Rosemerryn

by Rosemerryn (retail) (epub)

  Ince saw Celeste in a new light. ‘I wonder if something could be done for them.’

  She took the opportunity to rest her hand on his arm. ‘Will you leave it to me, Ince? I’m going to have a word with the vicar, perhaps your minister too. I’ll let you know if we come up with any suggestions.’

  Ince thought this over. He spent his spare time helping out at Carrick Cross since Spencer’s hand had healed, and he was glad someone else wanted to do something for the Urens. And perhaps the young family would accept help more readily from someone not of the village. There was already tension between the family and some folk and Celeste had formed a friendship with Alfie.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it to you.’ He made to go, to get on with the evening milking at Rosemerryn so the newlyweds could be left alone.

  Celeste held on to his arm. She liked the look of his hands, rough but sensitive. There was no whiff of aftershave about him and she liked his natural male smell. He stirred her vitals like few men could. ‘That horrid little man is taking advantage of you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Amazed, Celeste raised her pencilled brown brows. ‘And you let him get away with it?’

  ‘It’s the Christian thing to do,’ he answered simply, then his dark features deepened. ‘Would you like to come to chapel with me tomorrow?’ That would either do her some good or stop her making advances to him.

  Celeste raised her chin as if accepting the challenge. ‘What time does the service start?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Mmmm, not too early. I might come along.’

  That will make him think, thought Celeste as Ince walked away. There was a sharp tap on her shoulder.

  ‘I saw what you did for those children,’ Ada Prisk’s deep voice boomed. ‘You don’t want to mix with the likes of they. No good will come out of that household. The children rarely attend school. They’re always hiding away from the authorities or debt collectors. Their mother tells fortunes and consults the dead. She’ll be drumming up evil spirits to stalk the village next. It was a sorry day when that lot moved in among us.’

  Celeste controlled her temper only because it was Laura’s wedding day. She stated through clenched teeth, ‘I take your point that fortune-telling is not always desirable, Mrs Prisk, but although the family are poor and not particularly clean they are human beings with feelings. And doesn’t God call us to love our neighbour, no matter who they are?’

  Ada bristled but she had been put in her place. She scanned Celeste’s frothy dress, her face working like a cow chewing the cud. ‘You look very nice, although the dress is too young for you. You can come back in now – the clearing up’s nearly done and Laura’s preparing to leave.’

  Laura and Spencer appeared at that moment and the guests piled out of the hall. Laura passed her flowers to Daisy, to be put on Bill Jennings’ grave, a gesture for the villagers’ sake. Felicity had already put Vicki’s flowers on Natalie’s grave.

  Spencer lingered over kissing Vicki goodbye and watched avidly as the Leans led her to Harry’s car. ‘I hope he doesn’t drive too fast,’ he said to Laura, her eyes also rooted on Vicki’s excited face peeping out from the back seat window. ‘The man drives like a maniac.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be careful today,’ Laura returned. She knew part of her wifely duties would often involve placating Spencer.

  A floral decked trap with ribbons, boots and old tins trailing behind it was brought round for the bride and groom to travel home to the farm. The villagers had been disappointed the couple wouldn’t be taking a honeymoon, but neither of them would leave Vicki, except for tonight.

  To a chorus of cheers and good wishes, and a few wedding-night innuendos, the newlyweds were driven by Bert Miller to Rosemerryn.

  A taxi pulled up. A stocky, bearded man in his early forties, wearing a checked, fleece-trimmed jacket got out and silently watched the villagers wave goodbye to the bride and groom.

  * * *

  Ince hadn’t come into the farmhouse to bid them goodnight and at about seven o’clock Laura and Spencer were suddenly uncomfortably aware that they were totally alone. Until then they had pottered around the kitchen and had a cup of tea, talked about Vicki and pretended all was as it usually was.

  ‘I hope Vicki’s enjoying herself,’ Spencer said for the umpteenth time. He was leaning against the sink, a place he often parked his bottom when thoughtful or nervous, his jacket and tie off, arms folded.

