by Jane Jackson
Last night she had held him, nursed him, listened to his feverish ramblings. Yet he was more of a stranger than ever. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew it was wrong. But she missed him, and ached with the sense of loss. Closing the door quietly, she went downstairs.
Gabriel remained in the wood until the faint sound of the horn in the yard signalled the end of the working day. He walked wearily toward the clearing. His head throbbed and his shoulders were stiff and sore. But he had selected and marked 20 more trees. Bidding the others goodnight, he headed for Daisy Mitchell’s to buy a pie for his evening meal.
The surprised pleasure on her rosy face as he ducked into the shop was swept aside by concern when she saw the rainbow-hued bruises and dark, lumpy scab above his eyebrow.
‘Dear life, my handsome! You should never be out.’
‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’
She folded her arms. ‘Think I’m stupid, do you?’
‘Can I have a meat and potato pie?’ Gabriel asked meekly.
‘I’ll get ’un. Now you sit down before you fall down,’ Daisy ordered, nodding toward the wooden chair near the door used by older villagers whose legs needed a brief respite before setting off home again. ‘White as a sheet you are. Well, parts of you. As for the rest …’ She shook her head.
Gabriel folded his tall frame onto the chair, and rested his elbows on his knees. Though he had paced himself, the afternoon had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He sat, his head hanging, while Daisy bustled about. He heard the scrape of metal, the clink of china, the sound of liquid being poured, and brisk footsteps.
‘Here.’ Daisy was standing beside him. ‘You get this down your throat. Look dreadful, you do.’
Gabriel glanced at the cup and saucer then up at her plump face. It was puckered with anxiety.
In his past life he had drunk tea without a moment’s thought. Born into a wealthy family where luxury and quality were taken for granted, it would never have occurred to him to ask the cost of the food or the wines that graced the table at every mealtime.
But this past year had taught him different values. As he looked at the strong, steaming tea, a treat hoarded for special occasions, he was touched and humbled by Daisy’s generosity.
‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ he tried to grin. ‘It will take a lot more than a frightened horse to see me off.’ He took the cup, surprised to see his hand shaking.
‘Oh yes?’ She tossed her head. ‘Men! Haven’t got the sense they was born with. Not going to go off in a swoon, are you?’
‘Swoon? Me?’ He was genuinely astonished. ‘Of course not.’
‘You can’t see what I can see,’ Daisy sniffed. ‘You sure now? ’Cos I couldn’t lift you up. And a great lump like you on the floor wouldn’t do my business no good at all.’
‘I’ll be all right, Mother,’ he promised.
She patted his shoulder, her brief grip saying far more than words, and waddled back behind the counter.
As he sipped the strong brew and felt his strength returning, he realised for the first time how close he had been to collapse.
‘Was it right what I heard? About Miss Tregonning?’
‘What did you hear?’
‘That she led the horse what took you up to the big house? What was she doing down there in the first place, I’d like to know? Nothing against her, she’s some lovely maid. If she wasn’t so tall she’d be married long since. ’Tis a shame, dear of her.’
Besieged by unfamiliar and powerful emotions, Gabriel stared into the teacup, wondering who had talked. But it was too late to worry about that now. He shrugged, wincing at the knife-like twinge, and responded only to the first part of her question.
‘You tell me. I was dead to the world. Don’t remember a thing.’ He stood up, and set the empty cup and saucer on the counter. ‘Thank you, I needed that.’ Taking money from his pocket, he laid it on the counter and picked up the pie and buns she pushed toward him.
‘You should still be in your bed, not out scaring decent folks to death.’
‘I’ve got to eat.’
‘What you need is a good woman to take care of you.’
‘True.’ Gabriel nodded, then winked at her. ‘But I’m too late, you’re already spoken for.’
‘Get on with you.’ She blushed, and came round the counter, pausing just long enough for him to drop a kiss on her cheek before she shooed him out.
Next morning, Melissa came downstairs to the news that if she so wished she could have mackerel for breakfast as six had been found outside the back door. As he imparted the information, Lobb’s expression was carefully blank.
