The velvet curtain twitched and Jolliffe pushed through, thrusting the book before him. He blew off the dust and thumped it down on a nearby table.
“Here we are,” he said.
“Chronological order?” Tayte asked.
“Of course.”
Tayte thumbed the pages, opening with several records going back as far as the sixteenth century, then more records for the subsequent centuries as he expected. The seventeenth century came and went and he slowed - eighteenth century.
“Genealogy’s like a jigsaw puzzle,” he said. “You just have to know where to find the right pieces.”
His eyes continued to scan the pages, watched intently by the reverend until he reached the year he was looking for - 1783 - the year the Fairbornes arrived in England. Between then and 1785, James Fairborne had remarried. He turned back a few pages to the start of 1783 and checked again: name, address, age and occupation. For each entry, the date of death and the burial date were there with the plot location, but nothing for Fairborne and nothing for Daniels. It seemed the reverend knew his plots well.
Tayte closed the book. “Thanks,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”
Jolliffe gave Tayte an angelic smile. “Not at all. I expect you’ll find what you’re looking for on the Fairborne estate. Plenty of history there to dig into.”
“Sure,” Tayte said. “Well, thanks again.” He made to leave, heading along the church aisle. Then he turned back and said, “And the estate? Rose -”
“Rosemullion Hall,” the reverend cut in. “It’s on Rosemullion Head. You can’t miss the manor house once you get out there.” He walked briskly now, more sprightly than Tayte had seen him move before. He led Tayte with a strong grip by the arm to the south door and pointed out to his right. “There’s a gate,” he said. “Just around the corner behind the cremation plots. Go through. Then follow the lane to your left until you come to the coast path. It’s clearly signed.”
Tayte followed the reverend’s enthusiastic hand movements.
“Turn left for Rosemullion Head,” Jolliffe continued. “Then keep going for about half an hour. Lovely views along the way, too,” he added, taking in his own familiar view. “Right, takes you to Helford Passage. That will take a little longer, but well worth the effort.”
Tayte paused at the south door, one foot on the threshold. He knew he couldn’t just walk up there and expect the family to let him prowl around their crypt. He was a total stranger, why would they? He recalled a time when he’d tried that approach before, back when he was still green and full of beans. His right hand wandered down to his thigh, feeling the scar tissue through his suit trousers as he recalled the encounter with one of the dogs that had chased him off the grounds. “I don’t suppose you know how I could get an appointment,” he said.
“You could call the estate,” Jolliffe replied.
“Do you have their number?”
“I’m sure I could find it for you. Although, an introduction might be more suitable.”
“Do you know the family?” Tayte asked.
“Not well,” Jolliffe said. “But Lady Fairborne pops in from time to time. She’s involved with various charities in the community.”
“You think you could get her to see me?”
“I can’t promise anything, of course,” the reverend said. He touched his fingers together as an amused expression danced across his face. “Have I acquainted you with our collection box yet, Mr Tayte?”
Tayte smiled. “No, but I think you’re about to.” He was used to paying for information. Everyone had an angle it seemed, even the church.
“All in a good cause,” the reverend called back as he scuttled away to the blue velvet curtain and returned a moment later with the collection box. “It may take a while,” he said. He eyed the clock high up on the wall at the back of the church.” Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours? Perhaps a walk to Helford Passage? Early lunch at the Ferry Boat Inn? They serve a fine local crab sandwich.”
Lunch sounded good. Tayte could already feel breakfast wearing off, which he all too readily put down to the fresh sea air. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
When he reached the coastal path, he turned right for Helford Passage and made his way along the well worn ground above Parson’s Beach, heading west towards Mawnan Shear and beyond through Porthallack and Durgan. It made sense to Tayte that the family were buried on their own estate, though perhaps not the Daniels, although Clara was James’s sister.
