Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (31 page)

Fifteen

Sir Cleve Hartley was not amused. He was downright angry.

“Your aunt will be turning in her grave – and she not even four and twenty hours buried!” He was shouting, his face florid, his fisted hand thumping onto the table in Tawford Barton’s parlour. His other hand was raised, one finger jabbing at Pamela in unison with the thudding fist.

“I forbid this nonsense. Utterly forbid it!”

His son, Nicholas, stood beside him, his stance rigid, arms folded, entire face crinkled into a frown of disapproving contempt. “You wish to unite in marriage with a common French sailor? What are you, a dockside whore? You bring shame on yourself and this family!”

Pamela was already near to tears. She had tried protesting when their initial anger slammed back at her, but Nicholas’s words made her intended reply choke in her mouth and a sob emerged instead. Rather than permit others to witness her weeping, she pressed her hand to her mouth and fled the room.

It was all so awful. Aunt Bethan passing quietly in her sleep so soon after Grandmamma Jennet, the funeral, the uncertainty of the future. Pamela was on her own now, and that future looked bleak and lonely. Until Rue had spoken quietly to her.

He had made up his mind. He loved his life at sea, loved sailing aboard
Sea Witch
, but seeing Pamela in distress, and so lost in solitude, he had realised that he loved her more than these, and asked for her hand. Pamela had accepted his proposal joyfully, but perhaps she should have kept the excitement to herself for a while, for when she imparted the news to Cleve Hartley and his son they had both erupted into fury.

“With respect,
monsieur
,
it is not for you to approve or disapprove.” Rue retaliated, his own fists clenched, his anger, and French accent rising at the insults paid to the woman he adored. “I intend to make Miss Pamela my wife, and it is of no concern of yours that I so do.”

“Do you seriously expect us to permit this absurdity?” Nicholas retorted. “It is as plain as this table that all you require is access to the lady’s inheritance. A pauper of a sailor taking a noblewoman as wife? Hah! You are after her money! Admit it!”

The verbal assault came from two quarters as Viscount Westley shouted, “I am the head of this household. I will see to it that you have not a penny farthing piece to your name if you defy me!” He emphasised each word with his fist striking the table.

“Then we will live
en pauvreté
,” Rue responded curtly. “As for wealth of this ‘ouse’old, merde! What wealth? The lady is as poor as
un rat d’église
– the church mice!” He had tried to be polite and reasonable, but how did polite reason survive when these men standing opposite him were being rude and obnoxious?

Slipping away in pursuit of Pamela, Tiola left the room. She had not been surprised at the disapproval. Rue, for all that she loved him as a friend was, as Hartley had said, nothing more than a sailor. He had no property, no land, although like Jesamiah, he did have money, albeit in the format of goods stored in selective warehouses in various ports. The goods, as with Jesamiah’s own cache, were of value, however. Gems, spices, ambergris, gold. Rue had more wealth to his name than the Hartleys, but what did that account for when he was a foreign commoner and an ex-pirate? Pamela, Lady Dynam, had a title inherited from her grandfather.

Tiola went to her own chamber first, the one Jesamiah had used, his grandfather’s room, then to Pamela’s smaller chamber towards the rear of the building. She tapped on the door, not waiting for a response, lifted the latch and entered. Pamela was face down on the bed, her arms cradling a pillow, sobbing. Crossing quickly to her, Tiola sat on the edge of the bed, her hand gently rubbing Pamela’s back.

“My dear, cease your tears. I have something to help your situation.”

“What?” Pamela mumbled, “Is it poison? I would rather die than lose this chance of becoming wife to a good man.”

“You are not going to lose that chance, but you must be brave and determined.”

“To what point?” Pamela stammered, “Uncle Cleve is, as he says, head of the household. I can do nothing without his permission. How can he be so mean spirited?”

“He is a worried man, dear heart. He has financial problems, which can make a man say things that he would not normally say. He wishes for you a husband with wealth and estates.”

Fresh tears erupted. “For his benefit, not mine! Rue says his estate is the ocean, his wealth is the ship he sails on.”

Tiola smiled to herself. Rue had not divulged his financial wealth then. Very wise of him given that he would be accused of accruing it through murder and thievery. Stating the truth, she said, “That is all well and good, but the ship is not his own, and the sea is a harsh mistress. He cannot be both a supportive husband to you, and sail the seas.” She thought,
Nor can Jesamiah, but he will never give up the sea for me. Were it not for Tethys claiming him for her own, would I want him to?

