by Jane Jackson
A soft pattering roused him as rain began to fall. The fire had burned down to red embers in a pile of ash. Stirring it into fresh life with more dry oak, he fed the flames with green logs that would burn more slowly and keep it going longer. After he had gathered his still damp linen and hung it on a twig wedged into the new wall, he wrapped himself in his blanket and settled down beneath his shelter.
As he lay listening to the rain, his shaking eased. So he could not go home. Yet had he not been as much a prisoner there as he had been in France? With his own life severely restricted by his father’s insistence he remain at home as understudy to his sickly elder brother, he had been unable to follow either the family tradition that a younger son entered politics or his own deep desire to join the navy.
The shackles of duty were not visible like an iron collar and manacles, but they were equally heavy, and left even deeper scars.
It was only due to the efforts of his tutor and friend, Brenton Staveley, that for two marvellous years he had enjoyed a freedom impossible for him in England. With an eloquence that combined appeal and dire warning, Staveley had managed to convince the marquis that unless his younger son’s formidable energy and intelligence were given useful direction, the likely outcome would be ruin for him and disgrace for the family.
So with the Grand Tour no longer an option since France had become too dangerous for foreigners after the outbreak of Revolution the previous year, Staveley had taken the twenty-year-old Gabriel instead to Switzerland to study forest management. For, as he had pointed out separately to father and son, whether Gabriel inherited or remained his brother’s second-in-command, what he learnt would enable him to greatly increase the estate revenues to the benefit of all concerned.
Staveley’s shrewd handling of the situation had given him the two happiest years of his life. The infected bullet wound that killed him deprived Gabriel not only of a mentor, but a close and trusted friend.
The accident had occurred late one night as they were returning to their lodgings in a patrician house in the Grossmunster area of Zurich. They had been dining with Sir William Wickham, whose wife Eleanora was a distant relative of Staveley’s, and inadvertently strayed into a skirmish between French and Swiss soldiers.
It wasn’t until Staveley was in his last throes that Gabriel learnt the other reason for their sojourn in Switzerland, and the true measure of his tutor’s trust in him. For he had told him of secret intelligence regarding the war on the Continent. Information gathered by Sir William’s network of agents throughout Switzerland, of whom he, Brenton Staveley, had been one.
It was vital, Staveley had gasped through fever-cracked lips, that the latest information was taken at once to England. Gabriel had instantly volunteered. But Staveley had warned of grave difficulties. The Foreign Office had been kept in ignorance of the arrangement between Wickham and Lord Grenville, so there would be no diplomatic protection for him should he be caught. Gabriel must think very carefully before committing himself. He was only 22 years old. He had a responsibility to his family to remain alive and unharmed.
For Gabriel there was no choice. Had the information not been of immense importance Staveley would not have mentioned it Nor would he have considered entrusting Gabriel with the task had he not felt him capable of achieving it.
At least he would be spared the formidable task of gaining access to the Foreign Secretary in London. The information was to be delivered to Lord Grenville at Boconnoc, his family seat near Liskeard.
Gabriel had worn the package, wrapped in oiled silk, next to his skin for the entire journey back to England. And, like a blade at his throat, had been conscious of it every moment.
The journey had taken several weeks, and, as he travelled, he had swiftly learnt to dissemble, to pretend boredom, interest and amusement, to hide his thoughts, and to remain alert and wary even when it appeared no danger threatened.
He had left England wild, angry, frustrated, and resentful. He returned, two years later, quieter, calmer, a man whose mettle had been tested and proved.
His mission discharged, he had immersed himself in work on the estate, astonishing his father with his breadth of knowledge and the diplomatic way in which he introduced new methods and techniques. Within three years, revenue from the woods had shown a dramatic increase, and a new programme of felling and planting was under way.
He had found purpose and contentment. He had even begun to entertain his mother’s suggestions that it was time he contemplate marriage.
