The Passions of Lord Trevethow

by Bronwyn Scott

  Pen followed the maid into the dining room, a large, formal affair of a chamber that was seldom used. Today, the walnut doors were thrown open, polished silver and china marched the length of the pristine white linen on the table, urns of flowers decorated the sideboards in early spring splendour. The room wasn’t being prepared. It was ready. For whom, for what? She hadn’t done any menus. She counted the chairs. Dinner for fourteen? Pen began to panic. Had she forgotten? Was Cook, even now, wondering what she was supposed to prepare for the guests? Pen furrowed her brow, trying to remember. Had she even seen a guest list?

  ‘There you are!’ Her maid, Margery, hurried in. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. Where have you been? Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. A new dress arrived for you and I’ve already drawn your bath. With luck, it will still be hot. You needn’t worry, there’s still time to get you ready.’ Ready, like the dining room clothed in its best.

  ‘Ready for what?’ Pen whispered in half-horror. They never entertained. Yesterday it had been tea with Wadesbridge and now a dinner party. It was as if the castle gates had been flung wide and the world let in.

  ‘For you, my lady.’ Margery took her by the arm, leading her to the stairs, her voice low. ‘Your father has guests for dinner. All of them with sons.’

  Chapter Seven

  All of them with sons. Her father was throwing a dinner party and she was the main course, a beautifully dressed lamb led to the slaughter with her hair a high pile of curls atop her head and the rest of her turned out in a gown of shot Parma silk whose iridescence created the impression of being simultaneously equal parts violet and blue. Pen fingered the pearls at her throat anxiously as Margery dabbed the smallest bit of rose-pink salve on her lips. ‘There! You look a treat, miss. No one would ever guess you were out tramping the countryside all afternoon.’

  No, no one would guess that she’d spent the afternoon sitting beside a fire, eating meat pies with a man whose name she didn’t know, playing a flirtatious game of questions. Unconsciously, Pen’s fingers drifted from her pearls to her lips. The elegant woman in the mirror didn’t look at all like Em, like the woman who’d kissed Matthew in the cottage with her mouth, her tongue, her teeth, her body pressed to his begging for more than a kiss. She would give anything to be back in the cottage now, wrapped in Matthew’s arms, a simple dinner on the scarred table. It was a far preferable scenario than facing the glittering formality awaiting her downstairs.

  ‘Careful, miss, or you’ll smudge the lip salve.’ Margery slid her a sly look. ‘We’re lucky the fashion is for a more natural complexion these days. No one thinks twice about a lady with a little fresh wind on her cheeks.’ Margery pursed her lips when Pen said nothing. ‘Whoever he is, miss, your secret is safe with me whether you tell me or not. We’ve been through a lot since I’ve been your maid. It’s a little late to start with secrets now when you come home with them written all over your face.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’ Pen looked away from the mirror, seeking reassurance from Margery in a moment of panic.

  Margery gave her a knowing smile. ‘A smart woman knows the signs, miss. Puffed lips, a faraway look in the eyes. You were grinning from ear to ear. I’d never seen you look so happy, or so confused. It was as if you’d fallen from the sky and crashed into reality.’ She had. It was exactly how she’d felt. One moment she’d been in paradise and the next in a hell.

  There was a soft knock at the door followed by her brother’s voice. ‘Pen, are you ready? It’s time to go down.’ The door opened and Phin stepped inside dressed in evening clothes, his walnut hair brushed back from his handsome face with its blue eyes and kind smile. He let out a sound of approval. ‘You look stunning. All of Father’s preparations will go to waste. I doubt anyone will notice the china and the silver and the food once they see you. The gentlemen won’t be able to take their eyes off of you.’

  ‘Perhaps I should change, then, put on something less attractive.’ Pen’s anxiety rose anew. She didn’t want to be the centre of anyone’s attentions except Matthew’s. Especially when the attentions of those downstairs were driven by avarice. Given that she hadn’t met any of the gentlemen here before tonight, it was safe to assume they were here for her dowry—she merely went along with it, a physical embodiment of her father’s land and money.

