Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

by Marguerite Kaye

  She didn’t love him, but she could. He didn’t love her, but he might. She could tell him why that would be a huge mistake for them both, but she daren’t. She had accepted the hand that fate had dealt her. It had been painful, but she no longer railed at the injustice of it. But she couldn’t bear the thought of Treeve’s pity. It had been difficult enough, confessing to having her heart broken, even though that was well and truly mended! But to confess to the devastating revelation which had caused it? And it had been devastating, even though she’d suspected for some time. A tear trickled down her cheek. Five years of living a lie. Of course she’d suspected something was not right, but that! There was a world of difference though, between wondering and knowing.

  Enough! Emily sniffed, blew her nose, gave herself a shake. More than enough. The matter was straightforward. If Treeve returned to the navy, she would stay in Porth Karrek. If he stayed here, she would go. She could start again. She would have to. But until the end of the year, she wanted to make the most of the time they had together. Starting right now. She checked the little brass-cased clock on the mantel. Treeve would be here in a few moments. Their walk to Penzance was going to be a soggy one. She hoped the wind would be behind them on the cliff path.

  * * *

  They did not walk the coastal path, but arrived in Penzance dry and warm in Treeve’s coach, an extremely smart affair with two horses and a box containing charcoal to heat Emily’s feet. Treeve had dressed more formally today, even conceding that the weather required a greatcoat, which Emily had teased him about. While he sought out the coastguard, she quickly transacted her business, posting her commissions off, purchasing new supplies which she left at the coaching inn, leaving them free to explore the town.

  The weather had lifted, the wind abating, the skies clearing, as they walked down to the bustling harbour, where the luggers used for pilchard fishing were crowded together in the harbour mouth, waiting on high tide.

  ‘There must be fierce competition for space to land the catch,’ Emily said. ‘If you built your lighthouse at Porth Karrek, I reckon some of these skippers would be delighted to use the harbour.’

  ‘We have no smokery at Porth Karrek,’ Treeve said, ‘nor even a fish cellar for salting.’

  ‘If you can build a lighthouse, then surely a smokery or a fish cellar would not be beyond you. How long would it take to build your lighthouse?’

  ‘My lighthouse, is it? I’ve no firm plans, you know.’

  ‘Why then did you correspond with Mr Stevenson, as you told me?’

  ‘Curiosity.’ He met her sceptical gaze sheepishly. ‘You’re right, it’s more than that. It may come to nothing. He might not be available. It might cost too much. But I feel I have to do something. I never wanted the Karrek Estate, but it’s mine now, and I have a duty to make something of it.’ He took her arm. ‘Shall we walk on a bit, now that the weather has cleared? We can head out along the seafront. I don’t think it will rain.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  They made their way away from the port towards Newlyn, the fishing port on the other side of Mount’s Bay, continuing on past the village in the direction of Mousehole. They stopped at the harbour, where another flotilla of pilchard boats awaited the tide.

  ‘You keep asking me about my intentions, Emily. Do you plan to stay in Porth Karrek?’ Treeve asked.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ she said, which was the truth.

  ‘You can’t live in that cottage for ever. The blasted thing is liable to blow into the sea in the next storm, apart from anything else. When the composer is gone, you could move into the gatehouse, rent-free.’

  ‘He’s not even arrived yet, and I don’t want to live in your gatehouse on a grace-and-favour basis. People would talk.’

  ‘You’re right. That was a stupid suggestion.’

  ‘Let’s not wish our time away worrying about the future. Let’s concentrate on the here and now and what little time we have together. I thought that’s what we both wanted.’

  There was a charged silence. What Emily wanted, suddenly, fervently, was for her slate to be wiped clean. She wished she had met Treeve and not Andrew Macfarlane six years ago. But six years ago, Treeve would have been at sea, on the other side of the world, perhaps, and not a man in search of a wife with a fortune to appropriate. Nor would Treeve ever have considered her fortune relevant, whether he’d been reliant on his naval salary or the vast wealth he had inherited, she knew that in her bones. But what was the point in wishing what could not be. Even if she could change history, she could not change the woman she was, and she would never wish that barren woman on Treeve.

  They had resumed walking, though he no longer clasped her hand on his arm, and the gap between them felt like a gulf. ‘Truly,’ she said tentatively, ‘I have no idea how long I will remain in Porth Karrek, but I know I will never return to London. It is not so much what I have left behind, Treeve, but what I have discovered here in Cornwall.’ She risked putting her hand on his arm, giving his sleeve a slight tug to draw his attention. ‘I am not Cornish, but the sea is in my heart and my soul, just as it is in yours. If I had been a man, perhaps I would have become a sailor, like you.’

  He laughed softly, as she had hoped he would. ‘I am eternally grateful you’re not a man.’

  ‘So am I.’

  He stopped. Their eyes met. And just like that, it was there between them, the connection, almost tangible, like a rope twined from desire and understanding, tightening around them, making them oblivious of their surroundings, of everything save themselves.

  ‘Emily, I’ve never felt like this about any other woman before. Whatever is going on between us, it is no mere passing fancy.’

