Blake's Reach

by Catherine Gaskin

  ‘I’ve dealt with so-called gentlemen before, Kate. When the horses are rested, I’ll drive over to Old Romney. Whatever sort of person Paul Fletcher is, he still must pay what he owes.’ As she flung herself once again into Charles’s bed she suddenly realized the implication of what she had said.

  ‘God help me,’ she whispered, ‘I’ve thrown my hand in with smugglers.’

  ***

  She fell into an uneasy and dream-filled sleep, but when the sky over the Marsh was streaked green and faint purple in the dawn, she woke and heard them. She leaned far out over the open casement and listened as they went by. The greyness of the morning still hid them, but she knew the sounds well enough ‒ the sounds of heavily-laden horses climbing the hill slowly, the sounds of men’s voices kept low and hushed. When they were passed, she climbed back into Charles’s bed and slept deeply and quietly.

  She woke to a fair spring day, with the sun already high. When she went to the window the scene of the day before was gone. The Marsh was green and soft, the air as clear as polished glass, so that she could see the shipping in the Channel five miles away. Blossom was opening to its full in the tangled orchard; the warm air was alive with the hum of insects.

  And then she remembered that it was hardly yet two months since she had left The Feathers.

  Four

  All of them, Kate, Jed and Lucas recognized that this morning was different from others at Blake’s Reach, and they hung around the kitchen waiting for Jane to appear. They expected orders from her, and she gave them as if she had been doing it all her life. A sense of urgency was upon her, and it made her shrewd and firm as she had never been before.

  First of all she went with Lucas and Patrick to inspect the greys, to stroke their silken noses, and commend Lucas’s grooming, to order the carriage washed and the stables swept. When that was done, Lucas would go to his usual duties of tending the sheep ‒ there were new lambs in the flock, and she was sharply conscious of their worth. Grinning, Patrick helped Lucas move down to the cellar the two half-ankers of brandy, which had nestled innocently in the straw near the greys. Lucas’s movements were eager and swift, as if, after the years of apathy at Blake’s Reach, he welcomed the crispness of the orders. Before him, Jane made no comment over the brandy; if the acceptance of brandy and smugglers was part of the life of the Marsh, she meant to show how completely she belonged here.

  Next Jed was dispatched, with a clip on the ear from Kate to hasten him, to the village ‒ to Appledore, which was nearly a mile away. There he was to round up as many women as could leave their children and the cooking for a few hours, or to bring with them any children old enough to wield a mop or a rake. Jane was counting heavily on their curiosity to bring them, and, in the first flush of their enthusiasm, to get work from their tough, country-bred bodies that would lift the air of grim neglect from Blake’s Reach. There was no money for carpenters and masons, but women and children were cheap to hire. For the present she would have to be content with clean windows and clipped hedges, and shut her eyes to the leaking roof and the crumbling plaster.

  ‘Some day,’ she murmured, half under her breath, ‘I’ll do the job properly!’

  ‘What was that, Mistress?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I said,’ she repeated distinctly, ‘that some day I’ll do the job properly. Some day Blake’s Reach will be the most respected house on the Marsh.’

  And they believed her. There was an immediate scurry to carry out her orders, as if they expected, magically, to see the old house dissolve and re-emerge before their eyes ‒ just because she had said so. She noticed, with a touch of satisfaction, that this morning there was no talk of ‘Master Charlie.’

  ‘Jane!’ She turned at a tug on her skirt. ‘Jane ‒ what shall I do?’ William’s face looked up earnestly into hers.

  ‘You? Why …’ A gleam of mischief appeared in her eyes. ‘Why, William, you can be useful, too. Here …!’ And for the first time in his life William found that his hands held a broom. ‘You can go and help Lucas sweep the stable.’

  He went without a word.

  It was then, when the men were busy, that Kate led her to the drawing-room.