  Phin took her hand, misunderstanding the source of her anxiety. ‘I know you haven’t been out among society much, but you’ll be fine. You know your manners and you have good conversation. You’ve hosted a few of Father’s guests—this will be just like that, only there will be more of them. Everyone knows you’ve been in seclusion.’

  He meant it kindly. Phin always met things kindly, but the words rankled and she bristled at the insinuation. ‘I am not a wilting wallflower. Seclusion has been Father’s choice, not mine. If it were up to me—’

  ‘Yes,’ Phin broke in with a laugh. ‘I know. If it were up to you, you would have come with me on a Grand Tour of your own. Whatever those gentlemen downstairs think, I dare say they will be pleasantly surprised by you...’ he chucked her gently under the chin ‘...and you, Pen, might be pleasantly surprised by one of them if you allowed it. Hmm?’ he said encouragingly with a gentle scold. ‘You and Father are the two most stubborn people I know. Make sure you are resisting his efforts for the right reasons. You are young and untried. You know nothing of men. Why not allow yourself to be guided by those who do? You can’t think Father would marry you to someone who would be cruel, who wouldn’t appreciate you as you ought to be appreciated?’

  He ushered her out of the room and into the hallway. ‘Most of the gentlemen are friends of mine.’ Phin was still offering reassurances, but Pen felt as if she were walking to her execution. ‘Father thought you needed to meet young men closer to your own age. He said you felt Wadesbridge was too old.’

  That sealed it. She was condemned by her own words. The argument for younger men had been her argument and now her father had answered it by serving up a room full of them.

  ‘You’re not helping, Phin,’ she chided him as they made their way to the curving sweep of the main staircase. Already she could hear muted conversation in the drawing room. ‘I want to choose more than my mate when the time comes. I want to choose my own destiny. Father seems to think marriage is the only destiny for me and I disagree. There are too many places on the map to see.’ Matthew had not baulked at such a sentiment at the fair. He’d done the opposite. He’d encouraged it with stories of his own travels. Her hand went to her throat, forgetting that she wore pearls tonight, that her blown-glass heart was tucked away upstairs.

  At the entrance to the drawing room, Pen paused, taking a deep breath and settling her nerves. She was not afraid to meet these men, she was only afraid of what meeting them represented. Her father had taken her request for younger men to heart, which meant only one thing: after two years of rather sporadic matchmaking efforts, her father was in earnest to see her wed. At her ear, Phin whispered final words of encouragement. ‘Don’t worry, Pen, I’ll be right beside you.’

  Phin was as good as his promise. He stayed next to her, escorting her from group to group, making introductions and ensuring that she needn’t stay with any one group too long. She was a blue-violet butterfly in a room of neutral colours, flitting from one cluster to another as she tried to keep the names straight. When dinner was announced, she was taken in by Nigel Harrington, heir to the Baron Lynton who seemed to know everything there was to know about goats and cheese, and nearly everything there was to know about fishing.

  ‘But if you want real fishing, nothing beats salmon from Bodmin Moor,’ an arrogant blond put in from across the table. He’d been trying hard to catch her eye all night and now she was forced to give it. ‘The River Camel is cold, it makes for more fat on the fish, better taste,’ the blond counselled. The footmen came and took away the dishes, replacing them with the next course. The conversation continued as the men debated t
he best rivers, and then moved on to debate the best fish—salmon or trout—with an enthusiasm that stunned her. Surely, they didn’t think such a display impressed her?

  Pen set down her wine glass and took advantage of a brief break in the discussion. ‘If only men devoted such passion to the fate of the poor as they devote to their fishing, we might right a many great injustices in this world.’ She smiled broadly, hoping to engage the support of the women at the table. Some of the young men, those who lived nearby, had come with their parents.

