Taken to Heart Page 5

  ‘A pity. However, as I have no desire to be choked by dust in summer, or descend from the step into mud each time it rains, we must look elsewhere.’ He started walking, then realized she was not with him. He glanced back.

  ‘Mr Polgray, we have visited both the addresses and you have not liked either of them. Perhaps if you could tell me what it is you are seeking.’

  ‘Surely it’s obvious? To find the property that best suits my needs.’

  ‘Right now I know of no others available.’

  ‘Perhaps because you’ve had so little time to make enquiries. I’m sure something will turn up.’

  ‘I think you would have more success with an agent.’

  ‘We have already had that conversation. And I have asked enough of you for one day. I will escort you home.’

  ‘There’s really no need—’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  They walked down a cobbled alley that opened onto the street behind the harbour.

  ‘It’s very quiet,’ he observed. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘It’s harvest time, Mr Polgray.’ Her tone was dry. ‘They are in the fields.’

  He should have realised. ‘Of course.’ He caught her sidelong glance, sensed she was going to ask him something important. He braced himself, dreading—

  ‘Why did you choose Porthinnis?’

  Anxiety receded like an ebbing tide. ‘We – the company of Kerrow & Polgray – have always used Hayle harbour to import and export our cargoes. But harbour dues and transport costs have become prohibitive. I did consider other harbours. But Porthinnis is much closer to our mine and with a few alterations will suit very well.’

  ‘What kind of alterations?’

  ‘Lengthening the western quay to form an arm. This will increase protection of the inner harbour while allowing bigger ships to tie up alongside. I also plan to construct a mole – a massive free-standing stone breakwater – fifty yards to the west of the harbour.’ He saw her frown as she tried to picture it.

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To absorb the force of storm waves that might otherwise damage the quay. In fact that will be the first work undertaken. I want it in place before the winter.’

  ‘What an excellent idea. Perhaps if such a structure had existed three years ago—’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘Such thoughts are pointless. One cannot undo the past, only repair the devastation and move on.’

  Wincing inwardly, his throat was suddenly, painfully, dry. He swallowed. ‘The cargo brigs should not be too much inconvenienced by construction work.’

  ‘Those reliant on the goods they bring will be relieved to hear it,’ Jenefer said. ‘But what about the crabbers and lobstermen who set their pots close inshore?’

  ‘For a short period they may have to drop their pots a little further along the coast.’

  ‘And the seaweed cutters? The local farms rely on oreweed to fertilize their fields.’

  ‘They too might need to venture a little further than usual. But you and I both know that after two or three days of easterly wind every beach and cove along this coast is knee-deep in kelp and bladderwrack.’ He saw her cheeks grow pink.

  ‘I didn’t – I’m just—’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled at her. ‘You are concerned about protecting the interests of the villagers. But might I suggest that instead of focusing on problems – which I will do my best to keep to a minimum and deal with as they arise – you consider the benefits?’ The basket of fruit in one hand, he gestured with the other. ‘Months of employment for any man who wants it during the construction phase. Then continuing employment for those with strong backs and willing hands once we start shipping cargoes.’

  ‘I agree it all sounds—’

  ‘The pilchard cellars are empty,’ he reminded quietly. ‘Fishermen venturing into deep water after mackerel shoals run a very real risk of being taken by press gangs. I, on the other hand, will need masons and labourers, men to site and operate cranes, builders and carpenters to erect storage sheds, and a team to build a new road.’

  Jenefer looked up quickly. ‘What new road? Where?’

  ‘Cutting through waste ground at the back of the quay to join the main road beyond the village boundary. Why?’ he said, before she asked. ‘There will be a vast increase in traffic coming to and from the harbour during the next few months. Though much will arrive by sea, the rest will use the new road, so keeping the strings of pack-animals and heavy carts out of the village centre.’

  ‘That’s a marvellous idea. Yet I fear you will still face objections.’

  ‘Despite the benefit to local businesses?’ He heard the impatience in his voice. About to apologize and make clear it was not directed at her, he saw it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘People fear what they do not understand,’ she said. ‘They cling to familiarity and feel threatened by change. You must have encountered this before.’

