by Jane Jackson
She had every reason to be proud of herself. Charles knew most men of his acquaintance, achieving what she had, would be crowing like cocks on a dung heap. Yet she chose to continue living in a small terraced cottage and was on intimate terms with people whose station in life was far below hers. He had never met anyone like her.
At The Bell he ate steak and kidney pie washed down with a tankard of ale. Though he had achieved all he had come to do, instead of enjoying his success he felt restless, unable to relax.
Sending the boy to order his horse saddled, he collected his bag, paid the landlord, and set off back to Porthinnis.
Chapter Eight
Seated in the wheeled chair her husband Jared had made for her, Betsy lifted her baby daughter from the soapy water and into a warm towel. Watching her sister deftly turn the kicking baby on her lap, Jenefer fought the familiar yearning ache.
‘So, what did he come to Porthinnis for? This Mr Charles Polgray?’ Betsy asked, her eyes bright with interest, her face flushed from the warmth of the fire as she carefully dried Libby’s tiny toes.
Glancing up, Jenefer saw the same interest on Inez’s face as she refilled the big black kettle from an earthenware pitcher then bent to lay two more squares of dried turf on the glowing embers.
‘To inspect Pednbrose,’ she said, unable yet to tell them the other far more important reason: his plans for the harbour.
‘There can’t be much left for him to look at,’ Betsy said, catching a waving fist and kissing it as Libby chuckled. ‘And it’s certainly taken him long enough.’
‘I thought the same,’ Jenefer said. ‘Until he told me he hadn’t been able to come sooner because he was working abroad.’
Tipping her daughter over her forearm, Betsy patted her dry with the towel and gently rubbed damp blonde curls while Libby gurgled and reached for her toes. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense. What is he like? His appearance, his character?’
Hoping the glowing embers might explain the telltale heat in her cheeks, Jenefer lifted one shoulder. ‘He’s tall—’
‘How tall?’ Betsy interrupted.
Jenefer recalled facing broad shoulders and having to look up to meet his gaze. ‘A head taller than me. He has brown curly hair and grey-green eyes. His manners are excellent, his demeanour pleasant. Yet there is also a reserve about him.’ Too late she realized what she had said, and knew Betsy was certain to ask.
‘Reserved in what way?’ The towel stilled in Betsy’s hand. ‘I hope he has not taken it upon himself to pass judgement on your occupation and way of life’
‘Not at all,’ Jenefer smiled, touched by her sister’s readiness to spring to her defence. ‘At least, if he does hold critical thoughts he has been polite enough to keep them to himself. In truth, I was surprised at his lack of condemnation. No, it’s just’ – he took my hand − ‘his manner will suddenly change.’ She smiled and shrugged it off. ‘It may be that he is shy. Or simply has a lot on his mind. Did I mention he is employed in the family business?’ As Betsy and Inez exchanged a look charged with significance, she glanced from one to the other. ‘What?’
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’ Betsy’s eyes reflected the dancing flames. ‘Meeting you has thrown him into disarray.’
Jenefer’s heart kicked. ‘Why on earth would you suppose such a thing?’
‘Because you are special,’ Betsy said simply. ‘And I’m not saying that just because you are my sister. He will not have encountered anyone like you.’ She looked across at Inez. ‘What say you, Ma?’
Betsy’s absorption into her husband’s family had left Jenefer feeling even more solitary. Not that she resented it. Indeed, Betsy’s transparent happiness with Jared and loving relationship with his parents was a joy to behold. And had released her from a heavy responsibility.
‘Betsy’s right,’ Inez nodded, cutting thick slices from a fresh loaf.
Jenefer dismissed their words with a gesture. ‘You are both dreadful teases. As for his being in disarray as you put it, he demanded two jars of quince jam in payment for the fruit I’ve been picking.’ He had been teasing her. Yet he’d been serious about wanting the jam. ‘I’d say Mr Polgray’s primary interest is business. Though I will admit I do not know him well.’
Which wasn’t altogether true. She knew he was courteous without condescension; and able to laugh at himself – a rare attribute in a man. And if he sometimes appeared aloof, he was never arrogant.
