Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part Two: 1816-1822

The Venturer's Agent

Chapter Four

Tom saw Jessica board the mail coach in the Angel Inn yard, and returned to Nelson Place so downcast that even the imminent prospect of a trip to Guernsey could not raise his spirits.

But once Bold Intent weighted anchor, there was no leisure for brooding. The tree luggers had sailed on the previous ebb, but a fine blow was expected, and Gaspard Vaillant planned to make up for lost time. He was not disappointed. At dusk, as they left the Solent and passed the westernmost point of the Isle of Wight, giving the Needles rocks a wide berth, the wind approached gale force. It whipped streaming froth from the crests of impossible waves, into which the bows crashed with the juddering impact of hammer on anvil.

Tom, ordered aloft with the rest of the Second Mate's watch to reef topsails, found that the higher one climbed above the deck, the more violent the rolling, pitching motion became. Edging out along the topsail-yard, surrounded by the flap and crack of billowing sailcloth, his feet rocking on the foot-ropes, Tom made himself as useful as an ignorant landsman could. He tried to ignore his stomach's reaction to each lurching forward plunge.

Seasickness, however, could not be conquered by determination. He passed most of those first four hours on deck hanging over the side, too wretched to care if the next wave swept him overboard. The order at eight bells to "Go below the watch!" seemed the sweetest words ever uttered; and he collapsed into the newly vacated hammock shared with a man from the alternate watch. The derisory comments of several shipmates washed over him, unheeded and unanswered.

By four o'clock the gale had abated. Commanded to 'tumble up' on deck for the next spell of duty, Tom discovered that rising from a prone position no longer made his head spin and his stomach heave. Even the smell of bilge water could be tolerated.

Dawn had broken, dismal and reluctant. Gaspard had taken the helm, to steer Bold Intent through a labyrinth of rocks. The Guernsey coastline to starboard was very close; away to port lay the isles of Herm and little, hump-backed Jethou. Tom knew that these waters were as deadly as a coppice full of man-traps. Only his faith in Gaspard's skill enabled him to keep his mind on the tasks of scrubbing the deck and polishing salt-tarnished brass, ready for a proud entry into St. Peter Port.

They tied up alongside a pier beyond the inner harbour, and were allowed shore leave once the cargo of Epsom salts had been unloaded. The crews of Marshlight and Winter Witch greeted them noisily; but when Tom looked around for Gaspard, he saw the Frenchman rowing out to Escapade, anchored offshore near the island fortress of Castle Cornet.

"Bound for the cliffs above Fermain Bay again, one must suppose." The speaker was Jeremy Lomer, the bespectacled ship's boy from Bold Intent. "Monsieur does not appear to take his marriage vows altogether seriously."

Tom had never thought of Gaspard keeping a mistress, and was slightly shocked. All the same, Jem's earnest disapproval amused him. "Escapade's crew want to get ashore same as us," he said. "Gaspard could hardly commandeer a ship for that sort of....escapade."

"Perhaps," said Jem, with a scornful glimmer, "the entire crew will take the bluebell path along the cliffs. Although, of course, it's rather late in the year if one is looking only for bluebells."

Tom grinned; Jem Lomer was very young, and not intentionally a prig. The son of a bankrupt shipbuilder, he despised his current lifestyle, and was engaged in a verse translation of The Odyssey; yet this in itself was a symptom of his fascination with the sea. He was also inclined to recite great chunks from Coleridge's 'Ancient Mariner'. The crew of Bold Intent, addicted like all sailors to songs and rambling yarns, would have forgiven him these eccentricities, if he had not remained so piously aloof, seeming to hold them all in contempt.

"Do you fancy," Tom said, showing me the finest ale-house in St. Peter Port?"

The pleasure in Jem's face surprised him. "As a matter of fact, I've yet to see the inside of one here. I'm sure it would be an educational experience."

Tom threw a comradely arm across the youth's narrow shoulders. "Get ready to further your education," he said.

They were soon joined by half a dozen men from Tom's watch, plus some English lads from the Southampton mail-packet - circumstance which amazed Jeremy Lomer, used to being left alone. They saw, too, the insides of a good many inns, before their companions began dragging a couple of giggling, squealing girls upstairs. Tom had no intention of being unfaithful to Jessica, now or ever; and when Jem backed out of the melee, round-eyed, Tom strolled with him back to the ship.

