Hours later, a few short miles across Mount’s Bay, Kerensa, Lady Pengarron, arrived on the arm of her husband Sir Oliver at Tolwithrick, the stately home of the wealthy mine-owning Beswetherick family. With at least one hundred other guests invited from all over the county of Cornwall, they were gathering for the celebration of Sir Martin Beswetherick’s seventieth birthday.
‘I shall enjoy the party tonight,’ Kerensa said brightly, peering through the crush of people. ‘I hope Martin does, he’s been so looking forward to it.’
‘Your presence alone will ensure that, my love,’ Sir Oliver said as he acknowledged and returned a greeting from Sir John St Aubyn of St Michael’s Mount.
Kerensa was greeted too by Sir John, but not all the gentry, the bankers, magistrates, landowners and the inevitable interlopers who appeared at such a high social occasion would afford her the same courtesy. She was not born of the same blood or money, nor had she any connection with them before her marriage. But while Oliver would have been angered on her account, Kerensa was not offended by any of the cold stares, quickly averted eyes or tosses of haughty heads she received as she looked around the banqueting hall. She cared only about the proud aristocratic man standing protectively at her side and those among the people here who, like the Beswethericks, were their friends.
‘After this though,’ Kerensa went on, ‘I shall be glad to get home. I can’t wait to see the children again and find out what they’ve been up to.’
‘You did enjoy the last two days and nights though?’ Oliver asked, his dark eyes gleaming brighter than the hundreds of candles lighting up the hall.
Kerensa knew that gleam intimately. ‘The last two days were wonderful, my dearest, the last two nights even more so…’
Oliver lifted her hand and kissed the warm fingers. ‘Buying that little cottage at Mullion so I can take you away and have you all to myself for a day or two was a master brainwave of mine. I’m rather proud of it.’
‘So I can see,’ Kerensa replied, smiling up at her husband who constantly and openly lavished love and adoration on her. She had been bonded to him in marriage for eight years and except for the first few months they had been blissfully happy in each other’s company. She loved Oliver Pengarron with the same intensity with which he loved her. Everybody who knew them knew that too, although no one would have thought their marriage would turn out this way. Kerensa had been forced to marry Oliver, who had wanted to buy the little cove, formerly Pengarron property, which she and her grandfather had lived in. Her grandfather only cooperated when Oliver agreed to take Kerensa to wife. Oliver had been furious and Kerensa heartbroken that she could not marry the youth she was betrothed to. But the first year of their marriage had taken many unexpected turns and ultimately they had fallen in love.
None of Sir Martin’s guests who witnessed Kerensa bringing Oliver’s hand to her own lips were surprised at the gesture. Sir Martin often remarked on their marriage as a fairy tale come true and Kerensa likened those who shunned her to witches and dragons who would like to spoil it for her. She would not allow their disapproval to taint her happy life.
The display of affection between her and Oliver was interrupted by a maidservant, and, laughing, Kerensa allowed herself to be whisked away to the bedchamber of Sir Martin’s daughter-in-law, Lady Rachael Beswetherick.
Kerensa entered the bedchamber and nearly turned tail again to escape a confusion of harassed maidservants and the overpowering odours of perfumes and powders. But Lady Rachael caught sight of her from her seat in the powder room where she was being attended by three maids.
‘Yoo-hoo! Here I am, Kerensa, my dear. Come in, come in.’
Kerensa stepped over several discarded gowns and pairs of dancing shoes and made her way through a haze of powder to Rachael’s side.
Rachael sent the maids away in a sudden scurry and stood up. She fluttered her heavily jewelled hands up and down. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.
Kerensa stared at the other woman, gloriously arrayed in jewels of every colour, and an over-decorated gown of vivid orange with spiralling purple motifs, her wig elaborately dressed twenty-two inches high and graced with huge colourful feathers, more jewels, and stuffed birds of paradise. Lady Rachael looked, to even the kindest observer, little short of ridiculous. Kerensa blinked, swallowed, smiled widely, and blatantly lied. ‘You look beautiful, Rachael, perfect for tonight’s occasion.’
‘Of course I do,’ Rachael purred. ‘And you look your usual picture of glowing beauty too, Kerensa, my dear. One can easily see that you’ve had the most divine time alone with your husband, but then who wouldn’t with the most gorgeous man in the county.’ Rachael pursed her painted lips and risked the position of her wig by putting her head a little on the side. ‘I suppose you had the most terrible time wrenching yourself out of his arms.’
