Pengarron Land

by Pengarron Land (retail) (epub)

  ‘Hello, boy, I’m so glad you’re here,’ she told Dunstan miserably.

  Discarding her headdress and veil Kerensa wrapped herself in a shawl Alice had left over the back of a chair. She put more logs on the fire and a kettle of water on the hanger to boil for tea. Dunstan ate the large meal of chicken, tongue and bread she put down for him. She could eat nothing herself.

  From time to time raucous laughter could be heard coming from the ballroom. Icy rain pattered against the window panes. Kerensa had never felt so lonely in all of her life. She wished that even the loathsome Beatrice might shuffle into the kitchen to keep her company. She settled herself into the lumpy low chair the old woman used, close to the warmth of the fire.

  She had stared into space, becoming oblivious to all noise and her surroundings for so long that when Beatrice suddenly appeared in front of her, she cried out in fright.

  ‘Tes all right, me ’an’some, tes only me,’ Beatrice rasped. She smelled heavily of gin and was almost breathless. ‘I come to see ’ow yer doin’.’

  ‘I’m doing – I’m all right,’ Kerensa said quietly. She stood up and offered the old woman her usual seat, hoping it would encourage her to stay and talk.

  ‘I don’t think yer all right at all,’ Beatrice said, flopping down heavily in her chair. ‘Ah, that’s better. Sorry to turn ’ee out but tes the only chair that’s comfy fer me old backside.’

  Kerensa chuckled, intent on showing Beatrice that she really was all right. She pulled up another chair and sat close to her, trying to look as if she wanted only to have a good gossip.

  Beatrice wasn’t fooled. ‘Yer not right, young Kerensa, an’ I’ll call ’ee that fer now. You’m mis’rable and frightened. Got yer weddin’ night a’ead of ’ee an’ prob’bly wond’rin’ what’s goin’ to ’appen to ’ee. That’s why I’m ’ere, to reassure an’ tell ’ee all about what ’ee prob’bly know nothin’ of.’

  ‘I’m really glad to have your company at the moment, Beatrice,’ Kerensa said, feigning heartiness. ‘I could do with someone to talk to, but I don’t want to talk about him… Sir Oliver… and as for… I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘Well, you ought to talk about it, might be a bit of a bleddy fright if ’ee don’t knows what ’appens, if ’ee don’t know a bit about men. You ’aven’t got a mother to turn to an’ that’s what a maid needs at a moment like this.’

  Kerensa made an impatient face. ‘Mrs Tregonning was married, she’s told me over and over all about it.’

  ‘Huh! All in gory detail, I ’spec, knowin’ that old mare. Damned woman, should keep ’er mouth shut! Tedn’t necessarily like whatever she said to ’ee. Let me tell ’ee right now, Kerensa, it can be good, with an understanding man. And Oliver – and that’s what ’e is to ’ee now, no more Sirs – ’e’s a man like that.’

  Kerensa turned her head away. ‘I know you mean well, Beatrice, but I…’

  ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’ Beatrice bent forward. ‘You’ll be all right with ’im. I know ’ee don’t want to ’ear nothin’ good about un, but b’lieve me, m’dear, ’e’s a good man, and if I’m not mistaken you’ll be good fer ’im.’

  ‘If you say so, Beatrice,’ Kerensa said wearily, knowing that if she protested the old woman would only go on along the same track. She had come to say her piece and it was better to let her get it over with.

  Kerensa got up in a panic as Beatrice wrestled with her weight getting out of her chair. She held out her arms and Kerensa ran into them.

  ‘I’m going now, me ’an’some,’ the old woman said gently, stroking the girl’s hair in motherly fashion. ‘Like I said, ye’ll be all right with ’im, don’t ’ee ferget now.’

  And Kerensa was alone again with only the old dog for company.

  She sat back in Beatrice’s chair and waited.

  * * *

  A hand shaking her shoulder woke her with a start. It was dark. The room was cold, the fire having almost burnt itself out. Oliver placed a single candlestick on the table. Kerensa blinked and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘What… what time is it?’

