The Consul's Daughter
Page 6
‘There was no need. He already knows and has accepted it.’
‘But –’
‘We all die, Caseley. That is the only certainty in this life. You have the hardest task, knowing what you do, to allow him to live his life his way until the end.’
She stood up, swallowing her tears. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you told me.’
He came round the desk and took her gloved hand in both his. ‘I’m here if you should need me. The drops will ease any pain he may have. As for the rest, there’s no way of knowing how long …’ He allowed the sentence to hang unfinished in the air.
She nodded, unable to speak. He walked with her to the front door. She had known him all her life. He had brought her and her two brothers into the world. At this moment at least she was not entirely alone.
‘It will be a difficult time for you, my dear. Never doubt that your father loves you. But each of us must make the final journey on our own, and your father has already begun his.’
Chapter Six
That night, halfway through his beef with a second glass of claret in front of him, Jago was hailed by a loud voice from the far side of the room.
He looked up to see the mop-headed, reed-thin figure of Luke Dower plunging through the crowded dining room towards him, scattering cheerful apologies as he bumped into chairs and scraped against tables.
‘Jago, you old bastard,’ he bellowed. ‘How’s it going, my son? When did you get back?’
‘Good evening, Luke,’ Jago drawled, raising his glass in salute. Not for an instant was he taken in by the other’s expansive smile and bonhomie. ‘How are you?’
Luke Dower did his drinking in the waterside inns and public houses. His presence in the best hotel in Falmouth meant a business deal was brewing for which he needed funds. Jago guessed this was no chance meeting.
Luke sat, slammed his glass onto the table, and, with a visibly trembling hand, poured brandy from the bottle he was clutching. ‘I’m doing fine. I got a regular run to Portugal, taking out wool and cotton, bringing back wine and lace. Been doing it a few weeks now.’
‘I’m glad for you. Last time we met the bank was threatening to foreclose and Trembath –’
‘All in the past, my son.’ His wide smile revealed stained and broken teeth. ‘Old Luke bounced back like he always do. ’Tis looking good.’
Jago finished his beef and pushed the plate away. He sat back, turning the stem of his wine glass.
Luke hitched his chair closer and Jago noted the greasy shine on his forehead, smelled the stale sweat and tobacco smoke that permeated his clothes. Luke’s shirt was grubby and there were spots and stains on his coat and trousers.
‘I got a deal you –’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Wait till you hear. You’d be mad to turn this one down.’
‘What is it this time?’
Luke tapped the side of his nose. ‘My client has a commodity he wants to dispose of in this country. I bring it over and pass it on to a third party.’
‘From Portugal?’
Luke nodded. ‘Part of the regular run. No diversions, no problems.’
‘No customs duty,’ Jago’s tone was dry.
‘Now why should we give the poor buggers all that extra work? They got too much to do already.’ Luke grinned.
‘So why do you need me?’
Luke stiffened. ‘I never said I did.’ He gulped a mouthful of brandy, grimacing as the fiery spirit burned its way down. ‘I’m offering you a chance to make some easy money. But if you aren’t interested, there’s plenty who will be.’
Jago moved one shoulder. ‘As you like.’
Luke swallowed another mouthful, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then leaned forward to confide. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this. But I’ve already got one partner. I’m naming no names, but ’tis a well-known family, solid business background. Would a man like that get involved if it wasn’t a sound proposition?’
Jago shrugged. ‘That depends on his reasons.’
‘Look, you and me both know you got to invest if you want to make a profit. My outlet is guaranteed. So instead of me acting as an agent and getting a piddling little commission for handling the goods, it makes better sense for me to buy then re-sell. That way I can sell to the highest bidder and control the market.’
‘So you’re looking for capital.’
‘Well, I can’t go to the bank, can I?’ Luke retorted. ‘This is the chance of a lifetime. Turn it down and you’ll regret–’
‘What is the commodity?’
Luke’s eyes flickered sideways.
