Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  But why had this woman accused Gabriel? It couldn’t have been him. How could she be so sure? After all, how well did she really know him? The truth was she didn’t. All she had was intuition. But how reliable was that? Reaching into her heart and mind, he had awakened emotions and desires she never suspected were there, so how could she be objective? The idea of him with other women … She jerked her head to block the thought before it could translate into unbearable images, wincing as the brush tugged sharply. But at least she had an excuse for the springing tears that made her eyes glisten.

  ‘Oh, I’m some sorry, miss. All right are you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’ She swallowed. ‘Was – anyone hurt in the fight?’

  ‘Well, they was both able to walk. But from what l hear Gabriel got the worst of it. Two against one, see? Billy wanted to take him home, but Gabriel wouldn’t let him. Said he could manage by hisself. But I can’t see him working today. Good job ’tis Sunday tomorrow: give him a chance to rest and get over it before he go back on Monday. There, all done.’ She put down the brush and turned to pick up the lilac round gown.

  Melissa remained silent during the rest of her toilette. But as she was leaving the room to go down to breakfast, she paused in the doorway. ‘Lay out my riding habit and boots, will you, Sarah? I’ll be going to the yard later.’

  There were two letters beside her plate. Recognising Aunt Lucy’s hand, she quickly broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet. The small writing and crossed lines made it difficult to read, but gradually she relaxed into a smile at the news of her mother’s ongoing recovery.

  ‘It is a slow business,’ Aunt Lucy wrote, ‘but I have persuaded her to drink a teaspoonful of my Aromatic tincture in a wineglass of water twice a day, and it has worked wonders.’ Recalling that Aunt Lucy’s Aromatic tincture consisted of an ounce each of Peruvian bark and dried pressed orange peel infused for ten days in a pint of brandy, she was not surprised that her mother’s spirits had begun to lift. She read on.

  ‘… Her cough lingered so long I was beginning to fear it might settle on her lungs. Though I daresay that was not to be wondered at considering her weakened state. But I made up a tea from linseed, liquorice root, and coltsfoot leaves sweetened with a little honey and it troubles her very little now and should be quite gone by next week. So you are not to concern yourself, for she is quite comfortable here and has at last begun to accept what has happened. I rely on you to let us know at once if you should receive any news of George. Meanwhile, take good care of yourself, my dear. Your mother sends her love. Ever your affectionate aunt, Lucy.

  Setting the letter aside with a slow exhalation that released part of the deep anxiety underlying her every action since her mother’s departure, she picked up the second. She didn’t recognise the writing and instantly the fear of more bad news, ever-present at the back of her mind, coiled like a snake about her heart and squeezed.

  ‘Tea or coffee, miss?’ Lobb’s enquiry broke through her dread. Whatever the letter contained would have to be dealt with. Delay would not make it easier. The sooner she opened it, the sooner she would know. Steadying her fluttering nerves with a deep breath, she broke the seal with hands that trembled.

  ‘Tea, please,’ she said absently, as she scanned the sheet. Relief that it didn’t concern her brother meant the true import of the words didn’t immediately register. When she realised what the letter was saying, her gaze flew back to the beginning and she read it again, one hand flying to her mouth as she gasped.

  ‘Not bad news I hope, miss?’

  She glanced up as Lobb finished pouring. ‘It’s from Lieutenant Bracey’s mother. He’s been captured.’

  ‘Dear life, miss! I’m sorry to hear that. I remember we had the pleasure of entertaining Lieutenant Bracey here last year. A very pleasant young gentleman, as I recall. May I enquire what happened?’

  Melissa returned her gaze to the letter. ‘His ship was involved in a battle with the French off Lorient. Good heavens.’ She looked up at the butler. ‘It was four months ago.’ How swiftly the time had passed. And how much had happened. ‘The squadron managed to take two French ships, but the Defence was sunk. Robert was captured, along with other officers and a large part of the crew, and is being held prisoner.’

