Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  ‘At least an hour.’

  ‘All right if I go and see Mr Sibley’s groom, then? He’s an old friend, and got a good eye.’

  ‘Please do, Hocking. But –’

  ‘Don’t you fret, miss. He won’t even know he’ve been told they’re for sale.’

  At the lawyer’s office, Melissa announced herself to an elderly clerk, one of several moving with quiet purpose between a number of panelled doors leading off a spacious reception area. Tall and slightly stooped, he wore an old fashioned suit of black cloth shiny with wear, and a tie wig.

  ‘If you will be seated, Miss –?’

  ‘Tregonning.’

  ‘Miss Tregonning,’ he repeated with slow gravity, ‘I shall ascertain whether Mr Rogers is currently engaged.’ He bowed and withdrew. Glancing around the elegantly furnished room, Melissa perched bolt upright on a Queen Anne armchair upholstered in green and gold brocade. Renewed tension quickened her breathing and her pulse. He returned a few moments later.

  ‘If you will accompany me, Miss Tregonning, Mr Rogers will receive you.’

  The clerk wore his collarless coat unbuttoned over his long waistcoat and knee breeches. As she followed the austere figure, Melissa noticed that his white stockings were a little too loose for his thin legs and his black shoes with their square steel buckles, though well polished, bore unmistakable signs of age. A frugal man, she decided, as neat and sparing in his habits as he was in his dress. Had he ever loved?

  As she recognised the source from which the thought had sprung, shock and shame broke over her in a hot, drenching wave. Her cheeks burned and her clothes clung uncomfortably to suddenly damp skin. Concealed behind the clerk, she withdrew a small handkerchief of cambric and lace from her sleeve and surreptitiously wiped her forehead and upper lip.

  ‘My dear Miss Tregonning.’ Glendon Woodford Rogers greeted her with an outstretched hand. Though his clerks adhered to a mode of dress popular 20 years ago, Mr Rogers clearly preferred a more modern look. Of portly build, he had wisely remained in breeches instead of adopting the thigh-hugging pantaloons that among younger men were considered the epitome of style. His close-fitting frock coat of blue cloth sported large mother-of-pearl buttons and was cut away at the hip and thigh so that the skirts were little more than square-cut tails that reached to the back of his knees. His double-breasted waistcoat of cream and blue striped silk strained across a barrel-shaped paunch. Pale yellow silk stockings and low-heeled, long-toed shoes tied with narrow ribbons completed his ensemble. The magnificence of his raiment conveyed, as was no doubt intended, his success and consequent wealth.

  Drawing a deep breath, Melissa extended her hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rogers. I’m very grateful to you for seeing me at such short notice.’

  Taking her hand, he bowed. The brief but ominous creaking that accompanied this movement indicated his reliance on a corset to hold his corpulence in check. Biting hard on the inside of her lip, Melissa seated herself carefully on a chair of carved walnut upholstered in crimson velvet that was slightly too low for comfort, and smoothed the skirts of her habit.

  Flicking his coat tails up, the lawyer resumed his own chair – padded leather and mahogany – beside a large ornate bureau. The lid was rolled back to reveal rows of drawers and tiny cubbyholes, and the writing surface was covered with documents penned in elaborate script and bearing important seals.

  ‘Now,’ he smiled, leaning slightly forward. ‘How may I help you? Though before you begin, I should perhaps make it clear that if you have come to see me in connection with your father’s will –’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t. Though I am aware of the terms. We discussed it after – when he had the new document drawn up.’

  Mr Rogers sat back in his chair. Resting his elbows on the arms, he made a steeple of his spread fingers. ‘Then what is the problem?’ Melissa told him, watching his expression alter from avuncular encouragement through thoughtfulness to frowning concern. ‘My advice, Miss Tregonning,’ he said when she had finished, ‘is to confide in your uncles. They are the people best placed to –’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, shaking her head. ‘Forgive me, Mr Rogers, but that is quite simply out of the question. Even my mother does not know the full extent of my father’s – commitments. As he is now no longer – no longer your client, the interests you represent are those of my mother, my brother, and myself.’

