"You're in the right of it, as usual." Howland sighed deeply. "Our people will just have to tighten their belts. Though they'll be sadly disappointed. They've been praying for your approval."
"Then they're bigger fools than I take 'em for! They know the mine is worthless."
"To their way of thinking, if an outsider with more money than sense chooses to sink a new shaft, and to construct a dock on the beach, it must mean work for them, sir. Jove, but if you could be the means of putting wages back in their pockets, even for a little while, you'd be a hero to them all!"
"If Hibbard Green yearns to put wages in my people's pockets, he don't need a dock to do it. The Blue Rose was a successful operation for years without a dock on my beach. There are several fine docks already in use on this coast."
"Very true, sir. But fees are high, the off-loading is slow and unreliable, and then the goods must be transferred into waggons and hauled for miles over impossibly bad roads, and in places no roads at all! How much simpler to—"
Sir Vinson's scowl had become more marked during this argument and now he interrupted testily, "If his lordship can afford to squander his lettuce to shore up and modernise a played-out and unsafe mine, he can afford to ship overland. By Beelzebub, I begin to think he has more cobwebs in his loft than has Crazy Jack! No, Howland! Absolutely—and—finally! No—dock!"
Jonathan was awakened by a gust of wind that seemed likely to topple the shed. It was still dark, but he lay snug in his blankets for a while, listening to the clamour outside, and thinking of Jennifer and that never-to-be-forgotten moment when he had held her close against his heart.
Duster's complaints roused him from his dreaming at last, and he got up, deciding to make an early start. He was feeding Sprat and preparing to leave Mrs. Newlyn's cottage when the cat darted to the parlour door.
"Only look at his fur crackle," said the widow, taking up the cat and stroking him. " 'Twill be hot today, Jack. And with this wind, very dry for a change. You're early, lad."
He had never seen the lady en deshabille, and for an instant he stared, silenced by the sight of a billowing and exotically hued satin dressing gown, and hair in countless twists of paper. "Oh—er, hot," he stammered, and averted his eyes.
Mrs. Newlyn chuckled and put the cat down. "Have you never seen a lady in her nightrail before?" she asked, sitting at the table.
"I—suppose I might have. I—I don't know. I'll be getting along, ma'am."
"Put the kettle on to boil, and stay for a cup of tea. We'll toast some bread and have a little chat. I doubt ye ever saw a finer dressing gown than this, eh?" She gave a saucy wink. "A gentleman gave it to me for my birthday last year. Come all the way from France, it did. And never paid no tax, neither!"
He admired the dressing gown dutifully, and took down the toasting fork. The widow buttered the slices as he handed them to her, and told him of the village gossip, which appeared to revolve around the exciting fact that Mrs. Gundred was to journey from the village and the Hundred, and even from the county altogether. "She's been invited to visit her sister in Dorsetshire," said the widow, her eyes round. "All that way! Imagine! She's a brave woman. But—there, nothing like family, is there Johnny, lad?"
He glanced at her sharply. "Why do you call me that?"
She watched steam curl from the spout of the kettle. "I was talking to the Spirit of the Ocean yesterday," she said in a dreaming voice. "He was telling me about you. Watch you don't burn that piece!"
He rescued the endangered slice hurriedly. "What—er, was he saying of me?"
She spread butter with a sparing hand. "You don't remember your family at all? Whether there was anyone you were… especially fond of?"
He frowned. "No. There were some people, but they may not even have been related to me." It was all folly, no doubt, but he could not refrain from asking, "Why? What did your Spirit of the Ocean tell you?"
"It might be a mistake, of course. He does sometimes give me messages that should go to other folks. Though he's much more to be trusted than the yellow leaves!" She sighed, and put tea into the pot as the kettle began to shoot out a hissing cloud of steam. "There seems to be some question whether you will go back to your home," she went on then. "But if you do, someone you expect to meet won't be there."
He watched her curiously.
She smiled, and passed him a piece of toast. "But then again," she said, "the message might really have been for Mrs. Gundred."
The wind staggered Holsworth and he dropped the nail he'd been fitting into the small device attached to his hook. He swore under his breath and took another nail from the box.
