Up on the cliff top above the sound of the raging surf, Jack had listened enviously as Bartholomew and Paul enjoyed the charms of their women. He had very little recollection of what happened with his own companion before he blacked out, but when he opened his eyes to the accompaniment of a blinding headache Bartholomew and Paul assured him that he had lost his boyhood innocence and exercised his full manly abilities. Jack still couldn’t be sure it was true.
With Heather pressing up against him, Jack was getting very excited. They kissed long and enthusiastically. He wished he could remember what had happened with the woman outside Painted Bessie’s, then he would know how to proceed.
Heather leaned against him making strange little noises. Jack felt panicky. Bartholomew had told him. ‘When you’ve got her ready, boy, get on with it.’ Was Heather ready? Jack decided she must be and it was up to him ‘to get on with it’. It was easy enough to pull up her skirt with her moving about so much, but what came next? He tried to force his mouth away from hers to gulp in some much needed air but she roughly pulled him back.
Jack’s arousal was so strong his insides felt they were knotting, intricately entwining and about to explode. She helped with the move he made to lie over her. Again he wished he could recall his first intimate experience; he wasn’t sure of the exact outlines of a woman’s anatomy.
Suddenly Heather cried out. ‘You bloody swine! Don’t ’ee know anything, you stupid bugger!’ Shoving Jack off she scrambled to her feet. ‘I thought you knew what t’do, you’re nothin’ but a useless…’ A stream of obscenities went up and hit the night sky and echoed amongst the stars as she ripped the cloak out from under Jack’s hands and knees. Snatching up her lantern the furious bal-maiden ran off, keeping up the tirade of abuse until it ended with a short scream.
Jack sat shivering in his crumpled suit on the crushed foliage. He felt sick and ashamed. He stayed there staring into the night sky until he could find the strength in his legs to get up.
‘What a foul-mouthed, bad-tempered… what a spitfire,’ he told Meryn, his source of comfort, a confidante who couldn’t repeat what she had seen and heard. ‘If that’s women for you, I give up. Bartholomew and Paul can keep them all.’
Chapter 14
Trecath-en’s farmhouse was traditionally heavily decorated every year at Christmastide. There were three more weeks yet to Christmas but Rosie could think of no reason not to look out for the best holly, mistletoe and ivy among the giant trees of the Pengarron oak plantation.
It was not unusual for her to be up in the arc-shaped forest high above and sheltering the manor house. Through all the seasons she walked the grassy rides with their rich habitat of wildlife and abundance of flora. She followed the twists and turns of the stream that fed the river that provided the fresh sparkling water supply of the manor. Along its banks she picked watercress and dropwort leaves for the wild salad Kenver was partial to. She also gathered wild herbs, berries, nuts and leaves in a flat narrow wicker basket for Beatrice.
Rosie had become friendly with Beatrice in her childhood when she’d visited the manor with Alice. When she showed an interest in the old woman’s cupboard of mysterious looking bottles and pots Beatrice agreed to teach her how to make teas and infusions from plants and herbs. The smells of thyme, horsetail, yarrow, parsley, mint, raspberry leaf, camomile and fennel and many others filled the air when the cupboard was opened. Rosie quickly learned their cosmetic and medicinal value, and found it useful to know that dock seeds or sorrel leaves could be used as a substitute for tobacco and that lavender oil or buttercup salve would soothe burns. She was even making a little money out of her skills now. Rosina Blake had admired the shine of her golden hair and requested some of Rosie’s herbal rinse for her own use and insisted on paying for it. It gave Rosie some independence to be able to buy personal items without having to ask her father for money.
As well as the knowledge she gained, Rosie enjoyed stirring the heavy pots containing the mixtures with their heady smells and clattering about the manor kitchens. She worked with Beatrice when Ruth and Esther King were not about, and knowing of the old woman’s slovenly habits, she ensured the kitchen was left meticulously clean. Sometimes while they were busy the children would appear to see what they were doing or Kerensa popped in to chat and share a pot of tea.
