Eye of the Wind (10 page)

‘You can’t do that!’ Tom hissed.

‘Tom, if I can handle Samson and his moods –’

‘That isn’t what I mean, and you know it. I daresay there isn’t a horse foaled you couldn’t handle. What I mean is, it isn’t proper for you to be doing such things.’

She shot him a meaningful glance. ‘No choice, Tom.’

‘I don’t like it.’ He glared at her.

‘But you can’t spare any more men.’

‘Some stubborn you are. All right.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘When do you want to start?’

‘How long will it take to reorganise the work here?’

He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow?’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘Can’t start felling until the trees have been chosen and marked.’

‘How long will that take?’ Melissa tried to keep the anxiety from her voice.

‘Depends on the number. Those already down can be hauled to the nearest path. We’ll need a track to the road. Opposite the yard gates is reasonably central. Easy for the haulier’s wagons too.’

Ashamed that none of these points had occurred to her, she gave what she hoped was a decisive nod. ‘That will be fine. Please see to it.’ She turned to the foreman. ‘Tom, will you call the men together at noon tomorrow so I can talk to them?’

‘Listen there’s no need for that. I’ll tell them what’s happened. You been through enough already. And I daresay there’ll be more to come.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But I have to speak to them myself. If the men aren’t told what we’re planning they’ll think the worst and start looking elsewhere for work.’

Tom sighed, his expression morose as he scratched his head through the frizzy halo. ‘Could be they’ll do that anyway.’

Melissa smoothed the fingers of her gloves. ‘I know it’s a risk. But I have to convince them the yard will continue, with or without them. They’ve got to be persuaded that it’s as important to me as it was to my father. If that means doing things I’ve never done before, then the sooner I get used to it the better.’

When he finished work late that afternoon Gabriel went into the village. His thoughts were full of Melissa Tregonning. Her father’s sudden death had clearly rocked the foundations of her world. Mourning clothes and a severe hairstyle would make anyone appear older. But the change he divined in her went far deeper.

Her shyness and naiveté, still so appealing, had been overlaid by determination. It was obvious that she needed money. So Mr Tregonning’s untimely death had clearly left his family with considerable financial problems. His daughter’s determination to resolve these showed rare and undoubted courage. But she could have no idea of what she was taking on.

The yard had the necessary land for expansion, plus an experienced workforce. And with the war increasing the demand for ships, it would quickly rival any of the yards in Truro or Falmouth. For anyone with spare capital it was an ideal investment and would quickly show an excellent return. Once more he felt the bitter irony of his situation.

Acknowledging his name and status would allow him to increase his own fortune while improving those of everyone connected with the yard. But in solving her problem he would create too many for himself. He should leave this place. But how could he when he owed her the roof over his head? Besides, no one else possessed the knowledge she needed.

‘Hallo, my handsome.’ Mrs Mitchell’s face lit up as he entered the bakery. ‘I was just thinking of you. Here, do me a favour, would you?’

‘If I can,’ Gabriel croaked.

‘No one better. Look, ’tis this sack of flour. I only opened ’un this morning. Now, what do you see?’

Bending, Gabriel peered into the sack. His voice cracked in surprise. ‘It’s moving.’

‘Mites,’ Mrs Mitchell announced angrily. ‘Nothing wrong with my eyes. Well, I aren’t having it. I paid for fresh-ground flour.’

Realising he was poised at the top of a slippery slope, Gabriel stifled a groan. He could not afford to become embroiled in village life. Yet what would have become of him had it not been for Tom Ferris’s trust? Tom had guessed he was the thief, yet had still been willing to give him a job. On Tom’s say-so, Mrs Mitchell had given him more food than he could pay for. The day he started at the yard Billy had noticed he had no dinner, and had brought him some. And Jack was willing to lend him a boat to go fishing. Not become involved? It was far too late.

‘You want me to take the flour back?’

