Eye of the Wind (5 page)

His relief was visible. She felt a pang of mingled hurt and amusement that he should have feared she would fall into hysterics. Did he really not know her better than that? Then her sense of fairness asserted itself. Never before had he been forced to give her such news.

‘Well, ’tis mainly Keast’s, over the cordage. But when young Billy come back from Eddyvean’s he said they told’n they weren’t letting no more sails out of the loft till they seen some money.’

Melissa’s chin rose as indignation bubbled up inside her. ‘Did they indeed? Well, they had no right to involve Billy in a matter which can be settled only between Mr Eddyvean and my father.’

‘True, Miss, and so I told him. But –’

‘I’ll speak to my father as soon as I get home.’ She smoothed her York tan gloves over her fingers, anger warring with burgeoning dismay. It was understandable that her father had spent less time on the business since Adrian’s death. Yet with Tom running things it should have made little practical difference. But the fact that accounts clearly long overdue had not been settled was not only a deeply unpleasant shock, it was completely out of character. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I promise I’ll be tactful.’

He followed her out, rubbing his knuckles as she untied Samson and led him to the mounting block. ‘I’m some sorry, miss. I don’t like putting it on you. If there was another way …’

Swinging herself into the saddle, Melissa quickly arranged her skirts, then gathered up the reins. ‘I know, Tom. But there isn’t.’

Back in the house, Melissa managed to reach her room without seeing anyone. Two such different yet profoundly unsettling events in such a short space of time had left her badly shaken and she needed to regain her emotional balance before facing her father. But on opening the door she found Sarah waiting.

‘Morning, miss,’ she beamed. ‘Nice ride, was it? I knew soon as I seen the sunshine that’s where you’d gone. Bath’s all ready and your clothes laid out.’ She peered closer, her sharp little face puckering in concern. ‘All right, are you?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ With a brief smile, Melissa turned away, unbuttoning her dress. Too independent to enjoy being fussed over, she had always resisted having a personal maid or dresser. It hadn’t been easy to convince her mother that her needs fitted in perfectly with Sarah’s duties as senior housemaid, but the obvious success of the arrangement had proved her point. ‘Samson was a bit full of himself this morning, that’s all.’

Sarah shuddered. ‘Great thing he is. He do terrify me.’

‘Oh Sarah. He’s as gentle as a lamb.’

‘He might be for you. I heard John say he do try and nip Mr Hocking.’

Melissa had a startling mental picture of shaggy black curls, and Samson’s ears twitching then pointing forward in response to the strange sounds the man was making.

‘I put out your blue.’ Sarah scooped up the riding dress and bore it off, calling over her shoulder, ‘Soon as you’ve bathed, I’ll give your hair a good brush. Look like you been pulled through a hedge backwards, you do.’

‘Thank you, Sarah,’ said Melissa dryly as she twisted her hair into a large knot on top of her head and secured it with several pins. She stepped into the bath and lowered herself into the warm water.

But instead of relaxing against the high back and allowing herself the usual few minutes’ relaxation and daydreaming, she reached immediately for the soap and cloth. With so much to do, the sooner she got started the better. Despite the importance of the conversation she must have with her father, she sensed that unless she kept her thoughts focused they would stray on to paths that were both dangerous and futile.

Fresh and cool in a full-skirted gown of pale blue muslin with a dark-blue sash below a deep double frill edging the low, round neck, her hair brushed to a gleaming ebony cascade, Melissa knocked lightly on her mother’s door and went in. The room smelled slightly stale and the curtains were still half drawn.

She tiptoed to the bed where Emma lay against a bank of pillows, grape-coloured shadows beneath her closed eyes.

‘Good morning, Mama,’ she whispered.

Emma Tregonning’s eyelids flickered open. She tried to smile but the effort was too great.

Addey waddled across, carrying a bundle of crumpled linen. ‘Tossed and turned all night, she did. Got some nasty cough. The fever haven’t broke yet. But I’ve just gived her a nice wash and she’s more comfortable.’

‘Do you think we might open the window for a few minutes?’ Melissa suggested.

