by Jane Jackson
Twenty minutes later, leaving her letter to Martin with Mr Renfrew, who assured her his clerk would take it to the post office with the rest of the day’s mail, she shook hands with the lawyer and walked out onto the street.
While in his office it had occurred to her to ask him to recommend a jeweller. Further reflection had kept her silent. Though Mr Renfrew hadn’t mentioned it, perhaps because her bereavement was so recent and the circumstances so horrible, her father probably owed him money. If he knew she had assets, no matter how small, he would expect her to settle at least part of the account.
But she still owed Mr Hammill for her father’s coffin, as well as tradesmen in the village. A lawyer of Mr Renfrew’s standing was far better able to absorb the loss.
It shocked her that she could reason in such a manner. But moral behaviour was far easier when you were cushioned by the comfort and security provided by money. When you had little or nothing such decisions became far more complicated.
After walking up one side of the main street and halfway down the other without seeing a single jeweller’s shop, realisation left a hollow in her stomach. She was in the wrong place. People who could afford to buy jewellery, or have pieces specially made, would not come here. They would travel to the wealthy cosmopolitan towns of Truro or Penzance.
Panic fluttered beneath her ribs. It would soon be time to meet Mr Laity for her ride back to the village. She peered desperately up a side road. She must have seen the sign earlier, but it hadn’t registered then.
The window was grimy; the broad shelf inside crowded with oddments. She glimpsed boots, an inlaid needlework box, an ivory-headed walking cane, decorated vases, and a small circular table on which lay several dusty ostrich plumes and a rainbow-hued pile of ribbons.
Crushing her misgivings, she opened the door. Her plan had been to sell her jewellery. But perhaps this was better because she would be able to get it back. Martin would know what to do. When he received her letter he would come home at once. Then she would no longer have to cope all by herself.
The man behind the counter was over-polite and she hated the sly look in his eyes. He offered her far less than the pieces were worth. They both knew she would accept; that she would not be there unless she needed the money. With burning cheeks she put the gold and silver coins into her purse and pulled the strings tight.
She hurried outside, her heart thudding as relief battled with guilt, and retraced her steps to the main street breathing deeply to rid her lungs of the shop’s pervasive smell of mustiness and despair.
She shopped carefully for necessities she could not buy in the village. Then, recalling the hours Betsy had spent embroidering new seat covers for the dining room chairs, all lost in the fire, she bought canvas and skeins of coloured wool. She arrived down at the market on time, out of breath, and laden with parcels.
Sitting beside Janner Laity, grateful that his taciturnity meant she was not obliged to talk, Jenefer’s brief euphoria was swamped by renewed anxiety. Yes, she had money now. But how much would be left after she had paid Devlin Varcoe a quarter’s rent and settled accounts with the village tradesmen? She had nothing else to sell or pawn. She would have to find work of some kind. But what? What could she actually do?
Tamara pushed her silk-stockinged feet into cream kid slippers and picked up her gloves. As she drew them on, tugging the soft kid up to her elbows, she turned and caught sight of herself in the long glass.
She had chosen a round gown of apple green figured muslin with short puffed sleeves and a wide neckline trimmed with lace and matching ribbon. It was her own design based on the new fashion for high waists shown in the ladies’ magazine for which her mother paid a yearly subscription of three guineas. The colour suited her and it was important that she looked her best. Held back from her face by a broad bandeau of the same green ribbon, her hair tumbled in loose curls down her back.
This past week she had felt more than usually tired. But as she was not sleeping well that was hardly surprising. At least her appetite had returned. In fact her rides or long walks made her ravenously hungry, though strangely she could no longer bear the smell of coffee.
She thought little of it. She was rarely ill and whatever had ailed her had passed. Which was fortunate, because this evening she would need all the strength she could summon.
The Christmastide dance was being held in the long room at the Five Mackerel. The entire village would be there. Even those who followed Wesley and abhorred spirits would set aside their scruples tonight. She had to attend. If she cried off, her mother would want to know why. And what could she say?
