by Jane Jackson
Taken to Heart
JANE JACKSON
Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
By the Same Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Riding a sturdy brown gelding borrowed from the landlord of The Standard, Jenefer Trevanion rode along the track leading out of the village and up onto the moor. Over her gown of peach muslin she wore a long plain coat of yellow-brown linen fastened with a single button. A simple straw bonnet shaded her eyes from the sun.
She glanced towards the headland and the fire-blackened ruins of her old home. At the time she had believed her feelings of loss and dislocation would remain with her always. Instead, three years on, she felt part of the village in a way she never had while living at Pednbrose.
As the gelding plodded on she gazed down onto Porthinnis, so pretty in the late September sunshine. Whitewashed cottages and small houses built of local stone clustered around the small harbour. Larger more elegant properties were dotted over the hillside. Some stood alone, others in rows of two or three, comfortably removed from the noise and smells of the fishing fleet.
The occupants of those houses, the village’s polite society, never missed an opportunity to shake their heads at how low she had sunk. Why, when she could easily afford to move, did she choose to live in a poky cottage behind the village pump? They were unable, or unwilling, to accept the simple truth. She was happy there.
But behind the picturesque façade the village was struggling for survival. Following two seasons of huge shoals, this year’s pilchard catches had been disastrous. Were it not for the brandy, tea, tobacco and salt – goods the wealthy took for granted – smuggled in then sold on at a small profit, many families would be facing destitution.
Before the war with France, salt to preserve a winter’s supply of pilchards cost three shillings and sixpence: a man’s weekly wage. Now the price was twenty-one shillings and still rising. How, Jenefer wondered, could the government justify a tax that forced a man either to break the law or starve?
She shook her head, deliberately setting aside both her angry frustration and all thoughts of invoices, account ledgers and the inevitable battle she would have with Will Prowse when she demanded the money he owed Mr Lukis, the Guernsey merchant who supplied the goods.
This afternoon she was free of it all. She shortened the reins and pressed her half boot against the gelding’s side. His ears pricked as he surged forward in a canter.
Reaching the top of the moor she reined in, her blood racing and her quickened heartbeat making her feel gloriously alive. She vowed to do this more often. She was her own mistress and answerable to no one. For now.
Ahead of her lay a wide shallow valley. Weeks of dry sunny weather had ripened the crops and harvest was underway. In fields bordered by granite hedges, and swathes of land reclaimed from the moor, men moved in ragged lines, cutting oats, barley and wheat. Women followed, binding the cut grain into sheaves. Children ran across the stubble carrying the sheaves to be stacked in round arrish mows: cut ends out, so that should it rain the ears would be protected.
Taking the fork that led through purple heather and gorse bushes laden with fragrant butter-yellow blossom to Trescowe, she caught sight of a donkey cart ahead of her. Recognizing the familiar figure of Mrs Gillis perched on the seat she fought disappointment.
Instead of a delightful hour spent catching up with Tamara’s news and playing with her toddler son, courtesy would demand she sit and listen while Mrs Gillis gushed about her daughter’s marital bliss and made pointed remarks about the misfortune of being five-and-twenty and still unmarried.
Jenefer didn’t blame Tamara, who hated her mother’s crowing but was powerless to stop it. She even understood Mrs Gillis’s relief that Tamara’s wildness had been tamed. But today she was in no mood to be patronized or pitied. She would call on Roz instead.
Trotting along the drive she guided her hack into the stable yard. As a lad hurried out, she unhooked her leg from the U-shaped horn on the side-saddle and slid to the ground. Politely raising a finger to his cap, he caught the bridle.
‘Is Mrs Casvellan at home?’ Jenefer asked, ruefully aware of the thick layer of dust dulling her tan boots and wafting from the hem of her coat as she shook out her skirts.
‘In ’er ’erb garden, miss.’ The lad pointed. ‘Loosen ’is girth and give ’n some water shall I?’
