"

"Yes. Rose and Theo were mutually attracted at their first meeting, and longer acquaintance has deepened their feelings. Sir Edward and Lady Pardoe have given their blessing, and Lady Radnor has just been persuaded to honour Rose with an interview. That is what all the excitement was about, and why Rose did not stay to greet you properly."

"Rose is going to be married? I was not even aware ... I thought you ... I beg your pardon, Lady Ruth. I am taken quite by surprise."

"Of course," she soothed. "You must expect sometimes to find things changed when you are absent so often. You will wish to speak to your mother now, I am sure."

"Yes, I . . . thank you, you are right. I must go to Mama."

"I shall stay here for the present. The garden is quite lovely."

"Pray excuse me, Lady Ruth."

She watched wistfully as he returned to the house. He paused at the top of the steps and looked back, but she could not read his expression.

Recalling their brief conversation, she decided that at least he was no longer up in the boughs. She was rather pleased with her own efforts. It was much more difficult to be distant with Oliver than with Lord Sarbury, but she was determined that she would treat both the same way. She must give no one cause to say she favoured either, let alone suspect how much she loved Oliver.

Seeing him again after his absence, having now other suitors and any number of acquaintances with whom to compare him, she was quite certain that she could never marry anyone else. She had rather be his friend than any other man's wife, and if that was all he wanted of her she would continue to take an interest in his experiments and never let him see her true feelings.

In spite of herself, Ruth shed a tear or two, then went to give Lady Pardoe a fuller account of Theo's triumph than Oliver could provide.

******************

Rose, meanwhile, approached Radnor House in some trepidation. Ruth's description of her interrogation had not been reassuring. But she could not let Theo down. No trace of diffidence was visible on her face as she descended from the carriage.

The butler regarded her with interest, and there seemed to be an unusual number of servants in the hall. So this was the young woman for whose sake poor Master Theo had stood up to the Gorgon!

"Her ladyship is in the salon," the butler murmured discreetly. "Master Reginald ... his lordship, I should say, is with her."

Theo was heartened. He would have an ally. Rose was looking magnificent in cerulean blue, and feeling her hand tense on his arm he knew he could face anything for her. Besides, he reminded himself, he had been told that within a fortnight he would be appointed to a new post abroad.

He was surprised at how easy it was. With Rose at his side and the memory of the morning's victory, his mother no longer seemed so formidable. The pride and assurance with which he presented his beloved silenced Lady Radnor's planned attack. If the girl had that effect on her nodcock of a son, perhaps the marriage would not be so shocking a msalliance after all.

Rose could not have described her reception as cordial. The marchioness was unable to summon up a smile, even once she had decided to make the best of a bad business, which she soon did. It seemed Miss Pardoe's papa was well able to buy an abbey. Money was not to be despised, even in the pockets of a Cit. And Theo would doubtless bear her off to some out-of-the-way part of the world, so that his family need not receive hers in the normal way.

"Very well," she yielded at last, "if you are quite sure, Theodore, that you will soon go abroad, you may marry Miss Pardoe with my consent."

"Oh, I say, Mama!" protested Lord Radnor, but Theo was perfectly satisfied. He had no desire whatever to stay in his mother's vicinity.

"Thank you, my lady," said Rose, without gratitude, as she curtsied.

The dowager bowed her head in regal dismissal.

As soon as the three of them were out of her hearing, Theo turned to his brother.

"Reggie, I'd like to borrow your study for a half hour. I have private business to discuss with Rosie."

"Of course, old fellow, take as long as you like." The marquis winked at him and bowed over Rose's hand. "Welcome to the family, ma'am," he said genially. "Been trying to persuade Sir Edward to support the Government for years, but I daresay you'll convert Theo into a Whig in no time. I'll have a word with Castlereagh about Vienna before he finds out. Believe things are very gay there; you'll enjoy it." He kissed her cheek nonchalantly and walked off.

"I told you he was a good sort," Theo reminded her. "Come into the study now."

The first order of business was a long and most satisfactory embrace, followed by mutual congratulations. Then Theo took a small box from his pocket and went on one knee before Rose.

"I've never proposed properly," he began humbly and diffidently. "Somehow it never seemed necessary. So now I'll just say, Rosie, you have made me the happiest man in the world, and I hope you will marry me very soon and come to Vienna with me, if that is where I am sent. I bought this for you."

"Theo, I'll go with you if they send you to China," Rose assured him, opening the box. The sapphire ring within was not expensive or elaborate—even added to a younger son's allowance, a diplomat's salary was scarce better than a pittance—but to Rose it was more precious than the fortune in jewels her father had given her over the years.

Theo found the way she chose to thank him more than satisfactory. It was a while before they returned to business.

"Shall I get a special license?" he asked at last. "Reggie knows some bishops, I'm sure. We could get married tomorrow."

"That would be wonderful," Rose admitted, "only I must give my family time to prepare. Mama will be so disappointed if I do not have a proper wedding, and Oliver hardly knows you, Theo."

"If we put up the banns immediately, that would give you three weeks, nearer four."

"That will be plenty of time. I do not want you jauntering off across the Channel without me."

"They could not make me!" Theo assured her.

Preparations for the wedding were set in train as soon as they arrived back at the Pardoes'. Theo was closeted with Sir Edward, discussing settlements, while Rose retired above stairs with her mother and Ruth to consider the far more interesting matter of her trousseau. Oliver was left feeling rather out of it.

He had been delighted to find, on his return from Manchester, that Ruth was once again resident in his own home. He wondered how he could have thought that she might have grown so top-lofty as to agree with her aunt's opinion of his family. To add to his relief, it turned out that Lord Theodore was making a match with Rose, not, as he had feared, dangling after Ruth.

On the other hand, her manner toward him had been noticeably lacking in the informality and warmth he had come to rely on. Had her sojourn in the Polite World robbed her of the unaffected spontaneity he loved? Or did she simply view him with new eyes now that she could compare him with gentlemen of rank and fashion? He had thought that she regarded him as more than a rescuer and hoped that he might be looked on as more than a brother. Now he felt that she was treating him as a mere acquaintance.

Well, if he must start again from scratch he would do so. He would woo her to the best of his ability, and then if she chose someone else over him, at least he would have the grim satisfaction of knowing that he had tried. He could not after all let her go without a fight.

_{Chapter 17}

Ruth Soon Found that her life with the Pardoes was quite as busy as it had been at her uncle's house. But how different the atmosphere was! Her visitors were made welcome without her feeling that her aunt was measuring their eligibility. She no longer had to deal daily with Letty's selfishness and spite, and her own guilt that she had not succeeded in forming her sister's character as she would have wished.

She was able to confide in Rose everything except her feelings for Oliver, and in spite of Rose's preoccupation with the coming wedding, she was assured of her sympathy and interest. Lady Pardoe's good-natured placidity was unruffled by the rush to prepare for her daughter's marriage, and Ruth knew herself to be useful to her kind hostess. She addressed invitations, helped choose tableclothes and sheets to add to those that had been packed away in a hope chest over the years, and she kept Lord Theodore amused while Rose attended endless fittings.

Her admirers, including Lord Sarbury, found it very difficult to seize a moment alone with her. When Theo was not wistfully trailing after her, Oliver generally managed to add his presence to her outings, when he did not monopolise her entirely. He had the totally unfair advantage of seeing her daily at the breakfast table, where he invariably discovered her plans for the day and inserted himself into them.

Lord Sarbury bitterly resented this and would soon have been driven to distraction had not Oliver occasionally been forced to attend to business. As it was, on the Friday following Oliver's return, his lordship managed to extract Ruth from the Pardoe house without picking up any unwanted retinue.

"At last we shall be able to talk in peace," he said as he handed her into the high-perch phaeton, with his groom up behind. "No, we are not going to the park to be accosted by all and sundry. I thought we might cross the river and drive toward Wandsworth, if you should like it. On a day like this the city seems an excrescence on the fair face of the earth."

It was a glorious day, had been a glorious week. As they left behind the heavy traffic of Blackfriars Bridge and found themselves among woods and fields, the chestnuts seemed to feel the exhilaration of the fresh, balmy air. They pranced untiring up hills, along deeply rutted lanes, and Lord Sarbury had his hands full keeping their pace to a safe trot. Ruth was glad that he was unable to devote his attention to her, but in the joy of escaping from the town she could not sustain the feeling of apprehension with which she had started out.

After driving for some miles, they came to a common, and Lord Sarbury pulled up his horses.

"There are always violets here," he told Ruth, "and early primroses, though it is too soon to hope for bluebells. See, the paths are sandy and quite dry. Will you come and gather a nosegay?"

Ruth found it impossible to refuse, though she suspected she would regret her lack of firmness. The groom jumped down and went to the horses' heads, and she accepted his lordship's arm.

They soon had all the flowers they could carry. Lord Sarbury spread his coat on a mossy log and invited her to sit down and rest a while. Ruth could guess what was coming. His attentions had not been affected by her attempt to hold him at a distance, and she knew that sooner or later she would have to reject him in no uncertain language. Whether this was the right time and place was a moot point. Did she want to drive all the way back to the city with a disappointed suitor? Was it best to get it over with? She had no opportunity to decide. She found herself sitting beside his lordship, her hand in both his and their posies abandoned on the ground.

"My dear Lady Ruth," he began resolutely, "I think you must realise how I feel about you. You are everything I ever looked for in a woman and more, and my only wish ..."

Ruth gently withdrew her hand from his clasp.

"Pray do not continue, sir," she interrupted with a calm she was far from feeling. "You do not really know me. You did not know of my existence a month ago, you know nothing of my past, and you will soon forget me ..."

"No, Ruth, you do not understand!" His carefully prepared speech was scattered like the flowers at their feet. "I love you. I want to marry you because I adore you and want you by me always."

His agitation filled her with pity but did not shake her outward composure.

"I must always be grateful for your regard, and I hope I deserve it," she said steadily. "But, I repeat, you do not know me. You know only the person I have been these last few weeks, who is like a stranger to me."

"You do not think I have fallen in love with a society butterfly? Ruth, nothing you can do conceals your essential sweetness, your spirit, and your confiding nature. It is you I love, not your past, not your present."

Tears came unbidden to her eyes. That this poised, sophisticated, and proud man should plead with her was more than she could bear. She had taken the wrong tack; there must be some way to convince him without humiliating him.

"There are reasons why I cannot return your regard," she tried tentatively. Oliver's behaviour in the past week had revived her hopes, and she was no longer so adamantly set against rousing any suspicion of her feelings for him.

Lord Sarbury's eyes flashed.

"I have a rival, I know. Do not say that your affections are irrevocably fixed on him!"

Ruth blushed and hesitated.

"No," he continued, "I have no right to ask you that. Ruth, I will not press you now, but allow me to hope. Do not forbid me to see you, to try to win your heart."

"I cannot forbid you, nor can I offer any hope. Would it not be less painful to put me at once out of your mind? I do not wish to hurt you, believe me! You have been so very kind."

"It seems I have little reason for optimism." He smiled wryly. "Well then, my lady, I shall try to convince myself that mine is a lost cause, but 1 anticipate a long struggle. May we be friends, if we can be no more?"

"Indeed I hope so. It is what I have wished for."

"Ah well, better a wanted friend than an unwanted lover. Come, Lady Ruth."

His lordship took her hands and pulled her to her feet. Retrieving the forgotten primroses and wilting violets he piled them in her arms.

"We must have something to show for our time," he said, then taking her face in both hands he pressed a kiss on her forehead. "Farewell, beloved; welcome, friend."

Ruth's heart was too full for speech as they walked back to the carriage.

******************

The weather continued fine. That Sunday, Lady Pardoe saw that the wedding preparations were well in hand and revived her proposal for an outing to Richmond, Kew, and Hampstead. The announcement of Rose's betrothal to Lord Theodore had brought them a spate of invitations, but the next day was free and was fixed on.

Oliver, his hopes arousing, was enthusiastic. Once more it seemed possible that he might soon want a mansion in the country in which to settle his bride. Ruth, having practically confessed to Lord Sarbury that her affections were engaged, had given up trying to hide the fact from anyone else, especially as Oliver's attentions had become more and more like those of a suitor rather than a brother.

As it happened, no one else had noticed that the pair were going around in March smelling of April and May. Even Lady Pardoe was too busy, too preoccupied with Rose, to give them her serious attention, though she was aware that they were together a great deal.

The coming wedding was one reason why Oliver did not immediately declare himself. The other, and major, reason was that he was planning to see Lord Penderric when he went down to Cornwall for Bob Polgarth's balloon flight. He intended to avoid the slightest possibility that anyone might say he had not observed the proprieties, and though Ruth was of age, and at present under the protection of Sir John Hadrick, he felt he must ask her brother's permission to seek her hand. For all he knew, in fact, Godfrey might be her legal guardian. He certainly controlled her fortune.

Oliver was not in the least interested in any addition to his own wealth, but the money was Ruth's by right; it would give her a certain independence of which he would be loath to deprive her. He had no desire to play King Cophetua to her beggarmaid. The earl must be tackled, as his sister had tackled the dowager marchioness, and since he would be in the duchy within the sennight, he would not have to wait long before he could with a clear conscience ask Ruth to be his wife.

Oliver had reluctantly come to realise that he would not be able to fly with his friend all the way to John o'Groats, if indeed the balloon decided to go that far, or even in that direction. "The ascension is planned for March twentieth," he explained to Ruth. "Rosie's wedding is just six days later. If the flight should happen to go so far as the north of Scotland, I could never return in time."

