“Black Jack Jago is not a part of this family,” Alice said firmly.
Morgan looked mutinous. “Issie says he is. Issie says that’s where the necklace came from. Fact.”
“That is certainly not a fact. It’s just a silly story.”
Alice made a mental note to ensure that Issie returned the gold-coin pendant. Apart from it being valuable, Alice was beginning to feel that it was just encouraging her granddaughter to indulge in ridiculous flights of fancy rather than focusing on the real issues, namely one abandoned degree and a very ill-thought-out dalliance with the volatile Teddy St Milton. Jonny might think the sun shone out of his grandson, but Alice wasn’t so convinced. That young man was spoilt, drank too much and had the same nasty streak as his grandmother. They said you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but, even so, Alice couldn’t think of anything nice to say about Millicent St Milton…
“Miss Hamilton says I can’t have him on my family tree anyway because we can only go back to our great-grandparents,” Morgan was saying now, oblivious to Alice’s concentration being miles away. He wielded his scissors in a way that suggested he meant business. “Mum’s asked Nan and Gramps to send pictures, so I’m going to do you and Great Grandpa Henry first.”
“Righto,” said Alice, dragging her thoughts back to the present.
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
Morgan waved a sepia image under her nose, transporting Alice back through the decades faster than any time machine could. A young man stared out from the picture, his mouth set in a firm expression and his eyes daring the photographer to argue with him. He was dressed in uniform and seemed to Alice almost unbearably young. Her heart twisted with loss. Dear, dear Henry. He should never have experienced those horrors at his age, or even at any age. To today’s youngsters it was just something from the history books, but her dear husband had relived it every day for the rest of his life. Even now she found it odd to sleep a whole night through without his cries and threshing limbs waking her.
“Yes, that’s Great Grandpa,” she said quietly.
“He looks like Jake but he doesn’t look much like Jim-pa,” Morgan observed.
Alice leaned closer and smiled. Jake certainly did share that serious expression and the determined chin – and, like his grandfather, he was a hard worker. Nevertheless, she couldn’t imagine Jake being anything near as strict as Henry had been with their son, when Jake and Summer eventually had a family. Her husband had been bitterly disappointed when Jimmy hadn’t followed him into the army, but should this really have been any surprise? Jimmy’s entire childhood had probably felt like a boot camp. She didn’t claim to be a psychologist, but Alice thought she understood why her son behaved the way he did. Although it had been a huge sadness to them both that they’d only been able to have one child, Alice now wondered if perhaps this had actually been for the best. Jimmy hadn’t been easy, and even now he worried Alice far more than any of her grandchildren. He was like the Peter Pan of Polwenna. How cruel that he’d lost Penny, that lovely, laughing girl he’d loved so dearly. Jimmy had never been the same since her death.
Alice sighed as she studied Henry’s young face, as yet unscathed by the horrors about to unfold in northern France, and her vision blurred. He’d been such a good man, and he’d certainly been her knight in shining armour, but sometimes he’d been too hard on his only son. Henry’s high standards had been hard to live with, even for those who’d loved him.
Lord. This family history business was painful. Maybe, like the wreck of the Isabella, some things were best left buried?
“Look! That’s you!”
Delighted with his find, Morgan held up a black-and-white photo, and Alice laughed to see her younger self on her wedding day.
“I wanted to look like Elizabeth Taylor,” she recalled, marvelling at how tiny her waist had been and how thick her once-brown hair was. “My mother spent a week’s wages on the fabric for that dress and she always complained that she ruined her eyes sewing by gaslight. I felt like a film star though!”
“You were very pretty, Granny Alice,” Morgan told her. “You looked just like Issie, but with different hair.”
Alice leaned over and hugged him. “Thanks, sweetheart. I hope I was a bit more sensible than your aunty, though!”
And then, as though fate wanted to remind her that actually no, she’d sometimes been every bit as silly as her granddaughter, a crumpled scrap of paper pinned to a faded square image caught Alice’s eye. It was a note attached to a box-camera photo of a smiling girl in a pretty summer frock. Alice didn’t need to unfold it to know what was written on the delicate paper; those words were marked indelibly on her heart.