‘Of course I did, Rachael,’ Kerensa smiled.
Rachael laughed with a loud snort then swung round to survey herself in a full-length mirror. ‘Do you think I have enough jewels on, my dear? I simply must look my best for tonight. Old Marty won’t be seventy years old on every day of the week, and who knows, he might not be around much longer. Did you know the dear old thing wanted to hold the party in his tiny little house in Marazion? The very idea. There’s not enough room to comfortably hold twenty guests in there. I’ve got six children old enough to attend the celebration, so with them and William and myself, and you and Oliver that makes ten people for a start so I got William to insist…’
Kerensa couldn’t get a word in edgeways, or near the mirror to check on her own appearance, so she sat on the only chair not draped with discarded clothing and listened patiently.
‘I hope I’ve ordered enough food and wine to cope with the evening,’ Rachael continued, pressing another black patch on her chin in an attempt to conceal a wavy-lined wrinkle. ‘I don’t want to let old Marty down and I want the county to talk about the event for years. Talking of children, I was just now, wasn’t I? I’m waiting for Ameline to come to me, she has no dress sense at all, you know. My other older girls know exactly how to dress but I have to check on Ameline on every occasion, it’s so tiresome of her. I keep telling her, you only have to emulate your dear mama and all will be well.’
Kerensa smiled behind her fan and managed to get in a few words on a pause of Rachael’s breath. ‘That was strange weather we had earlier today.’
‘Was it, my dear? I was too preoccupied with the preparations for tonight to notice.’
Kerensa didn’t have any more time to remark on the weather. There was a timid knock on the door and Ameline Beswetherick appeared. Ameline took one look at her mother and came into the bedchamber quite fearfully.
Downstairs Oliver was joined by Sir Martin who handed him a glass of the finest white wine. He’d had a look of disappointment on his chubby face as he’d watched Kerensa disappear up the stairs.
‘I thought we would have trouble getting here through the fog,’ Oliver said, after appreciating the wine, ‘but it lifted almost as quickly as it fell. Kerensa kept saying there was something strange in the air, but you have a fine clear spring evening to celebrate your birthday, Martin.’
‘The fog spread across the bay and drifted out to sea in a very short time according to some of the talk I’ve heard tonight. Don’t know why people want to keep on about the weather when there’s more important things like my birthday to celebrate,’ Sir Martin ended grumpily.
‘My humble apologies. Happy birthday, Martin.’ Oliver raised his glass.
‘Damned old I’ve become, damned old, Oliver, my boy,’ Sir Martin sighed, then with a wicked glint in his yellowing eyes, ‘But not too old to appreciate a slender neck and a graceful step, and,’ he emphasised, ‘the flash of wonderful red hair. So tell me why that little wife of yours was taken off like that before my very eyes! Haven’t had my arm round her tiny waist for far too long and that’s a fact!’
Oliver smiled indulgently from his great height. ‘Kerensa was taken up the stairs to join Rachael and Ameline. I fancy that Rachael requires her as part of her grand entrance.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sir Martin bellowed. ‘Rachael and her grand entrances! She insists on carrying them out even if the occasion is not in her honour, as it isn’t tonight. And she’ll make the most of it, you can be sure of that. This is about the only year within the last ten or so she hasn’t been with child. Damn me, boy, it would be a sight indeed to see her fall down those stairs one of these days, all preened up like a hysterical pheasant.’
‘A sight indeed,’ agreed Oliver, turning his dark head and looking up the wide stone stairway.
‘Whose birthday is it anyway?’ Sir Martin said peevishly. ‘I wanted the celebration at my house in Marazion but Rachael badgered William into insisting I hold it here. Henpecked and beaten down, that’s what William is, not like you, Oliver. You’re master of your own house, as I was when my dear Amy was alive. Amy, Kerensa – they’re what real women are all about, they know how to treat a man, keep him content and satisfied in all his needs. Don’t seem to be many men with backbone about these days.’
‘What about young Martin?’ Oliver asked. ‘I hear he’s doing very well for himself in the regiment.’
‘Well, I’ll concede the point in his case, but that’s because he tries to emulate you rather than William. A fine grandson that boy is, a man couldn’t wish for one better, he’s a credit to the family.’
