An Unwilling Spy
Page 1
An Unwilling Spy
Janis Linford
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
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Acknowledgments
Also by Janis Linford
About the Author
Chapter One
Fencarrow, Cornwall
10th March 1804
The incoming tide rose over her knees then her thighs, leaving her skin chilled. Adeline Perran, standing on a half-submerged rock that formed part of a reef running out from the headland, straightened her back and stared at the sky.
The pumpkin sun, edged with darkening clouds, had sunk lower towards the horizon and the waves wore the orange light like a halo. Only half an hour of cutting time left. She must hurry and get home before dark or Mama would scold again.
Long tendrils of seaweed swirled around her legs, trapping her. Their pungent smell was overwhelming but at least they hid the sea spiders and crabs that crawled beneath. On a shudder she gripped the slimy rock with her toes, adjusted her position to account for the ocean’s swell and slashed at the skeins.
Her sharp cutting knife, with a gull carved on the handle, went through the weed in one clean motion. She gathered up the cut strands, black and thick just like her hair, and stuffed them in a burlap sack tied around her waist. Over and over she repeated this task until her sack became full.
The cold waves slapped against her waist before rolling towards the little cove nestled between the surrounding hills. She shivered in the breeze and glanced at the darkening sky. This sack would have to be her last.
She tied the neck of the canvas with a strip of hide and thrust her knife beneath the shoulder strap. With the bag slung behind her back, she launched herself off the rock.
The full sack and her wet clothes dragged her down but she adjusted to the weight and swam powerfully through the water towards a dinghy anchored off the rocks. Her arms and legs had grown stronger in the last few years and it made the return swim at the end the day much easier.
The dinghy rocked gently and when she reached it she patted the wooden hull. ‘Hello, Little Star. Have you missed me?’
She slipped the sack over her head and threw it into the bow. It joined eleven others, some placed at the stern for balance. It was a good day’s work and Papa would be pleased. She took a deep breath then hauled her dripping body into the boat, using all the strength in her arms to propel her over the side.
‘Adeline! Wait.’
The well-known voice came on the ocean breeze. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and sat up on the seat. Daniel Trevers, her betrothed, had rowed around the end of the reef and was coming towards her. Just her luck to meet him now. He’d slow her down and now she would be late.
‘Did you get much cut today?’ he shouted. He launched his boat onto the crest of a wave and sailed down with confidence, spinning the boat in the trough with a flourish.
‘Have a care, Daniel,’ she said as he came closer. ‘You tempt the devil with your games.’
He laughed at her, his handsome face wet with spray. ‘Do not worry for I have salt in my veins and too much respect for the sea.’ He glanced into her dinghy and whistled. ‘Twelve sacks. You have had a good haul.’
‘Some days I have more strength than others.’ Tiredly, she flexed her fingers.
He frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s too hard for a woman.’
Her mouth tightened and she fitted her oars into the row-locks. ‘I do wish you’d stop saying that. With Papa busy fishing, my family looks to me to cut as much as I can before the season finishes.’
‘I know it, girl.’ Daniel’s eyes softened. ‘If you bring a sack around tomorrow I’m sure father will buy one. He was only saying yesterday he needed more seaweed to improve the soil for his vegetables.’
She hauled in her anchor and stowed it under the seat. ‘I’ll do that but now I need to get home. Mama will be waiting.’
A cool wind whipped across the waves sending spray into the air. She shivered in her wet clothes. Daniel noticed and his mouth thinned as he took in her bedraggled appearance.
‘When we’re married, I’ll see to it that you never have to cut weed again. You can stay home and cook and care for our children like a proper woman.’ His voice grew husky. ‘And I would be right proud to come home to you at night.’
His words should have delighted her. Confident, charming and good-natured, there wasn’t anything about Daniel to dislike, only she wasn’t sure she should have accepted his proposal. Everyone said what a good match she had made and it was true Daniel would be a good provider, but while she liked him well enough, his attentions had never touched the deeper part of her heart. She wanted something more, something exquisite and all consuming — whatever that might be.
Two gulls wheeled overhead in the dusky sky, their cries echoing off the headland behind her. Such freedom they had to come and go. To seek out lands beyond the horizon, the lands she’d heard great tales about from the sailors in the harbor. Sometimes when she watched the men sail away she almost suffocated with longing to follow them.
But she didn’t have the means to leave and with her family depending on her to make this advantageous match, she was tied to Fencarrow and her approaching nuptials as surely as any priest to his congregation.
With a sudden urge to be anything other than a proper woman she spun her dinghy round. ‘Race you back to shore.’
She slapped her oars into the water and without waiting for Daniel, pulled hard. The dinghy leapt forward. Stroke after stroke she powered towards the shore, her arms working in a smoothly constant rhythm. Not until Little Star nudged the sand did Daniel catch up to her.
