by Candice Hern
“I’m sure you are right,” she said, “though I cannot help being concerned. Not only are there…sad associations with fire, but James—”
“Is it not fitting,” Agnes said, her approach unnoticed by Verity, “that the master of a festival of fire is himself so well linked with fire?”
The spiteful remark brought an awkward hush to the room, silencing even the tittering Mrs. Poldrennan. The captain was the first to respond. “Come now, Mrs. Bodinar,” he said, “I doubt the people will associate the bonfires with what happened here almost seven years ago. Besides, it is too much a part of tradition. I do not believe the festival would be a success without the fires.”
“I suspect you have the right of it,” Verity said, ignoring Agnes’s disdainful snort.
“As for me,” the captain said, “I think the fires make the whole thing so much more festive. Once, when I was in Penzance at midsummer, flaming tar barrels atop tall poles were placed throughout the streets of the town. It was the most spectacular sight. I say, why don’t you do that for your festival, Mrs. Osborne? Flaming tar barrels throughout the estate. What do you say?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” she replied. “I am still trying to accept the notion of a bonfire.”
“I think it is a lovely idea, Alan,” his mother said, plucking at his sleeve. “It is something I should certainly like to see.”
“I agree,” Agnes said, smiling at the captain. “The more fires the better. Perhaps the old place will burn to the ground.”
Verity frowned at her. She had hoped Agnes would be more polite in company, but apparently not. She seemed to be getting more vicious, determined to see that the festival was a failure.
“I hope it will not come to that,” Verity said. “I am willing, though reluctant, to agree to a bonfire, but I will have to think about the tar barrels, Captain.”
“I am at your service,” he said, “if you decide in favor of them.”
“Did you know,” Agnes said, “that the fires were meant to strengthen the sun at the beginning of its long journey down toward the winter solstice?” She gave a mirthless chuckle. “Fire to feed the terrible pagan god. Again I say, how appropriate.”
Verity wished they would get off the subject of fire. “I recollect some business about lights and candles at midsummer in Lincolnshire,” she said. “But it was not the focal point of any celebrations. Mostly I remember picking St. John’s wort to make into wreaths. But even it is a sun symbol, is it not, with its bright yellow flower. Did I tell you, Mrs. Poldrennan, that I plan to make wreaths this year?”
“To ward off evil spirits?”
Verity smiled at the serious tone in Mrs. Poldrannan’s voice. “No, ma’am. Just to look pretty. I am hoping to enlist Mrs. Bodinar’s help in weaving them this year.”
Agnes frowned, but did not reject the idea. Verity bit back a smile. Edith Littleton had once said, “If someone doesn’t like something you’re doing, ask them to help.”
The Poldrennans stayed for a short time longer, but declined the invitation to stroll the gardens. Mrs. Poldrennan was feeling tired and wished to return home, and the captain acquiesced.
When they were gone, Agnes turned on Verity. “What do you mean, trying to involve me in your horrid little festival?” she said. “I told you once, I want nothing to do with it.”
“I hoped you had changed your mind,” Verity said. “I could use your help. I have always admired the flowers you embroider so beautifully. I thought perhaps weaving a few real ones might be something you would enjoy.”
“Hmph. We shall see.”
Verity cast her a brilliant smile. It was the first real sign that there might be a chance to win over the old woman.
The rest of the Pendurgan household had thrown themselves into the planning with obvious pleasure. Verity was the center of all activity, coordinating every aspect of the event. She took notes and made endless lists of things to do and ideas to consider and questions to be answered. She sat for hours with Pendurgan’s cook and made lists of foods to prepare. Mrs. Tregelly helped make lists of vendors and food stalls and planned a trip into Bodmin to approach various shopkeepers about setting up stalls at the festival. Gonetta volunteered to make bunches of herbs tied with colored ribbons for girls to throw in the bonfire.
