“Where is mother?” Lowenna asked. “Is it a present from her, too?”
“No, child,” James replied. “This is from me alone.” He stroked his daughter’s hair and left his hand on her shoulder. “It is something you give to someone you love very much.”
“Is that why you’re giving it to me and not to mother?”
James was surprised at how intuitive his daughter had already become, but then his bitterness towards Susan of late was perhaps not as covert as he imagined.
“It is a different kind of love,” he said. “Your mother…” He faltered. “Look, aren’t you going to open it?” He grabbed the ribbon. “Here,” he said. “Pull hard!”
Lowenna’s tiny hand took the ribbon from her father’s and she pulled, smiling a toothy and excited smile. The bow seemed to liquefy as the ribbon ran off the parcel and the silk wrapping opened out to reveal the gift inside. It seemed that she didn’t know quite what to make of the box at first, but the raised carving of the lady reclined on a chaise renewed her smile as she traced the outline with a single milk-white finger.
James flicked the wrapping aside. He lifted the box and admired the patterns in the tortoiseshell inlay and the bright whale-tooth tracery. “A special box for a special little girl,” he said, opening the lid. Inside, the box was empty and Lowenna looked disappointed.
“You must keep this box,” James said. “It is to stay here in your room where you can admire it.” His tone changed then and his features became heavier than he intended. “Keep it to yourself!” he said. Then he saw Lowenna’s face reflect his own anxiety and he softened. “Perhaps you could put some of your favourite things inside to keep them safe,” he added. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll find you a jewel to keep in there.”
Lowenna’s eyes lit up. She was smiling again as she took the box and thanked her father, though James could not be sure that her gesture was not on account of the half-promised jewel. Slowly, he stepped away, lost in her innocence as he watched her return to her presents. It was done. And James Fairborne knew it was the right thing to do. He was letting go of the one thing he’d kept so very close to him these past ten years. And although he felt a weight lift from him, he remained anxious over his decision to do so.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time Laity came out from the deli again, Amy had convinced herself that it was best not to talk about Gabriel and her latest suspicions. Just find out what you need to know, she told herself. It was just another hunch after all. A faltering instinct that was easily misguided. She heard the cash register jangle and watched Laity follow two girls out of the shop, passing an elderly man who was very slowly on his way in.
“Afternoon, Mr Trenwith,” Laity said, almost shouting. “Be with you shortly.” He perched himself on the edge of the bench table opposite Amy. “Now then,” he added. “Where were we?”
Amy opened the box again. “I’d like to know more about this,” she said. “I suppose whoever hid it must have lived at the house, and if that’s true they must have owned the ferry business.”
“Or been tenants who worked on the ferry,” Laity said. The covenant that tied the ferry business to the cottage was common knowledge locally. “You could find out who lived at the cottage before. Might be a start.”
Amy liked the idea. “Where do you go for that?”
Laity shrugged. “Solicitor, maybe?”
He removed the sewn heart from the box. It was quite plain: bold crimson in colour with a stitched edge that pronounced its shape; it showed no signs of wear or fading. “Box has kept that well,” he said, scrutinising it. “Looks like a nice bit of silk.” The stitching was uneven and the material was rough at the edges. “Looks like someone knocked it up in a hurry,” he said. Then he added, “Or wasn’t much good with a needle.”
He set the heart down and took out the folded note; his eyes looked restless with anticipation. “Though we cannot be together, you will always have my heart,” he read. The note was signed, ‘Lowenna’, and a short postscript read, ‘It’s what is inside that counts’.
“Lowenna…” Laity said. “That’s a nice old Cornish name I haven’t heard in a while. Means joy, if memory serves.”
“What do you make of that postscript?” Amy asked.
“Sounds like a standard sort of phrase. I suppose she just means that it’s how she feels about him on the inside that matters. Even if they can’t be together perhaps.”
A call from inside the shop caught everyone’s attention. “Shop!” It was Mr Trenwith, waving at Laity like the place was on fire.
