Taken to Heart

by Jane Jackson

  He had moved to Porthinnis to put distance between himself and the people who had misused him. His sole purpose had been to expand the harbour and increase Kerrow & Polgray’s trading profits. Nowhere had women figured in his plans.

  Innate honesty forced him to acknowledge that his pride and self-esteem had suffered most. Though fond of Eve he had not loved her. In his family love had never been considered a necessary condition of marriage. Loyalty mattered far more.

  Fury stirred as he recalled how he had been used. Telling Jenefer would mean revealing what a fool he had been, how easily he had been duped. Sweat prickled his forehead at the thought and he shifted on the settle, his shirt clinging damply to his back. He must receive word soon. Then it would be over and she need never know.

  He took a mouthful of cognac. As the smooth spirit warmed his stomach and loosened muscles knotted by tension, he pictured her fair head bent in concentration as her pen moved swiftly across each sheet of paper.

  It was hard to believe they had met only days ago. It was as if he had known her always. Her quiet manner belied a shrewd intelligence, and he relished her dry wit even when it was directed at him. More used to male company, he was astonished at how comfortable he felt with her.

  While writing the letters she stopped frequently to ask questions which resulted in a discussion about cranes, winches and building materials. Startled to realize he had talked to her as he would to another man he told her so.

  She had arched her brows. ‘Is that a compliment?’

  Briefly unsure, he had taken refuge in stiffness. ‘It was intended as such.’

  ‘Then,’ she said lightly, ‘that is how I shall take it. Thank you.’

  Only with the benefit of hindsight did it occur to him that his remark might have sounded patronizing.

  When all the letters had been written and daylight was fading, they parted on her doorstep. The urge to touch her had been almost irresistible. But he had held back. Despite the protectiveness of her neighbours the fact that she lived alone made her vulnerable, and he was wary of doing anything that might be considered an imposition or taking advantage.

  Though grateful for her help while his wrist mended his deepening attraction to her was a complication both unexpected and thoroughly unsettling. He drained his glass and signalled to one of the serving girls as she collected tankards and glasses from a nearby table.

  Before he could ask her to fetch him another brandy there was a commotion near the door. A group of fishermen moved aside as a newcomer swaggered in. Having captured attention with his entrance he paused, surveying the taproom. His blue coat with brass buttons, fawn waistcoat over a blue-striped shirt, knotted black kerchief and grubby white duck trousers suggested a uniform of sorts. Seeing the pistol jammed into his broad leather belt from which a sword also hung, Charles guessed the man’s profession even as the girl’s in-drawn breath hissed between her teeth.

  ‘Preventive officer?’ he murmured.

  She gave a quick nod. Anger brought patches of colour to her sallow cheeks and thinned her mouth. ‘Jake Pendarvis. Captain of the Customs cutter, Speedwell.’

  ‘All right, my ’andsomes?’ Pendarvis roared, gazing around.

  The broad smile on his red face did not reach his eyes. As he made his way to the bar counter, men moved aside. Some turned their backs.

  ‘Not local, is he?’ Charles asked softly.

  The girl shook her head. ‘He told me he come from Penzance, but someone else said he live over Brague. I wouldn’t trust ’n to tell me the time of day.’

  Charles guessed the girl had been taken in by the captain’s brash charm and now bitterly regretted it. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  She eyed him in weary surprise. ‘What d’you think? He’ve come for his sweetener. I’ll be back d’rectly.’ Balancing the heavy tray she moved quickly between the tables. Watching from behind the counter, the landlord drew off a tankard of ale then poured a glass of cognac and pushed both along the counter towards Pendarvis. Then he lifted the hinged counter top so the girl could pass behind him.

  Propped on one elbow Pendarvis leaned across the counter and spoke to her. She ignored him and the landlord, stone-faced, stepped between them. Pendarvis laughed. He drank the beer in one long draught then lifted the cognac. As he did so, the landlord reached beneath the counter and slapped a leather draw-string purse on the dark varnished wood.

  Pendarvis tucked it inside his waistcoat and, after draining the glass, set it down with a sharp crack. Then pushing himself away from the counter he bellowed, ‘Good night, one and all. Here’s to fair winds and a rich harvest.’ Men watched in silence as he raised a hand in farewell then disappeared into the passage.