‘All I want for you to do is carry the sack. You don’t have to say nothing. Just stand there like. I aren’t afeared of no man, but it don’t do no harm to show I got friends. I aren’t no fool, and so Joe Sweet will know when I’ve finished with ’un. Sell me stale flour, would he? Bleddy cheek! I’ll put ’un straight, you see if I don’t.’

Struggling to keep a straight face, wishing he could tell her it would be an honour as well as a genuine pleasure to accompany her, Gabriel said simply, ‘Now?’

‘Well, seeing you’re here.’ Quickly tying up the sack’s neck, she pulled off her apron, took a shawl from a hook on the back of the door and swirled it around her shoulders. Then, holding the door while Gabriel picked up the sack, she locked it behind them.

Forty minutes later they were back in the shop with a fresh sack of flour. While Mrs Mitchell had given Joe Sweet her opinion of people who tried to take advantage of a decent widow-woman doing her best to run an honest business, the miller had darted frequent sidelong glances at Gabriel, who had simply gazed back. He had not said a word. There had been no need. Mrs Mitchell in full flow was not to be interrupted, nor did she require help.

Joe Sweet’s abject apologies, his plea that it had been an honest mistake, a mix-up of sacks by his boy who would feel the back of his hand the moment he caught up with him, had followed them for several yards along the street.

‘Well, that’s done.’ Mrs Mitchell beamed up at him as he straightened after setting the flour down. ‘Now, my handsome, how about a nice pie for your tea? I don’t want no money. You done me a kindness and Daisy Mitchell always pay her debts.’ She quickly wrapped a saffron bun and a piece of hevva cake and pushed them into his hands. ‘Bit o’ something for later.’

Gabriel looked down at her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Dear life! ‘ Suddenly pink, she fiddled with the puffed muslin covering her bolster-like bosom. ‘Charm the birds off the trees with that smile, you would. Go on, then. I got work to do. Be in tomorrow, will you?’

‘Another job?’

‘And if there is?’

‘I’ll be in.’

‘Right, then.’ At the door, Gabriel hesitated. ‘Where can I buy a razor?’ He rubbed his palm over a beard that was growing thicker by the day. In Brittany he had adopted the custom of all working men and shaved only once or twice a week. But in prison even that had become impossible. The captain of the fishing boat, knowing a full beard would betray his passenger as an escaped prisoner, had found him an old razor. Gabriel had scraped off as much as he could without touching his throat. But that had been well over a week ago. To leave it much longer would invite curiosity.

‘You wait right there,’ Daisy commanded. ‘Don’t you move now.’ She bustled out and he could hear her in the back room, muttering to herself. She returned a few moments later carrying a worn black leather case and a small white china bowl in which lay a stubby badger-hair shaving brush.

‘These belonged to my Cyrus, bless his heart. ’Tis daft just to leave them sitting there. He wouldn’t mind me giving them to you.’ She thrust them at Gabriel, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘If we’d had a son … Still, that’s the way of it.’

He had expected directions, not another gift, especially one that had been an integral part of her married life. But refusal was out of the question. It would be throwing her generosity back in her face. And he really did need the razor. Deeply touched, he took the bowl and case, then leant down and dropped a swift kiss on the plump, floury cheek. ‘You’re a kind woman, Mrs Mitchell.’

‘Oh!’ Daisy pressed a hand to each side of her bright pink face. ‘Dear life! Here, there’s no way you’re going to carry all that without dropping something. Now, I know I got an old …’ Opening a cupboard she bent over and rummaged about. ‘There!’ She emerged, beaming and triumphant, and flourished a battered wicker basket. ‘I wouldn’t trust the handle. That’s how I don’t use ’un myself. But I expect you can fix ’un up good as new.’ Setting the basket down, she quickly put in the bowl and razor case, followed by the bun and cake, and lastly the pie. ‘There now. Off you go.’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Gabriel grinned. He knew older village women were often called this by people not their children. It was a term of familiarity, respect, and endearment. He used it for all those reasons, also because he recognised her unfulfilled longing and knew how much it would mean to her.