Laity sighed. “No peace for the wicked,” he said. “Tell you what…” He stood up. “Give me a few hours. One of my locals is bound to know how you go about finding out who lived at Ferryman Cottage.” He leant over the table and collected Amy’s empty coffee cup and the half empty cafetiere. “I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks Tom.”
“Not a problem.” Laity waved the cafetiere. “Fancy a fresh brew?”
“No, I really couldn’t.”
Laity walked backwards to the door. “If you’re this way later on,” he said. “I’ll either still be here…” He rolled his eyes like he fully expected to be. “Or with a bit of luck I’ll be down at the boat. Of course, if I’m neither, then I’m already out fishing!” He was laughing as he disappeared into the shop and the waiting Mr Trenwith.
Amy watched him go, turning the note in her hands. She read it again, thinking about Lowenna and her lover, and of Gabriel and herself. She wondered what circumstance had forced them apart and how this box that once tied them together came to Ferryman Cottage all those years ago.
They met every Tuesday as the afternoon began to fade and whenever chance allowed. But on this particular wet and chilly Tuesday afternoon, late in the spring of 1803, it was to be for the last time. Lowenna’s father had made that very clear.
The caller at Rosemullion Hall left quickly again with James Fairborne’s thanks and a shilling for his trouble. The news he imparted left its receiver with a cold sense of failure. James Fairborne was distraught, unable to fathom where he’d gone wrong.
“Have I not given you everything you could wish for?” he asked, searching his daughter’s eyes for a glimpse of understanding. “That you should set your mark so low!” He began to pace uneasily before the fire in his study. It felt suddenly cold to him. He looked angry now, disgusted. “A farmer!” He spat the word out like it was a wasp lodged in his throat.
“He is a well educated man, father. A landowner, too.”
“Be silent, child!” James Fairborne fell heavily into a tall winged chair beside the fire and sank his head into his hands. “And that you should be seen courting together!” His words were seething.
“But I love him father.” Lowenna reached out to touch his trembling hands. “I am past sixteen years. I want to -”
“You are too young to know this kind of love!” her father snapped, slapping her soft hands away. “And this fool is too far beneath you to deserve it.” His face boiled. Veins throbbed at his temples and spittle glistened in the corners of his mouth. “You will not see him again!”
Her lover was waiting for her at the usual place. The broad oak gave him shelter from the spattering rain and the girth of its trunk afforded them privacy. His cart - sage green, riding on red wheels and undercarriage - looked weathered beside the muddy track that brought him this side of the Helford River every Tuesday - market day. His Shire mare, Ebryl, named after the Cornish for the month of April in which she was born, was happily eating her reward from the morral looped around her neck.
The Falmouth market run was a routine he’d enjoyed with his father for as long as he could remember, until his father was taken by illness three years ago. He was eighteen then, and suddenly overwhelmed with responsibilities many thought beyond his years. But he’d since proven his doubters wrong.
The farmer’s eyes settled on the track that wound away to his left, leading down to Helford Passage.
She was late. He had been there nearly thirty minutes. Maybe the weather. He grew anxious, his heartbeat quickening. Then at last he saw her and a cool breath filled his lungs.
She moved as though gliding to some delicate score only she could hear. And although this humble farmer had not yet had the good fortune to see her anywhere other than by the river or on this often muddy track, he knew that her gift was enough to stop all conversation as she entered a room, drawing all eyes to her. And he knew that when she left again, that room was left a dull place and that every man’s heart therein suffered an unfulfilled longing. Lowenna… His Lowenna. She flowed towards him in her bright yellow silks, unprotected by the small matching parasol she was carrying. And although wet through and dishevelled, she seemed to care nothing for her state.
As she drew closer the farmer heard her cry his name. He rushed to meet her and knew that all was not well. Her jade eyes looked troubled. His excitement faltered, giving way to trepidation. This was not the Lowenna who had come to meet him on so many other happy occasions. His concern stopped him and Lowenna slowed as she approached. He could see her tears now and he reached for her, holding her to him.
