Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part One: 1814-1815

The Poacher

Chapter Three

After that first night in the churchyard, young Mace Tandy stayed at home unprotesting, having proved himself sufficiently a man. Amos and Jessica continued as loyal sentries. The girl shared Tom's hours on watch, huddling inside the same blanket for warmth, her back against the same chill headstone. If an owl hooted nearby, or some small creature screeched its death cry, she would clasp Tom's hand and nestle closer still.

This show of fear was a convenient pretence. There was Irish blood in the Tandys, inherited from their mother; they were wild and fearless and in love with life, and the daughter of the house would have faced any danger - ghosts and Resurrection Men alike - rather than be seen to play the coward. But she loved Tom Elderfield with all the naïve, obsessive sentimentality of the very young, and these nights were her secret joy. She would even behave like any silly nervous female, just for an excuse to hold his hand.

The Resurrection Men did not appear, and on the fourth night the vigil was ended by mutual agreement. There was a sharp frost, the first for a week; also the corpse was no longer quite fresh. As Jessica remarked, there would be little point in them all freezing to death and joining Mr. Elderfield.

"You must come back with us, and take your Ma home in the morning," she told Tom, her manner easy and casual, so that he would not guess at her reluctance to part with him so soon. "There's the spare bed in Mace's room."

Tom had occupied this bed many times; mornings in the Tandys' house were hectic and riotous, a delicious contrast to the repressive atmosphere at home. Even with his mother there, the prospect was tempting. He accepted the invitation gratefully, and in the dim light from cottage windows, Jessica caught his smile, mischievous and faintly arrogant, not meant for Amos to see.

Turf or log fires burned in every hearth tonight, the smoke drifted high, its resinous fragrance sharp and sweet on the icy air. Jessica was filled with a swift, illogical merriment, and only respect for William Elderfield's memory kept her from running and dancing up the hill towards home.

The house was welcoming; the parlour fire burned, and the kitchen range was lit, and the smell of mutton stew overlaid that of woodsmoke. Jessica ran to her father and hugged him, begging food and shelter for three poor frozen sentries. He swung her high off the floor, so that she squealed for mercy, while Obadiah returned from the stables and started a good-natured sparring match with Amos. In spite of her happiness, the girl was embarrassed for herself and her menfolk; until a glance at Tom showed him looking relax and amazingly cheerful, already sampling the stew from the end of a ladle.

As the evening progressed, even Marie Elderfield seemed less careworn than usual. Jessica grew confident, eager to excel as a hostel. Having tempted her guests with elderberry wine and downed two glasses herself, she gathered everyone around the piano. Her mother had taught her to play, but Jessica had no patience with Mozart and the like; tunes with words were more entertaining. Tonight she chose the old songs of the Scottish Jacobites, and the least bawdy of the sea shanties from her father's youth. The house being Tom's second home - if not his first - he had learned these long ago, and joined in as loudly as her brothers and rather out of tune.

The wine was making her bold. She looked up at the young blacksmith and sang of Bonnie Prince Charlie with laughter in her voice. Tom, who was on his fourth glass, clearly found the romantic parallel both absurd and hilarious, and threatened to 'carry her over the sea to Skye' and leave her there if she didn't stop acting daft.

"Do you know what tomorrow is, Tom Elderfield?" she asked.

"Monday. What else?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all." She said, and would not have confessed for anything that she had hoped he would remember Valentine's day this year. Amos was grinning and nudging Obadiah, but she pretended not to notice. The next moment brought a diversion, Mace's overgrown hound charged into the room, pursuing his equally excitable owner across a card table, the chaise-longue, and a plateful of cakes, and Jessica could be sure that her foolishness was forgotten.

Later, lying awake in bed, she told herself that Tom Elderfield was nothing to her. Less than nothing. A thoughtless, heartless, insensitive… well, she could do better. There were other admirers to send her Valentine gifts.

But in the morning she rose early and ran downstairs, remembering the superstition that the first man she saw would be her future husband; and the sight of Tom loitering aimlessly in the hall made her stomach tighten and her heart beat light and fast.

Seeing her, he pushed away from the wall, his expression an odd mixture of wickedness and embarrassment. "Good morning to you, Jess."

"And to you, Tom. My, but it's cold! Let's bring some logs in..."

