Pengarron Pride

by Pengarron Pride (retail) (epub)

  Now that her immediate ordeal had come to an end, tears sprang to her eyes and she wanted to cry. ‘My… my ankle,’ she sniffed.

  Very gently he took her hands away from her foot and studied the swollen tissue round the ankle bone. ‘This is a bad injury, Rosie, you must be in a lot of pain. Did you fall far?’

  She nodded, afraid to speak, knowing her tearfulness would turn into a flood.

  Sensitive to her feelings, Oliver asked questions that required only a nod or shake of her head. ‘Have you been here a long time like this, Rosie?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘I see you have lost a shoe. I noticed your basket near the top of the valley. Will you be all right for a moment if I go back for them?’

  Once more Rosie nodded to him.

  Oliver put a hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘I won’t be gone for very long, Rosie, and then I’ll take you home.’

  When he had gone Rosie wiped the moisture from her eyes. She was more composed when he returned. ‘I found your hat too,’ he said, giving it to her, its blue ribbon torn.

  Rosie took it but did not put it on. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She found she was able to speak almost normally.

  ‘Beatrice will have a salve to soothe that,’ Oliver pointed to her raw elbow, adding with a smile, ‘and your ankle, but you’ll know all about that, won’t you? I understand she is teaching you some of her secrets.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Rosie answered shyly. She had never been this close to Sir Oliver before, their class and his height had kept them at a suitable distance. Now he was just in front of her, their eyes on the same level, and he had even touched her. Drawing the undivided attention of a man so handsome and masculine had come only in her maidenly dreams before now. Her predicament forgotten, she hoped that she didn’t sound as flustered as she felt. ‘C-comfrey, the… healing plant… for… for strains and bruises. I… I have some at home.’

  ‘Good. It won’t take long to ride to the farmhouse on Conomor. I’ll lift you up on his back.’

  Rosie’s heart fluttered as Oliver eased her up to sit side-saddle and swung himself up behind her.

  ‘Are you ready, Rosie?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I… I’ll be glad to get home.’

  He glanced down at her swollen ankle. ‘Try to keep your foot away from Conomor’s side.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you.’

  He stretched round her to take the reins and Rosie felt the strong warmth of his muscular body. It swept a thrill through her and she was not displeased the motion of the horse’s movements caused her to sway often against him. A thought occurred to her. She said, ‘You called me Miss Trenchard. You were the first to ever call me that, in Trelynne Cove, after the wreck of the Amy Christabel. Do you remember, sir?’

  ‘I remember, Rosie,’ he smiled as she turned slightly to look at him. ‘You were a little girl then, the years since have been kind to you.’

  Rosie looked rapidly away, her face aflame. Her heart leapt heavily in her chest. She didn’t know if it was permissible for an ordinary girl like herself to speak to a baronet unless he spoke first but she couldn’t help herself even though she was nervous. ‘I still have the locket Clem found for me. You told me it has a real diamond in it.’

  ‘So I did. You are old enough to wear it now.’

  There was no impatient or haughty intonation in his voice so she carried on. ‘Well, that may be so, sir, but I don’t suppose I shall ever go anywhere grand enough for that.’

  ‘You can wear it on your wedding day, Rosie. Without doubt that occasion will not be too far in the future.’

  Rosie looked down at the moving ground. ‘There’s no prospect of that at the moment.’

  They had reached the farmyard and a flock of noisy geese hissed at them. Oliver dismounted and taking the basket, hat and shoe from Rosie he put them on the wall beside the kitchen where at least a dozen untamed cats dozed in the early evening sun. Two white pigs grunted in the sty, a variety of hens scratched in the earth, a few ducks loitered on a little muddy pool and a rough-looking billy goat tied to an old hawthorn tree was trying to reach and eat some of Alice’s washing.

  ‘The place looks deserted apart from the animal life,’ Oliver said. ‘Where do you suppose everyone is?’

  ‘Father and Clem will be back from the fields soon,’ Rosie said, feeling even shyer of him now she was home, ‘but Alice should be in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’ll carry you into the house.’

  Oliver had Rosie in his arms as Clem came round the side of the cow shed, Charity at his heels.

