Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

‘All right, my handsome. Don’t you fret now. Us’ll come about.’

  Blinking, she forced a watery smile. Was he saying it to offer comfort? Did he really believe it? Either way, it was still she who would have to provide a solution. ‘As far as I can see, the only saleable asset that no one will question is timber. We can use some of the fallen trees to replenish the store here. Once sawn and stacked they’ll be seasoning ready for next year. But I was thinking, what about a programme of felling? I don’t understand how my father couldn’t see the possibilities. I did try to suggest it but –’

  ‘He wasn’t hisself, my bird. Nor haven’t been for months. Now don’t you go getting upset and thinking you could’ve changed anything, ’cos you couldn’t. He was a fine man, but you know so well as I do that if he didn’t like what you was saying, he wouldn’t bleddy listen.’

  With a muffled sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, Melissa pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her nose. ‘I did love him, Tom.’

  ‘And he thought the world of you. Told me more’n once you was as good as a son any day.’

  ‘He did?’ A painful mix of pride and grief wrenched Melissa. Even her beloved father had judged her not on her own merits, but in comparison to her brothers, though neither had ever shown the slightest interest in the yard. Yet here she was, about to take on a man’s job and shoulder a man’s responsibilities. So perhaps it was a compliment after all.

  ‘We could keep what wood we need for our own use and sell the rest. But what we really need is someone with experience –’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Tom waved her to silence. ‘I reckon I know just the man. Don’t you move.’ Pointing a warning finger at her, he stepped outside and bellowed, ‘Billy!’

  ‘Yo!’ The answering shout was faint.

  ‘Tell Gabe Ennis I want ’un.’

  ‘What, now? Only he’s –’

  ‘I don’t care what he’s doing,’ Tom roared. ‘I want ’un right this minute.’ He stepped back inside, rubbing his hands. ”He’s the man. Carpenter, he was, on a large estate. Know timber, he do. And he’s a hard worker. Just spent two days in the saw pit. Don’t say much, but then he can’t –’

  The sunlight was suddenly blocked by a tall figure in the doorway, and Melissa choked down a gasp as she recognised him.

  ‘This here’s Gabriel Ennis, miss. Started here couple of days ago. Escaped from France.’ Tom lowered his voice. ‘Chained up by the neck ’e was, so he can’t talk proper.’ He turned to the newcomer, looking up. ‘This here is Miss Tregonning. Her father own the yard. Well, he did: Mr Tregonning passed away sudden yesterday.’

  There was a pause, and Melissa felt her muscles tighten. But though he must have recognised her, Gabriel Ennis gave no sign of doing so. Knuckling his forehead he rasped, ‘Condolences, ma’am.’ He turned to Tom, waiting to be told why he’d been sent for.

  ‘Go on, miss,’ Tom encouraged. ‘Tell ’un what you got in mind.’

  Melissa cleared her throat. If he had worked on a large estate, he must recognise how badly the woods had been neglected. Though relieved that he was acting as if this were their first meeting, she found it impossible to banish the vivid impressions of their previous encounters. These memories, plus the conflict between loyalty to her father and having to admit his many recent failings to a stranger, increased her confusion.

  ‘I – I –’ She stopped abruptly. Taking a breath, and a moment to marshal her thoughts, she began again. ‘The woodland above the yard covers a large area and is, I believe, a valuable resource. Tom says you know about these things. What would be needed to set up a felling programme?’

  As he shot her a brief glance from beneath dark brows she was grateful for the dimness. Was it intuition or fear that warned her he had immediately guessed why she was asking?

  ‘To sell? Or to store for use in the yard?’

  She swallowed. ‘Both.’

  ‘I’d need horses and chains, and at least eight men.’

  ‘Can’t do it,’ Tom said flatly. ‘Not eight.’

  Melissa turned to him. ‘How many can you spare?’

  ‘Five, six at a pinch.’ Tom sucked his teeth. ‘Though only if we set aside all repair work. I’ll have to shift around the men on the packet, mind.’

  Melissa addressed Gabriel. ‘You can have two shire horses from the farm. I’ll drive one, so that will free another man for felling.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Tom hissed.

