"Sir Lancelot!"
"Yes, of course. And how beautifully you have drawn poor Guinevere. I see that you think of Camelot as having been a great city."
"I reckon as it were a better place than Tintagel. A king like Arthur wouldn't never've had a crumbly old hole like that! And I doesn't's'pose it was like Castle Triad, neither. Nor I don't mean to be a rudesby," he added with a scared look, " 'cause there's lots as does, I know."
She had noticed the resemblance to herself in young Blary's drawing, and said smilingly, "Do you mean that people believe I am descended from Queen Guinevere?"
His eyes fell away and he said with sudden bashfulness, "A queen might look like you, Miss Jennifer. Not that you're a bad lady, or nothing like that."
"Perhaps the queen wasn't, either. It was all so long ago. Nobody really knows what happened."
"No. And 'sides, she's trying to make it up, ain't she?" Jennifer walked to the door with him. "Do you mean that business about the Spanish Armada?"
"Well, folks saw her, didn't they? And she come just 'fore the Battle of Bodmin Moor, and Bosworth Field," he declared, his eyes alight. "They do say so."
Jennifer opened the door, admitting a gust of wind and a spattering of rain.
"I know they do," she admitted. "But I should rather see you working at your sketches than listening to superstition, Isaac. I want to see more, if you please."
He nodded and went out, pulling up his ragged collar against the wind, and directing a low-voiced taunt at Jonathan, who stood on the steps holding an oilcloth over a large flat object balanced beside him.
"Have you been sent to bring me home, Johnny?" asked Jennifer warmly. "Good gracious, how wet you are? There was no need for you to wait out here. Come in, do!" She ushered him inside, looking at his burden curiously. "Autumn is chasing summer very fast this year, I think. Now, leave your parcel there, and use this." She handed him the towel she brought each day. "Your hair is soaked. Did you bring the coach?"
"Yes, ma'am. Young Porter is walking the horses for me."
He rubbed at his hair vigorously, reducing it to a tangled mop of elf locks that made her laugh and remark that he looked like a rumpled little boy. He grinned and retied the riband.
Returning to her chair, she said, "Now sit down for just a minute and tell me about yourself. I've not seen you for days. How is your arm? Mrs. Newlyn said it was very badly bruised, as I was sure it would be. You should not have gone straight to work for Noah Holsworth after you'd rescued Lord Green."
"But I had promised Noah," he said, sitting on a desk, and noting how charmingly the little dimple beside her lips came and went when she smiled. "My arm is very well, I thank you. And—and I've to thank you also for the work at Triad."
"'Twas small reward compared to the hundred pounds you were promised. No," she chuckled, "do not go up into the boughs again! I meant no offence. How is it that my brothers are at loggerheads over you?"
"Are they? Mr. Royce wants me to gentle the young chestnut stallion he brought back from Newton Abbot."
"I would have thought Oliver Crane should do that."
He did not answer. The head groom was a competent individual with a thorough knowledge of horses, but he had a heavy hand for man or beast, and young Royce Britewell, aware of that trait, had decided that Jonathan's way with horses was more to his liking.
Having drawn a few conclusions of her own regarding Mr. Crane, Jennifer said shrewdly, "Royce does not want the animal's spirit broken, is that the case?"
He replied with a faint smile, "I did not say so, Miss Jennifer."
'But I fancy Mr. Crane had plenty to say,' she thought.
It was typical of her younger brother to have cared not a whit for the head groom's inevitable resentment of such a situation. Especially since she chanced to know that Crane held Jack in contempt and referred to him as the Shadow Man. Troubled, she asked, "Does that make things difficult for you?"
"It—er, keeps me busy," he said, in a massive understatement.
"It must, indeed. Besides which, you help Noah Holsworth, and work for Mrs. Newlyn! My goodness, have you no time for yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am. In fact"—he stood and began to unwrap the oilcloth from his bulky parcel—"Noah allows me to use his tools and any spare pieces of wood. So—I—er, was able to make… this."
