Eye of the Wind (14 page)

‘Yes, so she did,’ Joe was testy. ‘But I don’t suppose none of us thought to see her getting her own hands dirty. I still say that can’t be right.’

Gabriel said no more. If the others shared Joe’s opinion, which was all too likely, it could lead to trouble. Melissa had to be warned. As she approached with Captain, ready to hitch up the next log, she passed Joe who was returning to the clearing to borrow a sharpening stone, his having unaccountably gone missing into Gabriel’s pocket. For a couple of minutes at least they would not be overheard.

Letting the head of his axe rest on the ground, he watched as she drew nearer. She still carried herself straight, even after four days of leading the draught horse increasing distances across gouged and rutted earth. But the effort it was costing her showed. Her face was pale and drawn and there were shadows like purple bruises beneath her eyes.

‘Beg pardon, miss.’ Though there was no one around, he kept his voice low.

‘Yes, Gabriel?’ Her voice sounded flat, its usual vibrant timbre dulled by weariness. She continued moving as if she dared not stop and started to turn the horse. Letting the axe fall onto the thick churned-up leaf-mould, he took a couple of strides forward and placed a restraining hand on the bridle.

Startled, she looked up. He heard her breath catch, saw twin spots of colour appear on her cheekbones. ‘What? Is something wrong?’

He hesitated, not wanting to alarm her. ‘I need to speak to you. Privately.’ Shock widened her eyes, blanking her features for an instant. ‘It concerns –’ he made a small tight gesture ‘– all this. But not now, not here.’

She moistened her lips, turning her head away to avoid looking at him, her pallor replaced by a painful blush.

‘Very well.’ Even her earlobes had turned deep rose. ‘This evening?’

‘Thank you.’ There was an awkward pause. Gabriel agonised over his next question, acutely conscious both of its significance, and the risks if she accepted.

She cleared her throat. ‘Where –?’

‘Will you –? After you, ma’am.’

‘No, please, you were saying?’ It was little more than a whisper.

Tension roughened his voice. ‘For your sake we should not be seen together. Will you do me the honour of coming to … Where I live.’

Her head still averted, she gave a brief nod. He released the bridle, allowing her to continue turning the horse. As Joe stumped back, frowning and preoccupied, whistling tunelessly through the gaps in his teeth, Gabriel held out the sharpening stone. ‘This yours?’

Joe clicked his tongue. ‘I knew he couldn’t have gone far.’

That evening, after a strip wash, Gabriel laundered his sweat-soaked clothes and hung them up to dry. The lowering sun was still warm, and a light breeze whispered among the leaves. He redressed his wounds, raked the crude comb through his tangled hair before tying it back neatly, and put on his clean shirt. With no idea what time she would come, he had delayed eating until he had cleaned himself up.

But now, though he was ready, his stomach had contracted into a tight, hard knot, and despite the day’s exertions his appetite had vanished. Crouching to add more wood to the embers, he mocked his nervousness. He was a grown man, not some callow, moon-struck youth.

Socially adept with women – his father had entrusted this aspect of his education to a kindly, tactful widow of good breeding whose late husband had gambled away her inheritance – he had met many, flirted with some, and been intimate with a few: advisedly choosing married ladies who understood the rules of such encounters. But he had never loved. And could not, must not, now.

He heard a twig snap and looked up to see her walking down the path toward him. She too had bathed; her grubby working clothes replaced by lavender silk over satin with a fluting of fine white lawn filling the low neckline. The silk shawl clasped about her was, he guessed, more an indication of nervous tension than a need for warmth. She wore no hat and her hair rippled, dark and glossy, down her back.

Though her skin had a delicate rose lustre, her features were taut. As she came closer he detected the faint, flowery scent of her soap. He wanted to press his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder and fill his lungs with her fragrance. The urge to touch her was so strong his fingers curled into his palms. He saw her throat work as she swallowed.

‘Good evening, Gabriel.’ Her gaze fell away, lighting on the crude chair he had spent several evenings making. A blanket was folded to cover its back and seat and it stood against the wall of the shack where it caught the dying sunlight.

‘Good evening, miss.’

She gestured. ‘May I?’

‘If you please.’

