Eye of the Wind (24 page)

Her gasp of ironic laughter was shaded with despair. ‘If only that were true, but it isn’t. Surely you have heard the men talking at the yard? Though I believe that, in general, they are kindly disposed toward me. But with my relatives it is different. My behaviour and my unmarried state are an embarrassment. The disappointing result – I am frequently reminded – of parental indulgence and my own wilfulness. I have only to exchange a few words with a member of the male sex, be it about the weather or the war, for gossip to fly. Then I am besieged by visits from my aunts, all agog with hope and speculation.’

She ought to withdraw her hand. But though her conscience was sending commands, her muscles would not respond. Nor did he move to release it. She could not, dare not, look at him for fear of what he might see. She was adrift, out of her depth. His touch had pushed her there. Yet while he held her she felt safe.

‘Right now,’ he said quietly, ‘no one knows where either of us is. But have you thought about the risk you are taking?’

Sharply conscious of her attraction to him, of their clasped hands, her nerves leapt. She cleared her throat. ‘You have never given me reason to consider myself in any danger.’

‘Melissa,’ he murmured. ‘How little you understand your effect on a man. But I meant the risk to your reputation should it ever become known you are making your visits without a chaperon. Even though –’ his voice grew harsh and strained ‘– you are here from motives of kindness and charity.’

Charity. Was that how he saw it? Was it not the wisest explanation for her presence? As she shook her bent head, her laugh held more pain than amusement. ‘It’s strange. Just weeks ago my aunt warned my mother that no man who valued his good name would wish to be associated with me.’

‘Why? What terrible thing had you done? Ah. Of course. Your interest in the yard.’

She nodded. ‘Since my father’s death my unsuitable interests seem suddenly less of a problem. Perhaps the fact that, should my brother not return alive from the West Indies, I will inherit a considerable fortune makes it easier now for gentlemen to overlook my disadvantages.’ Tension tightened her voice. ‘James certainly finds it so.’

‘James?’

‘A distant cousin, or so my aunt describes him. Though I do not recall ever meeting him before. Even if I did like him, which I don’t, for there is something deceitful in his manner, how could I think well of a man who would talk of marriage at our first meeting, and while I am in mourning?’

‘How indeed?’ His voice was oddly hollow.

‘At least I may come and visit you without fear of receiving a marriage proposal.’ She bent her head as hot tears stung her eyes. She had made herself to say it aloud, forced herself to face cruel reality. ‘You can have no idea,’ she babbled on, her throat aching, ‘what it feels like to be courted and flattered for what you hold title to, and not for the person you are.’

‘Can I not?’ he muttered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You are of age –’ he was brusque ‘– so you are free to make your own choices. No one can force you into marriage against your will. To swim against the tide of convention demands great strength of character, but you have that in plenty. Take heed, though. For the more freedom you claim, the higher the price.’

‘What is the price?’

His face changed, emotions passing like cloud shadows across his bruised and blood-streaked features as he regarded her. ‘Loneliness.’

‘Oh that,’ she murmured, shrugging lightly, ‘I’ve been paying for a long time.’

His fingers tightened for an instant, then releasing her hand he lay back, closing his good eye, his features drawn, whether in pain or exhaustion she couldn’t tell. Pulling the bucket closer, she took the cloths and salve from the basket.

It took some time to clean all the blood from his face. As she sponged and wiped, taking great care not to reopen cuts or press too hard on bruised and swollen flesh, she rinsed the cloth over and over again and watched the water in the bucket turn pink, then red. While half of her concentrated on what she was doing, the other half shimmered with awareness of the man himself. On one hand it was a simple act of kindness. But on the other, because of her attraction to him, it was an act of great intimacy. Far greater than when she had nursed him at the house. Then he had been unconscious. Now he was not. Despite the coolness of the water she grew hot, and her hands began to tremble.

He lay unnaturally still, emanating tension, deep lines etched between his brows and either side of his mouth. Eventually she could stand it no longer. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she blurted. ‘I really am trying to be gentle, but –’

‘You’re shaking.’ His eyes snapped open. ‘It is too much for you. I should never have let you –’

‘No! No, you are mistaken. It’s just – I –’ She could not tell him, for their situation was impossible. She had no right to voice a truth that might embarrass him, and must surely shame her. ‘You must forgive me, it’s just that – I received a letter this morning with some disturbing news about a friend. He’s in the navy, serving in one of the ships of the Channel squadron. Well, he was. His ship was sunk during an action and he’s been taken prisoner. Please, lie back. I’m almost finished.’

He lay down again, and closed his eyes. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘About three years. He and my brothers were at Naval College together. But I met him at an assembly in Truro.’

‘A local family?’ His eyes were still closed, and she could detect nothing but polite interest in his tone. Perhaps he was asking simply to take her mind off the unpleasantness of her task. He couldn’t know that though she wished he had not been hurt she was intensely glad to be able to do this for him. It was so little compared to all he had done for her.

