Devil's Prize (20 page)

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Her mother demanded. Bright patches of colour bloomed in her cheeks. ‘It’s no more than the truth. And the sooner people know the better.’ Her gaze dropped to Tamara’s waist then slid away. ‘I had every right to tell her.’ She wiped her nose. ‘I hear she’s living in the cottage that man bought when it was a ruin.’

Tired, wondering whether Devlin had yet reached France, whether he had managed to find Erisey, whether they had got away safely, Tamara held onto her temper.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Well?’ Morwenna prompted, settling herself more comfortably, her eyelids perceptibly heavier. ‘What is it like?

Tamara had not intended to frighten her mother. But having done so the least she could do now was indulge her curiosity.

The clock had just struck nine when Tamara said goodnight to her parents and went up to bed. The laudanum’s calming effect had enabled her mother to get up and eat her evening meal, which in turn would help her to sleep.

A fire in the small grate had taken the chill from her bedroom and flames from the glowing coals added their own light to that of her candle. She was grateful for the warmth. The stresses of the day had left her physically and emotionally exhausted. And when she was tired she always felt cold.

Carrying a copper warming pan, Sally slid it between the sheets, moved it back and forward then left it as she crossed to take Tamara’s gown.

Undressed to her shift, Tamara sat in front of her toilet table, opened the drawer and took out her hairbrush.

Sally closed the wardrobe door.

‘Like me to do that, would you miss?’

‘Not tonight, I can manage.’ She just wanted to be left alone.

‘All right if I go, then?’ Sally crossed to the bed and removed the copper warming pan. ‘I just heard mistress come up.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Still the maid hesitated. ‘You sure I can’t fetch you something, miss? Hope you don’t mind me saying, but you do look awful tired.’

‘It’s not been an easy day.’ Swivelling round Tamara forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow. I just need a good night’s sleep.’

‘’Night then, miss.’

‘Goodnight, Sally.’

After brushing her hair and exchanging her shift for a nightdress, Tamara blew out the candle and climbed into bed. Lying on her back she rested her right hand on her belly and thought of the child growing inside her and, as she did every night, of Devlin.

She pictured his face: dark brows raised as he mocked, the hunger in his eyes as he drew her close, the gentle warmth of his lips the first time he had kissed her, the weight and strength and heat of his body. She had felt so safe. Yet the price of those wonderful moments was rejection and bitter anger. It hurt. How it hurt. Hot tears leaked beneath her closed eyelids and slip down her temples into her hair.

He did not want her, and she must marry his brother. But right now all that mattered was that he returned safely.

Told by his uncle where Martin was waiting, Devlin had not recognised the dishevelled, unshaven man clad in peasant clothes. Though the local fishermen shook their heads, warning of the coming storm, Devlin knew he dared not wait. The moment Martin was aboard they left.

Thin, haggard, and clearly exhausted, Martin asked for food, ate what was he was given, then wrapped himself in a blanket and crawled into the sail locker out of the way.

Forced south by the north-easterly wind, Devlin had to keep tacking. This meant shifting ballast, making the tired men even wearier. As the night wore on and the wind rose to a near gale he ordered both lug sails dropped, leaving just the staysail to maintain their heading. The wind pressure on the masts alone was driving the lugger forward through heaped up seas half the height of the fore mast. Waves breaking all around gleamed white in the darkness and the shrieking wind blew foam in long streaks from the crests.

The muscle-straining pitch and roll added to the crew’s difficulties, forcing them to hold on with one hand and bale with the other. Devlin needed every ounce of his strength to hold the tiller steady while Jared did the work of two men.

Each time the boat plunged into a trough the wind noise eased before rising again to a thrumming scream as they reached the crest and were hurled down the slope into the next trough. Soaked and chilled, deafened by the gale, Devlin yelled at the men to swap sides and change jobs. He had to keep them moving. He knew how tired they were, and that the urge to sleep was becoming harder to fight.

By morning the wind had veered towards the south. But instead of blowing itself out it seemed to be strengthening. Running before it, they were in constant danger of a following wave breaking on top of them. The air was thick with spray and hard to breathe. Salt had made Devlin’s eyes sore and they burned with tiredness.

If he died, who would miss him? His brother certainly wouldn’t. The crew would find work on other boats. Jared would marry Betsy.

He had worked hard and been successful. Money and reputation had bought him everything he wanted: property, his lugger, and women. He had earned his crew’s respect and loyalty. Jared had been more of a brother to him than Thomas, though he might have damaged their friendship beyond repair.