  ‘Rosie!’ He dropped the bucket he was carrying, startling Charity, and rushed over to them. ‘What’s happened? I was just about to come looking for you.’

  ‘I fell down the valley,’ Rosie explained to her horrified brother, knowing his horror had more to do with the man holding her than with her recent plight. ‘Ricketty Jim has gone off and I was sitting there helpless for ages until Sir Oliver found me.’

  Thrusting out his arms, Clem said coldly to Oliver, ‘Thank you for your help but I’ll take her now.’

  Oliver knew how grudgingly the other man’s gratitude was given. With a sardonic smile he passed his sister to him. ‘Her ankle needs urgent attention.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Rosie said meekly. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’

  ‘I am only too glad to have been able to help you, Rosie,’ Oliver said graciously.

  Clem moved abruptly and carried Rosie into the farmhouse kitchen. Rosie was angered and ashamed at the rudeness shown to the man who had so kindly come to her rescue. She was pleased when Sir Oliver bent his dark head and followed them through the door, and she dug Clem in the ribs as he scowled.

  Kenver Trenchard, who was sitting in a comer of the room writing on a scrap of precious paper given to him by Matthias Renfree, looked up and an expression of shocked surprise swept over his face at the unexpected trio of people.

  ‘My Lord!’ he addressed Oliver. ‘Good evening to you.’

  ‘Good evening to you, Kenver,’ Oliver replied, walking further into the spotlessly clean kitchen that smelled pleasantly of roasting mutton.

  Kenver waited for an explanation as Clem gently sat Rosie on a chair by a window but no one spoke. He watched his brother fetch a footstool for his sister and carefully place one of her legs upon it. ‘Would someone mind telling me what’s happened, please. Clem?’

  The three had brought an uneasy atmosphere into the room and Kenver knew he would be correct in his assumption that Clem was its creator.

  ‘I had a fall, Ken, sprained my ankle,’ Rosie spoke for herself. ‘Sir Oliver found me and kindly brought me home.’

  ‘’Tis a good job you did then, sir,’ Kenver said, returning his attention respectfully to Oliver, ‘or the poor maid would still be there now. Clem was about to go and look for her but it’d be a while yet afore he’d have found her. Where did she fall exactly?’

  ‘I came across her at the bottom of the valley. From the look of things your sister fell almost from the top,’ Oliver replied. ‘She was fortunate not to have sustained a more serious injury than a twisted ankle.’

  Kenver went on, ‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful to you, sir. We were getting worried about Rosie being away for so long. She’d gone over to your farm with a message for Matthias Renfree, you see.’

  Oliver looked at Clem to see if he looked as grateful as his more likeable, articulate brother. Clem’s face was set sulky, not unexpectedly so, but he said, ‘I’m grateful to you,’ then clamped his mouth shut.

  Rosie was increasingly angered at Clem’s lack of manners. He never called the baronet ‘sir’ or ‘My Lord’, and it seemed even more rude with him standing in their farmhouse as her rescuer. She knew her father would be angry if he was there.

  ‘Rosie must have had a wasted journey then, I’ve only just parted with Renfree to ride over here. Anyway, she is home safe and sound except for her ankle,’ Oliver said, his
voice and demeanour giving no indication whether he was perturbed by Clem’s behaviour. ‘However, it is time something was done about it.’

  ‘I’ll get some cold water for your ankle, Rosie.’ Clem snatched up an enamelled bowl and went outside.

  ‘We’ll have to beg your forgiveness for Clem’s lack of manners,’ Kenver said apologetically, but added on a lighter note, ‘I’m afraid they don’t improve with age. Will you take a seat, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I think I will, for a few moments,’ Oliver replied, sitting on a chair close to the young chair-bound man. ‘I rode over this way to see Ricketty Jim. I have some work for him on Ker-an-Mor if he’s interested. He’s a good worker, I’d offer him permanent work but he wouldn’t take it. I’ll catch up with him another time.’

