Mermaid of Penperro

by Cach, Lisa

  Another local spoke up in forced tones of wonder. “Do you think she has returned?”

  And then Matt cast the hook that Tom hoped would snare Foweather fast and hard. “Perhaps it is her child who has returned these many years later, to find herself a husband as did her mother.”

  “By God!” Foweather said. “By God!”

  “Eh, now wouldn’t that be the life?” Dick Popple, the tavernkeeper, said, and gave Foweather’s arm a nudge. “Married to a mermaid! I’d give my right arm to be that lucky. Hell! I’d give both legs, if she wanted me to turn fish for her, as long as I got to keep what was between!”

  “As if she’d want the likes of you!” his wife said, and snorted. “She wouldn’t want a dirty old dog; she’d want a fine young fellow, someone handsome and strong.”

  “You’d better watch out, Mr. Foweather,” Wiggett the baker said. “Looks like she may have set her eye on you.”

  “You’ll be making your home in a sea cave before long!” someone threw in.

  “You said yourself you almost went into the water after her,” Wiggett reminded him.

  The bantering was taking a turn that Tom hadn’t expected. He had wanted to feed Foweather’s burgeoning obsession with the lovely mermaid, not scare him away from her. Matt, realizing the same problem, stepped back in. “I’m not saying the stories are true, and I’m not saying Mr. Foweather saw what he thought he saw. It could have been a seal down on those rocks, barking, and the sun on the water tricked his vision into thinking he saw a woman.”

  “No, it was her!” Foweather insisted. “It was the Mermaid of Penperro—or her daughter. I would swear my life on it!”

  “What are you going to do?” Mrs. Popple asked, seeming to catch on that there was more at play here than the simple joy of harassing Foweather. “There could be danger for you near the water, if you’re not wanting to bed down with the mermaid. You’d better beware.”

  Clever Mrs. Popple. If the mermaid was not a lure or distraction, then she could be used to frighten Foweather from his course. As long as he was stunned by his sighting, as long as they could keep him fascinated by the possibility that a mermaid lurked offshore, they might be able to either push or pull him where they pleased.

  “I cannot forget my duty, mermaid or no,” Foweather said, and raised his tankard with a shaking hand. In his voice there was an uncertainty that Tom had not heard before.

  The stage was all but set. All he needed now was the heroine.

  Chapter Six

  “You are ripping out your hair,” Hilde scolded. “Give me the comb.”

  Konstanze obeyed, and sat up straighter on the low stool before the coal fire in the sitting room. With Hilde’s help she had heated bathwater in the kitchen, and had sat in the shallow round tub that was shaped like an oversize saucer, washing the salt from her skin and hair. She wore her nightgown and wrapper now, and was soothed by the feel of Hilde’s hands at work on her hair. The only light came from the fire and from the candle that burned on a small table.

  She rocked gently against the pull of the comb through her damp hair, Hilde’s touch far lighter than what she had used on herself. It was a moment of such peace and comfort that she could almost forget the rest of the day.

  Almost.

  Hilde had been appalled to hear that she had swum in the ocean, and had spent a good half hour enumerating for her the dangers of such an activity, ranging from man-eating sharks to drowning to contracting a fever of the lungs. Any mention of the possible therapeutic effects of immersion in salt water were brushed away, for surely immersion and active swimming were two entirely different things.

  Konstanze did not dare tell her the rest of it, except to say that, thoroughly clothed, she had briefly spoken with Mr. Trewella while walking upon the headland, and received his assurances that her true name would be kept secret. When Hilde had asked her to describe Mr. Trewella, Konstanze had said only “dark” and “not old,” and then tried to change the subject. A mistake, to be sure, for Hilde’s hazel eyes had narrowed with suspicion, although she had said no more.

  Of course, Mr. Trewella had been filling her thoughts since the moment she had laid her hand on him in the dark. She felt a desperate urge to speak with him again, to try to amend the faulty impression of her that he could not help but have formed, but reason told her it would be no use. One could not amend having met a man while outdoors and naked. Not that indoors and naked would have been much better, but at least some excuse was conceivable.