Sir Martin broke off his ramblings to greet two of his guests, elderly brothers, John and Alfred Sarrison, who wore matching clothes and pumps and identical idiotic grins.
‘What a pair of silly old fops,’ he snorted, when the brothers moved away to talk to other acquaintances in the noisy crowd. ‘They’re no fun,’ he complained. ‘Most of the people here tonight have no humour at all. Most of them have no class, all of them are boring. Except for you and Hezekiah, there’s no one here worthy of a bit of sport or a good session at the card tables. I may be getting on in years, my boy, but I can keep up with the best of ’em.’
‘I look on you as a most enduring ancient of days, Martin,’ Oliver said, with humour and sincerity.
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ the small, elderly gentleman nodded, with a dismissive wave of a podgy hand, ‘but if Rachael has not appeared within the next ten minutes, I shall order the musicians to begin the dancing. I’m paying a pretty shilling for them and this is still my house!’
Oliver sipped his wine with a wry grin. ‘However long it takes Rachael to get herself ready and make her appearance with your granddaughter and my wife, I’ll wager you that Hezekiah will take a good deal longer.’
‘Well, I won’t take you up on that,’ smirked Sir Martin, with a lift of bristly eyebrows. ‘Never have been one to put my money on a losing bet. Pity Judith passed on,’ he mused sadly, suddenly changing tack. ‘The best and most loyal servant the Beswethericks have ever had. She would have liked to have seen my seventieth… dear old Judith… but she didn’t suffer at the end, carried away by the angels in her sleep. Hope I go the same way when my time comes.’
‘Your time is a long way off yet, Martin,’ Oliver said firmly. Oliver Pengarron was a man renowned for his lack of patience but he had an unlimited supply with regard to the other baronet, who had taken to rambling more and more as the years progressed. ‘You may have had your three score and ten but you’re far from on the wane.’
‘Mmm, you could be right, Oliver. Where is that wretched woman?’ Sir Martin stamped his foot then cried out, ‘Ouch, damn me!’ because of his rheumatism. ‘I sent William up half an hour ago to hurry her up and he has disappeared. The trouble with Rachael is that ever since she learned what some of the ladies will be wearing at the coronation later this year she’s been trying to outshine the lot of them.’
At that moment William Beswetherick, Sir Martin’s eldest son, appeared at the top of the stairs with a serious-faced gentleman dressed in subdued autumnal colours who looked distinctly ill at ease.
‘Here comes William at least,’ Oliver said. ‘Who is the man with him? One of your guests, Martin?’
‘Ah, that is James Mortreath, he’s an acquaintance of William’s.’
‘Mortreath, you say?’ Oliver’s strong dark features became alive with interest. ‘There are Mortreaths back in my family history. I wonder if there is any connection. As far as I know they all died out years ago.’
‘You can ask him presently, it may prove interesting to you. He is a lawyer by profession, a very efficient one by all accounts and also has banking interests. He’s come down to Cornwall from the capital city to arrange the sale of a considerable amount of property he has inherited at Truro. William met him there at the races and since then he has called often at Tolwithrick – Ameline is the attraction.’
‘That is hardly surprising, Ameline is a most attractive young lady.’ Oliver gazed at James Mortreath. ‘Will he make a suitable husband for her? He doesn’t look comfortable in society and he appears to be much older than Ameline. The difference in their ages seems more apparent than my own to Kerensa.’
Sir Martin was smiling as he watched James Mortreath descend the stairs at the side of his son. ‘I’ve made enquiries about him. I wouldn’t allow my dearest granddaughter to marry just any young fop. William and I are in agreement. Mortreath’s a fine man, upstanding, successful and highly regarded and wealthy in his own right. I fancy he’ll ask for Ameline’s hand in marriage tonight.’
‘I grant you he sounds the ideal suitor for any young lady of quality,’ Oliver said, looking around for another glass of wine.
‘He is. I hope Ameline will have him willingly. He’s a good churchman too, doesn’t have any sympathy with this Methodist nonsense. Can’t think why you of all people tolerate it, Oliver.’
‘Each man to his own way of believing, Martin. I haven’t heard anything yet in Wesley’s or his laymen’s preachings that I can take exception to.’
