Pengarron Dynasty
Page 2
She focused on Luke again. Then fell into thinking how good it would be to see Clem once more.
There came a sudden thud, a bump and an exclamation of fright.
‘Beatrice!’ Kerensa bundled the love tokens back into the box and then the drawer. Feeling guilty for allowing the elderly maid to descend the stairs unaided, she dashed out of the room to help her.
Three
‘Jack.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘We’ll start off again in an hour. It will be good, will it not, to have our feet back on Cornish soil?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t sound so dispirited. I’ve promised that everything will work out for you. And call me Luke, we’ve been through so much together I shall never see you as anything less but my most trusted friend.’
‘You do me an honour, Luke.’ From Jack’s profound expression, it was obviously an honour he felt he deserved.
‘Do eat. Granted, the fare doesn’t look at all appetizing but it’s the best we’ve had put in front of us for many a day.’
Luke and Jack, the Pengarron estate’s head groom, were breakfasting in a small inn, situated some distance from the main thoroughfares, on the outer reaches of Plymouth. The shabby confines reeked of stale ale, pipe smoke, the fug of tallow candles and body odours, but they were dim and appreciably private. The planked door was heavily scratched and pitted, as if recipient to a number of kicks and knife blades, and the two men warily scrutinized every coming and going. The patrons included workmen and farm labourers, the occasional sailor or merchant, and quiet travellers like themselves.
Luke and Jack kept a whispered conference, knowing that they themselves provided an extraordinary sight, both bearing bandages on their hands, scorched and blistered in the fire. Jack also had a dressing across his forehead.
‘Has the lady risen from her bed?’ Luke’s voice was hoarse from the lingering effects of smoke.
‘No. She spent the darkness in nightmares again. She’s worn out and went straight to sleep after the maid brought up her breakfast.’
Jack gingerly broke off a chunk of tough, greyish-coloured bread but did not carry it to his mouth. Luke was devouring the cold meat and duck eggs like a hungry dog, but Jack had no appetite, although this had nothing to do with his split bottom lip and bruised chin. Every so often he was overcome by a wave of nausea, an outbreak of sweat. When he held his head up, the inadequacy of the dressing revealed a gash on his left temple, the flesh red and purple and swollen.
‘Unfortunate for us to have had to pass so many days in the saddle, but to travel by post coach was a risk we could not take. We need to be circumspect.’
Jack remained quiet, still not eating but drinking from his tankard of porter.
Luke surveyed Jack’s temporary disfigurements and the similar ones on his own hands. His chest ached from a cracked rib and he braced himself as the need to cough overwhelmed him. He wiped at his mouth in disgust. Would he never get this foul taste of smoke out of his throat? He sipped his porter, savouring this more soothing burn as he swallowed.
‘My mama will not be pleased with me, Jack. When I talked you into accompanying me to London, I promised her I’d look after you. We’re both returning exhausted and dishevelled and injured. I apologize for the miserable times you’ve had. Horses are your forte, not acting as a manservant… and our other activities. I took you away from your little cottage a sober Methodist and have turned you into a hearty imbiber, and worse. We planned to look over stock for the horse stud, and never did. Nor did I look up my cousins; Miss Cordelia will not be pleased with me.’
‘You’re not responsible for my conscience, Luke, and I enjoyed many a day in the capital. You didn’t talk me into anything, I wanted the adventure. And we promised her ladyship t’ look after each other.’ Jack’s thoughts drifted. ‘She’s going to ask questions, and so is Sir Oliver.’
‘I know, I know. Stop worrying. They can’t do anything to us, we’re grown men, for God’s sake! It’s vital we keep to our story, Jack.’ Tension made Luke’s stiff shoulder ache. He wheeled it as much as the disability allowed, and rubbed it near the collar bone.
‘I’m not about to forget a thing. A nobleman and all his servants are dead. Butchered.’ Jack’s eyes, nearly as dark, and equally as drawn and under-shadowed as Luke’s, gravely indicated the poky, bleak bedroom directly above them, and he shuddered, dropping his voice even lower. ‘And Sophia was left to burn alive. We should never’ve got involved with those people.’
