A Shadow's Bliss (14 page)

“Then tell me the truth!”

The truth … He flinched, and turned away.

Cautiously, she trod closer, but he did not move, standing there with his head bowed low, as if he was crushed by despair. In a sudden wave of sympathy she touched his shoulder and said with gentle compassion, “Whatever is it, Johnny? Can you not confide in me?”

“If I … did,” he said haltingly, “you could only … despise me more.”

She considered that, and leaning back against her desk, prompted, “You have done something bad, is that the case?”

He faced her and nodded, but did not look up.

“Very bad?”

Another convulsive nod. His hands were tightly gripped, his eyes fixed on the toe of her shoe.

Despite her earlier apprehensions, she knew somehow that he had not committed murder. He might have killed in a fair fight, but there were, in her estimation, worse things than to have duelled to the death. She said slowly, “I think there is one crime I could never forgive, and if you were involved in—in that, I would have to send you away at once. Were you—a wrecker?”

His head flew up. He said vehemently, “No! Acquit me of that, I beg you!”

“Very well. But—are you quite sure you really did—whatever it was? You say you've forgotten much of your life. Is it not possible that there is a mistake?”

His eyes fell again, and he muttered bitterly, “If you knew how I've prayed that was so. But … God help me—it isn't. The very thing I wish I could forget is the thing I most clearly remember. I am guilty of—of what I was accused. Even if I could be forgiven, I should never be able to forgive … myself.”

She sighed. “Poor soul. How dreadful to carry such a burden. But why stay near the sea, if you fear it so?”

A brief silence, then he said low voiced, “I have no choice.”

“If 'tis a matter of money—”

He shook his head.

“Is it perhaps that you are to meet someone here?”

“It is that—I am under oath,” he said wretchedly.

“Oh, my goodness!” Her thoughts tumbled over one another. She asked, “Is that what you meant when you said you had no right to defend yourself?”

“Yes.”

“For—for how long?”

“Until I can make … amends.”

Appalled, she watched him and scarcely dared to ask, “Johnny—shall you be able to do so, do you think?”

“I can try. But…” He shrugged helplessly.

“I see.” She tried to weigh all that she knew of this man and her undeniable interest in him, against the possible consequences, then said, “You ask me to trust you. But I ask if you will pledge me another vow.” He looked at her squarely, and she went on, “Will you give me your word of honour that nothing you have done in the past, or mean to do in the future, will bring trouble upon my family?”

“Could you accept my word after what I have told you?”

“Yes,” she answered, and with the word her doubts were quite gone. “Because I believe you are a good man, and despite what you say, I think you
are
mistaken about yourself.”

Blinking rapidly, he seized her hand and before she could protest touched it to his lips. “God bless you!” he muttered huskily. “You have my word of honour, Miss Jennifer, that I have never meant harm to you or to your family, or ever will!”

“Good,” she said, unwontedly flustered. “In that case, I—I think we must rescue Young Porter. I'll get my cloak.”

What with one thing and another, she quite forgot about her new chalk board, and turning quickly, collided with it, gave a startled cry, and tripped.

She was caught and held safe and tight in arms of steel. Her embarrassed little laugh faded.

Perhaps because he had been so deeply moved, Jonathan's stern self-control slipped. He made no attempt to put her down, but held her close and gazed at her.

There was a light in his eyes that snatched Jennifer's breath away. She forgot the impossible gulf that separated them. For a timeless space she was only a girl, cradled in a man's strong arms, and without the least objection to her captivity.

Young Porter's shrill howl fragmented that enchanted moment. “The hosses be getting wet, Crazy Jack! So be I, if you please!”

“Oh—dear,” said Jennifer.

Jonathan set her down, retrieved her cloak from the wall peg, and wrapped it about her. The hood was drawn tenderly over her head. She was ushered to the coach, assisted inside, and the rug tucked around her. A glowing look was slanted at her, the door slammed, and the coach jerked into the start of its journey.

Bemused, Jennifer took a deep breath, “Well!” she said.

