Magic By Moonlight
Cut off overnight by a landslide, will Emily see another side to the remote holiday cottage?
Thisplaceismagic. With a smile, Emily closed the visitors’ book and put it back on the shelf next to the vase of fresh daffodils.
She loved it when the visitors to Oak Cottage found it as enchanting as she did. It was magical; one of four thatched cottages tucked away down a track in a hidden valley near the Dorset coast.
They were all that was left of the deserted village of Stanton St Gabriel. The place still had an otherworldly feel, as though you might step back in time at any moment – or, as a number of guests had claimed, see the ghosts of eighteenth- century smugglers on the night of the full moon.
Emily checked that the fresh milk was in the fridge and the box of biscuits waiting by the kettle. Everything was ready. The next set of guests would be arriving tomorrow and the cottage would welcome them.
Her mobile rang – the caller ID was Amy from the holiday cottage management company.
“Ems?” She sounded anxious. “Are you OK? There’s been a landslide with all this rain and the road’s blocked. You’re going to have to stay there until tomorrow, I’m afraid. We’ll get you out as soon as we can.”
“I’ll have eaten all the biscuits by then,” Emily said.
“I’ll send a new box,” Amy promised her. “Stay safe.”
Emily put the phone away with a sigh. That was the trouble with the remote cottages. Sometimes they got cut off.
Still, it could be worse. She had nothing in the diary that evening. The cottage was warm, cosy and full of good books. Plus, she had her spaniel Merry with her – and some of Merry’s food in the car. They would manage.
Outside the rain was still falling hard and heavy, as it had all day. Merry was looking at her – she’d been waiting patiently for her walk, but she was a fair-weather creature. Emily knew she wouldn’t want to brave the rain.
“Later, sweetheart,” she promised the spaniel. “We’ll go out when it stops.”
It was much later – when Emily had eaten the remains of her lunchtime sandwich plus three shortbread biscuits – that the rain eased at last and it was possible to get out for a walk.
A full moon bathed the bay with light as they made their way down the path to the beach. After the earlier storms, the sea was calm and the tide high.
Merry gave a small excited bark and hurtled off along the sand at top speed. Emily raised her face to the breeze, happy to be in the fresh air having been cooped up inside for so long…
Suddenly there was a deadly chill in the air. Emily shivered inside her warm jacket. Merry had frozen too and now Emily saw that she was bristling, the fur around her neck standing on end.
Emily had the strangest sensation that she was no longer alone on the beach. He made a sharp movement. “A little louder, madam, and you will have the excise men down upon us”
Then she heard the unmistakable grind of pebbles, the clop of horse’s hooves and the rumble of cart wheels.
Just imagination, she told herself. Too much reading alone in the cottage. There is no one there…
She heard a step behind her and spun around, catching her breath on a gasp. A man was standing there, a man who most certainly had not been on the beach a moment before.
Merry was barking with excitement, her tail wagging madly. Emily had never seen her so pleased to greet a stranger. The man squatted down to stroke her ears, speaking to her softly, and she immediately quietened.
“I must thank you for returning my dog to me,” the man said, straightening up. “I have missed her.” He had a slight west country accent, very attractive. “Although,” he added dryly, “you might have chosen a better time and place.”
“I’m sorry, I…” Emily put a hand up to her head. She had the oddest feeling that she had stepped into a situation she didn’t quite understand. “Merry is my dog. And who are you? What’s going on? I thought I just heard smugglers –”
She broke off as he made a sharp shushing movement.
“A little louder, madam, and you will have the excise men down upon us.”
Emily gaped. “Who? Listen, who are you? And what is going on?”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze watchful as he studied her. She could not see him well in the moonlight other than that he was tall, broad-shouldered and dark. She sensed impatience in him and something else – surprise, perhaps. He had no more been expecting to see her than she had him.
“We cannot continue this conversation here,” he said. “Come back to the village.”
