Blake's Reach

by Catherine Gaskin

  It was a story Charles had heard the night before from Robert Turnbull, but on Jane’s lips it had reality.

  ‘An amazing woman!’ he said to Paul as he finished the re-telling.

  ‘Yes … amazing,’ Paul echoed, and there was a twist of pain in his heart to have to discuss Jane in this way with a man who fifteen minutes earlier, had been dead to him.

  Charles accepted more brandy, and sniffed and rolled it on his tongue appreciatively. He was silent for a little time, as if weighing up the man in whose house he sat. He examined, with minute detail, everything he saw ‒ the jumble of books, the charts spread in seeming confusion, the mariner’s instruments, and lastly, the work-hardened hands of the man himself.

  He put aside the glass. ‘So then,’ he said, ‘after Jane told me all this, I rode into Rye to see Turnbull again.’ He paused, looking carefully at Paul. ‘From him I came directly here.’

  ‘So …?’ Paul said.

  ‘So … you must guess why I’ve come. I want to join you and Jane. I want a part of the Dolphin.’

  Paul’s gathering resentment broke out then. He spoke quickly. ‘And what the devil makes you think you can just walk in here out of the blue and say “I want part of the Dolphin”? What makes you think you’ve any chance of getting it?’

  Charles waved him to silence. ‘I’m sorry if I offend you ‒ but my own need is urgent to force me to be blunt. It’s quite simple. The Government of the Revolution has taken every sou I owned, every hectare of land. I come here and find that my uncle, Spencer Blake, didn’t weaken with age in his determination to leave nothing of Blake’s Reach for his heirs.’ He spread his hands. ‘What am I to do? ‒ I need money.’

  ‘And do you think you can join us without contributing your share?’ Paul said coldly. ‘Or is that your price for allowing Jane to remain at Blake’s Reach? ‒ if so, then she doesn’t need to remain. There are other doors open to her …’

  ‘You go too fast, Mr. Fletcher. And too far.’ Charles quite deliberately waited to take a leisurely sip of his brandy before he picked up again.

  ‘As I said ‒ I need money. And I haven’t forgotten that here the quickest way to make money is in smuggling. For that I’m prepared to do more than contribute my share. I want to buy the Dolphin outright.’

  ‘Buy it! I don’t see …’

  ‘Unlike Jane, Mr. Fletcher, I, being the heir, have the right to sell the King’s Pearl.’

  It was true, of course, Paul thought. For the first time he stopped to wonder if his words to Charles had been too hasty, and spoken clumsily. Possession of the Pearl implied a great many things, among them the fact that if Charles had wanted to take the Dolphin from him, he need not be here talking about it. The boat-builder at Folkestone was ready to sell it to whomever came with the purchase price in his hand. Charles could have had it without consulting either himself or Jane. Even in the light of this thought Paul wasn’t prepared to like the French any better, but now he reminded himself that Charles Blake was half-English, and also that he had been brought up on the Marsh.

  He tried to cover his apprehension with unconcern. He shrugged. ‘I see … then I’m in your hands, Mr. Blake … as far as the Dolphin is concerned.’

  ‘Quite the contrary!’ Charles answered. ‘Do you think I could run this operation without you, or someone as skilled as you are? Do I look like a seaman to you? ‒ or do you imagine these people would follow me as they do you? It’s obvious that I shall need your services and your help.’

  He smiled a little. ‘No less an authority than Robert Turnbull assures me that for this job there’s no better man on the whole coast than Paul Fletcher.’

  ‘Turnbull assures you? How the hell does he know what kind of a man I am?’

  Charles’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I assumed that you would know …’

  ‘Know what?’ He almost shouted the words.

  ‘… that Turnbull has money invested with almost every smuggling operation of size between here and Dover!’

