Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Good evening, Gabriel.’

  Intrigued by her refusal to look directly at him, he remembered just in time to tug his forelock. ‘Miss Tregonning.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘I have no wish to intrude on your privacy; I know how you value it. However, it occurred to me that you might find these useful.’ She thrust the basket at him. As he took it he saw that her hand was trembling. ‘There are candles, another blanket, clean linen, and a pot of salve for your wounds.’ She clasped her hands together, looking anywhere but at him, her cheeks a deep rose.

  ‘Much obliged, ma’am.’ Her opening words registered, and he realised she had totally misread his claim to prefer solitude. He had intended it as an explanation for choosing to live away from the village and other people. She had interpreted it as a personal rebuff. Yet why should she? Unless rejection was something experience had taught her to expect.

  What isolated her from other people was their instinctive recognition of her as different. They might put it down to her height – though in his eyes she was simply magnificent – but what really set her apart was her strength and courage. And the modesty that made her oblivious to her appeal.

  But if she was accustomed to being cold-shouldered, why should his perceived rejection matter? Unless – unless the lightning flash of awareness and attraction had affected her as profoundly as it had him. Gazing at her, he felt a stirring of deeper, hitherto untouched emotions.

  She shrugged, awkwardly self-conscious. ‘As I need your help it was the least I could do. I’ll leave you now.’ She turned away.

  ‘No.’ She mustn’t go. Not until he had led her to realise that she had been mistaken. Hazardous it might be, foolhardy it most certainly was, and he would have to tread with infinite care. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am,’ he said quickly as she turned back. Deliberately averting his gaze, he feigned shyness so she would not feel threatened. ‘But I was thinking … What about cutting other trees, not just the oaks?’

  He watched her hesitate, considering his suggestion. Then she shook her head. ‘There isn’t enough time. We need oak for the yard. And the current shortage, we know oak will sell.’

  ‘True, miss, but with respect, alder always fetches high prices. It’s used for mill-cogs and waterwheels, where constant wetting and drying would rot most woods. It also makes excellent charcoal. Furniture makers are always looking for beech. Cornish elm is wanted for flooring and tool handles. Large sycamores are always in demand. The wood can be scrubbed without the grain lifting, so it’s ideal for kitchen tables and chopping boards. And sycamore is also sought after for musical instruments because it polishes well.’

  He had talked far more than usual that day and his voice kept cracking. ‘Obviously the oak will sell as baulks or planks, but you can also sell the bark. The tannery in Truro would buy it, so would fishermen, for preserving their nets.’ He glanced up to see Melissa gazing at him, her self-consciousness forgotten.

  ‘Truly? I had no idea. About any of it.’ Her delight gave way to uncertainty. ‘But to cut so much … Wouldn’t that destroy the wood?’

  Gabriel shook his head. ‘It badly needs thinning, to allow the young trees space and light to grow.’

  She looked directly at him, and he felt the shock all over again. Not only had he never met a woman whose gaze was almost level with his own – a relief and pleasure in itself – he had never met a young woman of such contrasts: vibrant yet shy, courageous yet self-effacing. Her wariness momentarily forgotten, she studied him, puzzled and curious. ‘Where did you learn all this?’

  ‘Before I was taken prisoner –’ He hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to her. Though with his current life one enormous lie, what could another possibly matter? But it did. So he told her the truth, though not quite all of it.

  ‘I used to work on a large estate where forest and woodland were managed as a business to generate wealth. The owner was very astute, forward-looking.’ Looking away, he studied the trees around them.

  She cleared her throat. ‘I know it’s been neglected. My father – has been under great strain.’

  He turned back to her. Her father’s concerns could not be her fault or responsibility, yet she was behaving as though they were. Why had she shouldered this burden? He nodded. ‘Tom – Mr Ferris – told me your eldest brother was lost in a naval battle last year. A tragedy for your family, ma’am. My condolences.’