  ‘Tom, if I can handle Samson and his moods –’

  ‘That isn’t what I mean, and you know it. I daresay there isn’t a horse foaled you couldn’t handle. What I mean is, it isn’t proper for you to be doing such things.’

  She shot him a meaningful glance. ‘No choice, Tom.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ He glared at her.

  ‘But you can’t spare any more men.’

  ‘Some stubborn you are. All right.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘When do you want to start?’

  ‘How long will it take to reorganise the work here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow?’

  Gabriel shook his head. ‘Can’t start felling until the trees have been chosen and marked.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ Melissa tried to keep the anxiety from her voice.

  ‘Depends on the number. Those already down can be hauled to the nearest path. We’ll need a track to the road. Opposite the yard gates is reasonably central. Easy for the haulier’s wagons too.’

  Ashamed that none of these points had occurred to her, she gave what she hoped was a decisive nod. ‘That will be fine. Please see to it.’ She turned to the foreman. ‘Tom, will you call the men together at noon tomorrow so I can talk to them?’

  ‘Listen there’s no need for that. I’ll tell them what’s happened. You been through enough already. And I daresay there’ll be more to come.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But I have to speak to them myself. If the men aren’t told what we’re planning they’ll think the worst and start looking elsewhere for work.’

  Tom sighed, his expression morose as he scratched his head through the frizzy halo. ‘Could be they’ll do that anyway.’

  Melissa smoothed the fingers of her gloves. ‘I know it’s a risk. But I have to convince them the yard will continue, with or without them. They’ve got to be persuaded that it’s as important to me as it was to my father. If that means doing things I’ve never done before, then the sooner I get used to it the better.’

  When he finished work late that afternoon Gabriel went into the village. His thoughts were full of Melissa Tregonning. Her father’s sudden death had clearly rocked the foundations of her world. Mourning clothes and a severe hairstyle would make anyone appear older. But the change he divined in her went far deeper.

  Her shyness and naiveté, still so appealing, had been overlaid by determination. It was obvious that she needed money. So Mr Tregonning’s untimely death had clearly left his family with considerable financial problems. His daughter’s determination to resolve these showed rare and undoubted courage. But she could have no idea of what she was taking on.

  The yard had the necessary land for expansion, plus an experienced workforce. And with the war increasing the demand for ships, it would quickly rival any of the yards in Truro or Falmouth. For anyone with spare capital it was an ideal investment and would quickly show an excellent return. Once more he felt the bitter irony of his situation.

  Acknowledging his name and status would allow him to increase his own fortune while improving those of everyone connected with the yard. But in solving her problem he would create too many for himself. He should leave this place. But how could he when he owed her the roof over his head? Besides, no one else possessed the knowledge she needed.

  ‘Hallo, my handsome.’ Mrs Mitchell’s face lit up as he entered the bakery. ‘I was just thinking of you. Here, do me a favour, would you?’

  ‘If I can,’ Gabriel croaked.

  ‘No one better. Look, ’tis this sa
ck of flour. I only opened ’un this morning. Now, what do you see?’

  Bending, Gabriel peered into the sack. His voice cracked in surprise. ‘It’s moving.’

  ‘Mites,’ Mrs Mitchell announced angrily. ‘Nothing wrong with my eyes. Well, I aren’t having it. I paid for fresh-ground flour.’

  Realising he was poised at the top of a slippery slope, Gabriel stifled a groan. He could not afford to become embroiled in village life. Yet what would have become of him had it not been for Tom Ferris’s trust? Tom had guessed he was the thief, yet had still been willing to give him a job. On Tom’s say-so, Mrs Mitchell had given him more food than he could pay for. The day he started at the yard Billy had noticed he had no dinner, and had brought him some. And Jack was willing to lend him a boat to go fishing. Not become involved? It was far too late.

  ‘You want me to take the flour back?’

  ‘All I want for you to do is carry the sack. You don’t have to say nothing. Just stand there like. I aren’t afeared of no man, but it don’t do no harm to show I got friends. I aren’t no fool, and so Joe Sweet will know when I’ve finished with ’un. Sell me stale flour, would he? Bleddy cheek! I’ll put ’un straight, you see if I don’t.’

