Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (16 page)

Thirty Three

Pamela looked doubtfully at the plank of wood secured by two ropes. “You are going to lower us down into that boat on this?” The quiver in her voice rose to a squeak of fear. “Is it safe?” she added, not daring to admit her true thoughts that it looked most unsafe. “What if the rope breaks?”

“The rope will not break,
mademoiselle
, I assure you.” Rue’s smile was supposed to offer confidence. It failed to reach its mark.

Lady Bethan was not feeling confident of the assurance either. It did look a very long way down, but she was tired, cold, felt nauseous and there was a fluttering pain in her chest. She wanted her home and her bed. To get those, she would have to find the courage from somewhere and sit on this ‘chair’ as they called it, and allow herself to be lowered down into that boat bobbing about beneath them.

“Well,” she said, gathering her skirts close, “I have nearly met a watery end in the Torridge once this day, twice would be most unfair. What do I have to do?”

For an elderly woman who was hiding that she felt most unwell, she had some guts.

“Sit here,” Jesamiah said, “and hold tight. If you come too close to the hull, hold your legs out and kick away. Not too sharp, mind, else you’ll be swaying like a garden swing. Rue will be there to catch you, don’t worry.” Jesamiah glanced at Rue who gave Pamela another reassuring smile and hurried over the side and down the cleats. He made it look easy as he descended and stepped into the boat below, but then he did not wear a gown and petticoats, and had plenty of practice. Despite living all their lives beside the river neither Bethan nor her niece had ever stepped aboard anything larger than the rowboat ferry.

Suppressing a gasp of fear, her knuckles white where she was clinging so tight, Lady Bethan shut her eyes as they hoisted the chair up a little and swung the contraption out over the side.

“Keep it steady there, man!” Jesamiah snapped as one end tilted slightly.

The descent was slow, and seemed to go on forever. Once Bethan’s knees nudged against the wooden hull, she opened her eyes and remembered to give a slight kick. She felt a tug on the rope that Mister Rue was holding from down in the little boat. The frightening experience was over. Men were grasping her, holding her firm. The young lad, Jasper, was helping her to one of the seats and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, tucking another over her knees. By the time she looked up, Pamela was making her descent, little squeals of fear escaping her lips as the chair gave a few uncomfortable jerks. There was the Frenchman, balancing easily in the boat as it rocked and bobbed, helping her niece to sit down, as solicitously as any gentleman of refinement, securing blankets around her.

Not until later, after the fuss had died down, when she was comfortable in her own bed, with the shutters closed against the dusk and the glow of firelight flickering on ceiling and walls, did Bethan admit to herself that under better circumstances she might have enjoyed the experience aboard the ship. Not losing the carriage, she grieved for that, as they would never be able to replace it. What little status the family had was as much of an irreparable wreckage as the vehicle itself.

Thirty Four

Tawford Barton was a long, stone-built farmhouse erected on reclaimed marshland, lying a few hundred yards back from the bank of the Taw. Someone had constructed a cleverly sited dyke and a series of ditches to ensure any flooding would engulf the lowlying land, not the higher slope where the house was built. When Jesamiah had asked, Pamela had informed him the idea had been that of her grandfather, Alexander Dynam, who had eventually become the fifth Viscount Westley, although there had been an Anne’s Fan of dispute about a fraudster who had previously claimed the title.

That name again. It was beginning to irritate Jesamiah that he could not recall where and when he had first heard it, but there were other, more immediate things to concentrate on. When he found a moment’s peace he promised himself that he would think hard and force his sluggish brain to unlock his memory.

The hospitality when the bedraggled party had stepped ashore from the gig was generous and gratefully provided. The least the family could do for the aid Captain Acorne, his wife, and the French quartermaster had given them was to offer a pleasant evening beside a warm fire, and a sustaining supper. Jesamiah, as a victim of the awful mishap, had also been provided with a welcome bath and opportunity to shave, during which time the servants did what they could to clean his boots, breeches and coat, and mend a tear in his shirt.