"I got a right to speak me mind!" Mrs. Newlyn clasped the shawl tighter around her head, pursed her lips, and eyed the ark critically. "And I say again 'tis the wrong shape!"
"And what brings you out on this fine breezy morning, marm?" he snarled.
"Gundred. He never did pay me the penny he owed since his sign blew down."
"But that were weeks since!"
"True. Thought he could wait me out and I'd forget. But I don't forget a penny so easy. Nor did I come into your garden to hear strong language, Noah Holsworth! Never go for to deny it, as if me ears was on holiday. Powerful ears I got! Which is more than I can say for Jack's bird!"
Somewhat flushed, he apologised, then asked curiously. "Deaf, is it? How did you find that out?"
"Why, I been trying to teach it a word or two. I thought it might surprise him some day, when he needed cheering up. But the silly creature just looks and cocks its head and don't do anything but gobble at me."
"It's a foreign bird," he pointed out. "Likely don't understand English. Jack wasted his money. Ye cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."
"He didn't buy it to make it into any purse," she argued, "but to save it from being put to the cliff. A good heart has Jack."
"He's a good hard worker, I'll own." He added resentfully, "When he's allowed to come to me."
"After the hours he puts in up at the castle, I wonder he has a minute to spare to work on an ark what looks like an overgrowed rowing boat. The Bible says plain as day as it should be flat bottomed. Like a box."
Despite the fact that they invariably argued, Holsworth thought Mrs. Newlyn a comely little woman, and had paused in his work while he chatted with her. At this, however, he snapped, "Thankee, I'm sure!" and hammered the nail home. "Next, you'll be burning to remind me as how my ark should be three hundred cubits long. And if Mr. John Wesley was right in what he said last Sabbath, that would be from where you're standing—without invitation!—half way to Gundred's. Which, even if I had the lumber and I don't nor ever will, would take me several lifetimes to build."
"At the rate you're going, sure enough," she agreed, then laughed in her merry fashion as he dropped another nail. "Never take umbrage, Mr. Noah, I were only teasing. You go along nice and steady, and 'tis a fine boat, flat bottomed or no. What is the little tool you're using? I thought you wasn't able to hammer nails without someone to get 'em started for ye."
He showed her the device. "Jack made it for me. I can put the nail in—so, get it set, then slip the tool free and hammer the nail all the way. 'Tis tedious, but at least I can work. Still, I'd go along faster was he here to help, rather than being forever up at the castle."
"It puts him out of reach of Ben Blary and Pughill, at least."
"I doubt he's better off with Mr. Crane. I'd not want that one for a master. I'll wager Jack has felt his fist more'n once."
The widow looked worried, and muttered, "There's worse things than blows, and whatever else Oliver Crane be, he's not a vindictive man. Noah, has Blary been speaking out against Jack?"
"Aye. Pughill as well. Some silly tale about a dark stranger Jack was whispering with in the early morning before most folk were about. And how this stranger had the eyes of… of a daemon. Just like Ben Blary to make up such a cockaleery tale, and for Pughill to back him on it. I'd pay 'em no heed, save that—well, young Isaac told me the s
ame, and seemed proper scared."
They looked at each other uneasily.
The widow, who had been born in Plymouth and was still regarded by some as a foreigner, muttered, "That's Roselley for ye. Ignorance, cheek by jowl with superstition."
At once defensive, Holsworth argued, "They're not really bad folk. Being out of work takes the heart from a man as sure as poverty sharpens the tongue of a woman. They've tolerated Jack so far. But if they should start to think…" He paused, looking grim.
Clinging to his arm for support as a powerful gust whipped around the cottage, she shouted, "I don't like it, Noah! That's why—"
"What don't you like, Mrs. Newlyn?" Laughing breathlessly, Jennifer also caught at Holsworth's mighty arm. "Oh, this dreadful wind!"
"Strong enough to pull the hair from your head today, ma'am," he agreed, holding her steady.
"Which would be a disaster for some on us," observed the widow pertly. "On top, 'specially."
Holsworth grabbed at his knitted cap, then grumbled, "I'll thank ye to keep your unkindnesses for my ark, Widder."
