Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part Two: 1816-1822

The Venturer's Agent

Chapter Seven

The crew of Marshlight were given a week's shore leave, to let the fuss die away; but in fact the enquiries made by the Revenue men were brief and unenthusiastic. If the murdered man's corpse had vanished, so much the better; and if the witnesses aboard Marshlight had apparently been struck deaf, blind and stupid, better still. The Riding Officer who called at West Mills was vague and courteous, and never advanced beyond the doorstep.

The day after Trekker was shot, Captain Hicks paid him a visit. Not to commiserate, but to point out, loudly and with many expletives, that the next man to jump ship in such a manner would find himself out of a job.

Tom, knowing the influence wielded by Deacon and Bezant, thought it time to put a suggestion of his own.

"Have you heard, sir, that a few other gangs are floating their cargoes? Weighting them offshore, just below the surface, for their tubmen to retrieve in their own good time?"

Hicks scowled. "Not a method I like. Chancy in rough weather. Easy enough to lose a whole consignment, and many's the time that Vigilant or Rose have pounced on a floated cargo."

"Vigilant did a neat job of pouncing on us yesterday." Tom glanced at Eddie Verity, who was sitting on the new Grecian couch with his feet up. "We dumped a lot of brandy."

"Thank you, Elderfield, I didn't need reminding." Hicks stood at the parlour window, watching Tom's lately restored sailing gig rocking beside the jetty. A cigar twitched between his lips. "You've done a fancy job on that old wreck."

"Sir, if we didn't have to liaise with Jack Bezant in advance, we could pick our moment to sail past Hurst."

The Captain pivoted on his heel; gracefully for a man so rotund. "Have you been talking mutiny, Verity?"

Both young men denied this heatedly, and Trekker added, "We'd follow the skipper to hell if need be, sir - but we ain't in no hurry to get there."

Benjamin Hicks removed the cigar and turned it back and forth between his fingers, studying it with close attention. Then he gave a bark of laughter, and looked straight at Tom. "We'll try it. Just with Marshlight and Winter Witch. The first cargo we lose, I'll think again. Is that justice?"

"Yes sir," said Tom, with gratitude and relief. "You've got yourself a couple of happy ships."

That evening Tom uncorked a bottle of cognac, and Eddie Verity said with a faint sneer, "if we be celebrating the new policy, don't look so gloomy about he."

"Not celebrating." Tom said, handing him a full glass. Today should have been my second wedding anniversary."

"'Tis my experience that sorrows can swim. And narrow escapes from wedlock, Aristo, he terrible enlivening things. Viewed in the right spirit, o' course"

Tom raised his glass. "Here's to the right spirit."

They drank to it, with all the appreciation of connoisseurs. Tom sat on a Chippendale chair acquired at auction, stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.

"Why don't you wed our little mouse?" asked Trekker.

"Don't talk daft."

"She bloody loves 'ee."

"Miss Fordyce, said Tom, "will fall for every smuggler under thirty, who is moderately presentable."

"Hah! Meaning I ain't!"

" - and speaks a dozen kind words to her. Anyway, what's this sudden haste to get me down the aisle?"

"I be worried about 'ee," said Trekker, looking totally unworried. "Tavern wenches don't be good enough, seemingly. Society girls want marriage or nothin'. Two years.....'tis a long while. And don't tell I, mate, that nothin' rises no more except the price o' bread!"

"Er......drink your cognac."

"You been chasing a ghost long enough."

"I'm not chasing anything," Tom said mildly. "That's what is worrying you, remember?"

All the same, Trekker's words had struck home. Tom felt strongly that he could not exist for ever on stubborn pride and devotion to duty. And yet it was true that he would not be content to tumble a giggling wench now and then, knowing little about her and caring less. It would seem a betrayal, somehow, of all that he and Jessica had shared.

Perhaps, in the end, marriage would be the answer. West Mills had been lonely before his friend came to live there, and sooner or later some determined young woman would drag Eddie Verity to the altar. Tom liked his solitude in small doses, and prized his independence less highly than of old.

When Marshlight sailed at last for Guernsey, Eddie Verity refused to be left behind. Tom would not send him aloft, but Trekker made himself pretty useful, though it was evident that the wound still hurt him. When they tied up in St. Peter Port he volunteered to stay aboard, while Tom had lunch in town with a wine merchant and the rest of the crew took shore leave.

"Bring I back a duckling wi' orange sauce," he told Tom. "You privileged bloody shirker."

"What?" said Tom sharply. A week ashore had done nothing for his friend's sense of discipline."Orange sauce", said Trekker, with an evil glint. "Wash your ears out, skip."

