But Clem would be there in some form or other, in the way. She knew why she had kept Clem’s things, part of her had always wanted him and always would. Oliver’s reaction to finding those simple gifts of twenty-four years ago was understandable, but it did not excuse the extent of his jealous behaviour.
A feeling of oppression closed in on her. What was she to do about the two men she loved? Her feelings for Oliver were just as strong. So were those she had felt for Clem when they had first fallen in love. She had been suppressing them but now no longer could. If she was to turn to either of them, duty should make Oliver the obvious choice, but she had given her first promise to Clem. She felt as if she was being wrenched in half.
She rejoined Oliver, knocking first on the door and waiting for his call. He was sitting in an armchair with Harry laid on his knees, making him chuckle by tickling his tummy. Oliver had played with all his children in this way. Kerensa was reminded what an attentive and loving father he was – few men gave this kind of acknowledgement to their offspring.
She sat down on the deep-cut window seat. ‘He likes you.’
‘Yes, I believe he does. I’m missing Kane so very much. How is he today?’
‘Much the same. Dr Crebo says the wound looks a little less anguished, but Kane is still very weak. I’m afraid I’ll have to take Harry home soon before he gets hungry.’
Oliver gazed down at Harry. ‘Of course.’
‘You said you wanted us to talk?’
‘Yes, to ask you if you have everything you need?’ His tone was conversational, nothing more or less.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Are there any problems you’d like to discuss with me?’
‘Not at the manor. Michael and Conan are coping at the stables. Will you replace Jack?’
‘In time. I sensed that Jack’s not totally content at Polgissey. Luke doesn’t see this, but he’d never countenance releasing him.’ Harry started to fret and he got up with him. ‘You’d better take him home. Thank you for bringing him, it’s meant everything to me.’
‘Kane can bring him next time. I’ll try to make sure Samuel is here and they can begin learning to play together.’
Thinking of his own black-haired, black-eyed little boy made Oliver angry that he was being denied the daily pleasures of him, even if he had chosen to spend more and more time away from the manor. Kerensa’s loyalty to the dirt-farmer had a lot to answer for.
‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘The children mustn’t miss out on family life.’
Kerensa read Oliver’s statements as arrogant assertions that he was blaming her for their problems, and she found this intolerable. Taking Harry from him she left without saying goodbye. On the drive back to Vellanoweth she worked out where she could meet Clem and safely leave him a note.
* * *
Going up to his room to change for an overnight stay at the parsonage, Oliver bawled down the stairs for Rosie Renfree to come up to him.
‘What’s the matter, sir?’ she asked cautiously. He was in quite a temper.
‘Someone has been in here. Who?’
‘The maid tidied the room and made your bed, that’s all, I swear. I checked it myself.’
Kerensa! How dare she snoop on him. Did she think he might be entertaining another woman here in her place? Had she lost all trust and respect in him? He did not deserve that.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie, don’t look so worried. I’m not accusing anyone of a crime. Forgive a prickly old man?’ He smiled to placate the young woman he had always had an affinity with, as he’d also once had with her late sister-in-law, Alice Trenchard. It was a strange fact that he had always been close to the women in Clem Trenchard’s life. He had got so close to Rosie, in her maiden years, just before his steward had wooed her during the first estrangement from Kerensa, that he had taken her into his woods and very nearly made love to her. She was still an exceedingly attractive woman in her mid-thirties. Three of her children were presently at the charity school, the youngest, presumably, taking a nap.
Without actually saying a word, Rosie had been sympathetic towards the reason for his presence here, even going as far as laying a hand of solace once or twice on his shoulder.
‘You’re not old.’ She smiled back at him.
‘I seem to remember you saying that to me once before.’
His reference to their intimacy made her blush prettily. ‘That was a few years ago now.’
‘I’ve never forgotten it, have you?’ He leaned back against the washstand, staring straight into her eyes, enjoying the old memories, feeling again the warmth of their current friendship.
