Mistress of the Storm (24 page)

In the Gallant house, Verity opened her eyes to the rose-patterned wallpaper of her room. Even though the curtains were drawn she could tell it was very early. Day was breaking and the birds in the tree outside her window were busily telling each other off.

She lay still under the covers as, guiltily, she remembered the row with Henry and Martha. She pulled on some clothes, tucked the smooth wooden ball into her pocket, crept downstairs and left the house. The town was so still at this time of day. It only took a few minutes to reach Henry’s house, and she soon secured his attention with a few carefully aimed stones.

He opened the back door in his pyjamas, rubbing his head. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he asked.

Verity shook her head and followed him in.

‘I expect it was the worry of falling out with your brilliant friend,’ he said, making for the kettle.

Verity grinned, relieved to have been forgiven. ‘Probably,’ she agreed. ‘Sorry,’ she added.

‘ ’S all right,’ said Henry, spooning out tea from a tin. ‘It’s a lot to deal with.’

Verity looked gratefully at him. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘I think it’s pretty clear you’d be in a terrible state,’ said Henry, mock-seriously.

Verity laughed.

‘Why don’t we go sailing?’ he suggested. ‘We could get Martha and take
Poor Honesty
out for a spin. She’s never been sailing before, has she?’

Verity thought longingly of a day on the water. She could almost smell the breeze now. It would be lovely to forget her worries for a few hours.

‘We must have read every book ever written on your grandmother and the Gentry,’ Henry went on. ‘Well, Martha has. Anyway, it can’t be good for you, all that paper.’

‘A morning couldn’t hurt,’ Verity conceded. Perhaps it would bring inspiration on what to do about Father? Right now a few hours of freedom seemed worth the risk of Grandmother’s wrath.

‘Mum could make sandwiches,’ said Henry as Mrs Twogood came downstairs in a quilted dressing gown, rollers still in.

‘A nice trip out,’ she said approvingly. ‘Get a bit of colour back in your cheeks.’

Sadly the new day had brought only a grey pallor to Mother Usage’s complexion. She groaned as she lifted her head from the table. The Spyglass Inn swam slowly into view. Drinking away the disappointment of last night had come at a price.

Fellow wreckers were strewn around the bar. One snorted and looked up, a congealed piece of chicken stuck to his face. Mother ignored him and heaved herself upright. She stumbled to the door and let herself out. Time to look for that idiot son of hers.

The unmistakable thud and clatter of the cottage door alerted Villainous to her return. He’d been washed and dressed since before the sun rose. He looked cleaner and tidier than he had in years. But there was something else about his appearance that had changed. His posture was different: he was standing straight, not loping or slouching. He moved with a quiet … dignity almost: yes, it was a dignity of sorts. Stealing the Storm Bringer had been a baptism of fire indeed.

Inside, Villainous shrank. It takes more than one night to wipe out a lifetime of fear. But he was determined to plough a new furrow.

‘Here he is. The great hero of the hour,’ Mother sneered as she dragged her mass into the room.

Villainous said nothing.

‘You’re a sorry excuse for a son,’ she snapped.

He nodded. ‘I know you think that,’ he said. He didn’t cry, because the tears had been beaten out of him years ago. But it still hurt. She may have been a terrible mother, but she was the only one he’d got, and now she was lost to him. He had to change; she never would.

Verity, Henry and Martha anchored
Poor Honesty
in Soul Bay, then sat enjoying the sandwiches Mrs Twogood had made. The breeze was gentle and the sun was shining. It was a beautiful day. Verity closed her eyes and let the sea air wash over her. The smell of the ocean refreshed her like a tonic. The warm spring light bounced off the waves. It had been a lovely trip. What a brilliant idea to go sailing.

‘Just what we needed,’ said Henry, beaming.

Martha’s freckled nose wrinkled with genuine pleasure. ‘It’s lovely out here,’ she said. ‘I can see why you enjoy sailing so much.’

Verity smiled warmly at her friends. ‘I really appreciate it,’ she said earnestly. ‘Your help, I mean. I know it hasn’t been easy … I know
I
haven’t been easy.’

Henry grinned in reply. ‘You’ve been a right pain in the bum. But if this isn’t what friends are for, I don’t know what is.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Martha.

Verity gazed happily out at the view. All the colours today were so vivid: the terracotta orange of the sandstone cliffs, the azure sky, the emerald sea. It was beautiful. She
wished she could spend the rest of her life out here. She wished they could sail away right now, and never come back.

