Chapter Four

Morvoren

The man standing on the threshold of the kitchen, an overly generous word for this primitive room, filled the doorway with his bulk. Under a voluminous and ancient leather waistcoat, he wore a not-all-that-clean, collarless cream shirt, the sleeves rolled up over hammy and hairy forearms, and a loose red scarf was knotted about his neck. A faded black tricorn hat tipped forward over his eyes, and in his right hand he held a gun that might well have been a museum piece.

A vision indeed.

Morvoren closed her mouth, which had dropped open at the sight of him, with a snap, unable to drag her eyes away from this apparition. If she'd thought her rescuer oddly dressed, this man took the biscuit. Maybe the BBC were filming a period drama and this man was an extra. Or perhaps this was indeed one of those religious cults where everyone wore old fashioned clothes and didn't use modern gadgets—like the Amish or Plymouth Brethren.

Her rescuer had jumped out of his chair the moment the newcomer arrived, letting the blanket fall from pleasingly broad shoulders. Now, he stepped toward the man he'd called his uncle. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon."

"So I see." The man's voice was a gravelly rasp. "What's this, Kit? Who be this young… lady?" The last word came out as though he doubted very much it applied to her. As though any woman who turned up soaking wet and wrapped in a blanket in his kitchen was to be scorned. As though he suspected Morvoren of being something she wasn't.

She bristled at his implication, but, with a wary eye to the gun he was carrying, kept her mouth firmly closed. No point in riling a strange, armed man when you were stuck in a remote farmhouse where quite definitely no one would hear if you screamed.

Instead, she clutched the blanket closer to conserve the warmth she was building up. It felt like a shield against the penetrating and accusatory gaze this Uncle Jago had fixed upon her.

"We have a guest," Kit said, his tone defensive.

The newcomer stepped further into the room. With his free hand, he took off the old tricorn hat, placing it on the table without taking his gaze from her.

Feeling bolder, Morvoren returned his stare.

Several days' growth of grey beard adorned a square jaw, and dark, hawklike eyes regarded her in open hostility. She swallowed her fear down, determined not to let him see how much he scared her.

"So I can see," he rumbled.

Some small familial resemblance to her rescuer clung to the newcomer. Grizzled curling hair, similar to his nephew's, had been confined with a thin black ribbon in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. But whereas Kit's face might have a smile lurking somewhere just out of sight, Jago looked as though no smile would dare touch his.

"A mermaid," Kit elaborated, with an unmistakably wry glance in Morvoren's direction. "I fished her out of the sea thinking she was drowned, but she very handily revived and spilled her seawater. And here she is, warming herself by our hearth."

"A mermaid?" growled Jago, going to the table, where he threw down a brace of large rabbits he'd had tucked inside his capacious waistcoat. He leaned the gun against the table and gave a snort. "Mermaids bring only bad luck." His voice was heavily accented Cornish, unlike Kit's more refined tones.

Kit shook his head. "She's not a real mermaid."

Morvoren stared at her rescuer. Was that a glint of amusement in his solemn dark eyes? Did he, despite his apparently serious demeanor, find her predicament amusing? She had a sudden urge to burst out laughing, despite her feelings of unease or maybe because of them. Bubbling hysteria, no doubt. The disapproving scowl on Jago's face kept her under control.

Kit moved closer to his uncle, dropping his voice but not so low she couldn't hear every word. "She must have fallen off a ship and been washed inshore to where I fished her out in my net. It was pure chance that I cast a final time before coming in. Otherwise, she'd be floating out there, dead." He shrugged his shoulders. "But, for just a moment, I thought I'd fished a real mermaid out, and strangely, her name means mermaid in Cornish."

He cleared his throat, glancing back at her. "Uncle, may I present Miss Morvoren Lucas." He turned back to her. "And, Miss Lucas, this is my favorite uncle, Jago Tremaine. My mother's brother."

