‘Sometimes you look so serious.’
‘Oh!’ Gabriel was suddenly on his feet and leaning awkwardly towards her, his ashen, woefully thin face with its peculiar yawning eyes alarmingly close. ‘I did not realize you had stopped,’ she said.
‘Then you were unaware that I stole another five minutes above the stipulated time.’
‘I was thinking of Josiah.’ She had no idea why she blurted it out. It might have been instinct, because she did not like Gabriel creeping up on her.
Gabriel put his hand out to a chest of drawers to aid his balance and he straightened up slowly. He stayed silent a moment, looking at her gravely. ‘He has a new mistress. He spends as much time as he can with her. But he’ll soon tire of her, he always does.’
‘It’s of no concern to me.’ She sprang up, hiding her hurt, feeling silly and exposed. She was sure Gabriel had spoken out of jealousy at not receiving her undivided attention, but she believed his words nonetheless. She had been warned about Josiah’s inclinations. Her dutiful ways showed how she was not mistress material. ‘Gabriel, take my seat. You’re not strong enough to stand this long.’
Jacob Glynn entered and with him was Sir Rafe. Kelynen felt an instant cheer at the baronet’s presence.
‘Good to see you making small endeavours, dear boy,’ Rafe said, coming to Gabriel’s rescue for his legs were wobbling.
Together with Jacob Glynn he soon had Gabriel tucked up in a blanket on the couch in the drawing room.
‘I’d rather sit at the spinet in the music room, Uncle,’ he said, slightly breathless from the journey down the corridors and stairs. ‘Could I not have my cello for five minutes? Or a sheet of score paper so I can write down what’s inside my head?’
‘You’ve not the strength yet for such an undertaking,’ Rafe said firmly. He was feeding titbits of steamed chicken to Octavia, his favourite cat. ‘Be a good fellow and give no cause for dear Miss Kelynen to plead with you to be sensible.’
Gabriel seemed about to plead for some other concession, but then he looked at Kelynen. Just looked at her, studied her, as if he had never seen her before. He had not seen her before in such good light, nor had she him. Kelynen was pleased to be at her best, for Rafe’s quick eyes were on her too. She was wearing a pale peach and ivory polonaise gown, a narrow silk ruff round her neck, with the perfect complement of dropped pearl earrings and pearl bracelets on both wrists.
When Gabriel spoke next he sounded a little emotional. ‘Uncle, please write to Kelynen’s brother and ask that she may stay indefinitely. Between us, we must forbid her to leave until I am fully recovered.’
‘Write to Mr Luke Pengarron, I shall, and immediately, before I prepare for my last sitting with Mrs Lanyon. Indeed, Kelynen,’ Rafe lifted her hand and kissed it while smiling into her eyes, ‘I absolutely forbid you to leave. Ever.’
Thirteen
That same morning, David Trenchard was preparing to preach the gospel in the marketplace of Marazion. He chose a spot where a great many people were likely to pass by, where there was room for an audience, and where he would not have to compete too much against the cries of the hawkers, chapmen, stall holders and sideshow entrepreneurs and the noises of live animals and poultry.
He offered up a quick prayer to be given courage and authority over the jeers and heckling he would inevitably receive from the likes of drunken sailors and prostitutes, and the occasional outrage over his beliefs from a hard-line Anglican. He took a deep swallow and with his Bible in one hand – opened at Genesis, for he would start with the Creation – he mounted the wooden box he had brought with him.
‘Friends!’ His strong voice of conviction carried well across the town’s one long straggling street. ‘Friends, I bid you one and all, come and listen to the most important story you will ever hear. Come and hear about God, your Father, who was and is the Father of the whole world. Come and hear how he sacrificed His only son to save the world, so that we may all, if we answer His call, live with Him in the world to come.’
