Читать книгу Invitation To A Cornish Christmas - Marguerite Kaye, Bronwyn Scott - Страница 13

For the next three mornings, Karrek Sands was once again Emily’s exclusive domain. She was not surprised, but she was more disappointed than she cared to admit. Replaying her conversation with Treeve, she was astonished by her own frankness, not so much with facts but regarding her feelings. To admit, within such a tiny space of time, so much, seemed to her in retrospect utterly foolhardy. Yet she had done no more than he—had in fact followed his very frank lead. Had there really been the affinity that both of them had professed to feel? How could she be sure that he had not pretended, in order to gain her trust?

Opening the door of her cottage, Emily shook her head decidedly. Treeve was no dissembler, she simply knew it, in her bones. She had been nineteen when she met Andrew Macfarlane for the first time, a green girl with no experience of life. The second time, she had been grieving and vulnerable in a different way, and ripe for the plucking. Yes, she could admit that. But she was thirty-two now, an independent woman who knew her own mind, her strengths and more importantly her limitations.

She sat down at her workbench, pulled the bonbon dish she had been working on towards her and began to smooth the pierced silver with a wire brush. The light was good this morning. She ought to make the most of it, finish the decoration at the very least.

Treeve was drawn to her. She was drawn to him. Their attraction was one of the mind, but it was also physical. Yes, she could admit all of those things, and she could relish them too. Why not, when there was absolutely no risk of either of them becoming in any way embroiled. He was going back to sea at the end of the year. And she—well, her heart was well and truly locked away.

If it wasn’t, or if Treeve ultimately decided to stay, then that would be a very different matter. If he were to remain as lord of the manor, she would have to keep him at arm’s length, for she could not risk their feelings running deeper. She knew what heartbreak felt like. She would not inflict that on either of them.

Emily stared down at the bonbon dish in dismay. She had brushed so hard, she was in danger of wearing through the design. Was she still heartbroken? She must have loved Andrew, that other, gullible Emily. If she had not loved him, he would not have succeeded in his deception, and if she had not been so determined to turn a blind eye, he would not have continued to succeed. She most certainly didn’t love him now. His betrayal had been so callous and the extent of it so shocking that he had destroyed not just her faith in him, but in human nature. She was determined to recover from that, despite the fact that a separate part of her was broken irreparably. But she couldn’t blame Andrew for that. His only crime had been to inadvertently highlight an unpalatable but inescapable fact.

Casting her work in progress aside, Emily got to her feet. This morning’s paddle had not eased the restlessness she’d woken with. She was tired of being cooped up here, alone. Pulling her cloak back on, she hurried out once more into the fresh air.

The gatehouse had been built at a later date than Karrek House, though in a sympathetic style, with a sharp pointed roof and mullioned windows. It had lain empty since Emily’s arrival, but now the windows on the top floor were open, presumably to give the place an airing. Treeve’s doing perhaps, or possibly a signal that a new tenant was imminent.

There were two stone lions standing guard just beyond the gatehouse on the path leading up to Karrek House. The salty Cornish air had eaten away their features, leaving the pair with bizarrely broad smiles, no noses, and manes that had long lost their shagginess. The Penhaligon family home was beautiful, an Elizabethan manor built of Cornish granite with five distinctive Dutch-style gables. Three narrow protruding wings formed an ‘E’ shape. Was Treeve inside, going through his estate account books? Or was he outside, making a tour of his inheritance in Jago Bligh’s company, eager to be reassured, eager to get back to his ship, and the life he loved?

A seagull came to a squawking halt on one of the lions’ heads, making Emily jump. The last thing she wanted was to be caught gazing forlornly up at Treeve’s house. Emily turned on her heel and headed for the village.

