Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  Loath to in any way offend or hurt the old woman, Melissa simply nodded. She sat beside the bed for almost an hour, talking quietly to her mother, describing her uncles’ visit and their offer to arrange the funeral and notify all friends and distant relatives. When that failed to elicit any response, she talked about the garden, and about Samson’s leg, now fully healed. Then she talked about the farm: the broken plough that had been mended by the blacksmith at the yard; the cabbage and broccoli planted in seedbeds at the beginning of May and now starting to show. And how, when they had reached a height of nine inches in August or early September, they would be pulled up in bunches of a hundred and planted out in the fields.

  Though her mother’s eyes were half open, they remained unfocused. Not a flicker of expression crossed her face, which was as pale as wood-ash. Had it not been for the faint sound of her breath, catching occasionally on a rattling cough, she might have been carved from marble.

  Melissa felt anxiety stir but ruthlessly suppressed it. Between them, Addey and the doctor would do everything possible to make her mother comfortable. She had to concentrate on what she could do, rather than waste valuable energy fretting about things over which she had no control.

  When Addey returned, visibly restored, she brought a request from Mrs Betts for a few moments of Miss Melissa’s time. Anxiety spiked again as Melissa went downstairs. What now? Not the household bills? No, it couldn’t be. Her mother had only been ill a few days. Had there been a problem, surely her mother would have known? But even if she had known, would she have confided in her daughter? Had the gentle pressure to marry been because of financial problems her parents had not wished her to know about?

  ‘I know how busy you are, miss, so that’s why I thought I’d catch you now. Then it’d be one less thing for you to be worried about, see?’

  Melissa tried to look encouraging. ‘What is it, Mrs Betts?’

  ‘Well, I was wond’ring like, if you’d thought how many will be coming back here after the funeral?’

  ‘That’s why you wanted to see me?’ Relief left Melissa weak.

  ‘Yes.’ The puzzlement on the cook’s homely face faded as she explained. ‘We want to do it proper, see, and give master a good send-off. But what with mistress ill and all, I didn’t know what you’d be doing.’ She lifted her plump shoulders. ‘Should I cook for two dozen? Forty?’

  ‘My uncles are taking care of the details and arranging the service. I don’t even know if my mother will be well enough to attend. In any case, with her so recently confined to bed, I think it wiser to restrict the funeral tea to a cold collation for immediate family only.’

  Mrs Betts nodded. ‘That’s what I was thinking. Say 20, then, just to be sure.’ She bobbed a curtsy. ‘I won’t keep you, miss. I expect you’re busy.’

  Watching her waddle away, Melissa felt her heart sink at the prospect of acting hostess over the gathering.

  After dinner, desperate for some fresh air and to get away from the house, she changed her kid slippers for the half boots she wore when riding, threw a fine silk and wool shawl about her shoulders, and walked across to the stables. The horses had been fed and watered, and released into the back field. She watched Samson for a moment, debating whether to bring him in and saddle him up for a ride. But the evening’s warmth and the aftermath of the day’s events decided her against it.

  Turning back toward the house, she walked round the side onto the terrace and looked down toward the woods and the creek. Someone would have to assess the full extent of the storm damage. And as Tom couldn’t spare anyone from the yard, it would have to be her. At least it would be cooler under the trees.

  She walked briskly down across the fields, her gaze drifting over tangled hedgerows of satin-budded brambles, pink ragged robin, and white wild roses to fields of grass bright with red sorrel. Above the soft rustling and sighing of the wind-stirred leaves she could hear the hum of bees and the saw-like chirping of crickets, and for a while forgot everything but the pleasure of being outside in surroundings she loved.

  Entering the woods, she ignored the main track along which she usually rode, choosing instead a network of smaller, fainter paths. It wasn’t long before she glimpsed further evidence of the gale’s ferocity. As she carried on, studying the trees and undergrowth around the path, changing direction when it met another trail so as to cover as wide an area as possible, her anxiety seeped back.

