Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Yes, well, no need to trouble yourself over Marcus. I’ll drive over now and tell him myself. I’ll drop your Aunt Lucy a line as well if you like. Daresay you’ve got more than enough to do.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind, Uncle Brinley? It’s really my responsibility.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. Don’t give it another thought. You have quite enough on your plate. Wherry’s coming back tomorrow morning, you say? Then I’ll do the same. Maybe have a word with him myself.’ He gathered in the reins, and Melissa winced inwardly as the chestnut’s head was jerked up, its eye rolling nervously and showing white. ‘Can I give you a ride back to the house?’

  Melissa would have liked to decline. But if she refused, her uncle would probably try to turn the gig in the drive and he lacked the skill to do so without terrifying the horse and resorting to the whip. Besides, the time their conversation had taken meant that it was too late now for her to walk to the yard. She would have to see Tom tomorrow instead. After all, it was unlikely there would be any change between now and then.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Brinley. That’s very kind.’ She climbed up quickly beside him. After circling the wide, paved sweep, he dropped her off at the front steps.

  ‘Tell your mother I called, and that I’ll look in tomorrow to see how she is.’

  Thanking him once more, she watched him drive away at a spanking pace, and knew her uncle to be saddened by the news while still relishing the fact that being first to know allowed him particular authority as he conveyed the tidings to the rest of the family.

  After rinsing the film of sweat and sawdust from his face, Gabriel slipped the braces from his shoulders, pulled his shirt free, and flapped it to shake off the shavings. This would be the first time he’d been seen in the village. There was no chance of his presence going unremarked. His height and the fact that he was a stranger were all too obvious.

  Though with his stubble, long hair, and working clothes he might appear to be just another shipyard worker, to arrive filthy and unkempt would hardly allay the villagers’ suspicion. Wiping his face on his shirt tail, he tucked it once more into his breeches and, shouldering his braces, slipped on his waistcoat. Then, loosing his hair, he raked it through with his home-made comb and tied it back again.

  ‘Dear life!’ Tansey hooted. ‘What’re you up to? Going looking for a lightskirt, are you?’

  ‘Father!’ Billy blushed scarlet.

  ‘It’s all right, Billy,’ Gabriel said. ‘Just ask your father how I buy food if they won’t let me in the shop?’

  ‘Well, I tell you, pretty yourself up any more and they won’t let you out again!’ Tansey gave a great cackle of laughter.

  ‘Gabe Ennis!’ Tom shouted from the doorway of his office. ‘Here a minute.’

  ‘Want for us to wait, do you?’ Walter grunted, as the two shipwrights and two apprentices started for the gate. Men from other parts of the yard and the packet were already on their way out.

  ‘No,’ Gabriel shook his head. ‘You go on.’

  ‘Right, well, see you tomorrow.’ Clicking his tongue, Tansey winked. ‘And if you’re late, we’ll know –’

  ‘Shut up, father,’ Billy growled, flushing.

  ‘Git on, boy. Just because you don’t know what it’s for don’t mean Gabe got to spend his nights alone.’

  ‘He knows,’ Gabriel replied, winning a look of desperate gratitude from the youth whose blush belied his powerful build. ‘He’s just choosy.’ Cuffing Billy lightly on the shoulder, he murmured, ‘Best way to be.’ Then, leaving them, he crossed to the foreman’s office.

  Taking coins from a small box, Tom dropped them onto Gabriel’s palm, then closed the lid and turned the key. ‘You done all right.’

  With a brief nod, Gabriel slipped the money into his pocket. ‘You make that?’ Made of oak bound with iron, the box was a perfectly crafted miniature of a seaman’s chest.

  Tom shrugged. ‘’Tisn’t nothing special.’

  Gabriel raised his eyes to meet the foreman’s. ‘It is. You made any more?’

  ‘A couple. Me missus wanted one for her sewing. Why? What’s it to you? ‘

  ‘Nothing, except it’s a beautiful piece of work.’ He raised a hand. ‘See you in the morning.’

  There were still plenty of people about, more than he would have wished. As he walked along the cobbled street, head down and shoulders slightly hunched, he sensed their curiosity. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here? What did he want? A number of villagers would have the answers within an hour as men from the yard told their families about the newcomer. By this time tomorrow, human nature would have ensured that the news had spread to everyone else.

