Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (12 page)

The boy hung back a little, trailing behind for a few yards, then called out, “Can I come with you? I bist got nothing to do.”

“I thought you have book learning of a morning?” Miss Radcliffe said, with a disapproving frown. “With the school closed after that fire, I was under the impression that your schoolmaster had set his pupils daily work to do?”

“Done it.”

Miss Radcliffe doubted that. So did Jesamiah, but he sided with the boy. Who wanted book learning when there were other things of interest going on?

“Have you no chores then?” the woman insisted.

“Done them an’ all.” Thomas ran after them, skirted around Jesamiah and skidded to a halt in front of him. “You got any chores I can do for you, Cap’n? I’ll swab the decks of the
Sea Witch
, or clean her brass on the quarterdeck, or,” he eyed the cutlass hanging at Jesamiah’s hip, “or I can put a good sharp edge to that.”

“It’s got a sharp enough edge as it is, thank ‘ee, lad.” Jesamiah grinned, gave him the basket. “You can carry this for Miss Radcliffe.”

Thomas scowled, that wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but he fell in beside Jesamiah, who was walking slow, and not taking overlong strides on account of the lady.

Jesamiah noticed the grim face and winked at the boy. Bending towards him, whispered, “It were eight men, not nine.”

Twenty Four

Miss Radcliffe pointed to where a gate, almost concealed by an overgrown hawthorn hedge, led through into Benson’s shipyard.

“We go through the yard, and down on to the sands by the steps at Appledore Quay. It is sometimes a little wet if the tide has only just gone out, but it is firm enough underfoot.”

Jesamiah observed the folk about various tasks out on the beach, hurrying to be done before the tide swept full in, or waiting for the channel to become deep enough to launch their boats. No sign of Tiola. What if she saw him with a woman? He snorted quietly beneath his breath. Hah! What if she did!

The larger ferry over at Instow was taking on board a flock of sheep; on the Appledore side, the ferryman remained asleep. In a few hours the entire estuary would be under water making more work for the ferries. Many passengers waited for a higher tide when there was not so far to walk, and they felt they got their money’s worth, for the fare was the same regardless of distance rowed. One penny per passenger, two for every horse or beast, and for every score of sheep or swine fourpence.

High tide was preferable for the ladies also as it was easier to step into a boat that was on a level with the stone steps descending the quay, but from the beach there was some awkward manoeuvring where the edge of the channel was shallow. It either meant hitching gown and petticoats to the knees and showing more stocking than was decent, or being carried by the boatman, both alarming prospects for the fair sex.

“Give me that basket and run ahead to wake that wretched seaslug, Kildy,” Jesamiah said to Thomas. “You may do so in any fashion you please.”

Thomas grinned. His chosen method was to grasp the little boat amidships and rock it violently. Kildy woke immediately, his jerked action setting the boat bobbing even more precariously, his vehement curse most ungentlemanly.

“You mind your manners, Kildy,” Thomas retorted, “else I’ll tell father of your rudeness in front of Miss Radcliffe, then you might not get your ferryman’s licence next time it’s due for renewal.”

Hovering at the edge of the water, Miss Radcliffe was in a dilemma about her skirts; the hem was already stained from the previous journey across, and she had small desire to make the damage worse. Nor did she wish the uncouth Kildy to glimpse more of her legs than was necessary.

As she hesitated, Jesamiah solved the quandary. Asking permission – not waiting for an answer – he scooped Pamela Radcliffe into his arms and carried her through the shallows, setting her down neatly and carefully in the boat. Thomas Benson quickly hopped aboard and taking the basket from Jesamiah set it on his lap, praying that he would not be sent homeward. Grinned when he realised he was not going to be.

Grumbling beneath his breath, Kildy pulled in the small anchor and the boat immediately began to drift. Jesamiah growled as he had to wade a little deeper to step aboard, almost overbalancing as the boatman pulled away before he had seated himself. A man not used to boats may well have toppled into the sea, but that, Jesamiah guessed, had been Kildy’s intention. Surly, he rowed a few yards, squinting at his direction marker to ensure he was going straight. The stern was supposed to be aligned with Appledore’s church tower. He pulled on the right oar, then had to adjust the left. Said, “I ‘ear as ‘ow tha squire’s daughter ain’t able to do ‘er wifely dooty an’ push ‘er babbi out.”

“That is none of your business,” Pamela retorted.

“Taught to row by a goat were you?” Jesamiah interrupted. “Or are you naturally clumsy with the oars?”

Glowering, Kildy held his tongue.

