by Jane Jackson
Up since daybreak making a copy of the drawings and detailed list of all the costs, Charles planned to post them to Mr Daniell at the Cornish Bank in Truro with his request for an appointment. The task had taken longer than expected because his thoughts continually strayed to Jenefer Trevanion.
Meeting her at Trescowe he had been misled by her drab coat and plain bonnet. Within minutes he had realized his mistake. Initially reserved, matching his skill at deflecting questions she was not willing to answer, she was surprisingly free of artifice. Devoid of coyness and making no attempt to flatter, she possessed a quick dry wit he found captivating. He had never met anyone like her. Each time he saw her the magnetic attraction between them strengthened. She felt it too. He read it in her eyes, saw it in her heightened colour.
This was not the time. Propping his elbows on the table he pushed his hands through his hair then rubbed his face. Inconvenient it certainly was, but it had happened and he could not wish otherwise. Meeting her was a precious gift: one to be protected at all costs.
A knock on the door made him look up. ‘Come in.’
The door opened and the maid entered carrying a large jug of hot water and fresh towels. Putting them on the washstand she bobbed a curtsy and hurried to the door.
‘Kindly tell the groom to have my horse saddled. I’ll be down in half an hour.’
‘Sir.’
Washed and shaved, he put on a clean shirt and neckcloth, fawn pantaloons and gleaming boots, buttoned his waistcoat, and shrugged into a brown tailcoat. Packing all he needed for an overnight stay into a saddle-bag, he picked up his hat and clattered downstairs.
Riding hard, he arrived in Helston two hours later. He left his horse at The Bell and walked up the street to his attorney’s office.
‘Good morning, Steven.’ Charles dropped his hat on one corner of a large oak desk on which papers and documents tied with red ribbon were arranged in neat piles.
‘Charles, my dear fellow.’ Steven Vincent rose from his chair and leaned across the desk to shake hands before resuming his seat. ‘Do sit down. This is most fortuitous. I was about to write to you.’
Crossing one leg over the other, Charles pulled off his gloves. ‘You’ve drawn up the necessary documents for the new company?’
Steven reached for one of the folders bound with ribbon. He looked up, his expression concerned. ‘You’re aware you’ll need Samson Kerrow’s signature?’
Charles nodded. ‘I do not relish the meeting, but it cannot be avoided.’
‘Unfortunately I doubt you will find him in his office. One of my clerks informed me that according to Gilbert Voss, Mr Kerrow’s man of business, Mr Kerrow claims to be suffering congestion of the lungs.’
Charles blew a sigh. ‘Then I must call on him at home.’
Steven hesitated. ‘Do you think, given the current situation, you will persuade him to sign?’
Charles’s smile was bleak. ‘Samson Kerrow is a businessman to his bones. Balance sheets are his preferred reading. He cannot fail to recognize how much money will be saved by moving our business from Hayle, not to mention the potential revenue from increased trade as a result of expanding the harbour.’
‘I hope you are right. You know him better than I.’
‘I thought I did,’ Charles murmured.
‘Will you stay here in town tonight?’
‘If I must.’ He rose to his feet. ‘As soon as I have his signature on the documents, I will go directly to Barton’s and transfer funds to the new company.’
‘Charles, while you are with Mr Kerrow will you try to find out when he plans to return to the office? It is four weeks since he last put in an appearance. Mr Voss is feeling the weight of responsibility, especially as the Porthinnis expansion requires you to be absent from the office as well. Do not be anxious,’ Steven added quickly. ‘Gilbert Voss is a most able man, and utterly trustworthy. But I believe he would sleep better if he knew there was an end in sight.’
‘Wouldn’t we all?’ Unable to keep still, Charles walked to the window. He ought not to see her, not until he was free. But that was impossible. The expansion had to be underway before winter storms arrived. And for that to happen he needed help only she could provide. He forced his thoughts back to the matter in hand. ‘Does Mr Voss have a particular concern?’
