Eye of the Wind (6 page)

Tom continued, ‘He got back here, but he can’t go home ’cos the press gang will have him again.’ He turned to Gabriel. ‘This here’s Walter Keverne, he’ll tell you what to do. This is Tansey, and his boy, Billy. And that there beanpole is Joseph. All right?’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Walter said. ‘What about the wood, then? You seen mister?’

‘No. But Miss Melissa come down this morning. I told she ’tis urgent.’

‘So long as she remember to tell her father.’

‘She will.’

Melissa. Gabriel cleared his throat. ‘Any logs not cut?’

Walter nodded, sucking his teeth. ‘A few. Stacked out the back they are. But since Charlie near hacked his leg off, there haven’t been no one to go down the pit. Billy’s willing, but he can’t do it by his self. And with the packet to finish, none of we got time.’

Knowing it was an unpopular task, and hoping the welts on his back would stand the stretching, Gabriel shrugged. ‘I’ll do it.’

Tansey grinned, showing a mouthful of blackened teeth. ‘Now I call that handsome. Come just the right time you have.’

‘You want it quarter sawn?’ Gabriel asked.

Exchanging a slow grin of relief, Tom and Walter both nodded.

‘I’ll need help,’ Gabriel reminded.

‘I’ll go,’ Billy volunteered. Stocky like his father, he had muscular arms and powerful shoulders. ‘All right, father?’

Tansey shrugged. ‘All right with you, Walter?’

‘Get on, the both of you. What are you waiting for? God knows we do need it.’

Surprised, Gabriel indicated the reduced stacks of wood. ‘That’s all?’

Walter and Tansey nodded, Walter adding, ‘Never seen ’un in this state, not in all the years I been here.’

‘The wood, or mister?’ Tansey muttered darkly.

‘All right, all right,’ Tom broke in. ‘I don’t want to hear no more of that. What if it had been your Billy?’ He turned to Gabriel. ‘Mister’s eldest boy got hisself killed last year. A lieutenant in the navy, he was.’

‘Mister?’ Gabriel repeated.

‘Mr Tregonning. Own the yard, he do. Got another boy out by Jamaica or some such place.’

‘No word from he for months neither,’ Walter added, shaking his head.

‘I know what I think,’ Tansey muttered darkly.

‘Yes, well, you keep it to yourself,’ Tom snapped. ‘Family got enough trouble. They don’t want you making it worse.’

‘’Tisn’t only they who’ll have trouble if we don’t get more wood,’ Tansey grumbled.

Wondering if Mr Tregonning was the owner of the woodland above the yard, Gabriel kept silent.

‘You said your piece, now shut your yap,’ Tom snapped. ‘C’mon, move yourselves. Time’s wasting.’

Gabriel followed Billy, hoping the youth wouldn’t ply him with questions. In fact, he hardly spoke at all. But he worked. By late morning they had hauled a two foot thick and eight foot long log from the pile, stripped off the bark with small axes, marked the main divisions, and made the first cut.

When the others stopped for their dinner, Gabriel sent Billy to join them, saying he wasn’t hungry and would wedge the log ready for the second cut. But within ten minutes Billy was back, a stone jar dangling from one large fist. His young face fiery, he thrust a thick wedge of meat and potato pie at Gabriel.

‘Walter sent it. Said his missus always give him too much. Fat as a pup he’d be if he ate it all hisself.’

Wiping his hands on the sweat-soaked and sawdust-sprinkled shirt he preferred to retain rather than excite curiosity by exposing the welts that striped his back, Gabriel took the pie, touched by the boy’s thoughtfulness and tact. ‘Much obliged.’

Billy gazed into the distance while Gabriel ate, then thrust the jar toward him. ‘Here, ’tis good ale. Falmouth brewed.’

Raising the jar to his lips, Gabriel drank deeply. The bitter beer, cool and delicious, quenched his thirst and gave him new strength. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned the jar. ‘Know anyone who might lend me a boat?’ Watching Billy’s face reflect tumbling thoughts, he added, ‘For fishing, Billy. Nothing more.’

Blushing, Billy shrugged. ‘I never thought you was one o’ the
gentlemen
.’

‘Too risky. I’ll pay for the loan with half my catch.’

Billy thought. ‘Jack got a boat. But he don’t go out much now. Want me to ask him, do you?’

‘Thanks.’ Gabriel started back toward the saw pit.

