Eye of the Wind

EYE OF THE WIND

A novel by Jane Jackson

Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2012

ISBN 9781909335202

Copyright © Jane Jackson 2012

The right of Jane Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

Chapter One

Melissa looked along the gleaming mahogany table toward her father as his shaking fingers turned the crystal goblet round and round.

‘The whole point of the battle was to prevent the merchant fleet reaching France. Yet though our navy captured six French ships of war and sank another, that American grain still reached Brest.’ Francis Tregonning shook his head.

She wished she could find words that might comfort him.

Though there were only the three of them at table tonight he had taken particular care with his appearance. A square-tailed frock coat of dark blue brocade over a waistcoat of cream figured satin, breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes, indicated respect for the sad occasion, but not mawkishness. She had aimed for similar effect with her own long-sleeved chemise gown of white muslin over lilac watered silk.

‘Still.’ He sighed, before raising his glass and swallowing deeply. ‘I suppose it was a victory of sorts.’

‘Indeed it was, Papa. Remember how the papers mocked the French for their poor ship-handling and gunnery?’ She studied him, trying to hide her anxiety. A large man, sturdily built, his face had grown thinner of late. No longer full and firm, it had fallen into deep grooves. There were new lines around eyes sunk deep below his bushy brows. Beneath his elderly wig his cheeks were unnaturally flushed.

‘Yes, but if Howe had renewed the action –’

‘It still would not –’ She stopped abruptly. But her father guessed.

‘You’re right, of course. It would not have made any difference. Not to Adrian. The letter said he died early in the battle.’

Melissa reached across to touch her father’s hand.

Glancing at her, he smiled wearily. ‘I know. Talking about it won’t change anything. And we have much to be thankful for. When I think of Sir John Poldyce …’ He shook his head. ‘To have lost a son in battle is bad enough. But to lose another to a duel … Such a waste. Yet life goes on. We go on.’ He was silent for a moment, then raised his glass in salute. ‘To Adrian.’

‘To Adrian,’ Melissa echoed, glancing at her mother over the rim of her glass.

Emma Tregonning’s hand trembled and she barely wet her lips before setting down her glass. In her half-mourning of lavender glazed cotton worn over a quilted silk petticoat of paler hue, she looked as small and fragile as a bird. Puffed white gauze filled the low neckline of her bodice, hiding a now non-existent bosom. Her world might have collapsed with the loss of her son, but she still clung to standards. Her brown hair, beneath a small lace cap, had been carefully dressed in curls and gathered into a low chignon at the back. But over the last 12 months the silver threads at her temples had broadened into wings.

Aware of this poignant anniversary, Mrs Betts had taken special pains with the meal. Melissa was relieved to see her father eating, though she doubted he was truly aware of what passed his lips.

She felt slightly ashamed of her own robust appetite. But, having that morning ridden out to the farm to collect this quarter’s rent, then later taken a long and furious gallop to try and dispel the inevitable frustration of her aunts’ visit, she had come down to dinner ravenous.

Her mother was finding it harder to cope. As the butler leant down to serve her a portion of salmon in a lemon and Madeira sauce with steamed asparagus tips, Emma raised her hand in refusal.

‘Lobb, please tell Mrs Betts how much I appreciate her efforts, but I find I have little appetite this evening.’

Exactly a year ago, on 1st June 1794, her firstborn son, a second lieutenant on one of His Majesty’s frigates, had been killed in action against the French.

Melissa had been shocked and saddened when the news came. It still grieved her to think she would never see him again. But, ten years her senior, Adrian had gone away to school when she was only three. George, two years younger, had followed his brother to school, then into the navy. Duty had sent them to far-flung corners of the globe, making their visits home rare and brief. So to her, growing up virtually an only child, they were strangers.

Though she loved them, for they were her brothers, her strongest feeling toward them was gratitude. Had they chosen to enter the family business instead of the navy, her life would have been far less fulfilling. She would also have been less of an embarrassment to her mother and the rest of the Tregonning family.

‘Mama, I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier. I received a letter from Robert this morning.’ It was nearly two months since his last. But he had warned her at the beginning that even if his duties allowed him time for writing letters, he was rarely ashore to post them, and would have to rely on a passing packet-ship.

