‘Are you going back now?’
‘I thought I’d sit here for a while, but you may go on.’ She laid her shawl on an area of dry springy grass and heather and sat down, hugging her knees as she had done the day before in Peter Blake’s company.
Matthias stood about awkwardly before he sat down a short distance from her. He stared at the ground and selecting a large red-tinged dock leaf, rolled it into a cylindrical shape between the palms of his hands, quite unable to meet her eyes. Although perfectly happy to discuss Godly subjects, Matthias was finding his first attempts at courtship far from easy.
‘I was wondering…’ he began.
‘Do you think…’ she started at the same time.
‘You first, Rosina,’ he said, with a self-conscious laugh.
‘I was going to say, do you think there will be a good crowd at Newlyn tomorrow to hear Mr Wesley preach?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure there will be.’ Matthias’ face lit up and his awkwardness vanished. ‘A goodly number from our meetings are going, and I’m sure many will turn out from all the neighbouring hamlets, with a plenteous supply of curious onlookers.’ He was looking at Rosina now and she was smiling.
‘I’m so looking forward to it,’ she said. ‘Mr Hunken says Mr Wesley can move people to tears by his preaching.’
‘It’s true. I’ve heard him before and I was certainly moved by what he said. I was going to say something to you, wasn’t I? Oh, yes, I was wondering if you’d care for me to escort you tomorrow. Newlyn will be full of strangers and there may well be thieves, pick-pockets and the like roaming about.’ His face had steadily reddened and he looked down at the squashed dock leaf and the green stain it had left on his palms.
‘I shall have plenty of company, Preacher. Faith Bray, Lou Hunken and the other women. I shall be quite safe with them.’
‘Of course,’ Matthias said quickly. ‘I… I thought I’d offer.’
‘Thank you for the thought, Preacher. I must go back now in case Colly gets home early.’
Matthias rose and offered her his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet, but didn’t release her hand immediately.
‘Rosina, I want to ask you something,’ he said haltingly.
‘Yes.’
She had a disconcerting habit of looking people straight in the eye and speaking directly at them. This was one of those times and it was too much for Matthias. He couldn’t bring out what he was striving to say.
‘I… um… I… it doesn’t matter. It’s… um… not important.’
He let go of her hand and Rosina picked up her shawl, shaking it free of dust and bits of foliage. Matthias turned his head away, sighed and swallowed hard at the same time, making himself cough and wipe moisture from his eyes. He wondered if the mixture of disappointment and relief he was feeling showed in his face and was careful to keep it hidden.
On the way back they talked only of the evangelist preacher, John Wesley, his brother Charles, the prolific hymn writer, and the effect their hard work and messages of hope and salvation had had on the ordinary man and woman.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Rosina,’ he said quietly, at her cottage door.
‘Good day to you, Preacher,’ she said, before lifting the latch.
Inside the cottage, as she expected, there was no sign of Colly. Beelzebub, his vicious mongrel, was tied to a table leg and growled at her every time she moved near him. Early that morning Solomon King had called and left a large mackerel, already gutted and headed. Rosina cut the mackerel into pieces, and putting them into a large black pot, added a small amount of diced turnip and potato and wild herbs to make a fish stew.
While the meal simmered over the fire she tidied up then sat down by the open window to enjoy the cooling breezes on her face. She would have liked to have had the door ajar but her brother’s dog barked and snarled at anyone who passed by and it frightened the children. She was resigned to putting up with the stuffy atmosphere inside her home.
Colly Pearce crashed through the door as Rosina was preparing to go to the monthly evening prayer service at Perranbarvah. He glared at her suspiciously.
‘Off to yer Bible bashing again, are ’ee? Can’t ’ee get enough of it?’ He was drunk and leaned heavily against the wall to stay upright.
‘I’m going in a little while,’ Rosina said. ‘I’ve made fish stew for your supper. I’ll fetch you some hot water to wash.’
‘Never mind that,’ he shouted, lurching towards her, ‘get the darned food on the table first.’
‘All right then, Colly. Sit yourself down.’
‘Must you always talk so bloody sweetly!’ he said into her face.
