"Take it easy, it's not a race," Lawless grumbled as James downed his first pint swiftly and gestured for another. "Things not going well with your lady love?"
The question was innocuous enough, but it set James' nerves on edge for he remembered well the older man's interest in Polly.
"That's none of your concern," he responded mulishly.
"Well then, I don't think serving you another pint is any of my concern either," Lawless replied, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at James from across the bar top.
James sighed; he knew that he had been rude, but he could not help his short temper. It had galled him to learn that he was so like the father who had abandoned him and his mother. The ease with which Lord Keyford had recognised him as sharing Ludlow's blood was astonishing. All James had known of his father was that single portrait in the parlour of Lord Livingstone's London town house and the legacy of pain and poverty that he had left James' mother.
"Leave the lad alone, Jack," a voice called from behind James. "He's had a bit of a shock is all. Another pint for him, one for myself and one for you Jack, if you please."
Mr Lawless straightened at the newcomer's greeting and hastily began to pour three pints. James turned and found Lord Keyford standing behind him, the older man's face wearing a look of pity.
"I thought I'd seek you out, for I saw earlier that I'd rather overstepped the line."
"Not at all," James responded with forced nonchalance; had his dismay really been so obvious?
"Enough of that, my boy," Keyford guffawed, taking a seat beside James at the bar. "I'm long enough in the tooth to know when I've said something upsetting. I've been told that I'm really quite good at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time."
"You weren't to know," James shrugged, accepting the pint that Lawless proffered toward him. The barman had a look of contrition on his face, and James knew that he was forgiven for his outburst, but only if Lawless could listen in on what was being discussed.
"No, I didn't know." Keyford shook his head, "Horace never told me about you."
"How could he, when he never even knew I was born?"
There was a bitterness in his voice that shocked him; James had been harbouring anger toward his late father for abandoning him, but there was enough resentment within him to be directed at his mother too. She had never written or reached out to the Earl of Ludlow, until it was too late. Who knew what his life might have been, with his father in it?
"May I ask who your mother was?" Keyford ventured tentatively, rapping his knuckles against the rough oak bar top anxiously. His face wore a look of open curiosity and James knew that the Viscount was simply trying to piece together the whole story and was not fishing for gossip.
"Flora Black," James muttered, as Jack turned to serve another customer. No matter his anger, he did not want his mother's name sullied in the local inn of a village she had once visited.
"Goodness, Flora?"
If James had been surprised that Keyford had known his father, he was rendered silent with shock upon realising that he also knew his mother. James had thought that his parent's affair would have been a secretive thing, filled with shame and dishonour, but it appeared he had been wrong.
"You knew her also?" James queried, taking a sip of his pint, for his mouth had suddenly gone dry.
"A little," Keyford nodded thoughtfully. "She and Horace shared an interest in literature, he would attend the saloons in Mrs Barker's with her."
Mrs Barker, the previous proprietress of the boarding house, had been something of a bluestocking. She had held intellectual saloons, hosted noted philosophers and historians, and had welcomed the women of the ton who were more inclined toward egalitarianism than marriage and balls.
"Did you have any idea that they were romantically involved?" James queried, wondering how it was that he had been conceived. Perhaps the Earl of Ludlow had forced himself upon his mother, for the mother that he had known, would have had far too much pride to become a man's mistress.
"I had an inkling," Keyford gave a shrug. "But at the end of Horace's last summer here, he left to visit Penzance and that was the last time he visited St Jarvis, or Cornwall for that matter. I had no idea that he and your mother had..."
James dropped his head into his hands; Keyford had raised far more questions than he had answered. Though perhaps there was one thing he could help James with.
"How did my father die?" he asked, for anytime he had raised the question with Arthur Livingstone, his Uncle had brushed his queries aside.
"It was rather strange," Keyford's face was troubled. "He took a fall from a horse."
"How is that strange?"
"Well, Horace never rode," Keyford explained, glancing at James with eyes that were slightly beseeching. "He hated the beasts. He would walk from Aylesbury to St Jarvis and back again, even though I insisted he had his pick of any animal in my stables. And yet, about five years after he was wed, he fell from a horse whilst out riding. I found it strange, to say the least."
James knew what Keyford was trying to insinuate--that there was something untoward in the manner that his father had died, but there was little he could do to help the man with his suspicions.
"I would ask my Uncle if he knew of anyone who wished to harm Ludlow, but alas we have not spoken in over a decade," James said, swilling deeply on his ale. "Can you think of anyone who might have wished my father dead?"
Lord Keyford looked as if he was going to speak, but seemed to think better of it and merely shook his head sadly.
"Forgive me," he said to James, "It is an old man's suspicion, nothing more. I have sorely missed Horace these past five and twenty years--perhaps I am just seeking someone to blame."
"You were close friends?"
"Like brothers," Keyford gave a watery smile as he placed an awkward hand on James' own, to give it a conciliatory pat. "And as I said, any son of Horace's is always welcome in my home."
The pair finished their drinks in silence, with James wondering what type of man his father had been. He had abandoned his mother, and yet, in Keyford he had inspired a lifelong loyalty that still lingered years after his death. The Earl of Ludlow was a conundrum, and one which James thought he might never solve.