‘They live at Malpas. Robert is so much at sea that it is more a friendship of letters. Through him I learnt much about life aboard ship, about the battles, and the inevitable casualties.’ His frown deepened. ‘In truth,’ she said quickly, ‘I preferred that to his protestations of affection. Besides, though I do not think he intended it so, his letters in some measure prepared me for the day that we heard my elder brother had been killed in battle.’ After a short silence, she took a deep breath. ‘I’m nearly finished.’ She opened the pot of salve and, with shaking fingers, smeared it carefully along the fresh scab. ‘This will help the healing, but I fear you will always bear a scar.’ She edged away, wiping the residue from her fingers.

He sat up, looking away from her. ‘You must go.’

He was right. She had done all she could. She had no reason to stay longer. Lifting the napkin parcel from the basket, she laid it on the rumpled blanket.

‘I thought – it will save you going to the village.’

He touched the napkin, and shook his head without speaking.

‘Consider it thanks for the fish.’ She forced herself to her feet, brushing the folds of her habit.

He stood up, moving with a care that clearly signalled pain.

They stood facing one another, barely a foot apart in the cramped space.

‘I – thank you,’ he said.

‘I owe you so much.’

‘You owe me nothing.’ His fierceness made her jump. Tentatively she offered her hand.

He stared at it then pulled the door wider. ‘For the love of God, Melissa.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Go.’ 

Chapter Eighteen

Leaving the shack, she walked to the yard, trying to ignore the throbbing in her temples, assuming it to be the result of shock at Gabriel’s appearance and her own anxiety. But as she stood with Tom, discussing progress on the packet, a sudden dizziness assailed her. Though unpleasant, it was short-lived. Relieved that Tom hadn’t noticed anything amiss, and not wanting to make a fuss though she didn’t feel at all well, she left very soon after.

Brushing aside Sarah’s observation that she looked pale, Melissa changed into a light muslin gown, soothed a scratchy throat and unusual thirst with two glasses of lemonade, and went to the study. She found it hard to concentrate, and by evening the throbbing had grown worse and felt like hammers pounding the inside of her skull. One minute she was dewed with perspiration, the next she felt chilled. Her eyes were hot and her nose had started to run. Unable to face her dinner, she sent apologies to Mrs Betts, and crawled into bed, forced to acknowledge Sarah was right. After priding herself on never being ill, she had caught the summer cold affecting the village.

Barely able to raise her head from the pillow, she spent most of the next three days sleeping. It was only now, forced to stop, that she realised how desperately tired she was and how much the past weeks had taken out of her. She woke only to drink glasses of lemon barley, and eat a few mouthfuls of the light, nourishing dishes Mrs Betts sent up on a tray.

By the fourth day she was feeling much better. While she was in her bath, Sarah changed the bed linen. Then, much refreshed though still weak, she slid between the fresh sheets. As she lay back against a pile of soft pillows encased in crisp, freshly ironed cotton, she thought of Gabriel’s bed: a pile of branches stuffed with grass and bracken to raise him a few inches off the earth floor, and two rough blankets. She pictured him lying on it, bruised and bloodstained. Once more she was swept by compassion and anger, but it ebbed before the force of a yearning so strong and powerful she was frightened and sought escape.

‘Have I missed anything while I’ve been ill? Is there any news from the village? ‘

Sarah glanced up. ‘Only that Sal Treen is walking around with a black eye and telling anyone that asks it was Jed what give it to her.’

‘She’s
proud
of it?’ Melissa was astonished.

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘You’d think it was a bunch of flowers. She say ’tis proof Jed love her. I think ’tis a warning to her, and to the men she been fooling with, of what Jed will do if he’s pushed too far. Mind, she do look happier than she have for a long time. And why not? She got what she wanted: Jed haven’t been out drinking since the night he set on Gabriel.’

‘How is Gabriel?’ It was perfectly reasonable that she ask. Impossible not to. But no one must know how much it mattered, especially Sarah, who was as sharp as a tack when it came to recognising things people preferred to keep secret. Melissa tugged a loose thread from one of the lace ruffles on her nightgown. ‘Has anyone seen him?’

‘They all have. John says he was back at work Monday morning just like normal. Got a face all colours of the rainbow, poor soul. But it haven’t slowed him down. John says he’s working like the devil was after him. He’ve been with Billy felling big trees on the north side. John have had some job –’ She stopped, shook her head, and picked up a crumpled pillowcase which she folded.

‘What? What has John had trouble with?’

‘No, miss. I never said trouble. But with only one horse, ’tis taking him longer and he been fretting about not getting the logs to where they’re to be picked up by the wagons.’