Then accusations of cowardice forced him into a duel. He had deliberately aimed wide, intending merely a graze in order that honour might be satisfied. But something had gone wrong, a young man had died, and the marquis had ordered, then begged, him to flee abroad. He had agreed to go, but not until he had seen Sir John to offer in person his apologies and condolences.
A wrenching sigh shook him. The past could not be changed and memories were a luxury he could not afford. As long as no one discovered his identity he was free. He had a roof – of sorts. He had food and water. Tomorrow he would find work.
Chapter Three
Waking early, Melissa looked out of her bedroom window. To the east a soft pink glow heralded the sunrise. The sky was cloudless, the air clear and cool after the overnight rain. It was too beautiful to waste. An hour alone in the fresh summer morning would prepare her for the demands of the day ahead.
Pouring water from the tall ewer into the basin, she washed quickly and put on her riding dress. Sweeping her hair back and tying it in a ribbon, she crept downstairs on stockinged feet. As she headed for the back door the quiet murmur of voices from the kitchen told her that the housemaids and footman were already about their duties. Pulling on her boots, she let herself out and quickly crossed the paved court, passing beneath the stone arch into the stable yard.
Just as she reached for the latch, one of the tall double doors swung open, revealing the tousled stable boy in mid-yawn. Eyes flying wide, he gasped.
‘Dear life, miss! Gived me some shock, you did.’
‘I’m sorry, John.’ Melissa smiled at the boy. ‘Next time I’ll sing or something to let you know I’m here.’
Sucking air through his teeth, he shook his head and shot her a cheeky grin. ‘Better not, miss.’
‘You’re probably right,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘I’d only frighten the horses.’
‘Want Samson saddled up, do you?’
‘It’s all right; I’ll do it. You get on with your work. I don’t want you getting into trouble with Mr Hocking.’
Relief flashed across the boy’s face. ‘Thanks, miss.’
Melissa went past him into the big, airy building, inhaling the combined smells of sweet hay, leather, turpentine, and the not unpleasant odour of fresh dung. She passed the spacious box stalls containing the carriage horses, her father’s hunters, and her mother’s gentle mare. Samson was loose in the biggest stall, chewing on hay. As she approached, carrying his saddle and bridle collected from the tack-room, he turned. Lifting his great dark head over the wooden bar that kept him in his stall, he made a soft whickering sound of welcome.
‘I won’t be out very long,’ Melissa told the boy as he returned with two buckets of oats. ‘Samson can have his when he gets back.’
Letting herself into the loose box she hoisted the saddle onto his back. Accepting the bit, Samson’s ears pricked and he blew down flaring nostrils, nudging his velvety muzzle against her shoulder as she fastened the throat strap. Sliding the bar to one side, Melissa led the huge horse out across the yard to the mounting block. Settling herself on the side-saddle she tightened the girth, arranged the skirts of her dress, and gathered up the reins. John had opened the gate for her. The minute they were through into the park, Samson lengthened his stride.
Melissa gave him his head, relishing the speed, the rush of cool air against her face, the sense of freedom. Though rarely ill herself, she felt genuine sympathy for her mother’s suffering. Yet she couldn’t avoid a sense
of relief that she would not, after all, have to attend the assembly the following evening. She knew most people would find it ridiculous that what, for them, was enjoyable entertainment should be, for her, a kind of purgatory. And naturally, as soon as her mother was well again, she would comply with her parents’ wishes and do her very best to find a husband acceptable to them and herself. But, in the meantime, her mother’s illness provided a most welcome reprieve.
She bent low over Samson’s neck as he thundered across the rolling field, only reining him in as they neared the woods. The massive fallen bough of the horse chestnut reminded her of her intention to see what damage had resulted from the storms. This was the ideal opportunity, and meant her father would be spared the effort of coming down himself. His manner over the past months, anxious and indecisive, was so unlike him. She had assumed that after a year – though Adrian’s loss would remain with him always – her father’s abstraction would have receded. Instead, it had increased, especially during this last eight weeks. Yet who could say how long or how deeply grief should be felt? Understanding, not criticism, was needed. But all her reasoning and sympathy could not banish the growing suspicion that something more was preying on him.