"Jessie…. " He blocked her way to the kitchen. "I bought - well, I bought you these, in Andover, on Friday." He pressed a small bundle of lace into her hand. "Happy Valentine's Day."

They were a pair of garters, frivolous and exquisite, threaded with yellow ribbon. Blushing with pleasure, Jessica wanted to ask boldly whether he hoped to see them again; but that would be too cruel.

"They're beautiful, she said. "Thank you - oh thank you."

He said awkwardly, still seeking reassurance, "You don't reckon they-re too….familiar? I had the devil's own job thinking what to buy."

She shook her head, laughing, and the relief in his face was a compliment that needed no words. This time he kissed her with as much assurance as passion, and Jessica responded eagerly, wanting only to prolong the moment, to feel his hands tentatively exploring….

A door slammed upstairs and they jumped apart. On the landing above, a dog padded from one bedroom to the next. Jessica made a wry face, expecting a similar reaction from Tom, but he was looking unbearably smug and his eyes were merry, as if nothing in the world could hurt him now.

Jessica scooped her long hair back from her face, trying hard to behave as though this were still just an ordinary day. "The men will be down clamouring for breakfast in five minutes."

"Well, if we've got five minutes…."

Jessica stopped pretending that the day was in any way ordinary. When Sacheverell Tandy and his sons came downstairs soon afterwards, they were greeted with innocent smiles and a plate of yesterday's bread and cheese. If the older boys had been suspicious, they were wise enough not to give them voice.

That morning, Marie Elderfield returned to the smithy cottage. Jessica promised to help with the housework there every Sunday, until Tom's mother had regained her strength. She would have found any excuse to visit him, but without a legitimate reason these visits would have caused trouble at home. Obadiah was inclined to be over-protective - much more so than their father - and he had lost no time in telling Jessica that she was too young to be looking for a sweetheart, and that Tom should watch his step. Jessica had refrained from answering that she would lose her virginity to Tom Elderfield as soon as he cared to ask her.

He did not ask, but Jessica had a great capacity for patience. She found it expedient to be known as wilful, headstrong, one of the wild Tandys who fought for themselves or each other and the devil take the consequences. Such a reputation was useful. Even Tom believed her to be naïve and tactless, incapable of any sort of subterfuge.

So she was content to bide her time, and as the weeks passed she saw a new side to the boy she had known from infancy. Business at the forge was bad; many folk took their custom elsewhere, encouraged by the action of Sir Charles, who now sent to Andover for a smith rather than trust his horses to a fifteen year-old apprentice. Tom received some orders for tools and repair work, but not enough. Jessica feared he might react as her brothers would have done in such circumstances, getting drunk and running up debts and rushing headlong into danger to forget his troubles. Instead, he stopped visiting The King's Head, took no dares, laid no bets, and applied himself to the matter of survival with a proud and single-minded determination.

It was over a month before Jessica learned at second-hand that he was out most nights, bagging hares, rabbits and partridges to sell to Harry Colbourne, landlord at The King's Head, who as the local middle man sold the game to the London outlets. Hurt that he had not chosen to confide in her, Jessica would not have betrayed to Tom that she knew of these activities; but when she arrived at the cottage one Sunday morning he was seated alone at the kitchen table, head low over a closely written accounts book, a kettle steaming unheeded above the fire.

He started violently at her first greeting. His face, pale with fatigue, lit up, and he rose and embraced her with an enthusiasm, which took her breath. She struggled against him. "Don't Tom, your mother..."

" - is still asleep, Jess, I'm going to be rich, but you're not to tell a soul except Amos - not a soul, you hear?"

Seeing how his eyes shone, Jessica felt a twinge of apprehension. She said dryly, "In that case it must be either illegal or dangerous, and probably both. Is it connected with poaching, this idea of yours?"

"You know about that?"

Jessica gave an unladylike snort of contempt. "Doesn't everyone, except your Ma?" She drew away from him, to make tea from the jar of used tea leaves bought from Sir Charles' cook. "You could have told me a month ago, if you'd wanted to. Why now?"

"Because I've only been testing the ground. Now I'm going into it seriously."

"Like the Farminer brothers?" They've been poachers for ten years, served four gaol sentences between them, and Ned has been caught twice in man-traps. The next conviction will get one of them transported. They're not rich yet."

"Harry Colbourne is."