"Indeed you could not. I am sorry for your disappointment, but I must confess it is a relief that you will not be risking your life in that contraption."

"Perhaps the wedding could be postponed for a few days, though, if the flight proves successful."

"Oliver, you know it cannot! Theo must leave for Vienna by the end of the month, as you very well know."

"Or I could just leave Rose to get hitched without me. After all, young ladies are married every day and not all of them have brothers to support them through the ordeal."

"Now I know you are roasting me. You'd not miss seeing your sister wed for the world!"

"Ah well, then I shall have to write to Bob and tell him to find another companion."

"Come and write the letter this minute. I will mend a pen for you and stand by to make sure it is done!"

Oliver announced his decision to his family at dinner.

"I had quite forgot your balloon," said Rose, "but I am happy to think that I am the cause of keeping you from it. Of all the crack-brained starts!"

"I confess I am glad, too, dearest," agreed her mother. "It sounded such a very hazardous undertaking."

"I shall go down to Cornwall, however," Oliver added. "Bob will appreciate a show of support, and I must keep an eye on our investment." In view of the vigorously expressed relief of the ladies, he concealed the fact that he had no intention whatever of remaining tamely on the ground to watch the ascension: he reserved the right to go up in the balloon while it remained tethered, but there was no need to tell them that.

So that Monday, as the carriage, escorted by Oliver and Theo on horseback, swung out of the narrow alley and down Ludgate Hill, no breath of apprehension marred the holiday air. Sir Edward had been persuaded to put off his inevitable business engagements and join the excursion. It was a small family party, Ruth and Theo being both quite part of the family by now.

Cook had packed a pair of huge picnic hampers, which were securely tied on behind. Unbelievably, the weather had not changed overnight, and though the early morning air was chilly, the pale blue sky held no hint of clouds.

The streets of the City were wide awake and bustling as they passed, in contrast to the fine squares and terraces of the West End, where only a few servants were visible. They saw a few solitary horsemen in the parks, and then they were out of town and bowling merrily along toward Putney Bridge. A little more than an hour brought them to Richmond Park.

As Ruth stepped down from the carriage, joy at being under an open sky overtook her, as it had just three days earlier. She could not help contrasting the two occasions, and spared a pitying thought for Lord Sarbury. This time no expectation of awkwardness spoiled her enjoyment. She could relax and be herself among her dearest friends.

The ladies were all dressed for walking, but Rose and her mother were true townswomen. A half mile stroll along an inviting path merely whetted Ruth's appetite for further exploration, while the other two were ready to turn back. It was still early, so Lady Pardoe suggested that she and Rose should sit in the shade of a group of elms, allowing the rest of the party to continue.

Sir Edward was no more of an enthusiast of long tramps than his wife, and Theo could not be parted from Rose. Ruth looked longingly down the track at a distant lake.

"I can see that you will never be satisfied to sit admiring the view, Ruth," said Lady Pardoe, smiling. "I see no reason why Oliver should not escort you as far as you wish to go. You are no schoolroom miss to be needing a constant chaperone."

"You think it would be unexceptionable?" asked Ruth eagerly. "I should love to see the lake."

"Weighted with years as you are, Lady Ruth, you are safe in my hands," Oliver assured her. "I shall stop you straying from the path, pull you from the water when you fall in, aid your faltering steps, and generally treat you with the respect due to a grandmother."

"Odious wretch! You had best beware, or I shall treat you like a small boy and rap your knuckles. A fine pair we shall make!"

"Be off with you," ordered Lady Pardoe. "We sedentary nature lovers wish for peace to settle ourselves comfortably. We shall await you in that copse near the carriage."

Oliver offered Ruth his arm and they set off. Oliver found that in spite of his long legs he scarcely had to alter his pace to fit in with Ruth's country-bred stride. They walked for a while in companionable silence.

"A penny for your thoughts," offered Oliver at last.

"I was thinking of the last time we walked together," Ruth confessed. "Only it was you who did most of the walking, I fear."

'The cliffs at Boscastle," recalled Oliver. "'Scuzzle,' I should say. Do you remember the old shepherd?"

"Barely. I was half asleep at the time. I felt as if I had not slept for months. The whole thing seems like a dream now."

"Just as well. It is the sort of experience one would wish to forget."

"Not all of it. There are parts I wish to remember."

Oliver stopped and turned toward her. He lifted her chin with one finger and studied her face. What he saw there must have satisfied him, for when they resumed their walk, as they did immediately, the little hand laid lightly on his left arm was engulfed in his right hand.

"I do believe," he said conversationally, "that you are fishing for me to carry you again."

"Not at all," replied Ruth with spirit, but blushing. "I was enjoying the memory of bringing down that pitcher on Shorty's head."

"Bloodthirsty wench! I am not sure that I am safe out here alone with you."

At that moment they came to a place in the path where even a week of sunshine had left a muddy morass too wide to step over. Oliver seized his chance, and before Ruth could wonder how she was to pass, he had swept her up in his arms and swung her across.

Amazingly, the exertion made Ruth more breathless than it did Oliver.

They walked on decorously, approaching the lake. The slope on the far side was a mass of daffodils, spreading their yellow carpet beneath the bare trees. Some thoughtful soul had placed a wooden bench beside the path, looking out over the water where mallards sported their bright spring plumage and marsh marigolds grew among the bulrushes. It was nearing midday, and the sunshine and exercise had made Ruth and Oliver warm.

"Let us sit for a while," proposed Oliver.

"Should we not return? The others will be wondering what has become of us and waiting for their luncheon."

"Just a few minutes," he coaxed. "I am quite exhausted from the walk."

"I do not believe that for a moment, but the bench does look inviting. How beautiful it is here, and peaceful."

"Have your feelings for the countryside not been overcome by the attractions of town life? After all the amusements and entertainments would you not feel dull?"

"Parties are delightful now and then, and after living in isolation all my life I have excessively enjoyed having a wider circle of friends. However, Richmond Park cannot be compared with Bodmin Moor, you must agree. I have missed being able to walk freely, and the quiet and the fresh air, but I shall not repine at making my home with my uncle in London."

"You have no thought of returning to Penderric then. Ruth, have you heard nothing from your brother since you left?"

"Not a word. I wrote as soon as we reached London, and so did my uncle when he arrived, but there has been no response. I cannot bring myself to worry over how Godfrey is managing without me."

"Of course you cannot. You know I am going into Cornwall on Friday. Should you object if I were to visit the castle? There are . . . certain matters I wish to discuss with Lord Penderric. Your uncle has also mentioned that there is unfinished business with which I might be of assistance."

"I do not like to think of you in that horrid place, Oliver, but otherwise I can have no objection," Ruth shuddered. "Pray let us talk of pleasanter things."

"Yes, one should not spoil a perfect day with such thoughts. Forgive me. You look forward to going to Almack's on Wednesday?"

"Yes, indeed, since Rose has also received vouchers. It is amazing how many doors have opened to her since her betrothal. I do not think she cares for it in the least, but your mama must be happy to see her success. It is too bad that she was not admitted to the Ton years ago. She might have met Theo then and been an ambassador's wife by now."

"Your class is very exclusive. Even though a female may move up by marriage, her male relatives might find themselves forever shut out."

"My class? I do not think of them so, but rather of myself as an outsider, an intruder. I find so many of their concerns to be utterly without interest or importance. And the Corn Laws are iniquitous, leaving the poor to starve in order to line the pockets of the landowners!"

"There speaks Sir John's niece. My father would be delighted to hear you."

"I fear your father will rather be maligning me for keeping him from his refreshment. We must go back, Oliver."

"Very well," he said obediently, and they sauntered back along the path, both more than satisfied with the conversation.

The mud puddle was still in its place and presented no greater difficulty than last time.

They found the rest of the party waiting only for their reappearance to begin the meal. The fresh air had given everyone hearty appetites, and great inroads were soon made into the contents of the hampers.

Sir Edward was ready for a nap after his luncheon but was persuaded to take it in the carriage. They set off down the hill toward the villages of Richmond and Kew.

The river banks were lined with pleasant villas, and new construction was visible everywhere. Rose thought it delightfully rural.

"How can you say so?" teased Oliver. "It is pretty enough, yet one might as well live in Paddington. It will not be long, I think, before the area will be quite built up."

In fact, though plenty of open space remained and a few estates of a fair size could be seen, there were also rows of houses reminiscent of the London squares.

"The river is very peaceful," remarked Lady Pardoe, "but 1 expect it is quite agueish in winter, and I believe it floods regularly."

******************

It was late afternoon when they reached the steep hill of Hampstead Heath. Once more, Rose, her parents, and her betrothed were content to stretch their legs with a stroll along the base of the slope. Ruth and Oliver found a lane that zigzagged upward, and they deserted the others again.

For a few hundred yards they could see nothing because of the high hedges on either side. Then they rounded a corner and emerged on the heath.

Before them stretched empty acres of common, up to the horizon. Looking west, nothing interrupted their view of the beginnings of a lovely sunset. They turned. Below was spread the wide panorama of London, the river glinting like a crimson snake in the evening light. St Paul's Cathedral stood out in benevolent majesty above the hazy clutter of the city.

Ruth and Oliver both caught their breath, and their hands met and gripped. Without any exchange of words, it was settled that this was the place where they could spend' their lives together. At that moment nothing could have seemed more certain and inevitable to either of them.

A loud "Halloo!" came from the lane below, and Theo climbed breathlessly into sight.

"Rosie and Lady Pardoe are growing chilly," he panted. "Stop gaping, you two, and come down or it will be dark before we get back."

"I know what it is," groaned Oliver. "You are all hungry again. We are coming."

_{Chapter 18}

The Following Day, Ruth went to see her aunt and Letty. She had seen very little of them since removing to the Pardoes and was ashamed to admit to herself that she had not missed her sister at all.

Lady Hadrick asked after Lord Sarbury.

"He drops in quite frequently, aunt, and I am forever meeting him at parties," said Ruth evasively.

"Your attitude is monstrous cool, miss! If you are not careful he will not come up to scratch, and then where will you be? Already you have lost one admirer to Mistress Rose. You cannot expect an endless procession of suitors."

"I do not, ma'am, nor do I wish for such a thing. I beg you will not concern yourself for me. How does my sister?"

"It is very shocking that you should prefer the company of Cits to your own family," complained Letty. "How do you think I can tell people when they ask where you are? You were always selfish and never thinking of me."

"I am sorry you should feel that way, Letty dear. I am afraid you will not be pleased with the errand I am come on today. Aunt Hadrick, it was settled, was it not, that I should return to Curzon Street on Friday? I must ask you to allow me to stay with the Pardoes until Rose's wedding. I am to be her maid of honour, you know, and there is a great deal to be done at such short notice."

"I am sure there is nothing that Lady Pardoe's servants cannot accomplish better than you, Ruth," said her aunt in irritation. "Your place is here with your sister. I am quite worn out with taking her about, and you now know enough people that you can chaperone her yourself. You are sufficiently advanced in years to make it quite unexceptionable."

"But not yet in my dotage, aunt," warned Ruth quietly. "Certainly Letty must have enough friends to keep her company for a fortnight."

"They are all stupid and mean," Letty objected. "I do not wish to go out with that ugly Amelia Vaughn, who is always moaning that she has no beaux." She looked at her sister's forbidding face. "However, if you mean to be cross about it, I do not want your company either, I vow."

"That is just as well, Letty. Lady Pardoe has particularly requested that I stay, and I should not disoblige her for the world."

"Hoity-toity, miss! And what of disobliging your aunt, may I ask, who has been so kind as to offer you a home and to introduce you into the highest society?"

"I am grateful, Aunt, and I mean no disrespect when I say that the Pardoes have been equally kind, and I had no claim whatever on their generosity. I shall stay until the day after the wedding. Now, Letty, tell me about your new gowns and the parties you have been to."

Lady Hadrick recognised defeat and went off muttering about stubborn, ungrateful, ill-bred paupers. Ruth spent a tedious hour listening to Letty boasting of her wardrobe and her conquests, and complaining about her sister's treatment and her friends' insipidity and disloyalty.

She found she was weary to death of Letty's affairs. It seemed that a constant stream of admirers was attracted by her looks, but her ill-tempered outbursts quickly alienated the well-brought-up young ladies with whom she was expected to associate. Letty was inclined to blame the loss of her friends on her sister's sojourn in the city, "quite beyond the pale." Ruth's mild remonstrances and suggestions met only with further complaints.

More fatigued by a morning with Letty than by a week of constant occupation, Ruth decided guiltily to wash her hands of her until after Rose's wedding. After that, she would devote herself to remedying the deficiencies in her aunt's tutelage. A sneaking hope crept in that by then she would be affianced to Oliver and might legitimately abandon the responsibility to him. She did not think he would be willing to include Letty in his household.

With relief, she took her leave.

The afternoon was much more enjoyable. Oliver had just completed the construction of one of his machine models, and he invited Ruth to be present while it was demolished by the words of Sir Marc Isambard Brunei, the famous engineer.

"You should not be so certain that he will not like it," Ruth told him severely. "Why, one day you will invent something vastly important, and you will be so discouraged that you will not show it to anyone for fear of ridicule."

"I shall show you, and you will tell me how very clever I am. That will be sufficient to persuade me to cry it from the rooftops."

"What is it you have made this time?" she asked, following him down the dimly lit corridor to the workshop.

"It is a machine for knitting stockings, which I expect I should not mention in your presence. The Lee machine has been in use since Elizabethan times, and Strutt added great improvements sixty years ago, but something I saw in Yorkshire last month suggested a new line of thinking."

