Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (17 page)

Thirty Six

The talk that had gone around in circles for over an hour finally became too overwhelming, and Jesamiah excused himself, saying he needed fresh air in his lungs. His father was a bastard-born half-brother to Pamela’s deceased mother and Aunt Bethan – Lady Jennet’s twin girls. He himself was Pamela’s half-cousin. Could you have
half-
cousins? His grandfather had lived here at Tawford Barton, had slept in that bed upstairs, no doubt washed in the same copper-lined bath. More than anything, all Jesamiah wanted to do was go aboard
Sea Witch
and set sail to anywhere that was not Devon. Men firing pistols and great cannon at him, fights, hurricane winds, raging storms, excisemen and scorned lovers, all these he could cope with. Coming face to face with this unexpected and confusing outpouring of his past, he could not.

His breath curling in a cloud of mist, Jesamiah stood on the jetty staring up at the stars, their light reflecting in the low channel of water that was the River Taw and the scattered puddles in the wet, glistening sand of the estuary. There was no moon yet, and the sky studded with twinkling diamonds was as black as Tiola’s hair.

She had joined the party seated at the table soon after the old lady’s broadside announcement; had said very little as everyone, save himself, chattered together, exclaiming, questioning and commenting. Tiola had added nothing to the excited discourse. He had wanted to ask if she had known this information, and if she had why had she not told him, but even in his thoughts the words came out as rough and angry, so he had kept quiet.

Was he stunned? Irritated? Resigned? Standing here, looking out at the black night, the murmur of the sea faint in his ears, he was not certain how he felt. Part of him wanted to shout, swear, hit something. The other part wanted to fall to his knees and weep. Sob his heart out. Revelations about the history of his family this past twelve months or so were making his emotions tolerant of surprises; it was more the fact that he had felt so alone throughout his childhood that was upsetting him. Here were kind, generous, people who were his family. People who, until this morning, he had no idea existed. That knowledge should have made him feel elated but instead, he stood in the darkness, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets feeling more isolated than ever he had in his entire life.

Someone aboard
Sea Witch
was laughing. He saw a light suddenly stream upward from an open hatch, and disappear again. A loud belch carried across the estuary. A moment later the light glimmered again. A crewman had been on deck to use the heads. As long as he had done so, and not piddled on the deck. Had Tiola known about his family history? Did she sense his lonely bewilderment? The confusion running through his blood? Or did she, in her great wisdom, understand his desperate need for the security and reassurance that he had been denied in childhood? Maybe she did, for Jesamiah heard her footsteps on the hoar-frosted grass of the sloping lawn. The only person he did not mind coming up behind him. Without taking his hand from his pocket he held one elbow out; she slid her arm through his and her hand into his pocket, entwining her fingers into his. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“What hurts the most,” he said, “is that I once asked my father if I might come to England for my schooling – a forlorn hope to escape my brother’s bullying…” he paused, corrected himself, his mouth twisting into a grimace, “the bastard I
thought
was my brother. Papa denied the request. He said there was no one he knew or trusted enough to keep an eye on me here in England.” The words choked in his throat. He could say nothing more for a few moments. When he did speak again it was with a half sob. “Why did he lie? What was wrong with these good people? I would have been happy here!”

Tiola squeezed his hand. How to explain that Fate could trundle by in mysterious ways? That he should have come then but something had jolted Fate and he was here, now, with her, instead.

“I love you, Jesamiah Acorne,” she said, “whether you be a sea captain, a viscount’s grandson, or the utter idiot that you are.”

He chuckled. “I’ll settle for the sea captain,” he said. “I am not ready to be related to minor nobility, and I am not impressed by the role of idiot. It is too,” he searched for the word he wanted, looked at Tiola and grinned, “it is too unbecoming for a sea captain.”

With one finger of his other hand he tipped her chin upward and gently kissed her mouth. “I love you, and I do not know why I behaved so foolishly. My only defence is that perhaps I love you too much. I was jealous because I do not want to share you with anyone else, and because I could not bear to lose you.”

Tiola moved to stand in front of him, thread her arms around his waist beneath his coat, and snuggled into his solid warmth. She wanted to say, ‘
So why do you trot after whores with your tail wagging and your prick hard, and leave me to ache over where you are and what you are doing?
’ She let the matter rest. He was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of sex; to his mind, sexual encounters were no different to playing cards, drinking in the tavern or getting into a fight. It was a pastime, an entertainment, nothing more. Love, in most men’s minds, and in Jesamiah’s, was nothing to do with sex.
Lovemaking
was different. That was for private sharing between a man and a woman who loved each other. It was pointless her trying to explain that to a woman the two were one and the same. Accept it, move on. To be fair, because of her indisposal he had been denied sexual pleasure for a while now, perhaps it was up to her to shift the balance back to where it rightly belonged. First though, before putting the intimacies aright, there were other matters to sort.