  It was several years since Oliver had seen Kenver, he couldn’t recall seeing him once since he had married Kerensa. Oliver called occasionally on Morley, as he did on all his tenants, but Kenver was never about, either busy in his small bedroom-cum-workshop where he made furniture and crafted ornaments, or taking a rest. Kenver needed a short sleep every few hours. Crippled from birth from the waist down, he tired quickly but it did not impair the excellence of his work, some of which had found its way into some of the wealthier local homes. Rosie or Alice would take the finished articles to sell on market day at Marazion and both Oliver and Kerensa had each brought home a piece that had caught their fancy.

  Kenver was now twenty-three and claimed the Trenchard fine blond hair and deep blue eyes. His hair was not tied back and it rested on the front of his green striped waistcoat. Oliver had a great respect for Kenver Trenchard. He could have resigned himself to a life of bitterness and idleness, but he was a gifted man and used his abilities to their capacity with honesty and humour. Oliver wondered if he had a talent for a musical instrument and resolved to mention it at a later date, but for now he leaned over Kenver’s useless legs and glanced at his scrap of paper.

  ‘What are you writing, Kenver, more poetry?’

  ‘’Tis just a few lines that’s been running through my head all day, sir.’ He handed the paper to Oliver. ‘As you can see I’m in need of a word to rhyme with cavalcade.’

  Rosie rubbed her leg above the injured ankle to ease the pain, watching the two men with a keen eye as they conversed. Alice entered with the bowl of water with Jessica trailing behind her. She clucked around Rosie having heard the tale from Clem on her way through the yard. Adding her thanks to Oliver she offered him a dish of tea. Oliver accepted, not because he was thirsty, but because he knew it would annoy Clem.

  ‘Your husband not joining us, Alice?’ Oliver asked casually, a bit too casually and Alice went pink.

  ‘He’s rescuing my washing from the billy goat, he’ll be in drekkly.’

  ‘I see,’ Oliver replied, amused. Was Clem really doing such an unmasculine thing as bringing in the washing, or was Alice making an excuse for more bad manners on Clem’s part?

  An unreadable look passed between Alice and Sir Oliver, and Rosie was at a loss as to what it meant. She did not know that her sister-in-law and the baronet shared a friendship, of sorts. It went back to the days before Alice married Clem; Oliver had come across her and Clem quarrelling in the manor grounds when, not knowing that he had made Alice pregnant, Clem had finished his dalliance with her. Alice had been left sick and distraught and Oliver had taken her home to the manor on his big black horse. At the time Oliver’s marriage to Kerensa had been strained and she was away at the Beswetherick’s. In their loneliness Oliver and Alice had talked throughout the night and a lasting closeness formed between them.

  Oliver looked down at the scrap of paper. ‘Serenade would be appropriate at the end of the next line, Kenver,’ he said, returning the poetry. He was impressed with what he had read.

  Jessica Trenchard was as fair as her father but had inherited Alice’s bouncy curls giving her a cherubic appearance. She stood before Oliver and stared at him in the disconcerting way of the child. He returned her stare with paternal amusement. Jessica was approaching her fourth birthday, four years younger than his own daughter. Pretty and small for her age, she was dressed in a frock he recognised as an old one of Olivia’s and too large for her.

  ‘You’re a big man,’ Jessica said, resting her tiny sharp elbows on his knees.

  ‘Jessica, come away and don’t bother Sir Oliver,’ Alice chided her.

  ‘It’s all right, Alice,’ Oliver said, and he lifted Jessica up to stand on his knees.

  Jessica giggled, her face lighting up like the sun coming out. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, twisting her thin red lips to the side.

  ‘Oliver,’ he told her, smiling back and patting her curls.

  ‘Oli-ver. Ollie’s quicker.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t allow anyone to call me that,’ he said, his eyes twinkling at her.

  Jessica next peered closely into his face. ‘Your eyes are black, like night-time. Are you old?’

  Alice drew in her lips and frowned at her daughter as she attended to Rosie’s ankle but Oliver was happy with the child’s chatter. ‘Some people would think me rather old, others would not,’ he said, tweaking her button nose.

  ‘As old as my father?’

  ‘I’m a few years older than him and your mother. Now, Jessica, it is my turn to ask you a question. Where are your brothers, Philip and David?’

  ‘Oh, they,’ she made a face, ‘they’ve done their jobs and are out playing catch round by the barn. Won’t let me play, they never let me play, but I can beat them at anything!’

