But Jack had taken an instant dislike to the Reverend’s plump housekeeper and rubbed his sticky face into Kerensa’s shoulder and stubbornly clung to her.
Mrs Tregonning was affronted. ‘They Drannocks will breed like they Kings,’ she sniffed, passing Kerensa a damp cloth to wipe the crumbs off her dress.
When Jack’s interest in the cake waned Kerensa put him down on the spotlessly clean floor to see if he could crawl. Jack made no attempt to move but stretched out his arms towards her and loudly protested. Kerensa rushed to pick him up again and spoke softly soothing words until his puckered red face was smoothed out and cheekily smiling. She paced the floor with him for several minutes, bobbing him up and down as she moved.
‘Shouldn’t think they’ll be much longer now,’ Mrs Tregonning said. ‘Mind you, I don’t know what people want to stand and gawp for anyway. ’Tis all a bit ghoulish if you ask me. It’s a thing I’ve never done myself… just being nosey, most of them.’
Kerensa sighed. ‘I think I’ll take Jack out in the fresh air.’
She showed Jack the Reverend’s daffodils and polyanthus. He was not impressed by them and was sick down the front of her dress. Knowing very little about babies Kerensa playfully bounced him up and down and Jack was sick again. Finally her restlessness got the better of her and very slowly she followed the path the Reverend and Jenifer Drannock had taken until she arrived at the back of the waiting crowd down in the village.
People were standing with arms folded and talking in respectful whispers, the work for the day forgotten. Kerensa felt conspicuous in her riding habit against the drab clothes of the fishwives as they turned to look at her in surprise. Matthias Renfree had arrived and was talking with the Reverend a good distance away from the quayside. She squeezed apologetically through the groups of fisherfolk until she was on the quayside out of the Reverend’s sight.
If he saw her he would insist she return to the Parsonage or even go home to the Manor, but Kerensa knew of the fishermen’s strong superstitious fear of clergymen being on a quayside and knew the Reverend would not set foot upon it himself.
Jenifer Drannock was standing in a doorway with a group of other women. Spotting Kerensa with her son, she came forward to take him back, watched with great interest by the women she’d stepped away from. Jack turned his head abruptly away from his mother.
‘He’s all right with me, Mrs Drannock,’ Kerensa said. ‘I’d like to hold him for a bit longer, if you’ll allow me to.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, my lady. I’ll come for him if he starts to cry.’ Jenifer placed her hand on Jack’s bottom and lightly smiled. ‘He’s still dry at the moment,’ she added, then returned to her neighbours.
Kerensa nodded nervously at the faces staring at her. She received courteous nods in return before the eyes turned expectantly to the place where the Kings were expected to appear with the boy’s body.
A few more tense minutes passed by before the Kings’ appearance with their burden caused a spontaneous movement forward and an outbreak of sympathetic raised voices. At the same moment a heavy hand grasping Kerensa roughly by the shoulder and whirling her round made her wince.
‘There’s no need for you to be here,’ Oliver told her harshly.
‘I want to be here,’ she returned feebly, jerking Jack up to a more comfortable position.
Oliver glared at the child his young wife was holding. Jack only gave the tall man who had loomed up suddenly in front of him a disinterested look, and carried on chewing the wet ribbon he was tightly clutching.
‘Get rid of that brat and go home without delay,’ Oliver hissed.
‘But I—’
‘Do as I say. Ted Trembath and his brothers will be here soon and there’s no knowing the mood these people may take. I don’t have to remind you of your grandfather’s supposed part in all this, do I?’
Kerensa saw her husband narrow his eyes as he spoke and by now knew well enough, from his stance: the subtle change in the darkness of his eyes, the tiny vein that appeared from nowhere in his neck; that in this mood he would not be argued with. She knew also he was probably right in what he said. She found Jenifer Drannock at her side, silent pity on the woman’s face as she reached out for her son. The baby’s fist had to be forcibly removed from Kerensa’s dress, and he screamed and fought against his mother.
