Amid a variety of laughs and murmurs the men returned to their work. Bartholomew, still grinning broadly, leapt aboard the Young Maid. He had been to Marazion to buy supplies from a ship’s chandler and had used the two-mile walk there and back to think deeply.
The King brothers had been correct in their playful assumption that he’d been thinking of a ‘maid’ but they would never have guessed at Ameline Beswetherick.
Bartholomew put the packages containing candles, length of rope, pot of pitch and block of fish salt down in the lugger and looked about for a bundle of horsehair brushes. It was now his job to give the Young Maid a fresh coat of pitch and after that he, Matthew and Paul would launch their rowing boat and indulge in some free-trading. After that again he would walk to the outskirts of the manor’s parklands, and there underneath a sycamore tree he would leave two marbled pebbles, a sign to Ameline that he would meet her in Trelynne Cove in two days’ time.
Bartholomew had had no success in gaining any information from Ameline to fuel his suspicion that there was Pengarron blood in his family. He had soon given up this course. She was unwilling to talk about the Pengarrons or their history. She didn’t speak much about any other subject either and he concluded that she knew little of life unless it concerned how to dress, how to act and react in genteel society, and how one day to be mistress of her own household.
He had warmed to the girl during their meetings in Trelynne Cove. With all the pretensions of her class put aside after their first meeting he discovered an awkward and shy, yet quite intelligent, caring being. It was a long time before he had put his arms about her and held her close, and he did so many times before her natural rigidity gave way and he felt her soft feminine body as it really was. It was only on their last meeting, three days ago, that he had actually kissed her. He had not taken any liberties but had asked her if he might do so. They were sitting side by side on her pony’s blanket on the very same boulder of black granite where he had sat with Kerensa the summer before.
He kept the first kiss short and simple, barely touching her lips. Then she turned her head away again. Bartholomew waited patiently. Every time they had met he had reassured her she was not to worry about them being seen. As a fisherman he lived by his senses as much as by brute strength and fortitude. If anyone was about he was sure he would know and he knew Trelynne Cove well enough to be able to disappear rapidly among the rocks.
After what he judged was a suitable length of time he said softly. ‘Am I to be satisfied with just one kiss, Ameline?’
He gently took her face in both hands and turned it to him and kissed her as before, slightly increasing the light pressure of his full sensuous mouth until he felt a tenuous response. It was delicious and he wanted more. He hadn’t meant to mark Ameline’s neck, to leave evidence of their tender, innocent passion. It horrified him. It was so inappropriate on this girl’s slim white neck. He had decided he would never attempt to seduce her, he liked her too much to take advantage of her. Ameline was blissfully happy. He knew she found their meetings exciting and romantic. Was she hoping things would develop in some way?
They had been tender, special moments, those last ones in the little cove, nothing like he had expected or experienced before. Bartholomew could not get them out of his mind and he wondered deep in his heart how he would feel when that quiet, well-bred young lady could meet him no longer. They had arranged to meet one more time before she left to return to Tolwithrick.
‘You got someone coming to see ’ee, boy,’ Matthew called out as Bartholomew bent his long legs to apply the first stroke of pitch to the bottom of the lugger. ‘’Tes a lady.’
‘What!’ he exclaimed, banging his shoulder on the hull of the boat as he sprang up and splashing pitch on the pebbly ground. He was shocked to think Ameline had actually come down into the fishing village to see him. It wasn’t her, however. Dropping the brush and rubbing his hands on his breeches he walked rapidly to meet Kerensa.
‘Have you come to see Mother again?’ he asked, full of curiosity, then glancing at the other fishermen dotted around them, ‘Or someone else?’
‘No, it’s you I want to speak to, Bartholomew,’ Kerensa informed him. ‘Can we go somewhere?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Bartholomew was quietly delighted. He was always pleased to be in Kerensa’s company and he felt important to be singled out for a private discussion with her. The ordinary folk of the parish had long stopped thinking of Kerensa as ‘the little maid from Trelynne Cove’; they held her in as much esteem as they would a lady of genteel birth.