Matching it, Melissa tucked away her pleasure at the gift, whose significance she would ponder over when she had more time.
‘Thank you, I should like that. A thoughtful token of thanks, don’t you agree? Far more practical than – say – flowers.’
‘Indeed, miss,’ Lobb agreed blandly as he poured her coffee. ‘It’s nice to see that our efforts were appreciated. Though I can’t help but wonder what we were being thanked for on the last occasion six fresh mackerel appeared on the doorstep.’ Without giving her a chance to respond, he sailed out.
The postman brought a letter from Mr Rogers. When she came to Truro to collect the money for the men’s pay, might she spare him a few minutes, as there were some minor matters he wished to discuss with her.
She decided to go that morning. Captain would be better for an extra day’s rest. So would she. Reaction to the accident and its aftermath had left her more shaken than she cared to admit and feeling ridiculously vulnerable. With John and Duchess still working there would be enough trees cut, stripped, and stacked to keep the haulier’s wagons busy for a couple more days at least.
Late that afternoon, Gabriel and the team left the woods, returned to the yard and joined the line to collect their pay. Aware of the men watching as he reached the table, Gabriel wondered how Melissa would react to the curious and speculative glances. Hating his inability to make it easier for her, he kept his eyes lowered, the additional tension painful in his shoulders.
‘Ah, Gabriel,’ she said calmly, apparently oblivious to their avid audience, ‘I am glad to see you recovered.’
‘Thank you, miss.’ Their eyes met for an instant before he looked quickly away, anxious not to unsettle her.
‘Mr Rogers has heard from Mr Nankivell that next month he would like to increase the loads to three a day. Will your team be able to manage that?’
‘We’ll do our best, miss.’ He knuckled his forehead and bent to sign the ledger. As he picked up his money and moved on, passing Tom with a nod, he could hear Melissa thanking a blushing, tongue-tied Billy. She was magnificent. He could only guess what the effort was costing her. Ahead of him, Tansey turned.
‘Coming for a drink, are you? You look like you need it. Come on,’ he urged as Gabriel hesitated. ‘All the lads is going down.’
‘I don’t know, Tansey …’
‘Got something better to do have you?’
‘Sleep.’
‘Get on with you, plenty of time for that. What you want is a nice glass of Cousin Jacky. Ben have had a new delivery.’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Take the pain away lovely that will. If it don’t, well, least you won’t care no more.’
Up early that morning to go fishing, now weary and aching, Gabriel longed for his bed. But refusing the invitation would seem churlish. Nor did he want to provoke even the mildest speculation. The thought of a glass of cognac was very tempting.
The tavern was crowded with men talking, laughing, and arguing. The atmosphere, a compound of ale, wet sawdust, and sweaty bodies, was thick enough to slice. Smoke curled from clay pipes toward the low-beamed, yellow-brown ceiling. The grimy windows were firmly closed, so the only fresh air came in with the customers down a short narrow passage from the open door.
In deference to Gabriel’s injuries as well as his height, which meant he either had to stand with his hea
d between the beams or hunched between his shoulders, he had been urged into one of the pew-like benches in a corner. The rest of the group had filled the remainder of that bench and the one at right angles to it, then closed the circle by drawing up stools.
After several minutes of serious drinking during which thirsts were quenched by tankards of ale, the order was given for Cousin Jacky. Gabriel struggled with disbelief and laughter as he listened to Walter, Zeb, Ned and Tansey arguing over the brandy’s quality in the same thoughtful tones – if different vocabulary – used by connoisseur friends of his father. His father. Gabriel tried to picture the marquis’s face were he to walk in here now and see his younger son. He failed. Then jumped as an elbow dug into his ribs.
‘That’s how you got back, wasn’t it?’ Tansey said expectantly.
‘What was?’ Gabriel said.
‘Smuggler’s boat. Revenue cutter from Falmouth have caught one off the Lizard.’
‘They have?’ One of the first things he had learnt working in the yard was, whenever possible, to answer one question with another, preferably a repetition of what had just been said. Doing this convinced the men of his interest while giving nothing away. It also allowed him a few precious moments to think.
