Sarah's Story

Chapter One-2

'Don't just look at it then, Sarah,' Mother said. 'Polish it so it gleams.' As I did so, she stood behind me, ensuring I did the best job I possibly could.

'That was your father's wedding gift to me,' Mother told me as if I could ever forget. 'He ordered it specially made from Richard Clarke of Newport and used all the prize money from three years voyaging to buy it and he will want to see it pristine when he walks in the door.'

I nodded as I applied the beeswax and polished away for dear life. One has always to work one's hardest when Mother is around.

'He will come back soon now,' mother said, 'you can depend on it.'

'Yes Mother,' I agreed. The oak was a fine sheen now, gleaming so it reflected my face in the body of the clock.

Mother looked up and jerked her thumb toward the door. 'I heard hoof beats, so there will be another guest.'

How did she do that? How could she hear so much? I had heard nothing but if Mother said she had heard a horse, then a horse she had heard. Sure enough, only a few moments later the door opened and a stranger walked in. My life started anew, although I did not know that yet. At that minute he was only an anonymous guest coming to disturb my peace and help us square the accounts, but soon that man would be the centrepiece of all sorts of troubles. A billow of mist followed him like smoke around the tail of Beelzebub; it dissipated the moment he slammed shut the door yet it was that image that remains in my mind even yet as I remember that moment; the stranger that life had used hard with the mist coiling like smoke in his wake. I looked at him as he surveyed the room, noting his weather-battered appearance and the deep tan of his face. He looked like the mate of a merchant vessel or perhaps the master of a coasting brig, but down on his luck to judge by the threadbare clothes he wore. Yet even then I knew there was more; there was a presence about this man that I had never met before.

'Is this the Horse Head Inn?' The man asked. His voice was so sharp edged it could have chopped through an oaken plank, but there was an intonation in it that I did not recognise. He certainly was not a Caulkhead, a native of the island; he was an Overner, a mainlander but so obviously a seaman that I could forgive him his origin. I imagined him roaring his lungs out at the height of a Channel gale and wondered if my father was of his ilk. I pushed that thought away as well; I had no desire to court sorrow.

'It is the Horse Head Inn,' I agreed. I wondered if I should mention the sign board that swung above the front door, with the name proudly displayed.

“Then I have come to the right place.” The man removed his tricorne hat and placed it on the counter that doubled as a work desk. I ignored the moisture that ran onto the wood that I had bees-waxed with much labour only that morning, but noticed the deep cut on the hat that had been roughly cobbled together. The stitching was hurried, rough; it was the handiwork of a man but I wondered what had caused that s***h. It matched the less-than-subtle patch that had been placed on the sleeve of his travelling cloak and the black paint that tried hard to disguise the scuffed leather of the riding boots. His clothes had seen hard wear indeed, augmented by a hard life, I suspected. Helping my mother run an inn gave me much insight into people.

'I want a room for a week, to begin with,' the man said.

My mother dried her hands and arms on a rag as she moved closer from her position at the wash tub. She eyed the man up and down, her eyes narrow. 'We always ask an arenest here,' she said, and quickly translated from Wight talk into mainland English for the benefit of the Overner. 'We ask for a sum to bind the bargain in advance.'

I was not sure if the man was going to laugh or snarl, but he compromised with a small smile. 'And you shall have it,' he said.

Of course I knew why my mother was being so rude. We had bitter experience of Overner guests who arrived and demanded a room, only to leave a few days later without paying a brass farthing. We were wary of strangers with long pockets and short arms, especially in these hard times. All the same, I felt quite sorry for this seaman in his battered tricorne hat and coat that had obviously seen better days. More fool me, as it turned out, but I did not know him, then.

As the man reached inside his cloak, mother pressed her forefinger onto the counter. 'I wish your name as well, sir. I do not care for strangers who remain anonymous.'

'Howard.' The man said after a short but significant pause. 'Adam Howard.'

My mother grunted. 'So you say.' She had noticed that hesitation as well. She held out her right hand, palm uppermost. 'I charge five shillings a week Mr Howard, for board and lodgings.'

Mr Howard raised his eyebrows. 'Five shillings,' he repeated, in a tone that might have contained wonderment or amusement or both.

'In advance,' Mother insisted.

Mr Howard sighed and pulled out his pocketbook. He used his hand to shield the contents as he extracted a silver crown, but I heard the musical c***k of coin on coin and knew he was not quite as purse-pinched as his appearance would suggest.

He placed the coin in mother's palm. 'Here are five shillings, Ma'am.'

Mother lifted the crown piece, bit into it to test the purity of the silver and placed it in the leather purse she wore tethered from the belt around her waist. 'Sarah will show you to your room, sir. You have baggage?'

I noticed the change in Mother's term of address from a terse 'Mr Howard' to a more respectful 'sir'. She had obviously seen the contents of his pocket-book.

'I have a small bag,' Mr Howard admitted, and forestalled my offer to carry it with a swift, 'which I will bring in myself. Do you have a lad to stable my horse?'

