Chapter Six

J ack stared at the stranger in his drawing room. She had to be the woman his mother had told him about last night. The one who was to be living, along with her two children, who were bound to be nosy because children always were, in Keynvor Cottage. They would all be perilously close to the seat of his and Will’s smuggling operation.

His mother had described her as pretty, but that was a mild understatement. Despite being a mother herself, presumably to the well-grown girl he’d seen on the headland, she had the flawless skin of a younger woman, a cupid’s bow of a mouth that looked dangerously kissable, and wide hazel eyes which were right now staring back at him in shocked surprise. The plain black mourning gown she wore accentuated the delicate pallor of her cheeks, where two spots of red had just bloomed.

“Jack, darling,” his mother said, a smile lighting up her face. “I thought you were riding over to Carlyon Court to see the Beauchamps this morning?”

Despite a longing to retreat out of the room as though he’d never been there so as not to have to meet his far-too attractive new neighbor, Jack closed the door behind himself and approached the occupied chaise longue. “Good morning, Mother.”

Still smiling, his mother patted her new acquaintance’s hand. “My dear, may I introduce you to my son, Captain Jack Trevelyan. Jack, this is Mrs. Harriet Penhallow, who will be living at Keynvor Cottage with her children for the foreseeable future.”

Oh no, not just a short visit to Cornwall then.

Jack made a polite bow to both his mother and Mrs. Penhallow, muttering a greeting, then straightened up, ready to make a hurried escape.

“Do sit down,” his mother said, cutting off his hopes of a polite exit as she waved an elegant hand at the nearest seat. “And I’ll pour you some tea. It’s quite fresh still.”

Unable to refuse without seeming rude, which he might well have done had not Mrs. Penhallow been there, Jack swept the tails of his coat out of the way and sat down on the edge of the seat, facing the two ladies, and wishing himself elsewhere. The lovely Mrs. Penhallow’s wide-eyed gaze rested on him a moment too long before she snatched it away, those spots of color burgeoning afresh. For someone who must already be in her thirties, she seemed unusually shy.

“I see from the state of your boots that you have been out riding,” his mother said. “But clearly not so far as Carlyon Court, or you would not be back here so soon.”

Jack took the dish of tea she offered him. “Storm clouds are massing on the horizon, Mother. There’s going to be bad weather, so I thought it best to remain here.”

His mother, who was fond of Sam and Ysella Beauchamp, smiled. “As Mrs. Penhallow is going to be living nearby, it would be nice for her to meet our friends and neighbors, I think. Perhaps we should invite the Beauchamps over for dinner one evening? And the Treloars at the same time.” She turned to Harriet. “The Beauchamps live a good ride away beyond Penzance, but there’s a lovely walk along the cliff path to Roskilly, where the Treloars live. They have a little boy who must be about your own son’s age, I would think. Mrs. Treloar, Caroline, is a dear friend of mine and will be overjoyed to make your acquaintance, I’m certain.” She laughed. “Living down here in Cornwall we can all find the life a little lonely at times, so we relish the arrival of someone new with interesting things to tell us.”

“Thank you. I should like that very much,” Mrs. Penhallow managed, looking a little shell-shocked by this gushing speech by his mother and not at all as though what she was saying was true. She peeked sideways at Jack from beneath her eyelashes in a way reminiscent of a beaten dog expecting a second blow.

What was she staring at? Could it be that it had been her, not her daughter, he’d spotted on the headland, and she’d recognized him? No, the figure had been that of a slight young girl, not possessed of the full-bodied allure of a mature woman, like Mrs. Penhallow. He had to tear his eyes away from where a lace fichu hid her swelling breasts and chastise himself for looking at a widow in that way. A widow, according to his mother last night, whose husband had been dead a scarce three months. No wonder she was still in mourning.

His mother glanced towards the row of windows that looked out over the lawns and tutted her tongue. “You are right, as usual. A storm is indeed brewing. And I had so hoped to keep the garden looking tidy this autumn. If we have a high wind, the last of the roses will shed their petals, and we’ll get bits of twig and branches all over the lawns. Again. What a shame. We’ve had such a good show of blooms this year and the gardens were just as I wanted them to be.”

The lovely Mrs. Penhallow set her empty tea dish on the tray, those beautiful eyes of hers wide with a hint of relief as though she were glad of an excuse to leave. “If there’s to be a storm, I think I should be getting back to my children, who are no doubt running rings around their nursemaid by now with their excitement at being so close to the sea. I don’t want them venturing near the cliffs in a high wind.” She kept her gaze on Jack’s mother as though deliberately avoiding his presence. “Thank you again, Mrs. Trevelyan, from the bottom of my heart, for all the help you’ve given us. It is most appreciated and is very kind of you.”