Tansey nodded. ‘Walter? Where did you hear about that boat?’
‘From my cousin Moses. His wife’s sister’s husband is a crewman on the cutter.’ He went back to his story. ‘Seems when the Customs men searched the boat, as well as the Cousin Jacky they found a package of secret papers. The captain said they was for Lord Grenville.’
Gabriel froze, then lifted his glass and took a large mouthful of cognac, shuddering as it went down. It burned fiercely but sharpened his senses and helped steady his nerves.
‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ Tansey demanded.
‘How the hell should I know?’ Walter shrugged. ‘But he must be someone important.’
‘I should think he is,’ Zeb put in. ‘He’s only the bleddy Foreign Secretary, that’s all. Live up Boconnoc near Liskeard, he do. When he’s not up London.’
‘Know ’un, do you?’ Ned enquired drily.
‘No, not personal. But I got a nephew in service with the family.’
‘Well, what do he want with papers from France?’ Tansey demanded. ‘Sounds like a bleddy spy to me.’
‘For once in your life you could be right.’ Walter pointed his pipe at Tansey. ‘But the spies is on our side. See, Moses said the captain told the Customs officer that without people like him willing to risk their lives bringing back information from agents in France, our government wouldn’t know what was going on over the Channel. It could make the difference between winning the war or losing ’un. So instead of treating him like a criminal, they should be giving him a reward, ’cos he was a public benefactor.’
His heart thumping, Gabriel forced himself to join in the laughter.
‘That Customs man have got some job,’ Zeb grinned. ‘Smuggling’s against the law and the punishments is hard. But if they papers is real, then the captain is as like to be given a purse of gold sovereigns as a fine. And if the Customs officer don’t deliver them, then it could be he that gets locked up.’
‘Yes, but that isn’t the end of it,’ Walter announced, and all heads turned toward him. ‘The captain and crew is all being kept in the gaol. They aren’t allowed no visitors neither.’
‘What? Why not?’ Chirp frowned. ‘That’s never right.’
‘All I know is that there’s two men come down from London to ask them questions.’
‘Here, Walter.’ Isaac Bowden, another of the yard workers, broke in. ‘Where did you say that boat was from?’
‘Mullion.’
‘Know the captain’s name, do you? Only my wife got cousins down Mullion way what do a bit of free-trading.’
‘I believe ’tis Janner Stevens.’
Isaac shook his head. ‘No. Don’t mean nothing to me.’
Gabriel stared at the remaining brandy in his glass. It shivered as his hands shook uncontrollably. Janner Stevens was captain of the boat that had brought him back to Cornwall. His head spun. The sweat of physical weakness and fear trickled down his temples and from under his arms. Though desperate to get out into the fresh air, where there was space and freedom, he dared not move. He tried to think.
There might be any number of reasons for government officials to question the smugglers. He was certainly not the only escapee helped by the free traders. His name while in France had been Pierre Durtelle. No one could connect that man with Gabriel Ennis.
But the harder he tried to dismiss his anxiety, the more it increased. It wasn’t about the package of papers or the contraband government officials were questioning Janner Stevens: it was his live cargo they were interested in.
It was obvious from the way Walter and the others were talking that such a visit had never occurred before. So it had to him they were after. But whom were they trying to find, Pierre Durtelle or Lord Roland Stratton? How many people knew both were the same man? Was his escape known to whoever had betrayed him? Gabriel’s sweat turned to ice as he realised that because he didn’t know who had turned him in to the French, he had no idea who was hunting him, or why.
‘Here,’ Tansey nudged him. ‘You all right? Look sick as a shag you do.’
Gabriel touched the thick scab above his eye. ‘Don’t feel so good,’ he muttered. ‘I think I need some air.’
‘Be all right on your own, will you?’
‘I’ll be fine. My head’s giving me hell, that’s all.’ Gabriel pushed himself up.
‘’Tis more than enough by the look of you,’ said Tansey. ‘You mind how you go.’
