by Jane Jackson
‘Get off!’ Jared jerked back. ‘Bad as mother, you are. ’Tis just a cold.’
‘You’re burning with fever and Inez will blame me.’
Jared grinned weakly. ‘Scared of her, are you?’
Devlin nodded. ‘Too right I am. I’ve seen her temper. Go on, you’re not fit to be out.’
‘What about – ?’ Jared’s gesture encompassed the ropes he’d been working on.
‘One of the others can finish them. Go home, dammit!’
After Jared left Devlin worked on for a couple more hours and completed the repairs. His crew came by on their way home. The treated nets and sails would be left to drip-dry overnight then brought to the lugger the following morning. He was returning his tools to the workshop when a movement in the doorway caught his eye. He glanced up and saw Roz Trevaskis.
‘Mr Casvellan would be obliged if you’ll call on him.’ Her voice was soft, pitched low. Very different from her shrewish mother, whose shrill ranting could shatter glass.
Devlin straightened, ‘Did he say when?’
‘Tomorrow, early.’ She turned away, slim as a wand. He knew little more about her now than he had five years ago when she first led the string laden with contraband out of the cove to safe hiding places inland. Perhaps, like Jared, she was more talkative with her friends.
Mist lay like a soft blanket in the valley as he followed the narrow track across the moor. Gauzy cloud streaking the pale blue sky told him strong winds were coming. But now the still air was cold against his face. In the mellow light of the morning sun, dew glistened like diamonds on cobwebs that lay like fine lace on the heather and gorse.
He rapped twice with the heavy knocker, wondering why he had responded to Casvellan’s request. A justice and a smuggler lived in opposing worlds. Yet there was a bond. Not friendship – their lives were too different. Respect perhaps?
The door opened. ‘Mr Casvellan is expecting you,’ the butler said. ‘This way if you please.’
Leading Devlin into the same room as last time the butler retreated, closing the door.
Devlin’s gaze drifted over walls painted warm pink, gilt-framed mirrors, small tables, and elegant armchairs upholstered in cream silk damask to a tall bureau-cabinet. Behind a glazed door the top part held four shelves of leather-bound books. The lower section had a fall front and four drawers with brass handles and keyholes. The honey tones of the wood drew him. He leaned down to examine it more closely, running his fingertips across burled walnut polished to satin smoothness.
‘Beautiful workmanship, isn’t it?’ Casvellan said from behind him. Devlin froze, fighting the instinct to whirl round. He straightened slowly, turning as the justice closed the door and came forward.
‘I appreciate you coming, and so promptly.’
Devlin inclined his head in acknowledgement. Casvellan did not invite him to sit, nor would he have felt comfortable doing so. He didn’t belong here.
‘I have a commission for you.’
‘Why me?’
‘It’s dangerous and demands absolute secrecy,’ Casvellan said dryly. ‘Who else would I ask?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Carry a letter to Roscoff. I should warn you, if you are caught I can offer no assistance.’
‘So the risk is all mine?’
Casvellan met Devlin’s gaze. ‘Exactly so.’
‘What’s in this letter?’
‘You expect me to answer that?’
‘Expect? No. Clearly it’s important. You would not ask my help otherwise. But I’d like to know whose side I’m on.’
Casvellan moved to the window and gazed out over the gravelled carriage drive.
‘Last year a relation of mine was sent to Switzerland on a confidential mission of such significance that it was not made known to his colleagues in the Foreign Office. Instead he reported directly to the Foreign Secretary through a trusted intermediary. The information he sent back proved accurate and extremely valuable.’ Casvellan paused. ‘Unfortunately, something went wrong. We do not know the exact circumstances. But he died of gunshot wounds.’ He was silent for a moment.
‘What of the others?’ Devlin asked.
Casvellan glanced back at him. ‘Others?’
‘Yes, the others, the network, the people who supplied the information.’
Casvellan’s urbane expression did not alter but Devlin saw increased respect in the level gaze. ‘We cannot be sure. The death caused a considerable fuss in both British and French diplomatic circles. It was impossible to replace him through normal channels.’