They drew aside from the curious fishermen and walked over the crunching pebbles of the beach with a stinging salty wind straining at their faces.
Kerensa looked at him critically. Because he so much resembled Oliver she felt even angrier over her suspicions that he’d been dallying with Ameline. She went straight in on the attack, her voice like sharded glass. ‘Have you been down to Trelynne Cove of late?’
He frowned, he was puzzled but became immediately defensive. ‘Yes, you said it was all right. Have I done something wrong?’
‘Yes, I rather think you have. Have you met a young lady there? A young lady staying at the manor house, Miss Ameline Beswetherick?’
His delight at seeing Kerensa died. ‘I’ve met her once or twice. Why? Has she made a complaint about me being there? Is that what this is all about?’
The water in the bay was coloured in soft greens and blues. It lapped calmly onto the shore in slow, majestic sweeps of lightly frothing waves, as though it was taking care to disturb as few of the smooth dull pebbles as possible. But Kerensa knew it was not going to stay gentle and lazy for much longer. There was a hint of the sweep and swell getting stronger, the waters whipping out a deeper dip a few feet down the shoreline and making a longer slope of the beach. She took her eyes from the sea and stared at the uncertain youth.
‘Why are you so agitated, Bartholomew?’
‘I’m not!’ he said crossly.
‘You are,’ Kerensa corrected him sternly, ‘and it only serves to convince me that certain suspicions I have about you are true.’
‘What suspicions?’ he demanded, kicking at the pebbles. ‘I haven’t been landing contraband in there. Is that what she’s been saying?’
‘Last night I noticed a mark on Ameline’s neck, the kind of mark made by lips in contact with the flesh. Many things lead me to believe you are responsible for making that mark. I know of your reputation with women and I don’t give a damn about what you do with others but Ameline is my guest, she’s my responsibility while she’s under my roof. She’s very young for her age and innocent of what experienced men like you can do to her. I want you to leave her alone.’
Bartholomew hated to be told what to do. Adopting the Pengarron stance of hands on hips he said angrily, ‘And what if I don’t choose to?’
‘So you don’t deny it was you?’
‘No, why should I? I haven’t done anything to her that she didn’t want me to. If she wants to meet me I consider it none of your damned business!’
Kerensa was furious. All the hurt and frustration she had suffered at Oliver’s cruel behaviour broke to the surface and found an outlet in lashing the youth before her.
‘Well, I’m making it my business whether you like it or not! I will make sure you don’t have the chance to see her again or do anything else to her.’
His dark eyes flashed. ‘If I want her I’ll take her and you won’t be able to do a thing about it!’
‘Don’t you be so sure about that, Bartholomew Drannock! Ameline will listen to me and there are other steps I can take to stop her from seeing you, I can assure you of that.’
‘Like telling Sir Oliver, I suppose,’ he taunted, his mouth curling to a snarl.
‘I don’t need to do that, I can assure you of that too!’
‘I don’t think you really do believe you can stop me and Ameline meeting. I think you’re bluffing.’ He lowered his head and spoke straight a
t her. ‘Of course, if you want to make sure of it, you can always take her place.’
Kerensa’s hand flew sharply across his cheek. ‘I should have you whipped for that!’
Bartholomew’s head was hurled sideways but he turned straight back to meet the rage in her face with a supercilious smile. ‘Do it again,’ he said, between his teeth. ‘I like it.’ Kerensa shrieked. She slapped his other cheek with all her might. Then beating her fists against his chest she pushed him over heavily on to the shingle. Before he could recover from the shock she wrenched his head back by a vicious handful of his long black hair.
‘It’s time you grew up, young man! You’re not half as unlikeable as you would have people believe. I can see straight through you. You’re trying to emulate Sir Oliver but you’re making a very poor job of it. Those who know him will tell you you’re no match for him. He had qualities at half your age you can’t even dream of. It’s time you stopped playing the brave young hero and looked after your mother and your brothers and sisters properly. I forbid you to set foot on Pengarron land again until you can at least try to be truly like its present owner!’