Would Tamara miss him? Why should she? She had loved him, and he had thrown her gift back in her face. He wished now – too late – that he’d had her courage. But conditioned from childhood to expect rejection he had kept even those kindest to him at a distance.

The lugger teetered on a foaming wave-crest. Caught by the wind, it began to twist. Jared lurched to help him and Devlin hauled on the tiller with all his strength as the boat plunged.

Chapter Twenty

Gradually Tamara became aware of a loud roaring. She opened her eyes. It was still dark, and the noise was the wind. Suddenly rain splattered like gravel against the window making her jump. Outside she could hear the boom, crash, and hiss of breaking waves.

Her mother’s shriek catapulted her out of bed and she fumbled for the tinderbox on her nightstand. She had just lit her candle when the door opened and she saw her father. Hastily dressed in breeches, shirt, and waistcoat he raised the lantern.

‘Good, you’re awake. Come and see to your mother. I have to go down to the yard. I’ve got two boats up on props. If this wind gets any stronger –’ He shook his head, superstition stopping him in case voicing his worst fears made them happen.

‘Is she ill?’

‘She’s afraid the wind will take the roof.’ Anxiety made him terse.

‘What time is it, Papa?’ Seizing her robe from the foot of the bed she pulled it on and hastily knotted the sash. Grabbing her candleholder and shielding the flame with one palm she padded barefoot after him.

‘About five, I think.’

That meant another hour until sunrise. Where was Devlin? Was he still off the French coast? Had he reached Cornish waters? Was he caught up in the storm?

She entered her parents’ room and her mother looked round from the open drawers of a chest. She was clutching an armful of shifts and nightgowns. Her eyes were wide, her frilled bedcap awry. ‘Quick! Empty the closet. We must take everything downstairs before the roof goes. Listen! Can’t you hear it? I need my clothes. I cannot be seen like this. I have a position – my dignity – Come on, Tamara!’

Terror had put her beyond reason, so Tamara didn’t waste time trying. Crossing to her mother’s side she set down her candle then took the clothes and dropped them on top of the disordered bedcovers.

‘I’ll bring them. But first let’s go downstairs to the living room. I’ll make up the fire so you’ll be warm and safe.’ Their arms linked, she drew her mother firmly towards the landing and stairs.

‘But the roof – ?’ In the flickering candlelight her mother’s face was haggard with fear.

‘Mama,’ Tamara reassured, ‘this house is over fifty years old and has withstood countless storms.’

 Her mother stared at her, plagued by doubt but wanting to believe. ‘But all that groaning and creaking –’

‘Is just the wind under the eaves.’

Tamara opened the living room door and guided her mother to an armchair, then set the candle on a side table. ‘There. It’s much quieter in here. I’ll fetch a blanket so you’ll be comfortable while we wait for it to pass.’

But it didn’t pass. It grew worse. The wind howled like a ravening animal looking for a way in. As her mother’s fear became frenzy, Tamara resorted to another larger dose of laudanum. She sat holding the trembling hand as her mother slid into somnolence then eventually slept.

Back upstairs, Tamara gathered armfuls of clothes and brought them down, laying them in an armchair where her mother would see them as soon as she opened her eyes. Outside the wind screamed. At the front of the house it roared in the chimneys, rattled doors and windows, and hurled torrents of rain at the glass until Tamara began to fear the panes would shatter. Knowing there was nothing more she could do until daylight, she rejoined her mother, lay down on the sofa, and closed her eyes.

She was floating, weightless, the sun warm on her eyelids. Then suddenly the water roughened, tossing her about. Breaking waves slapped her face, filling her nose and mouth. Out of her depth, choking, unable to breathe, she floundered, struggling desperately, and felt one foot touch the bottom. She opened her eyes and the water was red. Her lungs strained. She had to breathe. She opened her mouth –

– And jerked upright, gasping, her heart pounding, the rapid pulse loud in her ears. She felt the same terrible apprehension she had experienced up on the moor, and knew it meant death. But whose?

The candle had gone out. In the grey light of morning she could see her mother still sleeping in the other chair. Sweating and shivering from her nightmare, she stood up, stretched to ease the tension from her neck and shoulders, and went to open the curtains.

The garden was strewn with debris. But her gaze skimmed over it, drawn to tangled wreckage strewn about the harbour, all that remained of the fishing boats moored to the quay. Smashed by the waves, they had been abandoned by the ebbing tide.