The sun was up now, angling through new leaves that fluttered in the stirring breeze and dappling the path with shadows. Blackbirds chirped and whistled, pigeons repeated their monotonous gargling coo, and iridescent mayflies danced over a puddle. Samson’s ears twitched continuously at the rustlings in the grass and bushes edging the path and he tossed his head, dancing sideways, still full of energy.
Sharing his impatience, Melissa gathered up the reins again. She would ride on down to the yard. It was still early, but Tom would almost certainly be there. He could tell her if there was anything on which he needed a decision. Then, after speaking to her father at breakfast, she could relay any message when she rode out later.
‘Go on, then,’ she whispered, leaning forward, and laughed in delight as she felt the great muscles bunch and flex, and the horse stretched his long legs into a gallop. Ducking low to avoid overhanging branches, her hands light on the reins, she guided Samson along the path, exultant as he cleared two fallen trees without breaking his stride.
As they rounded a curve, still at full gallop, Melissa glimpsed something ahead blocking the path and shouted a warning as she hauled on the reins. Thoroughly startled by this sudden rough treatment as well as by the moving shape that was straightening into the tall figure of a man, Samson skidded, rearing up on his hind legs.
Instead of jumping back off the path and out of her way, the man dropped the bundle he was carrying and lunged forward. Melissa screamed in shock as he grabbed Samson’s bridle and pulled the horse’s head down, making it impossible for the frightened animal to lift his forelegs off the ground and unseat his rider.
Stroking the horse’s arched, sweating neck with his other hand, he murmured softly. But the cracked, rasping sounds he made were barely human and did nothing to calm Melissa’s unease or her anger, nor did his size. Tall, with heavily muscled shoulders stretching his coarse linen shirt, he was the biggest man she had ever seen, and made even more unnerving by a darkly bearded profile half-hidden by a wild mane of curly hair.
Still quivering and snorting, Samson had stopped trying to tear himself loose. The stark realisation that, on her own, she could not have achieved so swift a response punctured her fury. But this immediately flared again as it occurred to her that had this giant not been crouched in the middle of the path the entire incident would not have happened. Her tumbling emotions demanding release, she was about to unleash a torrent of wrath when the stranger glanced up.
In the shaft of sunlight she glimpsed oddly pale skin etched with deep lines of suffering above a curved nose and a hard mouth. But it was his eyes that stopped the words on her tongue and dried her throat. Not the colour: she had no idea what it was. Nor their shape for, facing the sun, they were narrowed. Yet even as they met hers they widened. She saw the brief flash, knew it was echoed in her own, and felt a jolt as severe as a physical blow. She did not know him, had never seen him before – and she would certainly have remembered a man of his size – so how could she sense recognition?
He looked down quickly, dipping his head as a servant to a superior, and released Samson’s bridle. Then, raising one hand as if to tug his forelock – a gesture that seemed somehow off-key – he crouched to pick up the pieces of stiff and dirty sail canvas he must have salvaged from the beach, bending and folding them into a manageable bundle.
Swiftly shortening the reins, she kicked Samson into a canter, sensing the man watching her. In her mind’s eye she still saw his hands – bearing old scars as well as fresh, jagged scratches – gentle and calming on Samson’s muzzle and neck. And as she rounded the curve, out of his sight, she realised suddenly that they had not exchanged a single word.
Emerging from the path on to the road, Melissa turned toward the yard entrance, arriving to find one of the men fastening back the solid double gates.
‘Morning, miss.’ He raised one hand to his forehead: the salute an unwelcome reminder of the man in the woods. ‘You’re out some early.’
Still unnerved by the unexpected encounter, Melissa had to force a smile. ‘Good morning, Walter. It’s such a beautiful morning I thought I’d make the most of it. Has Mr Ferris arrived yet?’