Her dilemma was what to do if she could not outwit Tethys. The past had shown that the Law of Destiny had been altered because she had interfered and changed the balance of Fate. Had she not done so, Jesamiah would never have existed, for the father of his fathers would have drowned in a basket as a gift to the sea. The only thing Tiola could do was appease Tethys with a similar acceptable gift, but to sacrifice a life was unthinkable. The riddle was why had Tethys not claimed one of Jesamiah’s forefathers? They had all been men of the sea, why had not a single one of them drowned? What was protecting these men?

The puzzle was draining Tiola’s energy, but Pamela’s need, at this moment, was greater. Placing her hand beneath the young woman’s elbow, Tiola insisted that she should sit up. “I have something here to prove that Viscount Westley is Master of Marley Court, not Tawford Barton.” She held out the scrolled parchment. “Your uncle and your cousin want Tawford Barton because they have no more money, but they cannot touch this house or land for it does not belong to them.”

Pamela wiped at her tear-stained face. “Tawford Barton is entailed through the male line, Tiola. With no male heir, outside of the Hartleys, you are incorrect.”

“It is so entailed, but it is not theirs.” Tiola took Pamela’s hand in her own; looked earnestly into her tear-brimmed eyes. “When Charles, the second King of that name, was restored to his throne after many years of exile, he rewarded those who had unselfishly aided him in his fight for justice and England’s freedom.”

This Pamela knew.

“Your grandfather was among those rewarded.”

“He was, but the money he was granted went in trying to rebuild Marley Court after it had burnt down.”

“True, but he did not receive money alone. He requested a document, signed, and therefore legalised, by the King himself.” Tiola unrolled the parchment. Slowly, clear and distinct, she read aloud the words that declared, in the King’s name, that Charles St Croix, the son of Arabella St Croix, née Béjart, was the legitimate and legal heir of Sir Alexander Dynam, Viscount Westley.

Indicating the house, Tiola said, “Charles should have inherited all of this upon your grandfather’s passing, but they disagreed over certain things and became estranged so he did not pay heed to his inheritance. From what your Aunt Bethan told me, he was content to leave the guardianship of the house to Jennet and her daughters. He always was one to ignore his responsibilities.” Tiola re-rolled the parchment and placed it in Pamela’s hand.

“When Jesamiah’s father passed over, all that was his became Jesamiah’s. There is a will in a lawyer’s hands in Williamsburg, proving it so.”

Tiola smiled as Pamela realised her meaning, and added with a laugh, “Your only problem, my dear, is whether Jesamiah will release Claude de la Rue from service as his first quartermaster. And it will be interesting to discover whether my errant husband will pursue the title of Viscount, which, by right, is his.”

Sixteen

Nicholas was furious with his father. He could not believe what he had witnessed an hour since. “You gave in. You just bowed your head, clamped your mouth and gave in! Anyone can see that document is a forgery!”

Cleve Hartley held the goblet of brandy tight in his hand. It was already nearly empty. He sat before the fire in the parlour of his son’s house in Instow. Much of it had been quickly repaired – the damage had looked worse than it was. Furniture tipped over, a few broken ornaments and tableware. All designed to create a feeling of menace, not harm. Threats had been made, some of them most unpleasant, but not one had been carried out.

“We need Tawford Barton, Father. We need to sell it and its land. We need the money.”

The older man drained the glass, welcoming the hot, fire-liquid as it slid down his throat; made no reply.

“You should have insisted on our rights when Jeffries hanged the rebels. When you became Viscount, you should have demanded Tawford Barton, but oh no, you allowed those women to stay there.”

That was a taunt one too many. Cleve Hartley looked up sharply, angry. “Hold your tongue, boy! I was but eleven years old and the world had turned upside down. My own father had been killed at Sedgemoor, then those who were caring for me and your grandmother were cruelly hanged, including the boys who were my cousins and my friends!”

“You were not eleven for ever, Father. You should have addressed the legal issues when you came of age and became Master of Marley Court.”

Cleve set the empty glass down on the table beside him. Rage was making his hands tremble. “You are saying that you expected me to throw three widows out of their home? That is an intolerable suggestion!”