Young Davey was determined to help as well. His father, who had agreed to help organize sports and contests for the men and boys, enlisted Davey’s help in finding local boys to compete in the foot races.
Even James, though busy with estate business in the absence of a steward, did what he could to help. He worked with Jago Chenhalls to build rudimentary structures for food stalls and wrestling matches. He even volunteered to go into Bodmin, or farther if needed, to engage a troupe of players.
Verity’s lists began to grow. She had lists of food, lists of games and contests, lists of materials to make or buy, lists of entertainments, lists of potential helpers to prepare food and fairings, lists of tasks requiring workmen, lists of schedules, lists of questions, and on and on. She carried them about in her pockets and was liable to pull one out at any moment when a new idea or question came to her.
“I ain’t never seen the like, Verity Osborne,” Grannie Pascow said when Verity next visited her. She watched Verity unload her stuffed pockets and laughed so that her plump bosom jiggled like aspic. “’Ee do got a list fer everything. I declare I never did see so many lists.”
“It is a big project, Grannie, and I need to be organized if I am to pull it off. Now, let’s go over the entertainments once again, to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”
Verity spread out a list on Grannie’s trestle table. She had ruthlessly taxed Grannie’s memory on past festivals, and listed all the various entertainments that had ever taken place. She had no notion of introducing all of them into her plans. She merely needed to understand what sort had been offered over the years in order to help her select the most appropriate for this year’s revival.
It was difficult to keep Grannie’s concentration on the task at hand. She tended to become sidetracked with wistful recollections of festivals past. As on several previous occasions, Grannie’s reminiscences sparked others by Kate. When Hildy Spruggins joined them, she had memories to share as well. Verity surreptitiously took notes when some story inspired an idea. She was more than ever convinced that the festival would mark a new beginning for Pendurgan and for James. There was already a spark of excitement in the air of St. Perran’s. Verity had no doubt the women carried that spark home to their own families. By mid-June, the district would be agog with anticipation.
And perhaps the tragedy of 1812 could finally be put behind them. James would be able to hold his head up again, to walk proudly among his own people, to turn his life around.
When the question of her own role in his future tugged at her reason, she pushed it aside. The festival was all that mattered for now. She had a mission, and it consumed her. When it was over…well, she would think about that later.
Chapter 11
Spring came early to Cornwall and by April was in full bloom. The sharp tang of chamomile and the limelike fragrance of bracken tinged the air when Verity strolled the lower grounds. Even the village of St. Perran’s had been transformed. The squat little cottages with their ugly slate roofs took on a special charm as the flat slates became covered in a yellow lichen burnished gold by the afternoon sun.
Once the roads had recovered from the incessant March rains and become more passable, James took Verity and Mrs. Tregelly into Bodmin. He had agreed to meet with the manager of a troupe of local players, and Mrs. Tregelly wanted to confirm plans with a few tradesmen. Verity wanted to come along for no other reason than she hadn’t been farther than Bosreath since she arrived at Pendurgan.
Feeling as giddy as a child at Christmas, she had dressed in her best kerseymere pelisse and Angoulême bonnet, with little care for how unfashionably outdated she must appear. Perhaps Bodmin was a small backwater town, several years
behind London in style, and would find her quite the thing. It did not matter. She was happy to be going somewhere new, and secretly glad Mrs. Tregelly had come along. It was to be a long day, and to spend it alone with James would have been exquisite torture.
It was a glorious sunny day and the town was bustling. It was not a grand town, to be sure, though it boasted the Assize Court and a lovely old church missing its steeple. But the main street was crowded with shops and businesses and inns as it climbed its long way up to the top of a hill.
James left them to go about his business. “After I meet with the stage manager, I have an appointment with my solicitor,” he said, giving Verity an unreadable look. They agreed to meet at the White Hart for tea in two hours.
