‘I grant you he sounds the ideal suitor for any young lady of quality,’ Oliver said, looking around for another glass of wine.
‘He is. I hope Ameline will have him willingly. He’s a good churchman too, doesn’t have any sympathy with this Methodist nonsense. Can’t think why you of all people tolerate it, Oliver.’
‘Each man to his own way of believing, Martin. I haven’t heard anything yet in Wesley’s or his laymen’s preachings that I can take exception to.’
Sir Martin gave Oliver a sideways glance. ‘You don’t take all their prattlings to heart either though, do you, my boy? Haven’t given up smuggling, for instance. You don’t think of it as “an abomination”. You’re too much your own man.’ He looked back up the stairway and tut-tutted in extreme irritation. William and James Mortreath’s progress was being impeded by the enormously overweight Countess of Nansavellion. ‘Huh!’ he grunted. ‘Now Rachael’s wretched mother is delaying William!’
Scanning the animated crowd for a footman with a tray of wine, Oliver was delighted when a young man in an officer’s uniform of the 32nd Regiment of Foot handed him a full glass.
‘Martin! How good it is to see you and how good you look in the red and white. It makes me wish I was back in the regiment again.’
‘I’m sure I don’t look half as good as you did, Oliver,’ the younger Martin Beswetherick said. ‘I’m not as tall and straight as you are, but I do admit I’m proud to be wearing the uniform and to be following in yours and late Uncle Arthur’s footsteps.’ Pushing back the lock of light brown hair that had persisted in straying over his eyes all his life, Martin turned to his grandfather. ‘A very happy birthday to you, Grandpaps. This looks like it will be a grand celebration.’
‘We’ll give you one for your coming of age at the end of the year, Martin,’ the elderly baronet beamed indulgently. ‘Bigger and better than this if I have anything to do with it. A worthy grandson I have here, Oliver, and a worthy heir to the Beswetherick fortune after his father. Do you know, not one of the others of my large brood could be bothered to put in an appearance tonight. Well, damn me, who cares? If they can’t be bothered to come, I won’t have to send the stable boys to shovel up after their horses, eh? Mind you, we could really get things warmed up if that tiresome mother of yours would hurry up and show herself, Martin.’
Martin laughed. ‘I’ll dash up and escort her down myself, Grandpaps. Is Kerensa with her?’
‘She is,’ Oliver replied.
‘Wonderful! I can’t wait to see her again. She is sure to outshine all the other women here tonight as usual. I won’t allow you to claim all of the dances with her, Oliver,’ Martin rejoined.
‘You’ll have to keep an eye on that young man, he adores Kerensa,’ Sir Martin teased as his thin, wiry grandson bounded off to take the stairs in leaps, waving at his father and James Mortreath as he passed by them.
‘Well, Father,’ William Beswetherick said, rubbing his hands together when he finally made his impatient parent’s side. ‘I’m afraid it took us rather a long time to disengage ourselves from the Countess. Where has Martin gone in such a hurry?’
‘To fetch Rachael,’ his father told him peevishly. ‘Why didn’t she come down with you and Mortreath?’
‘I’m afraid she insisted I leave the bedchamber. She said she would be no longer than ten minutes and to leave her to get ready in peace. It was like taking my life into my hands up there, I can tell you.’ William smiled graciously at Oliver. ‘Ah, Oliver, allow me to introduce you to James Mortreath. James, Sir Oliver Pengarron.’
The two men briefly shook hands and both were about to speak when, on a signal from a footman, the musicians changed tune to the notes of a fanfare and the guests in the suddenly hushed banqueting hall watched Lady Rachael Beswetherick descend the stairs on the arm of her eldest son. Ladies tittered at her appearance behind their fans while all male eyes were upon the lady on Martin’s other arm, Kerensa, Lady Pengarron.
James Mortreath sucked in his breath. ‘Lady Rachael looks radiant tonight,’ he whispered to Oliver, ‘but who is the beautiful child with her and her son?’
Oliver looked from the ridiculous to the beautiful then fixed James Mortreath with a hard stare. ‘That child, Mortreath, is my wife.’
‘Your wife!’
‘And,’ Oliver added, to underline the fact that his wife was no longer a child, ‘the mother of my children.’