Ignoring Morvoren, Jago gave another snort and stumped over to the liquor cupboard where he poured himself a generous tot of brandy. "Aye, and your only uncle now, boy." He shook his head. "D'you not think it strange she's turned up here today? That she might be a king's spy?"

A what?

Kit shrugged his shoulders again. "Miss Lucas is clearly a lady, Uncle, and not a king's spy. She's here by chance. As I already said, it was pure luck that I cast my net one last time and caught her in it. I don't think even the king's spies are so desperate they'd have young ladies doing their dirty work by lurking on the bottom of the sea on the off chance I might happen along and sweep one up."

What was he talking about? Dirty work? King's spies? Morvoren frowned. Why were they both talking in riddles? And how overly polite was it for Kit to persist in calling her Miss Lucas? "Please," she interrupted. "I'd prefer it if you would both call me Morvoren. Miss Lucas makes me feel like I'm about fifty. And I can assure you, I'm definitely not any kind of spy." She held up her hand, and the blanket slipped sideways to reveal her damp T-shirt and jeans.

Oops.

Jago's already angry eyes widened, and he spluttered into his brandy. "What in the name of God is she wearing? Did the waves strip her of her clothes?" His eyes travelled south to her jean-clad legs. "And what on earth does she have on her legs? Men's britches? I can see the girl's legs!"

Guilt swept over Morvoren, although not for a reason she understood, and her cheeks flamed. She snatched the treacherous blanket closer, conscious of the fact that the sight of her legs seemed to have mortally offended Kit's uncle in some inexplicable way. Shrinking down into the chair, in an effort to appear less noticeable and offensive, she tucked the blanket tighter over her knees. At least she wasn't cold anymore.

"She came out of the sea like that," Kit said, apology in his tone. "I think the current must have stolen her clothes."

Morvoren opened her mouth to explain, then shut it again. Best to keep quiet and listen.

"Well, she can't stay like that." Uncle Jago stomped to the stairs door and flung it open. Heaving a deep breath, he bellowed up the stairs. "Jenifry! Where are you, woman? Get down here now. I know you're a-kippin' on my bed instead o' workin'. You're needed."

A snort of laughter emerged from Kit, and to Morvoren's surprise his dark eyes danced. So, he could let that severe exterior slip. Once more, her not-far-from-the-surface hysteria prompted the urge to laugh, but her nerves kept her silent in this apparent madhouse.

From somewhere upstairs came a loud thud, then heavy footsteps sounded on the spiral staircase. A moment later a woman bustled through the door and halted on the threshold, staring.

Of middle age and less than average height, the newcomer made up for her small stature by her presence. An air of animal fecundity hung about her, as though she were some female equivalent of Bacchus, about to dish out horns of plenty in every direction.

She beamed a five-hundred-watt, irrepressible smile at the man who'd summoned her as though oblivious to his tone of voice. Curious, Morvoren took a sideways peep at Jago and caught his austere face softening for a moment in what must, for him, have been a rare smile in return.

"You wanted somethin', surr?" Jenifry asked, her vowels rolling and the R on the end of the sir stretching out. Her gaze flicked from Morvoren to Kit and back again. "What's this you've brought home wi' you today, me 'ansum? A maid, it do seem. An' a wet one at that."

A maid? Morvoren bristled. Did this woman think she was a servant?

For an instant, the shadow of a smile lit Kit's face, and she had that feeling again of having seen him somewhere recently. But, as the smile was replaced by a troubled frown, the elusive memory drifted away like a snatch of mist.

Anyway, what sort of a place had servants, nowadays? She dearly wanted to ask lots of questions, but caution kept her tongue in her head lest she put her foot in it. A feeling had been growing that there was a lot going on here that they didn't want her to know about. Saying the wrong thing might turn out to be more dangerous than she anticipated.

Kit's gaze returned to Morvoren, serious again. "A very lucky young lady. Not at all what I thought I'd catch in my net for you to fry for our dinner. A mermaid… of sorts. Miss Morvoren Lucas, of…" His voice trailed off and he raised a dark eyebrow at her.