Addey frowned. ‘Oooh, I don’t know about that. If she was to get in a draught you don’t know what –’

‘Just to change the air. It’s a beautiful morning. In fact,’ Melissa added as inspiration struck, ‘it’s warmer outside than it is in here. So I really don’t think she’ll be in any danger.’

Addey hesitated for a moment, then sighed, her chin jutting. ‘Only for a few minutes, mind.’

As Melissa pushed back the curtains, she saw the postman trotting up the drive. A letter from George would do more to restore her mother’s health than any prescription of Dr Wherry’s. But knowing better than to mention it she simply stood at the window, pretending difficulty with the catch. She wouldn’t open it until the postman had gone.

‘Melissa?’ At the sound of her mother’s voice, weak and slightly hoarse, Melissa turned and went to her side.

‘Would you like some more lemon barley? Or maybe a cup of beef tea?’

Emma Tregonning’s eyes were open and she was staring at the window. She clutched her daughter’s hand. ‘Is that the postman’s horse?’

Reluctantly Melissa nodded. Since her brothers had first entered the navy, her father had paid a pound a year to ensure early delivery of the mail. ‘I’ll go and see if there’s anything for you, shall I?’

Lobb was in the hall. He had placed the letters – one with a distinctive green seal – on a silver salver and was about to take them into the dining- room for her father to read over breakfast. He glanced up, saw her midway down the stairs and, knowing her errand, shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, miss.’

‘So am I, Lobb. It would have made all the difference. Is my father down yet?’

‘He is, miss. Will you be joining him for breakfast?’

‘Yes. Would you tell him I’ll be with him in just a few minutes?’ Turning, Melissa went back upstairs. Before re-entering her mother’s room she paused to take a deep breath and steel herself against the disappointment her mother would make a valiant effort to hide.

As she slipped inside, Addey looked up; the naked hope on her plump face fading quickly as Melissa made a brief negative gesture.

‘Pity,’ Addey muttered for Melissa’s ears alone. ‘‘T would have bucked her up good and proper. Oh well, least said soonest mended. You go on down and have your breakfast. There isn’t no more you can do for now. I daresay your father will be glad of a bit of company. I only hope he don’t go down with it. Not like hisself at all he isn’t, nor haven’t been for weeks.’

‘Well, it’s not an easy time for either of them.’ The matters she had to discuss with him would add even more pressure, Melissa acknowledged as she walked downstairs and crossed the hall to the dining room. But they could not be put off any longer.

Francis Tregonning was seated at the head of the table, gazing fixedly at the letter he held. It trembled slightly in his grasp, the broken edge of green wax visible at the top. The other lay read and discarded on the table. A napkin was tucked into his striped waistcoat, and a half-eaten plate of kedgeree lay congealing in front of him.

‘Good morning, Papa.’

The butler set a dish of raspberries in front of her. ‘Mrs Betts sent these up for you, miss.’

‘How kind. Will you thank her, Lobb? I shall enjoy them.’

‘Would you like the kedgeree, miss? Or perhaps some eggs?’

‘One poached egg, a slice of toast, and a cup of hot chocolate, please.’ The ride had been invigorating, but she wasn’t as hungry as usual. Perhaps once she started eating her appetite would return.

‘Just one egg?’ The question betrayed Lobb’s surprise.

‘Just one, thank you.’

‘Very good, miss. You’re quite well?’

That was the trouble with long-serving trusted staff. They fussed.

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you, Lobb. I had a most enjoyable ride this morning and I have a busy day ahead.’ Melissa flashed him a meaningful smile.

‘Quite so. Then you’ll be needing a good breakfast, miss,’ the butler responded blandly, turning away to the sideboard.

Melissa picked up her napkin. Her father seemed unaware she had entered the room. ‘Papa?’ She leant forward slightly. ‘Is everything all right?’

Francis Tregonning raised his head. ‘Melissa?’

Melissa wondered for an instant if he could see her, for he seemed tentative and confused, as if the room was dark instead of bright with morning sunshine.

Concerned, she reached out and touched his hand. ‘What is it, Papa? Have you had bad news?’

