by Jane Jackson
Casvellan eyed him curiously. ‘How exactly did you achieve that?’
‘I gave him to understand his job could be at risk if he didn’t, sir.’
‘You threatened him?’
‘Unarmed and surrounded by men with pistols and muskets? How could I –’
‘Enough, Mr Varcoe,’ Casvellan gestured wearily. ‘You will need your boat.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, sir. We’ll –’
‘But you will have to manage with only half your crew. Take it or leave it, Mr Varcoe,’ he said as Devlin opened his mouth. ‘How many of your men are at Porthleven?’
‘Six.’ Devlin knew argument was pointless. But he didn’t have to like it.
‘You may choose three. The remaining three will be held at Bodmin gaol both as hostages to your return, and,’ Casvellan added coolly, ‘to allay any suspicion among my colleagues that I might be entering into free trading on my own account.’ Returning to his desk, he took a fresh sheet of paper, picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkpot.
‘I need the names of the men you wish to sail with you.’
Devlin raked both hands through damp tangled hair. His fingertips skimmed lumps, scabbed cuts and tender bruises. Anger flared but he set it aside.
Who to take? Sailing short-handed on such a mission was riskier than anything he had previously attempted. It doubled the danger and there was a very real chance he would not succeed. Capture would mean death.
All his crew were skilled seamen. Yet those he would have chosen first, he must leave behind. Sam had a wife and young son. Ben was the sole support of his father, Harry. Joe’s mother was a widow whose two other sons had been snatched from their fishing boat by the press gang.
‘Danny Pawle, Andy Voss, and Billy May.’ He waited while Casvellan wrote.
‘And the names of those to remain behind?’
‘Sam Clemmow, Ben Tozer, and Joe Ince. Sir, can I tell them why –’
‘You will have no contact with them until you return with Erisey. Then I will arrange for their release, and their transport from Bodmin to Porthinnis. In the meantime they will be told nothing, for reasons that should be obvious.’
Devlin understood. What they didn’t know they couldn’t let slip. Secrecy was vital. If England had spies and agents in France then the reverse was almost certainly true. Though many French landed gentry had fled the Terror, some arriving in Cornwall, not all French spies and agents were of French nationality. The Irish hated the English and had allied themselves with the French Revolutionary ideals of liberty, equality and brotherhood.
Porthinnis was safe enough because outsiders would be recognised at once. But there was no knowing the origin or allegiance of prisoners held in Bodmin gaol – men and women sentenced to transportation or hanging as well as those awaiting trial.
Casvellan’s voice broke into Devlin’s thoughts. ‘I’ve ordered that all six men be brought here under guard. On the ground floor of this building two rooms are used as holding cells. There is also a storeroom where you will wait. It is at least dry if not particularly comfortable.
‘When your men arrive they will be divided, locked into the two rooms, and their escort sent home. Once darkness falls, if you can remove Pawle, Voss, and May without alerting the others, or anyone else, you will be allowed to continue. If not –’
‘I’ll get them out.’ Devlin interrupted. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Your remaining crew will be collected tomorrow morning by the prison wagon from Penzance. About your boat –’
‘We should reach Helston around midnight and Porthleven soon after. We’ll take her in the early hours, sir. I reckon it will be mid-morning before anyone notices she’s gone.’
Scattering sand over the paper, Casvellan folded it. Rising, he crossed to the fireplace and tugged a bell-pull. Then he lit a taper and returned to the bureau where he held the flame beneath a stick of scarlet wax and dripped it onto the folded sheet. Lastly he impressed the molten wax with a seal.
The door opened admitting the clerk. ‘Sir?’
‘Give this to the dragoons. They are to carry it with all speed to the Customs officer at Porthleven. You may inform them that their prisoner will remain in my custody.’
After the clerk had gone, Casvellan turned to Devlin. ‘How long do you think - ?’
‘Four days. Five at most.’
‘James will bring down a basket of cold meat, bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, sufficient for four days.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Good luck.’
Devlin knew he was going to need it.