Verity and Mrs. Tregelly spent a great deal of time with two notions sellers who each agreed to bring a stall to the festival for selling ribbons and lace and other trinkets for the ladies. They also made arrangements with a toy maker to set up a stall of carved wooden toys for the children. Verity discovered the Pendurgan housekeeper to be a persuasive and formidable negotiator. She had exacting requirements and brooked neither unnecessary extravagances nor economies. When Verity pulled her into an herbalist’s shop to pick up a few herbs she had not been able to locate at Pendurgan, Mrs. Tregelley was able to cajole the dour proprietor into setting up shop at the festival.
The two women were on their way to a pie maker’s shop when they realized the time, and set off for the White Hart instead. James was awaiting them, and led them to a small parlor he had engaged, where fresh tea and cakes were laid out.
“The players are set to come,” he said as Verity poured their tea.
“Oh, famous!” she exclaimed. “The people will be sure to come now.” She caught an uncertain look in his eye as she handed him a cup. Though he never said so, she knew he was still wary of the whole festival idea. Yet he went along with her wishes without complaint, not only securing the acting troupe, but engaging the local kiddly keeper, Old Artful, into providing ale, setting the St. Perran’s blacksmith to making extra quoits for the games, and rounding up workers from the tenant farms to build stalls and wrestling rings and a makeshift stage. Most difficult of all, he had not ignored the bonfire. He set Tomas to the task of rounding up enough wood to build the huge pile.
Verity wanted to throw her arms around him and thank him for all he’d done, despite his misgivings.
“Verity?”
She jerked herself to attention. Good Lord, she’d been staring at him. What must he think of her? “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was woolgathering.”
“I asked how your day progressed. Were you able to engage a few sellers?”
Verity pulled herself together and told him what they’d accomplished. She kept up a lively chatter, regaling him with more detail than he probably cared to know. But at least it kept her mind from wandering to foolish fantasies.
“There are still several others to visit,” she said, pulling out her list of Bodmin vendors and tradesmen. “First, there is the pie maker and then—”
“Mrs. Tregelly,” James interrupted, “I trust you can manage with the baker and the others on your own?”
“Yes, of course, my lord.”
“I thought as much. Here, you take Mrs. Osborne’s list. I should like to borrow her for a while, if she has no objections.”
Verity experienced the merest tingle of anticipation. After a confirming nod from Mrs. Tregelly, Verity said, “I have no objections.”
“Good,” he said. He made arrangements to meet the housekeeper in one hour, then rose and offered his arm to Verity.
He led her along the main street, obviously with some destination in mind, though he said not a word. Something in his manner made her decidedly nervous. What was he up to?
“Did your meeting with your solicitor go well?” she asked, too jittery to allow the silence to continue.
He glanced down at her and gave her one of his enigmatic half smiles. “Yes, I believe so. I found out what I needed to know. Ah, look there, Verity. What do you think of that hat?”
He had stopped before a shop window that displayed hats and shawls and reticules. He indicated a charming leghorn bonnet trimmed with flowers, with an up-to-the-moment broad brim and low crown. It was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen. She gave him a questioning look. “It is quite lovely.”
“And would look even lovelier on you.” He flashed one of his rare smiles in response to the startled look she must surely be wearing. He reached up a hand and briefly touched her cheek. “My dear Verity, you are still wearing the same dresses, the same cloak, and same two bonnets that you brought with you to Pendurgan. And I suspect none of them was new even then. Let me buy you something new to wear.”
She colored up. “Oh, James, I couldn’t let you do that. I already owe you—”
“If you are going to mention that two hundred guineas, I will let you walk home to Pendurgan!” The laughter in his eyes belied his harsh words. “You owe me nothing, and you certainly deserve a new dress for the festival. And a new bonnet as well, I think. Shall we see what Mrs. Renfree has to offer?”
It had indeed been so long since she’d had anything new to wear—since her marriage to Gilbert, in fact—that Verity was tempted once again to throw her arms around his neck. Though she attempted a smile, her lower lip began to tremble.
“Now, don’t get all weepy, I beg you. You’ll have the whole town thinking I beat you.”
