Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (21 page)

Tiola felt moved to reach forward and place her own hand over Bethan’s. “My dear, I did not wish to upset you.”

“The past is littered with sad memories, but they are not the fault of Sir Ailie. Indeed, were it not for him we might have even more troubles to haunt us.” Bethan sighed, squeezed Tiola’s hand. “My husband and sons fought at Sedgemoor, my sister Ellen’s husband and her son – Pamela’s father and brother – were hanged by Judge Jeffries for the sake of justice, although spiteful revenge is what we in Devon call it. Ellen passed away to God soon after. I brought Pamela up as if she were my own child.” The pain of the telling was as bitter now as it had been four and thirty years past. “Even though he fought for King James Stuart, Sir Ailie spoke for us to the best of his ability, but the Hanging Judge had rope to fill, and our menfolk were not spared. We fought for Monmouth, you see. We were on the wrong side, and have paid the price for it ever since.”

“My uncle, and my father, his youngest brother,” Sir Ailie explained to Jesamiah, “was a rebel and a man who regarded what was his as his. He did not agree with the politics of the time, nor was he prepared to surrender to laws which he saw as corrupt and damning.”

“He preferred his freedom and regarded what was not his as also his?” Jesamiah queried tentatively.

“Quite so,” Sir Ailie chuckled, “how did you guess?”

Jesamiah liked this fellow, for all he had something suspicious about him. “I don’t need to guess,” he said, “until last year it was my own belief. Except I prowled the high seas, not a mist and bog-bound moor.”

Sir Ailie lifted a glass of wine from a servant’s tray and handed it to Jesamiah. Took another for himself. “My father, Sir Ensor, and I, knew your father, and your grandfather.”

Not particularly keen on wine, not when there were better alternatives, Jesamiah sipped from the glass. It was not a quality grape, but he had tasted worse. So someone else knew about this illegitimate kinship? “Somehow,” he said with a sigh, “that does not surprise me. I am beginning to assume that everyone knew my father, except for myself.”

“We were in trade together. Your father, his good friend Carlos Mereno, Henry Jennings, John Benson’s father and one or two others. There is a cove not far around the headland where it is convenient to bring a boat in. Our reputation, somewhat deliberately enhanced, ensured those with long noses and prying eyes stayed away on moonlit nights. What came in through that route went straight to where it was safe: Doone land – Doone Valley they call it; those who are afeared to be on the moors come sundown. My land will one day pass to my son or his son, though, as reluctant as I am to admit it, my grandson does not have the sense he was born with. My only son, although he has not said as much, no longer has the appetite for living on, how did you put it? A mist and bog-bound moor? My two daughters disassociated themselves many years ago. I have grandchildren by them, two boys, three girls, but I have never seen a-one of them.” He put his empty glass on another servant’s tray and took a replacement. “I strongly advise you, Captain, put your scurrilous past behind you and live an honest life henceforth.”

“Sound advice. I expect my wife will approve.”

“That she may, and that it is, but are you likely to follow it?”

Jesamiah returned the candid gaze. Answered with three words. “Shouldn’t think so.”

Forty Seven

Lady Jennet was carried into the room by two servants, her chair adapted like a sedan with two poles. She was set down in the centre of the room, holding court as if she were a royal queen. She was frail, visibly tired, but determined not to let her daughter and granddaughter down, for they had wanted to give her this day to please her, and pleased she would be. At least outwardly.

Inside, she knew her end was coming. Almost one hundred years – far more than an expected lifetime. She had started out as a ragamuffin, running barefoot on the moors, and ended as a dowager countess. She had suffered a broken heart and many tears, but much laughter, and the joy of knowing the man she had loved, and still loved. She was tired of life and wanted only to join him, but there were things that had to be done first, and now that Tiola was here, maybe at last she could get them completed, and seek the long sleep she craved.

