Surrender the Wind (6 page)

“Caroline mentioned your niece in her letter,” he said.

“Yes, they are great friends,” Stowefield replied. “If you do go to Britain, perhaps Juleah will be of comfort to you also, as she is to your good sister.”

At this, Seth stiffened and set his mouth. His genial smile vanished, and he could feel, down to his marrow, the cold and pained look that flooded his eyes. “I doubt there's a woman so lovely or modest, or graced with enough womanly wisdom to be of any comfort to me, sir. Women do not wish for friendship in a man.”

Stowefield let out a laugh. “On the contrary. My late wife was my best friend and I hers, right from the start of our courtship.”

“My father spoke the same of my mother. I hope I’m as blessed, but I doubt it.”

He excused himself, and wished Mr. Stowefield and his guests a good night. He went upstairs to the guest room and pulled off his boots. That night, Seth lay in bed staring at the pattern the moonlight made against the ceiling. He thought to no end, torn between two worlds.

He needed to see his sister again to be sure she was well and to set his affairs in England in order. It was his duty. Then he envisioned those yearning eyes that belonged to Juleah Fallowes.

Frustrated with it all, a prisoner to obligation and conscience, he asked what care did he have for England, for his grandfather's estate, for the love of a woman?

I love thee, I love but thee with a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold and the stars are old
And the leaves of the judgment book unfold

—Bayard Taylor

A
knot gripped Seth's stomach. After a long sea voyage, he stood on English soil in the port town of Penzance in Cornwall, in the land of his ancestors, long dead, long forgotten. The sun ruled the zenith, touched upon his face. Its caress warmed his skin, chased off the chilly wind that blew across the southern harbor, but that was all.

After he handed up his ticket to the coachman, he stepped inside the bleak interior of the coach. He was glad to see he was the sole occupant, with as much room as the cabin he slept in crossing the Atlantic. Only this smelled of people instead of seawater.

He pulled off his tricorn and set it next to him. The whalebone buttons on the bands of his breeches were cold against his knees. He hoped his cloak would keep him warm into the night.

The door shut, and Seth, seated to the right and forward, leaned toward the window. A magenta light peeked through the clouds, while veils of mist fell over frost-laden fields. From the chimneys of houses blew smoke from hearth fires.

What kind of reception would he receive at Ten Width? A strange name was this for a manor. He had been told Ten Width was founded upon rich farmland, banked by thick forests teeming with game and a blue lake to the east. The house was old, built in 1603. Originally, the acres were ten miles in width, thus the name Ten Width.

Would he find the house in ruins? Crumbling walls, no doubt, broken windows, lichen-covered stone, airless, unused rooms smelling of age. Yes, the house would be dark and bleak, and he dreaded it.

These troubling visions made him frown, and he cursed his obligation as Benjamin's heir to a house he had never seen, in a country he had not been born to. During his journey over sea and land, he had come to realize that other magnets drew him to England. Those eyes, the parted mouth, drew him to a woman he had not met in the flesh, but in paint and canvas in a candlelit room. The lips, even now in his memory, whispered. The eyes cast a suggestion; the face enticed.

Seth rebuked his foolishness to dwell on an image, an interpretation of an artist's brush. For all he knew Juleah Fallowes was not as her portrait. What did he care? Outward beauty was fleeting. What mattered lay inward.

Four miles east of Penzance, the coach rolled over the sandy highway situated atop the hills above Marazion. Below, Seth saw the spire of the Church of Saint Hilary jutting skyward. The coach wheels drowned out the sigh of wind. The tide had gone out in Mount's Bay, and from the highest point on land, Seth gazed at the granite island of St. Michael's Mount rising out of the sea. The sun spread a plane of sapphire across the water, alighted lances against the rocks and the ancient castle atop the island. What kind of person would live in such a place? It would be lonely, and to be surrounded by the sea,
depressing. He preferred fields of wheat and corn, deep forests, the whisper of the Potomac. In a castle surrounded by rock and water, a man would go mad, or fat and idle. He’d have no fields to plow; life would be dull and listless, absent of singing birds, replaced by screeching gulls, no great bass to fish from the river, no deer to hunt.