She would never believe that he had felt nothing, that it had meant nothing. Yes, he was hard and ruthless. But during that magical hour he she had glimpsed a vulnerability few would ever suspect.
Though he had little patience with the law, he possessed a strong sense of justice. She had been true to her feelings and honest with him. Why then had he behaved so cruelly?
With no answer and no comfort she told herself the loss was his. She would not hide from him. As for the grievous wound his rejection had dealt her, it would heal, eventually. Meanwhile she would say nothing, even to Roz. Roz never gossiped. But Roz had problems of her own. Better to remain silent and carry on as normal. No one but she would know the effort it cost.
Devlin prowled the room behind people clapping and laughing as the small orchestra at one end perspired and played for all they were worth and dancers whirled, skipped, linked and parted. The long room was crowded. Thirst had driven some to the taproom. Others sought escape from the crush and noise in the saloon and dining parlour.
The heat generated by sweating bodies and the ovens in which sufficient roast beef and plum pudding had been cooked to feed the entire community had forced a few outside to catch their breath in the chilly night.
Devlin had eaten, drunk and laughed with his crew and their womenfolk. Usually he enjoyed Feast Days. This one held no pleasure for him. Nor, it appeared, for Jared. Devlin had heard him telling Sam and Lizzie Clemmow that being in mourning and unable to come, Betsy and Miss Trevanion were keeping company for the evening.
A head taller than those in front of him, Devlin watched the dancers. A smile touched his lips as he caught sight of Arf and Inez breathless and laughing as they circled. But it faded as his gaze moved on, seeking, finding, instantly shifting away but inevitably drawn back.
Knowing Jared would leave soon, Devlin toyed with the idea of going with him. He could offer to escort Miss Trevanion back to the cottage. With the streets crowded and noisy with drunken revellers, no well-bred girl should be out alone. Instantly he recalled a rain-filled night, another girl, and events best not remembered but impossible to forget.
He had spent most of this evening as far from her as possible. All his life he’d been aware of an emptiness in his heart, something missing. When he was younger he had tried drinking to escape from it. But the effect was too brief and its aftermath both painful and unpleasant. Risk and danger filled the void.
His reputation had grown out of his daring, his fearlessness. Only he knew how hard it was sometimes to resist the lure of death, the promise of escape from a loneliness no amount of company could assuage.
Sexually experienced, he had never loved. But in Tamara Gillis’s arms, for the first time in his life he had belonged. For an all-too-brief moment he had known peace. He craved more and hated her for that. He relied on no one but himself. Even Jared, once closer than a brother, was drawing away. Once he got married to Betsy Trevanion things would never be the same.
Standing apart he watched Tamara laugh and flirt. He saw wives and mothers whisper together and click their tongues; heard husbands scold them, arguing she was just a pretty maid enjoying herself and doing no harm.
He heard murmurs of sympathy for Morwenna Gillis at the impossibility of controlling such a flighty piece, and others criticising her for not trying harder. Most agreed it was a wonder Tamara hadn’t got herself into the
kind of trouble no pert smile or flashing eyes would get her out of.
He listened to it all as he stalked up and down the room, outwardly relaxed, pausing now and then to exchange word or laugh at a joke, and told himself he’d been right to back away. So what if he couldn’t sleep, jumped at unexpected sounds and his guts felt as if he’d swallowed fishhooks. He’d get over it. If he wanted company tonight he’d be spoiled for choice. That’s what he should do. But he knew he wouldn’t.
He watched her banter and flash teasing smiles. How dared she? Those women were right. She had the morals of an alley cat. She had come to him a virgin. What then of his morals? It was different for men. She had been innocent yet without coyness or pretence. She had met him as an equal: passionate, tender, wild and gentle. He had never felt, never imagined – He shook his head to stop the incessant argument and shut off the memory. Instantly another took its place: her face, wounded, defiant, valiant.
She didn’t know him. For if she did, how could she talk of love? As he watched his anger flared again. She was a mother’s nightmare. Morwenna Gillis was a foolish woman but Tamara would try the patience of a saint. With her passion for life and impatience with society’s restrictions, she was a danger to herself and others. Yet while her mother clung to rules and standards set by others, Tamara followed her own path. He knew better than most what courage that required.
