by Jane Jackson
‘Daft bugger,’ Jared growled.
Behind the captain, able-bodied crew helped their injured and bloodstained mates over the side while two well-dressed men, who Devlin guessed were passengers, demanded assistance.
A few feet from the captain another younger man, also in a blue coat, was trying to control a violently struggling woman.
As Devlin and Jared fought their way through the melee, villagers whirled, snarling as they raised axe or crowbar to smash aside anyone trying to stop them. But as they recognised Devlin and Jared, murderous glares dropped and they resumed their race to reach the hatches and holds.
‘Captain,’ Devlin bellowed through cupped hands. ‘Get off the ship.’
‘I can’t. The cargo is government stores –’
‘What are you carrying?’ As the words left his lips, Devlin caught a waft of heavy burnt-sugar sweetness and heard the frenzied roar.
Devlin and Jared exchanged a glance. Spirits inevitably meant some of the howling mob would not live to see daybreak. How many would be found broken on the rocks or trapped and drowned in the wreckage? How many children would be left without one or both parents?
‘Rum.’ The captain confirmed. His weathered face was grey and etched with strain. Exhaustion had sunk red-rimmed eyes deep into their sockets. How long had he been fighting the storm, nursing the schooner towards home and safety? He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. ‘And 30 casks of flour.’
‘Stay aboard and you’ll be killed,’ Devlin was brusque. ‘Is it worth your life?’
‘Surely they wouldn’t –’
‘They would. They will.’ Devlin said grimly.
‘Can’t you help?’
‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ Devlin retorted. The captain began to sway. With agility surprising in a man of his height and bulk, Jared leapt for the gunwale, swung himself up and immediately leaned down to haul Devlin on board. ‘Take him up the beach,’ Devlin murmured as he reached the deck.
Releasing Devlin’s hand, Jared grabbed the captain and, before the exhausted man could utter a word of protest, swung him overboard and immediately followed.
Frantic now, uncaring of the damage to their elegant coats, pale pantaloons, and polished boots, the two passengers had scrambled down and were stumbling across rocks through waves that one moment were thigh-deep, and the next retreated, gurgling and hissing, into dark fissures.
That left only the man Devlin guessed was the mate, and the woman whose struggles had grown weaker and more erratic.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he snapped.
‘She won’t – I can’t –’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Devlin muttered, and strode up the slanting deck. ‘Come on, Miss –’
‘Mrs,’ the mate rasped. ‘She’s my wife.’
Meeting the man’s eyes, Devlin’s angry response died on his tongue. He’d never seen such devastation. His gaze flicked to the bedraggled woman clasped in her husband’s arms, trembling as if racked with fever.
‘Is she ill?’
The mate’s head moved once, a brief negative. ‘Our baby –’
‘Where is it?’
‘He.’ The mate’s chin lifted in painful dignity. ‘My son. James Henry Vanson. He –’ a spasm crossed his face and he swallowed audibly. ‘My wife was holding him while I helped with your line. Then the wave – Mary fell. The deck was awash and –’ he swallowed again, his mouth quivering. ‘He’s only three months old.’
Jesus.
‘Why?’ Vanson’s voice was as raw as a wound. ‘In God’s name, why did you cut the tow?’
Devlin didn’t reply. To give reasons would be pointless and to offer sympathy an insult. He looked towards the beach. Two of his men, Sam Clemmow and Ben Tozer, both teetotallers and armed with heavy staves, fended off would-be thieves as they shepherded the survivors up the beach. Without protection the schooner’s people, injured and able-bodied alike, would be set-upon, stripped, and left naked and helpless. Any alive after that would not last a night of bitter wind and squalls of icy rain.
Already the afternoon light was fading to dusk. Here and there a flickering light glimmered. Using a lantern, even a shaded one, was a calculated risk. It might reduce the chances of falling into a rocky gulley and breaking a limb. But it also betrayed the holder’s presence.
By now news of the stricken schooner would surely have reached Lieutenant Crocker. As one of his duties was to prevent the looting of wrecks he would call out the dragoons. But it would take them at least an hour to get here. Given the speed at which night was approaching it would be dark by the time they arrived.