  A gasp and muffled giggles made him glance up and he stopped abruptly, just in time to avoid a collision with two girls. Both wore calico skirts, one a rusty orange, the other light blue, with matching low-necked cotton bodices. And each had a white muslin kerchief about her shoulders, crossed over her bosom and tied at the back.

  Their hair, a mass of short, frizzy curls over the top and sides, had been left long at the back and tortured into two thick ringlets that hung over each shoulder: a style that society women had begun to abandon at least five years ago. Yet these girls, so bold with their knowing eyes and teasing smiles, clearly thought themselves to be highly fashionable.

  ‘Beg pardon,’ he growled, knuckling his forehead, and stepped out into the road, careful not to meet their eyes. He heard whispers then more muffled giggles as they went on their way. It was only to be expected. The same thing had happened in France. A male stranger who was neither green youth nor old curmudgeon, and apparently without ties, was likely to have money to spend and was therefore an attractive proposition no matter what he looked like.

  The street slanted inward to the middle where a narrow channel carried away rainwater and anything else flung into it from the cottages, ale houses, and shops that lined both sides. Stepping over it, Gabriel ducked his head and walked in through the open door of the bakery. Even at this late hour the scent of fresh bread still hung in the air, overlaid by the mouth-watering, hunger-sharpening aroma of hot savoury pasties.

  A short, plump woman wearing a white apron over a grey dimity gown, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, was bent over a large sack of flour, struggling to move it from just inside the door to the area behind the counter where several others were already stacked against the wall.

  Stepping forward, Gabriel muttered, ‘By your leave,’ lifted the sack from her hands and in two strides placed it against the others, then retreated to stand just inside the door. ‘Mrs Mitchell?’

  ‘My dear soul! Where’d you spring from then?’ A light coating of flour clung to her round, rosy face now glowing crimson from her exertions. Straightening up, she puffed out her breath as she pressed her hands to the small of her back, then tucked up the wisps and tendrils that had worked free from the loose bun high on her head. ‘

  ‘Haven’t seen you round here before.’ Her gaze was shrewd.

  Gabriel gave her a brief, cool smile, sensing he would achieve more with reserve than by trying to ingratiate himself. ‘Not been here before. I’m working at the yard.’ He reached into his pocket.

  Hearing the clink and jingle of coins, the woman’s eyes brightened, but she was still suspicious. ‘Some bad cold you got.’

  Sighing inwardly, he shook his head and lifted his chin to reveal the bandage. ‘Prisoner in France, escaped.’

  ‘Dear life! They never tried to cut your throat?’

  He shook his head. ‘Irons, chained to a wall.’ He held out his wrists.

  One hand flew to her bosom. ‘You poor soul. What you doing here? ‘How haven’t you gone back where you belong?’

  ‘Can’t. Press gang.’

  Anger drew her brows together and she clicked her tongue. ‘That’s never right. Shouldn’t be allowed. Dear life! ‘

  Physically exhausted, stomach cramping with hunger, Gabriel knew the sympathy and indignation were ki
ndly meant. But he couldn’t take any more. He needed food, but craved the peace and solitude of the woods. ‘Tom Ferris said –’

  ‘Tom sent you? Well, why didn’t you say? Now, just give me a moment.’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she bustled around behind the counter.

  Gabriel laid his money on the top and watched with increasing concern as Mrs Mitchell packed a basket with a loaf, a saffron cake, and a steaming, golden pasty.

  ‘Wait. Beg pardon, ma’am, but I can’t –’

  Placing the basket on the counter, she pushed the coins toward him. ‘You put they back in your pocket. Better still, buy yourself a pitcher of ale to wash down the pasty.’ She winked, sighing fondly. ‘My Cyrus did used to love a glass of ale with his pasty.’

  Scooping up the coins and picking up the basket, Gabriel saluted her. ‘Very kind of you.’

  Her flustered response – shooing him away with flapping hands – suggested she had little experience of compliments or gratitude. ‘Get on. No such thing.’ Then concern and curiosity reasserted themselves. ‘Where you staying to?’

  Moving easily toward the door, Gabriel smiled. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘In the village, are you?’