Thomas smiled at his reflection in the tall cheval glass. Forty-eight hours had passed since his visit to the Gillis house. Having expected him to return that afternoon, or the one following, Morwenna Gillis would be in a state of anxiety, fearful in case he might have had second thoughts. That anxiety would give him considerable advantage when it came to negotiating Tamara’s dowry.
An hour later he took his place on the sofa as he had done two days earlier. Morwenna’s greeting had been so flatteringly effusive he had congratulated himself on his decision to delay his return. There was no doubting the relief in her welcome. As she continued to gush he was briefly surprised. Then he decided simply to enjoy the experience. It was all working out exactly as he planned.
He was about to cut short Morwenna’s twittering with an enquiry about Tamara, when the door opened. Immediately her mother exhorted her in syrupy tones to come and greet their guest.
On his feet immediately, Thomas made his bow and Tamara curtseyed in reply. He waited until she sat, then resumed his place on the sofa from where he was able to take in every detail of her appearance. He was used to seeing her in one of the habits she wore for riding or walking in the village. But he guessed that today her mother had demanded she choose her dress in anticipation of his visit.
Her dark glossy hair was held off her face by a satin ribbon the same primrose shade as her long-sleeved gown of figured muslin. The low neckline would have revealed a considerable amount of décolletage but for the folds of fine white lawn that reached to her throat.
Though briefly disappointed he approved of her modesty. It seemed her mother’s efforts to turn this wild minx into a lady were at last succeeding. Tamara’s propriety of dress and demeanour in public would make the activity in their bedroom all the more exciting. At the stirring in his groin he crossed his legs and swiftly banished thoughts he would indulge later when he was alone.
‘May I say how well you look, Miss Gillis. I am no expert on ladies’ fashion, but that is a most becoming gown.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He felt a stab of irritation at her colourless tone. Looking more closely he saw that her cheeks, usually glowing with vitality, were today creamy pale. His irritation transferred itself to her mother. While he had no objection to Tamara being made aware of the honour of his proposal, this insipidity was not what he had expected, nor did he find it at all pleasing.
‘Mrs Gillis –’
Morwenna shot to her feet. ‘Please excuse me, Mr Varcoe. I will just see if my husband has returned. I have been expecting him this past half hour.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Tamara, perhaps our guest would care to take a turn in the garden?’
As the garden, a narrow stretch of grass with a small rose bed in the middle, lay between the house and the boatyard with all its attendant noise, Thomas desired no such thing. ‘Another time perhaps,’ he said firmly. ‘The air is a touch chilly today, and I would not wish Miss Gillis to take cold.’
Reaching the door, Morwenna glanced back, her smile so wide it was almost a grimace. ‘Then I will leave you to talk here by the fire.’
It was obvious to Thomas that she wished him to make an offer and had left Tamara alone with him for that purpose. In other circumstances such blatant manoeuvring would have annoyed him. Today, however, it made things easier. Even so he waited until he heard her footsteps fade. He
wouldn’t have put it past her to listen at the door. He cleared his throat.
‘Miss Gillis – Tamara – I know this is perhaps not the best moment –’
Her head came up and she met his gaze for the first time since he had entered the room. ‘You’ve had news? Of – of your brother, and the crew?’
Put off his stride by her interruption he frowned. ‘No.’ Then, remembering that appearances demanded some sign of grief and regret, he bent his head. ‘No, alas. But I have to resign myself to the knowledge that even if my brother survived the attack and seizure of his boat, the court will demand the ultimate penalty.’ He waited, allowing time for her to realise that Devlin wasn’t coming back. When he looked up he was startled to see her watching him. She was even paler, but her eyes were dry, and he saw no hint of a quiver to her lips. He decided this was a positive sign, and uncrossing his legs, leaned forward.
‘Miss Gillis, my dear Miss Gillis, I would not have wished it this way, but my brother’s untimely passing means that as his next of kin, I will inherit all his estate. This responsibility would be so much easier to bear had I the support of a wife to whom I could turn for comfort. Your mother has led me to believe that an offer of marriage would be favourably received. So all that remains is for me to assure you of my deepest –’ He stopped as Tamara rose quickly from her chair.