A brief hiatus opposite caught his attention. His brother, resplendent in evening dress, his shirt points so stiff with starch he could barely move his head, made an elegant bow to Morwenna Gillis who fluttered her fan and greeted him with smiles and simpers.
Oblivious to the throng milling around him, Devlin’s gaze was riveted on Tamara as Thomas bowed to her and gestured towards the floor where people were lining up for the next dance. Tamara hesitated. Her mother urged her forward.
Raising her head, Tamara looked directly at Devlin. Coward. He heard her voice as clearly as if she had spoken, yet her lips hadn’t moved. Then she turned and gave Thomas her hand. He murmured something to which she responded with a polite nod as he led her out onto the floor.
The orchestra struck up with an opening chord and the dance began. Devlin strode towards the door. People looked up, saw his expression and stepped aside. No one tried to stop him.
As she and Lizzie approached the quay Jenefer heard women’s voices, raucous and uninhibited as they laughed and chatted.
Built at the rear of the quay a few yards from the harbour wall, the pilchard cellar had huge wooden double doors mounted on iron wheels. Rolled back as they were now, they revealed granite walls glistening with salt and fish scales.
The instant the women saw her they fell silent. Schooled in social etiquette, Jenefer knew how to put strangers at their ease. But instinct told her that party manners would not work here. Self-conscious, acutely aware of being out of place, she cleared her throat.
‘Good morning.’ Her voice sounded tight and a flush climbed her throat. One or two mumbled a greeting then fell silent. They were as uncomfortable as she was. She should leave, go back to the cottage. But then what? She needed money and this was the only place she could earn any.
The stone floor ran with a mixture of salt water, blood, and oil oozing from the large square piles of gutted pilchards layered with salt stacked against the back wall. The stench was overpowering. Jenefer felt her stomach contract. She swallowed hard.
‘This ’ere’s a towzer,’ Lizzie Clemmow handed Jenefer a rough apron. ‘He’ll keep the worst off.’
As she tied the coarse sacking over her oldest bodice and petticoat, Jenefer shivered. Even her thick woollen shawl, crossed in front and knotted behind, wasn’t enough to keep out the cold breeze that ruffled the grey water with white caps that slapped against the quay.
A stocky woman wearing several ragged kerchiefs over a brown bodice and serge petticoat shoved her way through the silent group to stand directly in front of Jenefer.
‘Well?’ She planted her hands on broad hips. ‘What d’you want? There idn nothing ’ere for the likes of you.’
Jenefer was startled and bewildered by the woman’s open hostility. ‘I’ve come to work.’
‘Ha! What would you know about work?’
‘Shut your gob, Mary-Anne,’ Lizzie retorted, steering Jenefer towards a pile of fish stacked against back wall. ‘Always making trouble, you are.’
‘She got no business ’ere,’ Mary-Anne insisted, looking to the other women for support.
‘She got as much right as you or anyone else,’ Lizzie snapped.
‘Always on the drip you are, Mary-Anne,’ someone added wearily.
‘Poor soul just lost her father,’ said a voice at the back.
Mary-Anne whirled on the speaker. ‘She idn the only one. Least he died in his own bed. Weeks it was before my Charlie was found. Or ’ave you forgot that?’
‘Some chance,’ a voice muttered. ‘Wi’ you always throwing it up to us.’
The women returned to their work and the buzz of conversation resumed. But Jenefer was aware of sidelong glances and whispers.
‘Make no mind, miss,’ Lizzie murmured. ‘Mary-Anne is always craking up ‘bout something.’
‘Was Charlie her husband?’
Pursing her lips Lizzie gave a brief nod. ‘Drowned, he did. Washed up down Rinsey way a couple of weeks ago, what was left of’n.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jenefer said. ‘Does she have any children?’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘Good job too. Charlie Grose was a ’andful on ’is own. Mind your feet now, ’tis some skiddery.’
