A Shadow's Bliss (2 page)

Perched atop those cliffs was Roselley Village. Actually, it was more a hamlet than a village; a widespread scattering of gaunt granite cottages, a small tavern, and a few stunted trees twisted into grotesque shapes by the constant storms that the ocean sent to batter the land. Atop a hill a mile to the north loomed the mighty tower of Castle Triad. Across the moors to the east a tall and crumbling chimney was all that could be seen of the once prosperous Blue Rose Tin Mine, now silent and abandoned.

On this bright morning the Widow Newlyn was making her way along the wide dirt path that served Roselley as a road. She hummed merrily to herself, seemingly unperturbed by the flapping of her voluminous skirts, or the crinkly dark hair that escaped her cap to be whipped about her round face. There were few people to be seen. Many of the tinners who had been put out of work when the mine closed down had left the Hundred, others eked out a living at the Castle, or hung about the Morris estates, a dozen miles to the south, hoping for a few hours' labour.

A tabby cat sat on the doorstep of the Lawney cottage, its eyes closed as it cleaned one front paw industriously. The widow paused, watching the little creature. “Over the ear!” she murmured, nodding. “Rain. That's no surprise, puss.”

Three boys darted, squealing, from behind a cottage, confronted the cheerful little woman, and with guilty gasps stopped so abruptly they all but fell over themselves.

“'Tis the Widow Newlyn!” piped the smallest among them.

His voice appeared to restore the use of their legs. They averted their eyes and fled.

“Rascals! You should be in the school,” Mrs. Newlyn called, in the pleasant singsong that is the way of Cornish folk.

The boys had come up from the left, but each had taken pains to pass on her right, and she shook her head rather ruefully. One must, she knew, always pass a witch on the right.

The sound of hammering hung loud on the air, and she followed it, halting briefly outside Mr. Gundred's cottage to steady herself against the sturdy post from which hung a sign proclaiming simply SHOP. There were no windows on this side, of course, but the gust that had rocked the widow also blew the front door open. Several men gathered about the hearth looked up. The proprietor hurried to shut the door, and greeted the widow genially. In the spring she had relieved his little daughter of terrible nightmares, and he was grateful.

“Put the sign back up, has ye?” she said redundantly.

“Aye.”

“I wonder you don't just paint it on your wall.”

“I'll not bow to the wind,” he declared. “Besides, what'd me mates have to bet on if I gave in?”

“A penny says it'll be down by Friday.”

He nodded. “A penny you've bet,” he said, and bade her good day.

Noah Holsworth's was the northern-most cottage of the village, and quite a distance from Gundred's shop, its nearest neighbour. It was to Noah's that Mrs. Newlyn was bound, but reaching the cottage, she changed her mind and went on past to where the inward curve of the cliffs marked the start of Bridget Bay. A small stream flowed busily from the high moors to hurl itself over the edge in a tiny waterfall, known locally as Devil's Ladder. From here to far past Castle Triad the cliffs were too sheer to be scaled unless a man had climbing equipment, but at this point the stream had worn a slight depression in the face of the rock, and a few reckless young men had struggled to the top, though more had fallen in the attempt. An ascent could only be tried in dry weather when the stream was reduced to a trickle, and even then it was treacherous, as the winds could blow up very suddenly and with devastating force.

The widow paused at the very edge of the cliff, but her intent was far removed from climbing. She sought about for a leaf, discarding several until a large yellow one pleased her. She held it to her lips between both hands, muttering in the ancient tongue now all but forgotten, and at length placed the leaf carefully in the stream. It was gone in a flash, and in her eagerness to see what became of it, she lost her balance and had to hop frantically to regain it.

“Phew!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, wind from the west! Now—where did my Informer go?” She peered again, but this time took the precaution of doing so on hands and knees. She had expected to see the leaf in one of the tidal pools on the sands. Her eyes were keen, but although she narrowed them and sought about painstakingly, there was no sign of the “Informer.” “You are most disobliging,” she grumbled. “You know very well this is the only day this side of the next full moon that I can cast you off! You are yellow enough, goodness knows, which is why you were chosen, since yellow can be seen for a greater distance than any other— Good gracious!” About to give up her search, she checked, inspecting a clump of dandelions on a small outcropping. “Is that you? Oh, well then, you are a silly!” She stood, brushing off her skirts, then peered downward once more, and admonished sternly, “'Tis no use hiding yourself in those dandelions. I see you, and you are quite mistaken! Were there any strangers about, I should know. Especially
that
many strangers! Stuff and nonsense!”