His initial nervousness soon vanished, and, with sweat dampening the silky fair hair on his hardy brow, David gained in confidence and fervour as an audience of interested faces grew, overwhelming the scoffers, some of whom stopped poking fun or mouthing obscenities and stayed and listened too. Methodism was thriving in Cornwall, mainly among the ordinary working folk, and David was heartened at the appreciation he was receiving, and the support from local Methodists who shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ or ‘Amen to that!’ at his every pause. When he heard his prowess likened to that of the greatest public evangelist, the institutional founder of the faith, the Reverend John Wesley, he felt almost already in Paradise.
* * *
Sophie Carew was wandering through Marazion. To avoid the general crush she kept tight to the shops, ignoring the goods inside them, but if she had caught her reflection in the rough windows she would have seen by how much her anxiety was on display.
‘What shall I do? What to do,’ she was muttering under her breath. Her mind was filled with thoughts about the baby residing at the home of Captain Kane Pengarron. She knew who the child’s mother was. She wanted to ride to Vellanoweth and announce, ‘I’m certain young Betty is my niece, daughter of my sister Adelaide. Thank you for caring for her, but I’ll take her with me now and raise her.’ Even though, as a young widow, taking in an abandoned child would cause unwelcome speculation and effectively ruin her chances of a second husband. She had accepted months ago that Adelaide’s baby meant little hope of love for herself and children of her own. There was no point in encouraging any honourable gentleman, and she could never become someone’s mistress.
But she could not claim Betty yet. Betty was well and safe and that was all that mattered for now. What was paramount was to discover where Adelaide was.
This was only the latest of many struggles in Sophie’s life. Last year, after her penniless father died, she had been forced to look for lodgings for herself and her flighty sister. Deliverance from shame and poverty had come in the form of Wilmot Carew, the only faithful family friend. He had offered her marriage, security and status. They had expected Adelaide to live with them, but she had mockingly declared that her lover, whom she refused to name, was setting her up in a secret address. The next time she had encountered Adelaide she had complained bitterly of becoming pregnant and declared she would give the baby up.
‘Give it up to what?’ Sophie had demanded in despair over her sister’s hard attitude. Adelaide had always been cold hearted.
‘It can go to an orphanage for all I care,’ Adelaide had stated, cantankerous and intolerant at Sophie’s horror. ‘Hopefully I’ll miscarry the wretched creature.’
But Adelaide’s hopes had not been realized and she had presented herself at Sophie’s house late one night with a swollen belly. After a fierce quarrel in which recriminations and scorn had flown, an arrangement had been made. Sophie would take the baby, declaring it a foundling she had taken pity on. Hence her interest in the foundling Kelynen had mentioned, its birth falling about the same time Adelaide had been due to deliver. But Adelaide had not planned to actually leave her baby abandoned. Her intention was to have had it brought to Sophie, along with a letter of assurance that all had gone well during the confinement. Why this change in the arrangement? Had she survived the birth? Sophie had to discover what had happened to her sister in case she suddenly showed up and caused trouble. She wanted to know if Adelaide was in good health before she made little Betty her own.
If only Wilmot had not been so careless with money, wanting her to have everything and gambling heavily, despite her protests that she was content as things were, then he would not have been faced with disgrace and would still be alive. He would have found a way to track Adelaide down. If only Kelynen was not at Chenhalls with the wretched Tremaynes then she could have leaned on her wisdom. She should have confided the whole truth to her friend. Kelynen might be unsympathetic now over her lack of faith, and the Pengarrons at Vellanoweth
and the Reverend Lanyon were bound to be angry with her for keeping her secret.
A loud voice infiltrated her harrowed thoughts. David Trenchard! He was just the sort of quiet young man she would have liked for a husband. Of course, his faith and class were unbreachable barriers between them. He seemed totally trustworthy and was likely to be sympathetic and discreet. Could she prevail upon him to make enquiries in places where she, as a lady of good birth, dare not? He was smart enough to enter gentlemen’s coffee houses, where patrons apparently boasted as much about their mistresses as they did their lucrative business deals.
After a minute of indecision she joined the throng listening to the preacher.