His arm ached as if he had been hurled to the deck from the top mast. Stripping naked before easing into the copper-lined wooden tub of hot water, he had not been surprised to find his arm a lurid blue-black from shoulder to elbow. He was only glad the bone had not been crushed. He had hoped that Tiola would relent and assist him to bathe and then daub one of her salves on his arm, but she had opted to busy herself with the ladies. Fair enough, he supposed, as he regarded himself in a mirror and struggled to rake a comb through his black, curled and tangled hair. Lady Bethan had looked most ill as, guided by Pamela, he had carried her into the house and up the stairs to her chamber.

He’d had no opportunity to speak to Tiola, even though she had been waiting on the jetty with several servants. Everyone had been swept into the house with such a la la-ing and tutting and concerned fussing. Tiola’s attention had been focused on Lady Bethan. Again Jesamiah reminded himself, justly so, but over an hour later, Tiola’s failure to look in on him to assure herself that he was not injured was beginning to irk. It would serve her right if he were to collapse here on this threadbare carpet and die of a seizure brought on by his almost being crushed to death, or drowned. He was being silly as well as unfair, Jesamiah chided himself. Apart from his aching arm he was unharmed and Tiola was well aware of it. Besides, he still needed to apologise and make amends.

The room he was using faced across the river estuary towards Appledore. He could see the silhouette of
Sea Witch
, her lanterns and riding lamps glimmered, reflecting in the shallow water like a protective moat around her keel. Wearing only breeches and stockings he wandered to the window to take a better look, moving a candle to one side for its light was shining too bright on the window glass. It was a good view, even in the strengthening darkness. If he were to live ashore this was the sort of home he would choose. He shivered, fetched the mended shirt which a blushing maid had brought in and, eyes averted from the man wallowing in the hot water, placed quickly on the clothes press. Her blush had deepened with Jesamiah’s friendly, “Thank you kindly, darlin’.”

The agitated white crease of the Bar, made all the wilder for the lowest ebb of the tide was stark against the black sea and sky. Even in the gathering dusk it was clearly visible. Beyond, he could see the lamps of two boats waiting for the tide to turn so they could come in to harbour. He looked quickly again at
Sea Witch
– aye, all her riding lights were as they should be.

Jesamiah shivered again. This Alexander Dynam fellow had not been able to do anything about the persistent wind that eddied and squinnied through every possible crack and gap. The roofing over the casement window needed re-thatching, and three of the small glass panes were cracked. The wind rattled at them as if demanding to be let in, and almost simultaneously a cloud of smoke belched into the room.

“Chimney needs cleaning, too,” Jesamiah muttered as he began to dress properly, coughing a couple of times as the smoke hit the inside of his throat, his eyes watering.

The chamber had been her grandfather’s, Pamela had said, a room he had loved dearly. “Grandmamma Jennet has a chamber on the other side of the house, facing towards the moor. She does not much like the sea.”

If it were not for the draught, it would indeed be a pleasant room; the walls were lined with panels of printed calico chintz, in a bold red with yellow and blue lily-like flowers, although where the sun struck persistently during the day the red had faded to pink. One corner on the outer wall, Jesamiah noted, was somewhat mildewed, while another panel had several moth-chewed holes. There were four framed paintings, their colours, like the wall covering, distorted by sun, dirt and an accumulation of smoke from hearth, lamps and candles. One, opposite the window, had spiderweb like lines trailing through the faded and flaking oil paint. A pity, it was otherwise a rather splendid painting of a ship under full sail. He remembered one very similar that had hung in his father’s study at the plantation. He peered closer, studying the faded detail. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. Surely not? Could it be? Aye, it was! The very same. This was
La Sorenta
, his father’s ship, he was sure of it. The plantation had been named after her. Why on earth was such a painting here, in this house? A different background, though. The painting in Virginia had Nassau harbour in it, this, he was fairly certain, was the island of Hispaniola.