Lowenna did not speak.
She pulled away but his strong hands held firm. Then she reached into a bag that had gone unnoticed over her slender arm and took out an ornate box. She pushed it towards him, and he took it without awareness, all the while looking into her eyes - eyes that spoke for her. He shook his head in denial of what those eyes were saying - what he already knew to be true. He thought she tried to smile through her tears, but only pain showed on her face. Then the space between them grew and their hands fell apart, leaving the farmer lost and numb as he watched Lowenna turn and run.
Chapter Sixteen
Lady Celia Fairborne was in the sun washed drawing room at Rosemullion Hall, failing to distract herself with a few fashion magazines. Behind the glossy images of ever diminishing models parading the latest designs, she was contemplating her recent phone call from Reverend Jolliffe and this American genealogist who was coming to see her. She slapped the magazine shut and threw it hard into the armrest at the far end of the settee. At any other time she would have been excited to talk to Mr Tayte - to learn more about the family; that had been her reaction when the Reverend had phoned earlier. But a timely call from her husband soon afterwards had changed all that in an instant.
Six double-height, leaded windows were alight with the blaze of a full afternoon sun. They looked out unhindered across a perfectly manicured lawn to the south that was randomly scattered with topiary chess pieces standing some five feet in height. The view led the eye down and through the estate gardens to a deep perimeter of dense shrubs and prickly gorse, delineating the fringe of the estate, to the coastal path and the sea that lived beyond Rosemullion Head. The room itself was half oak-panelled and decorated in soft neutral tones behind an array of family portraits.
Celia Fairborne was waiting for her son to join her for a much needed chat. She’d called for Warwick immediately after receiving her husband’s phone call, and she had not expected him to come promptly; Warwick seemed far too distracted of late.
Where is the boy?
She went to the window, taking in nothing of the view, hands clasped in an anxious knot behind her, aware that time was ticking away.
Everything about Celia Fairborne belied her fifty-eight years. She was stylishly dressed in a close fitted, abstract floral print dress that hugged her regularly exercised frame. Her shoes were raspberry suede and had a slight heel to them, and her hair was artificially ash-blond and short in length, cut into the sides and feathered in a style that cost a fortune. Money had taken at least ten years off her. A rose cashmere cardigan rested across the arm of one of a pair of pale yellow settees that mirrored one another across an Aubusson rug before the fireplace. She was about to go and look for Warwick herself when he walked in.
Warwick’s casual attire was as contentious as ever; pale threadbare jeans and a navy merino sweater that he practically lived in. As he crossed the room, his expression was neutral, bordering resentment, like concentration interrupted. He slipped across the arm of the first settee he came to and left a worn-out tan leather deck-shoe hanging from a bare foot.
His mother sat opposite him and shot him a disdainful glare. “If you’re going to sit down, Wicky dear, sit properly will you.” Celia’s urge was to go across and flick his leg around for him, and put a comb through his unkempt almond hair while she was at it, but what was the point? After thirty years of trying she had finally conceded that it was too late to effect any lasting change.
The deck-shoe slid into place beside its twin and Warwick’s knees fell apart as though in argument. He appeared relaxed, but Celia sensed an undercurrent of tension in the way his lower lip hung without purpose, and how his cyan eyes bored into her.
“Look, what is it, mother? I’m in the middle of something.”
Celia’s face silently mocked him. “Another girl?”
“Not before lunch,” Warwick said through the hint of a smile at last. “So what’s up?”
“I’ve had a call from your father.”
Warwick’s smiled dropped. “Where is the old man? I’ve hardly seen him all week.”
“He’s in London, Warwick. You know very well where he is. He’ll be back on Friday.”
“Yes, of course. He’s there so often lately, his poor constituents must think he’s deserted them.”
“It’s an important week for him, Wicky.”
