Eye of the Wind (13 page)

The lawyer inhaled deeply. ‘As you have chosen to ignore my advice, I see no point in trying to persuade you otherwise.’ Melissa clenched her hands in her lap. ‘I consider the course of action upon which you have embarked to be fraught with risk.’ He frowned at her. With a sudden understanding of how a fox must feel when cornered, she tried to work some saliva into a mouth so dry it was too painful to swallow. ‘However, in the face of such initiative, foolhardy though it may be, I feel bound to offer my assistance. As it happens, I am already travelling to Plymouth over the weekend.’

For a moment she could only stare at him. ‘You are?’

‘I am.’

‘Thank you, Mr Rogers.’ The release of tension left Melissa feeling shaky. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. There is just one more favour I have to ask.’

His brows climbed, and there was a touch of asperity in his tone. ‘My goodness, Miss Tregonning, you are very free with your requests.’

She dipped her head, accepting the criticism, but plunged on. ‘It’s not for me, sir. Not directly, at any rate. But until the jewellery is sold, or I receive the first payment for the wood, I have no money to pay the men’s wages. I can probably stave off the demands of the bank and Mr Vincent for a little while longer, once I tell them of the business arrangement with Mr Nankivell regarding his purchase of our trees. I intend to write to them as soon as I get home so they will know that money will soon be available. But the men cannot wait. They need their wages. They have families to feed and clothe.’

His brows had almost disappeared beneath the pointed peak of his pig-tailed wig. ‘You want me to give you money?’

‘No, sir,’ she corrected with dignity. ‘I ask for no gift, merely a loan, to be repaid upon your return from Plymouth with money from the sale of my jewellery.’

He sighed, shaking his head as if astonished at his own behaviour. ‘What sum do you require, Miss Tregonning?’

Climbing into the gig, she told Hocking to drive her to the various shipyard suppliers. Paying each one something on account, she promised full settlement by the end of the month. ‘I have to wait until then for money to be released,’ she explained as truthfully as she dared.

All three nodded, telling her they understood, offered their condolences once more, and sympathised with the time it took to complete legal matters.

She inclined her head, grateful for their assumptions. ‘I do not anticipate any further delay. But if one should occur, I will pay interest on what is owed, on condition you begin supplying the yard again immediately.’

Each time there was an instant’s hesitation. But, given such a promise, what could they lose? With smiles, bows, and much hand-washing, she was assured that the items requested would be dispatched that very afternoon.

As Hocking drove the gig back to Bosvane, Melissa closed her eyes. She had achieved everything she set out to do. But the strain had been intense and reaction was setting in. Though she had been more successful than she dared hope, she felt totally drained.

In one hand she clutched a soft leather bag, the remaining coins hard, reassuring, against her palm. In the other, two papers: one a copy of the agreement signed by Mr Nankivell and herself, the other a receipt for her jewellery from Mr Rogers.

Hocking dropped her off at the front door. As she walked into the house, Lobb took one look, pursed his lips, and announced he would have a tray brought to her. Where would she be?

Realising she must look as weary as she felt, and that part of her exhaustion was due to simple hunger, she didn’t argue. ‘In the study, Lobb. Thank you.’

In her room she removed her hat and habit, rinsed her face and hands, then put on a simple gown of lavender muslin. Cooler and much refreshed, she tidied her hair and went back downstairs. Entering the study, she saw on the side table a silver tray containing a jug of lemonade, thin slices of ham and beef, rolls and butter, cheese, and a dish of fruit compote. The sight of the food made her mouth water and she ate where she stood, looking out of the window at the view and trying not to think at all.

She had just finished and was dabbing her mouth with a napkin when Lobb entered. After a flickering glance at the empty dishes, he picked up the tray, totally expressionless. ‘Will there be anything, else, miss?’

Sensing his satisfaction, she matched his composure. ‘Not for the moment, Lobb.’ She waited until he reached the door. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll tell Mrs Betts, miss. She will be most gratified.’ He sailed out.

Seated at her father’s desk, she took up a fresh sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the inkstand, and began her letter to Mr Edmund Turner of the Commercial Bank. But after writing the address she stopped, turning the pen in her fingers as she mentally tested, then discarded, various phrases.

Informed of her father’s death by her uncles, Mr Turner had sent one of his clerks to the house to leave a card of condolence. He had not come in person. Nor had he attended the funeral. Doubtless he was a very busy man. But her father’s association with the bank had begun before she was born, and until last year the two men had often hunted and dined together in Truro on excellent terms.