He turned away, picked up his silk cravat and started tying it. He did not have fond memories of Hispaniola. He smiled. Except one, making love to the Spanish
señora
, Francesca. He hastily suppressed the erotic thought; he was supposed to be feeling repentant and apologetic towards Tiola. Thinking of carnal lust shared with an enticing and beautiful redhead was not appropriate in the present situation. He glanced at the bed, the overhead tester and upright posts clad in a faded brocade with matching curtains and coverlet. It looked an enticing and comfortable bed, the right place to entertain a lady. He was tempted to try it, but guessed that if he were to stretch out he would be asleep within minutes. Perhaps a short snooze in that chair beside the fire? He decided against that also. It had been kind of Pamela to instruct the servants to prepare this chamber for him by lighting the fire and the candles, but he ought not take too much advantage. He had protested that the kindness had not been necessary, but now he was clean he was grateful for it. To look respectable on the outside eased his inside aches and discomfort. All he wanted, now, was something to eat and to sort this squabble with Tiola. His belly growled; he suddenly realised he was ravenous.

Thirty Five

The parlour was a charming room. Being on the ground floor and facing away from the estuary it was not so draught-riddled, and the cheerful fire blazing in the hearth brought warmth and light, the flames reflecting on strategically placed mirrors and silver and pewter candlestands.

“I do hope you have no objection to using the parlour,” Pamela remarked as he walked in, “but we seldom use the formal dining room; it is large and somewhat chill this time of the year although its coolness is most welcome in the heat of summer.”

“I’m happy to eat anywhere, ma’am, unless it’s a prison cell.”

She laughed a response. As a family they would normally have eaten supper in the kitchen but what point in warming and lighting unnecessary rooms? It was nice to use the more formal room on occasion, particularly when there was good reason and good company.

“My wife not here?” Jesamiah asked, nodding a greeting at Rue who was assisting to lay the table for supper. There was a spark in his eye which Jesamiah had not seen before, but clearly recognised. He was pleased to see the same spark in Pamela’s soft expression as Rue smiled at her. He was a good man. Claude de la Rue deserved a good woman.

“She is upstairs,” Pamela explained. “Aunt Bethan is feverish, and your dear wife said she would sit with her a while. I have arranged for supper to be sent up for them both.”

Jesamiah faked a smile. It was reasonable, the sort of thing Tiola would do, but he could not help thinking, as he and Rue sat down, that this was an excuse for avoiding him.

“Supper is nothing special, Captain,” Pamela added, “soup, bread, ham and cheese. We have a spice cake and gingerbreads as well, I believe, if my grandmother has not eaten all of them. She is partial to gingerbreads.”

As if on cue, the door opened and the oldest person Jesamiah had ever seen entered. She was small, frail, thin and stooped at her shoulders. She leant on the arm of a maid as she walked slowly in, her other hand gripping a cherrywood walking cane. “Are you accusing me of greed?” she said with a laugh as she sank into a chair at the head of the table. “You make me sound as if I am a gluttonous old besom who takes all the treats for herself.”

“I meant no such thing, Grandmamma, as you well know. May I introduce Monsieur de la Rue, and Captain Jesamiah Acorne. Gentlemen, the Dowager Countess Westley, Lady Jennet Dynam.”

Jesamiah and Rue had risen from their seats at her entrance, both in no doubt that they were in the presence of a genuine Lady.

“
Enchanté, Madame
,” said Rue, clicking his heels together and bowing his head.

Jesamiah was staring at the woman. The flesh on her face was creviced with wrinkles and speckled with brown patches of age, the skin beneath her eyes sagged into bags and her hair, beneath her spotlessly white lace cap, was almost a pure silver. But those eyes! They were violet, the colour of one of the arcs in a rainbow, and as bright and alert as a sparrow’s. “Madam.” He bowed hastily, recalling his manners, but even as she motioned for the men to be reseated his gaze strayed back to her age-old, wisdom-enhanced face.

She returned his curiosity eye to eye, assessing him as intently as he would a potential prize encountered at sea. “Your wife, Captain, kindly applied some of her herbal salve to my aching old knees and hands. It has been most effective. She is a dear child. I trust you appreciate her value?”

