Eye of the Wind (2 page)

‘Such men are fools, and not worthy of you,’ her father said gruffly. ‘No man was ever blessed with a better daughter. I don’t know how I would have managed –’ He broke off, looking away.

‘Oh Papa.’ She laid her hand briefly on his forearm. He was not a demonstrative man, but she knew he loved her, and she wanted him to know how much his love and approval meant.

‘A good marriage will ensure your place in society. Melissa, your mother and I want you to be happy. You know I value your help in managing the estate and the yard. I see no reason why that should cease. Though when children start to come along … Still, that’s for the future, eh? In the meantime, the way the war is going, we should be expanding the yard to meet the demand for new ships. I’m getting old, and I’m tired. Expansion means even more work. And though I have the utmost faith in your abilities, I know, and you do too, that you could not handle it on your own. Please, for my sake, and your mother’s, will you think about what we’ve said?’

‘And go to the assemblies?’

His face creased in a weary smile. ‘Are they really such a bore?’

Knowing she had no choice, Melissa forced a smile as she lied, ‘No, Papa, of course not. Perhaps I have been too choosy. But you are the standard by which I judge the men I meet, and I find it difficult to settle for less.’

‘Now don’t think you have to rush into anything. All we want is that you keep an open mind.’ He looked to his wife for confirmation.

Emma nodded her agreement. ‘Truly, dear, we want you to be happy. And for a woman the greatest chance of happiness in society lies within the married state. So please do think about it.’ She touched her napkin to her lips once more. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire.’

Noting the twin patches of colour high on her mother’s cheekbones and the glitter in her eyes, Melissa rose immediately and went to her mother’s side.

‘Oh Mama, why didn’t you say you were unwell? Do you think it’s another cold?’

‘I do feel a trifle feverish, dear. This afternoon was something of a strain. But they do have our interests at heart.’

Melissa did not believe that for a moment. Could her mother really not see what lay behind the concern of her sisters-in-law? Or was she defending their motives to spare herself more heartache? If so, who could blame her? But Melissa had no doubts whatsoever that her happiness mattered not a jot to her aunts.

They did not approve of her involvement in the shipyard or estate matters, and wanted her married off as soon as possible. Who she married was immaterial to them. In the meantime their only concern was that her activities should not in any way reflect on their families, or damage their own children’s marriage prospects.

‘Come, Mama, I’ll take you upstairs.’ Drawing the thin arm through her own, Melissa led her mother from the dining-room.

‘But what will you do for the rest of the evening?’

‘I shall sit and talk with Papa.’

‘But he’s going into Truro.’

As her mother’s voice grew shrill with anxiety, Melissa realised it was important to get her settled as quickly as possible. The day had taken more out of her than any of them had realised.

‘Oh Mama,’ she teased, gently pressing her mother’s arm; there was so little flesh on the fragile bones. ‘I am not a child needing to be amused. I have plenty to keep me occupied. Now stop worrying.’

Handing her mother into the capable and comforting hands of Addey, her childhood nurse and now her personal maid, Melissa went to her own room. She had no desire to remain indoors. The cloud had cleared to reveal a beautiful evening. She would take a stroll across the fields above the woods.

From her closet she took out a light shawl fringed and embroidered in silk. Closing the door, she caught sight of her reflection in the cheval glass. Suppressed emotion from the discussion with her parents had left shadows in her green eyes. Though it had been overcast that afternoon, riding without a hat had deepened her skin’s golden tint. She shrugged. What use was a porcelain complexion when you stood head and shoulders above most of your acquaintances?

Tilting her head, she surveyed her image with critical objectivity. Riding kept her figure slim and firm, though perhaps her shoulders were wider than most from controlling a succession of big hunters. Yet she would have looked, and felt, ridiculous mounted on one of the light-boned hacks favoured by her contemporaries.