  The dark crimson of his anger was alarming against the snowy points of his shirt collar. ‘Are you presuming to lecture me on confidentiality? I have never heard such gross impertinence. I need no such reminder. Especially from you, young lady.’

  Once more, embarrassment surged through Melissa. Her skin oozed with mortification. Why especially from her? ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean – Mr Rogers, I cannot apologise enough. Truly, I meant no offence. It’s just that – if my uncles are informed, my aunts will learn of it. If it became public – which it would – my mother – can you imagine –?’ Helpless, she shook her head, blinking away tears. ‘I really am most terribly sorry. It – it has all been such a shock.’

  He unbent slightly. ‘Yes. Yes, I can see that it must have been. But I do not see how, without your uncles’ help, you can hope to come about. You have no immediately convertible assets.’

  Melissa’s head flew up. ‘But I do.’ Plunging a hand into the pocket of her skirt, she passed him the velvet-wrapped package, watching anxiously as he opened it.

  ‘My grandmother left me the rubies. The pearls, garnets, and other smaller pieces were gifts.’

  He glanced sideways. ‘The sapphires?’

  ‘My 21st birthday.’ She swallowed. ‘I want to sell it. All of it. So I was wondering … Actually, I hoped … Of course, you will need some kind of proof of their ownership and origin, so …’ Fumbling in her other pocket she extracted a slim wad of tightly folded papers. ‘I have written it all down. I thought – I hoped, maybe you could take them to Plymouth? Surely they will fetch a far better price there than they would here? And even if you are known there, no one would know who you were selling them for.’

  His gaze was sympathetic. ‘Miss Tregonning, you came to me for advice. Well, my advice is this: take your jewellery home.’

  She felt as if he had slammed a door in her face. ‘Is it not – will it not sell?’

  ‘Oh yes, it would sell. I have no doubt of that. You have some very nice pieces. My point is –’

  Melissa shook her head, urgency overriding good manners. ‘Forgive me, Mr Rogers, but I must sell. I have no choice. I need the money. Besides, what use are necklaces, bracelets, and rings to me when everything my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather worked to build is in danger of being lost? I do not receive many invitations, Mr Rogers. So opportunities to wear elaborate jewellery are rare. If it became public knowledge that my father died on the verge of bankruptcy, even those invitations would quickly cease. Besides, how could I ever again appear in such gems knowing their value would have kept the yard going and men in work?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it wouldn’t,’ he countered gravely. ‘I applaud your sentiments, and your courage. But although what you have here might partially clear the debts, it will do no more. So if you were counting on that alone –’

  ‘I wasn’t. I have just come from Mr Nankivell, the timber merchant on the quay. He has agreed to buy all the wood we can supply. Even now, a team is at work felling trees under the direction of an experienced woodsman.’

  He was staring at her, openly astonished. ‘Is your brother aware of your activities, Miss Tregonning?’

  ‘I have written to him,’ Melissa replied truthfully. ‘But as he is at sea and, it is to be hoped, on his way home, he will not be aware of all that has been achieved until he sees it for himself. When he does,’ she added with a defiance born of nervous tension, ‘I have no doubt at all that he will be delighted. Mr Rogers, if I do nothing, my brother’s arrival will be greeted with foreclosure by the bank and a writ from a moneylender.’

>   The lawyer inhaled deeply. ‘As you have chosen to ignore my advice, I see no point in trying to persuade you otherwise.’ Melissa clenched her hands in her lap. ‘I consider the course of action upon which you have embarked to be fraught with risk.’ He frowned at her. With a sudden understanding of how a fox must feel when cornered, she tried to work some saliva into a mouth so dry it was too painful to swallow. ‘However, in the face of such initiative, foolhardy though it may be, I feel bound to offer my assistance. As it happens, I am already travelling to Plymouth over the weekend.’

  For a moment she could only stare at him. ‘You are?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rogers.’ The release of tension left Melissa feeling shaky. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. There is just one more favour I have to ask.’