Halfway across Jesamiah could not resist another comment. “If you were to dip your oars into the water, instead of feathering like a landlubber, we might make it across before nightfall.”

Through narrowed eyes, Kildy stared at him. “Knows about rowin’ does thee?”

“A bit.”

“Then you’d as knowed tha current ‘ere be div’cult.”

Jesamiah stared at the water a moment, observing the bubbles, the drift of some seaweed, the ripples and patterns. “Current seems to be in our favour, as long as you pull more on yer stearb’d oar. Your only difficulty, mister, ain’t the current, it’s putting your back into it.”

Nose wrinkled in dislike, eyes narrowed, Kildy rowed on in silence, his expression betraying the sour thoughts running through his mind. On the other side he dropped the anchor, but made no effort to help his passengers from his boat. Jesamiah stepped ashore, his boots sinking to the ankles in mud, and lifting Miss Radcliffe into his arms, carried her to firm ground. Thomas, with the basket, was trotting at his heels. He handed the boy three pennies. “Give that to Master Crabcatcher if you will, an’ mind that basket don’t get wet.” He turned his back on Kildy and walked away, making it clear that if the man expected an extra penny by way of a tip, then he could sit there, expectant, until hell froze over.

Kildy scowled as he looked at the coins Thomas placed in his palm, spat over the side of his boat and pocketed the money. Almost lazily he stood and stepped into the shallow water.

“You goin’ t’elp me pull thissen boat to ‘igher ground then?” he said to Thomas.

“If you do, my lad,” Jesamiah called, without looking round, “you can bugger off home. You’re supposed to be ‘elping me. Not him.”

Thomas fashioned a not very polite gesture towards Kildy and ran after Jesamiah.

The beach was narrower this side of the estuary, sloping upward towards a bank of sand dunes and the wooden jetty that was Instow Quay.

Unlike Appledore, Instow was licensed by the Customs and Excise for the unloading of cargo, but only boats with a shallow draught could do so for the water, even at high tide, was not deep. Even with suitable winches unloading could take hours, several days in some cases, which suited the customs for harbourage, but not the merchants.
Sea Witch
was not suitable for this side of the estuary, she needed to stay with the deeper channel, haul upriver to where the Bideford Warehouses offered more profit.

“You bist long, Thomas Benson afore’ thee’ll bist needin’ t’come back?” Kildy called out, “or does I ‘ave time to vetch m’breakv’st?”

Thomas turned around slowly. With disdain he regarded the man who was dragging his boat higher up the beach, out of reach of the incoming tide. “You’ll be in the tavern within two minutes whatever I answer.”

Suppressing a smile – he liked this lad – Jesamiah was looking beyond the one official building at a scatter of half a dozen modest-looking cottages, and the hill behind them. “This Nicholas Hartley, Miss Radcliffe? You said his ‘ouse is that white one up there?”

“Yes,” she pointed towards the lane that headed steeply upwards between high, wind-bent hedges. “The one halfway up.”

Jesamiah groaned. He hated walking.

“There is a livery yard behind the tavern,” she suggested. “You could hire a pony.”

“Or a trap?” Thomas added quickly, realising ‘a pony’ would not retain himself on the expedition.

Tipping his hat back slightly, Jesamiah considered the options. Ride or walk? The one made your legs sore, the other your backside and balls. Hiring a trap would cost more money, and he would probably have to get out and walk up the steepest bit anyway.

“I’ll walk,” he decided.

Miss Radcliffe took the basket from Thomas and bobbed a departing curtsey. “I go the other way. Aunt Bethan will be wondering where I have got to. I thank you for your courtesy, Captain.”

Jesamiah removed his hat, bowed. “My pleasure, ma’am. I trust we shall meet again?”

The woman smiled, wide and genuine. “As do I trust also. I give you good day.” She turned hurriedly and walked off, the pattens covering her shoes to keep them clean tap-tapping on the cobbles of the lane.

No invitation to the party had ensued. Oh well.

A moment later, Thomas remarked, “Cap’n? What’s so fascinating about women’s babbi-tits? The way Kildy were staring you’d think Miss Radcliffe had three or something.”

Jesamiah grinned. “That’s a mystery you’ll ‘ave t’figure fer yer’self lad. If you need t’ask, you’re not old enough t’know the answer.”

Twenty Five

Instow House was typical of Devon architecture; thick, stone-built walls, sturdy, with a stout slate roof and solid chimneys. It was larger than Knapp House, grander in design and build. The home, at least on the outside, of a wealthy man. Jesamiah opened the wrought iron gate. The garden was well kept, the gravel drive raked, the sloping lawn neatly trimmed and devoid of autumn leaves. Most homesteads left them to moulder through the winter.

