Kit shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Of course he wasn’t sure, but he was not about to admit it. “Got no worries, Ben.” The lie was wasted because the older man understood him better than anyone else, having treated him like a son over the years. He gave Ben his most persuasive look. “Gonna give it all I’ve got."

 

His face burned hard by sea winds, the captain nodded sagely. “If things don’t work out … ” He offered a handshake with apparent reluctance, releasing it quickly as if that brief clasping of hands was also a moment of loss for him.

 

Kit motioned to his sea chest on the deck nearby. “You’ll see it gets to the mail coach?"

 

“Of course,” Ben said amidst a cloud of pungent tobacco smoke. “Now be off with you,” his voice turned hoarse, “before I try to knock some sense into you."

 

Kit managed a weak smile then dusted snowflakes from his jacket, pulled up his coat collar to his ears and shouldered his worn carpetbag. With a last farewell he strode down the gangway without looking back. Lingering doubts still haunted him as he crossed the slushy grey quay cobbles, aiming into a narrow alley that led towards Plymouth town. Snow settled quickly onto his hair and an icy chill soon ran through his frame.

 

Ben was right; he was on his own now. He couldn’t turn back without loss of face and he was nothing if not a proud man.

 

In the town’s darker reaches, Kit walked assertively beneath upper storeys that leaned nose-to-nose across a cobbled lane where the snow was stained with decayed food, faeces and urine. His eyes stung from the sooty blanket of chimney smoke that pressed down between the rooftops and darkened the snow gathered on the slates. Lamps glowed ghostlike from an uneven series of windows, shimmering in the hazy atmosphere. Icicles grew silently, drip by drip, from ledges and sills.

 

Reaching the Admiral Nelson Inn, a place he knew well from previous voyages, Kit lingered beneath its wooden signboard that rattled in greeting. The same interior lamps burned behind the glazed door, the same unsavoury smell of recently emptied piss-pots hung about the alley.

 

Raised voices spilled from inside the building and Kit registered the noise with indifference; he was no stranger to fights and arguments in harbour towns. Catching a glimpse of a frail young prostitute loitering in a next doorway, he fumed: “Go home, wench!” He shook his head at the waste. He had seen too many such wretched beings and his revulsion persisted.

 

She snorted at him indignantly, and tangles of black serpent’s tails fell forward across her face. Before she backed out of sight, Kit registered the hollow shame in her eyes caught by a slant of candlelight.

 

Somewhere inside the inn, a man bellowed, a feral growl from a primitive hunter. A woman’s piercing cry of pain immediately followed, curdling the blood in Kit’s veins. Then he heard a harsh scuffle of feet.

 

“Harlot!” Furniture crashed.

 

The unseen situation opened Kit’s mind to painful memories and thoughts of home. He peered in against the inn’s mottled window glass, and gritted his teeth at the sight of a woman under attack.

 

Appalled, he hurried into the taproom, pausing to allow his eyes to adapt to the yellow flickering lamplight while stamping heavy clumps of snow from his boots. The heat and smell hit out at him; a heady, claustrophobic mix of sweat, ale and pipe smoke.

 

Slamming the door shut, he scanned the room, just in time for another piercing scream to resonate against the walls. He thought of leaving and finding a quieter inn at the top end of the town, but the Admiral Nelson Inn was the hostelry he always came to in Plymouth and he was not going to be easily put off.

 

“Let me through!” He pushed his way forward, dragging his bag at his side. But where was the woman under attack?

 

Hostile stares fixed him briefly then swung back to the centre of the room where two men faced up to each other.

 

“Stand up for a harlot, would you!”

 

At a glance, Kit took in the larger of the combatants who wore a rich blue velvet coat. His angry red cheeks bloomed behind splayed side-whiskers and he aimed his riding crop accusingly to his opponent, a wasted, hollow-eyed man covered with a stained fishing smock.