She dipped the pen once more and resumed writing. She would not apologise for her father. No doubt the bank had been within its rights to demand immediate repayment of the money owed. But Mr Turner had known about Adrian’s death, and must also have been aware of its aftermath of devastation. To pile even more pressure on a man trying to deal with his grief while caring for a wife incapacitated by her loss seemed unduly callous.

No, she would not apologise. But nor would she betray her anger. With careful dignity, she wrote that she regretted any inconvenience caused by her father’s lack of response to the bank’s letters. She stated that, unknown to anyone, he had been suffering from illness kept hidden to spare the family further worry. She would come in person later the following week to make, on her brother’s behalf as the new head of the family, a substantial reduction to the outstanding loan.

Signing the letter, she set it to one side, and began another to Thomas Vincent, undertaking to repay his loan in full by the end of the month. As she sealed them both she prayed the sale of her jewellery and the first load of wood would realise enough.

The following morning, she rode Samson up to the farm. Glistening spider-webs festooned the hedgerows, spangled with raindrops from an early shower. The clouds had rolled away, leaving the air clear and the sky a freshly washed blue. In a field adjoining those in which small, hardy black cattle were grazing, pigs rooted among thick stalks; all that remained of the winter kale.

In other fields, the earth’s acid sourness had been enriched with sand, seaweed, and Devon limestone burned in kilns all along the Cornish coast. Here ripening oats that would feed the horses rippled in the breeze, as did wheat, providing grain for the miller and straw for thatching or bedding for the cattle.

Grass, now long and juicy, would be cut with scythe and sickle over the next two to three weeks. Lifted and turned to dry in the sun, it would then be raked up, loaded onto the high-sided cart, and carried to the stack, a fodder smelling sweetly of warm summer days for both horses and cattle through the winter. Sheaves of cut wheat would be set up in shocks, carried to the rick-yard, then threshed with flails to release the grain.

Brown and white hens clucked quietly, ignoring the large cockerel strutting amongst them as they scratched and pecked grain from the earth in a large pen at one side of the thatched farmhouse. A chicken-shed divided inside into three tiers of snug, open-fronted boxes stood in the shade of two apple trees. The door, now standing wide open, would be closed at sunset, the chickens inside, safe from prowling foxes.

Dismounting outside the small gate, Melissa tied Samson to a tree and knocked on the open door before calling out. Up and working since dawn, Edgar would now be having his dinner.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your meal, but I wanted to catch Edgar at home.’ She pulled off her gloves as Becky jumped up from her seat at the scrubbed table, shooing a cat off the spare chair and dusting it with her apron before inviting Melissa to sit down.

‘Nothing wrong is there, miss?’ Edgar’s knife and fork looked toy-like in his huge, sun-darkened hands.

‘No, I’ve come because I need to borrow the horses to drag out trees we’re having felled in the woods. Can you manage with the oxen and let me have Captain and Duchess?’

The farmer and his wife exchanged a glance. ‘I suppose so, miss,’ Edgar said slowly. ‘We haven’t started cutting the hay yet.’

‘They’re both fit?’

Edgar nodded. ‘You’d best work Captain in blinkers though. He do jump at his own shadow when the mood’s on ’un.’

‘I won’t forget.’ Smiling, she stood up. ‘Thanks, Edgar. I’ll bring John with me to collect them on Sunday afternoon.’

‘On the Sabbath?’ Becky gasped, visibly shocked.

Melissa grimaced. ‘I know. But they have to be in the woods to start work early Monday morning.’

‘Well, I don’t know, miss.’ Becky was more anxious than disapproving. ’Tis to be hoped nobody see you, that’s all I can say.’

‘They won’t,’ Melissa promised. The only people to see her with the great draught horses would be the people whose jobs she was trying to protect. They would understand. Bidding them goodbye, she remounted Samson and rode to the yard to pay the wages.

Tom had cleared a space on the cluttered table to make room for the ledger in which he marked men present or absent each day. It lay open, the pen and inkwell alongside, ready for each man to make his mark, or sign his name if he could write.

‘Here, you sit down,’ he insisted, indicating the only chair. ‘Looking fagged to death you are.’

She sat, and Tom stood at her shoulder, just as he used to when her father … She shut off the thought. ‘When I was in Truro yesterday I saw the suppliers and –’

‘I should think you did. I dunno what you said to them, but stuff have been coming in all morning.’

Trying to hide her rush of relief, Melissa simply nodded as if she had expected no less. She gazed at the ledger, the figures a blur. ‘Gabriel must have put in a lot of additional work marking the trees. I think he should be paid for that time.’