‘It’s my fault. I should –’ Melissa started, but Sarah wouldn’t let her finish

‘No such thing, miss. Begging your pardon. You couldn’t help being ill.’

‘Do the men know why I haven’t been down?’ Lying back, Melissa closed her eyes.

‘I expect John have told them. He asked after you Monday when he came over to pick up his dinner. Mrs Betts told him you wouldn’t be going nowhere ’cos you was bad with a cold and couldn’t get out the bed. Anyway, Gabriel told John he wasn’t to worry ’cos there was enough piled up for a few days yet. Once they had finished the big trees, Billy could carry on by hisself, and he would drive Captain.’

Had Gabriel guessed that whatever he said to John would find its way back to her? Was he reassuring her that everything was continuing as usual?

Sarah gathered up the rest of the bed linen to take downstairs. ‘Dear life! I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on. Mrs Betts said to ask if you fancy a bit of fish for your dinner.’

Melissa opened her eyes. ‘What kind of fish?’

‘Plaice. Do you good it would, steamed with a bit of butter and a drop of lemon.’ She opened the door, then turned back. ‘She’d dearly love to know where it come from. Always fresh caught, it is.’

Melissa stretched, raising her arms above her head. ‘Well, it’s very kind of someone to go to so much trouble. Tell Mrs Betts I’d love some.’

‘I thought you might,’ Sarah said drily, closing the door behind her.

The following day Melissa insisted on getting up. But after bathing, dressing and eating her breakfast, a definite wobble in her legs forced her to accept that it would be another couple of days before she was fully recovered. In the meantime she would do as Lobb and Sarah suggested, and sit out on the terrace in the warm sunshine.

‘I have no idea why I feel so weak,’ she complained to Sarah from beneath the broad-brimmed hat that shaded her face and shielded her eyes from the sun’s dazzle.

‘We been telling you for weeks you’re doing too much,’ Sarah scolded. ‘But would you listen? That’s how you took ill. I reck’n you got off light. Could have been far worse. At least you haven’t had the cough. Not like poor Mrs Betts. She got it awful. Making her throat some sore it is.’

‘I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You had enough to worry about. Anyhow, she’s coming on. Just got this nasty old cough.’

‘Is she taking anything for it?’

Sarah threw up her hands. ‘What isn’t she taking? She’ve tried all sorts. Her sister told her to slice an onion into a basin then put a layer of that there brown sugar between each slice. She was to leave it stand 24 hours then pour off the syrup and take a teaspoonful every whit and while.’ Sarah sniffed. ‘Well, she been swallowing the stuff since yesterday morning. It haven’t stopped her cough, but her breath would strip paint.’

‘Oh, the poor woman,’ Melissa sympathised. ‘I know a better remedy than that. It’s one Aunt Lucy sent for my mother when she had a sore throat during that cold, wet spell we had back in the spring. Look, I’ll come and –’

‘No, miss, you won’t, begging your pardon. You’re only just getting over the cold. You never had the cough, and the last thing we want is for you to go catching it now, which you would, being as how you’re still not properly right. What with Mr Lobb not looking at all hisself, the last place you should go is anywhere near the kitchen. So you tell me, and I’ll tell her.’

‘All right,’ Melissa said reluctantly. ‘It’s very simple, and it really works. It’s just equal quantities of treacle and vinegar in a small covered jar, set near a fire until they are fully dissolved. Then she must give the jar a good shake to make sure it’s mixed, and take one teaspoonful three or four times a day.’

‘I’ll tell her.’

‘Will you suggest to Mr Lobb that he takes it as well?’

‘I’ll tell him, miss, but whether he will or not …’ She shrugged. ‘You know what men are like. Master was just as bad, God rest him. Sooner suffer than admit there was anything wrong.’ She caught herself. ‘Still, like I say, you’re on the mend now. You just take things easy for another week.’

‘Sarah, I can’t possibly lie around doing nothing for another week. I dread to think how much has piled up in just these last few days. Listen.’ She held up her hand, effectively stopping her maid, whose lips had tightened ominously, from launching into another scolding. ‘That must be the postman. It’s too early for callers. Will you go and see? I’ll stay here a bit longer. It’s too nice to go inside just yet.’

Muttering under her breath, Sarah bustled away, returning a few moments later with a fat package from Mr Rogers, and a letter addressed in Aunt Louisa’s bold hand. There was still nothing from George. Though Melissa had schooled herself not to waste time on useless speculation, her disappointment was still sharp.

‘Thank you, Sarah.’ As the maid returned to the house, Melissa opened Mr Rogers’ package first. It enclosed a copy of Mr Sibley’s agreement to buy the two hunters at the agreed price. A covering letter announced that, if convenient, his grooms would collect them the following day. Checking the date, Melissa realised that meant today. She set it aside as a reminder to go and warn Hocking so he would have time to make the necessary preparations.

