Read Online Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) by Helen Hollick - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Hollick
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creak of footsteps across the ceiling. Jesamiah’s muffled voice talking to the chambermaid. After a few moments the girl came hurrying down the stairs, her face flushed.
“My eye, but ’ee be summat t’ gan ‘ome to,” she remarked, glancing over her shoulder up the stairs. “Not see’d a man as ‘andsome as he a’vore!”
Pegget tutted loudly. “You as lace that clacker o’ yourn, young miss; the Cap’n be wed an’ you’ll be goin’ ‘ome t’ thy own man.”
“Bein’ wed dain’ make nort div’rence t’most’ bucks ‘bout ‘ere,” the old man cackled as he resettled himself near the fire. “Not t’them as makin’ use o’ Cock Lane. Got more o’ tha brandy, missus? Put’n to tha Cap’n’s bill, ‘uld ‘ee?”
Nine
There was no snow, but by dark the rain was falling as a miserable sleet. Up on the high desolate ground of Exmoor it was indeed snowing, but no one in Appledore cared to look towards the moors. The Full Moon had more custom than earlier in the day, the best seats by the fire taken by a rowdy group of redcoated soldiers, the local men sitting at the benches and settles in alcoves and shadowed corners ignoring them as best as may be. Few trusted the militia.
Nursing a tankard of cider, Jesamiah was at the table beside the window where the old man had sat earlier in the day. It looked out on to Cock Lane, the drang , a local term he had discovered, for a narrow alleyway. The faint light from one lantern hanging from a corner bracket pooled on the slick cobblestones, making them wink and glisten. Beyond the safe haven of light, nothing but blackness. If it was a prostitutes’ workplace, there was no soul plying her trade this cold, wet night. Before him, an empty plate – good china – was pushed to one side, only a few crumbs and a streak of gravy remaining of the venison and rabbit pie he had devoured. It had been enjoyable to eat something hot containing fresh meat and no unpleasant extras. His belly full, Jesamiah sat content, legs stretched out under the table, head resting against the back of the settle. Tiola was upstairs, asleep. The colour had started returning to her face, the fever subsiding. He was finally beginning to hope that she had been right – all she needed was to be on land and to get a restful night’s sleep. He sighed, drank more of the cider. One problem replaced by another. If his wife could not go to sea, then how could he? He had not taken a wife to leave her ashore while he sailed off for months on end, never knowing when he would be back. Add to that, why would he be sailing off? To what purpose? Ostensibly, he was a merchant trader looking for a buyer for his tobacco. Did he really want to ply back and forth across the Atlantic with a hold full of baccy, season after season? What would he do in the meantime? Set root at the Virginia plantation and grow the damned stuff?
He dabbed at the last of the gravy on the plate, licked the residue off his finger. A sedentary life ashore would drive him insane, but how could he leave Tiola behind? Maybe if she had a brood of children to care for it would be a different matter. He put the half empty tankard down. Cider was not really his preference, but Pegget Trevithick had presented him with it ‘on the house’. If he had children, sons, daughters, would he be pleased to stay at home? See them grow, teach the boys how to fight, how to sail? He chuckled quietly to himself. See off the young men who came sniffing round his daughters when they turned into young ladies. No fluff-chinned youth would ever be good enough as a prospective husband.
The door opened, sending in a swirl of wind that fluttered the candles and whirled across the floor, rippling it into little eddies and piles of sand. Two men came in. One removed an expensive oilskin cloak revealing the red uniform and gold braiding of a lieutenant’s rank, the other had an old battered seaman’s hat and canvas cloak which he removed as he
“My eye, but ’ee be summat t’ gan ‘ome to,” she remarked, glancing over her shoulder up the stairs. “Not see’d a man as ‘andsome as he a’vore!”
Pegget tutted loudly. “You as lace that clacker o’ yourn, young miss; the Cap’n be wed an’ you’ll be goin’ ‘ome t’ thy own man.”
“Bein’ wed dain’ make nort div’rence t’most’ bucks ‘bout ‘ere,” the old man cackled as he resettled himself near the fire. “Not t’them as makin’ use o’ Cock Lane. Got more o’ tha brandy, missus? Put’n to tha Cap’n’s bill, ‘uld ‘ee?”
Nine
There was no snow, but by dark the rain was falling as a miserable sleet. Up on the high desolate ground of Exmoor it was indeed snowing, but no one in Appledore cared to look towards the moors. The Full Moon had more custom than earlier in the day, the best seats by the fire taken by a rowdy group of redcoated soldiers, the local men sitting at the benches and settles in alcoves and shadowed corners ignoring them as best as may be. Few trusted the militia.
Nursing a tankard of cider, Jesamiah was at the table beside the window where the old man had sat earlier in the day. It looked out on to Cock Lane, the drang , a local term he had discovered, for a narrow alleyway. The faint light from one lantern hanging from a corner bracket pooled on the slick cobblestones, making them wink and glisten. Beyond the safe haven of light, nothing but blackness. If it was a prostitutes’ workplace, there was no soul plying her trade this cold, wet night. Before him, an empty plate – good china – was pushed to one side, only a few crumbs and a streak of gravy remaining of the venison and rabbit pie he had devoured. It had been enjoyable to eat something hot containing fresh meat and no unpleasant extras. His belly full, Jesamiah sat content, legs stretched out under the table, head resting against the back of the settle. Tiola was upstairs, asleep. The colour had started returning to her face, the fever subsiding. He was finally beginning to hope that she had been right – all she needed was to be on land and to get a restful night’s sleep. He sighed, drank more of the cider. One problem replaced by another. If his wife could not go to sea, then how could he? He had not taken a wife to leave her ashore while he sailed off for months on end, never knowing when he would be back. Add to that, why would he be sailing off? To what purpose? Ostensibly, he was a merchant trader looking for a buyer for his tobacco. Did he really want to ply back and forth across the Atlantic with a hold full of baccy, season after season? What would he do in the meantime? Set root at the Virginia plantation and grow the damned stuff?
He dabbed at the last of the gravy on the plate, licked the residue off his finger. A sedentary life ashore would drive him insane, but how could he leave Tiola behind? Maybe if she had a brood of children to care for it would be a different matter. He put the half empty tankard down. Cider was not really his preference, but Pegget Trevithick had presented him with it ‘on the house’. If he had children, sons, daughters, would he be pleased to stay at home? See them grow, teach the boys how to fight, how to sail? He chuckled quietly to himself. See off the young men who came sniffing round his daughters when they turned into young ladies. No fluff-chinned youth would ever be good enough as a prospective husband.
The door opened, sending in a swirl of wind that fluttered the candles and whirled across the floor, rippling it into little eddies and piles of sand. Two men came in. One removed an expensive oilskin cloak revealing the red uniform and gold braiding of a lieutenant’s rank, the other had an old battered seaman’s hat and canvas cloak which he removed as he
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