He flicked back his tousled golden hair and glanced at her in grudging admiration. ‘You row well for a girl.’
‘I row well whether I’m a girl or not,’ she said crossly.
‘Perhaps.’ The indulgent smile that flitted over his face enraged her all the more. How dare he belittle her skill. She could row better than many of the men in the village and he knew it.
‘But it’s not what a lady should do,’ he added, his voice firm.
A chill settled over her that had nothing to do with the breeze. She stowed her oars and jumped over the side into the shallows, a rope in her hand. ‘You may as well know,’ she said with an edge to her voice, ‘that until I’m too old to do so, I intend to take Little Star out every day.’
Daniel’s eyes narrowed under salt-encrusted brows. ‘I think I’ll have something to say about that.’
His stubborn face showed no flexibility and her bold assertion withered away. A life with Daniel would be lived in the traditional manner, where a woman tended the home, obedient to her husband’s views. She would have no choice in what she could do or where she could go and would be expected to take up more wifely pursuits such as needlework or knitting. Things she loathed.
And there was no point in telling Daniel about her deep yearning to
see what lay beyond the coast. He’d only laugh and tell her not to be foolish and he could be right about that. The chance that she could see the wider world and make her life count in a meaningful way would be next to naught.
So she ought to be thankful that Daniel favored her, when he could have chosen any girl in the village. Only she wanted to live life on her own terms and doubted she would ever have the obedience he sought from a wife.
She waded out of the water and tied the rope to a bronze ring embedded in a shard of rock that dominated the southern side of the cove. It was a useful anchor point as it sat in the lee of the headland cliff that rose nearly ninety feet above the sea.
No-one else used the ring as only her family lived this side of the hills that encircled the village. The poor side, so Papa had joked, although she knew it to be true, for the soil was coarse and unfit to grow much at all.
Daniel jumped out of his boat and dragged it up on the wet sand. ‘Where’s your dray?’
‘Behind the gorse over there.’ She pointed to a scrubby area at the base of the track that climbed the headland to her home. A gray mare stood harnessed to an old cart already three-quarters full of sacks. ‘But there’s no need to stay and help me.’
‘The devil there isn’t.’
Seeing his determined face, she frowned. ‘Daniel, I can manage and I know you’ll want to get back before night falls.’
He walked over and stood before her, hands upon his hips. ‘You work too hard and I don’t like seeing you haul these sacks like a farm hand. Let me look after you.’
That was the problem. She would gladly have done the job herself, unhindered by his presence which always slowed her down.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I enjoy working outside and my family looks to me for help.’
‘For now,’ he said firmly. ‘But come the summer after we are wed, I will see they have extra hands, for there must be time for us.’
Her uncertainty must have shown because he took her in his arms and held her close, ignoring her wet clothes. ‘Do not worry, girl. Everything will be fine. Trust me.’
Locked in his embrace and breathing in the salty wetness of his linen shirt, she tried to imagine their life together. She did want a husband and children but scenes of home, with Daniel by her side, kept disappearing into a threatening cloud.
He bent his head and kissed her slowly and thoroughly, branding her as his own. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, his eyes slumberous, ‘I should speak with your father about bringing the wedding date forward. Then you could finish up at the reef sooner.’
No. She’d thought to have the spring before she gave up Little Star. ‘Must you? It would be hard for my mother to change her arrangements now.’
‘Maybe I can help with that. I’ll speak to my father.’
Daniel’s father, the local magistrate, would probably agree to bring the date forward. Her heart sank and she turned away, tears pricking her eyes. She desperately wanted more time to come and go freely. To race Little Star out in the cove. To climb the hazel tree on the headland. But as Daniel’s wife, she would be required to show decorum and never again indulge her girlish dreams.
Daniel wheeled away to grab the sacks out of her boat and she reluctantly followed. They loaded them onto the dray then Daniel took his leave with one final kiss. Pushing his dinghy back into the darkening waves he rowed around the point to the harbor.
She watched him leave, his supple body propelling his boat with speed out past the reef. He was still the friend he’d always been — but nothing in her responded passionately to him.
The horse beside her whinnied and she turned to stroke the mare’s nose with a deep sigh. ‘Yes, Violet, I know. You’re tired and so am I. Just one more trip today and then we can both seek our dinner.’
Her cloak and boots were in the dray and she put them on, ignoring the dampness of her dress and feet. Feeling warmer, she undid the mare’s reins and led the horse across to the narrow track.
The grassy dunes of the beach gave way to gorse and gravel as they climbed. The dray rattled and creaked over the ruts, silencing the insects in the scrub. Soon the hills faded from view as the purple evening closed in around them.