  Her gaze was clear and candid, and a tiny frown puckered her forehead. ‘You sound different.’

  He smiled briefly. ‘Not used to talking so much.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean your voice; I mean your mode of speech.’

  He bent his head, clenching his teeth as tension cramped his gut. In France, speaking only Breton, his disguise a matter of life and death, it had been easy to remain in character. But here, in his home county, and with her … Looking up, he shrugged. ‘You’re right, miss. I used to work closely with the master. I wanted to better myself, so I picked up his way of talking. No offence intended.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean – it was not a criticism, Gabriel, merely an observation. One I should not have made.’ Embarrassment smothered both suspicion and uncertainty.

  Torn between relief at having avoided potential danger and anger at his carelessness, he deliberately steered the conversation away from the past. ‘May I wish you well for tomorrow?’

  She drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s over.’

  ‘No need to be nervous, miss. You know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I hope so.’ It was heartfelt, anxious. After a moment she admitted, ‘My uncles don’t share your confidence.’

  ‘You know why, don’t you?’ He saw anxiety cloud her face. ‘You are attempting something men believe can only be done by another man.’ One corner of his mouth lifted in irony. ‘This is a severe threat to their dignity.’

  She was silent for a moment, then tossed her head. ‘If their dignity is so fragile it must rest on very shaky foundations.’

  ‘It does,’ he confided. ‘And that is a secret all men would prefer to remain hidden.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Really? No, you are not serious.’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  Seeing his rueful smile, she gasped and blushed, covering her mouth with her fingertips. ‘You really should not say such things.’

  ‘Perhaps. But there will be occasions when you find that knowledge helpful.’

  Watching her visible struggle as she recollected herself and withdrew from his unexpected and startling candour he realised that, despite being out in society, she had not acquired the usual veneer of arch sophistication he would have expected in a young woman of her background. He found himself fiercely glad.

  She cleared her throat. ‘About – about the wood …’

  It was a deliberate if reluctant retreat from an intimacy he should have resisted. Gabriel knew he must let her go. He turned away and set the basket on the ground. ‘Why don’t you take a day or two to think about it, miss?’

  ‘But what you said – about the other trees being more valuable. Would they really raise a lot of money quickly?’

  Watching her blush deepen and her lashes flutter as she realised how much her query revealed, Gabriel wondered just how desperate a financial crisis her father had left her to deal with. Picking up the last stone he began tying it on to the corner of the canvas, careful not to look at her.

  ‘They would, miss. And with proper management these woods will still be generating income a hundred years from now.’

  ‘Truly?’ She sounded stunned. ‘Thank you, Gabriel. Thank you very much.’

  His hands grew still as he watched her move quickly away up the path, her long stride peculiarly graceful, her self-consciousness forgotten now she had so many more important matters to occupy her.

  That evening, after washing himself and his filthy shirt, he shaved carefully. With no mirror he had to work by touch alone. It took a long time, and he did not dare go too close to the wound on
his throat. But tentative fingertip examination when he removed the bandage told him the honey had done its work, and healing had begun. Smearing a fresh cloth with the sweet-smelling salve, he bound up his throat once more. Passing a hand over his almost-smooth jaw when he had finished, he smiled. No doubt Berryman would shudder at his efforts. But not only did he feel cleaner than he had for months, he also felt ridiculously proud and self-satisfied.

  When the men assembled at midday, the overnight rain was just a memory. The sun shone from a sky the colour of cornflowers dotted with thistledown clouds. The yard was buzzing. The news that Francis Tregonning was dead and his wife ill had spread like flames in a gale. All were anxious about the yard and their jobs. But there was mixed reaction to the rumour that George Tregonning had been sent for.

  What did he know about shipbuilding, or about the yard for that matter? He was a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy. As Sam Laity’s wife’s brother delivered the post, everyone knew it was months since his last letter had arrived. Possible reasons for the delay of more recent letters were suggested and rejected. Missing in action? That was as good as saying he was dead. In prison in France? Same thing. If either of those were the case, it was time to start looking elsewhere for work.