Sir Martin gave Oliver a sideways glance. ‘You don’t take all their prattlings to heart either though, do you, my boy? Haven’t given up smuggling, for instance. You don’t think of it as “an abomination”. You’re too much your own man.’ He looked back up the stairway and tut-tutted in extreme irritation. William and James Mortreath’s progress was being impeded by the enormously overweight Countess of Nansavellion. ‘Huh!’ he grunted. ‘Now Rachael’s wretched mother is delaying William!’
Scanning the animated crowd for a footman with a tray of wine, Oliver was delighted when a young man in an officer’s uniform of the 32nd Regiment of Foot handed him a full glass.
‘Martin! How good it is to see you and how good you look in the red and white. It makes me wish I was back in the regiment again.’
‘I’m sure I don’t look half as good as you did, Oliver,’ the younger Martin Beswetherick said. ‘I’m not as tall and straight as you are, but I do admit I’m proud to be wearing the uniform and to be following in yours and late Uncle Arthur’s footsteps.’ Pushing back the lock of light brown hair that had persisted in straying over his eyes all his life, Martin turned to his grandfather. ‘A very happy birthday to you, Grandpaps. This looks like it will be a grand celebration.’
‘We’ll give you one for your coming of age at the end of the year, Martin,’ the elderly baronet beamed indulgently. ‘Bigger and better than this if I have anything to do with it. A worthy grandson I have here, Oliver, and a worthy heir to the Beswetherick fortune after his father. Do you know, not one of the others of my large brood could be bothered to put in an appearance tonight. Well, damn me, who cares? If they can’t be bothered to come, I won’t have to send the stable boys to shovel up after their horses, eh? Mind you, we could really get things warmed up if that tiresome mother of yours would hurry up and show herself, Martin.’
Martin laughed. ‘I’ll dash up and escort her down myself, Grandpaps. Is Kerensa with her?’
‘She is,’ Oliver replied.
‘Wonderful! I can’t wait to see her again. She is sure to outshine all the other women here tonight as usual. I won’t allow you to claim all of the dances with her, Oliver,’ Martin rejoined.
‘You’ll have to keep an eye on that young man, he adores Kerensa,’ Sir Martin teased as his thin, wiry grandson bounded off to take the stairs in leaps, waving at his father and James Mortreath as he passed by them.
‘Well, Father,’ William Beswetherick said, rubbing his hands together when he finally made his impatient parent’s side. ‘I’m afraid it took us rather a long time to disengage ourselves from the Countess. Where has Martin gone in such a hurry?’
‘To fetch Rachael,’ his father told him peevishly. ‘Why didn’t she come down with you and Mortreath?’
‘I’m afraid she insisted I leave the bedchamber. She said she would be no longer than ten minutes and to leave her to get ready in peace. It was like taking my life into my hands up there, I can tell you.’ William smiled graciously at Oliver. ‘Ah, Oliver, allow me to introduce you to James Mortreath. James, Sir Oliver Pengarron.’
The two men briefly shook hands and both were about to speak when, on a signal from a footman, the musicians changed tune to the notes of a fanfare and the guests in the suddenly hushed banqueting hall watched Lady Rachael Beswetherick descend the stairs on the arm of her eldest son. Ladies tittered at her appearance behind their fans while all male eyes were upon the lady on Martin’s other arm, Kerensa, Lady Pengarron.
James Mortreath sucked in his breath. ‘Lady Rachael looks radiant tonight,’ he whispered to Oliver, ‘but who is the beautiful child with her and her son?’
Oliver looked from the ridiculous to the beautiful then fixed James Mortreath with a hard stare. ‘That child, Mortreath, is my wife.’
‘Your wife!’
‘And,’ Oliver added, to underline the fact that his wife was no longer a child, ‘the mother of my children.’
‘Children? …I… um…’ James Mortreath’s face turned crimson. He jumped back two paces. He was not unaware of this tall man’s reputation for outbreaks of bad temper, of his arrogance and strong will, and that he was said to be particularly sensitive on matters pertaining to his wife. How could he have possibly known that this auburn-haired vision of beauty, youth and innocence now gliding gracefully towards them was Sir Oliver’s wife? He’d assumed she was one of Ameline’s friends. ‘If… if you’ll excuse me, Sir Oliver, Sir Martin, I… I will go and find out where Miss Ameline has got to.’ James Mortreath retreated like a fox before hounds.
‘Now, now, Oliver,’ Sir Martin bellowed. ‘That was most wicked of you. You’ve frightened the poor man half out of his wits.’