Emma’s head came up and her eyes, washed of colour by the ocean of tears she had shed, brightened briefly. ‘That’s nice, dear. What does he say? I don’t suppose –’

‘No, Mama.’ Melissa was gentle, hating to disappoint. ‘He didn’t mention George. But as Robert is in the Mediterranean with Admiral Hotham’s fleet, and George is in the West Indies with Admiral Jervis, it is very unlikely their paths would cross.’

‘Has Robert been in action?’ Francis asked.

Melissa nodded. ‘On 14th March. He says they took two French warships.’

Francis straightened in his chair. ‘That’s more like it. Vice-Admiral Hood shattered the French navy in ’93 when he burned Toulon dockyard and captured 15 French frigates. If our commanders will keep up the pressure, the French have no hope of building ships fast enough to replace those captured or sunk.’

Though Robert’s descriptions of British encounters with the French were always carefully phrased, Melissa’s imagination had created its own vivid images of war at sea, fuelled by articles in the newspapers and snatches of male conversation overheard at assemblies. She visualised the chaos and carnage. Officers directing sweating men toiling at thundering guns, all about them noise and smoke, the acrid stench of gunpowder, spars falling, canvas and rigging shot away, and the deck gritty with sand strewn to give bare feet grip on a deck slippery with blood.

Robert’s letters had given her an understanding of what Adrian had faced. But she could picture all too clearly how he had died. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, her skin tightened in a shiver. She gave herself a mental shake. Such thoughts achieved nothing. Yet, though Adrian had been her childhood hero, she was finding it increasingly difficult to remember his face.

This had worried her terribly. So much so that, one day, when Dr Wherry had been visiting her mother, she had drawn him aside as he was about to leave. It had taken her a moment to screw up her courage, for it seemed such a dreadful admission. But to her enormous relief he had told her it was perfectly natural and no cause either for shame or alarm.

‘Please.’ Emma raised her napkin to her lips then replaced it on her lap. ‘Might we talk of something else?’

‘Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry.’ Melissa was guilt-stricken. Though Emma had tried to handle her grief with the dignity befitting a gentlewoman, her increasing ill-health was an indication of how desperately hard she had taken Adrian’s death. Melissa turned again to her father.

‘You must be pleased with progress on the new packet, Papa. When I was at the yard yesterday Tom was saying how well they are getting on. But he’s becoming concerned about the wood store. It’s –’

‘Yes, all right.’ He lifted a hand, fending her off with a weary gesture. ‘I’ll organise something. There’s just been so much to think about recently.’

Unease feathered across Melissa’s mind like a cat’s paw of wind on still water. He was tired. He was concerned about her mother’s health. With the first anniversary of Adrian’s death imposing additional strain, it was not surprising he should have become vague and forgetful in recent weeks.

‘Mama, what do you think we should name her?’

‘Who?’ Emma blinked.

‘The new packet-ship.’

‘I don’t know.’ Emma raised a nervous hand to the gauze at her throat. ‘Won’t the Post-Master General name her?’

‘He’s only responsible for naming those the post office pays to have built. Isn’t that so, Papa?’

Francis nodded. ‘But this one is being paid for with private money. As we hold the largest number of shares in her, then you, my dear –’ he smiled down the table at his wife ‘– should have the honour and privilege of choosing a name for her.’

Emma covered her mouth with her fingertips. ‘Goodness. What if I choose the wrong name?’

‘If you choose something you like it will be perfect.’

‘Melissa.’ Francis Tregonning sat forward, linking his hands on the polished table. ‘My dear –’

‘What your father is trying to say –’ Emma broke in sharply ‘– is that while your interest in the shipyard and estate are truly commendable, it is time you were thinking beyond them, to marriage.’

‘Why, Mama? Truly, I would much prefer to go on helping Papa.’

‘And you’ve done a wonderful job of it,’ her father rumbled. ‘I don’t know how I’d have … Especially after … But there are certain things even you … Melissa, the business needs a man at the helm.’

‘It has one, Papa, you.’

‘I’m not as young as I was. And the truth is it’s more than I can manage.’

Melissa caught her lower lip between her teeth to stop the denials spilling out. She had guessed as much, though she had been unwilling to recognise it. If her father too had come to the realisation, then it would be both patronising and dishonest to argue with him. Though hating to see him forced to acknowledge his failing powers, she must accept the reality.