He blinked, and made a brave effort to pull himself together. ‘No. Everything is fine. It’s nothing at all. Well, just a minor matter I have to sort out. But nothing to worry about.’ Swiftly refolding the letter in his hand, he laid it on top of the one on the table, pressing both flat. ‘Have you seen your mother this morning? How is she?’ He reached for his cup, but his hand was shaking so badly the coffee slopped over the rim into the saucer. ‘Damn it, Lobb!’ he roared. ‘Why must you fill the cup to the brim? Makes a dreadful mess.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I’ll bring you a fresh cup immediately.’

‘Yes, do that. And don’t fill it so full this time.’

Melissa caught the butler’s eye, and read in Lobb’s carefully blank expression understanding of the strain the anniversary of Adrian’s death and his wife’s illness had placed on his master. She turned to her father.

‘Mama still has a fever. She was hoping so much that the postman might have brought a letter from George. I’m sure if one arrived her recovery would be twice as swift.’

‘I wish he was here,’ her father murmured with a desperation that wrenched Melissa’s heart.

‘Indeed, we all do, Papa.’ If George were here he would be dealing with all the problems and she would not be facing the most difficult moments of her life. After a short pause to screw up her courage and choose her words, she began. ‘I went for a ride this morning.’ She grieved at the effort it cost him to appear interested.

‘That’s nice.’ His smile was a travesty. And his fingers fretted at the edge of the folded letter.

‘I gave Samson a gallop across the park and through the woods.’

‘How’s that strained tendon?’

‘Fine, Papa. He’s perfectly sound. But the gales have brought down two trees across the path. And I’m almost certain I saw more storm damage further in. The thing is, Papa, Tom is becoming really concerned.’

‘He’s got enough wood to finish the packet, hasn’t he?’ His unexpected belligerence was startling.

‘Yes.’ She knew his anger wasn’t directed at her. But this uncharacteristic outburst forced her to recognise the truth of his claim that the yard and estate had become too heavy a burden for him to manage alone. ‘There’s also enough for the keel and frame of the next ship. But the store must be replenished soon.’

‘I
know,
dammit!’ Leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, her father rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m trying, but there are other … Look, tell Tom …’ He winced, pressing his fingertips to his temple. ‘Tell him … Tell him … Oh …’ Je gasped as his right arm buckled, sliding off the mahogany. As he slumped forward his head hit the table with a thud that made the china jump and the cutlery rattle.

For a split second Melissa simply stared, too shocked to move. Then, thrusting her chair back, she ran to him with Lobb only a pace behind.

‘Papa?’

As the butler gripped his shoulders and pulled him upright, Francis Tregonning’s head flopped sideways. Melissa cupped her father’s face. The right side seemed to have slipped, like wax that had melted. His eyes were closed, and a silver thread drooled from one corner of his mouth.

‘Papa? What’s wrong?’

‘I fear your father has had a stroke, miss. I recognise the signs. Mrs Betts’s brother, Henry, was taken the same way. If you’ll ring for Gilbert we’ll get him up to his room while you call the doctor.’

‘What?’ The floor seemed to tilt, and the butler’s voice echoed strangely as fear rampaged through her. How serious was it? How was she to tell her mother? Who would take control now? What of the yard, the farm, the suppliers …

‘Come along now, Miss Melissa.’ Lobb’s voice, quiet but firm, pulled her back from the edge of panic. ‘Master wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this. Best if we get him upstairs as quick as we can.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Sucking in a deep breath, she pressed clammy hands to her cheeks as she crossed the room to tug the bell rope. As soon as Gilbert arrived, she went to the kitchen to tell Sarah and Mrs Betts that her father had been taken ill, then sent Agnes to fetch John. Back in the hall, on her way to write a note for Dr Wherry, she was halted by the appalling spectacle of her proud father, the front of his breeches wet, hanging limp and undignified between the two men struggling up the stairs. 

Chapter Four

Dawn had just broken when Gabriel woke. The rain had stopped and all around he could hear the drip of water from the leaves; too much of it dripping into the roofless part of the shack. The air smelled of wet earth and decaying vegetation. Dressing quickly, he had hurried to the beach for more remnants of sail canvas. He had found them, only to be severely jolted by an unexpected encounter with a startled horse and rider as he returned along the path.

