Kerensa pressed her face closer to his tear-wet shirt. ‘It was my grandfather… he turned up at the Parsonage where the Reverend was keeping me overnight and caused a big scene. He said he was my next-of-kin and was responsible for me, that he wouldn’t let me be thrown on the mercy of the parish and that wherever they put me he would only take me away. Grandfather said if they were intent on hushing up the true facts of my mother’s death, then folk would be curious if he wasn’t allowed to raise me – everyone knew he doted on me. The Reverend Ivey was far from happy about it and he told Grandfather he would keep a careful watch over him. All those years, Oliver…’ she sobbed again. ‘All those years he brought me up and was so good to me, and I didn’t know what he’d done!’
Oliver rocked her as she cried out her distress. Time passed and still he held her.
Eventually he said, ‘I had a strong feeling Old Tom was somewhere around the cove but I couldn’t find him. When you feel able, will you show me the way to his body, my love?’
She nodded against his shoulder and whispered, ‘We’ll do it now.’
He helped her to her feet and she shook all the while as they returned to the huddle of rocks through which she had appeared.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Grandfather showed me the way through when I was a child. It’s where he kept his contraband. It looks much smaller than it really is, set back like that, but a small man can just about squeeze through.’
Oliver crouched down to examine the triangular opening. ‘I can’t get through there myself. I’ll have to move some of these rocks out of the way.’ He pulled aside two huge granite boulders, making an opening big enough for him to squeeze his large frame through. ‘I won’t be long, my love,’ he said, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘You stay.’
‘I’m going with you,’ she said firmly.
‘Are you sure, Kerensa? It will only upset you again.’
‘Please, Oliver. I don’t want to be alone.’
‘Come on then,’ he smiled at her. ‘I’ll go through first.’
He wriggled and squeezed himself head first through the short opening where all he could see were more rocks of the same size and shape with deep blue water beyond. Helping Kerensa through, he held her hand as they climbed carefully over rocks for a few feet, until he felt her nails dig painfully into his palm.
‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Yes. He’s… he’s just round that rock jutting out over there.’
Oliver followed her pointing finger and was relieved when Kerensa sat down on a flat rock behind her. She said nothing, her eyes large and wary, while her fingers pulled agitatedly at a tear in her dress.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he said gently, stooping to kiss her forehead before leaving her.
Oliver put a forearm across his face against the putrid smell of Old Tom’s body. Crabs, insects, and a multitude of tiny creatures were feasting on what little had been left by the seagulls and other scavengers. Old Tom’s jaw was wide open, as if he had been about to shout at the moment of his death, the one long yellow tooth standing tall like a landmark. In one skeletal hand he grasped a leather pouch, in the other a red neckerchief. Oliver gingerly tugged both away, hurriedly shaking off a swarm of scurrying insects. He stuffed the kerchief deep into his breeches pocket before returning to Kerensa.
Sitting motionless and keeping her mind numb she jumped to her feet and rushed to be back in his arms. ‘What have you got there, Oliver?’ she asked, looking at the pouch.
With his arms still around her he undid the knot and pulled open the drawstrings, tipping some of the contents of the pouch into his hand.
‘The hundred guineas, or most of it, that I paid Old Tom with for the cove,’ he said. He met her eyes frankly. ‘I couldn’t abide your old grandfather, Kerensa, but I don’t regret him talking me into that agreement, you know.’
She leaned against him, drawing comfort from the strength and warmth of his body. ‘I didn’t mean it when I said I hated him, but after this I can never think of him the same way again. My poor mother…’
‘Come on, I’m taking you home. I’ll send someone for Old Tom’s body later.’
When they reached their horse and pony, Kerensa suddenly took her husband’s hand. ‘I’m so glad it was you who was here, Oliver.’
* * *
Towards the end of July, Peter Blake, sitting stiffly upright on his mare, trotted over Lancavel Downs. His silk shirt clung uncomfortably to his body. He pulled off his neckcloth and, his shirt open at the neck, fanned himself with his hat in an effort to keep cool. The continuing lack of rain was causing great concern to the farmers for their coming harvest, but Peter Blake did not share their worries as, at regular intervals, he pulled the mare to a halt and with one hand shading his eyes peered across the landscape.