  ‘Late,’ he answered simply.

  The only noise was the persistent rain on the window panes as Kerensa became aware of the silence of the Manor house.

  ‘Where are all your friends?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re gone. I turned them all out fifteen minutes ago.’

  The silence in the house was heavy, ominous.

  ‘The girls? Are… are they back yet?’

  He stood tall and straight, his arms crossed.

  ‘The two tall ones I’ve sent to bed,’ he informed her, ‘the other one is waiting in your dressing room for you.’

  ‘Oh.’ A snuffling noise across the room offered her an excuse to stay longer in the kitchen. ‘Dunstan,’ she said wildly. ‘I think he wants to go outside.’

  She wanted to delay the inevitable climb up the stairs to the master bedroom with its huge four-poster bed. If this had been her wedding night with Clem, though she would have been a little shy and he as inexperienced as she was, she was confident their love would have been wonderfully and successfully consummated in the lean-to of Trecath-en Farm. But spending the night with this other man, now her legal husband having full rights to her body, was a different prospect altogether.

  Even from the other side of the kitchen he was overwhelming her with his vibrant sexuality, sending palpable signals to her sharpened senses. She could feel them all about her, was engulfed by something she did not know how to cope with, nor had any understanding of.

  She had thought only Clem would ever totally possess her, and yet here she was, about to become a sort of sacrificial lamb to this other man. A man old enough to be her father. She beat back her panic, harshly scolding herself into a state of reasonable self-control. At least he looked nothing like fat Sir Martin. His broad muscular body and fine dark looks helped a little to dampen her fears of what he might do to her. But now, despite Beatrice’s kindly reassurances, her mind was a frightening turmoil of questions she could not ask and would only know the answers to after the events of the night ahead. Oliver Pengarron had made love to so many women. What was he used to? What would he ask of her? Would he be patient with her as he exploited her maidenly innocence? Having kept her eyes rooted on Dunstan for several moments she looked back at Oliver. How would he find her? And would she be able to respond to him in any way… would she want to?

  Oliver seemed to be reading her wild thoughts. ‘I’ll see to Dunstan,’ he disappointed her. ‘You go on up. Come on, boy.’

  * * *

  Kerensa was relieved that Alice was sensitive enough not to employ the indelicate talk usually indulged in on a friend’s wedding night as she helped her out of her wedding dress and into one of her new silky smooth nightgowns. She was grateful that Alice made no mention of the wedding or the reception or the bonfire party she had attended, but spoke only of how exciting it had been to ride behind Jack to and from Lancavel Downs on the little grey pony.

  ‘I should have stayed here with you, though,’ she said, as they spoke in whispers for fear their voices would travel from Kerensa’s dressing room into the master bedroom. ‘If I’d have known you were going to spend so much time alone in the kitchen…’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, Alice. But I will be glad to have you close by in the future.’ She stopped Alice’s hands as they moved towards her head. ‘No, I’ll see to my hair, in the… other room, it’ll give me something to do.’

  Alice was very nervous for Kerensa now. ‘Are you frightened?’

  ‘Yes, I… I just wish it was the morning.’ And she pulled the ribbons at her neck tighter together.

  ‘I’ll say a prayer for you,’ Alice said, hugging Kerensa firmly and giving her a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks, Alice,’ Kerensa replied, grateful for the encouragement. Squaring her shoulders and resolutely holding up her head, she said, ‘I’ll go in now before I feel even worse.’

  �
��Good night… good luck,’ Alice said, crossing her fingers. She clutched her hands to her heart and her eyes filled with tears as she slipped away to her own bedroom.

  Oliver was already in the master bedroom, standing by the hearth in much the same way as he had done in his study on the day she had told him Beatrice had left. This time he held a brandy glass in his hand. His dresscoat and waistcoat were strewn carelessly on the floor, his necktie pulled loose. Light from the fire flickered across his face, one moment enhancing his handsome features, the next lending dark shadows to them to suggest overpowering wickedness lurking within.

