A Shadow's Bliss (7 page)

The smell of paint was strong, and Jennifer left the door wide open as she walked inside. She wore a riding habit of soft green, and a long green feather curled down from the turned-up brim of her hat. The brisk early morning air had painted roses onto her smooth cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled. Awed, he gazed at her. How vibrantly alive she was; the joyous personification of pure and lovely femininity.

Jennifer had grown accustomed to admiring glances, and in her unassuming way she judged that many of the compliments she received were inspired by her father's position. But there was that in this man's gaze which caused her to be unaccountably flustered. To add to her folly, she was sure she was blushing, and there came a strange new confusion, to hide which she walked over to admire the doors of what had once been a china cabinet. “Why, how very much better this looks. So bright and clean. Wherever did you get the paint?”

“Your brother, Mr. Royce, bought it for me. I hope I did not—overstep my place, ma'am? If the colour is not to your liking…?”

He looked so anxious. She smiled at him kindly, and assured him that she was most pleased. “But are you sure Mrs. Newlyn can spare you?”

“Mr. Holsworth took her up to the moors to gather herbs. I know she—”

The breeze from the open door fluttered Jennifer's habit. He dropped the paintbrush in the pot and sprang forward. “Have a care, ma'am! That's wet!”

In the nick of time he restrained the billowing skirts, then gave a gasp, and drew back, his face scarlet with embarrassment. “Oh, gad!” He drove a hand through his hair agitatedly. “I—I do beg your pardon, ma'am!”

It occurred to Jennifer that were one to look at him from an artist's perspective, as Mama, might have done, one could not but admire the well-cut features, even with the long scar across his right temple and the smaller one beside his ear. He kept himself clean and neat always, and the thick light-brown hair that showed the hint of a crisp wave was sternly tied back. If he were to be set beside my lord Green, even wearing the much darned coat and patched breeches, there could be no doubt as to which was the better— Aghast, she caught herself up. Whatever was she thinking? This man was no more than a tramp, and an afflicted tramp besides; coming from he knew not where, bound only for a life of grinding poverty, eons removed from her world. That sensible acknowledgment disturbed her also, and she said with considerably less than her usual composure, “What? Oh, I—er, am only glad I have not a painted habit! Goodness! Whatever happened to your hand?”

He assured her that it was of no consequence. “Just a small, er—”

“Encounter?” she interposed, frowning in a way he thought unutterably delicious. “With Ben Blary, perchance?”

If she'd heard of that episode she must know that Blary had kicked him. He nodded wretchedly, and avoided her gaze by cleaning paint from the floorboards.

“He is a horrid bully,” she said, looking down at his bowed head and taking note of the breadth of his shoulders. “I worry for his wife, and I've no doubt his son's life is full of hard knocks.”

Jonathan straightened, and stirred the paintbrush around in the pot of turpentine. “I'd think some of the local men would … would have stood up to him.”

“Oh, they're all afraid of him because he's so burly and quarrelsome. I'd hoped that someone as tall as he is—” She broke off. The paintbrush was suddenly quite still. He was very likely ashamed, she realized. And after all, what right had she to expect more of this troubled stranger, than of her own villagers? “I must not judge Blary too harshly,” she amended in a lighter tone. “At least, he has allowed Isaac to come to school, which is more than I thought he would do.”

“Why ever would he not? Surely, any parent must only be grateful to you.”

“I think most of them are, and some of the children walk a long way so as to attend class. But Blary and one or two others grumbled that I would give the children ideas beyond their station.”

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed, indignant. “If they learn no more than to read and write, how greatly their lives will be enriched!”

“So I think. Some of them have never left this Hundred, not even for a day. They have no knowledge of the beauties of the rest of the British Isles. No conception of the wonders of the wide world. All the different cultures and climes and people.”

Her enthusiasm was enchanting. Quite forgetting both paintbrush and his lowly state, he asked smilingly, “Have you travelled abroad, ma'am?”

“Alas—no. And there is so much I long to see. Paris. The great mountains of Switzerland. Italy, where the sun always shines. India, where lions and tigers are worshipped and roam the streets at will.” She sighed, then the dreaming look faded and she said, “Now why do you laugh?”