He considered that the Daniels could have moved away, and several further explanations as to why none of the family were buried in the grounds of the parish church came to mind. But wherever they were buried, it didn’t account for why there appeared to be no details of their deaths in the parish records or why there were no entries for them in the Births, Marriages and Deaths index. Or why James Fairborne had married again so soon after arriving in England.
It was a Saturday and not a pleasant one at that. It began with good enough intent, but by late morning on March 12th 1785, the sky over Falmouth Bay was stewing; by midday it had boiled over. High winds and heavy rain assaulted the exposed coastline and quickly drove the guests at Rosemullion Hall into the house after a very brief reception in the grounds when they arrived back from the church.
But James Fairborne could not be discouraged today. Those dark lonely days he had known barely more than a year ago were so far behind him now as to belong to some other lifetime. He was jubilant and had good reason to be, though his euphoric state was perhaps not based on the same emotional triggers that delighted his new bride.
“Susan! There you are…” A portly man with ruddy cheeks came into the long gallery, cursing the stairs he’d just climbed to get there and still fussing and brushing at the rain on his indigo velvet jacket. To one side, he was supported by his wife, Eudora, to the other by a fat wooden cane. He made his way towards Susan as the other guests continued to pour in behind him. “How about a kiss for your old father?” he said. “I’ve been trying to get to you since we arrived!”
The long gallery on the first floor of the manor house ran the full length of the upper hall. The room was as bright as the weather would allow, lit by tall stone mullioned windows on three sides. The inner wall hosted fireplaces at intervals along its length. There were surprisingly few paintings and even fewer portraits.
Susan pulled James closer to the doorway to greet her parents. “You’re not old, father,” she said.
“Well I feel it. And this confounded weather’s not helping much, I can tell you. And what the blazes has happened to your brother and sister? I’ve not seen them since we left the church.”
Susan was almost laughing with her mother. “Jane is no doubt surrounded by boys somewhere, wondering which one to dance with first, and Charles is undoubtedly trying to fight them all off!”
Susan’s mother could not take her eyes off her daughter any more than she could rest the smile that told her what a picture she looked. The wedding gown was gold silk dupion with just a hint of pink that shone through like an aura. The fabric poured from the pleats at Susan’s tiny waist, splashing to the floor like liquid gold. The boned bodice accentuated her proportions and was decorated with rosettes diminishing down the centre, and full sleeves, just covering her shoulders, dropped to further gold pleats and white lace flounces. The top of her chest was bare; a frame for the black velvet choker that ringed her neck, studded with a single, attention grabbing diamond.
“Beautiful,” her mother said as she leant in and kissed Susan’s cheek.
“I’ve never been more proud!” her father added. He took James’s hand and pumped it vigorously, and his strong grip was well met.
James beckoned to a servant standing by the doorway, who instantly arrived with a light skip and an almost worried look on his face. James liberated four glasses of champagne from an engraved silver tray as another servant joined the first with a freshly loaded tray to take his place. Their guests
continued to stream into the room, everyone gazing at the happy couple and adding their remarks to the cacophony of words that circled the room.
It seemed that James Fairborne had no family there at the church to witness the union, and none now at the reception, but it was not a matter for remark or supposition. The guests were almost exclusively from Susan’s side of the family, related in some way to the Devonshire Forbes, and word of James’s situation soon circulated. Other guests were prominent figures of the local community, such as the church warden and the parish constable.
“Today I am made a happy man,” James said. He served the wide-rimmed, coupe glasses, spilling champagne over his hands in his eagerness. He laughed and raised his glass. “And your daughter, Sir…” He bowed his head to Howard Forbes. “Your daughter has made me so!”
Glasses tinkled and the confusion of words circling the room fell silent to the ground. Everyone with a glass raised it to James and Susan Fairborne, and those without one quickly rushed to remedy the situation.
“To the happy couple!” someone shouted, and the room erupted with congratulations.
James put an arm around Susan’s waist and gazed intently into her eyes. The strength of his voice was only for their group now. “And before this year is out we shall be celebrating again,” he said. He looked back to Susan’s parents and smiled. “And we shall be the happier for it.”