 

The onlookers remained strangely silent, oddly detached from the conflict and that puzzled Kit. Most seafaring men needed no excuse to pitch into a fight.

 

“She’m a lady! You hit a lady.” The fisherman, his teeth bared and fists at the ready in front of him, waited for the next move on the woman.

 

Lady? What lady? Kit glanced around at the spectators, expecting an explanation and getting none. He pulled at the jacket of the man nearest to him. “What the hell’s going on here?”

 

“Keep out of this, stranger, ’tes none of your business.”

 

Maybe the onlooker was right. Maybe he should walk away. He released the man as his stomach grumbled, louder this time. He had not eaten since the Tamarith berthed early that morning. His determination on a hot meal despite the commotion had him jostle his way to an empty table. He dropped his bag to the floor and slumped down into a hard settle.

 

The watchers budged and Kit saw the combatants circle around their makeshift arena, eyeing each other warily. He grimaced at the unfair conflict. Why had no one stopped the fight? Were they afraid of the consequences?

 

A buxom, rosy-cheeked serving wench elbowed her way through the crowd, ale spilling from two pewter pots, and Kit rose to draw her attention. “Nell!” She jerked to a halt, and her gaze fell on him. He was glad to clap eyes on her friendly face as she approached a table nearby. He nodded towards the fight. “What’s this all about?”

 

She paused, chewed at her ripe lips and – with a shrug and a sigh – handed the pots of ale to a pair of sullen customers. Then, without a word, she turned towards the kitchen.

 

“Nell!”

 

The girl glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”

 

“I need some food, dammit! And a drink.”

 

She nodded and forced her way back through the crowd to fetch his order. Kit sat down, eyeing the plate of mutton on the next table over. Then he flinched, catching a fleeting glimpse of a woman in her twenties spread-eagled on her back.

 

The jostling onlookers had edged apart, giving him a clear sight of her. She sported a livid red gash across her forehead and her long, shiny black hair spilled wide on the filthy sawdust floor.

 

He leapt again to his feet as anger forced a taste of bile up into his throat. With relief, he saw her raise herself onto her elbows then fumble with a torn shawl tangled around her arms.

 

Suddenly noticing that her pale blue dress was rucked up above her knees, she quickly reached down to adjust it. He didn’t miss the fine, shapely knees leading down to well-contoured legs. Nearby, a sailor sniggered and instantly, her eyes radiated terror.

 

A stab of pain ran behind Kit’s eyes. Her reaction was not one of a common whore caught up in a taproom brawl. Something was very wrong. A sharp memory flashed through his mind: the image of his youngest brother, Clem, looming over a frightened Negro woman while he beat her to within an inch of her life.

 

Kit fisted his hands, his nails digging hard into his palms. Hell’s teeth! Not again – not here in his new homeland!

 

Why would only one old man come to the victim’s aid? Well, he wouldn’t stand aside like the rest of them. Determined to help, he powered a path between the tight-packed bodies until no one stood between him and the softly whimpering woman.

 

He knelt beside her. “Let me help you, ma’am.” He clasped her hand, unusually firm for a lady, and eased her to a sitting position.

 

“Thank you.” With a grateful smile, She wiped at the blood on her forehead. Her skin was ashen beneath the red flow trickling down her face.

 

“You!” A menacing shadow fell over Kit. “Leave that bitch alone, God rot you! You’re in me way.”

 

With barely contained outrage, Kit released the woman’s warm hand. He swung round on one knee to face the speaker. “You addressing me?”

 

The man grinned, but no humour reached his eyes. “Who else?”

 

Kit eyed him warily, biding his time. He had downed such bullies before and knew the importance of choosing the right moment to act.

 

The man’s pockmarked cheeks quivered beneath his bushy side-whiskers as a sneer creased his face and he slapped his riding crop impatiently against well-filled breeches. “Did you hear me, stranger? Or do I have to take me whip to you as well?”

