Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Then you must tell me, and I’ll tell him.’

  Frowning, he shook his head. ‘I can’t say I like it.’ He glanced up. ‘No offence, miss. It’s not that I think you’d say it wrong, or nothing like that. Truth is you’re more like to put it better than I can. I haven’t got no gift for words.’

  ‘I’ll be as diplomatic as possible,’ Melissa promised. ‘But I do think it’s wiser that my father is fully informed. Whatever the problems are, the longer they are left the worse they’ll get.’ Despite the brave words, her disquiet was rapidly evolving into anxiety.

  ‘Dear life –’ he rolled his eyes ‘– don’t you say such things. ’Tis bad enough already and that’s no lie.’ He sniffed. Then, walking round to the far side of the cluttered table that served as a desk, he moved things aimlessly from one place to another.

  ‘Please tell me,’ she urged quietly.

  ‘’Tis the suppliers,’ he blurted, flicking a glance at her from beneath bushy grey brows.

  Melissa didn’t understand. ‘What about them?’

  Tom turned away to glare at the small, grimy window, clearly embarrassed. ‘They don’t want to let us have no more stuff, not till something’s been paid off the account.’

  As the implications began to sink in, Melissa felt heat climb her throat and burn her cheeks. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice level. ‘Is this just one or two suppliers, Tom? Or all of them?’

  His relief was visible. She felt a pang of mingled hurt and amusement that he should have feared she would fall into hysterics. Did he really not know her better than that? Then her sense of fairness asserted itself. Never before had he been forced to give her such news.

  ‘Well, ’tis mainly Keast’s, over the cordage. But when young Billy come back from Eddyvean’s he said they told’n they weren’t letting no more sails out of the loft till they seen some money.’

  Melissa’s chin rose as indignation bubbled up inside her. ‘Did they indeed? Well, they had no right to involve Billy in a matter which can be settled only between Mr Eddyvean and my father.’

  ‘True, Miss, and so I told him. But –’

  ‘I’ll speak to my father as soon as I get home.’ She smoothed her York tan gloves over her fingers, anger warring with burgeoning dismay. It was understandable that her father had spent less time on the business since Adrian’s death. Yet with Tom running things it should have made little practical difference. But the fact that accounts clearly long overdue had not been settled was not only a deeply unpleasant shock, it was completely out of character. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I promise I’ll be tactful.’

  He followed her out, rubbing his knuckles as she untied Samson and led him to the mounting block. ‘I’m some sorry, miss. I don’t like putting it on you. If there was another way …’

  Swinging herself into the saddle, Melissa quickly arranged her skirts, then gathered up the reins. ‘I know, Tom. But there isn’t.’

  Back in the house, Melissa managed to reach her room without seeing anyone. Two such different yet profoundly unsettling events in such a short space of time had left her badly shaken and she needed to regain her emotional balance before facing her father. But on opening the door she found Sarah waiting.

  ‘Morning, miss,’ she beamed. ‘Nice ride, was it? I knew soon as I seen the sunshine that’s where you’d gone. Bath’s all ready and your clothes laid out.’ She peered closer, her sharp little face puckering in concern. ‘All right, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ With a brief smile, Melissa turned away, unbuttoning her dress. Too independent to enjoy being fussed over, she had always resisted having a personal maid or dresser. It hadn’t been easy to convince her mother that her needs fitted in perfectly with Sarah’s duties as senior housemaid, but the obvious success of the arrangement had proved her point. ‘Samson was a bit full of himself this morning, that’s all.’

  Sarah shuddered. ‘Great thing he is. He do terrify me.’

  ‘Oh Sarah. He’s as gentle as a lamb.’

  ‘He might be for you. I heard John say he do try and nip Mr Hocking.’

  Melissa had a startling mental picture of shaggy black curls, and Samson’s ears twitching then pointing forward in response to the strange sounds the man was making.

  ‘I put out your blue.’ Sarah scooped up the riding dress and bore it off, calling over her shoulder, ‘Soon as you’ve bathed, I’ll give your hair a good brush. Look like you been pulled through a hedge backwards, you do.’