  Struggling to keep a straight face, wishing he could tell her it would be an honour as well as a genuine pleasure to accompany her, Gabriel said simply, ‘Now?’

  ‘Well, seeing you’re here.’ Quickly tying up the sack’s neck, she pulled off her apron, took a shawl from a hook on the back of the door and swirled it around her shoulders. Then, holding the door while Gabriel picked up the sack, she locked it behind them.

  Forty minutes later they were back in the shop with a fresh sack of flour. While Mrs Mitchell had given Joe Sweet her opinion of people who tried to take advantage of a decent widow-woman doing her best to run an honest business, the miller had darted frequent sidelong glances at Gabriel, who had simply gazed back. He had not said a word. There had been no need. Mrs Mitchell in full flow was not to be interrupted, nor did she require help.

  Joe Sweet’s abject apologies, his plea that it had been an honest mistake, a mix-up of sacks by his boy who would feel the back of his hand the moment he caught up with him, had followed them for several yards along the street.

  ‘Well, that’s done.’ Mrs Mitchell beamed up at him as he straightened after setting the flour down. ‘Now, my handsome, how about a nice pie for your tea? I don’t want no money. You done me a kindness and Daisy Mitchell always pay her debts.’ She quickly wrapped a saffron bun and a piece of hevva cake and pushed them into his hands. ‘Bit o’ something for later.’

  Gabriel looked down at her. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Dear life! ‘ Suddenly pink, she fiddled with the puffed muslin covering her bolster-like bosom. ‘Charm the birds off the trees with that smile, you would. Go on, then. I got work to do. Be in tomorrow, will you?’

  ‘Another job?’

  ‘And if there is?’

  ‘I’ll be in.’

  ‘Right, then.’ At the door, Gabriel hesitated. ‘Where can I buy a razor?’ He rubbed his palm over a beard that was growing thicker by the day. In Brittany he had adopted the custom of all working men and shaved only once or twice a week. But in prison even that had become impossible. The captain of the fishing boat, knowing a full beard would betray his passenger as an escaped prisoner, had found him an old razor. Gabriel had scraped off as much as he could without touching his throat. But that had been well over a week ago. To leave it much longer would invite curiosity.

  ‘You wait right there,’ Daisy commanded. ‘Don’t you move now.’ She bustled out and he could hear her in the back room, muttering to herself. She returned a few moments later carrying a worn black leather case and a small white china bowl in which lay a stubby badger-hair shaving brush.

  ‘These belonged to my Cyrus, bless his heart. ’Tis daft just to leave them sitting there. He wouldn’t mind me giving them to you.’ She thrust them at Gabriel, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘If we’d had a son … Still, that’s the way of it.’

  He had expected directions, not another gift, especially one that had been an integral part of her married life. But refusal was out of the question. It would be throwing her generosity back in her face. And he really did need the razor. Deeply touched, he took the bowl and case, then leant down and dropped a swift kiss on the plump, floury cheek. ‘You’re a kind woman, Mrs Mitchell.’

  ‘Oh!’ Daisy pressed a hand to each side of her bright pink face. ‘Dear life! Here, there’s no way you’re going to carry all that without dropping something. Now, I know I got an old …’ Opening a cupboard she bent over and rummaged about. ‘There!’ She emerged, beaming and triumphant, and flourished a battered wicker basket. ‘I wouldn’t trust the handle. That’s how I don’t use ’un myself. But I expect you can fix ’un up good as new.’ Setting the basket down, she quickly put in the bowl and razor case, followed by the bun and cake, and lastly the pie. ‘There now. Off you go.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ Gabriel grinned. He knew older village women were often called this by people not their children. It was a term of familiarity, respect, and endearment. He used it for all those reasons, also because he recognised her unfulfilled longing and knew how much it would mean to her.

  ‘That’s enough of your cheek! Get on out of it!’ Her waving arm shooing him away was belied by the delight in her smile.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ Gabriel touched his forehead in salute, and closed the door behind him. He was still smiling as he started back along the street in the direction of the yard and the woods. Ahead of him, four women stood chatting. One saw him approach and murmured to the others, who turned their heads to look at him. Wary, he moved out to the centre of the narrow street, head down, eyes lowered, intending to pass by.

