by Jane Jackson
Hannah paused in mid-wipe, her frown returning. ‘I don’t know about that.’
Jenefer wished she could simply smile politely and leave. But she couldn’t. She needed money and for that she needed work. ‘You can rely on my discretion, Mrs Tresidder. I have never gossiped and I certainly don’t intend to begin now.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘’Tidn that.’ She darted Jenefer a look that combined wariness with hope. ‘You’d want paying …’ she let the sentence hang.
Jenefer held herself straight. ‘Yes, I would. But if we can agree an overall amount, I would be happy to take half in cash and the rest in groceries.’ She waited: hoping fervently that her offer would tip Hannah’s decision in her favour.
Lizzie had warned her that Hannah didn’t like parting with money. ‘Tight as a gin, she is. Been like it all her life. But she knows she need help. And she knows she’ll ’ave to pay for it. Take half and half would you? Half cash money and half in goods?’
Jenefer had nodded, agreeable to anything that would put food on her table and coins in her purse. Now she waited, willing Hannah to agree.
After wiping the counter once more, Hannah raised her head. ‘All right. You give me a month and see how we get on.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tresidder. I’m sure we’ll get on very well. It will be one less thing for your husband to worry about.’
Hannah clicked her tongue as she raised the counter flap, motioning Jenefer through and into the back room. ‘I’d as soon not tell’n, but I suppose I’ll have to. No offence, miss.’
‘None taken.’ Relief loosened Jenefer’s tongue. ‘If he’s anything like my father, he’ll fret because he can’t do it, and fret just as much over allowing someone else to.’
Hannah rolled her eyes. ‘You got that right.’ She indicated an old and battered bureau behind the door. The top was rolled open but the writing surface was invisible under several ledgers. Above them, pigeonholes were stuffed with papers. ‘In some muddle it is. But I’ve had me hands full, what with looking after he and working in ‘ere.’ She hesitated as if weighing a decision then blurted, ‘Look, when could ’ee start?’
Jenefer didn’t hesitate. ‘Now, if that would suit you?’
‘Now? Proper job. See, ’tidn only the bills we got to pay, like what we owe for stuff we ’ave reg’lar from the farm: the milk, cheese, eggs, and veg; Percy ’aven’t been well enough to make up the monthly accounts for the customers.’
Having bottled up her worry for weeks, Hannah found relief in a torrent of words. ‘Whole bleddy village do know Perce is bad, begging your pardon, miss. But Mrs Blamey said she wouldn’t pay nothing till she’d checked the account. The rest is just the same. Send their maids in with a list, but don’t offer a farthing.’ Her tirade was cut short by the tinkle of the bell above the shop door.
‘It sounds as if you have a customer,’ Jenefer said quietly. ‘Would you like me to wait until you come back before I touch anything?’
Hannah threw up her hands. ‘No, if you’re going to do it, you just as well start. I wouldn’t know what I’m looking at anyhow.’ She bustled out, leaving the door half-open.
Jenefer glanced round at boxes, crates, and sacks stacked against the walls, at jars and packages piled on shelves, and wondered what she had let herself in for. The room was part store and part office. A small fire burned in the grate and a blackened kettle sat in the hearth. Crossing to the bureau, she sat down in the wooden armchair. As she turned the topmost ledger towards her she heard voices and realised more than one woman had entered the shop.
‘Well, I got no patience with her,’ snapped a sour voice Jenefer recognised. ‘All they airs and graces she do put on. Give us six of they tatties, Han, and a couple of turnips. That girl of ’ers is no better than a cheap whore.’
‘Dear life, Mary-Anne, hush your mouth. You got no call saying such things.’
‘Have too. She’ve only gone and got herself in trouble.’
‘Who says?’ Another voice was scornful, then softened. ‘Two bars of yellow soap, please, Hannah.’
‘Tess Mitchell. Her Ernie do work in Gillis’s yard and he told Tess he could hear missus yelling at Tamara.’
Jenefer gave up trying to concentrate on the figures. Tamara in trouble? Jenefer knew there was only one kind of trouble the women could mean.
