The desk in Oliver’s study had been made in the reign of a Tudor monarch and was carved with the initials of each successive owner. Standing as a piece of furniture in itself was the box containing the family Bible. When Kerensa lifted the outer cover of the huge heavy book she could just decipher the scrawled writing in which was inscribed Oliver’s full name: Oliver Richard Edward Ruan Charles. So many names for just one man. She also discovered the date of his birth, the twenty-fourth day of December, in the year 1719. It came as yet another shock to realise he was twice her age.
She allowed none of these extraordinary items to interest her for long. Kerensa insisted on working as hard as the other women, stretching herself to her full physical and mental capacities to ensure she slept through some part of each night, and to give herself little time to dwell on her fears for the future.
Oliver appeared once or twice a week to work in his study. He eyed Ruth and Esther, and Alice in particular, when Kerensa introduced them, but after that showed no interest at all. If he was pleased with the improvements they had made to his home he made no mention of it, and Kerensa had swayed to Mrs Tregonning’s insistence that she wear the green silk dress while he was there and not be seen doing any of the heavy work.
* * *
Whereas Oliver’s frequent absences made it easier for Kerensa and the others to work, Beatrice was deliberately obstructive to them. She was rude to Ruth, Esther and Alice, and more so to Mrs Tregonning, whose presence back in the Manor she bitterly resented. Things came to a head one afternoon after Mrs Tregonning left to return to the Parsonage to prepare the Reverend Ivey’s evening meal.
‘I dunno what ’is lordship’s thinkin’ of, lettin’ she back in ’ere,’ she grumbled from her chair by the fireplace. ‘Wus nothin’ but a stuck up ole mare back in the ole days.’
Coming through the kitchen with a huge pile of fresh linen, Alice stopped and glared angrily at the old woman. Never one to be slow to speak her mind, she said in a raised voice, ‘Here, you got no call to take on like that about Mrs Tregonning. She’s been a great help to us, not like you – always sitting on your fat backside and sneaking off to get drunk. You should learn to keep your mouth shut!’
‘An’ ’ere yerself, Miss ’igh ’n’ Mighty. You got no call to chitter on me neither. I’ve been ’ere workin’ fer the Pengarrons all me life, ‘is lordship’d soon put ’ee in yer place if ’e wus ’ere to ’ear what ’ee jus’ said. Now, jus’ mind yer own shut-up, or I’ll lam one on ’ee!’ Beatrice screeched back, snorting and grunting between sentences.
Putting the linen on the table Alice placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head of curly, light brown hair.
‘Come on then, you slobbering fat witch. You just dare!’
Beatrice did dare. She treated Alice to a vicious slap across the face that sent the girl hurtling across the kitchen first to thud into the table, then on to the floor.
‘Beatrice! Why on earth did you do that?’ Kerensa had run to the kitchen to find out the cause of the shouting and had witnessed the slap from the doorway. ‘Tell Alice you’re sorry!’
Beatrice waddled across the scrubbed floor until she was face to face with Kerensa.
‘The only thing I’m sorry fer, m’dear, is I didn’t scat ’er blamed ’ead off. I’m takin’ meself off ’til ’is lordship’s back fer good, and ’ad ’ee wedded ’n’ bedded.’
Turning her head away from Beatrice’s foul breath, Kerensa’s face was scarlet with embarrassment.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked as the old crone made her way to the door.
‘Don’t ’ee mind ’bout me, maid,’ came the reply. ‘Ais, we’ll soon see who’s who ’n’ what’s what round ’ere later on.’
Ruth and Esther had watched everything in bemused silence, looking from one face to the other. To lessen Kerensa’s embarrassment they turned back to their work as she helped Alice on to her feet. As Beatrice slammed the door behind her Alice rubbed her painful, red cheek and, glancing at Kerensa, turned her head away, to smile a little wickedly.
Kerensa worried about what Oliver’s reaction would be to Beatrice leaving so abruptly. It was the old woman who usually took him in a tray of tea on the afternoons he was in his study. Kerensa did this herself the next time he appeared. He was standing beside the fireplace, an elbow resting on the mantelpiece, reading from what looked like an official document. He didn’t look up or offer a greeting as she entered and placed the tray on a nearby table.