Budoc Lane, the main street of Porth Karrek and the hub of village life was narrow, steep and cobblestoned, the whitewashed shops which lined both sides protecting those going about their business from the worst of the elements. The door to the butcher’s shop stood ajar, but there was no sign of Phincas Bosanko. Phin, as he was known, though Emily never dared address him as such, was a very fine specimen of a man, if you valued brawn—and a fair few of the local maids certainly seemed to. As far as Emily had been able to deduce, the butcher dispensed his favours evenly, treading a fine line between flirtation and commitment to cannily keep all his options open. It amused her on one level, but on another, the idea of him assuming he had the right to break as many hearts as he wished made her hackles rise—though she knew she ought not allow her own pathetic history to colour her view.

The mouth-watering smell of fresh-baked bread wafted from the baker’s yard at the rear of the shop. ‘We’ve no pasties ready yet, if that’s what you’re after.’ Eliza Menhenick eyed Emily with her customary reserve.

‘Thank you, I would like a loaf of that delicious-smelling bread, Mrs Menhenick.’

‘What size of loaf would suit you, Miss Faulkner?’

‘The smallest one you have, as usual.’ Emily forced a smile. She’d been buying her bread here for nigh on seven months, yet each time Eliza Menhenick asked the same question, determined to remind Emily that she was a stranger in Porth Karrek, and a solitary one at that. How long would it take, she wondered as she left the shop, the bread tucked into a fold in her cloak, before she was accepted as one of the locals? A lifetime most likely, and for the likes of Eliza Menhenick and Jago Bligh, even that probably wouldn’t be enough.

The village shop run by the Chegwin family was at the bottom of Budoc Lane, facing directly on to the harbour. Besides groceries, the shop stocked a bit of everything, from rope, needles, cotton, and the rough-spun, oiled wool used to knit fishermen’s jumpers, to nails, ink, pencils, herbs and spices, and cooking pots. There were everyday candles of tallow, more expensive ones of beeswax, and the most beautiful carved and scented candles made by Cloyd Bolitho, a melancholy candlemaker who looked as fragile as his creations. The Chegwins also stocked flagons of rough cider, the strong fermented apple drink that Emily suspected would crack her head open with one taste. There were other, unmarked barrels in the shop too, which it didn’t take a genius to work out contained contraband. She had enjoyed a glass or two of Bordeaux in the past, but she couldn’t afford such a luxury now, and in any case knew better, as an incomer, than to suggest to the Chegwins that they would be able to sell her such a thing. The shop smelled of a particularly pleasant combination of tea leaves and coffee beans and cheese and—for some reason—wood shavings, but Emily had no purchases to make there today.

The harbour beach, a mixture of sand and stones, sloped steeply down to the water. The tide was still out, leaving the limpet-covered harbour wall exposed. A number of the smaller boats were beached on the sand, their moorings at full stretch, though the bigger pilchard boat belonging to Jago Bligh was tied up close to the wall, and still afloat on the water. The air was rich with the tang of the sea, the remnants of yesterday’s catch, and that distinctive smell of brine-soaked nets and rope which Emily had never been able to put a name to, but which was another reminder of happier times, watching the catch come in on her grandfather’s herring fleet at Stornaway harbour.

She wandered out along the harbour wall to stand at the furthest point gazing out beyond the headland to the sea, where The Beasts were only just visible, the waves cresting white as the incoming tide broke over them. Beyond the wall the sea was grey-blue, but inside it was calm, turquoise, the sandy seabed visible, shoals of tiny fish darting about in the seaweed.

Picking her way back through the ropes, creels and nets, she saw a tall figure striding down Budoc Lane, recognising him immediately. Treeve didn’t get far before he was waylaid by the butcher. The two men struck up what looked from this distance like a friendly conversation.

Emily stood in the lee of the Ship Inn, curious to see what the other villagers would make of their new landlord. Phin was laughing at something Treeve had said. The two men shook hands. The butcher, in her view, had an inflated opinion of himself but there were no sides to him, from what Emily had seen, and she liked that about him. When she’d arrived in the village back in April, Phin had been openly curious rather than hostile, his blunt questions as to where she had come from and what she was doing in Cornwall a refreshing change from the mutterings and speculation of most of the others. She had, of course, answered none of his questions, and to his credit he’d not persisted either. A man who liked plain dealing. He and Treeve would likely do well together.