When she reached the headland she stared back the way she’d come and kissed her fingers to the bright stars overhead. ‘Happy may tomorrow be, your nightly splendor soon to see.’
It was a ritual begun in childhood, and fearful that calamity would befall her if she forgot it, she made sure to say it every night before she headed home. She stood a moment longer and breathed in the fresh ocean air, letting it cool her face before turning inland where her home sat snug amongst the hills.
The whitewashed three-roomed cottage faced west, away from the prevailing south-easterly winds. Two windows either side of the door were shuttered against the night but through the cracks she could see the light in the front room, a beacon at day’s end. A lean-to stable stood at the rear.
She unharnessed Violet from the dray, led her into the stall and rubbed her down. After seeing to Violet’s food, she piled all but one weed sack into a corner. The seaweed would need two days to dry before she could take it to market.
Hefting the last sack onto her shoulder she carried it around to the front of the cottage. The door flew open before she could lift the latch.
‘Why are you so late?’ Mama demanded, her French accent slightly more pronounced than usual. ‘We have been waiting an age for your return.’
Her mother had a wispy thinness that made her look pinched and sickly but this was alleviated somewhat by her corn-colored hair. Thick and braided, she pinned it on top of her head but at night, when she brushed it out loose, it became a vision of gold.
‘I’m sorry for the delay, Mama.’ Adeline stepped across the flagstone entrance. ‘I cut a lot of weed today and it took time to load.’
‘You should have stopped sooner. I’ve had to cook the dinner myself.’
So it would be stew. Mama wasn’t a great cook and stew seemed to be the only thing she could manage. ‘I’m later than I wanted to be as Daniel stopped to speak with me.’
‘I hope you were polite.’ Mama’s voice grated as she shut and bolted the door. ‘You mustn’t put him off.’
Adeline inwardly sighed. ‘Of course I was polite. He helped me load the last of the sacks.’
‘Did he indeed? Such a helpful young man. You’d do better if you were more like him.’
The injustice of that cut Adeline deeply. She worked hard and Mama never thanked her or acknowledged her efforts.
‘Get that weed dried for the fire,’ Mama ordered, her nose wrinkling at the smell. ‘Our kindling is nearly gone.’
Reminded that she hadn’t sourced wood for their hearth for several days, Adeline’s mouth tightened. Her chores were never ending and her younger sister couldn’t help.
Rosalie sat mending her blue bonnet near the hearth. Sixteen and with the same blond hair as Mama, Rosalie had the face and manners of a lady. Mama said Rosalie took after her French grandparents but it was clear Adeline didn’t. Rosalie’s petite neatness differed from her own dark hair and strong build as day differed from night.
Mama went back to stirring the cast iron pot that hung over the fire. A meaty smell wafted out into the room and Adeline’s stomach rumbled.
‘What kind of stew is it?’ She put the sack down on the hearth and undid her boots and laid them in front of the fire to dry.
‘The usual,’ Rosalie said, stabbing her needle into the cloth. ‘Boiled mutton and potatoes. We had ours an hour ago.’
That made it three times this week they’d eaten mutton but Adeline was thankful to have something hot and ready, for Mama had been known to leave the cooking to her and she was far too tired to start a meal now.
Adeline pulled out two hanks of seaweed from the sack and laid them beside her boots on the hearth. Mama had spoken the truth about the kindling. The coals were barely alight and would go out before the night grew old.
As if William Perran had been listening, a hacking cough came from the back room. Adeline frowned. ‘Why is he poorly?’
‘I know not but he said his belly hurts and he has a bad headache. He came home at noon and took to his bed. I’ve given him a dose of salts and made a poultice for his throat but he still tosses with discomfort.’
‘Have you sent for Dr. Vickery?’
‘Are you mad girl? Certainly not.’ Mama gave the stew an extra vigorous stir. ‘He will charge a pretty penny which we don’t have. I will treat your father myself and if he’s no better in the morning I will go and see Mrs. Nance.’
Adeline’s mouth twisted. Mrs. Nance was a strange woman who lived on the other side of the village. She spent the greater portion of her time administering herbal potions that to Adeline’s mind had no merit at all. Only last year the innkeeper’s son died from a fever that Mrs. Nance said would disappear of its own accord.
Disquieted, Adeline went into the room she shared with Rosalie and changed out of her wet clothes. After she had toweled her hair, brushed out the tangles and left it undone to dry, she put on a brown serge skirt and bodice that had seen better days. She picked up her wet clothes and hung them to dry on a chair near the living room fire.
Another cough sounded from the back room and even though her stomach growled, she pushed open the calico curtain that separated her parent’s bedroom from the living area and went over to the wooden bed. Her father lay buried under three large quilts. ‘Hello, Papa.’