  ‘Thank you, Sarah,’ said Melissa dryly as she twisted her hair into a large knot on top of her head and secured it with several pins. She stepped into the bath and lowered herself into the warm water.

  But instead of relaxing against the high back and allowing herself the usual few minutes’ relaxation and daydreaming, she reached immediately for the soap and cloth. With so much to do, the sooner she got started the better. Despite the importance of the conversation she must have with her father, she sensed that unless she kept her thoughts focused they would stray on to paths that were both dangerous and futile.

  Fresh and cool in a full-skirted gown of pale blue muslin with a dark-blue sash below a deep double frill edging the low, round neck, her hair brushed to a gleaming ebony cascade, Melissa knocked lightly on her mother’s door and went in. The room smelled slightly stale and the curtains were still half drawn.

  She tiptoed to the bed where Emma lay against a bank of pillows, grape-coloured shadows beneath her closed eyes.

  ‘Good morning, Mama,’ she whispered.

  Emma Tregonning’s eyelids flickered open. She tried to smile but the effort was too great.

  Addey waddled across, carrying a bundle of crumpled linen. ‘Tossed and turned all night, she did. Got some nasty cough. The fever haven’t broke yet. But I’ve just gived her a nice wash and she’s more comfortable.’

  ‘Do you think we might open the window for a few minutes?’ Melissa suggested.

  Addey frowned. ‘Oooh, I don’t know about that. If she was to get in a draught you don’t know what –’

  ‘Just to change the air. It’s a beautiful morning. In fact,’ Melissa added as inspiration struck, ‘it’s warmer outside than it is in here. So I really don’t think she’ll be in any danger.’

  Addey hesitated for a moment, then sighed, her chin jutting. ‘Only for a few minutes, mind.’

  As Melissa pushed back the curtains, she saw the postman trotting up the drive. A letter from George would do more to restore her mother’s health than any prescription of Dr Wherry’s. But knowing better than to mention it she simply stood at the window, pretending difficulty with the catch. She wouldn’t open it until the postman had gone.

  ‘Melissa?’ At the sound of her mother’s voice, weak and slightly hoarse, Melissa turned and went to her side.

  ‘Would you like some more lemon barley? Or maybe a cup of beef tea?’

  Emma Tregonning’s eyes were open and she was staring at the window. She clutched her daughter’s hand. ‘Is that the postman’s horse?’

  Reluctantly Melissa nodded. Since her brothers had first entered the navy, her father had paid a pound a year to ensure early delivery of the mail. ‘I’ll go and see if there’s anything for you, shall I?’

  Lobb was in the hall. He had placed the letters – one with a distinctive green seal – on a silver salver and was about to take them into the dining- room for her father to read over breakfast. He glanced up, saw her midway down the stairs and, knowing her errand, shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  ‘So am I, Lobb. It would have made all the difference. Is my father down yet?’

  ‘He is, miss. Will you be joining him for breakfast?’

  ‘Yes. Would you tell him I’ll be with him in just a few minutes?’ Turning, Melissa went back upstairs. Before re-entering her mother’s room she paused to take a deep breath and steel herself against the disappointment her mother would make a valiant effort to hide.

  As she slipped i
nside, Addey looked up; the naked hope on her plump face fading quickly as Melissa made a brief negative gesture.

  ‘Pity,’ Addey muttered for Melissa’s ears alone. ‘‘T would have bucked her up good and proper. Oh well, least said soonest mended. You go on down and have your breakfast. There isn’t no more you can do for now. I daresay your father will be glad of a bit of company. I only hope he don’t go down with it. Not like hisself at all he isn’t, nor haven’t been for weeks.’

  ‘Well, it’s not an easy time for either of them.’ The matters she had to discuss with him would add even more pressure, Melissa acknowledged as she walked downstairs and crossed the hall to the dining room. But they could not be put off any longer.

  Francis Tregonning was seated at the head of the table, gazing fixedly at the letter he held. It trembled slightly in his grasp, the broken edge of green wax visible at the top. The other lay read and discarded on the table. A napkin was tucked into his striped waistcoat, and a half-eaten plate of kedgeree lay congealing in front of him.

