Eye of the Wind (8 page)

‘Haven’t seen you round here before.’ Her gaze was shrewd.

Gabriel gave her a brief, cool smile, sensing he would achieve more with reserve than by trying to ingratiate himself. ‘Not been here before. I’m working at the yard.’ He reached into his pocket.

Hearing the clink and jingle of coins, the woman’s eyes brightened, but she was still suspicious. ‘Some bad cold you got.’

Sighing inwardly, he shook his head and lifted his chin to reveal the bandage. ‘Prisoner in France, escaped.’

‘Dear life! They never tried to cut your throat?’

He shook his head. ‘Irons, chained to a wall.’ He held out his wrists.

One hand flew to her bosom. ‘You poor soul. What you doing here? ‘How haven’t you gone back where you belong?’

‘Can’t. Press gang.’

Anger drew her brows together and she clicked her tongue. ‘That’s never right. Shouldn’t be allowed. Dear life! ‘

Physically exhausted, stomach cramping with hunger, Gabriel knew the sympathy and indignation were kindly meant. But he couldn’t take any more. He needed food, but craved the peace and solitude of the woods. ‘Tom Ferris said –’

‘Tom sent you? Well, why didn’t you say? Now, just give me a moment.’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she bustled around behind the counter.

Gabriel laid his money on the top and watched with increasing concern as Mrs Mitchell packed a basket with a loaf, a saffron cake, and a steaming, golden pasty.

‘Wait. Beg pardon, ma’am, but I can’t –’

Placing the basket on the counter, she pushed the coins toward him. ‘You put they back in your pocket. Better still, buy yourself a pitcher of ale to wash down the pasty.’ She winked, sighing fondly. ‘My Cyrus did used to love a glass of ale with his pasty.’

Scooping up the coins and picking up the basket, Gabriel saluted her. ‘Very kind of you.’

Her flustered response – shooing him away with flapping hands – suggested she had little experience of compliments or gratitude. ‘Get on. No such thing.’ Then concern and curiosity reasserted themselves. ‘Where you staying to?’

Moving easily toward the door, Gabriel smiled. ‘I’m all right.’

‘In the village, are you?’

‘Not far.’ He jerked a thumb vaguely.

‘You be in again?’

‘If you’ll take my money.’

She threw up her hands, laughing. ‘Some hard man you are.’

‘But fair.’

Her chuckles remained with him as he hesitated outside a small stone cottage with a weathered board nailed above the doorway. The painted name had long since faded to illegibility. Tiny windows were thrown open to the evening, but whether to let fresh air in, or the smell of stale beer, wet sawdust, and tobacco smoke out, only the landlord knew. After a moment’s hesitation, Gabriel ducked inside. It had been a long, hard day, and though brandy or a fine claret would have been his choice, he would gladly settle for a jar of ale.

In one corner, a wizened old man sucked on a clay pipe. Another two were hunched over a table talking quietly together. They all looked round to see who had come in, and remained silent, watching, until Gabriel left with the basket in one hand, a stone jar of ale in the other, and all too few coins left in his pocket.

Deeply asleep, Melissa wove the sounds into her dream. But the soft persistent knocking grew increasingly urgent. She turned over. The grey light percolating through the summer curtains told her it was too early. Even the sun wasn’t up yet. Still tired, she rubbed her eyes. Then the knocking came again. She heard hurried footsteps and anxious whispers outside her door. Addey and Lobb.

Throwing back the covers, almost tripping over her long, white nightdress, Melissa hurled herself at the door and wrenched it open. Butler and nurse jumped violently. Both were fully dressed, but it was clear that while Addey had slept in her clothes, keeping vigil beside her mistress, Lobb’s dishevelled air betrayed a recent hasty rousing from his bed.

Addey’s hands covered her mouth as if to stop any sound escaping, but her eyes were wide and wet with tears.

‘’Tis the master, Miss Melissa,’ Lobb said gently.

‘What happened? Is he worse?’ Melissa would have started along the passage. But, to her astonishment, Lobb stepped in front of her, grave and gentle.

‘I’m ever so sorry, miss. I’m afraid he’s gone.’

She rocked as if he had hit her. Her throat suddenly dried, so when she swallowed it felt sharp and painful. ‘You’re sure? I mean, it couldn’t be just –?’

‘Quite sure, miss. It was sudden but very peaceful. Gilbert will tell you himself.’

‘He was there?’ At least her father had not died alone.

‘He was, miss. I’d only just gone to my bed. We – Gilbert and me – have been taking turns to sit with master. Anyway, it can’t have been no more than half an hour after I’d left the room when Gilbert comes to tell me master’s gone. It happened that quick, Gilbert didn’t even have time to get out of the chair. So, with respect, miss, don’t you start fretting about no one from the family being with him, for he couldn’t have known nothing about it. All over in a breath, it was. That’s the honest truth.’