The ground was hard and dry. Tall brittle ferns were grouped together beside massive granite boulders arranged meticulously in interesting shapes by nature’s giant hand. White and purple heather mingled with gorse bushes and pinkish-purple marsh woundwort. The light held a clear brilliance, bringing forth the vibrant form and colouring unique to the vast sweeps and distant horizons of moorland and sky.
To Peter Blake, accustomed as he was to closely built shops and houses and the life of a busy market town and sea port, it was like wandering about in another world. At times he found himself overawed by the loneliness of the large expanses all around him and had difficulty shaking off the longing to see just one other living soul. He rode past the deserted, lichen-covered workings of an abandoned tin mine where no one but the knockers, or underground imps, could be heard making mischief to the tune of the wind as it whipped and whistled through the ruins.
Stopping to drink the sparkling cold water of an ancient holy well, Blake soaked his necktie in the tiny trickle of water to mop the sweat from his neck and brow. He regretted not bringing a tot of rum to help deaden the pain of his slowly mending ribs.
It was not to seek solitude that Peter Blake had come to the downs on the three occasions in the last week he had ridden there. He was looking for Rosina Pearce.
From the time his eyes had focused on her gentle face in the alleyway after his beating, the girl was never from his mind. He had kept a vision of her throughout the pain that had filled his every conscious moment. At first he had lingered betwixt a world of physical torment and one of silent black nothingness. As he recovered the bitter pain remained, but the other world became relentlessly filled with terrifying nightmares and only the girl’s serene face could chase them away.
Matthias Renfree had called on him frequently, and many times in his delirium Blake had called out for ‘the girl’. Once Matthias had said, ‘You must mean Rosina,’ and the name had whirled round inside his head and played on his lips. When he could hold a reasonable conversation Matthias told him of Rosina’s circumstances, and on Blake’s stating his wish to send thanks to her for her help on the day of his beating, begged him to be very careful about what he did, fearing that she might suffer yet more brutality at her brother’s hands.
It had worried Blake to think of Rosina being left hungry while he had more than enough food to eat and no appetite for it. He sent a hamper of food to her via Matthias Renfree. She had received it with gratitude and promptly shared it among the miners’ children, telling them it was from an unknown benefactor. Matthias had refused to do the same every week as Blake had wanted, knowing that if Colly Pearce found out about it, trouble would inevitably ensue. However, he got Matthias to accept money to buy food for Rosina and this he passed on to Faith Bray, she in turn keeping Rosina supplied with pies, pasties, fruit, eggs and milk when Colly was on his core. The supply of food was always generous and most of it found its way into the children’s bellies and helped to keep their rickets and scrofula at bay.
To Blake it was a small thing to do for the girl, and the thought of seeing and talking to Rosina again hastened his recovery. In the knowledge he could go nowhere near the cottages on Lancavel D
owns, he required his half-sister Josephine to make discreet enquiries for him as to where Rosina might otherwise be found. He learned she very occasionally came into Marazion for the market, as she had on the day she’d found him, but he feared Colly would find out if he approached her there. The information that Rosina was apt to spend time alone in some secret place on the downs suited him well. A loner by nature himself, he waited until he could bear to ride, then began to search the downs for sight of her. Peter Blake was a patient man. He was sure if he searched long enough, he would eventually come across Rosina, if not in this secret place of hers, then on her way to or from it.
He had ascertained that Colly Pearce was on the afternoon core that week, and Rosina working as a bal-maiden in the early morning till two. If she was out on the moorland it would be in the afternoon or evening. Blake glanced at the sun. It was high enough to allow another hour’s search. Whistling to the mare he stood on the ruins of the well to mount, his ribs still too tender for him to swing himself up in the saddle. He rode south in as straight a line as obstacles permitted, spotting a swooping kestrel, scuttling lizards, the rotting carcase of a straying sheep, the red flash of the back of a secretive running fox, creatures on the rocks, creatures on the wing… but no girl with long corn-coloured hair.