"A chalk board!" She clapped her hands, and ran to admire it. "And what a nice frame you have made!"
"There is a—a stand, also." He unfolded that sturdy object eagerly. "I tried to make it the proper height for you to use comfortably, but I think your pupils will manage to reach, if the small ones stand on a box."
Her face alight, she declared, " 'Tis lovely! Oh, I have needed one! Sir Vinson promised and promised to have one sent from Plymouth, but he always forgets." She ran one slender finger along the top of the frame while Jonathan watched her, overjoyed because he had pleased her. "This carving is much too fine for so commonplace an object. You must have worked and worked!" She clasped his arm, her bright eyes looking up into his smiling ones. "Oh, thank you, Johnny!"
Instinctively, his hand rose to cover the slender beloved fingers resting on his shabby sleeve, but he restrained himself in the nick of time. His hand clenched hard and he lowered it and stepped back from her.
Jennifer gazed at his averted face and could hear her father's words: 'Keep him at a distance…" She had not kept him at a distance. She must stop behaving as though he was an old and dear friend. He was not of her own station in life and must never be encouraged to believe—Well, must never be encouraged.
She said with forced lightness, "Will you set it up near to my desk, please? And tell me what you've been doing for Mr. Fleming. Are you making something for him?"
Jonathan carried the stand to the spot she indicated. "He wanted a shelf for his compendium of Christian Apologetics, and whilst I was installing it we fell into a discussion of the Octavius of Minucius Felix, and—"
Jennifer blinked. "Which is written in Latin, surely?"
"Mmn." Concentrating on the exact adjustment of the legs of the stand, he said absently, "He says my accent is deplorable, but that I can translate quite well."
"Whereupon he commandeered you!" Hiding her astonishment, she said, "He would, of course. And has doubtless kept you poring through his dusty old tomes and writing translations, or searching out references for him!" In the same airy tone, she added, "You'll be an Oxonian, I suppose?"
"No. Eton and then Addiscombe, because all—" He bit off the words, his head jerked up and he stared at her, his eyes dilated with shock.
As triumphant as he was dismayed, she exclaimed, "You are starting to remember! I knew you were an educated man, I knew it! Oh, when I tell Papa, he'll be—"
"No! You must not!" He saw her smile die and a rare frown replace her enthusiasm, and he said distractedly, "He would want to know—I mean, he'd be sure to think—"
"What I begin to think, probably. That you know exactly who and what you are! That you are running, or hiding from someone. From the authorities, perchance!" Chilled by that possibility, she drew back slightly.
He searched her face, and stepping closer to her, demanded, "What are you thinking? Can you suppose for one instant that I could harm you?"
She'd never realised quite how tall he was, and he looked different somehow, and rather grim. She said, "You—you might harm my family."
"No, I tell you! I would die sooner than bring you grief!"
He was indeed different! An intense stranger who was a far cry from the shy, shrinking young man she knew. A little frightened, but intrigued, she said, "Who are you? Tell me the truth."
"I don't know!"
"I think you do know. Certainly, you are not what you pretend to be!"
"I do not pretend, I swear it! People judge me crazy because I can only recall snatches of my life. And because I have—lapses, even now, that cause me to do things I cannot understand. But it's not nearly as bad as it was at first."
Her imagination conjured up a trail of victims with their throats slashed, and she asked faintly, "What do you mean 'at first'?"
His eyes fell away. He muttered, "I mean—when I first came here."
"No, that is not what you meant."
He was silent.
Irked, and bewildered by a painful sense of betrayal, she accused angrily, "You still deceive! Creeping about, and pretending to be afraid to stand up to others! Hiding the fact that you have had a fine education, and making me believe all that fustian about being afraid of the sea! Oh, how gullible I was! 'Tis all a shield for something. You have some secret reason to stay here! Admit that you are a Riding Officer, come to spy on us all!"
"No! Why must you think so ill of me?"
"Because you hide the truth. And since you continue to do so, you leave me no choice. I must warn my Papa 'gainst you." She started to the door, but he was very fast and ran to block her way.