Smoothing down her dress with nervous hands, she waited silently to be given attention. When at last Oliver did glance at her his face was serious.
‘Yes. What is it?’ he said, returning his eyes at once to the document.
‘It’s… it’s about Beatrice. A few days ago, she left the Manor.’
‘Why?’
‘There was a bit of an argument and she stormed out,’ Kerensa explained rapidly, ‘but she said she would come back.’
Much to her surprise, Oliver threw back his head and laughed.
‘I thought this would happen. Who was it she took exception to? Mrs Tregonning?’
‘Yes, it was, but… it was Alice she argued with.’
‘Beatrice and that woman didn’t like each other in my father’s time. Beatrice will be back when she is good and ready.’
Kerensa swallowed hard, relieved he wasn’t angry with her over Beatrice, but still worried about the old woman’s welfare.
‘Beatrice had somewhere to go, didn’t she?’ she asked, then bit her bottom lip as she waited for him to answer.
‘Oh, yes, Painted Bessie’s alehouse more than likely. She spends nearly as much time as she does here.’
He reached across the desk to lift her chin with a finger and gave her a disarming smile. ‘You don’t have to worry about Beatrice, my dear. She can take care of herself.’
It was the first time he had touched her and the remark Beatrice had made about the intimacy she would soon have to share with him lingered in Kerensa’s mind. She moved quickly out of his reach and all traces of joviality left his face.
‘Pour the tea before you go,’ he said stiffly.
He didn’t thank her for doing so and made her feel more uncomfortable by watching her intently until she left the room. Kerensa leaned heavily against the outside of the study door and breathed a tremendous sigh, wondering if from now on, this was how her life would be.
* * *
As the wedding day drew near Oliver arranged for a dressmaker from Marazion to call at the Parsonage. Mistress Hilary Gluyas was an elegant middle-aged woman; she arrived on a wet afternoon with a carriage full of sample gowns, accessories and materials.
At Kerensa’s insistence Ruth, Esther and Alice were present at the fitting, while Mrs Tregonning presided over the proceedings with the air of a wealthy matron purchasing the trousseau for her own daughter. The Reverend Ivey had left much earlier, prudently making a hasty decision to retreat to the farthest end of his parish.
Kerensa felt none of the excitement of the other women as they wondered at and touched the fine fabric of the gowns and other garments Mistress Gluyas draped over every available chair in the parlour. With thirty years’ experience behind her of dressing the ladies of the gentry, she had quickly worked out an entire wardrobe for Kerensa in her head.
The dressmaker had no interest in the humble background of her newest customer, it was of no concern to her, what with the bridegroom prepared to pay an exceedingly generous amount to have his young bride suitably attired. She prudently ignored the endless prattling of Mrs Tregonning as she advised Kerensa on what materials and style of gowns to select.
‘You will look best in gowns of a simple cut and discreet decoration, Miss Trelynne, complementing your youth, beautiful hair and superb clear skin. The colours… ivory, peach, various blues, and green, which suits you so well. Delicately embroidered petticoats, trimmed with the minimum of lace, bows, ruchings and ruffles. On the gowns, what would you say to small flowers
, palm fronds and curling motifs, Miss Trelynne?’ Mistress Gluyas smiled graciously.
Mrs Tregonning got an answer in first. ‘Yes, I think that would all be most suitable, Mistress Gluyas. Miss Trelynne is only a little small bit of a thing, we don’t want her to be overdressed like some of the ladies I’ve seen. Now, I remember Lady Caroline, Sir Oliver’s late mother, she had such style…’
A loud, ‘Ahem,’ from the dressmaker silenced the housekeeper.
Kerensa said, disinterestedly, ‘That sounds all right, thank you.’
‘You’ll look so lovely, Kerensa, I can see you now,’ Alice said, her face shining with delight. She was disappointed she had a much rounder, bigger boned body than Kerensa. Now the two of them were firm friends, with Kerensa relying on her, she would have asked if she could have tried on some of her gowns. Just to see how they looked, how they felt, only that. Alice gingerly stroked a pair of cream-coloured kid gloves richly decorated in silks and sequins. ‘Just look at these… will you choose them?’
