A Shadow's Bliss

by Patricia Veryan

  On this windy night, he was recklessly burning two of his precious tallow candles while he carved a perch for the crate in which Duster still resided. The little bird was allowed to escape his temporary quarters once the door was closed for the night, and he perched on the table, preening his feathers, but checking on Jonathan's progress from time to time, as though making sure the work was done to his liking.

  After two years of loneliness, even so small a creature was a valued companion, and Jonathan had fallen into the habit of talking to him. "The thing is," he explained now, "that I am not doing very well." He sighed, and waved his knife at his small friend. "Of late—especially when I'm near… her… I have back-slid. And that could be disastrous. Can you credit, Duster, that so exquisite a lady is still unwed? The Widow says 'tis because she suffered an injury as a child and will never be able to bear children. But someday a gentleman of sense will see her, and he'll think of the many little children starving and abandoned who could be taken in and loved. And adoring her—though never as much as I adore her—he will offer for her and take away his precious prize, and I will… never see her again."

  He paused, staring desolately at the knife in his hand until a chirp from Duster roused him. "Was that a comment upon selfishness, I wonder? You are perfectly correct, and I should be hoping she finds some… some fine gentleman to make her happy. Instead of which, I came perilous close to kissing her yesterday. Me!" He smiled bitterly. "You'd never guess, would you, that I was bred up to the Code of Honour?"

  Duster used his withered claw to scratch behind his ear, but his bright eyes, fixed to the man's face, held a look of censure. Or so thought Jonathan.

  "You're perfectly in the right of it," he admitted. "A kiss—even a touch from—from such as I, would be desecration. And there's my head, you see. Sometimes I suppose my brain sort of—stops."

  Having attended to his ear, Duster puffed out all his feathers, and uttered a chirp.

  Jonathan nodded. "Thank you. I know I restrained myself. But the thing is that—You see, I—I love her so very much. To be near her… to hear her dear voice—see her pretty lips curve into that so beautiful smile… is—heaven.

  And—hell. I'm afraid, Duster. Afraid that I might—forget for a moment what—what I am." He put down his knife and drew a hand across his eyes distractedly.

  Duster bobbed his bright shoulders up and down and squawked again.

  Drawing a deep breath, Jonathan said, "Right again, friend. There are other areas where I'm weakening. There was my discussion with that animal, Blary, and—There I go! D'you see? I—who have done a far worse thing than ever that—that man has done—have the gall to name him 'animal'! And, far worse, Duster—I damned near forgot my vow. Oh, if you but knew how I yearned, absolutely longed to let him have a good right to the breadbasket!"

  Despondent, he began to wind a length of wire around one end of the swing. "If I break my vow, I become even more—despicable. God help me, I know what I am, but—sometimes it's very hard."

  Duster hopped a shade nearer, and cocked his head on one side.

  "Yes, I know you'd help me if you—" Jonathan checked, staring at the bird. "By Jupiter," he exclaimed. "I think perhaps you can!"

  He put down the swing and held one finger in front of the tiny blue chest. Duster eyed the finger with marked scepticism.

  "Come now," said Jonathan. "You can trust me I hope." He nudged gently.

  Duster gave him a warning peck, but then hopped aboard.

  Cautiously, Jonathan lifted him. "I've heard some of your friends chatter away quite fluently," he said. "I'm going to teach you a name, Duster. So that you can remind me of—of why I took a solemn oath, and help me not to break it."

  Duster's beady eyes scanned him unwinkingly.

  But now Jonathan's courage failed. There were so many names from which to choose, and every one made him cringe. The cabin boy's bright impudence came into his mind's eye; little Bobby… but he was quite unable to make his lips form the name. There was Joe Taylor, the ship's carpenter, quick tempered, but loyal, and always ready to pull out his old fife and "whistle up a tune" as he'd been used to say, which would unfailingly set toes to tapping and lighten moods. And the pretty spinster lady, God rest her!… but her name was mercifully lost somewhere in his clouded memory. Other faces came to him, until, the sweat standing out on his brow, and his voice hoarse and shaking, he forced himself to utter a name. And he made himself keep on saying it, over and over again "Bobby… Bobby… Bobby."

