Sea Mistress (28 page)

‘Ellie, I think I'd better be going.' Daniel looked towards Martha who took no notice of him. ‘Will you see me to the door?'

Ellie rose to her feet at once and suddenly Martha gave them her full attention. ‘I've never known anyone take so long to say good night as you two.' Her tone was dry.

‘Oh shut up,' Ellie said good naturedly. Together, she and Daniel left the room and crossed the large bare hall towards the front door. The night air was cold and damp, the wind was blowing towards the sea taking the smell of the tannery with it.

‘I wish I could take you away with me.' Daniel stood next to her, not touching her. ‘I love you so much, Ellie.'

‘I love you too Dan and I hate to think of you leaving Swansea. When do you think you'll be going?' Her tone was anxious, they had had so little time together.

‘I'll start college in the new term,' Daniel said. ‘In January I expect but I haven't been accepted yet, not formally.'

‘You will be,' Ellie spoke with confidence, Daniel was from a good family, he would have an excellent reference from Arian Smale, there was no doubt he'd be accepted into the church college.

She felt suddenly empty, how would she manage without him? Daniel had become such an integral part of her life, she loved him more than she had believed it possible to love anyone. Of course she had loved Jubilee, would always love him, but as a protector, a father-figure not a lover. Once she had believed herself in love with Calvin Temple but now she recognized that she had been fooled by what was a youthful infatuation. As yet she and Daniel had done nothing more than hold hands. He was diffident, a gentleman. He respected her which she found touching given the facts of her past. But Daniel was not one to judge, he would make an excellent cleric.

She looked up at him, she would very much like to be in his arms, to feel his lips probe hers with passion. She was glad it was dark otherwise he might read her desire in her face. She reached out and touched his hand and his fingers curled around hers, strong and reassuring.

‘Even when I'm away, I will come to see you often, Ellie,' he spoke softly, ‘I love you, nothing will ever change that so don't you go getting any doubts, mind.'

She smiled, ‘You'd better go.' She moved away from him, ‘Go before I forget I'm supposed to be a lady.'

He touched her shoulder lightly. ‘One day it will be right for us, Ellie, then we will have the rest of our lives to enjoy each other.'

She closed her eyes, thanking God that Daniel was so sensitive, so honourable.

‘Good night, Ellie.' She felt his lips touch her hair briefly and then he was striding away, his feet crunching against the gravel on the path leading towards the road.

She returned to the house and Martha was putting away her sewing, straightening her back, rubbing her eyes. ‘Sooner you two can be wed the better,' she said softly, ‘I know you are both good people but do you really have to wait before you can – well
be
together?'

‘What are you suggesting, Martha?' Ellie said gently. ‘That Dan and I have an affair? It wouldn't do, it really would be against his principles, you know that as well as I do.'

‘And your principles, what of them?' Martha asked archly.

Ellie raised her arms above her head and stretched luxuriously. ‘I would throw them aside tomorrow, if I could. I would tear off my clothes and fall into bed with Daniel like a wanton, if only it weren't for the debt of honour I owe to Jubie's memory.'

‘Ah, well, such is life. I'm glad I'm past it all myself, not that I ever was great on passion and the sins of the flesh, mind.'

Ellie smiled, ‘I don't believe that for one minute but anyway, you're right, it's time we were going up to bed, there's work to do tomorrow.'

The sea was running fast, lifting the
Marie Clare
as though she was a toy and then dropping her deep into the green troughs of water.

‘God, I hate this life.' Matthew Hewson was soaked to the skin, he had lost weight, unable to eat the unappetizing meals dished up by the none too clean cook in the greasy galley. But more than anything, Matthew was missing having a woman beside him, a woman to make him feel good, to cater to his needs, to hold him in soft, scented arms. In short, he admitted to himself that he was missing Rosie. Perhaps he had been hasty in ditching her and he might have been better advised than to give that young cock Boyo a beating. Had he kept his temper he would still be leading a comfortable life at Glyn Hir bossing the men, having his fill of the good life with plenty of money in his pocket. Instead, he'd taken this job on board ship, a temporary situation, he had promised himself that at the start and now he was even more sure that a life at sea was not for him.