Gaspard was the last to rejoin Bold Intent. Escapade, it transpired, had indeed taken him south along the coast. Until his promotion last year he had skippered the lugger, and he and others had formed lasting relationships with women in the area. There had once been a brush with a Revenue cutter; and when the troop of desperate young smugglers had rowed ashore to seek help for their wounded, under the very noses of the soldiers at Fort George, many of the cottagers' menfolk had been away fighting Napoleon. Escapade had returned for her missing crew members two weeks later; and more than one pair of sorrowful eyes had watched her sail away.

Tom heard all this at second-hand. He would not question Gaspard, aware that the less he knew, the less he would have to conceal from Sophie.

Hicks' fleet sailed from the crowded port in daylight, their departure causing little stir. They dropped anchor on the far side of Jethou, beside the islet of Fauconniere, where a cave showed deep and black. Here the contraband had been left by Guernsey fishermen, for collection by the English smugglers. The days had passed when such cargoes could be loaded aboard quite openly in St. Peter Port. During the last fifteen years British Excisemen, stationed in Guernsey, had clamped down on the illicit trade which had helped to transform St Peter Port into a seething, brilliant concourse of wealth and fashion; but overlooking the harbour the maze of Georgian terraces and mansions told their own story. The Free Trade was not yet ready to die.

After a detour via St Malo on the French coast, picking up tobacco with which to fill the hollow spars of Marshlight and Winter Witch, the fleet set sail for home. They arrived five days after setting out; and though the Revenue cutter Vigilant was sighted off the Needles, the luggers were fast, weatherly vessels, and Gaspard boasted that Bold Intent could outrun any ship on the Solent coast.

Tom expected to find at least one letter from Jessica awaiting him. He was wrong. By the time he had made another trip across the Channel, Midsummer was only ten days ahead, and still no word came from his bride-to-be.

"My dear boy," Gaspard said, as they stretched their legs before the drawing-room fire, drinking good port until midnight, "If Jessica's father is dying, the poor girl will scarcely want to apply her mind to letter-writing."

Tom swirled the liquor morosely around his glass. "She promised. And she's been gone more than two weeks."

"Would she desert you now, having remained loyal even after her brother was killed so tragically? Hardly likely, dear boy."

But Tom remembered how Jessica had leaned from the coach window to kiss him with lingering tenderness, drawing whistles from a gang of sailors; and how, as the coach rattled away, she had gazed back at him with desolate longing, as if to imprint every line of his face on her memory.

The next day, he borrowed Conqueror, the fastest horse in Gaspard's stable, and covered the miles to Hatchley by nightfall. The Tandys' house was in darkness, curtains drawn back to reveal rooms empty of life. Tom had not anticipated this, but it was a fair bet that the family were keeping vigil beside a hospital bed. He rode down to Ned Farminer's cottage; and though the poacher could not have been more astounded to see him, he insisted that Tom share a rabbit stew with himself and his pretty wife Emma.

Over dinner, abandoning awkward formalities, Tom steered the conversation to his reason for being in Hatchley. Ned shrugged, evidently bewildered.

"We did think," he said, that you'd know what became of 'em."

"The Tandys? But surely - "

"Folk don't just vanish overnight. 'Tain't natural."

"Ned! Are you saying they've gone? Packed up and left?"

"Mr. Tandy was ailing, so 'twas said, and then young Jess turns up. Next thing you know, we wake up one morning and they're gone. Like the earth swallowed 'em. Although," Ned added thoughtfully, "there'd been some odd fellows creeping about. Camping out, like, near the house. Just two or three. They weren't seen no more, though, after the Tandys disappeared.

Tom felt the blood draining from his face. He heard again Sacheverell Tandy's words: "I had a family to think of....I made enemies....it's not worth the cost....."

Emma said sharply, "Stop it, Ned! Anyone would think the Tandys were murdered in their beds and thrown down the well, the way you carry on. Here, Tom," she added, handing him a mug of weak tea. "Take no notice. If truth be told, Obadiah and young Mace had been preparing all week, even afore Jessie came home - settling little debts, like, and no one thinking nothing of it, till we all got taking after the event. But all the clothes are missing, and some paintings off the walls. Now, thieves might pinch paintings, but not breeches and worsted stockings."

