Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Always,’ Emily said, smoothing her hand over his beard. ‘Do you think—starting right now?’

  It took him a moment to understand her meaning. But only a moment. For an answer, he scooped her up against his chest, making for the stairs.

  ‘Treeve!’ Laughing, clutching her arm around his neck, Emily protested. ‘Your staff...’

  ‘All at the bonfire.’

  ‘Won’t they expect us to be there too?’

  ‘We’ll be a tad late.’ He nudged his bedroom door open, setting her down.

  Emily smiled up at him, a slow, sensual smile that lit a fire in his belly, twining her arms around his neck. ‘Don’t rush on my account.’

  * * *

  But in their excitement they did rush, making love urgently, fervently, too desperate to be one to care about finesse, their kisses sending their passion soaring, a conflagration that had to be sated without any further delay. Emily tumbled headlong into her climax almost as soon as he entered her, digging her heels into his buttocks, holding him fiercely inside her, tightening around him as he pushed higher inside her, their skin slick, hot, so that when he cried out his release, she truly felt as if they were one.

  Afterwards, they lay together, her head on his chest, her hand on his heart, murmuring ‘I love you’ over and over. And long after that, guiltily remembering the bonfire, Emily made to get out of bed, but Treeve covered her body again, kissing her slowly, shaking his head. ‘We’ve waited a lifetime for this, let them wait a few moments more.’

  But it took more than a moment. She lost count of time as he kissed her. Her mouth. Her neck. The valley between her breasts. Then each breast, taking sweet, delightful aeons of time, licking, kissing, sucking. Then her belly. And then down, licking his way inside her, his tongue, his mouth taking her to new, dizzying heights that left her gasping, spinning, floating. And just when she thought she was spent, he entered her again, slow, deliberate thrusts that roused her anew, becoming faster, harder at her urging. Until they tumbled over the precipice, this time together.

  Chapter Ten

  Two days later, on Monday, the day of Gwav Gool, the snow began to fall steadily, carpeting everything in a sparkling white blanket, muffling sound so that even the sea seemed muted.

  Fizzing with excitement, Emily dressed with care for the party, in a green gown of twisted silk and cotton with long sleeves—for the huge fire that Treeve had had burning in the Great Hall for the last two days had only just taken the chill off the air. She arrived early at Karrek House, anxious to ensure there were no last-minute hitches, but the small army of staff which Jago Bligh had marshalled, had matters well in hand. The garlands which had been hung two days before were adorned with fresh holly, the berries gleaming red in the candlelight. Bunches of mistletoe were hung on mirrors, on picture frames, in every doorway. The trestle tables which had been set up under the window were groaning with food: there were pies of every size and description, courtesy of Abel Menhenick’s bakery, including a version of Stargazy pie bereft of star-gazing pilchards; there were three whole cheeses; there was a positive mountain of bread; there were jellies in jewel colours, and quivering syllabubs; turning on a spit over the fire, there was a whole roast suckling pig; resting on side tables were massive tureens of punch, some made with fruit, some laced with brandy; and in the centre of the table a huge cake proudly sat, featuring a model of the lighthouse perched on The Beasts, made of almond paste and sugar.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Emily spun around at the sound of Treeve’s voice. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ He was wearing his uniform, a navy blue single-breasted coat with gold braid and buttons, white silk waistcoat and breeches, also with gold buttons, black shoes with gold buckles. ‘I think you look absolutely magnificent. Should I make a curtsy, or perhaps salute, Captain Penhaligon?’

  He caught her hand, pulling her underneath the nearest sprig of mistletoe, kissing her soundly. ‘You look absolutely delicious,’ he said, kissing her again.

  Emily giggled. ‘You make me sound like a cake.’

  ‘A cake I would like to devour.’

  This kiss was deeper, interrupted only by the arrival of a flustered footman bearing a tray stacked with crockery. ‘Treeve,’ Emily remonstrated, her face burning at the man’s rapid exit.

  But he was unrepentant, pulling her into his arms again. ‘They’ll get used to it. I intend to do a good deal of this, when we are married.’

  ‘Yes, but your guests will be arriving any minute. And the musicians. And the children’s choir are coming early for a final practice. And...’

  ‘And I love you, Emily. I don’t think I’ve told you nearly enough today.’

  This time, their kiss was interrupted by the clanging of the bell, as the four Cornishmen from nearby Helston recommended by Jock Treleven arrived with their musical instruments, followed hotfoot by the children’s choir, their teacher and the Reverend Maddern. This small crowd were joined by Jago, his brother and his cousin with their wives, to practise their reels. Very soon the bell was ringing non-stop as the villagers and a host of local gentry arrived, including the Trelevens and all six of their daughters. Mr Kitto, whose cantata was to be played in the church the next night, seemed glued to Rosenwyn’s side, Emily noted without surprise, for that young lady was looking extremely fetching in a rose silk gown precisely suited to her name.

