Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part Two: 1816-1822

The Venturer's Agent

Chapter Ten

Whether or not Jessica had taken any of Tom's words to heart, she made no effort to discourage the Earl of Wickham. Tom's one consolation was that she was not yet his mistress; for the smugglers would have been the first to know. Her neighbour was the son of Escapade's skipper, and many Keyhaven folk worked for Jack Bezant.

But the grapevine worked both ways. From remarks that Trekker's wife let slip, Jessica and the twins were frequent visitors to West Mills - and there were other clues. Tom still kept his restored sailing gig there, in the derelict windmill or moored beside the jetty, and often he would discover in the boat an apple core or plum stone, or see the muddy prints of booted five-year-old feet on the windmill floor. He had an uncomfortable notion that, in spite of his meeting Jess in society now and then, she was also keeping track of his less public activities. If he had not known her to be incapable of low cunning, he might have suspected her motives.

Autumn passed, and the worst of the winter. Hicks was arrested, politely interrogated, and released for lack of evidence. Nell, the sugar-burner, died, leaving her daughters to continue without her. Otherwise, business was as usual. Storms were weathered, cargoes beached, fortunes made by a lucky few, among whom Tom Elderfield was reckoned one of the luckiest.

One dull February afternoon, when the wind was dying, Marshlight left her precious brandy kegs floating a foot below the surface of the sea, in the lee of Hurst Spit. They were strapped to an anchored, weighted raft, who position was marked by an inconspicuous black buoy. Tom was certain that the weather was set fair, until dawn at least, for Bezant's tubmen to retrieve the cargo at a time to suit the beachmaster.

By the time Marshlight had tied up at Lymington, and been subjected to a thorough search by His Majesty's Customs, the wind was freshening from the south-west. Tom squinted at the steep, mountainous clouds veiling the sunset; and he thought of the kegs afloat near the treacherous overfalls and currents around Hurst. In four years he had never misjudged weather signals so badly. If the anchor dragged, or the raft broke up, he would lose the entire cargo. Then would come the row with Hicks, the Captain's insistence on a return to traditional, dangerous methods....

He called at home briefly, to warn Louisa not to expect him for some hours, and to reassure her smoothly that no risks whatever were involved. Having greeted him - quite uncharacteristically, - with impassioned elation, she grew unreasonably anxious at his news. Tom could not stay to offer more than fleeting comfort. Instead he rode hard to West Mills, and ran from the stable to the cottage.

Eddie Verity and his wife were arguing on the doorstep. Rachel had been crying, and her hand lay protectively across her swollen stomach. Both young people turned at once to Tom.

"I been telling she, someone's got to haul the bloody kegs in!"

"Aristo." Rachel wailed. "Tell he, 'tis too rough, there be a bad storm coming. He wants to take your gig out all alone."

Tom enfolded her in his arms. "We can't avoid putting to sea tonight, little girl," he said, meeting his friend's troubled eyes over Rachel's head. "But Eddie won't be going out alone. Hush now....Trekker, can you round everyone up? Just our own crew, and any tubmen who are handy and willing?"

"Tubmen? That be for Jack Bezant to decide," said Trekker doubtfully.

"Bezant can go to hell. Will you do it?"

"What's you be up to, in the meantime?"

"It was my order that floated those kegs. I'll take the gig out now, and beach as many as I can before you arrive with reinforcements. That way, one trip each for the rest of you might be enough."

The Veritys protested loudly, but there was no time left for discussion. When Trekker had galloped off towards Keyhaven. Tom instructed Rachel to stay indoors, keep warm, and stop worrying. Then he strode down to the jetty to check the single -masted gig and prepare her for sea.

Darkness fell quickly, and the first spots of rain pattered down. Satisfied that the craft was still seaworthy, Tom leaped ashore to untie the last mooring line.

Someone was running towards him; a small figure in a baggy oilcloth coat and trousers, with a sou'wester pulled down low.

Tom paused beside the mooring cleat. "Rachel? Have you taken leave of your senses, girl?"

"Maybe I have, Tom Elderfield." Jessica Tandy laughed at him from under the brim of the sou'wester. "I've left the twins with Rachel, and borrowed Trekker's oilskins. He's still in Keyhaven, rushing round like a one-man press-gang, trying to bully or shame a few tubmen into action. So I'm your first volunteer."

"Don't be daft, Jess. You don't even know how to sail."

"And how else do you think we amused ourselves in London, Mr. High-and-Mighty, Know-it-all-"

"The Thames is a river."