  ‘Good morning, Papa.’

  The butler set a dish of raspberries in front of her. ‘Mrs Betts sent these up for you, miss.’

  ‘How kind. Will you thank her, Lobb? I shall enjoy them.’

  ‘Would you like the kedgeree, miss? Or perhaps some eggs?’

  ‘One poached egg, a slice of toast, and a cup of hot chocolate, please.’ The ride had been invigorating, but she wasn’t as hungry as usual. Perhaps once she started eating her appetite would return.

  ‘Just one egg?’ The question betrayed Lobb’s surprise.

  ‘Just one, thank you.’

  ‘Very good, miss. You’re quite well?’

  That was the trouble with long-serving trusted staff. They fussed.

  ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you, Lobb. I had a most enjoyable ride this morning and I have a busy day ahead.’ Melissa flashed him a meaningful smile.

  ‘Quite so. Then you’ll be needing a good breakfast, miss,’ the butler responded blandly, turning away to the sideboard.

  Melissa picked up her napkin. Her father seemed unaware she had entered the room. ‘Papa?’ She leant forward slightly. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Francis Tregonning raised his head. ‘Melissa?’

  Melissa wondered for an instant if he could see her, for he seemed tentative and confused, as if the room was dark instead of bright with morning sunshine.

  Concerned, she reached out and touched his hand. ‘What is it, Papa? Have you had bad news?’

  He blinked, and made a brave effort to pull himself together. ‘No. Everything is fine. It’s nothing at all. Well, just a minor matter I have to sort out. But nothing to worry about.’ Swiftly refolding the letter in his hand, he laid it on top of the one on the table, pressing both flat. ‘Have you seen your mother this morning? How is she?’ He reached for his cup, but his hand was shaking so badly the coffee slopped over the rim into the saucer. ‘Damn it, Lobb!’ he roared. ‘Why must you fill the cup to the brim? Makes a dreadful mess.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I’ll bring you a fresh cup immediately.’

  ‘Yes, do that. And don’t fill it so full this time.’

  Melissa caught the butler’s eye, and read in Lobb’s carefully blank expression understanding of the strain the anniversary of Adrian’s death and his wife’s illness had placed on his master. She turned to her father.

  ‘Mama still has a fever. She was hoping so much that the postman might have brought a letter from George. I’m sure if one arrived her recovery would be twice as swift.’

  ‘I wish he was here,’ her father murmured with a desperation that wrenched Melissa’s heart.

  ‘Indeed, we all do, Papa.’ If George were here he would be dealing with all the problems and she would not be facing the most difficult moments of her life. After a short pause to screw up her courage and choose her words, she began. ‘I went for a ride this morning.’ She grieved at the effort it cost him to appear interested.

  ‘That’s nice.’ His smile was a travesty. And his fingers fretted at the edge of the folded letter.

  ‘I gave Samson a gallop across the park and through the woods.’

  ‘How’s that strained tendon?’

  ‘Fine, Papa. He’s perfectly sound. But the gales have brought down two trees across the path. And I’m almost certain I saw more storm damage further in. The thing is, Papa, Tom is becoming really concerned.’

  ‘He’s got enough wood to finish the packet, hasn’t he?’ His unexpected belligerence was startling.

  ‘Yes.’ She knew his anger wasn’t directed at her. But this uncharacteristic outburst forced her to recognise the truth of his claim that the yard and estate had become too heavy a burden for him to manage alone. ‘There’s also enough for the keel and frame of the next ship. But the store must be replenished soon.’

  ‘I know, dammit!’ Leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, her father rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m trying, but there are other … Look, tell Tom …’ He winced, pressing his fingertips to his temple. ‘Tell him … Tell him … Oh …’ Je gasped as his right arm buckled, sliding off the mahogany. As he slumped forward his head hit the table with a thud that made the china jump and the cutlery rattle.

  For a split second Melissa simply stared, too shocked to move. Then, thrusting her chair back, she ran to him with Lobb only a pace behind.