Thomas ran on ahead, reaching up for the lion’s head knocker centred in an imposing oak front door. He lifted the heavy ring and knocked; the echo sounded hollow and unwelcoming. From somewhere within a long, wailing shriek tore through the house.

Benson himself opened the door, his face furrowed in consternation. “What’s this? What’s this?” he said, agitated, as another scream followed the first. He stared, bewildered, at Jesamiah, then at his son and back to Jesamiah. “If m’son’s been making a nuisance of himself, I beg forgiveness. I assure you he will be soundly drashed for any misdemeanour.”

Jesamiah grinned; bowed, “He has been nothing of the sort – in fact, the opposite; most polite and helpful.”

“Glad I am to hear it.” Another shriek that rose in pitch. “I am not, however, glad to be hearing this damned noise. You’re the fellow about the tobacco, if I recall?”

“I am,” Jesamiah confirmed.

“Aye well, let me fetch m’hat an’ coat an’ we’ll discuss business down at the
Keg O’Brandy
. M’son-in-law’s already installed himself there. Wise lad.”

He disappeared for a moment; two doors slammed. A maid scurried across the wide, stone-flagged hallway and up the stairs, a bundle of linen in her arms.

“Is that my sister making all that row?” Thomas asked Jesamiah tentatively. “It sounds awful bad.”

“Childbirth ain’t always easy for a woman, lad. Not if the babe be lying abed wrong.”

Cocking his head on one side, Thomas regarded Jesamiah solemnly. “How do you know? When I questioned Papa yesterday he said women’s stuff weren’t any business of a man.”

“Nor it ain’t, but my wife is a midwife, a skilled one at that. I oft times get to ‘ear more than I want when she comes ‘ome upset on account of she lost the mother or child. Or both.”

Thomas’s face drained white. His voice choked. “Is Isabella going to die?”

What to answer? Placations? Assurance? Or the truth? “They say as ‘ow labour is the closest a woman gets to staring death in the eyes. The strong survive, the weak don’t.”

“Isabella is strong,” Thomas stated with conviction. “She’s my favourite sister. I wish she hadn’t married Nicholas. I don’t like him much.”

Well she obviously does,
Jesamiah thought
, or was it a marriage of financial convenience?

“So why, if it’s so bad, do they get babies then?” Thomas asked after a moment of consideration.

Benson was coming across the hallway, pulling on a pair of gloves. Jesamiah bent towards the boy and answered in a quick whisper. “Because men like putting them there.”

“Right,” Benson said as he stepped out the door and closed it behind him. “Breakfast at the tavern I think.” He took two paces, but his son grasped his arm.

“Papa, Captain Acorne’s wife is a midwife. Couldn’t she help Isabella?”

Much as he had yesterday, Benson looked Jesamiah up and down. “You get much cause to have a midwife aboard your vessel then, Captain?”

“Fortunately not, sir, but I’m relocating from Virginia to England, and I didn’t have a fancy to leave my wife behind. Not while she’s young and pretty, anyway.”

Benson smiled at that. “We sent for Doctor Gillham, but he is in London and not expected back until next week. My wife and the maids are doing all they can. The village has Bessy Bird to bring the children into the world, but she’s abed with a broke leg.” Benson again studied Jesamiah, head tilted, eyes narrowed. Assessing, deciding. “Know her stuff does she, this wife of yourn?”

“She does. She has attended the gentry of the Colonies, if that helps steady your doubts. It would be no trouble to fetch her over from Appledore.”

“Her fee expensive?”

Seizing a given opportunity, although not considering what Tiola would have to say about it, Jesamiah answered with assertion. “If you take my tobacco off my hands at a reasonable price, I am sure we can come to some amicable arrangement regarding her fee.”

Benson shook his head, undecided. “I don’t know, Captain. I know not you or y’wife.”

Young Thomas squeezed his father’s arm and looked earnestly into his face. “I know Mistress Acorne, Papa. I met her. She’s nice.”

“I am not sure,” Benson repeated, shaking his head and wringing his hands. “This is Nicholas’s household, his wife and child. Mayhap I ought to consult him first?”

“But then,” Jesamiah countered, “is she not your daughter? The child, your grandchild?”

“Please, Papa. I do not want Isabella to die.”

Benson patted his son’s shoulder. He was a good husband, a good father, loved his family dearly, and this was the first grandchild, and special for that. “Neither do I, lad. Neither do I.” He nodded, mind made up. “I will send one of the servants to fetch your wife, Captain.”

