‘I have heard and I’ve seen the builders at work. It will be a splendid dwelling when completed, and you have a fine son to grow up within its walls. Now, to come to the reason for my presence here. It concerns the Perranbarvah fishing tragedy of two months ago. Indeed we were both in the parish churchyard only yesterday paying our last respects to one of the unfortunate victims.’
‘It’s all so sad,’ Rosina said mournfully, unable to repress a shudder. ‘I didn’t know Samuel Drannock very well but I’ve known the King family practically all my life, particularly so from the Bible classes up on Lancavel Downs.’
Oliver leaned towards her. ‘I’m certain you will agree with me, Mistress Blake, that people in our position must do all we can to help the bereaved families.’
‘Yes, of course, I wish we could do more. The collection of monies raised must have run out by now and unfortunately you can’t keep sending food and things, people have their pride and it would be cruel to step on such sensitive feelings.’ Rosina brightened and looked at him optimistically. ‘You have an idea of some sort how to help, Sir Oliver? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Precisely. Two of the fishermen involved in the tragedy, Matthew King and Bartholomew Drannock – who incidentally are now left in the position of being the heads of their families – find themselves without the means to pursue their livelihood. One of the boats in the accident, the Lowenek, was smashed to pieces, but with so many drowned, one boat would now be sufficient to meet their needs. When the Young Maid is repaired it would be an act of Christian charity to give King and Drannock the offer to fish from it rather than let it go to others.’ Oliver deliberately smiled. ‘I’m certain you will agree.’
‘I do agree, Sir Oliver,’ Rosina said, ‘most certainly I do, and I’m sure Peter had it in mind when he met the two men after Mark King’s funeral yesterday. If you enquire from them you will find, no doubt, it has already been settled.’
‘If that is so, ma’am, it will take a great weight off my mind and theirs.’ Oliver had enquired of the outcome of yesterday’s meeting a few hours ago and the angry young fishermen had told him Peter Blake had refused to change his mind about allowing them to fish from the lugger and had restated his intention to seek compensation from them. Oliver intended to help Blake change his decision in favour of Drannock and King. Talking like this to Blake’s lovely young wife, who apparently was under some wrong impressions as to her husband’s true character, would help it along in a most pleasing manner.
Oliver rose abruptly. The firelight threw his shadow lengthways across the room and he seemed to fill the confined space. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Blake. I will be on my way and leave you to the peace of your home.’
‘Remember me to Lady Pengarron.’ Rosina rang a small silver bell for the maidservant, Kate, to collect Oliver’s hat and coat. ‘I hope she and your children are in good health.’
‘They are. Good day to you, ma’am.’
Oliver rode at once to the site on the east side of the market town where the Blakes’ new dwelling was under construction. Leaning forward over Conomor, his proud black stallion, Oliver admired the almost completed three-storey building. He had no wish to live in such a house himself, but had he been on convivial terms with Peter Blake he would have watched each stage of its development with interest.
Narrow in structure, the building boasted a small courtyard in front, a large garden and stable behind, all running in parallel lines. It was half the size of his sister’s nearby mansion but Peter Blake was sparing no expense to have a home built according to the latest London designs. The grey bricks making up the main walls were transported from London, the hall was paved in Purbeck stone, the sash windows glazed in crown glass.
Oliver’s main interest lay in the woodwork. It was crafted from the finest dark oak, purchased through an agent who had approached the Pengarron plantation. Oliver wondered whether he would have allowed the purchase to go ahead had he known beforehand that the locally ordered consignment of timber was intended for Peter Blake.
By now the rain had tired itself out to a half-hearted drizzle and Oliver swept off his hat to view the doorway and canopy. He concluded that the excellence of the carvings of the portal and overhang were worthy of Pengarron oak. It was a grand house in every way but he doubted if the servants who would be employed in it would welcome the new idea of the kitchen being placed in the basement, causing them much inconvenience as they went about their duties. Replacing his hat, Oliver looked about for his quarry.
