A Shadow's Bliss (8 page)

The fog had become glaringly white, but was just as dense. Sprat accompanied him for a little way before recalling pressing business elsewhere and darting off. Lacking such a sense of direction, Jonathan had to grope his way, and almost missed the crude path that wound down the cliff. It was a treacherous descent, but from this point northward the cliffs became ever more sheer and there was no other path until one reached the steps that had been cut into the rock below Castle Triad. Several times the drifts were so thick that he could see no more than a few yards ahead. Certainly, he had no need to fear catching sight of the ocean.

He ate his bread and cheese after he reached level ground and began to make his way through this strangely isolated world. The only sounds were the muffled cries of the seagulls. The tide was far out at this hour, but the sands were still wet, the smooth surface marked here and there by the fine precision of bird tracks. Occasional tidal pools appeared suddenly at his feet, glistening, and still as glass. Twice, he almost stumbled over gnarled and bleached tree limbs, but both were too large for his purpose, and he searched on. He came upon a shallow pool where tiny crabs scuttled about busily in their miniature world, and he paused to watch them, then took up a shell so perfect and so delicately hued that he put it carefully into his pocket thinking that someday, if he summoned the courage, he would give it to Miss Jennifer.

Minutes later, he was brought up short by something he had not expected to see: a broad swath of boot prints. Curious, he followed them along the beach and northward, toward Castle Triad. The tracks of at least twenty men, he judged. Obviously, they had passed this way since the tide went out. Perhaps Sir Vinson entertained a large party of friends, although it seemed an odd hour for company to have arrived. Then again, the boots may have belonged to free-traders. But free-traders would surely have been met by ponies to carry their tubs. Lost in speculation, he awoke to the realization that time was passing and he was following a set of boot marks like a bewitched fool, instead of tending to his own business.

As luck would have it, almost immediately he found a large tree limb having many off-shoots that would serve his need admirably. It was short work to chop off a number of these, but took rather longer to saw some rounds from the main branch to be used for the top and bottom of the cage. Adding his collection to the knapsack, he slung it over his shoulders, then was stricken into immobility. Faint, but discernible, his shadow was on the sand. His head jerked up. The sun was breaking through, the fog almost dispersed. Before he could check the impulse, he had turned to the west.

How stealthily it had crept in. The long shining line that was the outstretched arm of the mighty Atlantic. Even as he watched, frozen, a clear green wave lapped toward his boots …

The great ship wallowed helplessly, tossed by mountainous waves and battered by the screaming gale. With all his strength he fought to stand, but his legs would not obey him. A deafening crash. A shocking impact that hurled him from the bunk and extinguished the lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness. The need to get out became a frenzy. She was going down … Somehow, he was crawling along the slanting quarter-deck. Then the freezing, tumultuous water had him in its relentless hold. He tried to swim, but his efforts were too feeble. He was drawn under … suffocating … tossed up again into the ravening night, choking, blinded, gulping air into his tortured lungs, only to be dragged down … down … He was cold … so terribly cold … He
must
get back up to …

Daylight. His cheek was pressed against the ground. He was panting, and bewildered because the beach was bent in a most odd fashion. He lifted his head, had the dizzy sensation of falling, and with a convulsive grab, steadied himself. He looked again at the beach. A shocked gasp was torn from him, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. Once again his mind had blotted out an indeterminate interval, returning him to a here and now that was nightmarish. He was halfway up the cliff, with a sheer drop below, and an equally sheer rock face stretching above. His hands, clinging desperately to a clump of furze, were scratched and dirty. His head swam when another quick scan confirmed the fact that he was somewhere north of Castle Triad and far past the point at which the cliff could be climbed without rope and pickaxe. Whatever could have possessed him to do so insane a thing? Why must his mind continually force him to such pointless and humiliating acts? That he had clawed his way this far was well nigh incredible. Dreading to do so, he made himself look up. The rock wall soared above, high and stark and unconquerable. He closed his eyes, trying to get his breath. He had wished for death often in these past two years. Well, here it was, for he could not possibly climb up, and the sea was directly below now, the waves rushing in as though eager to receive him. The dread of falling again into that terrible embrace turned his bones to water, and in desperation he tightened his hold on the furze. Whatever happened, he must not let the sea take him!