She was still disgruntled when she returned to Holsworth's cottage, and made her way around to the leeward side. Two men toiled busily here. One she knew to be her own age, which was five and forty. The other was younger, but his age she did not know, since Jonathan—or Jack, as most folks named him—couldn't recall exactly what it was.

“… and even if they do hear, they don't listen, so what good is it?” Noah Holsworth's mighty voice matched his mighty frame. He was not as tall as his companion, but his breadth of chest and shoulders and a pair of muscular legs conveyed an impression of power, only slightly mitigated by the fact that a mining accident had taken his left hand and wrist.

“Hold it steady, Jack,” he roared, “so I can whack it square.” He raised his hammer, only to emit a howl of frustration as his helper was staggered by the wind, and lost his grip on the board. “Curse and confound it,” raged Holsworth, his deep-set pale blue eyes glinting. “I said
steady!
Can you not even—” He broke off as the younger man drew back, his head ducking as though in anticipation of a blow.

The Widow Newlyn clicked her tongue impatiently, and hurried along the path between the neatly kept rows of flowers and vegetables that struggled to survive in the shelter offered by the cottage. “Might have known I'd find you bellering, Noah Holsworth,” she scolded. “Great brute that ye be! And Jack half your size.”

Holsworth reddened, and snatched off his wool cap, subjecting his thick greying hair to the mischief of the wind. He said uneasily, “Half my size he may be, Widder, but he's taller'n me, and nigh half my age I'll warrant,
and
has both arms, ye'll mind. 'Sides”—he raised the steel hook that served him in lieu of a left hand and rapped it gently on the other man's broad but thin shoulders—“he do know as I mean him no harm, does ye not, Jack?”

The wind-blown fair head lifted again. A pair of grey eyes met the widow's and a deep but diffident voice said, “My fault, Mistress Newlyn. Mr. Noah's kind. I'm just—I'm clumsy, is all.”

“Then kind Mr. Noah won't mind me taking you off, will he?” she said, with a warm smile for the man she called Jack, and a toss of the head for Holsworth.

“Taking him off?” echoed the big man with considerable indignation. “Ye did but now lend him to me! And full well you know how hard it be for me to work without no helper.”

“Fiddle,” said the widow. “You've got your hook, which is worth two helpers!”

“Even so, I'd be main glad to hear why you need him so desperate urgent.”

“You've had him slaving on your silly boat for a week, and—”

Holsworth, who had just replaced his cap, now tore it off, threw it on the ground and jumped on it. “
Silly boat
she calls it!” An impassioned wave of his hammer took in the low, wheeled platform behind him, on which was braced a rather odd partially completed structure that resembled a very large and high-sided longboat. “Silly boat! By the pyx! And did not Mr. John Wesley himself inspire me to build it? Is it the great holy man she'll be mocking with her ‘silly boats'?”

Jonathan intervened at this, his voice a little surer. “Mrs. Newlyn meant no offence, Mr. Noah. I'm bound to—”

“Aye! Bound to her because she took ye in. And so you should be. But there's no reason it must make you her slave forever! You were promised to help me with my great task. 'Tis not fair you should be lured away when I most need you!”

The widow gave a deprecatory snort but wandered closer to the object under construction, and, peering at it curiously, spoke as though she addressed it. “He heard little Mr. Reverend John Wesley tell the tale of the Ark, and because his name chances to be Noah, he must think himself called to build another one! A fine piece of foolishness, when there's so much else a big strong man might do with his days. Has he not heard of the rainbow? And of the promise made to us by the Lord never to send another such flood?”

Holsworth crossed his arms, and growled, “Not
such
another, maybe. But there's enough evil right here in Roselley to make the Lord take a fancy to send a
small
flood. Noah my name be, right enough. And when I heard Mr. Wesley, I knowed what I was called to do. Let them mock as will.”