  And what would be the use of amending the impression, anyway? Her sense of him was that he was gentleman enough to tell no one of their encounter, which meant there was no public reputation to be saved, so the only opinion she could wish to change was his. The reason for that was as clear to her as the amber of his uptilted eyes.

  Folly. It was pure folly and foolishness to give even a moment’s notice to a handsome man. It did not matter what he thought of her, because there was no possibility of anything respectable growing between them. Even building a friendship would be a pretense on her part, done only to gain more chances to drink in the contours of his face. After spending all those months with Bugg, fantasizing about handsome young men coming to rescue her, she could hardly trust herself when she encountered one in the wild.

  Men were not as women, her mother had repeatedly explained to her. They took a smile as an invitation to a kiss, and a kiss as an invitation to your bed, so it was best to keep one’s eyes averted and one’s smiles hidden lest intentions be misconstrued.

  Konstanze had no wish to take a man to her bed, even one as attractive as Mr. Trewella. She already knew what that was all about, and thought she could live out her life quite happily without it, thank you very much. It was the romance of simply being near and gazing upon such a specimen that was the temptation, and then down the slippery slope she would go, casting him smiles and getting herself into trouble. She was a woman separated from her husband, who swam naked and asked a smuggler to lie about her name. Mr. Trewella must think her terribly fast already, without her gazing calf-eyed at him as if in invitation.

  Someone knocked at the door. Konstanze jumped. Hilde’s hands froze on her hair.

  “Who’s that?” Hilde asked her.

  “I don’t know.”

  Hilde stood and gave her a patting shove on the back. “Go upstairs. You should not be seen so.”

  Konstanze stood, pulling the wrapper closed over her breasts, which were faintly visible through her sleeping chemise. “I’ll go in the kitchen.”

  Hilde nodded, waiting until she was out of sight before taking the candle and going to the door. “Ja? Who ist dere?” she asked through the door in her stilted English.

  “Tom Trewella, miss.”

  “Ah.” Hilde opened the door, holding up the candle and squinting. “Was fur einfescher Bursche!” she said in surprise, and Konstanze cringed just around the corner in the kitchen, praying that the educated Mr. Trewella did not speak German, and so did not know that Hilde had just declared him a decidedly fine-looking piece of manhood.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Vhat do you vant?”

  “Er, is Miss Penrose at home?” he asked.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Trewella,” Konstanze called from the kitchen. “Hilde, let him in,” she directed in German.

  She heard the maid grunt; then the door swung wide with a creak. Konstanze grabbed a large, fine wool shawl hanging from the peg near the back door and draped it over her wrapper in a way that covered her to a satisfactorily modest degree. She went back into the other room.

  Hilde and Mr. Trewella were both standing just inside the door, Mr. Trewella with his hat in his hand, ducking to avoid the low beams. Hilde frowned at her state of dishabille, but Konstanze warned her to be quiet with a slight emphatic widening of the eyes and jerked her head toward the long, high-backed oak settle.

  “Sit,” Hilde said to their guest, and gestured toward the settle. “You vant tea, eh?”

  “
Thank you, that would be most welcome,” he said, taking a seat and laying his hat on the bench beside him.

  “Be nice,” Konstanze whispered to Hilde as the maid stomped by on her way to the kitchen, handing her the candle as she went. Konstanze put on a smile for Mr. Trewella, and after setting the candle on the mantel went to sit in the shepherd’s chair opposite from him.

  “I seem to have disturbed you on your way to bed,” he said. “I do apologize.” He wrinkled his brow and sent a worried glance toward the kitchen, where the overloud and unnecessary clanging of pots could be heard. “I do not think your maid approves of my late visit.”