“I do indeed, ma’am. Very much so.”

“Good, I am glad to hear it. She tells me you are of Spanish descent.”

“On my mother’s side. My father was sired by a Frenchman, although he was brought up in the most part as an Englishman.”

The old lady had been scrutinising his face intently. Her eyes glistened. “Name of St Croix?”

So, Tiola has been talking in depth about me,
Jesamiah thought as he stared back. He answered truthfully; there was something about this woman that made him feel compelled to tell the truth. “Yes, ma’am. That were one of the names he went by. He used Mereno when he was my father. I changed it to Acorne for myself.”

“You did not wish to be known as Mereno? Or St Croix?”

“Until recently I knew nothing of St Croix; as for Mereno, no ma’am, I have no interest in the name.”

Lady Jennet unfolded her napkin and placed it over her lap. “Would it surprise you, Captain, to learn that your father’s sire was not a Frenchman, but an Englishman?”

“Ma’am,” Jesamiah answered, resigned, “nothing about my father’s questionable history would surprise me.”

“Then that is good, for further information shall not startle you.” She came straight to the crux. No warning, no further polite conversation. “I would recognise you anywhere, Captain Acorne, although Henry Jennings did alert me to your coming when he called by the other day.” She smiled graciously. “Probably with the intention of not startling me, of course.”

Jesamiah’s reply was droll. “Captain Jennings can be most thoughtful, especially when he wants something.”

Not missing the sarcasm Lady Jennet smiled. “We can all be solicitous when it suits us, Captain. You are aware that you share a remarkable resemblance to your father, as would be expected, but I observe for myself that apart from your mother’s Spanish eyes and dark colouring, you are also the image of your grandfather when he was in his youth.”

Pamela had been serving the soup, ladling the hot broth into china dishes, hoping their guests would not notice the several chips and hairline cracks. Rue had been passing round the bread. They all stared at the elderly lady sitting upright and proud at the head of the table.

It took half a minute for Jesamiah to summon the courage to answer, for her words had stunned him, although he attempted to disguise the fact by a charming smile and a flippant wave of his hand. ”You knew my father’s father? The Frenchman, St Croix?”

“Certainly I did,” Lady Jennet answered. “Pamela, dear, you are dripping soup on the tablecloth. Do you not think the poor, worn old thing is stained enough? I fear it will not survive another vigorous laundering.”

“You knew my grandfather?” Jesamiah repeated. In all the houses, in all the harbours, in all the world, how had he managed to end up sitting at a supper table with a woman who was as old as the hills, and who happened to know of his grandfather? He began to have a suspicion that something was being manipulated here, and that one of Jennings’ schemes was involved somewhere in it.

“Are you hard of hearing, Captain? Although I suppose the noise of those guns aboard your ship would affect the ears after a while. Yes, I knew your grandfather, and as I said, he was an Englishman, not French.”

Jesamiah had lifted his spoon, but not yet tasted the soup. “Then you have the advantage of me, madam, for I did not know him whatever he was, French or English.”
Nor do I want to
, he thought.

Lady Jennet sipped at her soup. She had the advantage of retaining all her teeth, but many were loose and food that was too hot could set her mouth jangling with pain. “I was your father’s nursemaid for a while,” she said, “when he lived in France with his mother and her husband. Before he came to live in England to be raised as befits an Englishman.” She laid down her spoon, and gazed directly at Jesamiah, almost daring him to contradict her. “Your Grandmother Bella’s husband, Armand St Croix, was a pleasant, honest, man. I very much liked him. But he was not your grandsire.”

Jesamiah stared back at those vivid, penetrating, violet eyes, his breath partially held. This was not the only news she intended to impart. There was more to come.

“Bella agreed to wed St Croix because she was with child, and for reasons that are too complex to recount now, she kept the truth of her pregnancy to herself. Everyone assumed St Croix was the father, even your real grandfather, until I revealed the details to him when Bella passed away and we took Charles into our own care.”