‘Forgive me, Mr Varcoe.’ Crossing to the window she stood for a moment then turned to face him. ‘Before you say anything else, there is something I must tell you.’
Thomas sat back and fiddled with his cuffs as he tried to contain his irritation. ‘I must assume it is important. Otherwise such rudeness would be hard to tolerate.’ He saw her throat work as she swallowed.
‘I am with child.’
He stared at her. ‘No.’ Shock, disbelief and fury churned in his chest. His heartbeat hammered in his ears and there was a metallic taste in his mouth.
‘I could not accept you without first –’
‘Your mother knew?’ Thomas’s voice cracked. As Tamara nodded he passed a hand across his face.
‘She was trying to protect –’
Thomas clung to hope. ‘You were attacked?’ He could accept that. God knew there were plenty of rough characters around the village. And when they were in drink – though what she’d have been doing, out alone at night? Though it might not have been night. She rode alone on the moor. What if some of the tinners …?
‘Tell me his name,’ he demanded. ‘I’ll have him thrashed to within an inch of his life. We can deal with this privately. There is no need to involve –’
‘Stop.’ It was the weariness in her voice that silenced him.
‘I was not attacked.’
‘Not … Then what –? Who –?’
She swallowed again, her calm fractured by fleeting anguish. In that instant he knew. He wanted to block his ears, make it untrue. It wasn’t fair.
‘Your brother,’ she said quietly. ‘The child is Devlin’s.’
All the bitterness, resentment, and jealousy that had coloured his every thought since the day his mother died giving birth to his brother raged through him. His entire body shuddered and he clamped lips and teeth tight so the howl of grief and fury that filled his head would not escape. He wanted to smash, break, kill.
Yet despite hating that she had Devlin’s brat in her belly, he still wanted her. He wanted possession and control. He wanted to sate himself on her body and tame her spirit. He wanted people knowing she was his.
Devlin was dead – or as good as. Once the child was born it could be got rid of. There were ways. In the meantime, proceeding with the marriage would save her family from disgrace. They would owe him. And by Christ he’d see that they paid. As for Tamara, as his wife she was his property to do with as he chose. Thinking up new ways to punish her would give him almost as much pleasure as carrying them out. Another tremor shook him and he caught his breath just as Tamara spoke.
‘You will not wish to –’
‘On the contrary.’ Rising from the sofa, Thomas crossed the room and took her cold hand in both of his. ‘You need me.’ As he brushed her knuckles with his lips the door opened. Morwenna stood on the threshold. Her smile was coy but her eyes were wary. He had been flattered by her effusive greeting. Only now did he understand the panic that that underlay it. Oh yes, they would pay.
Chapter Eighteen
Jenefer pulled the candle closer, resting her head on one hand as she added up the column of figures again, hoping this time the totals would match. Her eyes felt gritty and her head ached. But she was almost finished. If she could complete the work tonight she could take everything to Hannah in the morning.
To finish and be paid would mean one less worry. She was so tired, and it was weeks since she had slept right through the night. The moment she closed her eyes and tried to relax she was tormented by memories: arguments with her father, the fire, Martin’s proposal, the pilchard cellar, Hannah Tresidder’s back room, the packet clerk telling her that Martin hadn’t gone to America.
Vivid random snatches, they flared like fireworks, denying her rest, waking her with fear and a racing heart.
Blinking then widening her tired eyes she focused on the figures. She heard a brief sound and assumed it was Ernestine next door. But it came again she realised someone was knocking very quietly on the door.
Putting down her pen she rose from her chair then hesitated. Who would come calling at this time of night? Unless something was wrong. Betsy? Crossing to the door she lifted the bar and opened it. She gasped as Devlin caught her arm, whirled her inside and closed the door again.
Shock made Jenefer light-headed. Reaching blindly for the chair, she was pressed down into it and a cup pushed into her hands.