“There is some great magic that has drawn us here to Devon for an, as yet, unknown reason. It frightens me, for it may test our strength of heart, body and soul, perhaps to our limit.”

He thought on that for a moment, not liking the sound of it, his chin resting on her head, his hands clasped about her waist. “I like it here,” he admitted. “While bathing in that wind-chivvied bedchamber, I almost fancied I could live here, contented, for the rest of my days with you and our children. Yet another part of me is shouting to weigh anchor and get out now. Why is that, do you think? Because of this great magic you speak of? There is something here that frightens me also.” He laughed, a false sound to mask his concern. “I put it down to the suspicion that Jennings is up to something, embroiling me, again, in his incomprehensible schemes.”

She looked up. Jesamiah rarely admitted his fears, even to himself. She offered her mouth for him to kiss, and when they moved apart, she whispered, “Henry Jennings may well have his own plans, but the magic I speak of is because Time is shifting, and that first quarter-moon rising on the horizon is pulling the Tide of the
Weird
– Fate – into her embrace. We, the mere grains of sand upon a beach, can do nothing except watch and wait, and travel the path of our destined journey with our trust in those who guard and guide us.”

Tightening his hold on her, Jesamiah brought her closer and kissed her forehead. “I am a captain. I guard my own fate, and choose my own path. Often, what you say scares me. More often I have no idea what you are talking about which perhaps is a good thing. Can we settle, for now, on the fact that my arm is aching, my back is cold, and my bladder is in need of emptying?”

She laughed. “I think you had best attend the latter afore you wet your breeches. Then would you walk me up the lane to Instow House? I wish to ensure Isabella is settled for the night, and after mayhap we could find our way to our own bed?”

Jesamiah made a disapproving face. “Are you tellin’ me I’ve got to walk all the way up that bloody hill again?”

They walked in silence, hand in hand, not hurrying, enjoying the quiet of the night and the crisp, cleanness of the air. Once, Jesamiah stopped to look down over the estuary landscape, the creep of the incoming tide, the starlight and faint glow of lamps along the Appledore and Instow shores, and
Sea Witch’s
riding lights. The reflection of the moon on the white froth of the Bar. Twice, he stopped to hold Tiola close and do a bit of husbandly exploring beneath her bodice and petticoats. By the time the last bend in the lane came into view he was sincerely hoping this visit would not take long, because he rather wanted to get to bed – and not for the purposes of sleep.

His breath clouding in the frosted air he voiced his thoughts. “You’ll not be stopping long will you?” Hiding the fact that he was out of breath from the climb, he added, “It’s been a bit of a long day.”

“Ssh!” Tiola hissed, jerking his hand to draw him to a halt.

“What?” Jesamiah looked around, his brows furrowing, listening. “I can’t hear nothing.”

“Ssh!”

~
Something is wrong at the house. ~

Thirty Seven

Lamps and candles were lit in several of the rooms upstairs and down. As Tiola and Jesamiah approached the gate, shadows fell across an upstairs window. The front door stood wide open. A pistol shot! A scream, and the wail of a baby crying.

Tiola rushed forward but Jesamiah grabbed her arm, hauling her back into the darkness of the lane.

“Let me go! The babies…”

“… Will be dead with the rest of us if we go barging in!”

Another scream and the sound of something heavy falling or being pushed over. Tiola tried to wrestle herself away from Jesamiah, but he held her firm. He pushed her against the wall beneath the protective shelter of a beech tree. “Stay here,” he said, easing his pistol from his belt with one hand.

She shook her head. “I can help.”

“You cannot. You are not permitted to do harm, remember?”

“I am not permitted to do harm with my Craft, no, but there are other ways of fighting.” Her determined gaze bore into Jesamiah’s face.

He took a second to consider. “Alright, but stay behind me, stay quiet, and do as I say.”

Do I not always do as you say?

No. Never.

And I do not intend to start now.

He gave her a withering look and crept forward, treading carefully through the open gate, placing his boots lightly because of the crunch of the gravel. There was more thumping and banging as if furniture was being thrown about; the sound of breaking china.

The drapes over the downstairs windows were all drawn so there was no way that Jesamiah could assess what was going on inside. He considered trying the back of the house, but another scream made it essential to get inside quickly, or it may not be worth going in at all. Holding Tiola’s hand tight, he ran for the front door, bending low, not caring about his footsteps for there was enough noise within to disguise the scrunching. Tiola was beside him as he darted through into the entrance hall. His pistol in one hand he drew his cutlass with the other. No one there. A table was on its side, the vase that had been upon it smashed to pieces. Blood on the floor. The babies’ crying was coming from upstairs, the heavy thuds from behind a door to the left of the hall. There was shouting as well, and a woman sobbing.