‘No, Oliver, I have not. A woman likes to remember the special times in her life.’ Rosie had many years of contented marriage behind her, but this man had never ceased to draw her devoted admiration. Staring back, she moved next to him, straightened the clothes brush beside him on the cold marble top then refolded the towels.
‘You’ve helped me more than most these last few weeks, Rosie. I’ll always remember that too.’
Rosie carried on unnecessarily rearranging the items on top of the washstand. It was madness to stay here like this. Until a few moments ago they had been master and servant, with no thought on her part of there being anything different between them. It was madness to allow those old feelings to be recaptured. His look of vulnerability when her ladyship had left with young Harry, and now his physical closeness, was increasing his attraction.
It would be so good to be kissed by him again, just once. A wicked thought! But it excited her beyond any experience she had known before. She could not leave the room any more than she could stop breathing. When she looked at him again he was still regarding her.
‘If I can do anything to ease your way, Oliver, you only have to say.’
A moment of unspoken sinful longing re-formed the old connection between them. Then abruptly, he moved away. He couldn’t do what his body wanted. He mustn’t seek comfort with Rosie again. His hand gripped the door latch.
Humiliated beyond measure, Rosie hung her head and made to leave the room sideways so she wouldn’t have to look at him. All she wanted was to make her escape.
Oliver felt the hard iron latch digging into his flesh. He made it hurt him. But instead of pulling the door open wider for Rosie to leave, he closed it, tight.
He cupped her face in his hands, and brought his strong mouth down on hers. She was to get her kiss, just a kiss.
It had been he who had halted their first amours, but this time as their lips made contact, Rosie knew he wasn’t going to stop. He was the one who had reason not to be thinking rightly, and it was up to her to break away, to prevent this wickedness spiralling into the inevitable.
She kissed him back, then again and again, allowed him to take her to the bed and push her gently down on it, to pull open her stays and lower her shift and kiss her breasts, and soon afterward to enter her body. The pleasure was so intense, she could not stop him now if heaven showed itself and forbade her the rights of eternity.
Seventeen
Kenver Trenchard was busily employed in his workshop, which was built on to his small, formerly tied, cottage a short distance across the valley from Greystone’s Farm. Crippled from the waist down from birth, Clem’s younger brother earned his living producing fine crafts, but the piece he was currently working on was not for sale. This was the most important thing he’d ever make.
His wife came in to tell him the midday meal was ready, and they lingered proudly together over the baby’s cradle that was taking shape.
‘It’s going to be perfect.’ With delight, Kerris Trenchard inspected the expert joinery, the delicate carving of the cradle. She stood behind Kenver, who was sitting in the special wheeled chair of his own making, and hugged him tight. ‘Never thought you’d ever be doing something like this for a child of our own, Ken. Wish the poor little soul was coming into the world in better circumstances, but at least we’ll give it a good start.’
It h
ad always pained Kenver that his disability meant he could never give Kerris, whom he had married shortly before leaving Mount’s Bay, what she desired most. Now, thanks to an indiscretion of Philip, his lust-driven nephew, he and Kerris were soon to become adoptive parents. Kenver was worried about Clem’s reaction, for it was no ordinary sin Philip had committed to beget the child.
‘Aye, we’ll give it all the love it’ll need, but I wish Philip hadn’t involved Catherine in the way he did. It’s not fair. Poor soul, she’s all on edge. He shouldn’t have sworn her to secrecy until Clem gets back. I know it sounds cowardly, putting all the facts on paper rather than to Clem’s face, but we don’t know how much longer he’s staying down there, now he’s saying that Kane’s still very poorly and Jessica’s begging him to stay on.’ Kenver knew this was true, Clem did not write well and Jessica had finished the letter for him.
‘Well, we can’t do anything about it. We must prepare for the baby’s arrival. Perhaps we should offer for the girl to come here. I’m worried about the baby being born in a hovel.’