"I thought Sir Marc was a naval engineer?"

"He has done a great deal of work for the Navy, but he is interested in machines in general. He is talking now of building a tunnel under the Thames."

"That seems a far cry from the manufacture of hosiery!"

"It is, of course. However, I try to spread my favours impartially among the engineers I know, and Sir Marc has not been expected to pass judgment on any of my toys for some time. Besides, he is an interesting fellow, and I think you will enjoy meeting him."

They entered the laboratory and very soon a knock on the outer door heralded the inventor's arrival.

"Well, mon ami, what have you to show me now?" he greeted Oliver. He had a fascinating blend of accents, the native French overlaid :by a patina of American twang.

Oliver introduced him to Ruth and led the way to his machine, which he demonstrated. Wheels turned, tiny bobbins clicked up and down, and a strip of cloth appeared as he pressed with his fingers on the miniature treadle. Ruth was most impressed.

"Aha," said Sir Marc. "You put zis t'rough ze . . . yes, I see, and . . . very good. But Oliver, see here. You cannot do zis. On a full-size machine, ze t'read will break, ze strain will be too much, far too much. Could you perhaps put an eyelet . . . no, zat will pull here."

"What did I tell you?" Oliver asked Ruth with.a wry grin. "I simply do not have the eye for it."

"I think it is amazingly clever," Ruth consoled him. "To produce cloth on such a tiny thing."

"All we need now is tiny people."

"Wait," interrupted Sir Marc, still poking at the inside of the frame. "Now zis is an excellent improvement here, and if you . . . yes, mon ami, as always you have given me ideas. You will not mind if I work on it?"

"By no means, Sir Marc. I shall not make anything of it now. May I offer you a glass of claret?"

The engineer assented, and Oliver went to dig out a bottle from a dusty cupboard on the other side of the room.

"Is Mr Pardoe's machine really unworkable, sir?" enquired Ruth.

"Just like all ze ozzers," Sir Marc answered with an all-embracing wave of the hand and an expressive shrug. "My young friend likes to dabble in such t'ings, but his real gnie lies elsewhere. He knows what is being done in such matters all over England, and he carries ideas from one engineer to anozzer, always knowing what will be useful to whom. Now, zis knitting machine, he found ze idea in Yorkshire, n'est-ce pas? And ze stockings are made in Nottinghamshire. Now when will I go to Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire? Maybe never. But zis machine inutile of Mr Pardoe, it gives me ideas of my own. Who knows what will come of it?"

"So you see," Oliver explained,' returning with a bottle and three glasses, "my toys are not quite useless. The only trouble is, I get no benefit from them."

"Ah, if it is glory you want, no. But, milady, Oliver has an-ozzer genius, and zat is to know where to invest. If he says an invention will make money, I will put my fortune on it."

"I knew he was a genius," sighed Ruth, satisfied. She sipped her wine and pulled a face. "Have you some lemonade hidden away somewhere, Oliver? I cannot think how you gentlemen can actually like this stuff."

"I shall invent a machine to make lemonade!" cried Oliver, inspired.

"And I suppose we shall have to find miniature lemons to put in it," Ruth teased.

Sir Marc soon took his leave. Oliver was intent upon poking at his unsuccessful stocking frame, so Ruth found a heap of cloths in a corner and began dusting, carefully avoiding the various experiments set up on the long tables. Heaving a sigh, Oliver abandoned the inquest and joined in the housekeeping. Between them, they made the dust fly in clouds, and when they realised it was past time to change for dinner, they were both filthy.

"Forget lemonade," said Oliver, removing a smudge from Ruth's cheek with a corner of his handkerchief. "My next effort will be a dusting machine!"

******************

No one who had seen Ruth and Oliver at that moment would have recognised them the next evening when they entered Almack's Rooms with Rose, Theo, and Lady Pardoe. Oliver was resplendent in the requisite knee-breeches and a blue coat perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders. Ruth was wearing white gauze over sunset-orange satin, one of the dashing confections that the Ton had come to expect of her. The prospect of waltzing with Oliver made her eyes sparkle with more than their usual brilliance. She quickly attracted a crowd of hopeful partners, but Oliver was no longer worried that there would be no room for him. Even Lord Sarbury's constant attendance had no power to disturb him.

Like his sister, he had never before set foot in the exclusive Assembly Rooms. He was not very impressed with what he now found. Not for nothing was Almack's known as the Marriage Mart: its chief purpose was the display of marriageable damsels, and even the refreshments took second place, there being no drink stronger than orgeat.

To his surprise, Oliver found himself in demand as a partner. Lady Cowper, daughter of that great Whig Lady Melbourne, had been responsible for admitting the Pardoes to the august portals, and now she introduced Oliver to a number of young ladies, all of whose mamas had mercenary gleams in their eyes. Fortunately, there were also present several gentlemen with whom he was already acquainted, and after a while he escaped from the predatory hordes to the card room—not that cards were much more to his taste than dancing with titled but penniless maidens.

Before he was completely petrified by boredom, it was time for his waltz with Ruth, from which nothing could have kept him. She was waiting, surrounded by a group of gentlemen who were trying to persuade her that her partner was not going to turn up in time.

As they whirled about the crowded ballroom, Ruth remembered their first waltz, at the Christmas party, when she had been full of vague hopes. Then had come the Owingtons' ball and despair, and now here she was again in Oliver's arms, as certain of his love as she could be without a declaration. She was sure he would ask her to marry him after talking to her brother, but suddenly that was too far away. How many things might happen in a week to interrupt the expected course of events! It even seemed possible that after seeing Godfrey his feelings for her would change.

The musicians on the balcony closed the dance with a flourish. Ruth clung to Oliver's arm, looking up at him searchingly.

"What is wrong?" he murmured in alarm. "You look as though you had seen a ghost, Ruth. Come and sit down quickly, my dear."

Reassured by his instant solicitude, comforted by his strong arm supporting her, she told herself she was being silly. By the time he seated her and bent over her, she was able to smile and say, "It was nothing, Oliver. I was a little dizzy from all that twirling around. I think I shall sit out the next dance."

Lord Sarbury, her next partner, was more than happy to sit it out with her, until he discovered that Oliver had no intention of leaving them to a tte--tte. In fact, Ruth's usual court quickly gathered, and she soon regained her spirits. Oliver was not completely relieved from anxiety until he took her in to supper and found that she had not lost her usual excellent appetite. It was always a source of amazement to him that she managed to remain so elegantly dainty when she enjoyed her food so much. He supposed it to be due to early deprivation and vowed that never again would she go without.

The Pardoe party did not stay until the end of the dancing, but even so it was the small hours of the morning when they arrived home. Oliver arose later than usual the next morning.

He was giving his valet orders about packing for his journey when there was a knock on the door of his chamber. A young footman handed in a sealed letter.

"It's from Cornwall, sir," he announced. "Mr Bartlett thought as y'ought t'r'ave it right away, case it's from the airionot."

Oliver looked at the cover. He did not recognise the hand. Breaking the seal, he scanned the message quickly.

"I must see Sir John Hadrick at once," he said grimly. "Ask Bartlett to send someone to find out where he is. He'll probably be at the House at this hour. Then I want the curricle ready as soon as I know where to find him."

Sir John, for once, was at home. Within the hour, Oliver was closeted with him in his study.

"You have heard from Trevelyan, I take it," opened the baronet, as grim-faced as Oliver. "Did he tell you the whole? I suppose he did, as you came here at once."

"Yes, sir. I cannot agree that it is necessary for Lady Ruth to be there in person."

"I must suppose Trevelyan has his reasons. He is the investigating magistrate, and I cannot go against his will, loath though I am to subject my niece to such an ordeal. Unfortunately, I shall be unable to accompany her to Cornwall until the end of the month. There is business in the Commons from which I cannot absent myself."

"There would seem to be some urgency. You know that I myself leave for Cornwall tomorrow. I should be more than happy to escort Lady Ruth to Boscastle. The Trevelyans have offered me hospitality, I take it they have done the same for Lady Ruth?"

"Yes, yes. Do you intend to stay there?"

"I was to go to Port Isaac, but in this case I think I had best stay in Boscastle."

Sir John rose from his desk and paced up and down.

"I feel it is very remiss of me not to attend to the matter myself. I cannot like embroiling you in the affairs of the family."

"Sir, I have embroiled myself. I had already intended to see Lord Penderric to ask for his sister's hand in marriage."

The baronet stopped pacing and looked hard at Oliver for a moment.

"I see," he said abruptly, sitting down. "I had wondered if that were the way of things. Oliver, there is something I must tell you that I had thought never to divulge to a living soul, not even to the man Ruth will marry. I tell you for your father's sake. I know not a word will pass these walls."

Oliver waited in sudden, silent dread for Sir John's words.

"My sister Millicent," the older man began, "Ruth's mother, was a girl of high principles. Her only fault was that her nature was too trusting. From that came her one mistake for which she spent the rest of her life atoning. She trusted the man she loved, a naval officer, and he betrayed her. He told her that he would take her to Plymouth to meet his family, and she went with him.

"I must shoulder a great part of the blame. She was only eighteen, ten years younger than I. I was her legal guardian, both our parents being dead, and already then I was much involved in politics. I should have found a gentlewoman to keep Millicent company, to teach her the way of the world and introduce her to society. I delayed until it was too late.

"It was two months before I found where she had gone. He had already abandoned her, and she was living in misery, expecting his child. My only consolation is that he was lost at sea shortly after.

"I found her a husband, God help me. Even then, Penderric would do anything for money. I sold our estate to pay him and have only recently made good that loss, thanks to your father, Oliver. Had I guessed how he would treat her, I'd not have let him have her if he had paid me the same sum. They were wed six months before Ruth was born.

"Ruth is my dear niece, but she is not a Penderric."

Oliver rose to his feet and laughed in angry relief.

"Is that all?" he cried. "I should want Ruth if she were born of a whore in Tothill Fields! It is her I love, not her ancestry, and whether a faithless sailor is any worse than the Penderrics, I beg leave to doubt."

Sir John had buried his face in his hands. Oliver took pity on him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said in a calmer voice. "I was so very afraid that you were going to reveal some real obstacle to our marriage. Ruth has her mother's trusting nature, but she has put her trust in me, and she will never be betrayed. Does she know this story?"

The baronet raised his head to show a ravaged face.

"No. I have told no one, and Penderric was sworn to secrecy. Twenty-six years ago, Cornwall was yet more remote than it is today, and no whisper of a rumour ever reached London."

"After that time, who would remember? Ruth was born in wedlock. Everyone knows all Lady Oxford's children have different fathers, yet all are received everywhere. How should it matter to me?"

"You will not tell her?"

"Sir John, I begin to think you have a poor opinion of me. A revelation of such a nature could do nothing but hurt her. If you think me such a villain, you had best forbid me to see Ruth ever again."

"I beg your pardon," said Sir John humbly. "My wits have gone astraying."

"No, sir, it is I who must once more beg yours. It must have been excessively painful to speak of your sister's unhappy fate, and I appreciate the kind thought which prompted you to enlighten me. Allow me to ring for some brandy to settle your nerves, and mine, too. We must decide just how we are to tell Ruth about the arrest of Captain Cleeve."

_{Chapter 19}

Ruth Was Finishing a late breakfast with Lady Pardoe and Rose, when Bartlett entered the morning room.

"Sir John Hadrick is here, my lady," he announced, "and wishful to have a private word with Lady Ruth in the library."

"Pray excuse me, Lady Pardoe." Ruth wondered if her wish had come true and Oliver had spoken to her uncle instead of waiting to see Godfrey. When she entered the library and found Oliver there, too, she was momentarily certain that he had asked for her hand, then she saw that both gentlemen looked worried. Her uncle, in fact, did not appear to be at all well.

She hesitated on the threshold. Sir John, who seemed to have aged overnight, was huddled in a chair by the fire. He gestured to Oliver, who came and took her hand.

"Come and sit down, Ruth," he said gently. "We have news for you, whether good or bad is hard to tell. You remember how in the cave at Boscastle the smuggler Jem referred to a Captain Cleeve, from whom he was taking orders? The captain has been taken up and is in gaol at Bodmin."

"Surely that is good news? Why are you and my uncle so agitated?"

"Unfortunately, Mr Trevelyan has decided that your presence is necessary when the man is questioned. He wants you to travel to Cornwall and confront the villain."

"It sounds like an unpleasant business, but I am not given to fainting when there is need for action, as you surely know, Oliver. If it is considered necessary, of course I will go." Ruth was certain that he was concealing something from her. She had rather not meet Captain Cleeve, but this was no great calamity. She was about to tax him with her suspicions, then realised that her uncle must also think it best to hide the full story from her.

"I know your spirit well," Oliver was saying warmly. "And I shall be there to support you."

Sir John rose and moved to sit beside her on the sofa.

"My dear," he began apologetically, "I fear I cannot accompany you as I would wish. Important business keeps me in town. Oliver has kindly offered to escort you to Mr Trevelyan's house, but if you feel unable to accept his offer, I can easily find someone else to take you."

"Oh no, uncle, I shall be happy to travel with him."

"I shall, of course, send a maid with you, as you have none of your own."

"Surely that is not necessary, sir. I came all the way from Cornwall before without a maid. And I daresay the Trevelyans will not like to have an extra servant turn up."

"Ruth, your sister was with you in December. I must insist that you take a maid."

"We may send her home from Launceston," suggested Oliver. "The stage runs regularly, and it is less then twenty miles from our destination so there can be no impropriety. I daresay it will not be difficult to hire a companion for the return journey."