'Sarah will see to your horse,' Mother said.

'Sarah seems to see to a great deal,' Mr Howard said, but his smile removed any sting from the words. He stepped outside into the misty darkness and quickly lifted a tarred canvas bag from behind the saddle of his horse. He held it close to him, as if it held some amazing treasure. I am no lover of cold so I huddled deeper into my shawl as I led Mr Howard's brown mare into our miniscule stable and began to remove the saddle and bridle. I could still smell the powder smoke in the air and wondered what had happened out there in the unknown dark beyond the fringe of surf that marked Chale Bay.

Mr Howard had followed me in to the stable and now watched me work, with his head still hatless and his queue pointing neatly downward.

'What is her name?' I asked as I blew into the mare's nostrils and looked deep into her eyes.

'Why do you ask?' Mr Howard was immediately on the defensive.

I looked at Mr Howard as he stood just inside the doorway. He tilted his head slightly to one side and raised his eyebrows. He was handsome enough, I thought, in a rough and tumble sort of manner. Or rather he had been handsome some twenty years or so ago.

'Horses are like people,' I told him. 'They like it better when you call them by name.' I smoothed my hand over the mare's fetlocks, lifted a brush and set to work.

'Her name is Chocolate,' Mr Howard said, and I swear there was nearly a smile in his voice. I liked him better for his choice of name.

“That is a good name,” I approved, but I did not lift my eyes to meet his.

Mr Howard was silent for a while but I was aware of his eyes on me as I bent to wash Chocolate's legs.

'I presume you are a local girl?'

“Born and bred in the Island” I told him, as I put the saddle aside and piled the harness on top. It was heavy leather, as battered and scarred by hard usage as its owner but at one time this had been a saddle of the highest quality. I noticed rub-marks on both sides of the crupper where something had hung down, and wondered exactly who Mr Howard was and why he was here. You will forgive my suspicion when you recall that this was1803 and Britain was at war with Bonaparte's France. We on the island were on the front line and fearful of invasion at any time.

'Then perhaps you can help me?' Mr Howard asked. I saw the gleam of silver between his fingers.

'I am not that sort of girl, sir,' I felt my heart begin to thunder; I had heard of men like Adam Howard but had never met one. All the men in the Back of the Wight knew me well enough to let well alone. No man had ever used me ill and I swore I'd give a pretty tannen – that's a hard beating if you do not understand island speak - to the man that tried. I backed toward the pitchfork I always left leaning against an upright in case of a sudden onslaught by the French or a drunken smuggler. I rested my hand on it and tried to look fierce.

'I am not for an instant suggesting anything untoward,' Mr Howard said. He did not look afraid of my scowling face. Instead he gave that small smile again. 'I only require some information that only a local person would know.'

I stopped trying to look as savage as a French guardsman but kept my hand hovering close to the long haft of the pitchfork. 'What sort of information would that be, sir?' I prepared myself to deny any knowledge of the free traders who frequented this part of the Island but Mr Howard surprised me with his request.

'Are you aware of a place called Knighton Hazard?' He held out the silver shilling, keeping it beyond arms-length so I could not quite reach it.

'I am indeed, Mr Howard,' I said. 'It lies slightly inland of here and to the west. It is a large manor house with a dragon weathervane. You can't miss it; there is a folly on a rise beyond the house and a square chapel outside.'

Mr Howard nodded. 'That is what I was told,' he said.

'Then why ask for something you already know?' I asked hotly. 'Are you making game of me?'

'I am not making game of you,' Mr Howard retained hold of his shilling. 'I was merely testing your knowledge.'

Or my honesty, I thought. This Mr Howard had heard of our island way of leading strangers astray.

'Does Mr Bertram still own Knighton Hazard?' Mr Howard asked.

'He still does,' I said, slightly sulkily. I was beginning to not like this handsome man with the battered hat.

'Well and good,' Mr Howard spun the shilling and caught it in the palm of his hand. 'And do you know Limestone Manor?' He finally held out the silver shilling, which I took of course, although I would have imparted with the information for nothing if he had been less offensive. I also knew that Limestone Manor was the real object of his questioning.

'I know it equally well,' I said. I tested the shilling and secreted it inside my boot lest he demand it back. 'It is only a mile or so along the coast.'

'To the east?' Mr Howard's eyes were sharp.

I shook my head. 'To the north west,' I said and pointed in that direction. 'But if you intend to visit sir, you will be wasting a journey. There's nobody there. Limestone Manor has lain empty for years.'

Mr Howard nodded. 'All the same, I think I will take a small ride in that direction tomorrow. Thank you Sarah.' He slipped away from the stable without another word, leaving me to finish stabling his horse and cleaning his equipment. I took my time for I do not care to rush such an important job, besides the poor horse had been ridden hard and needed some attention. Yet all the time I was rubbing Chocolate down I was thinking about Mr Howard. My curiosity forced me to find out more about him, and there was only one way to do that. However, fate had me in its grasp and there was other work for me that night.