Melissa searched his face, but his gaze, though shocked and sad, never wavered. She glanced from Lobb to Addey. ‘Does my mother know?’

The old nurse’s face crumpled as, hands still clamped over her mouth, she gave a muffled squeak before shaking her head.

‘I must go to her.’ The passage floor felt as though it was heaving beneath Melissa’s feet as she hurried to her mother’s room. This wasn’t happening. It was just a nightmare. Only it wasn’t her imagination run riot, a terrible dream from which waking would rescue her: it was real. And there was no escape.

Emma Tregonning lay on her side with only her head above the bedclothes. A frilled lawn nightcap tied with strings beneath her chin covered her hair, so that in the dim light her face looked small, almost childlike on the pillow. Her slow breathing indicated deep sleep.

Reaching out to touch her mother’s shoulder, Melissa hesitated, then withdrew her hand, instead clasping her arms across her chest. What purpose would it serve? Would it not be wiser, kinder, to let her sleep as long as possible? Why wake her now and burden her with yet more grief? It could not change what had happened. Stepping back from the bed, Melissa turned to the old nurse who had followed her in.

‘You stay here, Addey. I’ll ask Sarah or Agnes to bring you up some tea.’

‘Tea?’ Addey whispered, shocked. ‘This time of the morning?’

Melissa drew a deep shaking breath. ‘Why not? I think we’ll both feel better for something hot to drink.’

‘Yes, well, perhaps you’re right. I tell you, ’tis going to be some awful day.’ Her face crumpled again, and she pressed both hands to her wet cheeks. ‘What am I going to say to the poor dear soul when she do wake?’

‘Nothing, Addey. You don’t have to say anything.’ Melissa put an arm around the shaking shoulders. ‘The moment she opens her eyes, you come and fetch me. I’ll tell her. But I hope, for her sake, she sleeps for another few hours. Now come and sit down here.’ Pressing her gently into a high-backed chair upholstered in rose velvet, Melissa crouched to pick up the soft rug from the floor where it had dropped, and laid it over the old woman’s knees.

‘Where will you be?’ The anxiety in Addey’s face and her clutching hand startled Melissa for an instant. A skipped heartbeat and welling fear accompanied her realisation that, from this moment, everyone in the household would look to her for reassurance, decisions and orders. It was too much. How would she cope?

‘I won’t be far away. Lobb or Sarah will find me. Try to rest now. My mother will need you to be strong, Addey. And so shall I.’

Returning to her room, Melissa flung back the curtains and looked out on to a mist-shrouded world. Beyond the trees and curving hillside, the rising sun had washed the eastern sky pale primrose. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Closing her eyes tightly and swallowing the agonising stiffness in her throat, Melissa took another deep breath. Dr Wherry had warned her, and in her heart of hearts she knew it was for the best. It had been a swift passing, no pain or struggle, no gradual decline that would have robber her father of dignity. It was just – too soon.

Reaching into her closet, she took out a robe. She was slipping her arms into it when Sarah peered round the door, round-eyed with shock. Melissa didn’t wait for her to speak.

‘Sarah, before you run my bath, would you make a pot of tea and bring a cup for me and one for Miss Addey? She’s sitting with my mother.’

Sarah nodded quickly. ‘Shall I bring one for mistress as well?’

‘No, she’s asleep so please be as quiet as you can.’

Following Sarah out, still tying the belt of her robe, Melissa walked along the passage to her father’s room. After a brief pause outside to gather her strength, she tapped very gently to warn Gilbert of her presence, then entered.

Seated on the chest at the foot of the large oak bed, his head in his hands, Gilbert looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, and shot to his feet.

‘Oh miss –’ His voice broke.

Melissa linked her fingers tightly. ‘There’s nothing you could have done, Gilbert. But you were here. That’s what matters. He wasn’t alone.’

‘Twenty years.’ The valet struggled for control. ‘Started as a bootboy, then Mr Lobb trained me up for manservant. Said if master was willing I could learn to be a valet. These last five years –’ He glanced over his shoulder and spread his hands, inarticulate in his grief. ‘The best.’

‘Why don’t you go down to the kitchen? Mrs Betts is making some tea.’ Seeing he was about to protest, she added gently, ‘I’d like a few moments alone with my father.’ As he bowed and stumbled out, his head down, she went to the bed.

Looking down at her father, she was struck by how peaceful he looked. The lines and grooves that stress had etched so deep, death had smoothed away. But though the signs of suffering had been erased, so too had the subtle features that had given his face its unique character.