  He nodded. ‘You too, I imagine,’ he murmured. ‘Your whole life was altered by tragedy.’

  ‘Some changes were forced upon me,’ she allowed. ‘The rest have been my choice.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I would not wish you to think me a victim, Mr Polgray.’

  ‘Believe me, Miss Trevanion, nothing was further from my mind.’

  She stopped at the entrance to a short alley between two cottages. At the far end he could see a narrow path between a thick hedge and a productive vegetable garden. It led from the cobbles to a stone-built privy shrouded in ivy. ‘Thank you for seeing me home. And for the fruit.’

  He wanted to see where she lived, wanted to ask when he might see her again. Instead he handed her the basket, and matched her formality with a bow. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  She dropped a curtsy, and turned away.

  ‘Miss Trevanion? When may I hope to receive the quince jelly?’

  ‘When I have time to make it,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Smiling at her retort he watched until she disappeared.

  Seeing the crowd gathered outside Cora’s father’s cottage, Jenefer glanced down at the laden baskets she and Lizzie carried. ‘Cora will be glad of the extra bread.’

  ‘Dear life!’ Lizzie whispered. ‘I never thought to see so many. ’T will be a comfort to Cora, mind.’

  Dressed in their Sunday best, dark coats shiny with age and wear, men had gathered round the simple coffin that rested on trestles set up in the street. An old plank door, now devoid of hinges and latch, leaned against the cottage wall.

  Nodding politely the men stepped aside. Eddy Barnicoat caught Jenefer’s eye and touched his hat in salute. The fact that all the men were freshly shaved on a weekday signified their respect for the occasion.

  Tapping on the open door, Jenefer passed from the bright sunny morning into a dark kitchen fragrant with the smell of baking. A dish of butter and a large hunk of cheese were flanked by a plate containing squares of hevva cake stuffed with raisins and peel and sprinkled with sugar, another of saffron buns, a pot of blackcurrant and a pot of gooseberry jam. A score of small pasties baked golden brown were piled on a large oval platter.

  ‘Miss Trevanion!’ Cora wiped her hands on the apron that covered her black gown.

  ‘Good morning, ladies.’ Setting one basket on the floor, Jenefer pulled back the crisp white cloth covering the other and lifted out a large blue and white plate piled high with slices of cold roast beef and another of sliced boiled ham.

  Cora gave a soft gasp, her eyes widening. ‘Oh my dear lord! I – I dunno what to say, miss.’ The other two women were already moving dishes around to accommodate the plates.

  Jenefer emptied her baskets of jars of chutney, a block of butter and two more loaves. ‘There’s a slab of hevva cake as well. But I see you already have one. Perhaps mine should stay on the dresser for now?’ Setting it down, she stepped away from the table so Lizzie could take her place.

  ‘Where d’you want these, bird? There’s a mutton pie, a couple of damson tarts and another two loaves.�
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  ‘Oh, Lizzie, ’andsome that is. Put them over there.’ Cora pointed. Then, surveying the laden table, she shook her head. ‘Look at that.’ Her mouth trembled and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘Fit for a king that is.’

  ‘And will be gone in a trice once the men come back,’ her friend announced.

  ‘Tis a brave walk up to the churchyard,’ the other said over her shoulder while filling the soot-blackened kettle from a tall brownstone ewer. ‘Time they’ve seen Mr Kneebone laid to rest, God bless ’n, they’ll be chacking for something to eat and a cup o’ strong tea.’

  A man poked his head around the door. ‘Minister’s come, Cora.’

  Wiping her eyes, Cora dropped her apron onto the wooden chair, took a deep breath and quickly raised her hands to her frilled cap, tucking escaped strands out of sight. She turned to Jenefer. ‘Want to stay, do you? Minister do a lovely funeral.’ Her breath caught and one of the women laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ Jenefer said. Outside, the crowd had swelled to fill the street. As she emerged from the house after retrieving the baskets she saw people nudge each other and whisper. Miss Trevanion had been seen with a strange man. It struck her as both amusing and rather sad that this should be newsworthy.

