Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Jed sneered. ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘Because,’ Billy strode forward and glowered down at the fisherman, his fists clenched, ‘two days ago Gabriel was took up to the big house on a stretcher. Kept there all night he was, unconscious. He only come away yesterday afternoon.’

  Jed glared at the nodding men. ‘You’re having me on. I don’t believe a word of it.’

  Gabriel pushed himself away from the wall, pressing his bandaged wrist against his forehead to staunch the blood trickling down his face from the torn scab.

  ‘Miss Tregonning’s butler looked after me. He knows what time I left. Ask him.’ There was more murmuring and heads nodded.

  Tansey tapped Jed on the shoulder. ‘If you was to spend a bit more time home, your missus wouldn’t be running round the village like a bitch on heat.’

  Ignoring the sniggers, Jed squared up to Tansey, as belligerent as a terrier. ‘How’s a man supposed to put food on the table if he don’t work?’

  ‘Get on, Jed,’ Zeb jeered. ‘You get off that boat and straight go in the Anchor. I reckon you do drink more than you eat.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with a man having a pint of ale when he come back after a hard day’s fishing?’ Jed snarled, but with less certainty. ’Tisn’t none of your bleddy business anyhow.’

  ‘It is when you beat up an innocent man,’ Walter snapped.

  ‘Come on, Jed,’ Eddy muttered, putting his arm around his brother- in-law.

  ‘Yeah, you get on home,’ Tansey called amiably. ‘And don’t forget to ask your missus who really gived her they bruises.’

  As Gabriel turned away, Billy touched his shoulder. ‘You all right?’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘I will be when I’ve had some sleep.’

  ‘See you home, shall I?’

  ‘No. No, I’d rather be on my own.’

  ‘I don’t mind, honest.’

  ‘No, Billy. Thanks all the same. You go on back with the others.’

  ‘Night, then.’

  ‘Good night.’ Turning away, Gabriel pressed a hand to his bruised side, praying no ribs were broken, and concentrated on reaching the shack before he collapsed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first large, slow drops burst on the leaves like overripe berries then slid off to hit the path beneath with a soft thud. Intermittent at first, they began falling faster, driven by a gusty wind that made the leaves whisper and sigh and the branches creak. By the time Gabriel reached the shack, staggering like a drunk and shivering as his temperature began to climb, his shirt was soaked, his hair hung in ropes, and rain dribbled in cold rivulets down his burning face.

  Racked with pain from the beating, every movement agony as his bruised muscles stiffened, he shut the door and slid the wooden bar across. No fire would burn outside. It was too wet. If he tried to light one in here he would suffocate. In any case he hadn’t the strength. Desperate to lie down, feeling too ill even to remove his wet clothes, he crawled beneath the blankets. Shaken by violent tremors, he slipped helplessly into a state between sleep and delirium.

  His body had given up. But, deranged by rising fever, his mind whirled with vivid images, razor sharp and terrifying. Suddenly he was reliving his capture in the shipyard: the soldiers grabbing his arms, shouting at him while his erstwhile workmates drew back and turned away, dissociating themselves from him and whatever he was guilty of. He could feel his heart racing, his mouth sour with a metallic taste of fear as he protested in angry bewilderment, trying frantically to work out what had gone wrong, and how he had been found out. The images dissolved and reformed, taking him further back. Back to the incident that had driven him into exile and deadly danger.

  In Plymouth, on business for his father, he had joined a party of friends at a gentlemen’s club near the dockyard. Stepping out into the street after a pleasant evening, they almost bumped into two young naval officers who were passing. One suddenly stopped.

  ‘Good God, it’s Stratton.’ The young man’s speech was slurred, his tone deriding. ‘Lord Roland Stratton. Well met indeed.’

  Gabriel turned. Not recognising either man, he addressed the one who had spoken. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Lieutenant Frederick Poldyce of His Majesty’s ship Audacious.’ He made an exaggerated bow. ‘I believe you’re acquainted with my elder brother, Richard. He mentioned meeting you at one of Lady St Cleer’s routs. He’s a second lieutenant aboard the Queen Charlotte. Was,’ he corrected himself, face twisting with grief. ‘Not any more. Dead, you see. Killed in battle. The Glorious First of June.’ Biting cynicism edged the man’s tone.

