The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [329]
The run into Chewton Bunny that night had been the finest moment of his long career: a prodigious cargo. He was sorry about having to force Puckle to act as decoy. The poor fellow’s agony had been pitiable.
‘You mean I have to leave the Forest?’
‘Yes.’
‘When can I come back?’
‘When I tell you.’
The tale they made up about their quarrel and a little play-acting in the street had taken in the Customs officer completely. Puckle was already safely at sea by now. He’d gone out in one of the luggers. He’d be well paid. Handsomely. Not that the money meant much to him when he was being exiled like this. But once Seagull had known that Grockleton meant to use the French garrison, he’d needed to do something drastic.
When Mr Samuel Grockleton walked down Lymington High Street that afternoon everyone greeted him very politely. They were all there in their usual places, except Isaac Seagull who seemed to be away.
In a strange way the people of Lymington were getting to like Mr Grockleton. He took his humiliations like a man. As he walked down the street towards the Customs house by the quay, he acknowledged each greeting and, if he didn’t exactly smile, you could hardly blame him for that.
Near the bottom of the street he saw the count, who came up and, giving him a melancholy smile, touched his arm with an affection that was real. ‘Next time, mon ami, perhaps we shall have better luck.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’m always at your service.’
Grockleton nodded and passed on. He had already requested a warrant to be made out for Puckle’s arrest. That, together with a full description, would be sent to every magistrate in the country. It might take time, but sooner or later Puckle was going to pay for this. Meanwhile, if he ever got the chance, he’d use those French troops to shoot every damned smuggler in the Forest.
Only one aspect of the business had not occurred to him: that as long as he proposed to use French troops, the lander’s information would always be better than his.
For the companion the count had brought to his rendezvous at the crinkle-crankle wall that night in spring was Mr Isaac Seagull.
The count felt a genuine affection for Mr Grockleton and his preposterous wife. But he wasn’t stupid.
Francis Albion knew, sometimes, that he was behaving badly and he also, occasionally, felt a twinge of guilt. But when a person comes close to the end of his life it is not unusual for him to feel it only fair that his selfishness should be indulged a little longer. So, if he felt any guilt, he was able to suppress it.
By mid-December, although she did not go out much, Fanny had met the ubiquitous Mr West upon three more occasions. She also seemed distracted and sad. Francis wondered if she were in love with him. If Fanny must marry, he supposed the West fellow was not a bad choice. He could give up the lease of Hale and come to live at Albion House. After all, that way he could learn to run the estate and Fanny would not be taken away. So he brought up the subject with her one winter morning when she had come to sit with him as he rested in his room. ‘Do you have feelings for Mr West, Fanny?’ he mildly enquired.
‘I like him, Father.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and Francis could see that she meant it. ‘Why, Father – did you wish me to marry him?’
‘Oh, no. There is no need.’
‘I know Aunt Adelaide does. And if I were forced to do so, I have no doubt he would be an agreeable husband. But …’ She spread her hands.
‘No, no, my child,’ he said tenderly. ‘You should consult your heart.’ He paused. ‘There is no one else? You seem a little sad.’
‘There is no one. It is only the weather.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’ He gazed at her watchfully. ‘You have your whole life ahead of you, my child, an inheritance. Looks that are very pleasing. I have not the least fear of you remaining unmarried. But’ – he smiled with satisfaction – ‘there is not the least hurry.’
‘You do not wish to see me married, Father?’
Old Francis paused a moment before answering carefully. ‘I do not fear for you, Fanny. I trust