On his return to the holy well he reined in again to quench his thirst. Splashing water over his face and neck, he gasped at its icy coldness despite the burning heat and pulled his shirt out of his breeches to dry his wet skin. The mare moved forward and Blake cupped his hands for her to drink from. As he straightened up his eye caught the sunlight highlighting a girl’s long golden hair.
‘Rosina,’ he uttered quietly. She was only a few feet away from him.
‘Hello, Mr Blake.’
Her voice was exactly as he remembered, soft and harmonious. And there she stood, an image of radiant innocence.
‘I’ve been looking all over the downs for you,’ he told her.
‘I saw you riding out here earlier this week, but I had no idea you were looking for me,’ she said.
He followed her gaze to his hanging damp shirt. ‘Forgive me,’ he said hastily, pushing it back rather self-consciously into its proper place. ‘I’ve been wanting to thank you personally for a long time, for helping me that day.’
‘I did no more than anyone else would have done, Mr Blake, and I’m glad to see you looking so much better now. I thank you for your generosity with the food you sent me.’
‘Thank you for receiving it.’
‘I think we have run out of all the thank yous now, don’t you?’ she said, with a smile.
‘Yes. Yes, indeed,’ he replied. Now that he had found Rosina, or rather now she had found him, he was unsure how to proceed. ‘Do you… ah… know why I received that thrashing from Sir Oliver Pengarron?’ he asked, becoming fearful the question would make her bolt from him and disappear like a wraith among the rocks and ferns.
But she remained. ‘Yes, Mr Blake, I do know. It’s common knowledge now.’
He sat down wearily on the remains of the well. His ribs ached as did his head. His legs felt weak, and the heat was stifling.
‘Are you afraid of me?’ he asked, after clearing his throat.
‘Do I have reason to be?’ she returned.
‘No, I promise you. Please, I am hoping you can stay and talk…’
Rosina limped closer and sat on a low boulder in front of him, wrapping her arms around her knees. She seemed so frail and small in her ragged grey dress, her feet bare and her hair flowing long and free.
‘You believe me then? That you have no reason to be afraid of me?’ Blake sounded incredulous and hopeful.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad about that. You are the last person on earth I would mean any harm to.’ Blake could sense that she was not much of a talker and was afraid she would soon leave if he didn’t keep her interested. ‘How do you feel about me… knowing what I’ve done?’
‘Are you truly sorry for it now?’
‘Yes, I am. Truly sorry. One can’t talk to that Renfree fellow for long without having some of his enthusiasm for facing up to one’s sins rub off.’
‘Good,’ Rosina said simply. ‘Then there’s no need for anything more to be said.’
‘Is that it?’ Blake gasped. ‘If I say that I’m sorry, then all is forgotten? Most people hate me for what I did to that girl and the dog.’ People like Rosina and Matthias Renfree were new to him, the forthrightness of the girl’s words and her attitude unexpected.
Rosina kept her straight gaze on him. ‘I thank God, Mr Blake, that I have never felt the need to hate.’
‘You probably wouldn’t know how to hate anyone,’ he remarked in his naturally low voice.
When Rosina had found Peter Blake in the alleyway, his face was so badly beaten it had the appearance of a grotesque mask. Now, with the swellings gone, the bruises fading and the many cuts nearly healed, his fine looks had returned. His eyes were the same cornflower blue as hers, his hands delicately moulded and well manicured with a long scar marring the one on the right; a reminder of the retribution for his misdeeds. Perspiration had dampened the hair which edged his face and fell across his brow, and he sat with his chin resting in one hand.
They studied each other for a long time while the sun turned to bright orange-red and travelled halfway down the sky. Then without warning Rosina rose to her feet.
‘I must be going.’
Blake stood up quickly and moved closer to her, keeping his hands behind his back in a silent statement that he had no intention of touching her.
