Louise Allen Historical Collection (21 page)

‘He’s a good man, but given to muddles, is Mr Hawkins,’ Heneage murmured in her ear. ‘Much loved, hereabouts. And Miss Hawkins, his sister, for all that she murders that organ.’

The sermon, once Mr Hawkins had found his papers in the vestry and then dropped them as he climbed into the pulpit, was all about lost sheep and the joy of their finding. It was to give thanks for the safe return of one of the fishing boats, thought lost a week since, that had limped into harbour the day before. But it was also about Ross, Meg sensed, as the vicar’s mild blue gaze swept over his congregation, pausing for a moment on the front pew.

Meg swallowed the lump in her throat. This was what a vicar should be, she thought, looking at the happily weeping fishermen’s wives in one pew, Ross’s bowed head, the earnest, scrubbed faces of the choir.

When she came out into the sunshine Mr Hawkins was waiting, shaking hands with his flock as they dispersed. He kept hold of her hand. ‘Welcome to our parish,’ he said, smiling kindly at her. ‘You need some peace, my dear. You will find it here. My lord, have you shown Mrs Halgate our holy spring yet?’

‘No.’ Ross, hat in hand, was being fussed over by Miss Hawkins. ‘Do you mind a longer walk back, Mrs Halgate?’

‘Not at all.’ His arm in the fine broadcloth, another of Perrott’s victories, was steady under her hand. Behind them the chattering congregation took the path up out of the valley.

‘Did that help?’

‘The church?’ So, he had realised how difficult it had been, how much she had dreaded the memories. ‘Yes, it did. Mr Hawkins is a good man. That sermon was for you as much as for the fishermen, was it not? He is glad you are home.’

Ross did not question her use of the word. ‘I thought I was past praying for.’ But he smiled.

‘Where is your brother’s grave?’ she asked and his arm became rigid under her palm. ‘I should like to see it.’

‘I—’ He stopped and Meg saw he had gone pale.

‘It must have been a comfort, to see it in this beautiful place,’ she persisted gently.

‘I have not been. His killer should not stand at his graveside.’

‘It was an accident. He knew it was an accident. You know that, you know in your heart that you did all you could, that there is nothing to forgive. Giles would want you to go.’ She stood her ground when he would have walked on, trembling a little at her own presumption. ‘Is it in the church or here?’ You could hardly describe this mossy, flower-studded slope as a graveyard.

‘There.’ His face like granite, Ross jerked his head towards a little terrace on the slope above them, away from the main path down. ‘My grandparents’ graves are there. Giles always liked the view from up there. Go and see, if you like.’

‘I would, very much. But with you.’

‘I have no wish to. It will do him no good.’

‘Not for him, although he would have wished it, surely. But for yourself,’ Meg persisted, not moving towards the steep little path.

She felt the tremor that went through the big body so close to hers, then he turned and strode up the mossy steps, leaving her behind. Meg followed and found him standing, hat in hand, beside the group of three stones, two lichen-covered, leaning a little, the other crisp still, despite the humid air. As she watched from the edge of the little clearing Ross knelt, dropping his hat, and ran his hand over the mound as though caressing a body beneath a green velvet coverlet. He was speaking, she could hear the murmur of his voice, although not the words.

When he fell silent Meg turned and went back down and along the path they had been following at the edge of the creek. If he needed her, he would find her.

She heard it before she saw it. Water bubbled out of the ground in a rough circle of grass and wild flowers, ran over pebbles, vanished again and emerged in the creek a few feet away. Metal glinted from its bed and someone had tied a child’s bonnet to a branch. There had been ancient magic here long before the Christian saints had come to Cornwall. A blackcap started to sing in the thorn bushes, heartbreakingly lovely.

Tears were sticky on her cheeks and she dipped her hands in the water and washed her face, then waited until she heard his step on the path behind her. He stopped beside her, but she did not look up, giving him the privacy she suspected he needed.

‘Thank you,’ Ross said. ‘I had expected pain and grief and I found peace there.’

