The Consul's Daughter

by Jane Jackson

  Caseley still didn’t understand why he had insisted she stay.

  ‘I want Miss Bonython to take charge.’

  She felt her eyes widen as she stared at him. He didn’t mean it. He was having a joke at her expense.

  Teuder frowned. ‘You want Caseley?’

  Jago nodded. ‘Such a task needs someone with an eye for colour, style, and flair.’

  Flinching at his irony, she gritted her teeth as a wave of fury and embarrassment broke over her.

  Her father shrugged. ‘I’m bound to say I’ve never noticed any talent in her for such things.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I want her to do it.’

  ‘No,’ Caseley said. ‘It’s impossible. I have too much to do at home.’

  ‘Get on, girl,’ Teuder scoffed. ‘Rosina can run the place with one hand tied behind her back. She’s got Liza-Jane and Ben, and Mary Clemmow.’

  ‘Father,’ Caseley stepped forward, pleading. ‘There is still so much to do here. This is only your first day back.’

  ‘Miss Bonython,’ Jago cut in. ‘I do not expect you to devote the whole of your time to my house. An hour or two each day to supervise however many workmen you deem it necessary to employ will be sufficient. I have no desire to interfere with your other commitments.’

  ‘See? You’re making ponds out of puddles again. I’m not saying you haven’t been useful. But I can manage without you for a couple of hours a day.’

  Caseley tried. ‘Father, you’re only just getting your strength back.’

  ‘And wasting too much of it arguing with a stubborn young miss who should show a bit more gratitude,’ he snapped.

  ‘Gratitude? For what am I supposed to be grateful? I did not ask, nor do I want –’

  ‘Don’t try my patience too far,’ Teuder warned.

  ‘Perhaps it is merely a question of confidence,’ Jago said, his voice smooth, his gaze implacable. ‘Miss Bonython, I have no doubt you possess talents that would be a source of considerable surprise to those who feel they know you so well.’

  Shock drained the blood from her head leaving her dizzy. She reached blindly for the chair back and gripped it. It was blackmail. Either she agreed or he would tell her father how she had run the yard well enough to escape detection by everyone except Toby.

  But if she gave in now, where would it end? How many more demands would he make? What choice did she have? Another attack like this morning’s could finish her father.

  Now she knew why Jago Barata had wanted her here. Yet his request – demand – made no sense. He had accused her of lacking any sense of style or fashion. So why was he entrusting her with his house?

  ‘Come, Miss Bonython,’ he drawled. ‘I have never yet seen you lost for words. Many women would consider such a request an honour.’

  Caseley raised her head. Though she dared not say the words she longed to hurl at him, she made no effort to hide her contempt. He totally ignored it.

  ‘But you must not feel overwhelmed. A simple yes will do.’

  ‘Goddammit, Caseley. What’s the matter with you?’ Teuder snapped. ‘I’ve never known you so contrary. A deal is a deal, and if Jago’s agreement is dependent on you refurbishing his house then I want your word, and an end to this wilful selfishness.’

  The injustice stung and she had to swallow twice before she could utter a sound. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Jago leaned over to shake Teuder’s hand. ‘With your permission I shall call for your daughter this afternoon and take her to see the house.’

  ‘Please do not trouble yourself, Captain,’ Caseley said quickly. ‘If you will leave the key and the address, I can manage perfectly well alone.’

  He held her gaze for a moment then bowed. ‘Until three, Miss Bonython.’

  As his footsteps receded down the passage, Teuder rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Where were we? Ah yes. Tresawle’s ketch. Check the dates in the ledger, Caseley. See if we can fit him in.’

  Chapter Eight

  The ground and first floor sash windows of the stone-faced house were multi-paned oblongs. Those on the top floor were square. Shallow granite steps led up to an open porch with a flat roof supported by two granite columns.

  Reluctantly, Caseley followed Jago up the path as the driver turned the cab in the road and bowled back towards the top of High Street.