‘Children? …I… um…’ James Mortreath’s face turned crimson. He jumped back two paces. He was not unaware of this tall man’s reputation for outbreaks of bad temper, of his arrogance and strong will, and that he was said to be particularly sensitive on matters pertaining to his wife. How could he have possibly known that this auburn-haired vision of beauty, youth and innocence now gliding gracefully towards them was Sir Oliver’s wife? He’d assumed she was one of Ameline’s friends. ‘If… if you’ll excuse me, Sir Oliver, Sir Martin, I… I will go and find out where Miss Ameline has got to.’ James Mortreath retreated like a fox before hounds.
‘Now, now, Oliver,’ Sir Martin bellowed. ‘That was most wicked of you. You’ve frightened the poor man half out of his wits.’
‘Oh dear,’ Oliver said, amused. ‘You know, Martin, this is going to be one of your best parties yet.’ With his handsome head raised and dark eyes twinkling, he held out his hand to claim Kerensa’s.
* * *
Ameline Beswetherick thanked her maid and after a final check in the mirror of her own bedchamber she left and hurried towards the stairs. She had two small flights of five steps each to patter down before pacing the long corridor to reach the main staircase down into the banqueting hall.
At the last moment Ameline had suffered a mishap which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. She had meekly endured her mother’s frequent changes of mind about her appearance and her inane chatter and exhortations on how she should behave, how she should dance and with whom, and how she must be careful not to drink too much wine because it went so quickly to her head. She had suffered the indignity of her mother pinning fripperies to her gown, spoiling the maidenly effect of its dainty neckline of deep pink bows. Nothing more was needed to complement the pale pink satin, white silk petticoat and single layer of white lace sleeve ruffles. Resentment was heaped upon her frustration when lavish silken flowers, made in France and costing more than her gown, were thrust into her hair.
When Ameline viewed herself in her mother’s mirror she could have cried. She was a plain young woman of twenty-one, awkward in stature with ordinary brown hair. Compared to Kerensa, who retained a perpetual beauty and simplicity in dress and ornamentation, she usually felt like an unripe fruit. But now, thanks to her mother’s garish ministrations, she looked like a bowl of stewed strawberries.
Then had come the mishap for which she had been most grateful. The clasp of her single dropped ruby necklace came apart to send it bouncing off her skirts and skimming under her mother’s elaborate bed. Martin had knocked and entered at that point and he had got down on his hands and knees with Kerensa to search about under the bed for it.
‘Leave that now, the servants can retrieve it,’ Rachael said, laughing so shrilly Ameline wanted to put her hands over her ears. ‘My little lambkin can wear something of mine.’
‘It’s all right, Mama,’ Ameline hastily asserted, determined never to wear any of Rachael’s fussy jewellery. ‘I’ll return to my own room and put on my pearls.’
‘Don’t be too long, sis,’ Martin said as he got to his feet and helped Kerensa to hers. ‘Grandpaps is steadily growing redder in the face with impatience to get the party under way.’
‘We have been rather a long time, Rachael,’ Kerensa said diplomatically.
‘You go down without me, I don’t want Grandfather to have a seizure on my account,’ said Ameline and fled before her mother had time to argue. She was pleased to have this excuse to escape from taking part in one of Rachael’s ‘grand entrances’. Ameline hated them as much as the silly p
et name her mother called her and she wished she wasn’t her parents’ firstborn; the younger her brothers and sisters were, the less attention they received. She told her maid not to hurry looking for the pearls, wanting to delay her appearance until the party was under way and she could slip down the stairs unnoticed. She removed all the non-essential ornaments from her hair and gown.
The last note of her mother’s fanfare had died away long before she neared the end of the corridor. Ameline wrinkled up her face, then smiled. She must remember to smile all night, her mother often stressed it was her best feature. This was true. It lit up her face to transform it from ordinary to, in the secret thoughts of James Mortreath, perfect loveliness.
‘A very good evening to you, Miss Ameline.’
‘Oh! Captain Solomon!’ A hand flew to her cheek. ‘I had not expected to find someone else still up here. I fear I am late going down.’