At the mouth of the harbour huge waves pounded the wall with a sound like distant thunder. Breakers reared, curled and crashed onto the beach, leaving a red line as they receded. Her dream – blood – death.

With a strangled gasp she ran to the door and raced up to her room. Wrenching open her curtains she could see the listing hulk of a ship driven onto the rocks during the night. Rags of canvas flapped on broken masts. Already a few villagers were struggling down the beach to salvage what they could.

She went weak with relief – it was too big, not a lugger. Not Devlin. She sagged onto the window seat swallowing repeatedly as she fought dizziness and nausea.

 As soon as she could stand, she threw off her robe and nightgown, pulled on her shift, her green habit, stockings, and boots. Tying her hair at the nape of her neck so it wouldn’t blow across her face and get in her way, she ran downstairs again and almost collided with Sally who was carrying the ash pail and small shovel she used to clean out the fireplace.

‘Has Mrs Voss arrived?’

‘Not yet, miss. I nearly didn’t get back myself. There’s chimneys down and slates flying. ’Tis some bad all the way up to the farm. Still, I got the milk all right. Mr Reece’s thatched roof was tore off. Straw everywhere, there is. The Mitchells and the Tallacks been flooded out. Their windows is all smashed and front doors stove in. The sea went in the front door and out the back. Poor souls, some terrible mess it is. I’ve never known nothing like it. The rain’s stopped for a minute but that won’t last.’

‘Leave the fire for now, Sally. Make some tea and toast for my mother. She had a bad night so I brought her downstairs. She’s in the small living room. I hope she’s still asleep.’

‘What about you, miss? Bring some for you shall I?’

‘I’ll have something when I get back.’

‘You’re never going out? ’Tidn safe –’

‘I won’t be long.’

Not daring to open the front door in case the wind took it off its hinges or she couldn’t shut it again, Tamara went out the back way. As she picked her way through the off-cuts of wood, pitch pots, frayed rope, and scraps of canvas blown from the boatyard to litter the grass and path, the gale tore at her clothes and made her eyes water. Once through the gate she crossed the open ground between the yard and the broad foreshore, her boots slipping on the thick layer of seaweed tossed up by the tide. No spring tide had ever reached this high.

She stumbled across the beach trying to avoid more debris, and saw the crimson tide-line of her dream. It wasn’t blood. It was red coats. The stricken ship had been carrying marines, drowned as they tried to reach the shore.

Some villagers were dragging their finds up the beach. Others pulled corpses out of the water only to rifle their pockets. Moses Carthew, the Methodist preacher, ran from one group to another, waving his arms as he threatened hellfire and damnation. They ignored him. What need had the dead of possessions?

The rain began again, hard, heavy, and almost horizontal. Realising there was nothing she could do she retraced her steps. The wind shoved and pushed, making her run while the rain hammered her scalp and soaked through her jacket.

Sally met her in the passage. ‘I done me best, miss, but she won’t eat nothing. Working herself into some state she is.’

Struggling against anger and impatience, Tamara nodded. ‘I’ll see to her. Make a pot of coffee and cut three thick slices of heavy cake, will you?’ She went in to her mother. Knowing reassurance would be a waste of time she measured out a dose of laudanum and poured it into her mother’s open mouth.

‘Mama, I’ll be back again in just a moment.’

‘Where are you going? Don’t leave me!’

‘I’m taking coffee and something to eat to Papa and the men in the yard.’

‘Sally can do that,’ her mother cried pitifully. ‘I need you –’

Shutting the door, Tamara hurried to the kitchen. She wrapped the cake in a clean napkin, put it in a basket beside the coffee pot and three cups, and went out once more into the driving rain.

The devastation at the yard shocked her. Toppled from its props, Devlin’s new lugger lay on its side amid the wreckage of the smaller boat onto which it had fallen. Her father crouched beneath the only boat still standing, hammering wedges to hold additional props in place while two of his shipwrights anchored the hull with ropes and iron spikes.

Seeing her he straightened and waved her away. ‘Go back in the house. It isn’t safe.’ He had pulled an old black oilskin over his clothes, but his head was bare, his hair plastered to his scalp.

She held up the basket and waded through the debris towards him. He looked exhausted and beaten.

‘Papa, I’m so sorry.’

‘Go on, lass. Nothing you can do here.’

The wind pushing her along, Jenefer tried to avoid broken roof tiles and scattered bricks from fallen chimneys. She had stayed at the Sweets’ just long enough to tell Betsy, Inez, and Arf where Jared had gone and why.