  ‘Can I pour you a drink, my dear?’ he said amiably. ‘A little wine or champagne perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t drink alcohol,’ she said, trying to keep her voice normal and looking disapprovingly at his glass.

  ‘It will warm you,’ he persisted, his eyes moving over her in a distinctly appreciative caress.

  ‘I don’t want anything, thank you. Anyway, I’m not cold.’

  Kerensa felt helpless to counteract his intimate observance of her. The large master bedroom was stuffily warm, the smell of his brandy heady and strong; this powerful combination threatened to dull her wits and she wanted to keep herself sharp and aware of what was going on. Or did she? Perhaps it would be more welcome to have all her senses limited and dimmed.

  She moved to pull aside a heavy damask drape, slightly opened the window, and watched as raindrops slid down the glass and formed miniature rivulets. Then she walked quickly to her dressing-table and picked up a hairbrush. That morning Mrs Tregonning had swept her hair up into a halo around her head. She pulled out the pins and began brushing it down with unnecessary force, acutely aware that Oliver was watching her every movement. When satisfied with her hair she blew out some of the candles, feeling strangely more secure as the room grew darker.

  In a quiet husky voice, Oliver said, ‘Come here, Kerensa.’

  His words inexplicably beckoned her to him and she came and stood facing him, facing the inevitable. She held her breath as he put down the brandy glass and stretched his hand towards her. The dancing flames on the logs of the fire brought her deep auburn hair alive and turned her skin to a silky golden glow. With the lightest touch he ran a fingertip down the glossy length of her hair and round the ends where it curled under on her shoulders. She shivered inwardly as the same fingertip then ran a gentle coaxing path down the smooth creamy column of her throat. Kerensa tried in vain to see past the darkness of his magnetic, shameless eyes. Oliver smiled with a gentle charm as he pondered her expression.

  It was the same expression he had seen on her perfect face the day he first rode to Trelynne Cove: apprehension, curiosity and wonder. He gazed into her eyes. He was again stunned by the depth and complexity of them, their bright colour now fully exposed by the firelight.

  He looked so different to the man who had been unfeeling towards her earlier in the day that Kerensa found herself smiling back at him. Oliver lowered his hand to his side and Kerensa turned her head away. Her eyes alighted on the four-poster bed. Ignoring the prick of niggling panic in her stomach she moved away and climbed up on to it. The quilted damask counterpane was folded back to the foot of the bed and she dug her toes into the thick warm soft blankets. She sat with her chin resting on her raised knees and her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  Oliver sat beside her, so close their bodies touched. He took her left hand in his and turned her wedding ring round and round with his finger and thumb, waiting patiently for her to look up at him.

  ‘I won’t hurt you, Kerensa,’ he said softly. ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered truthfully, and without knowing why, she did feel she could trust him.

  He put his other arm around her tiny waist, pulling her even closer to him, bunching the stuff of her nightgown in his fist. They sat and watched the curtain billow, in delicate little dances, where she had opened the window. Oliver moved so her head rested first against his shoulder and then his chest. Kerensa could hear the steady rhythm of his heart beating, the steady rhythm of a man who was very much in charge of his life. But was he as sure of his feelings? She had seen him in moods that could change with startling rapidity. She had not expected this moment of quiet gentleness from him and gradually she relaxed against his body.

  Oliver closed his eyes to concentrate on the fresh tender smell of innocent youth that was so much a part of Kerensa. It was a fragrance he had soon become aware of, pervading the huge old house like an early spring come to refresh the winter of the dingy long neglected rooms. He felt her eyelashes flutter against the bare skin of his chest and when she moved slightly her warm breath caressed the hollow at the base of his neck. It was a place where he was acutely sensitive and he shivered. Kerensa looked up at him as if she was surprised. He could wait no longer. It had been four long weeks now since he had first ached to kiss her soft inviting lips. He lowered his face to hers. Kerensa tightly closed her eyes. The moment had come and there was no going back. His kiss was so very soft and she could taste the sweetness of the brandy on his lips. His next kiss followed at once and there seemed to be no end to the way he gathered her into himself.