“And so you deserve to be.” Howard said. “Every man must have an heir.” He came closer to James and reached a fatherly hand up to his shoulder. “You’ve not had it good of late.”
“No indeed,” James said. “Not good at all.”
But it was getting better - much better. Now James Fairborne was breathing again, deeper breaths than he had ever taken, sucking it all in and enjoying every moment. His personal darkness was at last ended, and the light that replaced it was already far brighter than he had ever imagined.
Chapter Ten
Amy Fallon continued to stare at the clock above the mantle, watching each painful minute tick away until she drifted into a state of unsettled half-sleep. She knew the dream well enough by now, only this time she knew she was dreaming.
The first part she liked…
She could see Gabriel out on the river in his little red boat. It was a beautiful day and he looked so happy. Amy was home at the cottage, upstairs in their bedroom - no work for her today. She couldn’t recall why. She waved to Gabriel and he waved back, smiling the kind of smile that made her want to hold him and pull him home to her; to the bed that was still warm.
Amy knew it was a dream because she was aware that Gabriel was too far away to be able to see him so clearly. But she didn’t mind. She liked to see him again. She felt light on her toes as she stood at the window, watching. She felt comfortable again - complete. But she knew all that was about to change.
It always did…
The first crack of thunder in the bright and vacant sky always heralded the onset. The house shook, rattling the window in its frame. She became suddenly panicked and knew she had to warn Gabriel that the storm was coming. She waved frantically and slapped at the glass panes, calling him, over and over. Gabriel kept smiling and just waved back, completely unaware.
She thought to run to him. She turned away, reaching for the door. The brass doorknob was ice cold in her palm, but she held on, turning and turning at the knob that just kept spinning round and round in her hand. She tried to pull the door open but it was stuck. She knew it would be.
Without thinking, she knew exactly what to do next. She would open the window and drop down; it wasn’t that far to fall. Then she could run out to the edge of the river and warn him. There was still time. She turned back to the window, only now there was no latch and the window was suddenly barred. Her bedroom had become her asylum. She gripped the bars and pulled at them, shaking herself as another crash of thunder rocked the sky and stirring shadows reached in across the room.
Towards the mouth of the river a contusion of black and green cloud quickly stained the sky. It began to froth over itself, rushing into the river mouth like a pyroclastic flow. Coming for him; coming for Gabriel. Amy shook at the bars again, screaming now for Gabriel to turn back to safety - back to her. But she knew it was too late. Trees began to bend in the gale outside and the light had all but faded to blackness beneath a heavy sky that was now full and bleeding.
Gabriel was no longer smiling.
Amy watched as lightning ruptured the cloud around him and his little red boat began to pitch on the uneasy water, lit by strobing white flashes. She grabbed a chair from beside the window, thinking to smash the glass. Maybe she could squeeze through the bars once the glass had broken away. She rammed the chair legs between the bars as the wind howled at the house and the shutters slapped shut against the impact.
The glass would not break.
The shutters banged open again as she drew back for another go. She knew it was useless, knew that the shutters would close every time, but she had to keep trying. She made several pitiful attempts. Then she stopped.
Gabriel’s boat was empty.
The dream was nearly over now and she was calm again, staring out through the bars towards the river, looking for Gabriel until guilt began to rise like poison from deep within her. Why didn’t I go with him? The bars became soft to her touch, melting. Why couldn’t I save him? The questions tormented her. Then the bars were gone and the storm cleared as suddenly as it arrived.
When it left, Amy was her incomplete self again.
As she sat now with her thoughts, looking out across the quiet water from her elevated position above the ferry pickup at Helford Point, the images of that dream remained fresh in her mind, constantly reminding her that she was so very alone. Soon she would take the ferry, not on its usual journey across to Helford Passage, but elsewhere, pausing to place her flowers as she had on this same day the previous year - the first time; Gladioli, G.Communis, known locally as Whistling Jack, an explosion of vibrant magenta picked from their own garden as the last offerings of a warm summer. They were Gabriel’s favourite.