Though learning more about his parentage was not why he was in St Jarvis; he was there for Polly, and only Polly. Mr Lawless then spoke, as though he had been listening to James' very thoughts.
"How goes it with Miss Jenkins, then?" the barman asked, with not a little vested interest James thought wryly.
"It does not go anywhere," he sighed, accepting yet another pint from the old man. If he was not careful, he would soon be in his cups, and spilling his secrets to the whole bar.
"She has mighty high standards, our Polly," Lawless said appreciatively; no matter that he and James had quite the repertoire, James knew that the old man would always think he had some sort of claim over Polly.
"Yes, and a league of ladies she can call on whenever I invite her anywhere alone," James muttered darkly. Oh, he liked the ladies who lodged in the boarding house well enough, but he did not like them joining in on his every walk, ride or cup of tea with Polly. He wondered what the poor Hamilton twins had thought of their afternoon ride, which had ended so disastrously. He did not think them gossips, but knew that news that he was a bastard would soon spread. He did not give a fig for what others thought of him, but he wondered if word would reach his estranged brother and Uncle that the unwanted offspring of Horace Livingstone had resurfaced. News like that spread like wildfire through the ton, aided by tabbies who would pounce on such a scandalous titbit of gossip.
"You'll have plenty of opportunity to sneak a minute with her during the Jarvey," Jack said, with a wide smile.
"What on earth is the Jarvey?"
"The festival of St Jarvis," Keyford explained kindly, "Though it has been an annual tradition since long before Christianity reached the cliffs of Cornwall. At the end of summer, every year, there is
a parade through the village in which the locals carry a symbolic boat made of flowers. The boat is launched into the sea at the pier and a prayer is said to St Jarvis, to watch over the fishermen during the winter ahead."
"Yes," Lawless interrupted Keyford excitedly, "But before, during pagan times, the boat was supposed to symbolise fertility in the hope that the villagers would do some procreating during the winter months. Now isn't that more suited to your intentions?"
Lawless gave James a rather saucy wink at this bit of information, and despite the fact that he had spent many years aboard ships with sailors—who were notoriously lewd--James found himself blushing. Both Keyford and Lawless guffawed happily at James' obvious discomfort; though thankfully they did not know the real reason why James was so flustered.
"Wonderful," he cleared his throat unnecessarily, "But how will I have a minute alone with Polly, if the whole village is present?"
"Why, at the dance afterwards," Lawless replied. "The whole village can't join in on a waltz."
This was true, though James had no doubt that Polly might make them try. Or refuse the waltz and make him dance a cotillion, or another similar group dance. Still, the thought of music and dancing cheered him, and he bid adieu to his two companions in far lighter spirits.
Life had thrown up many distractions of late, yet the desire he felt for Polly still consumed him and he would let nothing stand in his path. He would have Polly Jenkins as his bride, he thought with determination, or die trying.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Jarvey, the Jarvey, the Jarvey.
All that Polly had heard all week from her sister was endless speculation about the silly festival. Emily's questions and chatter had left Polly feeling a little irritable, though she supposed that it might also be the weather.
The sun had been relentless all week, and at night time the temperatures were so high that Polly had to sleep with the window open. Not that sleep came; she spent half the night tossing from the warmth, and the other half turning from thoughts of James.
He had been a little distant since their ride to Smuggler's Cove, oh he still called daily, but he no longer attempted to entice her into taking walks alone with him, or doing anything at all alone with him, for that matter.
That's what you wanted, is it not?
Polly tried to ignore the little voice within that goaded her, for it was right. She had not wanted to be alone with James, during all the times he attempted to instigate a tête-à-tête with her; she had needed her sister, or the twins, or anyone available to act as a buffer between herself and the dashing Captain. But it had only been because she did not trust herself around him; she had wanted to listen to the reservations of her heart before allowing the demands of her body respond to him.
Now, he had taken any temptation away, and she was feeling rather cantankerous as a result. Mostly, she thought irritably, because it was her own fault.
Still, she had the much discussed Jarvey to look forward to, and who knew what opportunities that might present?
"Oh, Emily, your ribbon has come untied," she chided, as she and her sister made their way across the green to the church. She reached out and tied the ribbon of Emily's bonnet firmly under her chin. The sun was still strong and she did not want her sister to have a red-nose at the end of the day. Though, despite the pressing heat, in the distance Polly could see a bank of dark, ominous clouds approaching.
"Storm's on the way," Jack Beverly observed as he fell into step beside the Jenkins sisters. "Looks like it could be a howler."
"Perhaps it will hold off," Polly demurred, with an anxious glance at Emily, who detested storms.
"It'll be good to get a break in the weather," Jack grinned, "And as long as it stays away until after we have our procession, then what harm?"
What harm indeed, Polly thought, for she was longing for an end to the suffocating heat. At that moment, she caught sight of James, standing a little away from the villagers who were crowded outside the church. Her breath caught slightly, as she looked at him, for she had never seen him look more handsome. He was dressed as well as any London gent might be; he wore a dark navy coat, over a pristine white shirt and fawn breeches, whilst his feet were clad in a pair of polished Hessians, which clung to his muscular calves. At his neck he wore a white cravat, the colour of fresh snow, which served to highlight his handsome, dark features.