Kerensa pushed her way through the fisherfolk, her mind telling her that the concerned looks on the brown weather-ravaged faces she rushed past were hostile to her. She ran back up the hill to the Parsonage stable, tears searing her eyes as she left it up to Meryn to find their way home to the Manor.
Chapter 8
The following day the coroner from Marazion rode over to the church where the boy’s body had lain overnight and gave permission for it to be buried. Thomas Cole, a gambling acquaintance of Oliver’s, took very little time in deciding the only evidence he required was a positive identification of the deceased. This was given by Ted Trembath by means of the remnants of his brother’s clothes, and the beaten tin medallion Davey had always worn around his neck. Ted had made the medallion himself for Davey’s fifth birthday, and hanging it on a thin strip of leather, the boy had worn it with pride.
Except for a few maintenance men in the engine house on the mine surface, Wheal Ember closed for the afternoon of the funeral. Davey Trembath’s body was taken home after the coroner’s examination, his pathetically small coffin borne along on a bier pulled by two black ponies from the Ker-an-Mor stables, and three hundred men, women and children walked reverently in line behind the cortege.
Mrs Trembath insisted on walking the long twisting miles, supported by her remaining sons, to take Davey back to the church. Led by Faith Bray, the mourners filled the air with the harmonious sounds of Celtic voices. They sang hymn after hymn without pause or break, collecting other mourners along the way until the slowly moving procession reached the small church in Perranbarvah.
In deference to the ailing, grief-stricken mother the Reverend Ivey conducted a brief service. He tactfully made no comment on the manner of the boy’s death, only recalling to the small portion of mourners who could gain admittance inside the church, the boy’s devout Christian way of life, and comforting them with the knowledge that young Davey had exchanged his cross of suffering for a crown of joy.
Mrs Trembath sat stiff and upright, her face set like cold stone throughout the service. Davey had been her favourite son. His father had died in an explosion down the mine during the same hour Davey had struggled his way prematurely into the world. He had fought for his life over the first weeks and thereafter had been a sickly child. With three other sons well able to provide for the family, his mother had seen no reason for him to work underground and Davey had joined the bal-maidens on the surface until he was twelve.
But he had felt ashamed to be left ‘at grass’ while such younger boys worked and earned more underground, and by all accounts led more exciting lives. He had begged his mother to allow him to work underground too and finally she had relented while remaining fearful for his safety. Mrs Trembath had had no knowledge that Davey was joining Ted on the night of his death and she was never to forgive her eldest son for robbing her of her youngest.
Ted Trembath would never forgive himself either for allowing Davey to go with him on that fateful night. He searched without success in his pockets for his kerchief as tears streamed down his face as the mourners sang another Wesleyan hymn around the graveside.
‘Jesu, lover of my soul.
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the gathering waters roll,
While the tempest still is high,
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide,
O receive my soul at last.’
It had been Davey’s favourite hymn. Ted reached for his mother but she would not part the hands she held tightly gripped together. Oliver had joined the family at the church door and Mrs Trembath had not replied to his offer of sympath
y. Ted gave him a look near to hopelessness across the graveside and Oliver returned it with one of compassion while at the same time attempting to convey to the distraught miner that he shared in his guilt and shame.
The bell in the church tower knelled its mournful note as the coffin was lowered into the ground. People were suddenly jostled aside as Sir Martin Beswetherick unceremoniously shoved his way through to stand next to Oliver. Sir Martin took little notice of the remainder of the burial, mainly confining himself to casting lecherous glances at Rosina Pearce. A man of strictly Anglican concerns, he snorted at every few words that Matthias Renfree said as the young man gave a short address at the Reverend Ivey’s invitation.
It was a hot day and the mourners were uncomfortable in their black clothes. The sun gained in strength to burn through coats and shawls on the backs and shoulders of the people below. Mrs Trembath, her face still set in the same expressionless mask, threw a handful of dry earth on her son’s coffin, then stepping back tilted her head to look up at the golden-white rays. The new expression on her face suggested she thought the sun had insulted her by shining so.
