Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part One: 1814-1815

The Poacher

Chapter Eight

Two miles north of Lymington, where the main road from Brockenhurst was overhung by bare and dripping trees, a solitary caravan presented a spot of incongruous gaiety. Muslin curtains were stirred by the van's leisurely progress southward; scarlet and yellow paint was outshone only by the brass trim of the horse's tack. The man leading the horse had the unmistakable aspect of a gypsy, from his battered high crowned-hat and spotted neckerchief to the soles of his much-mended boots.

His younger companion carried a girl of about seven perched on one shoulder, like a sailor with a monkey, and would occasionally smile at her chatter, in a way that suggested absent-minded courtesy rather than amusement. The child was teaching him the Romany tongue. After two days in her company - twenty-five miles in all - he could volunteer such phrases as, "your mother is kind", "the night is cold" and "I eat the nice hedgehog.....later", with passable accuracy.

In fact Tom's lessons were a diversion, not a necessity, for Vinnie Wells and her parents spoke good English. He and Jessica had been overtaken by the caravan as they trudged along the road south of Andover, tired and footsore; for although Tom had chanced a return to the smithy for money and clothes, they had walked all night just to keep warm. The gypsies might not have offered a lift but he had asked outright, and it turned out they were headed for the coast anyway.

To explain Jessica's bleak, unnatural silence, Tom had given a brief account of the circumstances of his flight, and at once the Wells' attitude had softened. Othi, it seemed, was a poacher of repute, and knew well how accidents could occur. His wife Meg had hugged Jessica impulsively to her thin bosom, rocking her like a child; and, taken off guard. Jessica had sobbed out her grief. Afterwards she had been better, subdued but not longer withdrawn. That night Tom had made love to her, swathed in blankets in a corner of the van, and she had come to him with a violent and desperate passion which awoke an answering need in himself. For the first time there was neither fun nor tenderness in the union. As if, thought Tom, remembering, they had both needed confirmation that a part of their youth had not died with Amos in Scadding's woods. But on the whole, he thought perhaps it had.

Vinnie wriggled in annoyance, and rapped her bare heels against his chest. "You're not listening, Tom. Let me down. I'll catch some snails."

He swung her to the ground, and Vinnie skipped on to the verge and began prodding the concealing grasses with a stick. Othi ignored her, but his black eyes narrowed at the road ahead and a smile of complacent pride touched his lips.

"She's a good girl, that one." Tom said, to please him but also because it was true. "A credit to you both. Pretty, too."

"Like her moth. I used to want sons, but we started late. Doesn't matter like it once did. Vinnie doesn't leave room in a man's heart for regrets."

A sound from the back of the caravan made them turn, and Jessica jumped from the step and came to walk beside Tom, linking her arm through his. Her hair was blacker than Vinnie's and nearly as tangled, her cheeks were flushed from sleep.

"And here's another," said Othi with soft emphasis, "who wouldn't leave a man room for brooding on the past. The youngster took his chances same as you, and wherever he is now, he won't be holding you to account."

Jessica squeezed Tom's arm, and he glanced down to see her eyes bright with tears. "Meg says guilt is like a canker." she said. "It will grown inside us, if we let it, and eat away everything that's good. She says you blame yourself and I must help you not to, because you and I belong where there's hope and laughter. Other people will need that from us, she says, because even jewels can't shine without the sun on them."

"December, Jess. Not much sun any more."

"But we're alive," she said in deep distress. "We're together. Isn't that what matters now?"

He hugged her close to his side, offering reassurance and comfort' but he had never felt so distant from her, so unbearably alone. Almost worse than the guilt was the knowledge that he had fled from danger, played the coward, and all through loving a girl too much to give her up. For the past two years he had seen himself as independent, proud of his lifestyle, fired by the challenge of risking his life night after night; and yet Jess had always been there, his anchorage, his safe harbour.

He had forsaken honour for love, just like the despicable Paris for Helen of Troy. It was too bloody contemptible. And this was the one thing he could not tell Jess, the one thing she would not forgive; that he could so loathe himself for having chosen not to let her go.

With Meg at the reins the caravan bowled at last into Lymington, passing several private carriages, and drawing outraged glances and abuse from the smart pedestrians whose skirts or polished boots it spattered with muddy water.

The Wells' destination was the Saturday market which congested the lower part of the High Street. Business promised to be good; the approach to Christmas meant an increased demand for meat skewers and holly, along with the exquisite imitation moss roses, fashioned from the pith of rushes, which were Vinnie's pride and delight. Othi stood on the tailboard, exchanging sardonic greetings with the owners of stalls and handcarts; but finally they parked in a lane on the far side of town, where there was less chance of being moved on before tomorrow.

Tom and Jessica gathered their few belongings. While Meg was embracing Jessica, Vinnie presented Tom with a cluster of the precious moss roses.

"We're in the Forest all winter," she said. "Up round Fordingbridge, mostly. You'll come and visit us, won't you?"

"I hope so. We'll see," he said; and then, as Vinnie's mournful eyes reproached him, "Well.....for you, Lavinia Wells, of course I will."