For a moment Morvoren didn't realize what he wanted. Then understanding dawned. "Of… Reading," she said in a hurry.

Jenifry's brow furrowed. "Be that in Cornwall? If so, I've never heard mention of it."

Jago shook his head with a look of impatience. "O' course it ain't, Woman. She'll be from up country t'other side o' the Tamar, in England, I'll wager. A foreigner."

Jenifry scowled. "How'd she come to be called after a Cornish mermaid then?"

Before anyone could answer this question, Morvoren butted in. "My mother named me after her Cornish grandmother, if you must know. And I really wish she hadn't, because I've got a phobia about water." She paused. "And Reading is in Berkshire."

Surely, they'd know where that was.

"She don't look like no mermaid to me," Jenifry said, ignoring Morvoren's words and tilting her head to one side as though to better weigh up any claim to a watery origin. "She do have legs."

Jago banged his pewter mug down on the table. "'Nuff o' that now. Mermaid or not, she ain't rightly dressed for going back where she come from. To this Reading, wherever that might be. You tek her up they stairs and find her some o' my sister's old clothes from that chest in the box room. She do look about the same size as Elestren were when she wore 'em. Make her decent to be seen. Then we can send her on her way." He turned back, fixing Morvoren with a no-arguments stare. "And you, Missy, you'll hop up they stairs right smart now and let Jenifry dress you proper."

What? They were going to make her change her clothes? Well, they were still damp, so dry ones might be nice. Jeans and a sweatshirt, maybe, and some dry socks. But Jago's sister's old clothes? Ew. Did she want to wear someone's castoffs?

Deciding she'd rather stay damp, Morvoren gestured at her jeans and T-shirt. "It's quite all right. My own clothes are nearly dry now." Not quite true, but getting there.

Jago threw her the briefest of glances, as though he couldn't bring himself to look at her for more than a fraction of a second. "She can't stay in them things," he grunted, still not talking directly to her. "T'aint proper."

That did it. Now she most certainly didn't want to put on any clothes they might provide. Who did they think they were? More to the point, who did this rather odious old man think he was, as Kit had shown no inclination to make her change until his uncle turned up.

"I'm fine in my own clothes," she tried, glancing at Kit in the hope support might lie in that direction, but to no avail.

"You are indeed much of a size with my mother when she was a girl," Kit said, ignoring her protest. "Going by the portrait of her when she first married my father, her clothes should fit you well enough, although I'm afraid they won't be very modish."

Morvoren's mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. What was she supposed to do now? Agree to this? Jenifry had returned to the stairs as though it was the most natural thing in the world to provide clothing for a perfectly adequately, if damply, dressed stranger. "This way, Miss Lucas," she said, standing back to let her go first.

For a moment, Morvoren hesitated, weighing up her options. She could let them dress her in these old clothes and escape, or she could argue the point and possibly not escape. Huh. No contest. The look of threatening disapproval on Jago's face had her abandoning her blanket and scurrying up the shadowy staircase in front of Jenifry.

At the top, three oak doors with sizeable iron latches opened off a narrow corridor—one at either end of its short run and one almost opposite the staircase. It was this third door that Jenifry pushed open, then stood back to allow Morvoren to enter first. "In here, Miss Lucas."

The room was small, with a single gable window in the far wall and a narrow bed tucked away in one corner. Apart from two wooden chests pushed back against the wall beside the bed, everything else lay covered in white dustsheets, as though this room hadn't been used in a long time. The musty smell of long neglect hung in the air, tickling Morvoren's sensitive nose. She sneezed.

"Bless you, my dear," Jenifry said as she followed her in. "We don't often come in here, so there be a lot o' dust."