He'd been surprised when Collins had come up to him at the bar of the Ship Inn and struck up a conversation. He'd seen the man in the public several times, knew he was a servant up at one of the big houses on the hill and that was all he knew.

Collins had been impressed with Matthew's reputation as both a bard and a tough man, which admittedly was an unusual combination but then Matthew knew he was an unusual man, not the run-of-the-mill type at all which was why he'd been selected for this job. Collins had been aware that Matthew had worked at Glyn Hir; he explained that a load of leather goods originating at the tannery was being shipped to Ireland. He told him exactly what he must do, he must watch the owner of the
Marie Clare
, follow Paul Marchant when the ship docked in Ireland, find out as much about the man as he could.

The thought appealed to him as did the promise of a great deal of money when his job was over. Admittedly the sum Collins handed over initially was pretty paltry but Matthew knew that what he would find out would be of value. He sensed a bit of jiggery-pokery was going on; if he was being paid to follow Paul Marchant then the man was up to something not quite legal. If the information was not worth money to Collins then Matthew could always defect to the other side, come clean with Marchant or even go to one of the newspapers.
The Swansea Times
would be glad to pay for a good story.

It had been fortunate that the
Marie Clare
had been short of crewmen, he'd been taken on without a great deal of ceremony, after all, it was just a cross-channel trip, nothing to speak of. So here he was, praying that the ship would dock soon at one of the Irish ports.

Relieved from his duties, he went below and rubbed his face with a piece of dry cloth, his clothes he could do nothing about. He sat on the wooden bench that ran along the galley and watched the morose cook peeling potatoes.

‘When are we going to dock?' he asked at last, anything to break the silence.

‘Bout an hour.' The man's reply was terse but Matthew felt a sense of relief, soon he'd been on dry land again. Why anyone chose to live this sort of uncomfortable existence he couldn't comprehend. It was his idea of hell to be continually soaked and uncomfortable not to mention being isolated among a gang of men for hours on end. Perhaps he should take a little look at the cargo while he had the chance, he was supposed to learn as much as he could and that's exactly what he intended to do. Who knew what tasty piece of information he might pick up and find useful?

The hold was tightly packed with foul smelling fuel blocks and for a moment, in the darkness, that's all there seemed to be. But no, over to the side were stacked about forty boxes lashed together and Matthew felt his nerve ends tingle. He was about to find out something of moment, he just knew it, something that was going to be very profitable to him. He clambered over the top of the boxes and easily prized one of the tops open and the familiar tang of leather assailed his nostrils. Immediately he was back at Glyn Hir, currying, soaking, working the leather.

The load was not in the form of skins though by the feel of the leather it was of the best quality, Matthew would have known even if he hadn't already been told that the leather had come from Glyn Hir. The leather had been fashioned into tack, into fine saddles and horse-collars. Good stuff but not a very big load of it, not enough surely to make the cost of transporting it to Ireland worthwhile.

Matthew lifted one of the collars and examined it, the stitching wasn't particularly well done, it could easily be opened with the touch of a blade. Perhaps, he thought, excitement beginning to grip him, that was the whole point. He took out his knife and carefully cut through a few of the stitches. He slipped his fingers inside and they encountered the stiffness of rye grass, the usual padding for collars. He probed further and his fingers found a soft package.

So Marchant was smuggling something, that much was clear. The substance wasn't rough enough for tea, in any case, the smell of the leather would impregnate the tea, spoiling the taste. Neither was it tobacco. It could only be one thing. Opium. So that was Marchant's little game, avoiding the duty on the goods and no doubt selling them on at a fine profit. Matthew looked at the cases, stacked one on top of the other and calculated that an enormous amount of opium could be smuggled abroad by such a means. He doubted that all the leather goods had been tampered with, the contraband was probably in selected, marked boxes.