For dinner she had released her hair from its confining ribbon, allowing it to cascade loose down her back: a fashion that pleased her in that it demanded little time or effort.

Raven black, glossy, and naturally curly, her hair was a source of intense envy and annoyance to her female cousins who derided their own fair colouring, claiming their delicate complexions would have shown to much greater advantage against dark hair. Why, they demanded unanswerably, had she been blessed with what would have been of far more use to them? It was so unfair.

Why indeed? With an ironic smile at her reflection, Melissa turned away. Quickly changing her satin slippers for ankle boots, she swung the shawl around her shoulders and went out.

Crossing the paved terrace, she skipped down the shallow stone steps onto the gently sloping lawn. At the bottom, she climbed over the fence with speed born of practice and a desire never to be caught in such an unladylike act.

On the far left of the field, where the fence bordered the carriage drive, several horses grazed in the long shadows cast by the avenue of slim Cornish elms. She set off at an angle across the park, passing a massive horse chestnut decorated with candle-like flower spikes. A large bough, dense with leaves, lay on the grass. It must have come down after last week’s storm. It was a rare summer that didn’t see at least one great branch broken off by the weight of rain in the foliage.

She hesitated, wondering if she ought to check the woods to see if any more trees had fallen. But it was too late tonight. In any case, the wet spring had produced so much new growth her light muslin gown would never survive the twigs and brambles. She would try to get down there in the next few days.

She walked on, thinking over all her parents had said. As their only daughter she had a duty to make a good marriage. Yet since entering society, she had not met one man she wished to her own fault. They had not told her how they had arrived at this conclusion, merely scolded her for her arrogance in denying what to everyone else was perfectly clear: that considering her
disadvantages
, she was fortunate to receive any gentleman’s addresses. It was not just her height that told against her, her impertinence in involving herself in matters considered men’s business was both unseemly and unnatural.

But the idea of marriage without love or respect, and at the very least some shared interests, was something she could not contemplate. And how could she respect men who considered intelligence in a woman a handicap? One would-be suitor had actually prefaced his proposal with this statement. Another, whose horsemanship she admired, had confided that she would suit him well for she reminded him of his favourite brood mare.

In making their declarations, neither had given even the smallest consideration to her feelings. Yet both had been startled then aggrieved by her polite but firm refusal. Why had they assumed that because, in the words of Tom Ferris, the yard foreman, she was “some ’andsome great maid”, she could not feel hurt? Why should sensitivity be the prerogative of small, doll-like young women, who simpered prettily, and fluttered their eyelashes above their fans, playing the coquette as they gazed up with tilted heads?

Melissa sighed. It was impossible, unless you were an acrobat, to look coquettish when the top of your partner’s head only came up to your chin.

About her feet, bees droned lazily amid purple clover. Magpies
chacked
and clattered, and high overhead a buzzard soared in effortless circles.

Her brothers had never shown the slightest interest in the estate
.
She, on the other hand, had since childhood followed her father about like a shadow, never happier than when riding with him over Bosvane’s farm to collect the rent, or discuss yields and the new season’s planting.

Down in the creek beyond the woods she glimpsed curving mud banks gilded by the lowering sun and the narrow seep-water channel winding sinuously between them. The faint mournful cry of gulls rose and fell on the breeze. The boatyard was not visible from here, but she knew every inch of it.

She loved watching progress on the bigger ships under construction, and seeing small boats leave with repairs completed, replaced by others with weather damage or rot that needed attention.

Her aunts found such interests incomprehensible, besides revealing a singular lack of decorum. In vain, Melissa protested that, having regularly accompanied her father since she was a child, the men were used to her presence and showed no sign of discomfort. She was always greeted with smiles and treated with respect.

And how else, her aunts had demanded impatiently, would the men have dared to greet their employer’s daughter?

Their carping had strengthened her resistance. To her delight, her father had taken her side: his enjoyment of her company outweighing family disapproval. Then, after Adrian died, what had begun as pure enjoyment continued out of necessity.