"And this is a sturdy little boat with an experienced skipper, who would be very glad of an extra pair of hands aboard, if only he wasn't too stubborn to admit it." She stepped past him, letting herself nimbly down into the gig. "Cast off, skip. Where are the oars?"

Tom was annoyed, worried, and grateful; and he would have loved her then just for her gaiety in the face of discomfort and danger, and for risking her life to save a cargo of contraband in which she had no stake and no real interest.

He would not let her row, remembering how his own hands used to blister before they hardened. Besides, the boat was wide and heavy, the oars barely long enough for use by one person. He rowed out to open water beyond the mouth of the creek, and saw the apprehension in Jessica's face at the violence of the gusting wind. The rain was falling faster now. Tom was wet and bone-cold, and relieved that Jess had worn oilskins.

He yelled to make himself heard, "D'you want to hoist the mains'l? I'll take us round, eye into wind. Watch the sail doesn't knock you over the side."

Jessica knew what she was about; her hands were strong and sure on the halyard. Tom stowed the oars and ducked aft to man the tiller; but the sail jammed half way up, flapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Lashing the helm again he leapt on to the centre thwart and climbed the mast, clinging like a monkey, to free the head of the sail with one efficient jerk.

As Jess hoisted the sail, the gig swung to catch the wind, heeling perilously. Tom landed on his feet beside her, and she laughed again, the sou'wester pushed back, wet curls stuck to her cheeks and forehead; united with him in victory, challenging the elements and winning for a time at least.

"Take the helm, Jess, he yelled. "We'll stay on this tack for a while."

She held the gig on course, close-hauled on the wind, while Tom flew the storm-job and reefed the mainsail for battle, and they surged forward with racing, prancing speed.

On the final tack towards Hurst Spit the wind approached gale force, each fearful gust laying the gig over on her beam ends. Tom bailed in a furious back-breaking rhythm.

He called over his shoulder, breathless from the prolonged exertion, "The buoy.....should be dead ahead...Any sign?"

"Not a bloody thing, skip."

It came to Tom that she was playing a game out there, even as he was. They were children again, engaged in a daring prank while the adults' backs were turned. For this hour, grief and bitterness were forgotten. The communion of a danger shared had set them free.

They could not have located the buoy in that black, heaving seaway, had the edges of the raft not been visible, breaking the surface. Tom's anxiety had been justified, for three long planks had splintered away. Thirty of the two hundred kegs were gone.

Tom furled the sails quickly from long practice, and hooked the buoy inboard to hold the gig against the raft, tying on fenders to absorb the constant minor collision shocks.

Lying across the gunwhale, he cut the nearest barrels adrift and began heaving them aboard, grunting with the effort of raising each forty-five pound keg from sea-level.

Jessica squatted beside him. "What should I do?"

"Nothing," he said, grimacing as he lifted the next keg and brought it down in the boat with a thud. "Too heavy for a woman.. See that the fenders are doing their job."

Jessica silently counted to ten; but perhaps he should be forgiven. Very likely his wife could manage nothing more strenuous than lifting a needle and thread; and perhaps Louisa did not mind being considered a fragile, useless ornament.

Struggling to stay on her feet, Jessica began moving the barrels into rows, tightly packed and lashed into position. For all her determination, she grew progressively more weary from dragging and rolling the kegs. She marvelled that Tom could persevere with such grim energy, when he back must be aching more than hers.

They were joined at last by a fleet of six gigs, each rowed by four men tonight. Trekker was there, and nearly all of Marshlight's crew, and those tubmen who had been lured by the promise of a fat bonus.

Not until forty barrels were stowed aboard Tom's gig, did he set sail for the creek and West Mills. Though the gig wallowed slightly, labouring under the extra weight, the wind and tide were in their favour. In the creek itself, the current took them neatly alongside the jetty. Jessica bounded ashore with the stern mooring line and stumbled to her knees from sheer weakness, scrambling up again to secure the rope.

Tom, occupied in tying off the other line, called through the rain and wind, "I'm not unloading tonight. A sheet of tarpaulin will keep her dry. D'you fancy making tea while I see to it?"

The thought alone gave Jessica's steps some buoyancy as she trod the squelching path to the cottage.

The fire was still glowing in the room which served as both kitchen and parlour. There was no sign of Rachel, and Jessica drew a breath of mingled satisfaction and stomach-churning dread. It seem that Eddie's wife had obeyed instructions.