‘I was going to suggest it, miss. I tell you straight, I dunno how we’d have managed if he hadn’t come when he did. Fate, it was.’

All the tasks and responsibilities she had assumed since her father’s stroke flashed through Melissa’s mind. Yet none of it would have been possible without Gabriel’s knowledge and physical strength.

‘You’re right.’ Taking the heavy leather purse from her pocket, she placed it on the table and loosened the drawstrings. ‘How much will you need altogether? ‘

He indicated the total at the bottom of the page with a blunt and ragged fingernail. ‘And say half a day extra for Gabe.’

Counting out the coins, she checked them again. Then, as Tom scooped them into his box ready to pay the men at the end of the day, Melissa returned the remainder to the purse, noting how little was left, and stood up to leave.

‘When Gabriel comes in, will you tell him John and I will bring the shires down first thing Monday morning?’ Seeing Tom’s frown, she didn’t give him the chance to speak. ‘I’ve struck a new agreement with the suppliers. So there will be no problems about anything you need for the packet.’

A grin split Tom’s face as he shook his head in admiration. ‘Dear life! You got spirit, girl. Be some proud of you, your pa would.’

As Melissa rode back to the house she wondered. Would her father be proud? Or would he be turning in his grave at the desperate risks she was taking? 

Chapter Eleven

Arriving home, and greeted by Lobb with the news that her aunts had called, Melissa sagged. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Quite so, miss. Both ladies made no secret of their surprise not to find you here. They could not imagine where you might have gone. I, of course, was unable to enlighten them.’

Her brief smile reflected her gratitude. ‘No doubt they were less than pleased.’

‘As you say, miss. I was instructed to tell you they would call again.’

Managing not to grimace, Melissa thanked him. In her father’s study she put the remaining money in one of the desk drawers. Then, taking up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper, she wrote a swift letter to her Aunt Louisa saying how sorry she was to have missed both her and Aunt Sophie. She hoped they would understand that at present most of her time and all her energies were devoted to making sure everything would be ready for her brother’s arrival home.

She reread the lines, tapping the end of the pen against her teeth. Would they recognise the hint and stay away? Neither of them was known for their tact or subtlety. But she dare not be more direct. For, ever vigilant in matters of etiquette, they would perceive rudeness and she would have handed them another stick with which to beat her.

Adding her best wishes for their continued good health, she signed and sealed the letter. Then, giving it to Lobb for John to deliver, she went upstairs to change.

Sarah had laid out a black silk dinner gown. Looking at it, Melissa shook her head. ‘Not tonight, Sarah. There is no one to see me. I’ll wear the lavender instead.’ Since coming out of black after Adrian’s death she had worn little else but the muted shades of half-mourning.

Her father’s passing demanded she resume black once more. So she would, in public. Abandoning it while at home alone did not signify that she missed or mourned him any less. But black silk and bombazine were so constant and forceful a reminder, they rendered her helpless: trapped in memory, despair, and hopeless longing for a time now gone forever. That left her unable to concentrate, or to plan.

Success –
survival –
depended on her doing both to a degree beyond anything she had previously imagined or attempted.

As Sarah brushed out her hair, Melissa reviewed all the tasks she had completed. Then as she thought of those that lay ahead, she remembered.

‘Sarah, where’s my blue sporting petticoat?’

The maid paused. ‘In one of the trunks in the attic, I believe, miss. Whatever do you want that old thing for?’

‘Because
it’s old. So it won’t matter if it gets torn or dirty. As it’s shorter than a riding habit I’m not going to trip, or catch my feet in it.’

‘Dear life, miss! What are you going to be doing to get torn and dirty?’

Melissa drew a breath and looked at Sarah in the mirror. ‘Leading Captain while he drags trees out of the woods. The ground is certain to get churned up and muddy.’

‘You’re never –’ Sarah began, but, seeing Melissa’s eyebrows climbing, she folded her lips. ‘Whatever you say, miss. What have you got in mind to wear with ’un?’

‘Do I still have that blue muslin pierrot jacket?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘And my old riding boots?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Do you think you could have them all aired and ready for Monday morning?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Thank you, Sarah.’

‘I don’t know as you should be thanking me, miss. ’Tisn’t right nor proper, what you’re doing,’ she muttered, sweeping the brush through Melissa’s thick tresses with brisk, angry strokes. ‘I dread to think what Missus would say if she knew.’

‘That’s enough, Sarah,’ Melissa said lightly. ‘Or I won’t have any hair left.’

Monday morning came. By the time Melissa left the house, the team in the woods had been hard at work for over two hours.

