A Shadow's Bliss Page 4

  "Aye. Lord Hibbard Green come back again, miss. Brought that ugly man of his, what looks like a vulture." After a long moment during which Jennifer gazed unseeingly at the window, Tilly added, "The master sent word up. He wants you to please hasten, and—er…"

  "And welcome our charming guest. Yes. Of course." Jennifer thought, 'I'd as soon welcome a serpent!' But she knew she must proceed with caution, so she washed, and changed her dress quickly, and went downstairs wearing a pink silk gown with moderate hoops, and with her curls clustering prettily below her frilled cap.

  The gentlemen had gathered in the great hall that served the Britewells as withdrawing room, morning room, and book room. The furnishings were massive and masculine, the wainscoting darkened by countless decades of smoke. Bookcases flanked the vast fireplaces on the north and south ends of the room, and there were several screens to circumvent draughts.

  Jennifer was mildly surprised to find that Sir Vinson had contrived to pry her brother Fleming from his books, but she thought with pride that her menfolk presented a fine picture. Sir Vinson's frame was sturdy and his head more proudly carried than those of his three sons, but even he looked slight compared to the man whose harsh voice rang through the room.

  With his great height and large frame, Lord Hibbard Green might have presented a commanding figure, but he had never checked an early tendency to gluttony. His tailor had probably done his best, but any counsel he might have offered had been ignored. My lord's vast bulk was accentuated by a purple coat lavishly trimmed with gold braid. His waistcoat was pink satin embroidered with scarlet hummingbirds, and lilac satin unmentionables did nothing to mitigate the size of his stomach. Scarlet ribands were knotted at his knees, and his chunky calves were encased in white stockings on the sides of which purple fleurs de lis flourished.

  As Jennifer entered, he was sprawled in his chair booming an indictment of the "fools in Whitehall" and of the crippling taxes that had, he said, driven many an honest Briton into becoming a free-trader. "Not that I hold with smuggling, mind," he asserted, waving the hamlike hand that clutched his tankard. "But 'tis not so despicable, to my way of thinking, as the wreckers you people allow to prowl your coastline."

  He had touched a nerve. Sir Vinson abominated wreckers, and his distinguished head tossed upward. With more than a touch of frost in his voice, he said, "Such practices are neither condoned by—nor, as you rather oddly phrase it, sir—allowed, by me! Of all things, I find it most contemptible. The man who would deliberately lure a ship onto the rocks, without a thought for loss of life, or the misery of those left bereaved—and only for his own gain, is truly a fiend. On this point alone, I am at one with the squire."

  His lordship was suddenly breathlessly still. His voice very soft, he demanded, "Who?"

  Royce Britewell, at three and twenty the youngest of the family, answered, "Lord Kenneth Morris. The local squire, sir. A jolly good man, for all he's a touch top-lofty."

  "A harsh judgment from one of less than vast experience in the world," murmured Fleming, his thin intelligent face disdainful.

  Royce, who had inherited his sire's light brown hair and fair complexion, flushed darkly and his hazel eyes slanted a resentful look at his scholarly brother.

  "I don't hold with young men taking the measure of their elders," declared his lordship, completing Royce's mortification. "Bosom bow of this—er, squire, are you, Britewell?"

  "I'd not use that term," answered Sir Vinson, irritated. "Lord Kenneth enjoys a more—ah, frivolous way of life than I prefer."

  Green's black button eyes almost vanished into his heavy cheeks. "Plenty of lettuce, eh? I shall have to meet the gentleman. Er, to learn how he plans to handle these wreckers," he added hurriedly.

  Noting his parent's increasingly frigid expression, How-land said, "My father employs strong measures 'gainst 'em, do you not, sir?"

  Sir Vinson nodded. "A summary hearing on the spot, when they're caught, and then they are hanged. Which is a kinder end than the vermin deserve." . Lord Green uttered a bellow of laughter that rattled the glassware. "That's the barber! Let 'em kick out—"

  Not bothering to conceal his disgust, Fleming interjected, "How pretty you are, Jennifer."

  They all stood, and Sir Vinson came at once to usher her into the room. "You are indeed pretty, my dear," he said fondly. "You will remember Lord Green, I think?"

  She murmured an acquiescence and made her curtsy.