‘Thank you.’ Jenefer smiled at him. ‘He would enjoy an apple or a carrot if you have one to spare.’
With a blush that turned the back of his neck scarlet, the boy led the horse away.
Walking through a stone archway, Jenefer paused at the gravelled path surrounding the house. Beyond a low box hedge Roz, wearing rose pink, a white lawn kerchief about her shoulders and a frilled cap on her dark hair, walked slowly between neat beds of herbs, bending every now and then to pick a few sprigs and drop them in the shallow basket she carried.
Observing the once painfully thin figure ripened now by motherhood and happiness, Jenefer experienced a sharp pang of envy. She smothered it quickly. For her, domestic bliss demanded too high a price.
As she started forward, her boots crunching the gravel, Roz glanced round and a smile of welcome lit her face.
‘Jenefer, what a lovely surprise!’
‘I hope it is not inconvenient. It was my intention to call first on Tamara, then come here. But I saw Mrs Gillis ahead of me.’
‘Ah.’ They exchanged a glance of shared understanding. ‘I saw Tamara this morning and she was saying she hoped you would visit soon. She misses you.’
‘And I miss her. But—’
‘You don’t need to explain.’ Roz laid a gentle hand on Jenefer’s arm. ‘We both understand how busy you are. She would happily ride or drive to the village, but with her confinement just weeks away I cannot blame Devlin for asking her not to.’
Jenefer’s brows arched. ‘Devlin asked?’
Roz nodded, amusement dancing in her eyes. ‘He understands her so well. Had he forbidden, she would have defied him. But because he made a request she is perfectly content to agree.’
‘Where’s Enor?’ Jenefer glanced round.
‘She went up for her nap just ten minutes ago, protesting loudly. But Mary has the measure of her.’ Roz listened, her head on one side. ‘I hear no screams so she is probably asleep.’ She looped her arm through Jenefer’s. ‘Come, we will go inside and have a glass of lemonade.’
‘That sounds wonderful. My throat is parched from the dust. But it is excellent weather for the harvest.’
They crossed the gravel, walked up two shallow steps and entered a pretty sitting room through open French windows. A carpet patterned in pink, cream and jade covered much of the gleaming wood floor. Small rosewood tables with scalloped edges flanked two sofas upholstered in jade damask. An open bureau stood against one wall. Sunshine streamed through long windows framed by curtains of cream linen held back by braided silk ropes.
‘I do like this room,’ Jenefer said, as Roz set her basket on the carpet and tugged the bell-pull by the mantelpiece. ‘It feels so tranquil.’
Roz laughed. ‘You would not think so if m
y daughter were here.’
The door opened and a maid appeared.
‘A jug of lemonade if you please, Amy. And some strawberry shortcake.’ As the maid bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, closing the door, Roz sat on the sofa, patting the seat beside her. ‘The shortcake is a bribe. I want all your news. Has Mr Ince proposed yet?’
Loosening the ribbons, Jenefer took off her bonnet and tucked it behind her. ‘No, but he is becoming very attentive so I fear he may do so soon.’
‘Fear?’ Roz’s brows lifted.
Jenefer nodded. ‘I am still no clearer in my mind what I should do. I have spent long enough in his company to be certain he is a decent, honest man. Not at all like— ‘She broke off.
‘Oh my dear,’ Roz sympathized.
‘If I allow Martin’s deceit to colour my outlook with bitterness or mistrust the only person to suffer will be me. I know that,’ Jenefer blew a sigh. ‘For goodness’ sake, it was three years ago, and best forgotten.’
‘So easy to say, but so hard to do,’ Roz said softly.
‘You always understand,’ Jenefer said.
From what I know of him, Mr Ince is a man of excellent principles.’ Taking Jenefer’s hand Roz held it between hers. ‘The school is a perfect example. Faced with so many objections and setbacks a lesser man would have given up.’