‘That’s enough of your cheek! Get on out of it!’ Her waving arm shooing him away was belied by the delight in her smile.

‘See you tomorrow.’ Gabriel touched his forehead in salute, and closed the door behind him. He was still smiling as he started back along the street in the direction of the yard and the woods. Ahead of him, four women stood chatting. One saw him approach and murmured to the others, who turned their heads to look at him. Wary, he moved out to the centre of the narrow street, head down, eyes lowered, intending to pass by.

‘Hello, Gabe,’ one blurted, then giggled.

‘Come on, Gabe. Where’s your manners?’ another demanded. ‘Say hello.’

Unprepared, Gabriel didn’t know how best to respond. To ignore them would give offence. But to stop and chat would signal encouragement, a situation fraught with danger. He knew an instant’s longing for a time when no lady would have dreamt of speaking to Lord Stratton without first having been formally introduced. But these were not ladies, and such memories belonged to another life.

Glancing up, he gave a brief nod and made to pass by. Too late, he realised it would have been wiser to feign deafness. Immediately they pressed close, blocking his path.

‘How do you like it here, then?’ The one addressing him was clearly the ringleader of the group. She had dark hair, and bold brown eyes. Her dimity gown was cut low, and the grubby kerchief crossed over her bosom and tied behind revealed an opulent cleavage thrust forward to attract his attention.

Swiftly averting his eyes he shrugged, head down, shoulders defensive.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ one of the others piped up.

‘Dicked in the knob, he is,’ another scoffed.

‘Here,’ the third tried, ‘need someone to do a bit of cooking and washing, do you?’

‘Look like he got someone cooking for ’un already.’ The bold one nodded toward the basket. ‘No, what he need is company of a night.’

‘Sal!’ one of the other young women gasped.

Reaching out, bold Sal ran a finger down the front of Gabriel’s shirt. Involuntarily, he stepped back.

‘Aw, he’s shy, the dear of him.’ Someone giggled.

Sal took a pace forward, once more closing the distance between them and tilting her head provocatively. He could smell the sweet pungency of her sweat.

‘Tis no fun alone in a cold bed. I should know, with my man away fishing all hours of the day and night.’

‘Sal!’

‘Aw, shut up, Lizzie. What Jed don’t know can’t hurt un. If he’d rather be out on his bleddy boat than home with me, well, while the cat’s away …’ Grinning, she waggled the tip of her tongue at Gabriel.

The joke, if it was a joke, had gone far enough. With a brief shake of his head, Gabriel sidestepped the group and continued on his way. A chorus of mockery followed him. But he was not the target.

‘Look like he don’t fancy you, Sal.’

‘What if Jed had heard you?’

‘Losing your touch, you are, girl.’ 

Chapter Eight

Swallowing the last mouthful of pie, Gabriel washed it down with spring water, then heaved himself to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his breeches.

After another day in the saw pit he would have given much for a hot bath to soothe his aching muscles, then hours and hours of dreamless sleep. But with wind and rain indicated by the mares’ tails stretching across the paling sky, he needed to make his roof more secure. He also wanted to cut fir branches while they were still dry. Dense, springy, and virtually draught-proof, they would make a softer bed than earth and grass.

If this was to be his home for the foreseeable future then he might as well make it as comfortable as possible. Though small, it afforded him solitude and freedom. After the terror of his year in France culminating in the filthy, crowded prison cell, these were luxuries in themselves.

Once the fir branches were piled inside along the driest wall, a fire lit, wood stacked for burning, and the filled pot set to heat, he went back to a fallen elm he had noticed earlier and used the axe to peel off long lengths of bark. Sitting beside the fire, he cut the bark into thin, flexible strips. These he twisted and plaited into thick, strong cords, and tied them around the heavy stones left over from his rebuilding. Then, making holes with his dagger in the edges, he began to fasten the stones to the canvas, fixing each weight on opposite sides so the canvas was held down more firmly and not pulled off.