As he was due to bring back a cargo in the next few days, the Riding Officer was the last person Devlin wanted to see. He turned back to the mate. ‘Leave the ship now or you’ll die.’
The mate shook his head. ‘The baby’s things – I have to –’
‘Forget it,’ Devlin snapped. ‘Can’t you hear? They’ve broached the casks.’
‘But it’s all we have left –’
‘Do you want to see your wife used like some dockyard whore? Fought over by men mad with drink? Do you know what she’ll look like when they’ve finished?’ He did. He and Jared, eighteen years old, had been part of a salvage team. The brig was carrying cognac and they arrived too late. They found the crew spread in bloody pieces over the beach and the captain, out of his senses, crooning to what was left of his wife.
Seared into his memory the image had haunted him for weeks. Now, nine years later, he saw it only in the occasional nightmare.
Vanson recoiled, eyes wide, his mouth working as if he were about to vomit. ‘No –’
‘Then get over the side. I’ll pass her down to you.’ Putting his arm around the young woman’s shaking shoulders, Devlin felt the wet chill of her saturated clothes. She stiffened and let out a shriek of such despair that the hair on the back of Devlin’s neck rose.
‘Go on,’ he shouted roughly as the mate hesitated.
Vanson hoisted himself over the gunwale.
‘No, no! My baby! I can’t – Jamie, where are you?’ Peering wildly round, Mary Vanson lashed out with feet and fists, struggling to free herself.
It was like trying to hold onto an eel. Grimly aware he was bruising her, but not daring to loosen his grip, Devlin half-dragged, half-carried her to the ship’s side. Sweeping her off her feet, jerking his head back to try and avoid some of the blows, he dropped her into her husband’s arms, then jumped down himself. ‘Here, give her to me. Mind where you put your feet. The rocks are slippery.’
Vanson seemed dazed. ‘Where should we – ?’
‘Over towards the harbour, as fast as you can.’
Jared and the captain were halfway across. Ahead of them the rest of the schooner’s crew limped and stumbled.
Hearing screams and shouting, Devlin glanced over his shoulder. Two men lurched across the deck, arms swinging wildly as they fought. Others pushed past, their arms full of blankets, casks of flour, and lengths of wood. Still more were dragging the wooden chests that held the crew’s belongings. Women and children formed chains passing buckets, pans, jars, and even pewter chamber pots filled with rum down to others waiting on the rocks.
Turning his back on the destruction he saw a figure running down the cliff path. The wind had whipped back the hood of her dark wool cloak. Above the pale blur of her face, her hair was barley gold. In one hand she carried a lantern; the other kept her long skirts clear of her feet. Jenefer Trevanion.
Jumping down onto the beach she hurried over the sand towards him.
‘Mr Varcoe, we saw – my father has asked me to offer food and shelter –’ She was breathless and in the fading light there was an unmistakable flush on her cheeks. The wind, fool, he thought. And her headlong dash down the path. Though her words were directed at him, her gaze darted from the wreck to the crew sitting hunched on the sand, their heads turned away from the mate who held his inconsolable wife, to the captain, dwarfed by J
ared, watching his ship ravaged. Not once did she meet his eyes.
‘Your father?’ Devlin enquired with heavy irony. He would not play her game. Not until she had looked at him, acknowledged his presence. It worked. Her eyes flew to his. But the dim light made reading her expression impossible.
Jenefer flinched at his tone. Since securing her betrothal, her father had showed little interest in anything but his brandy, and whatever schemes he and Thomas Varcoe discussed closeted in his study. Devlin Varcoe was probably well aware of this.
‘He’s not a well man, Mr Varcoe.’ Cool and steady, her voice gave no clue to the heartbeat thundering in her ears, or the surge of heat beneath her shift. ‘But I know he would want to help these unfortunate people.’
He leaned towards her and she steeled herself to remain absolutely still.
‘The mate’s wife,’ he spoke quietly, indicating the couple with a brief nod. ‘Her baby went overboard.’
‘Oh no.’ A hand flew to her mouth. ‘The bundle – Betsy was watching through the long-glass. She couldn’t understand why – oh, God. The poor woman. There’s no chance …?’