When it was over Kerensa was out of breath. She let go of Bartholomew’s hair; the scrap of red sailcloth that held it back was in her hand. He let his head fall forward, unable to look her in the eye. Kerensa moved away from him, her chest heaving and tears searing her eyes.
The tide was on its way in, the waves sweeping and lifting the shingle towards her feet. Kerensa could not stop shivering. Tears gathered at her eyes but refused to give way and bring relief. The wind tugged at her hat and she swept it off and pulled at the tip of its one lone decorative feather. She stood still for several long moments, unaware that Bartholomew had come to stand beside her until he gently nudged her arm.
‘I didn’t know you had such a hot temper,’ he said. ‘That was quite a speech.’
‘What?’ she said numbly. ‘Oh… I surprised myself.’
‘You’re very loyal to Sir Oliver.’ His eyes were set grimly on a distant pinnacle of rock under the cliff face just above sea level.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there? You’re not just angry with me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, you’re right about me, although I hate to admit it. It is time I took stock of myself and looked after Mother and the young’uns. I was extremely rude to you and deserved what I received in return, but there must be another reason for you getting in such a rage.’
Kerensa did not speak, words would not form inside her head.
‘You can’t talk about it… I’m very sorry. If there’s anything I can do to help… You’ve been so good to me and my family.’
She managed a barely audible, ‘Thank you,’ then said, ‘You’re frightened, aren’t you, Bartholomew?’
He took a long time to answer. ‘Yes. My mother is dying before my eyes and I don’t know how I’m going to cope with Charles, Jack and Cordelia after she’s gone. I feel so helpless. You seem to know me so well, better than anyone apart from my mother and she can’t help me.’
‘Bartholomew.’ Kerensa reached out and slipped her small cold hand inside his and felt the gentle response of his warm calloused skin. ‘Would you let me help you? If you like we could do it secretly, no one need know except us. I have a bit of money put by and I will never need it. Forget your pride and let me help you for your own sake as much as for Jenifer and the children.’
He looked at her uncertainly and Kerensa went on quietly but earnestly, ‘I don’t believe any of us have the right to refuse help on behalf of others if it means only hardship, suffering and poverty for them. It’s the way I felt about Samuel all those years ago. Say yes, Bartholomew, I beg you. There, I haven’t so much pride that I can’t beg. Let me take away the worst of your worries for you.’ She handed him the piece of sailcloth. ‘What do you say?’
He tied back his hair, then said, ‘Thank you. There is nothing else I can say.’
* * *
Kerensa found herself in Marazion. After the emotional meeting with Bartholomew she could not bear to ride home. If Oliver was finished with the Reverend Ivey and had ridden after her he was more likely to seek her out on the cliff rides they used to enjoy together, or at Trelynne Cove. So she urged Kernick on to the market town hoping he would not turn up there.
Leaving Kernick with Ned Angove, the blacksmith, she meandered down the long street, hoping to be anonymous among the people. It had grown very cold and with her cloak pulled in tight and her head bowed she hoped no one would recognise her. There was no market today and few people were about but she was stopped by Sarah Harrt, the coroner’s wife, who subjected her to an unwelcome twenty minutes of useless gossip. She also met Rosina Blake rushing home out of the cold with Simon Peter. Rosina was very concerned about Kerensa, who looked unwell, and implored her to go with her and her son to the rooms they still kept for convenient use over the shoemaker’s. But Kerensa firmly declined a dish of tea by the fire and Rosina reluctantly bid her a blessed New Year and went on her way.
Kerensa wandered in and out of the shops and for no particular reason bought a half-dozen yeast buns in a baker’s shop. As she left the shop a spit of freezing rain began to fall and as it gained momentum people disappeared as if by magic. Kerensa hugged her bag of buns under her cloak and ran over the increasingly muddy ground on her way to collect Kernick. It would be wonderfully warm in the smithy and she intended to ask Ned for a secluded corner to take refuge in until the rain stopped. Ned’s wife continually presented him with huge mugs of steaming hot black tea and Kerensa saw a cosy picture of herself drinking tea with them while sharing the yeast buns. Perhaps it would be just the thing to warm her soul and give her strength to face Oliver again.