Coming round to the front again, he heard the crack of a twig and looked up to see Melissa Tregonning coming down the path. Dressed in the black habit she had worn that morning and carrying an oblong basket, she held herself rigidly erect.

As he remained still, watching her approach, he wondered what caused her such displeasure. But, as she came closer, he realised that her heightened colour and stern, almost defiant expression were not anger at all. He had seen her handle a horse many men would think twice about mounting, yet here, on foot, she was nervous. Why?

‘Good evening, Gabriel.’

Intrigued by her refusal to look directly at him, he remembered just in time to tug his forelock. ‘Miss Tregonning.’

She cleared her throat. ‘I have no wish to intrude on your privacy; I know how you value it. However, it occurred to me that you might find these useful.’ She thrust the basket at him. As he took it he saw that her hand was trembling. ‘There are candles, another blanket, clean linen, and a pot of salve for your wounds.’ She clasped her hands together, looking anywhere but at him, her cheeks a deep rose.

‘Much obliged, ma’am.’ Her opening words registered, and he realised she had totally misread his claim to prefer solitude. He had intended it as an explanation for choosing to live away from the village and other people. She had interpreted it as a personal rebuff. Yet why should she? Unless rejection was something experience had taught her to expect.

What isolated her from other people was their instinctive recognition of her as different. They might put it down to her height – though in his eyes she was simply magnificent – but what really set her apart was her strength and courage. And the modesty that made her oblivious to her appeal.

But if she was accustomed to being cold-shouldered, why should his perceived rejection matter? Unless – unless the lightning flash of awareness and attraction had affected her as profoundly as it had him. Gazing at her, he felt a stirring of deeper, hitherto untouched emotions.

She shrugged, awkwardly self-conscious. ‘As I need your help it was the least I could do. I’ll leave you now.’ She turned away.

‘No.’ She mustn’t go. Not until he had led her to realise that she had been mistaken. Hazardous it might be, foolhardy it most certainly was, and he would have to tread with infinite care. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am,’ he said quickly as she turned back. Deliberately averting his gaze, he feigned shyness so she would not feel threatened. ‘But I was thinking … What about cutting other trees, not just the oaks?’

He watched her hesitate, considering his suggestion. Then she shook her head. ‘There isn’t enough time. We need oak for the yard. And the current shortage, we know oak will sell.’

‘True, miss, but with respect, alder always fetches high prices. It’s used for mill-cogs and waterwheels, where constant wetting and drying would rot most woods. It also makes excellent charcoal. Furniture makers are always looking for beech. Cornish elm is wanted for flooring and tool handles. Large sycamores are always in demand. The wood can be scrubbed without the grain lifting, so it’s ideal for kitchen tables and chopping boards. And sycamore is also sought after for musical instruments because it polishes well.’

He had talked far more than usual that day and his voice kept cracking. ‘Obviously the oak will sell as baulks or planks, but you can also sell the bark. The tannery in Truro would buy it, so would fishermen, for preserving their nets.’ He glanced up to see Melissa gazing at him, her self-consciousness forgotten.

‘Truly? I had no idea. About any of it.’ Her delight gave way to uncertainty. ‘But to cut so much … Wouldn’t that destroy the wood?’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘It badly needs thinning, to allow the young trees space and light to grow.’

She looked directly at him, and he felt the shock all over again. Not only had he never met a woman whose gaze was almost level with his own – a relief and pleasure in itself – he had never met a young woman of such contrasts: vibrant yet shy, courageous yet self-effacing. Her wariness momentarily forgotten, she studied him, puzzled and curious. ‘Where did you learn all this?’

‘Before I was taken prisoner –’ He hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to her. Though with his current life one enormous lie, what could another possibly matter? But it did. So he told her the truth, though not quite all of it.

‘I used to work on a large estate where forest and woodland were managed as a business to generate wealth. The owner was very astute, forward-looking.’ Looking away, he studied the trees around them.