Steven nodded. ‘The engine dues. Though they were halved during the worst of the depression to keep as many mines as possible in work, now the price for copper ore is climbing again Boulton & Watt want the dues increased as well so they can recoup the money they are owed.’
‘I’ll be sure to mention it to Samson. Clearly we cannot refuse an increase. But we might be able to negotiate on both the rate and timing.’ Returning to the table he reached for his hat. ‘At least both our mines continued in work. Those that shut down and were allowed to fill with water will need weeks, maybe months, of pumping out. That means rising expenses and no income for their investors.’ Reluctant to ask, dreading the answer, he braced himself. ‘Steven, about the annulment—’
‘No word as yet. I did warn you it might take several months.’
‘I know. But that was in June and we’re almost into October. I need it ended.’ Tempted for an instant to tell his friend the reason, he clamped his lips together. He trusted Steven absolutely. But confiding would be self-indulgence. Besides, he had given his word. Others might break promises: he would not.
Eve’s treachery had hit him hard, shaking his confidence and battering his pride. He had dealt with both by throwing himself into work. Steven’s reminder of his inheritance, and their visit to Porthinnis which confirmed the harbour ripe for expansion, had been a happy coincidence.
His decision to base himself in the village made economic and practical sense. He had certainly not expected – would never have imagined – but within half an hour of meeting Jenefer Trevanion he knew. She was everything. He had been missing her and not even known it.
Fighting a powerful urge to smash something, he paced, slapping his gloves against his thigh. ‘Damn it, how much longer? I am the victim in this whole wretched mess. Eve married me knowing she was carrying another man’s child. Those are unequivocally grounds for annulment. Why should it be taking so long?’
Having to write in detail about how he had been deliberately duped and used by people he trusted, people he had known all his life, had been one of the hardest things he had ever done.
A proud man, he knew his was no false pride, but justified by achievements attained through his own hard work. The knowledge that in reading the story of his ill-fated marriage other men would judge him a blind fool was hard to stomach. Yet how could he have known?
‘There is always—’
‘No.’ Charles was shaking his head before Steven had finished. ‘No divorce. Quite apart from the fact that it would require an Act of Parliament and cost a fortune, I gave Samson my word. Not for his sake,’ he added before Steven could speak, ‘or to protect Eve and her mother.’ His stomach tightened as remembered shock and painful memories surged through him like a breaking wave.
Sweat dampened his skin. He fought the flash of rage and burning self-reproach at his own part in the terrible charade. He could have – should have – taken time to know his own mind instead of yielding to the demands of his body. But Eve had seduced him with an irresistible blend of innocence and guile. And, fool that he was, he had believed.
Experienced with women, he had never lost his heart. Never, since his mother’s death when he was nine years old, experienced affection inspired by genuine love. He had assumed Eve’s deliberate closeness, the frequent brush of her fingers against his, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she made some point, signalled true affection. Solitary for too long, he had fallen into the trap.
‘But Susan had no part in it. Divorce might afford me revenge, but it would destroy her life. She’s not yet eighteen and was away at school when I returned from Mexico. The inevitable scandal would wreck all hope of her making a goo
d marriage. I cannot do that.’ His gesture betrayed both anger and helplessness. ‘I just want the whole sordid episode erased as if it had never been. So’ − he sucked in a deep breath − ‘If I must, I’ll wait.’
Steven nodded. ‘I’m sure Susan will appreciate—’
‘I would prefer she never know.’
‘Shall I send a letter enquiring about progress? It can do no harm, and may possibly speed the matter.’
‘I would appreciate it.’
Charles walked briskly down the hill and up Church Street, hoping the exercise would rid him of tension that lay like a yoke across his shoulders. He turned left onto the tree-shaded thoroughfare of Cross Street. Lawyers, bankers and businessmen like Samson Kerrow had built homes here, the grandeur of their houses displaying their power and status.
Number 5, known as the Great Office, housed several banks, one run by Edward Barton on whom Charles planned to call as soon as he had Samson’s signature on the documents.
