by Jane Jackson
‘I shouldn’t let him have it.’
‘There idn no way you can stop him.’ Maggie was pragmatic. ‘Even if you was to hide it away he’d find it. And if you wouldn’t give it to him, others would.’ She lifted one plump shoulder in a helpless shrug. ‘And we both know who.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, miss. I’ve warned ’n if he don’t do his work proper we’ll both be out on the street –’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Maggie. I’d never find anyone who’d work as hard as you.’
‘Nor you would, miss. But ’tis better if Treeve don’t know he’s safe. You throwing ’n out is the only threat I got.’
‘Father’s asking for the doctor.’
‘You want me to send Treeve for ’n?’
Jenefer shook her head. ‘Treeve’s got enough to do. Besides, by the time Dr Avers arrived, father would have forgotten asking for him. Then he’d be rude. I’ll see how he is in the morning.’
Maggie nodded. ‘I fetched a blanket down for that Mrs Vanson. Poor dear soul.’ Her eyes glistened with tears. ‘Don’t bear thinking about, her babby snatched from her arms like that.’ She shook her head. ‘Break your heart, it do.’
Jenefer swallowed the tightness in her own throat. ‘She shouldn’t stay in those wet clothes. Take in the tray, Maggie, then boil up some water. I’ll go and find a dress for her to change into.’
‘Tamara, what were you thinking of?’ Morwenna Gillis closed her eyes as she wafted the vinaigrette beneath her nose, flinching as the pungency bit the back of her throat. ‘Riding out alone at this time of night. And in such weather!’
‘It’s not much after six, Mama. It got dark early because of the low cloud. And it wasn’t raining when I left. Well, only a little,’ Tamara’s incorrigible honesty forced the admission.
Beneath a long-sleeved gown of peach-coloured silk Morwenna’s spine, normally ramrod-straight, wilted in distress as she pressed a handkerchief sprinkled with lavender water to her forehead.
It must be very difficult, Tamara mused, being her mother. To work so hard at being someone she wasn’t, to live in constant dread of her family letting her down. Which they invariably did, though not through malice. It was just that both she and her father had more important things to think about. Matters far more vital than the stifling rules and nuances of social behaviour that occupied her mother’s every waking moment. Of course pretty manners were useful if you were attending balls and assemblies. Tamara knew well enough how to impress the stuffy matrons in Helston and Truro. But here in the village her father’s main concern was his boatyard. Hers was Devlin Varcoe.
‘I despair,’ Morwenna wailed, fluttering the handkerchief in her daughter’s direction. ‘Just look at you.’
‘What?’ Tamara glanced down at her gown of primrose sprigged muslin. ‘I thought you liked this. You said the style –’
‘Your hair, Tamara.’ Her mother closed her eyes as if looking at the glossy curls that tumbled wildly down her daughter’s back was too painful to be borne.
‘Oh.’ Tamara shook her head. ‘Maggie wanted to put it up or thread it with ribbons but I didn’t want the bother. Anyway it wasn’t dry.’
‘Didn’t want the bother?’ Morwenna’s voice climbed, reflecting her shock. She shuddered. ‘I’ve done my best to bring you up properly, to be a lady. And what do you do? You throw it all back in your mother’s face.’ She bowed her head and dabbed her eyes.
Gazing at her mother’s elaborate turban of gold and peach chiffon threaded with ribbon and decorated with a jewelled pin, Tamara sighed.
‘Oh, Mama. Don’t make such a fuss. I was wearing a coat, and a little rain never hurt anyone. Papa was hoping for some salvage.’
Morwenna’s head flew up. Her eyes wide, she gave a little shriek. ‘Tell me you didn’t go down to the beach! You did, didn’t you?’
‘Well, that’s where the wreck is,’ Tamara said with what she felt was perfect reasonableness. She was growing bored with her mother’s histrionics. Surely dinner must be ready? The ride, the fresh air, and her conversation with Devlin – though that had been all too brief – had sharpened her appetite.