  His words brought a lump to her throat. She swallowed it, hard. ‘Then let us not give it a name.’

  * * *

  There was a plaintive note in Emily’s voice that set him on edge. Why was she so desperate to belittle their feelings? Or was it only he who had these feelings? Was she trying to let him down gently? The idea appalled him. He let his hand fall. ‘It’s getting a bit late to carry on to Mousehole, and I think the weather might catch up with us in any case. Shall we head back?’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me, Treeve.’

  ‘Why should I be angry? What you say makes perfect sense.’ He caught himself before he marched off, forced himself to laugh at his own contrariness. ‘I’m not angry,’ he said, meaning it this time. ‘Not with you, at any rate. I suspect that Jago has been using the house as a base for smuggling. When we were in the attics I noticed that the window had recently been cleaned.’

  ‘Of course, you said yourself, the view is second to none.’

  ‘He denied it when I confronted him. Not that I thought for a moment he would do anything else. I could find no evidence of actual contraband in the cellars, thank heavens, but he’s had months to clear those out.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t him.’

  Treeve pursed his lips. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it was. He’s not a very good liar and he looked decidedly uncomfortable.’

  ‘Which leaves you in a quandary. But I’m guessing you’d rather not talk about it any more today?’

  ‘No,’ Treeve said gratefully, pressing her hand. ‘Let us talk of another Cornish tradition. Have you heard of Stargazy pie? It originated here, in Mousehole. Legend has it that one winter, two hundred years ago, the weather was so stormy that none of the boats could leave harbour and the villagers faced starvation, with no food to put on the table for Christmas. So one bold fisherman sailed out alone in the storms, and caught enough fish to feed everyone in Mousehole. They made it into a huge pie to eke it out, with the pilchard heads and tails poking up from the pastry as if emerging from the sea.’

  ‘That sounds revolting!’

  Treeve laughed. ‘Anyway, every year they honour the fisherman who saved the village with a festival on the tw
enty-third of December, which just happens to be Gwav Gool. I was wondering if we could have our own Porth Karrek version and serve it at the ceilidh. What do you think?’

  ‘You could have Abel Menhenick come up with something. He’s a very good baker.’

  ‘Excellent idea. And I’ll serve a punch made with cider. There will be dancing of course, Cornish reels and country dances—I’m sure Bligh will be able to educate me on those.’

  ‘You realise if your ceilidh is a success, then you’ll have to return to Porth Karrek at Christmas every year.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll ask the Admiral of the Fleet to make sure my ship’s back in Portsmouth each December. I’m sure he’ll be happy to arrange the manoeuvres of the entire Royal Navy to suit my convenience.’ He frowned. ‘Perhaps it’s wrong of me to create an expectation I can’t fulfil.’

  ‘But you can’t do nothing, can you? If you are set on involving everyone from the village, why not have them decorate the Great Hall together, a greening I think it is known as.’

  ‘Another excellent idea, Miss Faulkner. We could combine it with the hanging of the kissing bough.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m going to regret asking...’

  ‘It’s a wreath made of holly, mistletoe and ivy, sometimes with apples, and there’s a candle. They are hung in every house five days before Christmas. It’s said that dancing in circles underneath it when the candle is lit welcomes in the God of Light, but it’s also said that if you kiss your true love beneath the candle, the flame burns brighter.’

  ‘And if it goes out?’

  ‘Ah then, you have kissed the wrong person! My mother and father used to kiss under it every year when it was hung. How odd that I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Was Christmas a big celebration when you were younger, then?’

  ‘You mean the day itself?’ Treeve wrinkled his nose, trying to remember. ‘There were food baskets for the tenants, I must make sure that these are made up and handed out. But most of the celebrating is done before Nadelik—the bonfire, the gin and cake progression, Gwav Gool. Christmas Day is celebrated in church. You will come to dinner at Karrek House, won’t you, after church? I won’t have you spend Christmas alone.’ He pressed her hand. ‘You have been far too much alone, since your father died. Six years. And in London too, isn’t it rather unusual for a young woman to do so?’

  ‘I was twenty-six, not a girl.’ Emily avoided his eyes. ‘And I didn’t live alone.’

  ‘You had a companion?’

  ‘Yes.’ She started walking faster. ‘But not on Christmas Day.’

  ‘She had her own family?’

  ‘A family,’ Emily said, with a strange edge to her voice. ‘Yes. There was a family.’

  He did not know what to make of her tone. Was she lying? He could not believe it of her, but she was certainly prevaricating. He decided not to press her further. Whatever the truth, he wanted her to tell him of her own free will. ‘Then it sounds as if both of us are overdue a bit of a celebration this Christmas,’ Treeve said. ‘It will be the start of December next week. We’ll need to put our heads together to organise Gwav Gool.’

  ‘A Cornish ceilidh.’ Emily’s smile seemed to him tinged with gratitude at his forbearance. ‘Are you sure you need my help?’

  ‘I can’t do it alone. And if Porth Karrek refuses my invitation to celebrate, then at least I can be assured I’ll have a dance partner.’

