by Candice Hern
“Does he worry you?”
She chose her words carefully. “He made some rather…unpleasant insinuations about me.”
“Ah.”
“I would not like to think he is spreading ugly rumors.”
“I do not think you need worry,” the captain said. “Bargwanath is a malcontent looking to stir up trouble. But James will be the target of his venom, not you.”
That’s as may be, she thought, but what is to stop him from attacking James through implications of an improper relationship with me?
“I can think of no one in the district who would be willing to hire the man,” the captain continued. “He is known to be an unsavory character. Most folks would be glad to see the last of him. He will be on his way soon enough, looking for work where he is not so well-known.”
“I hope you are right, Captain.”
He rode ahead where the path narrowed, and waited for her to pull up beside him when they reached the lane to St. Perran’s.
“There’s the village,” he said. “I defy any malicious piskey to make you lose your way with the church looming just ahead. They wouldn’t dare.”
Verity smiled at his teasing words. If her heart was not already engaged, she might be tempted to develop a fancy for the handsome captain. He was so different from his dour friend.
“Captain,” she said, “may I ask you something?”
He grinned. “Let me guess. More questions about James?”
“In a way. You see, I am determined to help repair his reputation.”
He whistled through his teeth and frowned at her.
“It is not fair,” she said, her voice rising in dismay, “that everyone should think him so cruel for something not his fault. It is not fair!”
One look from Captain Poldrennan and Verity realized how horribly petulant she must sound. Another embarrassed blush warmed her cheeks and she shyly looked away.
“I know how you must feel,” the captain said. “And how badly you want things to be different. But so much damage has already been done…”
“I know that,” Verity said. “And maybe there’s really nothing I can do to clear his name. But I have to try.”
Their horses grew restless as they stood in the path and Captain Poldrennan reached down to stroke the long neck of his mare. His eyes never left Verity’s. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said at last.
“I was hoping you might be able to help in some way.” She went on quickly, before he could object. “You are known to be James’s friend, and yet your reputation seems to have suffered no ill by association. I thought perhaps among your other acquaintances you could…” She never finished the thought for she really had no clear idea what the captain could do.
“Mrs. Osborne,” he said, “it is not the gentry you need to reach. They are less willing to paint one of their own so black—or at least more willing to forgive. Or ignore. Whatever the reasons, James would have no difficulty mixing in society if he wished. But he does not wish, or so I believe. He has remained isolated up on that hill for so long that few outside the nearest vicinity know anything of him.”
Verity clucked her tongue in exasperation.
“The way to clear his name is through those who live and work on his own land. It is the miners and farmers you must reach. They are simple folk, some of them very superstitious. Theirs will be the most difficult minds to sway.”
“I thought as much,” Verity said. “It is what I hoped to do.”
She told him about the Christmas baskets and smiled at his look of amazement. “I believe they were as surprised as you appear to be. As you might imagine, none of them offered much of a warm welcome. He wore his usual tight-lipped scowl, after all. Some of them looked positively terrified. But they behaved politely, and all expressed their gratitude, however reluctantly. Even so, it was a difficult ordeal for James.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said. “It cannot be pleasant for him to look upon the faces of men and women who purport to hate him, though, God knows, he must be used to it after all these years.”
Captain Poldrennan shook his head. “Poor old James,” he said, “has taken on the legendary evil of one of our giants or demons. Or like Tregeagle, who sold his soul to the devil.”
He edged his horse slowly forward and Verity did the same with Titania. She was anxious to keep moving; if she read the weather correctly it would be raining very shortly.
“It did not help matters,” the captain continued, “that one of their own, the Clegg boy, was also killed in the Pendurgan fire. Tales of James’s wickedness have grown with years of exaggeration and outright fabrication, but the general belief in his cruelty has held firm. We Cornish, you know, are loath to let go of long-established dogma, especially where evil is concerned. We need our bogeymen to keep the children in line.”
Despite the flippancy of his words, a note of despondency colored his voice. Verity leaned slightly in the saddle, tightening her knee on the horn, and reached out to touch the captain’s arm. “I am glad he has you for a friend,” she said.
He covered her hand briefly before she withdrew it. “I believe he has a friend in you as well, does he not?”
“Yes, he does.”
The captain smiled. “You care for him, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, though she would never reveal the depth of her caring. To admit to friendship was enough. “And I do not believe he is evil,” she continued. “I have seen what the sight of fire can do to him.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have.” She would not elaborate. There were certain details that ought to remain private, even among friends. “He is ill, not evil. He deserves compassion and understanding, not hatred.”
The captain’s smile broadened and a distinct twinkle brightened his gray eyes. “My dear Mrs. Osborne, it was a fortunate day that brought you to Pendurgan. Perhaps old James will have another chance at happiness, after all.”
Her cheeks flushed again. They were almost through the village and the clouds had darkened to the shade of gun metal. There was little time to obtain the advice she needed, so she pressed on, blushes or no.
“How do I reach the local people?” she asked. “How do I help him?”
“Start with the one they trust most,” he said without hesitation.
“Old Grannie Pascow.”