His mother squeezed Mrs. Penhallow’s hand. “Not at all, my dear, and do, pray, call me Talwyn. I would much prefer it. Whenever anyone calls me Mrs. Trevelyan, I feel quite ancient. And it was the least I could do to help you settle in. Now you have the cottage all straight, and we are friends, I hope you will come again to visit me. We are a trifle isolated here…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced sideways at Jack, an accusatory look in her eyes, as if he were responsible for her loneliness. “It would be a kindness to me if you would perhaps bring your children next time. It’s been so long since Rosudgeon House echoed to the sound of a child’s laughter.”

Were those tears sparkling unshed in their visitor’s eyes? Jack looked away so she could deal with them. What sort of a life had this woman led that his mother’s small kindness could produce such a reaction in her? Because it was only a small kindness to a new neighbor. Just furniture he’d had in storage and supplies from their own pantry. Nothing, really. His mother would have done the same for anyone she thought might need it, of any class. And frequently did. At his expense.

Young Mrs. Penhallow, her tears controlled, rose to her feet and so did Jack’s mother. She gave a tentative smile. “You have been the kindest of neighbors. Of course I will return and bring the children. They would love to come here, I’m sure.”

His mother patted their visitor’s hand again. “I’m so glad.” She glanced at Jack, a glint in her blue eyes that had him worried. “Jack, dear, perhaps you could escort Mrs. Penhallow back to her cottage, as the weather is so rapidly deteriorating. I know Mrs. Pike has been hard at work this morning baking pasties, and I’m sure our new neighbors would like to try them, as they are quite the best pasties in the whole of Cornwall. You can ask Mrs. Pike for a basket and carry them down for her.”

Mrs. Penhallow’s eyes widened for a moment in what looked like real fear, before she had them under control again. How odd. Did she not want the pasties, the generosity or to be escorted home by him? Or was it just by a man in general?

Fortunately, Jack was well accustomed to schooling his own face into blank indifference, something he frequently had to practice when out for the occasional unavoidable dinner at some local dignitary’s home when the conversation turned to smuggling. He managed a gracious smile for his mother. “Of course. If Mrs. Penhallow doesn’t mind waiting, I’ll just go down to the kitchens and retrieve the pasties, shall I?”

Relieved to escape at last, but with the reprieve only of short duration, Jack bowed again to the ladies and beat a hasty retreat down to the kitchens, scene of many escapes from duty throughout his boyhood.

Mrs. Pike, who closely resembled one of her own doughy buns, with two deep-set currants for eyes, was just taking a second batch of pasties from the oven of the huge black range. Already, a row of six sat cooling on the large oak table. The scent of savory pasty filled the air, making Jack’s mouth water. Molly, the dowdy little kitchen maid, was engaged in chopping turnips for the next batch at the other end of the table and from the expression on her face was as hungry as Jack.

“Master Jack,” Mrs. Pike exclaimed, setting the hot tray on the low trivet on the table. “Following your nose, I don’t doubt. Be you hungry?” She chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, and her ample body quaked with the effort. “When was you ever not? These ones here are about cool enough to eat.”

Jack grinned. “Alas, I’m not here for my own gratification, tempting as your pasties smell. My mother wants to send some of them to our new neighbor as a gift and has sent me down to collect them. If I take the hot ones, they’ll still be warm by the time she reaches her home.”

Molly, ever nosy, squinted up at him in open curiosity.

Mrs. Pike banged the table at her. “You keep chopping and stop earwigging. ’Tain’t good for a girl to go earwigging.” She turned her gaze to Jack. “That’ll be the leddy your ma sent all the supplies down to yesterday?”

Jack nodded.

“She’s stayin’ a bit near to the kiddley, I’d say,” Mrs. Pike added, fetching a wicker carrying basket from the pantry. “I’ll put’em in here, shall I?”

Jack nodded again. “Thank you.”

She wrapped each pasty separately in a clean white cloth. “And chilluns, I hear. Bound to be out and about and seein’ what they shouldn’t be seein’, same as all chilluns. What’ll you be doin’ about that, I’m askin’ myself.”

Jack shrugged. “We’ll have to see what happens with them there. We can always make the next run after dark, if the tide’s right.” Mrs. Pike’s late husband had been one of the crew on Jack and Will’s other boat, The Black Joke , and had been one of old John Carter’s Cove Boys all his life, so she knew all about what went on at the kiddley and down in the cove and was understandably protective of it.