They had started on those trees brought down by the storms. Zeb Rickard, Ned Philpot, Joe Pengelly, and Will Sparrow – known to all as Chirp – had set to under Gabriel’s direction, using small axes or saws to lop off branches, separating those thick enough to be useful from débris to be burned.

The waste was hauled off to the bonfire where ash and embers had already spread to cover a large area of the clearing. Here, oak branches were stripped and their bark put into canvas sacks.

It was hard, hot, thirsty work, and one of the beer kegs had already been emptied.

Gabriel and Billy, being bigger, stronger, and younger than the others, were felling the marked trees, wielding axes with heads almost a foot wide and shafts nearly four feet long.

After showing Billy how to decide on the best place for a tree to fall, Gabriel chipped a long, shallow nick to weaken the trunk and ensure it fell in that direction. Then he moved round to the opposite side to hack out the deep wedge that would sever the tree from its roots. Working together on the first, Gabriel stood by as Billy tackled the second, then left him to get on by himself and started on the bigger or more awkwardly placed trees.

The wood echoed to the thuds of axes, the rustle of fo1iage, voices raised in terse, dry banter, then the warning shout, the slow creak and crash of a tree’s fall, and the deep, vibrating thud as it hit the ground.

Gabriel swung his axe, using its weight to add force to his own strength; his gaze fixed on the deepening cut. The impact of each blow drove the air from his lungs in a soft grunt. Sliding the axe through his hands ready for the next swing, he sucked in a deep breath. The air was vivid with smells: the sweet, resinous fragrance of the timber; the acrid bite of bonfire smoke; the thick, dark reek of leaf mould and raw earth; the juicy sharpness of trampled undergrowth, and the musk of his own sweat.

Though the hard physical work demanded of him since joining the yard had been exhausting at first, it had proved a blessing in more ways than one. Not only was he sleeping like the dead and growing stronger each day, the gaol-induced weakness was now little more than a memory. If he focused on the swing of the axe, the strike and bite, the flying chips of heartwood and the next cut, he didn’t have to think. He couldn’t afford to think. The thoughts that crowded the edges of his mind, waiting for a chance to demand attention, were far too dangerous.

He swung one last time, heard the creak, bellowed a warning, and stood back watching as, with a series of loud, splintering cracks, the tree slowly toppled. Gathering momentum, it crashed through some sycamore saplings and undergrowth to land with a shuddering thump that travelled up through the soles of his boots.

Sliding his calloused palm down the smooth haft of the axe so it was balanced in his hand, he started toward the next tree. Then he realised all sounds of work had stopped.

Having become used to noise its absence was eerie, as though the wood and everything in it was holding a collective breath. Hearing the thud of hooves and the jingle of harness he understood the reason for the unexpected quiet. He turned toward the clearing, trying to ignore the sudden leap in his chest.

As he reached it from one side, Melissa and John arrived from the other. She was in front, leading one of two huge, black, heavily built draught horses with large heads and soft, intelligent eyes: though Captain’s were shielded at the side by leather squares attached to the face strap of his bridle. Sturdy legs ended in hooves the size of dinner plates, thickly fringed with long white hair. The bar and chains with which they would drag the logs had been looped up and roped to their leather harness for the walk down. Also tied to each harness was a nosebag full of oats, and an empty canvas bucket for water.

The five men had left their jobs and now hovered uncertainly.

Gabriel waved them forward. ‘Get the chains down.’

As he started toward Melissa, she turned to the boy. ‘I’ll hold Duchess. You get on with unfastening the nosebags and buckets.’

‘Where shall I put them, miss?’

‘Over there.’ Gabriel pointed to where the beer kegs stood alongside the bag or basket that contained each man’s dinner. He remembered to raise his index finger to his forehead.

‘Good morning, miss.’

‘Good morning, Gabriel.’ Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes met his only for a moment before sliding away to gaze around the clearing. ‘Where would you like us to start?’

‘With the trees the storm brought down. The trunks are clean.’

‘Clean?’

‘The branches have been lopped and the tops and root plates sawn off,’ he explained. ‘The oaks should be brought here so their bark can be stripped. The rest can be dragged straight down to the collection area.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Are you sure the boy can manage? He looks – small.’

She glanced up at him, smiling. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

‘As you say, miss,’ he murmured.

‘John,’ she continued, her colour deepening, ‘could ride before he could walk. Duchess will do exactly as he tells her.’