  ‘It’ll make a nice change for her,’ Laura replied, coming up with yet a different reply to his worry. Her hat lay on the table, shoes in front of the hearth. She was sitting in Ince’s chair beside the range; it would most likely become her chair now.

  Every now and then Spencer cast his eyes over her. Vicki’s happiness wasn’t his main worry tonight. It was seven years since he’d spent the night with a woman. Laura had been married before. She knew what to expect. If he was a failure he couldn’t bluff his way through it, promise things would be better the next time they tried. His eagerness was still there, it had built up to a fine pitch. Laura had endured an unhappy marriage, physical relations had probably ceased before Bill Jennings had died. Jennings might have been as cruel in bed as he had been in every other respect to her – she might not be interested in the physical side of marriage. On the other hand she wanted a baby so she would have to make love with him. But did she want to tonight? He could kick himself for being so reserved. He would have discussed this delicate subject with her otherwise.

  At half past nine Spencer put on his work coat and went outside to make his final check in the yard. He smoked a cigarette then, as always, ended up in the cows’ shippen. He took comfort in the familiar sight of the eight milkers, their noses wet in the warm, steamy atmosphere, their feed bowls long empty. Spencer patted Luby’s rump where she was tied up in the corner; he did it carefully for Luby was a kicker. He was thinking how easy life was for the cows, their days ruled by a comfortable routine, when he saw a note nailed to the wall with his name on it. It was from Ince.

  ‘When you go back in, go into the sitting room.’ What the hell was Ince playing at? This was hardly the time to be sending his mate cryptic messages.

  Spencer swiped the note off the, nail, crumpled it into his pocket and stamped indoors. He banged the door of the kitchen and Laura looked at him curiously.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said shamefacedly.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He spread a smile across his face for Laura’s benefit and surprised her by going into the sitting room.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ she whispered to herself. Her nerves had never been so on edge. This was one of the worst evenings she had spent in all her life. She’ hoped she appeared relaxed but she just wanted the night to be over, for it to be past lunchtime the next day and for Vicki to be running from Harry’s car to tell her all about the night she’d spent at Hawksmoor House. What was going to happen between now and then?

  She could see Spencer was nervous too. If only they had spoken of the intimate side of married life, said a sentence or two; that would have been better than nothing. Perhaps she should go upstairs, undress and get into bed and leave it up to him to make a move – or not. Why had he gone into the other room?

  In the sitting room, Spencer smiled to himself. Good old Ince. He must have known this was going to be a difficult time for them both and he had left a tray with a posy of flowers, glasses and a bottle of wine in the sitting room. Spencer could present this to Laura and it would say he wanted to be her lover as well as her husband without a single word passing his lips. If she shunned him, at least he would know where he stood. The subject would be brought out into the open and they could talk about it at some later date.

  He carried the tray through to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some, Laura?’

  She was thrilled by his thoughtfulness. So he had a little romance in him after all? ‘Yes please, Spencer.’

  He lower
ed his face to hide his relief. So she wanted him too. He could slake his thirst for her and it would make their relationship so much easier.

  They drank standing close, the occasional glance at each other gradually turning into a long searching look into each other’s eyes.

  ‘We did it then,’ he said, tentatively reaching out for her hand. That sounded suggestive and he blushed. ‘I mean, we got married.’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled at his boyishness. ‘You did really want to?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable addition of ‘for Vicki’s sake’.

  But Laura had forgotten his daughter for a moment. Spencer’s eyes had turned warm and smoky. He was moving closer to her and his eyes were continually travelling from hers to her lips. His hand was warm and rough, tightening round hers, and he was pulling her nearer to him. Now they were touching. She looked at his wide mouth. His lips parted slightly.

  Spencer slid his arms round her waist. Laura placed her hands on his chest. He closed his eyes and let instinct take over.

  Laura didn’t want to think about what she was doing, only to concentrate on what he was doing to her. She shut her eyelids and the next moment his lips were brushing over hers. Her response was immediate and so intense it shocked her. It was a long time before he released her. She had never enjoyed a kiss so much before. Spencer’s lips had been tender yet demanding, rough but somehow velvety, warm, moist, totally sensual.