"Lend me the soap when you've washed your mouth."

They parted, however, in perfect accord, the inequality of the relationship suiting them both.

The wine merchant rushed his lunch and talked with his mouth full, allowing no time for pleasantries. His waistcoat was stained with the mementoes of similar meals. Tom, unimpressed and hypocritically smiling, bargained more ruthlessly than he had intended, took an unplanned gamble in threatening to withdraw Hicks' custom altogether, and came away with a deal that put a spring in his stride.

The bewildering maze of streets was interlaced with alleyways dark as tunnels, and flights of steps descending steeply to the sea beneath overhanging walls. Tom ran and bounded down the Quay Steps and from there to the market place, swinging his short jacket from one hand, and whistling a popular ballad between his teeth. He sauntered among the stalls, enjoying the competitive yells of the street vendors. The place smelled overwhelmingly of freshly caught fish.

He bought Sophie Vaillant a set of fancy silver buttons and for Miss Fordyce a rosewood book carrier, small enough to stand on a bedside table and still leave room for a lamp. Clutching these wares, he wandered in search of knitted guernseys, which could be picked up cheaply during the summer.

A voice behind him, low and melodious, said in French, "So, my Englishman, you walk the streets of our town in sunlight, and spend your dishonest gold on a lady. I hope she deserves it."

He turned, hardly knowing what to expect - and looked into the long, grey eyes of Madame Helene de l'Eree.

Tom had not known that he was capable of blushing at the sight of a beautiful woman, but now hot colour suffused his face and throat. He could think of nothing whatever to say.

Her expression was amused and mocking. "I see that you have not forgotten our little dinner party."

Tom found his voice. "Madame....the things I said..... it's too late for apologies but.....I was very young. There's no other excuse."

"Ah, the follies of youth. One may be forgiven ten or twenty of those, I hope, or how would any of us live to come of age?"

Her skin was pale as cream, her hair more chestnut than brown in the sunlight. She was like a ship's figurehead, he thought: sculptured, lovely, statuesque; slightly larger than life.

"We're not sailing until tomorrow morning," he said, very diffidently, his self-assurance in tatters. "Will you at least let me give you supper aboard Marshlight? I -well, I can't think of any other way to - "

"You would cook this meal yourself?"

"It won't be a banquet, I'm afraid. Will you come, madame?"

"When you call me that, I feel a hundred years old. My name is Helene - and yes, my Englishman, I shall be honoured to take supper aboard your ship. I shall see you at nine, m'sieur."

Tom was the only member of the crew with a private cabin. There was nothing splendid about it, but he did some more shopping after leaving Helene de l'Eree, and set to work immediately on his return to Marshlight.

Trekker Verity, strolling into the cabin half an hour later, promptly collapsed against the bunk, convulsed with helpless mirth.

"I don't see," Tom said, grinning, "what's so funny."

The chart table was covered with a lace-edged table-cloth; and a vase of red roses, lovingly arranged, stood in the centre. There were candles in brass candlesticks; and on the clothes chest, displayed upon a napkin, a bowl of strawberries and a jug of cream.

Trekker waved an arm vaguely and said, trying between small explosions of hilarity to mimic his friend's accent, "I'm not....chasing anything. Not chasing anything." He abandoned the attempt. Not bloody much, you ain't!"

Tom threw a duster at him. "If it's any of your business, Madame de l'Eree is a lady, and I want to treat her like one, and that is absolutely all. So drag your mind above your belt and go and annoy someone else."

"Ooh, hoity-toity," said Trekker, and went, still chuckling.

Helene arrived exactly on time, being driven to the end of the pier in a hired carriage. Tom, standing on deck to welcome his guest, heard her instruct the cabbie to collect her at midnight. There was no evasion, no subterfuge.

"Good evening, skipper," she said, descending the gang-plank, and surveying his unstarched cravat and the cut of his best jacket. "I wondered whether to dress for dinner. Now, I am glad that I did."

Tom had prepared a chicken salad, to avoid the need for last-minute organisation. He was concerned to appear unflustered; for having made a fool of himself once in front of the lady, he was in no hurry to do so a second time.

The evening was a success in every way. Helene made it clear that she had dismissed their last encounter from her mind, and would not judge him for it. Yet it was only at night, when she rose to leave, that he summoned courage to ask the question which most intrigued him.

Helping his guest with her cloak, he said, with some lingering embarrassment, "I never understood, you know, that night...."

"Well?" she said.

