A Shadow's Bliss (3 page)

There had been a smile in those eyes the first time he saw her, five months ago. She had come to the Widow Newlyn's cottage, bringing soups and jellies for the beaten and half-starved wreck of a man who'd managed to crawl into the widow's garden to die. When he'd seen her lovely face hovering over him, he'd thought for a moment that he really had died. And then she'd said in that dear and compassionate voice, “No, pray do not try to speak yet. You must lie quietly and get better, and then you can tell us who you are, and from whence you have come.” He had lost his heart in that moment. Completely, and forever. Scarcely an hour had passed since but that he thought of her. Never a night that she was not in his prayers. And always he knew that he daren't betray by the slightest sign how he worshipped her. She was the daughter of a proud and powerful nobleman. He was—what he was.

He'd stayed in Roselley, knowing he would seldom be granted the sight of her. But when he'd recovered to the point that he was able to make some repairs to the Widow Newlyn's cottage, Miss Britewell had admired his work. After she decided to start the little school, he'd been commissioned to build her desk, and later had made the student desks. Thus, he was able to see her far more often than he'd hoped. Sometimes she had come to watch him work. Always on those joyous occasions, she spoke to him kindly. At times she questioned him about his past, which threw him into a panic, but when she saw that he was distressed, she would unfailingly turn the subject. His devotion grew ever deeper, and like all lovers, he had his dreams. Even when he indulged such folly, however, he did not allow himself to go so far as to envision some rosy future in which he could declare his love. But there was the hope that he might be of real use to her someday … Perhaps, come between her and some terrible peril, like one of the knights of old who had ridden along these very cliffs, and—

His reverie was interrupted by squeals and giggles of boyish glee. He checked, and turned aside, walking between two cottages where a group of boys were apparently thrusting something into a sack. There was a deal of shrill squawking and movement from their victim, and whoops of triumphant laughter as the top of the sack was tied.

Jonathan asked, “What have you got there?”

Quietly as he had spoken, the result was consternation. Four scared faces whipped around to him. The sack was thrust behind the back of the biggest boy, whom he recognized as Isaac, Ben Blary's husky thirteen-year-old.

“Aw, it's only Crazy Jack,” said Isaac contemptuously. “Stay back, looney, or I'll tell me Pa, and you know what his boot feels like. You oughter.”

“I also know he wants you to learn to read and write. You should all be in school.”

One of the smaller boys uttered a yelp and made a dash for safety. Jonathan caught him with a quick movement, but kept his eyes on Isaac whom he'd found in the past to have an unerring aim with stones. “What is in the sack, Young Porter?”

Young Porter, so named to distinguish him from his elder brother, whined, “It's just a silly bird.”

Albert Pughill, a miniature version of his belligerent father, said, “Me mum paid a sailor man a penny for it, but it don't sing and it don't talk, like he promised.”

“It's got a withered foot,” put in Isaac. “It's not good for nothing, 'cept maybe a feather duster.”

“You'd as well let it go, then,” said Jonathan.

“Well, we ain't,” jeered Albert. “We're going to put it to the cliff. All no-good things gets put to the cliff.” His dark eyes challenged Jonathan's grey ones, and he added, “Or they should.”

The thought of anything being trapped alive in a sack and tossed from the cliffs into the relentless sea sent a chill down Jonathan's spine.

Young Porter gave a kick and a wriggle and broke free. Whooping, they all made off.

Jonathan called, “I'll buy him from you.”

Those magic words stopped them, but they snatched up stones before turning back.

Isaac shouted, “How much?”

“A penny.”

A hushed silence.

Willie Worden, who was eight, with hair like a flame and a thousand freckles, said an awed, “Ye never would! Why would he, Isaac?”

“He don't know why,” declared Isaac. “Likely, he don't know where he is this very minute!”

Strategically positioned behind Isaac, Young Porter agreed, “He don't know
nuthink!
”

“He don't know how to fight like a man,” put in Willie Worden.

Albert said, “Me Pa says any man what won't stand up fer hisself ain't a man. He's nothing but the shadow of a man. Let's see your money, Shadow Man.”