She sat, aware of him watching as she adjusted her skirts and her shawl, putting off the moment when good manners demanded she look at him.

‘Ma’am.’

She glanced up. ‘Please, Gabriel. Will you not sit?’ She attempted a smile. ‘To look up so far is something of a strain. I am not used to it, you see.’

‘Forgive me.’ He sat in the doorway a yard from her, leaning against the frame, his fingers linked loosely about his knees.

‘You said –’ she cleared her throat ‘– you said you needed to speak to me privately?’

‘Yes. It concerns your daily presence in the woods. Miss Tregonning …’ He hesitated, and she watched him search for words. ‘May I suggest, with the greatest respect, that it might be time to let someone else take your place?’

As she looked at him, snatches of the past week tumbled across her mind. Every morning before leaving the house she had looked for the postman. There had been no letter from Mr Rogers, though it was now a week since she had seen him. She dare not take time off to drive into Truro, but as each day passed without word, her anxiety grew.

Lobb and Sarah, disapproving of her activities, were treating her with the punctilious formality they usually reserved for visitors. Though she had thought herself fit, the sheer physical effort of spending hours each day leading Captain back and forward over the soft, uneven ground was proving far more tiring than she had expected.

She drew herself up, seething with anger, frustration, and injustice. Presumably he had a reason, but she would not make it easy for him.

‘Why?’

‘Ma’am, there is no easy way to say this, but your presence is unsettling for the men.’

‘Do they imagine this is my idea of fun? That spending every day filthy and tired is some kind of game to me? Perhaps they think I am simply trying to prove a point.’

As she leapt up from the chair, her fury demanding the release of action, he uncoiled, rising swiftly to his feet. But he remained at a respectful distance.

‘Were none of them listening? They heard Tom say he could not spare another man. Who, out of all of them, could handle Captain like I do?’ She had to force the words past the swelling lump in her throat. ‘I thought they understood. This isn’t only for me, or for the family, it’s for
them.
Surely – don’t they
want 
–? I am asking nothing more of them than I am willing to do myself. Is it not enough?’

She shook her head as a sob caught in her chest and, biting hard on her lower lip to stop its treacherous quiver, turned away, her arms clasped tightly across her body as she struggled for control.

‘It is too much,’ he said quietly. ‘That is the point. Try to see it through their eyes.’

‘I
can’t
.’ Tears of hurt and exhaustion were blurring her vision. She fought desperately but they spilled over, leaving cool tracks down her burning face. ‘Don’t you see?’ She whirled round, not realising he had moved, and they almost collided.

Gasping, she stumbled back and would have fallen onto the embers of the fire had he not caught her. She had never been this close to any man save her father. His grasp was firm, his face inches from hers.

‘See what?’ His voice was low, little more than a hoarse murmur.

‘I’ve no strength left,’ she whispered, lost, helpless.

His grip tightened on her upper arms. ‘That’s not true,’ he said harshly. ‘Of course you’re tired. No one could have done all you have done since your father died – and before that, for all I know – and not be tired. But that is only on the surface. Underneath you are still strong, and growing stronger every day. Look at me.
Look at me
.’

She shook her head, her chest heaving. ‘I have always so despised women who weep in public.’

His voice was gentle. ‘There is no one here.’

She raised her eyes, helpless to stop the tears still spilling over her lashes. ‘You are.’

‘You need rest, and proper sleep.’

‘I need money.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Shame and embarrassment bathed her whole body, and her clothes clung, hot and damp.

‘Close your eyes.’ He spoke quietly but in such a tone it didn’t occur to her to disobey. ‘Picture all the logs waiting to be collected. That’s money. There will be the same number next week, and the following week, and the one after that. You know this,’ he chided softly. ‘You arranged it. You made it happen.’

Steadied, reassured, she opened her eyes. The naked longing on his face stopped her breath for it mirrored feelings in herself she had refused to acknowledge. But in an instant it had vanished and his whole manner changed so completely she was disoriented. She must have imagined … But the thought that she had reflected her own fevered dreams and wishes on to him; that he might have seen, might guess …

Hands flying to her burning cheeks, she turned her head away. Concerned and diffident, he released her at once. But the imprint and warmth of his grasp lingered, and she ached.

