The Chain Garden

by Jane Jackson

‘Can we go now, nan?’ Meg was edging backwards, dragging her sister away.

  ‘The children are looking well, Mrs Tamblin. So are you.’

  Martha rolled her eyes. ‘‘Tis some job, Reverend. But Poll’s good as gold. We’re doing all right. Going down the quay are you?’

  ‘I expect I will later.’

  ‘Maybe see you down there then.’ With a nod Martha shepherded her grandchildren away.

  Edwin looked up the road again. Please, Grace. Please come. He walked slowly down towards the carpenters’ workshop. Standing at the back he watched an appreciative crowd tap their feet and join in the chorus of popular songs from the music hall sung by Edie Banks and Stanley Bird.

  Stan and Edie were popular entertainers at chapel and village functions, tailoring their repertoire to suit the occasion and the venue. This afternoon they were accompanied on an ancient accordion by Zeb Rollins who, having abandoned his crab pots for the day, mouthed ‘af’noon, Rev’rend’ across the heads of the audience; and on the violin by farmer Donald Keverne.

  Edwin had only been in the village a week when he learned about Donald’s legendary gift from Mrs Nancholas, the chapel organist. Donald had inherited the violin from his grandfather who had also taught him to play. After the old man died Donald married the only child of a neighbouring farmer. This happy union had united two farms and produced three strapping sons. But Donald’s well-meaning attempts to soothe their teething or tantrums by playing his violin had the opposite effect. Eventually his harassed wife banished him to the cow byre to practise.

  Donald’s discovery that the cows responded to his playing by increasing their milk yield had been met with hoots of derision from other farmers. Until a test conducted under strict conditions vindicated his claim. His status had soared. Any farmer with a decreasing yield, a nervous heifer giving birth for the first time, even a bad-tempered bull, sent for Donald and his violin.

  The song ended to an enthusiastic burst of applause. As Zeb and Donald struck up a new tune Edwin turned away, looking up and down the road. Was it possible that with so many people around he might have missed her? Had she seen him talking to someone or listening to the music and been reluctant to interrupt? He would try the quay.

  It was crowded. So was the water. Boats of varying sizes milled around the start and finish lines of a course marked by buoys and flags. In tiny craft little bigger than a clamshell, eight-year-olds plied the short oars like veterans. Teenagers in clinker-built randans traded insults as they rowed round each other. Further down the river a slender gig sliced through the water like a knife blade, powered by six burly men who bent and stretched in perfect unison over the sweeps.

  At the back of the quay he saw Polly and Megan among the clamouring throng surrounding the confectionery stall. Another group of children gazed fascinated at the brightly coloured paper windmills. Standing upright in jars and buckets on a flat-topped wheelbarrow they hummed as they spun in the breeze.

  In the water a few feet from the quay a dozen boys, supple as eels, were diving for a china plate. The watching crowd in their Sunday-best clothes laughed and clapped as the victor shot to the surface, spurting a fountain of water through his pursed lips. A grin split his face as he held the blue and white pattered plate high above his head. Then splashing his way to the quay he clambered out dripping, to claim his prize. A scolding mother wrapped a ragged towel around the hunched shoulders of another shivering urchin.

  Scanning the faces, not seeing the one he sought, Edwin tried to keep his disappointment hidden as he turned away. More from habit than hope he glanced up the road towards the village. His heart leaped violently. Wearing a pale blue dress of some finely pleated material trimmed with white lace, and a matching hat, Grace was walking down towards him, apparently alone.

  Immediately he started towards her. His heart gave another lurch as she gave a little wave, only to hesitate as if wondering whether she should have. The days and nights of agony seesawing between hope and dread were forgotten. As they drew closer her lashes dropped to veil her eyes and a fiery blush flooded her face.

  ‘You surely didn’t walk all the way?’ he blurted, concern over-riding his normal good manners.

  She looked up, shaking her head. ‘Uncle John dropped me off by the school.’

  As a roar of approval went up they both looked towards the quay.

