Mistress of the Storm (17 page)

Mother gaped at him, a soft squeak of fear her only sound.

‘That is fortune enough,’ Abednego concluded.

Christmas Day dawned crisp and cold. There was no snow, but the sky was a swirl of icy white, with the peculiar glow that told you it must be one of the shortest days of the year.

At midday Abednego, captain of the
Storm
, sat at the head of a heavily laden table and watched his crew – the closest thing he had to a family – celebrating.

The meat platter groaned with roast goose, duck, beef, pork and pheasants, edged by little partridges. Buttered chestnuts vied with sage and bread stuffing, baked figs and jellied fruit sauces, while large bowls of vegetables steamed quietly (mostly ignored – save for the roasted, fried and mashed potatoes). The eating and drinking would go on all day.

The men were only just beginning to tuck into the plentiful supply of port and rum, but already spirits were high and toasts were being made.

‘To the Mistress,’ came wafting across the air amidst cheers and jeers. A handful of those with instruments had started to play, and Abednego heard snatches of song:

‘She’ll cover you in diamonds, she’ll crown you with gold, she’ll drown you in pearls but you’ll pay with your soul …
’

His mind wandered back to the celebrations of his childhood … some happy times among the memories. He recalled the day when his older sister had received her beloved peg doll – the shiny, worn figurine that now spent every day in his pocket.

His uncle had been drinking since the morning – sitting out in the street with the other neighbourhood men and a cask of wine, playing cards, talking nonsense and having stand-up arguments with the local harlots.

Abednego had adored his sister, Abigail. Since their parents died she had been both mother and father to him, always happy to hand over food from her own meagre portion to assuage his rumbling stomach. Always there to dart in front of their uncle when he tried to beat Abednego.

He had saved all year to buy that peg doll, scraping aside a fragment of coin here, another there, until he had what he needed; until his uncle demanded the hard-won money for more drink. But Abednego stood firm and refused.

His uncle gave him such a hiding he couldn’t sit down for a week. But he wouldn’t say where the money was. And when his uncle grew bored of hitting and cursing, Abednego crept off secretly to the shack of the lady who sold the peg dolls, and carefully selected the prettiest one for his sister.

Abigail was enchanted by her new toy. She was the envy of her friends. Her smile shone so brightly when she held
the little wooden mannequin … Abednego could still see it now. It had been worth every cut and weal.

Underneath the table he pulled out the doll and stroked one of the scraps of faded material, so worn now it was as soft as velvet. To continue his life as a sham … or to lose it with honour? This was the question that had churned around his head since that fateful day in Wellow library.

For Verity, Christmas was simply yet another day of snipes and barbs, of difficult conversations and oppressive moods that brooded over the house like a cloud. But for the moment at least, she was hidden upstairs brushing her hair and enjoying a minute’s peace from Grandmother.

Giving up on the task of making herself neater, she nearly jumped out of her skin to find her elderly relative waiting on the landing. Suddenly Verity felt herself pinned against the wall. Even through her alarm, a little voice in her head wondered how someone of Grandmother’s age could be so strong. But looking down, she realized that the old lady was a foot away from her. She was being held up by something she couldn’t see or hear. Her clothes and hair were pressed back as if she were walking through a gale. Her throat constricted with fear, her mouth held shut.
This can’t be happening, it can’t be happening
, she repeated to herself in reassurance.

‘Did you like your presents, Verity, my dear?’ asked Grandmother, in a voice that was obviously intended to carry downstairs.

Verity looked at her. The old lady’s appearance was terrifying: her skin as dark as ancient wood; her face so sunken that all her features had practically disappeared – no eyebrows, no cheeks; just the shape of a covered skull, with scraps of long dry hair in patches on her scalp.

In a bid to keep her head, Verity focused her attention on the pretty brooch Grandmother was wearing. It had an enamel centre with a picture of a dark-haired woman against a starlit backdrop, surrounded by a delicate gold frame set with pearls. Verity stared at it, desperately trying to concentrate on something that was real and solid. But still she felt cold fear trickling through her.
This can’t be happening
.

‘It’s terribly rude to ignore your elders, Verity,’ said Grandmother.

