by Jane Jackson
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.’
Later that morning, Melissa preceded the short, wiry figure downstairs.
‘Your mother has influenza,’ Dr Wherry confirmed her suspicion. ‘I’ve seen four cases in the past two days. All are people your mother knows. If they have visited, she might have caught it from any one of them. I’ll leave you some Peruvian bark and calomel, and James’s Powders.’
As she glanced over her shoulder, Melissa’s eyes were level with the doctor’s as he paused on the stair above hers. ‘She seems very restless. Is there anything else we can do to make her more comfortable?’
His shoulders moved in the faintest suggestion of a shrug. It was not lack of interest, Melissa knew, but frustration with the limitations of his weapons in the fight against illness and disease. ‘A sponge bath with tepid water might help bring down the fever. Ensure she takes plenty of liquid, something bland, like lemon barley water.’
Melissa nodded quickly. ‘Addey’s already making some. It’s always been her standby. Whenever I was poorly –’
‘A rare occurrence as I remember.’ The doctor’s brief but kindly smile drew an answering one from her.
‘Indeed. All I remember of those times is the jug of lemon barley water beside my bed. Addey will have it ready at any moment. What about food?’
‘No meat. Only light and easily digested dishes. But don’t worry if she declines them. She may have no interest in eating until after the fever has broken, which might not be for a day or two.’
Melissa indicated the drawing room. ‘May I offer you coffee or a glass of Madeira?’
Dr Wherry shook his head. ‘Most kind of you, my dear, but I have a long list of calls to make. So, much as I’d like to, I cannot stay. Please give your father my regards. I had thought to see him. But it’s of no consequence.’
‘I know he’ll be sorry to have missed you. He had urgent business in Truro this morning, and left early.’
About to speak, the doctor changed his mind, simply nodding and giving her another brief smile as he settled his hat firmly over his eyes. Then, turning to his horse, he fastened his bag to the strap, heaved himself into the saddle, and gathered the reins. With
a nod to the stable boy who released the bridle and scurried away, he looked down at Melissa.
‘If he finds himself in Truro again tomorrow, ask him if he’ll call and see me. Nothing to worry about,’ he reassured. ‘I’d just like a word.’
Raising his hat, the doctor turned his horse and trotted off down the drive.
Watching him for a moment, Melissa wondered what he had been about to say. Then she wondered if she should have mentioned her own concerns about her father’s forgetfulness and preoccupation, the lost weight, and his air of exhaustion. Yet they were not exactly signs of illness, and might easily be attributed to his grief at Adrian’s death: grief he had suppressed in order to support her mother.
Though lately he had relied on her to do the routine visits to the farms and boatyard, he was not sitting at home idle. Indeed, this past ten days, when he was not closeted in his study, he had ridden several times into Truro, whereas he usually went only once or twice a fortnight.
The first anniversary of Adrian’s death was bound to be a difficult time. In a week or two all would be easier. Meanwhile, rather than waste precious time and energy on fruitless worry, she would be better employed attending to household matters, looking after her mother, and giving serious thought to the problem of finding a suitable husband.
Gabriel jerked awake, dry-mouthed, his heart thudding. But this time his disorientation was brief. The angle of the sunlight slanting through the trees told him it was late afternoon. He lay for a moment watching a cloud of midges dart and spiral in the golden shaft. Then he stretched, wincing, hoping his aching muscles would loosen once he got moving.
Food and rest had restored him, and there was much he must do in the few remaining hours of daylight. His main task was to roof at least one end of the shack before the rain arrived. But in order to do that he first needed to raise and level the two standing walls.
Ignoring the renewed hunger that urged him to eat again – supper must wait until it was too dark to work – he swallowed a mug of water from the spring, and set to.
He was careful to take stones from beyond the back wall, or from inside among the nettles, so that disturbance of the undergrowth in front would remain unnoticed should anyone unexpectedly come by on the path.
After his first effort collapsed he tried a different approach: layering and overlapping large stones with smaller ones, careful to ensure he maintained the slight inward slope of the lower half. Then he filled in the gaps with bits of rubble.
Heedless of cuts, grazes, and trapped fingers, he worked until the sun was low and all sounds from the yard had stopped. Washing the blood from his hands, he drank more water, sawed off another thick slice of bread, and wrapped it around the last of the cheese.
Then, chewing as he walked, he set off along the path in the direction of the village. He had no intention of showing his face there yet. There were things he needed. And the most likely place to find them was in the vicinity of the shipyard.
Passing the fallen trees again, this time in daylight, Gabriel saw that though some were casualties of recent storms, others had been down far longer. He did not understand why valuable timber was simply being allowed to rot. Judging by what he had seen already, these woods, right behind the shipyard, must be full of oaks. Who owned them? Why was such an important and much-needed resource being so shamefully neglected?
It was six years since the ordinary people of France, driven to despair by high rents, the rocketing price of food, and oppression by a nobility and clergy who cared nothing for their suffering, had vented their rage in a bloody revolution. It was now two years since King Louis, aged 39, had lost his head to the guillotine, and Bonaparte had declared war on Britain.
To defend her territories and attack the French, Britain needed a strong navy. The navy needed additional ships. Prime Minister Pitt’s decision to allow private yards to build the smaller frigates had incurred the Navy Board’s disapproval. But the move had released the royal yards to concentrate on building larger warships, and on repairs to those damaged in battle.
