The Bride Sale

by Candice Hern

  “’Ee’ll see how it do be soon ’nuff,” she said. “All the women do end up at Old Grannie’s anyhow. Don’t need no invitation.”

  The visit to Ewa Dunstan marked the pattern of the rest of the visits through the village and the outlying tenant farms. Initial wariness gave way to politeness and sometimes downright friendliness. And everyone had an ailment or complaint of some kind. Hildy Spruggins had stomach pains, Dorcas Muddle’s baby suffered colic and gas, Lizzy Trethowan’s husband had strained a back muscle while repairing a hedgerow, Annie Kempthorne endured severe menstrual cramps, and Borra Nanpean’s daughter had a chronic cough.

  Verity filled her notebook with lists of preparations for the villagers. She ultimately felt welcome in each cottage by farmer’s wife and miner’s wife alike. By the time they had made their way to Old Grannie Pascow’s cottage, Verity was almost giddy with relief.

  The old woman’s cottage was no different from the rest: a simple stone square with plain gabled roof and small, wood-frame windows. Despite the austere exteriors, however, each cottage had been warm and cozy inside.

  Grannie Pascow stood in the doorway as though expecting their arrival. A short, plump, silver-haired woman of indeterminate age, she had a formidable nose and small, dark eyes that missed nothing. She stood regal as a queen during Gonetta’s brief introductions, then, with a sweep of an arm, invited them inside.

  It was clear why they’d been expected. Several of the village woman Verity and Gonetta had visited earlier were already seated inside, clustered around a large hearth. The low-beamed ceiling made the room appear smaller than it was. A corner staircase indicated that a second floor had been accommodated beneath the steep gable of the roof. Gonetta had told Verity that Grannie’s grandson and family shared the cottage with her.

  Grannie Pascow moved slowly to the chair nearest the fire. It was a high-backed wooden armchair, the only armchair in the room. The old woman eased herself stiffly into the seat of honor.

  Gonetta touched Verity lightly on the arm. “I best leave ’ee alone here,” she whispered, “and return to Pendurgan. It do be gettin’ on afternoon and Mrs. Tregelly’ll have my hide if I don’t get them grates cleaned. I don’t want ’ee feelin’ bound to hurry on my account. Take yer time here. The way back do be easy enough, I do think.”

  A pang of anxiety struck Verity at the thought of being left alone with these women, but it passed when she caught Borra Nanpean’s friendly smile and realized she’d be fine. Gonetta transferred a few remaining items from her basket to Verity’s, made her polite farewells, and quietly left the cottage.

  “Come sit here by me, Verity Osborne,” Grannie Pascow said, patting the worn rush seat of the chair next to her.

  Verity stepped across Ewa Dunstan and Lizzy Trethowan and took her seat by the old woman. After more introductions, she offered the last of the fuggan cakes to Grannie, along with a pouch of elderberry and rosehip tea she’d brought with her from Berkshire. Grannie thanked Verity and handed both to Kate Pascow, her granddaughter-in-law, and asked her to brew the tea and slice the cake.

  “I do heard ’ee knows ’bout herbs,” Grannie said. Ah d’heerd ee naws boot harbs. Verity’s ear was becoming accustomed to the peculiar Cornish notion of grammar, and the local accent with its long R’s and rolling vowels, with its quizzical lift at the end of each sentence, the almost musical way a final syllable was drawn out and up. Even so, she had to strain to understand every word. “Ever’body claimin’ ’ee do be goin’ to fix ’em up with some remedy or t’other,” Grannie Pascow continued. “Where’d ’ee learn so much? From yer ma?”

  “There was an elderly woman in the village where I grew up,” Verity said, pleased to begin with such a comfortable and welcome topic, even knowing it was Grannie’s way of uncovering pertinent details of family and station and connections. “Her name was Edith Littleton and she was the local green woman. My mother was prone to illness, and so I took an interest in Edith’s work, hoping to help my mother. Edith took me under her wing as a child and taught me everything I know.”