  Gabriel dipped his head. ‘You have my deepest sympathy.’ Aware that no words of his could ease such loss, he turned away.

  ‘Keep it!’ Frederick Poldyce snarled. ‘I don’t want your damned sympathy!’

  Startled, Gabriel and his friends glanced back. Poldyce’s companion tried to take his arm, but was roughly shaken off. ‘Why would I want sympathy from a man who stays safe at home and leaves others to fight for Britain’s safety? Aye, and die for it.’

  Gabriel stiffened, his sharply drawn breath hissing between his teeth at this stinging slight.

  ‘Ignore him, Stratton,’ one of his friends urged. ‘The young fool’s foxed. Brother’s death so recent, bound to have hit him hard.’

  ‘Especially as Audacious got separated from the rest of the fleet and didn’t even take part in the battle,’ another added. ‘Come, let’s go.’

  Gabriel struggled to control his temper, for the abuse was unjust. He had been desperate to join the navy, but his father, citing a more urgent duty, had insisted he remain at home. It was vital that he remain alive and unharmed, for should his brother succumb to the weakness that had plagued him since childhood, the responsibility of the title, the estates, and the future of the family would fall to him.

  Not trusting himself to speak, Gabriel turned with them to walk away, but Poldyce cried out again. ‘You’re a coward, Stratton, A craven coward. Even now you hide behind your friends.’

  As his companions gasped at this blatant insult, Gabriel spun round, his voice taut with anger and disgust. ‘Go home, Poldyce. You’re drunk.’

  Breaking free of his friend’s restraining grasp, Frederick Poldyce hurled himself forward. ‘Perhaps I am. But in the morning I’ll be sober, whereas you will still be a coward.’

  As Gabriel’s fists clenched, his friends grabbed his arms. ‘No, Stratton,’ they pleaded. ‘Don’t give him the satis –’

  Poldyce struck Gabriel an open-handed slap across the face. ‘What price your honour, my Lord?’ he taunted, his pallid sweating face distorted by a sneer. ‘What does it take to –?’

  ‘Enough,’ Gabriel said with deadly calm. ‘My friends will wait upon yours.’

  When the seconds failed to reach agreement – Gabriel’s friends acknowledged the insult to be beyond bearing, and Poldyce’s refusal to apologise made a duel inescapable – a day and time were fixed. Gabriel found himself in a quiet park in the cool of a summer dawn, Trusting that, having had time to come to his senses, the young naval officer would wish the matter resolved in a manner that satisfied honour while causing no injury, Gabriel planned to fire into the air.

  But Poldyce’s second, offering him the pistol box and inviting him to choose his weapon, muttered a warning. Poldyce would shoot to kill. ‘It’s the shame, my Lord,’ he whispered. ‘He can’t bear the shame.’

  What shame? That his brother had died when his own ship, running off to avoid capture, had put into Plymouth and missed the battle? But what, Gabriel wondered, had that to do with him? The shock of realisation hit him like a fist. It had nothing whatever to do with him. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he was simply the means to an end. Frederick Poldyce had deliberately provoked the quarrel, issuing a challenge impossible to refuse, either to test his own courage, or because, for reasons Gabriel could not even guess at, he wanted to end his life but could not dishonour his family by committin
g suicide.

  So I am to do it for him? Gabriel gazed at the pistol, coldly furious at being used, and for not having realised. Yet how could he have known? It was too late now. There was no going back.

  They took their places, walked the requisite number of paces, turned, and fired. The loud reports, almost simultaneous, sent startled birds fluttering skyward. His own aim steady and true, Gabriel felt the searing heat of Poldyce’s shot graze his arm, saw his opponent jerk and a crimson flower bloom high on the shoulder of his white shirt. Knees buckling, his face the colour of ashes, the young lieutenant crumpled to the grass and was quickly carried to the waiting carriage by two friends with the doctor in attendance.

  ‘You aimed wide,’ Gabriel’s second accused.

  Gabriel glanced up, surprised. ‘Of course.’

  ‘After what his man said? Poldyce meant to kill you.’

  Gabriel’s smile was bitter. ‘No, he didn’t. What he wanted was for me to kill him.’