  ***

  Afterwards Paul thought that he must have made some vague reply to Charles’s statement, but he had no recollection of it. He got to his feet slowly, fumbling for the glass, and walked over to the table where he had put the decanter. He poured brandy into his empty glass, not because he wanted it, but because he suddenly found himself standing there, and he needed to give his hands something to do. Then he wandered to the window, and gazed out without seeing anything. Turnbull involved in smuggling … the thought needed getting used to … And not just involved in it in a small way, as many people were, but up to his neck in it! What shocked Paul was that he, who was so deeply in the smuggling trade himself, had not guessed where it was that a country attorney would get the money to live in such style, or what kind of clients Turnbull had who kept him riding back and forth across the Marsh, instead of sitting solidly at his desk in Watchbell Street. He played with the picture of Robert Turnbull in this new role for a minute, fitting together the pieces, seeing the advantages the attorney would have. There were few people who had such a close knowledge of this whole area, or who could talk privately with so many different types of people without the slightest suspicion resting on him. He made friends easily, and he was trusted, and since an attorney’s business was always private, no one would question his comings and goings. His alert mind would store information as he plied his acquaintances with ale or wine, and what would be easier than to pass it on to the quarter where it could be most helpful. A man without an enemy, was Robert Turnbull, and the whole Marsh tumbled its problems and its gossip into his ready ear. The enigma now made sense, and Paul was conscious of a dawning feeling of admiration for Turnbull, who could play the role of the bystander with such ease. It annoyed him to recall how many times he himself had been deceived ‒ not so much deceived, as simply unaware. He began to feel foolish because he had never before seen or suspected what was now so plain; at the same time he could admire the discipline that had kept Turnbull firmly in the background. Few men could have been in his position of power, and never succumb to the urge to use it.

  Or had he used it? ‒ suddenly Paul remembered that Turnbull was his brother’s attorney, and he remembered how James had always seemed unwilling to give direct answers to Paul’s questions, had delayed giving instructions, had seemed to wait on the word and command of someone else. If James was connected with Turnbull in smuggling operations it explained many things … how James had got his contacts, how he had information about the movements of the Revenue cruisers and Preventive officers up and down the countryside, how he had had plans laid, and a ready-formed group of men to carry them out when Paul had come back to the Marsh. Turnbull had been, no doubt, the source of all this.

  Abruptly he turned back to Charles. ‘And how long have you known about Turnbull?’ he demanded roughly.

  ‘How can I remember? ‒ it’s a very long time ago. It was Turnbull who first asked Spencer to agree to rent the church on the cliff as a hide … more than twenty years ago, that must be. Turnbull was a young man then.’

  ‘All that time …!’ Paul shrugged again, trying to dismiss his irritation. ‘Then he’s devilish clever!’

  Then he added, quickly, ‘What I don’t understand is why he gave Jane the loan of that money … of course he must have guessed what she wanted to do with it. He must have known she would find out about the church, and not stop until she knew the rest of the story. He must also have known that, if our venture together was successful, I’d refuse to work for my brother any longer. He cut off one of his own sources of profit ‒ why?’

  ‘Probably because a woman asked him, and that woman was Jane,’ Charles said. ‘Turnbull has given a lifetime of service to the Blakes, and for Anne or Jane I feel that he would give much more than service. Even for me, who during these years has grown almost a stranger to him, he did more than could possibly be expected of him. He was the only man I trusted when I lived here on the Marsh … Did you know he has been sending money all the t
ime I’ve been in prison to try and buy my freedom? Is it surprising that he should find himself unable to refuse Jane? Even if it meant a loss to himself?’

  He added, quietly. ‘So I’ve asked him if he will join us ‒ if he would like to have a share in the cargoes of the Dolphin. Do you have any objections?’

  ‘Objections?’ Paul repeated dryly. ‘I’m not giving the orders any more. And it seems that I’m back working for my old employer …’ He leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling, a quizzical, half-defensive grin on his face. ‘What luck I have! Just time for one cargo from the Dolphin, and already Jane has been in danger, the Dragoons have been at my heels, and now you land on the beach. It’s a wonder we didn’t have the good fortune to bring you over from France as well. Under the circumstances, that would have been entirely fitting.’