How the Menhenicks received Treeve, she had no idea, for he disappeared into the shop for a good ten minutes. Several other villagers watched his progress towards the harbour front, some answering his ready smile with a doffed cap, a curtsy, a handshake, others a sullen look, one or two with a pointedly turned back. She could have avoided him altogether and headed back up Budoc Lane while he was in the Chegwins’ shop, clearly on a mission to make himself known to one and all, but that would be to attach an importance to him she had decided she didn’t want to encourage. So Emily waited, intending to bid him a polite good day, before heading home.

‘Ah, the very person!’ Treeve exclaimed, emerging from the shop. ‘If I hadn’t bumped into you here, I’d have called at your cottage. I’m afraid I haven’t had a moment to call my own since I last saw you.’

‘I did warn you that would be the case.’

‘You’re on your way home,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you can wait for half an hour or so, then I can walk back with you? No, it’s wrong of me to ask. The light is good. You’ll be wanting to get back to your workbench, so I won’t detain you.’

‘I can spare half an hour,’ Emily found herself saying, which she wouldn’t have, had not Treeve acknowledged that she too had other claims on her time.

‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I appreciate that. I’m told I can get a decent cup of coffee at the Ship, will you join me?’

‘I’m not sure that I’ll be welcome there. As a female, I mean.’

‘This is not London, Emily. The Ship has always been the hub of the village, a place for men, women and children to relax—not in the taproom, obviously, but there is a parlour.’ Treeve pursed his lips. ‘But you must know that, you’ve lived here long enough. What you mean is that you don’t think you’d be welcome as an outsider. I’ll let you into a secret. I am not convinced I’ll be welcome either, and I own the place. Shall we step inside and find out?’

‘Oh, what the devil,’ Emily said, earning herself a raised brow and a conspiratorial smile.

The parlour of the Ship was empty. It was cosy and low ceilinged, a fire smouldering in the stone grate that took up most of one wall. The floors were bare boards, pitted and scarred from decades of contact with the customers’ hobnail boots, the seating a combination of tall settles on two walls, and rickety chairs, with a scattering of small wooden tables, as scarred and pitted as the floor. The air was pungent with the smell of stale ale and the vinegar used to mop it up. The room was dark, lit only by a small window, and smoky, not only from the fire but the open hatch through which the taproom could be seen—and could likely be heard too, Emily presumed, were it not for the deathly silence which greeted their arrival.

Treeve pulled two chairs and one of the tables closer to the fire, stretching his long legs out to rest on the hearth. He was wearing buckskin breeches and boots today, another wide-skirted coat, dark blue, made of fine wool, with a waistcoat to match. His linen was pristine, making his beard seem more blue than black—not that it was quite a beard. Emily wondered how he managed to keep the bristle in trim, for he looked like a man who must shave at least twice a day, yet it was every bit as neat and tidy as it had been when she first saw him.

A low mutter had resumed in the taproom, but no one had yet appeared to serve them. Treeve, rolling his eyes, was just pushing back his chair to get up, when the door opened.

‘Captain Penhaligon.’ Derwa Nancarrow, the Ship’s formidable landlady, was about the same age, Emily reckoned, as herself, with the black hair and very pale skin of the Celt so common in Cornwall. She was a handsome woman, with deep-set brown eyes and a mouth that was capable of producing a sultry smile, but today was decidedly sullen. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I see I have no need to introduce myself,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet. ‘How do you do, Mrs Nancarrow? I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘I’m from Helston. You had left Porth Karrek for the navy before I married Ned. Your brother is much missed. He was a true Cornishman.’

If she had not been watching him closely, Emily would have missed the slight tightening of his mouth at this barb. ‘None truer,’ Treeve replied blandly enough, however. Not indifferent, but determined to be seen to be. She admired him for that.

‘What can I get you?’