She cleared her throat. ‘I know it’s been neglected. My father – has been under great strain.’

He turned back to her. Her father’s concerns could not be her fault or responsibility, yet she was behaving as though they were. Why had she shouldered this burden? He nodded. ‘Tom – Mr Ferris – told me your eldest brother was lost in a naval battle last year. A tragedy for your family, ma’am. My condolences.’

Her gaze was clear and candid, and a tiny frown puckered her forehead. ‘You sound different.’

He smiled briefly. ‘Not used to talking so much.’

‘No, I don’t mean your voice; I mean your mode of speech.’

He bent his head, clenching his teeth as tension cramped his gut. In France, speaking only Breton, his disguise a matter of life and death, it had been easy to remain in character. But here, in his home county, and with her … Looking up, he shrugged. ‘You’re right, miss. I used to work closely with the master. I wanted to better myself, so I picked up his way of talking. No offence intended.’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean – it was not a criticism, Gabriel, merely an observation. One I should not have made.’ Embarrassment smothered both suspicion and uncertainty.

Torn between relief at having avoided potential danger and anger at his carelessness, he deliberately steered the conversation away from the past. ‘May I wish you well for tomorrow?’

She drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s over.’

‘No need to be nervous, miss. You know what you’re doing.’

‘I hope so.’ It was heartfelt, anxious. After a moment she admitted, ‘My uncles don’t share your confidence.’

‘You know why, don’t you?’ He saw anxiety cloud her face. ‘You are attempting something men believe can only be done by another man.’ One corner of his mouth lifted in irony. ‘This is a severe threat to their dignity.’

She was silent for a moment, then tossed her head. ‘If their dignity is so fragile it must rest on very shaky foundations.’

‘It does,’ he confided. ‘And that is a secret all men would prefer to remain hidden.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Really? No, you are not serious.’

‘Indeed I am.’

Seeing his rueful smile, she gasped and blushed, covering her mouth with her fingertips. ‘You really should not say such things.’

‘Perhaps. But there will be occasions when you find that knowledge helpful.’

Watching her visible struggle as she recollected herself and withdrew from his unexpected and startling candour he realised that, despite being out in society, she had not acquired the usual veneer of arch sophistication he would have expected in a young woman of her background. He found himself fiercely glad.

She cleared her throat. ‘About – about the wood …’

It was a deliberate if reluctant retreat from an intimacy he should have resisted. Gabriel knew he must let her go. He turned away and set the basket on the ground. ‘Why don’t you take a day or two to think about it, miss?’

‘But what you said – about the other trees being more valuable. Would they really raise a lot of money quickly?’

Watching her blush deepen and her lashes flutter as she realised how much her query revealed, Gabriel wondered just how desperate a financial crisis her father had left her to deal with. Picking up the last stone he began tying it on to the corner of the canvas, careful not to look at her.

‘They would, miss. And with proper management these woods will still be generating income a hundred years from now.’

‘Truly?’ She sounded stunned. ‘Thank you, Gabriel. Thank you very much.’

His hands grew still as he watched her move quickly away up the path, her long stride peculiarly graceful, her self-consciousness forgotten now she had so many more important matters to occupy her.

That evening, after washing himself and his filthy shirt, he shaved carefully. With no mirror he had to work by touch alone. It took a long time, and he did not dare go too close to the wound on his throat. But tentative fingertip examination when he removed the bandage told him the honey had done its work, and healing had begun. Smearing a fresh cloth with the sweet-smelling salve, he bound up his throat once more. Passing a hand over his almost-smooth jaw when he had finished, he smiled. No doubt Berryman would shudder at his efforts. But not only did he feel cleaner than he had for months, he also felt ridiculously proud and self-satisfied.

When the men assembled at midday, the overnight rain was just a memory. The sun shone from a sky the colour of cornflowers dotted with thistledown clouds. The yard was buzzing. The news that Francis Tregonning was dead and his wife ill had spread like flames in a gale. All were anxious about the yard and their jobs. But there was mixed reaction to the rumour that George Tregonning had been sent for.