‘You can’t expect me to invest if I don’t know what I’m buying.’
‘You’re in then?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Luke drained his glass, gripping it with both hands. ‘Moidores,’ he muttered reluctantly.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Each one of those coins is worth twenty-seven shillings,’ Luke was defensive.
‘Have you forgotten the penalty for smuggling bullion?’ Jago demanded in an undertone. ‘Do you know how many men with schemes like yours died of typhus in Bodmin Gaol last year? You’ve got work, a regular run. Why in God’s name are you risking it all?’
‘I don’t get an owner’s share,’ Luke hissed. ‘With freightage of two or three pounds a ton to be divided three ways after paying port expenses, wages, and food, there’s bugger-all left.’ He glanced round again. A look of cunning crossed his face, quickly masked by a wolfish smile.
Curious, Jago turned his head and saw Thomas Bonython weaving through the crowded tables towards them.
Spotting Jago he hesitated then came forward, a worried frown creasing his forehead and dragging the corners of his mouth. After a polite nod to Jago, Thomas turned to Luke.
‘I must speak with you.’ His whisper was urgent.
Luke lurched to his feet and threw an arm over Thomas’s shoulders. ‘No need to look so tragic, my old son.’ He grasped the brandy bottle by its neck. ‘Whatever it is we’ll sort it out. Let’s find a quiet corner. We’ll have a drink, and you can tell me what’s on.’ He winked at Jago, while Thomas twisted his hands together.
‘No, I don’t think you understand –’
As Luke pushed him through the crush, Jago watched them go, his gaze thoughtful.
A restless night disturbed by dreams of a chestnut-haired girl with shadows in her eyes drove Jago from his bed in a foul temper before six.
Wearing his navy reefer jacket over a clean white shirt and a red kerchief knotted loosely round his throat, he locked his door and left the hotel, heading for the yard.
The wind had dropped and the morning was crisp and fresh. Through opes and alleys leading down to the quays, warehouses and workshops he saw a forest of masts. The water was calmer, changing colour from indigo to sapphire as gold-washed clouds moved slowly across a pearly sky.
By the time he reached the yard his head had cleared and his temper improved. Despite the early hour the yard was busy. Grey smoke belched from the smithy chimney. Two boys called to one another as they staggered with newly cut planks from the sawpit to the dry timber store. A man tended a crackling fire beneath a steaming-box in which planks were being softened and shaped to fit a curving hull.
As he headed towards Cygnet, Jago could see pitch bubbling in buckets over fires built within small brick squares and hear the musical clink of caulking hammers. Before he reached the schooner his nostrils flared at the pungent odour escaping from the companionway hatch, fo’c’sle scuttle and ventilators despite their heavy covering of canvas.
‘All right, Cap’n?’
He turned and saw the short, stocky figure of the yard foreman coming towards him. Toby Penfold had skin the colour and texture of old leather and iron-grey fluff fringing his skull. His navy-blue Guernsey was darned in several places, as were his paint-smeared work trousers.
‘’Morning, Toby. When did you start fumigating?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait. I’d rather see those damn bugs killed.’
‘The sulphur will do that all right, Cap’n. But give it a week and ’twill be bad as ever. The little buggers nest in they timbers behind the lockers and panelling. There idn no way to reach the eggs, and the sulphur don’t touch ’em.’ He gave a philosophical shrug.
‘How soon can you have Cygnet ready for sea again?’
The foreman scratched his head and drew air between his teeth with a slow hiss. ‘We should keep her at least two weeks. She’s spewing oakum. I got Joe and Henry caulking her now and we’ll seal her with pitch.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d like to replace that there bowsprit with a longer spar and save all the trouble with the jibboom. I know,’ he said before Jago could speak, ‘you wouldn’t have space for extra canvas. But the shroud plates is loose, and ’tis time –’
‘Toby.’
The foreman sighed. ‘Three days.’
‘Thanks,’ Jago grinned and Toby shook his head in resignation. ‘How far have you got with Fair Maid?’