  Charles rose to his feet, laughing a little, and shaking his head. ‘Ah, my friend … I’m too lately delivered from prison to wish to put my foot on another man’s neck. You’ll be master of your ship, that I promise you. And as for Turnbull ‒ he has long since learned the skill of remaining in the background, and, as you know, he can sometimes be of very great value. We each of us need the other … it’s as well to bear that in mind.’

  He put out his hand to Paul. ‘Turnbull will come to Blake’s Reach to-morrow afternoon. May I expect you then also? I thought it only fair to Jane that she should hear what final arrangements we make between us. You agree …?’

  Paul nodded, taking the other’s hand firmly. Then he stood by the cottage door and watched Charles ride away towards Blake’s Reach, noting his relaxed air and his splendid seat on the horse. He was hatless, and his unpowdered black hair gave him a jaunty, nonchalant look, almost gipsy-like if one did not see the face beneath it ‒ the sensitive, rather weary face with the dark eyes that had stared at death for a long time. Paul had searched for qualities in this man that his talk with the French merchants and fishermen had led him to expect in the despised aristocrat of their description. As different as the French and English court and society were, so he had looked to find those differences in Charles Blake. He had looked for the airs and manners of the nobles who had gossiped and flirted the days away at Versailles, whose refinements and fopperies were imitated by Europe, and whose perversions gave scandal to the world.

  As usual, Paul thought, rumour had been coloured and exaggerated, or else Charles Blake had not been touched by the reeking stench of decay that had hung over all French institutions. Charles had been less than a day in England, and already he was firmly gathering up the threads of his inheritance, weaving the strands closer and stronger, making the best that he could of its texture. Even with the effects of prison and the voyage from France still on him, he had set about taking his affairs in hand with a firmness and confidence that Paul could not help but admire. There was boldness and purpose in Charles Blake; it remained to see whether there was also staying power.

  After Charles had left him, he had gone, more from a sense of restlessness than for a real purpose, into Rye. There, as he had expected, the place buzzed with the news of Charles’s return. He sat moodily over his brandy in The George and listened to the comments and speculations passed on every side of him. They ranged from predictions of final and complete ruin for Blake’s Reach, to the rosiest dreams of future prosperity; almost in the same minute he heard opinions that the touch of Charles’s effete aristocracy was all the estate needed to finish it, or that he would revive and restore it with the money he had inherited from his mother. The opinions varied according to whether or not the speaker had approved of Jane; now that she was deposed some were regretful, others were slyly glad. Silently Paul cursed their busy tongues, and wondered why he had come to hear what he knew quite certainly would be said.

  And they were saying it. As the unspoken thoughts had formed in his heart, he heard the words uttered aloud. They said that Jane would have Blake’s Reach in any case ‒ that she had always meant to have it, and there was one sure way. Charles had come without a wife to Blake’s Reach, and Jane would see he did not stay that way for long. She had a better head for business than her mother, and would never allow things to drift as Anne had done. Jane and William would never leave Blake’s Reach.

  Close to Paul, a man stretched out for his replenished tankard and said confidently, ‘It weren’t no light-minded thing that red-head did ‒ coming all the way from London to Blake’s Reach and spending good money on it. She has her heart fixed on it, and she’ll have it, one way or t’other.’

  Paul wanted to stand up and shout to the crowded room that it was not so, to deny it with all his strength ‒ but that was impossible because he was himself unable to stifle the doubt that had come to occupy and possess his heart. She said she loved him, and he wanted to believe it; but there was no telling how strong her attachment to the ideal of family and tradition had become. To him it was a false ideal, but to Jane it was new and exciting, and there was a chance that it might prove stronger than whatever she felt for him. Now Charles had returned, the real and legitimate heir to Blake’s Reach, and he was no weakling fool, but a man who appeared to have combined some of the best results of good birth and character, a sharp-witted man willing to take a risk, a man with no illusions, but a dangerous charm.