‘Oh!’ Morwenna pressed the lavender-scented handkerchief to her bosom as she lifted the vinaigrette. Inhaling deeply she gasped and coughed. Opening her eyes she turned a long-suffering gaze on her daughter. ‘Your father and I have devoted our lives –’
‘Papa’s life,’ Tamara said over her shoulder as she moved aimlessly about the over-furnished room, picking up ornaments and miniatures from cabinets and side tables then replacing them, ‘is devoted to the yard.’
‘As it should be,’ Morwenna agreed, oblivious to her contradiction. ‘Naturally, I know little of such matters. Business is a gentleman’s province and not something with which ladies need concern themselves. But it is thanks to your father’s boatyard that you were able to enjoy a proper education, with dancing lessons, painting classes, and –’
‘Yes, Mama. I know. You keep telling me.’ Tamara was heartily sick of the constant reminders. Sighing, she flung herself onto a gilt sofa upholstered in ivory brocade, and stretched out her legs so she could admire her primrose kid slippers. The little rosettes were pretty and made her feet look remarkably elegant.
‘Don’t sprawl, Tamara. Sit up properly. Why must you be so contrary? If Miss Mitchell could see you now she would have a spasm. And then there are your clothes.’
‘What about them?’
‘You have two wardrobes full –‘
‘I do indeed, Mama. Isn’t it fortunate I have one talent you can be proud of?’ Tamara jumped up again, unable to sit still. She wished she were still down on the beach, or out on the cliffs. She had no fear of the dark. ‘Designing new gowns is such a useful accomplishment.’ Experience had taught her that if her mother even noticed the irony she would ignore it.
‘My dear, we only want what’s best for you.’
‘ Mama, your opinion of what is best –’
‘Is what any loving and responsible parent would want for their daughter: marriage to a man of substance who will –’
‘Bore me to sobs.’
‘Tamara!’
The door opened.
‘Mr Gillis, thank goodness you are come,’ Morwenna cried, her chin quivering with emotion. ‘You must speak to our daughter. I’m at my wits’ end. I declare she’ll see me in my grave before the year is out.’
Father and daughter exchanged an eloquent glance. In deference to his wife’s insistence that they all change before sitting down to the evening meal, John Gillis wore a black frock coat over a waistcoat of embroidered satin, breeches with fashionable ties at the knee, silk stockings, and black shoes with oval buckles. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable. But Tamara knew his unease was as likely caused by the manner and content of his wife’s greeting as by what he termed his fancy dress.
Crossing to his wife’s side he patted her shoulder as if she were a nervous mare of which he wasn’t entirely sure. Which, Tamara thought, wasn’t that far from the truth.
‘I hope not, my dear. That would be a very sad thing. Tamara, have you been upsetting your mother?’ His expression was suitably grave, but as his gaze met hers Tamara saw mirrored in it her own wish not to be having this conversation, and to be somewhere – anywhere – else.
‘No more than usual, Papa.’
‘Oh!’ Morwenna stifled a sob. Then moving so abruptly that he jumped, she turned to look up at her husband. ‘Tamara says you sent her down to the beach –’
‘No, Mama’ Tamara corrected quickly. ‘I didn’t say Papa sent me. It was my idea to go. I thought if I got there quickly enough there might be –’
‘You see?’ Morwenna demanded of her husband. ‘How we can expect any decent man to make an offer for her when she insists on conducting herself like – like a hoyden!’
‘But I don’t want the men you consider suitable. They’re either old and boring or young and stupid.’
‘Now, now,’ her father warned.
> Jumping up, she hurried to his side, slipped her arm through his as she pleaded. ‘Papa, there’s only one man for me. I want Devlin Varcoe.’
Her mother squeaked then slumped back in her chair and fluttered her handkerchief.
‘For heaven’s sake, Tamara.’ John Gillis frowned and stretched his chin and forced a callused finger down between his neck and the starched cravat that despite his wife’s urging he refused to tie in anything but the simplest knot. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not!’
‘It’s out of the question.’
‘But why, Papa? If you are so anxious for me to marry, then at least let me have the man I –’
‘You don’t –’
‘Papa, you’ve known the Varcoes all your life.’ She would not be silenced. She had to make them understand. ‘You’ve built boats for them.’
‘That’s different. That’s business. Listen, girl, and hear what I’m saying. Devlin Varcoe is not for you.’