He caught her eye, smirking a little to have found her staring, and lifted a hand in greeting. Polly ushered Emily over toward him, only spotting the Duke and Duchess of Everleigh as she neared.
"Your Grace," Polly said as she reached them. The Duke was her employer, and whilst she called Olive by her given name, at the Duchess' insistence, she would never dream of being so familiar with the formidable Duke.
"Polly," Ruan Everleigh gave his pirate like smile as he greeted her. "And Emily--you are missed, my dear, at Pemberton."
"We must visit soon," Emily replied solemnly. She spoke to the Duke in the same manner that she addressed everyone with; his rank was a thing she never seemed to think of, and for that, the Duke was extremely fond of her.
"I'm rather excited for my first Jarvey celebration," Olive said, glancing around at the villagers, who were mostly dressed in blue and white, with sashes and masks covering many of their faces. There was an air of great excitement, with a few of the villagers already playing tunes on the fiddles and tin-whistles that they carried. Polly was inclined to agree with Olive, though the Duke merely rolled his eyes and said that one found it less exciting when it was the twentieth one had attended.
The small group fell silent, as Mr Wilpole, the Vicar, began to say a few prayers over the large, model ship which stood in front of the church doors. The ship was decorated with local flowers; Michaelmas daisies, coneflowers and sneeze weed, and once the prayers were finished, it was hoisted up atop the shoulders of half a dozen men, and the parade began.
Polly allowed herself to be caught up in the merriment, as en masse, the villagers wove their way down Shop Street, dancing and singing to the music. She even caught the Duke, who had professed to find the whole affair dull, smiling a broad smile as he twirled his wife with abandon.
A hand reached out for hers, strong and warm, and Polly turned to find James smiling down at her.
"Would my lady care for a dance?" he asked, but did not wait for her answer before he began to twirl her gently, only dropping her hand so that he could spin Emily too.
By the time the villagers had reached the small pier, everyone was out of breath and flushed, but filled with high spirits. The crowd fell silent as Mr Wilpole again offered a prayer to St Jarvis, asking him to safeguard the fishermen in the coming months, but when the ship was launched into the sea, a huge cheer went up and the celebrations began properly.
A makeshift dance-floor had been set up by the pier and a group of men sat down on the chairs by its edge, to begin playing music. Polly adored all the Cornish songs, which were fast paced and often accompanied by lyrics that one would not hear in any ballroom in London.
"I was expecting a cotillion, or a waltz," James murmured in her ear, as the set dance that they had joined in with came to an end.
"A waltz?" Polly gave a hoot of laughter and poked him gently in the chest, "You're not hob-nobbing with the ton now, Captain."
"Indeed, I am not," James observed, as the makeshift band finished their bawdy sea-shanty about smugglers. The tone of the late afternoon changed, as Martha Beverly, Jack's wife, stood up to sing. The song, which had a haunting melody, was a ballad about a sailor lost at sea, and the dancefloor emptied until it was only couples, swaying gently together left.
Jack placed a proprietary hand on Polly's waist and drew her close to him. She could feel the heat of his body and his hand seemed to burn her skin through the material of her dress.
"It's a lovely song," James murmured, "I used to imagine you singing it about me when I was away at sea."
"How could I have sang a song about my lost
sailor, when I didn't know you had taken to the sea?" Polly asked pragmatically, causing James to roll his eyes at her lack of romanticism.
"Well, at least you know that I was thinking of you, for all those years," he grumbled lightly. "Every night before I went to sleep, I thought of you Poll."
A flippant reply was on her lips, but for once, Polly thought before she spoke and allowed it to die there. Just enjoy this moment, a voice urged her, and so she allowed herself to revel at the feeling of being held in a strong pair of arms. A light sigh escaped her as the song came to a close and more people took to the floor for a lively reel. James took her hand and led her away from the crowd, nodding at acquaintances, but not allowing her to stop or speak with anyone.
"Mr Lawless will think I've given him the cut," Polly protested, as they finally stopped by the low pier wall. The wind had picked up, and the storm that had been threatening seemed ready to make land. As if to outplay it, the band picked up the pace of the music, adding a rather surreal urgency to the moment.
"Let him think what he likes," James said in reply. He looked a little fierce as he stood against the grey clouds of the sky, with the wind whipping his hair into his eyes.
Her hand moved of its own volition to brush a lock aside, and as she went to lower it again he reached out and lifted it to his lips.
"Marry me Polly Jenkins," he whispered softly, her hand still safe in his strong grip.
"I—" Polly stuttered in reply, a little thrown by the new way that he looked at her. Gone was the patient Captain Black, of impeccable manners and patient smiles. Before her stood a man, whose eyes were burning with desire and hope, a man no longer willing to wait for her to ponder if she could trust him or not.
Every doubt she had raced across her mind; he had hurt her, he had disappeared, he had changed from the boy she had known and loved. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, for James gave a laugh, so bitter that it shook her.
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