How right she was. Morvoren's gaze flicked over the contents of the room and came to a halt on the right-hand wall where a dustsheet had partially slipped from a large oil painting. A small, dark-haired boy in an old-fashioned, navy-blue jacket and knee breeches sat astride a smart bay pony, a white-capped sea in the background. This sea? The cove she'd just struggled up from? Perhaps.

She took a step closer. The picture had been executed in an outdated, classical style. Could it be one of Kit's ancestors? How very like him the child was with his mass of dark curls. And now she was looking at the picture, a bell jangled in her head and she remembered another painting she'd seen recently. The painting at the smuggling exhibition. A painting of a young man with darkly curling hair… A young man who'd looked like a younger version of Kit. Could the child in this picture have grown up to be the young man in the painting at the museum? Maybe an ancestor of Kit's?

Jenifry, who'd opened the lid of the larger of the chests, glanced up. "That be Mr. Kit, when he were a nipper," she said. "Right 'ansum he were on that pony. Proud as punch the day his father give it him."

This was a painting of Kit? Not one of his ancestors? Really?

Morvoren took a step closer to the painting, peering more closely. Why on earth was he riding in fancy dress? His hair hung to his shoulders and a lace ruffle adorned his throat. Out on the sea behind him, a full rigged schooner sailed. The picture could easily have been painted a time long ago. Yet another odd thing to add to the list of odd things about this farm.

Jenifry had lost interest in the painting and was busy unloading garments from the chest, which seemed to have the properties of Doctor Who's Tardis. "Best get those breeches off o' ye right now, Missy. No maid should be seen in breeches. 'Tis improper an' outlandish."

Morvoren frowned. Here was that mention of her being a maid, again. Did this woman assume she'd come here to apply for a job within their strange old-fashioned cult? Humoring their eccentricities was one thing, but agreeing to become a servant was another. "I am not a maid," she said, as firmly as possible. Best to lay down the law from the start.

This provoked a far stronger reaction than she'd anticipated. "Not a maid?" Jenifry squawked, her voice rising in what could only be shock. "You're not a maid?" Then understanding, possibly, flitted across her face. "Oh, I'm that sorry. Best t'ignore me, ma'am, but I thought Mister Kit called you Miss Lucas. I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Lucas."

What?

"I'm not married," Morvoren tried, brain whirling as she became more and more confused. But this, too, turned out to be a bad thing to say.

In an instant, the shock returned to Jenifry's open face. "Not married and not a maid?" she squawked all over again. "And not afraid to tell anyone? Proud of it even? Whatever next? What be this house a-comin' to?"

Morvoren's eyes flew wide as realization dawned. Was this woman talking about virginity? Her virginity? "I mean," she gabbled, the words tumbling over themselves. "I'm not a servant. Not a maidservant. I'm a nurse. A veterinary nurse. And I don't want to be a servant."

Although technically, she wasn't the kind of maid Jenifry was meaning, either. Probably not a good idea to mention that. She needed to escape this odd cult as soon as possible, where the only normal one appeared to be Kit, despite his odd clothes and serious expression.

Better put on what Jenifry had got out for her, then, if it meant being able to make her getaway all the sooner. Even though the array of clothing before her was like nothing she'd ever seen before. No jeans or sweatshirts in sight.

With deep misgiving, Morvoren kicked off her wet trainers, peeled off her damp jeans and tugged her T-shirt over her head to reveal her matching black lacy bra and knickers. Another bad move.

A horrified gasp emitted from Jenifry akin to the noise the kettle had made when it boiled, and her hands went to her ample hips. "What are those when they're at home?"

The bra happened to be Morvoren's favorite underwire and had come from the Victoria's Secret shop in Reading. She'd chosen the knickers to match, pleased with the little red bows on both. Had this strange woman never seen a bra and knicker set before?

"My underwear."

Jenifry shook her head in a mix of wonder and horror. "I've decent underwear right here for you, Miss Lucas." Her tone brimmed with righteous disapproval. "I'm sure only a French hussy would wear underwear as scant as that. Here." And she held out a pair of long white knickers.