* * *
Timothy Lanyon was on his way to Vellanoweth to enquire about the foundling’s welfare. He reflected grimly how his wife had travelled away from home in the opposite direction to Chenhalls.
‘I’m thinking of making some changes to the nursery,’ Livvy had told him over breakfast, the first meal he had shared with her since the quarrel over the foundling.
‘You will not, if these changes are to be detrimental to the children,’ was his sharp reply.
A comment of this kind would once have provoked indignation and fury in her but she had simply looked hurt. ‘Of course I don’t intend anything of the kind. How could you think that?’
‘I thought perhaps it was something that would make it even easier for you to give them less attention.’
‘Timothy,’ she had said in haughty but quiet tones, ‘if you had consulted Phylida Bevan lately, she would have confirmed that I now spend more time with the children than many other ladies do with theirs. Excuse me.’
She had left the table without eating another mouthful, leaving most of the cooked breakfast on her plate. He had been tempted to go after her, show an interest in her plans for the nursery. He had been unfair. He had known she was spending more time with the children – indeed, Phylida Bevan had said she seemed to enjoy being with them. Livvy was quieter altogether. She seemed anxious to be in his company. This pleased him to the reaches of his soul. Was she tamed at last? Willing to become a proper wife? He hoped so, oh, he hoped so, because – leaving aside his anger on the day he had found young Betty – he loved Livvy entirely and with a sort of desperation.
She had changed her attitude towards him at last but only, when out of hurt and frustration, he had railed against her. He had seared through all her layers of selfishness, had shown her what she was in danger of losing. And, as he had witnessed that same night in his den, it had excited her and for the very first time she had offered him her body. It had always been necessary to keep himself under careful restraint during intimacy, even at the beginning of their marriage, when passions for those fortunate to marry for love often ran free, for Livvy had very nearly been raped and murdered by an evil debauched sea captain, a supposed friend of Sir Oliver’s. Perhaps he had been wrong in continuing to be passive and Livvy had long found his performance dull and unexciting. He should talk to her. They might be able to finally bond in love and be truly happy now she was willing to compromise, even perhaps to bend to his will.
Or it could be that she was being clever, trying to deceive him with this softer attitude. Perhaps the moment he succumbed and they returned to normal married life – normal for them – she would resume her thoughtless, selfish ways.
No. He could not risk that. He could not stand the pain in his heart, knowing she did not, and probably never had really loved him. Nor could he bear the humiliation of having his son grow up seeing him as a hands-tied husband, not a patch on the virile, commanding Sir Oliver. The present situation was soul-destroying, but he could endure it better than the other option.
His thoughts moved on to the baby, young Betty Nobody. ‘I pray that you will have experience of a happy life, little child,’ he whispered to the memory of the pathetic bundle he had picked up off the church steps. ‘But I know your future pain at finding out you were rejected by the one person who should love you most.’
* * *
Luke was in a gentleman’s coffee shop, where he had arranged to meet Matthias Renfree. He smoked his clay pipe without pleasure, leaving his coffee to grow cold. Distracted, morose, he was uninterested in the figures the steward was enthusiastically relating over the price he had just realized from a grain merchant.
‘Sir Oliver should be impressed, don’t you think? If the harvest’s a blessed one, it’ll be a penny more a bushel than last year.’ Matthias Renfree, stocky and compassionate, at fifty years old had worked all his life for the Pengarrons. Intelligent and learned, he was married to David Trenchard’s aunt. He was also vigorous in his Methodist beliefs, and was always eager to offer Christly comfort; he was known locally as Preacher Renfree. He was disturbed by the dark shadows under his young master’s eyes and his apparent depression. Disturbed also to have learned he was drinking late into the night and had abandoned his play-writing. The servants at the manor were talking about a broken heart over some beautiful young widow. ‘Lady Pengarron’s letter this morning sees them well, you said, sir. How long do you think they’ll stay up in Bath?’