"I suppose that will be unexceptionable," Sir John agreed dubiously. He straightened his shoulders in an evident effort to dismiss his fears and doubts. "Well, since that is settled, I will leave you both to make your preparations. I will send a maid over later, Ruth. I must get to the House at once."

He kissed his niece's cheek, and she was glad to see that he was once again his usual active, preoccupied self. In the end, the problems of the nation far outweighed his personal troubles, and thinking of her aunt, she knew why. It was a form of escape, just as Lord Theodore's diplomatic career had been, if less obvious.

She bade her uncle farewell, thanking him for his concern, then turned to Oliver.

"I shall be able to watch Mr Polgarth's departure!" she exclaimed gaily. "The captain chose just the right moment to get himself arrested."

Oliver had to agree. He hoped that both the balloon flight and his sister's rapidly approaching wedding would distract her from the dreadful revelations that awaited her in Cornwall. For a moment he wondered if it was right to conceal the worst from her. No, every day she passed in ignorance of the truth, or rather of Captain Cleeve's allegations, was a day to be thankful for. He would break it to her gently before the confrontation, so that it would not be too shocking a surprise.

On Friday morning it was apparent that March had had enough of behaving like a lamb. Ruth, woken early, looked out at torrential rain; every now and then a gusty wind flung it clattering against the windowpane. Only urgent business could persuade anyone to travel in such a downpour. With a sigh, she supposed that her business was urgent, dressed quickly, and went downstairs.

Oliver was already eating, and wonder of wonders, Rose and her mother had dragged themselves from their beds to see the travellers off.

"Eat plenty," urged Lady Pardoe, as Rose stifled a yawn. "It will fortify you against the weather, my dear. I hoped to persuade Oliver to put off your departure, but he says it is impossible."

"Sorry to drag you out in a cloudburst, Ruth," apologised Oliver cheerfully. Whatever awaited at their destination, he was looking forward to spending several days in her company, though he would gladly have dispensed with the maid. Sir John had sent a girl who had never been west of Hyde Park and was now sitting in the hall, moaning softly to herself about the horrors of going among "them savages."

Oliver had hoped to complete the journey in three days, but it soon became obvious that it was out of the question. They started out on the Bristol road, making fairly good time. It was well kept, being one of the busiest routes in the kingdom, and the rain had not yet had time to undo the work of two weeks of sunshine.

They spent the first night in Hungerford and then turned south. It was still pouring without letup and the roads soon became a muddy quagmire. Two exhausting days brought them into Exeter on Sunday evening, with near sixty miles still to go.

Ruth had started out in fine spirits, but the weather and the company of the dismal maid oppressed her. As they drew nearer to Cornwall, she began to wonder what horrors Oliver and her uncle were concealing from her. Oliver's efforts to cheer her up only made her more anxious and she started having nightmares about the unknown Captain Cleeve.

They left Exeter in drizzle. By the time they were well into Dartmoor there was blue sky ahead, and before too long the last clouds passed over and the sun set everything sparkling. The air was fresh and clear, there were lambs gamboling on unsteady legs, the world seemed newly created.

"Isn't it extraordinary how the sun changes one's outlook on life?" Ruth said to Oliver. "Only this morning I felt I had rather die than go any farther, and now I am ready for anything."

Even the maid stopped grumbling. Very soon now she would be on a coach back to civilisation. A thousand guineas, she vowed, would not persuade her to leave London ever again.

Oliver and Ruth were glad to be rid of her. They left the chaise and the coachman at the Duke of Cornwall and hired a curricle to take them on to Boscastle.

Here, in the south, spring was firmly ensconced. The hedgerows were full of flowers, and birds flew twittering from bush to bush, busily constructing their nests. Ruth knew all their names, learned at her mother's knee and never forgotten, and she taught them to Oliver, pleased to find something she knew that he did not.

As they descended the hill into Boscastle, the sun was setting between the headlands. The channel was full of boats tacking seaward for the night's fishing, and such an aura of peace hung over the village that it seemed incredible that they were so close to the smugglers' sinister caves.

The Trevelyans welcomed them heartily. Ruth was taken upstairs to rest before dinner, and Oliver requested a private word with his host.

"I suppose Captain Cleeve has not recanted his accusations since you wrote, sir?" he asked hopefully, sipping at a glass of sherry.

"I fear not, Mr Pardoe. What a terrible business! I can scarcely credit it, but naturally I cannot ignore what he says. Is poor Lady Ruth greatly distressed?"

"That is what I wanted to speak to you about. Her uncle and I decided it was best not to reveal the whole, so all she knows is that Cleeve is caught. I should like to tell her the rest before she sees anyone, to prepare her. In the meantime, I hope you will be so good as not to let drop any hint."

"Of course, of course, my dear sir. No one shall breathe a word. The business is set for Thursday, as we were not sure when you would arrive. Besides, young Robert is to make his ascension on Wednesday, which I would not miss for the world. I fear you will have to forgo your flight."

"Yes, for my sister's wedding if not for the villainous captain. However, I intend to go up while the balloon is still tethered. That is another thing I have not yet told Lady Ruth, for fear of worrying her. Nor my family, I might add."

"How I wish I might join you in the basket! I promised Mrs Trevelyan I'd not climb in even on the ground." The old gentleman sighed. "I expect you will want to help Polgarth with the preparations tomorrow, Mr Pardoe?"

"If you will not think it rude of me to go off. I think he is counting on my help to set up the apparatus. I should like to take Lady Ruth, too, if she wishes to come. She is interested in scientific experiments, and she is fond of Bob's Auntie. By the way, do you happen to know Auntie's real name, sir?"

Mr Trevelyan looked all around, put his finger to his lips, and beckoned Oliver closer.

"I took my oath years ago never to reveal it," he whispered. "I only disclose it to you because I have the utmost faith in your discretion. Auntie was christened Hanoveria, in compliment to the Royal Family. Then she was of an age in Forty-five to form a romantic attachment for the Young Pretender, so you see . . . And what is more, her second name is Hephzibah, and her surname, Mudd."

"Poor Auntie!"

"She was the eldest daughter, so she was generally Miss Mudd, but even that got to be too much for her."

The two supposed gentlemen snickered quietly over their sherry for a few minutes, then went to change for dinner.

After the meal, Oliver had a word with Ruth.

"We shall see Captain Cleeve on Thursday," he told her. "Put it out of your mind until then. I am driving over to Port Isaac tomorrow. Should you like to come with me?"

"Oh, yes. I must pay my respects to Auntie."

"Bob and I will be setting up the hydrogen apparatus. I hope you will not find it tedious."

"You know I will not. May I help, or at least watch, if I promise to keep out of your way?"

"Certainly. At least until the furnaces are lit. I expect that Bob will already have built his hearths on the moor. It will be a matter of taking the pipes and tanks and materials out there and fitting everything together."

"On Brown Willy, he said?"

"Yes. We will be very close to Penderric Castle, Ruth. I beg you will not go there alone."

She shivered. "No, not alone."

Oliver was satisfied. If she insisted on going to the castle, he might have to tell her the whole story to dissuade her. At least she would not think of going without his protection, so he could relax for the moment.

They reached Port Isaac early the next morning, and Auntie was ecstatic to see them.

"Miss Bolton!" she cried. "No, wait a minute; Miss Bar-stowe?"

"Miss Bailey," said Ruth, hugging her, "but I am in no need of an alias at present."

"Lady Ruth, how happy I am to see you again!"

"Ruth, please. Am I not an honorary niece? I shall never forget your kindness, Auntie."

"Nonsense, my dear. And how is Jane? Lavinia? No, Louisa?"

"Letty is very well and enjoying the amusements of London. How is life in Port Isaac?"

"Very complicated, Ruth, very complicated. I daresay you remember Martha, our maid?"

"Of course. Is she giving you trouble?"

"Well, Martha's husband was a sailor, you know, as they all are here. Three children they have. In December, just after you left, his boat put in to Padstow during a terrible storm, and he took up with a shopkeeper's wife over there. The first poor Martha knew was when the Cormorant came into harbour without Bert."

"Poor Martha. I expect she was very distressed?"

"For a day or two. Then who should turn up but the shopkeeper himself, with his four children. He thought that just because Bert had his wife there was no reason for him to go without, so he up and came to Martha."

"And he is still here? Good heavens! So now Martha has seven children, I take it."

"And an eighth on the way, my dear. Luckily the shopkeeper had a bit of money put by that he brought with him, and his eldest girl is old enough to take care of the young ones. But he's learning a sailor's trade, and he doesn't take kindly to it, I fear. It's a hard life, even though he has taken over Bert's share in the Cormorant."

"Martha is still working for you?"

"Yes. She took the whole affair very calmly after the first surprise and is quite; settled now. Oh dear, I expect I should not have told such a shocking tale to an unmarried girl. Pray pretend I did not!"

"Auntie, I am no more a girl than you are. We single ladies must band together. And I have heard scandals vastly more shocking in London, which I would not repeat to you. The society ladies seem to take great delight in ripping reputations to shreds. I should not like to come under their claws."

"Speaking of which, we have got a fine new cat since you were here. Bob thought he heard bats in the belfry . . . no, surely not! In that case they would need to get a cat for the church, or perhaps a falcon would be preferable. Only falcons fly by day and bats by night, so that would not answer. However, we do not need a falcon to catch rats in the attic. Our tabby does a fine job, but she will leave her prey on the stair, so do be careful if you should go up."

"I will," promised Ruth. "Speaking of which, are you going to watch the balloon ascension?"

"I should have liked to, if the winter had not left my old bones so rheumaticky. I do not go out much these days. I console myself with the' thought that if God had meant us to fly, he would never have created horses. Or perhaps he would have given them wings, like Pegasus."

Oliver and Bob, who had been discussing technical matters, overheard this last.

"A breed of winged horses would solve many of our problems," said Oliver. "We could harness them to guide the balloon, instead of going where the wind blows."

"There was once a flying horse," Bob informed them, as always unusually loquacious when the subject was his favourite. "Seventeen-ninety-eight, I think. French fellow with an odd name went up on a platform on horseback. Didn't fill the envelope enough. He hit a chimney and tore it, but he landed safely. They say the horse never moved a muscle."

"It must have been blind, deaf, and paralytic," declared Auntie. "If God had meant horses to fly, he would never have created birds."

"I wonder what would happen if you filled a horse with hydrogen," mused Ruth.

"Light its breath and you'd have a dragon," Oliver replied promptly. "You could keep it in the kitchen to kindle the stove. It would not even get in the way, because it would float up near the ceiling."

"You would have to haul it down with ropes every morning. I expect it is less work to light the stove oneself," Ruth sighed. "What a pity. I quite thought that between us we had a great new invention."

"It would be very handy to catch the bats," suggested Auntie. "It could incinerate them instead of leaving them on the stair. Only perhaps dragons are not nocturnal, either."

Having missed the earlier conversation, the gentlemen were thoroughly confused by this. Bob returned doggedly to ballooning.

"Oliver, it is near ten miles to the point where we have set up the furnace. I want to have everything ready to go first thing tomorrow, so we must have it all prepared by this evening. The furnaces will have to burn all night to produce enough gas."

"I suppose you have plenty of assistants to stoke the fires?"

"Yes, half the youths in Cornwall have volunteered. I shall have to stay out there to keep an eye on them, of course."

"Oliver, do you wish to stay with Mr Polgarth?" asked Ruth. "I daresay we might find some other way for me to return to the Trevelyans tonight."

"I've not the slightest desire to spend the night on Bodmin Moor, believe me! I am sure there are ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night lurking out there."

"I saw a ghost last week," said Auntie conversationally. "It told me to beware the Ides of March. Very trite, I thought. That was last Friday, and nothing happened, so I suppose it got its dates wrong again. They often do, you know."

"We must go," Bob persisted. "Auntie, I do not know when I shall see you again. When I reach Scotland I shall send a message. Martha will take care of you, and if there are any problems, send to Mr Trevelyan. And Auntie, pray do not again tell the vicar that he has bats in his belfry."

"Of course, I will not, dear boy. The man is not queer in his attic, is he? Perhaps he should get a dragon."

They left her pondering the matter.

_{Chapter 20}

Oliver Drove Bob Polgarth and Ruth up the hill to the barn where Bob had prepared the balloon. Outside, a cart surrounded by country folk was waiting. With the willing assistance of a dozen sturdy lads, the balloon itself, the basket, miles of rigging, tanks, pipes, and sacks of carefully sorted iron filings were loaded.

The carter turned out to be Ruth's friend from the Scrimshaw Inn. He recognised her at once, and hearing Mr Polgarth address her as Lady Ruth, he knew that his guess as to her identity had been correct. He bowed low to her, winking as he straightened.

"Hey now, my lady!" he said. "Ye've a better carriage and better company today, I zee. Not but what I been't a-carrying o' fish today. I be a-carrying hot air!" He laughed heartily at his own joke, then turned solemn, nodded at Oliver, and added significantly, "It's an ill wind!"

He handed her up into the curricle in a most gentlemanlike manner, while she tried to puzzle out his last remark. He was almost as mystifying as Auntie.

The cart set out, with Bob perched anxiously atop his load, followed by the curricle, and accompanied by the greater part of the crowd. By the time they reached St Teath a few had dropped out, but most were still with them, to be joined by half the population of the hamlet.

Passing the Nag's Head, they approached the church. Ruth wondered if Mr Vane was there, as had been his custom on Tuesdays. She was sorry that they had parted on bad terms. He had been a true friend to her when she had needed one, and she felt she should not have cast him off so abruptly.