As her father’s exhaustion affected his concentration, she had found herself acting as a messenger between him and Tom Ferris. She had delighted in her increased responsibility for it had given her a sense of purpose and reassurance of her worth, something she craved even while she despised herself for seeking it.

Born into a life of privilege, her every material need met, she had received an unusually broad education for a girl. Her intelligence, courage, and love of horses had forged a bond between father and daughter; a bond strengthened by their shared involvement in the estate and boatyard.

She walked on across a sloping hillside dotted with clumps of bright yellow gorse that smelled of melted butter, and mounds of thorny brambles. The boundary hedge was a tangle of wild roses, deep pink ragged robins, delicate froths of Queen Anne’s lace, and white loops of convolvulus. On the far side of the creek, a hay field rippled in the breeze like water. Next to it, bright green ripening wheat was sprinkled with scarlet poppies.

A cloud of rustling starlings dipped and swirled across the sky, heading for a far pasture, while overhead, swallows swooped and darted, feeding on the wing.

Retracing her steps, Melissa paused on the terrace, inhaling the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle cascading over the stone balustrade as she watched the huge fiery orb of the sun sink behind distant wooded hills. Clouds edged with molten gold blushed rose, then darkened to lilac and purple in an aquamarine sky.

The wind dropped. But as the sun disappeared, Melissa felt a stirring of air against her face, like cold breath. Her skin tightened in a shiver and she felt a moment’s unease. Dismissing it as reaction to a tiring and emotionally fraught day, she drew her shawl more tightly around her then turned and went into the house.

Lying in bed, the muslin curtains drawn back and wafting gently, she gazed through the open window at the half moon. She found herself thinking of Robert. They had met at an assembly. A friend of her brothers from naval college, he had been introduced to her as Lieutenant Bracey, of His Majesty’s ship
Defence.

The following week they had renewed their acquaintance at a card party. She had beaten him three times at whist. Blaming the distraction of her beauty, he had asked if he might request her father’s permission to write to her when he returned to his ship. Her father, she recalled with a wry smile, had been delighted to agree.

She had found Robert pleasant, though a little stilted in his manner. But she was used to that, for people seemed to find her height intimidating. Yet she was at heart reserved, even shy, though good manners demanded she make a deliberate effort to be outgoing and put others at their ease.

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a tendency to plumpness, Robert had nevertheless proved light on his feet. Dancing with him had been very enjoyable, not least because he was only a few inches shorter than her. But there had been no tug of attraction.

Though she enjoyed receiving his letters, she had to admit to a greater interest in his descriptions of life aboard a 74-gun battleship than in his increasingly frequent assertions that he missed her. These, she was sure, were occasioned more by prolonged separation from female company than by any particular attachment to herself.

No, she could not imagine marrying Robert. Or any of the other men she had met at the assemblies. Yet surely there must be someone, somewhere, who would see beyond her freakish height? A man who could command her respect and her love? A man to whom she could give her heart?

Chapter Two

Gabriel woke with a start, his heart racing, disoriented by the darkness and the fact that he was out in the open. He lay perfectly still, only his eyes moving as he fought panic and tried to remember where he was. As looming shapes, more solid than shadows, resolved themselves into trees and broken stone walls, a wave of relief left him sweat-drenched and shaking. It was true then. Thank God. He was back in Cornwall.

Three days ago he had been chained to the wall of a French prison, too exhausted by pain even to raise his head when the gaoler’s daughter arrived with food. Her hasty, whispered instructions as she released him had kindled both flaring hope and the sickening dread of another betrayal.

With his larynx crushed, the flesh of his throat raw and infected from the too-tight iron collar, speaking had been painful. But he had forced the words out, his voice a rasping croak.

‘Why would you help me?’ he had managed in the Breton dialect swiftly acquired to enable him to move about, barely noticed, in the dockyards of Brest and Lorient.