‘You know her mother won’t hear of it.’ Kenver kissed the hands resting around his neck affectionately. ‘We must pray for a live birth, and that no one puts the law on to Philip. Clem’s not going to be at all happy about it, even if he’s finally presented with a healthy grandchild. I hope he doesn’t take his ire out on Catherine.’
‘Me too, but, when all’s said and done, beloved, and God willing,’ Kerris touched the smooth warm wood of the cradle with maternal tenderness, ‘it will soon be our baby sleeping in here.’
* * *
It was a grey, cloudy night.
Two-score men, wearing dark clothing, faces smeared with earth, hats pulled down tight and scarves up high around their necks, guided a long line of mules and borrowed ponies along a little-used track at the back of Polgissey land. The animals’ hooves were swathed in rags to muffle the sound of their steps and their backs were weighed down with bundles of lace, silk, tea, spices and half ankers of brandy and other spirits. Tense, sweating, each man carried a stave or weapon of some kind. Their leader, looming in width and girth, gripped a musket, primed and ready to fire.
The three-masted ship had anchored a safe distance offshore in a little nameless cove next to Porthcarne. The crabbing boats and other small craft that had been rowed out on the heavy swell to offload the contraband, had all safely made their withdrawal. Thanks to the efficiency of Hal Kinver, the immediate coastline was left only to rock and water, the unlit beacon built on top of the cliff as a danger signal, dismantled without a trace.
The lights of the big house were left behind and gradually the travellers veered towards the cliffs. Almost silently, they passed behind the recently burnt-out cottage; one of their regular hides now lost, the cleverly concealed trapdoor in the single downstairs floor made obvious. The thatched roof had been burnt away and the charred stones stood out as an eerie silhouette, and Hal had to dampen down a sudden urge to hurry. Too much haste could lead to too much noise or an accident – give them away if the Revenue men were about.
Twenty minutes went by. A certain place was reached in the curve of the cliff. Not far below, hewn out by nature, was the chief hide. In daylight it would be in view as a small black indeterminate shape, the favoured spot where a privileged young gentleman sat and scribbled away, supposedly creating a form of entertainment. A coddled life, some folk do lead, Hal thought fleetingly. Cecil Doble had charged fifty pounds from the smuggling operator, a wine merchant who resided at a secret location, each time he shut his curtains and kept indoors on nights like this, and then a steep one hundred and fifty pounds when his fortunes deserted him. The new master of Polgissey seemed uninterested in making such profits.
The train was brought closer to the long drop. The mens’ concentration was so intense they did not hear the forbidding boom of the breakers whipping into the aptly named Hell’s Mouth, a little further down the coast. Sharp winds snatched at their bodies. The lookouts took up their stations and became even more vigilant. Now the group was at its most vulnerable.
A long stout rope was already tied round Hal’s broad waist, so he could act as anchorman. He let the other end tumble over the cliff-face. One of his brothers, Morgan, vigorous and wiry, climbed down, soon out of sight. Reaching the deep opening in the rock he swung himself into it, then tugged on the rope. Another man braved the perilous descent. The smuggled goods were lowered down one by one and they stowed them well back in the hollow, covering them with oiled tarpaulins weighed down with lumps of rock.
So practised were the free traders that only half an hour had passed before they were all away, disappearing into the night.
* * *
In the Crabber’s Port, Porthcarne’s shanty of an alehouse, situated at a right angle across a narrow thoroughfare to Minnie Drew’s home, six men assembled around an upturned, empty ale barrel that served as a table.
Hal Kinver, a tankard of ale in a meaty paw, grinned at his brothers with double meaning. ‘Nice t’ be sitting here, eh?’
‘Aye,’ said Malachi, next to him. ‘A toast to a good job done!’
All the Kinvers had the same fine bearing, deep-set grey eyes and thick coal-black hair inherited from their mother. Hal wasn’t the eldest, but his build and greater intelligence made him the undisputed leader.