Suddenly Verity heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Unable to twist her head, she strained her eyes to the right and realized it was Father. Relief flooded over her. Now at last someone would see Grandmother in her true colours.

He stopped opposite Verity, but did nothing. Verity stared imploringly at him, still unable to speak. In reply he gazed at her as if she were a curiosity. He reached out to pat her cheek, then inspected his hand in wonder.

‘You are quite a bad-mannered little girl, aren’t you?’ continued the old lady.

Verity mustered every ounce of will to force out a reply. ‘Yes, Grandmother,’ she answered politely, then felt herself slide to the floor, the mysterious force releasing her.

Her grandmother gazed at her contemptuously, then bent down and pressed her face very close to Verity’s. She looked furious, as if she would very much like to hurt her but couldn’t. ‘Soon …’ she whispered, almost as if it were a promise to herself.

Verity’s father went to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Outside, the wind rattled the hallway window.

On Boxing Day morning Verity closed the front door behind her. Hardly daring to breathe, she walked quietly down the path, terrified that at any moment she might be called back in. Then, at the corner, she ran: ran as fast as her legs would carry her to get away from the brooding place that her once dull but benign home had turned into.

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Henry cheerfully, wrapped in a newly voluminous scarf and hat, both presents from his mother.

Verity said nothing.

Henry pulled a face. ‘As tough as you expected?’

‘Slightly worse actually.’

‘Aren’t you going to tell me about it?’

Verity shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ she said emphatically.

Henry stared at her thoughtfully.
Things must be pretty bad
, he reflected.

Priory Bay was closed for the next fortnight but Verity
was desperate not to spend that time at home. And it didn’t seem fair to force herself upon Mrs Twogood again.

‘Six bored brothers and my dad,’ said Henry, rolling his eyes. ‘When I’m not being used as a punchbag, I’m having my ear clipped for back-chat.’

The air was bitterly cold, with a sea wind that cut you like a knife. Verity would happily have sat outside to freeze, but by midday she had to concede that her toes were painfully numb and her cheeks stung like fury. Even the usually hardy Henry was starting to look despondent as they sat together in a little wooden shelter on the seafront. The wrought-iron bench was so cold you could feel it seeping through your clothes from the second you perched on it.

They said nothing for at least five minutes, staring out at the churning grey sea instead. Henry had managed to cover up his face with the new scarf so that all you could see was his grey-blue eyes. They looked dejected. Verity felt really guilty. She knew he was just keeping her company.

‘Why don’t you go home? I’ll just hang around a little bit longer,’ she lied.

‘ ’M OK,’ said Henry, trying to sound like he was. ‘Why don’t we start walking again?’ he suggested.

Getting up from the seat, which was definitely making her feel worse, Verity looked despairingly back up at Wellow and rolled the strange wooden ball around in her pocket for comfort. She’d still not mentioned it to Henry. Sometimes that made her feel guilty, but she couldn’t bear
the idea of him dismissing the effect it had on her – or, worse, insisting that she return it. She carried it everywhere with her now.

She wondered what the Gentry would have done when expelled by their enemies. She was pretty certain Rafe Gallant wouldn’t have settled for wandering around miserably in the cold. Then Verity spotted a familiar building. Of course: sanctuary.

‘The library,’ she exclaimed. ‘The library might be open. We could go there.’

Henry looked at her as if she’d just suggested they take a walk into a lions’ cage. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he said quickly.

Verity pulled a disbelieving face at Henry’s bibliophobia. ‘You don’t have to read just because you’re there,’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas. If it’s open, there definitely won’t be anyone else in it.’ Spotting his hesitation, she pressed her point home. ‘It’ll be warmer than out here. Why don’t we just give it a try?’

Verity pushed on the familiar red double doors, then beamed ecstatically as the right-hand one opened.

Henry shuffled in after her with the air of one who has grave misgivings. ‘I’d like it to be known that I’m going along with this against my better instincts,’ he grumbled.

‘I think that’s obvious,’ replied Verity. They stood together by the entrance desk.

‘Well, the heating’s on,’ conceded Henry.