  A few moments later a voice said, ‘’Tis all right. He’ve gone.’ Someone spat into the fire and the buzz of conversation resumed. Charles mused on what he had witnessed. Uncaring of the villagers’ obvious dislike, the preventive officer took pleasure in their fear. He knew they had no choice. Either they paid him off, or risked confiscation of their smuggled cargoes: a harvest gathered in darkness.

  On Sunday morning Jenefer woke in the grey light of dawn after a night filled with dreams of Charles Polgray. Still tired, knowing she would not sleep again, she pushed back the covers and got up. Putting on the chemise gown of faded apricot dotted muslin she wore to do her morning chores, she threw a shawl around her shoulders, and walked through silent streets down to the harbour.

  There wasn’t a breath of wind. All the fishing boats were moored by the bow to the back quay, for no fisherman ever put to sea on a Sunday. Within the arms of the small harbour the water resembled rumpled black satin. The harbour faced south. To the west above the dark expanse of sea several diamond-bright stars still glittered against a backdrop of midnight blue. But to the east behind the village, a pale green and turquoise sky heralded the approaching sunrise.

  The air was cool against her face and smelled of seaweed, tar, and old fish, especially near the boats. At the rear of the quays, the sturdy wooden doors of stone buildings where fishermen stored nets, oars, spare sails and spars, were closed and locked.

  Hugging her shawl closer to ward off the morning chill, she walked slowly across the worn stones. She loved the silence and solitude of Sunday mornings. At this hour on a weekday the quay would already be busy as boats that had stayed out overnight unloaded their catch.

  Men arrived with horses and panniers to buy the fish then carry it inland to re-sell it. Housewives hurried down with plates. Mabel Couch, a local jowster, would pack her pockets with salt and a cone-shaped basket with fish. Then heaving the basket onto her back supported by a strap across her forehead, she would set off to neighbouring villages and farms. Mabel was sixty years old and often walked fifteen miles a day to sell her fish.

  Jenefer considered she worked hard. But compared to Mabel’s, her life was easy. She paused to look over the waste ground where Charles Polgray planned to build the new road. The dawn light revealed gorse and brambles and patches of nettles surrounded by a litter of broken spars, old tar brushes, bits of wood, ripped nets, rusted ironwork and scraps of sail canvas dumped and forgotten.

  Clearing the land would take days. Then the rubbish would need to be disposed of. The best way would be to burn as much as possible in the old quarry on the moor and drop the rest down an abandoned mineshaft. She felt a tremor of excitement. The whole village would benefit from the harbour expansion, either through employment or increased trade.

  She turned again to the sea, trying to picture the alterations. With added protection for the harbour and more space for ships to moor alongside, limestone shipped from Plymouth could be landed here instead of at Penzance. Moved by wheelbarrow from ship to kiln to be burned then powdered, it would be available to sweeten the acid Cornish soil far more quickly and at a considerably lower cost than at present.

  Cargoes of barley and oats bound for buyers in Guernsey could be shipped directly from Porthinnis, instead of first having to be car
ried by cart to Falmouth or Penzance.

  As far as trade was concerned, Charles Polgray’s plans could not be faulted. But his arrival had added greatly to her confusion.

  The sky lightened to primrose then pale pink and sunrise painted streaks of high cloud with rose and gold. The scent of burning wood made her glance round and she saw grey-blue smoke rising from a cottage chimney. It was time to return home before she was seen.

  Because she looked after their money, the villagers felt entitled to take a proprietary interest in her. She knew it was well intentioned. Lizzie had told her everyone wished to see her as happy as her sister. But her heart had been frozen, paralysed, by the actions of her father and her fiancé.

  She had hoped that without anything to fuel it, interest in her private life might wane. Instead it had increased. A few weeks ago Lizzie had rushed in with news that two of Hannah’s customers had nearly come to blows in the shop over whether Mr Ince intended to propose marriage to Miss Trevanion, and whether she should accept.

  After a moment of angry frustration, Jenefer had flung up her hands in defeat and started to laugh. What else could she do?