* * *
Kerensa sat in a secluded corner of the gardens at the back of the Manor house, twisting her skirt between taut fingers. Dunstan lay at her feet, looking up at her every now and again with concern in his old brown eyes. He struggled clumsily to his feet when alerted by sounds from behind him. Kerensa thought it was Oliver returning from the funeral. It wasn’t. It was Clem Trenchard.
Rushing to her feet, she looked fearfully all around.
‘Clem! What are you doing here? Oliver… he may come back at any moment.’
Clem raised his hands to still her fears.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t stay long. I just had to see you, Kerensa.’
She looked thinner and paler than he had ever seen her before. A little girl lost in the storm of life, like the words of the hymn, and Clem loved her. He loved her more than ever and wanted to hold her, to tell her everything would be all right. He fought back a mounting desire to take her in his arms and do just that.
‘Have you been crying?’ he asked instead, looking at her closely.
Kerensa ran a trembling finger under each damp eye. ‘Just a little. Did you go to the funeral, Clem?’
‘Yes. I joined the procession on the road to Perranbarvah. I overheard the Reverend Ivey offering Sir Oliver and Sir Martin Beswetherick a glass of port so I hurried over to see you.’ He moved closer to her and took Kerensa’s hand. ‘How are you, Kerensa? I mean, really?’
Dunstan growled jealously and sidled forward between them.
‘I have everything I need, Clem,’ Kerensa answered him quietly. ‘You must not think of me now, but make a new life for yourself.’
‘I doubt if I can ever do that,’ he said softly.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She gripped the hand holding hers. ‘I feel so terrible about what I’ve done to you. I can never ask you to forgive me. You look different, so unhappy, and I blame myself for putting you through this misery.’
‘That doesn’t matter, my love. I don’t blame you, tis his fault! That, that…’ Clem could not say the bitter words emblazoned on his heart. ‘What I want to know, my love, is if he ill-treats you?’
Kerensa wanted to look away but could not. She knew Clem wanted to hear that Oliver was cruel to her, that then he would almost certainly plead with her to run away with him. But even a lie told to be kind would bring terrible consequences for Clem if he challenged Oliver in any way.
‘Oliver demands his own way in most things, but he doesn’t ill-treat me,’ she said wearily, torn inside by the disappointment on Clem’s face as she destroyed this forlorn straw he had clutched at. ‘Not at all. Please, Clem, you must go. If he comes back and finds you here…’
He sighed deeply and jerked up his head to hide the hopeless tears that had sprung to his eyes.
‘If that’s what you want, Kerensa, I’ll go now,’ he said, persuaded only by the fearfulness she harboured for him and the entreating look in her eyes. ‘But if ever you need me, send Alice for me and I’ll come straight away.’ He kissed her hand and Kerensa’s heart missed a beat, but when he reached out to hold her she pulled away.
‘Please don’t, Clem. I’m another man’s wife now. You must forget me.’
‘I’ll never do that,’ he told her vehemently, kissing her hand again, ‘as long as you love me I’ll have a reason to carry on.’
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and this time she did not stop Clem taking her into his arms. She held on to him closely and he buried his face in to her neck, gently caressing her hair.
‘Kerensa!’ Alice Ford came running towards them. ‘Sir Oliver… he’s riding up the carriageway now.’
Clem reluctantly let Kerensa go. It was not easy to relinquish the warm soft body he had not held for so many weeks. He had no care for Alice’s presence as he took the liberty of brushing his lips against those of the girl he loved so much.
‘Hurry, Clem,’ Alice implored him, ‘you must leave, and pray to God no one saw you come here. Don’t worry about Kerensa, I’ll look after her.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, Alice Ford,’ he said grimly. He turned quickly and left the two girls alone.
* * *
Oliver slammed every door he passed through until he reached Kerensa in the pleasant surroundings of the sitting room that once had been his mother’s and was now claimed by his wife for her own. Kerensa looked at him from her armchair in surprise. He had never before entered the room while she was there and his presence was unexpected. She was momentarily fearful that he knew Clem had visited her in the garden but he only glared irritably back at her.