Alerted by the noise of the merry throng, the curate stepped out to the church porch. Ruth raised her hand and smiled in greeting and was glad to see him wave back, though his face remained grave.

Oliver noted the exchange.

"Who is that?" he asked, suspecting that he knew the answer.

"Walter Vane, the curate from Camelford." Ruth blushed. "He was kind to me when I had few friends. It meant a great deal to me, and I cannot forget it."

Oliver wondered suddenly just how fond of Walter she had been. It was months since he had thought of him as a rival. Had Ruth's affection been strong enough to survive the long parting and might it be reanimated if they met again?

He realised that only from her aunt had he heard that her betrothal was ended. Turning to her for reassurance, he found her subdued and thoughtful.

Penderric Castle stood frowning on the horizon. The clear, sunny day could not make it look less than threatening, and when a passing cloud hid the sun's face, it seemed positively sinister to Ruth. She found it hard to believe that she had spent twenty-five years within those gloomy walls. For sixteen of them she had never known true happiness, and the last year had been a sort of purgatory.

Godfrey was probably sitting at this minute in his empty library, counting his hoarded gold. Ruth supposed that she should see him, however briefly, since she was in the neighborhood. She would not go alone.

Laying her hand on Oliver's arm, she smiled at him.

The castle was less than a mile away when the cavalcade turned north on the track to Brown Willy. The walkers from Port Isaac were growing weary, and Oliver offered to take several children up into the curricle. They clambered aboard, thrilled to be riding in a 'ge'mun's carridge," and Ruth found herself squeezed against Oliver's side in the crush. He felt so solid and dependable that her sombre thoughts vanished.

There was much good-natured bantering among the local people, and a holiday spirit prevailed that defused the sometimes bitter rivalry between farm folk and fisher folk. By this time everyone knew who the lady beside Mr Polgarth's friend was, and such was Lord Penderric's reputation that no one wondered why she was not residing at the castle.

At last they reached the place where the hearths had been built. Brown Willy, like Rough Tor to the north and several of the lesser heights of Bodmin Moor, was capped with a jumble of huge granite boulders. Bob Polgarth had hoped to inflate his balloon on the topmost of these, but though immense, many were precariously balanced. He had reluctantly decided that any advantage that height would give him would be nullified by the difficulty of transporting the precious equipment safely to the summit. Already a young shepherd had wrenched his ankle clambering incautiously among the rocks.

So the furnace was well to the west of the peak, where the prevailing sou'westers would blow the balloon clear of its obstruction. The spot was still higher than any land for miles about.

Bob and the carter supervised the unloading of the equipment. The carter, standing to inherit the Scrimshaw Inn, was an influential man in the area, and he was heart and soul behind the experiment.

"Oh aye, I'd be up there quick as winking," he told Ruth, "if 'twaren't fer my owld 'oman. Proper skittish, she ware, when I zays as how I c'd fancy flyin' through the clouds."

"Mr Trevelyan's wife made him promise he'd not go," said Ruth.

"Zo did mine, zo did mine!" cried the carter, delighted. "'Nancy,' I zays, 'tis the chance o' a lifetime,' but she'd not hear on it. Zo I do aim to keep things runnin' smooth here below. There's half a hundred lads wants to help, and I do aim to make zartin they does what they does when they's meant to do it!"

There was a pause in the activity when bread and cheese and pasties appeared, as if from nowhere. Mrs Trevelyan's cook had packed a lunch for Ruth and Oliver, and Bob joined them. While they were eating, three horsemen were sighted approaching the hill.

Bob stood up, shaded his eyes, and gazed toward them, then waved.

"It's the fellows I got to replace you, Oliver," he said, sitting down again. "Suppose they've brought a groom to take their horses back to Plymouth."

"Who are they?" asked Ruth.

"They're both lieutenants in the Royal Navy. Having trouble getting used to the peace with France. Tedious business, life ashore, they say. Didn't have to ask them twice to come along with me."

"I don't suppose you did," Oliver sighed.

He and Bob strolled down to meet the two young men and escorted them back up the hill, pointing out the preparations underway. They were introduced to Ruth, who soon found that they knew far less of the mechanics of the flight than she did. As Bob and Oliver worked to set up the apparatus, she explained it to them. Oliver was delighted, and Bob amazed, at how rarely they had to supply corrections or missing details.

First they filled a number of cast-iron tubes with iron filings.

"The filings must be quite clean and free from rust," explained Ruth to the ignorant aeronauts. "Otherwise, the reaction does not take place properly. Then the tubes are sealed into the furnace, leaving only enough space for water to run in."

A mason's apprentice promptly made his appearance and fixed the last bricks into place. At the carter's direction, four husky fishermen lifted a long tank filled with water and set it on top. Bob and Oliver carefully attached the little pipes through which the water would flow onto the iron filings.

At the other end, a smaller tank of lime solution was connected.

"The water is admitted to the iron filings," continued Ruth, "which are first made red-hot. I expect you know that water, or steam, is composed of oxygen and hydrogen?"

"No, ma'am," chorused the sailors.

"Well it is, is it not, Oliver? Hydrogen is the proper name for inflammable gas, you know. In the furnace the oxygen combines with the iron filings, and the hydrogen passes out into the other tank. It bubbles through the limewater to remove some impurity. . ."

"Carbonic acid gas," put in Oliver.

". . . and then flows up the rubber tubing into the envelope."

The naval lieutenants were thoroughly impressed.

"I do not perfectly understand how the valve on the balloon works," admitted Ruth. "I should like to see it in operation, only once the balloon is filled nothing will persuade me into the basket. Mr Polgarth tells excessively horrid tales of the accidents that have occurred."

"Yes," agreed one of the young men. "That is why we wish to go."

Now, the basket was carried to its place. The balloon, patterned in green and yellow diamonds, was spread with its network of ropes in a wide circle on the ground. Bundles of faggots were set upon the kindling in the double hearth and stacked in large piles nearby.

Oliver came to where Ruth was watching.

"Bob would like you to light the fires," he told her. "There is no danger at present. Once the iron is glowing and the water begins to flow, I want you standing well back. If there is a leak anywhere, there might be an explosion."

"I'd be happy to light the fires, but I have no dragon. I daresay you have a tinderbox?"

"Bob has everything. Come."

The intrepid aeronaut, it turned out, had everything except a way of producing a flame. Soon everyone in the crowd was asking everyone else for a tinderbox.

"I thought all sailors smoked tobacco," said Ruth. "Surely one of you has one?"

"We left our stuff behind because of the extra weight," explained one.

"Besides, even we know that you don't light a cigar near inflammable gas," pointed out the other.

A young woman ran up to the dismayed group.

"Oh, zir!" she cried, "me granfer smokes a pipe and allus carries tinder, on'y I canna find the owld curmudgeon."

"Did he come this far?" asked Oliver. "Perhaps he wandered away and sat down to rest behind a rock. We must organise a search."

The carter took charge, scouts were sent in every direction, and he himself went to search his cart, quite unable to believe that such a little thing could upset all his organisation.

There was the old man, curled up under a sack on the floor of the cart, snoring away oblivious to all the fuss. And beside him lay an ancient, foul-smelling clay pipe and a tinderbox.

In spite of the awakened owner's vociferous protests, the carter seized the box and ran back to the furnace.

"Here y'are, my lady," he declared, beaming as he presented it to Ruth. "Ever at your zervice, ma'am."

In no time the fires roared up, and there was a ragged cheer from the spectators.

"We shall have to leave soon if we want to reach Boscastle before dark," Oliver told Ruth. "If you don't mind, I should like to wait until the hydrogen begins to flow, in case Bob needs help with any adjustments. Are you very weary?"

"A little, but nothing to signify. I shall sit in the curricle until you are ready. You must certainly wait until you know whether all is well with the apparatus."

The sun was touching the western horizon by the time the furnace was judged sufficiently hot. The carter made the crowd stand clear as Bob turned the tap on the water tank. The hiss and sizzle of cold water meeting red-hot iron was heard above the crackle of the fires, and within a few minutes the fabric of the balloon began to stir.

One or two of the older Cornishwomen muttered uneasily about witchcraft, and several made signs against the Evil Eye, but most of the watchers clapped and cheered again. The crowd was growing now as sightseers from as far away as Truro gathered for the forthcoming spectacle, undeterred by the prospect of spending the night on the inclement moor.

Driving the curricle back along the track, Oliver was forced several times to pull to the side to allow the passage of vehicles headed in the opposite direction.

"How goes it?" the new arrivals would shout.

"Very well!" Oliver assured one and all.

At last they reached the comparative quiet of the road at St Teath. The sun had set, though the sky was still bright.

"I fear we shall be late for dinner," Oliver apologised. "I expect Mrs Trevelyan will read me a lecture for keeping you out so long."

"I am more hungry than I am tired," Ruth said. "I hope she will not send us fasting to bed. You must be hungry and tired after working so hard."

"I enjoyed it. Ruth, you astounded Bob and his fellow aeronauts with your grasp of the subject. That was a very impressive lecture."

'The officers were amazingly ignorant. Are you very vexed that you are unable to fly with them?"

"I doubt whether I shall ever have a second opportunity," admitted Oliver sadly. "I had been looking forward to it for a long time. However, I daresay Bob is quite relieved. I am no light weight to be hoist into the sky."

"Lady Pardoe and Rose were certainly relieved, and I also, though I am sorry for your disappointment. At what hour does Mr Polgarth expect the balloon to be ready?"

"There is no way to be sure in advance, so I shall leave as early as possible, though the actual lifting is planned for eleven o'clock. Mr Trevelyan will probably set out later, if you do not wish to rise at dawn."

"I should like to go with you, but 'dawn' has a monstrous chilly ring to it. I shall wait and see how I feel in the morning."

The Trevelyan household was astir betimes the next morning. Mrs Trevelyan, thinking Ruth more fatigued than she would admit, had given orders that she should not be woken before it was strictly necessary.

"Four days travelling, a day on the moors, and tomorrow to Bodmin!" she scolded Oliver as he gulped his breakfast. "Let the poor girl sleep another hour. I suppose you must leave for London on Friday, too! Lady Ruth will be fainting at your sister's wedding if we do not have a care. Perhaps she had best stay here today."

"She'd not miss the ascension for the world, ma'am," protested Oliver.

"I shall get her there in plenty of time," soothed Mr Trevelyan, reaching for a second muffin. When Oliver drove down the gravel drive, his host was still methodically disposing of a plateful of cold beef. "Daresay I'll forget lunch in the excitement," he explained to his wife.

He and Ruth set off at eight in a trap driven by a groom. It was another sunny day, with high puffs of cumulus like beaten egg-whites driven before a brisk south-westerly breeze. Mr Trevelyan teased Ruth about her unwillingness to go in the balloon.

"After your intrepid actions in escaping from Jem Blount and his ruffians, I am surprised that anything daunts you, Lady Ruth."

"That was a matter of necessity, sir," she explained. "Fortunately, there is no conceivable reason why I should fly through the air."

"I saw Mrs Sage leaving London with Lunardi and Biggins in 1785," the old gentleman reminisced. "They flew for three hours, landing in Middlesex. That was when I began to be fascinated by balloons. She was a beautiful woman."

"Aha, Mr Trevelyan, I have found you out. It was not her sense of adventure but her beauty that interested you. Confess!"

"And I should not be going out today if I were not escorting another beautiful woman," he laughed, delighted.

'That quite explodes my theory, for I know you to have been planning this outing for months!"

Long before they reached Brown Willy-—a slow process, as the tracks were bustling with traffic—the balloon was visible, floating some fifty feet above the ground. They were forced to leave the trap several hundred yards from the place where it was tethered, and proceed on foot.

There was a carnival atmosphere. The crowd had swelled to several hundred, and enterprising vendors had set up stalls selling gingerbread, hot pasties, cider, ale, and lemonade. Everywhere children ran underfoot and climbed perilously among the huge slabs of granite. Some of the spectators had perched comfortably on the rocks, where they could see over the heads of those on the ground.

The balloon was tethered to a vast boulder, and a number of ropes hung from the basket, held fast by men below. There seemed to be two figures in it, but it was impossible to distinguish them clearly against the bright sky.

Mr Trevelyan and Ruth made their way slowly through the festive throng toward the centre of interest. Suddenly Ruth felt a light touch on her arm, and someone murmured, "Lady Ruth!"

She turned to find Walter Vane at her elbow.

"Walter . . . Mr Vane! It is good to see you again," she exclaimed.

"You look very well, Lady Ruth." The curate saw who she was with. "Mr Trevelyan, your servant, sir."

"And yours, Mr Vane." The magistrate bowed politely but without cordiality. "You are interested in the aeronautical art?"

"Scarcely. However my vicar feels that I should be acquainted with whatever interests our parishioners. Since he went so far as to press his carriage upon me, here you see me, sir. Lady Ruth, might I have a word with you?"

"Of course, Walter. Pray excuse me a moment, Mr Trevelyan."

Mr Vane led her to a nearby rock, carefully spread his greatcoat upon it, and invited her to be seated. Most unusually, he seemed to find himself at a loss for words. Since Ruth had no notion how to begin a conversation with a gentleman to whom she had recently been betrothed, she waited for him.

"You have been in London?" he asked tentatively at last. "Did you find it to your liking?"

"The social life is amusing, and my uncle has been very kind to me. And to Letty, of course. I have enjoyed myself greatly, though it is fatiguing to be always going to parties. It was a pleasure to get out into the countryside now and then."

"Moderation in all things is an excellent motto. I was surprised to learn that you are staying with the Trevelyans. Are you fixed in Boscastle for a lengthy period?"