Back at the shack, slamming a mental door on desires too dangerous even to contemplate, he had washed his face and hands. Then, using his dagger to fashion a crude comb from a piece of wood, had worked most of the tangles from his hair before tying it back once more.

He had never been a vain man, and had little patience with the extravagances of fashion. Some of his friends sported shirt points so high and stiff that turning the head was impossible without risking loss of an eye. Their jackets were cut so close that to put one on required the assistance of a valet and two servants. They admired buttons the size of saucers, and intricately arranged neckcloths that might take an hour and several attempts to achieve.

When they chided him for his lack of style he merely shrugged, replying that they had his blessing to do as they wished. For himself, he believed life was too short to be wasted in front of a mirror. While he trusted Berryman with his boots, his razor, and his life, he was perfectly capable of dressing himself, and in truth he preferred to do so.

Would he ever see any of them again? Even if he did, things could never be the same. For though he had been absent a little less than a year he was no longer the man they had known.

Aware that he had not yet fully recovered, and the day would tax his strength to its limit, Gabriel deliberately ate a hearty breakfast. It was, he decided as he finished all that remained of the food, an act of faith: faith in himself. He had stolen because he’d had no choice. And he had been lucky, for had he been caught, the outcome, once his identity was known, would be death. So if he wanted to eat again, that day or any other, obtaining work was imperative.

After hiding the bucket and cooking pot out of sight with his blanket and spare clothes, he set off for the yard. Once on the path, the sights, smells, and sounds of the summer morning were lost on him as his desperate barriers were demolished by a rushing torrent of vivid memory. Images flooded his mind: no helpless, frightened girl, but a strong, athletic young woman, her face aglow with pleasure and hair flying like a flag as her horse had hurtled round the bend. Though she had cried out a startled warning, she had not panicked, and her reactions had been lightning fast.

His own move to seize the bridle in case the alarmed animal threw her off had been instinctive, though unwise. A person of his supposed low class would have been more likely to stumble back out of the way. The suddenness of the encounter meant his impressions had necessarily been brief. But her trim waist belied her undoubted strength, for her mount was a huge brute that even he, in his former life, would not have scorned. Her open-skirted riding dress of garnet red revealed a white petticoat. And a rippling cascade of dark hair framed her face, pale above the fluted cambric covering her full bosom.

But when he had stilled the fractious horse and glanced up, seeing her properly had stopped his breath. As he looked into those magnificent emerald eyes his heart had turned over. He had watched her gaze widen and swift colour warm her cheeks as she caught her breath. Immediately looking away, his heart racing as it had not done since his capture, he had cursed himself for a fool. Was he not in enough danger? He sensed – knew – the attraction was mutual, profound. And hopeless. The best thing, the only thing, was to ignore it, forget it, and pretend it had never happened.

Keeping his gaze lowered, he had knuckled his forehead in time-honoured fashion, then bent to gather up the dropped canvas. But, as she kicked her mount on, he had not been able to resist lifting his head to watch her go.

Now, as he walked, he searched his memory for every tiny detail, recalling the light dusting of freckles across her nose and the golden tint beneath her rosy blush. Few women of his acquaintance would be so careless of their complexion. But then, few women he knew could have handled the big thoroughbred with such gentle expertise. The beast must have stood a good 18 hands. So how tall was she?

As for the rest of her features, he seemed to remember a neat, straight nose, a generous mouth too wide for classical beauty, and a firm, resolute chin. Slashing in frustration at a stand of nettles, he hurled the stick away. Why torment himself? As Lord Roland Stratton he could have asked friends to arrange an introduction, for she was obviously a gentleman’s daughter, but as Gabriel Ennis, his inferior station in life put her far beyond his reach.

The boatyard was below him. Knowing he would provoke at best curiosity, at worst suspicion, were he to arrive from the beach, he remained on the path and followed it to the village, as he had done the other night.

Approaching the big wooden gates, now open and fastened back, he caught the sound of voices just inside. ‘… Only food? You sure?’

‘That’s what I heard. Don’t make no sense, do it? Who’d break into an inn and not help hisself to a drink?’