Despite his shabby clothing and extremely dramatic stance, there was a dignity about the big man. The widow's eyes softened, and she said in a kinder tone that she was bound to admit Mr. Holsworth was making his “ark” good and strong, and that she had intended no mockery. “Besides, it looks to me like you're nigh to finishing. The outside, at least.”

Holsworth groaned something having to do with women and boat building, and added that he was nowhere near to finishing.

“Well, I'm sorry for you,” said the widow. “But I promised Miss Jennifer last week that Jack could help with her schoolhouse. Very likely Charlie Jones or some others not digging now can lend you a hand here.”

Jonathan had been waiting patiently, but at this his head jerked up and his eyes lost their meekness and became very bright. He asked eagerly, “Shall I go now, ma'am?”

The widow nodded. “Hurry along. And—no more trouble, mind!”

Watching him stride off, Holsworth grumbled, “There's reluctance for ye! I wonder he don't run!” Mrs. Newlyn, who had formed her own opinions, smiled faintly but said nothing, and he went on, “Nor I don't see why Charlie Jones couldn't go to Miss Jennifer, and Jack stay with me.”

“I'll tell you why. 'Tis because Miss Jennifer pays me more for his work than you do. And she asked for him. Pointed. Which isn't to be wondered at, seeing as he's got a far better gift for carpentering than has Charlie.”

“I won't argue that. But his head's full of worms, and for Miss Jennifer to look on him kindly don't help him none with the other men.”

“Miss Jennifer has a kind heart. Which is more than you could say for the rest of the Britewells. And Jack's head is
not
full of worms. He may be a mite forgetful at times, but—”

“A sight more'n a mite! And a sight more'n forgetful! They don't call him Crazy Jack for nought. I wonder Sir Vinson or her brothers allow a lovely young woman to have a man working down at the schoolhouse who does strange things and then can't recollect ever doing of 'em! Or who can't even recall his own name, nor where he comes from! He's thin now, 'count of he was so ill. But he's tall, and a sight stronger'n he seems. Oh, don't look so curdled! I like him well enough. And when he knows what he's about he's a good worker. Besides, if he should run amok with me, I could handle him. But Miss Jennifer shouldn't take such chances.” He tapped his temple significantly. “You can't never tell, with his kind.”

Flushed and angry, the widow snapped, “What ugly things to say about such a fine young chap who was likely ill-wished by—”

At these dread words the rugged might of Noah Holsworth seemed to quail. He cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder and interrupted urgently, “Softly, woman! Softly! If that suspicion gets about, folks might start looking for the witch that ill-wished him!”

“And settle on the Newlyn witch, eh?”

“I ain't one with them as thinks you're a witch, and ye know it. You've cures and knowings as other folks hasn't, but you're a good woman, for all your silly tongue. Have some sense do, and don't set folks to whispering more'n they are already!”

She sniffed and said defensively, “It wasn't me who shouted that the lad's likely to run amok! I might have known I'd be abused for coming here! A lady can no more rely upon a man who builds arks, than on a yellow leaf!”

Noah Holsworth set his jaw and girded up for battle.

*   *   *

He was to be near her again! Wonder of wonders, she had asked that he come to help her! There were other men she might have called on. Bigger, stronger men, who were her own people. Tinners, who'd laboured long hours in the mine and now found time hanging heavily on their hands. Lawney, or Worden, or even Ben Blary, who never had a kind word for anyone—all of them would jump at the chance to work for her. Everybody loved her. Who could fail to love so gentle and beautiful and gracious and altogether adorable a lady?

Such the thoughts of a man crushed under a heavy burden; a man without hope, yet who now strode purposefully towards the abandoned old cottage that perched on the very edge of the cliffs at the south end of Roselley. Miss Jennifer Britewell had appropriated the cottage for a school, and three days a week she came and gave of her time to instruct the village children. She would be there now, patient and gentle with her pupils. He could picture her, tall and slender, standing by the desk he had built for her, the sunlight awaking golden gleams among the thick brown curls that clustered below her dainty cap, her tender mouth grave, but a smile lurking in the eyes that were as blue as the skies over Suez.