‘All right now, miss?’

She nodded, another lie, and swiftly, neatly, wiped her cheeks. He had called her strong. So she was, and would continue to be. Drawing a deep breath she faced him.

‘Thank you for telling me of the men’s concern.’ She swallowed, drawing her shawl over her shoulders. ‘I think perhaps I did not make it clear to the men that in my mother’s absence and until my brother returns I am, in effect, their employer. I am also doing my best to ensure the continuing viability of the yard. Current circumstances require particular measures: measures they may find unusual, maybe even a little discomfiting. However, these are of a temporary nature, as I hope soon to be in a position to employ permanent workers for the woods. But if any man feels unable to accept the situation then, naturally, he is free to seek employment elsewhere, and I will gladly supply him with a reference.’ She cleared her throat. ‘As this meeting has not taken place, obviously it won’t be possible for you to explain my reasons for continuing to work. Indeed it is not your responsibility to do so.’

He tugged his forelock. ‘Just so, miss,’ he said gravely, meeting her gaze for an instant, before dipping his head.

Glimpsing admiration and warmed by it, she turned away. It wasn’t until she was crossing the park that she realised, startled and intrigued. What she had also seen was amusement.

Instead of entering the house through the front door, she walked round to the terrace to enjoy the last rays of the sun and the fragrance of the honeysuckle, always stronger in the evening. The French windows stood open and she could hear voices. She paused. Not visitors surely? Bad news? Her heart in her mouth, she hurried into the drawing room. The door to the hall stood open and she could hear Sarah, her voice sharp with anxiety.

‘No good telling me, Mr Lobb. She won’t listen to nothing I say. Why don’t you try?’

Melissa heard the deep rumble of Lobb’s reply, and though she could not make out the words, his tone held the same worried disapproval as Sarah’s.

Stiffening her spine, Melissa pulled the door wider. The two in the hall spun round, startled.

Lobb took a step toward her. ‘Not wishing to be impertinent, miss, but what is going on? The way you’ve been this last week, a blind man could see something’s wrong.’

Melissa nodded. ‘Are all the servants in?’

‘I believe so, miss.’

‘Then will you ask all of them, and that includes Hocking and young John, to come to the morning-room?’

‘When, miss?’

‘As soon as possible. Ten minutes?’

‘Certainly, miss.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘If you will inform Mrs Betts and young Agnes, I’ll send Gilbert across to the stables.’

Twenty minutes later, having told them the unvarnished truth about the desperate financial situation, she stood dry-mouthed, her folded arms pressed against her aching stomach, scanning faces she had known all her life. They looked stunned, disbelieving. Some frowned. Mrs Betts had tears in her eyes. How would they react? She soon found out. They were angry.

‘How come you never told us?’

‘Why did you keep it to yourself for so long?’

‘Didn’t you trust us?

‘What did you think we’d do? Walk out? When our families have worked for this family for generations?’

‘Poor opinion you got of us and no mistake if you could think we’d do that.’

‘I still can’t like to think of you working in they woods,’ Sarah sighed. ‘But at least now we know why.’

Lobb raised a hand for silence. ‘Not a word of this is to go beyond the four walls of this room.’

This provoked angry mutters. ‘As if we would!’

‘We don’t need telling that.’

‘If anyone asks after Miss Melissa,’ Lobb added, waiting until they fell silent again, ‘friends or relatives in the village, or visitors to this house, you refer them to me.’ He turned. ‘All right, miss?’

Melissa nodded. ‘Thank you, Lobb. Thank you all. I’m really – I don’t know how –’

‘That’s all right, miss,’ Sarah interrupted briskly. ‘Been a long day for you, it have. I expect you’re ready for a nice hot drink. If you’d like to go on up, I’ll bring ’un to you.’

Unable to speak, Melissa flashed them all a grateful if tremulous smile, and started up the stairs. That night, for the first time in weeks, she slept long and deep. 

Chapter Twelve

Next morning, in spite of her determination and the changed attitude of the household staff who had relaxed once more into the occasionally irritating – but so much missed – familiarity tempered with respect, Melissa felt apprehensive as she set out for the wood. On impulse, thinking of the day’s work ahead, she pulled Captain over to the mounting block in the yard and swung herself on to his broad back.