  His brows climbed, and there was a touch of asperity in his tone. ‘My goodness, Miss Tregonning, you are very free with your requests.’

  She dipped her head, accepting the criticism, but plunged on. ‘It’s not for me, sir. Not directly, at any rate. But until the jewellery is sold, or I receive the first payment for the wood, I have no money to pay the men’s wages. I can probably stave off the demands of the bank and Mr Vincent for a little while longer, once I tell them of the business arrangement with Mr Nankivell regarding his purchase of our trees. I intend to write to them as soon as I get home so they will know that money will soon be available. But the men cannot wait. They need their wages. They have families to feed and clothe.’

  His brows had almost disappeared beneath the pointed peak of his pig-tailed wig. ‘You want me to give you money?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she corrected with dignity. ‘I ask for no gift, merely a loan, to be repaid upon your return from Plymouth with money from the sale of my jewellery.’

  He sighed, shaking his head as if astonished at his own behaviour. ‘What sum do you require, Miss Tregonning?’

  Climbing into the gig, she told Hocking to drive her to the various shipyard suppliers. Paying each one something on account, she promised full settlement by the end of the month. ‘I have to wait until then for money to be released,’ she explained as truthfully as she dared.

  All three nodded, telling her they understood, offered their condolences once more, and sympathised with the time it took to complete legal matters.

  She inclined her head, grateful for their assumptions. ‘I do not anticipate any further delay. But if one should occur, I will pay interest on what is owed, on condition you begin supplying the yard again immediately.’

  Each time there was an instant’s hesitation. But, given such a promise, what could they lose? With smiles, bows, and much hand-washing, she was assured that the items requested would be dispatched that very afternoon.

  As Hocking drove the gig back to Bosvane, Melissa closed her eyes. She had achieved everything she set out to do. But the strain had been intense and reaction was setting in. Though she had been more successful than she dared hope, she felt totally drained.

  In one hand she clutched a soft leather bag, the remaining coins hard, reassuring, against her palm. In the other, two papers: one a copy of the agreement signed by Mr Nankivell and herself, the other a receipt for her jewellery from Mr Rogers.

  Hocking dropped her off at the front door. As she walked into the house, Lobb took one look, pursed his lips, and announced he would have a tray brought to her. Where would she be?

  Realising she must look as weary as she felt, and that part of her exhaustion was due to simple hunger, she didn’t argue. ‘In the study, Lobb. Thank you.’

  In her room she removed her hat and habit, rinsed her face and hands, then put on a simple gown of lavender muslin. Cooler and much refreshed, she tidied her hair and went back downstairs. Entering the study, she saw on the side table a silver tray containing a jug of lemonade, thin slices of ham and beef, rolls and butter, cheese, and a dish of fruit compote. The sight of the food made her mouth water and she ate where she stood, looking out of the window at the view and trying not to think at all.

  She had just finished and was dabbing her mouth with a napkin when Lobb entered. After a flickering glance at the empty dishes, he picked up the tray, totally expressionless. ‘Will there be anything, else, miss?’

  Sensing his satisfaction, she matched his composure. ‘Not for the moment, Lobb.’ She waited until he reached the door. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mrs Betts, miss. She will be most gratified.’ He sailed out.

  Seated at her father’s desk, she took up a fresh sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the inkstand, and began her letter to Mr Edmund Turner of the Commercial Bank. But after writing the address she stopped, turning the pen in her fingers as she mentally tested, then discarded, various phrases.

  Informed of her father’s death by her uncles, Mr Turner had sent one of his clerks to the house to leave a card of condolence. He had not come in person. Nor had he attended the funeral. Doubtless he was a very busy man. But her father’s association with the bank had begun before she was born, and until last year the two men had often hunted and dined together in Truro on excellent terms.

  She dipped the pen once more and resumed writing. She would not apologise for her father. No doubt the bank had been within its rights to demand immediate repayment of the money owed. But Mr Turner had known about Adrian’s death, and must also have been aware of its aftermath of devastation. To pile even more pressure on a man trying to deal with his grief while caring for a wife incapacitated by her loss seemed unduly callous.