Jenefer looked down at their clasped hands. ‘He lost weight from the stress of it all. But he refused to concede defeat. And not once did he lose his temper.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have that kind of faith, Roz.’
‘Surely he would not expect it of you? The church is his calling, not yours.’
‘Yes, but so much is required of a clergyman’s wife.’
‘All of it well within your capability,’ Roz said gently. ‘Think of the advantages.’
‘Of being married to William? Or simply being married?’
‘Are they not one and the same?’
‘Believe me I have thought, considered, weighed. My mind is a battleground.’ Aware of the strain in her voice, she forced a smile and spoke lightly. ‘Being an object of pity is very irritating.’
‘Yes, well, we need not concern ourselves with the opinions of Mrs Gillis and her cronies.’ Roz’s tone was uncharacteristically crisp.
The door opened and the maid came in. She set the tray on the table in front of Roz. ‘Anything else, ma’am?’
‘No thank you, Amy. Is all quiet?’
The maid grinned. ‘Not a sound, ma’am.’
‘The problem is,’ Jenefer continued, as the door closed, ‘I have grown used to my way of life. I enjoy my independence. If I accept William’s proposal I must forfeit that. He would take control of all my money. And before you say anything, I have no fear of his gambling or drinking it away. Nor would I mind so much if it had come to me as a dowry or an inheritance. But this is money I worked hard for, Roz. William is already pressing me to sever my connections with the Guernsey merchants.’
‘But he still wants you to continue working at the school?’
‘Oh yes. Because that’s his creation, and an acceptable occupation for a lady.’ Jenefer shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. You must be bored to sobs.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Roz handed her a glass of lemonade. ‘You are my very dear friend and this is the most important decision of your life.’
‘Perhaps so. But I shall not resolve this afternoon. And we should remember that this is all speculation, for he has not asked me yet.’ She shrugged. ‘He may never do so. Though I will say this, if William loved me the way your husband loves you, and Devlin loves Tamara, I would have no dilemma.’
Roz cradled her glass between her palms, her cheeks pink, her eyes shining. ‘I am so very, very lucky.’
‘Then perhaps there is hope for me yet,’ Jenefer said lightly, raising the glass to her lips. As the tart liquid slid down her dry throat, she tried to imagine William Ince looking at her the way she had seen Casvellan look at Roz. When the picture would not form she knew it was time to talk of other things.
She lowered the glass to her lap. ‘You asked for news? I only wish I had some. My neighbour Lizzie Clemmow did rush back from the shop this morning to tell me two strangers have been seen down at the harbour.’
‘Surely with trading brigs calling once a week—’
‘Ah, but these were not sailors. According to Lizzie, who had it from Hannah Tresidder, they were gentlemen. And were observed taking measurements which one of them noted in a book. Lizzie was most put out that I could offer no explanation. When I reminded her I have not set foot over my doorstep for days—’
‘Oh Jenefer, think of your health.’
‘Why? It is excellent, truly. Yes, sometimes I am very busy. But at other times I am free to come and burden my friends.’
‘Have some shortbread,’ Roz said drily, offering the plate.
Taking a piece Jenefer bit into it, enjoying the contrast between buttery crumb and sweet-sharp fruit. ‘This is delicious.’
‘Taking measurements,’ Roz mused. ‘For what purpose I wonder? My husband might know. He is engaged at the moment with Mr Polgray. But when—’
‘Polgray?’ Jenefer interrupted, stiffening.
‘Yes, why? Do you know him?’
Jenefer shook her head. ‘No. But if his name is Charles Polgray he is the new owner of Pednbrose. The property was entailed to him on my father’s death.’
‘Then how is it you have never met? Surely he came to pay his respects?’
‘Not to me. Nor to Betsy and Jared, for my sister would have been sure to tell me. To the best of my knowledge he has never set foot in the village.’
‘Perhaps he intends calling on you later.’