Only the other day Sir Oliver had entered the kitchen while they were bottling the gorse wine. He stayed to sniff at Beatrice’s bottles and asked after Rosie’s sprained ankle. He lingered in an aimless mood and when Kerensa called to him he put a finger to his tensed lips to inform them that he did not want to be found and slipped out through the back door into the yard.
The open canopy of the oak trees allowed the mild winter sun to wink through the leaves. As Rosie looked upwards for the best patches of ivy and white-berried mistletoe, she stumbled against a large fallen tree and stayed to examine its dressing of mosses and fungi, making a mental note of them to ask Beatrice if any were non-poisonous and useful for her potions.
She went on through maturing oaks and the regrowth of thin poles of hazel, hornbeam and alder that the farmers and smallholders used, split and woven, to fence in their livestock. The largest of the standard oak trees provided timber for ships, barn roofs and panelling, and furniture for mansions and big houses all over the world. Leaves fallen from the previous season crackled under her feet; she picked some up and dropped them into the stream, watching them scurry away over the streambed pebbles. After drinking cupped handfuls of the icy flowing water she wrapped her hands inside her shawl until they were warmed and dry.
On entering the forest Rosie had heard sounds of woodsmen but they had lessened and now were silent so she knew she was walking away from them. Knowing that if she did not stray from the course of the stream she would not get lost, she plunged deeper into the trees, putting more distance between herself and the rest of humanity. There were times when she yearned for these occasions to be apart from her family and the never-ending work on the farm. To have time to think for longer than a few minutes before someone interrupted her or another chore beckoned.
Coming to a straight line of seven large, flat, stepping stones across the stream, she hitched up her skirt and hopped nimbly to the other side, taking care not to twist her weak ankle. She followed the stream on this side.
One hour, or was it two, passed and Rosie regretfully decided she would have to turn back; Clem would make a fuss if she was late helping Alice with the supper. It wasn’t that he would accuse her of skimping her work and Alice was only too pleased for her to enjoy a little well-deserved freedom. But Clem worried over her. She knew she was very special to him, even more so since their mother and grandmother had died. He was overly possessive and it seemed he wanted her to stay on the farm for ever judging by his hostility towards any young man who showed the slightest interest in her; he’d even threatened to speak to Jack from the manor for simply passing the time of day with her. Rosie had noticed Clem was the same with Jessica, and although his marriage to Alice was no love match on his part, he was over-protective towards her too. Rosie believed it stemmed from his emptiness at losing Kerensa; she was certain her brother had a dread of losing any more of his womenfolk. Dear Clem. Rosie smiled at thought of him; though quiet and sullen, he was eager to please them and got in a bit of a state if he wasn’t sure of their whereabouts all the time. She must turn back and follow the stream the way she had come.
Rosie was brought to a sudden standstill. She could hear voices. There were two voices, male voices, but whose were they? She was frightened they belonged to poachers; they’d want to silence her if she was seen. But she thought it better to find out who they were before making a hasty retreat.
Creeping forward in and out of the trees she soon made out the owners of the voices. The mellow lyrical tones belonged to Nathan O’Flynn, the other voice, deeper and cultured, was Sir Oliver Pengarron’s. From a hiding place behind a fissured trunk of a mature oak Rosie spied on them.
> They were sitting on a log in a small clearing, sharing the pale golden liquid of a wine bottle. Rosie’s face suffused a hot red to the roots of her hair. She had tried not to confess to herself that the real purpose of coming all this way was the hope of catching sight of the taller, darker of the two men. And now here he was, only a few feet away. She felt a flush of guilt and slightly giddy. She could clearly hear their words. They were talking over matters concerning the estate and Ker-an-Mor Farm. The tone of their conversation was self-congratulatory.
Sir Oliver was saying, ‘It’s been said, Nat, that we have advanced in agriculture farther than any other county in the country and this year we have certainly seen more than reasonable yields from both livestock and grain. We organise the breeding of our stock on a scale not thought possible in my father’s day.’