  “She is protective,” Konstanze said, enjoying the firelight playing on the edge of his features. She probably should have heeded Hilde’s direction to go—and stay—upstairs. She should at least have gotten dressed and put her hair in a cap, or she should have asked him to come back tomorrow, but at the sound of his voice all she’d been able to think was that she didn’t want him to leave before she could talk with him. She was at least more thoroughly covered in layers of cloth now than she would have been in one of her day dresses.

  “Then I am certain she will not like the reason I have come here.”

  Konstanze’s lips parted, her eyes widening. Was he going to make advances? Offer her a dishonorable arrangement? Her heartbeat quickened. She hadn’t expected him to want her that way, or at least not so quickly. She didn’t think she’d smiled so obviously at him, once they’d left the cave. She was surprised that Cornish men were so very forthright. Bugg had taken months to court her.

  “I have a proposition for you that I think in your present circumstances you might find beneficial.” Good gracious, here it was! She felt a flutter in her stomach, her breath coming more rapidly. She was being offered a place as his mistress, a kept woman. How did one respond? Should she be offended and slap him? Be polite and thank him, but decline? Of course she would decline, and explain how mistaken was his impression of her.

  In the space between one moment and the next she imagined him kneeling before her, one hand going beneath her shawl to lie against the side of her rib cage, just beneath her breast, the other reaching behind her neck, pulling her face down to his, his head tilting, amber eyes half closing, his lips—

  “It occurs to me that your husband, Mr. Bugg, may not have… ah… provided you with sufficient funds with which to take care of your needs during your separation.”

  Should she stop him now? But it would be presumptuous to decline before hearing him out. He might say she had misconstrued his offer, and then she would be the one looking the fool. She cocked her head, examining him. He did not look particularly overcome with desire for her. Perhaps, for all his forthrightness on the issue, he was better at hiding his animal desires than either Bugg or Bugg II.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Is that the case?” he asked. “Do you have enough money?”

  “I do not think that is any of your concern.”

  “I know I have no right to interfere in your life, but I truly do believe I can be of some assistance to you. My proposition, however, is somewhat shocking.”

  She was no longer certain she wanted to hear the actual words spoken. Whatever thrill or flattery she might get from hearing of his desire, it would likely be overwhelmed at the shame of his assumption that her favors were for sale. She did not want to hear him offer money for a place in her bed. It would be so embarrassing for them both.

  “Mr. Trewella, I think you have said quite enough. You will kindly leave now,” she said, and stood, her shawl grasped tightly in both hands. “Hilde! Show Mr. Trewella the door!”

  He looked up at her with confused startlement, and then his face cleared and he jumped to his feet, narrowly missing a beam with his dark head. “Miss Penrose, you’ve misunderstood me. I wasn’t trying to suggest that—”

  Just as she’d thought! He was trying to deny it!

  “Please, say nothing more. Go, and we won’t speak of this again.”

  Hilde appeared from the kitchen, frowning fiercely. “Ja, you go now.” She opened the door and stood beside it like a fierce medieval guard. “Go. Schnell!” When he made no move toward the door, Hilde began to march toward him.

  He held up his hands, palms out, in a gesture saying he meant no harm. Hilde kept advancing. Trewella gave Konstanze a desperate look, saying quickly, “I want to hire you to be a mermaid!”

  It took a moment for the word to make sense, but even then she couldn’t believe she had heard him right. “A mermaid?” she asked, confused.

  Hilde got a grip on his arm and began to haul him toward the door, his feet fumbling as he tried to find purchase against her impressive strength. “Foweather thinks he saw a mermaid today,” he said, desperation in his voice. “You.”

  “Hilde, stop,” Konstanze ordered.

  “I throw him out,” the maid said, still pulling.

  “No, wait.”

  Hilde reluctantly released Tom. He closed the door and gave a slight bow of the head to Hilde, then returned to the settle, sitting down once Konstanze had resumed her own seat.

  “Start from the beginning,” Konstanze said. She wanted to hear what this nonsense about being a mermaid was. He wanted her to play a part? Her? Inside she was cringing at the assumption she had made about being his mistress, but greater even than that embarrassment was curiosity about what he had to say.