‘You are indeed, Miss Ameline, and so am I. If you’ll permit me, I would consider it an honour to escort you safely down the stairs.’ At all times the voice of Captain Hezekiah Solomon was clear, precise and strangely musical.
Ameline had known this dapper gentleman sea captain from childhood. He was a close friend of Sir Oliver’s and less so of her grandfather’s and gambled with them until the small hours of the night. As with most people who knew Hezekiah Solomon, she was fascinated by his eccentricities, his fastidious manners, decorative colourful clothes and long, shiny white hair.
Ameline was about to say something in reply but the words died away. An unpleasant tingle touched her spine. With her eyes unwillingly locked to his, she placed her hand on the bright gold-brocaded satin of his arm, bent ready to receive her hand. Hezekiah Solomon made her feel that he could see right into her, even read her thoughts. Until now she had felt nothing to fear from this effeminate looking creature and although he was smiling at her as one might imagine an angel would, there was something odd about his eyes tonight. They were so queerly blue, steely blue and somehow icy cold. A chilled bleakness crept up from her toes to the top of her head and remained with Ameline throughout the night.
* * *
Hezekiah Solomon escorted Ameline to her grandfather’s side and left her with a gracious bow. He danced as often as was possible with Kerensa Pengarron. Throughout her marriage, from their first meeting on her wedding day, he had looked for opportunities to be close to her without arousing Oliver’s protective or territorial instincts and probable wrath. When Hezekiah relinquished Kerensa, after the last dance he could ask for without infringing the proprieties, he drew Oliver aside for a private talk. They slipped into William’s study and helped themselves to his brandy. Hezekiah was careful not to mention Kerensa.
‘What do you want to discuss with me?’ Oliver asked, stretching out his long legs from William’s chair.
‘Oh, it’s nothing important or secretive, Oliver, just curious.’ Hezekiah stood before a scroll-framed mirror smoothing his hair with the palm of a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I was passing through Marazion a few days ago and I came face to face with a youth who bore, I have to say, more than a passing resemblance to you.’
‘Really?’ Oliver grinned. ‘That comes as no surprise to me, Hezekiah. I am believed to be responsible for siring every brat of sixteen years or under who possesses black hair or dark eyes arid dwells hereabouts.’
With a smile Hezekiah continued, ‘This was more than just a physical resemblance, Oliver. When I first saw him he was fully involved in a drunken brawl outside the Commercial Inn. It was most enjoyable to watch him. He laid out three other men, all older and bigger than himself, in not many more minutes. He would have given that King fellow, the one known as the Barvah Giant, a run for his money. Then he threw back his head and stood with his hands on his hips. I thought of you at once, it was a stance I have seen you adopt often. I watched him walk away after that and he wouldn’t give room for either gentry or uniform. I’ll warrant the youth shares your stubbornness and pride too.’
‘I see,’ Oliver said thoughtfully. ‘Do you have any idea who he is? This likeness of me?’
Hezekiah inspected the false pads in his hose to ensure they were giving his legs the shape he desired. ‘I made enquiries at the inn. Apparently he is a young fisherman by the name of Bartholomew Drannock. He lives with his family at the little village of Perranbarvah. I don’t doubt you know or at least know of him, Oliver. Nothing escapes your notice in the parish. Ah, I see by your face that you do.’
‘Yes, I know Bartholomew Drannock. I agree with you, he does bear a likeness to me. I’ve pondered on it since I first noticed it a few years ago when he helped to save my life. He was no more than a boy at the time and helped to drag me out of the sea in Trelynne Cove. I’d gone in to save a girl from drowning and was caught in undercurrents by the rocks. I got her to safety but was too exhausted to pull myself out. In fact, Hezekiah,’ Oliver grew serious, ‘the boy may have been wholly responsible for saving my life. I shall never know if Clem Trenchard, who was the only other one there on the rocks at the time, would have pulled me out if he’d been alone.’
Hezekiah stayed his brandy glass midway to his mouth. ‘Clem Trenchard? That is quite a thought, Oliver. Will he ever forgive you, I wonder, for marrying Kerensa?’