But a shortage of wood meant Britain had to import what she needed, and that meant running the gauntlet of Bonaparte’s blockade; risking ships and men the country could ill afford to lose. Yet there must be enough oak here in these woods to build a dozen ships.
A short distance from the buildings and quays of the yard, Gabriel waited under cover of the trees until he was certain the men had all gone home, then dropped down onto the stony beach.
The stretch of shingle was a scavenger’s paradise. Here he found torn and stained sail canvas, broken spars, an axe-head, and a filthy iron cooking pot. It was missing both handles but seemed free of holes. He pulled a tangled length of frayed rope from beneath the seaweed. Some ancient chunks of tarred oakum would burn long enough to dry out green or damp wood.
Tying everything but the cooking pot together with one of the ropes, he hoisted his hoard up into the shelter of the trees. Returning for the pot, he also scooped up several handfuls of coarse sand. In the French shipyards, lacking soap, and fearing for his health, he had discovered that sand would scour the filthiest pan clean.
The mellow light of a summer’s evening filtered through the leaves as he retraced his steps up the trail to the main path and back to the small stone ruin. This, he guessed, had once been a hide either for a gamekeeper, or for preventive officers needing a secret lookout to watch for smugglers.
Fastening sail canvas around the spars, he roofed half the shack, adding branches from one of the fallen trees as additional cover. As the leaves died the camouflage effect would lessen. But at least the extra weight would stop the canvas being torn off in the event of further gales. With the roof secure, he began scouring the iron pot with sand moistened with water from spring.
Suddenly the corners of his mouth quivered. If his valet could see him now. Berryman had always taken great pride in maintaining, regardless of provocation, the aloof, slightly supercilious countenance he considered appropriate to his position. The state of his master’s clothes and person after a day on the hunting field, or a night in town, had provided many a stern test. Even his legendary composure would surely crumble at the sight of his lord performing the tasks of a humble scullery maid.
As thoughts of home threatened his hard-won detachment they were ruthlessly suppressed. Gabriel’s features grew bleak. After rinsing the pot thoroughly, he refilled it with water and returned to the shack.
Night had finally vanquished day. Though the summer evening wasn’t totally black, it would be dark enough to hide any tell-tale drift of smoke. Anyone around to smell it would be as much a trespasser as himself. For it was only too clear these woods had not been properly managed for some time.
Needing dry wood for his fire, he ignored the twigs on the ground, and instead broke off pieces from inside an ancient and hollow oak. This would burn hotter and produce less smoke than a damp or resinous wood.
Pulling his tinder-box from the pocket of his spare breeches, he cleared a small space on the shack floor of twigs, grass, and leaf litter. Then, pushing a handful of frayed oakum into the pile of dry oak bits, he struck flint and steel, blowing very gently until the sparks erupted into a tiny flame that caught, flared, and curled hungrily around the matted fibres.
Feeding more wood onto the flames he was soon able to add a couple of thicker chunks prised from inside the log. As soon as they had begun to burn, he placed the iron pot on top. Smothering a yawn, he pushed himself to his feet, broke enough dry branches from nearby dead trees to keep the fire going for a couple of hours, then carried the bucket to the spring and filled it.
As the water began bubble in the pot, Gabriel unbuttoned his filthy shirt. His nostrils twitched. God, he stank. Pouring the boiling water into the half-full bucket, he reached for the bar of soap and, using one of the napkins as a sponge, he began to wash. Drying himself as best he could, he stripped off his breeches, drawers, stockings, and boots, and completed his makeshift bath.
The combination of cool night air and residual weakness made him shiver but it felt good to be clean again. Pulling on his breeches and spare shirt he wrestled his boots onto bare feet and returned to the spring for more water. While waiting for it to boil he ate the meat and potato pie and stared into the flames.
After washing his linen and shirt, he hung them on a branch to dry. There was only one more task to be faced: one he did not relish but dare not put off any longer.
Tying his hair back with some twisted strands of hemp fibre, he removed his shirt once more. Carefully unwrapping the wet and filthy bandages from his wrists, he dropped them into the flames where they hissed and burned.
The binding around his throat took longer to remove as the discharging wound had matted beard growth to gauze. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it free. Averting his gaze from the dark stains of blood and putrefaction, he flung it into the fire, unable to suppress a shudder.
In the firelight he examined the deep abrasions on his wrists, relieved to see new pink flesh beginning to form. He wished he could see his throat, then was immediately glad he could not.
Bathing the wounds in clean hot water, he patted them dry, then covered and bound them once more with strips torn from the stolen sheet and liberally smeared with honey. By the time he had finished his hands had begun to shake and he cursed his feebleness.
He drew up his knees and rested his head on his arms, fighting the fear and isolation that threatened to overwhelm him. He was free from prison, free from further risk of betrayal to the French, but not free to return to his home and family. He was as much a fugitive here as he had been in Brittany.
It was impossible that anyone there had known his purpose. During his torture stubborn pride and a refusal to let them win had somehow given him the strength to maintain his cover. Over and over again he had repeated the same story.
He worked at the shipyard and sometimes made a few extra francs helping the free traders. He knew nothing of secret messages: all he did was carry kegs of brandy. He was paid, he said, for his strong back and silent tongue. His inquisitors had laughed, vowing to break both his strength and his silence. They had come close, too close, to succeeding.