  “Foweather returned to town telling everyone that he had seen a mermaid singing on the rocks. We have him all but convinced that this mermaid has come to shore in search of a husband. He’s fascinated by the idea, half afraid that she has set her sights on his own handsome self and intends to drag him off to her home beneath the waves. This is the first time I’ve seen him distracted from catching smugglers. If we had you to sing the role of mermaid at specific times, we could ensure that no one got caught and sent to jail.”

  “You could ensure that just as well by not smuggling,” she said.

  “You grew up here. You know that it is part of the way of life.”

  “If smugglers wish to avoid getting caught, perhaps they should rethink their way of life,” she said primly, in no mood to be sympathetic.

  “And do what instead?” he asked simply and without rancor. “What few pilchards have come this year cannot be sold to Italy, due to the war with France that has blocked off all trade through the Mediterranean. There’s a tax on salt that makes it nearly impossible for women to preserve enough of the pilchards to feed their own families. The farming has never been profitable, and few own their own land. What’s left but the mines, none of which are owned by the villages any longer and which do not offer wages to support a family? All a man has to look forward to there is an early death. The king may lose a bit of revenue to Cornish smuggling, but there are many here who would starve without it.”

  “I had no idea things were so bad,” Konstanze said softly, embarrassed by her own holier-than-thou statements. She looked around herself at the cottage. “My great-uncle, was that how he managed to survive?”

  “That cove where you swam is a good landing place. Goods would be hauled from there up to the barn.”

  Konstanze grimaced, visions filling her mind of revenue men searching the barn, finding a dozen casks of French brandy, and then hauling her off to jail. “Is that still going on?”

  “Not without your agreement, no.”

  “I could never give it,” she said quickly, the image of herself locked up in a damp, dark cell making her feel slightly ill. “I don’t want to end up in prison any more than you do.”

  “You wouldn’t be risking that as a mermaid. All you’d be doing is singing, and when was that ever considered breaking the law?”

  “I would be an accessory. I would be aiding smugglers.”

  “What judge would even listen to a case of a woman impersonating a mermaid? And who could ever prove it? Foweather would embarrass both himself and the Preventive Service if he ever made a statement ag
ainst you for such a thing.”

  “But the entire idea is ludicrous,” she said. “Get a local girl to do it, if you must have someone.”

  “One who can sing like you can? Not likely. Mogridge said you sang like an angel. I thought he exaggerated until I heard the tales that Foweather was telling.”

  She tried not to show it, but the compliments heard secondhand made her preen a bit. “I was trained at my boarding school in Switzerland, and then when I joined my mother she taught me. She made me promise never to go on the stage, though. She wanted me to lead a respectable life.” She looked at her guest, wondering exactly how far from respectable he considered her.

  “It’s not as if you would be standing on a stage, hundreds of pairs of eyes on you. You’ll be visible for only a few moments, and all the job will require is a bit of singing, and perhaps a bit of swimming here and there.”

  “You want me to swim, too?” No, no, not in a hundred years, not after today. “And I suppose I’d have to be naked except for a big fake tail and some pearls wound in my hair,” she said.

  “I hadn’t thought about the pearls. That would be a nice touch,” he said, and smiled charmingly.

  Did the man not even see how insulting he was? It was beyond humiliating that he thought he could pay her to bob around bare-breasted for the sake of misleading the sitter of the Preventive boat. That he thought of her that way—that she wasn’t just imagining it in another of her diverting daydreams—made her feel cold and sick. She wrapped her arms around her waist, wishing she had taken the time to dress. “I think you should leave now,” she said.

  “I warned you it was a shocking proposition. If you’d give yourself a minute to think on it—”

  “Leave, Mr. Trewella. I do not want you in my home.”

  He stared at her, his expression losing its cheery easiness. A nature far more determined and calculating showed itself now. “Let us be frank, Miss Penrose. We both know that you ran away from your husband, and that likely he is looking for you even as we speak.”