Jessica hung her oilskins behind the door, and snatched a towel from the linen basket to wrap around her nakedness, pleased to find that the makeshift garment reached her ankles. She tiptoed to the door of the main bedroom, and lifted the latch. Rachel lay on the wide mattress with an arm across the twins, who slept in frowning concentration, heads together, blankets up to their chins.

Rachel was still awake. "Is Eddie....."

"Quite safe," Jessica whispered. "He'll have beached the gig by now. We salvaged most of the cargo." She hesitated. "I asked Eddie to delay one hour, before coming home. Will you mind?"

The girl shook her head, looking at the twins, and stroking Luke's tousled curls. "Will you tell Aristo tonight?"

"No."

"But he'd come back to 'ee for sure, if he did know."

"Oh yes. His conscience would bring him running. I don't want to trap him, Rachel. I want his love, freely given....or nothing at all."

The girl sighed, and went on stroking Luke's hair.

"And if I lose him," Jessica whispered, with intensity, "he must never know - not from you, nor Eddie. Mace has already sworn not to tell. Will you do the same, Rachel?"

Silence.

"Rachel?"

"I do swear, and Eddie too. But I don't understand 'ee."

"Well....never mind."

Crossing to the bed she stood looking down at Luke and Honor, whose eyes since birth had been the same brilliant blue as Tom Elderfield's, and who hair was as black and curly as her own. Born eight months after the breaking of her engagement, they were almost a year younger than Tom believed.

Jessica kissed her children softly, not to wake them, and then squeezed Rachel's hand. "Thank you," she said.

"I wish 'ee luck," said Rachel Verity.

It took Tom several minutes to remove the mast sections and tie down the tarpaulin; and when he came in, stripping off the soaked guernsey and shaking water out of his hair. Jessica was ready. She sat on the hearthrug sipping tea, the towel firmly knotted.

"Yours is made," she said, indicating a mug on the hearth beside her, and seeing how the firelight played across his bare torso.

"Wonderful." He glanced at her, and blinked "Where are your cloths?"

"Wet," she lied. !The oilskins sprang a leak. But the twins are fast asleep, so...." A shrug, an innocent smile. "Rachel says I must stay the night. The spare room is empty."

"Good idea." Kneeling, he reached stiffly for the mug, and sat down close to her in order to lean back against a chair. He stretched his legs in front of the now blazing fire, and groaned with luxurious relief. "Oh, Jessie. I don't think I'll every move again. Will you make tea every half an hour?"

"I'm sure a chair would be more comfortable," she said.

"Mm. Warmer down here." He shot her a rueful look. "You shouldn't have done all that, you know. Are you all right?"

He grinned, but said serious, "I'm glad you were with me."

Until this moment, something had remained of their easy comradeship aboard the gig. But now their eyes met and held, the sudden contact like a spark falling into a tinder box; and he said in anguish, "God, Jessie.....I can't pretend for ever."

She made no answer, but in silence took the mug from his hand, and placed it beside hers on the hearth. She had waited months for an opportunity to set this choice before him, but the decision now was for him to take alone.

He still gazed at her in tormented doubt; and then he drew her into his arms, crushing her in a desperate embrace as though his fervour could blot out guilt and shame, kissing her like a man starved of love. The chair scraped backwards, so that Jessica lay beneath him on icy flagstones, and she said, gasping for breath, "Not like this....Tom, please!"

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the empty bedroom.

It was the start of the wedding night they had never had; the affirmation of all their long-ago nights together, and the love which had survived all the wasted years. When Jessica made clear that her need was as urgent as his, he surged up inside her with such relentless power that she cried out like a virgin, half fearing the strength of this man who was not the boy-smuggler she had left behind; but she twined her legs around him, moulded her hands to his taut buttocks, while he drove her to heights of unbelievable ecstasy whose existence Jessica had almost forgotten.

When he was spent, they lay quiet for a time, listening to Eddie Verity damping the parlour fire and preparing for bed. Though neither would remind the other that minutes were precious, they both knew that Tom must ride home before the night was over. Jessica reached for him, caressing him; and this time he took her with as much tenderness as passion. Together they embarked on a voyage of rediscovery, delighting in the subtleties and nuances which their first frenzied union had left no leisure to explore; and being gentle, too, with more consideration now for sore and aching muscles.

They came only gradually to the understanding, and sworn agreement, that as from this night they were married in their hearts if not in law, and would not part again.

In the small hours, woken from sleep by the rain lashing the window panes, Jessica rose to struggle with the tinder box and light the candle on the dressing-chest. Tom opened his eyes, frowning, roused by the scrape of the flints, and looking, despite the blond hair, so like his son that Jessica's heart turned over; but she would not tell him yet.