  She laughed faintly. ‘I don’t think you’ll lack guests. Or dance partners.’

  * * *

  They dined in Penzance, in a private room at the inn, with a low-timbered ceiling propped up by dark-stained oak beams set at odd angles, and a flagstoned floor with a distinct slope towards the sea. Soft candlelight, a roaring fire, and an excellent dinner of Cornish sole cooked in butter and parsley, left them both mellow, content to sit opposite each other at the table sipping their claret. It was an intimate, domestic and bittersweet meal. The sort of meal a husband and wife could have every night. Emily persuaded herself she was content to enjoy it this one time.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time they arrived back at Karrek House. Treeve insisted on walking back with her to the cottage. The night was clear. The stars hung low and bright in the inky sky. The waves were a distant murmur. They kissed in the doorway, their arms wrapped around each other, clinging to the dying embers of the most perfect day, not wanting it to end.

  ‘Emily,’ Treeve whispered, in that way of his that made her want to melt, nibbling on her earlobe, pushing back the hood of her cloak to kiss his way down her neck.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair. Then she pulled his face down towards hers, hungry for his mouth again. Their kisses tasted of wine. Her head was woozy with the combination of wine and sea air and wanting. She pushed the door open, and they staggered across the threshold, still locked together.

  They kissed. She undid her cloak, dropping it to the floor. He cast off his greatcoat. They kissed again, tugging each other closer, and kissed again. They fell on to the chair by the fire. She was straddled on top of him, the hard length of him pressed against her, making her moan, making her arch her back, and still they kissed. His hands on her breasts through her gown, her nipples aching for his touch. And there were still more kisses, ceasing only for them to draw breath before they kissed again.

  Her hair was down. She was so aroused she thought she would combust. Treeve’s breath was fast, shallow. Their kisses slowed. They gazed raptly at each other in the near darkness. Emily slid to her feet. Treeve picked up his coat. One last kiss at the door. No need for words. That was what shook her. The fact that they had no need for words.

  * * *

  She was in love. Lying in bed, she tried out the words. I love you, Treeve, finding not a trace of doubt, only a calm acceptance. She had been travelling towards this moment from the first time their eyes met, on the beach. All her precautions, all the warnings she’d given herself, had simply delayed the inevitable. She loved him. She was meant to love him. Made to love him. No wonder her feelings for Andrew paled in comparison! They were a shadow of her love for Treeve, so solid, so—so rooted inside her.

  Did Treeve love her? From the beginning, he’d seen what she had refused to, the way they complemented each other, like two halves of a whole, the way they knew each other. Did he love her? Not yet. She couldn’t let him. Even though it was what she longed for.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Emily closed her eyes. She wouldn’t think about it any more. The clock was ticking towards Christmas. Let them have these few weeks together. She would keep her love to herself. And then—and then the fates would decide.

  Chapter Seven

  The storm swept in late on Saturday night, the last day of November, rattling the window panes of Emily’s cottage, waking her up with a start. Wrapping a shawl around her, she gazed out of the window, but her view was restricted by the driving rain. There had been no talk of a storm in the village today. The boats which lay inside the harbour wall had not been moved higher up. But even the saltiest sea dogs were sometimes wrong-footed by the Cornish weather.

  The windows rattled ever louder. Emily loved storms, she found witnessing nature at its most elemental exhilarating. She threw on stockings and shoes, wrapped her cloak around her and battled her way out to the headland. The tide was still low, though coming in. It was not the waves so much as the swell which was treacherous. The wind howled, the sea crashed and roared, and the rain drove. Keeping a safe distance from the cliff edge, she held her arms wide, lifting her face to the skies. If anyone could see her they would think her crazy, but no one else would be mad enough to be out in this extreme weather.

  Except someone was, it seemed. Was that a light out there beyond The Beasts? Peering through the darkness, she thought she must have been mistaken, but there it was again, a faint gleam, disappearing into the swell, appearing again a few moments later. It was
a boat, making for the harbour and in danger of being blown on to the rocks. It could be a fishing boat, but coming back to harbour at this time of night with the tide coming in—that didn’t make sense. Bligh on a smuggling trip? It had been set reasonably fair this morning. If it was him, if he had set out for the Scillies, the stopping-off point that Treeve was convinced he must be using, he’d be desperate to get back before the Sabbath. The light bobbed into view once more. They were about half a mile from The Beasts, but the wind was blowing them steadily in that direction and the tide was coming in. The boat was too far away to make out how many were on board, but assuming it was the one Bligh used for fishing, she reckoned there would be six, maybe eight crew.

  Emily took to her heels, running with the wind at her back as fast as she could towards Karrek House, tugging so violently on the bell without stopping that she summoned both Treeve, still dressed, and several bewildered-looking servants.

  ‘A boat,’ Emily said, panting. ‘Heading for the harbour. I don’t know what we can do, but the tide—The Beasts.’

  ‘Bligh, damn him! Go back to your cottage, Emily, I’ll sound the alert down in the village.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’