"Remember that last Midsummer's Eve," Jessalyn said, "before you were sent away to school." They had discovered, quite unattended, a barrel of freshly tapped ale behind one of the kiddley tents. It had been Jessalyn's idea to taste of the forbidden fruit. "We both became pickled as herrings and got caught trying to sneak into one of those tawdry halfpenny peep shows."
Clarence stooped to retrieve a lobster that had escaped from a wriggling, smelly brown basket. "And I got a rare good thrashing for it, too."
She looked down at his bowed shoulders, at the edges of his blond hair that curled out from beneath his hat. She felt a rush of fondness for him. "Poor Clarence. I was always getting you into trouble, wasn't I?"
He looked up at her and smiled. "It was always worth it."
They walked up the center street that climbed to Market Place. Torches made of old sailcloth dipped in tar had been set up along the way. Many of the houses had candles burning in their windows and doorsteps.
A great bonfire, made of old pit props, spars, and broken masts, had been heaped into the middle of the cobbled square. They arrived just in time to see the pile of wood doused with pilchard oil and set alight. The bonfire burned brightly and high and was reflected a dozen times over in the bow windows of the houses around the square.
They stood around the fire, drinking noggins of beer laced with rum and waiting to get at the potatoes roasting in the embers. A lemon moon rolled across the sky. The wind came up from the sea, bringing with it the smell of fish and a promise of morning fog.
Clarence had gone quiet beside her. She turned to look at him. He had an odd expression on his face, a kind of tenseness. He dipped his head toward her, and she realized suddenly that he was going to kiss her. She started to turn her head aside and then at the last moment did not. His lips were warm and dry. They brushed her mouth briefly and were gone.
He took her hand, but she pulled it away.
"You should not have done that," she said.
"I beg your pardon," he said, not sounding at all contrite. "I don't know what came over me."
"Nevertheless, you shouldn't have done it."
She shouldn't have allowed it. All of Penzance had seen him kiss her. Her grandmother would hear of it. All of Cornwall would hear of it, and the scandal broth would have them before the altar getting married by the end of the week.
"No. I should not have done it," Clarence said softly, his breath brushing against her cheek. "Yet."
The bonfire collapsed, sending up a fountain of flames and sparks. In the sudden flare of light, Jessalyn caught sight of the Trelawny man standing on the fringes of the crowd. The fire glazed the sharp bones of his cheeks and brows, creating dark hollows beneath. The flames shimmered in his eyes, so that it seemed a hotter fire blazed deep within him. He reminded her more than ever of what she had thought the first time she had seen him... a fallen angel.
She wondered how long he had been there, watching her. Watching them. She turned to see if Clarence had noticed him. When she glanced that way again, he was gone.
CHAPTER 4
"'Tis not the done thing," Lady Letty pronounced, "to go to a ball in a jingle."
"It was the cheapest conveyance they had," Jessalyn said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "You told me to rent the cheapest they had."
The small two-wheeled pony-drawn cart swayed and jolted down the lane. It carried Jessalyn, her grandmother, and the serving girl, Becka Poole, to Larkhaven for Cornwall's social event of the year—Henry Tiltwell's Midsummer's Day house party.
"One must arrive in style, gel," Lady Letty said, unwilling to let the matter drop. "In style. I cannot for the life of me imagine what you were thinking of to rent a jingle. A jingle! 'Tain't the done thing. Never has been, never will be—"
The cart gave a sudden, violent lurch. Lady Letty grunted, one hand grabbing for the seat, the other clutching her lace cap. She directed a fierce scowl at her granddaughter, who had charge of the ribbons. "Really, gel, must you search out every bump and rut in the road? My teeth are clacking together like a pair of Spanish castanets."
"I'm that sorry, Gram," Jessalyn said, trying hard not to laugh. "I shall endeavor to steer a smoother course."
Poor Becka Poole, who sat in the back with her legs dangling over the tail, was getting the worst of it. She moaned loudly, rubbing her bottom. "God's me life! I'll be sleepin' on me stomach this night, I tell ee. Sich bruises do I have on me dairy-air."