‘Aye, sir, that’s true, and with careful management and coppicing of the oak…’
Rosie did not want to hear what Nathan had to say. She hoped he would soon go and leave Sir Oliver alone. Then she wished they would both go and hoped they would never know she had been there spying on them. Oh, she thought wretchedly, I don’t know what I want at this moment. What would Nathan O’Flynn think of her presence here? Would he think her search for mistletoe and ivy no more than an excuse? He was nobody’s fool. Nor was Sir Oliver. He would know why she was here. What would he do with that knowledge? Laugh at her? Humour her? Be angry with her? If they were left alone together would he take advantage of her? The last thought made her sink down till the men were out of her sight. She huddled against the tree trunk, keeping herself just off the cold forest floor.
As she squatted uncomfortably thinking over the many possible consequences of the situation she had put herself in, Rosie was taken over by a rebellious mood and she was sure of one thing. She wasn’t going back yet. She didn’t care what Kenver or Alice, her father or even Clem thought. She did her share of the work on the farm and she was twenty-one years old, old enough to make decisions for herself.
She remained crouching, catching odd snatches of their conversation. Matthias Renfree was mentioned and she listened carefully. Why was she interested in anything concerning Matthias? It was all so confusing. Clem and Alice brought up Matthias’s name often, referring to his qualities and how he would make a good husband, but she didn’t realise they had her in mind as his wife.
Rosie herself thought Matthias would make someone a good husband and she had looked him over once or twice. He wasn’t much older at thirty than she was and alongside his religious zeal he owned a surprising sense of humour and enjoyed many a hearty laugh with the Trenchard menfolk. To Alice he even displayed a certain amount of charm, to the twins and Jessica he was like a favourite uncle. But he treated Rosie rather as he did the children and she wondered if he’d noticed yet that she had grown up.
The talking in the clearing had stopped. Rosie eased herself up on stiff legs and peered round the side of the tree. Nathan had left, she had no idea in which direction, and waited awhile to see if he would come back. Sir Oliver reached into a pocket for his tobacco pouch and filled his clay pipe. Rosie liked to look at his hands. They were large and rather elegant and although toughened by the hard manual work he liked to do they were not as rough and calloused as Clem’s and her father’s were. His long fingers, adorned with only one discreet ruby set in gold on the ring finger of his right hand, were different to those of Matthias Renfree, whose were smaller and stocky like the rest of him.
Thinking again of Matthias reinforced Rosie’s feelings of guilt. She should not be wanting a secret meeting alone with a married man, especially with him being her father’s landlord, Matthias’s employer, the husband of her sister-in-law’s best friend and the man who had broken her brother’s heart by stealing his bride. It was so very wrong. No good would come of it. Sir Oliver had not and probably never would live down his reputation as a womaniser. It was probably not safe to be alone with him. But Rosie could not help herself. Taking a deep breath she walked towards him.
Oliver glanced up from lighting his pipe, showing no surprise at seeing her there. He looked stern as she came before him like a child sent for by a headmaster.
He considered her for a moment, then said, ‘I was wondering how long you were going to stay hiding behind that tree.’
‘You… you saw me, sir?’
‘It is easy to discern a flash of golden hair against the background of the trees.’
‘Did Nathan see me too, do you think? I wouldn’t like for him to get the wrong idea.’
‘And what idea would that be?’ She was acutely embarrassed and Oliver wickedly prolonged it for her, playing the verbal predator he’d enjoyed subjecting Kerensa to in their early days together, before she became wise to him. ‘Why should Nathan get the wrong idea about you being here alone Rosie? I have always allowed my tenants to wander freely on estate property if they are prepared to respect it.’
‘Oh, I don’t know… I… just thought… I was out looking for mistletoe, holly and ivy. I often walk through the woods, gathering wild salad for Kenver or herbs and leaves for Beatrice,’ she finished lamely.