The fussing and the merrymaking went on around her, with her smiling and talking and accepting delicacies to eat and ginger wine to drink. All the while she watched the man, Jesamiah Acorne. Watched as he talked to Sir Ailie Doone, to her kinsman Cleve Hartley, to John Benson and Carter Trevithick. Saw how Nicholas Hartley, bruised and bandaged, avoided him, and glared daggers at his back. Considering Acorne had saved the wretched young man’s life not more than several hours previous, she would have expected a little more politeness and gratitude, but then, she reflected with a sigh, Nicholas was not the polite or grateful sort. Quite the opposite, in fact. As much as it pained her to admit it, she did not like Nicholas. She observed how Captain Acorne attended his wife, aware that there was a special relationship between the two, despite the flares which tempered their partnership. If there were not squabbles and disagreements in a marriage, though, how would the fire of passion be kept alight?

Tiola noticed her tiredness and came to sit beside the elderly lady. “It must be very special to be able to recollect all the memories you have stored away, Lady Jennet.”

“My dear child, I have but a thimblefull compared to what your memory holds.”

Tiola looked up quickly, her eyes widening. Jennet nodded slowly. “My mother had the Sight, and a small gift of healing. I possess a little, enough to see the aura glow that surrounds you, and I recognise what you are: one of the Old Wise Ones. There has been one of your kind here, near the sea and the moors from the beginning of Time. Were you aware of that?”

Holding the old lady’s worn, thin, age-knotted hand with her own, stroking her thumb over the bent knuckles where the pain of the joint ache did hurt so, Tiola answered in a tone that only those with the Craft would hear. “The grandmothers of my grandmothers were here, which means I was here, for our souls pass from the dead to the newborn, grandmother to granddaughter, but there is something wrong in the shift of time, some incorrectness that I do not understand. Something happened, many, many years ago which altered the balance of the Law of my Craft, and I fear I do not know how to put it right without breaking my heart and losing the one I love now, and have always loved.”

Jennet looked across the room towards Jesamiah. Her old, tired heart, giving a little leap as she saw his face crease into laughter. He looked so alike her beloved Alexander – save his hair was black and he did not have the groove of a cleft in his chin. He also had his mother’s Spanish eyes. Jennet remembered those beautiful, dark, sad eyes so very clearly.

“Over on the headland,” she said, “the one we call Crow Point, there was once a chapel dedicated to the blessing of St Anne. From before the years of when my grandmother’s grandmother was young, women would go there to pray for a child, or for a safe delivery. Blessed St Anne looked after the womb, the child, and the mother. Mayhap, Tiola my dear, you should go there?”

A merchant rope-maker and his wife came over to pay their respects before leaving. The party was breaking up, with evening falling early because of the rain and dark days. Add to that, storm clouds were gathering again over the moors. Another three guests followed, and it was some while before Jennet could say more to Tiola.

When she could speak freely again, Jennet touched Tiola’s arm. “Thank you, my dear, your healing has taken the pain from these haggard old fingers. Now, could you find me my daughter, I think my splendid party has come to an end. I have had a delightful birthday, but I wish now to be taken home to the quiet and comfort of my bed.”

Tiola rose from her chair with a swift smile, intent on fetching Bethan or Pamela who were bidding farewell to guests, but Jennet caught her hand. With a solemn face, she said, “Do not let her take him. She thinks she has the right, but she does not. Do not fear the sea, for she feeds on fear.”

“Mama! I have neglected you!” Bethan bustled up, the servants with her, ready to carry Jennet home. “Pamela is fetching your cloak and bonnet, and we will wrap blankets around you to keep you warm. Oh it has been a lovely afternoon, has it not? Have you enjoyed it all, Mama?”

Jennet patted her daughter’s hand. Some aspects she had. Listening to joyful chatter and a dribble of wicked gossip, the smiles, the laughter, the kindness of friends. All of that had been good, but she was tired, and it was time to go home.