Seeing John watching, wide-eyed, she shrugged. ‘You can walk if you would prefer it.’

‘Not likely.’ Not bothering with the block, he scrambled up on to Duchess, who swung her great head but stood still, as solid and dependable as a rock.

Comfortable on Captain’s broad back, Melissa led the way across the park and down through the woods. Pulling him up a short distance from the entrance opposite the yard, she jumped down, not wishing to shock the men further by being seen astride the draught horse. Foolish perhaps, when she was already breaking so many far more important rules. But they didn’t know about those. And it was easier for everyone if she adhered as far as possible to the behaviour expected of a well-bred young woman.

John slid off at the same time and they led the horses up into the clearing. Almost immediately she sensed a different atmosphere. She was greeted with tugged forelocks and an audible “Morning, miss” instead of the grunts, frowns, and avoiding eyes of the last few days. Resentment had given way to a well-intentioned if clumsy friendliness, evident in the occasional dry comment thrown her way as they passed. Somehow, without compromising her, Gabriel had told the men what their choices were. It looked as though they had chosen to stay.

There was no sign of him when she arrived. As Joe emerged to take her to the first of that day’s logs to be pulled out, she heard the crack, groan, and crash of a falling tree. Gabriel appeared a few minutes later, a formidable figure in stained breeches and mud-smeared boots, shirtsleeves rolled up muscular arms now golden-brown against the narrow bandages, and a lock of black hair falling over his sweat-beaded forehead.

‘Good morning, miss.’ He made his usual salute. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Good morning, Gabriel. Everything is fine, thank you.’ She met his gaze full on, wanting to convey the gratitude she could not voice. ‘I was just wondering –’

‘Yes, miss?’ She sensed sudden alertness beneath his bland expression.

‘Why is the bonfire not lit? There’s a huge pile of brush and clippings.’

‘Indeed, miss. But with your permission they will be kept for tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘St Peter’s Tide, miss?’ he prompted gently.

She had forgotten. ‘Oh. Of course. Perhaps if it was divided up, and the separate piles bound with rope, the horses could haul them as far as the new entrance. Then the men would only have to drag them across the road and down to the beach.’

‘That’s very kind, miss.’

‘Not at all. Most of the men in this village are connected with the sea, as fishermen or sailors, or building boats. Midsummer might be the high point of the year for West Cornwall, but for us St Peter’s Tide is far more important.’

Normally the bonfire and celebrations were the only topic of conversation among the household during the week leading up to the festival. But how could they have talked of celebrations with her father so recently dead? ‘Have the men in the yard made up tar barrels?’

‘I believe so, miss. Will we see you there?’

The yearning was so strong she could almost taste it. But she could not go. She would be the spectre at the feast, her presence awkward for everyone else. It wouldn’t be fair. Nor would it be fitting while she was in full mourning. Choking down her disappointment, she shook her head.

‘No. But I hope you all have a marvellous time. As tomorrow is feast day work will stop early. Something for everyone to look forward to.’

Not her, though. An early finish meant less work completed. Less work meant less money. She still hadn’t heard from Mr Rogers.

Late that afternoon, after finishing in the woods and dragging the roped bundles of lopped branches to the entrance, Melissa led the way back through the woods toward Bosvane, tired and dejected. Behind her, John tried valiantly to suppress his brimming excitement.

Hocking was already waiting when they reached the yard. He too would be going down to the beach, and wanted to get the shires brushed, fed, and turned out as soon as possible.

The same air of expectation pervaded the house. Sarah hummed to herself as she prepared Melissa’s bath. Afterwards, having brushed out her mistress’s hair and helped her dress, she finished tidying the room. She stopped suddenly, turning to Melissa, her arms full.

‘I wish you was coming down, miss. No disrespect to your dear father, God rest him, but it would do you good to have a bit of fun. You know what they do say about all work and no play.’

‘Yes, it makes you extremely tired.’ Melissa smiled. ‘It’s a kind thought, Sarah, and I thank you for it. But it wouldn’t do, you know. I really am very weary. I must be walking miles every day. You go along, now. You won’t want to be late.’

‘But I haven’t –’

‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it will keep until the morning. And Sarah?’