She gave a quavery chuckle and blinked away her tears until she felt more composed. “You really don’t have to do this, James.”
“Yes, I do. You’ve been working so hard and I know why you’re doing it. You deserve much more than a few dresses.”
“You are too good to me.”
He pressed his hand against the small of her back to lead her into the shop. “Not as good as I’d like to be,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What are you going to do?”
Gilbert Russell stopped pacing and gazed down at his friend. Anthony Northrup sat sprawled on the sofa as calm as you please while Gilbert’s life threatened to crumble into pieces.
“I need this position, Tony,” he said. “You know I do. But Beddingfield is as stiff-rumped as they come. If he were to find out…”
“He won’t find out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Northrup swung his legs down and leaned his elbows on his knees. “In the first place,” he said, “don’t assume the old poop is such a puritan. The man went to school. He would have experimented just like everyone else.”
“Even so—”
“Besides, you have the perfect cover. All you need to do is present yourself as the traditional family man in public. So long as you have a wife to trot out to the occasional affair, no one cares what you do on the side.”
Gilbert felt the blood drain from his face. “A wife?”
“You do still have a wife, don’t you? Assuming that Heartless fellow hasn’t murdered her.”
Anxiety simmered like acid in Gilbert’s stomach. Ever since he’d learned the reputation of the man who’d given him two hundred guineas for Verity, his conscience had gnawed at him like a dog with a bone. He knew he ought to have done something, but instead he simply tried to ignore it, to forget it. “Dear God, Tony, are you saying I should—”
“You want to stay in Beddingfield’s good graces, do you not?”
“Of course I do.” He ran agitated fingers through his hair. “I’m all done up. I need that position on his staff.”
“Then keep his suspicions at bay. Get your wife back.”
“Ain’t he wunerful, Miz Osborne? Ain’t he?”
Davey Chenhalls stared at the new moorland foal with total infatuation. It had been love at first sight a week ago when the pony was born. Every day Davey had dragged Verity out to the old stables where the ponies were kept to admire the new foal.
“He certainly is wonderful,” Verity said, tousling the boy’s bri
ght hair. “Have you thought of a name for him yet?”
“I been thinkin’ and thinkin’,” the boy said. “It gots to be special, ’cuz he be my very first pony. I gets to ride him, Da says, soon’s he do be old ’nuff and big ’nuff.”
“He’ll be a fine pony for you to ride.”
“He sure will!” Davey said. “If he’d a been a girl, I did be gonna name him Verity, ’cuz that be yer name.”
“Oh, Davey!”
“But that don’t be soundin’ right fer a boy pony. So I do figure to name him Osborne, ’cuz that be yer name, too, and it do sound more like a boy’s name.”
Verity knelt down on her haunches and hugged the little boy, blinking back tears. “Davey, my dear, I am so honored that you wish to name your pony after me.”
“Well,” he said, squirming out of her grip to gaze again at the tiny foal, “it did have to be a special name, like I said, and you do be the most specialest person I do know.”
She kissed the top of his head and thought how she’d grown to love this impish little heartbreaker. “Come along, Davey,” she said. “The festival is only two days away and I have lots of work to do. Do you want to go to the village with me? I must see if the smithy finished those quoits.”
“You bet I would! Could I go see Benjie Spruggins, too?”
“Yes, of course. You may visit with Benjie while I have a visit with Grannie Pascow. Come along, then.”
With a final glance at the foal, Davey skipped down the path that snaked through the western pastures before it joined up with the lane to St. Perran’s. Verity watched his high-spirited gamboling and a sudden wave of longing swept over her. Idiot! She had years ago abandoned dreams of having children of her own. What had brought on such foolishness? Was it simply Davey’s endearing attachment to her? Or something more?
When they reached the edge of the village, just before the Dunstan cottage, Verity’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp whistle. She spun around to find Digory Clegg beckoning her, and heaved a weary sigh.