"Why not?" Tom muttered. "If they could sell them......"

"Now, I'm sure that's nonsense," said Emma.

But it was bound to seem that way to her. She could not know that a motive for murder existed.

That night Tom rode to Andover and called at every inn and public house, including the hedgerow alehouses along the road. No one recalled a party of travellers answering the Tandys' description.

He could not give up hope of picking up their trail, nor allow his mind to dwell on horrific possibilities. Having brought little money, he lived for a week like any wandering vagabond, breaking into outbuildings to feed Conqueror, and drawing on his old skills to snare rabbits and hares. He filled his pockets from the shops and market stalls, while distracting their owners with questions that grew increasingly desperate. A trip to Fordingbridge yielded no clues; the gypsies' summer circuit had taken them far away.

Yet he clung to the belief that if Jess was alive, she would contact him somehow before Midsummer's Day. Unshaven and hollow-eyed, exhausted by sleepless nights and waking nightmares, he came home at last to Lymington.

Hodges the butler greeted him with unaccustomed warmth, and even with sympathy. "M'sieur is in the drawing-room, sir. He has a letter which arrived for you by this morning's post...."

As Tom rushed into the room, his eyes wild, Gaspard rose. "Thomas, my dear fellow, I have not read it. The seal was already broken."

Tom snatched the note, his hands shaking.

My darling - Mace told the truth. Pa will die if he stays in Hatchley, though not of any illness, and we have learned how a beachmaster makes his fortune. Pa and my brothers talking of leaving England, to start a new life where the past can't touch them. I shall go with them, for the same reason. Please try to understand and forgive me. I know you used to love me, before Amos died. Be careful my dearest love, and explain to the Vaillants. I have arranged for this to reach you long after our ship has sailed, and I shan't write again. It's for the best, Tom.

With affection always,

Jessica.

So the Farminers had been right to a degree. Sacheverell Tandy's past had caught up with him; though how, and why, Tom would probably never know. But he had lost Jess, and reasons did not count for much.

White-faced, he handed the letter back to Gaspard, and walked from the room in silence.

Gaspard's reaction to his friend's misfortune was to give him a permanent berth aboard Bold Intent, so that officially his time with Jack Bezant was over. Tom made a tremendous effort to keep up an appearance of good humour, for the sailors would have laughed to scorn any mention of broken hearts. The daily routine of a seaman's life, which made discomfort habitual, and narrow escapes from death commonplace, nurtured the philosophy that a man should not go to sea unless he could take a joke. Sentiment was expressed only in haunting ballads sung during the two-hour 'dog-watches' at twilight, when the entire crew would be on deck, smoking and idling a little before the night watches were set.

It was the custom for Hicks to cease all illegal activities in summer, and use the fleet solely for the export of salt; but this year summer never came. Rain and cold winds, week after week with hardly any respite, did not allow sea-water to evaporate from the brine ponds at Pennington Creek Saltern. To keep his pockets full and his men employed, Hicks intensified his illicit trading, instructing Gaspard to approach the owners of several purpose-built warehouses on the French coast. These would supply any goods not available from Guernsey or the usual French sources.

One damp August evening, after calling at St. Peter Port for the first time in three weeks, Gaspard dropped anchor in Fermain Bay, shrugging his shoulders at the ominous presence of Fort George on the cliff-top.

"The ship lives up to her name tonight, mon cher," he said, "Will you come ashore, Thomas, and meet my friend?"

"Your mistress?" Tom shook his head. "No business of mine."

Gaspard persisted. "Do come, dear boy. The lady is afire to meet you."

Tom rowed ashore with Gaspard, three of the crew from Escapade, and severe misgivings. Despite the clashes of temperament between Sophie and himself, and his fear that she would stifle Gaspard's adventurous spirit, he was sorry for the way her husband deceived her. However, Gaspard was still a mate. Tom would meet the mysterious lady, not from curiosity alone, but for friendship's sake, and to avoid being thought a prig like Jeremy Lomer.

Parting from the others, Gaspard led him up a steep cliff path edged with gorse, into a wood where bluebell leaves rustled underfoot. Here, in an artificial glad overlooking the bay, a house stood alone, whitewashed and faintly luminous in the dusk. Not a mansion, but no fisherman's hovel either.