Lizzie explained that the pilchards had been gutted and bulked to allow the layers of salt to soak all the blood and moisture out of them. Now they needed to be packed in barrels.
‘Lay the pilchards in a circle, heads to the edge, tails to the centre, see?’ Lizzie demonstrated, her movements quick and sure. ‘Each hogshead do hold about three thousand. When ’tis full, he’s moved back there,’ she gestured, ‘and the pressing stone is put on top. The train oil comes out of they holes down the sides.’
‘What happens to the oil?’ Jenefer asked, dreading having to touch the wet, cold, salted fish.
Lizzie glanced up. ‘We do keep some to use for lamps. The rest is saved in barrels and took by sea to Penzance. Then it go by schooner up to London. Mind the salt now. Brush’n off to the side. ’Tis scarce so we have to use’n again. All right? I’ll leave you get on.’
‘Mrs Clemmow?’ Jenefer tore her gaze from the oozing pile. ‘How – how much will I be paid?’
‘Same as the rest of us,’ Lizzie replied. ‘Fourpence each hogshead.’
Thomas Varcoe crossed his legs and looked at the man on the far side of the desk who wore the king’s coat denoting his rank as a collector.
‘You’re new to this area, Mr Eddy. You want to make your mark and clear this part of the coast of smugglers. I can help you achieve that.’ He flicked a speck of lint from his breeches.
The Customs Officer leaned back in his chair. His expression was sceptical, but Thomas saw the gleam of interest in his eyes. ‘Indeed, Mr …? I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t give it. My name doesn’t matter. My information does.’
‘What information is that?’
‘You’ve heard of Devlin Varcoe?’
The officer’s face darkened. ‘Who hasn’t?’
‘How would you like to be the man who catches him?’
Eddy snorted. ‘Plenty have tried.’
‘But they didn’t have your advantage.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘What if I were to tell you that he will shortly be making a run to Roscoff?’
‘You’re sure about this?’
Thomas suppressed a smile. ‘I am absolutely certain.’
‘How?’
‘Mr Eddy,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘You and I both know that despite your best efforts, and those of your colleagues at Penzance and Falmouth, you will never be able to stop
the trade in contraband. The rewards are too great for all involved. There will always be some brave or foolhardy sailor willing to risk the rope in order to turn a profit, just as there will always be men of substance willing to invest in those cargoes. A man of good sense would not waste his time trying to achieve the impossible.’
‘So what are you offering?’
‘In exchange for information that will guarantee you the capture of a notorious smuggler, you might be prepared to relax your vigilance on certain days of the month, for which you would, of course, be amply rewarded.’ Thomas paused, watching the Customs officer whose frown indicated rapid thought.
‘Are you offering me a bribe?’
Thomas smiled. He saw through the bluster to the underlying interest and clamped down hard on his growing excitement. ‘I wouldn’t be so foolish, Mr Eddy,’ he said smoothly. ‘I had the pleasure of dealing with several of your predecessors, men whose salary rarely reflected the demands and unsociable nature of their work. They appreciated being able to spend two or three evenings a month in the bosom of their family while enjoying several glasses of fine cognac. I’m told their wives and daughters were delighted with the gifts of silk and lace. This war has made such luxuries dreadfully expensive.’
‘My predecessors here?’
‘Indeed,’ Thomas lied. ‘Men who understood the natural right of Cornishmen to buy what they want as cheaply as possible. I’m sure you will not expect me to name names.’
‘No, of course not,’ Eddy said hastily.
Thomas pressed home his advantage. ‘We are the only two people in this room. What is said between us remains between us.’ He sat back.
The officer tapped his fingers on the table while he thought. Then he bent forward. ‘When?’
Thomas mirrored his quarry’s position, leaning forward and lowering his voice. ‘I’ll send word to you of the exact date. Obviously it will be dependent on the weather. Now, as I understand it, to secure a conviction the boat must be carrying contraband loaded and paid for in France. However, if I am to lose not only my investment but also the profit I would have made, then I think it only fair that you should provide the cash to pay for the contraband.’