 

Kit allowed a brief silence to envelop him, breathing deep in his struggle to control his pounding heartbeat. Slowly, he sought the fisherman. The old man, with rough, weather-beaten skin, cast a keen eye over the new confrontation, his arms out still at the ready to continue the affray.

 

With a simmering gaze aimed at the well-dressed attacker, Kit attempted to end the confrontation peacefully. “It seems to me this lady needs protection.”

 

“Ah, a colonial!” the whiskered man slurred, adding: “keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you and leave the bitch to me.”

 

Kit rose to his feet, vigilantly. Drawing another deep breath, he squared up to the man armed with the crop while, from the corner of his eye, he saw the fisherman stand back, blood still dripping from his shadowed cheek.

 

“I don’t mean to intrude in anyone’s business here.” Kit kept a watchful eye on the crop. “It ain’t my way. But I take exception to men who attack women.”

 

“None of your business.” The man laughed acidly, and his eyes took on a glint of expectation. “I warned you to keep out of this.” He raised his right hand jerkily then flashed the crop forward.

 

Kit sidestepped the blow and caught the man’s forearm. With one deft move, he jerked the arm behind the man’s back, forcing him to his knees, his velvet coat billowing out as he fell heavily with a laboured breath gasping from between thick lips.

 

Before the assailant could rise of his own accord, Kit grabbed a handful of the coat and hoisted the man to his feet. He gave a curt nod to the fisherman, and jerked his head toward the door. Understanding the gesture, the old fisherman jumped ahead of them. With an ease born out of many years at sea, Kit propelled his catch towards the exit.

 

“Open it!” he ordered, and the fisherman grinned broadly, wrenching open the door. Kit summoned up all his reserves of strength and, with one giant heave, threw the insulted bully out into the snow. The fisherman slammed the door shut and wiped his hands together decisively.

 

A strange sense of elation swept through Kit, as if he had satisfied an unrecognised desire for retribution. “Reckon he’ll come back for more?”

 

The fisherman touched his forelock. “Not straight away, sur. Ee was on his own and I reckon ee won’t come back ’til ee’s got others with him. Reckon ee’ll find some rich hotel for the night and lick his wounds.”

 

“Good.” Kit dusted sawdust from his breeches and sniffed with distaste. Close up, the fisherman’s clothes released a heady odour of putrefying fish. Kit hurried back to the woman and thrust out a hand to help her to her feet. “Maybe he’ll think again when he’s sobered up some.”

 

She stared up at him, traumatized and hesitant, before she finally accepted his grasp. On her feet, she quickly snatched her hand away, her lower lip trembling.

 

The mumbling customers returned to their drink and food as the excitement died away. The innkeeper appeared, a platter of mutton in each hand, seemingly unconcerned that any conflict had occurred on his premises.

 

“Let me help you to a table, ma’am,” Kit volunteered.

 

“No. I’ll be all right.” She straightened to her full height. “You’ve done enough. Please don’t get yourself into any more trouble on my account.”

 

Kit caught a tremble in her voice. “It ain’t no trouble. What was the commotion all about?”

 

“A private matter.” The woman covered her face with her hands and blew a long breath, seemingly relieved. She dropped her hands and gave him a pleading look. “Please don’t ask me to explain.” She spoke with more than a hint of Cornish accent and yet, to Kit, it sounded so soft, almost melodic.

 

“If you say so.” He inclined his head briefly, indicating the matter was closed. It was none of his business, but she was a pretty young thing; too pretty to be mixed up in a taproom brawl. “You got far to go?”

 

“No.” She waved towards the stairs. “I’ve a room here tonight and I’ll be travelling on in the morning. I’ll be safe enough now.”

 

In this place? Kit wasn’t so sure. “Only as long as that man don’t come back with his friends. Who is he?”