"Why did you agree - without ever having met me-"

"To become your mistress? I did not." Helene shrugged but her eyes held warmth. "Gaspard said he had a friend who had been forsaken. A young man seeking forgetfulness in pleasure. I was furious, of course, that Gaspard should think me so.... "Another shrug. "I do not like to have my lovers chosen for me."

"Neither do I," he said.

They smiled at one another, acknowledging Gaspard's foolishness.

"What changed your mind?" Tom asked her.

"I had imagined," she said, "when Gaspard spoke of you, that you would be a gauche and pimply youth."

"Well yes. I was only seventeen."

She looked at him wonderingly. "You really do not know. Would it astonish you, then, my Englishman, to hear that when I first saw you, I thought: yes, in spite of the idiot Gaspard, this is a man whose face I would gladly see on the pillow beside me, and whose body I would gladly embrace in the lonely nights?"

He was young enough to be astonished indeed, that a mature and sophisticated beauty like Helene de l'Eree should have wanted him, for surely an older, more experienced lover would know better how to please her?

She said, with emphasis, "I have not repented of those thoughts."

He was acutely aware of her nearness to him; aware, too, of the visible rise and fall of her breasts, the neckline of her gown cut tantalisingly low. He wanted her badly, but needed her more.

She would not make the first move. Knowing this, he reached out tentatively and unfastened her cloak, tossing it aside. Helene smiled, and her hands moved up inside his open jacket.

"Mon Dieu" she said, with laughter. "A man who required neither padding nor corsets. My prayers are answered."

He meant to begin slowly, with tenderness; but Helene pressed herself against him, eager and responsive, and with ungovernable urgency he mouthed her bare shoulders and the base of her throat, fumbling at the hooks of her gown like a clumsy boy making his first conquest.

"Have a care," she gasped. "Give yourself time, my Englishman. The cabbie must wait."

She undressed quickly, though, with composure lay down on the narrow bunk. Tom, breathing fast, his blood racing, nevertheless stood for long seconds looking down at her, his body tall and naked in smoky candlelight, the sudden doubt in his heart at odds with his proudly jutting masculinity.

"What is wrong?" she murmured, playing at petulance. "Ghosts," he said huskily. "Lost summers. Nothing."

"Then remember nothing." she said, "and come here."

Thus their affair began, and only Tom was surprised, for unknown to him the crew had been laying bets on how long it would take their skipper to choose himself a Guernsey mistress. Jem Lomer won the pot, and kept both the money and his disapproval to himself.

Tom visited the house above Fermain Bay whenever Marshlight called at St Peter Port. Most often he took a hired cab from the town, for Helene de l'Eree was not shy of public opinion. She had been married very young, to a soldier, her first love, the youngest son of a landowning family on the west coast. Serving under the Duke of Wellington, he had been killed in 1812. Since then his widow, living comfortably on an allowance from the family, had taken several lovers. Tom did not delude himself that she was faithful; he saw their relationship as delightful and highly instructive, but not as a long-term solution.

Sometimes, seeking a novel change from Helene's four-poster bed, he cajoled her into walking southward along the coast; and she would sit resignedly on the cliff-top, shielding her complexion with a parasol that the wind tugged inside out, while her love clambered down endless rough-hewn steps to investigate some sandy and secluded bay.

"Perfect," he would say, returning flushed and out of breath, his shirt snagged by gorse and blackthorn. "Plenty of shade, and very private. Come on, it's an easy path. You can manage."

"You are an infant," she said once, as he guided her down a particularly steep and difficult descent. "Why do I indulge these ridiculous whims of yours?"

On the beach, he settled down to illustrate thoroughly the answer to that question; but afterwards, not content to lie beside her, he sat fully clothed against a boulder in the sand while the autumn shadows lengthened and the sun dipped behind the cliffs.

Helene joined him finally, twirling the parasol, her pelisse flapping in the chilly breeze. Leaning on the boulder, she stroke his hair.

"You are very pensive," she said, inviting confidences.

"Do you ever think of marrying again?" he asked. "Raising a family?"

Her hand paused briefly. "I am barren. No, I shall not marry again.....or not for twenty years or so. This life holds too many attractions." She moved from the rock to see his expression. "Was that a proposal?"

"No," he said, smiling. "I think we understand each other better than that."

"Yet marriage was in your mind." She sat at his feet, shivering slightly and hugging the pelisse around her. "You are thinking, perhaps, of the little girl in Lymington?"

He nodded.

"Are you in love with her, then?"

"Miss Fordyce is a sweet girl. Patient, gentle....Brave, in a way. She's scared of any number of things, but put her in a situation that most ordinary folk would find horrifying, and she'll outface dragons, just to be a part of it all."

"Naturally, I believe you. But that is not what I asked."