  No, she would not apologise. But nor would she betray her anger. With careful dignity, she wrote that she regretted any inconvenience caused by her father’s lack of response to the bank’s letters. She stated that, unknown to anyone, he had been suffering from illness kept hidden to spare the family further worry. She would come in person later the following week to make, on her brother’s behalf as the new head of the family, a substantial reduction to the outstanding loan.

  Signing the letter, she set it to one side, and began another to Thomas Vincent, undertaking to repay his loan in full by the end of the month. As she sealed them both she prayed the sale of her jewellery and the first load of wood would realise enough.

  The following morning, she rode Samson up to the farm. Glistening spider-webs festooned the hedgerows, spangled with raindrops from an early shower. The clouds had rolled away, leaving the air clear and the sky a freshly washed blue. In a field adjoining those in which small, hardy black cattle were grazing, pigs rooted among thick stalks; all that remained of the winter kale.

  In other fields, the earth’s acid sourness had been enriched with sand, seaweed, and Devon limestone burned in kilns all along the Cornish coast. Here ripening oats that would feed the horses rippled in the breeze, as did wheat, providing grain for the miller and straw for thatching or bedding for the cattle.

  Grass, now long and juicy, would be cut with scythe and sickle over the next two to three weeks. Lifted and turned to dry in the sun, it would then be raked up, loaded onto the high-sided cart, and carried to the stack, a fodder smelling sweetly of warm summer days for both horses and cattle through the winter. Sheaves of cut wheat would be set up in shocks, carried to the rick-yard, then threshed with flails to release the grain.

  Brown and white hens clucked quietly, ignoring the large cockerel strutting amongst them as they scratched and pecked grain from the earth in a large pen at one side of the thatched farmhouse. A chicken-shed divided inside into three tiers of snug, open-fronted boxes stood in the shade of two apple trees. The door, now standing wide open, would be closed at sunset, the chickens inside, safe from prowling foxes.

  Dismounting outside the small gate, Melissa tied Samson to a tree and knocked on the open door before calling out. Up and working since dawn, Edgar would now be having his dinner.

  ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your meal, but I wanted to catch Edgar at home.’ She pulled off her gloves as Becky jumped up from her seat at the scrubbed tabl
e, shooing a cat off the spare chair and dusting it with her apron before inviting Melissa to sit down.

  ‘Nothing wrong is there, miss?’ Edgar’s knife and fork looked toy-like in his huge, sun-darkened hands.

  ‘No, I’ve come because I need to borrow the horses to drag out trees we’re having felled in the woods. Can you manage with the oxen and let me have Captain and Duchess?’

  The farmer and his wife exchanged a glance. ‘I suppose so, miss,’ Edgar said slowly. ‘We haven’t started cutting the hay yet.’

  ‘They’re both fit?’

  Edgar nodded. ‘You’d best work Captain in blinkers though. He do jump at his own shadow when the mood’s on ’un.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’ Smiling, she stood up. ‘Thanks, Edgar. I’ll bring John with me to collect them on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘On the Sabbath?’ Becky gasped, visibly shocked.

  Melissa grimaced. ‘I know. But they have to be in the woods to start work early Monday morning.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, miss.’ Becky was more anxious than disapproving. ’Tis to be hoped nobody see you, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Melissa promised. The only people to see her with the great draught horses would be the people whose jobs she was trying to protect. They would understand. Bidding them goodbye, she remounted Samson and rode to the yard to pay the wages.

  Tom had cleared a space on the cluttered table to make room for the ledger in which he marked men present or absent each day. It lay open, the pen and inkwell alongside, ready for each man to make his mark, or sign his name if he could write.

  ‘Here, you sit down,’ he insisted, indicating the only chair. ‘Looking fagged to death you are.’

  She sat, and Tom stood at her shoulder, just as he used to when her father … She shut off the thought. ‘When I was in Truro yesterday I saw the suppliers and –’