 

From the taproom bar, the fisherman grunted loudly: “That be Ralph Killiow, sur,” he said, a slow smile spreading over his face hiding thoughts Kit could only guess at. “His father be Squire Killiow down at Penmarith. Big landowners, they be. Wise men don’t mix it with them.”

 

Kit raised a brow. “You did.”

 

“Which makes thee an’ me the only fools here.” The fisherman winked while wiping a hand down his bloodied cheek.

 

“Reckon you’re right.” Kit snorted. “Penmarith, you say? Well, I guess Mister Killiow and I just might have to cross swords again one day.”

 

The woman’s expression filled with alarm. “Not on my account?”

 

“No, ma’am.” He was in no mood to explain as his stomach grumbled, seemingly loud enough for her to hear.

 

“You’re very kind, both of you coming to my aid.” She gave each man in turn a sincere smile.

 

“’Twas least we could do, mistress,” the fisherman sniffed loudly, and with an air of disgust, eyed the other customers. “Even if others was afraid to.”

 

In the background, the serving wench called to Kit. He sought her with a glance, and she winked at him as she rattled a jar of ale and a platter of mutton onto his table. Her pendulous bosom heaved, as if she anticipated his intimate attention. He raised a brief smile at her then returned his attention to the intriguing woman beside him. “If you get any more trouble, you just holler for me. I aim to stay here tonight.”

 

“I hope that won’t be necessary.”

 

“Me too. I’ll bid you good night, ma’am.” Kit gave her a parting nod, anxious to fill his stomach and enjoy Nell’s company, but the young lady held out her hand to him awkwardly.

 

“Wenna. My name is Wenna Lanyon, not ma’am.”

 

“Christopher Vanson. Kit to my friends.” He took her hand lightly and released it almost immediately. Her presence here, amongst hardened seamen, worried him; she was out of place. “If you’ve had your supper, I reckon it’s best you get away to your room. I’ll buy a jar of ale for our friend here.” He clapped a hand on the fisherman’s shoulder. “He deserves it.”

 

The fisherman grinned broadly, displaying a line of broken, black teeth. He ambled away to where Nellie waited at Kit’s table, the stink of fish wafting in his wake.

 

“Mistress Lanyon!” Kit raised a hand towards her to catch her attention, but Wenna strode purposefully through the taproom, head held high, glancing neither left nor right. Barely pausing in her stride, she exited straight into the chill morning air where snow billowed on the wind. He lowered his hand slowly, stung by an apparent rebuff.

 

Apart from a bandage about Wenna’s forehead and pallor lingering in her cheeks, the events of the previous evening might never have happened. He had an urge to chase after her, but changed his mind. Likely, they would never meet again, and perhaps it was better that way. He was, after all, a seaman saddled with a shaman’s curse, and she was a lady worthy of a decent man’s attention.

 

“Coach be waitin’ to leave, Mr Vanson.” The landlord lumbered up behind him, rubbing his palms together briskly. “You best be on yer way, sur.”

 

Kit nodded and pushed aside his square wooden trencher. “Three things you should never keep waiting,” he observed. He downed the last of his mulled ale and rose, drawing his cloak closely about himself. “A coach, a ship and a good lady.”

 

The landlord eyed him keenly. “Reckon you been well acquainted with all three, sur.”

 

“Maybe.” Kit smiled.

 

Outside, an icy sharpness honed the morning atmosphere and a thick layer of snow lay on the cobbles. He hurried down the narrow alleyway leading to the stable yard behind the inn where the coach waited. As he strode beneath a lone tree, it shivered from the wind, which suddenly took strength, shaking loose flecks of white. He dusted himself off as he walked on while gulls squawked overhead, sharp, raucous sounds like cries of complaint.

 

“Be you the last one, then?” the driver called out to Kit. Did the growl in his voice betray his irritation at the weather or being kept waiting?

 

Kit nodded to him then scanned the sky, blowing a stream of warm breath into his cupped hands. It was time to move on.

