A Shadow's Bliss (29 page)

“He is—Lord Hibbard Green.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Johnny,' she thought in anguish. ‘Oh, my Johnny!' The image of his clean-cut face came into her mind. She realized in a remote way that her father was stamping up and down the room informing her at length of how fortunate she was and how happy she would be in her new home. “'Tis a great castle, you know,” he said rapidly, “so it will be not so much of a—”

Jennifer had stood. She said quietly, “No, Papa.”

He stopped in his pacing, and whipped around, his face a thundercloud. “What d'you mean—no?” he roared. “Do you dare defy me? God knows I've been patient these many years, but if you think I'll brook you setting up your will 'gainst mine, you're vastly mistaken, my girl!”

Her nerves were tied in knots and she felt a little sick, but she said with determined calm, “I believe you love me, sir. You laughed when first Howland suggested Lord Green for my husband. You said you did not want him. Why you would now seek to bring such misery upon me, I cannot guess. But we live in a modern age, thank God, and you cannot force me. Of all the men I ever have met, Lord Hibbard Green is the most repugnant to me. I will not marry him, Papa. Sooner would I be dead.”

Sir Vinson had lost all his colour, but at this a sudden flush darkened his face. “How
dare
you question my judgment?” he raged. “I have every right to choose you a mate, and by God, I have chosen! You
will
marry Hibbard Green, you ungrateful chit! And count yourself fortunate that any man would have you!”

Tears stung her eyes, but she winked them away and did not falter, though this man she had always loved and honoured, stood before her like some demented stranger, his chin outthrust, his eyes blazing. Her voice sounded very far away in her own ears, but she managed to say, “You had the right to select my mate whilst I was under age, sir. I am five and twenty now, and my own mistress. I will leave your house, if you desire it, but you cannot by law compel me to—”

“Little
fool!
” He took her by the shoulders and shook her fiercely. “Of course I can force you! What
law
would you call upon to help you defy your own father? Scholars write out our laws, and the poor are obliged to observe them, but do you think they're given more than lip service by people of our class? We live by our own law! And even if that were not so, to whom could you turn for aid? There are a hundred ways I—I might … compel…”

Her beautiful face was so white, so stricken, and tears trembled on her lashes. Releasing her, he turned away, and cried wildly, “And if I did not choose to—to resort to such means, d'you think
he
would hesitate? One night alone with him and—and you'd have no choice but to—” His face convulsed suddenly, and he sank into a chair, his head bowed into his hands. “Oh … my dear God!” he moaned. “I cannot … I cannot!”

With a smothered cry, Jennifer flew to kneel beside him and seize one of those clutching hands. “Papa!” she sobbed. “Dear, dear, Papa! I knew you could not speak to me so. I knew it! What has happened? Has Green managed to convince you I really care for him? If you knew—”

The words were cut off as he snatched her to him and hugged her close. She was appalled to know that he was weeping, and she clung to him, patting his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

Abruptly, he broke away and walked hurriedly to stand with his back to her, busied with his handkerchief. Jennifer dried her own tears, then went to the credenza and the decanter on the silver tray.

“Here, sir,” she said gently, offering him a glass of cognac.

He glanced at her through reddened eyes, took the glass and muttered his thanks, then noted with a broken laugh that she had poured herself a glass also. “Rascal,” he croaked.

When he returned to his chair, she knelt on the floor at his knee, as she had done so often as a child. “Can you tell me what he said to you, dear sir?”

He sighed deeply and leaned his head back for a moment. Then, he said, “You lay the blame at the wrong door, my dear. 'Tis not Hubbard Green drove me to—to that disgraceful display, but—but my heir.”

“Howland? But—surely, Papa, you can deny him?”

He nodded, and said slowly, “Yes, child. I can deny him. And so can you, for I have done as much of bullying as I can bear. The decision now, must be your own…”

*   *   *

“And you need not think as Mr. Fleming's going to whistle you away so you can laze about with a lot of wormy old books,” said Oliver Crane irritably. “Wasted enough time, you has, gallivanting about pretending to be a coachman. I'm that short handed I need every man I can get. Even the shadow of a man!”