‘I’m not your only customer. This is Miss Faulkner, who is renting one of the estate cottages,’ Treeve said.

‘I know who she is. I’m assuming it’s coffee you’re after?’

‘If you could find it within yourself to bring us some,’ he answered sardonically, ‘that would be delightful.’

‘I warned you,’ Emily said as Mrs Nancarrow disappeared again, her entrance next door clearly marked by the sudden increase in voices.

‘I wonder, if I’d asked her, if she’d have served me a fine French cognac.’ Treeve sat down again beside her. ‘No, she’d have told me they don’t stock such things, even though they almost certainly do.’

‘You think that is why she was so…’

‘Sullen? Wary? Yes, because she doesn’t want a navy man asking awkward questions as to whether it is contraband or not.’

‘Especially since you own this inn now.’

‘I wish to hell that I did not. Excuse my language.’

‘Oh, for a rough sailor, your language is remarkably civilised.’

Treeve gave a snort of laughter. ‘You have no idea.’

‘If you came here in the hope of gaining acceptance,’ Emily said, keeping her voice low, casting a wary glance at the open hatch, ‘you’d have been better off in the taproom, taking a glass of rough cider and rubbing shoulders with the men.’

‘I’m not sure I’m looking for acceptance. It might be different if I planned to remain here.’

‘You’ve decided that Mr Bligh is trustworthy then?’

‘He seems to have kept things ticking over very well since Austol died, but I’ve discovered in the last few days that there’s a great deal more required than simply keeping things ticking over. A good many decisions have been put on hold. I had no idea. These last few days have been quite an eye-opener. If I told you…’

‘Captain Penhaligon. Miss Faulkner.’

Ned Nancarrow set down a tray bearing two cups, a pewter coffee pot, and a sugar dish. A tall man of sparse build, with hair to match, he had a long face, and a way of looking sideways that gave the impression he was forever keeping a weather eye on his potential escape route.

‘Thank you, Ned,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Well enough.’ The hand was taken, rather reluctantly. ‘Jago tells me you’re headed back to your ship at the turn of the year.’

‘Does he?’ Treeve sat down again, picking up the coffee pot. ‘He knows more than me then.’

‘Said you had leave until the end of December.’

‘That’s true enough.’

‘So you’ll be here for the Nadelik celebrations then—that’s what we call Christmas, Miss Faulkner. You’ll be hosting Gwav Gool up at the big house, as your father did, and your brother, too?’

‘I had not thought that far ahead.’

‘People expect it. No Gwav Gool festival means the harvest will fail, and the catch next year will be poor. You should know that, Captain. It’s a tradition that goes back generations. Perhaps it might be best to leave it to Jago to organise. He’s well versed in local customs.’

Treeve set the coffee pot down again. ‘When you know me better, Ned, and I hope you will take the time to do that, you’ll understand that I prefer to make my own mind up about local customs, both good and bad.’

He spoke quietly. He hadn’t moved from his chair, but there was no doubting the steel in his voice. Emily sensed it, and so too did Ned Nancarrow, who narrowed his eyes. ‘Not sure what you’re getting at, but I sincerely hope you’re not casting no aspersions. The Ship has been run by my family for generations without any complaints from the authorities.’

‘I’m aware of that, and I’m happy for it to stay that way.’

‘I told Jago, you’re a Cornishman, before you’re a naval man.’

‘The world is changing, Ned, and Porth Karrek is being left behind.’ Treeve held up his hand to stall the other man’s protests. ‘I want only what is best for this place, I assure you. We all want that. We should all be on the same side.’

‘Aye, you’re right, we should. Can I get you anything else? Only I’ve some thirsty fishermen in the taproom.’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

The door closed softly, and Treeve pushed a cup of coffee towards Emily. ‘It seems I have my answer, with regards to the cognac at least.’

‘Is smuggling really still a problem here, now that the war is over?’