 

Startled, he stopped in mid stride, one boot on the coach’s step, and frowned at the sight of Wenna Lanyon already settled by a window seat, staring straight ahead as if deep in thought.

 

So, this was what she meant by ‘travelling on’. Rapidly composing himself, he clambered aboard, slammed shut the door and took the vacant seat next to her. She snapped her gaze down to her clasped hands, as if afraid to acknowledge him.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Kit settled back in the seat, noting a flush rise in her cheeks, coy and so endearing. Clearly, it was shyness that governed her behaviour, not rudeness. How could he persist in feeling annoyed with her?

 

Two other travellers occupied the opposite bench, both tightly wrapped against the biting cold air that swept down from the white-capped moorland hills. An elderly but heavily built man in clerical dress sat beside a thin, sharp-nosed woman. From their closeness, Kit surmised she was the clergyman’s wife. Both had humourless faces, his red and surly, hers pale and thin-lipped. The cleric held a leather-bound prayer book open on his lap, strumming his fingers impatiently against the pages.

 

Kit glanced again to his side, fixating first on Wenna’s faded cloak. Was she a woman of slender means? That would explain her presence at the Admiral Nelson. He chanced a longer perusal. Apart from the bandage, her head was bare and her long, shiny hair fell loose about her shoulders. Her oval face was pure as newly fired porcelain.

 

As if she sensed his scrutiny, she turned and smiled at him briefly in recognition, nothing more than a cursory formality, then she returned her attention to the winter scene outside the window. In one fleeting moment, he caught the straight line of her mouth as her smile died away and creases formed about her delicate eyes.

 

With a jerk, the coach pulled away from the inn, throwing the elderly clergyman off guard. He grabbed at his prayer book and fell forward. Kit reached out a hand to support him and pushed him back onto the bench.

 

“Our coachman seems in a hurry.” The hint of a scowl crossed the cleric’s face as he settled deeper in his seat.

 

Kit glanced outside. “He’s noticed the storm brewing from the north. We sure don’t want to be caught out in it.”

 

“No doubt.” The clergyman neatly rearranged his black frock coat. With his prayer book returned primly to his lap, he studied Kit. “Do I judge from your speech, sir, that you are from our one-time American colonies?”

 

“It’s that obvious, eh?” Kit grinned uncomfortably. How would the English gentry react to his arrival in England? Rumours claimed they could be cold and uninviting. “I’ve just worked my passage from New York,” he admitted.

 

“You’re a Southern gentleman, ’pon my soul.” The clergyman’s affable tone and his educated accent came across easily, so out of keeping with the Cornish people’s strange way of speaking. “Believe me, sir, I have the ear to recognise a gentleman, even one from so far afield.”

 

“Alabama. My pa owned land out there.” Ending the sentence abruptly, Kit clamped his mouth shut, not wanting the conversation to stray into that dangerous matter – slavery.

 

The clergyman leaned forward and offered a hand in greeting. “Reverend George Beattie.”

 

Kit shook the man’s hand passively, noting Beattie’s unusually firm grip for a man of his age and size. “Christopher Vanson.”

 

With a wave, Beattie then indicated the woman at his side. “My wife. If we can be of any assistance to you during your visit ...”

 

“It’s no visit, Reverend. I’m here to stay. I’ve inherited my grandpappy’s farm.”

 

“Vanson?” The clergyman’s brow creased in puzzlement. “The name is not unknown hereabouts. There are Vansons in Tywardreath and Fowey.”

 

“My grandpappy was John Vanson. He lived at Tregover Farm near the village of Penmarith.”

 

“Penmarith?” Wenna gasped, swinging her head towards him.

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Kit tilted his head towards her, fully expecting her to join in the conversation, but she shifted uneasily in her seat.

 

“Nothing … I’m sorry,” she replied and hurriedly turned her attention back to the scene beyond the coach window.

 

“I know Penmarith well, sir,” the cleric added.