He climbed carefully over the boxes and made his way up on deck, the ship would be docking soon and he would be needed. No point in making anyone suspicious of him at this juncture. He hugged the knowledge of the contraband to himself, it was something he could use to his advantage, he was sure of it. The deck was rolling, it was slippery and wet but the shoreline was just coming into sight. Matthew heaved a sigh of relief, with what he knew, he would be making the return journey in style not as a common deck-hand.

Later, when he left the ship, he traced Paul Marchant to the small guest house a short distance from the docks, keeping well out of sight. In the warmth of the bar, he mingled with the other customers and found that his subterfuge had been unnecessary, most of the crew from the
Marie Clare
were there before him. He saw Paul Marchant standing near the foot of the rickety staircase, he said something to the landlord and then disappeared to an upper room. Shortly afterwards, a beautiful young girl came out of the kitchen with a tray and she too went upstairs.

Matthew grimaced, he should be getting some of that; he needed a pretty girl and it looked as if Paul Marchant was cut from the same cloth. When the girl didn't reappear, Matthew knew he was right, Paul Marchant was amusing himself with the young Irish girl, something that perhaps Collins would like to know. Collins after all was only acting for Mrs Marchant, any fool could work that out. What would interest Mrs Marchant was her husband's infidelities, women were like that. Well if she wanted to know the truth then let her have it. Not that Matthew was above playing both ends from the middle. If he could blackmail Marchant and at the same time take money from Collins, he would do it without a qualm.

He helped himself to more ale from the jug the landlord had placed on the table before him and settled back in his chair. He felt well satisfied with himself, he had found out a great deal more than anyone could have anticipated. Well, all he had to do now was to keep his eyes peeled and his ears open. Marchant must have a contact here in Ireland. Whoever was buying the goods, he must be more powerful than Marchant, have more clout, have plenty of contacts otherwise Marchant would be distributing the contraband himself.

The little Irish girl reappeared and Matthew waved his hand to her. She came over to him and he could see she was flushed, it was clear she had been well and truly bedded.

‘I could do with a little company,' Matthew turned on his most charming smile but it cut no ice.

‘Sorry, I only serve ale,' she said shortly. It was on the tip of Matthew's tongue to tell her that from his observations she was not telling the truth but he stopped himself in time. He must keep control of himself, not arouse suspicion.

He inclined his head in a mock bow. ‘Forgive me then, it's a long time since I've seen such a beautiful woman.' It was true, she really was lovely with her cloud of dark hair, her fine skin and large, dark fringed eyes. Marchant was a lucky man but then, perhaps his luck was just about to run out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘My husband's ship is due in port some time today.' Bridie was sitting near the window staring out at the ice-bound garden. In spite of the winter weather she felt well, she knew she had more colour in her cheeks, her hair had a new shine and her eyes were alive. Paul might have taken away all her possessions but he could not rob her of her spirit. ‘You think this man Matthew Hewson will have done a good job?' Bridie looked anxiously up at Collins.

‘I don't think he's altogether to be trusted but then we had little choice but to employ someone of his type.'

‘You're right, no decent person would want to spy on others so I suppose I'm not a decent person.'

‘You've been badly wronged, Mrs Marchant,' Collins said evenly. Bridie studied him for a moment, wondering at his loyalty. It seemed that these days he was always there at hand to offer comfort and support. When he had first come into her employ, Bridie had been coolly gracious to him as she was to all the servants but when unhappiness and suspicion had clouded her mind, Collins had known the sharp edge of her tongue on more than one occasion. Now, it seemed, he had become her staunchest ally in her fight to walk again. She did not deserve his friendship and she knew it.

As if reading her thoughts, he spoke, ‘How about doing your walking exercises for the day? It wouldn't do to let your limbs grow weak again.'

Bridie smiled, ‘How would I manage without you, Collins? Come along, then, help me out of my chair.'