On the box, Jonathan scarcely felt the wind-driven rain or the chill on the air. Surely, this was the most wonderful, the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him. He had told her about himself—not all, but enough to give her cause to dismiss him at once. And instead, bless her dear heart, she had doubted his guilt. Even when he admitted that guilt, she had been willing to accept his word of honour. Conscience sniggered, but he shut it out. Joy was too rare in his life, too heady to be defeated by Conscience. He had held her in his arms and she had neither struggled nor railed at him. He could still see the expression on her lovely face. For as long as he lived, he would see it. The face of a maid; innocent, wondering, and above all—trusting.

He dashed rain from his eyes as the team started up the hill. His heart was so full of gratitude. If life offered no more than this, it was more than he'd dared to hope. And he would still be able to see her sometimes. He thought an impassioned ‘Praise God!' and when he dragged a hand across his eyes once more, it was not entirely because of raindrops.

C
HAPTER
VI

The wind was strong that evening. It howled off the ocean to thunder around the tower, and the air became chill so that a fire was lit in Sir Vinson's study. Jennifer had poured tea at ten o'clock, then made her escape, leaving the gentlemen to their cards. Lord Green, having indulged himself too generously at table, had dozed off at eleven, much to Royce's amusement and Fleming's disgust, and gone, yawning, to his bed. Now, Howland sprawled in the deep chair before the hearth and waited out his sire's tirade, his handsome face expressionless.

“I'll not have it, I tell you,” reiterated Sir Vinson, tossing several engineers' drawings onto his littered desk. “I do not want my beaches spoiled, and I dislike the man. To say truth, I dislike everything about him. His looks, his crude talk, his table manners—or lack of 'em. And I will be
damned
if I'll have him making sheep's eyes at Jennifer!”

“I'd think you have made yourself quite plain on that suit,” murmured Howland placatingly.

“So would I. But one cannot be sure a creature like that will behave as a gentleman.”

“I've done my best to keep him busily occupied, sir. Besides, Jennifer would have told you had he annoyed her.”

Sir Vinson grunted and came around his desk to lean back against it and frown into the flames. “She might, save that she's loyal to you. Why a'plague you like the fellow is past understanding.”

“I despise the clod! But—” Howland sat straighter in his chair. “That's a right generous offer, sir. It would do my heart good to lighten his pockets.”

“That smacks of chicanery. And I don't want him for a neighbour. No!”

“How can it be chicanery, Papa? We have told him the truth repeatedly. An he's fool enough to believe there's more tin to be mined, be it upon his own head. In addition to the losses we suffered when my grandfather was ensnared in that accursed South Sea Bubble, you've had a struggle to keep us solvent since the mine was closed down. D'you fancy I'm not aware of it?”

“If you were aware of it,” said Sir Vinson dryly, “one might have supposed you'd have stayed here and been of help, rather than go frippering off to London and be bilked of most of your inheritance.”

Howland flushed and leaned back again. After a small silence he said in a contrite tone, “I know, sir. I let you down. That was very bad.” From under his long lashes he watched his father's expression and saw it soften. He was well aware that he was the favourite, but he knew also that he must tread carefully. Sir Vinson could be manoeuvred, but like many weak men, he could fly into a sudden rage and at such times could prove stubborn as a donkey. “I was trying for a solution,” he went on. “'Twas in Town that I met Green and learned of his interest in Cornwall. I thought you would be pleased when he came and made his offer. I see now that—alas, I have but failed you again.”

He looked downcast, and Sir Vinson said bracingly, “No, no. I'm aware you mean well, m'boy. Lord knows, I sowed my share of wild oats when I was a green 'un. We'll come about somehow, but not at the expense of our good name, for
that
I value more than any loss of fortune!”

“I know you do, sir, and so do I. Still, we'd come about faster were that bank draft deposited to our own account. And 'tis but the first payment. When the dock is built—”

Sir Vinson's expression darkened. He interrupted sharply, “
No,
damme! I'll not bring more ugliness to desecrate our proud coast! Are those stark mine chimneys not sufficient of a blot on the landscape?”

