A Shadow's Bliss (5 page)

At the far flight of steps, Howland was before her and blocked her way. “Little fool! You could get away from here! You could be a baroness, and able to indulge your wildest dreams!”

“How willing you are to sell me to your nasty friend, never caring that he is said to have driven his first wife to an early grave. All you see is his fortune. Well, I believe my dreams are not very wild, but they don't come
that
cheaply, I promise you!”

“I can guess what they are,” he jeered. “That some tall and handsome young gallant will ride into your life and carry you away across his saddle bow. How long do you mean to wait, Miss Fanciful? How many handsome young aristocrats of gentle sensitivity and charming manners have trod these cliffs in a year? Or ten? The most dashing suitor you're ever like to find is that madman you coddle! And his only rank is that he's a rank coward and brainless to boot!”

She said through her teeth, “I had sooner wed an itinerant tinker than Hibbard Green, with his sly eyes and busy hands! Now stand aside and let me pass, or have you forgot, as he has, that you were born a gentleman?”

Stung, he let her pass, but called spitefully, “Has my father a modicum of sense he'll sign the marriage contract and be done with you! He has the right. Much good your hoity-toity notions will do you if he chooses to exercise it.”

Jennifer ignored him and hurried up the stairs. She resisted the urge to run, and held her head high. But her nature was too gentle to enjoy a quarrel, and she was trembling.

The second floor was luxuriously appointed and immaculately maintained. Avoiding the great hall, Jennifer went through the dining room into a long corridor. Rugs from Persia and India were spread on the flagged floors and the air was spiced with the smells of luncheon. She paused outside the door of her father's study, but recoiled when she heard laughter and the raucous voice of Lord Hibbard Green. She went on quickly, and gave a sigh of relief when she at last came to the third floor and entered her small private parlour.

Tilly Mays sat by the single window, sewing the hem of a petticoat. She was a short somewhat scrawny woman, whose best feature was a pair of bright dark eyes that lit up her pinched face and saved her from being judged plain. At the age of nine she had been brought from the Foundling Home to be scullery maid. Despite Cook's kind attempts to broaden her mind, her outlook remained narrow, and her nature suspicious, but she had an innate shrewdness and had learned quickly how to benefit from the politics of the servants hall. By the time she was twenty, she had worked her way up to be an upstairs maid, and when Nurse had left and Miss Jennifer was to have an abigail, Tilly had begged for the chance to learn those duties. She was devoted to and fiercely protective of her young mistress, and when she discovered that gossip and her often acid criticisms of her co-workers were not appreciated, she was wise enough to guard her tongue.

She stood as Jennifer entered the parlour, but her welcoming smile died, and she said anxiously, “Oh, miss! Whatever is it? You're pale as any ghost!”

Short of breath, Jennifer said, “I expect I came up the stairs too quickly. Mr. Howland tells me we've company arrived.”

“Aye. Lord Hibbard Green come back again, miss. Brought that ugly man of his, what looks like a vulture.” After a long moment during which Jennifer gazed unseeingly at the window, Tilly added, “The master sent word up. He wants you to please hasten, and—er…”

“And welcome our charming guest. Yes. Of course.” Jennifer thought, ‘I'd as soon welcome a serpent!' But she knew she must proceed with caution, so she washed, and changed her dress quickly, and went downstairs wearing a pink silk gown with moderate hoops, and with her curls clustering prettily below her frilled cap.

The gentlemen had gathered in the great hall that served the Britewells as withdrawing room, morning room, and book room. The furnishings were massive and masculine, the wainscoting darkened by countless decades of smoke. Bookcases flanked the vast fireplaces on the north and south ends of the room, and there were several screens to circumvent draughts.

Jennifer was mildly surprised to find that Sir Vinson had contrived to pry her brother Fleming from his books, but she thought with pride that her menfolk presented a fine picture. Sir Vinson's frame was sturdy and his head more proudly carried than those of his three sons, but even he looked slight compared to the man whose harsh voice rang through the room.