Sitting on the bed, she took his hand in hers. It was cold and felt unnaturally heavy. ‘I won’t let it go, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll hold on until George gets home.’ Even as she spoke she wondered how on earth she could keep such a vow. Yet just saying the words, making the promise, stiffened her determination.

With a quiet tap on the door, Lobb entered. ‘Time to come away now, miss. Master has to be washed and laid out proper.’

Releasing her father’s hand, Melissa leant down and kissed his forehead. The skin felt cool and waxy. She knew then that though the figure looked like her father, this body was only a husk, a shell. The essence and spirit of the man she had loved and admired had gone.

A dagger-thrust of loss pierced her: loneliness so deep, so acute, it made her gasp. An instant later, anger erupted with volcanic force. How could he do this? She knew he had loved her. But he had bequeathed her a burden of responsibility she had neither the strength nor the knowledge to discharge.

‘Miss Melissa?’

Roused by Lobb’s quiet prompting, she stood up, drained by the violence of her feelings. Though physically she felt week and shaky, the emotional storm had cleared her mind. She would not, could not, give up.

Chapter Six

Emma Tregonning did not stir until after nine. Addey came immediately to fetch Melissa who had put on her lilac muslin, deeming it wiser, in view of her mother’s fragile state, not to don her black until after she had broken the news. But the nurse’s tear-swollen eyes and hurried exit must have alerted her mistress to the fact that something dreadful had occurred.

Melissa entered the room to find her mother sitting on the edge of the bed, propping herself on her arms, too weak to stand, her gaunt face ashen, eyes huge with fear. ‘What is it?’ she croaked. ‘What’s happened? Has there been a letter?’

‘No, Mama. No letters. Come now, you mustn’t get cold. You’re not well enough to get up yet.’ Gently easing her mother back into bed, Melissa drew the covers over the frail, trembling figure. Then, to the accompaniment of Addey’s stifled sobs, her own voice less than steady, she told her mother of her father’s stroke and his death that morning.

She had prepared herself for an outburst of grief, even hysterics. But after a minute’s stunned silence, during which Melissa watched her mother visibly shrivel like a flower in an unexpected frost, Emma Tregonning’s only reaction was a cracked whisper. ‘Too much.’ Since then, she had lain blank-faced and completely unresponsive. The moment the doctor arrived he guessed what had happened, and Melissa told him what she knew of the circumstances as she led him upstairs to her mother.

‘You have my deepest sympathy. But try not to mourn his passing, my dear. Be thankful instead that it was so easy. In truth, with virtually no hope of recovery, his death was a blessing.’

Bowing her head, Melissa had bitten the inside of her lower lip. How could she tell him it wasn’t so much the fact of her father’s death she found shattering? Though she would miss him terribly she could not have borne to watch him die by inches, trapped in a body he could not control. Without recognition or means of expression, what would he have been left with but bewilderment or, even worse, fear? What grieved her, filling her with trepidation that required all her strength and energy to keep hidden, was the devastation he had left behind.

After a brief examination to check that Emma’s influenza was not developing into anything more serious, the doctor had drawn Melissa away from the bedside and, opening his case, taken out a small dark bottle.

‘There is little I, or any doctor, can do for her at present. All I can offer is a stronger sedative. Sleep is the greatest healer. It will aid her physical recovery. But more important, it allows her an escape from the pain of losing her life’s partner. After your elder brother was killed last year, your mother relied heavily on your father for support. Now he has gone as well …’ He shrugged.

What about me? The cry echoed inside Melissa’s head. It’s my loss, too. Who can I lean on? But she remained silent. The doctor could make her mother comfortable, and for that she must be thankful. As for the rest, in the absence of her brother she must shoulder responsibility.

A little while later, the doctor left. She watched him ride away, the sun warm on her face, the house at her back dark and heavy with sorrow. Then she turned and went inside.

It was midday. She wasn’t hungry, but with Sarah and Lobb both urging her to eat, citing the need to keep up her own strength, she had not the heart or the will to refuse. And by the time she had finished the cold meat and fruit she did feel stronger. Rising from the table, she started toward the stairs. There had been so much to do she had not had time to change into the black muslin and crepe Sarah had retrieved from storage. But Lobb stopped her in the hall.

‘Sarah has just informed me that Mr Brinley Tregonning and Mr Marcus Tregonning are on their way up the drive. Are you at home, miss?’

Drawing herself up, knowing this was only the first of many tests she would have to face, Melissa tilted her chin. ‘Yes, Lobb. Please show them into the drawing-room. And you had better bring some brandy. I believe my uncles would prefer it to Madeira.’

