Read Online Smugglers' Summer by Carola Dunn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carola Dunn
Tags: Regency Romance
Ads: Link
nervous, but took his arm anyway, then hoped that he did not think her so gooseish as to fear a gloomy passage.
When they emerged into sunlight, she could not repress a cry of delight. The valley was filled to the brim with flowering bushes. There were rhododendrons in every shade of pink and purple, scarlet and orange azaleas, yellow laburnum, all set off by the different greens of their own foliage and the taller trees scattered among them.
“Glorious!” exclaimed Sir Tristram. “It is years since I saw it at this season and I had forgot . . ."
“Glorious?” said Octavia. “Surely that word is better applied to a conquering hero returning in triumph . . ."
“Wretch! I am hoist by my own petard. We will take this path and I shall see if I cannot impress you with my knowledge of botany."
“That will be easy, for I am shockingly ignorant. I am willing to believe anything you tell me!”
They wandered down a twisting gravel path. Between the bushes and trees were banks of wildflowers and he pointed out red and white campion, tall foxgloves and tiny, deep blue speedwell. There was a fish pond, edged with yellow flags, overlooked by a thatched arbour, and a stone dovecote shaped like a huge beehive and half buried in greenery. Somewhere an invisible stream gurgled and chattered, rivalling the cooing of the white fantail pigeons.
The garden turned gradually into woodland, and soon they could again see the Tamar through the trees. Sir Tristram pointed out a path leading along the river to the quay.
“It goes by Sir Richard’s chapel,” he said. “Shall we go that way?”
“Is it far? I ought to go back to the house soon. I have not seen my aunt since I arrived and she must surely have risen by now. What is Sir Richard’s chapel?”
As they walked on through the wood, he told her the story. Sir Richard, the great-grandson of the first Edgcumbe of Cotehele, had supported Henry Tudor against King Richard III in the Wars of the Roses. The King’s supporters followed him to Cotehele and surrounded the house, but he managed to slip past them. He headed for the Tamar with his enemies in hot pursuit.
Hiding in the bushes on the high bank of the river, he filled his cap with stones and threw it down into the water. King Richard’s men heard the splash; they looked over the cliff and saw the floating cap. There was no sign of Sir Richard, so they assumed he had drowned, and went off.
In due time, Sir Richard emerged from the bushes and fled to France. When Henry beat his enemy at Bosworth and became king in his place, Sir Richard returned to Cotehele. In gratitude for his escape he built on the cliff above the river a tiny chapel, dedicated to Saint George and Thomas Becket.
They reached the chapel as the tale ended. It was a little stone building, whitewashed inside. Octavia gazed down the cliff and saw that the ebb tide had exposed mud flats along both sides of the river.
“It must have been high tide when it happened,” she said. “How very fortunate for Sir Richard! If his enemies had seen his cap lying on the mud, they would not have stopped searching.”
They took a different path up the hill, crossing a flat stone bridge over the tiny rill she had heard, which tumbled and scurried in its hurry to join the river. When they reached the arbour by the pond, Octavia was ready to rest for a few minutes. It was nearly a week since she had had any exercise worthy of the name, and her legs were weary.
Sitting on the wooden bench, she relished the peaceful scene. Huge carp swam lazily in the pool; pigeons strutted and bowed on the roof of the dovecote; a climbing rose scented air filled with the chirp and twitter of bird-song.
A flutter of wings and a scolding sound made her look up. A tiny brown bird with cheekily tiptilted tail perched on a crossbar, regarding her with bright-eyed disapproval. Its long, sharp bill held an insect.
“Hush, don’t move,” said Sir Tristram in a low voice. “It’s a wren,
When they emerged into sunlight, she could not repress a cry of delight. The valley was filled to the brim with flowering bushes. There were rhododendrons in every shade of pink and purple, scarlet and orange azaleas, yellow laburnum, all set off by the different greens of their own foliage and the taller trees scattered among them.
“Glorious!” exclaimed Sir Tristram. “It is years since I saw it at this season and I had forgot . . ."
“Glorious?” said Octavia. “Surely that word is better applied to a conquering hero returning in triumph . . ."
“Wretch! I am hoist by my own petard. We will take this path and I shall see if I cannot impress you with my knowledge of botany."
“That will be easy, for I am shockingly ignorant. I am willing to believe anything you tell me!”
They wandered down a twisting gravel path. Between the bushes and trees were banks of wildflowers and he pointed out red and white campion, tall foxgloves and tiny, deep blue speedwell. There was a fish pond, edged with yellow flags, overlooked by a thatched arbour, and a stone dovecote shaped like a huge beehive and half buried in greenery. Somewhere an invisible stream gurgled and chattered, rivalling the cooing of the white fantail pigeons.
The garden turned gradually into woodland, and soon they could again see the Tamar through the trees. Sir Tristram pointed out a path leading along the river to the quay.
“It goes by Sir Richard’s chapel,” he said. “Shall we go that way?”
“Is it far? I ought to go back to the house soon. I have not seen my aunt since I arrived and she must surely have risen by now. What is Sir Richard’s chapel?”
As they walked on through the wood, he told her the story. Sir Richard, the great-grandson of the first Edgcumbe of Cotehele, had supported Henry Tudor against King Richard III in the Wars of the Roses. The King’s supporters followed him to Cotehele and surrounded the house, but he managed to slip past them. He headed for the Tamar with his enemies in hot pursuit.
Hiding in the bushes on the high bank of the river, he filled his cap with stones and threw it down into the water. King Richard’s men heard the splash; they looked over the cliff and saw the floating cap. There was no sign of Sir Richard, so they assumed he had drowned, and went off.
In due time, Sir Richard emerged from the bushes and fled to France. When Henry beat his enemy at Bosworth and became king in his place, Sir Richard returned to Cotehele. In gratitude for his escape he built on the cliff above the river a tiny chapel, dedicated to Saint George and Thomas Becket.
They reached the chapel as the tale ended. It was a little stone building, whitewashed inside. Octavia gazed down the cliff and saw that the ebb tide had exposed mud flats along both sides of the river.
“It must have been high tide when it happened,” she said. “How very fortunate for Sir Richard! If his enemies had seen his cap lying on the mud, they would not have stopped searching.”
They took a different path up the hill, crossing a flat stone bridge over the tiny rill she had heard, which tumbled and scurried in its hurry to join the river. When they reached the arbour by the pond, Octavia was ready to rest for a few minutes. It was nearly a week since she had had any exercise worthy of the name, and her legs were weary.
Sitting on the wooden bench, she relished the peaceful scene. Huge carp swam lazily in the pool; pigeons strutted and bowed on the roof of the dovecote; a climbing rose scented air filled with the chirp and twitter of bird-song.
A flutter of wings and a scolding sound made her look up. A tiny brown bird with cheekily tiptilted tail perched on a crossbar, regarding her with bright-eyed disapproval. Its long, sharp bill held an insect.
“Hush, don’t move,” said Sir Tristram in a low voice. “It’s a wren,
Similar Books