  ‘That will be the shovel race,’ Grace said. At his blank expression she explained. ‘Each boat has a team of four. Only instead of oars they have to use shovels. It’s really hard work and always hugely popular.’

  ‘Would you like to watch it?’ Edwin offered instantly. ‘I’d be happy to escort you.’

  Grace glanced away for an instant, clearly reluctant. ‘It’s very kind of you but I’d rather not.’

  Something cold and slippery flopped over inside him. Terrified, dreading her rejection, he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Her colour deepened and she twisted the silk cords of her pale blue velvet drawstring bag.

  ‘Would –’ Swallowing, she moistened her lips. ‘Would you mind if we walked round to the field instead?’

  Relief engulfed him like a tidal wave. ‘No, of course not. It’s quite a crush.’ The corners of his mouth turned down briefly then he smiled. ‘Noisy as well.’ He offered her his arm and felt his heart swell with delight and pride when she slipped her hand under his elbow. They started walking. ‘It’s such a pleasure to see you… looking so much recovered,’ he added hastily. Slowly. Slowly. Don’t rush. Give her time.

  She tilted her head shyly. ‘Thank you. I’m feeling very much better.’

  At the junction they turned down the hill towards the bridge. Behind them, music hall singers and musicians were sitting in the sun laughing and chatting as they enjoyed a well-earned cup of tea. The audience had dispersed. For a moment the street was empty. Edwin felt Grace’s fingers tighten briefly on his arm, heard her soft intake of breath.

  ‘I wanted to say –’ she began. Glancing down he could see her cheeks flaming beneath the edge of her hat. ‘I can only imagine what – what it cost you to tell me. Not just what had happened, but your thoughts and feelings about it. That must have taken great courage. It seems to me those events have given you far greater understanding of – of your congregation. Surely such understanding and – and compassion – must make you a better minister? Your superiors think so. I mean –they could have asked you to leave the church. It would have been wrong and unfair, though no doubt they could have found a way to justify their decision. Yet they didn’t. Instead they moved you from missionary work to pastoral care.’ She swallowed again. ‘I’m so very glad they did. I’m glad that you came here, to Tremorvah. For if you had not, then I – we …’ She faltered, breathless with effort.

  While she was talking they had crossed the bridge and reached the open gateway into the field. Stopping abruptly under the leafy canopy of the huge oak that formed part of the hedge, Edwin turned to her, his own fingers covering hers where they rested on his forearm. His hand trembled.

  ‘This may be too soon,’ he blurted, encouraged by her confession and unable any longer to contain his desperate need. ‘If I have mistaken your kindness for something else then I most humbly beg your pardon. But if I have not, if you do care for me –’ His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. ‘Grace, the first day I saw you I knew. You were the woman I wanted to spend my life with. Since then everything I have learned about you has only made me love you more.’

  He watched her face change as every muscle that had been held taut by nervousness relaxed. Her flush of anxiety softened into glowing happiness.

  ‘You do? Oh Edwin. I wasn’t sure. I’ve waited – hoped –I have loved you for weeks. But I thought – I was afraid.’

  ‘You do?’ His voice jumped an octave. ‘Then would you be willing to consider – Grace, please will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

  Her eyes sparkled. Her smile was radiant. ‘Yes, Edwin. I will.’


  Clasping her fingers he raised them to his lips. She stepped closer and rested her cheek against his hand. He could not resist. Bending to avoid her hat he pressed his lips gently to hers. Her mouth was warm and soft and shyly responsive. Profoundly moved he drew back and looked into her widening eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed –’ As she touched her mouth her fingers were trembling.

  He coughed to clear the lump from his throat. ‘I think perhaps a cup of tea?’

  She nodded gratefully. ‘Yes, please.’

  As he drew her arm through his she glanced up at him. ‘If we cross the field like this –’

  ‘The entire village will know before nightfall.’ His grin faded. ‘Would you prefer to wait until I’ve spoken to your father?’

  Grace smiled up at him, her fingers tightening on his arm. ‘No, not at all. I just wanted you to be aware –’

  ‘I am.’ Covering her hand with his he glanced towards the women grouped round the nearest stall. All were staring in their direction. ‘In any case, it’s far too late now.’