  Rosebeds on either side of the mossy flagstones were choked with weeds. Summer sun and salt-laden winter gales had flaked paint from the window frames and the heavy front door. The house looked neglected and sad.

  Catching a movement, Caseley glanced sideways. In the house next door a lace curtain twitched and was still. She looked down at her feet, wondering if it belonged to anyone who knew her or her family. She had not been near this end of town for several months.

  ‘At last,’ Jago muttered as the lock finally yielded. Withdrawing the key he opened the front door. The top half of the inner door had panels of stained glass surrounding a frosted panel, which maintained privacy while admitting light when the front door was open.

  ‘Your first job,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘will be to have all the locks and hinges oiled.’

  Caseley barely heard him. The wide hall was laid with terracotta tiles patterned in cream and green. Their colours were muted by dust that covered smears of long-dried mud trodden in by many feet.

  The paintwork was dull and scratched. The wallpaper showed scrapes and tears and in some places had peeled away from the wall. Cobwebs hung like grey lace over the gas mantles. The glass globes were dusty and flyblown and one was cracked.

  Her first impression was one of decay. Yet, against her will and in defiance of her expectations, Caseley liked the house. Now empty and neglected, once it had been filled with the laughter and chatter of a large family. Echoes remained and welcomed. It occurred to her that here she would never feel lonely.

  Abruptly shutting off the thought, she was relieved that the gloom hid the betraying colour in her cheeks. She turned to see Jago watching her with an arrested expression on his face. His grey eyes gleamed like a cat’s.

  ‘It is fortunate you enjoy a challenge, Miss Bonython. You certainly have one here.’ He opened a door to her left and gestured for her to enter, following close behind. ‘At least I shall be spared the expense of dust covers,’ he remarked as they surveyed the empty room.

  His footsteps were loud on the dusty wood floor as he crossed the dim room to the window and folded back the wooden shutters. Several moths fluttered from faded curtains of crimson plush.

  ‘I loathe that colour.’ Brushing dust off his hands he returned to the hall.

  Caseley followed him through the door opposite into another bare room. The opened shutters revealed lumps of soot from the chimney lying scattered over the blue and white glazed tiles in front of the grate.

  The lace casement curtain fixed across the sash had frayed at the edges and along the bottom. Cobwebs stretched from the gas-lamps on either side of the fire to the mantelshelf. Lighter patches on the wallpaper showed where once pictures had hung, and a newspaper, yellow with age, lay in a corner.

  ‘Why did you say that?’ Caseley directed the question at Jago’s broad back as they entered the large kitchen after a quick glance into another empty room that faced the back yard.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Say what?’

  ‘That I enjoy a challenge. You know nothing about me.’

  The kitchen was large and airy with a Cornish range on one wall above which was suspended a wooden frame for drying or airing clothes. Beneath the window was a stone sink with a wooden draining board. An oblong wooden table stood in the centre. The terracotta floor tiles were covered in dust and muddy footprints.

  ‘You’re wrong, Miss Bonython. I know a lot about you.’ His voice floated out from the walk-in larder. ‘Before you accuse me of invading your privacy,’ he closed the door and turned to face her, ‘what I have learned comes from my own observations. Until we were introduced, I
was not aware Teuder Bonython had a daughter.’

  Why should he have known? Her father and uncles would have had no reason to mention her. ‘What about Toby? You must have asked him –’

  ‘My only question was if your father’s illness had had any effect on the yard. The rest he volunteered.’

  Strangely, it did not occur to her to doubt him. She turned away. Toby hadn’t intended it, but she felt betrayed. She crossed to the door that led out to the yard and washhouse. Jago followed.

  ‘Toby Penfold thinks very highly of you. He says the men do too. Though judging by your behaviour toward me, I cannot imagine why.’

  She swung round, a stinging retort ready on her lips. But seeing his mocking smile and the glint in his eyes she realised he was deliberately trying to provoke her. Why? If she asked him he would probably deny it. In any case, she did not care. Her chin rose.