Jessalyn exchanged astonished glances with her grandmother.
"That be an eddicated word, Miss Jessalyn," Becka said, leaning backward to impart this information. "I learnt it from that mountebank what sold me the toothache powder. A furrin word. 'Tes what them Frenchies say when they have a need to speak of their arses, but tes more politelike, see? Dairy-air."
Lady Letty snorted loudly and took a pinch of snuff.
Sucking on her cheeks to hide a smile, Jessalyn looked at the passing countryside. Not that she was able to see much over the hedge of herringboned stone, which had moss growing along the top of it like close-cropped hair. She wanted to laugh aloud in her happiness. She was going to her first real house party. There would be music and dancing and... maybe him. Her stomach clenched around a strange knot of fear and excitement at the thought.
They turned onto a private road, and immediately the ruts disappeared, as if smoothed by a giant's palm. Through the elms and sycamores that lined the way, Jessalyn caught glimpses of the chimneys and gables of Larkhaven. They joined a serpentine of other carriages and coaches, Lady Letty fussing all the while about jingles, balls, and done things.
A broad green expanse of shaven turf and a neatly raked gravel drive led up to sweeping front steps. Larkhaven was an enormous square granite and slate mansion with columns made of purple stone flanking the entrance and a pavilion at each corner. It looked as though it ought to shelter at least a duke, but the man who owned it was the son of a tutworker. And all the world knew that no matter how much money Henry Tiltwell acquired, no matter how grand a house he built, blood told and birth would always matter.
Still, Henry Tiltwell had such financial power that few in Cornwall felt secure enough, or rich enough, to ignore a summons to Larkhaven. Even if it was couched in the form of an invitation to a party.
Jessalyn and her grandmother were met at the front door by a liveried servant and led up a white marble staircase with gilt-bronze balustrades. The house was said to have more than thirty bedrooms. To underscore Henry Tiltwell's opinion of where the Lettys stood in his social order— which was old name, but no money and even less influence —Jessalyn and her grandmother were given a pair of tiny adjoining rooms just under the eaves. Jessalyn's room smelled of camphor balls, but a velvet curtain had been hung over the door to keep out drafts. A truckle bed and a dressing table with an oval looking glass mounted on brass swivels constituted the only furnishings.
As soon as she was alone, Jessalyn removed a glass jar that she had secreted at the bottom of her reticule. She had purchased it at the apothecary's shop just that morning. The concoction, the man had assured her, was guaranteed to bleach away freckles. Humming a tinner's ditty, she sat at the dressing table and applied the gooey mixture to her face.
The paste, made of barley flour, crushed almonds, and honey, hardened as soon as it was exposed to the air. After a couple of minutes the mask began to itch. Mildly at first. Then almost unbearably. But the apothecary had told her to leave it on at least half an hour.
To take her mind off her itching face, Jessalyn went to the tiny dormer window. She had to get on her knees to look out, so low was the room's slanting ceiling. Through the glazed panes, she could hear the throb of a pump, like a heartbeat. She threw up the sash for a better view. If she leaned out, she could just see the top of the brick enginehouse and the round, smoke-belching chimney of the tin mine called Wheal Charlotte.
A bell began to clang, signaling the change of cores. A group of miners, their clothes stained with mud and cla
y, straggled over the top of the hill, meeting those going down for the next shift. Two men walked apart from the rest, following the rails of the tramroad that led from the mine down to Penzance Harbor. Clarence Tiltwell and his scapegrace Trelawny cousin. She wondered if they had been doing some sort of rough work, for both were in shirtsleeves and hatless. Clarence's close-cropped blond curls cupped his head like a gilded helmet. His cousin's dark brown hair, unfashionably long, blew in the wind.
They turned toward the house, and as they drew closer, she could hear the tone of their voices, though not the words. There was a sense of barely suppressed excitement between them, as if they shared a secret. Clarence slapped his cousin on the back, and the man threw back his head and laughed.
Trying to hear what they were saying, she leaned over as they passed beneath her. Her elbow nudged loose a slate. She lunged to catch the slate and fell forward onto her chest, sliding out the window with a loud rip of corded muslin. Out the corner of her eye she saw something projecting from the roof, and she made a wild grab for it.