After returning Jennifer and Tilly to the castle and driving the coach into the stableyard, Jonathan had gone at once to change clothes. He'd hoped to be assigned to Fleming Britewell, but when he'd returned his livery to the housekeeper, he had been told to report to the stables. It was clear that the head groom's animosity had not diminished during his absence, but Green's complaint was to an extent justified; there were only half as many men to be seen as had been employed here last week, and twice as many horses.

Ordered to care for the team then wash and polish the coach, Jonathan worked busily, but kept his ears open. Whenever Crane was out of earshot, the grumbles were many and bitter. Mr. Howland and the foreman in charge of erecting the dock had between them hired every able-bodied man in the area. Overnight, it seemed, the pendulum had swung from widespread unemployment to more jobs than there were men to fill them. The crews working on the dock were better paid than those building the new road from the mine and cutting the steps in the cliff face. On the lowest rung of the pay scale were the grooms and stablehands whose hours were longest, with the result that tempers were short and resentment was high.

With new shared grievances to occupy them, the stablehands appeared to have mellowed somewhat towards Jonathan; he was less frequently ridiculed, and by inserting a quiet word into their conversation now and then, was able to learn a good deal.

The dock foreman had been brought in by Lord Green. He was a big Welshman named Bronwys; a dour, brooding individual with a sharp tongue and a fine knowledge of his craft. So far as Jonathan could learn, all the workers, with the exception of Bronwys, were from this area. There was no mention of any other “foreigner” who haled from farther away than Devonshire, and he was very sure that if a man had been hired who was so beyond the pale as to have been born outside the British Isles, it would have been a prime topic of conversation.

So Falcon had been right; for whatever purpose the unsavoury lot at the mine had been brought in, it was not to build the dock. As far as he could tell, the presence of those men was still unsuspected, and he was mildly surprised that it had not occurred to anyone to have a look round the Blue Rose. He mentioned this to Isaac Blary, who had become quite friendly toward him in a guarded fashion, and was startled when the boy said that gates now closed off the entrance, and KEEP OUT notices were posted warning that the mine was unsafe. This was unsettling, but did not deter him. Somehow, and with the least possible delay, he meant to get inside.

It was dark before he finished the long list of tasks Crane had set him. He collected Duster and went home. Mrs. Newlyn had left a thick piece of bread and dripping, and a pickle on his small table. He was touched to find that she had been so kind as to wash and mend his torn shirt and breeches. He discovered later, that she had mislaid her needle, but although his sudden leap and following comments alarmed Duster, he was able to remove the needle without major damage to his person.

When he went, yawning, to the cottage at dawn next morning, Sprat was waiting, and rushed inside to jump onto the table and knock down a note that had been left there. Jonathan put the cat down and took the note up. It informed him that Noah wanted to see him—“wenever yu kan manidge.” That would have to be this evening, since Noah would still be sleeping when he went to work.

Sprat escorted him back to his shed, then went racing off. Inside, he was faced by a small rebellion. Duster hopped and fluttered and gobbled furiously each time Jonathan tried to catch him, and eventually, with much whirring of wings, took up residence on his shoulder.

“So that's it,” said Jonathan, amused. “You've become used to company, and don't want to be left alone all day.”

It had occurred to him that the shed must be lonely and dim during the hours he was away. “I'm sorry for that,” he said. “Mrs. Newlyn offered to take you in while I'm at work, but for all her kind heart, she's just a shade absent-minded. She has a friend named Sprat, who is of the tortoise-shell persuasion. He's a nice little fellow, but was his mistress to leave the cage door open for only a minute, I fear that Sprat would be very glad of a Duster
à la carte.
”

Duster heard him out with few comments, but resisted all attempts to dislodge him, emitting piercing squawks and hooking his claws so firmly into the shoulder of the new frieze coat that Jonathan at length surrendered. He took the cage along for later use, and Duster entertained him by chirping happily all the way to the castle. Surprisingly, Oliver Crane made no objections beyond remarking that if the stupid bird fell off and got stepped on by one of the horses, it would serve him right. The men were variously amused or contemptuous, but at least there was no open hostility, and Duster enjoyed an hour of strenuous shoulder balancing before he tired and Jonathan put him back in his cage.