One of the things she liked most about him was his refusal to make assumptions about her morals just because she lived alone without protection of chaperon or companion, and worked to support herself. But she could not tell Betsy that: not yet. Nor did she dare mention the deeper more powerful attraction she sensed beneath his curiosity: an attraction that mirrored her own feelings.
Betsy shook her head. ‘Jenefer, you are the cleverest woman I know. But in certain matters you are as blind as a bat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Has it not occurred to you that by requesting the jam he has an excellent reason to maintain contact?’
Of course it had. And the notion thrilled her. But she was wary of making assumptions, wary of hoping. She feared what she felt for him. It was too much too soon. Yet she hungered for more.
To her relief she heard male voices and the sound of footsteps. The back door opened and Jared entered followed by his father, both carrying that day’s catch in two large wicker baskets they dropped on the kitchen table.
‘Miss Jenefer,’ Jared nodded, then smiled at his wife as Libby raised chubby pink arms, her tiny fingers opening and closing as she demanded her father’s attention. ‘How’s my two best girls, then?’ Sweeping the baby up in his huge hands, Jared kissed her curly head.
‘Good afternoon, Jared, Mr Sweet,’ Jenefer rose from the stool.
‘All right, miss?’ Arf nodded to her.
Inez took plates and cups from the dresser behind her. ‘Put the baskets out the back kitchen, bird,’ she directed her husband. ‘If there’s mackerel I’ll souse them in vinegar with a few bay leaves, and salt the rest.’ She turned to Jenefer. ‘Stay and have a bite of tea with us, will you, miss?’
Jenefer knew the invitation was genuine, and that she would be made welcome. But the kitchen was crowded and she felt very much an outsider.
‘That’s very kind of you but I’d better get on home. I have work waiting.’ Stroking Libby’s downy cheek, she kissed Betsy, said her goodbyes, and left.
As she walked home she deliberately counted her blessings. Her days were full and she enjoyed the challenges each one brought. Yet seeing the loving look exchanged between Betsy and Jared, the easy affection between Arf and Inez, she was keenly aware of a void in her life. Something – someone − was missing.
Dusk was falling and the day’s warmth faded into autumn chill as Charles rode towards the village, weary in mind and spirit from the demands of the day. Trees arched overhead deepening the gloom as the track climbed towards the open moor. With luck he would reach The Standard before it was fully dark. Then tomorrow—
A white shape swooped silently across the track barely six feet in front of him. His horse squealed in fright and reared up. Thrown from the saddle, instinctively clinging to the rein to stop the animal bolting, Charles landed heavily and knocked his head against a rock.
He lay winded for a moment, the rein tight around his left hand while his horse stamped and snorted.
‘All right, boy. Steady now,’ he muttered. But as he climbed to his feet, stabbing pain in his right wrist made him gasp. Fighting nausea, blood pounding in his temple, he raised his right hand carefully to the lump above his right eyebrow and saw the dark wetness of blood on his fingertips. His head spun. His glove felt uncomfortably tight. If he didn’t remove it now, by the time he reached the inn it would have to be cut off.
Looping his left arm through the rein, he gritted his teeth and eased the soft leather from a hand that ached abominably. Moving slowly
he picked up his hat and led his horse along the track until he found a fallen tree trunk. Pain and the effort of remounting made him sweat. Sliding his injured hand carefully inside his buttoned coat for support he resumed his journey.
He remembered handing over his horse to the stable boy and walking into the inn. Tom Lawry, the landlord, appeared in the passage. Then everything went dark. When Charles regained his senses he was lying on his bed. He opened his eyes but the candlelight made the throbbing in his temple worse so he closed them again. His wrist felt as if sharp teeth were gnawing on the bones.
He heard footsteps, low voices. A chair scraped on the floorboards, a cool wet cloth bathed his forehead and temple. He winced and opened his eyes. The fog in his head gradually cleared.
‘Ah good. You’re awake, Mr Polgray. I’m Dr Avers.’
‘Why—?’
‘Am I here? Mr Lawry was concerned. Do you remember sustaining your injuries?’