  Not only was it vital that the desperate financial situation should be resolved, news of it had to be kept from the men at the yard. If word got out, they would abandon Tregonning’s to seek work elsewhere. And with families to feed and clothe, who could blame them? Yet unless the packet was completed it would be impossible to sell the family shareholding and recoup that money. But to keep the men working she had to be able to pay them. How was she to do that?

  Deep in thought, she rejoined the main track and picked her way across the rutted, muddy stretch where water from a spring ran across the path and trickled into the undergrowth on the lower side. The sound of stone scraping against stone followed by a thud and a grunt of irritation made her start. Her head flew up and she stopped dead. Though he was facing away from her, she recognised him instantly. He was several yards ahead, a few feet off the path in the undergrowth. He seemed to be doing something to the tumbledown shack once used by the preventive officers. Only it wasn’t a ruin any more. How long had he been here?

  Watching him, too shaken to move, a strange shiver left her flushed with heat at the play of dappled sunlight and shadow on his naked, muscular back. But if he wore no shirt, what were those dark stripes?

  Her soft gasp of realisation made him whirl round. For an instant neither one moved. Then he snatched up his discarded shirt and pulled it over his head.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am.’ Though cracked and hoarse, the words were clear enough. He dipped his head, avoiding her gaze as he touched the thick lock of black hair falling over his forehead.

  Melissa was drawn forward. He was the first man she had ever met who was taller than she was. It felt strange to look upward rather than down. Quickly she turned to examine the shack, her curiosity increasing as she saw how, having rebuilt the walls, he had replaced the collapsed roof with branches covering old canvas held in place by heavy stones. ‘Are you living here?’

  His head was bent, his shoulders hunched as he fiddled with the loose cuffs of his shirt, drawing them down over filthy bandages that bound his wrists. ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Why? Are you hiding?’ When he remained silent, staring at his boots, she thought of the stripes on his back and asked gently, ‘Are you a deserter?’

  He glanced up at that. Though his eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, the blazing awareness, the powerful, wrenching tug of attraction, dried her mouth. She felt hot then cold. This was wrong.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he rasped. ‘Not a deserter. Prefer my own company, that’s all.’

  As he looked down again she saw another bandage around his throat. Perhaps that explained his voice.

  ‘What happened to your back?’

  Turning away, he folded his arms. ‘I was a prisoner in France. They wanted information from me. But I escaped before …’ He broke off, frowning, as if angry with himself for saying too much. ‘I’ve got work. I’ll pay rent.’ He was terse, strained. ‘I just want to be left alone.’

  The rebuff stung like a slap. Her cheeks flaming, Melissa stiffened. ‘Rent won’t be necessary. It’s your efforts that have made it habitable. And as this is private land your solitude will not be disturbed. Good evening.’ With a cool nod she turned back the way she had come, back straight, head high, torn between anger and tears and totally confused.

  Chapter Seven

  After a night that had begun with restless tossing and ended with her waking suddenly from dream-filled sleep and sitting bolt upright, heart pounding, Melissa rested her elbows on humped knees, her head in her hands as she wondered what madness had possessed her. If her father with a
ll his knowledge and experience had slithered into a financial quagmire, what made her think she could redeem the situation? It was ridiculous. Impossible.

  The alternative? Acceptance. Oddly enough, society would blame her less for admitting defeat than for meddling in matters that were a male preserve. Her uncles had stated it clearly enough: women were totally unsuited to business or finance. They were simply voicing what every right-minded person – man and woman – knew to be true. Each sex had its own spheres of interest and influence, and the interests of all were best served by ensuring they remained separate.

  She had always been separate. Set apart from her contemporaries by her unusual education, by a father who indulged her interest in the boat yard and, inevitably, by her height, it was too late now to start conforming. Nor, in her heart of hearts, despite being deeply apprehensive, did she wish to.