Soon the island passed out of view. The coach swayed and dipped along a road lined with villages and headed inland to cross the barren heathlands of Bodmin Moor on to northern Devonshire.

At nightfall, the coach slowed, came to a halt in front of an inn outside of Baxworthy. The sign outside the black lacquered door read The Black Mare, and it swayed with the breeze upon rusty hinges.

The coachman jumped down from his perch, and a moment later a woman ordered him to go easy with her baggage. Under the glare of the coach lamps, he opened the door, pulled down the step, and handed the lady up, followed by a boy and his sister. The woman wore a large bonnet clustered with blue ribbons and a thick bow beneath her chin. She plopped into the seat across from Seth and gathered her children to each side of her.

“Good eve, sir.” Her breath hurried, and she gathered her cloak closer about her. “My, it is fine weather to travel in, is it not? Chilly, but fine.”

“Yes, madam,” replied Seth. A snap of the reins and the horses moved off into the center of the road and headed on. The left wheel dipped into a pothole and the coach lurched to the side and soon righted.

The lady passenger, now Seth's companion for the journey, glanced at him somewhat puzzled. Fidgeting, she wished to break the silence between them.

“My children and I are not far from home. I shall be happy to sit before my own fire. We have come from my sister's house, Lowery Cottage, just outside of Milford. Are you familiar with Lowery Cottage, sir?”

Seth lifted his hand from under his chin. “I’m afraid not.”

“Oh? Well, it is a fine place to be sure. My sister's husband is the vicar there, and the church sits nearby in a pretty glade. May I ask where it is you are journeying to?”

“I’m on my way to Ten Width.”

The lady sighed. “Ten Width?”

“You know this place, ma’am?”

“Know it? Indeed, sir, I do.”

“Is it far from here?”

“Within the hour, I’d say. Did not the coachman say as much?”

“He said we would arrive in daylight. I see now he was wrong.”

“That is true. The coach was an hour late picking us up.”

“I hope your family shall not worry,” Seth said.

“I am sure my husband is anxious to see us home. Ten Width is known well within our county. The squire died last November, and so mysterious a man he was in his later years. There were no parties at Ten Width like in years past. Everything was kept quiet.”

Seth listened in an effort to absorb the information she put forth. “I imagine he wanted his privacy.”

The boy stared at Seth with boyish curiosity. “Mother, do you suppose the gentleman carries a brace of pistols with him under his coat?”

The mother squeezed her son's arm to silence him. “You must forgive me for asking. But by your speech, it is evident you are an American. Is it from there you hail?”

“It is, ma’am. I was raised in Virginia.”

She put her hand against her heart and sighed. “Virginia. I hear she is pretty alongside her neighbor Maryland. I find it laudatory they are named after noble women. Don’t you?”

Seth nodded and settled back against the seat. “Yes, but deceptive as well. Their wildernesses are treachery and beauty combined … like women.”

The lady laughed, and her son continued to stare over at Seth with interest.

“Sir, do they have highwaymen in Virginia and Maryland?” the boy queried.

“I’ve met none, young sir,” Seth told him.

“Were you a soldier in the last war?”

The mother snatched her son's hand and shook it again in reproof. “You mustn’t ask the gentleman such questions, Thomas. It is not proper.” Her hazel eyes softened when she looked back at Seth. “I suppose it is natural for my boy to be inquisitive.”

The right corner of Seth's mouth curved. “I was a patriot. I think here in England it would be wise I not bring it up.”

The boy's eyes widened. “Have you fought with Indians?”

“I had a few encounters, yes.”

“Is it true the savages eat the flesh of their enemies?”

“Where did you hear that, young sir?”

“I read it in a book. My father keeps it in his library.”

“Well, don’t believe everything you read.” Seth put his elbow up on the windowsill and relaxed. “Indians are a noble people, great warriors, and skilled hunters. To the surprise of some, they’re more civilized than people imagine.”

“Someday, I’ll go to America and see them for myself.” The boy held out his hand to shake Seth's. “My name is Thomas Fallowes. This is my mother, Lady Anna, and my sister, Jane.
Jane's twelve. I am eight. Jane is very shy of strangers, sir. That is why she has not spoken to you.”

“I see. Have you any other brothers or sisters?”

“One other. Juleah is the eldest,” said Mrs. Fallowes, her tone proud.