  ‘There was little a body could do to keep a great house like this in order, Mistress, with no help,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘But ’twould have been a crime to let this go. I’ve done what I could …’

  She stepped inside, and Jane looked into the darkened room without much hope. Dust flew out of the curtains as the old woman drew them back. The spring sunlight came flooding in, revealing the long, finely panelled room, hung with portraits. She quickly took in the elaborately carved mantel and cornices, and the handsome high-backed chairs from which Kate was stripping the dust-sheets. Her eyes lit with excitement; she walked rapidly down the length of the room, lifting a cover from a marquetry table, bending to examine the exquisite work on the tapestry-covered chairs. She paused, and absently her hand cut a great swarth in the dust lying on a rosewood harpsichord.

  ‘The Master never used this room,’ Kate said laconically. ‘ “Too cold,” he said. ‘I think, myself, that he never fancied the company of his family on the walls.’

  Jane hardly heard what she was saying; she had begun pulling at a rolled-up carpet lying along one wall. Its colour made her gasp ‒ a brilliant gold and blue, with a texture like velvet.

  ‘The Master said John Blake brought it back from Brussels when he was at the wars.’

  Jane was thinking that not even Anne’s house in Albemarle Street had had anything as fine as this. She fingered it reverently, then looked around the room, and finally at Kate.

  ‘We’ll put it in order,’ she announced. ‘Some of the women who come must help you put it in order. We must have a room fit to receive guests in.’

  ‘Guests? To Blake’s Reach …?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Jane said tartly. ‘There will be guests here and we must receive them fittingly. Now, I want the floor waxed, the mirrors and windows cleaned, the curtains …’ Kate made a nodding acceptance of her instructions, believing by now that whatever Jane said would somehow be so. It was all too bewildering for her to take apart and question. The years since Anne Blake had run away from Blake’s Reach had been dragging and weary ones, and her mind and her footsteps had slowed in acceptance of them. She had accepted the loneliness of this house, and the feeling of doom. She had expected to die knowing it that way. Now she was not fit to resist what Jane decreed, only knowing the joy of hearing a crisp young voice sounding in these rooms again, and the light, impatient tap of a woman’s heels on the boards.

  Jane moved from room to room this way, giving instructions, listening to explanations from Kate. On the way she discovered a chest of tarnished silver, and a stock of glasses begrimed with the dust of years. Patrick rubbed one in his apron, and held it to the light.

  ‘From foreign parts, I’d say, Miss Jane. I’ve seen ones just such as these in Lord Ormby’s house.’ His eyes gleamed over the silver. ‘Heavy as a bad conscience, Mistress,’ he said, feeling it lovingly. ‘I’ll warrant they’ll fetch a good price …’ She shook her head, and laid her hand restrainingly on his.

  ‘No more selling Patrick, until we have no other choice. Clean it, and put it into use.’

  ‘It were too much for me to keep up with,’ Kate said in an aggrieved voice. ‘The Master didn’t care what he ate off … so I stacked it away here …’

  The talk and the small discoveries went on until they heard the voices in the yard. Jed was triumphant at the head of his band; there were eight women, and about as many children, three of them boys of almost thirteen, and strong and big enough for the work Jane wanted. They looked at her with expectant, excited faces, and she reminded herself that she must take the time to give them the gracious salute they considered customary. There were curtsies, and even small gifts ‒ eggs and pots of honey and preserves; there were little speeches of greeting, and expressions of sympathy over her mother’s death. They talked of Anne as
if she had been at Blake’s Reach only yesterday; Jane realized that a number of them would have been about Anne’s age ‒ perhaps had worked here in the kitchen or dairy, and grown up with her. Even her arrogance they had forgiven her, and had loved her for her generosity and high spirits; Anne’s laughter had been a gift to this house, and to everyone who had come under its roof.

  Then they proceeded to the real business of the morning, and they bargained a little over the price to be paid for their help. Everyone enjoyed it; it would have been a disappointment to them all if Jane had accepted their first price. But Sally Cooper had brought Jane up, and she was no one’s fool. Finally the price was settled, and the mops and pails were brought out, the ancient gardening tools were oiled and scraped for rust.

  Strange sounds which Blake’s Reach had not heard in many years began to float out on the clear, bright morning ‒ the sounds of mingled, good-humoured voices, of stiff windows opening, the sounds of shears in the overgrown hedges, and rakes crunching the gravel in the drive. Patrick was everywhere, shouting instructions, pulling ladders about, cleaning a window and then rushing to scrape the mud off the porch, to help a village child pluck weeds from the gravel. The acrid smell of soap and water meeting dust began to blend with the odours from the soup pot on the kitchen stove.