Tom was silent, tracing spirals in the sand with one finger. After a while he said, "What I had with Jess.....I reckon a man is lucky to find a love like that, even once in his life. If she came walking across the beach this minute, I'd see that nothing this side of the grave ever parted us again."

"And yet, knowing this, you would marry the Lymington girl?"

"Jess isn't coming back. If I went on alone, it would be - well, like saying that the best of my life was over."

"When in face it is only beginning."

"Yes. Besides," he added, mocking his own seriousness, "Miss Fordyce has changed, these past six months. I feel....responsible."

"Vanity," said Helene, teasing him. "Arrogance."

"Mm. But in a way it's true. I did set out to give her confidence to face the world - from pity, at first, and then because it seemed worthwhile. At least she's learnt to enjoy life - even if she does still want to turn it into a Radcliffe romance. I'd be good to her. Helene. I do love her."

"As you would love a puppy that you had saved from drowning."

Tom winced at the analogy; but he could not deny the truth of it. "She'll want for nothing," he said.

#"After you are married, I suppose we will not meet again."

"No.....we'll have a few months, though, even if Miss Fordyce says yes. No point in rushing things. I want to rent a town house, go to some more furniture auctions, scout around the mop fairs for servants. I've got the money to do it, anyway, and there'll be a small dowry. Making the time is the only problem."

"And we are wasting the little time we have, you and I. Come, my bed is warmer and more comfortable than this uncivilised spot."

They walked up the beach together, in mutual respect and understanding; but Tom felt more than a twinge of regret at his decision to end the affair so soon.

On his return to Lymington, he took Louisa Fordyce riding, without a chaperone for once. His murmured hints as to the purpose of the outing, while waiting for Louisa to come downstairs, had silenced her mother's protests.

They rode several miles inland, up on to heathland lying purple under a lowering sky, the pools of standing water throwing back a sullen gleam. The wild ponies lifted their heads to stare, and some would follow the horses for a time with friendly interest.

Accustomed to discussing marriage, if at all, in intimate surroundings. Tom was not sure how a formal proposal should be made. It would have been farcical to leap from his horse and kneel in the wet heather; Louisa's unreliable thoroughbred would probably take fright and bolt.

The girl solved the problem for him. She said abruptly, across Tom's idle comments on the weather, "I hear that you are to be married, Mr. Elderfield, I'm afraid our footman could not keep the news to himself, and then I heard you whispering to Mama this morning. It is quite all right." Louisa lifted her chin, and injected some false gaiety into her tone. "You need not break it to me gently, I'm a grown woman, you know."

Tom drew rein, obliging Louisa to do the same.

"Who is to be my bride, exactly?" he asked, feeling his way. "According, that is, to the tubmen's grapevine."

Louisa spoke easily the name which had obviously been branded on her heart. "Madame Helene de l'Eree."

"Madame de l'Eree is a friend, but that's all. Your footman is misinformed, as usual." He took a couple of deep breaths, studying the horizon as though he might find inspiration there. But there was only one way, really, to propose to Louisa Fordyce.

Swinging one leg over Conqueror's withers he dropped neatly to the ground, and help up his arms to Louisa. Frowning, perhaps suspecting a joke at her expense, the girl dismounted, allowing him to steady her on landing; and instead of letting her go, Tom kissed her with slow tenderness, knowing she would like it best that way, leaving leisure for dreaming.

When he drew back at last, her tears were wet on his face, salty on his tongue. She was gazing up at him as if she had never seen him before.

He could say it easily, after all. "Will you marry me, Miss Fordyce?"

Yes, she whispered. No smallest hesitation.

"You know what you'll be taking on"

"A rich brigand, who will carry me off to his cave full of treasures untold, and leave me along weeping."

"Sophie Vaillant couldn't take the life, and that's partly why Gaspard gave it up. But it's still the life I love, and anything else is a long way into the future. I'll be with the Trade for another ten years, at least. Maybe longer than that. If you can't accept it, Miss Fordyce, you'd be wise to turn me down."

The girl hunted in vain for a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "<Mr. Elderfield," she said, "If you had murdered ten men and were promising to butcher another fifty, I would still want to marry you."

He laughed out loud, immeasureably relieved. He had not known, until this moment, how much her answer would mean to him.

"We must do some serious talking, in that case," he said. "I want to set a date for the wedding before I take you home."

Louisa smiled up at him, her shyness swamped by incredulous exultation. She was going to marry Mr. Elderfield; and ever since she was fourteen years old, no other dream had really mattered to her at all.

Part 2, The Venturer's Agent, Chapter 8

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