  The discussions and arguments subsided as Melissa rode into the yard on Samson. Wearing her black habit and a matching small beaver hat with a narrow rolled brim over her up-swept hair, she was very pale, but appeared calm as she dismounted. Standing to one side near the back, his arms folded, Gabriel watched her turn from the crowd to fasten the rein to the iron ring. Seeing how her hands trembled, his clenched in sympathy. Even as he willed her to be strong, he mocked himself. Remaining here was sheer madness. If he had begun to care in this short time … Was he not in enough peril?

  Tom had organised a small platform for her to stand on, and helped her up. ‘All right, you lot,’ he bellowed. ‘Let’s have a bit of quiet. This here is Miss Tregonning –’

  ‘We don’t need telling who she is,’ a voice yelled. ‘We’ve knowed her since she was a cheeld.’

  ‘Yes, well, she isn’t a cheeld no more,’ Tom barked. ‘So shut your yap and show a bit of respect.’ He turned to Melissa. ‘Go on, now, my handsome,’ he murmured with an encouraging smile.

  Melissa’s gaze swept over the assembled men. Her eyes met Gabriel’s, flicked over his recently shaved jaw, and widened. She recovered instantly and, as her gaze moved on, he saw her inhale slowly. She lifted her chin and, by waiting, revealed both determination and a self-control that had him silently applauding in admiration. Only when the rumble of conversation had died away completely did she begin to speak.

  ‘My great-grandfather set up this yard. In those days Tregonning’s built small fishing boats, quay punts, and the occasional trading schooner. As the yard expanded over the years new sheds were added and the quay was enlarged. Then, when my father took over, the yard grew bigger still. Sons followed their fathers and grandfathers to learn their trade here. We started building bigger boats, fruit schooners and packet-ships.’ She paused as heads nodded, allowing them time to remember.

  ‘My father was a wise man. He believed in employing excellent craftsmen and allowing them to get on with the job. Though he’s no longer with us –’ Her voice faltered, and Gabriel caught his breath. But once again she managed to rein in her emotions. ‘My brother will be home soon to take up where my father left off. This yard has a reputation for building first-class ships. That reputation is due to you. With the war increasing demand for new ships we will be busier than ever. Because we cannot wait any longer for imported timber to get through the blockades, during the next week Tom will be organising a gang to cut from our own woods to ensure we have a continuous supply.’

  ‘I dunno how mister didn’t think to do that months ago,’ someone grumbled.

  ‘Never mind that. Who’s going to be running the yard between now and when your brother get home?’ someone else shouted. The mutters that followed showed the questioner was not alone in wanting reassurance.

  Gabriel saw Melissa swallow, but her lifted brows conveyed mild surprise, as if the question was superfluous and the answer self-evident. ‘Tom will handle all practical matters, just as he always has. Until my brother’s arrival, I will deal with finance and administration.’ She raised her voice slightly, drowning the rustle of whispers. ‘You said yourselves you have seen me come here with my father since I was a small child. Over the years, I have learnt a great deal about the business. However, I understand your concern. Since my elder brother was killed last year, my father has not been –’ She swallowed again. ‘Grief, and anxiety about my mother’s health, weighed heavily on him. Eventually this began to affect his own health.’ She looked away for a moment. Then raised her head once more. ‘I know how the yard works, and I know what is needed. I hope, I trust, that you will honour my father’s memory by building on the past and on your fathers’ achievements to give Tregonning’s an even brighter future, for yourselves and for your children. Thank you.’

  Taking Tom’s hand, she stepped down. With a brief wave and a smile that acknowledged the warm applause, she released Samson, mounted from the block and, with her back straight and head high, walked the huge horse out of the yard.

  She had given a superb performance. But as Gabriel listened to the murmurs, he hoped Lieutenant George Tregonning’s arrival would not be long delayed.