"I beg you, do not! He'll send me packing, and I've done nothing. All I ask is—is to stay."
"Then tell me the truth!"
The truth… He flinched, and turned away.
Cautiously, she trod closer, but he did not move, standing there with his head bowed low, as if he were crushed by despair. In a sudden wave of sympathy she touched his shoulder and said with gentle compassion, "Whatever is it, Johnny? Can you not confide in me?"
"If I… did," he said haltingly, "you could only… despise me more."
She considered that, and leaning back against her desk, prompted, "You have done something bad, is that the case?"
He faced her and nodded, but did not look up.
"Very bad?"
Another convulsive nod. His hands were tightly gripped, his eyes fixed on the toe of her shoe.
Despite her earlier apprehensions, she knew somehow that he had not committed murder. He might have killed in a fair fight, but there were, in her estimation, worse things than to have duelled to the death. She said slowly, "I think there is one crime I could never forgive, and if you were involved in—in that, I would have to send you away at once. Were you—a wrecker?"
His head flew up. He said vehemently, "No! Acquit me of that, I beg you!"
"Very well. But—are you quite sure you really did—whatever it was? You say you've forgotten much of your life. Is it not possible that there is a mistake?"
His eyes fell again, and he muttered bitterly, "If you knew how I've prayed that was so. But… God help me—it isn't. The very thing I wish I could forget is the thing I most clearly remember. I am guilty of—of what I was accused. Even if I could be forgiven, I should never be able to forgive… myself."
She sighed. "Poor soul. How dreadful to carry such a burden. But why stay near the sea, if you fear it so?"
A brief silence, then he said low voiced, "I have no choice."
"If 'tis a matter of money—"
He shook his head.
"Is it perhaps that you are to meet someone here?"
"It is that—I am under oath," he said wretchedly.
"Oh, my goodness!" Her thoughts tumbled over one an-other. She asked, "Is that what you meant when you said you had no right to defend yourself?"
"Yes."
"For—for how long?"
"Until I can make… amends."
Appalled, she watched him and scarcely dared to ask, "Johnny—shall you be able to do so, do you think?"
"I can try. But…" He shrugged helplessly.
"I see." She tried to weigh all that she knew of this man and her undeniable interest in him, against the possible consequences, then said, "You ask me to trust you. But I ask if you will pledge me another vow." He looked at her squarely, and she went on, "Will you give me your word of honour that nothing you have done in the past, or mean to do in the future, will bring trouble upon my family?"
"Could you accept my word after what I have told you?"
"Yes," she answered, and with the word her doubts were quite gone. "Because I believe you are a good man, and despite what you say, I think you are mistaken about yourself."
Blinking rapidly, he seized her hand and before she could protest touched it to his lips. "God bless you!" he muttered huskily. "You have my word of honour, Miss Jennifer, that I have never meant harm to you or to your family, or ever will!"
"Good," she said, unwontedly flustered. "In that case, I—I think we must rescue Young Porter. I'll get my cloak."
What with one thing and another, she quite forgot about her new chalk board, and turning quickly, collided with it, gave a startled cry, and tripped.
She was caught and held safe and tight in arms of steel. Her embarrassed little laugh faded.
Perhaps because he had been so deeply moved, Jonathan's stern self-control slipped. He made no attempt to put her down, but held her close and gazed at her.
There was a light in his eyes that snatched Jennifer's breath away. She forgot the impossible gulf that separated them. For a timeless space she was only a girl, cradled in a man's strong arms, and without the least objection to her captivity.
Young Porter's shrill howl fragmented that enchanted moment. "The hosses be getting wet, Crazy Jack! So be I, if you please!"
"Oh—dear," said Jennifer.
Jonathan set her down, retrieved her cloak from the wall peg, and wrapped it about her. The hood was drawn tenderly over her head. She was ushered to the coach, assisted inside, and the rug tucked around her. A glowing look was slanted at her, the door slammed, and the coach jerked into the start of its journey.
Bemused, Jennifer took a deep breath, "Well!" she said.