  ‘Ah.’ Grace darted him a joyous smile. ‘Oh well.’

  As he gazed at her his mind flashed back to the day the Elders told him he had to leave India. It had seemed like the end of the world. Yet if none of that had happened he wouldn’t be here now. God did indeed move in mysterious ways. ‘Ready?’

  Beside him Grace drew a breath and nodded. ‘Ready.’

  An hour later, while they watched a man dressed up in a nightshirt and nightcap expertly manoeuvring a small punt to try and evade the six-oar gig chasing him, he listened as Grace told him about her letter from Mary.

  ‘Apparently Dorcas went to see her.’

  He looked at her. ‘The wedding?’

  ‘Will not now take place,’ Grace said. ‘I had a letter from Dorcas as well. She wanted me to understand that she meant Mary no harm, but believed it only right that Mary know the truth. Anyway, Dorcas has left the village.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  Grace nodded. ‘The thing is – Edwin, she’s given her cottage to me.’

  His brows rose. ‘What a remarkably generous gesture.’

  ‘You’re wondering why. So did I. I’ve never – I mean – I simply couldn’t imagine why she would.’ Grace’s cheeks grew rosy and she broke off, shaking her head.

  ‘She gave you a reason?’ Edwin enquired gently, already suspecting what it was and moved by the loneliness implicit in the gift.

  Grace’s colour deepened as she nodded. ‘She said I was the only genuine member of the entire Damerel family. I don’t think she meant to include the twins, do you?’

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t.’

  ‘Anyway, she had always enjoyed my visits and the gift was a small token of her esteem. She said that though I will live in other places –’ Grace broke off. ‘How could she possibly know that?’

  ‘Mrs Renowden was an artist. Artists are acutely sensitive observers. In all honesty, I don’t think there are many people to whom our engagement will come as a complete surprise.’

  Grace darted him a shy glance. ‘Mary guessed weeks ago.’

  Edwin smiled. ‘She is a lady of exceptional good sense. What else did Mrs Renowden say?’

  ‘That the cottage meant I would always have a home in Cornwall to come back to, and she wished us every happiness.’

  Cold February rain driven by a gusty wind lashed against the office windows. Henry Damerel slumped against the button-back brown leather, his hands hanging loosely over the arms.

  Flames danced in the small grate but made little impact on the chilly draught creeping in under the panelled door.

  Wearing expressions that matched the sombre formality of their black coats and striped trousers, his solicitor and bank manager sat on the far side of a table covered with neat piles of documents.

  Sunk in bitterness he barely listened as procedures relating to his bankruptcy and the closure of Wheal Providence were explained.

  A lifetime’s work: decades of juggling, of strain, of effort, and for what? He had lost everything. All saleable machinery had been auctioned off to raise money to pay some of his creditors. Everyone blamed him. Yet of all of them he had lost the most. What more did they think he could have done?

  The house and estate were being sold to some industrialist from the Midlands who wanted to retire to Cornwall. The damned upstart had even wanted to retain the servants. Not one, God rot them, had refused. Bitterness, hot and acid, burned in Henry’s gut. So much for loyalty.

  At least he was free of his mother-in-law. John Ainsley had found her a small town house in Truro and dealt with everything from legal arrangements to transferring her furniture.

  Resentment curled Henry’s hands into fists. John was safe, untouched. His life was continuing just as it always had. He was even staying on at the lodge: the industrialist only too delighted at the convenience of having a doctor at the top of the drive.

  Henry rubbed his aching forehead. Six months ago he had been a man of property and substance. The situation had been difficult, even precarious. But with Mary’s money he could have turned it all around. He could have made Wheal Providence profitable again. He’d been willing to give her what she had wanted. Just because he’d forgotten to tell her about something that was none of her damn business anyway – now all he owned were his clothes. Even the roof over his head belonged to his daughter.