  ‘Do not make sport with me, sir.’ As his eyes narrowed she swallowed her anger and shrugged. ‘I have known those men and their families since I was a child. They have my affection and my respect.’

  ‘And I do not?’ His tone bantered, but beneath it lay something darker.

  ‘You have given me little cause –’ she broke off and took a deep breath. ‘My opinions are of interest to no one but myself.’ Despite her determination not to react, his goading unnerved her. Why was he doing it? What did he want from her? She walked past him back into the hall.

  ‘Are you ready to see upstairs?’ When she nodded he gestured for her to lead the way.

  The carpet had been removed and the wide staircase rang hollow beneath their tread. Caseley hesitated on the landing. Jago simply waited behind her, so she pushed open the right-hand door.

  The rails and knobs on the huge brass bedstead were tarnished and dull. A few feathers were all that remained of the mattress and pillows. Hearing him come in, she focused her gaze on the floor, the planks scarred where heavy furniture had been dragged across them.

  The tiny fireplace with its black-lead surround was framed by green and white porcelain tiles decorated with a flower pattern. Old newspapers had been stuffed into the chimney and grate.

  ‘This was the room my grandparents shared all their married life,’ he said, looking round. ‘All their children were born in that bed. Perhaps mine will be.’

  Abruptly Caseley crossed to the window.

  ‘Are you not fond of children, Miss Bonython?’ His voice followed her and she could feel his ironic gaze between her shoulder blades.

  ‘I have no experience of them.’ She gazed across the harbour towards the village of Flushing basking in the afternoon sunshine.

  ‘But you would like children of your own, would you not?’

  Beneath her enfolding cape, Caseley cupped her elbows, unsettled by his questions. ‘Captain, we are barely acquainted. Such talk is not proper.’

  ‘Not proper?’ he mocked. ‘Since the moment we met your attitude and behaviour towards me has been barely civil, let alone proper. You are in no position to invoke convention now. I merely asked –’

  She whirled round, hands clenched at her sides, her face burning. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  His features tightened. ‘Such innocence,’ he mocked. ‘Such wounded vulnerability.’ Two strides brought him to within inches of her. She flinched from the tension he radiated, the anger he was fighting to control. His eyes glittered and she saw her own image reflected in them, pale but holding her ground.

  ‘You give me no peace.’ With a muttered oath he turned away, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck.

  ‘Then why am I here? You don’t like me. I irritate you and make you angry. So why –’

  He looked at her over his shoulder. ‘Your father and I have an agreement.’

  ‘Which need not include me. You had no right to demand my involvement. Why do so when you must know dozens of women who would be only too pleased to refurbish your house for you, and remain afterwards to –’ She broke off as horror washed over her.

  She had never, ever behaved like this. Though he brought out the worst in her, her wilful, wayward tongue had handed him the ammunition with which to shoot her down.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Captain Barata.’ Seeking refuge in formality, she clasped her hands tightly. ‘It is not my habit to be –’

  ‘Rude and ill-natured?’ he supplied, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘But that is precisely why I wanted you, Miss Bonython. I need not lose a moment’s sleep wondering how to get rid of you once the job is completed.’

  Caseley caught her breath as the arrow found its target. ‘You will not release me from this – this charade?’

  ‘Agreement,’ he corrected.

  ‘Blackmail,’ she flung back. ‘As we are dispensing with convention, let us be completely honest. You used blackmail to get me here.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said calmly, surprising her. ‘Now tell me you hate the house. Tell me that the task of making it a comfortable, welcoming home neither interests nor appeals to you.’

  ‘I –’ she stopped. She moistened dry lips, willing herself to say the words. If she did, would he let her go? Unlikely. He would twist them to suit himself. And he still held the trump card: his threat to tell her father.

  But those were not the reasons she remained silent. She could not say she hated the house, because she didn’t. It was a happy house. With care and thought it could be made beautiful.

  Now she had seen it, the challenge fired her imagination and offered a much-needed respite from the pressures she faced at home and in the office. To say she hated it would irreparably damage something she had sensed as they moved from room to room, something fragile and precious. She turned away.