Forty Eight

With most of the guests departed and Lady Jennet safely on her way home, Beth and Pamela started organising the servants to clear away the accumulated debris of a pleasurable afternoon. Used glasses, dirty plates, leftover food. Tiola gave her assistance, enjoying the laughter that rolled between them as they worked, discussing the gowns the female guests had worn, the cut of the gentlemen’s coats. It was good, she thought, to sometimes be an ordinary woman amongst ordinary friends.

The gentlemen had retired to the library, although the scarcity of books somewhat belied the description of the room. The Hartleys had avoided Jesamiah for most of the afternoon, a feat easily achieved for both of them.Nicholas, because he had not risen from his chair, and Lord Westley had many guests to speak with and entertain, but now that there were only themselves, Sir Ailie, John Benson, Carter Trevithick and Rue, pleasantries had to be exchanged. It was Sir Ailie who had suggested they retire to another room, Sir Ailie who had gestured for Carter and Jesamiah to accompany them, and Jesamiah insisting that Rue be included. “He is my second in command,” he stated quietly to Sir Ailie. “I trust him, and will not slight him.”

Nicholas Hartley hobbled to a chair beside the fire and sat nursing yet another large glass of brandy, although already well into his cups. His extent of ‘pleasantry’ was to scowl at Jesamiah who pretended not to notice. Sir Ailie, however, did notice. “I hear from John,” he said, “that you played a major part in an uncomfortable situation last night, Captain. It is understandable that we have not spoken of this in front of the ladies, or within hearing of wagging ears. You, Nicholas, have my assurance that the men who got away will be found, and will be punished.”

“It was probably him who’s behind it,” Hartley muttered, pointing a stabbing finger at Jesamiah. “He will be wanting to do away with me now he thinks he has a claim on Westley land and title.”

Jesamiah was prepared to ignore the statement, but John Benson was not. “That is downright rude, Nicholas, and slanderous – and well you know it. The Captain only discovered his grandsire’s identity but yesterday afternoon. How in God’s name could he have organised those ruffians, and nigh on damned got killed himself, in the space of a few hours?”

“Nor would he have endangered his wife,” Carter added, reluctant to defend Jesamiah, but willing to state the obvious.

He had made no mention of his relationship to Tiola throughout the day, to which Jesamiah was happy to conform. If brother and sister wished to keep their status private, then that suited him. “I have already made it clear,” he said, “that I have no interest in who sired who and when. I acknowledge that my father was bastard-born – that gives me no claim. As far as I am aware, Alexander Lord Westley did not acknowledge him, or me. My father’s name was St Croix, then he went by the name Mereno. I have the name Acorne because I want nothing to do with him. I am honoured to have met the ladies, and welcome their generous friendship. Beyond that I seek no connection to Westley, Hartley or Dynam.”

Nicholas Hartley’s face reddened with drunken irritation. “Huh! You say that now, but what about when my father dies? What is to say you will not sail into that harbour out there and set your sea pirates loose on Instow and Marley Court to gain the spoils?”

Rue growled beneath his breath, his hand going surreptitiously to the dagger in his waistbelt.

Glancing at him, Jesamiah shook his head, warning Rue to stand down, then laughed outright. “Forgive my amusement, but what spoils? I see none worth taking. I am the captain of my own ship and master of a substantial tobacco plantation in Virginia. I have assets enough to satisfy my needs without wasting life and ammunition on property that is not far off falling into a pile of rubble!”

Fists bunched, Hartley rose clumsily to his feet, forgetting his bandaged leg. “How dare you! This is my father’s home, inherited through honour to King and Country, not plundered in acts of piracy!”

“Not fought for by you, sir, and it depends on which king you are referring to don’t it?” Jesamiah snapped back. “A noose fits a traitor the same as it does a pirate.”

Hartley lurched to the side of the room, his hand reaching for one of the fancy rapiers decorating the wall. Jesamiah was the quicker. He had not brought his pistol, but his cutlass hung at his hip, as it always did. Instantly, it was drawn and in his hand, the razor sharp blade reflecting the brightness of the flames in the fireplace and the flickering candles in the wall sconces.