  ‘That’s why they have us, my dear,’ Nigel Harrington’s mother spoke up. ‘Charity begins at home and the home is the woman’s domain.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ the arrogant blond’s father toasted and the conversation moved back to trout and salmon. She was relieved when the table turned so she could speak to the gentleman on her other side, a Mr Abel Cunforth, but her relief was short-lived on that front. All he wanted to talk about was himself. At least after the first question, she didn’t need to worry about carrying the conversation. In that regard he was as easy to talk to as every other man here was. One simply had to initiate and then the gentlemen picked up the conversation and ran with it. Was this their idea of getting to know her? Or of her getting to know them, not their bank accounts?

  Pen smiled and nodded. She made the right noises in the right places. Didn’t a single man in this room understand that small talk was more than rolling out one’s pedigree and accomplishments? That small talk was about establishing a sense of ease? How did one feel when they conversed with someone else? It was about rhythm, about the give and take of the conversation. There was none of that here, only Mr Cunforth giving and giving facts about himself and her on the receiving end trying to be interested. Not a man in this room knew better. But Matthew had. At the fair and again today, they’d had real conversations.

  It wasn’t just the kisses she was looking forward to tomorrow, but the continuation of their talks. What would they discuss tomorrow? What might he ask her? What would she tell him? And the reverse as well. What would she learn about him? Talking with Matthew was like peeling back the petals of a rosebud until it was in full bloom. Talking with Abel Cunforth, to the arrogant blond or Mr Nigel Harrington was nothing like that.

  What would Matthew think if he saw her in this room, dressed in silk, surrounded by these buffoons? What would he think if he knew she was supposed to marry one of them? Pen took another swallow of wine. He would think she was above his touch. He would think he had no right to her. Would he feel betrayed? He thought Em was a woman who could choose whom she spent her time with, perhaps the daughter of an artisan or a farmer, a woman who could welcome the attentions of a small, landowning squire. He did not imagine himself the subordinate in their relationship in regards to rank or standing, certainly not in experience. He could not find out differently. She liked that they were equals in the cottage. Yet, sitting here as Penrose Prideaux surrounded by suitors left her with a niggling sense of guilt that somehow she was misleading him. But she couldn’t tell him or she’d lose him.

  ‘I think the poorhouses do a great service,’ Abel Cunforth was saying. ‘They offer the poor two meals a day and give them employment to keep them off the streets. If anything, we need stricter laws and less hand-holding of the poor.’

  ‘Have you been to a poor house, Mr Cunforth? Have you eaten the gruel that passes for food?’ Pen broke into his political ramblings.

  ‘Why, no, of course not.’ Mr Cunforth gave her an odd look so compelling she began to wonder if she really had grown two heads.

  ‘I think if people were paid a wage they could live on in exchange for their labours we might all benefit,’ Pen offered. ‘I hear London is expensive. I can’t imagine earning a pittance and being expected to afford rent and food on it let alone clothes or medicines in a big city.’

  ‘Then they shouldn’t live there,’ was Cunforth’s answer.

  ‘It’s where the jobs are, sir,’ Pen replied. ‘How can they support themselves in the countryside when mines can no longer produce and land is being enclosed? What work is there for them? It is my opinion that Parliament is driving the poor to the cities like a herd of sheep.’ A footman reached for her wine glass and turned away to refill it.

  ‘Your opinion, eh?’ Cunforth was salty. She’d upset him with her thoughts. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Well, perhaps that’s precisely why we don’t allow women to vote. You’d all be tucking the poor in with beef stew every night if you had your way.’

  As the footman made to return her newly filled glass Pen made a deliberately careless gesture with her hand and a fine white French wine drenched the thigh of Cunforth’s dark evening breeches. ‘Oh, I am so clumsy!’ Pen exclaimed, making no move to offer a napkin. She tossed Cunforth a coy smile. ‘Perhaps it is a good thing I don’t vote. We can’t have women spilling all of your male privileges to the masses. Looks like you might be the one tucking in early tonight.’

  Across the table, Phin shot her a look and mouthed the words ‘play nice’. But Pen didn’t care. Anyone who set themselves above another simply because they’d had the luck to be born into wealth wasn’t worth her consideration.