What did he know about shipbuilding, or about the yard for that matter? He was a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy. As Sam Laity’s wife’s brother delivered the post, everyone knew it was months since his last letter had arrived. Possible reasons for the delay of more recent letters were suggested and rejected. Missing in action? That was as good as saying he was dead. In prison in France? Same thing. If either of those were the case, it was time to start looking elsewhere for work.

The discussions and arguments subsided as Melissa rode into the yard on Samson. Wearing her black habit and a matching small beaver hat with a narrow rolled brim over her up-swept hair, she was very pale, but appeared calm as she dismounted. Standing to one side near the back, his arms folded, Gabriel watched her turn from the crowd to fasten the rein to the iron ring. Seeing how her hands trembled, his clenched in sympathy. Even as he willed her to be strong, he mocked himself. Remaining here was sheer madness. If he had begun to care in this short time … Was he not in enough peril?

Tom had organised a small platform for her to stand on, and helped her up. ‘All right, you lot,’ he bellowed. ‘Let’s have a bit of quiet. This here is Miss Tregonning –’

‘We don’t need telling who she is,’ a voice yelled. ‘We’ve knowed her since she was a cheeld.’

‘Yes, well, she isn’t a cheeld no more,’ Tom barked. ‘So shut your yap and show a bit of respect.’ He turned to Melissa. ‘Go on, now, my handsome,’ he murmured with an encouraging smile.

Melissa’s gaze swept over the assembled men. Her eyes met Gabriel’s, flicked over his recently shaved jaw, and widened. She recovered instantly and, as her gaze moved on, he saw her inhale slowly. She lifted her chin and, by waiting, revealed both determination and a self-control that had him silently applauding in admiration. Only when the rumble of conversation had died away completely did she begin to speak.

‘My great-grandfather set up this yard. In those days Tregonning’s built small fishing boats, quay punts, and the occasional trading schooner. As the yard expanded over the years new sheds were added and the quay was enlarged. Then, when my father took over, the yard grew bigger still. Sons followed their fathers and grandfathers to learn their trade here. We started building bigger boats, fruit schooners and packet-ships.’ She paused as heads nodded, allowing them time to remember.

‘My father was a wise man. He believed in employing excellent craftsmen and allowing them to get on with the job. Though he’s no longer with us –’ Her voice faltered, and Gabriel caught his breath. But once again she managed to rein in her emotions. ‘My brother will be home soon to take up where my father left off. This yard has a reputation for building first-class ships. That reputation is due to you. With the war increasing demand for new ships we will be busier than ever. Because we cannot wait any longer for imported timber to get through the blockades, during the next week Tom will be organising a gang to cut from our own woods to ensure we have a continuous supply.’

‘I dunno how mister didn’t think to do that months ago,’ someone grumbled.

‘Never mind that. Who’s going to be running the yard between now and when your brother get home?’ someone else shouted. The mutters that followed showed the questioner was not alone in wanting reassurance.

Gabriel saw Melissa swallow, but her lifted brows conveyed mild surprise, as if the question was superfluous and the answer self-evident. ‘Tom will handle all practical matters, just as he always has. Until my brother’s arrival, I will deal with finance and administration.’ She raised her voice slightly, drowning the rustle of whispers. ‘You said yourselves you have seen me come here with my father since I was a small child. Over the years, I have learnt a great deal about the business. However, I understand your concern. Since my elder brother was killed last year, my father has not been –’ She swallowed again. ‘Grief, and anxiety about my mother’s health, weighed heavily on him. Eventually this began to affect his own health.’ She looked away for a moment. Then raised her head once more. ‘I know how the yard works, and I know what is needed. I hope, I trust, that you will honour my father’s memory by building on the past and on your fathers’ achievements to give Tregonning’s an even brighter future, for yourselves and for your children. Thank you.’