Toby scratched his head again as they crossed the wharf to the dry dock. ‘She’ve had her new felt and metal sheath fitted, and a new mainmast step. Penrose’s sent word that her fore, main, and mizzen sails will be ready by Thursday. We already got her squares and topsails and we kept her old foresails and jibs. All her masts, spars, and yards have been scraped and oiled. Standing and running rigging will be fitted by the end of next week.’
The three lofty masts lay in wooden cradles along the dock, the close-grained yellow pine gleaming under its coating of oil. Even without them, Fair Maid had the slim lines and pronounced curve at deck level that marked her as a thoroughbred. Her bulwarks were freshly painted and the new varnish on her rail reflected the sun.
As his critical gaze softened in admiration, Jago thought of his own vessel, held for months in the northern Spanish port. What would she look like now? Not wanting to think about the damage she might have sustained during the siege and blockade, he turned to the foreman.
‘Has Captain Bonython’s illness caused problems in the yard? I didn’t know about it until yesterday.’
Pursing his lips Toby leaned back, feet planted wide, resting gnarled knuckles on his hips. ‘I can’t say it have. We’ve missed him about the place. But the work’s gone on same as always. He’s some lucky with Miss Caseley. As for that brother of hers,’ Toby turned his head and spat. ‘Little twerp should have had his backside leathered years ago. He won’t have nothing to do with the yard. He’d sooner be out drinking or painting pictures.’
He glared up at Jago. ‘What’s it coming to? After he lost his eldest boy, Mr Teuder was some pleased when Ralph was born. Gived that boy everything, he did. Sent him to school and all.’ Toby grunted in disgust. ‘Fat lot of good that did. Bone idle, he is, and I’d tell him to his face except he never come near the place. Near broke his father’s heart. If it wasn’t for Miss Caseley I dunno what would have happened here these past weeks. She’s some lovely maid. Clever too. Henry’s wife had these sores on her legs. Miss Caseley made some herb stuff for her to put on them and they was all gone in a week. Good as gold, she is. The men think the world of her. But though they haven’t noticed, ’tis plain to me.’
Trying to reconcile the foreman’s description of a warm-hearted, friendly, smiling girl with the defensive hostile creature he had been introduced to, Jago almost missed what Toby had said.
‘Noticed what? What is plain?’
Toby shook his head. ‘’Tis getting too much for her, and no wonder.’
‘Looking after her father? Surely –’
‘No,’ the foreman scoffed impatiently. ‘Running this here yard.’
Jago was suddenly very still. ‘Are you suggesting –?’
‘No, I aren’t.’ Toby was curt. ‘I’m telling you.’
‘But Richard Bonython said …’ Jago broke off as his initial incredulity gave way to thoughtfulness. ‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve worked in this yard since I was a boy. I know the way Mr Teuder do think. The orders I get when Miss Caseley come in of a morning, well, they don’t have the stamp of her father.’
‘Have there been mistakes?’
Toby shook his head. ‘No.’ There was a note of surprise in his voice. ‘’Tis just the feel of it.’
‘Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’
‘’Course I haven’t!’ Toby was indignant. ‘Family business, isn’t it? Dunno what I’m telling you for.’
‘It will go no further,’ Jago promised. ‘If you’re right, it’s my belief she’s the only member of the family who knows. I have some personal business to take care of but I’ll be back in a day or two. I trust Cygnet will be ready?’
As the foreman sucked in a breath, Jago lifted one eyebrow. The foreman threw up his hands.
‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise.’
‘Your best is all I ask. I may have to go to Spain to pick up a cargo my father needs urgently.’
His thoughts buzzing like a swarm of angry bees, Jago pushed the half-open door wide. Caseley was replacing a file on a high shelf. His gaze swept over her, lingering briefly on the swell of her breast beneath the sprigged muslin blouse. She glanced round, flushing as she recognised him, but the colour quickly drained, leaving her ashen. Her eyes had bruise-like shadows beneath them. Compassion caught him an unexpected blow.