‘Get on, Morwenna Gillis is always in uproar over something.’
‘Not like this. Ernie said she was screaming fit to bust her stays.’ Interspersed with the voices Jenefer heard the rustle of paper and purchases were wrapped, then the rattle of the till drawer and the clink of coins.
‘Whose is it? Do Tess know?’
‘Well, I heard she tried for Devlin Varcoe.’
‘Never. I seen ‘em both at the dance and they never went near each other. Give us a small slice of that there cheese, Han, and some boiling peas.’
‘That don’t mean nothing,’ Mary-Anne objected. ‘Mind you, doesn’t have to be his. Who’d turn it down when ’tis offered on a plate like she do? Men! Led by their cocks, the lot of ’em.’
‘Jealous, Mary-Anne?’
‘She should be. Now ’er Charlie’s gone, only hope she got is a blind man on a dark night.’
This earned a snort from Mary-Anne and a laugh from the rest. ‘Tamara Gillis’ll never hold him.’
‘He’ll get caught sometime.’
‘Not till he want to be.’
‘I wouldn’t mind an hour with’n.’
‘Sarah Collins, you hussy! What would your Jack say if he heard you?’
‘She’d have to wake’n up first.’
The bell jangled and the door closed, shutting off the women’s voices.
Turning again to the bureau, Jenefer began sorting the papers into several piles as Hannah moved about the shop. The doorbell jangled again as another customer entered, made her purchases and left, exchanging greetings with someone else on the threshold. Soon these sounds faded from Jenefer’s consciousness.
It was some time later when Hannah came back into the room, pausing with a gasp that made Jenefer look up.
‘Dear life! I’d clean forgot you was here. Getting on all right are you?’
‘Yes, but there’s quite a lot to do. Would you like me to write out the customers’ accounts as well as entering all the amounts in the ledger?’
‘Be a lot of work, will it?’ Hannah looked dubious.
‘It’s not difficult, it just takes time. If you’ve no objection to me taking the books home, I can work on into the evenings and get it finished more quickly.’
After a moment’s frowning thought, Hannah gave a shrug and a nod. ‘May as well.’ As Jenefer stood and began gathering all the books and papers, she added, ‘I got an old string bag here somewhere. Got paper and pen have you?’ When Jenefer shook her head, Hannah pulled open the bureau drawer. ‘Perce do keep it all in here. Take what you need.’
‘Thank you.’ Adding a metal-nibbed pen, a bottle of ink, and a dozen sheets of paper to the pile, Jenefer’s glance slid to the six-inch thick wad of used newspapers at the far end of the table. She missed having something to read, and had no idea what was happening in the world outside the village.
She indicated the newspapers. ‘Might I use one or two of those to wrap everything up? Then no one need be aware of our arrangement.’
Hannah glanced up, visibly pleased by Jenefer’s suggestion. ‘Yes, you take a couple. Old ones they are. I do have ‘em back from Dr Avers for the privy or kindling, and wrapping veg.’
Jenefer steeled herself. ‘I need some vegetables myself, and eggs.’
Hannah brushed red work-worn hands over her apron. ‘You going to be all day on they books are you?’
Jenefer nodded. ‘I’ll make a stew for tonight. Then I’ll probably work on into the evening.’ A thought struck her. ‘Candles. Do you have any beeswax or spermaceti candles?’
Hannah’s mouth pursed. ‘Expensive they are.’
‘I know. But they give suc
h a lovely white light. It’s impossible to read using tallow dips, and the smell is awful.’
‘Right, well, would you say some tatties, turnips and onions, two eggs, and three good candles would be fair pay for two days’ work?’
Jenefer had no idea whether the offer was a generous one. Hannah Tresidder might well be taking advantage of her, having guessed she was not used to haggling and would find it difficult. But for the moment relief vanquished doubt. Even so, she was careful not to allow either to colour her tone.
‘That sounds reasonable, Mrs Tresidder.’
The following morning Jenefer cleaned the ashes out of the range into an old bucket she would later take up the garden and tip down the privy. Picking up one of the creased, earth-smeared newspapers that had wrapped her vegetables, she glanced at the tiny print, resisting the urge to stop and read it more thoroughly. But just as she was about to crumple it and stuff it into the range a name leapt out at her.