Beaming delight, Thomas spun around, already running. “I’ll go! I know where she is, and she knows me. And if Kildy is busy drowning his thirst in the tavern I can take the boat across myself.” He was off, sprinting down the hill, not waiting to be contradicted. His father was not so certain about the boy rowing, but then Kildy was a lazy good-for-nothing; Thomas twice as capable. Benson suppressed a smile; he doted on his youngest son, maybe indulged him a little too often, but what harm when a man was proud of his offspring?

The two men walked more or less in silence down the hill, exchanging nothing beyond pleasantries about the weather, the rapidity of the tide flooding in and how charming Appledore looked from this side of the river. Jesamiah pointed out a brigantine coming in over the Bar, remarked that the captain was bringing her a little too close to the shore, but Benson’s thoughts were miles away and did not hear. Jesamiah did not pursue the subject, merely observed the hasty scrabble to haul the yards and bring her round. If that were his crew, he’d throw the lot of them overboard.

The bowed front windows of the
Keg O’Brandy
was one of two taverns in Instow. The more comfortable and cleaner of the two, and with a pleasing aspect over the estuary. The landlord preferred to serve the residential and farming folk, rather than the unknown rabble of sailors and seamen who frequented the rougher
Sailor’s Rest
down on the quayside.

A warm fug assaulted the two men as they entered; the smell of ale and cider, tallow and tobacco. Benson had waved to a young man sitting in the window seat. He rose as they entered, his expression hopeful.

“Any news?”

“Nay,” Benson said, removing his hat and shaking his head. “Nothing. This fellow here has a midwife for a wife. I’ve sent Tom to fetch her.” Wearily Benson leant his hands upon the wooden table, his head drooping. “I fear we are going to lose them both, Nicholas.”

Nicholas, Benson’s son-in-law, was not so defeatist. “Nonsense, she is a strong woman. The doctor assured me, only last week, that she has wide hips so should have no problem.”

Whether it was the influence of young Thomas’s opinion, or his own instinctive judgement, Jesamiah concluded his first impression of this fellow – formed from his manner yesterday at the warehouse – was correct. He did not much like Master Nicholas Hartley.

“The width of her hips will have no bearing if the babe be breach or too big for her to birth,” he remarked dryly. What was it with these men who regarded their wives as nothing more important than a brood mare?

His dislike coalesced into a definite decision as the man turned to stare at him as if he were some tar-blackened foremast jack. “You know of these things better than our doctor, then?”

Jesamiah sniffed, put his hat on the table and sat down, facing the window so he could observe Tom pushing and poking Kildy towards the boat. Good, he’d not been too happy with the thought of the boy handling the oars on his own. That was a fast running current out there. “If’n your doctor told you that nonsense, then, aye, I reckon as I do.”

Seeing a spat developing, Benson wisely interceded. “Will you be joining me for a serving of breakfast, Captain? They do excellent smoked ham and black pudding here. Nicholas, I see from the empty platters you have already eaten. Just us two then, although shall I send for fresh coffee?”

Realising he was hungry Jesamiah readily accepted and offered to pay, but Benson would hear nothing of it. “Nay, nay, this comes from my purse.” He walked briskly towards the serving counter; became instantly deep in conversation with the landlord.

Nicholas Hartley was not the sort to let things drop. He inhaled a lungful of smoke from his pipe and stated, rudely, “This woman of yours. I take it she is respectable, not a piece of laced mutton?”

It was fortunate that the maid appeared with a steaming jug of coffee and a platter of fresh buttered bread, otherwise Jesamiah may well have shot Hartley between the eyes there and then.

“No, sir,” he said as he poured himself a cup of the rich, dark beverage, “my wife is not a whore, and I’d thank ye not to say so again.”

“My apologies I’m sure, Mister er… Mister?”

“Acorne. And it’s Captain. Nor did I catch your name yesterday in that Bideford warehouse.”

A slight raise of eyebrows and then a nod as Jesamiah was recognised. “Nicholas Adam Hartley. My father is Sir Cleve Hartley, Viscount Westley of Marley Court.”

If Jesamiah was supposed to be impressed, Hartley was disappointed, for instead he got, “Did you set your henchmen on me? If so, I would like to know why. Or were they, as your father-in-law assumes, common footpads who linger in the shadow of your property to waylay innocent men?”

The answer came hastily, too hastily. “Footpads, I assure you. Why would I be setting men to waylay you? Until a moment past, I had no idea who you were.”

Intuition? Instinct? The ability to recognise an outright lie whenever it raised its ugly head? Whatever reason, Jesamiah did not believe a word of either statement.