It was mid-afternoon when, for the second time in two days, Melissa walked with the doctor to his horse. She waited until they were out of earshot of the house to ask the question, dreading his answer.

‘How … How ill is my father?’

Dr Wherry stopped, raising his eyes to hers. His expression was sombre, his gaze compassionate. ‘I think your brother should come home as soon as possible.’

Catching her lip, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak, understanding all his response implied. George was in the navy, and there was a war on. But George was also her father’s heir and would be the new head of the family, responsible for her mother and herself. It was clear the doctor did not expect her father to recover. She forced the words past the lump in her throat.

‘How long …?’

The doctor moved his shoulders. ‘It’s difficult to say. His strong constitution, active lifestyle, and moderate habits must count in his favour. But I’m afraid the toll of the last 12 months …’ He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’

Melissa returned to the house to find Sarah waiting for her.

‘Please, miss. These was left on the dining room table.’

‘Thank you.’ Taking the folded letters, Melissa started toward her father’s study.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but if you don’t mind me asking, we was all wondering, how’s master going on?’

Melissa swallowed the aching tightness in her throat. ‘Not good, Sarah.’

The maid’s eyes brimmed. ‘I’m some sorry, miss.’

‘Thank you. Could you bring me some tea? I’ll be in the study.’

Sitting in her father’s high-backed leather chair, she gazed out of the window. The sun shone from an azure sky dotted with puffs of cloud. Swifts dipped and swooped after insects. The garden was fragrant with roses and in the farm meadows the last of the clover would have been cut. Soon it would be the turn of the grass. Tall and lush, it would make good hay. The breeze made it ripple like water. Down in the yard, the new packet-ship was well on its way to completion. Once the masts had been stepped, the internal fitting could begin. Nothing had changed yet everything was different. And the suppliers had not been paid.

She had not yet told her mother of her father’s collapse. The fever had reached its height at midday and in her delirium Emma had cried out for both her sons. Then, without warning, a drenching sweat had beaded her face and trickled down her temples and neck, soaking her hair, the pillow, her nightgown, and the sheets. Greatly relieved, Melissa and Addey had moved her to the couch. And while Addey bathed her mistress, crooning softly as if Emma Tregonning were still the child she had once nursed, Melissa aided Sarah in stripping and changing the bed. Her mother was sleeping peacefully now, aided by one of Dr Wherry’s draughts. She would need all her strength to bear this latest blow. All the more reason for delaying as long as possible.

‘Pour a cup for you shall I, miss?’ Sarah enquired, setting the tray down in the space Melissa had hastily cleared.

‘No, it’s all right, Sarah. I can manage.’ Leaning forward to gather up the letters and papers strewn over the desktop, Melissa gave the maid a brief smile. ‘I’ll ring if I need anything.’

Still Sarah dithered, reluctant to leave. ‘Want for me to send John over to Pencoombe, do you?’

Melissa’s head flew up. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Well, ’tisn’t right you having to do everything all by yourself.’

Melissa’s eyebrows rose. ‘Sarah, I’m perfectly capable of –’

‘’Course you are. No one could say otherwise. But we got eyes in our heads. We all know how much you bin doing to help master. So we was just thinking, what with your mother so ill an’ all, and now your dear father took bad, maybe your Uncle Marcus or Uncle Brinley could –’

Melissa bit her tongue, knowing the suggestion sprang from concern for her well-being. The same age as herself, Sarah had come into service at the age of ten. Like the rest of the staff, her connection with the family was of long standing, as her parents and grandparents had also worked for Tregonnings. This long-established tradition had resulted in the servants adopting the family as their own. So while respectful and scrupulously attentive to every detail of their duties, when, in their opinion, the occasion warranted, they felt free to ignore normal boundaries and speak their minds.

‘Sarah, if my uncles are sent for, my aunts will come as well. It would be impossible to keep them away. Even if they respected my father’s privacy, just think what it would mean for my mother. She wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Yet that’s exactly what she needs right now. So, much as I appreciate your offer, and I do, truly, I would rather not involve my uncles for the time being.’

A fiery blush scalded the maid’s face and she dipped her head. ‘Beg pardon, miss. I shouldn’t have spoke out of turn. It was just –’

‘It’s all right. I do understand. And I’m not angry. How could I be when I know you were only trying to help?’