Alice’s breath caught. While Morgan chattered and glued and wrote notes, she nodded and murmured in what she hoped were the right places, even though in reality she was a lifetime away…
The woods smelt damp, of mushrooms and mould and rotting things. It was dark here too, and as she pushed her way through the undergrowth brambles tore at her bare legs and she felt the sharp kisses of nettles on her ankles. None of this stopped her though, not even when a hawthorn branch ripped the hem of her dress or when her shoes slithered in the mud and she almost fell. The path was overgrown, knotted with bindweed and voracious ivy; it was a long time since anyone had come this way.
Her heart beating fast, Alice fought her way through the tangled undergrowth. Ahead of her a blackbird shrilled in warning and her pulse skittered in perfect rhythm with its fluting cry. Onwards she went until the waves faded to a whisper and in their place she heard the merry chuckling of a stream.
So she was in the right place! Alice laughed out loud and shook her long brown hair away from her face. In her hand was the note she’d collected earlier from their secret place. It wasn’t hard to make an excuse to visit it – all she’d needed to do was tell Ma she was checking the hens and then she could easily run to the garden wall, pull out the loose stone and squeeze her fingers into the small alcove. Alice thought it showed just how much she loved him that she didn’t even worry about worms or earwigs whenever she did this!
The sun, peeping through the dense foliage, was high in the sky now and Alice reckoned it must be midday. Unlike him she couldn’t afford a wristwatch, but she knew he’d wait even if she were ten hours late.
Noon at St Wenn’s Well. I love you x
It was there: held in her hand and proven in writing. He loved her! Alice’s lips couldn’t stop smiling. He loved her just as she loved him – and now, in this quiet and ancient place, they’d seal their love just as they’d always sworn they would. She didn’t think she’d ever been as scared or as excited in her entire life. Before the sun started to slip into the sea everything would have changed. She would have changed.
Her skin tingled with delicious anticipation.
Alice saw him before he noticed her. He was crouching down by the well, dabbling those long, sensitive fingers in the cold water, and wholly intent on his task. Earlier, when they’d met in the cave by the beach, those same hands had cupped her face as he’d kissed her; soon he would hold her close again. For a moment she watched him, drinking in the lean grace of his slight body, the locks of raven-dark hair that fell across his face and the high planes of his cheekbones. He was so beautiful that it almost hurt to behold him.
“Alice!” Catching sight of her, he leapt to his feet. Moments later she was in his arms as he rained kisses down onto her cheeks, her eyes and her lips. “You came!”
She laughed as she kissed him back. He was so tall that she had to stand on tiptoes to brush his lips with hers.
“Of course I came, silly! I had to skive off work, mind, and mother will be pretty angry, but how could I not come?”
He laughed and, stepping back a little, snapped a picture of her with the big square Brownie camera that was the envy of all the boys in the village.
“My God, but you’re beautiful,” he said, shaking his head. “How the hell did I get so lucky?”
&nbs
p; Alice laughed. “I’m the lucky one. Shouldn’t I be doing your washing and scrubbing your floors?”
“Never! I should be doing those things for you!” He took her work-roughened hands in his and pressed them to his lips, and she giggled. If only the people at the big house could see her now! The housekeeper’s daughter being treated like a princess by the young master. They’d not laugh then and say she had ideas above her station!
He pulled her close, staring down at her with those grey eyes that were sometimes dove soft and at others the same hue as a stormy sea.
“I love you, Alice Pendeen. I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”
“I love you too, Jonny St Milton,” she whispered.
“Grand Gran! Grand Gran! Are you listening to me? I said can I stick the one of you on my poster?”
Morgan’s question snatched Alice back across the years, and for a brief moment she was stunned to find herself sitting at the kitchen table instead of kissing Jonny St Milton at St Wenn’s Well. Feeling flustered, and hoping that her face wasn’t as pink as it felt, she found herself agreeing that Morgan could glue whatever he wanted onto sugar paper. Oh, what did it matter anyway? Let him cut them up. Nobody else was interested in those old pictures. It was all ancient history and it really should stay that way. Some things were in the past because that was where they were meant to be, locked away in a dusty box and forgotten about. Along with the person who’d hurt you so much that even a lifetime later the scars felt every bit as raw – even if the skin around them was a little more wrinkled than it had once been.