‘Oh dear,’ Oliver said, amused. ‘You know, Martin, this is going to be one of your best parties yet.’ With his handsome head raised and dark eyes twinkling, he held out his hand to claim Kerensa’s.
Ameline Beswetherick thanked her maid and after a final check in the mirror of her own bedchamber she left and hurried towards the stairs. She had two small flights of five steps each to patter down before pacing the long corridor to reach the main staircase down into the banqueting hall.
At the last moment Ameline had suffered a mishap which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. She had meekly endured her mother’s frequent changes of mind about her appearance and her inane chatter and exhortations on how she should behave, how she should dance and with whom, and how she must be careful not to drink too much wine because it went so quickly to her head. She had suffered the indignity of her mother pinning fripperies to her gown, spoiling the maidenly effect of its dainty neckline of deep pink bows. Nothing more was needed to complement the pale pink satin, white silk petticoat and single layer of white lace sleeve ruffles. Resentment was heaped upon her frustration when lavish silken flowers, made in France and costing more than her gown, were thrust into her hair.
When Ameline viewed herself in her mother’s mirror she could have cried. She was a plain young woman of twenty-one, awkward in stature with ordinary brown hair. Compared to Kerensa, who retained a perpetual beauty and simplicity in dress and ornamentation, she usually felt like an unripe fruit. But now, thanks to her mother’s garish ministrations, she looked like a bowl of stewed strawberries.
Then had come the mishap for which she had been most grateful. The clasp of her single dropped ruby necklace came apart to send it bouncing off her skirts and skimming under her mother’s elaborate bed. Martin had knocked and entered at that point and he had got down on his hands and knees with Kerensa to search about under the bed for it.
‘Leave that now, the servants can retrieve it,’ Rachael said, laughing so shrilly Ameline wanted to put her hands over her ears. ‘My little lambkin can wear something of mine.’
‘It’s all right, Mama,’ Ameline hastily asserted, determined never to wear any of Rachael’s fussy jewellery. ‘I’ll return to my own room and put on my pearls.’
‘Don’t be too long, sis,’ Martin said as he got to his feet and helped Kerensa to hers. ‘Grandpaps is steadily growing redder in the face with impatience to get the party under way.’
‘We have been rather a long time, Rachael,’ Kerensa said diplomatically.
‘You go down without me, I don’t want Grandfather to have a seizure on my account,’ said Ameline and fled before her mother had time to argue. She was pleased to have this excuse to escape from taking part in one of Rachael’s ‘grand entrances’. Ameline hated them as much as the silly pet name her mother called her and she wished she wasn’t her parents’ firstborn; the younger her brothers and sisters were, the less attention they received. She told her maid not to hurry looking for the pearls, wanting to delay her appearance until the party was under way and she could slip down the stairs unnoticed. She removed all the non-essential ornaments from her hair and gown.
The last note of her mother’s fanfare had died away long before she neared the end of the corridor. Ameline wrinkled up her face, then smiled. She must remember to smile all night, her mother often stressed it was her best feature. This was true. It lit up her face to transform it from ordinary to, in the secret thoughts of James Mortreath, perfect loveliness.
‘A very good evening to you, Miss Ameline.’
‘Oh! Captain Solomon!’ A hand flew to her cheek. ‘I had not expected to find someone else still up here. I fear I am late going down.’
‘You are indeed, Miss Ameline, and so am I. If you’ll permit me, I would consider it an honour to escort you safely down the stairs.’ At all times the voice of Captain Hezekiah Solomon was clear, precise and strangely musical.
Ameline had known this dapper gentleman sea captain from childhood. He was a close friend of Sir Oliver’s and less so of her grandfather’s and gambled with them until the small hours of the night. As with most people who knew Hezekiah Solomon, she was fascinated by his eccentricities, his fastidious manners, decorative colourful clothes and long, shiny white hair.
Ameline was about to say something in reply but the words died away. An unpleasant tingle touched her spine. With her eyes unwillingly locked to his, she placed her hand on the bright gold-brocaded satin of his arm, bent ready to receive her hand. Hezekiah Solomon made her feel that he could see right into her, even read her thoughts. Until now she had felt nothing to fear from this effeminate looking creature and although he was smiling at her as one might imagine an angel would, there was something odd about his eyes tonight. They were so queerly blue, steely blue and somehow icy cold. A chilled bleakness crept up from her toes to the top of her head and remained with Ameline throughout the night.