“Convince her and the others will follow soon enough.”
Throughout the wet days of February, Verity took every opportunity to ride into St. Perran’s. She sat at Grannie’s hearth, chatting and drinking tea with the other women of the district who gathered there. Verity made a point to bring her own tea, since she knew it was very dear, and because most often Grannie’s tea leaves were used over and over, so that they may as well have been drinking hot water.
Sometimes Verity brought an herbal mix she’d made up herself. Though some blends were more successful than others, Grannie and the other women always appreciated the offering. Once she brought a good, strong Darjeeling from Mrs. Chenhall’s pantry. She had asked James’s permission to raid the larder, claiming she did not wish to put a strain an Old Grannie’s meager resources, and he had not objected.
“His lordship sends along the tea, with his compliments,” she announced when she handed Kate Pascow the fine India blend.
Kate’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did he, now?” she asked, one skeptical brow arched expressively.
“Don’t ’ee go mockin’ Miz Verity,” Grannie said in a stern voice. “She be not the type to come round tellin’ tales. Recollect, she did bring Jammez on Christmas.”
“How could I forget?” Kate said. “Like to’ve caused me an apoplexy, he did.”
“He come to our farmhouse, too,” Borra Nanpean volunteered in her soft, shy voice. “I thought it ’twere right kind o’ him to come wid ’ee, Miz Verity. He never done that afore.”
“He be doing a lot o’ things he never done afore,” Grannie said.
“’Tis s
o,” Hildy Spruggins said. “I do hear tell that he be helpin’ with the lambin’ this year. And Nat’s brother Joe seen him plowin’ up the north field, steering them big ol’ oxen all by hisself.”
“That is because he has no steward right now,” Verity said. “Even so, you surely cannot believe he is above a bit of hard work? He cares for his land. And his mine. And all of you, as well. He always has.”
Kate gave Verity a sidelong glance as she poured boiling water into Grannie’s old brown teapot. “I do think the lady be sweet on Lord Heartless.”
That set all the women to laughing, and Verity knew she must be blushing to the roots of her hair.
Grannie did not laugh. A frown deepened the creases between her brows as she glared at Verity in a most uncomfortable manner. Hers was not going to be an easy mind to change.
Verity let the conversation veer into other directions. She did not want to be any more obvious than necessary in her attempt to sway opinion. On subsequent visits, she simply continued to drop hints of James’s hard work and sense of responsibility when the conversation allowed it. The rest of the time she went about maintaining her own credibility with the women. If she won and held on to their trust, perhaps they would more easily accept her views on James.
Strange as it seemed, this very small, very insulated community had in four short months accepted her, a “foreigner,” into its bosom. Verity prayed for the soul of Edith Littleton each night, for if that fine lady had not been so willing to share her knowledge of herbs, Verity might not have found it so easy to be accepted here in Cornwall. Her remedies had helped many of the local families through bouts of winter colds, fever, and sore throats. Most popular of all, though, had been her Christmas pomanders and potpourris.
“We been gettin’ a Christmas basket from Pendurgan long as I can remember,” Tamson Penneck said. “But they always be filled with food—smoked meats and jams and pies and cider and other things to help us through the winter. It all be most welcome, to be sure. But it were a real pleasure to get somethin’ that just be pretty to look at or nice to smell—a bit of extravagance, like. It made Christmas right special for me, I can tell ’ee.”
So Verity’s small effort at thoughtfulness had paid off. She now appeared to be accepted in a sort of lady-of-the-manor role. Despite her local heritage, Agnes Bodinar was not looked upon with any degree of affection. In fact, Verity got the impression she was actively disliked throughout the district.
Verity enjoyed sitting around Grannie’s hearth with all the other local women. She had never been one to covet solitude, and it was sometimes very lonely for her at Pendurgan with only the waspish Anges for company while James was busy about the estate and the mines.
Agnes had grown particularly irritable lately; clearly she disapproved of the new amity between Verity and James. She had not seemed to mind nearly so much when she believed Verity to be James’s mistress. Any real affection between them, though, would be seen as a threat to Rowena’s memory.
Verity often wished she could make Agnes understand that there was no possibility of her usurping the role of Lady Harkness. But Agnes, when approached, refused to speak of the matter. More often than not lately, she refused to speak at all. She could be found silently perched on the edge of a chair, like a black crow in her worn and faded mourning clothes—stiff-backed, silent, grim, disdainful.
From the start, Verity had suspected Agnes was slightly unbalanced. She became more convinced of it as the winter wore on and the older woman’s hostility grew more pronounced.
One cold evening in mid-February when she delivered her nightly infusion to James in the library, Verity approached him about another favor for the villagers. She asked if there was firewood or coal to spare for the cold stone cottages in St. Perran’s.
“You are taking a great interest in the local families,” he said, eyeing her speculatively.
“I do spend a lot of time with them, you know,” Verity said. “I have nothing to do up here and there is no company, save for Mrs. Bodinar. I enjoy chatting with the local women. I only notice that they seldom have firewood and burn peat most of the time.”
“They need only ask.”