In view of the other side of their parentage they liked to dress well, eat well and drink even better. They were fiercely loyal to their blood. ‘Cross one Kinver, cross ’em all,’ was a well-used local remark. Aged from mid-twenties to late thirties, none were married, but a scattering of illegitimate like-featured children gave witness to one of their favourite pursuits. A little respect was gained by their ready financial support to the forsaken mothers, and the fact that they had taken in a son of Hal’s, now training as stable boy at the big house, and another of the eldest brother, Branwell.
Harvey Kinver, the most headstrong of the family, spoke in a culled whisper. ‘Made a tidy sum ’night, I do reckon. What about Mr Pengarron and his lot? What if we get trouble off they?’
The brothers looked at Hal for his consideration.
‘Don’t reckon on that. He’s hinted if there’s any free trading going on round here, he’ll turn a blind eye. Don’t come across, he’ll make the same demands our father did. Be up for sport of any kind, if you ask me. Going to put a goodly sum on me any time I get in the wrestling ring, so he said. Besides, Boy Hal can keep an ear open for trouble.’
Morgan, the quietest member in temper and talk, spilled his ale. ‘Oh dear.’
He was slapped on the back by Tom and all the brothers laughed. ‘Did ’ee hear that? Fancy bleddy manners again. Been like this since he fixed eyes on that sweet little Miss Cordelia. The heat’s come over him again sure an’ strong.’
Morgan just smiled and carried on drinking.
‘Nothing wrong in that,’ bawled out Branwell. ‘She’s a comely little piece, will fill out nicely time she gets a first babe in her belly, eh, Morgan? Watching you, she was, more than once. I caught her eyes on you when you was up there building the summerhouse. You’ll be home and dry there, certain, sure.’
Morgan had an unusually well-honed voice. Tonight his tone was slow and melodious. ‘You think so? I mean, you’re sure she was watching me?’
‘Gived ’ee a second look and a third and a fourth,’ Tom broke in heartily. ‘You could find yourself actually living in our father’s house, Morg.’
For a moment the brothers supped their ale in repressed mood. It was something of a sore point to them: while Cecil Doble had adored their mother and lavished her with gifts, he had been indifferent to them, insisting they must never turn up on his doorstep. When Becky died of pneumonia ten years ago, he had grieved openly for her, erecting a fine headstone over her grave, but he had shunned his sons henceforth.
‘You’ll have to marry that one,’ Harvey returned to the original theme. ‘Don’t reckon she’s the sort to lie down for anyone this side of
the church.’
Morgan made no reply, settling himself into his own thoughts.
Hal was worried. Morgan didn’t lay women at random, more than one at a time, like the rest of them did. He waited between bouts of celibacy for a woman to take his fancy and then nothing would set him on a different course. Seducing the quiet young lady up in Polgissey House, whom Hal had noticed pined after her cousin, would mean trouble, without a doubt.
Luke Pengarron might appear soft, with some silly notion about writing plays, but Hal sensed he was as hard as a ship’s nail and he had never witnessed a man as protective of his kin and his servants. Then there was his father to think about. Sir Oliver Pengarron lived far away, but even before Hal had seen the baronet at the big house, he had heard of his reputation for hardness and revenge on anyone hurting his family. It was legendary.
‘Wonder how come that Jack Rosevear’s got himself such a fine wife? A bit of quality there, if I’m not mistaken. Mighty strange,’ Malachi ruminated. ‘She’s quite a beauty. Got a full belly too.’
‘Congratulations to the steward then.’ Harvey raised his tankard of ale in a toast in Morgan’s direction. ‘The other young lady will shortly be joining her, eh, brother?’
Eighteen
It had been an overcast day and would soon be dark. The winds for the month of June were unusually fractious. Chilled through and nervous, Kerensa shivered inside a small private building on the Tolwithrick estate.
Once a gamekeeper’s cottage, about to be demolished, Rachael Beswetherick had ordered its ostentatious renovation and turned it into a hideaway for herself where, as mother of fourteen surviving children, she sat and sewed or read or played the spinet. Everywhere there were embroidered cushions and tapestries and hangings on the walls, and piles of the fashionable Lady’s Magazine, a sixpenny monthly.
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