‘I’d rather stay here, thank you. Samuel and I used to sit here together so the children could be nearer the fire. We’d cuddle up under a blanket and wear extra clothes to keep warm. Sometimes we’d be so comfortable we’d fall off to sleep and not bother to go to bed. In the summer we’d leave the door open for the fresh air. Samuel would pick up the settle and place it where we could look out over the sea. It’s a heavy piece of furniture but he was so strong… we’d sit and dream of all the things we’d like to do…’
‘You were very happy together,’ Kerensa said gently.
‘Oh yes. I have been very fortunate… blessed. Samuel and I fell in love from the very moment he stepped inside my father’s chandlery shop. We never lost that wonderful feeling over the years.’ Jenifer was smiling at her memories and Kerensa’s heart went out to her. ‘You know how it is, don’t you? You and Sir Oliver share the same kind of love we did.’
Kerensa nodded, touched by the beauty and pain of Jenifer’s words. ‘You mentioned your father, Jenifer. He must know of the accident. Have you sent word to him? He may wish to help.’
‘No, no, my dear. My family disowned me the day I married my Samuel. The Milderns are not of a forgiving nature. They know what has happened, but no one has been to see me or sent any word. To them I married beneath me and must bear the consequences till the day I die.’
Kerensa moved to Jenifer and kneeling down beside her took the cold hands from the woman’s lap and held them tightly in her own. ‘I’m so sorry about Samuel, Jenifer,’ she whispered against a lump in her throat. Loving Oliver the way she did, she could feel the agony of Jenifer’s loss. ‘Please, won’t you let me and Oliver help you and the children?’
Jenifer firmly shook her head and stroked the soft, damp, auburn hair from Kerensa’s brow with rough, ridged fingers. ‘No, no, Kerensa, Samuel wouldn’t take charity while he was alive and I won’t go against him now. Don’t distress yourself over me, it will only be a brief parting for me and Samuel.’
By her deathly pallor and the sunken eyes in Jenifer’s face, Kerensa could well believe it. Then there would be six orphaned children to consider. ‘Can’t you think of it as friendship, not charity, Jenifer?’
Jenifer looked at Kerensa fondly, but shook her head. ‘It’s best to leave things as they are.’
Thinking back to the day Samuel Drannock had stopped her from helping his family, Kerensa’s face coloured a little. What he had told her then always made her feel guilty. ‘Is that because of the secret we share?’
‘In a way. Samuel was always afraid that Sir Oliver would find out.’ Then for a moment Jenifer looked as if she had some energy in her soul as she said, ‘And now that Samuel is dead, don’t you think it would be worse if he did?’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ Kerensa replied uncomfortably. ‘But I would still like to help you, Jenifer. If you ever change your mind…’ She glanced round at the scraps of food on the table, bit her bottom lip, then added, ‘At least will you accept some eggs and milk for the children? Ruth and Esther can bring them over from the manor, Oliver need never know, and anyway it would be no more than he would expect me to do. He will wonder more if I don’t do something for you.’
After a pause Jenifer capitulated. ‘You’re such a sweet little thing and here’s me calling you my dear, or Kerensa, when I should be addressing you by your title or Ma’am.’
‘I’d rather no one called me that, or m’lady or Lady Pengarron. I’ve never felt comfortable with it, it doesn’t seem right, what with my background. You’ve made me feel good calling me Kerensa, it means I really do have your friendship.’
Jenifer gave a short, strange laugh. ‘I always said to my Samuel that you look no more than a child, sweet and gentle, not old enough to be married. And now you have children of your own…’ Breaking off Jenifer looked towards the window. ‘Is it still raining?’
Rising, Kerensa pulled open the ill-fitting shutters of the window and studied the streaks of grey painted across the sky. ‘It’s just about stopped and the sun is breaking through. It should be nice and warm by evening.’
‘Samuel liked the warm early summer evenings. He used to say it was the best time of day to be out at sea.’ As she talked Jenifer sounded more and more distant. Her eyes became vacant. She looked decades older than her forty years. Her skin was wrinkled and flaking, the flesh mottled with blue and purple patches. Her hair was ravaged of all its natural fairness to a lifeless grey. Kerensa wondered if she had eaten or slept at all in the past two months.