She looked at the harbour. In the distance she could just make out the dots of various moorings. ‘There are a lot of boats milling around,’ she said, frowning. ‘Is something happening?’

Henry turned round to look. He watched the vessels ferrying to and fro. There was a distinct pattern to their movements.

He fumbled quickly in his pocket, pulling out a pair of mini binoculars to scan the horizon. ‘They’re ferrying goods to the
Storm
,’ he said urgently. Verity and Martha didn’t understand. ‘The ship is preparing to leave,’ he explained.

Verity’s mouth opened in astonishment. ‘That can’t be good,’ she said.

In Wellow itself, Mrs Gallant was under no illusions that things were not as they should be. She gripped the kitchen table. Her stomach clenched in another agonizing contraction.

‘This isn’t right,’ she puffed anxiously when she could finally speak. ‘It’s too early.’

Her aged guest appeared silently at the door. ‘Not everyone has your patience,’ she said grimly.

‘How kind’ – Mrs Gallant glanced at the bag in her mother-in-law’s hand – ‘of you to pack some things for me.’

‘This way, Felicity,’ said the old lady as she steered her out of the house, leaves skittering around her in circles on the path.

Mrs Gallant staggered on her arm, the pace too quick for her. ‘Where is Tom?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Where are Verity and Poppy?’

‘How could I have gone on a sailing trip?’
Verity gasped. She was racked with guilt. The familiar pressure was bearing down on her again. ‘How could I leave her alone with my family? What’s she up to?’

‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ soothed Martha. ‘Perhaps she’s just decided to leave.’

‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Verity, a sense of panic rising within her, ‘do you?’

‘Let’s just get back to Wellow,’ said Henry with more confidence than he felt.

Verity sat at the tiller in a horrified daze. This was like a waking nightmare. Henry had already leaped into action, tuning the sails to get the best speed from the wind.

‘Jump over here and sit your body out,’ he shouted to Martha. ‘We need the dinghy to be as flat as possible.’ He looked around anxiously. ‘Let’s get going. We have to go round that whole sandbank.’

Verity stared at him. A memory flashed through her head. She scanned the waters. There it was: the withy. ‘We can take a short cut through it,’ she shouted.

Henry stared at her in horrified disbelief. ‘No we can’t. We’ll get stuck.’

‘Jeb told me about it,’ she explained. ‘It’s a Gentry route. See the withy? We have to keep it to the right and head straight for the pepperpot. It’ll save half an hour easily.’

‘Verity, my family have been sailing these waters for generations. We were Gentry too, remember?’ Henry pointed out.

But Verity didn’t have time to argue. A feeling of calm authority took possession of her. She moved the tiller to point
Poor Honesty
in the right direction.

‘Martha, ease that sheet,’ she instructed; ‘that rope there, let it out a little – we’ll reach, so it’ll be faster.’

Martha stared desperately, first at Verity and then at Henry. She registered Verity’s determined face and did as she asked, letting out the sail to take more wind and pick up speed.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Henry demanded, trying to grab the tiller. ‘Father will go mental if we ground his boat.’

‘We won’t.’ Verity pushed him back with a strength born of desperation. ‘We can get through. It’s shorter and quicker. Look at the speed we’re picking up already. Henry, we
have
to do it,’ she pleaded.

They were at the withy now. Just a simple stick of willow Jeb had attached to a weighted float. Verity looked up at the cliff, searching for the pepperpot. She corrected
the position of the dinghy, her heart in her mouth. The channel was so narrow. The centreboard started to scrape against the sandbank.

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ cursed Henry as he reached across to pull it up. ‘The tide’s going out,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to be stuck here.’

Verity shook her head vigorously, as if to shake even the possibility from her mind. She scanned the water on either side. She could see the yellow of the sandbank below the surface. There were a few yards to go now. Her chest was tight. She could hardly breathe. They
had
to make it.

‘We’re through,’
bellowed Henry in astonishment, slapping the side of
Poor Honesty
in amazed relief.

Martha whooped with joy.

Verity beamed. ‘We did it.’

‘You’ve got the nerve of the devil,’ announced Henry, shaking his head in disbelief.

Verity grinned mischievously. ‘Let’s get a move on,’ she said. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’

Neither – unfortunately for her – had her mother. The cottage hospital at Wellow was a maelstrom of activity. Mrs Gallant focused on an area of wall in an effort to ignore the pain. It had been such a long time since she’d last given birth and she was on the point of collapse, exhausted and frightened.