  ‘Hello, Gabe,’ one blurted, then giggled.

  ‘Come on, Gabe. Where’s your manners?’ another demanded. ‘Say hello.’

  Unprepared, Gabriel didn’t know how best to respond. To ignore them would give offence. But to stop and chat would signal encouragement, a situation fraught with danger. He knew an instant’s longing for a time when no lady would have dreamt of speaking to Lord Stratton without first having been formally introduced. But these were not ladies, and such memories belonged to another life.

  Glancing up, he gave a brief nod and made to pass by. Too late, he realised it would have been wiser to feign deafness. Immediately they pressed close, blocking his path.

  ‘How do you like it here, then?’ The one addressing him was clearly the ringleader of the group. She had dark hair, and bold brown eyes. Her dimity gown was cut low, and the grubby kerchief crossed over her bosom and tied behind revealed an opulent cleavage thrust forward to attract his attention.

  Swiftly averting his eyes he shrugged, head down, shoulders defensive.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ one of the others piped up.

  ‘Dicked in the knob, he is,’ another scoffed.

  ‘Here,’ the third tried, ‘need someone to do a bit of cooking and washing, do you?’

  ‘Look like he got someone cooking for ’un already.’ The bold one nodded toward the basket. ‘No, what he need is company of a night.’

  ‘Sal!’ one of the other young women gasped.

  Reaching out, bold Sal ran a finger down the front of Gabriel’s shirt. Involuntarily, he stepped back.

  ‘Aw, he’s shy, the dear of him.’ Someone giggled.

  Sal took a pace forward, once more closing the distance between them and tilting her head provocatively. He could smell the sweet pungency of her sweat.

  ‘Tis no fun alone in a cold bed. I should know, with my man away fishing all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘Sal!’

  ‘Aw, shut up, Lizzie. What Jed don’t know can’t hurt un. If he’d rather be out on his bleddy boat than home with me, well, while the cat’s away …’ Grinning, she waggled the tip of her tongue at Gabriel.

  The joke, if it was a joke, ha
d gone far enough. With a brief shake of his head, Gabriel sidestepped the group and continued on his way. A chorus of mockery followed him. But he was not the target.

  ‘Look like he don’t fancy you, Sal.’

  ‘What if Jed had heard you?’

  ‘Losing your touch, you are, girl.’

  Chapter Eight

  Swallowing the last mouthful of pie, Gabriel washed it down with spring water, then heaved himself to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his breeches.

  After another day in the saw pit he would have given much for a hot bath to soothe his aching muscles, then hours and hours of dreamless sleep. But with wind and rain indicated by the mares’ tails stretching across the paling sky, he needed to make his roof more secure. He also wanted to cut fir branches while they were still dry. Dense, springy, and virtually draught-proof, they would make a softer bed than earth and grass.

  If this was to be his home for the foreseeable future then he might as well make it as comfortable as possible. Though small, it afforded him solitude and freedom. After the terror of his year in France culminating in the filthy, crowded prison cell, these were luxuries in themselves.

  Once the fir branches were piled inside along the driest wall, a fire lit, wood stacked for burning, and the filled pot set to heat, he went back to a fallen elm he had noticed earlier and used the axe to peel off long lengths of bark. Sitting beside the fire, he cut the bark into thin, flexible strips. These he twisted and plaited into thick, strong cords, and tied them around the heavy stones left over from his rebuilding. Then, making holes with his dagger in the edges, he began to fasten the stones to the canvas, fixing each weight on opposite sides so the canvas was held down more firmly and not pulled off.

  Coming round to the front again, he heard the crack of a twig and looked up to see Melissa Tregonning coming down the path. Dressed in the black habit she had worn that morning and carrying an oblong basket, she held herself rigidly erect.

  As he remained still, watching her approach, he wondered what caused her such displeasure. But, as she came closer, he realised that her heightened colour and stern, almost defiant expression were not anger at all. He had seen her handle a horse many men would think twice about mounting, yet here, on foot, she was nervous. Why?