Seating herself in a chair half turned from the window so the sun would not be directly on her face, she picked up some white-work. But the tremor in her hands made tiny stitches impossible. Rather than risk betraying her agitation with a pricked finger and bloodstains on the embroidered handkerchief, she simply held it on her lap.

As well as being the oldest, her father had also been the tallest of the three brothers. It had embarrassed her and irritated them when she too surpassed them in height. The difference was slight, and though her Uncle Brinley took little notice except when Aunt Louisa reminded him of it, regarding it more as an inconvenience to her than a reflection on himself, with her Uncle Marcus it was different. He seemed to regard her regal build as both an affront and a challenge to his own lack of inches. Torn between amusement and annoyance – for it was neither her choice nor her fault – Melissa had learnt simply to ignore his prickliness. After all, she could not change the situation. Nor did she feel inclined now to spend all her time in his presence sitting down, a tactic she had employed when younger and far less sure of herself.

Her heart thumping uncomfortably as she waited for Lobb to show them in, she recognised the nervousness, the same self-conscious unease, that had attended those long-ago visits. Catching herself, she straightened her back, deliberately lowering her shoulders and lifting her chin. She was no longer a child, and this was no time for weakness. In order to convince her uncles that her primary concern at this tragic time was her mother’s health, she not only had to lie, but do so fluently and without a tremor. And once started there could be no turning back. She had been brought up to value honesty above all things. It seemed bitterly ironic that from today, from this moment, honesty had to be sacrificed if she was to protect her father’s reputation and the family’s good name.

To prepare herself, mentally and physically, she drew several deep breaths. The door opened.

‘Mr Brinley Tregonning and Mr Marcus Tregonning,’ Lobb announced, withdrawing and closing the door quietly behind him as her uncles strode into the room. They wore the attire of country gentlemen. Both had chosen a double-breasted riding frock of fine cloth cut shorter than the normal tailcoat, Brinley’s in dark blue, while Marcus favoured a light brown, over striped linen waistcoats, breeches, and topboots.

Though many gentlemen had begun to abandon their wigs, Melissa could not imagine seeing either of her uncles without their familiar toupees with the hair swept back full and wavy from forehead and temples with a loose roll curl covering the ears and a short pigtail queue. Both were conservative traditionalists who viewed change with suspicion and clung determinedly to the old ways.

‘How are they?’ Brinley demanded the moment greetings had been exchanged. As Melissa resumed her seat, he dropped heavily onto a brocaded sofa. Marcus lowered himself onto a Queen Anne chair upholstered in dark-green velvet, brushing dust from his breeches and regarding her with a look of frowning enquiry.

Tightly gripping the thumb of one hand concealed beneath the other, Melissa moistened her lips. ‘My mother’s condition is slightly improved, but –’

‘Doctor been again, has he?’ Brinley demanded.

‘Yes. He left about an hour ago, but –’

‘Told you we should come earlier,’ he snapped at Marcus. ‘Wanted a word. Too late now.’ He turned back to Melissa. ‘So what does he say about your father, then?’

Swallowing, Melissa glanced at them in turn. ‘M-my father passed away just before dawn this morning.’

‘
What?
’ Brinley blurted.

Marcus stared at her in disbelief. ‘But – he can’t have.’

Melissa understood his reaction. She had had several hours to get used to the idea. Yet though her mind knew it to be so, her heart was still unwilling to accept.

‘It was very sudden, but very peaceful. Gilbert, his manservant was sitting with him. He just – stopped.’ She shrugged helplessly, the swelling in her throat making further speech impossible.

Her heart felt like a lump of lead, physically heavy in her chest, and her sense of loss was an intense ache that made her want to curl over and hug herself. Her attempted deep breath caught in a sob and she cleared her throat in an effort at disguise. Her uncles might make allowance if she wept, weeping was something women did. But it would make them uncomfortable and could cost her their respect. It was vital she maintained a façade of dignity, and filial concern for her mother.

‘Good God,’ Brinley shook his head. ‘Francis dead. Hard to believe.’ He pushed himself to his feet. Marcus followed suit. ‘Like to see him. Pay my respects.’

Melissa rose quickly. ‘Of course.’

She would have led the way, but Marcus stepped in front of her. ‘No need for you … Lobb can … Difficult time, Emma ill. You stay here.’

They reached the door just as Lobb entered with the tray.

‘My uncles wish to pay their respects. Would you take them up, Lobb?’

Swiftly setting the tray down on a side table, the butler bowed. ‘Of course, miss. If you’ll follow me, gentlemen?’