What had been the chance of this? Slim to none. Could Juleah be anything like her mother; fine figured, pale of skin, soft in gesture and manner, yet lacking beauty? Anna's hair was dove-gray, which matched the color of her cloak. Delicate lines graced the edges of her eyes. Her mouth was thin and pouty. She looked nothing like her daughter, according to Mr. Brown.

“Your name, sir?” the lady asked.

He gave her a nod. “Seth Braxton, at your service.”

The lady looked stunned, bewildered, intrigued, while her large eyes stared back at him through the dim light. “I should have realized you are Benjamin's relation.”

“His grandson to be exact.”

“My goodness, sir. You should have said so.”

“My apologies. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Oh, it does. So many whispers these days as to your grandfather's dying, about your dear, unfortunate sister, Caroline. We mustn’t discuss the intimate details of your family, nor the reason you have come of a sudden. But I find it by chance we should meet, for we know the same people and are somewhat neighbors.”

Seth nodded. “Yes, it is coincidental.”

“You must come dine one evening and meet my husband, Henry, and our daughter Juleah.”

Again, Seth inclined his head. “I’d be honored.”

“Caroline must come as well. We’ve not seen her in a long time. I suppose the grief of losing her grandfather has done it.”

“Yes,” Seth agreed. “I suppose that must be the reason.”

“It takes a long time for a woman, Mr. Braxton. We are sensitive creatures. I shall have my husband send forth an invitation as soon as you are settled.”

With a crack of the coachman's whip, the horses pulled the coach up a single steep street into Clovelly, a medieval hamlet of thatched cottages.

The lady pulled her children close. “Clovelly at last. We are proud of it, Mr. Braxton. It is the most beautiful seaside village in England.”

Here the lady and her children disembarked. A carriage awaited them, sent by Sir Henry Fallowes to carry his family the rest of the route up the winding roads that led to their home six miles northeast.

Farewells being said, Seth watched Lady Anna set off with her children. He would see them again, for it was inevitable he and Juleah Fallowes should meet.

Having disembarked, Seth made his way down a narrow street that pitched sharply toward the sea five hundred feet below the village. He could hear the waves lap against the quay and pound the rocks in the windswept harbor. He looked down and saw a stone breakwater, curved like a pirate's hook into the sea. A seawall was draped in seaweed and the dark brown nets and traps of fishermen draped over the seawall.

He paused and asked a man seated in his doorway, which way to Banes's house. Up the path he must return, go past a row of quaint cottages along a cobblestone street, and walk north for a quarter of a mile to a bleak timber-and-plaster house at the side of the road. From his coat pocket, he took
out the address given to him and checked it against the brass plate fixed beside the door under the glare of a lantern. Sea air had turned the plate green. He walked up the stairs, raised his fist, and knocked on the door.

The door opened. A servant stood inside, one hand firm upon the latch, the other holding a candle. The golden flame cast a light over Seth's face, and the housekeeper hesitated, obviously wary of the man who stood outside. She took a firmer hold upon the door and closed it until only her oval face showed.

Seth dragged off his hat. “I’m here to see Mr. Banes. Is he at home?”

“He's abed. Come back tomorrow.”

“I’m Squire Braxton's grandson.” Seth took a step forward. “Mr. Banes expects me.”

Her jowls wiggled. “I don’t care who you are. The hour is too late for my master to see anyone.”

“Late? It is but six of the hour.”

“Mr. Banes concludes business by three on Saturday afternoons. Go on with you.” She lifted her nose in the air and went to shut the door.

Seth put his boot in between the door and the jamb. “Listen here. I’m not leaving until I see Mr. Banes. I’ve had a long sea voyage and traveled overland from Penzance. Now, will you rouse him from his chamber, or shall I?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “If Mr. Banes gets angry, you’re to blame.”

She mumbled under her breath, hoisted her skirts above a pair of stout ankles, and ascended the staircase. Then she disappeared down an upstairs hallway. To the right a double door led to a sitting room. A fire simmered in the hearth and gave warmth to the paneled room. Seth went in and warmed
his hands in front of the fire. The floorboards creaked under someone's weight upstairs. A moment later Banes came into the room, followed by his disgruntled housekeeper.