The maid who opened the door to him flushed scarlet as she bobbed a curtsy.
‘Is Mr Kerrow at home?’ Charles enquired.
‘Yes, sir. He’s in his study. Got some awful cough he have. But he won’t stay over stairs.’
‘And Mrs Kerrow?’
‘Out, sir. She and Miss Susan have gone to see—’ She stopped suddenly, her colour deepening.
‘Friends?’ Charles suggested, sorry for the girl despite the sting of knowing his private business was servants’ gossip.
‘Yessir.’ She hurried ahead of him, almost running, and knocked on the study door.
‘What?’ Samson’s growl ended in a fit of coughing.
‘You can go now,’ Charles told the maid. As she scuttled away he opened the door and was met by a gust of warm stale air.
‘Charles!’ Seated in an armchair by the fire with a plaid blanket over his knees, Samson Kerrow wore a banyan of quilted maroon with gold buttons and a maroon velvet cap. He was pale and lined, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He leaned forward as if to get up.
‘No,’ Charles waved him back. ‘Stay where you are.’
Samson slumped against the cushions, clearly relieved to be spared the effort. ‘My dear fellow, it is such a pleasure to see you. I had so much hoped you might – and now here you are. I can’t tell you how glad— Madeleine and Susan are out but will be back soon. Then perhaps—’
‘This is not a social call,’ Charles interrupted, averting his gaze from the hope and desperation on Samson Kerrow’s haggard face. Had he desired revenge, the sight of this broken man must surely have satisfied it.
‘I am here about a company matter. Had you been in your office I should not have needed to trouble you at home.’
‘I’ve not been well.’ Samson’s struggle for breath triggered a coughing fit: a wet gurgle that sounded as if he were drowning.
‘You’ve had the doctor?’
Samson nodded, indicating several small dark bottles on the round table beside his chair. ‘For all the good he does.’ His eyes opened. ‘But seeing you—’
‘As I said,’ Charles cut him short, refusing to be manipulated; he’d had his fill of emotional blackmail. ‘I am here on a company matter. No doubt you will recall your frequent insistence that personal matters must never be allowed to interfere with business?’ He watched Samson’s gaze slide away. ‘You cannot have failed to notice that using Hayle harbour for our import and export trade is costing the company money we can no longer afford.’
Samson shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m not well. Voss is perfectly capable—’
‘Indeed he is,’ Charles snapped. ‘He has kept the office running and shouldered responsibilities that should not have been asked of him. This is grossly unfair and cannot continue. If you intend retiring then we must seek a new partner.’
Samson sat bolt upright. ‘I never said I was retiring. I’ve been ill.’
‘That is my point. The Cornish end of the business will not run itself.’
‘But you can—’
‘No, I can’t. A new project means that for the foreseeable future I shall be working elsewhere.’
‘What new project? I knew nothing of this.’ Resting his elbows on the chair arms, Samson gripped the plaid blanket. His narrowed gaze was bright and sharp.
‘Only because you have not bothered to read your mail, or the reports Mr Voss has been sending you. Please,’ − Charles raised a hand before Samson could speak − ‘you have already claimed illness as your excuse. Yet far from being confined to bed, I find you dressed and sitting by a fire.’ He paused. ‘Clearly you are not dying. You merely have a cough.’
Twin patches of dull red replaced Samson’s pallor. His tongue snaked out to moisten dry cracked lips. ‘I could not go down there. I could not face— Charles, I swear to you by everything I hold dear, I didn’t know.’ He gestured helplessly. ‘When I did find out, you and Eve were already married.’
‘And that is supposed to make me feel better?’ Charles turned away, fighting for calm, angry at his loss of control. Rage achieved nothing. It merely wasted energy. He took a slow deep breath then turned.
‘As I was saying, I have been seeking an alternative to Hayle for our trade. Porthinnis is a small harbour and village on the eastern side of Mounts Bay. These are the drawings and an estimate of costs for the work required.’ Drawing up a low table, he unfolded the drawings on it. Immediately Samson leaned forward, frowning in concentration as he examined them.