With his great height and large frame, Lord Hibbard Green might have presented a commanding figure, but he had never checked an early tendency to gluttony. His tailor had probably done his best, but any counsel he might have offered had been ignored. My lord's vast bulk was accentuated by a purple coat lavishly trimmed with gold braid. His waistcoat was pink satin embroidered with scarlet hummingbirds, and lilac satin unmentionables did nothing to mitigate the size of his stomach. Scarlet ribands were knotted at his knees, and his chunky calves were encased in white stockings on the sides of which purple
fleurs de lis
flourished.

As Jennifer entered, he was sprawled in his chair booming an indictment of the “fools in Whitehall” and of the crippling taxes that had, he said, driven many an honest Briton into becoming a free-trader. “Not that I hold with smuggling, mind,” he asserted, waving the ham-like hand that clutched his tankard. “But 'tis not so despicable, to my way of thinking, as the wreckers you people allow to prowl your coastline.”

He had touched a nerve. Sir Vinson abominated wreckers, and his distinguished head tossed upward. With more than a touch of frost in his voice, he said, “Such practices are neither condoned by—nor, as you rather oddly phrase it, sir—
allowed,
by me! Of all things, I find it most contemptible. The man who would deliberately lure a ship onto the rocks, without a thought for loss of life, or the misery of those left bereaved—and only for his own gain, is truly a fiend. On this point alone, I am at one with the squire.”

His lordship was suddenly breathlessly still. His voice very soft, he demanded, “Who?”

Royce Britewell, at three and twenty the youngest of the family, answered, “Lord Kenneth Morris. The local squire, sir. A jolly good man, for all he's a touch top-lofty.”

“A harsh judgment from one of less than vast experience in the world,” murmured Fleming, his thin intelligent face disdainful.

Royce, who had inherited his sire's light brown hair and fair complexion, flushed darkly and his hazel eyes slanted a resentful look at his scholarly brother.

“I don't hold with young men taking the measure of their elders,” declared his lordship, completing Royce's mortification. “Bosom bow of this—er, squire, are you, Britewell?”

“I'd not use that term,” answered Sir Vinson, irritated. “Lord Kenneth enjoys a more—ah, frivolous way of life than I prefer.”

Green's black button eyes almost vanished into his heavy cheeks. “Plenty of lettuce, eh? I shall have to meet the gentleman. Er, to learn how he plans to handle these wreckers,” he added hurriedly.

Noting his parent's increasingly frigid expression, Howland said, “My father employs strong measures 'gainst 'em, do you not, sir?”

Sir Vinson nodded. “A summary hearing on the spot, when they're caught, and then they are hanged. Which is a kinder end than the vermin deserve.”

Lord Green uttered a bellow of laughter that rattled the glassware. “That's the barber! Let 'em kick out—”

Not bothering to conceal his disgust, Fleming interjected, “How pretty you are, Jennifer.”

They all stood, and Sir Vinson came at once to usher her into the room. “You are indeed pretty, my dear,” he said fondly. “You will remember Lord Green, I think?”

She murmured an acquiescence and made her curtsy.

A glow came into my lord's eyes as they travelled her from head to toe. He bowed over her hand. She caught the aroma of the unwashed, and her nose wrinkled involuntarily. Over his lordship's massive shoulder, she met Royce's amused eyes. He winked, quick to sense her reaction and to endorse it.

Green was expressing his admiration and his prodigious pleasure at being permitted to visit Triad again. Somehow, she managed to keep her countenance and to utter the polite commonplaces expected of her. She pulled her hand from his lingering warm and wet clutch, but he was their guest and she couldn't escape her obligation to take his arm as they went in to luncheon. En route, he stroked her fingers, and it was all she could do not to again jerk free.

Luckily, his lordship was not one to encourage conversation in a lady, and most of the meal was passed in a male discussion of the Blue Rose tin mine and Green's conviction that his engineers would be able to restore it to a paying proposition.

Since he indulged the unpleasant habit of talking with his mouth full, Jennifer avoided looking his way, but twice when she glanced up, he was watching her. There was a slyness in his expression; a suggestion of gloating that appalled her. She looked away at once, and encountered Howland's brooding gaze. It was clear that he was not pleased with her. Her eyes flashed to her father. Sir Vinson also watched her. He smiled, and his hazel eyes were fond. She thought, ‘Bless him! He would never force me into such a dreadful marriage, no matter what Howland wished.'

But she could not dismiss the knowledge that he doted upon his heir. She must, she decided, have a private chat with dear Papa. Very soon!