But now as she passed alleys leading down to the harbour and caught glimpses of the raging, white-capped water, she wondered whether knowing that Jared was somewhere out in that maelstrom had added to their worry rather than relieving it. Yet recalling Betsy’s pallor, the dark circles under her eyes, and the anxiety emanating from both Inez and Arf at their son’s sudden and unprecedented disappearance, their dread that he had been snatched by a press gang, how could she not have told them?

She had seen Dr Trennack down on the beach supervising the loading of corpses onto a wagon.

Ahead of her, carrying whatever they had been able to rescue from their flooded homes, Denzil Laity, Arthur Tallack, and Jacca Benney ushered their wives and children up the through the alleys to higher ground. The tide was rising again, and with the wind behind it, would flood the properties on the quay.

This was her chance to repay all the kindness she had received. As chapel steward, George Ince would hold a key.

When he opened his door to her urgent knock she didn’t waste time. ‘Mr Ince, please will you open the chapel? I’ve just seen three families who’ve been forced out of their homes. There will be many more before this is over. They need somewhere safe, warm, and dry to wait out the storm. I’m going to fetch Lizzie Clemmow and Ernestine Rowse. I’ll ask them to contact everyone they think will be willing to bring any food and blankets they can spare and meet me there.’

As she was speaking his expression altered from surprise to relief that someone had taken charge and something was being done. Nodding, he reached behind the door to grab his coat from the hook.

‘I’m on me way. Put up a notice, shall I? There’s a blackboard and chalk in the back room.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ince. That’s an excellent idea.’

Hurrying home she saw Moses Carthew.

‘Kneel in fear of the Lord, all you sinners!’ he bellowed as he marched towards her, wild-eyed and gesticulating. ‘He has sent a tempest to punish those who traffic in the demon drink!’

Jenefer knew that both the Laitys and the Benneys were staunch Methodists and teetotal. Furious with the minister, she resisted the temptation to suggest that he come to the chapel and do something to help. Those people had suffered enough. The last thing they needed was this deranged man shouting at them.

 Back at the cottage she put all her vegetables, cheese, and butter into a basket, rolled up a blanket and grabbed her purse. Running next door to Lizzie she outlined her plan.

‘If you take my veg, I’ll bring my big pan,’ Lizzie said, opening the table drawer and taking out one large and one small knife.

‘We’re going to need plates, bowls, and spoons,’ Jenefer said.

‘Mrs Avers,’ they spoke simultaneously. Every summer the doctor’s wife hosted the village fete in her large garden.

 ‘Do you think Harry might come and help?’ Jenefer asked, referring to Ben Tozer’s father, Lizzie’s other neighbour.

‘He’ll be mad as fire if we don’t ask’n,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll go and fetch him while you get Ernestine. She got a lovely great pan she use for making jam.’

Jenefer nodded. ‘Now all we need is a stove.’ She turned to Lizzie’s ten-year-old son and gave him her purse. ‘William, take this to the bakehouse. Ask Mr Rowe for as many loaves as the money will buy. Tell him I’ll be in shortly.’ As William scampered off she turned to Lizzie. ‘I’d use my range, but Mr Rowe’s is bigger and much nearer the chapel.’

Lizzie snorted. ‘That man wouldn’t give you a cold if he could charge for it.’

Jenefer’s brows rose. ‘Do you really think he’ll refuse me, when it’s for such a good cause?’

Pausing for a moment, Lizzie eyed her. ‘No. He won’t bleddy dare.’

Standing at the living room window, Thomas peered through the eye-glass that had been his father’s. Despite the fire burning in the grate and his warm clothes, a shiver tightened his skin as he peered through the eyepiece at the turbulent sea. Low grey cloud raced above mountainous spume-streaked waves.

No one could survive in that. Not even his hated brother who had the luck of the devil and more lives than a cat. The dragoons would find nothing but wreckage and bodies.

He turned to look towards the harbour. Even inside the seawalls the broken, foam-capped waves were several feet high. Sturdy fishing boats that last night had been moored alongside were now splintered planks tossed on the water. On the quay huge stones lay amid shingle hurled up by the waves.

Bearing the brunt of wind and sea, parts of the eastern sea wall had disintegrated. If the gale continued the rising tide would demolish the rest of it, leaving the inner harbour and quay without protection.

But of more immediate concern to him was the visible damage to workshops, cellars, barking sheds, and net stores. Not only had windows been smashed and their frames broken, on several buildings, including Devlin’s, the heavy double-doors had been stoved in and now lay flat on the ground or hung askew on their hinges.