Laying the paper on the floor she smoothed it as she read, her gaze flying over the words. The packet ship, Lady Mary, had been involved in a skirmish with a French privateer resulting in great damage to both vessels and considerable loss of life. Lady Mary was the packet ship on which Martin had sailed to America.
She checked the date at the top of the sheet. It was a month old. Clearly, after returning safely from America, the Lady Mary had made other voyages before the unfortunate events described in the newspaper.
Jenefer sat back on her heels. Why then, in all the time that Martin had been away, and despite all the letters she had written, had she heard nothing from him? Surely he could have sent letters back via the packet ships? Anyone would think he had forgotten her. That she could even consider such a thing was very lowering. Yet what else was she to think? It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.
She was tired of waiting for letters that never arrived, tired of being anxious and disappointed. As soon as she had finished the month’s accounts for Mrs Tresidder, she would make the journey to Martin’s father’s house in Falmouth. If her letters had been lost or misdirected, he might be unaware of all that had happened here. Surely someone at the house would be able to tell her more?
Chapter Fourteen
Despite the early hour, the Roscoff quayside bustled with activity and the babble of different languages. The lugger had made a fast passage, aided by a steady north-westerly breeze that had dropped away just before dawn. But by then the danger of being sighted by a British Customs cutter was negligible.
As the sun lifted out of the sea, and soft pastels hardened into the clear sharp outlines of a winter morning, once again the wind began to freshen. It whipped the gunmetal water of the harbour into choppy waves tipped with foam as ebbing tide and on-shore breeze fought each other.
A fleet of fishing boats were tied by their bows and bumped against each other as their crews unloaded the night’s catch. Moored alongside the north quay two large trading schooners already had their hatch covers off and winches squealed as cargoes were lifted out and swung across to the waiting wharfmen. Working in relays they heaved sacks onto wooden barrows and wheeled them across to stone sheds and warehouses.
His crew behind him, Devlin ducked his head as he entered his uncle’s inn at the back of the quay. A narrow passage opened into two large rooms with low-beamed ceilings and dark, scarred tables flanked by high-backed settles or narrow benches. In the far wall of each room was a huge hearth, the ashes cold, fires laid but not yet lit. Further down the passage a staircase led up to private dining rooms and bedrooms for well-to-do customers needing overnight accommodation. Devlin breathed in the smell of fresh bread, coffee, and fried pork, and his mouth watered.
‘Anybody home?’ he called.
‘Better be,’ Danny Pawle murmured behind him. ‘Bleddy starving I am. Me stomach think me throat been cut.’
A bear of a man emerged from a doorway behind the wooden counter that separated the casks of ale and spirits from the rest of the room. His thick grey hair was tied back with a strip of leather. He wore a blue checked shirt, the rolled-up sleeves exposing brawny forearms, a knotted kerchief around his throat, and tobacco-coloured breeches. But despite his working clothes he was freshly shaved.
Seeing Devlin a grin lightened his face. Lifting the hinged flap, he came out and clapped Devlin’s shoulder as they shook hands. ‘All right, boy? Good trip was it? ’Morning, lads.’ He nodded to the crew. ‘You’ll be wanting your breakfast.’ Without waiting for a response he turned and bellowed in French through the doorway, his grin widening as a woman’s voice called back.
‘Won’t be long. How about a drop of something while you wait?’
‘Proper job.’
‘Wouldn’t say no.’
Retreating behind the counter he soon had a row of tankards lined up on the bar. ‘This one’s on me, boys, and a drop of the finest to warm you up. You want more, you pay for it.’ He turned to Devlin. ‘Jared not with you?’
‘He’s laid up. Fever and a bad cough.’
‘Not like him to be ill.’
‘I miss him,’ Devlin said, ‘as we’re two men short. But we had a fair wind coming over.’
‘Good health to ’ee, Mr Varcoe,’ Sam raised his tankard and the others followed suit, adding their thanks. They all drank deeply.
‘Sit down, boys, sit down. Eve’ll be out d’rectly.’