‘Probably not,’ Oliver replied bluntly, ‘and that’s too bad for him. As you said, it is curious about Bartholomew Drannock. I’ve never been with his mother, Jenifer, although I would like to have been, once upon a time. She was quite a beauty when young, the daughter of a ship’s chandler, then she got herself pregnant by a poor fisherman and the youth in question was born. I was not on Cornish soil when he was conceived and born, or I would surely have been held to blame for it. I like the youth, Hezekiah, he must be seventeen or eighteen years old now. He fishes with his po-faced father and some of the ever-increasing King family. They’re very poor of course. That wretch Peter Blake owns most of the boats in the village, luggers, and seines for the pilchards, and takes more than what is fair of the profits.’ Oliver drained his glass and rose. ‘Yes, I’ll have to take a closer look at Bartholomew Drannock. It’s something I’ve kept meaning to do.’
‘What will you do?’ asked his white-haired friend, examining the lace ruffles clustered at his wrists.
‘Who knows. Now, let us get back to the party.’ Oliver smiled wickedly and winked. ‘I promised Kerensa I’d dance more than I’d drink tonight and I want to learn more about this fellow Mortreath.’
James Mortreath never enjoyed social gatherings of more than half a dozen people and only endured the crush of the revelries in the hall for the opportunity it gave him of being near Ameline. For the past few minutes he had watched her dance a quadrille partnered by the persistently grinning Mr Alfred Sarrison. The clammy, heavily scented atmosphere crowded in on him. He felt he would suffocate. He was sweating profusely and although painfully thirsty he had no head for alcohol and refused all offers to replenish his empty wine glass.
He longed for the night to be over, while wishing over and over again that he could detain William Beswetherick for more than a few seconds at a time. But William, being a sociable man with a love of partying, was gaily dashing from one to another of his father’s guests. James hoped he would catch him before the speeches and toasts began; they were likely to go on for ages. If he could only talk to William now, the speeches could include an announcement concerning himself and Ameline.
He had his own speech meticulously prepared: Sir, would you allow me the honour of asking your daughter Ameline for her hand… It was an excellent petition and he knew he would deliver it well. He had never faltered over a single word in the courtroom.
James was confident he was looked on favourably by William, Lady Rachael and old Sir Martin, and he considered himself a suitor of whom he himself would approve if he had a daughter of his own. Ameline seemed to like him, she was always polite and showed an interest in his topics of conversation and appeared to enjoy dancing with him.
On
the other hand there were one or two things that might go against him. He was quiet and serious and might be considered rather stuffy by the high-society Beswethericks and their circle of friends and acquaintances, who tended to socialize often and noisily. It had been his only concern until the introduction to Sir Oliver Pengarron. The infamous Sir Oliver was one of the Beswethericks’ closest friends and James would have done better to have made a good impression on him rather than spark off his ill humour with that unfortunate remark about his wife.
James wiped away the sweat on his upper lip. If only he could speak to William and obtain permission to ask Ameline to marry him. Then it wouldn’t be improper to suggest to her that they step out on to the balcony together to breathe in some welcome fresh air and get away from all these dreadful people. He was fairly confident she would accompany him; Ameline had looked uncomfortable all the evening herself.
James momentarily toyed with then dismissed the notion of approaching Lady Rachael who was in close proximity to him. Apart from the breach in etiquette, Ameline having a father and grandfather present, he felt he could not guarantee a sensible hearing from a woman with an aviary piled on top of her head.
He moved through the nauseating combination of sweating, over-perfumed bodies in the hope of finding an opened window. The bright light from the hundreds of candles and dazzling jewels hurt his eyes. The spread of swishing gowns made from silks, satins, muslins, batistes and, in the latest fashion, cotton, caught at his legs and impeded his progress. Rouged faces seemed to loom up on him. The hum of voices, the background of music, the squeals of laughter, all made his head ache.
He eventually located an open window but it did little to refresh him as the air outside was warm and clammy. He looked round for Ameline and then William. Ameline was about to take the floor with Sir Martin and William was with his mother-in-law, the Countess. James felt his throat constrict and pulled urgently at his neckcloth. Sir Oliver was talking to Lady Rachael and not troubling to conceal the fact it was James himself they were discussing. Was the tall overpowering man telling the preposterous matron that he would make an unsuitable husband for her daughter?
Pengarron Pride Page 3