  * * *

  For the next hour, Treeve was kept busy at the front door welcoming the latest arrival, while Emily busied herself making sure that everyone was fed and watered. The children sang, sweetly and only slightly out of tune, a selection of carols leading into some sea shanties, which caused everyone to join in. At the end of the performance, amid the cheering and the shedding of a few sentimental tears, Treeve handed the large basket of wooden toys which the Chegwins had procured for him, to Emily to distribute.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ he said, when this was complete. ‘Happy Gwav Gool. And a happy Nadelik to everyone too, when it arrives. I know you’re all anxious to sample this magnificent cake—a masterpiece worthy of Mr Stevenson himself, if I may say so, Abel. But if you’ll indulge me for a moment, I have something which is to me, at any rate, even more important than putting a lighthouse on The Beasts. Emily?’

  He held out his hand. Blushing, she came forward, aware of a sea of faces, all eyes on her, but she had eyes only for Treeve. Who smiled at her, reassuring, loving, not giving a damn who saw how much he cared for her. Her heart soared. She smiled back.

  ‘My love,’ he said, clasping her hands between his, ‘my one and only true love. Will you marry me?’

  She couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled with tears. She nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, so quietly only he could hear, but a cheer went up all the same, and glasses were raised. He edged them away from the crowd, to the doorway where the kissing bough hung, and then he kissed her gently. ‘Look up, Emily.’

  She did. The candle flame in the centre of the bough of mistletoe and holly, which had been flickering in the draught, was burning straight and strong and true. Just like their love for each other. A love that would never be extinguished.

  * * *

  Unwrapping His Festive Temptation

  Bronwyn Scott

  For George and Elaine. Thanks for making us part of your community group and inviting us into your home. Merry Christmas.

  Author Note

  Nadelik Lowen!

  Marguerite and I are excited to be doing another anthology together, especially a Christmas one. This anthology gives us the rich backdrop of Christmas in Cornwall. There were so many traditions to pick from. I centered my story around the tradition of Advent since Cador Kitto is a composer and the Christmas season is a time full of music, with all the cantatas and oratorios. I filled in with other specific Cornish traditions like the gin and cake practiced by the merchants. Throughout the book y
ou will see mentions of the kissing bush, the solstice bonfire and Gwav Gool.

  These traditions provide a homey holiday context for the story of Cador and Rosenwyn, which centers around the theme of coming home—something both of them have come to terms with in very different ways. Cador is resentful of his homecoming. Coming home denotes failure to him, while to Rosenwyn coming home is a safe harbor, a place to hide. Together, they challenge one another to redefine what home means.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  December 1st, 1822, the first Sunday in Advent

  —Porth Karrek, Cornwall

  The Christmas season had come again to St Piran’s in all its green-boughed, red-bowed glory, as it had every year on the first of December since Cador Kitto could remember. All the parts and players were in their places, from the evergreen swags decorating the pews to the candles on the altar. Nadelik. This was Cornish Christmas at its best.

  Cade fought the urge to squirm like a child in the hard wooden pew against the uncomfortable memories the word conjured. He didn’t want to be here, home again in Porth Karrek. He never thought he would be. He wanted no part of Nadelik. Apparently, his wishes held no sway with fate.

  The Reverend Maddern, his friend and mentor, took the pulpit and intoned the familiar words of the Advent liturgy. Today we light the candle of hope. One wasn’t supposed to tell lies in church and that was the biggest lie of all. There was no hope here although no one else seemed to notice. An altar boy dressed in a spotless white smock came forward reverent and slow, carrying a long wood taper, the sacred flame dancing at its end.

  An uncharitable thought whispered through Cade’s mind: perhaps the flame would go out before the boy could complete his duty. Where would the Candle of Hope be then? In the dark with the rest of them. The boy dipped the taper towards the wick of the candle and Cade’s wicked wish became a fervent command, uttered silently in his mind. ‘Don’t light it. It’s a trick to make people think the world is good.’ But the candle was lit, and with the flicker of flame Nadelik began, a celebration Porth Karrek was determined to make last all month. Much to Cade’s dismay.

  Reverend Maddern’s kindly eyes landed on him from the great heights of the pulpit draped in Advent purple, scolding him for his disbelief, for bringing his pessimism into the House of God on this beautiful, snow-touched Sunday morning when there was so much to celebrate, so much to give thanks for after the storm last night. But Cade would not apologise. He tolerated Christmas. He’d never forgive it.

  The Reverend’s gaze moved on to sweep the congregation as he spoke, his voice still powerful after three decades in St Piran’s pulpit. ‘Today’s verses come from the Book of Isaiah, Chapter Nine. “The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light...”’

  It wasn’t a hard message to sell this morning after a stormy night of desperation that had seen a boat wrecked upon The Beasts and six sailors in jeopardy of their lives. All six men were alive, thanks to Captain Penhaligon’s daring. Reverend Maddern cheerfully reminded the congregation such fortune was a good omen on which to begin Advent—a season of hope and expectation.

  Reverend Maddern gestured for him to rise. ‘Today, we celebrate many things, among them the return of our own native son, Mr Cador Kitto, who is here by the invitation of our brave Captain Penhaligon to compose a Christmas Eve cantata.’ That was his cue to face the congregation and make a small bow so everyone could stop wondering who the new arrival was and start focusing on the Reverend’s carefully considered first message of the Christmas season.