  A glow came into my lord's eyes as they travelled her from head to toe. He bowed over her hand. She caught the aroma of the unwashed, and her nose wrinkled involuntarily. Over his lordship's massive shoulder, she met Royce's amused eyes. He winked, quick to sense her reaction and to endorse it.

  Green was expressing his admiration and his prodigious pleasure at being permitted to visit Triad again. Somehow, she managed to keep her countenance and to utter the polite commonplaces expected of her. She pulled her hand from his lingering warm and wet clutch, but he was their guest and she couldn't escape her obligation to take his arm as they went in to luncheon. En route, he stroked her fingers, and it was all she could do not to again jerk free.

  Luckily, his lordship was not one to encourage conversation in a lady, and most of the meal was passed in a male discussion of the Blue Rose tin mine and Green's conviction that his engineers would be able to restore it to a paying proposition.

  Since he indulged the unpleasant habit of talking with his mouth full, Jennifer avoided looking his way, but twice when she glanced up, he was watching her. There was a slyness in his expression; a suggestion of gloating that appalled her. She looked away at once, and encountered Howland's brooding gaze. It was clear that he was not pleased with her. Her eyes flashed to her father. Sir Vinson also watched her. He smiled, and his hazel eyes were fond. She thought, 'Bless him! He would never force me into such a dreadful marriage, no matter what Howland wished.'

  But she could not dismiss the knowledge that he doted upon his heir. She must, she decided, have a private chat with dear Papa. Very soon!

  Chapter 3

  It was light by the time Jonathan finished the cage. He glanced to where the sun was starting its climb up the cloudless sky, and judged it to be near five o'clock. Time to get back to the widow's cottage and stoke up the kitchen stove. Noah had said he could take any left-over scraps of wood, and they'd be useful for the fire. He added the small pile to the cage and closed the door. It was a good cage, he thought as he passed Noah's quiet cottage and started down the road. Little Duster would be glad to be released from the crate the widow had loaned for a temporary home.

  The morning was bright; brisk, but not cold, and he found the prospect beautiful in the proud, unyielding way so typical of this part of Cornwall. No gentle rolling hills or green valleys here; no spreading oaks or colourful gardens, or hedgerows ablaze with wildflowers. Here were soaring cliffs, the great lonely expanse of the moors; stark rocky upthrusts, and the strange granite monoliths left behind by those who had dwelt here long and long ago. Knowing the tide would be out at this hour, he looked downward. There were broad still pools on the sands, and rivulets wandering westward. He forced his eyes to follow them.

  The sun sprinkled the ocean with diamonds. Far out, a sailing ship lay motionless, waiting for a breeze. Even now the sight was more than he could bear, and he jerked his gaze from the ship, only to find himself staring at the jagged rocks that were scattered like small islands about the wet sands. Behind each of those treacherous islands were the ghosts of ships sunk in the fierce storms that could come up so swiftly along this coast. Ships whose masters—'Lord!' he thought, and turned his head to the east.

  Inland, white vapours still wreathed the high moors in mystery. This whole country was rooted in mystery and legend: tales of the dreaded owls, and hares able to change their shape and appear human; witches and pixies sent by the Evil One to plague the unwanted inhabitants of this wild land. 'Superstitious nonsense,' he thought, but as he had discovered to his cost, woe betide the m
an who dared speak against it.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Castle Triad rose in stern grandeur against the deepening blue of the sky. Somewhere in that great pile his lovely lady would be sleeping. A smile softened his mouth. She would be as beautiful in slumber as in wakefulness. More beautiful, with her glossy hair brushed out and spreading across the pillows; a dainty nightgown, all gossamer and lace, slightly rumpled perhaps, slipping from one creamy shoulder to—

  "Outta my path, ye danged looby!"

  A rough hand staggered him. 'Ben Blary,' he thought, and moved aside.

  Accompanying his large and ill-tempered father, Isaac laughed. "What's that he got, Pa?"

  "He's bin stealing wood, is what he done. You bin stealing, Crazy Jack, and here-along we don't like them as steals."

  Another, harder shove.

  Jonathan said coolly, "I stole nothing. Mr. Holsworth said I could have whatever was left from—"

  "And what do a looby want with wood?"

  He knew, of course. He only wanted an excuse to bully. Jonathan moved the cage behind him.

  "It's a cage, Pa," said Isaac.