‘That was what Giles would have wanted you to find,’ she suggested.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘You did not know him, yet you understood far better than I.’

Ross stripped off a glove, bent and scooped water into his palm, offered it. It was cold in her mouth and his hand, as her lips touched it to drink, was warm. He drank after her, their eyes meeting over his cupped hand, then he shook it, droplets flying in the sunlight.

‘A steep climb now,’ was all he said and by the time they had climbed to the road they were speaking of practical, safe subjects, but the feeling of tranquillity went with them.

Young Mr Jago seemed to be all that Mr Kimber had promised. He sat down on the other side of the table in Meg’s sitting room, looking bright, intelligent and sensible. He was also attractive to look at, with steady hazel eyes, a strong, cheerful face and thick blond hair. Living with six foot six of brooding dark masculinity was not enough, it seemed, to prevent an appreciation of good looks in other men.

‘I understand from Mr Kimber that you wish to trace the whereabouts of your two sisters with whom you have lost contact.’ Meg passed him a cup of tea and sipped her own while she ordered her thoughts.

‘Yes. I have not seen them since July 1808 when I left home. We were all living in the vicarage of Martinsdene in the north of Suffolk with our father, the Reverend John Shelley. My elder sister, Arabella, is twenty-five now and my younger sister, Celina, twenty-three. I have written down a description of them.’ She pushed the paper across the table and Patrick Jago read it through before tucking it into his notebook.

‘They may still be at home, in which case I wish you to give a letter to whichever of them you can contact without my father discovering it and await their reply. If they are not there, then I wish you to trace them for me.’

‘May I use your name when I am making enquiries?’

‘No. Absolutely not. My father is a strict man of strong temper. A domestic tyrant, to be quite frank. I would not wish to put the parishioners in such a position that they had to hide anything from him. We are estranged.’ It was more painful than she had expected to have to admit that to a stranger, but she had to be honest or he would never understand all the nuances of the situation and might miss some clue because of it. ‘I eloped and I have never received any response to letters since.’

Jago nodded and jotted a note. His manner was more like a doctor’s than anything else, Meg thought with a sudden flash of insight. He put down the notebook. ‘You will wish to know my terms. I would charge you my return stagecoach fare and my lodgings in whatever decent inn there is available that will lend credence to my cover story—when I work out what that is. Plus incidental expenses such as postage or bribes.’

‘And your fee?’ In any other circumstances it would be amusing to hear this very proper young man discussing bribery; now she just accepted it as a necessary, if sordid, tactic.

‘Two guineas per week.’

If she stayed in Ross’s employ for a few months then she could afford that, for surely Jago would know within a few days whether Bella and Lina were still at the Vicarage. If they were not…but she would not let herself think about that, not yet.

‘Very well. But if you cannot locate them within three weeks, please let me know.’

‘Of course. I will report every few days, but if they have left the village we will need to discuss how to proceed.’

Meg pushed the letter she had written for her sisters across the table to him, her fingers lingering on it, reluctant to let it go into the hands of a stranger. It held all her hopes and fears, all her dreams of the three of them together again. She could find a little cottage somewhere. They could all find work and they would be together, safe.

Her hand would not lift to release it. Jago’s long, competent fingers settled over hers. ‘Too many hopes and fears riding between those pages?’ She looked up, blinking away tears, to find his eyes warm and understanding.

‘So foolish,’ she murmured, obscurely comforted by him.

There was a peremptory knock on the door and it opened on the sound. ‘Mrs Halgate, there is another invasion of blasted ladies. Will you kindly—?’

Ross stopped just on the threshold. For a moment Meg had no idea what he was staring at, then she realised that her hand was still under Jago’s and pulled it free.

‘There, that is the letter, as I said. I think you have everything now.’ She got to her feet. ‘Thank you. I must go and see to the arriving guests, if you will excuse me, Mr Jago.’

‘Of course. I will see myself out. My lord.’ The young man inclined his head.