Returning to the letter, she smiled, delighted to read that Mr Nankivell had paid for the first ten wagonloads of wood. Part of this money, Mr Rogers informed her, had been used to settle in full the outstanding amounts owed to the tradesmen supplying equipment for the packet, the rest to pay a further instalment off the debt to the bank. He would draw a proportion of his own fee – a detailed account enclosed herewith – from the sum paid by Mr Sibley for the horses. The remainder would be held in his safe for the men’s next wages. A receipt signed by Thomas Vincent was also enclosed, showing his loan plus the interest to have been settled in full.

‘Continuing frugality will be necessary in the months ahead,’ the lawyer warned. ‘But I have great pleasure in confirming that, due to your remarkable efforts, all the more astonishing in view of your youth and inexperience in matters of business, all fears of foreclosure may be laid to rest.’

Her fingers tightening on the letter, Melissa tilted her head back, closing her eyes as she lifted her face to the sun’s warmth. Her heart swelled with relief and gratitude. She recalled Gabriel’s instructions on how she should bargain with Mr Nankivell. Without his advice and his work in the woods – she shivered violently. It didn’t bear thinking about. No matter what he said, she owed him more than she could ever repay. Why, then, had he said she owed him nothing?

Heaving a deep sigh, she refolded the letter and put it on the table at her elbow, and broke the seal on her aunt’s.

‘My dear Melissa, my woman tells me you have been confined to bed with a cold. This really is most inconvenient as James will only be with us another week before important business necessitates his departure for London.’

Melissa battled with frustration as she gazed across the terrace. Anyone would think she had contracted a cold specifically to cause maximum disruption to her aunt’s plans. With a sigh, she acknowledged that she might have done, had such a thing been possible. Why wouldn’t they just leave her alone? She read on.

‘As there is still no news from your brother, and we have no idea how long it may be before a letter is received (if at all) your Uncle Brinley is most concerned for your wellbeing. It was against his better judgement that he allowed you to persuade him you needed no assistance with legal and financial matters after your father died. Nothing will satisfy him but to have you reassure him in person everything is as it should be. I should tell you your Uncle Marcus and Aunt Sophie share our concern. Having discussed the matter, and in the light of your indisposition – from which I understand you are now making a good recovery …’

How does she obtain her information? Melissa wondered, more intrigued than angry. Anger cost effort and she had none to spare. After all, Aunt Louisa’s bossiness and meddling were something she had lived with all her life. For the most part she had simply ignored them and gone her own way, encouraged by her father and secure in his love. Did they think, because he was no longer here, that she would be more easily manipulated? She picked up the letter once more.

‘… we decided that, rather than jeopardise your recovery by asking you to drive over to dine with us, it would be far more sensible if we were to come to you. You will have been sadly short of company, so a happy family dinner must surely lift your spirits. And a quick look at your father’s books will set your uncles’ minds at rest. Having seen so little of you since your father’s death, they have grown increasingly worried that there might be something amiss.’

Crushing the sheet, Melissa drew a deep breath, anger at her aunt’s presumption shaded with anxiety. On no account could she allow them to examine her father’s books.

‘Everything all right?’ Sarah asked, setting down a glass of lemon barley on the table at her elbow.

‘My aunts and uncles have invited themselves to dinner.’ Melissa smoothed out the sheet and frowned at it. ‘Next Friday.’

‘Ah,’ Sarah replied, the brief sound loaded with meaning.

Melissa stood up. ‘I’m just going to walk across to the stables and let Hocking know that Mr Sibley’s men will be coming for father’s two hunters this afternoon.’

‘Don’t you go overdoing it, mind,’ Sarah warned.

‘I won’t,’ Melissa grimaced, and waved Aunt Louisa’s letter. ‘I’m going to need all my strength.’

A quick look at her father’s books. Over her dead body. They had not invested in the yard, only in the packet. They were free to see the ship, and discuss its progress with Tom, any time they wanted. But they hadn’t bothered. If they wanted reassurance, she would give it. She could claim with total honesty that all accounts were paid up to date. But examining her father’s ledgers and correspondence was out of the question. She would tell them it was all with Mr Rogers, for she suspected it was curiosity, linked with the arrival of James Chenoweth, that had precipitated this sudden rush of familial concern. Though Aunt Louisa had only mentioned his name as an aside, Melissa knew she had not given up. He would be one of the party. This sudden interest in the Tregonning finances was no doubt prompted by a desire to discover the potential size of her dowry.

Despite the heat of the late July sun, Melissa felt a brief chill as she contemplated the gathering. Then she straightened her back. “As you are of age you are free to make your own choices. No one can force you into marriage against your mill.” Gabriel’s words, his voice, echoed in her mind. Infused with new strength, she inhaled deeply, drawing into her lungs the sweet scents of the summer morning.