There were upwards of a dozen varieties of craftsmen intent upon their industry, and much noise and bustle to sift through. He saw the child first, an attractive boy of seven years who did not resemble either his mother or his father, but in common with them both looked as if he would not grow to much of a height. Simon Peter was being carried on the hefty shoulder of a labourer, chatting away for all he was worth in the indulgent man’s ear. Ignoring them and the other building workers, Oliver dismounted. His mouth was set in a grim line. He had located the man he was seeking.
Peter Blake was engaged in a rather mobile discussion with his master builder and surveyor, the one a portly man with a nervous twitch, the other a disdainful-looking character sporting a large Roman nose. They had their backs to Oliver and were unaware of his approach. The rapid change of expression from satisfaction to fear on Blake’s face as he looked up and saw Oliver bearing down on him made the craftsmen anxious that he had suddenly discovered a massive blunder in their plans. Blake hastily excused himself.
‘Wh-what do you… w-want?’ he faltered, moving towards Oliver but keeping a good distance between them. ‘If you’ve come to cause trouble, let me… let me warn you… there… there are plenty of people about.’
The distance grew smaller as Oliver kept coming. ‘I only want to talk to you – this time, Blake,’ he coldly informed him.
‘About what?’ Blake stepped back towards the master builder and surveyor, the memories of what this big man could do when in a rage forcing him to leave nothing to chance.
‘You look like a frightened rabbit, Blake,’ Oliver said maliciously, loud enough for as many as possible to hear above the sounds of building work. ‘You have my word I will not raise a finger to you, unless of course you give me reason to – as you did once before. I have something to say to you and I suggest we move aside if you don’t want these labourers and your son to hear it too. I can assure you, Blake, you wouldn’t want your son in particular to hear this.’
‘Very well,’ Blake hissed between clenched teeth, ‘but only a few feet away and from where we can clearly be seen.’
Oliver followed Blake closely until the smaller man stopped in front of a stack of timber, then he went straight into the attack. ‘I’ve just come from your rooms, Blake, where I enjoyed a most pleasant conversation with your charming wife.’
‘Rosina? You’ve been talking to Rosina? Why? What the hell are you up to, Pengarron!’ This time Blake advanced towards Oliver, the love and adoration he had for his gentle wife overcoming his fear.
‘I arrived on your doorstep to talk to you, but in your absence your wife invited me inside. Such a charming woman, it is beyond me why she married a swine like you.’
‘My wife is a true Christian with a forgiving nature,’ Blake said, becoming angrier by the moment. ‘Not a hypocrite like you, who only pays lip service to a God you purport to believe in when you attend church. I’ve regretted a hundred thousand times my actions concerning your wife, but you have made me pay for it a thousand times more!’
‘Oh, and why is that?’ Oliver asked in a tone of hopeful sarcasm.
‘Pain,’ Blake answered bitterly. ‘You broke my ribs and I am never without pain. I can lift nothing of substance and since he reached the age of two years not even my own son.’ His eyes went wistfully to Simon Peter still on the labourer’s shoulders.
‘Is that so? Well, I’m not as much of a hypocrite as you believe because I cannot in tru
th say that I’m in the least bit sorry, and I won’t bandy words on the Almighty with a confessed atheist. As far as I’m concerned, the likes of you have no right to an opinion on the faith, or lack of it, of others.’
‘At least my wife loved me from the start, she took me for what I was and I didn’t force her to marry me!’ Blake snarled.
That hit a soft spot in Oliver’s armour; his face reddened and his nostrils flared. ‘And I have never turned up on your doorstep and tried to rape your wife and kill the dog trying to protect her!’
The intimidated expression returned to Blake’s face. He wiped a film of rain from his eyes and blinked hard. ‘What… what did you talk to Rosina about?’
‘The recent fishing boat tragedy at Perranbarvah,’ Oliver said aggressively, watching for any reaction.
‘Why should that concern you? And what connection is there between that and you and I?’
‘You’ve refused Matthew King and Bartholomew Drannock a living from the lugger the Young Maid, have you not?’