  “We do be most grateful fer that knowledge just now,” Grannie Pascow said, “with no doctor in the district and only that fool surgeon Mr. Trevenna at the mine.” She shifted her hip awkwardly in the chair and stretched out one leg toward the fire.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pascow—”

  Verity was interrupted by laughter from all around, including Grannie Pascow. It was the first time the old woman had cracked a smile, and a sheaf of deep creases spread across each cheek like a fan. It transformed her totally, and reminded Verity so much of her beloved Edith that she almost cried.

  “’Ee go callin’ me Miz Pascow and I be lookin’ ’round to see who ’ee be talkin’ to. Just call me Grannie. Ever’body else do. Or Old Grannie. They does call me that behind my back and think I be too ancient to know. But I don’t care none. I be old.”

  Verity smiled. She was going to like Grannie Pascow. “What I was going to say, Grannie, is that I couldn’t help but notice the stiffness in your hip. Gonetta told me that you suffered from rheumatism. I hope you won’t think it too impertinent of me, but I took the liberty of making up this oil for you.”

  She reached in her basket and pulled out a small corked bottle of brownish-yellow liquid and handed it to Grannie. The old woman held it up to the firelight, turning it first one way, then another, as if it were something rare and precious.

  “I’ve had great success with this mixture,” Verity continued. “The oil is heated with branches of broom, chamomile flowers, and comfrey roots. Massage it into your joints, then lie quietly for a half hour or so and you will feel much better, I promise you.”

  Grannie’s dark eyes had grown wide with wonder as she continued to stare at the small bottle. The room grew silent. Finally, the old woman cocked her head toward Verity and smiled. “I will use this, child,” she said. “Yes, I will. It be most kind of ’ee, Verity Osborne. I be that grateful to ’ee, child.”

  The women began to pepper her with medical questions and Verity had to remind them she was no physician. She deftly steered the conversation to their own families, their farms, their children. Grannie Pascow sat silent during most of the conversation, directing the distribution of tea and cake by her granddaughter-in-law. Though she seldom spoke, she listened intently, her eyes on Verity more often than not. Finally, while Hildy Spruggins chattered on about how her son Benjie was now working at Wheal Devoran, Grannie held up her hand for silence. Hildy’s mouth shut like a trap.

  “I won’t be mincin’ words, Verity Osborne,” Grannie said. “Tedn’t no point. Here it be, then: we all do know how ’ee come to be at Pendurgan.”

  Verity’s heart sank to her toes. She held her breath and waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “None of us got the right to ask ’bout that bit o’ business in Gunnisloe. Some been there, anyway. Hildy been there with her Nat.” Hildy Spruggins hung her head and blushed scarlet. “Annie, too,” Grannie continued. “I already done spoke harsh to ever’body here’bouts fer their part. ’Twas shameful. Pure shameful.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved from woman to woman, castigating each with no more than a glance. She let the awkward silence fill the room before returning her attention to Verity.

  “But I do tell ’ee to yer head that I think ’ee do be a fine woman, Verity Osborne,” she said. “Coulda been that ’ee stayed up to the big house and never concerned yerself wid us village folk. A woman like ’ee, a gentleman’s daughter, wid education and fine manners, ’ee might’ve ignored us, never set foot on our plain dirt floors. Like some. ’Ee didn’t have to come down here wid yer remedies and advice, but ’ee did and we do all be thankful fer it.”

  Murmurs of agreement came from all around the room.

  “Thing is,” Grannie went on, “wot’s done be done an’ there be no changin’ it now. I just want to make myself easy about yer being up there an’ all. I wouldn’t want to hear of no harm coming to ’ee. So you tell Grannie straigh
t right now, and I’ll not be askin’ ’ee again. Do everythin’ be all right with ’ee in that house? Do that boy be treatin’ ’ee right?”

  Chapter 5

  His head throbbed. He pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes and tried to make the pain go away. The pounding only intensified, continuous Howitzer rounds fired from inside his head and slamming into the backs of his eyeballs.

  James groaned. Oh, God, not again. A sick dread churned in his gut. He took in deep gulps of cool air to combat the nausea that always came with the headache. When he was fairly certain he was not going to be sick, he finally opened his eyes.