Hezekiah Solomon escorted Ameline to her grandfather’s side and left her with a gracious bow. He danced as often as was possible with Kerensa Pengarron. Throughout her marriage, from their first meeting on her wedding day, he had looked for opportunities to be close to her without arousing Oliver’s protective or territorial instincts and probable wrath. When Hezekiah relinquished Kerensa, after the last dance he could ask for without infringing the proprieties, he drew Oliver aside for a private talk. They slipped into William’s study and helped themselves to his brandy. Hezekiah was careful not to mention Kerensa.
‘What do you want to discuss with me?’ Oliver asked, stretching out his long legs from William’s chair.
‘Oh, it’s nothing important or secretive, Oliver, just curious.’ Hezekiah stood before a scroll-framed mirror smoothing his hair with the palm of a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I was passing through Marazion a few days ago and I came face to face with a youth who bore, I have to say, more than a passing resemblance to you.’
‘Really?’ Oliver grinned. ‘That comes as no surprise to me, Hezekiah. I am believed to be responsible for siring every brat of sixteen years or under who possesses black hair or dark eyes arid dwells hereabouts.’
With a smile Hezekiah continued, ‘This was more than just a physical resemblance, Oliver. When I first saw him he was fully involved in a drunken brawl outside the Commercial Inn. It was most enjoyable to watch him. He laid out three other men, all older and bigger than himself, in not many more minutes. He would have given that King fellow, the one known as the Barvah Giant, a run for his money. Then he threw back his head and stood with his hands on his hips. I thought of you at once, it was a stance I have seen you adopt often. I watched him walk away after that and he wouldn’t give room for either gentry or uniform. I’ll warrant the youth shares your stubbornness and pride too.’
‘I see,’ Oliver said thoughtfully. ‘Do you have any idea who he is? This likeness of me?’
Hezekiah inspected the false pads in his hose to ensure they were giving his legs the shape he desired. ‘I made enquiries at the inn. Apparently he is a young fisherman by the name of Bartholomew Drannock. He lives with his family at the little village of Perranbarvah. I don’t doubt you know or at least know of him, Oliver. Nothing escapes your notice in the parish. Ah, I see by your face that you do.’
‘Yes, I know Bartholomew Drannock. I agree with you, he does bear a likeness to me. I’ve pondered on it since I first noticed it a few years ago when he helped to save my life. He was no more than a boy at the time and helped to drag me out of the sea in Trelynne Cove. I’d gone in to save a girl from drowning and was caught in undercurrents by the rocks. I got her to safety but was too exhausted to pull myself out. In fact, Hezekiah,’ Oliver grew serious, ‘the boy may have been wholly responsible for saving my life. I shall never know if Clem Trenchard, who was the only other one there on the rocks at the time, would have pulled me out if he’d been alone.’
Hezekiah stayed his brandy glass midway to his mouth. ‘Clem Trenchard? That is quite a thought, Oliver. Will he ever forgive you, I wonder, for marrying Kerensa?’
‘Probably not,’ Oliver replied bluntly, ‘and that’s too bad for him. As you said, it is curious about Bartholomew Drannock. I’ve never been with his mother, Jenifer, although I would like to have been, once upon a time. She was quite a beauty when young, the daughter of a ship’s chandler, then she got herself pregnant by a poor fisherman and the youth in question was born. I was not on Cornish soil when he was conceived and born, or I would surely have been held to blame for it. I like the youth, Hezekiah, he must be seventeen or eighteen years old now. He fishes with his po-faced father and some of the ever-increasing King family. They’re very poor of course. That wretch Peter Blake owns most of the boats in the village, luggers, and seines for the pilchards, and takes more than what is fair of the profits.’ Oliver drained his glass and rose. ‘Yes, I’ll have to take a closer look at Bartholomew Drannock. It’s something I’ve kept meaning to do.’
‘What will you do?’ asked his white-haired friend, examining the lace ruffles clustered at his wrists.
‘Who knows. Now, let us get back to the party.’ Oliver smiled wickedly and winked. ‘I promised Kerensa I’d dance more than I’d drink tonight and I want to learn more about this fellow Mortreath.’