As Gabriel eased his way out through the crush of bodies he heard Tansey explaining his sudden departure.
‘… Kicked in the head by a bleddy cart horse.’
Then he passed from the thick fug of the tavern into cool, fresh air. He stood for a few moments breathing deeply, waiting for his thundering heart to slow, and for his head to clear.
Daylight was fading to dusk, earlier tonight due to a thick blanket of cloud. The breeze blowing up from the south felt damp. Gabriel set off along the street. Already shivery from this new shock on top of the weakness resulting from his accident, he wanted to reach the protection of the shack before the rain began.
He’d gone only a few yards when behind him someone shouted, a man’s voice, spoiling for a fight. Assuming a quarrel had spilled into the street from one of the many inns Gabriel ignored it. Another shout was followed by the sound of pounding boots coming closer, then his waistcoat was seized, jerking him round.
In the split second before a flailing fist caught him a glancing blow on the jaw, he recognised his assailant as one of two men roughly his own age who’d been drinking just inside the doorway of the tavern. He’d been aware of their glances, but their checked shirts, neckerchiefs, and trousers had identified them as fishermen and he’d thought no more about them, too concerned with Walter’s news.
Instinctively he raised his hands to defend himself. ‘What –?’ he began, but got no further as the second man punched him.
‘Think I wouldn’t find out?’ the first man growled, his sun and wind-burned features vicious, narrowed eyes glittering with anger. ‘You marked her, you bastard.’
Gabriel had been taught to box, but there was no science to this mauling. It was dirty and brutal, a deliberate attempt to inflict as much damage as possible.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he shouted, trying desperately to parry the blows as they circled him, attacking with feet and fists. ‘Listen to me –’
‘Bleddy liar! She told me it was you!’
‘Go on, Jed,’ the second man urged. ‘Kick the bugger where it hurt. If you don’t, I will.’
‘Stop this!’ Gabriel roared so loudly his voice cracked, lashing out and feeling pain shoot up his arm as his knuckles connected with the side of a skull.
As the man addressed as Je
d reeled back, the other one charged in, head low, fists lower. ‘Mess with my sister, would you?’
‘I don’t know your sister,’ Gabriel gasped.
‘That’s not what she said,’ his assailant hissed. ‘Attacked her in her own home.’
‘Oi! What’s going on?’ Walter bellowed. ‘Jed Treen, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing of?’
As Billy, Zeb, Joseph, Chirp, and Ned grabbed the two panting men and hauled them off, still kicking and flailing, Gabriel staggered back and leant against a wall, his arms clasped across his stomach and ribs.
He sucked in rasping breaths as he fought waves of sickening dizziness. Blackness lapped at the edges of his mind, threatening to engulf him. He hung on grimly, forcing it back by sheer effort of will.
‘That bastard attacked my Sal!’ Jed spat.
‘Is that so?’ Walter said. ‘She told you that, did she?’
‘Too right she did, ’specially when I landed her one after I seen the bruises.’
Sal. Gabriel remembered: the bold, teasing girl in the group who had accosted him in the street, then tried to pull him into the circle dancing around the bonfire.
‘What bruises was they then?’ Tansey asked, pushing through the gathering crowd.
‘All over her – never you bleddy mind where they was!’
‘When was this attack supposed to have happened?’ Walter demanded.
‘What do you mean, supposed?’ Sal’s brother snarled. ‘In some terrible state she was. Crying and all.’
‘When, Jed?’ Walter pressed.
‘Night afore last.’
A murmur ran through the crowd. ‘Where was you while all this was going on?’ Walter enquired.
‘Where do you think? Out fishing of course.’
‘It wasn’t Gabriel,’ Walter said.
Jed glared around wildly. ‘What do you mean it wasn’t him? Sal said –’
‘I don’t give a bugger what Sal said,’ Walter broke in.
‘Here, you watch your mouth, that’s my sister –’
‘Shut up, Eddy,’ Walter snapped. ‘You’re bleddy idiots, the pair of you. You got the wrong man.’
