by Candice Hern
Verity managed a wan smile and spoke directly to Grannie. “You say he was a normal little boy and a decent young man. In your heart, do you really believe the boy you knew could have killed the woman he loved and their child, and the Clegg boy as well?”
Verity watched Grannie’s face as she considered a response. The old woman set her mouth in a grim line while a knobby finger tapped against her lips. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the wood fire and the occasional gurgle from Dorcas Muddle’s baby.
When at last she was ready to speak, Grannie Pascow leaned over to place her cup of tea on an old stool. She sat up straight, placed her plump forearms squarely along the chair arms, and faced Verity with a direct, piercing gaze.
“Old Nick Tresco done be the only witness to that fire,” she said. “He told his tale and left Pendurgan, along with half the servants. Jago and Athwenna Chenhalls, them an’ their family do know their place and don’t never go tellin’ tales of goin’s on up to the big house. And Mary Tregelly, she do be loyal to the grave. So we only did have Old Nick’s word for what did happen there.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she seemed to weigh her thoughts. When she finally spoke again, she leaned forward, one hand fisted on the edge of the chair arm. “I tell ’ee true,” she said, and looked hard at each of the other women, as though daring them to challenge her, “that I never did believe it at first. Not at first.” She fixed her gaze on Verity. “But then Jammez, he did act like he done it. He never did seem to be sorry. Just got meaner and meaner. He did act like he done murder, so he were treated like he done murder. He ain’t never denied it, all these years.”
Verity collapsed back against the chair like a deflated balloon. Relief so overwhelmed her that she felt the sting of tears building up behind her eyes. Success was within her grasp, for Grannie Pascow had once doubted James’s guilt.
She took a few ragged breaths, determined not to cry and give any credence to Kate’s suspicions about her motives. “Just because James never denied it,” she said in a voice more tremulous than she would have liked, “does not mean he did it. You say he got meaner. Have you considered perhaps his fearsome manner was simply a way of masking his pain? I tell you all that I know—I know—what happened that day of the fire. I cannot reveal what I know. But I will tell you that he is not to blame. He could not have saved those boys, or Rowena. It was impossible.”
“How impossible?” Kate asked, her voice scornful. “He were there. Right there!”
“I cannot tell you more,” Verity said. “Only that it was impossible for him to act. He could not save them, and that fact has tortured him for almost seven years.”
“But—”
“I do think I understand,” Grannie said, interrupting Kate with a raised hand. “I think ’ee be sayin’ that somethin’ happened to Jammez in the war. Somethin’ more than a bullet in the leg.”
So they knew of his leg injury, but not how it had actually happened. “Yes, something did happen, but I can say no more. Just remember the boy you knew, and consider how he could possibly have become the monster you created, the monster he allowed you to create.”
“He were always a proud one,” Grannie said. “Not likely he’d let on to some…some weakness. I take yer point, girl.” The old woman gave her a look that made Verity feel as though she could see straight into her heart. A blush heated her cheeks and she dropped her gaze before the old woman could see more than she ought.
“My, my,” Grannie said. “Jammez done found him a fine champion in ’ee, Verity Osborne.”
Chapter 10
At Alan Poldrennan’s request, James had ridden out with Verity to Bosreath. “She must be bored silly at Pendurgan,” he said. “I’m sure Mother will be pleased to have the two of you for tea.”
The day had been arranged and the weather had cooperated. They saw Alan awaiting them at the entrance of the modern brick house. Growing up in a place as old as Pendurgan, James considered any house only a few hundred years old as modern. Bosreath had been built something less than one hundred years ago, during the reign of George I. Its lines were clean, compact, and symmetrical—about as different as it could be from the sprawling granite mass of Pendurgan.
“My goodness,” Verity said as they ambled down the granite drive. “It looks like home.”
“Home?”
“My father’s house in Lincolnshire had a very similar look—red brick, rows of white paned windows, a pillared porch topped with a simple pediment. How lovely.” A note of melancholy colored her voice and a wistful smile tugged at her lips.