  He was on the moor. Crouching on the very top of the High Tor, in fact. As close as he could get to God. The sun showed it to be well into afternoon. How long had he been out? How did he get there? Castor grazed lazily nearby, so he must have ridden. He could not remember riding. He could not remember anything.

  Think, man!

  Against the pounding in his head, James tried to remember what had happened this time. It had been morning. Good Lord, hours ago. He had gone to Wheal Devoran. Core was changing. Filthy, exhausted night workers joked noisily with the morning core. As he approached the timber yard he saw Ezra Noone playfully tip the hat of Gerens Palk. Barks of laughter rose from the gathering of men when Palk’s hempen candle fell off his hat and into his dinner pail. The man shouted as the cloth covering his pasty ignited. A burst of flame shot out from the pail.

  That was all. No more memories came, as he knew they would not. After six years and more, James knew the effects of sudden fire or explosion. And after six years and more, he still could not control it. He had learned early on to avoid the mine on blasting days, but small incidents such as today’s could never be predicted.

  Another long block of hours lost, black hours during which he could recall nothing. A familiar wave of disorientation swept through him, as though he were two people, one not knowing what the other did. It was always the same, yet it never got easier.

  He mounted Castor and headed back down the hill to Wheal Devoran. As he approached the main engine house, Kneebone, his chief engineer, leaned against the doorway and mopped his brow. He spied James and walked over.

  “Afternoon, m’lord,” he said warily.

  “Everything all right here, Kneebone?”

  “Aye. We got that plunger pump replaced and now all the shafts are working. And Tregonning’s pitch has been reset.”

  “Good. Nothing else?”

  “Everything as usual, m’lord.”

  If James had made a fool of himself earlier, Kneebone would never mention it. Or anyone else. James knew they all thought him mad. Since he did not know what they might have seen him do—not only today but a hundred times before—he was inclined to agree with them.

  He stopped by the count house, checked on the work in the cobbing shed, spoke briefly with the smithy, and made a quick survey of the store buildings. The surface workers avoided him if they could. The rest seemed more guarded then usual. The bal-maidens had stopped singing. He wondered again what sort of scene he’d created that morning.

  It was possible he’d been in the village during those lost hours. He knew he should return home and forget about it, but he was always compelled to try and discover what he could. The miners and the farmers, though, and even the staff at Pendurgan, kept their silence. Poldrennan assured him he’d done no more harm, but James could never be sure. He turned Castor toward St. Perran’s.

  He swung wide to the south and west so he would enter the village through the churchyard. He picked his way along the gravel path skirting the fenced graveyard. A babble of female voices stopped him, and he edged Castor behind a small copse of trees near the lychgate.

  He watched through the leaves as a group of women appeared at the door of Old Grannie Pascow’s cottage, apparently taking their leave. He would stay hidden until they’d dispersed, for he knew how they felt about him. If he listened closely, though, perhaps he might hear something useful, some clue to today’s lost hours.

  They seemed, however, merely to be discussing their various aches and pains. They were certainly not talking about him. He kept Castor quiet among the trees while the women lingered and lingered. He wished they would leave so he could be on his way.

  “I be most grateful, Miz Osborne, and look forward to yer mixture fer my Gwennie.”

  James froze. Verity? Dammit, what was she doing here?

  He watched as Verity’s small figure emerged from behind the more substantial one of Borra Nanpean. She wore a gray dress beneath a blue wool cloak and carried a basket on her arm. It was the same blue cloak she’d worn at the auction. Did she know that some of these women had been at the auction? That several of their husbands had actually bid on her? She was smiling and talking to Hildy Spruggins. Did she know Hildy had been there with Nat, probably banging on a kettle as loud as anyone?

  She must know. Even if she did not know specifically who had been there, she must realize many of the locals had been. How could she blithely walk out amongst these people, all of whom knew how she came to be at Pendurgan? How could she so calmly face this community of women who would believe her to be no better than his mistress?