  Cade stood, his eyes skimming the congregation with disappointment. Nothing had changed. Twenty years later and it was all still the same right down to the Christmas decorations: fresh-cut green swags and red bows that were frugally stored year after year in the cupboard off the baptistery. Cornwall was still a broken, craggy, desolate land with broken, craggy, desolate people. He might not know these people by name—he’d been so very young when he’d left. But he knew their stories, their tragedies. The eyes of tired mothers looked back at him, their features so much like his own mother’s, old before their time, worn out with birthing and grief, crying over the children who’d died and worrying over the children who’d lived; grey-pallored men, physically broken from the sea, or exhausted like his father from working mines that never paid enough for the risks they took, all for a little tin. There was no hope here except for the hope the good Reverend spun for them on Sunday mornings.

  There were the landowners and gentry, too, sitting closer to the front. The Penhaligon pew was empty, the Captain recovering from his rescue efforts of the prior evening. But across the aisle the Treleven pew was burgeoning; Sir Jock Treleven, his wife and six pretty strawberry-blonde-headed daughters were all present, some of them a little bolder than the rest, judging from the lingering looks they cast his direction. Behind them sat four well-dressed young gentlemen who reeked of London, the haut ton, good health and wealth, stark reminders of the chasm between them and the downtrodden citizens of Porth Karrek.

  Cade took his seat, letting his mind absorb the realisation. It was a powerful reminder that there was nothing for him here except this commission. The quicker he finished, the sooner he could get on to other things, whatever they were, wherever they were, as long as they weren’t here. What had he been thinking? That somehow things would be different? That Porth Karrek had become civilised in his absence? He might as well as have never gone. The last part made him shudder. He couldn’t imagine having stayed here or what his life would have become if he had, more specifically, what he would have become. He was right to have left. He’d traded Porth Karrek for a conservatory in London, a scared eight-year-old boy with nothing more than a single valise clutched in his hand and a voracious appetite for music. The Reverend Maddern had arranged it through a cousin. Thanks to that kindness, Cade had got out.

  Twenty years ago, he’d left Porth Karrek on a crowded coach, sitting cheek to jowl between an old woman who’d smelled of garlic and a fat man who’d snored. Now, he was returning, a man of renown. He’d rubbed elbows with Europe’s greatest leaders and nobles, written music for the most esteemed cathedrals and rulers the Continent had to offer. He’d been invited home by Captain Penhaligon, the type of man who would never have looked twice at the grubby boy he’d been. He’d arrived in the man’s own carriage—a luxury the Kitto family could never have imagined. There were accommodations waiting for him, two meals a day and two servants to provide his every need. All at no charge. All he had to do was produce a Christmas cantata for his new patron.

  How hard could it be? Hard enough, considering he hadn’t written anything worthwhile in three years. Hard enough considering it had to be a Christmas cantata. Those two factors alone made it the thirteenth labour of Hercules. Throw in the fact that he had to come home to Cornwall to do it and it became a task that transcended even the might of Hercules in the scope of what it asked of him. A little over three weeks. To make a miracle.

  He surreptitiously rubbed his palms on his breeches as clammy panic threatened to claim him. He should not have made this deal with the devil. But that was how desperate he was. He could talk of moving on to other things once he was done here, but in truth he had no other commission waiting for him. He could not afford the rent on his London rooms and he’d be damned if he’d move into squalor just to satisfy his finances. His critics would crow if they saw him living so meanly, proof that
they were right—he was washed up, good for nothing but composing cheap drivel for the masses, that Cador Kitto was not a serious composer after all, that he would not live up to the promise he’d shown as a child prodigy. He would not give them the pleasure.

  Slowly, Cade forced his thoughts to be still, aware that someone was watching him. He let his gaze slide across the aisle to the overpopulated Treleven pew and found the source; the bold one next to the aisle was pretending to study her prayer book while she really studied him. She was younger than his usual preference and far less married. She smiled at him and he smiled back. Why not? There was no harm in it and it served to keep his present wolves at bay. He wouldn’t pursue her. He wasn’t here in Porth Karrek for romance. He was here to do a job.

  The girl’s smile widened and she tilted her head, a pretty, practised gesture. The sister beside her, an older, sterner version of herself, scolded her with a sharp elbow in her side. She dropped her gaze, immediately contrite, but not before her sister speared him with a look that said this was somehow his fault. His fault? All he’d done was smile back. Oh, the audacity of those sharp green eyes and the superior tilt of her chin! If this wasn’t church, Cade would make the Scold accountable for that look. Apparently, audacity ran in the family.

  As it was, he settled for a raised eyebrow of interest cocked her way and a polite nod of his head, just enough to let her know he’d intercepted her look and wasn’t bothered in the least by her fine opinion of him. She quickly looked away, but not before a hot rosy flush tinted her cheeks, assuring him he’d hit his target. But he might pay for it. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. The old proverb of the sea flitted through his thoughts at the sight of her blush. He’d be on alert in case a storm of another sort was brewing.