  He had not intended to tell his father anything about the incident. But the letter that arrived a few days later, shaking him to the core with its news of Frederick Poldyce’s death, left him no choice.

  The marquis aged 20 years in as many seconds. Alternately anguished and raging, he first entreated then commanded his son to flee the country. Although there had been no intent to kill, Stratton had fired the shot as a result of which the young man had died. The distinction was too fine to be risked, for murder meant the gallows. To protect the inheritance, he had to live. Therefore he must go. Accepting that he had no choice, Gabriel agreed, but insisted on calling upon Frederick’s father first.

  An intimate of Lord Grenville, Sir John Poldyce held an influential position in the Foreign Office, and though he and the rnarquess had met on several occasions, acquaintance had not deepened into friendship. A cold man was how the marquis had described him, not easy to know and hard to like, though he enjoyed the trust of both Lord Grenville and the Prime Minister, William Pitt.

  Waiting in the library while the butler went to announce his presence to the grieving father, Gabriel felt more nervous than he had when facing Frederick’s pistol. At last, Sir John had appeared. A gaunt man dressed all in black with thinning, grizzled hair and eyes set deep beneath untidy brows, he carried himself ramrod straight. Though his face was grey and ravaged by grief, his voice as he greeted Gabriel betrayed no trace of emotion.

  ‘Lord Stratton.’ He inclined his head briefly.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Sir John. Under the circumstances …’

  ‘Quite so. Why have you come?’

  ‘I am to go abroad. But I could not leave without – Sir, I beg you will accept my sincere condolences. I am most dreadfully sorry.’

  Sir John gave a brief nod, and the lines of suffering deepened. ‘As I understand it, the quarrel was not of your making.’

  ‘Even so –’

  ‘Even so my son is dead. Both my sons …’ He shuddered, then turned and walked behind a large table that served as a desk.

  ‘Sir, I would have deloped. But I was informed –’ He could not say it. He could not tell this grieving man that his younger son had planned both murder and suicide. ‘I was informed that such action would not be honourable. Believe me, I intended only a flesh wound.’

  ‘Indeed.’ In that one word Gabriel heard surprise, disbelief, and censure. He knew guilt was unwarranted – he had not sought the confrontation – yet it still weighed heavy. In the silence that followed, he felt growing helplessness and discomfort. He did not regret coming. Honour had demanded he face the consequences of his actions, even if they were entirely unforeseen. But perhaps it had not been wise.

  ‘I think you must desire my absence, Sir John, so –’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Please sit down.’ Seating himself, Sir John lightly tapped his chin with steepled fingers, his brow deeply furrowed, seeming lost in thought.

  Gabriel waited, not sure what was expected of him. The silence dragged on.

  At last Sir John looked up. ‘Tell me, was it you who brought back an important package from Switzerland after one of our agents was shot during a skirmish with French soldiers?’

  Startled, for he had understood the matter to be one Lord Grenville had kept secret from his colleagues in the Foreign Office, Gabriel hesitated. But it had been some time ago and doubtless what was necessarily top secret then had since become common knowledge within the department. He nodded.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘How have you occupied yourself since your return?’

  ‘On my father’s estates. My purpose for being in Switzerland was to learn forest management. Since I came back I have been managing the woodland and coppices. You may be aware that my brother is not in good health –’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sir John cut him short. ‘Is your role purely supervisory?’

  ‘On the contrary, with so many men being pressed into the navy or joining the militia regiments forming to defend England against invasion, I’ve had little choice but to do much of the physical work myself. Though I’m fortunate in having an excellent aide in my father’s estate manager. I’ve also learnt a great deal from the carpenters and shipwrights who buy wood from Trerose.’

  Sir John’s thin smile signalled satisfaction. ‘You are fluent in French, presumably, but do you understand the Breton dialect?’

  ‘Yes. I believe most Cornishmen do.’

  ‘How very fortuitous. Such skills will provide the perfect disguise.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Why would he need a disguise?

  ‘For you to obtain work as a shipwright, first at Lorient, France’s major merchant and naval shipbuilding centre, then at Brest, the chief naval base and dockyard for the French fleet operating in the Atlantic. As you’re probably aware, Brest is currently under open blockade by the British Channel fleet. We, that is the government, need information on French coastal defences, and the number and current state of ships under construction or repair.’