On the box, Jonathan scarcely felt the wind-driven rain or the chill on the air. Surely, this was the most wonderful, the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him. He had told her about himself—not all, but enough to give her cause to dismiss him at once. And instead, bless her dear heart, she had doubted his guilt. Even when he admitted that guilt, she had been willing to accept his word of honour. Conscience sniggered, but he shut it out. Joy was too rare in his life, too heady to be defeated by Conscience. He had held her in his arms and she had neither struggled nor railed at him. He could still see the expression on her lovely face. For as long as he lived, he would see it. The face of a maid; innocent, wondering, and above all—trusting.
He dashed rain from his eyes as the team started up the hill. His heart was so full of gratitude. If life offered no more than this, it was more than he'd dared to hope. And he would still be able to see her sometimes. He thought an impassioned 'Praise God!' and when he dragged a hand across his eyes once more, it was not entirely because of raindrops.
Chapter 6
The wind was strong that evening. It howled off the ocean to thunder around the tower, and the air became chill so that a fire was lit in Sir Vinson's study. Jennifer had poured tea at ten o'clock, then made her escape, leaving the gentlemen to their cards. Lord Green, having indulged himself too generously at table, had dozed off at eleven, much to Royce's amusement and Fleming's disgust, and gone, yawning, to his bed. Now, Howland sprawled in the deep chair before the hearth and waited out his sire's tirade, his handsome face expressionless.
"I'll not have it, I tell you," reiterated Sir Vinson, tossing several engineers' drawings onto his littered desk. "I do not want my beaches spoiled, and I dislike the man. To say truth, I dislike everything about him. His looks, his crude talk, his table manners—or lack of 'em. And I will be damned if I'll have him making sheep's eyes at Jennifer!"
"I'd think you have made yourself quite plain on that suit," murmured Howland placatingly.
"So would I. But one cannot be sure a creature like that will behave as a gentleman."
"I've done my best to keep him busily occupied, sir. Besides, Jennifer would have told you had he annoyed her."
Sir Vinson grunted and came around his desk to lean back against it and frown into the flames. "She might, save that she's loyal to you. Why a'plague you like the fellow is past understanding."
"I despise the
clod! But—" Howland sat straighter in his chair. "That's a right generous offer, sir. It would do my heart good to lighten his pockets."
"That smacks of chicanery. And I don't want him for a neighbour. No!"
"How can it be chicanery, Papa? We have told him the truth repeatedly. An he's fool enough to believe there's more tin to be mined, be it upon his own head. In addition to the losses we suffered when my grandfather was ensnared in that accursed South Sea Bubble, you've had a struggle to keep us solvent since the mine was closed down. D'you fancy I'm not aware of it?"
"If you were aware of it," said Sir Vinson dryly, "one might have supposed you'd have stayed here and been of help, rather than go frippering off to London and be bilked of most of your inheritance."
Howland flushed and leaned back again. After a small silence he said in a contrite tone, "I know, sir. I let you down. That was very bad." From under his long lashes he watched his father's expression and saw it soften. He was well aware that he was the favourite, but he knew also that he must tread carefully. Sir Vinson could be manoeuvred, but like many weak men, he could fly into a sudden rage and at such times could prove stubborn as a donkey. "I was trying for a solution," he went on. " 'Twas in Town that I met Green and learned of his interest in Cornwall. I thought you would be pleased when he came and made his offer. I see now that—alas, I have but failed you again."
He looked downcast, and Sir Vinson said bracingly, "No, no. I'm aware you mean well, m'boy. Lord knows, I sowed my share of wild oats when I was a green 'un. We'll come about somehow, but not at the expense of our good name, for that I value more than any loss of fortune!"
"I know you do, sir, and so do I. Still, we'd come about faster were that bank draft deposited to our own account. And 'tis but the first payment. When the dock is built—"
Sir Vinson's expression darkened. He interrupted sharply, 'Wo, damme! I'll not bring more ugliness to desecrate our proud coast! Are those stark mine chimneys not sufficient of a blot on the landscape?"
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