  Clutching his broom, William ran about like a child in an excited dream, useless and unspeakably happy.

  II

  The morning was well on when Jane was free at last to get the key from Spencer’s desk, and start up the hill towards the church. She was happier than she had been for many days, optimistic and confident. She kept twisting her face to get the sun fully on it. The stone church, St Saviour’s-by-the-Marsh, crowned the edge of the old cliff-face at its highest point. The sea that had once washed beneath the cliff was now the flat Marsh land itself, rich and green, dotted with the grazing sheep, and the curving dykes. She turned off the road into the church lane, and then halted. The tracks left by the horses and men were quite distinct in the soft mud.

  She stood thoughtfully, fingering the key in her pocket, gazing absently at the long waving grass in the graveyard, the motionless hands of the black-faced clock in the church tower. The light over the Marsh had a strange, intense quality. She listened to the birds ‒ plovers and a distant lark; there were two herons in the dyke at the bottom of the cliff. Below her the sloping roofs of Blake’s Reach were touched with moss in places. It was a world suddenly familiar to her, and growing dear.

  She turned and followed the path to the side door; the key slipped easily into the oiled lock, and she swung the door open, letting a broad beam of sunlight fall across the grey stone floor.

  The damp and chill struck her instantly ‒ and the strange, pervading smell. She caught her breath in a gasp of astonishment. The lovely, graceful church was piled high along each wall with bales of wool. The greasy smell of wool dominated that musty air, and with it was mingled faintly the woody smell of the brandy casks and the tea boxes. Everywhere ‒ in the aisles, on the pews, in the carved choir stalls ‒ were the bales and casks. She picked her way among them, collecting dust and fluff on her gown as she went. The delicate colonnade of three arches on each side of the nave was disfigured with the costly litter of contraband. She looked around with awe, trying to reckon what the cargo could be worth, and how many men had risked their skins and liberty to land it somewhere down on the Marsh shore during last night’s storm.

  The brandy casks were ranged in rows almost up to the altar itself. She stood at the bottom of the pulpit steps and tried to count them ‒ and gave up. She glanced over her shoulder, the thought striking her suddenly that this was the first time she had ever been in a church quite alone before. On an impulse she mounted the steps, enjoying a sense of power as she stared down at the immovable, silent congregation of wool bales and brandy kegs.

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘John Blake built this church,’ she said loudly, sonorously. The echo, sounding back, startled her. ‘John … this church …’

  She went on. ‘The smugglers own it now.’

  ‘The smugglers … the smugglers …’ it repeated mockingly.

  The next words died in her throat. Horrified she listened to the sound of a key being fitted to the lock. She looked around wildly for a retreat from her absurd position, but there was only time to drop down behind the marble front of the pulpit before the door opened. A man’s heavy tread sounded through the church. She counted the footsteps, purposeful, and growing nearer. About the centre of the aisle he stopped.

  At last he spoke, a calm, assured voice ‒ unmistakably the voice of a gentleman.

  ‘Well, preacher! … Is your sermon finished already? You don’t save much for late-comers!’

  Scarlet with embarrassment and rage, Jane rose slowly to her feet. Standing below her, legs thrust apart and arms folded, was a tall, blond man, whose careless, unpowdered hair was dragged back into a short pigtail. He wore dusty breeches, and his faded, water-stained jacket had been part of a naval officer’s uniform. The markings of rank and insignia had been removed.

  He was smiling at her ‒ a friendly, quizzical grin.

  She returned his stare coldly. ‘Who are you?’ she said, although she had already guessed his identity.

  He dropped his arms and bowed.

  ‘Paul Fletcher, at your service, ma’am.’ He raised his eyes to her again. ‘And you, of course, are the Blake of Blake’s Reach.’

  ‘I have a name!’ she snapped. ‘I’m Jane Howard!’

  He shook his head. ‘It matters not, dear Madam, what your name is. To the Marsh folk you are simply the Blake of Blake’s Reach. And … while you look like Anne Blake come to life again, you can hardly expect to escape it.’