He answered solemnly, “Never that, Miss Jennifer.”

“You kept your countenance, to be sure, but your eyes laughed. I think I am provoked, and must demand to be told what I said to amuse you?”

He chuckled. “Only that I think someone has been hoaxing you, ma'am. Lions dwell in Africa, not India. And the Indian tiger is very fierce and a man-eater. You would see a crowded bazaar empty in a flash did a tiger come shopping.”

It dawned on her that they had been chatting like equals, and she thought wonderingly that it was as if a curtain had been drawn aside to reveal, behind the shrinking wreckage she knew as Crazy Jack, another man. A man of poised self-confidence, with a whimsical twinkle in his fine eyes. And who was disconcertingly attractive.

She said, “Why … you have
been
there! Is my father in the right of it, then? Were you a sailor, or in the military?”

At once, the curtain was lowered. The poised gentleman vanished, and it was Crazy Jack who paled, and shrank away. Jennifer put a detaining hand on his arm and said in her gentlest voice, “No, please do not be afraid of me. I meant only to try and help. Won't you confide in me?”

“I—I have nothing— There is nothing to—” And slanting a glance at her concerned face, he added desperately, “You see, I cannot … recollect.”

“Can you recollect what it was that Ben Blary took from you yesterday?”

He stared down at her gloved hand and breathed the sweet fragrance of her. A familiar fragrance.
“Caresse Translucide.”
He saw astonishment in her face, and realized he must have spoken aloud. ‘Fool!' he thought, and answered her question hurriedly. “It was a—a birdcage.”

“Did Noah Holsworth make it for you?” She spoke lightly, but her eyes were watchful. “Blary said 'twas big enough for a great owl.”

“Mr. Holsworth was so kind as to let me use some of his left-over scraps of wood. I suppose 'twas a—a good size for such a little bird, but I think that to be shut up … in a small space…”

The schoolroom shimmered and was gone. He was in the cabin. Trapped. He could smell the brandy … Feel the frenzy of terror … He was so cold—so dizzy …

“What a pity it was smashed.”

Jennifer's calm voice came to him like a lifeline, and he clung to it gratefully.

“Perhaps,” she went on, praying he wasn't going to drop at her feet, “you should seek your building materials on the beach. Driftwood is always washing up. But you'd have to get there early, before other people.” She went on talking easily until he was breathing normally again and a tinge of colour had come back into his drawn face. Relieved, she said with a smile that she must not keep her brother waiting, and walked to the door.

Jonathan followed her into the sunshine, not daring to speak, dreading to think what she must have thought of this latest evidence of his ridiculous mental state.

Tommy Lawney was walking her mare. Jennifer waved to the boy, and belatedly remembered why she had come. She said idly, “Oh, by the bye, who was the man who came to help you? When Blary smashed your cage, I mean.”

“I don't know, ma'am. That is—I never saw the gentleman before.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was slender, and a young man, I think. Very dark, and bearded.” His brows knit. He said hesitantly, “There was something … I seemed to— But—” The words faded into silence.

Jennifer waited hopefully, then said, “Blary says he had strange eyes.”

He nodded.

“Why did you name him a gentleman? He was poorly dressed, no?”

“His speech was cultured, and he seemed … very proud, very arrogant.”

Amused, she asked, “Do you find all gentlemen proud and arrogant?”

“Some are, I think.” Encouraged because she did not seem repulsed, he ventured to add, “Often, the ones with the least right to be so.”

She shook her head, laughing at him. Tommy came up, leading the mare proudly and she paid him his groat.

Jonathan bent to receive her boot and toss her into the saddle, and she thanked him and rode off.

Distantly, she could see a horseman coming down from the castle. Royce, no doubt, ready to ride with her and air his grievances about Lord Green, whom he loathed, and who had, thank heaven, gone down to Breton Ridge with a letter of introduction from Papa. She held the mare to a slow pace, wanting to be alone with her thoughts for a little while.