Several slates landed with a splintering crash on the brick walk below. Two masculine heads, one fair and one dark, looked up. Jessalyn lay, half in, half out the window, clinging for dear life to the snout of a gargoyle.
For a moment they simply stared at her, and Jessalyn couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh or to die. She glanced down, hoping at least that some bosom might be spilling provocatively out of her modest tucker.
The Trelawny man's face broke into that dimpled, boyish smile. "I say, cousin," he drawled, "you certainly have big larks here at Larkhaven."
Jessalyn laughed... and felt her face crack.
Downstairs the party had begun. The hum of distant music vibrated the floorboards beneath her feet. Laughing, Jessalyn spun around on her toes, making her skirt bell out.
Her one and only good dress was, the mantua-maker had assured her, quite the latest thing. It had a waist so high it ended just beneath her breasts and tiny puffed sleeves. It was made of the palest green tulle over a slip of jade-colored satin and had lace-trimmed flounces going halfway up the skirt. She twisted her neck, trying to see all of herself in the dressing table's small looking glass. She only hoped so much green didn't make her look like a stalk of asparagus.
The dress had been made for the occasion of her birthday four months ago, and already it was a little short. She sighed. If only she would stop growing. Or at least start growing in more appropriate places.
With some of the saddle horse money Jessalyn had, at her grandmother's urging, purchased a pair of white satin slippers that fastened with ribbons around her ankles and evening gloves of soft limerick. In a chest in End Cottage's attic, she had found a fan made of white crepe and a silver beaded reticule. Gram had forbidden her to use carmine powder, so she had rouged her cheeks and lips with red tea leaves instead and had darkened her brows with a bit of burned cork. She brushed her hair until it had a gloss like japanned leather. Now, standing in the middle of her room, she felt almost breathless with anticipation and excitement.
She went next door to fetch her grandmother, only to be told by Becka that Lady Letty had already gone down. Jessalyn took the narrow wooden stairs to the next landing, where the more important guests were sleeping. She glided along the Oriental runner that graced the wide hall, feeling like a countess.
At a jog in the hall she came upon a looking glass above a pier table that supported a tulip-shaped pink and white Wedgwood vase. Caught by her own reflection, she paused.
She unfurled her fan, covering half her face with the white crepe leaves. The effect, she thought, made her look exotic and mysterious.
Lady Letty had told her that there was an etiquette, almost an art, to handling a fan. There was, for instance, the Refusal Look. Jessalyn narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, screwing her face into the way she imagined such a look would be. Then there was the Lingering Look—calculated to invite but not embolden. She wriggled her brows and blinked her lashes. No, that didn't seem quite right. She opened her eyes wide and tilted her head, first to the left, then to the right.
A harsh face with dark, flaring brows appeared in the looking glass over her shoulder. She let out a tiny shriek and whirled, and her elbow sent the pink and white Wedgwood vase tumbling.
He caught it within inches of its smashing on the floor. He straightened slowly and, his gaze locking with hers, set the vase back on its perch. He looked dashing in his regimentals—a cherry red coat with gold cuffs and collar and full, lacy cravat. Dull gold epaulets enhanced the broadness of his shoulders. His cream-colored pantaloons were so tight she wondered how he sat ahorse in them.
"Are you ill, Miss Letty?"
Jessalyn was still lost in staring at his splendid magnificence "Ill?"
"You were making such horrid faces I thought you might be in pain."
She sucked in a deep breath, recovering her wits. "It was quite rude of you to sneak up on me like that."
He performed a mocking half bow. "I humbly beg your pardon. Next time I'll have a fife and drum announce me."
He looked her over, not bothering to hide the fact that he was judging her as a man was wont to judge a woman. She waited, in spite of herself, for his compliment.
Instead he leaned toward her and sniffed at the air. "What is that smell?"
"What?"
"Almonds." He dipped his head toward her neck. "Almonds and honey."
Her hands flew up to cover her cheeks. "Oh, blast. It's that odious paste I put on my face. Do I stink?"