C
HAPTER
III

It was light by the time Jonathan finished the cage. He glanced to where the sun was starting its climb up the cloudless sky, and judged it to be near five o'clock. Time to get back to the widow's cottage and stoke up the kitchen stove. Noah had said he could take any left-over scraps of wood, and they'd be useful for the fire. He added the small pile to the cage and closed the door. It was a good cage, he thought as he passed Noah's quiet cottage and started down the road. Little Duster would be glad to be released from the crate the widow had loaned for a temporary home.

The morning was bright; brisk, but not cold, and he found the prospect beautiful in the proud, unyielding way so typical of this part of Cornwall. No gentle rolling hills or green valleys here; no spreading oaks or colourful gardens, or hedgerows ablaze with wildflowers. Here were soaring cliffs, the great lonely expanse of the moors; stark rocky upthrusts, and the strange granite monoliths left behind by those who had dwelt here long and long ago. Knowing the tide would be out at this hour, he looked downward. There were broad still pools on the sands, and rivulets wandering westward. He forced his eyes to follow them.

The sun sprinkled the ocean with diamonds. Far out, a sailing ship lay motionless, waiting for a breeze. Even now the sight was more than he could bear, and he jerked his gaze from the ship, only to find himself staring at the jagged rocks that were scattered like small islands about the wet sands. Behind each of those treacherous islands were the ghosts of ships sunk in the fierce storms that could come up so swiftly along this coast. Ships whose masters— ‘Lord!' he thought, and turned his head to the east.

Inland, white vapours still wreathed the high moors in mystery. This whole county was rooted in mystery and legend: tales of the dreaded owls, and hares able to change their shape and appear human; witches and pixies sent by the Evil One to plague the unwanted inhabitants of this wild land. ‘Superstitious nonsense,' he thought, but as he had discovered to his cost, woe betide the man who dared speak against it.

He glanced over his shoulder. Castle Triad rose in stern grandeur against the deepening blue of the sky. Somewhere in that great pile his lovely lady would be sleeping. A smile softened his mouth. She would be as beautiful in slumber as in wakefulness. More beautiful, with her glossy hair brushed out and spreading across the pillows; a dainty nightgown, all gossamer and lace, slightly rumpled perhaps, slipping from one creamy shoulder to—

“Outta my path, ye danged looby!”

A rough hand staggered him. ‘Ben Blary,' he thought, and moved aside.

Accompanying his large and ill-tempered father, Isaac laughed. “What's that he got, Pa?”

“He's bin stealing wood, is what he done. You bin stealing, Crazy Jack, and here-along we don't like them as steals.”

Another, harder shove.

Jonathan said coolly, “I stole nothing. Mr. Holsworth said I could have whatever was left from—”

“And what do a looby want with wood?”

He knew, of course. He only wanted an excuse to bully. Jonathan moved the cage behind him.

“It's a cage, Pa,” said Isaac.

“For the rats what the witch uses in her spells? We don't need 'em! You'd oughter know that by now. But 'spite o' yer fancy talk, ye don't know much. So being as I got a kind heart, I'll try ter teach yer.” Blary threw one of his dreaded right jabs. Jonathan was prepared and swayed aside, but Isaac came up from behind and seized the cage. Jonathan half-turned and retrieved it, and Blary seized his opportunity and lashed out again. Jonathan reeled and fell to one knee.

“I 'spect that there cage is for the stupid bird what Mrs. Pughill went and bought off the sailorman,” contributed Isaac.

Breathing hard, Jonathan steadied himself and reached for the cage.

Blary laughed. “A ugly bird like that, and so big as a thimble? He don't need that great huge cage. Ye built it all wrong, maggot-wit.” His boot stamped onto Jonathan's outstretched hand. “Now don't get above yerself. I hasn't give ye leave to stand up. Jest answer. Perlite, like.” He bore down harder. “Why'd you make it so big for that flea-bite of a crooked bird?”

It never got any easier. “Because,” Jonathan gasped painfully, “nothing should—should be shut up in a small space, and— No—don't!”

Blary had moved his boot, but it was now poised above the cage. Holding on to his son's shoulder for support, he said, “Say ‘please,' Shadow Man.”