‘Yes, miss?’

‘Enjoy yourself.’

Eyes bright with excitement, Sarah grinned. ‘I will, miss.’

Alone in the dining room, waited on by Lobb, aware of his unspoken sympathy and his determination to see she kept up her strength, she ate a reasonable meal. Enough to satisfy him anyway, for when she said she had had enough, he did not press her.

She rose from the table. ‘Thank you, Lobb. Please tell Mrs Betts how much I enjoyed it. I must admit that after all the fresh air and exercise of recent days I’m really looking forward to a quiet evening.’

He smiled gently. ‘There’s always next year, miss.’

Two hours later, her embroidery discarded on a chair, the book she had tried to read abandoned on a side table, unable to face the work awaiting her in the study, she fetched a shawl from her room and walked out on to the terrace.

The sun had set in a glory of gold and crimson. The vivid splendour had paled to shades of rose, then turquoise, and now dusk was falling. The breeze had dropped and the air was sweetly perfumed. In the stillness she could hear distant shouts and laughter. She turned, grasping the handles of the French windows, and stood with her head bent. After a long moment, she took a deep breath and closed them quietly.

Then, crossing the terrace, she walked down through the park and took the lower path that led to the beach near the mouth of the creek.

The tide was beginning to ebb, and where the beach was widest near the yard, an enormous bonfire sent showers of sparks and orange tongues of flame leaping into the air. Beyond it, lighted tar barrels mounted on poles illuminated the laughing faces of the gathered men, women, and children.

Melissa sensed the rising excitement as the fire, which had clearly been burning for some time, began to subside. Standing in the shadows out of sight, she watched men and boys begin to dance around the fire.

Then one young man, boosting his courage with a yell, leapt through the flames. The watching crowd gasped, then roared encouragement. A man jumped the fire, followed by another youth.

Movement a few yards away at the water’s edge caught Melissa’s attention. Someone climbed out of a boat and started dragging it up the beach, unrecognisable in the shadows cast by the bright flames and dancing figures. But once he reached high water mark and straightened up, her heart gave a painful lurch.

Leaning into the boat, Gabriel Ennis lifted out several fish strung on a length of cord.

She heard a shout, and saw Billy break from the circle of dancers. He ran toward Gabriel, beckoning him to join in. He shook his head, but Billy pleaded, gesticulating as he urged Gabriel toward the fire. Fending him off, Gabriel turned away and froze, looking directly at her.

Catching her breath, she stepped back. He surely could not recognise her. She was too far away, and in shadow.

Billy caught his arm. A new circle had formed. Now women had joined the men, holding hands as they wove like a snake jumping through the dying flames. A buxom young woman in a low-cut dress raced down, grabbed Gabriel’s hand, and tugged him back to the circle.

Unable to watch, Melissa turned her back on the merriment. She stumbled over the rough stones and tangled seaweed toward the welcome darkness of the wood. There no one would see her stupid tears, or mock her foolish, aching envy to be part of the circle, to dance with her hand in Gabriel’s, to leap the flames and trust the ancient gods to protect her for the coming year.

Reaching the low cliff, she seized exposed roots to pull herself up into the trees. Straightening her dress and wiping her eyes, she started up the path. But a few moments later she heard the crack of a twig and stopped. The footsteps came on, a man’s footsteps, not running but moving fast.

Had he heard her? Should she call out or remain silent? She had every right to be here. But she was alone, it was very dark beneath the trees, and no well brought-up young woman with a care for her reputation went wandering in woods at night. She pressed a hand to her stomach, her heart beating so hard and fast she felt sick.

‘Miss Tregonning?’ The breath she had been holding exploded in a soft gasp and she reached blindly for a tree as her legs threatened to give way. Relief was followed by anger.

‘Gabriel! You frightened me!’ She drew a shaky breath as he loomed out of the blackness.

‘Indeed.’ He bit the word off. His anger, matching her own, was disconcerting. What right had he to be angry? ‘You will permit me to see you safely home.’

‘You forget yourself,’ she shot back. ‘I am perfectly able to walk home without assistance. Nor am I used to being addressed with such …’ Authority. It was the only word to describe his tone, not that she would tell him so. What authority could a man like Gabriel claim?