‘All right,’ Kerensa smiled wanly, ‘just to please you, Alice.’
From the other accessories, she chose an emerald green silk fan and a plainer one of cream parchment – Mistress Gluyas said, ‘They’ll do for now, I’ll have one made to match each gown later’ – several pairs of coloured stockings, two lace-edged caps and two more pairs of gloves. She felt a blush coming on when she agreed to satin nightgowns and hoped they would not be made of flimsy material, then insisted on plain white shifts and discreet stays. Mistress Gluyas maintained that fichus were not strictly necessary but Kerensa again insisted, intent on having no exposed bosom for anyone’s eyes to look upon, gentry or otherwise.
Then came the question of the circumference of the hoops to wear under the gowns. Kerensa said moodily, ‘They must be kept small. The doors of Pengarron Manor may be very wide but I still want to feel free to move about.’
Mrs Tregonning looked apologetically at Mistress Gluyas but the dressmaker said understandingly, although knowing it was not the truth, ‘It’s only the pre-nuptial nerves. Now, Miss Trelynne,’ turning to Kerensa, ‘I will take your measurements. I sent over this green silk dress you are wearing on Sir Oliver’s orders but it is not a good fit. I did not realise you were quite so dainty.’
As Kerensa was pulled and turned under the measuring tape, Alice tugged at her own brown curls and wished she could be measured for a dress as a maid of honour.
Esther asked Kerensa shyly, ‘Have you any idea what style you’d like the wedding dress to be?’
‘Something simple,’ Ruth said quickly, suddenly afraid that Kerensa would be made to look ridiculous on that dreaded day.
‘As long as it is simple, I’ll be happy to leave the colour and design to Mistress Gluyas,’ Kerensa said, with a distinct sigh.
‘As you please,’ Mistress Gluyas said, putting her tape measure away now all the fitting and choosing was accomplished. ‘There is only the question of footwear left. I have brought nothing small enough with me for you to try on so I’ll arrange for a shoemaker to call on you tomorrow.’
Before leaving she took a glass of port wine and gave a firm promise that most of the wardrobe would be made up and delivered before the wedding day.
The rain had stopped, the sky stained a sulky grey, when Kerensa saw the dressmaker away in her carriage. As the wheels spattered over the muddy ground she did not go back inside but walked on to her mother’s grave. She did this every day, sometimes looking around in the hope of seeing Clem, yet at the same time fearful she would. She had not seen or heard from him since the day she had stood on the same spot and told him of Sir Oliver’s clear intention to marry her. She had kept on hoping the baronet would still change his mind, but with the servants chosen, the Manor house cleaned through, and the wedding dress ordered, there seemed no hope for her and Clem. Looking wistfully in the direction of Trecath-en Farm, she wondered what he was thinking and doing, if he was thinking of her.
* * *
Free Spirit was moored up to the pier at St Michael’s Mount, having returned the night before following two weeks’ stay at Roscoff. But for the one man on watch, Hezekiah Solomon, its gentleman owner, was alone on board in the process of making a thorough inspection of his vessel. As their duties were fulfilled the rest of the crew had made their way to the alehouse, gin shops or the more outlying kiddleywinks where smuggled spirits were more easily taken and drunk on the premises.
‘Good morning, Hezekiah. I trust everything is in order.’
Hezekiah Solomon turned around and smiled a warm welcome to his friend who had just climbed on board from a rowing boat.
‘Good morning to you, Oliver. I can assure you everything is very much in order.’
Oliver grinned; he knew this to be true of all things that concerned Hezekiah Solomon. A fastidiously tidy man, he was elegant and flamboyant in his style of dress and manners. His neat, finely boned body was scented always with expensive French perfumes, his long white hair tied back with colourful silk bows, a lace handkerchief always at his wrist.
No one seeing Hezekiah Solomon for the first time would take him for a seafaring man, much less one often involved in bringing in contraband from France or the Channel Islands. Or taking it off a colluding East Indiaman out in the English Channel, and landing it in secluded coves and creeks of the Cornish coast.