"Is it morning, love?" he said.

"It's four o'clock, my darling, and your wife will think you have drowned."

"She might wish I had," he said; and then, his voice breaking, "God, Jess, if only she was different. If only she'd every been spiteful, or nagging, or unfaithful. She's never done me any wrong, except to love me for the sort of white knight I don't know how to be."

It tallied with what Jessica had gleaned from the Veritys in recent months. Eddie believed that Tom's wife was an ice-maiden who favourite bedmate was a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe; drawing mainly on servants' gossip, of course. But there was something badly wrong, he said, when a man three years married did not speak of his wife if he could help it.

Jessica had been confirmed in her opinion that Louisa Elderfield did not need a husband, but only a fantasy. Such a girl could not possibly make Tom happy.

Jessica lay down again beside her lover, nestling close to him, offering the comfort of her body's warmth and intimacy. "We'll go away from this coast, if you like," she murmured. "You needn't ask Louisa to divorce you. Why put all of us through such an ordeal?"

"Because I want to marry you," he said. "What if we have children?"

"They would take your name, as I would. Nothing could be simpler."

He kissed her forehead. "I suppose," he said, "Louisa might even be happier without me, in the end."

Hearing the pain in his voice, Jessica experienced a qualm of doubt. Louisa had been his foundling child, his protege. Jessica wondered if Tom knew himself what it would cost him to leave her.

"You must do this with full knowledge, my love," she said. "Are you ready to live with regrets, and perhaps disillusionment?"

"Disillusionment? Not with you, Jessie. Not ever that."

"Be very sure."

"Darling Jess," he said, let me be the one to worry about Louisa. I'll see that she never wants for anything."

Except the man she loves, Jessica thought, but could not say it. She had too much at stake to risk probing his conscience too deeply.

Tom dressed reluctantly, flexing his stiff shoulders and shuddering at the touch of cold, sodden clothes. The salvage trip to Hurst Spit seemed a lifetime ago.

He lingered to kiss Jessica once more, and could hardly bear to leave her, even for so few hours. They had agreed that from tomorrow he would live with her in Keyhaven, giving Hicks a month to find an agent who would need no training in seamanship. After that, Tom would be free to move away from the area; perhaps only as far as Southampton, or to a smuggling town like Poole or Christchurch. It was too soon to decide which direction his career should take next, but he had a small amount of capital, and did not fear the challenge.

Though he would miss his friends - Trekker especially - and all the crew of Marshlight, Jess was worth the sacrifice. It was only the thought of Louisa that filled him with guilt and grief.

When he arrived home, though it was still dark, Louisa was sitting up in bed, reading by lamplight. Tom was more conscience-stricken than ever, thinking that she must have been awake all night worrying about him; but Louisa denied this with a glowing smile.

"Edward Verity came last night, to put my mind at rest. He told me that when the job was done, you would stay at West Mills."

Since Trekker could not have known this when he rode to round up the men, Tom entertained just for a second the idea of a conspiracy between Jess and the Veritys; and then dismissed the notion as absurd.

Louisa laid aside her book, watching her husband change into dry clothes. "Did you manage to save the cargo, after all?"

"Most of it. Louisa....." He sat on the bed and took her hand, meeting her level, unaccountably joyful gaze with difficulty. "There's something...something we've got to talk about. Something I want to tell you...."

"And I have something to tell you! I was so excited yesterday, I believe the servants thought me a little mad. But now you see I am quite composed."

The counter-attack threw him for the moment. He said, with a sigh, "More gossip?"

"Not at all. I have suspected for some weeks - but now it has been confirmed. Tom, my dear husband," she said, her eyes shining, "we are going to have a child."

And then, because he stared at her so wildly, as if she had warned him of her own imminent death, or that the world would end tomorrow, she said with a breath of happy laughter, "Darling, you mustn't worry so. Women have babies all the time. And now, I have told you my news. Can yours really be just as important?"

But he turned from her, and blundered out of the room like a man struck suddenly blind. Louisa heard the front door slam, and jumping out of bed to look down from the window, she saw her husband pause to lean against the railings in the deserted, twilit street, he head bowed as though in grief. As she watched, he slammed his fist with frightening violence against the wrought iron gate, so that Louisa flinched; and then slowly he walked towards the alleyway which led to Conqueror's stable.

Louisa climbed into bed and, lying down, she turned her face to the pillow to muffle her sobs, for the servants must not think that her husband was cruel to her, or had ever made her unhappy.

Part 2, The Venturer's Agent, Chapter 11

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