‘Jenifer, where are the children?’
‘The children? Oh, the little ones are with the neighbours. Cordelia’s with the Roskilleys and Charles and Jack with the Laitys. Hannah and Naomi, my older girls, are away at Marazion working for the Sarrison brothers, Mr Alfred and Mr John. They took them both on after the accident. They are very good to my girls. It means I have two less mouths to feed, and there’s a little bit of money coming in.’
All you have at the moment, Kerensa thought, unless Bartholomew’s been smuggling. ‘Has Bartholomew arranged for someone to come in and sit with you?’ she asked. ‘Should he leave you alone like this?’
‘I prefer to be alone, my dear.’ Jenifer gave her the faintest of smiles. ‘Bartholomew tried to get me to agree to having one of the other women in with me, but I’d rather be alone. He had to go to Marazion, he and Matthew King, to see Mr Blake.’ She said no more and as Kerensa knew why the two young fishermen had gone to Marazion, she asked no questions about it.
‘Jenifer, will you be all right?’
‘Oh yes. You see, I always knew this would happen one day… and I’m glad he hasn’t been found, I pray to God he never will be.’ Jenifer stared into space. ‘Samuel would want to stay in the sea, to rest in the deep, not be buried under the earth.’
The door was opened and Ruth and Esther King came in, both carrying aprons. They bobbed Kerensa a curtsy, unfolded the long lengths of crisp white cotton and put them on.
‘We’ll soon clear this up, m’lady,’ Ruth said in a hushed tone, inclining her head of mousy brown hair at the room.
‘It’s very good of you both,’ Kerensa said, ‘and I’m greatly relieved to hear Paul is over the worst.’
‘’Tis thanks to Sir Oliver for sending over the doctor and paying his fees,’ Esther asserted, pushing back straight hair the same colour as her sister’s under a cap.
‘And one of Beatrice’s potions,’ added Ruth. ‘It looked and smelled ghastly but just one big spoonful and his fever nigh on went at once.’
‘I’ll call on your mother tomorrow. And Paul when he’s well again, if you don’t think he’ll mind that,’ Kerensa said.
‘I reckon he’ll be tickled, having a lady come to call on him. He’s some weak at the moment, m’lady, but is able to sit and sip at a bit of broth.’ Ruth was looking around as if she was impatient to get on with the clearing up.
The King sisters were tall like their menfolk and their presence had made the little cottage seem crowded. Kerensa knew it was she who was in the way.
‘Jenifer will appreciate your help here today,’ she said.
‘We’ll give the young’uns their tea later on.’ As she spoke, Ruth began tentatively to gather up discarded clothing. ‘’Twill be good to be kept busy at a time like this.’
Esther’s hands strayed towards the table and itched to start stacking up the dishes.
‘Yes, of course,’ Kerensa said, noting their red-rimmed eyes. Before the news of the tragedy, she had never known either of the sisters to cry. Somehow she found it embarrassing. It was time for her to leave. Looking back at Jenifer Drannock, who was now hunched up on the settle and moving her body in a rocking motion, Kerensa thought it a pity this poor woman did not cry too.
Chapter 4
Oliver strode through Marazion’s one long straggling street, his head up, ignoring the summer shower of rain blown into the front of his body. Passers-by, hunched over with their eyes down on the muddy
road, clung on to their hats, stopping only respectfully to acknowledge the tall imposing owner of the black polished leather boots. Oliver spoke to some, merely nodded to others, as the mood took him.
He called at Araminta Bray’s grocery shop. The sharp-chinned bespectacled widow was one of his best customers for the smuggled goods he helped to bring in from various spots along Mount’s Bay. Despite the fact that the country was fighting a colonial war with France, on foreign ground, smuggling with the enemy was still active and Oliver kept the shop well stocked and liked to see the neat displays that Mrs Bray made of the tea, coffee, spices, dried fruit and other items he regularly provided. His ventures were mainly with Hezekiah Solomon who had revealed he had a residence on French soil and there passed as a French gentleman. From him Oliver occasionally gleaned useful information which he passed on to the Admiralty; it pleased him to be doing something for the latest war effort.