‘But why come here first?’ Jenefer puzzled. ‘What business could he possibly have with—? Of course: the famous Casvellan stud. They will be discussing horses.’
Standing shoulder to shoulder with his host, Charles Polgray pointed to a section of the drawing spread over the large oak desk.
‘The extension to the western quay will offer additional protection to the harbour entrance and permit two vessels at a time to be unloaded.’ He indicated the row of buildings along the back quay. ‘With more cargo coming through the harbour in both directions obviously there will be a need for additional storage.’
‘And this?’ Casvellan tapped his finger on an area west of the quay extension.
Charles took a steadying breath, mentally bracing himself. This was an idea that had come to him during yet another sleepless night.
‘Porthinnis has much to recommend it as a port, but the harbour is currently vulnerable to south-westerly gales. I propose to construct a freestanding mole fifty yards to the seaward side of the new quay extension. You will see that in cross section the mole resembles a triangle with the top cut off. The shallow sloping sides will absorb the power of the storm waves thus protecting the quay from damage.’
Casvellan was studying the drawing intently. ‘My compliments, Mr Polgray. It is an ingenious idea. However, all this work will require a considerable labour force. Where do you propose to find the men?’
‘From the village and surrounding area.’ Charles met Casvellan’s penetrating blue eyes. ‘The pilchard catch has been disastrous this year. Every time fishermen put to sea they are at risk from press gang boats. And mine closures have thrown scores of men out of work. I’d hazard a guess that, even as we speak, many of them are helping with the harvest to earn enough to feed their families. But when harvest ends so does their money. By that time I should be ready to begin construction and will employ any man willing to work.’
‘I am impressed, Mr Polgray.’
Charles nodded, accepting the compliment as his due. Since seeing the harbour and recognizing its potential he had been working eighteen hours a day. Branoc Casvellan was renowned throughout the county. Now in his mid-thirties he had been the local justice before retiring to concentrate on developing new farming methods and expanding his stud. His backing wo
uld carry weight with other investors.
Indicating a chair on the far side of his desk, Casvellan sat down. ‘This development will greatly increase the amount of traffic to and from the harbour. How do you propose to deal with it?’
‘By building a new road.’ Charles leaned forward to indicate another area on the drawing. ‘Commencing at the rear of back quay, between the lime kiln and the boatyard belonging to Mr John Gillis, it will cross this area of waste ground to form a new junction with the main road outside the village. By restricting all heavy wagons and pack animals to this road, the village centre will be kept free of traffic to and from the harbour.’
While Casvellan studied the drawing, Charles crossed one booted leg over the other, brushing a streak of dust from his fawn pantaloons. He wanted this development. Needed it. Not just for the financial rewards, though they would be considerable. Nor even for the acclaim that would accompany achievement. He wanted a project that would totally absorb him, leave him no time to brood. By moving into the village he would be available to deal immediately with any problems. Only his father and his attorney knew where he was.
As Casvellan’s dark head was still bent over the drawing, Charles allowed his gaze to wander. The panelled walls, glass-fronted bookcases and large desk gave the room a decidedly masculine ambience, unexpectedly softened by a life-sized portrait of a dark-haired young woman.
A soft smile played at the corners of her mouth. But at whom was she gazing with those luminous eyes? What secrets lurked in their depths? How many lies had spilled from that smiling mouth?
He averted his gaze, appalled by this crack in his armour.
‘My wife.’ Casvellan’s voice held pride and deep affection.
Charles’s shirt clung damply to his back beneath the striped waistcoat and long-tailed frock coat of blue cloth. Perspiration prickled on his upper lip as shame surged through him. He cleared his throat. Clearly some comment was called for. Should he compliment the artist, or praise the beauty of the sitter?
‘It is very lovely.’
‘It does not do her justice.’ Casvellan gazed at the picture oblivious to his guest’s disquiet. ‘She was reluctant to sit at all; her agreement conditional upon my remaining with her.’