  Gabriel didn’t leave with the others when work finished for the day. Instead, he went to the pile of old and broken tools dumped in one corner of the carpenter’s shed. After ten minutes careful sorting he had found a mallet and an axe with broken handles, a plane with a chipped and rusty blade, and two chisels, one wide, one narrow. He looked up to see Tom watching him.

  ‘All right if I take these?’

  ‘They’re broke.’

  ‘I can mend them.’

  ‘What do you want them for?’

  ‘Repairs. Where I’m living.’

  Tom sniffed. ‘I suppose you’ll need a saw.’ He gestured toward the rack above the bench. ‘Might as well take what you need from there. All the others got their own kit. Should be a sharpening stone there somewhere, and there’s plane blades in that tin, though they might want a drop of oil.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘When are you going to start looking at they trees?’

  Gabriel recognised the deal, and the implied urgency. It was clear that Tom knew how things stood. But had she told him, or had he guessed?

  ‘This evening. I’ll need paint to mark them.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it,’ Tom said. He hurried away, returning a few minutes later to add a tin and brush to Gabriel’s already laden basket.

  A few days later the men gathered once more, but this time in the churchyard. Most of the village had turned out to pay their last respects and watch Francis Tregonning laid to rest. It was a day of bright sunshine and blustery showers.

  As they left the church, Melissa followed her mother, who clung to Addey’s supporting arm. She wore a black velvet close-fitting jacket over a black silk petticoat and a hat without the veil that hid her mother’s frozen countenance from both the sympathetic and the curious.

  As Emma walked with painful dignity toward the waiting carriage, Melissa’s gaze moved past friends of her parents from Truro, past Tom and the men from the yard and the farm. She told herself it was merely interest to see who had attended. But her conscience forced her to acknowledge the shameful truth. She was searching.

  She found him, at the back as always, his dark head above the rest, his lean face still pale compared with the weathered complexions of the other men and, as their eyes met across the distance, she felt again the shock of recognition. Suddenly she was stronger, less isolated.

  Acutely aware of her aunts’ critical scrutiny, she hurried forward and slipped a comforting arm around her mother’s thin shoulders, heat in her cheeks the only visible legacy of the brief exchange of glances. No one could see her pounding hea
rt. No one could feel the fluttering in her stomach that felt like a dozen frantic butterflies, or the liquid weakness in her legs.

  Since the age of 17 she had not met anyone taller than herself. For her, looking up into a man’s face was strange. It made her feel vulnerable, threatened. But by what? Apart from that first occasion when he had seized Samson’s reins to prevent him rearing, Gabriel Ennis had been polite to the point of diffidence. Considering his lowly background, his manners were remarkable, as was his speech, though he had explained that.

  Most men considered her height a handicap, presumably because they were used to having that advantage. She had no idea why they should feel threatened, yet apparently they did, and it made them abrupt and aggressive. But he was so tall it was inevitable that he should look down on almost as many men as he did women.

  Was this then the reason for their apparent affinity? How could it be anything else, given their different stations in life? Yet as she recalled the startling intimacy of their conversations she felt again the heated shiver and strange quickening. Surely such feelings must spring from something deeper than mere physical parity? Even if they did, what difference could it make? She closed her eyes against sudden inexplicable tears.

  Back at the house, where tables groaned under the weight of Mrs Bett’s cold collation, Addey led her mistress to a chair and made her comfortable while Melissa acted hostess in her mother’s place. Lobb and Gilbert served sherry or Madeira to the gentlemen and ratafia to the ladies.

  Very soon, with no outsiders to inhibit the family, conversations lost their hushed tone. Reminiscences gradually gave way to speculation about the future.

  When quizzed, Melissa’s expression conveyed mild surprise as she responded that naturally everything would carry on as normal while they waited for George’s return. Then, with a self-effacing smile, she excused herself to fetch more food or refill someone’s teacup.