  Duster watched him for a while, turning his small head from one side to the other, as if striving to understand, but he made no sound and at length he hopped down and fluttered into his crate in search of sustenance.

  For Jonathan, the self-imposed task had been as shattering as he'd feared. He said wearily, "Our first lesson, my small conscience. But not the last, for heaven knows I'm not likely to run out of… names for you." He gazed at the bird dully, then gave a wry shrug. "And if truth be told, I'd be more honest did I give you no names at all. One word really is—is all that's needed…" He sank his face into trembling hands and his voice was an agonised whisper as he spoke that dread word. "Murderer!"

  "Whatever are you doing, Jack?"

  He hadn't expected her to come to the school today, and her lilting voice set his heart leaping and so startled him that he dropped the paintbrush he'd been cleaning. With an inward moan for his clumsiness, he snatched it up quickly, and stammered, "I hoped—I mean—I thought I'd have it finished before you came, ma'am."

  The smell of paint was strong, and Jennifer left the door wide open as she walked inside. She wore a riding habit of soft green, and a long green feather curled down from the turned-up brim of her hat. The brisk early morning air had painted roses onto her smooth cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled. Awed, he gazed at her. How vibrantly alive she was; the joyous personification of pure and lovely femininity.

  Jennifer had grown accustomed to admiring glances, and in her unassuming way she judged that many of the compliments she received were inspired by her father's position. But there was that in this man's gaze which caused her to be unaccountably flustered. To add to her folly, she was sure she was blushing, and there came a strange new confusion, to hide which she walked over to admire the doors of what had once been a china cabinet. "Why, how very much better this looks. So bright and clean. Wherever did you get the paint?"

  "Your brother, Mr. Royce, bought it for me. I hope I did not—overstep my place, ma'am? If the colour is not to your liking…?"

  He looked so anxious. She smiled at him kindly, and assured him that she was most pleased. "But are you sure Mrs. Newlyn can spare you?"

  "Mr. Holsworth took her up to the moors to gather herbs. I know she—"

  The breeze from the open door fluttered Jennifer's habit. He dropped the paintbrush in the pot and sprang forward. "Have a care, ma'am! That's wet!"

  In the nick of time he restrained the billowing skirts, then gave a gasp, and drew back, his face scarlet with embarrassment. "Oh, gad!" He drove a hand through his hair agitatedly. "I—I do beg your pardon, ma'am!"

  It occurred to Jennifer that were one to look at him from an artist's perspective, as Mama might have done, one could not but admire the well-cut features, even with the long scar across his right temple and the smaller one beside his ear. He kept himself clean and neat always, and the thick light-brown hair that showed the hint of a crisp wave was sternly tied back. If he were set beside my lord Green, even wearing the much darned coat and patched breeches, there could be no doubt as to which was the better—Aghast, she caught herself up. Whatever was she thinking? This man was no more than a tramp, and an afflicted tramp besides; coming from he knew not where, bound only for a life of grinding poverty, eons removed from her world. That sensible acknowledgment disturbed her also, and she said with considerably less than her usual composure, "What? Oh, I—er, am only glad I have not a painted habit! Goodness! Whatever happened to your hand?"

  He ass
ured her that it was of no consequence. "Just a small, er—"

  "Encounter?" she interposed, frowning in a way he thought unutterably delicious. "With Ben Blary, perchance?"

  If she'd heard of that episode she must know that Blary had kicked him. He nodded wretchedly, and avoided her gaze by cleaning paint from the floorboards.

  "He is a horrid bully," she said, looking down at his bowed head and taking note of the breadth of his shoulders. "I worry for his wife, and I've no doubt his son's life is full of hard knocks."

  Jonathan straightened, and stirred the paintbrush around in the pot of turpentine. "I'd think some of the local men would… would have stood up to him."

  "Oh, they're all afraid of him because he's so burly and quarrelsome. I'd hoped that someone as tall as he is—" She broke off. The paintbrush was suddenly quite still. He was very likely ashamed, she realised. And after all, what right had she to expect more of this troubled stranger, than of her own villagers? "I must not judge Blary too harshly," she amended in a lighter tone. "At least, he has allowed Isaac to come to school, which is more than I thought he would do."