Rosina turned her head at the stench of alcohol on his breath, stepping aside to get to the cooking pot. Her brother grasped a handful of her hair from behind and yanked her back towards him. She put up a hand to try to ease the pain.
He twisted her roughly round and snarled, ‘Where have you been this afternoon? Eh?’
Her heart began to beat faster and her breathing came in tight gasps in the effort to pull her head away. ‘I’ve been here all afternoon, Colly,’ she told him, trying to sound as natural as she could, hoping it would calm him, ‘Now sit down… and I’ll put your supper on the table.’
But Colly wasn’t satisfied. ‘Where did you go after that Goddamned meeting in Bray’s cottage, eh?’
‘Only… for… a walk.’ She was gasping to breathe properly.
Putting a filthy hand on her shoulder, he squeezed his fingers tightly.
‘Please, Colly!’
‘Alone, eh, little sister?’ he jeered. ‘Did you go for your walk alone, eh?’
‘Preacher Renfree… kept me company… part of the way… ahh!’ Rosina cried out.
Colly viciously tightened his grip on her shoulder and yanked her head well back. ‘Whore!’ he screeched. ‘Preacher Renfree! Preacher Renfree! Preacher indeed. He’s no bloody preacher! Got no right to be called preacher! Fornicator! That’s what he is. That’s what your bloody Preacher Renfree is. A bigger fornicator than the devil himself if ever there was one. You’re a whore, little sister. A holy whore! Was it good with him, Rosina? Was it good with your filthy rotten Preacher Renfree? Eh? Eh?’
Tears streamed down her face. ‘Let… me go… oh, please, Colly… please…’
The dog was barking fiercely now and Colly hurled an obscenity at it. Thrusting his sister away from him, he kicked Beelzebub in the ribs, then the head.
‘Shut up, yer blasted mongrel!’ he shouted before sitting at the table. The dog yelped for some time then settled down with a rumbling growl, baring its yellow teeth. ‘Shut up!’ Colly shouted again.
He looked up from his chair at Rosina who was trying to hold back more tears and trembling as she rubbed at her shoulder and the back of her neck. For just an instant a change of expression flickered across his face, making him look less of a drunken bully.
‘I’ll have my supper now,’ he said, much quieter, ‘and hurry up about it.’
Rosina’s hands shook as she spooned stew into a bowl and placed it in front of Colly. She moved back quickly out of his reach. He gulped the food down noisily before speaking again.
‘You had yours?’ he said, without looking up.
‘Yes, Colly,’ she answered, and knew he was sorry for hurting her. But soon the sorrow would turn to relentless guilt and the only thing to give him peace and forgetfulness would be more alcohol.
‘Well,’ he snapped at her, ‘get yerself off to your blasted praying and caterwauling, and leave me to eat in peace.’
Snatching up her shawl, Rosina made her way to the door. ‘Goodbye, Colly,’ she said, drying her face with the back of her hand.
He waved a hand tersely in the air and returned to his meal.
Outside Rosina walked dejectedly to the back of the cottage where no one could see her and leaned her trembling body against the cold dirty wall. She wiped away a solitary tear, drawing in deep breaths of warm evening
air until her thin limbs became still. Minutes later, when she met the Bray family outside their home for the walk to Perranbarvah, her face was serene and smiling, as they had come to expect it to be.
* * *
Old Tom Trelynne was quietly buried in an unpretentious grave in Perranbarvah’s graveyard. Thomas Cole, the coroner, was in agreement with Oliver’s declaration that the old man undoubtedly drank himself to death, while the location of his body ruled out the possibility of a second person being involved. Kerensa was not surprised few people offered her their sympathy. She was the only one expected to remember Old Tom for long, or with any affection at all.
From the time they had spent together in the cove on discovery of her grandfather’s body, Kerensa’s relationship with Oliver took a new turn. When all formalities for the recovery of the body had been completed he had joined her in her sitting room. He’d found her shivering, and after lighting a small fire had drawn the curtains and held her closely until she had grown pleasantly sleepy.
Kerensa had enjoyed the tender little kisses he’d snuggled behind her ear and into her hair, and his soft circular caresses with the tips of his fingers on the top of her arm and cheek. She had lifted her face to him.