‘Really? A kind and thoughtful act by a kind and thoughtful girl.’ He looked in her basket. ‘It’s empty,’ he said.
‘Well, there’s not much to gather at this time of the year.’
He raised a lazy eyebrow. ‘Not much mistletoe, holly and ivy?’
‘Well, I… I… I suppose I was too busy thinking of something.’ Rosie wanted the ground to open up under her feet and swallow her. What had she let herself in for?
‘About something or someone in particular?’
Rosie’s heart thumped and her brain raced for ideas for a suitable answer to this. She stared at the basket and recalled her excuse for carrying it. ‘Kenver!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was wondering what to give Kenver as a Christmas present.’
‘Were you now?’
Rosie couldn’t tell if his question was asked impatiently, sarcastically, or indifferently. She was sure she had made a big mistake lingering behind the oak tree. She was about to make an excuse to go when he asked her something that made her gasp.
‘Would you like a drink, Rosie?’ he said, picking up the wine bottle and holding it out to her.
Ought she not flee? Some folk from the Bible classes would say to be offered wine by this man was like being asked to drink with the Devil. How much of the Devil was in Sir Oliver Pengarron?
His dark eyes chained her to the spot. She shook her head and heard herself saying, ‘No thank you, sir. I had a drink from the stream just now.’
‘As you please. Sit down,’ he motioned to the end of the log, ‘or do you have to be on your way?’
‘I… I suppose it won’t hurt to sit down for a moment or two.’ Rosie sat at what she deemed to be a respectable distance.
‘I hope you are taking due care while you’re out alone, Rosie. I take it you have heard of the disappearance of one of the bal-maidens from the Wheal Ember mine.’
‘Heather Bawden, you mean, sir? She’s a wild one, that maid. I was almost too afraid to look at her for fear of what she’d say. Some do say because she’s young in the head the small people have taken her away to look after their children. But most folk believe she’s run off with a man somewhere. There was a travelling group of actors in Marazion of late, she spent a lot of time hanging round they. Some do believe she’s gone off after they, looking for excitement.’
‘That may be so, but on the other hand the girl might have been carried off against her will. Other people believe she has been murdered and thrown off a cliff or down a disused mine shaft.’
Rosie gave a shiver. ‘Poor maid.’ She tapped the back of her heels against the tree trunk, releasing the strong damp smell of its moss covering.
‘Is all well at home, Rosie?’ Oliver asked amiably. The harsh lines of his face had softened now and he watched her moving feet.
‘Yes, sir, the twins are as boisterous as ever. They were some pu
t out at missing seeing you the day you were at the farm and Jessica was ever so sorry for dropping the cat on your lap.’
‘Ah, Jessica, your angelic-looking niece. A lovely child.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘No harm was done over the episode with the cat and I suspect it was me scurrying out just like a scalded cat myself that your nephews were most sorry at missing.’
Rosie laughed gaily but she was surprised this man of noble birth, wealth and power could laugh at himself. She did not ask how things were at the manor. She was not unaware of the tense and gloomy atmosphere there and anyway it would be improper.
‘Clem and Alice are lucky to have three such beautiful and healthy children,’ she said, picking up a handful of dead oak leaves and crunching them.
Oliver drew deeply on his pipe. ‘What kind of a father is your brother?’
Rosie raised her neat eyebrows. She had not expected this piece of curiosity. She was on the defensive at once.
‘Clem’s a wonderful father. It may surprise you to know he’s doted on the twins from the day Alice brought them home from the manor where they were born and he loves Jessica just as much as Alice does. Jessica was a planned baby, not just the natural happening of they being man and wife.’ She grew red at the reference to Jessica’s conception but didn’t miss the contempt in the short laugh Oliver gave. In retaliation she said, ‘Strange isn’t it? You and Clem both having three children, two boys and a girl.’
‘No,’ Oliver said bluntly, surveying the girl with a cold eye. ‘I intend to have a much larger family.’
Pengarron Pride Page 18