  ‘Now don’t you go worrying, miss. I understand that captured officers are treated well. You know, with decent food and all. From what I hear, they don’t all stay in prison either. I’m told that if they’ve got money and give their word of honour not to try and escape, they go and live in grand houses and castles and such-like.’

  Melissa recalled the terrible wounds on Gabriel’s throat and wrists, and the scars criss-crossing his back. He had told her little, and had even cut that short. But his damaged body was eloquent enough. He too had been a prisoner in France. Why had his treatment been so different? She shuddered and glanced up at the butler. ‘But that’s not like being in prison at all.’

  ‘Except they can’t leave, miss,’ Lobb pointed out gently. ‘They can’t come home.’

  An hour later, having picked up a pot of salve and more clean bandages, Melissa checked that Sarah was still upstairs and went to the kitchen. Mrs Betts had gone to the village and Agnes was out in the yard, beating rugs. Wrapping cold meat, bread rolls, cheese, and two raspberry tarts in a clean napkin, she packed them in a basket with the salve and linen. Then, carrying the basket into the study, she decanted some brandy into her father’s silver hip flask. Leaving her hoard out of sight behind a chair, she went upstairs to change into her habit.

  When she came down she picked up the basket. But instead of calling at the stables for Samson, she quickly crossed the terrace, walked down the garden, and climbed over the railings into the park.

  The sun was warm, the sky a glorious forget-me-not blue, and the grass sparkled with droplets of moisture that glittered in the sunlight like a million scattered diamonds. In the wood the night’s heavy rain lingered in water-filled ruts. Beneath the trees the air was cool and heavy with the loamy smell of vegetation, leaf mould, and damp earth. A fitful breeze had sprung up, shaking the leaves so that every so often a cascade of droplets pattered onto the ground.

  The shack looked deserted. The door was closed. The hearthstones were cold and wet, as were the blackened remnants of previous blazes. She rapped gently on the rough wood. There was no reply. But she had no doubt he was there. She could sense his presence. She knocked again and, putting her face close to the door, called softly.

  ‘Gabriel, it’s me.’ She thought she heard something. But it was so brief and faint it might have been the wind in the trees, or a bird. ‘I heard what happened last night. I’ve brought you some food, and clean bandages.’ She waited. After a long pause she heard the rustle of movement, then his voice, hoarse and low-pitched.

  ‘Please, miss, go home. I-I’m not fit – You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Well, I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I’ve seen how you are.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re hurt. I can hear it in your voice.’ More movement was followed by a groan, quickly smothered. ‘Please, Gabriel, let me help.’

  The wooden bar slid slowly back and the door opened a few inches. She waited, expecting to see his face appear in the gap. But it didn’t. A heavy dragging sound, overlaid by harsh breathing, was followed by the soft thump of something falling. She pushed the door, and it opened to reveal Gabriel’s prostrate form. He had collapsed onto his makeshift bed, a hand shielding his face, his head turned away. Filtered by the leaves, the dappled sunlight was still strong enough to reveal the purple bruises, the dark streaks and smears of dried blood on his arm, and the stain covering the front of his shirt. Melissa’s stomach turned over and she swallowed.

  ‘Faint,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry. You shouldn’t –’

  ‘Sshh. And don’t try to move.’ Compassion, vying with fury at those responsible for his injuries, enabled her to ignore her own queasiness. Kn
eeling beside him, she reached into the basket for the silver flask and unscrewed the top.

  ‘Can you lift your head? I have brandy.’ Her voice died as he lowered his arm and turned toward her. Runnels of dried blood caked one side of his face. The cut above his eyebrow had once more scabbed over. But beneath the crusting of blood his eye was swollen and plum-coloured, as was that side of his jaw. She bit her tongue hard to stop herself crying out. It was he who was hurt. Her shock and horror must be put aside.

  ‘I don’t –’ he croaked. ‘I can’t –’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll help you,’ she said with quiet calm that belied a thundering heart full of powerful, unnerving feelings. Slipping her hand behind his head, swallowing hard as her fingers encountered tangled hair stiff with dried blood, she gently raised him and put the flask to his lips. He took two deep swallows and shuddered. She laid him down again.