“Like the rest of me,” she sighed out loud.
“Like the rest of you what?” Jimmy Tremaine bounded into the kitchen, his grey ponytail bouncing cheerfully. Planting a kiss on his mother’s cheek, he didn’t wait for a reply, but added, “You couldn’t lend us a tenner, could you, Ma? I’m meeting Mickey in The Ship and I’m out of cash.”
“There’s an ATM in the pub,” Alice began, but she knew she was wasting her breath. “Oh, go on, then. My purse is in my bag.”
“Jim-pa, have you got any pictures of Granny Penny I can have for my family tree project?” Morgan asked hopefully.
His grandfather looked up from rooting through Alice’s bag. “Somewhere, mate. I’ll dig them out for you.”
Alice knew full well that Jimmy kept a photo of Penny under his pillow and his wedding album tucked behind the bed. Her son was many things but he was certainly faithful to his wife’s memory. Was she betraying Henry by spending time with Jonny St Milton and allowing him to slip back into her heart? The thought made her feel uncomfortable.
“You’re spending a lot of time with Mickey lately,” she said, as much to distract herself as anything. “I’m not sure I’m that keen on him, love.”
Jimmy shrugged his denim-jacketed shoulders. “He’s all right, Ma. And besides, he’s offered me some work.”
Alice was most surprised. She couldn’t imagine her son making tea in the beach café. “Really? In the Locker? Doing what?”
“Not wearing a pinny and selling scones! I save my pinny-wearing for private time!” Grabbing Alice’s apron from the Aga rail, he whipped it round his waist and pranced around the kitchen, making Alice chuckle in spite of her misgivings. That was one of the nicest things about Jimmy Tremaine: he always made you laugh.
“Fear not, I’m only doing some odd jobs for him and a bit of delivery work.” Then, having replaced the pinny where it belonged and liberated a ten-pound note from Alice’s bag, he made a break for the door.
“I’m not sure about Mickey,” Alice warned. “Be careful, love. We don’t know much about him.”
“Mickey’s all right. Anyway, I thought you’d be pleased,” Jimmy called back over his shoulder. “I’ll earn us some money and make up for my American jaunt. Unless you fancy writing another saucy book and filling the coffers that way? Maybe don’t give it all to the church this time?”
Alice flushed. She was never going to live down writing her racy novel. The Kindle royalties might have helped boost St Wenn’s finances and buy a few extra groceries, but her brush with literary fame had caused her a whole heap of other trouble, not least because she’d based the hero on her long-ago sweetheart. If she’d had any idea just how many people would read her book, Alice would never have written it.
She was putting this mammoth lapse of judgment down to a senior moment.
“That book was a one-off. I’m never writing another one.”
“Shame. Good old Lord Blackwarren was very popular round here. I’ll say hello to him if I see him in the pub, shall I?” And blowing her a cheeky kiss, Jimmy Tremaine sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving his mother open-mouthed.
Oh dear. Was it really that obvious that Jonny was the hero in her novel? If so, then Alice was as daft now as she’d been all those years ago. What a silly old fool she’d been to write down her dreams of what might have been between them.
All the same, she couldn’t help sliding that faded photo of the smiling girl, her eyes full of stars and her mouth bruised with kisses, into her apron pocket. She would rather die than admit it, but a corner of her heart still belonged to Jonny St Milton, even if, like her, he was stooped and wrinkled and old nowadays.
Chapter 14
“By my estimation the ship went down far closer to the bay than everyone thinks. Looking at the archives and cross-referencing the accounts of eyewitnesses with the charts, it’s perfectly possible that the cargo made it to shore.”
With his mobile wedged firmly under his ear and against his shoulder, Luke studied the notes he’d made previously and scribbled yet another to himself as he spoke to his investor. If his theory was correct and the wreckers had murdered the Isabella’s survivors the minute their rowing boats had bumped onto the sand, then the cargo must have made it to the village. The question was, how?