~ I’m going in there, ~
Jesamiah said, pointing his pistol towards the door.
If you have any magic you can use, now might be a good time?

I do not do magic. I can only create illusion.

Then create illusion, woman!

Jesamiah ran forward, kicked the door open; wood splintered from the broken handle and catch as it flew open. Pistol cocked and raised, he burst into the room.

Three men. Two pounding their fists and feet into a prone, and severely bleeding Nicholas Hartley. A third was scrabbling at the laces of his breeches while kneeling astride a young, sobbing woman, her torn chemise rumpled up around her knees.

Hearing Tiola gasp behind him Jesamiah took quick, careful aim, cocked the pistol hammer full home and squeezing the trigger put a bullet clean through the man’s head. Isabella screamed as the corpse fell forward on top of her, his blood, bone and brain matter fountaining everywhere. Without pause, Jesamiah was stepping menacingly forward, the pistol reversed to make an effective cosh, his cutlass in his other hand ready to meet one of the men who had been pummelling at Hartley. A short meeting; Jesamiah ripped his cutlass blade through the man’s belly in one powerful slash.

Hartley was curled on the floor, furniture tipped over around him, debris from broken ornaments scattered everywhere. Incongruously, the ornate clock which had sat on the marble mantlepiece and was now face down in the hearth, chimed the hour of ten. The other assailant was stepping over his dead accomplice, a glinting cutlass as deadly as Jesamiah’s in his hand.

Dropping his pistol Jesamiah traded blows, metal clashing and scraping on metal, their boots crunching on slivers of broken china and glass; a chair was knocked over, a candlestand, a side table. Dried fruit spilled across the expensive carpet as the glass bowl that had been atop it shattered.

Tiola could not fight, but she had her gift of Craft. A wind hurled through the room, lifting the drapes at the windows, extinguishing the candles and flaring the flames in the grate, sending sparks spitting up the chimney. She was aware she should feel remorse for the two men Jesamiah had already killed, but for scum like them? Ah no, evil stalked the world, and those who embraced its influence would not feel the wasted benefit of her sympathy. Her contribution was enough to distract the man a moment; Jesamiah’s blade slashed through his arm, making his opponent drop his cutlass. Blood staining his coat and dripping down his arm, he clamped his other hand over the wound and glared at Jesamiah, who was raising his weapon for a final blow.

The man snarled, “Damn you,” turned, and shoulder first, crashed through the nearest window. He rolled on the grass, wobbled to his knees then ran off into the night.

Isabella was huddled on the floor; she needed attention and comfort. What sort of man would attempt to rape a woman within hours of childbirth? Gorge, disgust and pity rose into Tiola’s throat. She reached out her hand; “My dear…” sensed a movement behind her and half turned, but the babies were crying upstairs, and another woman’s screaming rose in terrified pitch.

“Jesamiah! Hurry, we are needed upstairs!” Isabella was in no immediate danger, the babies possibly were. Tiola ran from the room, raced up the stairs, and along the landing. She held up her right hand, palm outmost, and sent a blast of wind through the closed door, shattering its panels. There was another man standing beside the window, short, dirty and dishevelled, his face in partial darkness where the few candles did not shine a light. He grunted a sort of strangled giggle chuckling in his throat and leered at Tiola, the scar that disfigured his face looking vulgar in the dim light. He held a bundle of what looked like rags in one hand, with the other, released the catch and shoved the casement open. The bundle in his hand moved, whimpered, and with horror Tiola realised he held one of the swaddled baby girls. Slowly, deliberately, he held the child out of the open first floor window.

Tiola froze.

He said nothing, jerked his head, indicating that Tiola was to join Grace Benson who was kneeling on the floor, the other baby cradled in her arms.

“What is it you want?” Tiola said, not moving.

Again the man pointed towards Grace Benson, a snarl like that of a wounded animal grating in his mouth.

Jesamiah considered climbing out the window after the fleeing scumbag, but he heard the renewed screaming from upstairs, and decided to let him go. The only light, that from the fire and the hallway ahead of him, he searched quickly for his dropped pistol, found it, loaded it, thrust it through his belt. He grasped the coat of the dead man slumped across Isabella and hauled him aside then helped her to her feet. She was sobbing, trembling, but he had no time to assist her at the moment.

“See to your husband!” he ordered, hoping a distraction might help her. The shadows behind him, to the side of the door moved suddenly and pain streaked through Jesamiah’s head as a blow thundered into the back of his scalp.