”At the very least Jennet should have been paying you rent all these years!”

Hartley stood there looking at his son, the disgust rising within him. “By God, I knew I had raised a selfish, pitiless bully, but I would never believe the rumours and gossip about you. I oppose Pamela marrying this sailor because he is nothing more than a raggedy-arsed ex-pirate, and a Frenchman at that. But you! You only want the money. It is all you have ever wanted isn’t it? That is why you wed Isabella, because Benson owns warehouses and ships and property, because he is a successful merchant with wealth to his name. Well, I remind you, he has two grown sons and a third boy. They will inherit, not the daughter, your wife!”

Nicholas was standing at the far side of the table. He set his hands flat upon it and leered at his father across its width. “The eldest sons are sickly, they will be walking with God before long, and the third is but a boy. I already manage the running of Benson’s Bideford warehouse, soon I will take over the Appledore one, and the shipyard. When Benson is gone, Knapp House as well. And you will sell Tawford Barton because I need the money to extend my business interests.”

“Hah! You need it to pay off your gambling debts!”

The anger spilled over and Nicholas came quickly around the table, his hand raised, intending to strike, but Cleve blocked the blow and stepped aside. His nostrils flaring, breath coming in enraged gasps, he gripped his son’s wrist and said, with vehemence, “I wonder if the rumours that my wife had a lover were true? You are so alike her, but you are nothing like me, nor my father, nor his father. I have done things for you because I thought you were a son worth doing things for.” He shook his head, his face very close to Nicholas’s. “No more. I will do no more. Pamela will receive my blessing, and I have no want, nor need, of her home. Bully someone else, Nicholas , or is it that the other rumours are true also? That it was yourself who hired those hang-gallows vermin to do your dirty work?” He thrust his face nearer, his nose almost touching his son’s. “You hired them because you heard of this list of traitors; you need to know if your name is on it, don’t you?” Cleve scrunched the fingers of his free hand into Nicholas’s cravat. “You heard every word didn’t you, that day when Jennings was talking to me and Sir Ailie? I saw you, lurking outside, pretending you were looking for a lost earring of your wife’s. Pah! You? Assist your wife? I’m surprised you did not even hire someone else to do your husbandly duties, for you are a lazy, arrogant, useless, bastard!”

Through gritted teeth Nicholas snarled at his father, his hands clawing to be released. “Let go of me! Call yourself a father? You are nothing but a drunken, impotent, sot. You are a pathetic fool and I spit on you!”

It was true. Cleve Hartley knew himself to be a sodden drunkard, who had more often than not been impotent with women. Drink numbed the memories and the responsibilities; it shielded the disappointments. So many had there been. The possibility that his son – if Nicholas were his son, he had often wondered – had hired those men to find that wretched list of names became a conviction.

“You sent them here so no one would suspect you are the traitor, to make it look like you too, were a target. My God…” Cleve took several steps backwards. “What sort of a man are you?”

“You are a pathetic old fool. Your pitiable clinging to the Jacobite dream is typical of those imbeciles you call friends. James is a lost cause. Our crowned and anointed King George and his Whig government are what England needs to thrive. I have been promised reward and status – I am to be elected Member of Parliament for our Borough. Have you achieved that, sir? No! All you have is a failed attempt at rebellion, and mark my words, the infantile plan you and your fellow imbeciles are attempting will also fail. For I intend to ensure it so.”

Cleve Hartley felt the lurch of pain in his chest as his heart stuttered. He needed a drink, a large, strong drink, but he was not going to request one from this worm whom he would no longer think of as a son. He collected his hat from where he had left it on a chair and walked, a little unsteady, towards the door. He turned back to face Nicholas.

“Know this, boy. I am delighted that Captain Acorne came here to Devon. I am delighted that Lady Jennet and Lady Bethan, God rest their gentle souls, ensured that the truth of his father’s birth and legitimacy were revealed.” He opened the door, stepped through. “And I will do all in my power to ensure that when I die the Viscountcy passes to its true heir, Captain Acorne, not a rat’s fart like you.”

He walked out, shut the door quietly behind him and went home as the skies beyond the Bar darkened into thunderheads. He felt he had, at last, made a right decision and for the first time in his entire life, he was at ease with himself.