  ‘That was easier than I thought,’ he whispered huskily into her hair.

  ‘Yes,’ Laura replied dreamily, her face pressed against his chest.

  He gathered her in again, possessively, intimately. His mouth consumed hers, hungrily, exploring and feasting while he ran his hands knowingly all over her in light, lingering movements. Unused to such a frank and pleasurable exploitation of body, Laura was thrilled in all her most hidden places. She became so aroused she was forced to cling to hjm to stop herself rocking on her feet.

  ‘Shall we take the wine upstairs?’ he asked, nuzzling her neck with hot breath-laden kisses, leaving a delicious tingly wetness on her skin.

  She couldn’t trust herself to speak and nodded in reply, climbing the stairs as eagerly as he did.

  The day before, Felicity had unpacked the small suitcase Laura had brought to the farm – just overnight things, Laura couldn’t bring herself to move in all her belongings until after she had actually married Spencer – and she had put Laura’s brush and comb and washbag on the dressing table, her dressing gown on a chair and nightdress on the bed. Except it wasn’t the rather demure nightdress Laura had packed but a lacy figure-hugging creation with a plunging neckline – Celeste’s devious work.

  Laura didn’t have time to hide the nightdress as Spencer put the wine down on the bedside table. He ran his hand down over it.

  ‘Want me to wait outside for a few minutes?’

  Laura laughed and looked deeply into his eyes. ‘Why bother? What’s that going to hide?’ She couldn’t believe she could be so brazen. She could have blamed it on the wine or on Celeste for exchanging her modest nightie for a flimsy one. But she knew it was Spencer himself, the total maleness of him, the scent of his heated skin, the assurance she felt that he was experienced and sensitive and enjoyed giving pleasure that was bringing out this forwardness in her.

  He tapped the tray and came to her. ‘Well, we’ll finish the wine later then, much later.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re here, Bruce. When you got out of that taxi yesterday I’d never have guessed it was you if you hadn’t spoken to me. I was flabbergasted. What a pity Laura and Spencer were driving off at the time. I’d like you to have met her. What can I get you for breakfast?’

  Daisy Tamblyn hadn’t seen her son, the middle one of her three children, for twenty-nine years. He hadn’t changed much in appearance. He had always been a few pounds overweight, his complexion florid, and even at the age of fourteen when he’d left home he’d had nicotine-stained fingers. His fairish brown hair was closely cropped showing off his bull neck. There was still a hungry look in his hazel eyes; Bruce had never been satisfied with his life as a boy. He’d been the one most like her husband Sidney, jealous and sullen, deliberately causing squabbles with his sisters, but with his full, neatly-trimmed beard he reminded Daisy of her late father who’d been a quiet-natured man. The most notable difference was the aura of confidence about him and it was strange listening to the broad Canadian accent he had developed.

  He was smoking his third cigarette since rising and she pushed the ashtray closer to him on the kitchen table. He was well dressed, casual this morning in immaculately creased trousers, a blue shirt with cufflinks, navy blue tie and sleeveless pullover. Daisy was so glad to see him, she had not slept a wink last night thinking about him and she couldn’t tear herself away from him now.

  Bruce Tamblyn basked under her proud scrutiny. ‘I’ll eat whatever the rationing allows me, Mother,’ he said, using his deep gruff voice softly.

  ‘Why have you grown a beard, Bruce?’ Daisy prattled on, happily fetching eggs and bacon. Her son was welcome to her weekly ration. ‘It spoils your good looks.’

  A dark look crossed Bruce’s face. He thrust out the wide span of his jaw and rubbed at the rough bristles there. ‘I like it. I’ve been travelling about the last couple of years and found it easier not to shave. I can’t match the thatch of the landlord of the pub though.’ Bruce guffawed and slapped his knee. ‘That was a great celebration we had last night. ’Twas a pity I missed young Billy’s widow though. You wrote me she was a rare beauty when he married her. I guess I’ll catch up with her at her new home.’