As his crew turned and settled themselves at one of the large tables, Devlin remained by the bar. Taking the purse from inside his jacket he dropped it on the counter.
Hedley glanced from it to Devlin, his brows climbing. ‘Always welcome you are, boy. But I didn’t think to see you back for a while.’ He nodded at the purse. ‘Where did he get it?’
Devlin propped one elbow on the counter and raised his tankard. ‘He said he made a killing on our last cargo.’
Hedley frowned. ‘Now how on God’s green earth did he do that?’ Opening the purse, he poured the gold coins into his palm. After frowning at them he returned them to the leather purse, pulled the cords tight and tucked it inside his shirt.
‘You heard about Harry Carlyon running aground during a chase?’ Devlin knew that whatever happened around the Cornish coast, within the week his uncle would know about it. ‘Half his cargo was lost and the rest impounded when his cutter went down. That doubled the value of mine.’ Devlin shrugged.
Hedley nodded, but his expression remained sceptical. ‘I know he’s your brother, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit. You watch your back.’
Eve appeared in the doorway carrying two heaped plates, with two more resting on her forearms. A buxom woman of middle age, with rosy cheeks and fair hair escaping from her frilled cap, she smiled at Devlin as Hedley lifted the counter flap to let her through.
‘Bonjour, capitaine.’ Her voice was soft and throaty, her eyes warm. ‘Comment allez-vous?’
‘Bien, merci. Et vous, madame?’
‘Bien aussi.’ Her smile and nod made Devlin glad that he’d made the effort to learn a few words of French. He knew little of her background, only that she was not Breton, but from the Vendee, and had ended up in Roscoff after her entire family was massacred during government reprisals after the failed Royalist uprising in 1793.
For eighteen hours a day her kitchen produced generous servings of tasty food, winning a well-deserved reputation among merchant seamen of half-a-dozen nations as well as those engaged in running contraband to England. Thus the inn had become an important source of information about the war.
While the men huddled over their food at a table, Devlin pulled up a stool and ate his meal at the counter. ‘Is there any more news about our agent?’
Hedley added a shot of brandy to his coffee. ‘They’ve increased the reward for his capture.’
‘They’re worried then.’
‘So they should be. The Royalists won’t give up. The rising in October was a much bigger threat than the one back in April. People are sick of the republic and the
war. They were promised freedom and equality, but what with the Terror and all the corruption, they’re no better off than before the Revolution. There’s no work, no money, and little food. The government’s shit-scared of a rebellion. That’s why Barras had the rioters gunned down.’ Hedley grimaced in disgust. ‘A bloody massacre it was. I reckon he’s made a big mistake giving so much power to that young general, Bonaparte. You mark my words, he’ll be trouble.’
Devlin forked up more food. ‘They still don’t know who the agent is?’
Hedley shrugged. ‘Some say he’s an army officer, others reckon he’s a merchant or a diplomat. But ’tis all rumour. I pity the poor bugger, whoever he is.’
Setting down his fork, Devlin reached inside his shirt, withdrew Casvellan’s letter, and passed it across to his uncle who palmed it and hid it so swiftly, Devlin could not have said where it had gone.
‘I’ve got one for you to take back,’ Hedley murmured. ‘I was told it had come from Rennes. You’ll have it before you leave. More coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’ Devlin cleaned his plate with a chunk of bread. ‘These letters –’
‘No use asking me,’ Hedley interrupted. ‘I run this place, do a bit of free trading, and mind my own business. I’ll do my bit for England passing them on. As for what’s in them,’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t know and don’t want to.’
Devlin couldn’t blame him. Just handling the letters was a huge risk. If his uncle were caught the punishment would be severe. He stood up, patting his stomach. ‘I feel better for that. Thank Eve for me.’ He turned. ‘Right, boys. Time to get the cargo loaded.’
It was mid-afternoon when the mail coach pulled up outside the Royal Hotel in Falmouth’s Market Street. A flunkey opened the door and Jenefer climbed out, aching and weary from the bone-rattling ride.
‘Excuse me, in which direction is Wodehouse Place?’