  Gabriel was startled. ‘You want me – ?’

  ‘You have to go abroad anyway. You could, at the same time, perform a valuable service.’ The piercing gaze was intent. ‘Can you do it? Will you do it?’

  Gabriel stood up. ‘Yes, Sir John, I will. And I thank you for the opportunity.’

  A spasm crossed the older man’s face. ‘My own sons’ service was so short.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Do you have any questions?’

  Gabriel thought quickly. ‘Presumably you will want information on as regular a basis as possible. How am I to send it back to England?’

  ‘You will find the Breton smugglers helpful. They liaise with their Cornish counterparts in mid-Channel. Any letters given to them will reach me.’ He held out a fine-boned hand and Gabriel gripped it. ‘God speed, Lord Stratton,’ he said formally. ‘And good luck.’

  News of the fight between Jed Treen and Gabriel reached Bosvane early the next morning. Taking one of the carriage horses down the village early to have a loose shoe replaced, John overheard the blacksmith describing the incident to Edgar Rawling, who had arrived to pick up a mended ploughshare. Back in the stables, John related it to Hocking, who told Mrs Betts when he went across to the kitchen for his breakfast.

  ‘He was in the middle of telling her when I went down for another pitcher of hot water to top up your bath, miss,’ Sarah said, picking up the silver-backed brush. ‘So I made him start again. I thought you’d want to know, seeing as how ’tis only a day or two since that great horse nearly done for Gabriel in the woods.’

  Steeling herself not to show any reaction, and compressing her lips to hold back the flood of questions that would betray her and compromise him, Melissa sat down in front of the dressing-table mirror. Her silence was all the encouragement Sarah needed.

  ‘That Sal Treen,’ she snorted in disgust. ‘Mother always said she’d come to a bad end. Even when we was small I wasn’t allowed to play with her.’ Taking the pins from her mistress’s hair, she loosened th
e black tresses and began to sweep the brush through them.

  Melissa gathered her silk and lace robe closer, as if she were cold. ‘Mrs Treen said Gabriel attacked her? In her own home?’ She should not be having this conversation. It was totally wrong to gossip with the servants. But this was different, she told herself. It involved someone employed on the estate. That alone justified her concern. But the fact that the incident involved Gabriel made it impossible not to ask. She had to know.

  ‘That’s what Jed said. But I don’t believe a word of it.’ Sarah was scornful. ‘Sal can take care of herself. When she was 18 Jimmy Doidge took a shine to her but she wouldn’t have him. So, one night when he seen her walking along the street, he hid in one of the op-ways. He wasn’t going to do no harm; Jimmy wouldn’t hurt a fly. He just wanted to give her a fright, pay her back, like. Jimmy isn’t very tall, but he’s broad and built like a brick privvy. But Sal punched him in the face and down he went. Out cold, he was.’

  Despite her anxiety Melissa had to fight laughter at the picture conjured by Sarah’s graphic description.

  ‘That’s how I don’t believe it. There isn’t a man in the village would dare put a finger on Sal ’less she said he could. I tell you what I think,’ Sarah confided, lifting the thick, glossy hair off Melissa’s neck with long, upward strokes, ‘’tis my guess Sal have got a new fancy man. Jed come home unexpected and nearly caught ’em. I think the chap made a run for it. That’s the first bit of sense he showed if you ask me. But there’s Sal looking like she’ve been tipped over the hedge. Well, she can’t tell Jed what she’ve really been up to, so she tells him someone set on her.’

  ‘But,’ Melissa said blankly, ‘if someone had assaulted her she would have bruises –’

  ‘Exactly, miss,’ Sarah said, her face wrinkling with distaste. ‘That’s why she said she’d been set on.’

  Melissa was shocked. Though she’d never experienced it herself, among her acquaintances she had observed courtship to be a matter of formality and etiquette, depth of feeling indicated by lingering glances, small gifts, chaperoned rides and frequent calls. The concept of physical contact so close and so violent that it resembled a beating was beyond her imagination. She’d had no idea such things happened.