Oliver himself knew little of Hezekiah, even his age, but reckoned him to be about ten years his own senior. Oliver wasn’t particularly curious about Hezekiah’s background – whether he had a wife or not – he would have found such domestic talk boring. Oliver liked him for his intelligence, superb wit and skill at the gaming tables. It is said that opposites attract, and Oliver and Hezekiah were a complete contrast to each other in appearance. Hezekiah’s hair, which he had specially dressed, was as white as Oliver’s was black, he was as effeminate-looking as Oliver was masculine, his clothes as colourful and fashionable as Oliver’s were discreet and functional.
It was four years since Hezekiah had suddenly walked into Painted Bessie’s clifftop kiddleywink. Conspicuous by his colourful appearance, he had caused a stir amid the bluff miners, fishermen and few farm labourers crammed into the ramshackle alehouse. It was as well that night that Painted Bessie, a degenerate, heavily rouged woman in her fifties, was as hard as she looked. With her highly pitched, common voice she had swiftly stilled the hubbub caused by Hezekiah’s arrival. Miners and fishermen had no time for each other’s way of living and needed only the flimsiest excuse to break into a fight. Painted Bessie kept a wary eye on the two factions in case there was trouble brewing.
Oliver had been in the kiddleywink with Hunk Hunken, making arrangements, and recruiting men, for a contraband run. People were used to seeing him there from time to time and his presence went without comment. He and Hunk had been deep in discussion, and after Hezekiah’s arrival they’d paid no attention to the small, effeminate-looking man sitting but five feet away. That was, until an agonising scream coming from the stranger’s direction had made them look up sharply. Colly Pearce, a big brute of a miner, was on his knees beside the stranger’s table, a silver-handled stiletto impaling his right hand to the table top.
Oliver had watched in fascination as the stranger cruelly twisted the blade in Pearce’s hand, before very slowly drawing it out and holding the bloodied pointed length of steel before the miner’s anguished gaze. His steely blue eyes narrowed to slits, Hezekiah had then shown the blade to the hushed occupants of the dark shabby room.
‘The next man who is foolish enough to offer me an insult will have his throat cut. Is there anyone here among you who would care to try?’ His voice was clear and silvery and strangely musical, and all the more terrifying for it.
Some men had shook their heads, others had murmured negative monosyllables. All had returned to their drinking.
Clutching at Oliver’s arm with trembling fingers, Painted Bessie had whispered fearfully, ‘What shall we do, m’lord?’
Oliver had impatiently pushed her away. Standing up, he’d moved to the stranger’s table and held out his hand.
‘Sir Oliver Pengarron, sir,’ he had said. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe I speak for everyone here when I say that the writhing scum on his knees here has received what he deserves. He’s nothing more than a liar, a cheat and a bully.’
Murmurs of agreement came from every direction as Hezekiah shook Oliver’s hand.
‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance also, Sir Oliver,’ he returned. ‘Hezekiah Solomon at your service, sir, owner and captain of the ship Free Spirit, currently anchored at St Michael’s Mount.’
Hezekiah Solomon smiled the smile of an angel before wiping his blade on Colly Pearce’s dirty shirt and replacing it inside his elegant leather boot. Then he bent his perfumed head and whispered something in Pearce’s ear. The miner wailed and his eyes bulged bright in terror.
A short time later Oliver and Hezekiah left the kiddleywink together.
‘If it’s not an impertinence,’ Oliver said, ‘may I ask what Pearce said to you that earned him a well-deserved hole through the hand?’
‘It’s no impertinence, Sir Oliver. The man suggested I would have no interest in the fairer sex, but I can assure you, I most certainly have.’
Oliver laughed. ‘In that case, Captain Solomon, if you would care to accompany me, I know the very place of entertainment where we might pass what remains of the night.’
It was the same place that Oliver had in mind for them now, once Hezekiah finished his inspection. Sitting down on the gunwale Oliver filled his pipe and lit the tobacco with sharp impatient movements.
‘You look as though you cannot wait to reach our intended destination, Oliver,’ Hezekiah remarked.
‘To tell you the truth, I’m fast losing my desire to go at all.’
‘Oh, and why is that?’ Hezekiah asked, raising his thin arched eyebrows.
Pengarron Land Page 11