Chapter Three #4
“I don’t, necessarily. I merely keep an open mind.
I always leave a fish as an offering in the cove before a cruise, and upon our return, it’s always gone.
Did the gulls eat it or was it the Bucca, accepting my offer and sending fair winds?
Who knows…But though I’ve sailed in many a storm, I haven’t yet lost a ship.
” A pause, unexpectedly heavy, then he says, “The men reckon it’s the Bucca’s doing.
Who am I to contradict them and set their nerves a-fraying? ”
“That’s very calculating. It sounds like you don’t know what you believe.”
“Is it? I like to think of it as insurance.”
Part of the blanket hangs off the side of the bed. She pushes at it with her foot and watches it sway. “Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Smuggling.” She recalls Lieutenant Sowerby’s words, of how smugglers aid the French, and how he hanged Jed Ferries for treason. “It’s not just breaking the law; it’s aiding the French.”
With obvious effort, he tries to push himself up on his elbows. She says, “No, don’t, it’s not good for the wound.”
Jack says, “Do you know what the tax is on brandy?”
“Does it matter? People can do without brandy very well if they can’t afford it.”
“Tea, then, and salt? The tax on tea alone is over one hundred percent.” Studying her, he adds, “I’ll wager you didn’t know that.”
Of course she didn’t—she has never had to buy her own tea before. And if it’s taxed at 100 percent, she won’t be buying it as often as she had hoped on her widow’s pension. She tries not to show her disappointment as Jack continues. “Or what of sugar, tobacco, dried fruit, coal even?”
“You never smuggle coal,” she says, thinking, sugar, too?
He laughs, softly this time, so it doesn’t pull on the wound. “True. There’s no profit in it.”
“So don’t make out as if you’re smuggling out of the good of your heart, for the people to have their goods cheaply.”
“Not cheaply—affordably,” he says. “And I don’t make any such pretense.
Of course I’m doing it for profit. I’ve just had a new ship built.
She’s fifty tons and I intend to make thousands in her.
” A pause as he shifts on the mattress. “We had several poor harvests in a row, starting in ’99.
That’s what got me to consider smuggling. I needed the money.”
She looks at him sharply; she hadn’t taken him for a farmer.
But with the tan—yes, she could see him working on the land.
Jack continues. “Now I’ve got a taste for it.
The profit comes first, but my men and I wouldn’t be able to get those profits if the system of taxation wasn’t inherently unfair.
And so by smuggling and augmenting my wealth, I do help those that could not otherwise afford such things.
” He looks as if he’s about to say more but then stops himself.
“And you help the French,” she says, grasping George’s medal.
“I suppose I do.”
“That does not bother you?”
“Not very much. I get the feeling it bothers you far more, as a widow of Nelson’s campaign against the French Navy.”
“Of course it does. It should bother everyone.”
“Why? Because the French believe every man should be equal? Because they decree liberté, égalité, fraternité?”
He pronounces the French effortlessly, with the correct accent. It’s not what she expected. She says, “Because they cut off the heads of their superiors and those who disagree with them.”
“I don’t much like the way they’ve gone about things, I’ll admit. But the principle of the thing doesn’t upset me. Though one does wonder how they manage to run a ship, being each other’s equals.”
“They’re not,” she says, thinking of her father’s absolute authority aboard his ships. “They couldn’t run a ship if they were. Or perhaps that’s why they keep losing.”
“Only at sea. Boney did all right at Austerlitz.”
She pushes the blanket with her foot again. “I’m certain nobody truly believed they were Napoleon’s equal in that battle or any other.”
“You’re probably correct. Still, the taxes levied to keep the war going are what’s fueling the smuggling. Show me one Cornishman who believes the tax is fair and I’ll gladly give it up.”
She holds his gaze and says, “You would never.”
He laughs again and she watches the pain move across his face. “You’ve got the measure of me, madam.”
“Not madam,” she says. “Isabel.”
“Isabel,” he says more soberly. “Are you as weary as I am?”
“Wearier.”
“Shall we rest awhile?”
She leans back against the wall. The light patterns are turning to shadows. “You rest.”
He lifts his head and says, “I’ve been here before…
to the cottage. The place has been empty for years.
I’d heard you were coming into the area, but I didn’t realize you’d be living in the old pilchard shed.
” He shuts his eyes a moment as if gathering his thoughts.
“I know this is the only bed in the cottage and I’m afraid I’m in no state to leave it at present.
However, you’re welcome to share it with me.
There’s enough space for two, and though I may not look it, I am a gentleman—” He stops and says quickly, “at heart, that is. I wouldn’t lay a finger on you, even if I were fit to do so. ”
He looks terribly earnest. Sounds it, too. The bed is calling her, even with the hard mattress and the straw pricking her back. She’s so, so tired. “People would talk,” she says.
“Not if they don’t know.”
She holds her top lip between her teeth as she thinks.
Jack says, “I’m trusting you with my life at the moment. I think you can trust me with this.”
She gets up, smoothing down her chemise as if she’s fully dressed. “Very well.”
He pats the space next to him with his left hand and she walks to the other side of the bed.
Lifting the hem of her chemise, she climbs on top of it.
It’s warm in the room, and after a moment’s consideration, she shrugs off the pelisse and places it at the foot end.
Then she lies on her side, leaving as much space between her and the smuggler as she can find and pushes her hand under her cheek.