A Shadow's Bliss Read online

  "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.

  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, wal
king 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 recognised 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.

  Chapter 2

  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 children's 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 civilised 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."