Helen Dickson by Highwayman Husband Page B

the house. When he failed to do so and the light began to fade, she went in search of John. ‘I thought our guest would have returned by now, John. Would you instruct George to saddle my horse? I think I’ll ride to Stennack. I believe that is where I shall find him—don’t you?’
    ‘Aye, my lady. That’s where he’ll be.’ John watched her go, seeing there was an added spring to her step, and thather large eyes were aglow and animated. He smiled, his wrinkled face alight with happiness for her.
    Laura rode along the narrow, winding path along the top of the cliffs, with Stennack always within her sights. She breathed deeply the crisp October air, tasting the salt of the sea on her lips. She came to a place where the land was broken by a fast-flowing stream which looped its way through the valley below, among marshes and reedbeds, until it was funnelled into a deep lagoon.
    Following the path down, she paused, gazing at the still waters, quiet and beautiful, but, as everyone in these parts knew, depending on the weather, this could change and be quite frightening. Over the years several drownings had occurred here, and at least one ghost was reputed to walk and disappear into the cold and mysterious black depths.
    But this did not trouble Laura, her mind being too preoccupied with other matters. At the end of the lagoon the water spilled into Roslyn Cove, running out to the sea. Slowly she followed its course, the precipitously wooded cliffs rising on either side. At the point where the river ran onto the sands the rocks fused above, forming an archway through which she could see the sea beyond, with the last rays of the setting sun resting on its dark waters with a translucent clarity.
    Further out in the cove there was a large number of rocks, some of which showed themselves at half-tide, some at low water, but by far the greater of these never appeared at all. Many stricken ships had met their doom on these submerged rocks. The coastline with its small, sandy beaches was littered with the naked bones of wrecks. It had many hidden coves and creeks and inaccessible caves, which together gave rise to tales of smuggling and wrecking.
    When Laura had first come to Roslyn there had been excitement and romance in some of these tales, but after she had borne witness to one ill-fated ship that had runaground on the rocks during a storm the reality had destroyed the romance. She had seen with her own eyes the ruthless desperation of the men and women who had come from the nearby hamlets and surged into the cove to salvage what they could when the spoils of the sea were dragged onto the beach, all half crazy and behaving like animals as they made sure there were no survivors from the stricken vessel.
    Roslyn Cove was better situated than most. It was an ideal place for vessels from France to deposit their cargoes of contraband. The cliff was riddled with caves and chambers beneath Roslyn Manor, and it was rumoured that there was a tunnel linking them to the house, but Laura had never found it.
    Contraband was often stored in the caves until the dark nights when the packhorses and wagons would come and take it away across the moor, the majority of it destined for London. Because of the reputation of this part of the coast, where smuggling was carried out with great skill and cunning, and which was so extensive it was virtually impossible for the coastguards and revenue cutters to control, Laura had learned to tread warily, and to hold her tongue.
    Following the path up to the top of the cliff on the other side, she looked further west, where the coastline continued to trace its intricate way in and out of tiny coves and around the handsome headlands as far as Fowey’s graceful river and town.
    Eventually she reached the ill-fated mine. A sad, melancholy air hung over the granite engine house. Ladders, still in their places in the open shaft, led down to complete and utter darkness, to the secret heart of the mine, to the