  "Why ever would he not? Surely, any parent must only be grateful to you."

  "I think most of them are, and some of the children walk a long way so as to attend class. But Blary and one or two others grumbled that I would give the children ideas beyond their station."

  "What nonsense!" he exclaimed, indignant. "If they learn no more than to read and write, how greatly their lives will be enriched!"

  "So I think. Some of them have never left this Hundred, not even for a day. They have no knowledge of the beauties of the rest of the British Isles. No conception of the wonders of the wide world. All the different cultures and climes and people."

  Her enthusiasm was enchanting. Quite forgetting both paintbrush and his lowly state, he asked smilingly, "Have you travelled abroad, ma'am?"

  "Alas—no. And there is so much I long to see. Paris. The great mountains of Switzerland. Italy, where the sun always shines. India, where lions and tigers are worshipped and roam the streets at will." She sighed, then the dreaming look faded and she said, "Now why do you laugh?"

  He answered solemnly, "Never that, Miss Jennifer."

  "You kept your countenance, to be sure, but your eyes laughed. I think I am provoked, and must demand to be told what I said to amuse you?"

  He chuckled. "Only that I think someone has been hoaxing you, ma'am. Lions dwell in Africa, not India. And the Indian tiger is very fierce and a man-eater. You would see a crowded bazaar empty in a flash did a tiger come shopping."

  It dawned on her that they had been chatting like equals, and she thought wonderingly that it was as if a curtain had been drawn aside to reveal, behind the shrinking wreckage she knew as Crazy Jack, another man. A man of poised self-confidence, with a whimsical twinkle in his fine eyes. And who was disconcertingly attractive.

  She said, "Why… you have been there! Is my father in the right of it, then? Were you a sailor, or in the military?"

  At once, the curtain was lowered. The poised gentleman vanished, and it was Crazy Jack who paled, and shrank away. Jennifer put a detaining hand on his arm and said in her gentlest voice, "No, please do not be afraid of me. I meant only to try and help. Won't you confide in me?"

  "I—I have nothing—There is nothing to—" And slanting a glance at her concerned face, he added desperately, "You see, I cannot… recollect."

  "Can you recollect what it was that Ben Blary took from you yesterday?"

  He stared down at her gloved hand and breathed the sweet fragrance of her. A familiar fragrance. "Caresse Translucide." He saw astonishment in her face, and realised he must have spoken aloud. 'Fool!' he thought, and answered her question hurriedly. "It was a—a birdcage."

  "Did Noah Holsworth make it for you?" She spoke lightly, but her eyes were watchful. "Blary said 'twas big enough for a great owl."

  "Mr. Holsworth was so kind as to let me use some of his left-over scraps of wood. I suppose 'twas a—a good size for such a little bird, but I think that to be shut up… in a small space…"

  The schoolroom shimmered and was gone. He was in the cabin. Trapped. He could smell the brandy… Feel the frenzy of terror… He was so cold—so dizzy…

  "What a pity it was smashed."

  Jennifer's calm voice came to him like a lifeline, and he clung to it gratefully.

  "Perhaps," she went on, praying he wasn't going to drop at her feet, "you should seek your building materials on the beach. Driftwood is always washing up. But you'd have to get there early, before other people." She went on talking easily until he was breathing normally again and a tinge of colour had come back into his drawn face. Relieved, she said with a smile that she must not keep her brother waiting, and walked to the door.

  Jonathan followed her into the sunshine, not daring to speak, dreading to think what she must have thought of this latest evidence of his ridiculous mental state.

  Tommy Lawney was walking her mare. Jennifer waved to the boy, and belatedly remembered why she had come. She said idly, "Oh, by the bye, who was the man who came to help you? When Blary smashed your cage, I mean."

  "I don't know, ma'am. That is—I never saw the gentleman before."

  "What did he look like?"

  "He was slender, and a young man, I think. Very dark, and bearded." His brows knit. He said hesitantly, "There was something… I seemed to—But—" The words faded into silence.