“You're in the right of it, as usual.” Howland sighed deeply. “Our people will just have to tighten their belts. Though they'll be sadly disappointed. They've been praying for your approval.”

“Then they're bigger fools than I take 'em for! They know the mine is worthless.”

“To their way of thinking, if an outsider with more money than sense chooses to sink a new shaft, and to construct a dock on the beach, it must mean work for them, sir. Jove, but if you could be the means of putting wages back in their pockets, even for a little while, you'd be a hero to them all!”

“If Hibbard Green yearns to put wages in my people's pockets, he don't need a dock to do it. The Blue Rose was a successful operation for years without a dock on my beach. There are several fine docks already in use on this coast.”

“Very true, sir. But fees are high, the off-loading is slow and unreliable, and then the goods must be transferred into waggons and hauled for miles over impossibly bad roads, and in places no roads at all! How much simpler to—”

Sir Vinson's scowl had become more marked during this argument and now he interrupted testily, “If his lordship can afford to squander his lettuce to shore up and modernize a played-out and unsafe mine, he can afford to ship overland. By Beelzebub, I begin to think he has more cobwebs in his loft than has Crazy Jack! No, Howland! Absolutely—and—finally!
No—dock!
”

*   *   *

Jonathan was awakened by a gust of wind that seemed likely to topple the shed. It was still dark, but he lay snug in his blankets for a while, listening to the clamour outside, and thinking of Jennifer and that never-to-be-forgotten moment when he had held her close against his heart.

Duster's complaints roused him from his dreaming at last, and he got up, deciding to make an early start. He was feeding Sprat and preparing to leave Mrs. Newlyn's cottage when the cat darted to the parlour door.

“Only look at his fur crackle,” said the widow, taking up the cat and stroking him. “'Twill be hot today, Jack. And with this wind, very dry for a change. You're early, lad.”

He had never seen the lady
en déshabillé,
and for an instant he stared, silenced by the sight of a billowing and exotically hued satin dressing gown, and hair in countless twists of paper. “Oh—er, hot,” he stammered, and averted his eyes.

Mrs. Newlyn chuckled and put the cat down. “Have you never seen a lady in her nightrail before?” she asked, sitting at the table.

“I—suppose I might have. I—I don't know. I'll be getting along, ma'am.”

“Put the kettle on to boil, and stay for a cup of tea. We'll toast some bread and have a little chat. I doubt ye ever saw a finer dressing gown than this, eh?” She gave a saucy wink. “A gentleman gave it to me for my birthday last year. Come all the way from France, it did. And never paid no tax, neither!”

He admired the dressing gown dutifully, and took down the toasting fork. The widow buttered the slices as he handed them to her, and told him of the village gossip, which appeared to revolve around the exciting fact that Mrs. Gundred was to journey from the village and the Hundred, and even from the county altogether. “She's been invited to visit her sister in Dorsetshire,” said the widow, her eyes round. “All that way! Imagine! She's a brave woman. But—there, nothing like family, is there Johnny, lad?”

He glanced at her sharply. “Why do you call me that?”

She watched steam curl from the spout of the kettle. “I was talking to the Spirit of the Ocean yesterday,” she said in a dreaming voice. “He was telling me about you. Watch you don't burn that piece!”

He rescued the endangered slice hurriedly. “What—er, was he saying of me?”

She spread butter with a sparing hand. “You don't remember your family at all? Whether there was anyone you were … especially fond of?”

He frowned. “No. There were some people, but they may not even have been related to me.” It was all folly, no doubt, but he could not refrain from asking, “Why? What did your Spirit of the Ocean tell you?”

“It might be a mistake, of course. He does sometimes give me messages that should go to other folks. Though he's much more to be trusted than the yellow leaves!” She sighed, and put tea into the pot as the kettle began to shoot out a hissing cloud of steam. “There seems to be some question whether you will go back to your home,” she went on then. “But if you do, someone you expect to meet won't be there.”

He watched her curiously.