‘Why?’ Tamara demanded. ‘Because he’s a smuggler? Is that why, Papa?’ she repeated trying hard to sound more reasonable. He looked, she thought, like a man already floundering and desperate not to sink any deeper.
‘That is one reason. There are others. And no, I do not intend to discuss them with you.’ He rubbed his palms together, visibly embarrassed.
‘That’s not fair!’
‘Enough! I mean it, Tamara,’ he warned as she opened her mouth. Clearing his throat and avoiding his daughter’s flushed cheeks and stormy gaze, he moved across to the fireplace and studied the dancing flames. ‘Listen to your mother. She knows far better that you what’s best.’
‘Best for who?’ Tamara cried.
‘Whom, dear. It’s whom,’ Morwenna corrected gently, sitting up straight once more.
‘I don’t care!’ Tamara yelled. ‘I love Devlin.’
‘Love?’ Morwenna tilted her head. Her patronising smile made Tamara want to scream. ‘My dear child, what would you know of love? You’re far too young to –’
‘I’m not a child. I’m nineteen,’ Tamara cried. ‘And if I’m old enough to be married off to a man of your choice, I’m certainly old enough to know about love.’
Her mother paled, darting a shocked and frantic glance towards her husband.
‘That will do!’ Her father thundered, startling all three of them. Clearing his throat he continued in a quieter tone. ‘I want no more talk like that. You’ll upset your mother.’
Tamara threw up her hands. ‘Mama’s always upset about something. Papa, this is important. It’s my whole future –’
‘Not with Devil Varcoe.’ John Gillis was grim. ‘He’s not for you.’
Hot tears of fury welled but she blinked them back. This was too serious. Besides, she had never resorted to weeping to get her own way. That was her mother’s behaviour. It would never be hers. ‘You care more for what other people might say than you do about my happiness.’
‘Oh, Tamara.’ Morwenna buried her face in her handkerchief.
Anger darkened her father’s features. ‘You listen to me, my girl. It’s because we care about your happiness that we want to see you safely married to a man of –’
‘I won’t marry someone I don’t love. I’d sooner not marry at all.’
‘So what will you do instead?’ her father demanded.
Tamara shrugged. Wanting Devlin, determined to have Devlin, she had never considered alternatives. ‘I could – I could be a governess.’
‘Oh yes? Where?’
‘Here,’ she retorted defiantly. ‘In Porthinnis.’ While Devlin stayed so would she.
‘The only governess in this village is Miss Everson. She’s been with Dr Avers fifteen years and will no doubt be with the family for another fifteen if Mrs Avers continues breeding.’
‘Mr Gillis, please!’ Morwenna gasped.
Ignoring his wife he raged on. ‘Or will you work in the pilchard cellars among women with coarse clothes and coarser minds who stink of fish? How long would your pretty dresses last then?’
‘John!’
‘If you really want to drive your mother to her death-bed you could take a job at The Five Mackerel where you’ll be leered at and pawed by drunken fishermen and farm labourers.’
‘Oh!’ Morwenna shrieked. ‘The shame – I couldn’t bear – Quick, my smelling salts! I feel faint.’
‘Now, now, my dear.’ Guiding the vinaigrette clutched in his wife’s hand to her nose, John glared at his daughter. ‘See what you’ve done? Are you happy now?’
‘But I didn’t – why are you blaming me?’ Hurt and furious, she went to the door.
‘Tamara, wait. Your dinner –’
‘I’m not hungry.’ She raced upstairs, her eyes burning. Why wouldn’t they listen?
Chapter Three
Thomas Varcoe rode down the long incline of Lemon Street into the town of Truro. Crossing the bridge at the bottom he glanced to his right, his gaze drawn to the trading schooners, brigs, and fishing luggers moored alongside quays on both sides of the river. Their hatches were open, decks swarming with men loading and unloading cargoes. Behind the quays, warehouse doors gaped like open mouths to receive sacks and boxes and balks of timber.
Men shouted, iron-shod hoofs clattered against the granite setts, heavy carts creaked, winches squealed. The village could be noisy, but it was nothing compared to this. Unsettled, Thomas’s horse tossed its head. He urged it on with a sharp kick, scattering barefoot children clad in filthy rags who, recognising a stranger, darted between carts and carriages to run hopefully alongside.