  As for the man on the path, she could not afford to spend precious time and energy on pointless speculation. He was welcome to his solitude. But he was on her family’s land. If convenience, or business matters, took her through the woods then it was up to him if he wished to avoid her.

  Jumping out of bed to escape unsettling thoughts of him and an even more unsettling reaction to those thoughts, she went to the window and drew back the curtains. The sky was a peerless blue. But pink streaks of high cloud and the unusual clarity of distant sound on the crystal air warned of rain to come.

  Hearing the door open, Melissa looked round as Sarah entered. Dressed in the black bombazine of mourning, she was carrying a cup of hot chocolate.

  ‘Morning, miss.’

  ‘Good morning, Sarah. I meant to ask you yesterday, did you get my black habit out of storage?’

  ‘I did, miss. I thought it likely you’d be needing it. ’Tis brushed and aired and hanging in the closet. Want it today, do you?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Bath’s all ready for you.’

  Less than an hour later Melissa was on her way downstairs. A puff of white spotted muslin filled the gap between the large, pointed lapels of a close-fitting black jacket that curved back to short, rounded coat tails. Her petticoat, cut from the same fine black cloth, was long and plain.

  She had caused her mother some concern by dispensing with the usual short train. But by pointing out that, as she wore the habit for walking as well as riding, the bottom of the skirt would fray, not to mention being constantly dirty, she had won reluctant acquiescence to this departure from accepted fashion.

  In deference to her bereavement, instead of leaving her hair loose she had Sarah draw it back into a heavy coil. Despite escaping tendrils that curled on her temples and in front of her ears, the style, coupled with her pallor and the unrelieved black and white of her ensemble, made her look older. Her reflection suggested calm capability. But Melissa knew the façade to be eggshell thin. Behind it she was lonely and frightened.

  Knowing her first task would be to go to the yard and tell Tom of her father’s death, she had little appetite. But apparently deaf to her request for tea and toast, Lobb set in front of her a dish of fresh raspberries followed by some lightly scrambled eggs. Her astonished glance was met with a bland smile.

  ‘With all you’ll have to do today, miss, you need a good breakfast.’

  ‘I really don’t –’

  ‘I know it’s a difficult time, miss. Things will be hard for you till Mr George gets home. So it’s important to keep your strength up. Not just for your sake.’

  Glancing up, she met his warning gaze, and, without another word, picked up her spoon. With exquisite tact he had reminded her that the entire household was relying on her leadership. She could not afford to indulge in self-pity or difficult behaviour.

  As she crossed the stable yard, she saw her father’s two hunters tied up outside; John grooming one, and Hocking the other.

  ‘Morning, miss.’ They returned her greeting. But both were subdued and there was none of the usual banter. She understood that this was out of respect and consideration. Though as she thought of what lay ahead at the yard she would have welcomed the usual cheeky remark from John or a gruff warning from Hocking about her biting off more than she could chew with Samson.

  Yet they too must be anxious about the future. ‘He’s inside.’ Hocking jerked a thumb toward the stalls. ‘You stay there while I do saddle ’un up for you. Can’t have you getting covered in hair.’ He nodded at her black habit. ‘Else Sarah will still be trying to brush ’un clean come Christmas.’

  He helped her mount up, then with a brief salute returned to his task as she trotted Samson out of the yard.

  Melissa told herself she was simply being mindful of her dress when she guided Samson onto the drive instead of taking him through the field gate. Well aware that their different stations in life ruled out anything but civility, she still smarted from the stranger’s rebuff. Which was utterly ridiculous. He was a mere workman. Of what possible interest to her was his good opinion? Besides, she had received snubs and slights enough to be well accustomed to them by now. So why should this one matter? It didn’t. Not in the least.

  The road between Bosvane and the village was little used except by those coming to the Tregonning house, and this morning Melissa reached the yard without seeing even the postman. As she rode through the gates, Tom Ferris came out of the carpenter’s shed. Seeing her, he raised a hand and hurried forward.