‘I will see you out.’ Ross’s mouth was a thin line. ‘This way.’ He gestured towards the servants’ entrance.

‘You are too kind.’

‘Not at all.’

They were so polite that Meg almost missed it, the current of frigid anger in Ross’s voice, the wary note in Jago’s.
Oh my lord. He thinks we were flirting and he is being possessive.
She emerged into the hall to find one party of mother, two daughters and a sulky-looking son, and another of husband and wife with a single daughter, exchanging greetings and filling the space with chatter. Heneage was looking decidedly put out. This was no time to get into a fluster about Ross’s assumptions or what they meant.

‘Mrs Halgate, I was just explaining to Sir Richard and Lady Fenwick and Mrs Pengilly that I was not certain whether his lordship was at home this afternoon.’

‘Oh, yes, he is, Mr Heneage.’ She curtsied. ‘Good afternoon. I am Mrs Halgate, the housekeeper. Would you care to come through to the salon and I will have refreshments brought? His lordship will not be long.’

She shepherded them towards the Chinese Salon, then ran downstairs again. If Ross was in a foul mood the last thing she needed was him stalking into the salon and alienating his neighbours. And she was determined that he was not going to shirk his obligations to hospitality, matchmaking mothers or not.

‘Tea for eight in the Chinese Salon, please, Mrs Harris.’ Meg popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘Have you seen his lordship?’

‘Heading towards the stables not a minute ago.’

‘Thank you. I’ll see if I can catch him.’ She opened the back door and walked straight into Ross.

‘Catch who?’ He fended her off with both hands to her shoulders.

‘You. You know you have guests.’ She turned on her heel and made for the stairs.

‘I saw them from the window and told Heneage I was not at home this afternoon.’ The tread of his boots behind her sounded ominously heavy.

‘Well, I told them that you were, I’m afraid. There are some gentlemen this time.’ There was no response from behind her. It was like being followed by a very large dog, she could almost hear him growling. ‘I have ordered tea to be brought up.’

‘Excellent. Then you may stay and pour and inform me afterwards which of the young ladies I must pay court to.’ Ross strode past her and into the salon, leaving Meg to stare at the door panels while she waited for the tea trays to come up.

Pay court? Had Ross decided that he must marry and settle down? That was a good thing, it had to be. He needed a family around him, an heir to bring up. But why was he talking about marriage now? Perhaps Ross had decided, after that strangely tender kiss on the terrace, that he must put aside thoughts of mistresses and lovers. But why was he looking so grim again?

And why was she feeling so empty all of a sudden? Meg caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. It was not only Ross who was looking unhappy—she looked stricken. Her hand was pressed to her breast as though it could comfort the empty ache inside and something suspiciously like tears were burning at the back of her eyes.

Whatever it was, the relationship that would have been so unwise, so temptingly sinful, was over before it had begun. She should be thankful that her strength had held out long enough for Ross to come to his senses and before she allowed her own feelings to show too plainly.

The green baize door opened to a chink of china and the laboured breathing of Peter the footman managing the heavy tea urn. Meg blinked hard and led the way into the Chinese Salon. Inside was a babble of voices. She could hear Sir Richard talking to Ross about a mutual problem with fences, so she imagined the Fenwicks must be neighbours.

Lady Fenwick took the proffered cup with a vague smile at Meg before nudging her daughter surreptitiously. ‘Anne!’

‘Sorry, Mama,’ she whispered, both of them oblivious to the fact that the by-play was obvious to Meg. The girl turned wide, grey eyes away from the young man who was wedged uncomfortably between his two sisters and fixed them on Ross’s face.

Meg moved over to offer tea to the Pengilly family. From Mrs Pengilly’s deep violet gown with black trimmings and the wide hair ring that she wore next to her wedding band, Meg deduced she must be a widow. Her stolid daughters, neither of them blessed with the blonde good looks of the Pennare girls, or the sweet demeanour of Miss Fenwick, accepted their tea cups without a word and turned their attention to the silver cake stand.