  * * *

  As soon as the last plate was cleared, Pen wasted no time rising and taking the women to the drawing room so the men could buttonhole the port around the table and congratulate themselves on having impressed her, no doubt certain that she’d been mesmerised by their ability to debate salmon and trout and insult the poor.

  This would be her life if she didn’t put a stop to it. For two years now, she’d been ignoring the reality, hoping that somehow things would simply change. But if there was going to be any change, it would have to come from her. If she didn’t stand up and fight for what she wanted, no one else would. Pen surreptitiously fingered her lips and thought of Matthew. Now there was a man who knew how to treat a woman. She was hungry to be back in the cottage with him. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Eight

  Pen arrived at the cottage first this time, breathless from a hard walk fuelled by rising distress as much as it was the anticipation of seeing Matthew again. Breakfast that morning had been a disaster with her father asking which of the fine young men she preferred and ended with him suggesting another round of dinner parties when she said none of them seemed to suit, or did she want to revisit the merits of an older, more stable gentleman like Wadesbridge? A visit could be arranged to see Trescowe in April. He would send a note.

  Pen had barely kept her temper on a leash. She didn’t want any of them. That had been the crux of their disagreement this morning. She saw clearly now it wasn’t that her father didn’t understand her argument. It was that he didn’t accept it. He felt she should be guided by his choice. Would she never be free except in these clandestine moments? It made the prospect of seeing Matthew, a man of her choosing, all the sweeter even as it reaffirmed for her what she’d realised last night: she had to stand up for herself. She could no longer be a neutral party in her fate.

  Pen unpacked the basket she’d brought and spread an old checked cloth on the scarred table. She reasoned it was her turn to provide the picnic since Matthew had provided it twice now; at the fair and yesterday. The cloth was faded and the edges were showing early signs of fraying, but it suited the rustic quality of the room. The cottage was no place for pristine white linen even if she could have brought such a thing without revealing herself. Em in her plain dress and cloak was not a woman who had spotless Irish linen. It was all part of the fantasy. Or the deception, her conscience prodded. Fantasy and deception were fast becoming different sides of the same coin. Pen preferred not to think about the discrepancy today. If this was a lie, then it was the most exciting, most pleasurable lie she’d ever known.

  She laid out bread, cheese, half of a mince pie she’d found left over in the kitchens and a jug of cider purloined from the cellar. Pen smiled, stepping bac
k to survey her handiwork. The table looked homey with its food and cloth. She rubbed her arms to stay warm and wished she knew how to start a fire, but that would have to wait until Matthew arrived. If he arrived. Perhaps he’d changed his mind or something more important had come up, or perhaps he’d realised how silly this was, how futile. Now she knew how Matthew had felt yesterday when she was late. The worry was another reminder that they owed each other nothing, not even loyalty.

  His big stallion came into view and the knot in her stomach untied itself. She waited for him in the doorway as he tethered his horse, tying it out of sight from the road. In her relief, it took all of her willpower not to run to him, not to throw herself and her troubles into his arms. He would not admire that. They didn’t have that kind of relationship, or any kind of relationship. They were simply two strangers. It was all she could allow them to be.

  ‘Em, how are you? You’re early today.’ He kissed her on the cheek, pleased to see her, and her anxiety melted. This close to him, she could smell the masculine scent of wind and the earthy odour of a wet Cornish spring on his hair. She breathed it in. There was strength in simply being with him, in having these moments no matter how fleeting, no matter how contrived.

  They stepped inside, and he smiled when he saw the table set with her small meal. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘It was my turn to bring the lunch.’ His appreciation made butterflies flutter in her stomach, his compliment meaning so much more than the false flattery she’d heard last night at dinner.

  ‘I’ll light a fire. You look cold.’ His first thoughts were of her, so unlike the gentlemen last night. He set to it with an envious dexterity, producing flint from the deep pocket of his greatcoat. She told herself she watched to remember so she could do it on her own next time, but in truth she would have watched anyway just see him move. He was all strength and grace, so much grace for a big man. The fire came to life beneath his hands, warming the room and adding to the domesticity of doing for one another. It was an intimacy she was unfamiliar with in a house full of servants.