“It makes you homesick,” James said.
Her smile broadened when she turned toward him. “A little,” she said. “But our brick house was set in lush green wolds. Beyond Bosreath’s manicured lawn are the same rocky moors we see from Pendurgan. It is not at all like Lincolnshire.”
Her words brought a frown to his face and she hurried to add, “I did not say Pendurgan, and Cornwall, are not as lovely as Lincolnshire. They are so. But also very different. If you will not tell the captain I said so,” she added in a conspiratorial tone, “I will confess to you that Pendurgan suits its setting far better than does Bosreath. Pendurgan seems to have sprung up straight out of the ground beneath it. Bosreath, charming as it is, looks as though it had been carried from some other place and dropped here.”
James smiled at the image of some great bird dropping the house on the moor as it flew past. Or perhaps Cormoran or one of the other legendary giants. The notion tickled him so that he was actually smiling when they reached the entrance.
Alan called out, “Good afternoon!” as they reined their mounts to a halt. He reached up and placed his hands on Verity’s waist to lift her from the sidesaddle. Was it James’s imagination, or did Alan’s hands linger a trifle longer than was absolutely necessary?
Perhaps James was overly sensitive because of how very beautiful Verity looked today. He had been aware of it from the moment they left Pendurgan. She wore the same outdated green habit and black beaver hat with its faded short green plume that she always wore when they rode, yet there was a new sort of glow about her, in her eyes and in her voice, that unnerved him.
Had she taken extra pains with her appearance for the visit to Bosreath? Did the green velvet hug her curves more tightly than usual? Did she have to smile so brilliantly for Alan? Did Alan have to be so effusive in his welcome?
His good mood shattered, James dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting groom. By the time he climbed the porch steps, Alan had Verity’s hand tucked firmly in the crook of his arm, leading her into the entry hall.
They were met in the modest drawing room by Alan’s mother. The tiny birdlike woman fluttered across the room to meet Verity, chirping a string of nonstop greetings and inanities. “How lovely. So good of you to come. Isn’t this nice? At last we meet. Won’t you sit down? Such a lovely shade of green. So pleased to meet you. How kind of you to call.”
Mrs. Poldrennan’s fidgety movements matched her nervous chatter, her hands and fingers constantly in motion. James hoped Verity was not put off by her manner, thinking she somehow made the woman uncomfortable. Alan’s mother had been nervous and jittery ever since he’d known her. She was like a high-strung terrier nipping at your heels whenever you entered the house. James thought her a trial, but Alan always laughed and used his gentle persuasions to quiet her, or to politely dismiss her when he and James preferred to dine alone.
Verity handled Alan’s mother remarkably well. Her calm patience seemed to soothe the woman somewhat. She even tactfully offered to pour when Mrs. Poldrennan’s shaky hands had sloshed tea over the rim of the first cup poured. “For you must have worked all day,” Verity said, “to keep this lovely house in such good order. Allow me to relieve you of at least this one small task.”
Mrs. Poldrennan was delighted to do so, and embarked on a monologue of how easily exhausted she was these days, how quickly she became winded, how her bones were affected by
the cold, and on and on. Verity appeared quickly to have determined that the woman enjoyed complaining. She never once offered one of her herbal remedies as solace, but only nodded and smiled sympathetically.
Still irritated by Alan’s marked attentions to Verity, and equally piqued by the way she positively basked in those attentions, James sat silent and sullen throughout the brief meal. Alan steered the conversation away from his mother’s complaints to more general topics and Verity drew in Mrs. Poldrennan as often as possible. She tried to draw in James as well, but accepted his rebuffs with an indulgent smile.
After three-quarters of an hour had elapsed, Alan suggested a walk through his small garden. The day was clear and sunny, so they all agreed to the plan. Alan was able to dissuade his mother from joining them, warning she might take a chill and that she really ought to lie down and rest. Mrs. Poldrennan agreed without argument, though she fussed over the rest of them, especially Verity, to make sure they were wrapped up warm enough to venture outside. She dashed upstairs and returned with a stack of woolen scarves, insisting each of them take one. She gave Verity two, and helped her to wrap them about her neck and shoulders.