Swiftly binding the terrible wound with the kerchief still warm from her bosom, she had hissed, ‘Zis Bonaparte is a godless butcher. ’E is as much our enemy as ’e is yours.’ Bretons, she reminded him, were Celtic like the Cornish, sharing a similar language and a tradition of smuggling. Gabriel was well aware that as well as the usual cargoes of brandy, wine, and tobacco smuggled out of small Breton ports and transhipped to Cornish fishing smacks, the free traders frequently carried secret information, a compromised agent, or an escaped prisoner back to England. Indeed, he had entrusted them with his own dispatches, knowing as he did so that he was making their already risky ventures truly dangerous. The skipper of the small boat had shrugged off Gabriel’s concern, saying simply that they lived in dangerous times.

No Breton had been involved in his capture, Gabriel would swear to that. But if he had not, by a careless word or action, somehow given himself away – and he was certain he had not – then how had it come about? Only one possibility remained: he had been betrayed. But by whom? No one in Brittany had known his true identity, or why he was there.

Pushing to the back of his mind the question that had gnawed at him for 52 terrible, pain-racked days, he eased himself upright. Every muscle protested as he rubbed his bearded face then raked calloused hands through the thick mane of black hair that fell in tangled curls to his shoulders. His own mother would be hard pressed to recognise him. He shook his head. Family and loyal friends believed Lord Roland Gabriel Stratton to be abroad. They were anxious he remain so. All were aware that if he returned to England he would hang. That alone was sufficient incentive to remain hidden.

However, he had another, even more pressing reason for retaining his new identity: his need to discover who had betrayed him. Not only for his own satisfaction, but also to warn those who had sent him of the possibility of treachery. Neither his family nor his friends had known of the work he was doing in France. For his instructions – from the highest government circles – had been given to him the night he left. But someone other than himself, Lord Grenville, and Sir John Poldyce, the Foreign Secretary’s spokesman and aide, had known. Or had somehow found out, and then betrayed that discovery to the French.

Now he was back in Cornwall he needed a new name. “Gabriel” was virtually the only part of his old life he could safely claim. For a surname he would use Ennis, one of his grandfather’s forenames. He could imagine the long-dead earl’s reaction: one corner of the thin mouth quirking in dry amusement as the saturnine brows rose.

Stabbing pains in his stomach reminded him of his immediate needs. Food first. Then he must find some means of making this roofless, tumbledown ruin watertight. The gauzy halo surrounding the moon warned of a coming change in the weather.

Wrapping spare shirt and breeches in the thin blanket, a parting gift from the gaoler’s daughter and his only possessions apart from the dagger on his belt, he tucked the bundle behind a tall stand of thistles in a dark corner and covered it with several large stones. Then, after making his way carefully back to the path and scooping a few handfuls of water from the small, clear spring that bubbled from the base of a steep bank, he set off through the woods.

As he followed the overgrown path upriver, he noticed several fallen trees. Some leant at crazy angles, still supported by other trees or their own broken boughs. Two had crashed to earth: snapped roots, exposed on the underside of the huge plate of earth, gleamed white like splintered bones.

To his left and far below, he glimpsed moon-silvered water and wondered if the little boat he had stolen from Falmouth was lying stranded on a mud bank, or adrift in the Carrick Roads. Though unavoidable, he still regretted the theft, and hoped boat and owner would eventually be reunited.

The trees sighed softly, their leaves whispering secrets to the gentle night breeze. Something pale and silent suddenly swooped across the path just above his head. He froze, heart hammering. Reason told him it was only an owl, but instant clammy sweat glued his shirt to his lacerated skin, and the sudden dryness of his mouth warned of nerves stretched to snapping point.

Food would build up his strength. His back itched intolerably, but it was a welcome discomfort as it indicated the welts were healing. He adjusted the grubby cloth covering his throat. That wound, and those on his wrists left by the iron manacles, would take longer.