  Jennifer waited hopefully, then said, "Blary says he had strange eyes."

  He nodded.

  "Why did you name him a gentleman? He was poorly dressed, no?"

  "His speech was cultured, and he seemed… very proud, very arrogant."

  Amused, she asked, "Do you find all gentlemen proud and arrogant?"

  "Some are, I think." Encouraged because she did not seem repulsed, he ventured to add, "Often, the ones with the least right to be so."

  She shook her head, laughing at him. Tommy came up, leading the mare proudly and she paid him his groat.

  Jonathan bent to receive her boot and toss her into the saddle, and she thanked him and rode off.

  Distantly, she could see a horseman coming down from the castle. Royce, no doubt, ready to ride with her and air his grievances about Lord Green, whom he loathed, and who had, thank heaven, gone down to Breton Ridge with a letter of introduction from Papa. She held the mare to a slow pace, wanting to be alone with her thoughts for a little while.

  So Crazy Jack may have served in the army, or been a seafaring man, perhaps. And their "village idiot" was no stranger to costly French colognes. It would appear also that Ben Blary's spiteful tongue had spoken truth, for once. There really had been a stranger; a mysterious stranger with a black beard and dark eyes of an alien shape. Eyes like none he'd ever seen on this earth, Blary had asserted. Add that to his tale of cages for evil owls, and the rumour mills would flourish.

  She frowned uneasily. Despite her education and her cool common sense, she was Cornish born and bred, and could not entirely dismiss tales of witchcraft and magic spells. She had known people cured of crippling illnesses by bathing in the Madron Well. She had met Charmers, who could banish warts and other ailments. But that Jack would invoke spells and incantations, or "wish" people harm through the dreaded owls, she would not believe. Nor could she deny, however, that he was a mass of contradictions. She had caught a brief glimpse of another man today. Was it possible that he had erred and let a mask slip? Could he actually be an Exciseman? He would have to be a consummate actor. No, that was ridiculous! But… if he was a Riding Officer sniffing out men engaged in the smuggling trade, then he was a real threat to many hereabouts. Perhaps, to her own family. And if the villagers found him out…!

  Royce shouted cheerfully, and she forced a smile and rode to meet him, dismissing such gloomy and doubtless unwarranted imaginings.

  Although Jonathan had carved slots in the crate in which Duster was housed, it was not a comfortable home for the bird, an
d the swing had proven to be a mixed blessing. He had intended to build another cage days ago, but materials were scarce and he had no intention of following Miss Jennifer's suggestion that he go down to the beach and gather driftwood. However, waking before dawn one morning, as was his habit, he found the shed clammy and chill, and the smell of fog on the air. When he opened the door to look outside, a grey cloud billowed in. It was still too dark to see much, but he suspected it was one of the dense fogs that could sweep in very suddenly to blanket this coast. Which might, he reflected, be to his advantage. As he closed the door, a faint squawk came from the crate. He said, "Aye, aye, sir!" and removed the sack he flung over the impromptu cage at nighttime. Duster fluttered about, retreated to the farthest corner and regarded him with an unmistakable air of reproach.

  "Were you a little wiser," he said, beginning to shiver through the business of rolling up his blankets then washing and shaving in the frigid water he had carried in last night "you would look on me with gratitude, rather than fancying yourself hardly done by."

  Duster muttered and scratched about the crate.

  "Yes, I know you resent the sack, and I'll own it isn't the purple velvet cover you would prefer. But 'tis some protection 'gainst the cold for you, young fellow, and some protection for me 'gainst your midnight acrobatics."

  A flurry of ruffling feathers and preening ensued. Jonathan threw an amused glance at the little bird, and applied razor to chin. "You want me to risk the beach in this fog, do you? Much you'd care if I broke my neck!"

  He finished shaving, threw on his clothes, and provided the parakeet with fresh water and a small measure of the seeds he had bought from Mrs. Pughill. This procedure unfailingly threw Duster into a frenzy, but today the bird seemed slightly less alarmed, and was so bold as to peck his hand, though not very hard, as he withdrew it.