  Murmuring greetings she eased through, Lizzie behind her, until she reached the rear where her presence would not be a distraction.

  After leading them in prayer, the minister spoke of Isaac Kneebone as a man liked and respected in the community, and paid tribute to Cora’s devoted care. The crowd stood bare-headed and silent in warm sunshine while gulls wheeled and screamed overhead and white puffs of fair weather cloud sailed across a sky the colour of bluebells.

  Hearing Cora’s muffled sobs Jenefer thought back to her own father’s funeral. In a state of shock at the time, her recall of the event was fragmented. She remembered Jared and his parents grouped behind Betsy’s wheeled chair; housekeeper Maggie clinging to her husband Treeve’s arm while he − sober for once − appeared stunned and lost. Her overriding memory was of feeling totally alone.

  Her throat stiffened and she swallowed hard. That was the past. She had come a long way since then, making new friends, building a business. She had much to be grateful for.

  After the final prayer the bearers arranged themselves in order of precedence: relatives in front followed by friends and volunteers willing to share the task of carrying the coffin to the churchyard. Only men were involved now.

  Bearers in position, Mr Rogers, the chapel steward, announced the hymn. The coffin was lifted onto shoulders, the singing began and the cortège moved off.

  ‘’Andsome that was,’ Lizzie sniffed, as they headed home. ‘Minister got a lovely way with ’n. Not like Moses Carthew. Remember old “Holy” Moses, do you?’ She shook her head. ‘All hellfire and damnation he was. Well, you don’t want it, not when you’re grieving. ’T was bad enough Sundays. Rant for an hour without drawing breath he could. I seen ’n the night of the great storm, striding up and down the beach all by hisself, clutching a Bible in one hand and waving the other like he was preaching to hundreds. Off his head he was, poor soul.’

  Beside her Jenefer remembered. ‘I believe Dr Trennack arranged for someone to take him to his sister in Truro.’

  Lizzie sighed. ‘We seen some changes these past few years.’

  ‘We have indeed,’ Jenefer agreed. And Charles Polgray’s arrival threatened more. Was that why he prowled her thoughts and haunted her dreams? ‘You go on, Lizzie. I’ll pick up the sugar.’

  ‘I’ll boil up the kettle for when you get back.’

  Pushing open the shop door, Jenefer heard the bell jangle, and inhaled the familiar aroma of cheese and roasted coffee. Hannah Tresidder was behind the counter cutting a wedge from a large wheel of cheddar.

  ‘All right, Miss Trevanion? I just seen Mr Kneebone carried up through. Least he got a nice day for it. Cora all right is she?’

  ‘She’s coping well. Her neighbours are helping prepare everything for when the men get back.’

  ‘’Tis hard to know whether to be glad or sad that he’ve gone. Cora have had some awful time of it this past two years. Now she’ll have to move again.’

  ‘Move?’ Jenefer was surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘Her father’s was the last life on the lease. Now he’s gone she won’t be able to stay there no more.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Four pounds of loaf sugar, please. On my account.’

  ‘More jam, is it?’

  ‘Quince jelly.’

  Hannah lifted two sugar cones wrapped in blue paper from the shelf behind her. Placing them on the wooden counter she leaned forward, lowering her voice though there was no one else in the shop. ‘Don’t mind me asking, but who was that gentleman I seen you out walking with?’

  The shop was the hub of the village. Nothing happened without Hannah hearing about it. Expecting the question, Jenefer had prepared an answer that was truthful but did not betray any confidences.

  ‘His name is Mr Charles Polgray. He’s my father’s heir.’

  ‘Come to inspect his inheritance, I s’pose. Took his time about it, didn’t he? Not that there’s much to see, begging your pardon, Miss,’ she added quickly.

  Janefer waved the apology aside. ‘I can hardly take offence at the truth. I understand he was abroad on business and has not long returned.’

  ‘Abroad?’ Hannah’s thick brows rose as she tucked her chin against the billowing kerchief below her throat. ‘Fancy. So now he’ve seen the place, what’s he going to do with it? Think he’ll rebuild do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. As the property belongs to him now, it’s really none of my business.’