‘A bleddy fool, that’s who. More hair than brains. Lest he’s a Methodist, of course. Right, come on, pick ’n up.’

The realisation that the two men were discussing him broke Gabriel’s stride, but only for an instant. He had, in every sense, come too far to turn back. Also, it was more than likely they had heard his footsteps. Though the arrival of a stranger in this small backwater was bound to arouse interest, there was nothing to connect him directly to the theft. It was to be hoped the villagers would find it impossible to conceive of a thief bold enough, or stupid enough, to return in broad daylight and ask for a job.

Subtly altering his appearance by lowering his head and hunching his shoulders, he walked through the gate. The two men he had heard talking were heading away, one each end of a long wooden ladder, toward the slip on which a framework of props and wooden scaffolding surrounded the hull of a newly built ship. Slowing his step, Gabriel peered about him, signalling his uncertainty.

‘Looking for someone?’ The suspicious shout was accompanied by a sudden loud hiss.

Glancing round, he saw clouds of steam billowing from the open doorway of a squat stone building with a slate roof and a wide doorway. Made of weathered vertical planks, the door was mounted on two wheels that ran along an iron rail parallel to the front wall. The steam evaporated to reveal a thickset man wearing a filthy leather apron that covered him from chin to ankles. In the background, Gabriel saw glowing coals on the forge hearth. An anvil and a large water butt stood on the beaten earth floor, and metal of varying lengths, shapes, and sizes was propped against the walls or lay in small, rusting piles. The sleeves of the blacksmith’s shirt were rolled up, exposing brawny forearms, and in one huge fist he held a long-handled pair of tongs that gripped a still-steaming bar of metal.

Softly Gabriel cleared his damaged throat before calling out, ‘Foreman?’

The blacksmith stared hard at him for a moment, then gestured with the bar to a similar building opposite.

With a nod, Gabriel crossed to it, and knocked on the open door.

‘Yo!’ The voice was gruff and preoccupied. Ducking his head, Gabriel paused in the doorway.

‘Come in if you’re coming. I can’t see a bleddy thing with you blocking the light.’

Gabriel stepped inside. The small room contained a big table, a battered cupboard, and a scarred wooden armchair on whose seat was a crushed cushion of faded pattern and indeterminate colour. The table was strewn with half-models of ships, each mounted on a flat piece of wood a few inches larger; two broken blocks, an assortment of copper bolts, a sail-maker’s metal palm, a fid for splicing rope, and some pieces of wood. Several leather-bound ledgers were stacked untidily on the cupboard’s top.

A year ago he would have been surprised at the lack of paper, for there were no drawings or plans, but he was wiser now. The navy might use drawings, but small shipyards worked from three-dimensional half-hulls that showed the desired length, width, depth, and sheer. These were then scaled up; the lines of the model drawn out full size on the lofting floor, after which wooden templates were made of the principal timbers such as frames and stem and stern pieces.

Standing behind the table, scratching his scalp through the wiry grey frizz that surrounded his head like a halo, the foreman looked up, gave a slight start, and muttered, ‘God a’mighty.’ Planting his knuckles on the table, he stuck out a pugnacious chin. ‘Well? What do you want?’

Aware that short men found his size both intimidating and a challenge, Gabriel did not approach the cluttered table, remaining instead at the back of the small room. ‘A job.’ Wincing inwardly at the hoarse growl that was all he could manage, he saw that beneath the bushy brows the foreman’s pale-blue eyes were as sharp as a gutting knife as they swept over him from his coarse linen shirt, battered leather waistcoat, and stained breeches to his topboots. The foreman’s gaze lingered a fraction too long; as it flicked up once more, Gabriel recognised suspicion and waited for the question. To his surprise, it didn’t come, but the foreman’s voice was terse.

‘Wassamatter with your voice? Got a sore throat?’

Gabriel’s lips twitched. He gave a brief, ironic nod as he leant forward and turned down the top of the bandage just enough to reveal the edge of the horrific wound.

‘Bleddy ’ell.’ The foreman grimaced. ‘How did you get that?’

‘Prisoner,’ Gabriel rasped. ‘In France. Stole the boots when I escaped.’