  Back in her cottage she completed her morning chores then carried hot water upstairs. Her hair brushed and swept up into a coil high on her crown, she put on a clean shift and stockings, her stays, and a pale yellow muslin gown. Over this she wore a long-sleeved short jacket of emerald velvet fastened with gold buttons and a matching hat made by Louise Laity.

  Walking up the path through the churchyard, she nodded politely to Mr Penkivell, the notary, who was accompanied by his wife and two daughters. They lacked the courage to cut her. But their acknowledgement was minimal: registering their disapproval. She wondered which upset them most: her way of life or her friendship with fishermen’s wives and shopkeepers. Noticing that the girls had adopted the same tight-lipped expression as their mother, Jenefer felt sorry for them.

  Once inside she passed the font and turned into the main aisle towards the Trevanion family pew. On the far side, Branoc and Roz Casvellan sat with their little daughter between them. She looked for Devlin and Tamara but was not surprised at their absence. With Tamara’s confinement due shortly, no doubt Devlin had decided against a long and uncomfortable drive across the moor.

  The cool air was fragrant with the scent of beeswax candles. Arrangements of cream roses and greenery cascaded from twin pedestals on either side of the altar.

  Kneeling, Jenefer closed her eyes and was instantly swamped with memories of the meal she had shared with Charles. She recalled their banter, his animated description of the new lifting equipment he planned for the quay and, all too briefly, his hand covering hers.

  Unable to concentrate, she offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness and sat back on the hard pew. Looking towards the altar she told herself romantic daydreams were forgivable at eighteen, but a woman of five-and-twenty ought to know better. It didn’t help.

  Beams of sunlight angled down through stained glass windows. One fell on the slight balding figure of Mr Ashworth seated at the organ. He played with much affectation but too little pace. Recognizing the tune, she longed to go and tell him to play it as it should be played, a celebration not a dirge.

  She had trained herself not to dwell on the past. She and Betsy had escaped the fire alive and unhurt and for that she was profoundly grateful. But if she could have saved just one piece of furniture it would have been her mother’s spinet. She pictured the one at Kegwyn, where Charles would soon be living.

  The heavy door latch clattered. Behind her whispers rustled like dry leaves in autumn. She heard brisk footfalls and resisted the urge to look round. Then her heart leaped into her throat as the man who had occupied almost every waking thought since their introduction, stepped into the pew beside her.

  She noticed immediately he had discarded the sling but still wore a supporting bandage on his right hand. Placing his hat to his left, which brought him closer, he bent one knee and bowed his head. After a swift sideways glance, Jenefer stared straight ahead. Acutely aware of the heat in her cheeks she was grateful for the gloom.

  As he sat back his right arm brushed hers making every nerve tingle. Inclining his head towards hers he whispered, ‘I hope you don’t object? It would not do for me to cause offence by occupying a pew customarily used by another family.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ she whispered back. Where a family sat reflected their status and was jealously guarded. Yet by joining her in the Trevanion pew he was offering the congregation opportunity to speculate. As he must be aware of that, she could only assume he considered it beneath his notice.

  The vestry door opened. Mr Ashworth played a chord and the congregation rose. Led by the cross the choir processed slowly up to their stalls. William brought up the rear, carrying his Prayer Book and the notes for his sermon. Over his black cassock he wore a gleaming white surplice so stiff with starch that it crackled as he walked.

  Jenefer lowered her eyes, fighting the urge to laugh. But it wasn’t William and his starched surplice she was seeing.

  Charles Polgray’s coat of dark-blue superfine fitted his broad shoulders snugly. Cream pantaloons were tucked into polished black calf-length boots. His thick hair appeared to have been raked with an impatient hand, but his linen was spotless and his jaw freshly shaved. As he moved she caught his scent: clean, warm, and indisputably male. Her throat dry, she opened her hymn-book.

  William had taken for his text a line from St Matthew: The harvest is plentiful but the labourers few. While he explored the different layers of meaning, Jenefer gazed blindly ahead aware in every nerve of the man beside her.

  Eventually the service ended. Leaving the pew first, Charles stepped aside so she might precede him. On her way to the door she nodded at people she knew, amused as their gazes slid past to the tall man behind her.

