In the Blood (7 page)

Why can’t I trace them?
 
Why only James?

In the January of 1784, not six months after the
Betsy Ross
had sailed for England, James Fairborne was alone.
 
His great estate on the exposed Cornish headland, where Falmouth Bay meets the Helford River, was as his desolate tomb.
 
He had not left the house all winter, serviced in those months by a single manservant.
 
All other staff had been dismissed immediately upon his taking up residence.

The Elizabethan manor house was a dark place.
 
It was seldom lit at any time save for a single fire by which James Fairborne sat every day and well into the night, brooding.
 
Occasionally the flicker of his manservant’s candle could be seen pacing the long gallery as he went about his limited duties, scarcely distinguishing the shrouded furnishings and ornaments.
 
Less often, a candle glowed for James Fairborne as he eventually retired for the night, but only at such times that he went to bed at all.

James Fairborne would continue to sit alone in his own personal darkness, constantly troubled by what lived there.
 
Such plans had been laid.
 
Now he could do nothing but wait.
 
The more time passed, the easier it would become.
 
He knew that was the way of such things.
 
A few more months perhaps.
 
That would surely be long enough.
 
Then the cloud would lift and light and life would once again fill Rosemullion Hall.
 
And for James Fairborne, life’s journey would begin again.

Chapter Eight

M
awnan parish church was built in 1231 and is dedicated to Saint Maunanus, a 6th
century Celtic saint after whom the village of Mawnan is thought to be named.
 
The church stands one hundred metres from the coastal foot-path, south of Falmouth, and sits high up, looking out over the mouth of the Helford River.

Tayte was standing at the lych gate, peering along a shingle pathway that led away to a blue church door.
 
The gate itself was supported on either side by two deep stone walls that carried a tiled roof over a granite coffin rest in the centre.
 
He looked up and read the words painted over the gate:
Da thymi nesse the Dhu.
 
Then a gentle voice spoke to him from within.

“It is good for me to draw nigh unto God.”

Tayte startled and peered into the shadows, to the stone benches that were shaped from the walls beneath the lych roof.
 
“Excuse me?” he said.

A slight, fair-haired man rose from the shadows.
 
He was dressed in black trousers and a navy-blue fleece jacket.
 
The white of his dog-collar immediately gave his calling away.
 
He looked older than Tayte suspected he was.
 
His hair had receded and was thinning, but his face still held a youthful freshness.

“The inscription you were reading,” the man said.
 
“Cornish ... from
The Life of Meryasek.
 
It means - it is good for me to draw nigh unto God.”

“Oh, I see.
 
Thanks.”
 
Tayte feigned a painful clutch at his chest and smiled.
 
“You set my ticker running there.”

“My apologies,” the man said.
 
“I’m Reverend Jolliffe.
 
There are no services today, but you’re welcome to look around.”

Tayte extended a hand.
 
“Jefferson Tayte.”

The reverend’s hand was small in Tayte’s.
 
His skin felt cold and dry.
 
He opened the gate and Tayte went through.

“I expect you get this all the time,” Tayte said.
 
“But I’m looking for some graves.”

“We have many graves, Mr Tayte.”
 
The reverend waved a slow hand to either side of him as they walked.
 
Headstones scattered the lawns.
 
“There are many more beyond the south wall.”

“Graves from the late eighteenth century,” Tayte added.
 
“Early nineteenth, maybe.”

“An old family member?”

“Sort of.
 
It’s what I do - for other people.”

“A family historian?
 
We have many enquires.”

The reverend stopped walking and Tayte could see by his semi-perplexed expression that he had something to ask.

“Tell me, Mr Tayte,” Jolliffe said.
 
“Visitors often ask me about such things, but I’m afraid I’m shamefully close to useless when it comes to your profession.
 
How does it all work?
 
I mean, how do you manage to connect everyone together.”

The question was one that Tayte had grown accustomed to answering.
 
“It’s really not all that complicated,” he said.
 
“Documents like birth, marriage and death certificates hold more information than most people think.
 
Take a subject’s birth certificate.
 
From that, as I’m sure you know, you get their parents’ names, mother’s maiden name, the father’s occupation and address.
 
In its simplest form, you just repeat the process for each parent going back through time.”

“I’m sure it’s not as straightforward as all that,” Jolliffe said.

“Well, perhaps not, but that’s the idea.
 
It gets a whole lot trickier the further back you go, and much of it’s about confirming your data, but there are all kinds of indexes to help point you in the right direction.
 
Deciphering old texts can be a challenge too, but you get used to it.”

“You must have a third eye,” Jolliffe said.

Tayte smiled to himself.
 
“I guess.
 
A degree in palaeography helps too.”

“I should tell you that we keep no parish records here before 1900,” the reverend said.
 
“The older records are stored at the record office in Truro now - have been for some time as I remember.
 
But of course, you would already know that.”

Tayte recalled numerous telephone conversations with a girl called Penny Wilson at the Cornwall Record Office, bringing to mind her soft tones.
 
He wished the records
were
there.

They approached the blue door that led into the main body of the church.
 
Ornamental hinges covered the door in wide fans of swirling black iron-work, like sculpted leaves.
 