It was almost a year since he had left Cornwall: a year during which he had lived on his wits and a knife-edge. The last six weeks he refused to think of, for that way lay madness. He needed time and a safe haven in which to recover. Also unless he wished to starve, he had to find work: a job where, despite his imposing height, he would be just one more pair of hands.

Then, though it would not be easy, and might take considerable time, he intended to find out who had betrayed him. When he did …

A sudden rustling made him stop. Something small and furry darted across the path and into the undergrowth. Letting his breath out slowly, he walked on, his heart pounding. A short while later he became aware of a new sound. Stopping again, he listened intently, recognising the humming of the wind in ships’ rigging. He couldn’t be far from the boatyard he had seen from the water.

A faint trail, possibly a badger track, angled down from the main path. Gabriel followed it through the tangled undergrowth. The trees ended abruptly at the edge of a low earth cliff. Below it, the stony foreshore was strewn with débris, and a line of seaweed marked the reach of the high tide. Dropping quietly to the shingle, Gabriel stood back against the earth overhang, and peered upstream. Beyond the boatyard, a small village straggled along the side of the valley. But the dark blue of night had begun to fade to the grey that heralded dawn. He did not have much time if he wanted to avoid being seen by an early-rising fisherman or farm worker.

Threading his way between the beached boats, he moved stealthily up through the yard and on to the deserted street. He heard faintly the thin wail of a fretful baby. Further along, loud snores issued from a half-open upstairs window. In the distance, a dog barked furiously for several seconds, then yelped and fell silent. On the opposite side of the street stood an inn, separated from a terrace of cottages by the dark mouth of a narrow alley. After a swift glance in both directions, Gabriel darted across the rough road, silent as a shadow despite his size. Never in his proud, arrogant, impatient youth had he dreamt he would one day owe his life and freedom to stealth and self-effacement. But learnt swiftly and of necessity in France, both were now second nature.

Once in the alley, he felt his way along the wall and around to the rear of the inn. Avoiding a couple of empty barrels, he almost tripped over a wooden bucket lying on its side near the back door. Picking it up, he sniffed warily, relieved there was no pungent reek of slops. Setting it quietly on one of the barrels, he drew his dagger, inserted the point just below the widow catch, and slowly eased it up. Sheathing the dagger, he inched the window open, and climbed in, gritting his teeth against the dragging pain of his scars.

He stood perfectly still, listening for a nervous footstep, the creak of a floorboard or a loose stair. But the silence remained undisturbed. He was in the kitchen. The stone shelves of a walk-in larder held a joint of cold beef, several loaves, a ham, four pies, the remains of two roast chickens, a basket of eggs, and a large jug of milk.

Mouth watering, Gabriel cut himself a slice of beef and stuffed it into his mouth. He had eaten at the best tables in England, but no meat had ever been so welcome or tasted so delicious. While he chewed he cut several more slices, then moved on to the ham. Peering under a muslin cloth, he hacked off a wedge of cheese. Wiping his blade, he returned it to its scabbard and scanned every surface, hoping he wouldn’t have to open cupboards or drawers. A gleam of white caught his eye and elation curved his mouth briefly. It was so long since he had smiled it felt strange and unnatural.

From the pile of linen he took two napkins and an old sheet, clean but worn and frayed: ideal for bandages. Wrapping the meat in one napkin and the cheese in another, he hesitated over the eggs then left them: too difficult to carry. Instead, he selected the smallest loaf and one of the pies. Dipping his finger into a glazed dish, he sucked. Cornish butter had a flavour all its own, but would quickly turn rancid in the June heat.

He moved on to check the contents of other pots on the shelf. To his astonishment and delight, one of the small stone jars contained a large chunk of honeycomb. He had seen honey smeared on wounds to cleanse and heal them. It would be an ideal salve for his throat and wrists. Skirting the table to the stone sink, he picked up an almost new bar of rough soap, and took a china mug from the dresser. He would have given a year of his life for a flask of brandy, but dared stay no longer.