  ‘Not far.’ He jerked a thumb vaguely.

  ‘You be in again?’

  ‘If you’ll take my money.’

  She threw up her hands, laughing. ‘Some hard man you are.’

  ‘But fair.’

  Her chuckles remained with him as he hesitated outside a small stone cottage with a weathered board nailed above the doorway. The painted name had long since faded to illegibility. Tiny windows were thrown open to the evening, but whether to let fresh air in, or the smell of stale beer, wet sawdust, and tobacco smoke out, only the landlord knew. After a moment’s hesitation, Gabriel ducked inside. It had been a long, hard day, and though brandy or a fine claret would have been his choice, he would gladly settle for a jar of ale.

  In one corner, a wizened old man sucked on a clay pipe. Another two were hunched over a table talking quietly together. They all looked round to see who had come in, and remained silent, watching, until Gabriel left with the basket in one hand, a stone jar of ale in the other, and all too few coins left in his pocket.

  Deeply asleep, Melissa wove the sounds into her dream. But the soft persistent knocking grew increasingly urgent. She turned over. The grey light percolating through the summer curtains told her it was too early. Even the sun wasn’t up yet. Still tired, she rubbed her eyes. Then the knocking came again. She heard hurried footsteps and anxious whispers outside her door. Addey and Lobb.

  Throwing back the covers, almost tripping over her long, white nightdress, Melissa hurled herself at the door and wrenched it open. Butler and nurse jumped violently. Both were fully dressed, but it was clear that while Addey had slept in her clothes, keeping vigil beside her mistress, Lobb’s dishevelled air betrayed a recent hasty rousing from his bed.

  Addey’s hands covered her mouth as if to stop any sound escaping, but her eyes were wide and wet with tears.

  ‘’Tis the master, Miss Melissa,’ Lobb said gently.

  ‘What happened? Is he worse?’ Melissa would have started along the passage. But, to her astonishment, Lobb stepped in front of her, grave and gentle.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, miss. I’m afraid he’s gone.’

  She rocked as if he had hit her. Her throat suddenly dried, so when she swallowed it felt sharp and painful. ‘You’re sure? I mean, it couldn’t be just –?’

  ‘Quite sure, miss. It was sudden but very peaceful. Gilbert will tell you himself.’

  ‘He was there?’ At least her father had not died alone.

  ‘He was, miss. I’d only just gone to my bed. We – Gilbert and me – have been taking turns to sit with master. Anyway, it can’t have been no more than half an hour after I’d left the room when Gilbert comes to tell me master’s gone. It happened that quick, Gilbert didn’t even have time to get out of the chair. So, with respect, miss, don’t you start fretting about no one from the family being with him, for he couldn’t have known nothing about it. All over in a breath, it was. That’s the honest truth.’

  Melissa searched his face, but his gaze, though shocked and sad, never wavered. She glanced from Lobb to Addey. ‘Does my mother know?’

  The old nurse’s face crumpled as, hands still clamped over her mouth, she gave a muffled squeak before shaking her head.

  ‘I must go to her.’ The passage floor felt as though it was heaving beneath Melissa’s feet as she hurried to her mother’s room. This wasn’t happening. It was just a nightmare. Only it wasn’t her imagination run riot, a terrible dream from which waking would rescue her: it was real. And there was no escape.

  Emma Tregonning lay on her side with only her head above the bedclothes. A frilled lawn nightcap tied with strings beneath her chin covered her hair, so that in the dim light her face looked small, almost childlike on the pillow. Her slow breathing indicated deep sleep.

  Reaching out to touch her mother’s shoulder, Melissa hesitated, then withdrew her hand, instead clasping her arms across her chest. What purpose would it serve? Would it not be wiser, kinder, to let her sleep as long as possible? Why wake her now and burden her with yet more grief? It could not change what had happened. Stepping back from the bed, Melissa turned to the old nurse who had followed her in.

  ‘You stay here, Addey. I’ll ask Sarah or Agnes to bring you up some tea.’

  ‘Tea?’ Addey whispered, shocked. ‘This time of the morning?’

  Melissa drew a deep shaking breath. ‘Why not? I think we’ll both feel better for something hot to drink.’