Arm in arm with Jessica he walked back into town, keeping in mind Othi's directions for the Vaillants' street; but Nelson Place was easy to find. The terrace of expensive town houses ran down close to the river, and Tom quickened his stride, hurrying Jessica along beside him. The prospect of living among the gentry did not intimidate him; the placed stirred a faint but welcome memory, and to his four-year-old self everything had appeared larger than it actually was. He had not hesitation in bounding up the front steps and rapping on the door.

It was opened by a manservant, immaculate with gleaming buttons, who twitched his sparse grey eyebrows and said scathingly, "There is a tradesman's entrance. Be good enough to use it."

Before Tom could formulate a reply, Gaspard's voice came to them, muted but with a distinct edge to it. "Do send them packing, Hodges, we really cannot - Thomas!"

Gaspard thrust past the silently indignant Hodges. "Thank God you came so fast! I was afraid you would not be in time - though indeed my letter was posted only two days ago-"

"What letter? Time for what?"

The Frenchman drew in his breath with a hiss. "You don't know? But I assumed that was why....Thomas, your mother is very ill. An attack of fever, most sudden, and the doctor insisted on a blood-letting. He is with her now. We are told it might only be a matter of hours, and yet she has held on.

He did not finish, for Tom rushed up the stairs and through the only open doorway. The doctor, a dried-up black-clad stick of a man, more like an undertaker than a physician, fixed him with an icy glare.

"Since when do servants have the run of the house? This is a sick-room - be off with you!

Tom strode to the bed and knelt beside it, lifting his mother's hand which lay limp and cold on the coverlet. Marie Elderfield opened her eyes. Her hair was quite grey, her cheeks and eye sockets sunken like those of an old woman; but she smiled at her son.

Gaspard said....you would come.

"You should have written that you were ill," he said in anguish. "It can't be so sudden, you must have known."

"No. Worried you enough. All these years." Her eyes focused on the doctor, who seemed caught between distaste for Tom's uncouth appearance, and embarrassment at having addressed him so rudely. "Would you be so kind...as to leave us alone for a moment?"

When he had gone, she reached up to stroke Tom's cheek. "My darling, don't take it to heart so. We always knew....." and lifted again with an effort. Tom could not bear it; first his own longing to save her could give her life.

"Don't die," he whispered. "Please don't."

"My poor Tom. Forever trying....hoping....t beat the odds. Not this time, mon p'tit. I waited only to see you...."

Her head slid sideways, her breath was expelled in a long, rattling sign. Tom put a hand to her face, turning it towards him, but the eyes which stared through him were blank and dead. His hand shook as he closed them.

Behind him the door creaked. Without looking round he said, "She guessed about the poaching, you know. All along. She was scared to leave Hatchley, thinking I might be killed or transported and she'd never see me again. That's why she wouldn't come here last year. Because of me."

Gaspard's hand rested on his shoulder. "Thomas, come away now. The doctor will attend to everything."

"Has Jess told you - "

"About Amos? Yes. That was not your fault, either."

"I know that. O f course I do. People keep telling me. I know it, but - I can't - I can't believe it -"

"Oh, my dear boy," Gaspard said with infinite pity; and Tom groaned, stumbling blindly to his feet. He meant to head for the door, but somehow ended by leaning against the wall with his face turned to its tool surface, his body shaken by sobs of grief and bitter guilt.

Gaspard went on patting his shoulder and murmuring, My dear boy," at intervals; and not until Tom had regained a degree of shaky self-command did the Frenchman guide him from the bedchamber and up the next flight of stairs, into what he termed his retreat. The room was small, firelit and cosy, furnished as an office and personal library, and Tom once again found himself being plied with French brandy.

"I'm sorry, Gaspard," he said at last, unable to meet the Frenchman's eyes. "I couldn't have...I didn't expect..."

Gaspard sighed, and leaned his hip on a table spread with charts of the Solent and the coastline of South Hampshire. "Thomas, this is a French household, not an English one. You are not required to be more than human."

"I'll have to make arrangements for the funeral. If you could advise me..."

"My dear fellow, the least I can do."

Tom crossed to the window. One could see the ships' masts from here, beyond the mews rooftops sloping down towards the river. He had money to pay for a decent funeral, but not enough to marry Jess and buy a place, or to set up in business on his own. In the past he had considered everything from running an alehouse to starting a bookshop. It would not happen now. Luck had abandoned him too soon.

Holding the brandy glass rather tightly, he faced Gaspard, who was running his fingers along the rim of an uncomfortably starched cravat.

"You said once there'd be opportunities for me in this town. Is that still true?"

The Frenchmans's hand paused, moved on, played with his emerald cravat pin. "Most certainly, Thomas. My own employer would be happy to find a use for a man like you."

His words echoed Sacheverell Tandy's of long ago: "They'd find a use for you, but believe me, it's not worth the cost..."

Tom shrugged off the memory. If luck had deserted him for thr moment, he must cajole her back to his side; for that temptress, like God, often helped those who helped themselves. A man had to make the best of his talents and his fate.

He raised his glass in a solemn toast. "To the future, then," he said, and Gaspard acknowledged the decision with sardonic and glinting approval. "The future, mon cher," he said.

Part 2, The Venturer's Agent, Chapter 1

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