Piling everything into the centre of the folded sheet, he tied the corners together and lowered the makeshift sack carefully out of the window. He followed, leaving the window slightly ajar. Someone would be punished for not locking up properly.

At least the missing food could be blamed on an opportunist thief. He hoped his need would not result in some poor kitchen maid being turned off without a reference. A year ago, such a thought would not have crossed his mind. But this past 12 months he had walked in another man’s shoes, and lived far removed from the life he was born to.

Gathering up his harvest and the bucket, he paused at the alley entrance, then slipped across the road and down through the yard to the beach.

Back in his hideout, Gabriel unfastened the sheet and divided the food roughly into three equal portions, keeping the pie for his next meal. Drawing his dagger, he hacked thick slices off the loaf. Bread would help fill his empty stomach and make the ham and cheese go further. Leaning back against the wall, he savoured the first wholesome food he had eaten for weeks. Though he was ravenous, he forced himself to eat slowly. He’d seen starving men bolt food down only for their stomachs to reject it, or to be crippled with violent pains. He could afford neither.

Replete, he took the china mug to the spring. Draining it, he filled it again and, back within the tumbled walls, he soaked another of the napkins and wrapped it around the one containing the remainder of the food to keep it cool. After he had piled stones around the food to protect it from foraging animals he lay down, propping his head on the makeshift pillow of his spare clothes, intending to plan his next move. But within moments, weakness and exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into oblivion.

Melissa was shaken out of a deep sleep by a hand gripping her shoulder. It seemed only minutes since she had closed her eyes, for she had lain awake for a long time. But as she turned over and blinked up into Addey’s face, creased with anxiety beneath a large frilled mob cap, she was immediately alert.

‘What’s wrong?’ She raised herself on one elbow.

‘You’d better come,’ her mother’s old nurse blurted. ‘She don’t look right to me.’

Throwing back the bedclothes, Melissa pushed her feet into slippers and grabbed the wrapper that lay across a tapestry chair. She was already halfway along the landing before she had finished tying the sash. Addey hurried along in her wake.

‘I stayed with her till she went to sleep, then I thought I’d better get some rest myself. The poor dear soul needs looking after. If it isn’t one thing ’tis another with her just now. I can’t help but wonder if doctor do know what he’s doing.’

Melissa didn’t waste her breath arguing. Addey knew perfectly well that Dr Wherry, having lost his own son in a hunting accident, had a special sympathy for Emma Tregonning, and took particular care over her treatment. But in her anxiety for her mistress the old nurse needed someone to blame.

Looking small and lost in the huge four-poster bed, Emma Tregonning was as white as the rumpled sheet except for the hectic flush of fever across her cheekbones. Her eyes were closed, her brows puckered, and her head moved restlessly on the lace-trimmed pillow.

Melissa laid the back of her hand against her mother’s forehead and was startled by the heat. ‘Mama?’ she spoke softly. ‘Mama, are you in pain?’

Emma’s eyelids quivered but did not open. ‘George?’ she muttered. Melissa picked up her mother’s thin hand. It burned against her palms. Twin tears rolled from beneath Emma’s closed eyelids. ‘Where are you? Why don’t you write?’ Her breathing was shallow and harsh.

Melissa heard a muffled mewing sound behind her and turned to see Addey’s eyes brimming in sympathy as she wrung her hands.

‘If he’ve gone too, it’ll break her heart.’

‘Stop it, Addey!’ Melissa whispered sharply. ‘As he’s so far away there could be any number of reasons why his letters haven’t reached us. We’ll probably receive several all at once. Instead of thinking the worst, let’s concentrate on making Mama more comfortable. Fetch some water and bathe her hands and face. As soon as I’ve dressed, I’ll send John for the doctor.’