Miss Cameron was standing on a set of library steps in
the corner of the main room, dusting a top shelf. She looked round calmly at the sound of visitors. Nothing ever discomposed Miss Cameron. ‘Ah, Verity,’ she said, with no outward show of surprise. ‘You’ll find your friend in the reading room.’

Verity and Henry looked at each other in astonishment. Who could she mean?

‘Martha.’

Verity and Henry stood by the entrance to the reading room, absorbing the fact that the other person seeking refuge was their fellow outsider. Martha was sitting in a threadbare green wingback chair with her legs tucked under her. Two more upholstered chairs that had seen better days were arranged around a worn and faded rug near the fireplace. A small blaze was cracking and popping quietly, letting out a comforting glow and the fragrant scent of wood smoke. Verity was astonished: Miss Cameron never lit a fire in this room.

She had never paid much attention to the library’s reading room before, but now it looked like the most welcoming place she’d ever seen. The dark burgundy walls and wooden panels gave it a warmth that contrasted with the bitter weather outside. The portraits of Wellow residents past smiled kindly down on the three children.

‘What are you two doing here?’ Martha asked in surprise. Then, checking herself, added, ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. I just thought you’d both be at home. Like everyone else.’

Verity stood by the fire, enjoying the heat. ‘Christmas didn’t go well at our house,’ she admitted.

Martha pulled a sympathetic face.

‘You too?’ Verity asked.

The other girl shrugged unhappily. ‘I decided to go for a walk after Mother started throwing crockery at Father because he didn’t agree with her theory on erythrocytes and reticulocytes.’

Henry was pulling off his hat and unwrapping his scarf. ‘This is all right,’ he said approvingly. ‘There’s a fire … and chairs.’ Striding around, examining the facilities, he grew more jubilant by the minute. ‘And a backgammon board too,’ he added excitedly.

Verity sat down in one of the chairs, her feet tingling and itching as feeling was gradually restored. Henry and Martha moved furniture around to accommodate a table next to the armchairs. Henry went over to the window and climbed up to stand on the windowsill.

‘Brilliant view from up here,’ he said. ‘You can see the
Storm
as clear as anything.’

Martha pulled a chair over and stood on it. ‘She’s quite amazing, isn’t she? And isn’t it strange that she’s returned after all these years?’

Henry shrugged, unwilling to admit the wonder of anything related to smuggling.

‘Henry doesn’t approve of the Gentry,’ said Verity drily.

Martha looked at him in astonishment. ‘But don’t you think they sound terribly thrilling?’

He threw Verity a dirty look. ‘There’s nothing exciting about being murdered or robbed,’ he said firmly.

‘You mean the wreckers?’ said Martha. ‘But the Gentry weren’t all scavengers. I believe they made quite a distinction between the two things.’

‘How do you know so much about it?’

Martha looked surprised. ‘Well, obviously when I found out we were moving to Wellow I made an effort to read up on its history.’

‘Obviously,’ Henry grumbled.

‘Naturally I won’t know as much about it as you two,’ Martha conceded, which made Verity laugh.

Henry huffed disapprovingly as she launched into a detailed explanation of recent events, including the strange acquisition of the red leather-bound book, her grandmother’s arrival and her father’s increasingly odd behaviour.

‘How
fascinating
,’ said Martha. ‘I wonder why your father never mentioned that he’s Rafe Gallant’s son?’

‘And how could Rafe possibly have been married to the woman who claims to be my grandmother?’ Verity was thrilled to have found someone who didn’t think the whole thing was just one big coincidence.

‘It all started when you found the captain of the
Storm
here, in this library?’ asked Martha.

‘Yes,’ said Verity, perking up. ‘Peculiar, isn’t it? Why would he give me the book?’

Henry scoffed loudly. He was over by the fire again now,
setting up the backgammon board. ‘The only strange thing is that you spend so much time concocting a web of intrigue from a series of totally unrelated events.’

Verity felt a flash of irritation. ‘It’s easy for you to criticize,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re not the one having to live with a terrifying relative who turned up out of the blue … Your father isn’t acting really oddly either.’

Martha put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea?’ she said. ‘Miss Cameron gave me a kettle and a hook for the fire and I took some cake while Mother was smashing the bowls.’