The press of work was even heavier than the previous day. Word of the new dock had spread, and a steady stream of callers descended upon Castle Triad, so that the over-worked grooms were obliged to care for the various vehicles and hacks of the visitors. At noon, Howland Britewell came to the stableyard in a black temper and ordered that one of the new teams be driven towards Redruth to collect a load of goods from a waggon that had lost a wheel and broken its axle along the way.

Crane stared at him, and repeated stupidly, “Load of—goods, sir?”

“Ah! You can hear! You encourage me to think you can also obey!
Goods
—fool. Supplies Lord Green wants stored in the mine. Now d'you see why the dock will be a boon to us? Get a couple of men out there at once. I want the goods delivered to the Blue Rose before nightfall.”

“But—Mr. Howland, sir, I can't spare two men, nor even one! We're so short-handed now we can't hardly—”

“Oh, stop your whining. There must be someone who can be spared.” Howland's angry eyes flashed around the barn and rested on Jonathan, who was forking hay from the loft. “Send the half-wit. You can't tell me
he's
irreplaceable.” He gave Crane a few brusque instructions, and advised harshly that he wanted to hear no excuses for failure.

“Nor you won't get none, sir. But if Jack's to drive a far piece on
them
cart tracks, unload the broke waggon, then get back and off-load—why he'll be all night, sir! Can't be—”

“Nonsense! There'll be fellows with the other waggon to help, and Lord Green has a caretaker out at the Blue Rose who'll give him a hand at this end.”

The silence in the barn was sudden and complete. Every head turned to the two men.

Crane echoed, “A caretaker? I didn't know there was—”

“Well, you know now. Dammitall!
Will
you move your lazy arse and do as you're bid!” Glowering, Britewell stamped from the barn.

The silence continued and the men exchanged grim glances.

Crane muttered, “Why in hell couldn't they simply have hired another waggon in Redruth?” Then, as if recollecting himself, he barked, “Is ye all froze? Get back to work! Isaac—help Crazy Jack drag out one of the new waggons and pole up a pair of his lordship's dray horses. Take that damned bird with you, Jack,” he added sourly. “He can help you load!”

The dray horses were fine strengthy beasts, but the big chestnut gelding was of a quarrelsome temperament and difficult to handle. When Crane stamped over to grumble about “all this danged commotion” the chestnut made a teeth snapping lunge at him. The head groom had to jump back and fell over a bucket, which did not brighten his mood.

Ten minutes later, Jonathan was guiding the team out of the yard, Duster's cage on the seat beside him, and his mind full of speculation. Howland Britewell's mention of a caretaker had been a proper bomb blast. One could almost hear the men wondering who he might be, and why a caretaker was needed. More importantly, thought Jonathan, Howland had given him a perfect excuse for getting inside the mine. With luck, by tonight he might have the answers to many questions.

His thoughts turned to Jennifer. He had caught not so much as a glimpse of her since they came back from Breton Ridge. She must know he was working in the stables. She could have ordered a mount for one of her early rides, and even if he was not allowed to escort her, he could at least have seen her sweet face, and she might have found a way to slip a note to him. She might, of course, be tired, after the hectic days at Breton Ridge. Or perhaps she simply had no news for him. He was a fool to start imagining that something was wrong only because he missed her so. That was a feeling to which he must become accustomed.

Crane had warned him to keep with the rough track that led inland. “And take care ye're home before dark, else ye'll likely never get home at all.” To this ominous direction, Isaac had added in a whisper, “'Ware low, smooth ground, Jack. 'Tis likely swamp or marsh.” With these cautions in mind, Jonathan kept the horses to a steady pace. They were good goers. The chestnut, encountering no creature to attack, tended to business, and the miles rolled away.

Very soon Jonathan had lost sight of any human habitation, but even on this cloudy afternoon the scenery was spectacular. He was on the high moor now, and could see for miles: the blue glitter of the Atlantic to the south and west, rocky knolls and outcroppings dotted about, a distant cluster of the ancient standing stones, and far to the north the loom of frowning tors and crags. The only sounds were the calls of birds, the clip clop of hooves, and Duster's occasional remarks. Jonathan relaxed and dreamed dreams of his beloved.