Both Cleve Hartley and Sir John shouted an alarmed protest. The dagger came into Rue’s hand, but Carter clamped a hand round his wrist and shook his head.

Sir Ailie intervened by stepping between the two men. “Now, now, gentlemen! What foolishness is this? Nicholas, you are overwrought and have had too much to drink. Captain Acorne, I ask you to put up your weapon.”

Jesamiah hesitated, then with a slight nod of acceptance sheathed the cutlass. “Had I wanted to kill you,” he said with a snarl, “I would’ve shot you, not the other bastards assaulting you and your wife.”

With reluctance, Hartley allowed Sir Ailie to remove the rapier from his hand and wincing at the discomfort shooting up his leg sat down in the nearest chair. He wiped his hand over his face, stared into the bright colours of the fire for a moment, watched a blue flame hiss from a damp log. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.” If the concession was genuine, the sincerity did not reach his voice or eyes.

The uneasy, embarrassed silence was circumnavigated by John Benson taking the brandy decanter around and refilling glasses. Sir Cleve seated himself opposite his son. Carter propped himself against a table. Noticing some titles in French, Rue decided to investigate the books.
La Comtesse de Tende; Histoire d’Henriette d’Angleterre.
He pulled
Memoires de la Cour de France
off the shelf, blew the dust from the cover and wrinkled his nose at the intense smell of decay from the mildewed pages as he opened it. He tried another,
La Princesse de Clèves
. A dead spider fell from the spine, a flower placed as a marker, long dried and pressed flat, crumbled as he lightly touched it. These books had not been touched for years.

Jesamiah was near Sir Ailie. Blunt into the silence he asked, “So what do you know of this list of names that certain people seem so desperate to get hold of?”

The Earl frowned. “List? I am sorry, I know not of any list.”

“You mean Henry did not mention it?”

“Henry? We spoke of our future trade prospects, but there was no list of our proposals. Should there have been?”

Jesamiah ignored the pretence of puzzlement. “What of you, Viscount? Did Jennings mention this prized list of names to you, or your son?”

“I have no idea of what you mean. Captain Jennings mentioned no list.”

“Someone knows of the thing’s existence,” Jesamiah stated, “for they are going to one heck of a lot of trouble to obtain it!”

Any answer, or possible explanation was diverted by the door opening, a man of about forty years hurrying in, clad in muddied riding boots and cloak. He stripped off his leather gloves as he strode across the room, removed his hat and tossed them to a chair. He looked tired, his face drawn, bruised skin sagging beneath his eyes.

“Winnard! Is there news?” Sir Ailie poured wine and handed him a glass, frowning at the troubled expression.

“Aye, Father! I have found them. They are as we feared held at Barnstaple gaol. Due to be transferred to Exeter on the morrow.”

Carter hurriedly grasped the newcomer’s arm, his fingers digging into the damp jerkin beneath the cloak. “And Ben?”

The man looked grim. “Ben too. There are five of them. My son, Ascham, thank God, with your brother, the Purdy twins, and your man, Father, Mahadun.” He shuddered; muttered, “In my opinion, if he is to hang he will not be a loss to any of us.”

The response was sharp. “We have had this same disagreement many a time, Winnard. Mahadun is strange, I grant, but he has been loyal and his especial talents highly useful to the Doones during the hours of darkness. I will not betray his trust in me.”

“Am I to assume,” Jesamiah interrupted, “these are the only survivors from that shipwreck the other evening?” He looked directly at Carter for confirmation.

Carter answered with weariness. “Yes, it seems so. The others have washed up drowned, or were killed by those murdering redcoats waiting for us.” He all but fell into a chair, his face grey. “If they have Ben… It would have been better for him to drown quick rather than hang.”

Recovering his poise, Sir Ailie realised his manners. “Captain Acorne, may I introduce my son, Winnard Doone. He has been ascertaining where those who survived the wreck are being held prisoner.”