"No, indeed. We must return to London on Friday. It is strange to come into Cornwall as a visitor." Ruth noticed that they were both avoiding the mention of Mr Pardoe by name, and wondered how long they could continue to do so.

"Lady Ruth, do you . . . ?"

"Pray do not address me so formally, Walter. We were not used to be so ceremonious."

"I dared not hope that you would consider me still your friend," said Mr Vane with unwonted humility, "after my inexcusable behaviour with regard to your distressing adventure. When I came to look back on my words, I saw how heartless I must have appeared to you. Pray tell me you have forgiven me.

"Of course I have, long since. I beg you will not regard it."

"I fear I was jealous of your rescuer," the curate confessed heavily. "With good reason, I suspect. If Mr Pardoe expects to return to London with you on Friday, he must think that the balloon will not travel far?"

"Mr Pardoe has had to abandon his plans to take part in the flight. He was very disappointed."

"But I saw him with my own eyes, Ruth, climbing into the basket before it rose. And I am very certain he did not jump out again."

"Surely not, Walter. You must have been mistaken. You have never met Mr Pardoe, have you? It was someone else."

"Possibly," said Mr Vane dubiously. "However, I distinctly heard several people mention his name. A tall, fair young man with broad shoulders."

Ruth shaded her eyes and peered at the balloon, though she was by now convinced that Oliver must be in it. He had, after all, found the temptation irresistible and thrown to the winds his promise to his mother, his duty to the Law, his desire to be at Rose's wedding, and his intention of accompanying her to see her brother. The strain of gazing at the sky made tears rise, and she blinked them away before turning back to Walter. He was looking at her with kind concern.

"Mr Pardoe has probably decided that the balloon will come down within a short distance," said Ruth with a creditable laugh. "May I ask a favour of you, Walter?"

"My dear Ruth, I am yours to command."

"I daresay Mr Pardoe has quite forgot that we were to visit Godfrey today. Would you be so good as to go with me in his place? I do not like to go alone, because of all the strangers who have gathered here."

"With pleasure. Do you wish to wait for the departure?"

"No, I have seen enough of balloons to last me a lifetime. You said you have the vicar's carriage?"

"Yes, it is just a dogcart, but a perfectly adequate vehicle on a pleasant day such as this. I expect you will recognise Dapple between the shafts."

"I had better tell Mr Trevelyan where I am going."

"That is scarcely necessary, unless you intend to make a protracted sojourn at the castle?"

"No, as short a time as possible. Still ..."

"There is young Billy Somers, yonder. If you will await me here for a few moments, I shall charge him with a message to be delivered to Mr Trevelyan."

"Thank you, Walter, that will be best. It would take forever to find him in this crush."

Soon young Billy, the Camelford farrier's son, sauntered off whistling, with a shilling in his pocket, to find the justice.

Walter and Ruth walked down the hill to the dogcart. The crowd was by now pressing close to the roped off area around the balloon, so their way was unobstructed. The pony was drowsing in the warm sun on the outskirts of a packed mass of carriages and carts. The curate handed Ruth up, joined her, and twitched the reins. Dapple unwillingly set off for Penderric Castle.

Ruth looked back once. The floating green and yellow globe, pulling on its anchor as if anxious to leave, seemed to mock her.

_{Chapter 21}

The Dogcart Pulled up before the great front door of Penderric Castle. Ruth sat in silence for a moment, looking at the place that had been her home for so many years.

She did not feel at all as if she were coming home, so when Walter helped her down, she knocked at the door. There was no response. Remembering the Tremaines' dilatory habits, she tried again, without result.

"I expect the servants are all up on Brown Willy," suggested Walter. "I suppose Lord Penderric is not likely to be there?"

"No, not at all. We shall have to enter by the side door. I have never known it locked. Come this way."

Feeling nervously guilty, as though she were a housebreaker rather than a member of the family, Ruth led him into the dark, chilly corridor and along it to the entrance hall. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and there was a dank, musty odour she did not remember. The furniture was covered with dust and here and there on the floor small piles of dirt showed where someone had made a half-hearted, half-completed gesture toward sweeping.

Ruth opened the door into the salon where she and Letty had spent most of their time. It had apparently been shut up since they left, and though the air was stale it was not as dirty as the hallway.

"Should you mind waiting here, Walter?" she asked apologetically. "Godfrey is usually to be found in the library, and I shall seek him there, but I do not want to subject you to an interview with him."

Walter looked round the room distastefully.

"I can scarce believe you used to live here," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Had I known earlier. . . ! Well, too late for vain regrets. I shall leave the door open, and you must call out if you need me."

"I shall not be long," Ruth promised, and headed for the library.

The door was open. As she stepped inside, she saw that all the shelves were still bare. Nothing had changed since she had last entered the room.

Her brother sat at the desk, seeming a part of the furniture. Never a big man, he appeared to have shrunk in the months since she had seen him. He looked at her calmly.

"So you have returned, Ruth."

His voice was so cool and matter-of-fact that she wondered if she had imagined that he was dangerous.

"Only briefly, Godfrey. I shall not live here again."

"You are just in time," he continued in a tone of remote rationality. "I could not have waited much longer. There is only one way out for me, but I am glad you are here to share it. It is all your fault, you know."

"My fault? What is my fault?"

'This whole mess, of course. If it had not been for your fortune, I might have held out for years."

"I don't understand you. To what mess do you refer, and how is my fortune to blame?"

"Oh, I shall explain it all. Will you not be seated?"

More than anything else, this request convinced her that he had the full use of his faculties. She sat gingerly on a rickety chair.

"Pray go on," she urged.

"You should never have become betrothed to Walter Vane. That was the last straw."

"I am no longer engaged to Walter, nor have I been for months."

"Too late, too late. I had to assume that you would soon demand ten thousand pounds and, of course, I could not give it to you. Then the letter arrived, and the idea came to me."

"What letter, Godfrey? What idea? And why could you not give me my dowry?"

"Still as impatient as ever, I see." An expression of sly cunning flitted across his face. "All in good time. Come with me; I have something to show you."

Consumed with curiosity, Ruth followed him from the library, down the corridor, and out of the back door to the stables. She stood watching in silence as he harnessed the pony to the gig.

"Get in!" he ordered roughly.

She climbed up unaided, and he took his seat beside her.

'Where are we going?" she asked at last.

"You'll see."

He whipped up the pony, drove around the house, and rattled down the track. Ruth heard the distant murmur of the crowds on Brown Willy.

At St Teath they turned north. Godfrey drove in silence, whipping the pony whenever its headlong pace slackened. Ruth clutched the side of the gig, sure that they would be overturned at any moment and afraid to speak for fear of distracting his attention from the road.

******************

Walter was looking out of the grimy window when the gig went past the front of the house. He was surprised to see Ruth leaving without a word to him, then worried. He ran into the hall, wrenched open the front door, and stood a moment on the steps gazing after them.

Whatever the reason for their departure, he decided, he was of no use to Ruth here. He jumped into the dogcart and followed, unnoticed by the pair in the gig.

Gradually he fell behind. His pony was not as fresh, and nothing but the direst emergency could have persuaded him to whip little Dapple in the brutal way Lord Penderric was abusing his horse. He had no reason to suppose that it was a matter of urgency to catch up with the racing gig. Still, a feeling of uneasiness made him do his best to keep it in sight. It turned off the main road, along a narrow by-lane winding toward Boscastle.

For a few minutes he lost it, then it came into view again, climbing the hillside to the left of the lane. He thought he recognised the rough track that led up to the Customs tower on the headland to the south of the harbour. What on earth could be their business up there? Anxiously he kept a sharp lookout for the turn off.

Ruth was also puzzled by their route. The exhausted pony was slipping and staggering up the long slope, and Godfrey had the common sense to stop whipping it and let it pick its own way, only urging it on when it threatened to stop altogether.

"Where are we going?" Ruth asked again.

"You wanted an explanation. Now you shall have it." His voice was calm.

"About my dowry?"

"Yes. I could not give it to you because I had not so much money in the world. Then the letter came from Uncle Hadrick, announcing the arrival in Cornwall of his rich young friend. My idea was to use him to dispose of your claims upon me."

"You meant to take money from Mr Pardoe to give to me?"

"Nothing so childishly simple. No, I developed an extraordinarily clever plot that could lead no suspicions to me. Will found me a master criminal. In exchange for his cooperation, I gave him information about Pardoe's wealth and movements. He was to have both of you kidnapped by men who would believe he meant to extract ransom for both. I, of course, would not pay, and so he would have you dispatched, thus ridding me of your demands."

"Godfrey, how can you speak of it so tranquilly? Do you know what they were going to do to me? They were going to—"

"The details are of no conceivable interest to me. Thanks to Pardoe's interference, my brilliant plan came to naught. I cannot think why he bothered to escape. His father would not have missed the money. And the consequences have been appalling. Captain Cleeve was excessively angry when he did not receive any ransom. He has been bleeding me dry ever since." At last some emotion entered Godfrey's voice. He sounded mildly disturbed.

"You mean he has been blackmailing you?" asked Ruth. In the face of his unperturbed demeanour, she found it impossible to arouse herself to indignation, still less anger. He seemed to hypnotise her, as a stoat does a rabbit.

"Yes, that is why he returned to Cornwall. Just before you left was the first time: I met him at the Nag's Head that evening and gave him the money, then the next day you came in demanding more."

"The day you cut my hand."

"That's right. But this time I outwitted him. I laid information against him, and he was arrested."

Ruth thought back over the things Oliver, Sir John, and Mr Trevelyan had said and not said.

"Has he not accused you then, Godfrey? It seems to me that he must have implicated you."

"He did. Otherwise I should not be telling you this. Only one course is open to me, but I do not care a whit for that since you are come."

"What do you mean?"

Godfrey started muttering to himself and did not answer. The crazed light in his eyes was apparent now, unmistakable.

At last Ruth had to admit to herself that her brother was insane. Oliver must have known, she thought. He must have heard Captain Cleeve's story. No wonder he had wanted to keep her in ignorance as long as possible. Why, oh why had he now deserted her? Nothing ever seemed quite so terrible in his presence.

What did Godfrey want to show her? She was beginning to think that she must be as mad as her brother to venture up here on the hillside alone with him. The gig was moving slowly now, as the slope steepened. The only sensible thing was to jump out and run down to the road for help.

Before she could carry out her resolve, they reached the top of the slope. The pony halted, with heaving sides, on the level turf that stretched before them for a hundred yards, then ended abruptly. Nothing but sky was visible beyond. To their right, on the highest point, stood a white-painted tower.

Godfrey turned to her and seized her wrist in a grip of iron. He had never been physically strong, but now the strength of a madman was his, and try as she might, she could not free herself.

"Listen!" he hissed. "You've always thought yourself so superior, because you're the eldest and because mama loved you best. Yes, she did. Father told me, so you can't deny it. But Father told me something else, too. . ."

"I don't want to hear it, Godfrey. Whatever it is, keep it to yourself and let us go home now." Ruth tried to speak soothingly, but her voice trembled. From the corner of her eye, she saw that three men in uniform had come out of the tower and were standing watching. Should she shout for help?

"I'm going to tell you, whatever you say," Godfrey gloated. "He told me that your dearly beloved mother was a whore, and you were conceived before he married her out of pity. You are a bastard, so you can wipe the smug superiority off your face and —"

"It's not true! Mama was the best person in the world and nothing, nothing you can say will change that."

"It's true. Do you want to know your father's name? He was some seedy sailor—"

"You're mad. You're making it up. Don't say any more or I shall ... I shall kill you!" Not for a moment could Ruth allow herself to believe him. Tears poured down her face, but she did not heed them. She was filled with overwhelming anger that he should desecrate the memory of her mother.

Now he laughed a wild, insane laugh.

"You're too late. That's one threat that means nothing to me now!" he cried, let go her wrist and whipped up the pony. It started at a staggering run for the cliff’s edge.

Ruth was numb with shock, paralysed by the endless series of blows that was to culminate, it seemed, in death. She was not even aware of the Excisemen racing toward the careening gig.

"Stop! Stop!" they shouted uselessly.

Walter Vane reached the top of the hill. For a moment he was incredulous, then he filled his lungs with air and bellowed in a voice he did not know he possessed.

"Jump, Ruth, jump!"

At that moment the pony stumbled and slowed momentarily. Walter's cry cut through the fog in Ruth's mind, and she threw herself headlong from the seat.

The gig picked up speed and disappeared over the cliff.

Walter fainted.

None of the Preventives seemed in the least interested in the fate of either the curate or the Earl of Penderric. They all reached Ruth within a few seconds of her fall.

She was dazed but conscious. The tired pony had not been moving fast, the grass was thick and soft, tufted with pink thrift, and her only injury was a bruised shoulder.

"Be ye a'right, missie?" queried a grizzled veteran kindly, as he helped her sit up. "Jackie, go see to the ge'mun, and Evan, look ower cliff now." His men dispatched, he turned back to Ruth. "I be Sarjeant Miller, ma'am. We three be witnesses o' this yere goings-on, so per'aps I yought to knaw what 'tis all about. I'll not tell the lads owt they needna knaw."

Ruth was shivering, though the noonday sun shone bright. The sergeant struggled out of his moderately clean uniform jacket and draped it about her shoulders.

"That was my brother," she told him, head bowed. "Lord Penderric. I am Lady Ruth Penderric. We ... he ... I can't . . ." She looked at him pleadingly.

"Well, now, my lady, so happens as I've heerd a mite o' gossip about the yearl. I think ye needna say more. Come now, I'll help ye rise if ye feel fit."