  If Dorcas had told him she had come into money he would never have taken up with Mary. He had been doing his utmost to save the mine, and they had both deserted him.

  How had Dorcas found out he had mortgaged the cottage to the bank then been unable to keep up the payments? To learn that she had bought the cottage had been shock enough. That she should have given it to Grace – that news had stunned him.

  Why Grace? He longed to know. But he wouldn’t ask. He had his pride. Besides, he wasn’t sure how much Grace knew about his relationship with Dorcas. Not that it was any of her business.

  All Grace had said was that the gift had been unexpected and a great shock. Then she had told him he could, if he wished, live with her at the cottage until her wedding. When she moved into the manse with Edwin he could stay on and Rose would come in three times a week to cook for him. He’d agreed. Where else could he have gone?

  Grace had changed. It wasn’t just her marriage. Ever since Louise’s death she had been different. He couldn’t imagine what Edwin Philpotts saw in her. She had none of Zoe’s sparkle or beauty. Her only talent was taking care of the village’s lame ducks.

  In the past when he had reminded her of her responsibility to the family she had always apologised and made additional efforts to please. Now when he complained of her neglect or pointed out her shortcomings she simply waited until he’d finished then asked him to excuse her and left.

  What really infuriated – unnerved – him was the expression in her eyes. She tried to hide it. But he wasn’t blind nor was he stupid. How dare she look at him like that? With pity.

  ‘Mr Damerel?’

  He looked up. Both men were observing him over half-moon spectacles, clearly waiting for his response to a question he hadn’t even heard.

  He flapped a hand. ‘Do what you like. I don’t care.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Freshly bathed, wearing a loose light robe of pale pink double-layered muslin with ribbon ties and trimming, Grace sat at the breakfast table, enjoying a second cup of tea while she ran through in her head all she hoped to do that day. She glanced up as the door opened.

  ‘Fetch some more toast, shall I?’ Violet enquired as she set down a small pile of mail by her mistress’s empty plate. ‘Eating for two now, you are.’

  ‘Honestly, Violet, if you and Rose had your way I’d be the size and shape of a rain barrel.’ She smiled up into the maid’s concerned face. ‘I’m fine, really.’

  ‘Ben Hooper have sent down a great basket of fruit and veg.’

  ‘That was kind of him. He rea
lly shouldn’t though. All the produce belongs to the new owner now.’

  Violet snorted. ‘He got more’n enough. Anyway, I reck’n Ben want to say thanks for all you done for Kate while she was mourning her grampa. She do still miss him something awful. Shame he never seen the babby.’

  ‘At least he lived long enough to see Kate married. He promised he would. He even walked her down the aisle.’

  Violet’s normally dour features softened. ‘Get on, Kate near enough carried him. Still, he didn’t weigh no more’n a handful of feathers. I tell you, Rose and me stopped breathing. We was both afraid he’d never get so far as the front pew.’ She looked round as the door opened again.

  ‘Here’s master. If you’re sure you don’t want nothing else I’ll go and get on.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, Violet.’

  Grace felt her heart swell with love as her husband passed the maid with a nod and a smile. She raised her face as he dropped a kiss on her forehead then bent to lay a gentle hand over the curve of her stomach.

  ‘How are you both?’

  ‘Blooming. Mrs Endean?’

  ‘She died an hour ago. It was very peaceful. Her sister was very upset so I stayed with her while her daughter went for the undertaker. George Penrose has had a busy time since Christmas.’

  Grace laid her hand over his in silent sympathy. ‘Sit with me for a moment. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Shaking his head he pulled out a chair and sat close enough to hold her hand. His open affection for her was something she treasured and gave thanks for every day.

  ‘No, I’m awash with tea.’ He glanced at the mail beside her plate. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Lots.’ Grace sifted the pile. ‘Bryce and Tarun are off to Tibet again. In fact as the letter was written a month ago they are probably there by now. There’s a postcard from Mary.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Scotland. She says the scenery is absolutely glorious.’ Grace touched his face with loving fingers. ‘I am so very grateful for you.’

  Catching her hand he pressed his lips to her palm.