Read Online Eye of the Wind by Jane Jackson - Free Book Online

arm buckled, sliding off the mahogany. As he slumped forward his head hit the table with a thud that made the china jump and the cutlery rattle.
    For a split second Melissa simply stared, too shocked to move. Then, thrusting her chair back, she ran to him with Lobb only a pace behind.
    ‘Papa?’
    As the butler gripped his shoulders and pulled him upright, Francis Tregonning’s head flopped sideways. Melissa cupped her father’s face. The right side seemed to have slipped, like wax that had melted. His eyes were closed, and a silver thread drooled from one corner of his mouth.
    ‘Papa? What’s wrong?’
    ‘I fear your father has had a stroke, miss. I recognise the signs. Mrs Betts’s brother, Henry, was taken the same way. If you’ll ring for Gilbert we’ll get him up to his room while you call the doctor.’
    ‘What?’ The floor seemed to tilt, and the butler’s voice echoed strangely as fear rampaged through her. How serious was it? How was she to tell her mother? Who would take control now? What of the yard, the farm, the suppliers …
    ‘Come along now, Miss Melissa.’ Lobb’s voice, quiet but firm, pulled her back from the edge of panic. ‘Master wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this. Best if we get him upstairs as quick as we can.’
    ‘Yes. Of course.’ Sucking in a deep breath, she pressed clammy hands to her cheeks as she crossed the room to tug the bell rope. As soon as Gilbert arrived, she went to the kitchen to tell Sarah and Mrs Betts that her father had been taken ill, then sent Agnes to fetch John. Back in the hall, on her way to write a note for Dr Wherry, she was halted by the appalling spectacle of her proud father, the front of his breeches wet, hanging limp and undignified between the two men struggling up the stairs. 

Chapter Four
    Dawn had just broken when Gabriel woke. The rain had stopped and all around he could hear the drip of water from the leaves; too much of it dripping into the roofless part of the shack. The air smelled of wet earth and decaying vegetation. Dressing quickly, he had hurried to the beach for more remnants of sail canvas. He had found them, only to be severely jolted by an unexpected encounter with a startled horse and rider as he returned along the path.
    Back at the shack, slamming a mental door on desires too dangerous even to contemplate, he had washed his face and hands. Then, using his dagger to fashion a crude comb from a piece of wood, had worked most of the tangles from his hair before tying it back once more.
    He had never been a vain man, and had little patience with the extravagances of fashion. Some of his friends sported shirt points so high and stiff that turning the head was impossible without risking loss of an eye. Their jackets were cut so close that to put one on required the assistance of a valet and two servants. They admired buttons the size of saucers, and intricately arranged neckcloths that might take an hour and several attempts to achieve.
    When they chided him for his lack of style he merely shrugged, replying that they had his blessing to do as they wished. For himself, he believed life was too short to be wasted in front of a mirror. While he trusted Berryman with his boots, his razor, and his life, he was perfectly capable of dressing himself, and in truth he preferred to do so.
    Would he ever see any of them again? Even if he did, things could never be the same. For though he had been absent a little less than a year he was no longer the man they had known.
    Aware that he had not yet fully recovered, and the day would tax his strength to its limit, Gabriel deliberately ate a hearty breakfast. It was, he decided as he finished all that remained of the food, an act of faith: faith in himself. He had stolen because he’d had no choice. And he had been lucky, for had he been caught, the outcome, once his identity was known, would be death. So if he wanted to eat again, that day or any other, obtaining work was