  ‘This will not be spoken of again.’ It was an order. ‘You are here, that is enough.’

  She looked out of the window at quay punts ferrying provisions out to two barques and a brigantine moored in the middle of the river

  ‘To do it properly will cost a lot of money.’

  Jago came to stand beside her. ‘I expect it will.’

  ‘Perhaps you should give me a figure, a limit.’

  ‘Are you a spendthrift?’

  She glanced at him briefly. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you intend to cheat me?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then it’s unnecessary.’

  ‘Naturally I shall keep accounts, and all the invoices will be retained for your inspection.’

  ‘As you like.’ His disinterest was plain.

  ‘Captain Barata, you are not taking me seriously.’

  He turned towards her. ‘Are you concerned that I cannot afford it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ But the warmth climbing her throat to her cheeks betrayed her.

  ‘Forget about the money. I have enough in the bank here to cover the initial work and by the time I return from Spain I shall have the rest.’

  Caseley risked a sidelong glance. He had the look of a man who had just made a far-reaching decision. But the harshness of his chiselled profile discouraged questions.

  He turned to her. ‘Shall we look at the remainder of the house?’

  After climbing the flight of narrow stairs that led to the servants’ bedrooms and the attic, they returned to the landing and entered the second front bedroom. It was a mirror image of the first, except that it was empty.

  Once more Caseley was drawn to the window. A brig laden with granite was coming down-river from Penryn. Passing ships moored in the King’s Road she headed out towards Trefusis Point and the Carrick Roads, and on into Falmouth Bay. As they watched, the main staysail and flying jib were hoisted. Caseley sighed.

  ‘I believe it is common for wives and daughters of owner-skippers to sail with them on occasion,’ Jago said. ‘Did you and your mother ever accompany your father?’

  ‘We did once. But I was very young and remember little about it. Ralph, my brother, was away staying with friends, and Father took Mother and me up to Southampton.’

 
‘You have not been to sea since?’

  Caseley darted an uncertain glance at him. ‘Why do you ask, Captain?’

  ‘You gaze at those ships with such yearning. Is the sea in your blood? Or do you simply seek escape from all the problems besetting you?’

  His gentleness startled her. She had grown used to being defensive, prepared for battle, trusting neither him nor her own reactions. But for the moment at least, they appeared to have a truce.

  ‘You make me sound like a coward.’ She tried to smile.

  ‘You are many things, Caseley Bonython. But not a coward, never that.’ The smile in his deep voice sent a quiver through her. ‘So, answer my question.’

  She looked out of the window. ‘A little of both. The past months have been so … full.’ She shrugged lightly. ‘I am a little weary.’

  ‘Is there no one you can turn to? No one from whom you can seek help or comfort?’

  She shook her head. ‘My grandparents are dead. My closest female relatives are Aunt Helen and Aunt Margaret. Aunt Helen is a dear, but she has a young child and does not enjoy good health. Aunt Margaret –’ she looked up at him. ‘Have you not met Uncle Thomas’s wife?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  Caseley sighed. ‘If you had, you would remember. Aunt Margaret has fixed ideas about everything and does not approve of me.’

  ‘That I can understand.’ Jago’s tone was dry. ‘What about your mother?’

  Caseley looked down at her hands. ‘My mother is dead.’

  ‘When and how?’

  Though taken aback by his bluntness, it did not offend her. She told him about the event that had shattered her life and of which she seldom spoke.

  ‘My father – it was too painful for him. His first wife and son had died of diphtheria, you see. He and my mother – I remember them as very happy together. He was so proud of Ralph, my elder brother. And as the youngest and the only girl I was indulged.’ She smiled at memories. ‘He bought me dolls and loved to see me in pretty dresses. But Ralph was his favourite. A son to replace the one he had lost. An heir who would inherit –’

  ‘Never mind your brother,’ Jago was impatient. ‘What happened?’