Oliver took a long, satisfying sniff of the darkened shop’s mixture of exotic and homely smells. He handed Mrs Bray an order made up by Kerensa for items he did not smuggle in, then intimated to the shopkeeper that she should be prepared to have her stock replenished in a week’s time with the ones he did.
When he turned to go he found a cluster of curious women behind him. They all quickly curtsied and moved back in a gap at their centre to give him a clear path to the door. They all stared at his handsome face; it was a favourite pastime of the local women of all classes. Oliver included them all in one sweeping glance and abruptly left the premises. Outside he grinned knowingly, confident they would swing back into a huddle and ply Mrs Bray with eager questions as to what business the Lord of the Manor of the next parish had in a woman’s domain.
His next stop was a few paces away in a gin shop. He was to arrange there the details of the next smuggling run which was coming into Trelynne Cove. The long mild coastline of Mount’s Bay, comfortably sheltered between Land’s End and the Lizard, was a haven for smugglers. Oliver had runs operating from Mullion to Mousehole, openly flouting the authorities. He shared the Cornish belief in the right to smuggle in goods to enhance comfort and pocket and only one Customs officer had ever dared to cross him.
A new keen man stationed at Penzance, where the Customs had their headquarters, had forced entry into a house at Marazion and arrested the occupant, one of Oliver’s customers. The evidence – bales of silk, brandy and rum and glass for the customer’s parlour window – was sitting under the kitchen window. The customer’s wife had raced after Oliver and told him of the affront and Oliver had returned in a rage. He hurled aside the Customs officer’s self-made introduction and demanded an explanation during which speech he slipped a silver snuff box into the Customs officer’s pocket. He then accused the unfortunate man of stealing it. The Customs officer heeded the warning and admitted he had made a ‘mistake’. He kept out of Sir Oliver’s way after that.
Oliver bought a full round of drinks in the gin shop, mixing readily with the local men in the clammy smoky room. He accepted a glass of gin from Jake Merrifield of Rose Farm on the Pengarron estate, and amid much hectic betting and riotous cheers won an arm-wrestling match against a swarthy foreign sailor. His ability to mix with and drink alongside these men had earned him their admiration and respect, and loyalty on the runs.
He then moved on to another drinking place, where the beverage and clientele were in complete contrast – a gentleman’s coffee shop. Oliver spent an interesting hour discussing the latest political, financial, and royal court news with Sir Martin Beswetherick and James Mortreath. Oliver baited James Mortreath, who was extremely wary of him after the night of Sir Martin’s birthday party, without mercy. It put him in just the right mood for his planned encounter with Peter Blake.
After leaving the coffee shop he headed straight for the Blakes’ apartments over Angarrack’s, the shoemaker’s shop, but before entering the building he felt compelled to stand and look across the sea at St Michael’s Mount. Rain pelted down at a deep slant, giving the Mount and the castle built on its top, its servants’ buildings and tall swaying trees a fairy-tale quality. The scene touched Oliver’s deeply rooted French and Celtic ancestry. Monks, soldiers and noble families had all lived on the Mount. It fascinated Oliver as much as it did Kerensa; she would tell him of the legends she knew and the fantasies she made up of dragons, giants, and maidens locked away in dungeons and awaiting rescue.
Oliver stood there now, forming a tale, with Kerensa as a kidnapped maiden and he as her knightly rescuer – to be told at bedtime of course. He ignored the cold wind and the rain dripping off his hat and coat. The tide was slipping out, revealing more and more of the ancient causeway, laid down for the passage of carts and pedestrians to and from what the sailors and mariners called the Cornish Mount. The ships moored and sheltered at its pier swayed in the wind. If he had had the time, Oliver would have called on the St Aubyns and carried across the talk from the coffee shop but the need to see Peter Blake beckoned more strongly, and Oliver cursed Blake, whom he hated, as an infernal nuisance.
He entered Seth Angarrack’s noisy, industrious workshop, the premises rented from Peter Blake, and took the stairs to the rooms above three at a time and rapped on the door with his riding crop.
A woman, hastening on from her middle years to old age, opened the door and gawped at him with her mouth wide open before shrieking, ‘What are you doing here? Go away! If you want the master he’s out and he won’t be back for hours!’