 

Kit turned to him, noting how Beattie’s brows rose above podgy features while he ran his hands blindly over the prayer book, as if reassuring himself that it was still in place.

 

“My wife and I are good friends of old Squire Killiow, poor soul that he is.”

 

“Really?” With no wish to discuss any member of that family in Wenna Lanyon’s presence, Kit veered the conversation towards his own kin. “Maybe you’ve come across my grandpappy, reverend?”

 

Beattie concentrated, the action screwing up his face. “John Vanson? Tregover Farm?” He shook his head. “I regret to say the name means nothing to me, sir.”

 

Again, Wenna shifted noticeably in her seat.

 

Puzzled, Kit turned towards her inquisitively. She held her jaw open seemingly on the verge of speaking, but she was unable to form her tongue around suitable words. A blush ran up from her neck and through her cheeks.

 

Covertly, he risked a longer perusal, lingering over her finely sculptured face, the delicate curve of her mouth and gentle slant of her eyes. They reminded him of portraits on broad canvas and delicate china in grand houses; portraits of women endowed with natural beauty enhanced by rich clothes and luxurious surroundings. How sad to see such beauty lost beneath a veneer of poor living.

 

Fearful of offending her, he turned again to the clergyman and shrugged. “I never got the chance to meet my grandpappy. Don’t really know what he was like.”

 

The coach juddered over a pothole and Beattie’s body bounced, blubber-like, on the seat while his eyes lit up with sudden enlightenment. “Vanson! Yes, it all comes back to me now. His only son went abroad long ago. Yes, I surely do remember. And you’ll be John Vanson’s grandson?”

 

“One of them. I have two younger brothers back home. They’ve stayed to work my pa’s cotton plantation.”

 

Beattie was momentarily taken aback. “Cotton plantation?” He slammed his prayer book shut. “They’ll be slave owners, your brothers? And your father before them?” His tone turned sour, judgemental. “Do you hold with that way of farming, Mister Vanson?”

 

Kit pressed his lips in a taut line, uncomfortable with the emerging topic. He measured his words carefully. “The truth is, reverend, I left home and went to sea at an early age.”

 

“But your kin are still slave owners.” The rector’s voice dripped disdain like a mouthful of spittle. He waved the prayer book at Kit. “You’ll find things rather different here. We don’t hold with slavery any longer.”

 

Drawing a calming breath, Kit answered with a deliberately conciliatory tone. “My brothers run the plantation back home. I don’t claim to approve of their ways.” He held back on the dark thoughts that erupted into his brain – images of violent abuse.

 

“But they are your brothers,” Beattie stated flatly, the earlier friendliness between them fast vanishing. He drew back his head, composing the sort of pulpit expression Kit had seen in many a church and chapel. “Your kin!”

 

Kit leaned towards the clergyman, looking him dead in the eye. “The Bible makes some reference to that matter, Reverend Beattie. Genesis, I believe. Am I my bother’s keeper?”

 

A vivid colour rose in Beattie’s cheeks. “I’m pleased you know your Bible, Mister Vanson. But you have no right to lecture me on the words of the good book.”

 

Kit played his next card with a cold voice. “And you, reverend, have no right to lecture me on the morality of my brother’s business.”

 

Beattie jerked back in his seat, offended and flapping his lips, as if his brain was searching for an appropriate biblical response. Finding none, he curled his facial muscles into a suspicious grimace then lapsed into silence. He opened his prayer book again and glowered down at the pages.

 

Kit shook his head sadly. He should have held his temper. It was bad enough his pa had dishonoured the Vanson name through his violent behaviour; bad enough he had invoked a shaman’s curse upon his family; bad enough no Vanson male had any right to look kindly on a pure woman … like Wenna Lanyon. His stomach felt hollow, like a cast-aside bean pod from which all sustenance had been eaten away. Following Wenna’s lead, he silently stared out at the snow now falling freely and heavily.