“So you really think it exists?” Stella was thousands of miles and several time zones away, but Luke could hear the incredulity in her voice and it bugged him. Why couldn’t she just take his word for it? Still, she was sponsoring this venture. Subduing his rising irritation, Luke forced a light note into his voice.
“Sure, otherwise I wouldn’t have come all this way. It’s here somewhere. Trust me; my hunches are never wrong.”
“OK, sweetie, if you say so – but rather you than me. You really shoulda come to Cayman. It’s thirty degrees here and I’ve already done a sunrise yoga class. We’re all off on a boat now to Rum Point.”
Luke glanced out of the grimy window. The sun was out today, for a rare change, and the village had been sprinkled with a heavy frost. The rooftops glittered, the sky was brilliant blue and iced spiders’ webs laced the bushes in the garden. It was probably thirty degrees here too – in Fahrenheit! Even indoors he could see his own breath and he was wearing both his sweaters and a scarf. No wonder the Brits had a thing about stiff upper lips: theirs were probably frozen. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so cold in his life. If Issie hadn’t given him the heads-up on hot-water bottles he’d probably have died of hypothermia within his first few days of being in England.
While Stella chatted on about snorkelling and drinking cocktails on Seven Mile Beach, Luke tuned her out and revisited the previous four days. So far he’d met Issie, seen the remains of the ship, fallen out with the rather chinless Teddy, and this morning returned to the wreck site. Today’s trip had been far less uncomfortable than his first because Issie had arranged for her brother-in-law, Ashley, to take them in his boat. Far from the tatty fishing vessel Luke had expected, he’d found himself in a brand new powerboat, whose twin engines had made short work of the journey out to sea. He might have only known Issie Tremaine for a short while, but already she was proving to be a useful ally. If he felt bad for not telling her the truth about the real reason for his visit to Polwenna Bay, Luke guessed this was the price he had to pay for getting closer to his goal. What was it they said? All’s fair in love and treasure-hunting.
The wi
nd had been biting cold and as they’d flown across the water Luke’s cheeks had ached, but the joy of being out at sea had more than compensated for that, as had the stunning views of the coastline. The water here might not be bathwater warm, but in the sunshine it glittered every bit as brightly as the Caribbean, and the cliffs rising from the foaming tide’s edge were as breathtaking and verdant as anything in St Lucia.
Once Ashley had realised that Luke knew his way around a boat, he’d happily let his guest take the helm. With six hundred horsepower beneath him, Issie shrieking with exhilaration and the endless blue of the ocean stretching ahead, Luke had felt alive and free – a feeling that had swiftly evaporated when he’d come ashore and discovered two missed Skype calls from Stella.
Luke was starting to think that the money she’d lent him came at a very high price…
“Anyway, rather you than me,” Stella was saying again. “I’ve Googled Corn Wall and it looks very cold and bleak to me.”
“It’s beautiful,” Luke told her, surprising himself. Sure, the weather was as capricious as a stroppy woman, all sunshine and smiles one minute and sulky storms the next, but there was a harsh loveliness to Polwenna Bay that he’d never experienced anywhere else. Yes, it was cold. Yes, it was inconvenient to park miles away and lug everything to the cottage. And yes, pasties were full of fat. But the village was also old and mysterious, and he loved that everywhere he turned there was another story and another slice of history. Key West was old, sure, but it had nothing on this place. Issie had taken him on a walk around the village, and the age of everything had blown his mind. This country had door handles older than the United States.
“Just find that treasure before you freeze to death,” Stella ordered. He heard voices murmuring before she added, “Gotta go, sweets; I’m off to brunch. Keep me up to speed, yeah? We need something a bit more tangible than a hunch.”
“I’m working on it,” he replied, catching sight of Issie Tremaine opening the garden gate, but Stella had already ended the call. She wasn’t a patient woman at all, and Luke sighed. Mal had always complained bitterly about his sponsors, hating “dancing to their tune” as he put it, but both Luke and his father knew that the sponsors were a necessary evil. Stella had talked him into letting her help, but in the cold light of a Cornish winter’s day it no longer seemed such a bright idea.
Treasure of the Heart Page 13