And so he searched the rock face until he found a likely fissure. Bracing his boots against a slight outcropping, he made a wild grab with his left hand, and was able to take hold. Again, he sought about. A jagged outhrust above his head looked impossibly far, but he lunged at it. The edges crumbled under his fingers. Frantic, he gripped harder, feeling his nails splinter as his hand slipped, and breathing again when his clawing fingers closed around a firm surface. Displaced particles rained down into his face. He ducked his head against the cliff, blinking tears and dust from his eyes, then strove on, driven by the all-consuming need to escape the hungry tide that surged and waited far below.

His progress was tortuously slow. Soon, each breath cut like a red hot knife through his chest, and his arms and shoulders ached fiercely. But he struggled on, never looking any farther than for his next hand-hold, fighting to survive for just another foot or two, often slipping, but somehow contriving to hang on. He was tiring and knew he couldn't last much longer. Despairing, he dared look up. His heart gave a wild leap. The top of the cliff was less than a yard above his hand! For an instant, he was so elated that his vigilance relaxed, and almost, at the moment of triumph, he lost his hold. But with a surge of strength, he clawed his way up until he could grasp the edge, and, Praise God! there was a root to be seized and clung to. Another minute, and he was sprawling on level ground at last.

Gradually, his thundering heartbeat eased and he was able to order his thoughts. He must present a fine sight, for his coat was torn, and the knees of his breeches hung in bloodstained rags. Inevitably, Jennifer's dear image came to mind. Suppose she had been on one of her early rides? Suppose she'd seen his stupid performance? She would believe then that he was well named: Crazy Jack, with a brain that played cruel tricks. Perhaps, one day he would no longer be permitted to return from his nightmarish lapses … Perhaps his deepest dread was becoming a reality, and he was going mad.

He lay gazing up at the sky, and knew that he had no right to whine, or to sometimes, however briefly, allow himself to forget that truly he was, at best, only the shadow of a man.

C
HAPTER
IV

Howland Britewell held back his spirited black, and leaning toward his sister enquired teasingly, “Not too chilly for you this morning, I trust, Madam Professor?”

Jennifer gave him a laughing glance. The fog had burned off, unveiling one of those rare and brilliant days that sometimes arrive with late summer. The air was brisk and invigorating, the sea sparkling under the clear blue bowl of the heavens, and this proud and rugged coast at its most beautiful. “I am all a'shiver,” she declared gaily. “We must gallop to warm me up.”

“Of course. But first I'd like to chat a while, an you don't object.”

He smiled still, but she felt a twinge of apprehension. Howland could be such a dear person when he chose, and this past week he had been at his charming best, full of fun and good humour, neither goading Fleming into defending his obsession with the world's great religions, nor mocking Royce's “revolutionary notions.” Not once, since Lord Green's departure, had he spoken of the baron's admiration for her. She had hoped, in fact, that he had decided to respect her feelings in the matter. Heaven knows, she'd made them sufficiently clear. Without comment, she drew her mare to a walk, and waited.

“I met Miss Caroline Morris yesterday,” he said idly.

“When you were in St. Ives? Oh, I wish I had gone with you! Is she well? It seems an age since any of them came to see us.”

“So it is. His lordship don't really approve of us, you know. And for my part I've no admiration of his high-in-the-instep condescension. The lovely Caroline is another matter, however.”

Jennifer smiled. “That comes as no great surprise, dear. Had she a message for me?”

“Indeed, yes. And some news that
will
surprise you. Caro sends you her affectionate regards, and…” He watched her quizzically.

“What? What? Oh, Howland,
pray
do not be such a tease!”

“And I am instructed to tell you that you are to be invited down to Breton Ridge for a few days, when her second- or third- or some such cousin arrives.”