"Thank you, sergeant. You are very kind."

Walter and young Jackie were approaching from one side, Evan from the other. Ruth went to meet Walter, who put his arm round her comfortingly, as the Welshman reported.

"Nary a whisker to be seen, sergeant," he told his superior. "The tide is high, look you, there's just a few rocks above water. The wreckage'll likely wash up at Padstow in a few days."

It was impossible for Ruth to feel sorrow at her brother's untimely death. From a spiteful boy he had turned into a vicious man, and his demise freed her from a grievous burden. The certainty of his madness was a poison that worked in her veins, but now she was calm and composed and able to decide what must be done.

"Walter, will you take me back to the castle?" she requested. "I must set everything' in order there. Sergeant Miller, I suppose this must be reported to the justice of the peace. I hope you can send one of your men?"

"Surely, my lady."

"Then if you have paper and pen, I should like to write a note to Mr Trevelyan."

Seated at a rickety table in the tower, with a scratchy pen and ink that flowed by fits and starts, Ruth wondered what to say. In the end she wrote a concise account of the earl's end, told him she was returning to Penderric Castle, and said she would inform him of her further movements. Signed and sealed, the letter was given to Jackie to deliver, "him having the youngest legs."

Ruth and Walter found Dapple happily cropping the grass. The pony seemed quite recovered from his recent exertions, so they set off down the hill.

As soon as they were alone, Walter began to present his condolences.

"Pray do not, Walter," Ruth interrupted him. "I can feel no grief, only horror, and I am too tired to think about it at all. Thank you for following me. It was your voice that saved me, you know."

Walter flushed, both at the idea of himself as a rescuer, and at the memory of his unheroic swoon.

"I am glad that I was there," he said with unwonted brevity, and they continued in silence.

Ruth was indeed exhausted. She leaned back drowsily and caught herself dozing off several times before they reached the castle once more. The place was as dingy and decrepit as it had been that morning, but the sense of brooding menace was gone. The front door was open, as Walter had left it in his haste.

They went down the passage to the library. If anything of value remained, it would be there. As they entered, a man started up from where he had been kneeling by a hole in the floorboards. It was the servant, Will.

He scowled at them and made as if to conceal the hole, then decided it was hopeless.

"Di'n't know anyone were coming back," he growled sulkily.

"Where are the Tremaines?" asked Ruth, sinking into a chair.

"Runned off a week since, wi' everything they c'd lay hands on. Di'n't know 'bout this lot." He hooked his thumb toward the hole.

"What have you there?" Walter queried sharply.

"All 'at's left o' her fortin." This time the grimy thumb indicated Ruth. "An' all 'at's left o' Penderric's hoard. I'm owed near a year's wage."

Walter looked into the space beneath the floor. It held three small leather sacks, which he pulled out and set on the desk by Ruth.

"I'm owed f r a year," reminded the sullen servant.

"It's probably true," said Ruth. "Give him twenty pounds, Walter, please, if there is that much here." She was too tired to argue.

"But he was going to steal the whole, I'll be bound," Walter objected.

Ruth could have added that it was Will who had arranged for Godfrey and Captain Cleeve to meet, and so precipitated the whole course of events. It did not seem worth the effort. She just shook her head.

Walter carefully tipped the contents of one sack onto the desk. A hundred gold sovereigns, bright as the day they were minted, glittered in a ray of sun which had somehow found its way through the filthy window. He picked out twenty and handed them to the servant.

"Get out," he ordered, "and you need not return!"

Will left, grumbling.

The other two sacks each held the same amount. Ruth sat blindly staring at the pile of coins that was Letty's and her sole remaining wealth. She needed to think, to make decisions, but her mind would not work.

Suddenly she became aware that Walter was on his knees before her, had taken her hand.

"Ruth," he begged, "I wish you will reconsider! I am sincerely attached to you, and the unpropitious circumstances need not stand in our way. We may live as cheerfully in a cottage as in a castle, and I shall certainly soon receive a benefice. Marry me, my dear, and forget this grim, dilapidated mansion and the horrendous deeds it has been witness to. Let me take your hand and lead you to a life of Christian simplicity and charity, to contented matrimony and blessed motherhood. We shall—"

"No, Walter," Ruth broke in gently, realising that he was carried away by his own eloquence. "I cannot marry. I am honoured and grateful that you should ask me again, but it will not do."

Walter rose and dusted his knees with a sigh.

"I am sorry you think so," he said with dignity. "I believe we should have dealt admirably together. I shall not press you, however."

"You are so very good to me. Now I must consider what is best for me to do. You will not be offended if I ask you to wait in the salon?"

"Not at all, my dear. I am sure you are in need of solitude. You will call me if you need me."

Ruth watched him leave. She was deeply touched by his renewed proposal. It was not his fault that she found him slightly ridiculous now that she was better acquainted with the world, and Oliver made most men seem inadequate.

But Oliver was literally gone on the wind. Even had he not abandoned her, she could not have married him now. She had no dowry, and worse, she bore the stigma of a father and brother who had both committed suicide. Insanity was in her blood, a lurking monster waiting to pounce on her innocent children. How could she ever inflict herself on any man, let alone the man she loved? Could she ever face anyone she knew? What was left to her?

Her uncle was her only refuge.' She would flee to him, show herself a dutiful niece, and not resent her aunt's interfering authority. Only she must make it plain to Sir John that she did not mean to marry, so that Lady Hadrick would not be forever casting out lures to catch her a husband.

Her future looked grey, but with two hundred and eighty pounds to her name she could see no alternative. At least she could pay her own way to London.

With tired determination, she went to find the curate.

"Walter, I must go to London," she told him.

"Of course. Your uncle is now your guardian, and it is proper that you should go to him."

"I mean that I wish to go at once. I shall not return to the Trevelyans. It cannot be thought necessary that I should see Captain Cleeve since ... in the present circumstances. Will you see that they are informed of my departure? I will write to them from town."

"Certainly. But do you mean to travel post? I believe it is sadly expensive. I shall take you to Launceston, of course."

"Thank you, Walter. I do not know how I should go on without you. You are right, a postchaise would be far too costly. I shall go on the stage."

"My dear Ruth, single ladies do not travel alone on the stage. You must ..."

"I shall do as I see fit! Pray do not make me quarrel with you. Do you know at what time the stage leaves Launceston?"

"I believe there is a coach leaving in the evening to catch the London coach at Exeter in the morning," he answered stiffly. "You will have plenty of time to get there if we leave at once."

"Let me find a portmanteau for the money, and I'll be ready. I've nothing here to pack up, and Mrs Trevelyan will send on my bags."

An hour later, the dogcart pulled into the Trelawney Arms in Camelford, and the weary Dapple was unhitched.

"I'll take 'im back to Vicar," offered the ostler, and harnessed a fresh horse in his place. 'Walter scribbled a quick note to Mr Trevelyan, and the man promised to see it delivered right away.

They set off again. Ruth was beginning to feel as if she had been on the road for months. The thought of her comfortable bed at Trevelyan House was tempting. With a sigh, she rejected it. She dreaded the old couple's kindly solicitude, their questions about her brother's death and Oliver's absence.

Reaching Launceston at half past four, Ruth discovered that the coach for Exeter would leave the Duke of Cornwall at seven. She put her name on the waybill. Thanking Walter for all he had done, she insisted on giving him money for the hire of the horse, and took her leave of him.

No one at the inn seemed to recognise her, though she had been there with Oliver twice. No one showed any surprise that she was travelling alone, and catching sight of her rumpled, grubby reflection in a window, she could see why. She bought a comb in a nearby shop and paid the landlady for a private corner in which to wash and tidy herself.

The coffee room was crowded, noisy, and smoky. Ruth had not eaten since breakfast, but she could not face the bustle within. Outside, the late afternoon sun shone full on a wooden bench set against the wall of the inn. With a slight smile, Ruth remembered Walter's strictures against ladies sitting by common taverns. Would it make any difference that this was a respectable posting house?

She sat down, leant back against the sun-warmed wall, and fell asleep.

_{Chapter 22}

When Oliver Had arrived on the moor early that morning, he had found the balloon fully inflated. It was still on the ground, but even as he drove up the slope, it shook itself and rose a few inches. A cheer went up from the crowd, most of whom had been out all night waiting for the great spectacle.

Bob Polgarth came to meet Oliver. Though he was red-eyed from lack of sleep, he was full of energy and excitement.

"Another couple of hours," he cried, "and we'll be ready to go. The apparatus is working perfectly. I hate to wait around until the advertised time!"

"You promised I could go up before you leave," Oliver reminded him. "Besides, you must not deprive latecomers of the treat."

"Come and look. The envelope is in excellent condition. I should like your advice as to whether to add more ballast."

Seen from close to, the balloon was impressively vast, towering over their heads. Relays of volunteers had worked through the night stoking the fires, which had not faltered for an instant. The carter was still in charge and showing no signs of fatigue.

As they watched, the balloon rose slowly to the limits of its tethers. Its base was a foot or two above the basket, whose rigging hung slack.

"We'll have to loosen the guys a bit," Bob said.

Before he could issue instructions, the carter started to organise a crew. One man seized each of the lines, while another untied it or rolled a rock off the end. Gradually the ropes were let out, until the basket rose a few inches from the ground.

"Down a bit!" bellowed the carter. "That's it, boys. Fasten 'em down now." He turned to Bob. "You need much more gas, zir? We be running low on fuel."

Oliver walked over to one of the guys and tugged sharply. It took considerable effort to move the balloon, which was bobbing and swaying in the breeze.

"Finish what you have," he said. "I doubt you'll be needing more. Any leaks, Bob?"

"Not a one," answered the aeronaut. "The men who helped stitch the envelope have been sewing nets all their lives. Experts every one."

A few gnarled seamen standing within earshot nodded proudly.

"That we be," one agreed.

"Y'oughta try fishing fro' that contraption, Mr Polgarth," suggested another, guffawing at his own wit.

At last the supply of wood ran out. The balloon was pulling fiercely at its tethers, and Bob was more concerned that it might escape than that there might not be enough lifting power. He checked the anchor, the only rope that would not be loosed until he was about to depart. It was holding firm.

"Are you ready to go up?" he asked Oliver. "The lines are long enough to let us ascend to fifty feet or a little more. We should be able to see clear over the top of Brown Willy."

They climbed into the basket. The two naval lieutenants reluctantly agreed to wait on the ground.

"Promise you'll not change your mind about going, Pardoe!" cried one of them. "We'd never forgive you, damme if we would."

"Never fear," grinned Oliver. "Much as I'd like to, I have other obligations. We'll be down to let you take my place."

Gradually the guys were loosed. The balloon rose into the air, followed by the gasps and shouts of the crowd. The ten strong men holding the ropes let them out little by little until a signal from the carter stopped them.

Oliver and Bob hovered sixty feet above the ground. The breeze was cold, and Oliver was glad he had thought to dress warmly. Gazing around, he could see the sea to the west, though in every other direction a haze on the horizon hid details. Southward stood the grim bulk of Penderric Castle.

As he watched, a stream of tiny vehicles turned up the track toward them, looking like ants crawling across a painting. He had not realised how the crowd had grown since his arrival. Immediately below, he could make out the faces of the expectant aeronauts, the carter, and his assistants.

Then he saw Mr Trevelyan and Ruth making their way through the throngs. He shouted and waved.

"No point," Bob told him. "They probably cannot see you against the sun's glare, and they certainly cannot hear you."

A man Oliver did not recognise accosted the pair he was watching. After a few moments, Ruth left the magistrate and followed the newcomer to a rocky platform, where they both sat down.

"Who is that?" Oliver demanded.

Bob shaded his eyes and stared. He had not looked closely when the couple were nearer and now their features were barely distinguishable.

"Could be the curate," he proposed. "Fellow from Camelford Lady Ruth was supposed to be engaged to. Vane, I think the name is."

Oliver was not at all happy with this tentative identification. What came next made him still less happy. After a few minutes of conversation, Ruth and the curate, if it was he, went down the hill, climbed into a carriage, and drove off. He had followed with difficulty their progress through the crowd, but he was fairly certain it was they. When, a short while later, he saw the carriage turn toward Penderric Castle, he was sure.

"I must go down at once!" he declared without further delay.

Bob was surprised, both at his abrupt insistence and because there was another half hour at least before the final preparations must be completed. Looking at his friend's face, he saw it set in grim determination of which he could not guess the cause.

"Very well," he agreed amicably, and leaning over the side, he gave the arranged signal.

The result was chaos. Half the men attending the guys had seen him, and without further ado began hauling in their lines. The rest were awaiting the carter's order, as intended. Unfortunately, almost all the overzealous crew members were on one side. The balloon tipped and the basket swung wildly.

Bob and Oliver just managed to save themselves from flying over the sides. There were gasps of horror from the onlookers. The men who had not pulled realised what was happening and began to reel in their ropes. Most of the others wisely stopped and held still, but some, aghast, simply let go. Released from tension, the heavy lines whipped back like living serpents, knocking several men and some of the crowd off their feet.

The weight holding the balloon suddenly halved. As if overjoyed at its freedom it bounded upward, tugging its remaining tethers from the grip of those few who still held on.

Oliver and the aeronaut found themselves racing skyward. Hanging on for dear life to whatever they had managed to seize when disaster struck, they watched the earth recede at a dizzy pace.

There was a tremendous jolt.

"The anchor!" they cried simultaneously.