‘You all right, my love?’ he’d whispered.
‘Mmmm,’ was her only reply.
Oliver had not made love to her since Peter Blake’s attack, and although Kerensa had not wanted this to continue for both their sakes, she had been too shy to make advances to him. But now, winding a hand around his neck, she raised herself in the circle of his arms to kiss his mouth. He had made the kiss short, but keeping her eyes closed she sought his lips again.
Oliver needed no second invitation. His body shuddering, all the feelings he had been holding back broke in a crescendo of ardent desire. With skilful hands he’d pulled loose the laces of her dress, and tossing cushions on the thick carpet in front of the fire, lowered her gently down. They made love until the tall flames turned to glowing embers.
* * *
Kerensa followed the Reverend Ivey’s advice and spoke to Oliver about her wish to do something more useful with her time. She fully expected to be told being his wife, and mistress of the Manor house, and subsequently bearing his children, was more than enough to keep her suitably occupied. He in fact listened attentively and even agreed with her. Kerensa was again reminded her husband was a remarkably unconventional man. He suggested she take Polly with her and call on the young Richards family on Rose Farm with fruit and goat’s milk for the children.
Moriah and Rudd Richards were a likeable couple with six children under the age of nine years. They were shy and awkward with Kerensa and Polly to begin with, but the housekeeper was also fond of children, and it was through the four small girls and two lively boys that they gained the family’s trust. All the children were under-sized for their ages; the whole family, like so many of their working-class counterparts, badly undernourished.
Kerensa took them fresh food – eggs, cheese and goat’s milk – and with Polly she rolled up her sleeves to scrub the shabby farmhouse into a more sanitary condition, leaving Moriah more time to help Rudd in the fields. Kerensa greatly enjoyed the time she spent with the Richards and it wasn’t long before the first tentative requests for help from other needy folk turned into a fervent rush. She became settled and content for the first time in many months.
To keep Kerensa further occupied, Oliver invited Sir Martin and William and Lady Rachael Beswetherick to the Manor. They stayed for a week, Rachael leaving baby Sebastian in the care of a wet nurse.
Their visit was a great success. Kerensa enjoyed her position as hostess to their friends, Oliver providing fishing, shooting, riding and cards as entertainment, while Sir Martin regaled the company with his famous tall stories.
Shortly after the Beswethericks’ visit, Hezekiah Solomon appeared at the Manor with baggage and hired pony. Kerensa had no knowledge of him being invited but she gave him a warm welcome, while secretly hoping it would provide the opportunity to penetrate a little of the intriguing mystery in which the man deliberately shrouded himself. Most of his time was claimed by Oliver, and Kerensa saw little of Hezekiah, who also inflamed the burning curiosity of Polly, Esther and Ruth as he greeted them with his impeccable manners in his exquisite clothes, dazzling white hair and a variety of strong French colognes.
They plied Kerensa with questions about their master’s unusual friend. Where did he live? Was he married? How wealthy was he? How old was he? And did she believe the rumours of him killing in cold blood and actually enjoying it? Only Beatrice asked no questions about Hezekiah Solomon, exhorting all to, ‘Keep away from Cap’n Sol’mon, ’cus ’ee do ’ave the evil eye, and no good’ll come of any of ’ee gettin’ mixed up with one of the Devil’s own.’
When Kerensa told Oliver what Beatrice had said, he laughed heartily. ‘If you ask me,’ he said, imitating Beatrice’s rasping voice, ‘I d’come from a long line of soothsayers, me ’an’some.’
‘But don’t you find Hezekiah a great puzzle, Oliver?’ she asked him after plying him with all the questions the servants had urged upon her. ‘You say you only think he lives somewhere on the Channel Islands, you don’t think he’d ever been married, and you’ve no idea how rich he is, and what Beatrice said about him is a load of old rubbish. Don’t you know anything else about him? Why he dresses the way he does and splashes scent all over himself.’
‘No, I’ve got better things to do, but at least I don’t believe him to be a sadistic murderer.’