‘It was I who got involved with them, not you. The fact is Sophia’s alive and practically unscathed. As for… he knew he had a death sentence over him, and of his own making. I warned him not to make threats against those particular gentlemen. It’s terrible about the others, but all we can do now is put it behind us. And Sophia must never forget to use her real name, Alicia, from now on.’
‘She won’t. We both have a new name,’ Jack said sombrely, wiping sweat off the back of his neck and gulping down the last of his beer.
Leaning forward Luke touched the arm of the servant, some fourteen years older than he, who had helped him learn to ride as a boy, and was now his confidante. ‘You are pleased about that? History has it that you were only a thieving urchin, with nothing save a first name when my father gave you a home and employment. Now you have a legal identity. Does Jack Rosevear not suit you?’
‘That part suits me.’
‘Damn it, Jack.’ Luke shifted uncomfortably. ‘You’re what, thirty-six? Have you never wanted a wife, children, the regular comforts of a woman?’
‘Not this way.’ Jack massaged his tired eyes.
‘I’m sorry about that but there was nothing else to be done. We both swore to Lord Longbourne that if anything untoward happened to him we’d protect her. The lady is with child, and she has nothing and no one except for the two of us. I couldn’t marry her myself, any wife I take would be noted in high society and it might soon be realized who she really was. Granted, you’re worlds apart, but so were my parents and their marriage became successful, you’ll not find a happier couple.’
‘There’s no comparison with my arranged marriage, Luke.’
‘And yet you have a care for her.’ Luke’s eyes glinted over the rim of his tankard.
For the first time in over a week Jack worked up a smile. ‘You know I do. But she’d never have married me if it weren’t for her predicament. She might end up resenting it. I’m afraid she’ll feel trapped.’
‘You’re worrying unnecessarily, she took little persuading to agree to my suggestion.’
‘She was in shock, Luke. I know only too well what can happen when you’re not in full possession of your mind. I’ve let the devil into mine, done so many things against my nature and my faith.’ Jack ducked his head when one of the Methodist evangelists who had come into the inn caught his eye. ‘And it don’t rest easy now I’m nearing home.’
‘Alicia has lived in humble circumstances before. You know this, she confided in you during those tête-à-têtes you shared with her.’
‘Being an impoverished squire’s daughter is a lot different to being a groom’s wife.’
‘But she won’t be living in poverty as your wife, Jack. You have my word all will be well. Just leave it to me. You do trust me?’
‘You know I trust you with my life.’
‘Well, then. Now rouse Mrs Rosevear and let us be on our way.’
* * *
While Jack mounted the dirt-laden stairs to awaken his bride, Luke paid the bill and went outside to wait for the horses to be saddled. He would not go back inside. He craved fresh air and open spaces for evermore, he felt, after spending the ten days since the fire choking on the effects of smoke in his lungs, and staying in scabby accommodation.
Their progress to Cornwall had been slow. Jack had found riding difficult at first, the terrified and grief-stricken lady had needed comfort. Luke had been terrified himself that those who had committed the arson in th
e quiet select house in St James’s Street would discover that Sophia, witness to their crime, was alive and slay her, and he and Jack also for saving her. Someone from the Society would have stayed and watched the house burning, would have seen him and Jack forcing an entrance. It may have been noticed that he had returned to his lodgings and left again almost immediately, taking his and Jack’s luggage with him. Apart from his disorderly appearance, hopefully, no one would think this particularly unusual, as it was well known in the circles they had frequented that he and his servant were about to return home for his nephew’s baptism. Pray God, no one from that unforgiving, seedy set saw him and his little party after that.
With luck, Sophia would be thought to have perished, as he had planned when giving her necklace to the maid. Luke had no regrets over his part in Sophia’s survival. Seldom had he met a more likeable, courteous, sympathetic young woman. He had enjoyed her company in London, and in the hours Jack had been charged in escorting her hither and thither, so had he.