She tucked the wrapped pasties into the basket then covered it with an oilcloth as she’d probably already taken a look out of the window at the weather. “There. All done. You can take that upstairs to her now, and no nibbling at them on the way. There’s some down here waiting for you when you’ve done your errand.”

Jack didn’t tell her his mother had commandeered his services as a porter and escort, but picked up the basket, thanked her, and returned upstairs. He found his mother and Mrs. Penhallow in the front hallway, peering out of the open front door at the massing clouds. A wind had risen and the trees encircling the garden bent before the force of it, leaves and branches whipping back and forth. The nearest rose bed already looked depleted of petals.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Penhallow exclaimed, just as Jack came to look outside as well. “I’d forgotten how quickly the weather can change down here.”

Her black gown might have had long sleeves and, with the fichu attached, a high neck, but even Jack could see it would offer no protection should the rain begin while they were on the way back to her cottage.

“You must take my thick cloak, my dear,” his mother said, her tone one that brooked no argument. “I fear we are in for a downpour.” She paused. “Unless you would prefer to wait the storm out here? That might be better.”

Jack pressed his lips together. Having a stranger stay in his house, despite her evident prettiness, was not something he wanted to happen. The fewer people who visited Rosudgeon, the better, as far as he was concerned, and here was his mother virtually offering open house to a stranger. Who, odd as this might sound, might even be a government spy. Who would suspect a woman with two children of anything underhand? Well, he would. The sooner she was gone, the better, from both his house and Keynvor Cottage. He cleared his throat. “The bad weather could well be set to last several days, Mother. Mrs. Penhallow has already said she needs to get back to her children. Just hurry up and give her your cloak and allow us to leave before the rain starts.”

Mrs. Penhallow shot him a sideways glance out of those fearful eyes, but happily received the loan of his mother’s cloak, and with a fond farewell for the cloak owner, stepped out into the portico, Jack right behind her. Crawford, who had been standing by unobtrusively, as usual, closed the door behind them with more force than was needed.

The wind immediately snatched at both of them, billowing the heavy cloak out like a sail and forcing her to hold it together as best she could with her hands. Jack had already hooked the basket of pasties over one arm, and now he felt constrained to offer his other arm to her.

She hesitated.

“If you don’t take my arm, I can’t guarantee you won’t be blown away,” Jack said, a little gruffly, as this inexplicable reluctance of hers was making him impatient. Surely she had no need to be so reticent and timid with him.

She blinked up at him for a moment, as though weighing him up, then, with a visible stiffening of her backbone, slipped a diffident hand into the crook of his elbow. He clamped it firmly lest she decided to remove it, and they set off down the drive.

The wind whipped around them, pushing her towards him, and she had to duck her head and bend slightly forwards to gain against the power of it. Typical Cornish weather—a storm springing up like this in such a short time. Jack pressed her arm against his body more firmly, to keep her close and support her, his own hair blowing into his eyes. It was far too windy to carry on any kind of conversation.

They’d reached only the halfway point in their journey when the rain began. At first just a few drops fell from the leaden sky, but within minutes, rain was pelting down, plastering Jack’s hair to his head and running down his neck. The woman by his side at least had the cloak’s hood to cover her, but the heavy raindrops falling with such force must have been soaking into the fabric.

She stumbled on the uneven footing, her hand clutching at his elbow, and Jack dropped the basket and turned to steady her, taking her by her slender shoulders and feeling her inevitable stiffening beneath his touch.

“Th-thank you.” She had to almost shout above the wind and rain.

There was nothing for it now. He’d have to put a steadying arm about her to keep her upright. With the rain soaking into the wool of his coat, he retrieved the basket of pasties and pulled her bodily towards him. Under his grip he felt her stiffen again, before common sense must have taken over and she leaned into him, perhaps grateful for his strength. They hurried on as best they could.

After what felt like much longer than it should have taken, they reached the short track that led down to the cottage, the building barely visible now through the sluicing rain. Jack hurried his steps and Mrs. Penhallow matched his stride, no doubt as keen to be out of this deluge as he was. Jack and the wind pushed the door open with a bang, and they both tumbled inside. With his foot, Jack kicked the door shut behind them.

Three people were seated at the kitchen table: a stout woman of late middle-age whose apron suggested she might be a servant; a slender girl, her loose chestnut hair falling almost to her waist; and a small, curly-haired boy with a dab of soot on the end of his nose and wide hazel eyes very like his mother’s. If he hadn’t known Mrs. Penhallow to have children before this moment, he would have known these two to be hers with no difficulty, so alike were the three of them.