  Not even the repeated brandies Paul drank, as the evening wore on, would still the doubt. He had to face the worst danger he had yet known ‒ and he could take no action against a formless untouchable enemy.

  He still carried his fear and apprehension as he rode towards Blake’s Reach to keep his appointment with Charles ‒ that, and the headache the brandy had left him. He was afraid of what he would see that afternoon; he was afraid to have his fears confirmed.

  As he turned up the hill towards the house he saw a horseman by the gates. It was Robert Turnbull, and he had dismounted and stood talking to William; the heads of William and the attorney were close together. At Paul’s approach Turnbull straightened.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said pleasantly. His lips were slightly smiling.

  It was a shock for Paul to look closely at Turnbull and to realize that, unconsciously, he had been expecting a change in the man’s appearance. It was strange to know suddenly some of the things that had been hidden beneath the facade of the busy, respectable legal business in Watchbell Street, and to see that Turnbull himself betrayed none of these things. He was discreet and affable, as always, dressed in his usual expensive, quiet clothes. The glance he turned on William was kindly and warm.

  Paul began to feel that it would be easier to command the Dolphin for Turnbull directly, than to do it through the agency of his brother. His features relaxed. ‘Good afternoon,’ he replied.

  Then he looked at William. ‘How are you? How are George and Washington?’

  ‘They’re well,’ William said hastily. But his mind was on something more exciting. ‘My Cousin Charles has come back,’ he said. ‘He escaped from prison in a coffin. He escaped from the Frenchies.’

  ‘Yes ‒ I know.’

  ‘And he’s going to live here now,’ William went on. ‘He’s going to live here with Jane and me. Jane said he really owns Blake’s Reach … but we don’t have to go! We can stay here … and Charles took me riding with him this morning. We went clear across to Saltwood Castle. I’ve never seen anyone ride as well as my Cousin Charles …’

  Paul felt the dismay rising in his heart again as he looked at the bright, eager face of the child.

  II

  Already Blake’s Reach was different. Following Turnbull into Spencer’s old sitting-room, Paul felt the difference. Jane had cleaned and put this room into order, but she had never been able to dent the masculine stamp Spencer had put upon it. Now Charles had come, and he had made this room his own ‒ in a subtle fashion, without changing it visibly. There was no doubt who would be master in this house.

  Paul’s eyes went immediately to Jane, who sat on a high-backed chair with her bandaged leg resting on a footstool. He
examined her face carefully, and felt the difference there, too; Jane was not sure of herself. She was wary of Charles, and feeling her way. But, Paul noticed, she didn’t appear to draw any sense of comfort or support either from his own presence. She smiled at him, but it was a brief smile. It was the first time he had seen her since they had stood together on the shingle at Barham, but there seemed to be no acknowledgement of that in the rather reserved look she gave him. She put up her hand uncertainly to toy with the curls that lay on her forehead. He realized she must have arranged them that way to hide the cut Charles had told him about; she was pale, and her body seemed tense. He moved to go and take a seat near her, but she had started to talk to Turnbull. Disheartened, he stood where he was.

  Then Charles came in, and they looked at him expectantly. In a quiet voice he greeted them, and poured wine for Paul and Turnbull. Jane declined it, and he took none for himself. Paul found himself, even in Jane’s presence, unable to take his eyes off the tall figure in the same threadbare coat of yesterday, who had taken his stance, his legs astride, before the mantel. He came to the business of the afternoon without preliminaries.

  To-morrow, he said, he was going to London, and he would offer the King’s Pearl as security against a loan. He would bargain for the highest price he could get, and trust to luck to pay it back before the Pearl should be forfeited.

  ‘I agree with Jane,’ he said, looking from one face to the other, ‘that if the Pearl has to go, it has to go ‒ because Blake’s Reach has never stood in such need of what it can bring.’

  They discussed then the details of using the money. Paul was to negotiate the purchase of the Dolphin from the Folkestone boat-builder, but Charles was to be the outright owner. All four of them were to share equally in the costs of the cargo, but Charles, as owner, would take two-fifths of the profits.