"On the contrary, Miss Letty. You smell quite edible." Somehow her arm had become linked through his, and he was leading her down the hall toward the white marble staircase. "Although I must confess when I saw you falling out the window earlier, I thought you were a mummer hired to give us entertainment after supper. But tell me, why do you smear almonds and honey on your face—unless it's to attract bees? Aren't you afraid of getting stung?"
There seemed to be a current beneath his words, a deeper meaning she couldn't fathom. He sounded almost angry. "I was trying to rid myself of these wretched freckles," she said.
He pulled her to a stop on one of the steps. Cupping her chin, he tilted her face up. He rubbed his thumb along the length of her cheekbone, stroking, back and forth. "They're still there," he said, his voice low and soft.
She felt his touch all the way down to her toes. Somewhere in another world the band was playing a quadrille; somewhere in another world people were laughing and talking. But in her world there was only the incredible sensation of his silk-gloved thumb caressing her skin.
"Leave them be, Miss Letty. Perfection is boring."
She became lost in the deep wells of darkness that were his eyes. In that moment, if he had asked, she would have given him her heart wrapped with a silver bow. Even if he only meant to break it.
His hand fell from her face. He took her arm, turning her. Together they looked down the stairs to the great hall below, where Henry Tiltwell stood with his hands fisted at his sides and a look of fury on his face.
"He wasn't invited," Lady Letty said. "But he came anyway. Cheeky devil. The Trelawnys have always been cheeky devils."
She flicked open her snuffbox with a crooked finger and took a pinch of Queen Charlotte's mixture. Tonight she carried one of her favorite boxes, of silver plate with a large piece of cut glass on the lid that twinkled like a ruby.
Jessalyn waited until her grandmother had sneezed into a handkerchief. "Why not?" she asked. "Why wasn't he invited?"
"What a sad crush. We had better park ourselves," Lady Letty announced, "before all the best seats are taken."
Because of the festive occasion, Lady Letty had donned a voluminous white cap decorated with love knots and trailing lappets. In her stiff black bombazine skirts she looked like a coal scuttle under full sail. She set a direct course for one of the few chairs that lined the wall, Jessalyn following in her wake.
"Why wouldn't Mr. Tiltwell invite his own
nephew to his party?" Jessalyn said as soon as her grandmother was settled.
"There was a breach between the two families, oh, years ago. But the reasons for the feud are a story too scandalous for your tender ears." Lady Letty frowned and cupped a hand to her own ear. "What's that they're playing, eh? It had better not be a waltz. I shan't let you dance one of those scandalous waltzes."
Jessalyn sighed, but she knew better than to press. For all that she loved to gossip, Gram could be as closemouthed as a clam with lockjaw when she put her mind to it. And as for dancing, well, someone had to ask her first.
Jessalyn flapped her fan in front of her face. The air smelled and felt like a hothouse in July, with so many perfumes and hundreds of beeswax candles burning in the chandeliers. Talk and laughter and the clicking of snuffboxes nearly drowned out the strains of a minuet. Vast pier glasses, set between lofty windows, reflected back the sheen of satin and silk and the sparkle of jewels. The room seemed all mirrors and silvered walls.
That Trelawny man, who hadn't been invited, leaned against a fluted pillar, a thumb hooked on his fob pocket and a sulky look about his mouth. She tried not to stare at him.
She looked for Clarence but didn't see him. Clarence's father, Mr. Henry Tiltwell, moved about the room with ponderous dignity, greeting his guests. He had thick brows that grew like hedgerows across his forehead and a jutting bottom lip. He was a short, thickset man, and in his white breeches and yellow waistcoat he reminded Jessalyn of a boiled egg. He kept casting dagger looks at his nephew, who hadn't been invited. But who had come anyway.
A woman walked by, giving them the sort of smile one presents to strangers one thinks one ought to know. The paint on her face was so thick it looked enameled. A false eyebrow, whose glue had come loose in the heat, was migrating up her forehead.
Lady Letty pointed to the woman. "That fool has a caterpillar crawling about her face. You'd think someone would tell her."
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