Morvoren stared at the proffered garment. Its main drawback appeared to be that the knickers, if you could call them that, were made in two separate legs with a decided gap in the center. A bit drafty.

She took the knickers. "You want me to wear these?" Her own voice rose in righteous indignation that perfectly matched Jenifry's. "They're not even finished. Look—someone's forgotten to sew them together." Another mistake.

"Together? Why would anyone want to do that? How would you…?" Jenifry hesitated, her cheeks flushed, and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hiss. "How would you use the chamber pot or the privy if you had your drawers sewn up?"

What? They were meant to be like that? Morvoren glanced furtively about the room, but dressed in only bra and panties there was no escape. She was stuck. With a deep sigh, she pulled the strange knickers on, over her own underwear, of course, and Jenifry fastened them around her waist—individually. They reached to below the knees, the edges of each leg finished in age-yellowed lace. Interesting.

A white slip, also discolored with age and its time spent in the chest, went on next. And then out came something that could only be a corset.

"I can't wear that," Morvoren declared, hands on hips. "For a start, the weather's far too hot. I'll die of heat exhaustion." Why on earth had Kit's mother worn these clothes? And a corset? Confusion whirled around in her head along with an ever-increasing urgency to get out of here as fast as possible and back to normality.

She might just as well have banged her head against a brick wall. "No lady goes out without her stays," Jenifry opined, levering her into them. "Now breathe in while I does them up, that's a good girl. We'll make a proper job o' you yet." Her critical gaze slid to Morvoren's jeans and T-shirt where they lay on the floor, as if to infer that they were anything but a "proper job."

The next thing that went on was stockings, secured just above her knees with garters. These were followed by several layers of petticoats, and finally, Jenifry held up a pink and white striped gown with a skirt of generous proportions. It was certainly pretty, but on top of all the other layers it seemed distinctly over the top. However, Jenifry probably wouldn't allow her to escape in just the petticoats.

Did women in this cult really go about dressed like this?

Despite her protests, the dress went over her head and was finally done up, tightly, over her stay-clad waist. Peering down at herself when it was done, she had to admit she looked nice. Very different from her normal appearance. She couldn't help but long for a full-length mirror to admire her reflection. How lovely this outfit would have been to wear for an evening fancy-dress ball when she was at university. It had the feel of authenticity about it, even though it was making her sweat.

"Shoes now," Jenifry said, bending over the chest and emerging with a pair of exquisitely lovely, but unforgiving-looking, high-heeled shoes. Only this was where she ground to a halt, as no matter how hard she tried, like Cinderella's Ugly Sisters, Morvoren couldn't fit her size six foot into any of the shoes Jenifry produced. Kit's mother, Jago's sister, despite matching her in height, must have much daintier feet. So, to Jenifry's horror, the soggy trainers went back on again, which was probably a good thing as none of those shoes looked as though they'd be comfortable for actual walking.

"There," Jenifry said, standing back to view her protégée with an air of pride. "Keep them feet tucked away an' this'll do just fine. Only your hair to do now. And you've an advantage there with it being such a pretty color."

With a hairbrush and a length of pink ribbon, Jenifry battled Morvoren's sandy, sea-salty hair into a low ponytail, leaving a few short curls clustered about her face, then stood back to further admire the effect. "Now that's a proper job this time. Best get you down these stairs to see'f you pass muster for the gen'lemen."

Morvoren forbore from remarking that the last thing she wished to be judged by was whether the gentlemen downstairs found her to their liking. However, she submitted to following Jenifry out into the corridor and back down the stairs, but only because complying seemed the easiest way to escape this madhouse. The descent of the stairs was not an easy task, as with such long, wide skirts, she had to hold them out of the way of her feet. As a consequence, she descended slowly, afraid that at any moment she'd catch the edge of a petticoat with her foot and go tumbling to the bottom. The last thing she wanted to be while wearing these dodgy open crotched knickers was upside down in a heap on the floor.