A novelty indeed among the titled ladies of his acquaintance. ‘Miss.’ Giving a polite nod, he turned to the waiting men. ‘Billy, you carry on felling. Zeb, you and Chirp work that side with young John.’ He turned. ‘Joe, you and I will work this side with Miss Tregonning. Ned, you stay here to release the logs. If you need a hand –’

‘I’ll shout,’ Ned grunted, and, with a rough salute to Melissa, he trudged away.

For the next two hours, Gabriel worked fiercely. After felling a marked tree he left Joe to lop the branches and saw off the top while he moved on to the next. Each time Melissa came for the log he paused so as not to unsettle the big horse whose ears flattened at every unexpected noise.

Her boots were gradually caking with mud and leaf-mould, her skirt acquiring an increasing number of smears and snags. He watched her turn Captain and manoeuvre him backward. While Joe fastened the chains, she ran her gloved hand over Captain’s thick neck, talking softly while she studied the area and worked out the best route, allowing for the length of the trunk, to the nearest path then back to the clearing.

When the chain was secure and Joe gave the word, she clicked her tongue, Captain took the strain, and the huge log began its slow journey over the woodland floor. She had just arrived to collect the fourth tree when the faint sound of a horn brought Captain’s head up, his ears twitching. Coming from the yard, it signalled the dinner hour. She glanced round as Gabriel came toward her, Joe following behind
.

‘I’ll just take this one –’

‘No, miss.’ Speaking quietly Gabriel cut her short. ‘If you keep working the men will feel obliged to do the same, and they’ve been here since seven this morning.’ A flood of colour to her cheeks revealed her embarrassment, and he wished he could have spared her.

‘Oh. Of course. I-I didn’t – I’m sorry, I should have realised.’

‘Don’t concern yourself. No harm done.’ At her tentative smile he grew brisk, very aware of Joe Pengelly listening to every word. ‘You go on home, now, miss,’ he urged. ‘I’ll take the horse back and make sure he’s fed and watered.’ He saw her expression flicker.

‘Thank you, Gabriel. That’s most kind. I’ll be back –’

‘No hurry, miss. In fact, if you’ve had enough today –’

‘No.’ She stiffened. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I’m neither exhausted nor incompetent, and so –’

‘Beg pardon, miss. No offence meant.’ He took hold of the bridle. Melissa immediately let go and Captain tossed his great head. Placing one hand on the dark muzzle, Gabriel blew gently into the flaring nostrils, glancing toward her as the horse calmed.

‘I see Captain is in good hands. I will be back. Though I may be a little longer than an hour as I have further to walk. I’ll make more suitable arrangements tomorrow.’

With a brief nod, she turned and walked swiftly away.

Beside him, Joe Pengelly released his breath in a low whistle. ‘I dunno.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s some brave maid, but this isn’t no place for the likes of she. Blessed if I know what she think she’s doing of, coming down here like this.’

With a noncommittal grunt, Gabriel clicked his tongue and, with the great horse lumbering along beside him, followed in Melissa’s wake.

The next day, when she arrived with John and the horses, he was not surprised to see her carrying a basket containing food and a bottle of lemonade. When the horn sounded and everyone stopped for dinner, she collected her basket and tactfully sat some distance away.

Subdued by her presence, the men were unable to relax. Though Gabriel longed to go and sit with her, doing so would not only cause comment, it risked creating suspicion and bad feeling. So he remained near the group. Yet he was not part of it. Everyone seemed relieved when it was time to resume work.

During the next four days, more than two dozen trees were felled, stripped, moved to the collection area, then sorted and marked according to type. The sacks of oak bark were stacked up ready for the tannery wagons.

Gabriel watched as Melissa valiantly kept pace with the men, clearly thinking they had grown used to her presence and were able to accept it. But it was plain to him they found her constant proximity inhibiting, and were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He was himself, though for very different reasons.

She had just left, leading Captain back to the collection area with another sycamore bole, when Joe’s distraction burst out like beer from a newly broached barrel. ‘I don’t care what nobody say, this isn’t right. She got no business down here. ’Tisn’t proper for a lady to be doing such things. I know she’s different from the rest, but that’s no excuse.’

Resting on his axe, Gabriel chose his words carefully. ‘She’s working as hard as any man. Why do you think she’s doing it?’

‘Blessed if I know, and that’s the truth. There must be something going on we don’t know about.’

‘Money troubles?’ Gabriel suggested. ‘Yet we’re still getting our wages.’

‘Yes, but for how long? Mister have got two brothers. I dunno how she haven’t asked they in to take over.’

‘Are they in the same business?’

‘No,’ Joe allowed grudgingly.

‘Would they do any better, then? Anyway, why should they care about us? But she does. Remember her speech? She promised to build a strong future for the yard.’