  William stood outside the porch, bidding farewell to each member of his congregation. As he turned from an elderly couple his eyes brightened and his cheeks grew pink as he greeted her. ‘Good morning, Miss Trevanion.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ince.’ She turned towards Charles. ‘Mr Polgray, may I introduce Mr William Ince, our parish curate. He also runs a school for the village children.’

  Charles inclined his head. ‘A school is a brave undertaking, Mr Ince. There are those who believe educating the poor to be a threat to the natural order. I wish you success with your venture.’

  ‘You are most kind, sir. I am fortunate to be blessed with an excellent assistant in Miss Trevanion.’

  ‘She is a person of remarkable qualities,’ Charles agreed.

  ‘Do you stay long in the village?’ William enquired, his gaze moving uncertainly between them.

  ‘I hope so. Good day, Mr Ince.’

  As Charles’s palm cupped her elbow Jenefer felt a quaking in the pit of her stomach. They passed through the lych gate and out onto the road.

  ‘Jenefer!’ Roz settled her daughter on her arm. ‘And Mr Polgray. Is it not a lovely day?’

  ‘Indeed it is, ma’am.’ Charles bowed then turned to Jenefer. ‘I’ll be but a moment.’ He strode towards Casvellan who was unhitching two beautiful thoroughbreds from a rail in the shade of an oak tree.

  As Roz nuzzled her daughter’s neck and Enor hunched tiny shoulders, gurgling with laughter, Jenefer experienced a painful stab of envy.

  ‘My husband tells me you are assisting Mr Polgray with some business,’ Roz said softly. ‘Does all go well for the two of you?’

  ‘Oh, Roz.’ Jenefer pressed one gloved hand to her cheek. ‘Don’t be anxious,’ she added quickly as concern puckered Roz’s forehead. ‘I’m fine. Really.’ She released a shaky breath. ‘It’s just— He is— I didn’t expect—’ She shook her head.

  ‘Ah.’ Roz’s gentle smile held a world of understanding. ‘Would you like me to make up a herbal draught? Something soothing?’

  A wry smile tugged at the corners of Jenefer’s mouth. ‘Oh Lord. Do I sound deranged? I do, don’t I?’


  ‘Not at all. But I think perhaps you are in need of a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘It would help.’ Jenefer felt her eyes prickle and grow hot. This wasn’t like her. She had always been the person others leaned on. She swallowed hard. ‘Are your parents well? And your brother?’

  Roz glowed with happiness. ‘They are all very well. You would not recognize Tom, he has grown so much this year.’

  ‘And the harvest?’

  ‘Almost finished.’

  ‘How many have you been cooking for this year?’

  Roz thought for a moment. ‘About forty. Thank heavens I have Mary to look after Enor. Mrs Reskeen does the midday roast and has called in three of her relatives to help with the vegetables. I make bread, heavy cakes and saffron buns for five’o’clock tea.’

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ Jenefer sympathized.

  Roz shook her head. ‘I worked far harder at The Three Mackerel.’ She glanced towards her husband, adoration softening her gaze. ‘Doing whatever helps him is my privilege and pleasure. I am truly blessed.’

  ‘No more than you deserve,’ Jenefer said with sincerity. Would she ever be that fortunate? Experience that depth of love? Her gaze sought Charles Polgray.

  ‘About the harvest dinner,’ Roz said, ‘I know how busy you are—’

  ‘I would not miss it for the world. Just send word of the date and what you want me to bring.’

  Swinging himself into the saddle, Casvellan walked his horse forward and leaned down to take his daughter. ‘Good day to you, Miss Trevanion.’ He settled Enor in front of him, one arm holding her close.

  ‘And to you, Mr Casvellan.’

  Roz climbed the mounting block, settled herself on the side-saddle, then with a smile and a wave followed her husband as Charles returned to Jenefer’s side.

  ‘May I escort you home, Miss Trevanion?’ Reaching into his pocket he withdrew a small drawstring purse of soft leather that clinked. ‘First I must give this to Mr Ince. It’s a donation for the school,’ he said before she could ask.