  ‘I’m some glad you’ve come,’ he said in greeting, as she dismounted and looped Samson’s reins through the iron ring. ‘Come on in here a minute. I got to talk to you.’ He gestured for her to precede him. Ducking her head to avoid the low lintel, Melissa entered the cluttered room, turning as he followed.

  ‘Have mister paid they suppliers yet?’ he asked urgently before she could utter a word. ‘Only we can’t –’

  ‘Tom, wait,’ Melissa interrupted. ‘My father is dead.’

  Shock wiped all expression from the foreman’s face. ‘Dead?’ His voice mirrored disbelief.

  ‘Early yesterday morning. He had a stroke and … It was very sudden. In fact it’s all been so – I still can’t –’ She stopped, gave her head a quick shake, and cleared her throat. ‘I tried to come down yesterday, but my uncles arrived. And with mother ill, there was just so much to do. But I wanted to tell you myself. It wouldn’t have been right, you hearing the news from anyone else.’

  ‘Good of you, miss. I appreciate that, I do. But bleddy hell.’ He caught himself. ‘Beg pardon, miss.’

  ‘No need to apologise.’ A tired smile briefly tilted the corners of her mouth. She envied him the freedom to express his feelings. She wasn’t even sure what hers were. Only that she dare not examine them for fear of being overwhelmed.

  ‘I’m some sorry. We shan’t see the like of him again, dear of ’un.’

  ‘I’ve written to George, but it could be weeks – maybe months – before he can get back. In the meantime, we have to keep the yard going.’

  ‘But what about –? I mean – look, there isn’t no way to pretty this up: did you get chance to ask mister about the suppliers?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but I spent a large part of yesterday in his study going through all the books and accounts. Tom, we’re in trouble.’

  ‘How deep?’

  She bit her lip, slowly shaking her head.

  ‘Dear life!’ As he rubbed his grizzled face, bushy brows drawn down, she heard the rasp of stubble against his calloused palm. His eyes searched hers. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Fight.’ She pressed her palms together. ‘My great-grandfather set up this yard. Tregonnings have been building ships here for three generations. With a war on, the country needs ships. It needs yards like this. I’ve got to keep it going until George gets home.’

  ‘That’s the stuff, girl.’ Tom Ferris rubbed his hands, a grin splitting his face. ‘Never lacked for spirit, you haven’t. You know I’m with you all the way. But how are you going to manage?’

  ‘Not me, Tom: us.’ S
he flashed him a weary grin. ‘Well, you really, like you always have.’

  He sniffed. ‘Yes. Well, I’m all right with the practical stuff. But mister held the purse strings and kept the books and all. Not meaning to be disrespectful, miss. I thought the world of your pa, and that’s God’s truth, but these past weeks even when he did come down I couldn’t get a word of sense out of ’un.’

  Melissa nodded. She had found it difficult being the messenger. But how much more frustrating it must have been for Tom, waiting for replies that never came; watching precious stores dwindle by the day, the shock of learning that replacements were being withheld because of unpaid accounts, yet still unable to pin her father down.

  ‘Well, as far as money is concerned, there isn’t any. So we have to raise some as quickly as possible. But I can’t sell land or property, not even that owned solely by my mother.’

  ‘How can’t you? Surely that would –?’

  ‘Don’t you see how it would look, Tom? My father barely cold in his grave and his widow is selling off parts of the estate? Within 24 hours it would be spread all over Truro that we were bankrupt, the gossips would see to that.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’ he asked quietly.

  She met his gaze squarely. ‘It’s worse. Far worse.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s not just a few unpaid bills. Tom, promise me you won’t breathe a word of this.’

  Anger darkened his face. ‘You should know better than that.’

  ‘I do. Of course I do. It’s just – my father – there are debts. Tom, we could lose the yard.’ She looked away as she fought for control. ‘But on no account must my uncles, or anyone else, discover the true state of our financial affairs.’