  "For the rats what the witch uses in her spells? We don't need 'em! You'd oughter know that by now. But 'spite o' yer fancy talk, ye don't know much. So being as I got a kind heart, I'll try ter teach yer." Blary threw one of his dreaded right jabs. Jonathan was prepared and swayed aside, but Isaac came up from behind and seized the cage. Jonathan half-turned and retrieved it, and Blary seized his opportunity and lashed out again. Jonathan reeled and fell to one knee.

  "I 'spect that there cage is for the stupid bird what Mrs. Pughill went and bought off the sailorman," contributed Isaac.

  Breathing hard, Jonathan steadied himself and reached for the cage.

  Blary laughed. "A ugly bird like that, and so big as a thimble? He don't need that great huge cage. Ye built it all wrong, maggot-wit." His boot stamped onto Jonathan's outstretched hand. "Now don't get above yerself. I hasn't give ye leave to stand up. Jest answer. Perlite, like." He bore down harder. "Why'd you make it so big for that flea-bite of a crooked bird?"

  It never got any easier. "Because," Jonathan gasped painfully, "nothing should—should be shut up in a small space, and—No—don't!"

  Blary had moved his boot, but it was now poised above the cage. Holding on to his son's shoulder for support, he said, "Say 'please,' Shadow Man."

  Isaac shrieked with mirth.

  Jonathan's undamaged hand clenched tight, and he had to concentrate on a deep voice that had decreed, "… no matter what the provocation.…" Through gritted teeth he managed to utter a low-voiced, "Please."

  Grinning broadly, Blary stamped, and the carefully fashioned bars splintered. With a gleeful shout, Isaac jumped on the wreckage, flattening it.

  Blinded with rage Jonathan started up. Blary's boot smashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling. Hilarious, Blary drew back his foot again.

  His laugh became a howl. Clutching his elbow, he spun to face the man who had come up silent and unnoticed. "Wha' the hell…?"

  Jonathan dragged himself to one elbow, and scanned the newcomer. He saw a tall slender individual, clad in ill-fitting and much worn garments. His face was heavily bearded, and jet black hair straggled from under an object that had once been a tricorne.

  His white teeth gleaming in a savage grin, the stranger flourished a sturdy branch as though it had been a small sword. "Kick him again, my unlovely dirtiness," he invited, a laugh in the cultured voice. "I would purely enjoy bestowing some bruises on your smelly self."

  This gent talked Quality talk, thought Blary. But he wore rags. And Quality gents didn't sport big shaggy beards, nor have eyes what was a shape no one ever see before. 'A foreign gent,' he decided, 'what's gone and ruined hisself.' Reassured, his bullet head lowered menacingly. "I'll bruise yer," he snarled, and rushed to show this interloper why no one in Roselley never dared stand up agin Ben Blary.

  Holding his side painfully, Jonathan struggled to his feet. He was permitted to help if the stranger was endangered.

  Mr. Blary was not able to explain, later, quite what went wrong. The foreign gent didn't seem to move about much, yet somehow, no matter how quick he himself dodged about, the stranger always managed to be behind him. The nasty branch slammed across his broad hips; whacked across the back of his other elbow, causing his arm to tingle to the fingertips; and cracked onto his head. Cursing loud and lustily, but for once hurt and scared, he backed away. Isaac, having attempted to attack the stranger from the rear, had caught a solid swipe across the middle, and stood to one side, gulping in air.

  "Take yer wicked hands off my poor little boy," whined Blary, clutching his throbbing head. "Ye got no cause to attack honest folk."

  "If I see any, I promise not to do so." The stranger made a lunge with his branch, and Blary and son retreated at speed.

  "Ye do not live in this Hundred," accused Blary over his shoulder. "Where'd you come from so sudden, is what I'd like ter know."

  "Begone, Mr. Raff and Mr. Scraff! Before I give you the thrashing you warrant!"

  "You're a changeling!" shouted Blary. "Evil, is what ye be"—he pointed at Jonathan—"same as him!"

  Branch whirling, the stranger leapt forward.

  Isaac squealed and fled, his father quickly overtaking him.

  Jonathan said, "Thank you, sir. That was a fine thrust in tierce."

  The stranger turned his head sharply, and for the first time Jonathan noticed that his eyes, which he'd thought were near black, were instead the darkest blue he'd ever seen, and that they were of a slightly alien shape. 'He's part Chinese,' he thought, and there came a quick sense of familiarity, gone before it was fully comprehended, as of a dream tantalizingly just beyond recall.