‘Is there not some other way we might deal with this? Is it really necessary that I marry?’

Emma gazed at her daughter with a quizzical frown. ‘I don’t understand; why are you so set against marriage?’

‘I’m not, Mama. But of the men who have shown interest in me, each in his different way has left me in no doubt that I should consider myself fortunate to have his attention. Nor can I feel flattered to receive an offer from an impoverished baronet who makes it plain that it is my dowry rather than my person that attracts him.’

Emma’s expression was sympathetic. ‘I understand, my dear. But that is the way these things are done.’

‘I know, Mama. I have learnt –’ how painfully she had learnt ‘– not to expect romantic declarations. But I do feel I deserve more than mere tolerance just because I happen to be – different. When – if – I ever meet a man who sees beyond what Sir William chooses to call my freakish height, a man who values me for myself, then I will be happy to marry. Until then, I would much rather –’ She broke off, aware of how selfish she sounded. ‘Is it really so urgent?’ She watched her mother’s struggle to find the right words.

‘My dear, you are now one-and-twenty. You have been four seasons out in society. Your Aunt Louisa was saying only this afternoon that there is talk you haven’t
taken
, that you will soon be considered unmarriagable.’

‘Dear Aunt Louisa,’ Melissa murmured. ‘So kind, such sensitivity.’

‘She does mean well, Melissa. She believes we have a right to know what is being said. If we are not aware, we cannot hope to quash such cruel gossip.’

‘I’m sorry, Mama, truly I am. But to have to sit in silence and listen while my aunts discuss my future – and as for Aunt Sophie suggesting Lord Stratton as a possible suitor, a man I have never met, and do not wish to –’ Melissa struggled against rekindled anger. ‘A perfect match indeed. I cannot imagine why she should think so.’

‘You did not give her a chance to tell you,’ her mother pointed out.

‘I certainly did not! Mama, how could she even speak his name? After what he did.’

‘I agree, dear. It was quite wrong of her.’

‘I know she had no high opinion of me, but to imagine I would even consider … His father must have powerful friends indeed.’

Emma looked puzzled. ‘I’m sure he has. But –’

‘I would think far better of the Marquis of Lansdowne had he made his son stay and face justice instead of helping him flee the country.’

‘We don’t know that he helped –’ Emma began.

‘Oh come, Mama. With his elder son a semi-invalid and the succession at stake? Of course he helped.’

‘When I was a girl –’ Emma toyed restlessly with her napkin, the snowy starched linen now creased and crumpled ‘– duels were fought all the time. Of course, we were not supposed to know. Such matters were not considered suitable for a lady’s ears, even though it was most unusual for anyone to be actually killed.’

‘Someone died this time,’ Melissa reminded her.

Emma sighed. ‘It’s such a sad business for both families. Clearly Lord Stratton would be quite unsuitable. Besides, he is the
younger
son. I only mention this in passing, my dear, but do you think you might consider the possibility of his elder brother?’

‘Mama!’ Suddenly, and quite inappropriately, Melissa giggled. ‘Have you no heart? What would the poor frail Earl of Roscarrock make of me?’

‘Mmm, perhaps not,’ Emma reluctantly allowed. ‘Though I must say, to see you a countess would have been truly …’ She sighed. ‘Well, if it is not to be, and I am sure you are right, surely there must be someone who –’

Melissa lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. ‘I’m too tall, Mama.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Emma scolded, looking to her husband for support. ‘Tell her, my dear.’

‘Your mother’s right, Melissa. Though I admit you are somewhat above average height for a girl, that is not –’

‘Papa, at six feet in my stockings I am a freak.’

‘No, Melissa, I will not have you say so.’

‘I
tower
over most of the men I meet.’

‘But you are also a young woman of admirable qualities, as well as one of great social accomplishment.’

‘I do play cards well. And so I should, for that is how I spend most of my time at assemblies.’

Francis frowned. ‘But you are an excellent dancer.’

‘Thank you, Papa. Though I love to dance, I rarely have an opportunity to do so. Men simply do not like partners taller than themselves. They like to feel protective.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘It would take more imagination than most men possess to view me as fragile or in need of protection.’