“A party?” Jennifer gave a squeal of delight. “How lovely! Which cousin, do you know? They have family everywhere. Oh, I hope 'tis the Bath Morrises. Do you recall when they came two years ago? Miss Eliza Morris was such a merry—”

“It is not Miss Eliza. Nor any sort of Miss at all, but some fellow from Surrey—or is it Sussex?—who will likely turn out to be fat as a flounder and a dead bore, with a squint and a wooden leg, so do not be indulging any romantical flights of fancy, when— By Jove! Only look who has come back.”

Jennifer looked. The colour in her cheeks heightened as rapidly as the sparkle in her eyes faded. In low-voiced vexation she said, “You arranged this! Oh, how could you be so sly? I
thought
it remarkable that you should offer to ride with me, when you so seldom—”

“Tally ho!” Hibbard Green rode to meet them. Resplendent in a puce coat over-burdened with silver braid, and a cravat whose laces bore mute testimony to several meals, he waved exuberantly. He had an atrocious seat, and the exertion of riding had left him puffing and red faced, but he declared disjointedly that Miss Britewell put the sun to shame, damme if she didn't. “And how are … you, Britewell? Here's the bad penny … turned up on your … doorstep again, eh?”

Jennifer smiled with good manners, if not warmth.

Howland clasped his lordship's hand and said, beaming, “Welcome, sir! May we count on your making a longer stay at Triad this time?”

“Be my very great pleasure.” Manoeuvreing his mount between them, Green eyed Jennifer with exaggerated roguishness. “Any man worthy of the name delights in the chase, especially when the quarry is so enticingly curvesome, no?”

Even Howland looked taken aback by this gaucherie, and Jennifer's astonished stare caused his lordship to add a rather too hearty, “And never be so formal, Howland. No need to ‘sir' me. There ain't many years between us, y'know.”

Blinking, Jennifer said, “Really? When I met your son Rafe, I was sure he was at least—”

“At all events, you're well met,” inserted Howland quickly. “I recollect that I promised my father to go over the deeds to the mine with him and our man of business. My apologies, Jennifer, but perhaps Lord Green will oblige me by taking you for that gallop.”

“I could not be more willing,” remarked his lordship, with a sly wink at the deus ex machina.

Pale with anger, Jennifer said, “Thank you, but—”

“No ‘buts,' sister mine,” said Howland. “Poor Hibbard will think you have taken him in dislike if you refuse his escort.”

Lord Green looked crushed. “Jove, but have I offended, then? In truth, I've the greatest admiration for you, Miss Jennifer, but if you find me repulsive, I shall take myself off.”

She did indeed find him repulsive, but to admit that would be both unkind and an unthinkable breach of manners. From the corner of her eye she saw Howland regarding her grimly. Why he should be so set on this creature purchasing the mine was beyond her, but there was no doubt that she was properly trapped. Bowing to that fact, she said that his lordship had given no offence and that she would be glad of his company “for a short gallop.”

Green brightened, and with a satisfied grin Howland rode away.

Determined to give the odious baron no least encouragement to flirt with her, Jennifer led off across the high moor at a steady trot. His lordship accompanied her eagerly, but he was very soon panting and dishevelled, his unlovely countenance ever more heated as he bounced all over the saddle. Almost, Jennifer pitied him, but she was sure he meant to make her an offer she had no wish to hear, and when he gasped out a request that they stop and have “a friendly cose” she replied, “Oh, but you promised me a gallop, sir,” and touched home her spurs.

Her mare was full of spirit, and needed no urging. An excellent horsewoman, Jennifer leaned forward, thoroughly enjoying the rush of wind against her face as they raced along the cliffs. She glanced over her shoulder, sure that Green had been left far behind. She had reckoned without the man's implacable determination. That his temper was exacerbated was evident, but he was closing fast. He was mounted on one of Papa's favourite horses, and unaccustomed to flailing whip and goring spurs, the big bay was clearly frightened.

With a pang of conscience for the sake of the animal, Jennifer slowed and as his lordship thundered up, protested, “Lud, sir, but you are mighty free with your whip!”

“Sometimes,” he jerked out, “one must be cruel … to be kind.” He guided the snorting bay very close. “I think you must not have heard, ma'am. I desired you to stop.”