James Mortreath never enjoyed social gatherings of more than half a dozen people and only endured the crush of the revelries in the hall for the opportunity it gave him of being near Ameline. For the past few minutes he had watched her dance a quadrille partnered by the persistently grinning Mr Alfred Sarrison. The clammy, heavily scented atmosphere crowded in on him. He felt he would suffocate. He was sweating profusely and although painfully thirsty he had no head for alcohol and refused all offers to replenish his empty wine glass.
He longed for the night to be over, while wishing over and over again that he could detain William Beswetherick for more than a few seconds at a time. But William, being a sociable man with a love of partying, was gaily dashing from one to another of his father’s guests. James hoped he would catch him before the speeches and toasts began; they were likely to go on for ages. If he could only talk to William now, the speeches could include an announcement concerning himself and Ameline.
He had his own speech meticulously prepared: Sir, would you allow me the honour of asking your daughter Ameline for her hand… It was an excellent petition and he knew he would deliver it well. He had never faltered over a single word in the courtroom.
James was confident he was looked on favourably by William, Lady Rachael and old Sir Martin, and he considered himself a suitor of whom he himself would approve if he had a daughter of his own. Ameline seemed to like him, she was always polite and showed an interest in his topics of conversation and appeared to enjoy dancing with him.
On the other hand there were one or two things that might go against him. He was quiet and serious and might be considered rather stuffy by the high-society Beswethericks and their circle of friends and acquaintances, who tended to socialize often and noisily. It had been his only concern until the introduction to Sir Oliver Pengarron. The infamous Sir Oliver was one of the Beswethericks’ closest friends and James would have done better to have made a good impression on him rather than spark off his ill humour with that unfortunate remark about his wife.
James wiped away the sweat on his upper lip. If only he could speak to William and obtain permission to ask Ameline to marry him. Then it wouldn’t be improper to suggest to her that they step out on to the balcony together to breathe in some welcome fresh air and get away from all these dreadful people. He was fairly confident she would accompany him; Ameline had looked uncomfortable all the evening herself.
James momentarily toyed with then dismissed the notion of approaching Lady Rachael who was in close proximity to him. Apart from the breach in etiquette, Ameline having a father and grandfather present, he felt he could not guarantee a sensible hearing from a woman with an aviary piled on top of her head.
He moved through the nauseating combination of sweating, over-perfumed bodies in the hope of finding an opened window. The bright light from the hundreds of candles and dazzling jewels hurt his eyes. The spread of swishing gowns made from silks, satins, muslins, batistes and, in the latest fashion, cotton, caught at his legs and impeded his progress. Rouged faces seemed to loom up on him. The hum of voices, the background of music, the squeals of laughter, all made his head ache.
He eventually located an open window but it did little to refresh him as the air outside was warm and clammy. He looked round for Ameline and then William. Ameline was about to take the floor with Sir Martin and William was with his mother-in-law, the Countess. James felt his throat constrict and pulled urgently at his neckcloth. Sir Oliver was talking to Lady Rachael and not troubling to conceal the fact it was James himself they were discussing. Was the tall overpowering man telling the preposterous matron that he would make an unsuitable husband for her daughter?
The Beswethericks would listen to Sir Oliver. James had thought he might receive a sympathetic reception from him as he himself had married a girl notably younger than himself. Life wasn’t fair at times, James decided. He had truly thought the girl gliding down the stairs in the sea-green dress with pearls round her throat was one of Ameline’s friends; she looked no older than Ameline. How old was Lady Pengarron? He did a quick calculation in his head. According to Ameline she had been seventeen when married, eight years had passed – twenty-five. Sir Oliver had been twice her age at the time of the marriage, which made him now, good lord, forty-two! Even with his colourful past the man could still be taken for James’s own age – thirty-six. Life was certainly not fair.
Sir Oliver looked away, and James followed the baronet’s gaze. It stopped at Lady Pengarron who was dancing at a sedate pace with Mr John Sarrison in the same set as Sir Martin and Ameline. James had heard Sir Oliver was possessive over his wife, as he was with his land and chattels, but there was more here than that. There was no mistaking the pleasure in those dark unreadable eyes as Lady Pengarron twirled gracefully under the old gentleman’s stiffly held arm. When her husband caught her attention, she smiled and waved her hand to him. A surprise indeed. It appeared they were actually in love! It was most unexpected because according to gossip it certainly wasn’t the case when they first married and very few married people he knew had any regard for one another, let alone love. Like the self-esteemed coroner, Thomas Cole, and his haughty wife, also in the set, who seemed to be tolerated in genteel company only because of Cole’s position.