‘My attorney has already secured a twenty year renewable lease from the Berkeleys who own the harbour and land behind it,’ Charles continued. ‘With Porthinnis so much closer to our mines, the transport costs will be less than half what they are now.’
Samson glanced up. ‘The voyage to Wales will take two days longer.’
Charles nodded. ‘Yes, but additional cargoes traded through the port will more than compensate.’ Unfastening the ribbon he opened the folder. ‘To protect Kerrow & Polgray, I propose setting up a separate company for the Porthinnis project. My attorney has prepared all the necessary documents. All that’s needed is your signature.’
Sitting back, Samson looked up at him. ‘How do you intend to fund it?’
Charles set a sheet in front of him. ‘That is my estimate of the overall cost. It includes construction of the new road, alterations to the harbour, and working capital to keep us going until we start generating revenue. I’m looking for fifty per cent from Kerrow & Polgray.’
Sucking air through his teeth, Samson shook his head. ‘Forty is more—’
‘Not enough,’ Charles snapped. ‘Forty-five is the minimum if we are to maintain overall control.’
Samson squirmed then gave a reluctant nod. ‘All right. Forty-five it is. Where will you raise the rest?’
‘From Mr Ralph Daniell in Truro.’
‘Guinea-a-minute Daniell? He’s a hard man.’
‘And this is an excellent proposition.’ Fetching an inkstand and pen from the bureau, Charles opened the lid and offered the pen.
Slumping back in his chair, Samson gestured weakly. ‘All this – I’m tired. Leave the papers with me tonight. You can come back in the morning.’ His gaze met Charles’s and skittered away. He swallowed. ‘Eve is in a terrible state—’
‘Don’t!’ Charles warned. ‘Had I brought this proposal to you four months ago, you would have signed immediately and sent me on my way. I expect no less now.’
Samson’s face flushed crimson. After a moment’s silence he raised his eyes. Seeing how encroaching age, illness, and the weight of guilt had taken their toll, Charles felt fleeting pity for a man he had once respected. But it was swiftly gone leaving only bitterness, anger and disgust.
For twelve years he had worked hard learning every aspect of the business. He travelled wherever the company needed him, earning a reputation for finding solutions to problems that would otherwise have proved costly. Samson had never made any secret of his hope that one day, when Eve was old enough, sh
e and Charles would marry. So who better to solve Eve’s little problem and ensure there was no scandal?
Had they really believed he would not find out? And that if he did, that he would simply accept being made a fool of? Do nothing?
Refusing to acknowledge the depth of his hurt for that was weakness and they were not worth it, he proffered the pen once more and pointed.
‘I know, I know,’ Samson was testy. ‘I’m not in my dotage yet.’ The pen scratched as he scrawled his signature on each of the papers placed in front of him.
‘I’m delighted to hear it. No doubt Mr Voss will be equally pleased. I’ll tell him he may expect you back in the office very soon.’
‘I need a few more days.’ Thumping his chest Samson coughed.
‘The end of next week?’
‘If I must,’ Samson muttered.
Checking the ink was dry Charles gathered the documents and drawings into the folder and retied the ribbon.
‘Stay and have a bite of dinner with me,’ Samson urged.
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Then at least take a glass of brandy. Surely you can spare time for that? To toast the success of the new company?’
Shaking his head Charles picked up his hat and gloves. ‘I told you this was not a social call.’
‘Go, then,’ Samson snarled. ‘Get about your business if it’s so important.’
Charles bit his tongue, refusing to be drawn. He had lost too much to this family. He would not sacrifice his dignity to angry argument. ‘Good day to you.’
He closed the door on the sound of a muffled sob. Was it prompted by regret or by frustration at his refusal to forgive? He would never know and could not bring himself to care.
Chapter Seven
Wearing a short jacket of dark-green velvet and a matching hat over her gown of primrose muslin, Jenefer reached in to knock on the open upper half of the two-part door common to many cottages in the village.