‘Then inform your mistress I wish to be received,’ Oliver retorted, meeting the woman’s hostility and lack of respect with a harsh look. ‘She is at home, I take it?’ he ended with a snap.
The woman sprang back and began to quiver. ‘You’re not welcome here, go away, go away!’
‘Who is it, Mrs Blight?’ came a gentle voice from within.
Mrs Blight did not reply and the light irregular footsteps approaching the door quickened. It was opened wider and a young woman whose appearance matched her voice looked up at the man on her doorstep.
‘Sir Oliver!’ she said, with the greatest surprise. ‘You are the last person I expected to call on us.’
‘It is your husband I have called to see, Mistress Blake,’ he said in a pleasanter tone. ‘According to your servant he is not to be found at home. I wish to see him on a matter of some urgency.’
Rosina Blake smiled in her own peaceful way. ‘Perhaps you would care to step inside and talk to me about it, Sir Oliver.’
‘That is most gracious of you, ma’am, and I shall not refuse your invitation.’ As he stepped over the threshold Mrs Blight leapt further back and rammed her knuckles into her mouth.
‘I’ll see to His Lordship, Mrs Blight,’ Rosina said. ‘You may go to your room. If I need anything I’ll ring for Kate. Please excuse Mrs Blight’s outbursts, Sir Oliver, I do apologise on her behalf,’ Rosina went on as she took Oliver’s dripping riding coat and tricorn hat. ‘She’s always been a nervous sort of woman but I’m afraid she’s become much worse of late.’
‘Perhaps it’s her age that makes her so ill-mannered towards your more important visitors, Mistress Blake,’ Oliver said, with eyes of ice.
Rosina knew that Oliver knew he really had no right to be offended at such a reception in this household. He looked pointedly at her and she did not lower her eyes. It took only a moment to agree without speech that past events had left no feelings of animosity between themselves.
‘Come into the sitting room, Sir Oliver. It’s not much of a summer’s day today and I have a small fire lit against the chill. You can dry out a little.’
Oliver followed Rosina’s lilting movements, thinking it a pity she should have a lame foot but deciding it detracted very little from her pleasant outline. When they were seated in the plush comfortable room, Rosina offered him a dish of tea which Oliver politely declined.
‘You are very kind, Mistress Blake,’ he said. ‘I would have understood if you had slammed the door in my face after the beating I once ga
ve your husband, though he thoroughly deserved it.’
A remark of the kind said to Kerensa about Oliver would have brought her hurtling to her feet and loudly declaring herself in his defence. Rosina Blake stayed in her seat and spoke in her normal voice. ‘You did more than just beat Peter, Sir Oliver, you almost killed him. It was all a long time ago, before Peter and I were married, and I would prefer to leave it in the past.’
Pulling back a corner of his full wide mouth Oliver regarded Rosina with an appreciative eye. The same age as Kerensa and also from working-class stock, she had married into the gentry in the same year, meeting Blake by coming to his aid after the aforementioned beating. If one had to marry out of one’s class, Oliver decided, you, Rosina Blake, would make a most charming and admirable second choice. He particularly admired Rosina’s waist-length corn-coloured hair, which fell like a waterfall about her shoulders when she moved. Obviously in deference to her husband’s wish, he mused; a woman in love was like that.
Although chaste until her wedding night, a woman could not be married to a warm, sensuous man such as Peter Blake without knowing something of the male mind, and Rosina was aware of the interest she aroused in the dark eyes across the room, but she was not offended. Indeed, very few women had looked upon the face of Oliver Pengarron and not found pleasure in his strikingly fine looks and flattery in being the subject of his perusal. Rosina knew he was one half of a very happy and successful marriage, but she wondered if Sir Oliver included fidelity in his perception of what made a good husband.
‘If you’d be good enough to tell me why you’ve called wanting to see Peter,’ she said, breaking the silence, ‘then perhaps I can be of some help to you.’
‘You are not expecting him back home shortly?’
‘Not for at least two hours. He’s taken our son, Simon Peter, over Trevenner way. You may have heard he’s having a house built for us there, close to his half-sister’s residence.’
Pengarron Pride Page 5