Devlin shook his head. ‘None.’
Jen swallowed the stiffness in her throat. She couldn’t begin to imagine – and now wasn’t the time to try. ‘Their name – did you …?
‘Vanson,’ Devlin replied.
As she started towards the couple, Devlin crossed to Jared. ‘Miss Trevanion has offered everyone shelter for the night. Will you show them where to go? Captain and mate to the house, the rest to the stables.’
‘You coming?’
Devlin shook his head. ‘I’m going back to the cellars.’ He hesitated as a girl came running across the sand. Wild black curls tumbled over the shoulders of her poppy-red greatcoat. After a searching look at the group of survivors now shuffling towards the path, she turned to Devlin and smiled, her teeth a white flash in the gloom.
‘Tamara.’
‘Devlin. Father would be grateful for masts, spars, sails, ropes, and any brass.’
He gestured towards the ragged line of villagers staggering up the beach bent double under the weight of plunder ripped from the wreck. ‘Too late. Still, in a couple of days he’ll be able to buy anything he wants at Helston Market.’
She shrugged. ‘Oh well. In that case you can walk me home.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got things to do.’
She caught her lower lip between her teeth as her gaze swept over him from sand-caked boots to wet tousled hair.
‘You don’t look busy. You look …’ she tilted her head to one side. ‘Lonely.’
‘Go home, Tamara. ‘
‘By myself? With all these drunks around?’
He leaned towards her. ‘Walk fast. They’ll never catch you.’
‘Oh, you.’ She stamped her foot, making her curls dance. Then with the mercurial change of mood that made her so appealing and so unpredictable, she laughed. ‘I’ll have you, Devlin Varcoe.’
His groin tightened and he folded his arms, clenching his hands into fists as he resisted the desire to ravish that laughing mouth, bury his hands in those black curls, crush her soft supple body against his. ‘Threats, Tamara?’ His tone was dry.
She shook her head and her curls flew. ‘Oh no.’ Her teeth gleamed. ‘A promise.’
Chapter Two
Slumped in a high-backed armchair beside the fire in his study, Colonel John Trevanion gulped more brandy. His sagging cheeks had the purplish hue of a ripe plum, and he glared at his elder daughter through bloodshot eyes. ‘You had no right bringing them here.’
‘I couldn’t leave them on the beach, Father. They’ve lost everything but the clothes they are wearing. Even those would have been taken had I not brought them away. Poor Mrs Vanson is in a desperate state –’
‘Who’s Mrs Vanson? No,’ he flung up a hand before she could reply. ‘Don’t tell me.’ He waved her away. ‘Do what you must. But I want them all off my property by tomorrow. Now, find Treeve and tell him to fetch Doctor Avers.’
‘Oh, Father, that is kind of you.’
‘Kind?’ He frowned blankly. ‘What’s kind about it?’
Each day Jenefer found it more difficult to make allowances for her father’s violent lurches between foul temper and maudlin self-pity. She fought for patience. ‘I meant that it’s very generous of you to offer those poor people the services of –’
‘Not for them, you stupid girl. If they want a doctor they must find their own. It’s not my responsibility. I want Avers here for me.’
Suppressing the all-too-familiar surge of anxiety and exasperation she tried to summon sympathy. ‘Is it your stomach again?’
‘None of your damn business!’ her father retorted. But his speech was slurred and his tone more peevish than angry.
‘Father, Dr Avers has already warned you about the brandy –’
He swivelled his head against the worn and faded fabric. ‘That’s enough, miss!’ Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth and his colour darkened ominously. ‘Who d’you think you are, lecturing me? You’re getting above yourself. And I won’t have it, d’you hear? I’m master in this house. You mind your own affairs and leave mine to me.’
Smarting, Jenefer bit her lip. Whether he liked it or not, his drinking was her affair. He might resent what he termed her interference, but she couldn’t remain silent and simply watch her father destroy himself.
Her father never allowed her to remain in the room during the doctor’s visits. But last time he’d come, Dr Avers had told her bluntly that the amount of brandy her father was consuming would see him dead within a year.