‘Don’t go yet. Stay a while longer,’ he pleaded.
‘We must both go, Mr Blake. While we’ve plenty of daylight left,’ she pointed out.
‘I’ll take you part of the way on my horse, if you like,’ he offered.
‘I will get home much quicker by taking short cuts over the downs. It’s a long way round by horse.’
‘But I’ve so much to say to you, Rosina,’ he said earnestly, looking crossly at the sinking sun and knowing she was right. If he didn’t go soon he’d have difficulty getting safely back on to the tracks and then the roads. ‘Will you meet me here tomorrow?’ He held his breath for her answer.
‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I will be going to church and then a Bible class.’
‘The following day, then. Please.’
‘I won’t be spending any time on the downs for the next few days. Mr John Wesley is preaching in West Cornwall at the moment and I’m hoping to get the chance to hear him.’
Blake was desolate. Was she giving him excuses because she didn’t want to see him again? He could hardly blame her, of course. He was hardly suitable company for any female alone and particularly one with such strongly held Christian beliefs. His reputation lent him no moral standing in a decent woman’s eyes. Perhaps he should have asked her permission to call her by her first name as one did a lady of the gentry. Crossing his fingers behind his back, he tried again.
‘Will you consider meeting me here by the well one day of the following week?’
‘I’ll think about it, Mr Blake,’ Rosina offered. ‘Goodbye.’
She moved quickly, heading in the opposite direction to the sinking sun. He followed her a few steps and shouted after her: ‘I’ll come back after three days, every afternoon, until I see you again.’
He felt sure she heard him but she did not turn round. As she moved through the ferns and foliage and over the giant stones, her hair swayed like a field of ripening corn, and then in a moment she was gone.
Chapter 19
‘He’s looking at ’ee again, maid,’ Faith Bray told Rosina.
‘Who is?’ asked the girl.
‘Young Preacher, of course.’
At Rosina’s puzzled look, Faith gave Hunk Hunken’s wife standing beside her a knowing look.
‘You don’t mean to tell us, do ’ee, maid,’ teased Lou Hunken kindly, ‘that you haven’t noticed him giving you
the glad eye these past weeks?’
‘Yes,’ Faith chuckled. ‘One of these days he may pluck up the courage to speak to ’ee.’
‘A little bit of encouragement would help, you know,’ Lou went on, smiling to include the other women nearby in her remark.
Rosina looked across to where Matthias Renfree was cheerfully talking to the group of small children who had clustered round him outside the Brays’ cottage after the Bible class. He promptly smiled back at her and raised his hand in a friendly wave.
‘Well, that won’t come amiss,’ remarked Carn Bawden amid a group of men lighting up their pipes.
‘Make a good match they would,’ Jeb Bray agreed with him. ‘The missus reckons the little maid hasn’t noticed young Preacher’s attentions. Judging by the look on her red face, she has now.’
Taking in the rather silly looks aimed in her direction, Rosina quietly excused herself and hurried away from the unwelcome attention she was drawing. She chose a path unlikely to be used by the Perranbarvah fisherfolk or the Methodists among the farmers and farm labourers of the Pengarron estate on their way home. She had walked along a narrow footpath singing softly to herself for nearly ten minutes before Matthias Renfree hailed her. She stopped walking to let him catch up with her.
‘Would you like some company as you walk along, Rosina?’ he said awkwardly.
‘I’m not going far, Preacher,’ she replied, ‘but you’re welcome to come with me.’
‘Um… Colly at home?’
‘No. In an alehouse probably.’ It was a hot airless day. Rosina was holding the shawl James Andrew’s wife had given to her in one hand, the end trailing over the hard sunbaked ground behind her.
‘Everything all right with him, is it?’
‘The same as always, Preacher.’
They walked on discussing things like the hot weather, miners’ paltry wages, Hunk Hunken’s chickens, and Mrs Trembath’s increasing bouts of apparent insanity. When Rosina stopped to herald her journey’s end, Matthias looked around everywhere else but at her.
Pengarron Land Page 34