  Daisy hadn’t wanted to be dragged off to the pub last night. She’d wanted to stay in and talk to Bruce and catch up on the news of all those lost years. ‘You received my letters then?’ she muttered while cutting bread, unable to hide the hurt in her voice.

  ‘I never was much of a letter writer,’ he retorted moodily. ‘Anyway, Carol used to write to you.’ He changed the subject. ‘I didn’t live here long, don’t suppose many of the villagers will remember me, except that nosy old Prisk woman. She had plenty to say to me yesterday. Wasn’t there someone living next door you were friendly with?’

  ‘Bunty Buzza,’ Daisy said sadly, putting dollops of dripping into the frying pan. ‘She died suddenly a few months ago. I’ve been quite lonely since, will be even more now that Laura’s married and won’t be working in the shop any more.’

  Bruce looked rather pleased. ‘What a shame. This place hasn’t changed much since Granddad’s day. Same Cornish range and dresser, and lino and mats on the floor, same old toffee tins on the mantelpiece. It even smells the same, of yeast buns and coal tar soap.’ He got up from the table and took a photograph of a child off the wide windowsill.

  ‘Is this Malcolm?’

  Daisy’s heart sank. ‘So you haven’t been in Canada for at least a year then? I thought not. Carol sent that to me. It was taken on his fourteenth birthday. She didn’t mention that you’d parted. Well, son, did you leave her or did she kick you out?’

  Daisy had never been close to her children, Bruce in particular. She was completely taken aback when he burst into tears and sobbed into his hands. ‘She was unfaithful to me during the war, Mum. While I was away fighting, slogging it out in the desert, she was whoring round with every man left in town. When I was demobbed from the army I forgave her. I said we could start all over again. But she’d tasted the good life and I wasn’t exciting enough for her.

  ‘I came home early from the lumber yard one afternoon and found her in bed with a trucker. She encouraged him to beat me up. She screamed and shouted at me and said I was no good to her like that any more. I couldn’t take it, Mum. The kids didn’t want to know me. With me being away fighting for so long, Carol had let them run wild. They showed me no respect. I was all washed up, so I packed my bags and left. I wandered
about Canada at first, then further afield, trying to get my life together, looking up army mates, taking a string of jobs, but I couldn’t settle. Eventually I thought of you, Mum, and Cornwall and you living here in Kilgarthen. I liked it when we came to live with Gran and Granddad after the old man cleared off.’

  Bruce ran out of breath and collapsed in the little armchair Daisy used at the fireside. He looked up appealingly at her through his tears. ‘C-can I stay here with you, Mum? At least for a bit. I won’t be a burden to you. I’ll get a job and do my bit round the house, I promise.’

  Daisy went to her son, moved by his plight, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘You can stay as long as you like, Bruce. If I’d known what a hard time you were having of it I would have suggested it a long time ago.’

  * * *

  Laura carried a pot of tea to the breakfast table and checked that she had everything needed for three places.

  Spencer came in, rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. He stood behind her, wound his arms round her waist and whispered close to her ear, ‘Thank you for last night… and this morning.’

  ‘This morning’ had actually been the middle of the night, when Laura had woken up and found herself facing Spencer. They had drifted off to sleep leaving the lantern on, and in its low light she had admired the top half of him, bare above the covers. She had seen him with his shirt off many times while working outside in the sunshine or washing at the kitchen sink. After a few cursory moments of curiosity, she had taken it for granted. Now she drank him in. His shoulders were broad and well set, the muscles there and on his chest, stomach and all the way down his arms were tight and work-formed. His chest was dusted with strong fair hair, the skin lightly tanned and smooth.

  She touched his face, skimming her fingertips over his cheek and the firm contour of his chin, sliding them down his throat to his chest, letting her hand rise and fall with his breathing. She looked at his closed eyelids to see if he responded to her in his sleep. He woke up and, without a word, and unlike their first slow and measured coupling, they made love with urgency and passion, their bodies moving convulsively in perfect timing, becoming spent and released at the same exquisite moment.