"No, have you been teasing him again?" Amused by their bickering, Jennifer inspected the ark and said she thought it very fine. "It looks quite seaworthy already. If we have a second Flood, I shall know to whom to run, Mr. Holsworth. I wish you had built it closer to the beach, so that we could try it out."
He was pleased. 'Too late for that, Miss Jennifer. My ark will be ready when the water gets up here."
"Then we'll all pray it never floats," said the widow. "Speaking of floating, you look ready to do just that, Miss Jennifer. All aglow you be, and your step so light one might think you walked on air."
"'Tis the wind carries her," said Holsworth with a twinkle.
"It has carried off the glass from one of my schoolhouse windows," said Jennifer. "But you are perfectly right, Mrs. Newlyn. I have had some lovely news. Lord Morris is to play host to the son of his cousin. A Kentish gentleman, I believe, who is bringing a friend to see Cornwall. Miss Caroline Morris is prodigious excited, because 'tis years and years since she saw this particular cousin, and—"
"And he is a soldier," murmured the widow, a far-away look in her dark eyes.
Curious, Jennifer said, "Why—yes. How did you know?"
"The trees told me… It starts, then."
Over the years, the widow had fashioned many of Jennifer's gowns, and she had come to know the little woman quite well. She was fond of her, and did not really believe her to be a witch. Her "conversations" with trees or the Spirit of the Ocean usually proved to have no significance and were soon forgotten. Now and then, however, the information gleaned from these odd "chats" had proven to be rather uncannily accurate. The remark she had just made sounded ominous, and not wanting this happy day to be spoiled, Jennifer glanced questioningly at Holsworth.
The big man was busied with the selection of a nail, but he directed a surreptitious wink at her, and her spirits lifted.
"Is this Kent Morris coming to the castle, ma'am?" he asked.
"No. But Lord Kenneth is to give a party next week in honour of his guests, and Miss Caroline writ to invite me! I shall take the blue gown you made in the spring, Mrs. Newlyn, and—" She laughed gaily. "Only listen to me rattle on! I must go, or the wind will have blown everything from my cottage. I came because I thought Jo—Jack might be here and could fasten something over the window for me. Is he gone to Triad?"
"Aye. They sent for him to go up to the stables," said Mrs. Newlyn, over-riding Holsworth's attempt to offer assistance. "We was speaking of him when you came. There's a silly tale going round. Likely you've heard it, Miss Jennifer. As if Jack would have done such a tomfool thing as to try and climb up the cliff north of Bridget Bay! He couldn't do it, if he wanted to!"
"But he did climb up!" Jennifer saw their astonished expressions, and added quickly, " 'Twas a sudden—er, impulse, I believe. And a foolish one, for he was badly scratched. But he went down again to help Lord Green. It was the very bravest thing!" They were both staring at her. Afraid that she might have spoken too glowingly, she blushed, said her farewells, and hurried off.
Holsworth muttered, "Then 'tis truth what Blary said. Jack must be a remarkable fine climber."
"There's a'many men 'twixt the schoolhouse and here would have been glad to board up her window," mused the widow, her thoughts having taken another direction.
"I'd not have dreamed he could bring it off," said Holsworth, equally, if differently, preoccupied.
"Then you're a blind fool," she declared, firing up. "For whatever folks say of him, Jack's a fine-looking young fellow. Though," she added, suddenly plunged into gloom, "I hope I'm wrong, or 'twill be a proper tragedy."
"What a'plague are ye babbling at, woman?" demanded the bewildered Holsworth. "What have looks to do with climbing cliffs? The point is that 'twas a proper daft thing to do, and gives the likes of Blary and Pughill more grist for saying he's bewitched."
The widow smiled and said with a stifled sigh, "Perchance he is…"
Oliver Crane was a very tall man with regular if somewhat coarse features, and a fine pair of bold black eyes that had won him the admiration of more than one among the female staff at Castle Triad. He had kept a trim figure, and although he was now past forty, saw himself as quite the local Don Juan. Regrettably, he had flaws; small, but of which he was extremely conscious. One, was that his hands were large and red, an embarrassment that no amount of the Widow Newlyn's salves, simples, elixirs, or even an occasional and very alarming spell, had improved. They were strong hands, and when the head groom was in a bad humour, his underlings felt them.