  Oliver laughed. ‘It’s much the same at my house, young lady. I have two sons and a little girl like you and she gets left out of their games.’

  ‘Why don’t you bring your maid over here to play with me?’ Jessica asked, intent on rearranging his neckcloth.

  Oliver raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps one day I will.’

  ‘Why don’t you get another maid?’ Jessica said, now winding her arms round his neck and leaping up and down on his legs with boundless energy. ‘Mother says she can’t have any more maids. It’s not fair, I won’t never get someone to play with.’

  Oliver held Jessica under the arms to prevent her falling off between jumps.

  Coming in with an armful of washing, Clem’s face was a picture of horror when he saw his daughter bouncing on the knees of the man he so despised. Bundling the washing into Alice’s arms, he wrenched Jessica away. Jessica did not notice Clem’s rage and wrapped herself round him, kissing his cheek again and again. Clem held her tightly, as though he had snatched her from danger. He watched in tight-lipped silence as Alice put the washing on a chair then passed one of the only two sets of cups and saucers owned in the Trenchard household to his enemy.

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ Oliver said, then, quite unruffled, speaking to Clem, ‘I congratulate you on your daughter, Trenchard. She is most charming, like her mother and aunt.’

  There was an arctic silence. Alice and Rosie hid their embarrassed faces as they set about wrapping wet cloths round the swollen ankle. Kenver coughed and looked down at his writing, his mind as blank in knowing what the right thing would be to say now as it was for the next line of his poetry. Oliver drank his tea, slowly, seemingly oblivious of the atmosphere Clem had created but in reality enjoying it. If it wasn’t for the respect he held for the others of the household he would have baited Clem further.

  The appearance of Morley Trenchard broke the silence and there was a rush of voices to tell the tale of Rosie’s misfortune once more. He removed his hat in respectful acknowledgement of Oliver’s presence in his home – usually he took it off only when saying grace at the meal table. Morley settled down with an enormous mug of tea to talk over farming methods with Oliver who congratulated him on the hard work he had put in to make his farm prosper; he made no reference to Clem’s contribution. Kenver listened. Alice folded the washing. Rosie rubbed at her aching leg. Clem stood stiffly, and Jessica, growing bored with the ‘grown-up’ talk, wriggled
free from him and ran outside.

  Morley was honoured to have the Lord of the Manor and his landlord as a guest in his home. It would have been an enjoyable occasion if not for Clem’s attitude, but while he regretted that, Morley understood his son’s feelings towards the man who had stolen his bride. They were two fine men, his son and Sir Oliver Pengarron. It was a great pity they could never be on better terms.

  Oliver was about to take his leave when Jessica reappeared carrying the farm’s one tame cat. Heading straight for Oliver she promptly dropped the fat ginger animal into his lap, saying in her squeaky soft voice, ‘I got Scrap in to see you, Oli-ver.’

  Oliver sprang up as if the cat was made of hot coals. ‘Ugh! I can’t abide eats!’ Scrap protested as she hit the floor heavily and darted outside. Jessica, frightened and confused, ran to Clem and clung to his legs. ‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver said thickly. ‘If you’ll excuse me I really must be going.’

  As the door closed behind Oliver, Alice looked about her in shock. ‘What on earth happened? Why did he rush out like that?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Clem laughed with real hilarity and this being rare everyone looked at him. ‘He’s can’t bear cats near him, his eyes go all runny and he breaks out in a rash!’ He picked Jessica up and hugged her.

  With an irritated click of her tongue Alice followed Oliver outside. He was at the well splashing water from a bucket over his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, passing him the kitchen cloth she had in her hand. ‘If I’d have known…’

  ‘Well, it gave your husband the first hearty laugh he’s had in many a year,’ Oliver said philosophically, taking the cloth and wiping his hands and face. ‘I hope I didn’t upset Jessica.’

  ‘She’ll be all right when she knows you’re not cross with her. I’ll have to explain that she must call you Sir Oliver, not just Oliver, that wouldn’t do at all,’ Alice ended on a chiding note. Then her full face broke into a smile, her hazel eyes held a rather wicked appeal and she twisted one of her curls in front of her ears in a way that was both demure and secretive.