‘Locals would claim that it’s the over-inquisitive Excisemen who are the problem, not the smugglers earning an illegal coin.’ Treeve stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘For me, it’s not a question of right or wrong, it’s a simple matter of the law. You can’t pick and choose what laws to uphold and which ones to break with impunity, even if they do seem to be unjust, or the punishment seems to far outstrip the crime. I’ve seen that for myself Emily, at sea. I’ve been obliged to enforce ship’s discipline, even when in my heart I wanted to be merciful.’

He finished his second cup of coffee, grimacing. ‘I sound like a pompous ass, but I know what I’m talking about. Mutiny. Whether it’s on board a ship on the high seas or here, in Cornwall where the likes of Bligh and Nancarrow think themselves above the law. I won’t tolerate it.’

‘But how can you stop it, if you are not planning to remain here?’

‘Damned if I know!’ Treeve groaned. ‘Nancarrow’s right about Gwav Gool though. As a man of the sea myself, I know that she has to be placated.’

‘Are you teasing me?’

‘Only a little. Your family are from a seafaring community, you know how superstitious such folk are. Gwav Gool is a very ancient Cornish tradition, celebrating the year gone past, and looking forward to an even better one to come. In Porth Karrek, it takes the form of a dance with a supper hosted, as Nancarrow pointed out, by my family two days before Christmas. What’s more, there are a raft of other traditions, both pagan and religious, all tangled up together.’ He frowned. ‘The shopkeepers dispense gin and cake to their customers in December as a thank you for their custom. As I recall, there’s usually a solstice bonfire on the beach which the Treleven family host a couple of days before Gwav Gool. Then Nadelik—Christmas Day—sees the Reverend Maddern’s yuletide service.’

‘Good heavens,’ Emily exclaimed. ‘It sounds as if the entire month of December is given over to some sort of celebration or another.’

‘It’s a hard life here, it’s not surprising they celebrate with gusto. This will be your first Cornish Christmas. Are you looking forward to it? You’ll be expected to join in, you know.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not—all those things you describe, they are for local people.’

‘Which, for the time being, includes you. Don’t you like Christmas?’

‘I’m simply—I don’t mark Christmas. In Lewis, the New Year is more important, and so it was with my family, even after Mama died. And since Papa died…’ She trailed off, appalled to discover her throat clogging. Not one Christmas in their whole five years together, had been spent with Andrew. How virtuous she had felt, surrendering him to his poor mad mother for the festive season. What a fool she had been to believe that barefaced lie.

‘This year will be different,’ Treeve said, so kindly that she felt herself on the brink of most unusual and unwelcome tears. ‘Since I must host Gwav Gool, perhaps you’ll help me out? On board ship, it’s just another day, it will be quite a change for both of us.’

A radical change, and a refreshing one. Emily nodded gratefully. ‘If you think it won’t be resented—my helping you, I mean?’

‘They’ll get short shrift from me if anyone does. Anyway, it’s a good few weeks away yet. I wish I’d thought about it last night, I could have discussed it with Sir Jock Treleven. It is his family who host the bonfire. I had dinner at the Trelevans’ and met all six of his daughters.’

‘Several of them are of marriageable age, I believe. Sir Jock was making hay.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think—’ Treeve broke off, looking aghast.

‘Oh, come now, you are not so naïve. The new lord of a very wealthy manor, unattached, very far from his dotage—quite the opposite in fact. Sir Jock would have been signally failing in his duty, if he had not introduced you to his little stable of fillies.’

‘I’m not in the market for a horse, far less a wife.’

‘But if you were,’ she persisted, ‘then you would struggle to find anyone more appropriate than one of the Miss Trelevens. I have not met any of them, of course, but I have heard they are all very convivial, and have dowries as attractive as they are.’

‘They are undoubtedly both pretty and convivial, though I’m not sure I could tell one from the other.’ He eyed her coolly. ‘I am not a thoroughbred to be put to stud, Emily. If I married, it would be because I had found a woman I didn’t want to live without, not to provide Karrek House with an heir.’

‘I was only teasing.’

‘It didn’t sound as if you were.’