Crane knew he had a quick temper, but he prided himself on being fair-minded. When his younger brother was denied employment at the castle, Crane admitted to himself that there was some justification for that decision, because the boy had got himself a reputation for shiftlessness. He could not be so magnanimous when Crazy Jack was hired. To be saddled with the village idiot was bad enough, but that he should put on the airs of an educated gentleman was an insult to all honest men. His resentment deepened to dislike when Mr. Royce Britewell made a point of assigning the training of the fine new stallion to Jack, rather than to himself. He knew the grooms and stableboys were smiling behind their hands, and waiting for him to practise some of his harsh discipline on the new man. He allowed himself this gratification, though not as often as he could have wished. This was partly because Jack was annoyingly adept at anticipating and eluding the sudden swipes of his powerful hands, and partly because the Shadow Man, as he scornfully named him, also worked for Mr. Fleming and Mr. Royce, and it might not be wise for him to appear with a new bruise daily.
Crane compensated for this unfair restriction by finding fault. Crazy Jack over-fed the horses one day, and under-fed mem the next. He exercised Sir Vinson's favourite mare too rigourously so that she might very well have taken a fatal chill. He was "slow" when cleaning out stalls, and "clumsy" when applying a poultice. It soon became clear, in fact, that he could do nothing right. The other men followed Crane's lead, so that Jonathan began to dread the hours he spent in the stables.
They had their value, however. He seldom saw his love, but had plenty of opportunity to observe Lord Green's comings and goings, and his eyes, keen under their long lashes, missed nothing. His lordship rode out every morning. Alone. But sooner or later Howland Britewell also rode out. They returned separately, allowing it to be known that they had not met, but Jonathan noticed that the hooves of their mounts were often encrusted with slightly reddish mud, and he was sure they had gone to the old mine. He noticed also that Silas, Green's manservant, a watchful individual small of stature, voice, and eyes, would often loiter about the stables until Howland rode in, and then slink over to address him with the fawning and whispering servility that made him universally despised.
It was common knowledge now that Sir Vinson had agreed to lease the Blue Rose to his lordship, and that the mine was to undergo major renovations. There wa
s jubilation among the local people, but also a deal of quiet hilarity because his lordship had been "properly duped" by Mr. Howland. Jonathan took no share in the joke. Hibbard Green was a crudity, as vicious as he was amoral, but he was no fool. If he wanted the Blue Rose, it was not in the mistaken belief that it could be made to yield up more tin. Nor was such a wealthy peer likely to be interested in using the mine as a headquarters for smuggling. The conversation Jonathan had overheard between Green and the Frenchman had implied a more widespread conspiracy. He thought it all too likely that Howland Britewell was involved, and the fear that the lovely Jennifer might be caught in a web of danger strengthened his determination to learn what his lordship was about.
To that end, however weary he might be, or however late the hour, he took to walking home by way of the high moors. After several nights of seeing no sign of life, he decided that tonight he would venture inside the mine. The weather had been hot and dry, and he was dismayed when at about four o'clock, the temperature dropped and fog began to roll in. It was easy to become lost on the high moor after dark, and the fog was likely to—
A sudden outbreak of shouts, a frantic neighing, and the tattoo of rapid hoofbeats cut off his train of thought, and he dropped the harness he'd been polishing, and ran.
Isaac Blary had been currying Bravo, Royce Britewell's fine new stallion. Something had caused the horse to take fright, and he was rearing up, his front hoofs flailing wildly, and his eyes rolling with fear. Terrified, Isaac was belabouring the big animal with a riding crop, while half-screaming demands that the "black imp of Satan" get down, his shrill voice adding to the stallion's fear. Bravo kicked out with his powerful back legs, splintering the rail of the stall, then pranced sideways, trapping the boy.
No coward, Oliver Crane snatched up a whip and raced to the stall. His whip whistled down and the stallion spun with a shrill neigh of pain, his strong teeth snapping within inches of Crane's face.
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