  Yet here she was, risking their scorn and rejection, apparently dispensing her herbal remedies. She had faced them head on, and succeeded, for there was no question they had welcomed her. She looked as comfortable with them as any Cornishwoman.

  It humbled him to watch her, to see how she faced her demons and won—something he had never been able to do. Her demons, though, had been external forces out of her control. His demons came from within.

  Somehow he knew Verity had too much pride to allow that single incident to rule her life. She wore her pride like an armor. It was so easily donned he suspected she had used it often before. Only an occasional flicker of vulnerability reminded James there was no real core of steel beneath the armor.

  The distinctive voice of Old Grannie Pascow reached his ears.

  “Now ’ee mind what I said, child, and ’ee call on me if ever ’ee be in trouble up there.”

  Damn. These termagants were rallying around Verity in protection against him. The interfering old shrews! His anger prompted an involuntary jerk on the reins, and Castor whinnied.

  The women fell silent and all heads turned in his direction. Muttering a curse, he led Castor forward as though he’d been casually passing by instead of skulking in the trees.

  Several stifled gasps met his appearance. Without a word, the women scattered like rabbits to a gunshot. One of them—Dorcas Muddle, he thought—clasped her child to her breast as she scurried down the lane. He wondered again about those lost hours today; but this reaction was typical and likely had nothing to do with anything that might have occurred today.

  Verity stood still as a statue in the doorway with Old Grannie. Kate Pascow disappeared inside. The old woman glared at him, her expression formidable and defiant. Verity looked confused and slightly apprehensive as she watched the other women hurry away.

  James pulled up alongside the cottage and dismounted. “Good afternoon, Grannie,” he said. “Verity.” She looked startled at the use of her name, but if he was going to maintain the poor-relation charade, anything more formal would seem awkward.

  “Afternoon,” Grannie said. After a brief pause, she added, “M’lord.” She had known him since he was in the cradle and seldom used his title, except in the company of others.

  He turned to address Verity. “I did not know you planned to come into St. Perran’s today.”

  “She did come to give us remedies fer winter head colds an’ such,” Grannie said in a contentious tone, “fer which we be most thankful, what with that Trefusis feller bein’ away an’ all.”

  “That was most kind of you, Verity,” he said. “May I escort you home?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, apparently flustered at the notion. “Thank you.” She turned to Old Grannie and smiled warmly. “And thank you so muc
h for your hospitality.”

  “’Ee do be welcome anytime, child. The door always be open an’ I always do be home.”

  “I shall drop by in a day or so,” Verity said, “when I deliver all the remedies I’ve promised the other families. Now, don’t you forget to use that oil I brought.”

  “I won’t be forgettin’. I do thank ’ee again fer it. And ’ee, James.” She pronounced his name Jammez, in the old Cornish manner. “Take ’ee good care of Verity Osborne, do ’ee hear me?”

  “Still watching out for everyone’s welfare, eh, Grannie?”

  “Someone got to.”

  He smiled, and her expression softened. “I will take good care of her, Grannie, have no fear. Come, Verity.” He reached out and took her basket. Then, holding Castor’s reins, he walked beside her along the path.

  After a few silent moments, he looked over to find Verity watching him. She dropped her gaze and flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

  “By coming to St. Perran’s?” he asked.

  “No, not that.”

  “How, then?”

  She looked up and met his eyes, hers large and liquid brown and unafraid. “By smiling. You smiled at Grannie.”

  James shrugged and looked away. “I’ve known her all my life.”

  “It’s just that I…I’d never seen you smile.”

  Her words, and her soft buttery voice, disconcerted him. It was easier when she was afraid of him.

  “I suppose you think me an ogre. Well, it’s true, but not all of the time. And I am afraid now is one of those times. What the devil do you mean coming into St. Perran’s all alone? You ought to have taken Gonetta or Tomas with you.”

  “Oh, but I did,” she replied. “Gonetta spent most of the day with me, but left to finish up her chores while I had tea with Grannie and the other women.”

  “You should have returned when she did,” he said. “I will not have you wandering about alone beyond Pendurgan.”