Jonathan dug out one of the two pennies he'd intended to give to Mrs. Newlyn.

“Throw it here,” demanded Isaac.

“Give me the sack first. Then you'll get your money.”

Isaac muttered to his cronies, and four grubby hands held four good-sized stones ready. Stepping forward, Isaac held out the sack cautiously. Jonathan offered the penny on the palm of his hand. Isaac snatched the coin, then jumped away, but Jonathan moved faster, and seized the sack.

For once frightened of this despised individual, Isaac let out a screech, retreated a few paces, and he and his cohorts hurled their rocks.

Jonathan ducked, but attempting also to protect the hapless captive in the sack, he was not altogether successful.

C
HAPTER
II

Jennifer Britewell watched her ten students file politely from the cottage and metamorphose on the steps into ten bundles of unrestrained exuberance. Amused, she gathered pencils and papers from the desks Jack had fashioned with his skilled hands. He should be here at any minute, unless he was already waiting outside. The shouting took on a different note. A small frown chased the smile from her eyes as she hurried to the door.

Jack was coming, one hand clutching a sack in front of him, and the other flung up against the shower of stones that a group of hooting boys hurled at him.

Jennifer ran onto the steps. “Stop that at once!”

The children scattered.

Jonathan lowered his arm. There was blood on his face near the old scar that angled across his right temple. Jennifer called, “Isaac! Willie! Albert! Young Porter! Come here!”

Instead, they ran faster, silent now, knowing they would be punished.

She said angrily, “Those wretched boys! Oh, what a nasty cut! Can you walk up the steps?” She took Jonathan's arm. “Lean on me.”

His head hurt, but he was quite capable of walking. One did not turn away a taste of paradise however, and, enraptured, he leaned on her.

She guided him to her own chair, then wet her handkerchief from the water pitcher and set to work. The cut was jagged and had bled profusely, but she was accustomed to tending the hurts of her father and her three brothers, and was not squeamish.

Her hands were very gentle. Enveloped in a sweet fragrance, Jonathan could not resist watching her from under his lashes. She was bending over him, engrossed in her task, her lips slightly parted. The sweet swell of her bosom was just under his chin. A wave of longing swept him. She was so close; so tender and delicate and beloved. His arms ached with the need to hold her. He clenched his hands tightly, and fought against betraying himself, knowing that such behavior would not only be dishonourable, but would put an end to any chance of seeing her in the future.

Vaguely aware that she had said something, he smiled up at her.

“Hold the handkerchief,” she repeated gently. “Can you?”

He murmured a dreamy, “Thank you. But I must keep the sack.”

Compassion came into her eyes. She took up his left hand, pressed the rag into it and guided it to the injury. “Hold it there.”

“Oh. Yes—of course.” He flushed in embarrassment. “How stupid I am.”

“A trifle confused, perhaps,” she said kindly, and never dreamed how narrowly she escaped being swept into two yearning arms, and kissed and sighed over.

Yet knowing none of this, as always, the mystery of him intrigued her. She drew up one of the childrens' benches and sat on it, watching him. The boys had been shouting the same abuse: “Looby!” “What's yer name?” “D'you know where ye are, Crazy Jack?” And Isaac Blary had yowled something about a shadow of a man and a feather duster making a good pair. She was sorry for this tall shy man, but she could not judge him the village idiot, as her brother Howland named him. Admittedly, he was unable to recall much of his past, and several times he had apparently suffered a complete loss of awareness. Once, while working on the schoolroom desks, he had suddenly rushed outside and climbed to the roof; and on another occasion he'd called Noah Holsworth “Bobby” and ordered him to “be more careful with the lady's portmanteaux”! Afterwards, he'd seemed exhausted, and had denied all knowledge of the incidents. Blary and Pughill and a few other villagers had wanted to have him driven away, but she had interceded with her father in his behalf. Despite those odd lapses, and the humble manner that had made him a joke and a pariah, she found intelligence in the well-cut features, integrity in the clear grey eyes, and strength in the firm line of the jaw.