‘Drink,’ Devlin ordered.
She obeyed. Cold water soothed her parched throat and cleared her vision. She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see – your brother said there’d been a chase – the Revenue cutter – and you were probably dead, or if not –’
‘Thomas told you?’
Jenefer nodded.
‘When? Where?’
‘Yesterday. He came here. He wanted a key to your loft.’
Devlin frowned. ‘Why would he come to you?’
Heat climbing her throat to her cheeks, Jenefer glanced away angry as well as embarrassed. ‘He made assumptions about my living here.’
‘He would.’ Devlin’s tone was scathing.
‘If you remember, I did warn –’
‘Yes, you did.’ He frowned again. ‘How did he hear about the chase?’
‘I don’t know. From one of the landing party maybe? When you didn’t return –’ She stopped as Devlin shook his head.
‘They wouldn’t have gone to the cove until the signal was given. Never mind that now. I need you to take a message to Jared Sweet.’
Jenefer gaped at him. ‘It’s far too late to go visiting. Everyone will be in bed. In any case Betsy is ill and Inez has forbidden callers.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Devlin raked his hair in frustration. ‘Stop being so difficult. I know it’s late. That’s the point. I’d go myself but I dare not risk being seen. I must get hold of Jared.’
‘Why?’ Jenefer demanded, anxious on Betsy’s behalf. ‘What do you want him for?’
As he paced two steps one way then two steps back, clearly battling with himself over whether to tell her, Jenefer’s fear mounted.
He turned to her so abruptly that she jumped. ‘All right. Perhaps you should know. But you cannot tell anyone. Not until we’re back. Do you understand?’
‘Tell anyone what? Back from where?’
‘France. But I have only half my crew. The others are being held in gaol to ensure my return. That’s why I need Jared.’
‘Why are you going to France? You’ve only just –’
‘To rescue a British government agent.’
‘Why you? Why –’
‘Because I know him by sight. It’s
Erisey.’
Jenefer heard the name but it took a moment for all the implications to register. ‘Martin Erisey?’
Devlin nodded. ‘Bringing him back safely to England will buy our freedom. Now will you take the message?’
The blood pounding in her ears, Jenefer gulped water. Martin a government agent? A spy? That would explain his long absence, the lack of letters. But he’d said he was a diplomat. He had lied to her from the beginning. All right, so the danger of his job demanded it. But where did that leave her? If he had lied about his work, what else had he lied about?
Devlin was risking his life to rescue Martin because there was no other way to obtain his crew’s release or his own liberty. But if they all got back safely, what then? Martin had made an offer for her, so he must have intended marriage. He had spent these past months risking his life for his country. All this raced through her mind in moments leaving just one thought. Like Devlin, she had no choice. She had to help. Decisions about her future must wait.
She set down the cup and rose to her feet. ‘Yes, of course.’ While she put on hat, coat, and boots, Devlin gave her instructions.
‘If your sister has taken Jared’s room, he’ll be on a truckle bed in the front room. You must wake him without disturbing anyone else.’
‘I understand.’ Jenefer’s fingers trembled as she tied her laces, and nervousness made her voice strained. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’
‘He’s to meet me as soon as possible.’
‘Where?’
‘He’ll know, and it’s safer if you don’t. I’ll leave now. After I’ve gone close the door quietly and count to twenty. Then you go.’
Obeying his instructions she waited in the shadows at the mouth of the alley for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then she hurried along the empty street. This end of the village was deserted. But she would cut through the narrow cobbled alleys to avoid the men coming out of the Five Mackerel.
She thought about the risk Devlin was taking sailing with only half his crew. But at least they were all alive.
Tamara wouldn’t know that. Jenefer recalled the gossip she had overheard in the shop about Tamara and Devlin, the rumour that Tamara was in trouble. Betsy had always defended her friend, praising her kindness and her artistic ability. But she had been unable or – as she now recognised – unwilling to see past Tamara’s apparently reckless behaviour, condemning her as wild and irresponsible.