‘Yes. Down the slip, he is.’ He pointed toward the hundred-foot hull supported by a framework of props. Towering above the quays, the packet dwarfed the single-storey sheds and buildings on either side. Fully planked, her decks laid, the gunports had been cut in her topsides and the superstructure was in place. Once the steering gear, capstans, and deck fittings had been installed, the two masts would be stepped and rigged.
Lifting her leg over the pommel, Melissa slid lightly to the ground. Flipping the reins over Samson’s head, she looped them through the iron ring fastened to the wall of a small stone building. As she shook out the skirts of her riding dress, she saw the foreman approaching. Short and square, he wore a blue check shirt, a short waistcoat, breeches of the stout twilled cotton known as thickset, and leather gaiters.
‘You’re some early. Everything all right, is it?’
Tom Ferris had eyes as sharp as a kestrel’s. It was one of the reasons he was such a good foreman.
‘My mother’s not well,’ Melissa replied, relieved to have a legitimate, if not entirely truthful, excuse for her distraction.
‘One of these here summer colds, is it? They do drag you down awful.’
‘Dr Wherry says it’s influenza.’
‘The dear soul.’ Tom clicked his tongue. ‘You tell her I asked for her. I hope she do soon feel better.’
‘Thank you, Tom. I know she’ll appreciate your kind thoughts.’
His eyes were bright, his gaze sharp as he studied her. ‘So, if your mother’s sick, what you doing down here?’
‘I’ll probably be indoors all day, so I thought I’d take an early ride.’
He frowned. ‘There was me hoping you’d brung me word from mister.’
Melissa shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I wondered if you had any messages you wanted taken back.’
‘Come through the woods, did you?’
She nodded, her heart thumping hard as she swiftly banished startlingly vivid images of a tall, dark-haired man with a pain-scored face. ‘I saw at least two big trees down. There are bound to be more.’
Men were starting to arrive, coming in through the gates in twos and threes. As they saw Melissa, all raised a finger to their foreheads and nodded in greeting, growling, ‘Morning, miss.’ She smiled, nodding in return.
Indicating the small stone building to which Samson was tethered, Tom lowered his voice. ‘You’d best step inside a moment.’
Bending her head to avoid the thick oak lintel as she crossed the threshold into the room that served as the foreman’s office, Melissa felt a tightening in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. Sh
e didn’t wait for him to speak. ‘Tom, you don’t have to tell me: I know we should be using those trees.’
‘Look, I’ll speak blunt, miss. If mister don’t do something soon, we’re going to be in trouble. Not the packet,’ he added quickly, ‘we got enough wood to see she finished. But in all the years I been here, I never seen the store so low. This time of year he should be stacked high, ready for next summer. Even when we get all they trees boarded and planked, they still got to season, and that do take –’
‘A year per inch of thickness. I know.’ Melissa nodded. ‘That was one of the reasons I came down through the woods, to see the storm damage for myself. There’s some useful timber there, Tom. I’ll see my father at breakfast. And I really will do my best to impress upon him the urgency of the situation.’ But will he listen? Even more important, will he act?
‘Much obliged, miss. But see, ’tisn’t as if that’s the only problem.’ Tom rubbed his grey-stubbled chin with gnarled fingers.
Apprehension slid like melting ice down Melissa’s spine. ‘No?’
Tom shook his head, his expression deeply troubled. ‘What else?’ She searched his blue-grey eyes.
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Look, you know ’tisn’t that I don’t trust you. But by rights I shouldn’t say aught to anyone but mister.’
Melissa folded her hands, gripping one tightly with the other. ‘I understand, and I respect your desire to do things the proper way. But truly, Tom, I have no idea when my father will be free to come down to the yard. He has been riding to Truro almost every other day. So unless you will come up to the house and speak to him yourself –’
‘I can’t do that, miss!’ The foreman’s weathered face registered shock. ‘Have people thinking there’s something wrong, or I can’t do me job? No. Wouldn’t be right nor proper, me coming up there. Not at all, it wouldn’t.’