“You must forgive my mother,” Alan said once they had left the house. “She tends to dither and fuss, but she means well.”
“I found her quite charming,” Verity said.
Alan looked at James and winked. “A born diplomat,” he said.
When Alan indicated the path to the garden, to James’s utter astonishment Verity moved to his side and took his arm. All of a sudden, the day grew warmer, the sun shone brighter, and James’s black mood melted away. He bent his head to look at her, and she gave him a smile that sent a bolt of heat coursing through his veins like a shot of whiskey.
A flicker of surprise lit Alan’s eyes for the briefest moment. Then he moved to Verity’s other side and offered his arm. “You shall have a double escort,” he said, “as we wander through my vast and spectacular garden.”
James felt not a twinge of jealousy that Alan held her other hand on his arm. She had approached James first, after all, and he felt ridiculously cocky for it. Her only motive might have been simply to reassure him she had no designs on Alan. It did not matter. He had been so circumspect in his behavior, had so seldom allowed himself to touch her in any untoward manner, that he relished the soft pressure of her gloved fingers on his sleeve. He reached over and covered her hand with his.
The garden was small and not terribly impressive in its sparse winter foliage, though a few early primroses bloomed brightly. They circled its perimeter three times before Alan suggested they be seated on two facing stone benches on either side of the path. Verity released Alan first, so that it was a simple matter for James to draw her down beside him on one of the benches.
James’s mood had brightened considerably during their walk. They had all talked and laughed—yes, even he had laughed—about every subject that came to mind. It was one of the few completely contented days he’d experienced in many years: comfortable, unguarded, frivolous conversation with the only two people in the world he could call friend.
When the subject of some activity or other in the village came up, it triggered a memory. “Speaking of St. Perran’s,” James said, “the damnedest thing happened yesterday.”
Verity’s head bobbed up like a cork. “Oh?”
He eyed her quizzically. “Yes. I had been out in the fields with Mark Penneck and rode back through the village. Old Grannie Pascow stood leaning out her half door and waved me over. Said she wanted to thank me for the firewood, and to tell me how the family had enjoyed the Christmas ham. Later, as I reached the end of the lane, Ewa Dunstan called at me. When I pulled up, she stood there in the lane and thanked me, too, for the firewood, and told me how grateful she and Jacob were to have had the roof leak repaired.”
Verity chewed on her lower lip and looked away. Alan raised his brows in question. “What is so strange about that?” he asked.
“Alan! These are the same women who gather their children, close the doors, and draw the curtains every time I pass by. Now suddenly they are anxious to express their gratitude to me. Old Grannie never speaks to me but to chide and berate, or to hiss some epithet at me. Ewa Dunstan hasn’t spoken more than three words to me in all her life, and more often than not makes a surreptitious sign of the devil when she sees me. Yesterday she still found it difficult to look me in the eye, but she seemed compelled to speak to me. I cannot imagine what has got into them. Can you?”
They both looked at Verity. When she lifted her head, her eyes were overly bright and her lips, though smiling, trembled slightly. “Is it not wonderful?”
James knew in that moment that what he had suspected was true. Verity had been the instrument of the changes he sensed in the village. Her influence had begun to break down barriers he thought could never be breached. If Alan had not been there, James might have been tempted to enfold her in his arms and never let go. What spark of goodness in his wretched life had earned him the right to such a sweet advocate?
Verity walked into St. Perran’s the next day, for there was no threat of rain. As she ambled down the lane toward the village she savored memories of yesterday, of the ride to Bosreath, of the walk through the garden, of James’s warm hand covering hers on his arm.
It had been the first physical sign of affection she had received from him since that brief kiss on the moor. All throughout the evening and again today she had cherished the remembrance of the sheer pleasure of his touch. If this was all she ever had from him, it would surely be enough.
Verity walked to Grannie’s door. The upper half was open as though it were a warm, summer day. Kate saw her and waved her in.