She rounded the corner of the Commercial Inn and was brought to a jarring halt. A cold blast of terror coursed through her veins. A filthy, ugly man was barring her progress, a man she had hoped she would never see again for the rest of her life.
‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped.
‘Thought t’ave seen the last of me, did ’ee, pretty lady?’
‘Get out of my way!’ Kerensa screamed, fighting to control her trembling.
‘Now that’s no way to speak to an’ ol’ friend, me ’an’some,’ the man grinned.
‘Friend! If my husband knew you were here he would probably kill you!’
‘Now that’s not very nice of ’ee, sweet’eart, an’ you oughta be nice to me.’
Kerensa whirled round and stormed off the way she had come, her face white with shock.
‘’Ow’s that son of mine?’ the man called after her with a malicious laugh.
She froze. He tramped round and faced her. ‘Deaf, are ’ee? ’Ow’s my little boy keepin’?’
‘What do you care, you vile creature!’ Kerensa hurled at him, shaking with fear, anger and disgust.
‘’E’s my son, ain’t ’e?’
‘No! Kane is my son, mine and Sir Oliver’s. You signed a legal document to that effect and didn’t even say goodbye to him, remember? How dare you come here now! Don’t you dare to ever come near him!’
Kane’s sailor father put his head on one side and rubbed at the wet matted mess of his beard with his finger and thumb. Water was dripping off his greasy bald head and making him squint. You are hideous, thought Kerensa fleetingly.
‘I can’t really say I want to see the little bleeder,’ the sailor said, a tone of menace coming into his voice, ‘but’ll cost ’ee plenty to keep me away from un. I bet e’s all well set up, livin’ like a little lord in the manor house. Be a bit of a bleddy fright fer un to see ’is real father, don’t ’ee think, my pretty?’
Kerensa kept her head held high. ‘Kane knows his origins, you can’t hurt him that way, you wretched beast.’
‘Oh, can’t I now? Are ’ee sure about that? If yer thinks of me as a vile creature an’ wretched beast, what will ’e think, eh? What will yer other young�
��uns think? Bit diff rent to the ’an’some Sir Oliver, ain’t I? An’ who knows, mebbe the boy might fancy life at sea, seein’ the world an’ that, eh?’
Kerensa fully understood the thinly veiled threat. ‘All right, you despicable swine, what is it you want?’ she got out, as though she was being strangled.
‘Well now, let me see. A pretty lady like yerself would be most enjoyable in the sack.’ He sniggered at her violent shudder. ‘Not partial to the idea, eh? Don’t ’ee find me a fine figure of a man, then? Or do ’ee want to keep it all fer Sir Oliver? No, a nice bit of money is what I want, then I can buy meself the favours of the local ’ores an’ ’ave a drop o’ drink.’
‘How much?’ she asked, unable to conceal her contempt.
‘Reckon my silence is worth at least… five ’undred guineas.’
‘What? Don’t be so foolish! I can’t get hold of that kind of money. If I asked my husband for it he would want to know what it was for, he’d come after you and you’d be in more trouble than you’ve ever dreamed of.’
The sailor’s ugly face fell and he swore heartily. ‘Fair ’nough. I’ll take what you’ve got in your purse fer now and you can bring me fifty guineas ’ere tomorrow. Don’t ’ee tell me you can’t manage that,’ he scowled.
Kerensa’s heart gave a panicky jerk. Fifty guineas would halve the amount she wanted to give to Bartholomew. ‘Here!’ she shouted, throwing her purse at his feet. ‘There are two sovereigns in there. I’ll bring as much as I can tomorrow, here, where we’re standing now. I’m not meeting you in an alleyway, it will have to be out in the open. It had better be the last time I hear from you or I promise I will tell my husband and you can face the consequences!’
Pengarron Pride Page 25