Mortifyingly aware that he was right, that her words had been laced with an inexplicable and most unworthy envy, Emily pushed back her chair, but Treeve stayed her with a hand on her wrist. ‘Why do you consider yourself so beneath them—the Trelevens, I mean? No, don’t deny it. “I have not met them, of course”, that’s what you said. Why of course?’

‘I’m a silversmith, the daughter of a silversmith, eking out a living in one of your cottages.’ She tried to free her wrist, but his fingers tightened around it.

‘Your mother was the only child of a clearly respectable and wealthy Lewis family. From what you’ve said, your father was no lowly artisan. Your accent and manners betray your roots and your education, the quality of your clothes, the fact that you need to eke out a living is a relatively recent development. The only thing that makes you an unlikely friend for the Miss Trelevens is your age.’ He smiled at her. ‘Quite in your dotage as far as they are concerned, though I consider you the perfect age to make for interesting company.’

‘A back-handed compliment if ever there was one,’ Emily said drily. She was flattered, but wary too, for Treeve had garnered a great deal from the little she had told him of herself.

‘A compliment, sincerely meant.’ Treeve let go of her wrist, but only to cover her hand with his.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to compliments.’

‘You have been hiding yourself away for far too long.’

‘I think you might be right.’

She smiled. Treeve smiled back. Their eyes locked. Her fingers tightened in his, and she felt a quivering response, saw a flare of heat in his eyes that she was sure was reflected in her own. She wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss her. The possibility drew them towards each other, then the grating opening of the door sent them jumping apart.

‘Mr Penhaligon.’ Jago Bligh entered the parlour, pulling up short when he saw Emily. ‘Beg pardon if I’m disturbing you,’ he said, drawing her a look that made it very clear he disapproved of her presence, ‘but I believe we had an appointment.’

‘As you can see, I am currently otherwise engaged.’ Treeve eyed his estate manager with some hauteur. ‘Why you felt it necessary to seek me out when there are, as you have told me several times now, not enough hours in the day for you to attend to your work—’

‘We have important matters to discuss,’ Jago interrupted truculently.

‘I do hope, Mr Bligh, that you are not implying that my discussion with Miss Faulkner is of lesser importance?’

Treeve spoke with an air of quiet authority. His expression was bland, but his message was perfectly clear. Jago Bligh’s jaw tightened. ‘I shall await your convenience back at Karrek House,’ he said finally.

‘Good man. I will see you there once I have escorted Miss Faulkner back to her cottage.’

‘There is no need.’ Unwilling to be the cause of any other further tension, Emily got to her feet, pulling on her cloak. ‘I’ve detained you long enough. In any case, I intend to walk the long way around the headland, get some fresh air while it lasts. Good day to you, Captain Penhaligon, Mr Bligh.’

Outside, the clouds were ominously black, the wind was up, and her cloak whirled around her as she climbed up to the cliff path. Looking back, she saw Treeve emerge from the tavern, striding ahead up Budoc Lane, his estate manager lagging slightly behind, gesticulating in a way that made it clear that whatever he was saying, he wasn’t happy.

Mr Bligh was not unattractive, with craggy but regular features set under a thatch of thick dark hair, and a beard which he kept neatly trimmed. She reckoned he must be about ten years older than Treeve, though he was very fit and muscled, his bulky shoulders and barrel chest testament to the hours he spent at sea, skippering his pilchard boat. Both he and Treeve were captains—how odd that this hadn’t occurred to her before—but they could not be more different.

Jago Bligh was very much respected in the village—though as she had observed for herself in a confrontation between Mr Bligh and Abel Menhenick, it was a respect bordering on fear. She did not like him, and it was not simply because he treated her with the contempt of a man who considered her beneath his notice. He looked to the right when he spoke, never quite avoiding her eyes, but never quite meeting them square on. And he was not confident, he was arrogant.

‘Foolish man,’ Emily muttered to herself, as the pair disappeared from view. ‘In any conflict, I know who my money would be on.’