Wrapped around the flower stems, clutched so tightly that her knuckles strained her skin, was a familiar newspaper cutting; the start of their journey. The cutting was from the Western Morning News, dated October 3rd. She’d kept it these past three years.
The title ran: Rare Business Opportunity. It invited offers for the ferry business and a number of river moorings, including pontoon ramps and beach kiosks, with an option to purchase associated equipment such as vessels and marine equipment. According to the Truro based selling agents it would secure the buyer a new way of life, suiting somebody looking for a lifestyle change.
Beneath the main advertisement was a brief history informing prospective buyers that the Helford Ferry, now a foot ferry primarily for tourists, had been in continuous service since the reign of King Canute in 1023, serving as a working horse ferry and a valuable link to Falmouth. It had seemed perfect - it was perfect. If only for the briefest of times.
Amy’s stare remained fixed somewhere out on the twinkling water; countless sail boats were little more than white blurs. Silently she wished she could give everything back in exchange for the hurried lives they used to know - used to share. The lengthy, often delayed commutes during hot and sweaty summer months, carriages overburdened with like-minded commuters affording no time to one another - no interest.
“Morning!” Two walkers approached along the path, hand in hand, bringing her immediate surroundings back into focus. “Lovely day.” And it was. It might still have been August.
Amy made a fist, still sensing the memory of Gabriel’s hand around hers, wrapping it, protecting and comforting. She longed just to hold his hand again, to feel his skin, his warm breath on her lips before a kiss. She smiled at the couple through choked eyes, making no contact, the corners of her mouth barely lifting.
The man waved a collapsible walking pole towards her in friendly gesture as they passed and Amy tur
ned away again, looking down to her watch: a Cartier Lanières, worn for the occasion. Twenty round-cut diamonds bordered the long hexagonal face, linked by a slim, three-row 18ct gold bracelet. It was a present from Gabriel and a reminder of her past life. The black, sword shaped hands told her it was nearly time.
She rose slowly from the bench. Then she sat down again, unable to bring herself to what she knew she must face. Where’s Martin? She would wait. As she sat, the sun caught the bright gold of her wedding ring, drawing her eye. They were Gabriel’s idea: matching Celtic bands depicting a circle of delicately engraved interlocking hearts, each inverted against the other. It meant so much to her. The tangible symbol of their love that she had toyed with constantly, affectionately, for the last twenty years. Now she flicked at it anxiously with the edge of her thumb nail and recalled how both their parents had urged them to wait. She was barely nineteen, another year or so, just to be certain…
Amy had never been more certain of anything in her life, then or now. Without warning the tears came, like it had only just happened.
Across the water at Helford Passage, a twenty-six foot glass-fibre catamaran was being untied from its moveable pontoon. The first of its kind, it was powered by two 25hp engines and was designed to land passengers on the beaches of Trebah and Glendurgan via a bow access ramp. It allowed business expansion to include trips to the gardens, and due to its design could cope with rough weather and still operate at low tide.
The ferry was not operating just now, though. A crude, hand-made sign carrying the words ‘Not in Service’ confirmed the fact to anyone who tried to board. On the pontoon beside it, Martin Cole was about to cast off. Martin was the skipper now. He’d looked after the ferry business for Amy over the last two years - since she could no longer face it. He was fast approaching forty and felt very average. His clothes came off the shelf in medium sizes. His hair was mid length and brown, neither too tidy nor too unruly, and his build was neither fat nor thin. Average. He looked over at Simon, his assistant, sitting on his hands behind the wheel, looking like he wished he was somewhere else. The logo on his vivid royal-blue t-shirt read, Rip Curl - a suggestion of where that somewhere else might be. Since taking Simon on at the start of the season, Martin wished some of that twenty-something spirit would return to him.
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