  ‘Is there any water, or must I fetch it from the spring?’

  ‘Bucket,’ he rasped, and pointed.

  Hauling the bucket over, she dipped a cup. ‘Would you like a drink before I clean your face?’

  ‘You can’t –’

  ‘Well, there’s no one else. Do you want me to help you up again?’

  ‘No.’ Painfully he levered himself up on one elbow. With one eye crusted shut he couldn’t focus and she had to place the cup in his trembling hand. After draining it he handed it back, and sank down again.

  ‘Thank you.’ This time he didn’t turn away. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘From Sarah, my maid. She heard it from the groom, who heard it from the blacksmith. So I imagine it’s all over the village.’ His question opened the floodgates, and all the yearning, anger, sadness, distrust, shame, and craving for reassurance that had been seething inside her since early that morning spilled over. ‘I don’t understand. Why did this woman accuse you? You would never –’ She broke off, looking down quickly.

  ‘How do you know?’ he rasped, his voice too soft for her to detect any inflection.

  ‘I – I just do,’ she whispered. ‘Am I wrong?’

  His undamaged eye met hers. ‘No. I did not touch her.’

  ‘Then why?’ But now the question was driven by puzzlement not awful doubt. ‘Why say it was you?’

  He started to shrug, and winced as his battered body protested. ‘I don’t know. Revenge, perhaps? May I have another drink?’ She quickly passed him the refilled cup, watched him swallow, and saw his strength beginning to return. ‘I’ve only spoken to her twice. The first time she was in the street with a group of her friends and would not let me pass. The second was the night of St Peter’s Tide.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Pretty, lively, and very bold. She wanted to me to dance with her. But I declined.’

  ‘Why?’ It was out before Melissa could stop it. She felt a blush creep up her throat. She turned away to set the cup down, acutely aware of her hot colour and the impropriety of her question. Where was her dignity? ‘I expect because she’s married.’

  ‘That is certainly reason enough. But even if she were not, my reaction would have been the same. I do not find her at all attractive.’

  Ashamed of her relief, Melissa could no longer contain her anxiety and it burst out disguised as anger. ‘Sarah said Billy offered to help but you wouldn’t let him. What if you hadn’t got back here? What if you had collapsed? You would have lain out in the rain all night.’

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘You took a terrible risk.’

  ‘You know why I refused. I don’t want anyone to know I live here. I don’t want visitors dropping by.’

  Melissa stared down at her hands, guilt-stricken as she realised what she had done. Showing as much tact and consideration as Aunt. Louisa, she had put her own need to see him, her own need for reassurance, above his already stated desire to be left alone. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, and started to scramble to her feet.

  His hand shot out and grasped hers. ‘No.’

  She froze: gazing blindly at the floor, aware only of his touch, the strength of his grip. Hot shivers rippled over her skin. She couldn’t catch her breath and felt a strange quaking deep inside. Twenty-one years of conditioning shrieked that this was wrong. But that wasn’t how it felt.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ His voice was low and urgent. ‘If they knew where I live, you could no longer –’ He cut himself off, then started again. ‘While no one knows that I am here, you are protected from rumour and gossip.’

  Her gasp of ironic laughter was shaded with despair. ‘If only that were true, but it isn’t. Surely you have heard the men talking at the yard? Though I believe that, in general, they are kindly disposed toward me. But with my relatives it is different. My behaviour and my unmarried state are an embarrassment. The disappointing result – I am frequently reminded – of parental indulgence and my own wilfulness. I have only to exchange a few words with a member of the male sex, be it about the weather or the war, for gossip to fly. Then I am besieged by visits from my aunts, all agog with hope and speculation.’

  She ought to withdraw her hand. But though her conscience was sending commands, her muscles would not respond. Nor did he move to release it. She could not, dare not, look at him for fear of what he might see. She was adrift, out of her depth. His touch had pushed her there. Yet while he held her she felt safe.