‘Beatrice said that some people are terrified of him,’ Kerensa persisted.
‘The man’s a fop, my dear, he couldn’t frighten—’
‘He stuck a knife through Colly Pearce’s hand a few years ago,’ Kerensa interrupted. ‘Colly’s terrified of him.’
‘Well, of course he is. It wasn’t a very pleasant occurrence, I was there, and witnessed it happen.’
‘And that doesn’t worry you?’
‘The man deserved it, Kerensa,’ Oliver said, as if he was talking to an inquisitive troublesome child.
‘And you don’t find Hezekiah at all frightening?’
‘Of course not!’ he scoffed. ‘Do you think I’d have him under my roof if I thought he’d do away with us all horribly in the middle of the night? You aren’t nervous of him, are you?’
‘No, I just want to learn something more about him. The only thing we seem to know is that he owns his own ship, likes to dress in a most pretentious fashion, and has a Biblical name. You must want to know something more about him, surely, Oliver?’
‘No. I’m not tarred with the same brush as you bunch of gossipy women are.’
Kerensa had found Oliver’s attitude maddening. She watched Hezekiah closely and he seemed flattered by her attention, but as the days went by she realised she could tell the servants no more about the Manor’s guest than what they could see and hear for themselves. On two occasions towards the end of Hezekiah’s stay she did learn more about him, but kept the knowledge to herself. Her discoveries only served to make him more of an enigma to her.
The first occurred on a late morning. Oliver had been abroad for several hours and Hezekiah had expressed the desire to lay abed and not be disturbed until noon. Passing by his room as she carried a vase of flowers to her own bedroom, Kerensa heard sounds of anguished moans. She listened at the door for long moments and the sounds continued. Placing the flowers on a window sill in the long corridor, she tapped on the bedroom door and went into the room.
‘Hezekiah,’ she breathed softly, ‘are you all right?’
The room was darkened by the curtains but she could see him well enough. His long white hair was splayed across the pillows as his body convulsed from side to side between groans and unintelligible utterances. The atmosphere in the room was overpoweringly stuffy, his cologne creating an odour of sickly warmth. Kerensa paced quickly over to the window, throwing back one of the curtains and pulling up the sash to let in several inc
hes of bright daylight and fresh air.
She then moved to the bed and took Hezekiah’s hand and called his name again to wake him. He did not waken, even when she raised her voice, so stretching out her other hand she shook him quite forcefully.
‘Hezekiah… wake up, everything will be all right.’
He woke with uncontrolled violence, sitting upright in an instant and pulling Kerensa down to him. ‘Don’t leave me alone,’ he gasped, his voice heavy and choked, ‘don’t leave me…’ He gripped her hand painfully tight, clinging to her with his head pressed to her bosom.
Kerensa was alarmed as his body shuddered against hers, his breath coming like a man drowning and fighting for his life. At the same moment she decided to call for help, Hezekiah became still. He didn’t move for several moments then murmured against the muslin of her bodice: ‘Give me a moment more, please, Kerensa.’
She held him with a motherly instinct while stroking his hair. When he sat back from her he kept his face close, retaining the hand that held his.
‘Will you be all right, Hezekiah?’ Kerensa asked, her face creased with concern. ‘Are you getting a fever or something?’ She could read nothing in his eyes, but asked herself if, just for a moment, she saw fear on the surface of the steely blue.
‘It was only a bad dream,’ he told her, moving his fingers over her hand. Kerensa looked down at the movement, at the hand so unlike Oliver’s, much smaller, softer, whiter.
When she looked back at Hezekiah he was composed, only beads of perspiration betraying his recent distress, but his eyes were cold and distant now, and she shivered at the thought that she had strayed into a trap.
‘If you were anyone else’s wife but Oliver’s…’ He left the sentence unfinished and let go of her hand.
Kerensa jumped up and stood back from the bed. ‘What were you dreaming about, Hezekiah?’ she asked, her voice unmistakably shaking from the implication of what he had said.
‘It was nothing, Kerensa,’ he replied, reaching across to the bedside cabinet to glance at his pocket watch. ‘All best forgotten.’
Pengarron Land Page 35