Grannie’s parlor, as she liked to call it, was uncharacteristically empty of visitors. Kate and Grannie had moved a long table near the hearth and were busy making what appeared to be pancakes in a black iron skillet balanced on a tall trivet over the fire. Dozens of the thin cakes were stacked on a pewter plate at one end of the table. Verity stood in the doorway, uncertain if she should intrude.
“Come in, come in,” Grannie said, waving her inside with a spoon. “We do be about done. Kate can finish up.” She wiped her floury hands on her apron and sank down on a bench that had been pulled up next to the table. She indicated Verity should join her. “Re’m fay, I do be worn to death. I be glad you come, Verity Osborne. It do give me an excuse to rest my weary bones.”
“Is there something I can do to help?” Verity asked.
“Thank ’ee, no, Miz Verity,” Kate Pascow said. “It only do need a bit o’ jam to finish up, then we be done.”
“They look delicious,” Verity said as she watched Kate drop a spoonful of jam in the center of each pancake, roll it up, and sprinkle it with sugar.
“Aye, and they’ll be gone soon enough,” Grannie said.
“Oh, I am intruding,” Verity said, and rose to leave. “You are planning some sort of family celebration. You must forgive me for getting in your way.”
“Sit yerself down, Verity Osborne,” Grannie said. “’Tedn’t no celebration. Only the nicky-nan boys.”
“The what?”
Kate laughed at Verity’s confusion. “Don’t s’pose they do have nicky-nan boys up-country, eh?”
“Not that I know of.”
Grannie added her laughter to Kate’s, her plump form shaking with mirth. Verity grinned at both women.
“Poor ign’rant foreigner,” Kate said, smiling broadly. “Best ’ee should tell her, Grannie, afore she do make a fool o’ herself.”
Grannie wiped her eyes with the back of a hand, and leaned slightly forward on the bench, hands on her knees. “It be Shrove Tuesday today,” the old woman began.
“Ah. So it is,” Verity said. “I’d forgot.”
“Every rascally boy in the district do come on Shrove Tuesday, callin’ theirselves the nicky-nan boys, threatenin’ mischief if ’ee doesn’t give ’em pancakes.”
“Aha. No wonder y
ou’ve been working so hard,” Verity said. “I suppose that’s where all the other women are. At home making pancakes?”
“Aye,” Kate said. “Else no tellin’ what them boys’ll do.”
“Goodness, I hope Mrs. Chenhalls has made up a batch, too.”
Kate’s busy hands froze and she shot Grannie a sharp look. The old woman shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Ain’t no nicky-nan boys goin’ up to Pendurgan, Verity Osborne.”
“Oh, of course,” Verity said. “I ought to have known. But do you think—”
“Ea! Ea! Ea!”
Verity almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the strange, high-pitched cries.
“Ea! Ea! Ea!”
“Here they be,” Kate said. She placed the last of the filled cakes on the plate and brushed the sugar off her hands. Grannie rose and leaned out the door, glaring at the large gathering of boys outside. There must have been thirty or more of them, all ages and sizes.
“What do ’ee pesky wags want, eh?” Grannie said.
To Verity’s delight, the boys began to chant a rhyme.
Nick, nicky, nan,
Nick, nicky, nan,
Give me some pancake and then I’ll be gone.
But if ’ee give me none, I’ll throw a great stone
And down, down, down your door shall come!
Nick, nicky, nan.
“Take the pancakes, then, if ’twill keep us safe o’ yer mischief,” Grannie said. She opened the bottom half of the door and stepped just outside. She held the plate high amid the pushing and shoving and shrieking and giggling, and made sure every boy had his share. In little more than the blink of an eye, the plate was empty.
The rowdy group quickly dispersed, calling out thanks around mouthfuls of pancake. A tiny red-haired figure who’d been hidden in the crowd stepped forward and grinned impishly, red jam stains framing his mouth.
“Miz Osborne!” Davey said. “I be a nicky-nan boy!”
Verity bent and tousled the mop of red hair. “So you are.”
