In the Blood (13 page)

Amy liked the idea.
 
“Where do you go for that?”

Laity shrugged.
 
“Solicitor, maybe?”

He removed the sewn heart from the box.
 
It was quite plain: bold crimson in colour with a stitched edge that pronounced its shape; it showed no signs of wear or fading.
 
“Box has kept that well,” he said, scrutinising it.
 
“Looks like a nice bit of silk.”
 
The stitching was uneven and the material was rough at the edges.
 
“Looks like someone knocked it up in a hurry,” he said.
 
Then he added, “Or wasn’t much good with a needle.”

He set the heart down and took out the folded note; his eyes looked restless with anticipation.
 
“Though we cannot be together, you will always have my heart,” he read.
 
The note was signed,
‘Lowenna’, and a short postscript read, ‘It’s what is inside that counts’.

“Lowenna...” Laity said.
 
“That’s a nice old Cornish name I haven’t heard in a while.
 
Means
joy,
if memory serves.”

“What do you make of that postscript?” Amy asked.

“Sounds like a standard sort of phrase.
 
I suppose she just means that it’s how she feels about him on the inside that matters.
 
Even if they can’t be together perhaps.”

A call from inside the shop caught everyone’s attention.
 
“Shop!”
 
It was Mr Trenwith, waving at Laity like the place was on fire.

Laity sighed.
 
“No peace for the wicked,” he said.
 
“Tell you what...”
 
He stood up.
 
“Give me a few hours.
 
One of my locals is bound to know how you go about finding out who lived at Ferryman Cottage.”
 
He leant over the table and collected Amy’s empty coffee cup and the half empty cafetiere.
 
“I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks Tom.”

“Not a problem.”
 
Laity waved the cafetiere.
 
“Fancy a fresh brew?”

“No, I really couldn’t.”

Laity walked backwards to the door.
 
“If you’re this way later on,” he said.
 
“I’ll either still be here...”
 
He rolled his eyes like he fully expected to be.
 
“Or with a bit of luck I’ll be down at the boat.
 
Of course, if I’m neither, then I’m already out fishing!”
 
He was laughing as he disappeared into the shop and the waiting Mr Trenwith.

Amy watched him go, turning the note in her hands.
 
She read it again, thinking about Lowenna and her lover, and of Gabriel and herself.
 
She wondered what circumstance had forced
them
apart and how this box that once tied them together came to Ferryman Cottage all those years ago.

They met every Tuesday as the afternoon began to fade and whenever chance allowed.
 
But on this particular wet and chilly Tuesday afternoon, late in the spring of 1803, it was to be for the last time.
 
Lowenna’s father had made that very clear.

The caller at Rosemullion Hall left quickly again with James Fairborne’s thanks and a shilling for his trouble.
 
The news he imparted left its receiver with a cold sense of failure.
 
James Fairborne was distraught, unable to fathom where he’d gone wrong.

“Have I not given you everything you could wish for?” he asked, searching his daughter’s eyes for a glimpse of understanding.
 
“That you should set your mark so low!”
 
He began to pace uneasily before the fire in his study.
 
It felt suddenly cold to him.
 
He looked angry now, disgusted.
 
“A farmer!”
 
He spat the word out like it was a wasp lodged in his throat.

“He is a well educated man, father.
 
A landowner, too.”

“Be silent, child!”
 
James Fairborne fell heavily into a tall winged chair beside the fire and sank his head into his hands.
 
“And that you should be seen courting together!”
 
His words were seething.

“But I love him father.”
 
Lowenna reached out to touch his trembling hands.
 
“I am past sixteen years.
 
I want to -”

“You are too young to know this kind of love!” her father snapped, slapping her soft hands away.
 
“And this
fool
is too far beneath you to deserve it.”
 
His face boiled.
 
Veins throbbed at his temples and spittle glistened in the corners of his mouth.
 
“You will
not
see him again!”

Her lover was waiting for her at the usual place.
 
The broad oak gave him shelter from the spattering rain and the girth of its trunk afforded them privacy.
 
His cart - sage green, riding on red wheels and undercarriage - looked weathered beside the muddy track that brought him this side of the Helford River every Tuesday - market day.
 
His Shire mare, Ebryl, named after the Cornish for the month of April in which she was born, was happily eating her reward from the morral looped around her neck.

The Falmouth market run was a routine he’d enjoyed with his father for as long as he could remember, until his father was taken by illness three years ago.
 
He was eighteen then, and suddenly overwhelmed with responsibilities many thought beyond his years.
 
But he’d since proven his doubters wrong.

The farmer’s eyes settled on the track that wound away to his left, leading down to Helford Passage.
 
She was late.
 
He had been there nearly thirty minutes.
 
Maybe the weather.
 
He grew anxious, his heartbeat quickening.
 
Then at last he saw her and a cool breath filled his lungs.

She moved as though gliding to some delicate score only she could hear.
 
And although this humble farmer had not yet had the good fortune to see her anywhere other than by the river or on this often muddy track, he knew that her gift was enough to stop all conversation as she entered a room, drawing all eyes to her.
 
And he knew that when she left again, that room was left a dull place and that every man’s heart therein suffered an unfulfilled longing.
 
Lowenna...
 
His Lowenna.
 