James wished again he had been in Cornwall for longer than four months. He would have to enquire of Ameline more about the people here, the Pengarrons in particular, if he wasn’t going to make a greater fool of himself. It was all so bothersome, he had only come down to this backward county from London to arrange the disposal of an inheritance. He had stayed this long, and at a great deal of inconvenience, because he had fallen in love with Ameline Beswetherick and had had to court her and her family. If he could win Ameline, he would hurriedly set the wedding day and hot-foot with her back to London and never set eye on Cornwall again. And now, just when he was hopeful his suit would be accepted, it seemed Sir Oliver Pengarron was making things difficult for him.
‘Are you quite well, Mr Mortreath?’ asked Ameline, when the dance ended. ‘If I may say so, you look most uncomfortable.’
‘I do feel a trifle hot I must confess, Miss Ameline,’ he replied, his face lighting up at her concern. ‘Did you enjoy your dance with Sir Martin?’
‘Yes, thank you, but not with Mr Ralph Harrt, whom I partnered earlier. I believe he dances as he would chase a fox before his hounds. He is not agile on his feet as you are, Mr Mortreath.’
‘How kind of you to say so, Miss Ameline.’ The remark gave James encouragement. ‘May I have the honour of claiming another dance with you before too long this evening?’
‘Indeed you may. I have promised one dance to my brother, Martin, one to my father and one to Mr John Sarrison, although he may soon be danced off his feet in the same way as Mr Alfred. Grandfather has vowed to dance twice with every lady in the room but he looks as if his age and rheumatism will soon have the upper hand of him. Oh, and one dance with Oliver, Sir Oliver that is, but I will save the remainder for you, Mr Mortreath. Have you been introduced to Sir Oliver yet?’
‘Yes, yes… a… a most charming man,’ James blustered.
‘And Lady Pengarron?’
‘Yes, I spoke to her briefly. She seems most charming too.’
‘I’m pleased you’ve accepted her. Some people are beastly about her background, working class, you know, and it does anger me. I believe one should take people as one finds them and she has always been very sweet to me.’
James was relieved he had not made another error about the beautiful Lady Pengarron. He had spoken the truth about finding her charming and would have liked to have asked her to dance, but fear of Sir Oliver’s reaction had stopped him.
Ameline was smiling at him and James felt another surge of confidence. If she had a regard for him and wished to accept his offer of marriage, then even if Sir Oliver was against him it wouldn’t matter.
Ameline’s smile died when she became aware that Captain Hezekiah Solomon was looking straight across the hall at her. Her hand flew to clutch James’s arm. He misread her action and plunged into part of the speech he had prepared for her father.
‘Miss Ameline, I have the intention of asking…’
She was not listening to him. Hezekiah Solomon was rapidly making his way over to them.
‘What… what was that you were saying, Mr Mortreath?’ she said shakily, moving abruptly so her back was towards Hezekiah and giving James her full attention.
‘I was saying that I intend to speak to your father—’
James was rudely interrupted. ‘I am hoping that I may have the pleasure of the next dance with you, Miss Ameline,’ Hezekiah said forcefully over her shoulder.
Hardly turning round, Ameline said coolly, ‘I’m afraid I have promised the next dance to Mr Mortreath. In fact I have none available for the rest of the evening, Captain Solomon.’
She could feel his eyes burning into the side of her face. They flicked to James Mortreath and back to Ameline. ‘As you please, Miss Ameline,’ Hezekiah said tonelessly, then bowed with a characteristic flourish and withdrew.
James looked at her shaken face. ‘Do you not like him, Captain Solomon?’
‘No… he…’ Realising she was still clinging to his arm she pulled her hand away and clenched her fists. ‘The next dance is about to begin, Mr Mortreath. Shall we take the floor?’
‘I’d be delighted.’
James led Ameline to the set forming closest to them. He felt more conspicuous than usual when Hezekiah Solomon took a position next to Sir Oliver and inclined his cologned white head to the baronet’s ear.
Unlike James and Ameline, Kerensa Pengarron was thoroughly enjoying the evening’s celebration. She had forgotten her earlier feelings of foreboding due to the fog, and was unaware of the different effects her presence was having on some of Sir Martin’s guests.