‘An owl—’ Charles’s throat was dry, his voice hoarse. ‘My horse took fright. I was thrown.’ His breath hissed sharply as Avers probed his hand and wrist.
‘You were fortunate. I can feel no break. But the wrist has been badly sprained. Mrs Lawry will bind it for you. She is familiar with such injuries. I advise that you support it in a sling during the day.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I would not suggest it if I did not think so,’ Avers reproved. ‘Unless you keep it elevated and immobile the swelling will increase and healing will take longer.’
Charles levered himself up against the bed head. ‘Of course. I beg your pardon.’ With his left hand he gingerly explored a lump the size of a hen’s egg on one side of his forehead.
Avers put a small brown bottle on the nightstand. ‘This will ease the pain and allow you to sleep. Take three drops in a little water.’ He closed his bag and stood up.
‘My wrist,’ Charles said quickly. ‘How long—?’
‘That depends on you.’ Avers was brisk. ‘With rest and elevation perhaps ten days. But it may take longer. Good evening.’ He opened the door. ‘I will send my account in the morning.’
Charles slumped back as the door closed. This could not have happened at a more inconvenient time. With a dozen letters needing to be written how on earth was he to—
Jenefer Trevanion. She was already in his confidence: aware of his plans for the harbour. So who better? But with her own business to run, would she have the time, or the inclination, to help him? The urgency of his need to convince her made him realize that, while he genuinely needed her assistance to avoid losing valuable time on the project, the opportunity to spend more time with her was an equally powerful reason.
At ten the next morning he walked through the alley and into a sunny cobbled yard. The drops had helped him sleep and his headache had gone. Even the ache in his wrist had receded after the landlord’s wife bound it with a compress of thyme steeped in boiling water. This morning, after the boy helped him shave and dress, she had applied a fresh bandage dampened with witch hazel, and made a sling from a broad strip of linen.
These extras would be added to his account. He didn’t mind at all, relieved – and astonished – to be free of pain. But the prospect of depending on others for a week or more horrified him.
Passing the first two cottages he saw the top half of each front door was fastened back to let daylight and fresh air. As he approached Jenefer’s door, open like the others, his frustration evaporated, replaced by curiosity and a slight nervousness that surprised him. He was a grown man, not some dreamy-headed youth. But she was no ordinary young woman. He knocked gently on the wooden panels.
He heard her chair scrape the stone floor. Then she appeared, fresh and pretty in apple-green muslin and white kerchief; her honey-gold hair piled high.
‘Mr Polgray.’ Surprise widened her eyes. As she opened the lower half of the door he removed his hat. Her gaze flew from the sling to the swelling above his eyebrow. Concern replaced her smile of greeting. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘It’s not serious. More an inconvenience.’ Seeing ledgers open on the table, a list of names beside an unfinished letter and several others neatly folded and sealed, it occurred to him that his request would place even more weight on her shoulders. But whom else could he ask? Whom else could he trust? ‘You’re busy and I have interrupted you.’ He felt foolish for stating the obvious.
Instead of saying it didn’t matter which, while polite, would clearly not have been true, she stepped back. ‘Please, come in.’ Indicating the armchair beside the range she resumed her own seat, turning it to face him. ‘May I ask what happened?’
As he lowered himself into the chair he had the strangest sensation of setting down a burden so familiar he had forgotten how heavily it weighed. Gentle warmth emanated from the range and the kitchen smelled faintly of toast and hot chocolate. ‘A stupid accident. On my way back from Helston last evening an owl spooked my horse. I was thrown and hurt my wrist when I landed.’
‘It is not broken?’
He felt soothed by her concern. Had Eve ever truly cared for him? Or had her interest been just part of the charade? He realised it no longer mattered.
‘Fortunately not. Doctor Avers examined it last night.’ He saw no reason to mention his loss of consciousness. Such weakness made him feel foolish. ‘He says it is merely a bad sprain. Mrs Lawry wrapped it in a thyme compress which, I have to say, made it far more comfortable.’
‘She is very knowledgeable about such things. How long—?’