‘What? Oh,’ Luke tapped out his pipe. ‘My mama sounds excited still. She wrote that she is much taken with the magnificent architecture. They may stay away for many weeks yet.’ Luke was not in the mood to discuss estate business or the family. ‘I heard the voice of your nephew preaching while I was on the way here. Feel free to leave and listen to him any time you wish, Renfree.’
‘I’d like to do that, sir. Thank you.’ Before Matthias left, he paused. ‘Forgive the question, Mr Luke, but are you ailing? Is there… is there anything I can do for you?’
Luke sighed wearily. Never had he felt so low in energy. He was hungry but could not face food. He had lost the extra pounds about his waist. ‘Offer a willing ear, you mean? I thank you for the kindness but you cannot help me. And before you mention God, let me tell you that a week’s fasting and prayer undertaken in sackcloth and ashes would not prevail.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. If you ever want to… to talk…’
Luke replied with a grim smile. ‘You are indeed a willing substitute for my father, Matthias Renfree, and I know you would be a good one. But do not worry over me. I shall pull my wits together. I’ll have you know that when I leave here I intend to go straightway to Polgissey for a few days. I bid you not to disturb me there unless it’s of the utmost importance. After that, I do not know…’
* * *
Although aware of the fervour and emotion David Trenchard was spreading through the crowd gathered round him, Sophie was too anxious to listen to his message. With her perfumed handkerchief up to her nose to offset the ripe smells of animal manure and unwashed bodies, she kept at a distance, not wanting anyone from the besotted throng to think she was interested in the lay preacher’s message. Anglican tradition was enough to feed her spirit, and rightfully so! An hour passed. It seemed a week. She shuffled her feet, sighed, and then huffed in annoyance when suddenly jostled by newcomers. Should not these people, mainly of the lower orders, be about their work? They were stealing time from their employers. Outrageous! Was David Trenchard ever going to finish?
At one point an elderly woman in typical Methodist puritan grey tapped her arm and spoke loudly in her ear. ‘Don’t you be too proud to step forward and receive the Lord, sister.’
Sophie shrugged her away. ‘Don’t you dare call me your sister, and how dare you touch me!’
The woman, short and small, peered up in under Sophie’s small straw hat. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am. I meant no offence. Why’re you here, then?’
Almost in tears of frustration, horrified at having compromised herself, Sophie strode away. She had made a spectacle of herself. If any of the gentry had seen her lingering in such an unseemly manner, in such an unsuitable place, she would be the subject of scornful gossip. She hurried towards home, towards sanctuary. It had been a stupid idea anyway. David Trenchard might be
a pleasant, respectable young man, but his only interest in talking to her would be about salvation. And he was a stranger to her. How could she have considered that he might be willing to help her? Likely, he would suggest she tell the Reverend Lanyon the truth of Betty’s parentage, and what would the Reverend Lanyon think of her consulting a dissenter? Both men might consider Adelaide not worthy of being found. Part of Sophie thought this too, but Adelaide was her sister and she had to know her fate. With her head down she hastened her steps, afraid she would actually weep in the streets. She ploughed into someone.
‘Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ Luke had also been bowling along, eager to reach his horse, stabled in a holstelry, and be on his way to Polgissey.
Sophie looked up, first in horror and alarm, and then with some relief. She had feared she had collided with some drunken rogue or one of the vile gentlemen who persistently propositioned her. ‘Mr Pengarron, it is I who should apologize. I was gazing down.’
Luke saw her anxious expression and wanted to comfort her. This touch of vulnerability made his heart ache for her, and ache to have her like him, even a little bit. But he must be circumspect. If there was ever to be a glimmer of a chance in gaining her respect, he must show a humble side. He took off his tricorn hat and bowed lightly. ‘I trust I’ve caused you no injury, Mrs Carew.’
‘No. No, you have not, Mr Pengarron.’
‘Then I bid you well and bid you good afternoon. Your servant, ma’am.’ He bowed again and walked on, one of the hardest things he had done in his life. He felt his heart breaking into tiny chinks; each had a name. Love. Hope. Future.
Pengarron Rivalry Page 9