He darted a glance at her, then his eyes fell away with the familiar bashful humility, and he started to untie the string from the sack he held. At once, the cut started to bleed again.

“Let me.” Jennifer untied the string, then drew back with a gasp as a small pale blue bird flew out with a great flapping of wings, only to drop onto Jonathan's hand.

“Poor little fellow.” He stroked the tiny chest with one long finger. “You're safe now.”

“Is that the bird Mrs. Pughill bought from the sailor man?” Jennifer peered at it curiously. “Why, how very pretty it is. I never saw such a creature.”

“It's called a parakeet. They're numerous in—” He bit back the word
India.

Accustomed to such amputated sentences, she said smoothly, “Pughill was very angry because his wife bought it and didn't notice it was faulted. How come you to have it?”

“Ow!” said Jonathan. “Why the ungrateful rascal! It pecked me!”

“Should it be grateful to you? Why?”

His amused grin faded. He said in a low voice, “The boys meant to put it to the cliff.”

“Those cruel little savages! Oh dear. I should not say such things. They're only children.”

“I think,” he murmured shyly, “we're all born savages. We have to be taught honour, compassion, integrity. And—and if we're not taught those things, we continue to be savages.”

She was seldom able to get so much from him, and, pleased, she said, “Yet many men who
are
properly bred up still are cruel and abuse the helpless. How do you account for that?”

“Perchance Old Nick is stronger in some.” He smiled. “I don't say that teaching banishes the violent side of our nature. Only that it shows us how to control it. It's always there, just below the civilized exterior we show the—the—” Startled by his own volubility, he broke off, and stared at her shoe.

The blow on the head must have weakened his defences somewhat, she thought, and she said mildly, “You certainly control your own impulse to violence. Sometimes … too well, perhaps.”

His gaze lifted to her face. She said, “I only meant that—well, for example, you helped Mrs. Blary when her husband made her carry that great load of driftwood from the beach, even when he warned you 'gainst interfering. But when he turned on you, you didn't raise a hand to defend yourself. You are taller than he is, Jack. If you would only stand up to bullies like him and Wally Pughill, people would have more respect for you.”

So she judged him a coward. It was logical enough. He said helplessly, “I—I cannot.”

The moment was gone, and he had retreated once more. “Well now,” she said cheerfully, “what about your small friend here? Do you mean to keep him? I feel sure Mrs. Newlyn would permit another lodger. She has such a kind heart.”

“Be sure I—I know it, ma'am. Lord knows, I've dwelt on her charity these past months.”

“What nonsense! She has told me that she dreads the day you leave Roselley, for you wait on her hand and foot and are never done working about the house. Besides, you pay for your keep.”

His smile was rather pathetically grateful, and she thought it very sad that a young and comely man should be so afflicted. She stood and began to look about for a container for the bird. “I fancy you will be moving on before winter sets in.”

“You think I should—go away?”

She was taking a small covered basket from the cupboard, and didn't see his aghast expression. “I think your talents are wasted here,” she said. “Will this serve to carry him?”

He thanked her, and she watched as he put the bird into the basket and closed the top quickly. “You will want to try and find your home and your people,” she went on. “If you could come into your own district, you might remember more of your past.”

Jonathan held the lid of the basket closed, and stared down at it blankly.

“My papa thinks you may have been a soldier,” said Jennifer, handing him a ball of string. “Or one of the officers on the transport ship that was wrecked off Lizard Point. So very many poor souls drowned. I shall ask my brother Royce to make enquiries when he rides down to—”

“No! I am not— I—I wasn't— I was in C-Cornwall long before that—that wreck!”

The hunted look was in his eyes with a vengeance, and he seemed so distraught that she said at once, “Well, then that was a silly notion, and we shall have done with it and turn our eyes elsewhere. To London, perhaps, for certainly you speak as an educated man. 'Twould not surprise me…”

She went on with her conjecturing, but he scarcely heard her soft voice as he wound the string around the basket. ‘London…!' He started to sweat.