“But they won’t, as you well know.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do well know. So they have asked you to intercede on their behalf?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “It is my idea, not theirs. The peat fumes sting my eyes, so it is for very selfish reasons that I ask for firewood.”
He cast her a knowing look and the half smile that still had the power to make her weak in the knees, no matter how hard she fought it. “I doubt that very much,” he said. “But it shall be as you ask. I shall have Tomas load up a cart and distribute the wood.”
For a moment, she was lost in the blue depths of his eyes, hardly hearing his words. When she was finally able to respond, her voice sounded too husky. “You are most kind, my lord.”
He held her gaze for a long moment and she wondered if he, too, was thinking of that kiss on the moor. Or those kisses in the library before he’d…taken her. “I am nothing of the sort,” he said at last. “I am simply helpless against any entreaty of yours, as I am sure you have discovered. I have not forgotten about Christmas. You fight hard when you want something, do you not? The villagers shall have their wood.”
When she next visited Grannie Pascow’s cottage, the sweet scent of woodsmoke filled the room. “I ’spect we do have ’ee to thank fer this, too?” Kate Pascow asked.
“Oh, no,” Verity said as she seated herself beside Dorcas Muddle and reached out to stroke the soft cheek of her infant son. “You must thank his lordship. He wanted to put the Pendurgan surplus to good use. It was his idea, I assure you.”
“Hmph.” Kate’s scornful snort was echoed in the faces of the other women.
Grannie kept a scowl firmly planted on her face, as she did whenever James was mentioned. Something about that recalcitrant look, after yet another generous offering from James, caused Verity to snap. She sprang to her feet.
“What is wrong with all of you?” Her voice rose almost to a shout, and she looked straight into the eyes of each of them, one after the other—Grannie, Kate Pascow, Ewa Dunstan, Hildy Spruggins, Lizzy Trethowan, Dorcas Muddle. “Why must you always think the worst of Lord Harkness?”
“For good reason,” Ewa Dunstan said, “after what he done.”
Verity fixed Ewa with a hard stare. “And what do you know of anything he may or may not have done? Except to give your husband a good job at Wheal Devoran. Or to keep your cottage in good repair. Or to look the other way, Hildy, while your Nat poaches game from his lordship’s land. Or to allow your rents to go into arrears when the crops are bad—yes, Lizzy, I know about that, too.”
She had spun to face each woman she addressed, pounding the air with her fist. The women looked at her as though she’d gone mad. “I ask you again, what do you know of what he may have done? What?”
After a long moment, Kate Pascow cleared her throat. “We done told ’ee,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Old Nick Tresco, him what used to be steward at Pendurgan, he told us.”
“Yes, I recall what you said about Nick Tresco,” Verity said, facing Kate with hands on her hips. “But he did not see James start the fire, did he? He did not see him toss the two boys and then his own wife into the fire, did he? No, he only saw him standing there, watching. Standing there!” Exhausted by her unexpected outburst, Verity sank back into her chair. The six women eyed her skeptically. She took a few breaths to compose herself, then continued in a softer voice.
“Just standing there,” she repeated. “Did it never occur to any of you how strange that was? Even if he had started the fire deliberately, when a witness came on the scene would he not have pretended to help, to deflect suspicion from himself? Grannie, you have known James since he was a boy, have you not?”
Grannie’s small, dark eyes narrowed. “Aye,” she finally said, “I done knowed him since he were borned. Everybod
y here,” she said with a sweep of her hand, “done knowed him all their lives.”
“And was he a vicious, evil little boy?” Verity asked.
Grannie lifted her chin a notch. “No, he weren’t.”
“What was he like, then?”
Grannie’s posture relaxed a bit. She took a swallow of tea before answering. “He were just a normal little boy. Full of life. Him and Alan Poldrennan, they done be thick as thieves, always up to some mischief, but nothin’ vicious, like. Just good-natured devilment. He were a nice young feller, too, as he growed up. Heard tell he did butt heads with old Lord Harkness often, though. That be why he left for the army, or so it were told.”
“And it wasn’t until he returned from Spain,” Verity said, “that he changed into…something else?”
“Aye, he did come home mean and spiteful as the devil,” Grannie said. “It were a sad thing to see what did become of him, how bad he turned out.”
The other women nodded and mumbled agreement. Verity reined in her anger.
“He did not turn out so badly,” she said, trying with great difficulty to keep her voice even. “You have all forgot about the lively young boy you once knew and created a monster out of him. Did it never occur to any of you that he might have suffered greatly in the war?” She had to be careful here. She wanted their understanding, but she could not reveal all she knew without betraying James in a way he would never forgive.
“Did any of you consider that he might have been wounded in ways you could never understand?” she went on. “And is it not possible he has been made to feel like a criminal for something he did not do?”
Once again, it was Kate who finally spoke into the awkward silence that followed Verity’s words. “I do think, Miz Verity, that the man done bewitched you.”
“Hush, Kate!” Grannie’s stern voice brought a flush to Kate’s cheeks. “Let Verity Osborne have her say,” the old woman continued. “Now, what is it ’ee be tryin’ to tell us?”