What then? What would happen to her and Betsy, to Maggie and Treeve? The house was entailed to a distant cousin, and she hadn’t heard from Martin in months.
What was she supposed to do? Her father wasn’t bedridden. She couldn’t physically stop him drinking. Nor, even if there was the remotest chance of him listening, could she plead cost. Not when he funded the cargoes of contraband that Devlin Varcoe collected from Roscoff every few weeks.
One of the benefits of being a venturer was unlimited access to tubs of the finest cognac. Considering the recent bewildering decline in profits from his investment, brandy was rapidly becoming his only reward. Yet how could she think of it as such when it was killing him?
‘I’m sorry, Father. It’s only because I worry about you.’
He snorted. ‘You’d be better off doing something useful. Worry doesn’t change anything. I should know. You’d think an officer injured fighting for his king and country would receive some recognition. That musket ball finished my career and I don’t even get a decent pension. The pittance I’m paid is an insult, a mockery. But nobody listens. Nobody cares. Out of sight, out of mind.’
His hand shook as he lifted the glass and gulped the spirit down like water. ‘Then losing your mother – and my poor little Betsy crippled for life.’ His chin sank to his chest. ‘All because some damned fool couldn’t handle his horses –’
Jenefer slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her. Bitter and befuddled, he would pick over all his grievances and not even notice she’d gone.
Trying to shake off the sense of helplessness and accompanying frustration, she entered the kitchen. Large and warm, it was fragrant with the scent of recent baking.
Her gaze swept over a rack of scones and another containing two large round cakes. An inch thick and stuffed full of currants and lemon peel, their tops had been scored in a lattice pattern and sprinkled with sugar, now pale gold and crunchy. Her mouth watered.
‘White flour, Maggie?’ Jenefer considered this more of a luxury than the usual brandy and tobacco, lace and silks. Two seasons of difficult weather and poor harvest had led to desperate shortages. In past years grain had been imported from France, which usually produced a surplus. But now the war and resulting naval blockade meant Britain was dependent on supplies from America. These were erratic and even when some did reach Cornwall, i
t was expensive and far beyond the pockets of ordinary folk.
Behind the huge scrubbed table, the cook-housekeeper was loading a tray with plates of sliced barley bread topped with jam, buttered scones and squares of heavy cake. She looked up, beaming.
‘The boys brung back a few casks with the last cargo. Jared Sweet carried one up when he come to see Miss Betsy. Dear of ’n.’
‘That was kind of him.’ It seemed so wrong to envy Betsy, who had loved dancing and walking the cliff paths, and now depended on a wheeled chair to get her from one room to another. But Jenefer envied her sister for Jared’s silent devotion, demonstrated in such practical ways.
Jared had constructed the chair and, ignoring Betsy’s protests, lifted her into it. On warm summer days when he wasn’t fishing, Jared had come up and carried her into the garden then sat on the grass at a respectful distance while she painted or worked at her needlepoint.
Jenefer mentioned that he didn’t appear to talk much. Betsy’s wan face had softened in a smile Jenefer had never seen before.
‘You’re right, he doesn’t. He speaks when he has something to say. But he doesn’t chatter, which is very restful. And he’s a wonderful listener.’
It was Betsy’s expression as much as her words that had made Jenefer think briefly of Martin, then for far longer of Devlin Varcoe. Until she realised what she was doing and, hot with shame, quickly re- directed her attention to household tasks.
That Betsy and Jared loved each other Jenefer had no doubt. But there was as much chance of her father giving his blessing to such an unequal match as there was of him giving up brandy.
‘I’ve jest took a great pot of tea into the drawing room, miss,’ Maggie broke into Jenefer’s thoughts. ‘Miss Betsy’s in there keeping an eye to the captain and the others.’
‘What about the crew? Have you had time – ?’
‘Treeve just this minute took a tray out to the stables, miss. I made coffee for they. I daresay Treeve’ll put a drop of brandy in it, to help them over the shock, like. How’s master?’ At Jenefer’s brief head-shake Maggie sighed. ‘Off again, is he? Oh well, you done your best. You can’t make him heed you.’