The Black Rose
Page 50
Tess's fingers traced the delicate outline of the hairpins. "I would sell Fairleigh and follow you aboard the Liberte tomorrow, my love." She did not hesitate, though her heart quivered slightly at the thought of giving up that beloved old wreck.
But stone and clay were not what Tess needed; she knew that now. "I suppose your crew will have to become accustomed to a female disturbing their cables and canvas."
Dane studied her face, still unconvinced.
"Let's just say," Tess added, her eyes glinting with mischief, "that life with Andre Le Brix will have certain, er, compensations." One soft finger nestled in the dark mat of hair at Dane's neck. "Very pleasant compensations."
Her husband growled deep in his throat, his eyes going smoky. "You make me a man of infinite happiness, gwellan-karet. And it's satisfied I mean to keep you, every day of our lives."
Tess's mouth curved. "Oh, it's well you do, my lord, for I know a dashing French sea captain who would be only too glad to take your place."
A little laugh gurgled on her lips as her husband caught her up into his strong arms and began striding up the hill toward the white garden.
"Dane?"
"Enough of this teasing, wife," he growled. "Before I'm done this night, I'll have you a biddable female."
And there beside the ancient grove of oaks, beneath the moon's unblinking silver eye, he made her his wife anew. Not in the way of man and church, but in the old way of nature and earth, claiming her totally and irrevocably until their breaths mingled and their pulses beat in time, until she became heart of his heart and blood of his blood.
The first time was for forgetting, Ravenhurst whispered to the woman in his arms. The second was for burning. And the third, silver-swept in moondust and marsh fire, was forever.
Around them drifted the heady perfume of lilies and night-blooming jasmine, and, queerly enough, the scent of lavender, though no lavender grew anywhere nearby.
Caught in their own joy, neither noticed the faint gleam that shimmered around the garden.
"At long last, my beauty," the wind seemed to whisper. "Let's go home, lass. We've long years to catch up."
Sweet, lilting laughter trembled on the wind for a moment, then gently faded.
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And in the fullness of time a tree grew up in the center of that peaceful ground, and from that tree there grew a rose.
Of a cool summer's night, when the wind blows up sharp and steady from the harbor, the leaves seem to heave and tremble, whispering in the steady currents.
And sometimes, when the fog swirls up from the marsh like the ghosts of old lovers, travelers swear they hear distant laughter and catch the haunting scent of lavender.
On just such nights, when the trees are lit by strange, shimmering lights that play across the marsh, a nightingale comes to sing in the dense branches of that tree, its voice sweet and sad beyond description, so that any passerby must still his steps and listen in dreamy awe.
And the roses beneath the bird's feet, one could almost swear, are black.
Author's Note
Dear Reader:
I hope you have enjoyed Tess and Dane's story as much as I have enjoyed the telling of it. In it I have tried to be faithful to historical fact and represent the differing points of view about smuggling during the Napoleonic Wars.
Public opinion was often with the freetraders, especially in poor regions like Wealden Kent and Sussex, where smuggling offered a route out of poverty. In 1823, the writer Charles Lamb expressed the view that the smuggler was the only honest thief, for he robbed "nothing but the Revenue — an abstraction I never greatly cared about."
Public opinion was also tipped in favor of the smuggler because of popular reaction to increasingly high import duties on such items as tea, French brandy, gin, tobacco, and silk. These duties provided the necessary revenues to fight England's long and costly wars with Napoleon.
The smuggling of gold guineas to France was an extremely lucrative — as well as dangerous — occupation; the smugglers of Deal and Folkestone specialized in this trade. Their light, swift galleys could be rowed from Deal to Dunkirk in five hours under optimum conditions.
It was a violent age, however; smugglers could be found in virtually every coastal area of the country, and large, powerful gangs did not hesitate to attack any who dared oppose them. The Romney Fox is, of course, a fictional character.
The secret Peninsular action that Lord Morland refers to is an historical fact. When Sir Arthur Wellesley landed in Portugal in 1809, his troops of 25,000 faced a French force of some 200,000. In a brilliant maneuver, the English commander (newly created Viscount Wellington) ordered completion of two great lines of fortification at Torres Vedras, where he ordered his army to retreat in October 1810. There, well provisioned, Wellington waited while the French died from starvation, sickness, and ambush. When the French retreated four months later, they had lost some 20,000 men.
Wellington's action at the Lines of Torres Vedras was crucial to the outcome of the Peninsular campaign. Had details of this plan reached French ears in advance, the outcome of the war might well have been very different.
Exciting people in an exciting age.
I hope I have done them justice in The Black Rose.
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With best wishes,
Christina Skye
Glossary of Breton Words
(With warmest thanks to Evelyne Cuemener and Marie Jaffrenou,
who graciously reviewed — and corrected — the Breton phrases below.)
Arman: here
An Aotrou Doue: God in Heaven
Bihan: little; little one
Diaoul: the devil
Duze: over there
Gwellan-karet: dearest one
Gwerhez Vari: the Holy Virgin
Istrenn: oysters
Karet: dear
Mamm de Zoue: Mother of God
Me kalon: my heart
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Copyright © 199] by Roberta Helmer
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