Jessica set the kettle down, gripping it so that he would not see how her hand shook. "Is that the scheme, then? To compete with Mr. Colbourne for business?"

"He's milking me of half what I'd earn by selling direct to the London markets. Have you seen his new carriage, and the strain on his waistcoat buttons?"

"A fat man with gold in his pockets. Do you think he'll just sit by and let you undercut him?"

"Jessie….I'll be an independent operator, not running a gang. What the others do is up to them." Tom sighed, and slumped back into his chair with a tired resignation that hurt the girl as much as his next words. "I thought you'd understand. I don't like …. I don't want us to have secrets." Jessica swallowed every reproach she had meant to utter, and placed a mug of hot tea in front of him. "When was the last time you had a proper night's sleep?"

"You sound like my mother," he said.

"That's just what I'm not." She sat opposite him, reaching for his hands. "I can stand the truth. You don't have to shut me out. Not ever. Tell me the plan."

"You mean for after I've saved a few guineas and thrashed Hanson too?" A smile glimmered. "In two or three years I'll take Ma back to Lymington, where I was born. It's a prosperous town and I've been educated, same as you. I intend doing well there."

Jessica nodded slowly. His heart was not with the forge; she had always known it. Not even the apprenticeship with her father would have made him a dedicated blacksmith for long, any more than the beatings had turned him into a pious chapel-goer.

"I think about the sea sometimes, he said. "Don't you? When the gulls fly inland, or seeing all those prints covering your walls at home - the ships in full sail? Jess, don't you ever feel stifled, living among folk who'll call a man foreign if he was born ten miles away?"

Jessica could not deny it. The sea was in the Tandys' blood, too; little Mace had taken to copying the seascapes, drawing the ships' lines with a loving and skilful hand. But whereas Mace's dreams were harmless, Tom's were liable to get him killed; and he had not even considered taking her with him to Lymington.

"Jonah Wooldridge is a good head keep," she said. "The traps are moved every week. I wonder you haven't been caught in one already, a novice like you."

"I nearly was, last night." He frowned into the mug. "It made me think. Amos does work for Wooldridge..."

"So that's it!" Now, at last, Jessica lost her temper; for this was beneath contempt, this was unforgiveable. "Amos will keep you up to date, will he? Warn you of all Wooldridge's tricks? Never mind if he loses his job or ends up in prison...?"

"It's not exactly likely..."

"Hah" I suppose Sir Charles will be pleased to have one of his men in league with a poacher!"

"Who'd tell him? And I haven't even asked Amos yet."

"When did he ever refuse a dare? Oh, and to think I was sorry for you!" She was on her feet now, shouting at him across the table. "We mustn't have secrets - oh, no. You filthy, stinking hypocrite, I bet you've planned this all along..."

"That's not bloody true!"

"Don't you swear at me, you - you worm. Go and get yourself shot, then, or hanged if you want to, and you needn't think I'll be shedding tears over it, but don't you dare involve my brother in your stupid scheme! Don't you bloody well dare!"

She fled towards the door, and when Tom leapt to grab her arm she blazed at him, "Leave me along! Leave all of us alone!"

In the parlour, with a closed door between herself and Tom, Jessica dusted the furniture vigorously, blinking back tears of anger and frustration, aware that few of them were for the minimal risks to Amos. Tom Elderfield was a fool; an occasional poaching foray was one thing - Jessica had netted a partridge once or twice for a dare - but no one could beat the odds indefinitely. He would be caught, or shot…

A sound from the doorway made her turn. Tom stood there, looking grim and obstinate, braced for further battle.

"I've got to ask him, he said. "I know it's irresponsible, and self-seeking, and maybe worse things besides..."

"Much worse," she whispered; but without Amos' help he would be lost. She must be his ally now, or condemn herself for ever afterwards as a whimpering coward.

Tom was watching her, squinting slightly like a man turning to face a storm wind. "Wouldn't you really care if I was hanged, Jess? He said.

She folded the duster neatly and set it down, and went to him in silence, twining her arms about his waist. He looked down at her with such incredulous joy that she thought; how young he is. He doesn't even know what a man might achieve with smiles like that, and those blue, blue eyes. Perhaps he will break my heart and not know it.

"Poaching is one thing," she said, and kissed his mouth. "But if you're hanged I'll never forgive you."

Chapter Four

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