Emily wasn’t inclined to go anywhere with him. On the other hand, she could see that there was no point in hanging around on the beach. She followed him towards the track, her mood only made worse by the way that Merry was fawning on him, skipping around him.
They were silent as they walked back up to Saint Gabriel’s. Emily was struggling to make sense of what she had seen and heard. The man seemed deep in thought.
As they reached the village green Emily saw the carts again, and shadowy figures moving about unloading them. She stopped dead, gaping at them.
“The stories are true,” she said slowly. “There are smugglers here.”
Was she seeing ghosts? Was she asleep and dreaming? Yet she had never felt more awake. It was bizarre yet she felt a tingle of excitement and anticipation.
The man bowed. “As you see, madam.” He gestured towards the door
of Oak Cottage. “Would you care to try the contraband brandy with me?”
“I’d rather have tea, thank you,” Emily said, and saw the gleam of his smile.
“We have that too,” he said.
The cottage looked identical and yet completely different from the one Emily had left only fifteen minutes before. A real fire burned in the grate and a lamp gleamed softly on a table nearby. There were no curtains but the shutters were closed tightly against the night.
The big sofas had gone, replaced by a somewhat less comfortable-looking wooden settle and a battered armchair. The only thing that looked the same was the dog basket beside the fire. Merry jumped into it with a contented squeak and curled up, her tail over her nose.
Emily looked at the man as searchingly as he was studying her. He was around thirty, tanned from the outdoors, dressed in breeches, boots and a linen shirt beneath his jacket, an image straight out of a historical novel. She should pinch herself to wake up – but she didn’t particularly want to.
“Gabriel Waterhouse,” he said, extending a hand to shake hers.
“As in Saint Gabriel’s,” Emily said. “How inappropriate for a smuggler.” He inclined his head. “And you are?” “Emily Simm.” Emily looked around the cottage again. “I’ve worked here too.” In a different time…
No – it was impossible. And yet here she was…
“Won’t you take a seat?” Gabriel offered her the armchair beside the fire. A kettle hissed on the hob and he ladled tea into a dented tin pot, adding the boiling water.
“So what are you doing here, Emily Simm?” he asked, after a moment. His tone was no more than politely enquiring.
“I have no idea,” Emily said truthfully. “I think I might be dreaming.”
“Then it is a dream I share.” His gaze was very dark and he looked at her intently. “Just as you are in my time now, so have I once visited yours. I saw you there.” He smiled, a wicked smile, a smuggler’s smile. “I could not forget.”
It felt very intimate in the warm room. Emily was almost certain she was blushing. But his smile had gone as quickly as it had come.
“In your time the village is abandoned,” he said. “Only these few cottages remain.” He passed her a tin cup that matched the pot. The tea was very good, hot and strong.
“The villagers found work elsewhere,” Emily said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “There were new industries. Smuggling died out when the government reduced the taxes.” Gabriel’s laughter was wry.
“Indeed? I shall have to return to boat-building.” He shifted restlessly. “No doubt you disapprove of smuggling,
Miss Simm, but when it is a matter of survival, of a village with no work and hungry children to feed…” He sighed. “It is good to hear that new industries will come in time.”
Emily sat quietly nursing the last of her tea, listening to the crackle of the flames and Merry’s snores while Gabriel went out to see to the cargo. She felt sleepy but she knew that if she closed her eyes, she would be back in the modern-day cottage and the dream would be over. After a little while though, she could not resist.
Her eyelids grew heavy and she dozed, images of Gabriel, the beach and the full moon mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and the warmth of the fire.
She awoke feeling a sense of loss. It was exactly as she had feared: the cottage with its modern furniture and electric lights, no smugglers, no contraband tea before the fire, no Gabriel Waterhouse. Merry, though, was curled up in her bed.
On the mantel was a folded piece of paper, a message handwritten in ink: Thank you for caring for my dog. Until we meet again.
And beside it, a beautiful piece of French lace and a caddy of tea.