‘At least a week, maybe longer.’ As her forehead puckered in sympathy he continued, ‘It was my intention to write several letters today. All relate to the harbour and are urgent. As you see, I am unable to write. So I was hoping you might be willing to assist me.’ When she did not immediately reply he added quickly, ‘Naturally I would pay you for your time.’
As she looked away, booted feet approached and someone rapped on the door. Rising quickly she started towards the door as Will Prowse poked his head in.
‘Miss Trevanion? You home? Oh, beg pardon, miss.’ He snatched his cap off greasy hair that hung in lank locks around his ferret-like face, his narrowed glance darting from Jenefer to Charles and back. A smirk twisted his mouth. ‘Didn’t know you had company. I won’t keep you. I just been in the shop and as I was coming this way I told Hannah I’d bring you the list and the money.’
Jenefer held out her hand for the small drawstring bag. ‘Thank you, Mr Prowse.’ Despite the anger and dismay kindled by his knowing leer her voice remained cool. ‘But in future I would prefer that you leave it for me to collect.’ She did not want him coming to her door again for any reason.
‘Doing you a favour I was,’ he retorted, aggression bubbling to the surface. Behind her, Jenefer heard a soft sound as Charles Polgray rose from his chair. ‘Anyhow, seeing I’m here I may as well tell you. I aren’t happy. The Brague boys don’t have to pay nothing till after they’ve sold their cargo. And they do more runs, and bring back twice as much each time.’
Jenefer sighed. ‘Mr Prowse, the Brague boys are funded by a venturer.’ She wondered if he knew the money behind one of the biggest smuggling operations in the area came from local landowner and corrupt justice, Sir Edward Pengarrick. ‘The fact that Mr Lukis is willing to give a ten per cent discount for cash with the order means the villagers get more for their money. But they can’t afford more than one run a month. No one is preventing you from trading on your own account.’ She watched his lips compress in bitter frustration.
‘You know I can’t, not without a backer.’
‘If you wish to join the Brague men – and they are willing to have you – then feel free to do so. I’m sure I’ll be able to find another boat—’
‘No need to be like that,’ he broke in quickly. ‘I was only saying—’
‘That you could obtain French lace at a special price? Miss Laity wasn’t tattling on you, Mr Prowse. We were discussing another matter when she happened to
mention your offer.’
His sharp features reddened and he looked away. ‘Trying to help, that’s all.’
‘Of course you were,’ she replied without expression. ‘However, I think it most unlikely your supplier – whoever he may be – could improve on Mr Lukis’s price, quality, or range of merchandise. So—’
‘All right! You don’t need to go on about it.’ Reaching inside his coat he pulled out a grubby handkerchief knotted in one corner. As he pulled the knot loose, coins and a small piece of folded paper fell into his hand. He thrust them at her. ‘That’s what she gived me.’
‘You asked her for payment in advance, Mr Prowse?’
His small eyes glittering, his flushed face tight with anger, he turned and stomped away.
Placing the bag, money and folded paper on the table, Jenefer returned to her chair. ‘I apologize for the interruption.’
Charles resumed his seat. ‘I have no desire to alarm you, Miss Trevanion, but if that man sees an opportunity to do you harm, he’ll take it.’
Having braced herself for questions or criticism, Jenefer was startled. ‘Fortunately our paths rarely cross, so—’
‘I don’t mean physical injury. He’s too much of a coward. But his dissatisfaction is obvious. And you caught him out. That is something he will neither forget not forgive.’
Tempted for an instant to make light of his warning she felt uneasy as she recognized the truth in what he said. ‘Fortunately I have very little to do with him.’
‘May I ask how the business is arranged?’
‘Any villagers who want to invest in a cargo take a list of what they want, and the money to pay for it, to Hannah.’
‘Why her?’
‘For convenience. Everyone uses the shop. It’s in the centre of the village. She’s happy to do it and I am spared constant interruptions. A few days before a run I collect the list, bank the money in Helston and mail a copy of the list and the bank receipt to Mr Lukis in Guernsey. I give another copy of the list to Will Prowse just in case the mail is delayed or goes astray.’