“Capture is a risk we all take when breaking the law,” Jesamiah said with a shrug, looking direct at Nicholas Hartley. A moment ago he had been lectured about the evils of piracy, while these men were all confirmed smugglers, and possibly more than that, traitors to the Crown. In the eyes of the law there was no difference in the three crimes which carried the penalty of death.

“What is so annoying,” John Benson said, pouring each man a generous tot of brandy, “is that the whole venture was a waste of time. The only consolation is that no one outside this room has knowledge of what it involved.”

“We were betrayed,” Carter insisted. “Someone informed on us.”

Gloom settled in the room like a malevolent shadow. Winnard moved his chair nearer to the fire and sat warming his cold hands and feet. Steam rose from his breeches. The others drank their brandy deep in their own thoughts.

“I need a few things explaining,” Jesamiah said after the silence had tiptoed twice around the room. “I am from the Colonies and I have not had any care or interest in the politics of whatever king or government likes to think they are in charge of affairs. You, Sir Ailie, and I presume you also, Winnard, support the Jacobite cause because you are Scots Catholics?”

Drawing a breath to allow a moment to consider an answer – the truth or a lie – Sir Ailie decided on the truth, or at least, half the truth. “The Doones are related to the lady Queen Mary of Scotland; is it not surprising that we support her direct line of kindred through James Francis Edward Stuart?”

Acknowledging the information, and the courtesy of the truth with one shrugged shoulder, Jesamiah addressed Sir Cleve Hartley. “You are not papist, and from what I have learnt, your kinsmen fought for Charles, first and second of that name, and your father was at Sedgemoor with Monmouth fighting against this present James Stuart’s father. Those ladies in the room next door lost their husbands and sons to the Jacobites and the nooses of his bloody judge. Why in the names of the seven seas are you now supporting the return of a Stuart monarchy?”

The men present looked one to the other, each reluctant to admit to treason against King George of Hanover.

“We can speak freely,” Carter said with an exhaled sigh as he set his empty glass down on a table. “I can vouch for Acorne. He is no government spy.”

Jesamiah barked laughter, spluttering wine from his mouth. “God’s bruises but you do not know how fokken pleased I am to be hearing that!” He guffawed again, the amusement fading to a chuckle. “For several months now I have been trying to convince Henry bloody Jennings that I am not a spy, have no wish to be a spy, and will not become a spy. To my misfortune he has been too long on the gun deck and is as deaf as a bollard to my protestations.”

The silence again, another round of wary, exchanged glances, particularly between father and son, Ailie and Winnard Doone.

“I take it,” Benson said dryly, “that you admit to being in government pay then?”

“No I do not!” Jesamiah shot back. “Twice now I have been blackmailed by Jennings into doing things I would rather not do for King and Country. My monarch is my ship, my country is the sea. The only land I am interested in is my plantation along the Rappahannock. As someone from the Colonies I resent paying tax through every orifice for the benefit of your fokken parliament to spend on wars that have no meaning to me. Save for the Spanish who I steer well clear of, I couldn’t care less which country is in favour or out of it, as long as I get a good price for whatever cargo happens to be in my hold.” He stabbed a finger towards Sir Ailie, “Nor do I give a snapped spar which king wears a fancy crown on his head or which pot he farts in.”

“We trust Jennings,” Benson said to Cleve Hartley spreading his arms wide in a gesture of appeal, “and it was Jennings who sent this fellow to us.”

“He did not!” Jesamiah protested, then held a hand up in surrender as every face turned to stare at him. One of the things a pirate learns early in his career if he wishes to stay alive is to know when it is best not to attack because you will lose the battle.

“It is like this,” Benson said, moving beside Jesamiah and resting his fingers lightly on his shoulder, “James Stuart has made various promises, not that we necessarily believe he will deliver them, but there is a possibility he will. Fat George, on the other hand, has broken every promise he made, and never made a good few more. James has learnt the lessons his father did not grasp – mainly that we are a Protestant kingdom, and we are fed up to the back teeth of one church fighting the other. He has agreed religious tolerance. He will also, when he is crowned king, cancel all debts that his supporters have accrued.”