She drank more soup, sopped some of the bread in it, apparently unaware that no one else seated around the table was eating, or making any sound, all attention transfixed on her. “Your father was not happy with the revelation, Captain Acorne. Unfortunately, neither was his father; they never did manage to see eye to eye, or learn to forgive and forget.” She reached for more bread, and dipped it in the soup. “It is a great shame that they were both so stubborn that they could not climb down from their high horses and be civil to each other. Particularly once you were born.” She mopped the last of the soup with the bread, and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I have been waiting a long time for you to come to my house Jesamiah. I knew you would, one day. I very much trust that you are not as boneheaded as the two dolts who came before you. Only the fool sustains foolish argument. The wise man knows there is no discredit to his manhood to make an honest apology, even if he feels one is not his to give.” Her gaze bore into him, and for a flicker of a moment Jesamiah almost fancied that he was looking at Tiola – was there some magic at work here he suddenly wondered, but the prickle of fear that chased up his spine to ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck, scampered away. There was nothing sinister here, merely a wise lady who knew some things that he did not. And a guilt of conscience.

“So,” he asked, forcing a congenial smile even though a voice in the back of his mind was whispering that he did not want to know, and he felt that a gale force wind was about to hit him bow on. “Who was my grandfather? And how, where, when, did you know him?”

Jennet set her spoon in the empty dish and folded the napkin. She ate very little these days. A few mouthfuls filled her belly; not enough to keep a bird alive, or so her daughter often complained.

“You have also inherited your father’s and grandfather’s impatience, I observe.” She chuckled, then relented her teasing and smiled warmly at Jesamiah. “I knew your grandsire very well. He was the love of my life; my husband, Alexander Dynam, the previous Viscount Westley.”

Talk broke out as if it were a flurried storm, everyone asking questions at once – everyone except Jesamiah. He was wrestling with the wanting to know, and the not wanting to know. Was it important? Did he care? He was annoyed to find that, actually, he did.

Pamela asked the one question he did want to hear an answer to. “Why did Grandpapa and Captain Acorne’s father disagree? What was the cause?”

The old lady sighed, a sound that tore from her heart. “Resentment. Jealousy. The inability to forgive when misplaced pride stamped its feet. Charles resented not being acknowledged as legitimate-born; Alexander resented not having a legitimate son he could be proud of. He wanted Charles to be everything that he was not; Charles wanted Alexander to be the father he could not be. Grown men can be such muttonheads when it comes to misplaced pride.”

There were questions, more questions, speculation, discussion; all excited, all in uproar. All of it a little too much for Jesamiah to take in. It was Rue who voiced the one thing Jesamiah did not wish to hear – although the thought had been shouting in his mind.

“Had Charles Mereno-St Croix been the legitimate son of Sir Alexander, ‘e would ‘ave become Viscount on ‘is papa’s death then,
non
?”

Lady Jennet nodded. “He would.”

“My goodness!” Pamela exclaimed. “Captain Acorne, you perhaps should have become Viscount Westley!”

The implication brought sudden silence.

“That may be,” Lady Jennet said, pushing herself up from her chair, “but the title and estate passed to Alexander’s nephew, Cleve, the firstborn son of his half-sister Ellen and her husband, Adam Hartley.” She smiled, wistful, apologetic. “I fear our family is nothing if not complicated.” She laid a hand on Jesamiah’s shoulder. “I believe Alexander would have married your grandmother had he known of the child she carried, but she chose to remain silent on the fact of it. My personal regret is that neither your father nor grandfather ever forgave each other for what was an accident of birth.”

“My goodness,” Pamela giggled as the door closed behind her grandmother. “Cousin Nicholas is going to be vexed when he learns he might not be entitled to his father’s title, after all.” She looked meaningfully at Jesamiah. “He is heavily in debt, and as you have observed not a tolerant man. He is expecting the estate, when he inherits it, to be the answer to several of his personal problems.”

“You ‘ad better watch your back then,
mon ami
,” Rue chuckled, “it may not be only the excisemen
enchanté
to see you ‘ang?”