  ‘You’ll miss the fruit,’ Hannah sighed.

  Picking up the basket, Jenefer nodded at the sugar loaves. ‘Perhaps you should reduce your order.’

  Hannah sucked air through her teeth. ‘Oh no, I can’t be doing with that.’ Her face brightened. ‘Here, thought of making bramble jelly, have you? Esther went by yesterday with a great bowl of blackberries.’

  Jenefer turned at the door. ‘What an excellent idea. You could pick the fruit and I will make the jelly.’

  ‘I haven’t got time—’ Hannah began. Seeing Jenefer’s smile she threw up her hands. ‘All right, you haven’t either.’

  ‘’Bye, Hannah.’ Closing the shop door, Jenefer hurried home.

  Chapter Six

  Reassuring Lizzie that she would do very well on her own, Jenefer pared and sliced the quinces then dropped them into her large copper preserving pan with enough water to float them. Then she put the pan on the slab over the fire.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘You tell me,’ Jenefer gestured towards the range.

  Lizzie peered into the pan. ‘Looking handsome it is. It’ll take about three hours for them to be properly tender, so you got plenty of time to eat your tea then get the jars and oiled papers ready. Right, I’ll leave you be.’

  Jenefer frowned. ‘What’s that on your sleeve and the front of your apron?’

  Lizzie clicked her tongue. ‘’Tis the figs. They do splatter something awful. First time I made fig jam and it splashed up, I wiped it off quick as I could, but it took the skin as well.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘In some mess I was. Now I always keep my sleeves rolled down and use my longest wooden paddle. I’d best get back.’ She paused at the door. ‘You sure you don’t need—?’

  ‘Lizzie, I’m managing very well. Didn’t I have the best teacher?’

  ‘Get on with you,’ Lizzie flapped a hand at her. ‘Right, I’m gone.’

  While she ate cold ham with apple and ginger chutney followed by two raspberry tartlets, Jenefer tried to rationalize her reaction to Charles Polgray. She understood his initial coolness. In his place she would have felt the same. Branoc Casvellan’s recommendation of her might have helped, but she sensed strongly that Charles Polgray preferred to rely on his own obse
rvations and instincts. He had trusted her with confidential information. How could she not feel flattered, and proud that she had won his respect for her accomplishments in business? Yet in her secret heart she longed for him to see her as an attractive woman. Why? When she had no such thoughts about William, with whom she had been acquainted far longer and knew to be an upright, honest and caring man.

  Her shame and confusion only deepened the conflict between her need to retain her independence − a need she recognized was rooted in fear − and her growing desire for love, marriage and children.

  Angry at what she considered weakness, she pushed away from the table and carried her dishes to the sink. After checking the boiling quinces she washed and dried the jars and cut out a dozen circles of paper and brushed them with oil then measured and warmed the sugar.

  Glad to be busy, for it allowed her no time to think, she strained off the clear juice, added one pound of sugar for each pint and set the syrup to boil, carefully skimming off the scum as it formed. Sieving the quince pulp, she poured it into a clean pan, added three-quarters of a pound of sugar for each pound of pulp and set it on the slab, remembering Lizzie’s warning to constantly stir it from the bottom with a wooden spoon to ensure it didn’t burn or stick.

  During half an hour of stirring and skimming she planned her work for the week ahead, and in mingled hope and shame wondered if Charles Polgray might have need of her. Then she put the tray of jars into the oven. Fifteen minutes later she spooned a little of the bubbling mixture from each pan onto a saucer. As it instantly firmed to jelly she let out her breath, smiling with pride and delight.

  Moving the pans off the fire, she carefully lifted the jars from the oven. Setting them upright she ladled clear jelly into half of them, the marmalade into the rest.

  After she had washed and dried the pans, spoons and ladles, the jars were cool enough for the oiled papers to be placed in each one. Her final task was to brush white of egg onto both sides of larger circles of tissue paper. Pressed over the mouths of the jars they would dry hard to create an airtight seal. Leaving them on the table, she went upstairs to bed. It had been a long day and she was very tired. But she had fulfilled her part of their bargain: Charles Polgray would receive two jars of perfect quince jelly.