It held. Within a few minutes their vehicle steadied. The wind had taken them some distance to the northeast of their starting point, and below them now was nothing but heather and golden gorse, looking exceptionally prickly. They had no way of communicating with those on the ground, so they sat down and waited.

It was half an hour before the basket touched down. Five minutes of that, the carter had spent berating all and sundry. Then he and the anxious naval officers agreed on a plan of campaign. The anchor rope was reeled in until the guy ropes were low enough to be reached and then, strictly coordinated, the shamefaced crew hauled the balloonists to safety.

The sailors seemed all the more eager to fly.

Oliver slipped away from the round of apologies, congratulations, recriminations, and explanations. It was nearly an hour since Ruth had left; anything could have happened. He wasted further time extricating the curricle from the throng of vehicles parked at random, to which more were still being added.

At last he reached the place where the track branched left to the castle. Rounding the bend, he pulled up for a moment and looked back. The balloon was once more in the air, and even as he watched it flew free from its bonds, ascended rapidly, and was soon a diminishing speck in the blue sky.

Oliver heaved a sigh of regret and urged his horses to a canter.

Penderric Castle was deserted. The front door was swinging in the breeze, creaking, and his footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone flags of the hallway. No one in the salon, no one in the library, no one in kitchen, bedrooms or stables.

No animals and no carriages in the stables, but there were signs that a horse had been there recently. Oliver stood in the centre of the mucky cobbled yard and shouted.

"Ruth!" His voice bounced back mockingly from stone walls, and empty windows looked down with blindly malevolent eyes.

"RUTH!"

No answer.

Not knowing what else to do, he returned to the curricle and drove back down the track. When he reached the intersection he paused.

She could not have returned to Brown Willy, he decided. She would have been waiting for him when he stepped out of the balloon after his narrow escape, or he would have met her on the way.

Uncertainly, slowly, he continued toward St Teath. Again he stopped, when he came to the road. Which way?

An old man was sitting on a milestone at the side of the road. Seeing Oliver's puzzlement, he shambled over.

"Cam'ford," he said, pointing north. "Wadebridge," pointing south. "Been't you Mr Polgarth's frien' fro' Lunnon, zir?"

"Yes. I know the way, thank you."

"Oh aye. Joe Carter zet me here to show the road."

"Do you know Lady Ruth Penderric, by any chance? I don't suppose you saw her come this way?"

"Oh aye. Her come by wi' 's lordship an' the rev'end a-follering. While zin'."

Further interrogation could not elicit any closer approximation of the time that Ruth had passed. She had gone toward Boscastle, he must hope she had returned to Trevelyan House.

With a shilling and a word of thanks to his informant, he drove on.

Mrs Trevelyan was surprised to see her guest return so early, and alone.

"Has Lady Ruth come back, ma'am?" he demanded without ceremony.

"Why no, Mr Pardoe, and nor has Mr Trevelyan." Oliver sank despairingly into a chair. "Whatever is the matter?" the old lady asked in alarm.

He told her the whole story, then rose to his feet.

"I must go and look for her," he said wretchedly.

"I can see no possible advantage in doing so. Mr Vane is with them. I cannot believe Lord Penderric will try any dastardly deed in his presence. Besides, you have no idea where to look. Come, eat some luncheon, and the world will look brighter."

Miserable at his inability to help Ruth, sure that she needed him, Oliver choked down a few mouthfuls. While he was eating, a breathless young fellow in Coast Guard uniform was admitted to the house. The butler unwillingly ushered him into the dining room.

"I beg your pardon, madam," he apologised. "The lad says he has an urgent message for the master, and with all the goings-on, I thought it best he should see you at once."

"Thank you, Webster. Mr Trevelyan is from home, officer. Can you give me the message?"

Blushing with pleasure at being called "officer," struck dumb by bashfulness, young Jackie shifted from foot to foot. Sergeant Miller had not given instructions for such an eventuality.

Then he recognised Oliver.

"Been't you the ge'mun as shared out the prize money?" he blurted, turning still more scarlet at his own temerity, "after we catched the smugglers?"

"That's right, lad. Who is the note from? You may safely deliver it to Mrs Trevelyan, you know."

"Thank you, sir. Here y'are, ma'am. Tis from a little lady up on the cliff. Terrible it were!" His eyes bulged at the memory of the fright.

Oliver seized the letter and ripped it open.

"Thank you, officer," said Mrs Trevelyan. "Webster will take you to the kitchen for a bite to eat." The minute the butler and his charge disappeared, she turned to Oliver. "Is it from Lady Ruth? What does it say?"

He passed it to her numbly, and she perused it.

"What a dreadful experience!" she exclaimed. "Almost as bad as the abduction."

"She has gone back to the castle. I must go to her immediately."

"Nonsense, young man. No doubt you will only miss her again en route. She will certainly not wish to stay in that ruin. I expect she will return with Mr Trevelyan."

"Perhaps you are right, ma'am. I do not know what to do for the best. That she should have gone through such horror without my support!"

Webster reappeared with a bottle of brandy.

"Begging your pardon, madam," he said again, "I thought that if the young fella brought bad news, Mr Pardoe might require a glass of spirits to fortify himself, so to speak."

"Webster, you are an angel. Here, Mr Pardoe, take a drop of brandy and compose yourself."

"Thank you, just a little. I am behaving like a nodcock, I am sure. It is so very frustrating to be able to do nothing."

Oliver took the glass and began to pace up and down, holding it. Mrs Trevelyan regarded him with sympathetic disapproval.

"You must excuse me, Mr Pardoe," she said at last. "I always take forty winks after luncheon and watching you walk is making me sleepy. Pray feel free to use the library or the drawing room."

He nodded absently, and the old lady went to lie down, feeling quite exhausted.

Unable to settle down, Oliver wandered vaguely from room to room. He was reaching the point of desperation when he heard carriage wheels in the driveway. Rushing out, he found Mr Trevelyan descending from the trap.

The magistrate was appalled to hear the news the coast guard had brought, and most distressed that he could not ease Oliver's mind as to Ruth's whereabouts. Oliver quickly decided that he could stand inaction no longer and must ride to Penderric even if his errand seemed fruitless.

A horse was saddled while he changed into riding clothes. He was descending the stairs when a stableboy from the Trelawney Arms trotted up the drive.

"Missige f m Mr Vane," he called, seeing Mr Trevelyan standing on the steps. "Him an' m'lady's off to Launceston." He winked knowingly and handed over a folded paper.

Oliver arrived on the double and tossed the boy a half crown. Mr Trevelyan passed him the note.

"She's going to London," he told him, "to her uncle. Vane asks that we forward her clothes thither."

"No need," said Oliver crisply. "If you will be good enough to have everything packed up, I shall take it. I am going after her at once. I hope you will excuse my rude departure under the circumstances. I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude for your hospitality and forbearance."

Within half an hour, Oliver was on the road again. Relief and worry warred within him. On the one hand, Ruth was safe from her brother at last, and whatever Walter Vane's part in today's events, it seemed she had no intention of marrying him, or she would not be hurrying back to London. On the other hand, she had been through an extremely distressing experience. Why had she gone to the castle without him? Why was she so anxious to return to her uncle that she would not spend another night at Trevelyan House? Above all, why was she going without him, without even a word to him?

He drove in a brown study, avoiding the occasional vehicles he met without really seeing them. He was more than half way to Launceston when one of them forced itself on his attention.

"Hi!" called its lone occupant. "Are you Pardoe?"

"Yes," he answered, jerked back to the present. "Who are ... are you Walter Vane?"

"Correct, sir. Might I crave the indulgence of a few moments of your time? 1 am in possession of information that may conceivably be of assistance to you and that I must consider it my duty to impart."

"Thank you, Mr Vane. I expect you know better than I whether I need hurry."

The curate pulled out his watch.

"There is no urgency," he assured Oliver. "The Exeter stage departs from the Duke of Cornwall on the stroke of seven o'clock. Lady Ruth was reserved a seat upon it."

"My dear fellow, it is good of you to tell me."

"Think nothing of it, Mr Pardoe, I beg of you. Ruth needs someone to take care of her. I had hoped . . . but it was not to be. My affection for her is sufficiently disinterested to allow me to wish you every success. I trust I am not mistaken in my assumptions?"

"Not where my intentions are concerned, sir. For Ruth I cannot speak. Do you know why she suddenly decided to go to London without notice?"

"You are aware of Lord Penderric's demise, and his attempt to take his sister with him? It is my opinion that before he did away with himself, he told Ruth something that upset her very deeply. She was not herself when they left the castle, and then I saw them in conversation for quite five minutes at the top of the hill, before he whipped up his horse toward the cliff. They both raised their voices, though I did not catch their words, and then Ruth sat in the gig as though stunned. I venture to congratulate myself that it was my cry which induced her to jump from the vehicle before it was too late."

"Mr Vane, I am deeply indebted to you, I can see. What happened when you returned to Penderric? She did not tell you what her brother had said?"

"No. We found a servant about to abscond with what he described as the last of the Penderric fortune. Some three hundred sovereigns in all. Then . . . then ... I am sure I may trust in your discretion, Mr Pardoe. Lady Ruth rejected my offer as though she had put all thought of marriage behind her. I do not rate my merits excessively high when I say that it seemed to me that she felt that some obstacle stood in the way of her entrance upon the holy state of matrimony with whatsoever person."

"It was not the loss of her dowry?"

"I intimated in plain words that I did not see that as a barrier between us."

"Mr Vane, there are circumstances beyond your knowledge, and which I am not free to divulge, which make your supposition quite possible. If it is so, I am convinced that I can persuade Ruth that her scruples are over-nice and that she is free to accept or reject any man as she will. Sir, I am greatly obliged to you for your openness."

"Not at all, sir, not at all. My sole concern is for Ruth's happiness."

"And mine, sir. And mine. I must be on my way. Good day, Mr Vane."

The two rivals parted, with more good feeling on both sides than either would have guessed to be possible.

The sun was low in the sky when Oliver pulled up before the Duke of Cornwall. Its last, long rays lit on a small figure slumped on a bench against the inn's façade.

With a tender, secret smile, he drove on into the yard. It took him no more than five minutes to order two bedchambers, a private parlour, dinner in an hour, and his chaise ready for the morrow. Another three minutes sufficed to ascertain that the landlady knew of a very respectable girl who would be glad of a free ride to London and who could be able to attend her ladyship in no more than two hours time.

"Her ladyship?" queried the bewildered innkeeper as his large customer strode impatiently out of the door.

"Keep a still tongue, Frederick," advised his spouse. "Did ye not reckernise the little brown creetur as booked on the stage?"

"No," he admitted, "and no more did you, Betsy, confess."

Oliver sat down beside his beloved and looked at her long and lovingly. She was untidy, there was a rent in the hem of her dress, and her face was drawn with fatigue. Even in her sleep it shone with the innocent trust and indomitable spirit that had first drawn him to her. He bent over her and kissed her gently.

Ruth's eyes opened.

"Oliver!" she murmured. Her arms went around his neck and she raised her lips to his.

Gradually it dawned on her that this was not a part of her dream. She moved away from him a little.

"I thought you had flown away in the balloon," she accused.

"Did I not tell you I would not? See, I am here. Come, let us go in. You will catch a cold, Ruth."

Fully awake now she stood up, and stumbled.

"My foot has gone to sleep!" she exclaimed.

Grinning, he picked her up in spite of her protests, and carried her into the inn.

Epilogue

The Private Parlour was small but cosy. A pair of comfortable chairs faced the glowing fire, for the March evenings were chilly.

Oliver set Ruth in one of the chairs and pulled the other closer.

"My uncle and Walter would both be vastly disapproving if they knew I was alone here with you," said Ruth with a smile.

"I am glad you are not of their mind, for I am sure you would not wish me to propose to you in the coffee room."

"Oliver, pray do not. You must not. . ."

"Dearest, I have your uncle's permission, and the earl will trouble us no longer." He took her hand, but she pulled it away in agitation.

"How can I marry you, or anyone? My brother and . . . my father . . . were both lunatics and suicides! I beg you, Oliver, do not make it harder for me!"

"I have known for a long time now that they were both insane. It has made not a whit of difference in my desire to make you my wife."

"I cannot . . ."

"There is something else, isn't there? Godfrey told you something?"

She looked up at him in mute appeal. He took her hand again in a comforting clasp and would not let her withdraw it.

"When I asked your uncle's permission to pay my addresses, he saw fit to reveal certain facts to me," said Oliver gravely. "My poor sweetheart, you cannot suppose that an engineer would be in the least interested in a scandal a quarter of a century old!"

"It is true then. I was not certain. But whichever way it goes, there is bad blood."

"I do not know what Penderric told you. Your mother was an innocent, trusting girl who was deceived. As for your father, his conduct toward her was inexcusable, but there is nothing to suggest that he was not otherwise an upstanding citizen and a fine officer. Would she have loved him else? And if there is any stigma attached to the Penderrics, why that is not your burden."

"You are very reassuring, Oliver." She looked at him searchingly.

"And persuasive, I hope. Ruth, you must know that I adore you. Will you marry me?"

"If you are quite sure . . . yes, I know you are. I love you, too, Oliver, and nothing in the world could make me happier than to be your wife."

Somehow she found herself sitting on his knee, leaning against his broad chest, his arms enfolding her. After a long kiss, they both gazed silently into the fire, contemplating sweet memories and happy dreams.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ruth suddenly.

"Sweetheart," said Oliver with a grin, "Pray do not think me impertinent, but your stomach is rumbling quite excessively."

"Wretch!" she cried. "I hope they bring dinner soon. I am exceedingly hungry!"