  ‘You knew my mother.’

  ‘I knew her, of course. I was a child when she went away, but even to the young savage I was then, she was unforgettable.’

  Jane had nothing to say to this. The blue-eyed gaze of the man was disconcerting, and she was miserably conscious of all the things that were wrong with this meeting. She had had it planned ‒ a carefully staged piece in which she would drive to visit Paul Fletcher in all her finery of silk and velvet, behind Lord O’Neill’s greys. The advantage would have belonged entirely with her. Now he had caught her, dishevelled from the morning’s work, shouting to this empty church, and must surely think her half-crazy. She had been made to look foolish ‒ and with that had failed to uphold the prestige of the Blakes. She scowled at him.

  ‘Would you please come down, Miss Howard?’ he said politely. ‘I find it difficult to talk to a ghost in a pulpit.’

  She obeyed reluctantly. As she came towards him his eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head slightly.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ he said softly, as if he hardly meant her to hear. ‘The same walk even … almost the same voice …!’ He spoke louder. ‘You’ll have to be patient with the stares you encounter, Miss Howard. Your mother was just about your age when we last saw her. No one here ever saw her grow fat, or her hair fade …’

  She shrugged. ‘Not you, or anyone else, Mr. Fletcher. She didn’t grow fat or faded.

  ‘However,’ she added, ‘it was not my appearance you came to discuss ‒ or my mother’s.’

  He was older than he had appeared from the pulpit. Now she could see the weathered lines in his face, and his eyes were alert and watchful ‒ experienced; his body was strong and heavy-shouldered.

  ‘I was on an errand at Appledore, and I learned that the Blake had come to Blake’s Reach. I came to call, and bid you welcome.’

  ‘You came to call!’ She ran her eyes meaningly over his shabby coat and the stained breeches. He was unperturbed. With equal coolness he surveyed her dusty gown, her hair carelessly drawn back off her forehead.

  ‘The informality of my call was not meant as an offence, Miss Howard. As you can see …’ he indicated the piles of contraband, ‘my business is pressing.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. So is mine.’r />
  He nodded. ‘Naturally, Miss Howard ‒ there are many things to discuss.’ He gestured to the pew behind her. ‘Please sit down ‒ this may take some time.’

  She sat down, perching herself on the edge of the pew. He dragged forward a brandy cask for his own seat.

  ‘Of course, this isn’t your rightful pew. The Blakes belong down there.’ He pointed towards the front of the church. ‘But it’s already full.’

  She looked towards the altar, and noticed for the first time a large, boxed-in pew, on whose front panel was emblazoned the coat of arms which she remembered over the porch at Blake’s Reach. It was set at right angles to the rest of the pews; on its faded blue velvet cushions were piled an assortment of odd-looking bundles, wrapped carefully in tarpaulin.

  ‘Laces fit for a queen,’ Paul Fletcher said. ‘We’re particular to put only the choicest merchandise there.’

  Swiftly she turned back to him. ‘Perhaps the Blakes are a laughing matter to you, Mr. Fletcher, but you’ll hardly expect me to join the mirth. My family might have been fools, but I am one member of it who isn’t going to be laughed out of what is rightfully their property. There’s a question of some money to be settled between us.’

  He leaned towards her, both his hands resting on his knees. ‘Let us understand each other,’ he said carefully. ‘The smuggling fraternity is tightly-knit, and we keep to our own rules. Certainly we make a living by not paying the King his revenue ‒ but we do expect to pay for our privilege. Our business is highly organized, and it isn’t run on debts. We use this church, and we pay for it.’

  ‘There’s been no money paid since Spencer Blake died.’

  ‘Naturally not! Whom should we pay?’

  With great deliberation she turned away from him and looked about her. She looked at the wool bales, the brandy casks, the tea-boxes, and at the bundles of lace in the front pew.

  ‘There’s a great deal of money in this cargo, Mr. Fletcher.’ She pointed to the bales stacked against the far wall. ‘You’ll get a good price for that on the Continent. The weavers in Holland pay well, I hear. Of course, there a rub in handling so much ‒ you need a good, large store, don’t you? Somewhere not too close to the sea, and not too far inland.’