She circled round behind the wide desk, graceful despite her limp, attempting to maintain as much distance as possible between them in the small room. Her back was stiff and she radiated antipathy.
He fought an urge to reach out, tell her she had nothing to fear. Then his habitual cynicism returned, overriding emotion both unexpected and unwelcome.
‘Can I help you, Captain Barata?’
Though he had heard her voice over and over in his mind, its musical quality struck him anew despite her icy manner.
He was equally cool. ‘I hope so. Does Bonython’s have any vessels due to sail for Spain or Mexico during the coming week?’
‘You must speak to my uncle Richard. It is he who co-ordinates cargoes and transport.’ Her chin rose a little higher. ‘As I’m sure you are already aware.’ She placed some papers in another folder, picked it up and hugged it in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. She waited, clearly expecting him to leave.
He did not move. ‘You do not assist him?’
‘No, Captain Barata, I do not. I am here solely to help my father, and his work involves the yard and the consulship.’
‘So Richard Bonython would arrange cargoes or shipping to Portugal?’ His gaze never left her face.
She shook her head. ‘That would be most unlikely. Mr Fox is consul for Portugal so their agency handles all commerce with that country.’ There was no hesitation, nothing in her voice but mild impatience. Jago realised that whatever connection Thomas Bonython had with Luke Dower, it was not official business for the company. Surely the man had more sense than to get involved in such a dangerous venture, unless …
‘Was there anything else?’
Beneath her coolness he heard a thread of anxiety. It had not been there when she answered his questions. Clearly she wanted him gone.
He had used Bonython’s agency to find cargoes for his own vessel for the past five years, ever since deciding to make Falmouth his base for lucrative deep-water runs to the Azores for the fruit trade and the Labrador coast for salt fish.
Teuder Bonython had made him master of the Cygnet after his own schooner, Cara, had been seized when he landed in Spain to load a cargo of salt for St John’s. He had bought shares in Cygnet as an investment and a gesture of good faith. Never before in his dealings with the company had he sensed
the undercurrents and tension that existed now.
‘Just one more question,’ he said smoothly. ‘What news of your father? When will he be back at his desk?’
A spasm of anguish crossed Caseley’s face and her grip on the folder tightened. ‘Probably tomorrow.’
Jago arched one black brow in surprise. ‘Indeed?’
‘I mentioned his imminent return when you came by yesterday,’ she blurted.
‘So you did. Yet I had the impression you did not entirely believe what you were saying.’
He saw her flinch. But she recovered quickly. ‘I also told you that I care very much for my father. Perhaps I am over-protective.’ Her mouth quivered but she controlled it. ‘However, the doctor sees no reason to keep him at home any longer. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a great deal to do.’ As she looked down at the crowded desk and gathered papers, he sensed desperation.
‘Far more, I think, than most people are aware of. At least, that is Toby Penfold’s opinion.’
Her head jerked up, eyes wide, and it was obvious that the foreman had guessed correctly. ‘How did you –?’
Realising she had betrayed herself, her entire body sagged. She leaned on her hands, her head dropping forward like a blossom too heavy for its stem. ‘Was there a mistake? Did I get something wrong?’ Her voice was unsteady and full of dismay.
‘No. Toby couldn’t fault anything. He only guessed because, to use his own words, it felt different.’
She nodded without raising her head, merely acknowledging what he had said.
‘Why did you do it?’ he demanded. ‘What were you trying to prove?
She raised her head and eyed him with a mixture of bewilderment and disgust. ‘I have nothing to prove, Captain Barata. My father needed my help.’
Jago felt her disdain like a whiplash on raw flesh. Incensed by her defiance, his voice was a deadly purr. ‘Then no doubt he is very proud of you. I must congratulate him on having raised a daughter whose gifts, while certainly less common than those of her peers, are plainly far more useful. Good day, Miss Bonython.’ He made a mocking bow and turned to leave.