“That’s right. It’s a life peerage this time, isn’t it? Warwick scoffed. “Old Dicky really is doing well for himself, isn’t he?”
“Don’t call him that, Warwick. You know he doesn’t like it and neither do I.”
Warwick crossed his arms then unfolded them again and started tapping the cushions. “Well you’d think any man would be content with inheriting a Baronetcy, but not my father. He has to earn his own. First he gets an OBE for sticking with it and milking the last drop of tin out of a collapsing mining industry. Then when most people would be happy to retire with their lolly and take it easy under a palm tree somewhere, my father starts a career in politics. Twenty years later he’s still not had enough!”
Celia heaved a frustrated sigh. She could guess well enough where all this bitterness was coming from. She’d seen it too many times before. His latest venture was in trouble.
“I thought the Internet was going to be your golden ticket.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You know your father can help you, Wicky.”
Warwick scoffed again. “Can he give me another loan? That’s the only kind of help I need.”
“You know how he feels about that,” Celia said. “I meant that he can help you in other ways. He knows how hard you try, even if he doesn’t show it. He can still find you a position. You only have to ask.”
“Only!” Warwick said. He turned away, squinting from the glare at the windows. “I’ll open my own doors, thanks.”
“Headstrong as a mule,” Celia said with a dismissive shake of her head. “At least you have that much in common.” She could see this coming between her plans for the weekend: the investiture at Buckingham Palace and the after party she’d put so much effort into. “Just tell me that these latest problems of yours won’t keep you from your obligations on Saturday.”
An edgy smile preceded Warwick’s sharp snort. “I’ll be there,” he said. He looked like a man whose problems had taken him beyond worry into a protective cocoon of denial. His smile hung in contradiction on his face. “So what did you want to see me about?”
Celia Fairborne sat forward on the settee and clasped her hands together. “Something far more important than any of this,” she said. “I need a favour.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was 2pm when Jefferson Tayte arrived at Rosemullion Hall, cursing the inadequate loafers on his already sore feet. After leaving Mawnan, he’d come through a small woodlan
d called Mawnan Glebe, which he thought was like something out of a fairytale. Chunky granite steps led down into the wood through a tangle of ivy. Then a pathway of earth and exposed roots wound through the steep terrain like a helter-skelter to the river’s edge. Restless swatches of sunlight dappled the wood, shifting to the whispered tune of a gentle breeze. Beyond, Tayte walked beside fields of wild grasses to his left and the sea below the headland cliffs to his right, towards the gorse and grassy hummocks of Rosemullion Head.
He was standing between open gates now, looking up at the house along a blue-grey, slate driveway, worn smooth with use; it looked wet in the shimmering heat haze. He dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief then drew it slowly across the back of his neck, glad of the strengthening breeze that had been with him since reaching the headland. He looked for an intercom and found none, so he followed the drive towards the house.
Rosemullion Hall was built during the latter half of the sixteenth century. The manor house conformed well to the characteristic architectural design of the Elizabethan period, forming a decisive letter ‘E’ in shape. It was constructed from red brick with stone facings and tall mullioned windows. The gables exhibited subtle Dutch design influences, and the pitched roof was scattered with several clusters of tall chimney stacks, forming classical square columns. The main entrance was central to the building, facing away from the sea, being typically ostentatious with oversized gilt-dressed doors set between highly decorated pillars.
Tayte could already see the door to which he’d been directed by Reverend Jolliffe; clearly a tradesman’s entrance by its relative simplicity. He straightened his suit as best he could and knocked, bringing the heavy brass scroll in the middle of the door down with a thud. He glanced around, casually waiting, then he knocked again. A moment later he heard a catch rattle on the other side and the door opened just enough to accommodate the middle-aged man who stood in the gap. He wore a starched, light brown apron that put the creases in Tayte’s suit to shame. The man was clean shaven, dressed in a white shirt with black trousers and polished black shoes. His hair was a distinguished shade of silver-grey.
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