  * * *

  By habit Sir Martin Beswetherick was no early riser. The morning after the Pengarron wedding was no exception. It was eleven o’clock when his aged servant, Judith Teague, threw back the heavy drapes to allow the entry of a cheerful sun. Sir Martin lay back on his pillows snoring aloud, his mouth wide open. Judith Teague shook the elderly grey-haired gentleman.

  ‘Wake up, Sir Martin, wake up!’ she shouted down his ear. ‘You’ve got a visitor downstairs.’

  ‘Eh! What? What’s going on, for damme’s sake?’ he blustered. ‘Oh, it’s you, Judith. What’s that you say?’

  ‘You have a visitor, sir. Sir Oliver Pengarron.’

  ‘Am I expecting him? S’pose I am or he wouldn’t be here, eh? Show him up, Judith, and send up my breakfast too. I’m starving, I could eat a horse this morning.’

  Sir Martin struggled and snorted, levering his overweight body to a sitting position, affectionately watched by Judith. She had been with the Beswetherick family since Sir Martin himself had been a babe-in-arms, and he now sixty two years old. She was well past the age of useful work, but Sir Martin was happy to let her feel needed by doing light tasks about the house. One of these tasks, dressed neatly in a black dress covered with a white apron, was to awaken him from his slumbers when he was resident in his smart new townhouse in Marazion. Sir Martin had lived there nearly all year round since his beloved wife, Lady Ameline, had died. Judith plumped up Sir Martin’s pillows then left the room to attend to his breakfast, and send up his visitor.

  A tap on the bedroom door was followed immediately by Oliver, who rarely troubled himself to wait to be admitted anywhere, striding straight into the room.

  ‘Ah, Oliver, dear boy, pull up a chair and we’ll have breakfast together.’ Sir Martin pointed to a chair and Oliver, who was broadly grinning at the older man, carried it across to the bed and sat down, putting his feet up on the covers.

  ‘No breakfast for me, Martin, thank you. I shared an excellent one earlier this morning with my wife.’

  ‘Wife? Wife?’ A moment of perplexity on Sir Martin’s persistently red face gave way to a lecherous smile. ‘Of course, the pretty little red-haired thing, I remember now. Quite a bash we had after the ceremony. Things last night go satisfactorily, did they, eh?’ he added wickedly.

  Oliver leaned back comfortably in his chair.

  ‘Mmmm, well enough, I suppose.’

  ‘New to it all, was she, eh? You think yourself lucky, m’boy. I’ve missed my regular comforts since my Amy died. It’s a good thing some of the village maids are willing to oblige, for a few pence, from time to time.’ Sir Martin’s fat sides shook as he laughed heartily then entered upon a fit of hoarse coughing.

  A footman brought in a tray well laden with poached eggs, fried gammon and sausage
s, thick slices of white bread and butter. A large pot of Congo tea was complemented with glasses of spring water. When the footman was dismissed Oliver poured tea for them both. He sipped from his cup thoughtfully while Sir Martin tucked in noisily to his late breakfast.

  ‘Hezekiah sails for France tonight on the evening tide. He’s due back in two weeks,’ Oliver said.

  ‘He enjoyed the celebration last night,’ Sir Martin said, putting a whole sausage on his fork and stuffing it in his mouth. When he could talk again, he asked, still chewing on the meat, ‘What are you doing here, anyway, Oliver? Was I expecting you?’

  ‘I have business in Marazion this morning. I thought I’d call on you and tell you about the next contraband run. Hezekiah will bring in the goods. Now the fuss has died away over young Davey Trembath’s death I think we can use Trelynne Cove again, as well as our other spots.’

  ‘Dreadful business that,’ slurped Sir Martin. ‘The boy’s body been found yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What about Old Tom?’ Sir Martin munched.

  ‘No. Him neither. I had men on lookout all day yesterday, at the church and the Manor, but there was no sign of him. I have an idea he’s not too far away though. He’ll meet with a bad end one day and if Ted Trembath doesn’t find him first, I hope he’ll cross my path…’