‘That’s the truth, miss, as God’s my judge. Sure you don’t want nothing else?’

‘Not for the moment.’ She smiled and Sarah, still very pink, bobbed a curtsy and bustled out.

Pouring herself some tea, Melissa placed the cup and saucer within easy reach and, sitting down in her father’s chair, drew a fresh sheet of paper and the inkstand toward her, and picked up a pen. After several moments’ thought she began writing.

Once she had started, it was less difficult than she had feared. She kept the letter brief, setting out the facts just as the doctor had given them to her. Then she reassured her brother that she would manage everything until his return. To add to his burden by confessing her fears and anxieties would be both selfish and unfair. It would take several weeks for the letter to reach him, and several more for him to get home. And by that time it was probable … No: she would think no further than tomorrow.

Signing her name, she took another sheet and wrote a second, identical letter. When she had finished she folded both and sealed them, and addressed one to Lieutenant George Tregonning, His Majesty’s Ship
Defiant
, c/o Admiralty House, London, to be sent out on one of the navy sloops. After writing her brother’s name and that of his ship on the other, she hesitated. Then, remembering him telling her that following a terrible storm in 1784 the Custom House and Public Offices had been moved from Port Royal, she addressed it instead to Kingston. This letter would go from Falmouth on the Jamaica packet, so even if one went astray, hopefully the other would reach him safely.

As Gilbert left with the letters, closing the door behind him, Melissa let her head fall back against the dark, shiny leather. Sarah’s reminder of her uncles was like a thorn under her skin. While waiting for the doctor to arrive, she had wrestled with the question of when to tell them.

Naturally they would have to be informed. But surely it would do no harm to wait a little? It wasn’t as if they could actually do anything. According to Dr Wherry the next 48 hours were critical, and a calm, quiet atmosphere must be maintained. If noise and fuss were to be avoided, then so were her uncles and their wives.

Straightening in the chair, Melissa swivelled it to face the desk, took a sip of her tea, and drew the pile of letters and papers toward her. She needed to keep busy. If she stopped, fear for her father would take over. For all their sakes she could not afford to let that happen. Instead, she would make herself useful. Her father had always dealt with the paperwork, though it now appeared even that had proved too much for him. It surely could not be so difficult? If it wasn’t, then he had simply lost the will, or the ability, to concentrate.

Blinking away tears, she drew a deep breath. The more she could do to help, the less he would have to worry about. Maybe if she were able to reassure him … She bit her lip hard. She must not hope. Dr Wherry had been brutally frank.

‘He may not die. But the damage is so great –’

‘Are you saying it would be better if he did?’

‘I am saying his physical and mental abilities would be severely impaired. You know your father: would he wish to live like that, do you think?’

Memories had whirled through her mind: going neck or nothing alongside him with the hunt; riding with him over the farm, listening to his plans to grow new crops such as swedes and mangel-wurzels, and maybe to invest in the new Tullian seed drill; accompanying him and Tom through the yard, listening as they discussed progress on a boat.

She could not imagine a more terrible life for her father than to be deprived of movement or understanding. Or worse: to retain awareness yet find himself unable to communicate. So she had shaken her head, her chest hurting as she choked down sobs, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached.

Taking another sip of tea, she forced her attention back to the pile of letters and documents. Replacing her cup, she leafed through them, intending first to simply divide them into business and personal before deciding what action each required. But almost at once she came across three from Williams’ Bank in Truro.

Several minutes later, tea forgotten, she raised her head and stared blindly at the book-lined wall opposite. Despite the summer sunshine flooding the room with warmth and light, she was cold to the marrow of her bones.

How had things reached such a pass? Why had he allowed it to go on so long, get so out of hand? Why had he not confided in her? Her breath caught on a shuddering sigh. That at least was easily answered. A proud man, he could not have borne to admit the extent to which he had lost control of his financial affairs, particularly to his own daughter who, at 12, had proclaimed him her hero.

Checking the dates, she saw that the letters had been written over a period of six weeks. Each began by regretting that Mr Tregonning had not responded either by letter or in person to previous communications. They continued, in increasingly stern tones, by requesting immediate repayment of at least a portion of the outstanding loan. The most recent letter made it clear that further delay was unacceptable, and should he not appear in person to discuss the matter, then regretfully the bank would have no alternative but to foreclose and take whatever steps necessary to recover their money, or goods to the value thereof.