In the light of day, far away from the murder scene, it almost seemed an horrific dream. Cautiously, for he must, Luke took a breath of air and looked about.
Mid spring. It used to be his favourite time of year: flower-sprigged verges and hedges; benevolent sun; alluring skies and vibrant clouds; wildlife astir; promises afloat; treasures beckoning. Feet away was a hump-backed stone bridge coated with emerald-green algae, atop a swift river. Two pink-faced children were sitting on the lush grassy bank playing with a ginger kitten and a piece of string. A delightful scene. Something his sister would long to capture on canvas. But Luke gleaned no pleasure from it.
Nothing held any value, had any reason or prospect for him, not since the bitter quarrel with his elder, adopted, brother, when reality had broken in, mocking him as to what he truly was. Heir to a title and a prosperous estate maybe, he was also a cripple, lacking in manhood, denied the coveted regimental career his father and brother had taken for granted, doomed to light tasks and writing reports. Half measures, ultimate non-accomplishment.
A long day’s ride and by nightfall he would be home to familiar sights, familiar pursuits, monotony and predictability. Home, to the family bosom, to his parents’ blissfully happy marriage, to siblings with two healthy arms going about their usual splendid business.
He would be expected to croon over Kane’s child. Damn Kane, for being so fulfilled. Kane had his own expanding farm and a wife whose free spirit suited him perfectly. Damn Kane, for pointing out that day he could have something similar if he stopped behaving like a spoiled brat and channelled his restless energy into something more fitting than gambling and womanizing. Kane, whose real parents had been an unmarried brothel bitch and a deserting wayfarer, had no right to speak so. Luke would not tolerate a recurrence.
Then there was Olivia, the elder to him by one year. She also had everything she wanted, including a doting husband who indulged her foolish passion for painting. And sixteen-year-old Kelynen, his father’s favourite, who toted an annoying boisterous dog everywhere she went. Beatrice would be being Beatrice: drinking, soothsaying, smelling, swearing. There would be the same boring obedient servants and submissive tenants. The same batch of young ladies ruthlessly parading their accomplishments before him in the hope of becoming his wife. A return to all the old ways and soul-draining sameness.
There was really nothing for him to do at home. He would likely be an old man before he came into his inheritance, and even then there would be no challenge left for him. In the few years before his marriage, his father had rebuilt the estate from near ruin, and although Sir Oliver was many years senior to his mother, he wore them like a man of youth and vigour.
The one dream Luke kept in his heart, that did not involve the Pengarron estate or any of his expected duties, and which only Jack knew about, would be ridiculed if he ever brought it to light. He could not bear that.
Ignoring the anguish of his burns, Luke felt about in his coat pocket and brought out a letter from Cordelia. It would be good to see his little cousin again. He had missed her, but pray God she had found herself a husband and wasn’t about to resume shadowing his heels like a faithful puppy. The adolescent playfulness and demands of a puppy could so easily become tiresome.
Hell’s teeth! Hot-faced and grinding his teeth, he stalked on to the hump of the bridge and stared down into the waters. They swirled bracken-brown, thick and dull. No bed of weeds or stones was visible, nor the dark reddish earth of this fertile county of Devon. Why not spare himself all those naked grey years ahead? Leap in, let the river carry him away to be dashed to death on some blessed rocks or to drown in its deceptive depths. He was going to drown anyway. In despondency. In nothingness.
He was going home. To the same old frustrations and his sense of worthlessness.
Four
With a sense of irony, Clem Trenchard looked out of the window of the ivy-clad parsonage at Perranbarvah. Before his marriage to the parson’s sister he would have had to enter by the back door, and this was the very room where Kerensa had stayed in the month leading up to her enforced marriage. He had spent many desperate hours staring up at this small-paned window pining for her.
Clem heaved the window up on its protesting sashes and stuck his blond head out. The smell of the sea. Wonderful! How he had missed it. Gazing down the steep hill to the fishing village, he listened to the steady drag of the tide creaming over and then receding from the shore. Gulls chattered and showed off their expertise on wing. He had missed the gulls too, but the moor he now lived on offered an interesting variety of bird life.