‘What if I have? I’m a businessman and can’t afford to allow inefficient fishermen to fish from my boats.’
‘King and Drannock are not inefficient. They are among the best in Mount’s Bay. The tragedy was an accident due to rapidly changing weather conditions and neither they nor any member of their families were to blame.’
‘How would you know that?’ Blake asked scornfully. ‘And what is your concern anyway?’
‘My family have always had the honour and duty of presenting the incumbent to the parish of Perranbarvah and I’ve always made a point of taking an interest in all that goes on within that parish’s boundaries.’ Bending his height to bring his face to within an inch of Blake’s, Oliver continued acidly, ‘As to how I know the tragedy was an accident, I’ll have you know, you little weasel, that as a boy and in my youth I went out on the boats many times with Grandfather, Solomon and Jonathan King. I know what good fishermen they were, and a little of the awesomeness of conditions out at sea and how quickly they can change. I am fully satisfied there was no negligence on the part of any of the men in either of the two luggers.’
Oliver chose his next words carefully. ‘From the conversation I had with your wife I learned that she believes that when King and Drannock came to see you yesterday you acted very differently from their report of it. Your wife thinks you will allow them to fish from the Young Maid when it is repaired. You wouldn’t have her believe otherwise, would you? To learn the hard truth of your business affairs?’
Peter Blake did not answer. His face, usually smooth and pale but now purple with rage, shook with the rest of his fashionably clad body.
‘Your wife is such a gentle soul,’ Oliver went on dangerously, ‘sees no evil in anyone – not even you. Now, there will be no suggestion of King and Drannock being refused to fish from the Young Maid, will there? No more talk of them paying compensation for the damage done to the lugger. And I would go as far as to suggest that your dear wife would deem it an act of the highest Christian charity if you offered the lugger as an outright gift to the grieving families, to form a partnership. Drannock’s very young, so Matthew King would be skipper but the partnership would be equal.’ Oliver smiled, but his dark eyes were treacherous. ‘Well, what do you say, Blake?’
With an effort he spat, ‘I say you are a bastard, Pengarron!’
Oliver smiled with pure joy. ‘There are times, Blake, when the weak, the cheated and the downtrodden, if they are to see justice, require the services of a thoroughgoing bastard.’ Oliver had no doubt he had won the day, but added for Blake’s further discomfort, ‘If things don’t go quite to my suggestions, Blake, you would be a very foolish man. You see, I would make absolutely sure that your wife became aware of your visits to a certain female you help keep in, shall I say, comfortable circumstances, for services rendered.’
Blake gasped.
‘Did you think your indiscretions had gone unnoticed?’ Oliver taunted.
Somehow Blake managed to speak. ‘We both love our wives, but don’t tell me you don’t go somewhere for a little extra, Pengarron.’
‘You do me an injustice, Blake,’ Oliver replied smoothly before striding away, then threw back over his shoulder, ‘I’m not that much of a bastard.’
Chapter 5
Kerensa was in her favourite place, Trelynne Cove. She left Kernick, her chestnut pony, close to the spot where the small cottage she had been born and raised in had once stood. With Bob, her devoted black retriever, at her heels she ran down the remainder of the cliff path, over the scrunching shingle of the beach and on to the coarse dark sand of the shoreline. She glanced up at the hot sun and smiled contentedly. It was late summer, her favourite time of the year, and today the sun was at its best.
Feeling as carefree as in the days of her childhood, when the little isolated, uninhabited cove had been her and her late grandfather’s domain, she pulled off her shoes and stockings, discarded her straw hat and ran laughing into the surf of the incoming waves. She shrieked as the cold water bit into her feet and legs, soaking the deep hem of her dress. She felt exhilarated and here, all alone, she could let it out in complete abandonment. Married to an unconventional member of the gentry she had never had to live quite as a lady born into the upper class would be expected to. But it was good to cast off all restrictions with no prying or concerned eyes to judge or chide, or even to indulge her.