Gaspard had his own key. Pausing in the hallway he called out, "Helene! Ma belle, ou es-tu?"

#The reply came, amused and abrasive, in the same tongue.

"What are you thinking of, m'sieur, to arrive at such an hour? Have you no respect for a widow's reputation?"

The widow herself glided into view, tall, self-possessed and magnificent. With brown hair piled unfashionably high, she was not much shorter than Tom. He guessed her age at around twenty-five.

Her winged brows rose at the sight of him. "Alors." The word expressed appreciation as well as surprise. "Gaspard, may we perhaps be introduced?"

Her lover obliged, with smiling apologies. Tom bowed over the hand of Madame Helene de l'Eree. "Enchante de faire votre connaissance," he said smoothly; and he could see, in fairness, why Gaspard had not kept his marriage vows.

On the contrary, it is I who am charmed," said Helene. Her voice was low and thrumming, like the echo of a plucked string. "You must stay for dinner, of course. I shall advise Cook."

Dinner was candlelit and sumptuous. No one could have guessed that their visit had been unplanned. Nor was Tom made to feel like an interloper. Helene de l'Eree was the perfect hostess, giving equal attention to both her guests.

Only when the meal was over did Tom discover why Helene raised her glass. "A toast to your marriage, Gaspard," she said, without irony. "To your firstborn child - due, I believe, quite soon - and to your newborn conscience. We have had pleasant times together. I am sorry there will be no more." "She looked steadily at Tom, and the candlelight flickered in her eyes. "Perhaps I can bear the pain, since Mr. Elderfield has elected to comfort me."

Tom could not mistake her meaning; and now he understood Gaspard's eagerness to entice him ashore.

He surged to his feet. "So," he grated at Gaspard, "I'm to replace you, am I, while this - this lady plays substitute for Jess?"

Gaspard rose, his face stony. "Take care, Thomas -"

Go to hell" Next time you want to pimp for a whore -"

"Thomas!"

"Count me out of your list of customers!"

"You ignorant, pompous lout - this is not a brothel. You have insulted a lady of integrity and breeding."

"Keep her, then!" Tom could not hold on to his anger; it was swamped by other emotions beyond his control. Tears coursed down his face as he wrenched the door open. "I don't need her, you hear? I don't need anyone."

He ran blindly out into the night, stumbling downhill through the bluebell woods, not caring enough to search for the path. Twice he slipped on the wet ground and fell, rolling several feet before scrambling up again to continue the reckless descent; until a final slithering fall brought him to the cliff edge.

His progress baulked, Tom sat staring down at the bay and four anchored, restless ships; and the night that hid his tears was vast, uncaring and cold. The future had always offered a challenge, the greatest dare of all. Now he felt only its immensity, the decades to be faced alone. For more than two years, Jess had loved him literally with all her heart; he had seen her skip and dance for the joy of knowing he was happy; had seen her weep for his sorrow, groan for his pain. Without her, he would go on playing for the highest stakes, because that was his talent and the only life he understood. But the fun had gone out of the game.

Hearing footsteps behind him he took no notice, until Gaspard sat beside him. It was the Frenchman who broke the silence, speaking softly, his own fury having died also.

"Thomas, you did Madame de l'Eree a great wrong."

Tom gazed at the dark sea, unable to speak.

"Thought I am as much to blame, for having led her to believe......Thomas, I made an error of judgement. I thought - Sophie and my mother were so certain - it seemed that Jessica's departure had wounded your pride more deeply than your heart."

Tom caught his breath; then abruptly he laughed, a brief, hard sound without mirth. "Christ, I deserved that." And then, scarcely trusting his voice, "Is that really how I treated her? As a - a diversion, like your Helene?"

"Dear boy, Jessica believed, as we all did, that you had fallen out of love. Such things happen; they cannot be helped."

"It wasn't true," he whispered. "It was never true."

Gaspard sighed. "If there is anything I can do, Thomas," he said, "Money, or...."

"Just one thing. Don't tempt me to think of your house as home. Sophie hoped to be rid of me two months ago, and now with the baby coming....it's my fault, not hers," He hesitated, and added more firmly, "I'm moving into West Mills Cottage next week."

Gaspard's silence betrayed his embarrassed relief more obviously than any false protestations could have done.

Part 2, The Venturer's Agent, Chapter 5

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