‘Gi’ us a penny, mister. A ha’penny? A farthing? Go on, mister. Please?’
He ignored their grubby outstretched hands and rode past, disregarding the curses screeched after him.
‘Tight as a duck’s fert, you are, mister.’
‘Skin a turd for the tallow, he would.’
He had left Porthinnis early yesterday, stopped for dinner and the night at the Norway Inn, and set off again this morning. Now after almost four hours on the road he was saddle-sore and extremely hungry.
Reaching Boscawen Street, an even more imposing thoroughfare since the demolition of a row of houses down the centre had more than doubled its width, he glanced at the façade of The Red Lion. Four stories high, with three gables at the front and pediments over the windows, the majestic building had once been the town house of a prominent family.
Thomas’s chin rose. When he’d made his fortune he would have a town house. Nothing too large – one had to consider the cost of running such an establishment – but certainly grand enough to indicate his success. He’d show all those who still harboured doubts that he was more than equal to his father. His father was dead, for God’s sake. He was in charge now. Had he owned such a house nothing would have induced him to part with it.
But instead of crossing the busy thoroughfare to take a room there he turned left. Impressive it might be but he’d had enough of coaching inns. They were exceptionally busy places with noise and bustle that lasted long into the night and began again in the early hours.
He preferred The Bull. Situated opposite the coinage hall, the inn was popular with mine owners, tin and copper smelters, and free-trading businessmen like himself. The rooms were neat, the sheets properly aired, and the landlord kept an excellent table and wine cellar. Dismounting, Thomas waited for the boy to unfasten his bag from the saddle and hand it to him. Then as his horse was led round to the yard and stables, he entered the inn.
An hour later, fortified by a hearty meal of cold beef, cheese, and good claret, he went out once more into the busy street. He had two calls to make. One he dreaded. The other – he patted his chest and was reassured. Tucked into a hidden pocket on the inside of his double-breasted waistcoat, the emerald lay snugly against his heart. It was a particularly fine stone. Certainly the best of the gems Trevanion had brought back from India.
Unfortunately it was also the last. Trevanion’s announcement had come as
an unpleasant shock. While Thomas was still coming to terms with all the implications, the colonel had dealt him a further blow. Despite the brandy fumes on his breath and the floridity of his complexion, Trevanion’s instructions had been unequivocal.
He trusted Thomas would get the best price possible. But this time only half the sum would be invested in cargo. The remainder was for his daughter Jenefer’s dowry.
This presented Thomas with not just one but several problems. He already owed his uncle for part of the last cargo. To buy time he’d sent a letter with Devlin to Roscoff citing late payment by a couple of his customers. But Hedley had his suppliers to pay and would expect the debt cleared when Devlin arrived to collect the next shipment. If it wasn’t – Thomas’s skin tightened in a shiver. He couldn’t fail. He’d find the money. He had to, because if he didn’t, all his plans, his whole future – he slammed a mental door on thoughts too horrifying to contemplate.
Following his father’s death two other venturers had decided to retire. Both had told him it was nothing personal. But he knew better. They hadn’t waited, hadn’t even allowed him an opportunity to show that he was just as shrewd, just as able. If they had only given him a chance he would have proved it.
He felt a rush of anger, a fierce quickening of his pulse as he relived the memory. Overcoming his pride he had actually pleaded. And still they’d turned him down. He hated that they had seen his desperation. Their rejection was an insult he wouldn’t forgive. Nor would he forget. He’d show them. His time would come. When it did revenge would be sweet.
Since their defection Colonel Trevanion had been his only source of finance. But with no more gems to sell the next cargo would be his last investment. In addition, when an increased profit was vital in order to balance the accounts, the colonel was reducing his stake. It was imperative to find a new venturer.
But who? No one else in Porthinnis had that kind of money. Apart from the Casvellans: but Branoc Casvellan was a justice of the peace. Though his sentencing of smugglers was usually less severe than that of his colleagues, he flatly declined any involvement in free trading. Thomas’s mouth twisted bitterly. Was the man blind or simply naïve? Did he really believe duty had been paid on his after-dinner brandy?