‘But he has been replaced?’ Devlin guessed.
‘It is vital our government knows what effect the crushing of the Paris uprising has had on the royalist movements in La Vendee and Provence.
‘And this letter?’
‘Information that may keep him alive. The decision is yours, Mr Varcoe.’
Devlin’s thoughts raced. The justice was one of the few men in public life whose honesty had never been questioned. He had offered no inducement, promised no reward. Instead he had shared information known to only a handful of men in the country. The letter was vital, its delivery urgent.
But it was past the dark of the moon. The lighter the night sky, the greater the risk. Plus he would be two men short: for Jared’s cough ruled him out, and he hadn’t replaced Charlie. But he could rely on the others to take up the slack.
Having heard nothing from Thomas, Devlin guessed his brother had been unable to raise the money he needed to pay off their uncle and purchase a cargo. As the letter’s urgency meant he couldn’t wait, he would make the trip worthwhile and buy a cargo on his own account. Casvellan was no fool. He would not expect a boat sailing to Roscoff to return empty.
This time though, the danger would be as great on the outbound voyage as on the homeward run. The demands of wind and tide, of steering a course while keeping clear of all other ships, would require his total concentration. He would have no time to think of anything else.
‘I’ll do it.’
The justice gave a brief nod, as if the response were a foregone conclusion. But Devlin sensed a release of tension and wondered at the scope and weight of Casvellan’s responsibilities.
‘How soon …?’
‘Tonight. Who do I give it to?’
‘Your uncle.’ Reaching inside his frock coat he withdrew a slim packet of oiled silk fastened with a red seal. He handed it to Devlin. ‘God forbid you are stopped. But should –’
‘I’ll destroy it. It won’t be taken,’ Devlin promised, secreting it in an inside pocket the existence of which would have surprised the tailor who made the waistcoat.
Casvellan extended his hand and Devlin took it.
‘Farewell, Varcoe. God speed.’
Chapter Twelve
Awake since before dawn, knowing she would not sleep again, Tamara got out of bed and wrapped the cover around her. Sitting in the window with a cushion at her back, she had watched the sky change from pearl grey to turquoise, then primrose, and finally to rose-pink as the sun climbed out of the sea and turned it to liquid bronze.
Sally came in with her morning cup of chocolate. ‘What you doing up? All right, are you?’
‘I’m fine. Really,’ Tamara assured. ‘I just woke early.’ She smiled, expecting the maid’s worried expression to clear.
Sally hesitated as if about to speak, then went to the door. ‘I’ll fetch your hot water.’
As she washed Tamara’s mind drifted back to the dance and the scene with her mother beforehand. She had asked to be excused from going. But after admitting she was not ill, her hope of being able to avoid it was doomed.
‘I will not hear of you staying at home, Tamara. The very idea! Tonight is an important occasion. Not just for the ordinary people. All the best families will be attending. Of course, the Trevanion girls must miss it this year as they are in mourning. But even the Casvellans have been known to put in an appearance. I daresay Mr Casvellan supplied
the ox for the roast. He is the most generous of men. I know for a fact he has donated blankets and coal to the Poor House. Besides, I have it on good authority that Dr Avers’ nephews are visiting. They will look for the prettiest girls as dancing partners. And for all your odd ways, Tamara, you have vivacity as well as one of the neatest figures in the village. So let us have no more nonsense. You will accompany your father and me, and you will behave just as you ought.’
So, unable to escape, she had gone. Once there, pride as well as good manners had demanded she pretend to enjoy herself. She did what in the past had been effortless and pleasurable: she laughed, teased, flirted.
If Dr Avers’ nephews were present they did not come forward to be introduced. While dancing she resolutely devoted her attention to her partner yet remained oblivious to his blushes and stammered compliments. Frowning matrons murmured together behind their fans and their husbands beamed at her and clapped.
Without turning her head or raising her eyes she knew the instant Devlin entered the room and felt a wave of heat engulf her from toes to hairline.