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps you’re right. I tell you, ’tis going to be some awful day.’ Her face crumpled again, and she pressed both hands to her wet cheeks. ‘What am I going to say to the poor dear soul when she do wake?’

  ‘Nothing, Addey. You don’t have to say anything.’ Melissa put an arm around the shaking shoulders. ‘The moment she opens her eyes, you come and fetch me. I’ll tell her. But I hope, for her sake, she sleeps for another few hours. Now come and sit down here.’ Pressing her gently into a high-backed chair upholstered in rose velvet, Melissa crouched to pick up the soft rug from the floor where it had dropped, and laid it over the old woman’s knees.

  ‘Where will you be?’ The anxiety in Addey’s face and her clutching hand startled Melissa for an instant. A skipped heartbeat and welling fear accompanied her realisation that, from this moment, everyone in the household would look to her for reassurance, decisions and orders. It was too much. How would she cope?

  ‘I won’t be far away. Lobb or Sarah will find me. Try to rest now. My mother will need you to be strong, Addey. And so shall I.’

  Returning to her room, Melissa flung back the curtains and looked out on to a mist-shrouded world. Beyond the trees and curving hillside, the rising sun had washed the eastern sky pale primrose. It was going to be a beautiful day.

  Closing her eyes tightly and swallowing the agonising stiffness in her throat, Melissa took another deep breath. Dr Wherry had warned her, and in her heart of hearts she knew it was for the best. It had been a swift passing, no pain or struggle, no gradual decline that would have robber her father of dignity. It was just – too soon.

  Reaching into her closet, she took out a robe. She was slipping her arms into it when Sarah peered round the door, round-eyed with shock. Melissa didn’t wait for her to speak.

  ‘Sarah, before you run my bath, would you make a pot of tea and bring a cup for me and one for Miss Addey? She’s sitting with my mother.’

  Sarah nodded quickly. ‘Shall I bring one for mistress as well?’

  ‘No, she’s asleep so please be as quiet as you can.’

  Following Sarah out, still tying the belt of her robe, Melissa walked along the passage to her father’s room. After a brief pause outside to gather her strength, she tapped very gently to warn Gilbert of her presence, then entered.

  Seated on the chest at th
e foot of the large oak bed, his head in his hands, Gilbert looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, and shot to his feet.

  ‘Oh miss –’ His voice broke.

  Melissa linked her fingers tightly. ‘There’s nothing you could have done, Gilbert. But you were here. That’s what matters. He wasn’t alone.’

  ‘Twenty years.’ The valet struggled for control. ‘Started as a bootboy, then Mr Lobb trained me up for manservant. Said if master was willing I could learn to be a valet. These last five years –’ He glanced over his shoulder and spread his hands, inarticulate in his grief. ‘The best.’

  ‘Why don’t you go down to the kitchen? Mrs Betts is making some tea.’ Seeing he was about to protest, she added gently, ‘I’d like a few moments alone with my father.’ As he bowed and stumbled out, his head down, she went to the bed.

  Looking down at her father, she was struck by how peaceful he looked. The lines and grooves that stress had etched so deep, death had smoothed away. But though the signs of suffering had been erased, so too had the subtle features that had given his face its unique character.

  Sitting on the bed, she took his hand in hers. It was cold and felt unnaturally heavy. ‘I won’t let it go, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll hold on until George gets home.’ Even as she spoke she wondered how on earth she could keep such a vow. Yet just saying the words, making the promise, stiffened her determination.

  With a quiet tap on the door, Lobb entered. ‘Time to come away now, miss. Master has to be washed and laid out proper.’

  Releasing her father’s hand, Melissa leant down and kissed his forehead. The skin felt cool and waxy. She knew then that though the figure looked like her father, this body was only a husk, a shell. The essence and spirit of the man she had loved and admired had gone.

  A dagger-thrust of loss pierced her: loneliness so deep, so acute, it made her gasp. An instant later, anger erupted with volcanic force. How could he do this? She knew he had loved her. But he had bequeathed her a burden of responsibility she had neither the strength nor the knowledge to discharge.

  ‘Miss Melissa?’

  Roused by Lobb’s quiet prompting, she stood up, drained by the violence of her feelings. Though physically she felt week and shaky, the emotional storm had cleared her mind. She would not, could not, give up.