‘I most humbly beg your pardon.’ The strange, hard note had gone. ‘It was wrong of me –’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘The thing is, I don’t doubt your
courage,
miss; but the
wisdom
of walking alone in the woods on a night when spirits are high and beer flowing freely,
that
I might question. With respect. However,’ he added, as she caught her breath, fighting the knowledge that his criticism was justified even as she struggled to frame a suitably crushing retort, ‘you are not alone now.’

‘True.’ But the confusion she experienced in his presence was anything but a comfort. ‘Why did you not stay on the beach?’

‘Hunger.’ He held up the fish. ‘ My d – evening meal.’

‘How many did you catch?’

‘Six. Too many even for me. Would you – it would give me great pleasure if you would accept half.’

‘You are very kind, but I cannot. Mackerel are best eaten fresh. With all the staff, including Mrs Betts, at the celebrations –’ She shrugged.

‘There is no one at home to cook them?’

‘Exactly.’ Her eyes had grown used to the darkness now and she could see him more clearly: a tall, solid presence that unnerved as much as it reassured.

‘Then allow me.’

‘What?’ Wary, not sure what he meant, she gazed up at the pale blur of his face.

‘Billy told me how important St Peter’s Tide is to the village. You wouldn’t have wanted to miss it even if you couldn’t take part.’

‘Even so, perhaps I shouldn’t – But I thought if I was careful –’

He shook her head. ‘You were not seen.’ He sounded so sure.

‘Except by you.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Miss Tregonning, would you do me the honour of dining with me?’

Now she was silent, biting her tongue hard. She wanted to. She mustn’t. Yet was she not beholden to him? Without his practical help and advice she would be in straits far more desperate than those she currently faced, and with no hope of retrieving the situation, or keeping it secret.

‘It must be several hours since you last ate. You have just told me there is no one at home to prepare your supper.’

‘You make me sound helpless,’ she objected, starting to tremble and uncertain why. ‘Anyway, Mrs Betts will have left me something cold on a tray.’

‘Ahh,’ Gabriel murmured dryly. ‘That does indeed sound more appetising than freshly caught fish.’

‘No it doesn’t, and so you know.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘I really –’ Ought, shouId, must. She drew a deep, shaky breath and, as loneliness defied the clamour of good sense, blurted, ‘Thank you.’

‘You will?’

‘Perhaps you have changed your mind.’

‘No. It was just – I hardly dared hope. This way, miss. I know a short cut.’

When they reached the shack he asked her politely to wait while he went inside. She heard him strike flint against stone, saw the glow of lamplight, and a moment later he re-emerged carrying the lantern. Hanging it from a stick wedged high up on one side of the door, he went back into the shack, fetched the chair, set it down against the wall and, after covering it with a blanket, he indicated with a gesture and a smile that she should sit.

Meanwhile, bombarded by doubts, but aware that to leave now would be the height of rudeness, Melissa was determined to behave exactly as she would have had he been the cream of Truro society. A guest had certain obligations, and having accepted his invitation she would honour them.

Swiftly, she reviewed possible topics of conversation. But though he did not seem ill at ease, nor was he inclined to talk as he moved about. So, taking her cue from him, she lapsed into silence, watching as he quickly kindled a fire within a low semi-circle of blackened stones. With no demands being made of her, no expectations to meet, she began slowly to relax.

Neatly gutting the fish, he wiped them dry with a clean piece of muslin and threaded each one through the gills on to a peeled oak twig.

‘How did it get hot so fast?’ Melissa asked, gazing into the heart of the fire where the burning wood was a brilliant golden-orange with almost clear flames. ‘There’s hardly any smoke at all.’

‘Dry wood doesn’t make smoke. Hard woods such as oak or maple – that’s oak – burn much hotter than soft wood like pine or poplar.’ Gabriel laid the twig across the fire, supporting it on two notched sticks driven into the earth. ‘Won’t be long now.’ He glanced up with a quick smile of such sweetness that she jumped, her heart turning over. Instinctively attempting to disguise her reaction, she adjusted her shawl. It was hunger, nothing more. ‘I’ll turn them in five minutes. They’ll be ready in ten.’