Thanks to the gentle touch of the sun the grey-green waters were sparkling, flirting with the senses. See, look, the calm English Channel seemed to be hinting, my depths are as safe as a harbour on which to make a living. The inhabitants of the tiny cob cottages below knew its deception. A month ago, those artful waves had turned into an unnegotiable monster, encouraging its cruel sister, the south-west wind, to surge up into a tempest out at the Ray Pits, where it teased and taunted three of Perranbarvah’s vessels for several maniacal hours, before finally crushing and splintering them into oblivion. Only two crew members from one of the luggers had been rescued by those frantic, foolhardy and courageous enough to sweat out the storm and attempt a rescue.
Clem heard the crows cawing in the churchyard. Here, here, the black harbingers of doom gloated; here lie the smashed putrid bodies of the six who were recovered. Clem hated crows, the dark bastard-birds who ate the seeds of his crops, who fed on the corpses of his prey-slain beasts; given the opportunity these crows here would devour the remains in the graves they were swanking over.
Timothy Lanyon had written to his sister about the tragedy, and Catherine had wanted to leave the moor and offer comfort to the sorrowing widows and orphans. But that province was Mrs Lanyon’s now. Did Kerensa’s daughter do well in this respect? Certainly, Kerensa would have made haste to the bereaved. Beautiful, compassionate Kerensa, her arms held out to soothe, to ease the burden. Such a glorious compensation.
The luggers, thirty to forty feet in length, that had survived the storm were shored dejectedly on the shingle. Fresh paint gleamed on the repaired timbers. Clem knew all the folk he could see below going about their usual business, dressed in black. The fishermen were preparing for the night’s launch, tarring ropes, mending nets, stowing baskets, checking line. Another trip to the Ray Pits. Clem sensed them praying for their safety and good catches. Many in the small fishing community held to the fervour of the Methodist connection. Their faith and a certain amount of optimism pointed to their expectation being high, for added to the fine weather there was a ‘fair old sea running’. Their grief and depression, however, were almost tangible, rising mournfully on the salt-laden air.
The bedroom door opened and Catherine joined him, placing her arm round his waist, staying silent. She was a handsome woman with snow-white skin, a charitable heart and a quiet charm. She overlooked Clem’s melancholic moods and honoured his frequent
need for solitude.
They joined in respectful homage to those who had lost their lives and those below who had lost their kin.
Finally, Clem said, ‘It’s all so very cruel, may God have mercy. Are the twins settled in the nursery, Cathy?’
‘Yes, my dear, they’re both asleep at last. I’ve ordered Lydia not to leave them. They would have stayed settled at home.’ Not a reproach, but in the short time since arriving in her former home, Catherine now wished they had not brought the children with them for the forthcoming event. She felt a need to keep track of Clem while back in this parish, where Kerensa Pengarron lived.
In the two years at Greystone’s Farm, Clem had rarely mentioned her name, yet Catherine knew, that all too often, she was inside his head. Already, she felt the invisible bond that he shared with the flame-haired lady of the manor placing a stronger grip on her husband. Clem had been so eager to come. Instead of being slightly distant, closed and guarded, he shone, he was animated. Catherine tried not to resent it – she had not entered this marriage blind to Clem’s yearnings – but she wanted every bit of him to herself.
‘I like my children near me,’ Clem said.
Catherine wound her littlest finger around his, just one of her many gestures of understanding. She took comfort in his statement. Clem was a loyal family man and she was the mother of two of his children. ‘The nursery is very well done, no doubt my brother will be hoping for a child of his own soon.’
‘Pleased to be back here, are you?’
‘It’s very pleasant. My room was the one next to this. I enjoyed the sea view.’
‘Miss it?’
Catherine took heart. He had lost interest in the view and was looking steadily at her. ‘Not particularly. I swapped the view for the fields and valley of Trecath-en Farm and then for the beauty of the moors. I have you and my beloved family and feel myself the most fortunate of women. Have you missed Trecath-en, Clem?’