  ‘Papa?’

  As the butler gripped his shoulders and pulled him upright, Francis Tregonning’s head flopped sideways. Melissa cupped her father’s face. The right side seemed to have slipped, like wax that had melted. His eyes were closed, and a silver thread drooled from one corner of his mouth.

  ‘Papa? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I fear your father has had a stroke, miss. I recognise the signs. Mrs Betts’s brother, Henry, was taken the same way. If you’ll ring for Gilbert we’ll get him up to his room while you call the doctor.’

  ‘What?’ The floor seemed to tilt, and the butler’s voice echoed strangely as fear rampaged through her. How serious was it? How was she to tell her mother? Who would take control now? What of the yard, the farm, the suppliers …

  ‘Come along now, Miss Melissa.’ Lobb’s voice, quiet but firm, pulled her back from the edge of panic. ‘Master wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this. Best if we get him upstairs as quick as we can.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Sucking in a deep breath, she pressed clammy hands to her cheeks as she crossed the room to tug the bell rope. As soon as Gilbert arrived, she went to the kitchen to tell Sarah and Mrs Betts that her father had been taken ill, then sent Agnes to fetch John. Back in the hall, on her way to write a note for Dr Wherry, she was halted by the appalling spectacle of her proud father, the front of his breeches wet, hanging limp and undignified between the two men struggling up the stairs.

  Chapter Four

  Dawn had just broken when Gabriel woke. The rain had stopped and all around he could hear the drip of water from the leaves; too much of it dripping into the roofless part of the shack. The air smelled of wet earth and decaying vegetation. Dressing quickly, he had hurried to the beach for more remnants of sail canvas. He had found them, only to be severely jolted by an unexpected encounter with a startled horse and rider as he returned along the path.

  Back at the shack, slamming a mental door on desires too dangerous even to contemplate, he had washed his face and hands. Then, using his dagger to fashion a crude comb from a piece of wood, had worked most of the tangles from his hair before tying it back once more.

  He had never been a vain man, and had little patience with the extravagances of fashion. Some of his friends sported shirt points so high and stiff that turning the head was impossible without risking loss of an eye. Their jackets were cut so close that to put one on required the assistance of a valet and two servants. They admired buttons the size of saucers, and intricately arranged neckcloths that might take an hour and several attempts to achieve.

  When they chided
him for his lack of style he merely shrugged, replying that they had his blessing to do as they wished. For himself, he believed life was too short to be wasted in front of a mirror. While he trusted Berryman with his boots, his razor, and his life, he was perfectly capable of dressing himself, and in truth he preferred to do so.

  Would he ever see any of them again? Even if he did, things could never be the same. For though he had been absent a little less than a year he was no longer the man they had known.

  Aware that he had not yet fully recovered, and the day would tax his strength to its limit, Gabriel deliberately ate a hearty breakfast. It was, he decided as he finished all that remained of the food, an act of faith: faith in himself. He had stolen because he’d had no choice. And he had been lucky, for had he been caught, the outcome, once his identity was known, would be death. So if he wanted to eat again, that day or any other, obtaining work was imperative.

  After hiding the bucket and cooking pot out of sight with his blanket and spare clothes, he set off for the yard. Once on the path, the sights, smells, and sounds of the summer morning were lost on him as his desperate barriers were demolished by a rushing torrent of vivid memory. Images flooded his mind: no helpless, frightened girl, but a strong, athletic young woman, her face aglow with pleasure and hair flying like a flag as her horse had hurtled round the bend. Though she had cried out a startled warning, she had not panicked, and her reactions had been lightning fast.

  His own move to seize the bridle in case the alarmed animal threw her off had been instinctive, though unwise. A person of his supposed low class would have been more likely to stumble back out of the way. The suddenness of the encounter meant his impressions had necessarily been brief. But her trim waist belied her undoubted strength, for her mount was a huge brute that even he, in his former life, would not have scorned. Her open-skirted riding dress of garnet red revealed a white petticoat. And a rippling cascade of dark hair framed her face, pale above the fluted cambric covering her full bosom.