Bob barked loudly as he joined in the fun, charging the waves, chasing a bobbing piece of seaweed, allowing Kerensa to splash salt water over him until he was thoroughly soaked. Then shaking out his coat and soaking her in turn he walked loyally at her side as she paddled the length of the shoreline east to west and back again. She tossed pebbles into the sea which he raced after until panting for breath. There was a large outcrop of rocks close to the shoreline which were completely submerged during high tide; they were surrounded only by rock pools now and dog and mistress waded through the blue water and climbed to the summit of the black granite. They sat side by side, the breeze lifting their hair and fanning their faces, watching the sea recede until the shoreline was several feet away.
When Kerensa returned to her shoes and stockings, Bob bounded off to explore and sniff out the semi-circular confines of the cove, curious to find out if anything new had been there to disturb the peace and trespass on their private little world since their last visit. He found a dirty old tobacco pouch lost by a careless smuggler on one of his master’s runs and although the contents were gone the piece of rough cloth smelled interesting and the dog lay down to examine it with his broad snout.
Kerensa picked up her footwear in one hand, retrieved her hat in the other and swung it by its red velvet ribbons as she made her way to the smooth granite boulders that edged the cove. She sat on a rock with knees drawn up and used a part of her petticoat untouched by sea water to remove clinging grains of sand and to dry her feet with vigorous rubbing and patting movements, then held them out straight in front of her for inspection. They were soft pink with small patches of purple-blue but with the numbness rubbed away they felt delightfully warm and tingly.
Leaning back against a boulder behind her, Kerensa closed her eyes to drink in the peacefulness. She opened them again at the sudden noisy flight of a pair of black-headed gulls and kept them open to study her surroundings. The cove had changed little in appearance since the cottage had been pulled down eight years before. Scrubby vegetation had sprung up to cover the building’s foundations and she was delighted to see the increase in the wildlife here. Gulls, rock pipits and oyster catchers had grown in number and last year she had seen a seal basking in the sun on an inaccessible ledge further along the cliff under the mythical Mother Clarry’s seat. She had stood for an age and watched as the tide had risen slowly until the grey creature with its wide black patches was lazily washed back into the sea and swam off.
Kerensa checked the sun to see how far it had travelled down the sky; good, she had time to climb across the rocks and
look out over the sea from a different angle before she would have to leave.
She had hardly moved a step forward when a tall figure loomed up in front of her. Startled, she slipped backwards and for an instant the name Oliver was on her lips but it was ‘Bartholomew!’ she cried out.
The youth reached out instinctively and caught her arm, saving her from falling and possible injury. They both looked down as her shoes went clattering to the rocks below.
‘Lady Pengarron!’ Bartholomew Drannock exclaimed. ‘I am sorry. Are you all right?’
‘Yes… yes, Bartholomew. You certainly gave me a fright.’
‘Be best if you sit down again for a little while,’ he counselled.
Kerensa nodded and he held on gently to her arm until she was seated again. Then he hopped down, collected her dainty kid shoes and placed them beside her.
‘I didn’t know anyone but me came down into Trelynne Cove,’ she said, looking up at the young dark face and thinking how more and more like Oliver he was becoming. The same black hair and deep dark eyes, the same restlessness and arrogance, and on occasion the same impatient stance.
He was standing in that way now, hands on hips, his guilt at nearly sending her crashing to the rocks fully atoned for in the way he had addressed her and apologised. Before today he had never given her her title, perhaps believing her working-class parentage didn’t warrant it.
Staring straight at her he asked in an even tone, ‘Do you object to me being here, then?’
‘No,’ Kerensa replied, meeting his stare without wavering. ‘Sir Oliver might. This is his property.’
‘Tis yours more than his. You lived in the cove when it belonged to your family, the Trelynnes.’
Kerensa smiled, pleased to find it brought a puzzled frown to the young fisherman’s brow. ‘Will you please sit down, Bartholomew? I don’t have the chance to talk to you very often, but whenever I do it’s more like fencing swords than holding a conversation.’
Pengarron Pride Page 6