‘Almost there,’ encouraged the midwife. ‘You’re doing really well … keep going.’

In another room the nurses huddled together anxiously. ‘Still no sign of the father,’ said one with concern. They heard steps – hard, confident steps. A sharp gust rattled the door.

‘Ah, Mrs Gallant’s mother-in-law,’ said the most senior, a slightly bovine lady. ‘I really do think it would be as well to fetch Mr Gallant.’

The old lady raised an imperious eyebrow as she appeared in the doorway. ‘Why exactly?’

‘Your daughter-in-law is tired,’ explained the midwife. ‘Having her husband here might lift her spirits.’

‘I am the child’s grandmother,’ said the old lady haughtily. ‘Who better to attend than me?’

The midwife opened her mouth to start a new line of attack, then looked up. A primal bolt of fear shot through her. ‘Of course,’ she said.

As the door blew shut behind her, the old lady smiled quietly. This was almost too easy. Why had she troubled herself for so long about that idiot child Verity? There was no one here to stop her. All she had to do was wait for the infant to be born and take it. Suddenly the bleating mew of a newborn baby came drifting through the walls.
It was here
.

Time to leave.

Verity’s heart pounded as Henry moored the dinghy to the jetty of Wellow harbour.

‘She’ll be OK here for a bit,’ he panted.

The quay was bustling with onlookers who had heard the
Storm
was leaving. Verity, Henry and Martha got off
Poor Honesty
and climbed up a nearby ladder for a better vantage point.

Verity scanned the crowd anxiously.

‘Over there,’ shouted Henry, first – as ever – to spot the target.

Grandmother was on the other side of the quay, clutching a bundle to her chest. Abednego was assisting her into a small rowing boat.

‘Look who’s with her,’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Miranda Blake is in the boat too.’

‘The brooch …’ said Verity. ‘The brooch – it
was
Grandmother’s – I think Miranda’s being sort of paid by her,’ she explained.

‘Well, Blake’s met her match this time,’ said Henry.

‘It doesn’t make sense …’ Verity frowned. ‘Why would Grandmother just leave – so easily – after all this time?’

She belted along the jetty, possessed by an overwhelming conviction that something was wrong. She scrambled up another small ladder to the quay and pushed her way through the crowd. Her heart was beating so fast it hurt. It was like wading through treacle: trying to get past all these milling people who were completely oblivious to the drama playing out in front of them.

‘Easy, girl, you’ll get your chance for a look,’ said one man, not unkindly.

‘Grandmother,’ Verity shouted as she ducked and
shoved, mindless of how rude people thought she was. ‘Grandmother, where are you going?’

Abednego had already put the oars in the rowlocks and was preparing to cast off. Verity saw Miranda taking the bundle from her grandmother. It seemed to be moving. Suddenly her blood ran cold.

Miranda turned, looking at Verity with cool disdain. ‘Meet your new sister,’ she lisped contemptuously, holding up a tiny new baby.

‘My sister?’ gasped Verity, horrified. ‘But it’s too early … it’s not due yet … a
sister
? I’ve got another sister,’ she gabbled, overwhelmed.

‘That’s what I said,’ replied Miranda. ‘Are you deaf?’

‘Hand her to me – please,’ Verity shouted desperately as the reality of the situation sank in. ‘You’re both in terrible danger. Take the baby and get off the boat now.’

‘I’m sure it’s a wrench, Verity,’ the little girl said crisply, ‘but in the better kind of families it’s very normal for children to be brought up by elder relatives.’

‘She’s taking my sister,’ Verity shouted angrily from the quay. She stared beseechingly at Abednego. ‘Why are you helping her?’ she asked. ‘Don’t let her take my sister away.’

Abednego said nothing as he untied the mooring rope, his face furrowed with sorrow.

Verity couldn’t understand it. Why had he given her the book if he wasn’t prepared to help now? She jumped down to the jetty, readying herself to board.

‘Abednego,’ Grandmother barked, her anger rocking the boat.

He picked Verity up as if she were as light as the foam on a wave, holding her firmly, ignoring her struggles. Verity no longer cared what physical danger she might be in. She pummelled and kicked, prised and wriggled, but it made no difference. Abednego tucked her under his arm and climbed up a short ladder to the quay. Grandmother and Miranda laughed at the sight.