‘What a bloody awful afternoon!’ he declared, tossing his tricorn hat to land expertly on the table next to the tray from which Alice was serving tea. Dropping down heavily in the armchair opposite Kerensa, he added moodily, ‘Is there any chance of getting something to eat?’
‘I’ll see to it right away, m’lady,’ Alice said at once. Like Ruth and Esther King, whenever possible she addressed her mistress rather than her master.
Once she left the room Oliver’s eyes darted back to Kerensa.
With a dismissive wave of his hand at the tea tray he said stiffly, ‘Get me a large brandy, will you?’
It was an order, not a request, and it angered Kerensa.
She snapped back, ‘Have you never heard of the word “please”?’
Carefully, and deliberately slowly, Oliver placed the tips of his fingers together and studied them as though he’d never seen them before.
‘Please… my dear.’
Kerensa knew the courtesy was not meant. She inwardly fumed and took her time to fetch a bottle of brandy and a glass from his study. She kept her back to him as she poured out a small measure, and did not look at him as she held out the glass.
Oliver swirled the fiery liquid around in the glass as he waited for her to sit down, then draining it in one toss of his head, held it out to her again.
‘Another, if you please.’ He scrutinised the second measure of brandy at his leisure, sipped it and sighed deeply. ‘That’s better,’ he said maliciously. ‘At last.’
Where Oliver was of a mind to upset her, Kerensa was equally determined in not allowing him the privilege of showing him he’d succeeded. She sat down again, sipping slowly from her cup until her anger abated.
‘How were Mrs Trembath, Ted and the others?’ she asked in a quiet voice.
The question brought a slightly wondering look to his face before he answered it; he marvelled at the way she had spoken, as if she had many years’ experience of entertaining nobility itself to tea.
‘They were distraught,’ he told her. ‘I don’t think that she will ever come to terms with the boy’s death. Nor Ted. He’s taken to haunting the cliff overlooking the Cove these days.’
‘I wish things were different, then people wouldn’t have to resort to smuggling. Then this… the tragedy would neve
r have happened.’
‘Men indulge in freetrading for more reasons than that they happen to be poor, Kerensa. There’s greed, excitement, comradeship to be found. Not to mention the pleasure of cheating a greedy government of its exorbitant taxes.’
‘Why do you do it, Oliver?’ Kerensa looked down into her teacup as she spoke. She knew full well of his involvement in much of the smuggling around the Mount’s Bay coastline but had not talked of it to him before. She wondered, as he hesitated, had she spoken unwisely?
Oliver sank himself deeper into the armchair, his long legs stretched out across the room, and said simply, ‘Because I want to. My ventures are well supervised, quicker and safer if there’s no treachery afoot, and I allow violence of no kind. It’s not unknown for a whole village to be slaughtered to keep secret the identity of smugglers who are little more than murderous thugs.’
Kerensa shuddered at this. She’d had no idea such a thing had ever occurred and realised how sheltered and secure her life had been in Trelynne Cove. She thought of her grandfather and wondered if he had ever used violence in such a way.
Alice entered with a tray of dainty cakes, wedges of pork and ale pie, thinly cut bread and butter, and fruit. She had to walk around Oliver’s long legs to put the tray down on the table, but on the way out she left the room by skirting round the back of Kerensa’s chair.
‘That girl,’ Oliver said, waving his brandy glass towards the door, ‘she’s got plenty of spirit. I like her. I hear Clem Trenchard has taken to hanging about her now. Did you know?’
Kerensa coloured and looked out of the window. ‘No, I did not,’ she said drily.
Oliver enjoyed these games of cat and mouse he frequently played with her. He enjoyed the way he could change her youthful expression from curiosity to delight, from hurt to relief or vice versa, by just one carefully chosen remark. If Kerensa chose to laugh at him with her maid, it didn’t hurt to keep her in her place.
Pengarron Land Page 17