Tayte’s eyes drifted right, then rose with the church tower to its battlements.
 
On each corner, surrounding a white flag-pole, two-metre-high stump pinnacles rose to the sky, like spires pointing the way to heaven.

“The tower is over six hundred years old,” Jolliffe said, noting Tayte’s interest.
 
“And there’s said to have been a structure here before that.”

Tayte didn’t want to get side-tracked by an architectural history lesson.
 
“I’m interested in a family that settled in the area in the late 1700s,” he said.

The reverend raised his eyebrows.

“James and Eleanor Fairborne in particular.
 
Then there’s Daniels.
 
That’s the name James’s sister took when she married.
 
Clara and Jacob Daniels?”

“Daniels...”
 
Jolliffe gazed skyward, following his raised brow as it furrowed in thought.
 
“I really couldn’t say, but Fairborne is a familiar name to most around here.
 
If it’s the same family they have the estate on Rosemullion Head.
 
Lovely views.”
 
He looked suddenly distracted.
 
“You really must take in the view from our south door.
 
It looks out across the estuary to Nare Point.
 
Quite breathtaking at times.”

“Thanks, I’m sure I will.”
 

The reverend appeared lost to the scenic images conjuring in his mind as they made their way in slow steps around the church tower.
 
They passed another blue door, this one below an arched window.
 
Above that a further arch was slatted to facilitate the bells.

“So, the Fairbornes?” Tayte continued.
 
“Any buried here?

“Oh yes, Fairborne...
 
I think not.”
 
The Reverend Jolliffe pondered a while.
 
“No, I don’t recall any.
 
Their land falls within this parish, all within the Deanery and Hundred of Kerrier, but I suspect their family members are buried on the estate.
 
Quite typical for well-connected, well-financed families with enough land for it.”
 
The reverend gently nodded.
 
“A most impressive estate, too.”

Now on the church’s south side, Tayte began to understand why Jolliffe had led him this way.
 
He looked out over long shadows, across the tops of memorial headstones and stone crosses, changed and worn by time and stained by lichens.
 
He looked through a framework of trees to an untroubled Helford estuary, then across a silver-foil sea to a jutting headland beneath a clear and bright sky.

“You’re welcome to look at our headstones, of course,” the reverend continued.
 
“Take as long as you need.
 
We have a great many for a church of such relatively small proportions.
 
Although...”
 
Jolliffe paused, smiling suddenly, like someone who was about to give away a gift, knowing that the recipient would be overjoyed with it.
 
“As you’re looking for something specific...”
 
He spoke slowly, teasing.
 
“You might find it more productive to come inside and take a look at the books.”

“You keep plot records here at the church?” Tayte said.
 
He couldn’t believe his luck.

“We do.”

“Then please, lead on.”

Chapter Nine

T
ayte waited beside an octagonal stone font inside the church, looking up at a stained glass window that bore the images of three saints framed by a single gothic arch.
 
Similar arches mirrored the length of the church to either side of the main aisle, and above him the ceiling was high and vaulted, painted white with dark wooden beams in stark contrast.
 
Reverend Jolliffe had disappeared behind a blue velvet curtain to fetch the promised book of burials and Tayte remained surprised that the church still kept them.
 
Most were centralised in regional offices and he considered that might explain why he couldn’t access this information from back home.

The velvet curtain twitched and Jolliffe pushed through, thrusting the book before him.
 
He blew off the dust and thumped it down on a nearby table.

“Here we are,” he said.

“Chronological order?” Tayte asked.

“Of course.”

Tayte thumbed the pages, opening with several records going back as far as the sixteenth century, then more records for the subsequent centuries as he expected.
 
The seventeenth century came and went and he slowed - eighteenth century.

“Genealogy’s like a jigsaw puzzle,” he said.
 
“You just have to know where to find the right pieces.”

His eyes continued to scan the pages, watched intently by the reverend until he reached the year he was looking for - 1783 - the year the Fairbornes arrived in England.
 
Between then and 1785, James Fairborne had re-married.
 
He turned back a few pages to the start of 1783 and checked again: name, address, age and occupation.
 
For each entry, the date of death and the burial date were there with the plot location, but nothing for Fairborne and nothing for Daniels.
 
It seemed the reverend knew his plots well.

Tayte closed the book.
 
“Thanks,” he said.
 
“You’ve been a great help.”

Jolliffe gave Tayte an angelic smile.
 
“Not at all.
 
I expect you’ll find what you’re looking for on the Fairborne estate.
 
Plenty of history there to dig into.”

“Sure,” Tayte said.
 
“Well, thanks again.”
 
He made to leave, heading along the church aisle.
 
Then he turned back and said, “And the estate?
 
Rose -”

“Rosemullion Hall,” the reverend cut in.
 
“It’s on Rosemullion Head.
 
You can’t miss the manor house once you get out there.”
 
He walked briskly now, more sprightly than Tayte had seen him move before.
 
He led Tayte with a strong grip by the arm to the south door and pointed out to his right.
 
“There’s a gate,” he said.
 
“Just around the corner behind the cremation plots.
 
Go through.
 
Then follow the lane to your left until you come to the coast path.
 
It’s clearly signed.”