Returning to her seat beside her mother, she was catching her breath after the Barley Mow when Thomas Varcoe approached and made his bow.
She sensed Devlin’s gaze, She did not look, would not look. But in her mind she saw the harsh planes of his face, the lock of dark hair that always fell across his forehead and the intensity in his eyes. Her body remembered his hands. Scarred, weathered, rough hands: their gentle touch, their brutal rejection.
Her mother’s voice jerked her out of her reverie. Arch and syrupy as she twittered at Thomas, it held warning as she gave Tamara’s forearm a sharp tap with her closed fan.
Fighting renewed anguish, Tamara welcomed an upsurge of anger. Using its strength she raised her head, her gaze drawn unerringly to Devlin’s. His expression was thunderous.
She tilted her chin a fraction, defying him even as she defied her own aching grief. Closing her eyes to break the contact, to shut him out, she turned her head and placed her hand in Thomas’s. They took their places and the orchestra struck up the opening chords of the dance. She responded to his fulsome compliments with an absent smile. And wondered why, when Devlin had derided and rebuffed her, his glare had held such fury.
Turning from the washstand she pulled on a clean shift. Hooking up her stays then rolling fine knitted stockings to her knees and securing them with embroidered garters, she took her green riding habit from her closet and finished dressing.
She picked up her hairbrush and moved to the window to look out on the harbour and quay, tipping her head sideways as she swept it through her glossy curls. A trading schooner had arrived.
The hatches were open and a block and tackle had been rigged. Men swarmed over the schooner and quay like ants: unloading sacks and crates, rolling barrels up to the cistern to be filled with fresh water, making minor repairs, and bringing hogsheads of train oil from the cellars. Even through the closed window she could hear the rumble of the barrels, the squeak of iron wheels, and the men’s shouts.
Inshore fishermen sculled small boats out to their crab pots. She knew cutters would be working on the beach and in the coves gathering oreweed. The Casvellans owned most of the farmland to the west of the village and bought seaweed to enrich the poor soil.
Automatically she scanned the harbour. Several luggers were still tied up, their crews stopping to chat as they manhandled nets.
Was he fishing today? Which boat was his? Hearing her mother shriek she froze, the brush suspended. More demanding cries, a babble of excuse or explanation, then a door slammed. Tamara felt the all-too-familiar sinking beneath her ribs. What was it this time?
Replacing the brush on top of the chest, she picked up the ribbon that matched her riding habit and tied her hair loosely at the nape of her neck.
There was a quick tap on the door and Sally whirled in. Closing it quietly she looked at Tamara over her shoulder, her face puckered with anxiety.
‘Miss, I’m some sorry. I didn’t mean no harm, I swear. Only I wasn’t expecting it. So when mistress asked I never ’ad time to think and it just slipped out.’
Baffled, Tamara stared at her. ‘Sally, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Your rags, miss,’ she hissed and jumped out of the way as her mistress flung open the door.
Ducking her head, Sally folded her hands over her apron and hunched her shoulders as if trying to make herself smaller.
Morwenna glared at her. ‘What are you doing in here?’ Swathed in a bed-gown trimmed with ruffles of lace, her hair covered by a voluminous frilled cap, she inhaled from her vinaigrette, wincing at its acrid pungency.
‘Mama –’
‘Hush. I’ll deal with you in a moment.’ Leaving Tamara smarting and even more bewildered, she turned to Sally whose expression revealed a fear Tamara didn’t understand.
‘Leave us. No, wait. Fetch me some hartshorn and water. And if you speak a word of this to a living soul I’ll – I’ll put you out of this house without a character.’
Sally squeaked in distress.
‘Mama, that’s enough!’
As Morwenna pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to her heaving bosom, Tamara went to the maid who was wringing her hands as tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Don’t worry. She doesn’t mean it. Just go and get the hartshorn.’
Sally bobbed a curtsey, nodding frantically. ‘Right away, miss. I’m some sorry.’ She hesitated then whispered, ‘Bring the laudanum as well, shall I?’