  "Damme!" His rescuer strode closer, eyeing him narrowly. "I thought you were—" He hesitated.

  "The village idiot?"

  "Yes. Else I'd have let you fight your own battles. Why the devil didn't you? I despise most men. Poltroons, especially."

  Jonathan flushed, but said nothing.

  The piercing eyes continued to scan him curiously. "Who are you?"

  "I'm—they call me Crazy Jack."

  "Do they. They call me September."

  "But—this is—"

  "August. So 'tis. Do you know me? I'd swear we've met."

  "I—don't think so. I can't always tell."

  "Hmm. How long have you been here?"

  "Not long, sir."

  "Where did you come from?"

  Avoiding those keen eyes, and beginning to be alarmed, Jonathan said, "Garrison Pen."

  "Convenient, since 'tis now buried under the sands. Where before that?"

  "I—I don't know. I can't remember."

  A lean white hand shot out. Jonathan's wrist was caught in a grip of iron. "Can't? Or won't? You're no lunatic. Did Underhill send you here? Or are you one of the Squire's hell-hounds?"

  Bewildered, Jonathan stammered, "Sir, I am not acquainted with—with a Mr. Underhill. I have seen Lord Morris, but from a—a distance only. My—my hand, sir…"

  September glanced down and his fingers were removed at once. "You'll have a fine bruise there. Our departed bully's boot, I take it." He scanned Jonathan's troubled face again. "Something of a chameleon, ain't you. If you really can't recall your past, you've my sympathy. Although not all pasts are worthy of recollection." The strange eyes were brooding and he was briefly silent. Then, he said abruptly, "You're no heavyweight, but you look capable of holding your own in a brawl. It does no good to bow to a bully. He'll kick the harder and the more often, till you give him back his own." His white teeth flashed in a grin. The hat was removed. With a grace that was at odds with his shabby appearance he bowed low. "You may count yourself blessed, Crazy Jack, for I never give advice."

  He strolled a few steps, then turned back. "By the bye, do you know aught of a fellow called Hibbard Green?"

  "He's not from this Hundred, sir," evaded Jonathan, not sure what to make of th
is man.

  "Hundred? What the devil's that?"

  "A district. Cornwall is divided into nine of them. You are in what is called the—the Penwith Hundred."

  "Hum. No, the creature is not from this desolation. And you didn't answer my question. You've no cause to be afraid to speak out. I'm not a Trap, nor a Riding Officer after your free-trading friends."

  'The creature…' Jonathan smiled. "A stranger came to the castle a few weeks back. He's here again. I heard he might—might buy the old mine."

  "Now that's much better! And does this stranger resemble a great bloated toad, perhaps?"

  Jonathan's laugh effected a transformation that astonished Mr. September. " 'Twould be reckless in the extreme, sir, for a common man to endorse such a description of a peer of the realm."

  "Then I'll not put you in harm's way." September strolled off.

  "Again, I thank you, sir," called Jonathan.

  Without turning, September waved his branch.

  Jonathan looked after him thoughtfully. He had enquired for Lord Green, but he was walking toward the high moors rather than north to Triad. Perhaps he hoped to find his lordship out at the mine. Perhaps he had some message that would send the repulsive baron away.

  He gathered up the remnants of the shattered cage, which would at least be of use for the stove, and walked on. A strange fellow, this "Mr. September," and unless he mistook it, a dangerous one. Whoever he was, 'twas unlikely that he'd given his true name. That he was a gentleman was past doubting—yet he went about bearded, and in rags. Why? And what did he want with Hibbard Green? He'd said something about "the squire's hell-hounds." Lord Kenneth Morris was the local squire, but there were no hounds at Breton Ridge. Only cats. And who a'plague was "Underhill"…? The feeling that they'd met somewhere had evidently been mutual. As well, he thought wryly, that in that connection September's memory was as faulted as his own…

  In return for the work he did for the widow, Jonathan had been allocated the shed at the foot of the garden. It was quite a spacious if not very weatherproof shed, and he'd improved it until most of the rain and draughts were shut out. Next, he'd added some shelves, a row of hooks for his clothing, two chairs, and a small folding table, and now he felt quite comfortable.