She flowed towards him in her bright yellow silks, unprotected by the small matching parasol she was carrying.
 
And although wet through and dishevelled, she seemed to care nothing for her state.

As she drew closer the farmer heard her cry his name.
 
He rushed to meet her and knew that all was not well.
 
Her jade eyes looked troubled.
 
His excitement faltered, giving way to trepidation.
 
This was not the Lowenna who had come to meet him on so many other happy occasions.
 
His concern stopped him and Lowenna slowed as she approached.
 
He could see her tears now and he reached for her, holding her to him.

Lowenna did not speak.

She pulled away but his strong hands held firm.
 
Then she reached into a bag that had gone unnoticed over her slender arm and took out an ornate box.
 
She pushed it towards him, and he took it without awareness, all the while looking into her eyes - eyes that spoke for her.
 
He shook his head in denial of what those eyes were saying - what he already knew to be true.
 
He thought she tried to smile through her tears, but only pain showed on her face.
 
Then the space between them grew and their hands fell apart, leaving the farmer lost and numb as he watched Lowenna turn and run.

Chapter Sixteen

L
ady Celia Fairborne was in the sun washed drawing room at Rosemullion Hall, failing to distract herself with a few fashion magazines.
 
Behind the glossy images of ever diminishing models parading the latest designs, she was contemplating her recent phone call from Reverend Jolliffe and this American genealogist who was coming to see her.
 
She slapped the magazine shut and threw it hard into the armrest at the far end of the settee.
 
At any other time she would have been excited to talk to Mr Tayte - to learn more about the family; that had been her reaction when the Reverend had phoned earlier.
 
But a timely call from her husband soon afterwards had changed all that in an instant.

Six double-height, leaded windows were alight with the blaze of a full afternoon sun.
 
They looked out unhindered across a perfectly manicured lawn to the south that was randomly scattered with topiary chess pieces standing some five feet in height.
 
The view led the eye down and through the estate gardens to a deep perimeter of dense shrubs and prickly gorse, delineating the fringe of the estate, to the coastal path and the sea that lived beyond Rosemullion Head.
 
The room itself was half oak-panelled and decorated in soft neutral tones behind an array of family portraits.

Celia Fairborne was waiting for her son to join her for a much needed chat.
 
She’d called for Warwick immediately after receiving her husband’s phone call, and she had not expected him to come promptly; Warwick seemed far too distracted of late.

Where is the boy?

She went to the window, taking in nothing of the view, hands clasped in an anxious knot behind her, aware that time was ticking away.

Everything about Celia Fairborne belied her fifty-eight years.
 
She was stylishly dressed in a close fitted, abstract floral print dress that hugged her regularly exercised frame.
 
Her shoes were raspberry suede and had a slight heel to them, and her hair was artificially ash-blond and short in length, cut into the sides and feathered in a style that cost a fortune.
 
Money had taken at least ten years off her.
 
A rose cashmere cardigan rested across the arm of one of a pair of pale yellow settees that mirrored one another across an Aubusson rug before the fireplace.
 
She was about to go and look for Warwick herself when he walked in.

Warwick’s casual attire was as contentious as ever; pale threadbare jeans and a navy merino sweater that he practically lived in.
 
As he crossed the room, his expression was neutral, bordering resentment, like concentration interrupted.
 
He slipped across the arm of the first settee he came to and left a worn-out tan leather deck-shoe hanging from a bare foot.

His mother sat opposite him and shot him a disdainful glare.
 
“If you’re going to sit down, Wicky dear, sit properly will you.”
 
Celia’s urge was to go across and flick his leg around for him, and put a comb through his unkempt almond hair while she was at it, but what was the point?
 
After thirty years of trying she had finally conceded that it was too late to effect any lasting change.

The deck-shoe slid into place beside its twin and Warwick’s knees fell apart as though in argument.
 
He appeared relaxed, but Celia sensed an undercurrent of tension in the way his lower lip hung without purpose, and how his cyan eyes bored into her.

“Look, what is it, mother?
 
I’m in the middle of something.”

Celia’s face silently mocked him.
 
“Another girl?”

“Not before lunch,” Warwick said through the hint of a smile at last.
 
“So what’s up?”

“I’ve had a call from your father.”

Warwick’s smiled dropped.
 
“Where is the old man?
 
I’ve hardly seen him all week.”

“He’s in London, Warwick.
 
You know very well where he is.
 
He’ll be back on Friday.”

“Yes, of course.
 
He’s there so often lately, his poor constituents must think he’s deserted them.”

“It’s an important week for him, Wicky.”

“That’s right.
 
It’s a life peerage this time, isn’t it?
 
Warwick scoffed.
 
“Old Dicky really is doing well for himself, isn’t he?”

“Don’t call him that, Warwick.
 
You know he doesn’t like it and neither do I.”

Warwick crossed his arms then unfolded them again and started tapping the cushions.
 
“Well you’d think any man would be content with inheriting a Baronetcy, but not
my
father.
 
He has to earn his own.
 
First he gets an OBE for sticking with it and milking the last drop of tin out of a collapsing mining industry.
 
Then when most people would be happy to retire with their lolly and take it easy under a palm tree somewhere, my father starts a career in politics.
 
Twenty years later he’s still not had enough!”