‘Please.’ As Tamara closed the door on Sally’s retreating figure, Morwenna sank onto the side of the bed.
‘I never imagined you would do this to us. Though I suppose I should not be surprised. How could you, Tamara?’
‘If you would –’
‘Don’t!’ Her mother held up a hand. ‘No excuses. Just tell me who is responsible.’
‘For what, Mama? ‘Tamara gestured helplessly. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you dare play the innocent with me! Sally says you have not used your rags since October. Well? What have you to say for yourself?’
Her rags? Tamara watched suspicion and dread chase across her mother’s features and finally grasped what it was that she feared. Her hands went to her belly.
Catching the movement and the realisation Tamara was too stunned to hide, Morwenna let out a shriek. ‘I knew it, I knew it! You wicked girl! How could you do this to me? I tell you now, miss, there’ll be no bastard child born in this house! Oh the shame of it!’
As her mother wailed about the disgrace, Tamara stumbled to the window seat and sat. Her head felt oddly light and black spots danced in front of her eyes. A child?
With so much on her mind days had merged into weeks and weeks into one month, then two. She had assumed her unusual physical discomforts were simply due to the shock of Devlin’s rejection. When they ceased she thought no more about them. Her emotions were still all over the place. But surely she had reason enough for that? As for missing her courses, she simply hadn’t noticed. The effort of pretending everything was fine had demanded all her concentration. She had focused on getting through each day without giving anyone cause to ask questions she could not answer.
‘Well?’ Morwenna demanded between sobs and inhalations of her smelling salts. ‘Say something! Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think to keep it a secret?’
‘I didn’t realise,’ Tamara said softly. She was carrying a child. Devlin’s child.
‘Didn’t realise? Well, you realise now. Have you any idea the trouble you have brought on us? Who is responsible?’
Not listening, Tamara relived the sensation of being in Devlin’s arms: those wondrous moments when he had been part of her and she had given him her heart and soul. In those moments they had made a child. Awed by this revelation Tamara caught her breath and turned her head, jumping as her mother shrieked.
‘You don’t know? What happened? Were you set upon? Have I not warned you time and
time again against riding out alone? Who was it? There’ll be no prosecution. I will not have our family name dragged through the mud.’ Closing her eyes she wafted her vinaigrette and shuddered. ‘But he needn’t think he’ll get away with it.’ She drew herself up, quivering with emotion as she rearranged the folds of muslin at her bosom. ‘Your father will have him horsewhipped.’
‘I wasn’t attacked.’
‘You weren’t?
Tamara saw her mother’s last hope vanquished by disappointment then horror.
‘No, no, I cannot believe – do you mean to say – are you telling me you were willing?’
The revulsion that distorted her mother’s face allowed Tamara a brief glimpse into her parents’ marriage. Even as she wished she had not seen it, she knew a moment’s sadness and renewed sympathy for her father.
‘Have you no shame at all?’ Tears sprang to her mother’s eyes.’ I’ve done my best to bring you up a lady, and what is my reward? I have reared a slut!’
Tamara flinched as shock drained the blood from her face. Nausea tightened her throat and she swallowed convulsively. ‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to think? Oh how could you, Tamara? Heaven knows what this will do to your father. Well, he can’t blame me. I warned him about allowing you to go wandering off by yourself. Oh, it’s all too dreadful.’ She collapsed onto the bed sobbing hysterically. ‘Where’s that girl? I need my drops.’
Sally peered round the door. Tamara beckoned her in and pushed herself to her feet. Crossing to the maid she took the small brown bottle and removed the cork.
‘Miss, I don’t want to make no more trouble,’ Sally kept her voice low. ‘But Mrs Voss ’ave just come back from the shops and she said she could hear mistress out in the street.’
‘She’ll be calmer in a minute.’ Tamara measured several drops of the opium tincture into the glass of hartshorn and water.
‘All right, are you?’ Sally’s eyes were huge, her forehead creased with concern. ‘Looking awful pale you are.’
Tamara bit her lip, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. She gave a little shrug. ‘We’ve all had rather a shock.’