Melissa walked over to the window. Crossing her arms, pressing them against the ache, she gazed out over terrace and fields. In the sunshine the treetops were every shade of green imaginable. But the way the land sloped away meant that from here she could see little of the woods. Abruptly she turned away, using rejection of the view to shut off a brief but vivid memory of dark, knowing eyes.

A few moments later, her uncles re-entered the room. Both were subtly different: the changes more sensed than seen. Following them in, Lobb went unobtrusively to the table and poured brandy into two glasses.

‘Sad business,’ Brinley muttered, taking a glass from the proffered tray and shaking his head. ‘No age. Damn me if he don’t look better than the last time I saw him.’

‘For God’s sake, Brinley,’ his brother hissed, also taking a glass. ‘Man’s dead. Can’t possibly look better.’

But Melissa knew what her uncle meant. Death had released her father from a burden that had become intolerable, and smoothed the torment from his features. Catching her eye and responding with an infinitesimal nod, Lobb bowed and withdrew.

‘Anyway,’ Marcus continued, warming the glass between his palms then swirling the spirit, ‘the point is even if Emma were well I don’t think she’d be up to dealing with things. As matters stand, I see no alternative but for us to take over.’ He raised the glass to his lips.

‘Tregidgo or Morley?’ Brinley frowned. ‘Favour Morley myself. Does a good funeral.’

Melissa glanced from one to the other. They were talking as if she wasn’t even there.

Marcus shrugged. ‘As you like. You speak to Morley, and make sure everyone is notified – use Lang’s in Boscawen Street to print the cards. I’ll see the lawyers and handle the legal business.’

Melissa stiffened as anger and anxiety fizzed along her limbs, making her heart skip a beat. ‘If I may say something?’ They both turned to her, clearly surprised at the interruption. She pushed her tongue between her teeth and upper lip to free it. ‘It is most kind of you to offer your assistance with the funeral.’

Brinley waved aside her thanks. ‘Least we can do.’ He turned away to resume his conversation with his brother.

‘On my mother’s behalf I accept with gratitude,’ she continued, forcing a smile as their expressions reflected mingled astonishment and irritation. ‘For I fear the shock of her sudden loss, coupled with her ill-health, will make it impossible for her to take an active part in the preparations. I know we may rely on you to ensure my father receives a fitting send-off. Though, naturally, I will write personal letters to our relations informing them of the sad news, you are far better acquainted with his many friends and business associates.’

‘Yes, of course we are. Now if you will –’ Marcus began testily, but Melissa did not intend to be silenced.

‘However, given the time and effort involved in arranging the funeral and letting everyone know, it would be most unfair if my mother and I were to impose further. You have your own lives and families to consider. So, while I truly appreciate your offer regarding business and legal matters, I feel I should deal with those myself.’ She gave the smallest of self-deprecating shrugs. ‘They will be minimal, I’m sure.’ She watched their astonishment deepen to shock and dismay.

‘Can’t have that,’ Brinley exploded. ‘Good God. No, indeed. Not at all the thing.’

‘My dear Melissa, such an action, were we to permit it, would exceed all bounds of propriety.’ Marcus’s brows furrowed in anxiety. ‘Your presumption astonishes me.’

‘Can’t blame the girl,’ Brinley grunted in response. ‘Francis’s fault. Odd ideas. Comes of educating females. Always said so.’

‘Never mind that,’ Marcus snapped. ‘How do you suppose we’d look if it were to get out? It wouldn’t be Francis and his progressive ideas they’d be discussing. Oh no. It’s we who’d be the butt of the jokes and gossip. Allowing a woman – a young, unmarried woman
 –
to handle legal matters? Out of the question. Women and business don’t mix. Never have, never will.’ He swung back to Melissa. ‘My dear, I’m sure you think you could manage. But the fact is –’

‘Oh dear.’ Melissa pressed her palms together, resting the tips of her fingers against her mouth. ‘I am so sorry. I have not explained myself clearly. Uncle Brinley, Uncle Marcus, what I meant to say, what I thought you would realise, is that in dealing with the lawyers I am not doing so on my own account, but on behalf of my brother George, who is now head of our family. Naturally, if my mother were well enough she, and not I, would be doing it.’ She watched them digest this.

‘Yes, but George is out in Jamaica or some such place, isn’t he?’ Marcus demanded.

‘Indeed he
was
,’ Melissa answered carefully, ‘but we have been expecting word from him this past fortnight.’

‘Oh. Well, if he’s on his way home …’

That wasn’t what she had said. But she considered it neither necessary nor wise to correct the assumption. After all, it wasn’t impossible that George might be on his way home. They had heard nothing to the contrary. They had heard
nothing.