So Crazy Jack may have served in the army, or been a seafaring man, perhaps. And their “village idiot” was no stranger to costly French colognes. It would appear also that Ben Blary's spiteful tongue had spoken truth, for once. There really had been a stranger; a mysterious stranger with a black beard and dark eyes of an alien shape. Eyes like none he'd ever seen on this earth, Blary had asserted. Add that to his tale of cages for evil owls, and the rumour mills would flourish.

She frowned uneasily. Despite her education and her cool common sense, she was Cornish born and bred, and could not entirely dismiss tales of witchcraft and magic spells. She had known people cured of crippling illnesses by bathing in the Madron Well. She had met Charmers, who could banish warts and other ailments. But that Jack would invoke spells and incantations, or “wish” people harm through the dreaded owls, she would not believe. Nor could she deny, however, that he was a mass of contradictions. She had caught a brief glimpse of another man today. Was it possible that he had erred and let a mask slip? Could he actually be an Exciseman? He would have to be a consummate actor. No, that was ridiculous! But … if he
was
a Riding Officer sniffing out men engaged in the smuggling trade, then he was a real threat to many hereabouts. Perhaps, to her own family. And if the villagers found him out…!

Royce shouted cheerfully, and she forced a smile and rode to meet him, dismissing such gloomy and doubtless unwarranted imaginings.

*   *   *

Although Jonathan had carved slots in the crate in which Duster was housed, it was not a comfortable home for the bird, and the swing had proven to be a mixed blessing. He had intended to build another cage days ago, but materials were scarce and he had no intention of following Miss Jennifer's suggestion that he go down to the beach and gather driftwood. However, waking before dawn one morning, as was his habit, he found the shed clammy and chill, and the smell of fog on the air. When he opened the door to look outside, a grey cloud billowed in. It was still too dark to see much, but he suspected it was one of the dense fogs that could sweep in very suddenly to blanket this coast. Which might, he reflected, be to his advantage. As he closed the door, a faint squawk came from the crate. He said, “Aye, aye, sir!” and removed the sack he flung over the impromptu cage at night time. Duster fluttered about, retreated to the farthest corner and regarded him with an unmistakeable air of reproach.

“Were you a little wiser,” he said, beginning to shiver through the business of rolling up his blankets then washing and shaving in the frigid water he had carried in last night, “you would look on me with gratitude, rather than fancying yourself hardly done by.”

Duster muttered and scratched about the crate.

“Yes, I know you resent the sack, and I'll own it isn't the purple velvet cover you would prefer. But 'tis some protection 'gainst the cold for you, young fellow, and some protection for me 'gainst your midnight acrobatics.”

A flurry of ruffling feathers and preening ensued. Jonathan threw an amused glance at the little bird, and applied razor to chin. “You want me to risk the beach in this fog, do you? Much you'd care if I broke my neck!”

He finished shaving, threw on his clothes, and provided the parakeet with fresh water and a small measure of the seeds he had bought from Mrs. Pughill. This procedure unfailingly threw Duster into a frenzy, but today the bird seemed slightly less alarmed, and was so bold as to peck his hand, though not very hard, as he withdrew it.

He repeated Duster's lesson several times, but as usual he was ignored, and having warned that this attitude was not likely to win a purple velvet cover, he put the tools he would need into his knapsack, blew out the candle, and left.

He stepped into a hushed, grey cloud and took several paces before the cottage loomed into sight through the cold wraith-like drifts. Sprat, the big tortoise-shell cat who divided his time between Mrs. Gundred and the widow, joined him on the back steps and wound around his ankles demanding admission. He darted inside when Jonathan opened the door, and finding his bowl empty embarked on a campaign calculated to prevent the human from overlooking his presence. The widow would not get up for another two hours or more, and despite Sprat's assistance, Jonathan hurried through his morning tasks, building up the fire in the stove, removing Sprat from the table, pumping water, removing Sprat from lying slavishly on his foot, setting the kettle on the idle-back hanger, bowing to outright flattery and feeding Sprat, and preparing the small table for Mrs. Newlyn's breakfast.

The mantelpiece clock indicated it to be ten minutes until six o'clock when he left again, taking with him a heel of dark bread and a piece of cheese for his own breakfast.