‘Ah.’ The foreman nodded, ‘I was wond’ring about they. Not from round here, are you? How haven’t you gone home?’

Gabriel was ready for this. ‘Can’t. Press gang.’ The cracked sounds emerging from his throat sounded more painful than they now felt. It occurred to him then that the limitations imposed on his speech were an asset rather than a liability. For, though he was Cornish-born, he had none of the working men’s rolling burr.

The foreman’s eyes rounded. ‘They’d take you again?’

‘They’d try.’

‘Got a name?’

‘Ennis. Gabriel Ennis.’

The foreman sniffed. ‘What’s your trade?’

Mentally crossing his fingers, Gabriel rasped, ‘I’m a carpenter.’ He dare not say shipwright. For though that was the work he had been doing in the French yards, in England he would have been exempted from the press by the need for new ships and trained men to build them. ‘I worked on a big estate.’

The foreman scrabbled about in the clutter, picked up a broken block and two other pieces of wood, and tossed them, one after the other, at Gabriel, whose swift reflexes, honed by months surviving in an enemy country, enabled him to catch them easily.

It was a test. Glancing at each piece as he felt the grain and assessed the colour, Gabriel felt his tension ease. ‘The block is ash. This is oak, a split treenail.’ He pronounced it “trennal”, as the foreman would have done. ‘The broken spar is pine.’

The foreman sniffed again. ‘When can you start?’

‘Now.’

‘You got somewhere to stay?’

Gabriel nodded.

‘You heard what happened last night? The thieving?’

Gabriel nodded again.

‘What you got to say about it?’

Recognising the foreman’s suspicions, Gabriel held his gaze. ‘I’d guess whoever did it was starving. A man in work has no need to steal.’

‘I don’t suppose you got a farthing to your name, you just back from France and all.’ He frowned at Gabriel, who met the piercing eyes and waited, saying nothing. ‘So you give me a good day’s work, and I’ll pay you tonight instead of the end of the week. We got good shops in the village. Willy Bowden’ll see you right. He’s the grocer. Mrs Mitchell run the bakehouse since her Cyrus passed away last year. Tell them Tom Ferris sent you.’

Gabriel knuckled his forehead. ‘Much obliged.’ Those two words didn’t even begin to express his relief and gratitude. But to say more risked compromising his identity and therefore his safety.

Tom glared at him. ‘I won’t have no trouble.’

‘You’ll get none from me.’

After a long moment and another hard stare, Tom nodded abruptly. ‘C’mon then, can’t hang around here burning daylight.’ With a sniff and a jerk of his head to indicate Gabriel should follow, the foreman set off across the yard to a long wooden shed with double doors at each end currently hooked back to admit maximum light.

Bent over trestles and wooden cradles, two shipwrights assisted by two young apprentices were shaping spars amid a thick carpet of golden sawdust and pale shavings. As he inhaled the sweet, resinous scent of pine, Gabriel recalled the Swiss forests, and fought a rush of memories both pleasant and painful.

Maintaining his slightly stooped, self-effacing posture, he quickly scanned the big shed. Each man’s tool bag sat on the heavy bench that ran the length of one wall. Other tools – saws, adzes, and chisels – were slotted in a wooden rack above the bench. On the opposite side of the airy shed were stacked different types, shapes, and sizes of wood. The stacks were lower than Gabriel expected. Much would have gone into the hull shored up on the slipway. Presumably there was another store from which they drew seasoned wood.

‘Here, you two, I got another carpenter. Name of –’ He turned to Gabriel. ‘Got a head like a sieve, I have. What did you say you was called again?’

Another test? ‘Ennis. Gabriel Ennis.’

At the hoarse rasp the two men exchanged a glance before eyeing him uncertainly.

Tom addressed them in a confiding tone. ‘In prison in France, he was. They near enough cut his throat, poor bugger, that’s how he can’t speak proper.’ He turned to Gabriel. ‘Show ’em what they done to you.’

Reluctant, but aware it would aid his acceptance, which was no doubt what the shrewd foreman intended, Gabriel leant forward and pulled down the edge of the bandage, swiftly replacing it as both men grimaced and studied him with new respect.