  ‘Right now,’ he said quietly, ‘no one knows where either of us is. But have you thought about the risk you are taking?’

  Sharply conscious of her attraction to him, of their clasped hands, her nerves leapt. She cleared her throat. ‘You have never given me reason to consider myself in any danger.’

  ‘Melissa,’ he murmured. ‘How little you understand your effect on a man. But I meant the risk to your reputation should it ever become known you are making your visits without a chaperon. Even though –’ his voice grew harsh and strained ‘– you are here from motives of kindness and charity.’

  Charity. Was that how he saw it? Was it not the wisest explanation for her presence? As she shook her bent head, her laugh held more pain than amusement. ‘It’s strange. Just weeks ago my aunt warned my mother that no man who valued his good name would wish to be associated with me.’

  ‘Why? What terrible thing had you done? Ah. Of course. Your interest in the yard.’

  She nodded. ‘Since my father’s death my unsuitable interests seem suddenly less of a problem. Perhaps the fact that, should my brother not return alive from the West Indies, I will inherit a considerable fortune makes it easier now for gentlemen to overlook my disadvantages.’ Tension tightened her voice. ‘James certainly finds it so.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘A distant cousin, or so my aunt describes him. Though I do not recall ever meeting him before. Even if I did like him, which I don’t, for there is something deceitful in his manner, how could I think well of a man who would talk of marriage at our first meeting, and while I am in mourning?’

  ‘How indeed?’ His voice was oddly hollow.

  ‘At least I may come and visit you without fear of receiving a marriage proposal.’ She bent her head as hot tears stung her eyes. She had made herself to say it aloud, forced herself to face cruel reality. ‘You can have no idea,’ she babbled on, her throat aching, ‘what it feels like to be courted and flattered for what you hold title to, and not for the person you are.’

  ‘Can I not?’ he muttered.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You are of age –’ he was brusque ‘– so you are free to make your own choices. No one can force you into marriage against your will. To swim against the tide of convention demands great strength of character, but you have that in plenty. Take heed, though. For the more freedom you claim, the higher the price.’

  ‘What is the price?’

  His face changed, emotions passing like cloud shadows across his bruised and blood-streaked features as he regarded her. ‘Loneliness.’

  ‘Oh tha
t,’ she murmured, shrugging lightly, ‘I’ve been paying for a long time.’

  His fingers tightened for an instant, then releasing her hand he lay back, closing his good eye, his features drawn, whether in pain or exhaustion she couldn’t tell. Pulling the bucket closer, she took the cloths and salve from the basket.

  It took some time to clean all the blood from his face. As she sponged and wiped, taking great care not to reopen cuts or press too hard on bruised and swollen flesh, she rinsed the cloth over and over again and watched the water in the bucket turn pink, then red. While half of her concentrated on what she was doing, the other half shimmered with awareness of the man himself. On one hand it was a simple act of kindness. But on the other, because of her attraction to him, it was an act of great intimacy. Far greater than when she had nursed him at the house. Then he had been unconscious. Now he was not. Despite the coolness of the water she grew hot, and her hands began to tremble.

  He lay unnaturally still, emanating tension, deep lines etched between his brows and either side of his mouth. Eventually she could stand it no longer. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she blurted. ‘I really am trying to be gentle, but –’

  ‘You’re shaking.’ His eyes snapped open. ‘It is too much for you. I should never have let you –’

  ‘No! No, you are mistaken. It’s just – I –’ She could not tell him, for their situation was impossible. She had no right to voice a truth that might embarrass him, and must surely shame her. ‘You must forgive me, it’s just that – I received a letter this morning with some disturbing news about a friend. He’s in the navy, serving in one of the ships of the Channel squadron. Well, he was. His ship was sunk during an action and he’s been taken prisoner. Please, lie back. I’m almost finished.’

  He lay down again, and closed his eyes. ‘Have you known him long?’