The Bride Sale

Chapter 9

“You want me to do what?”

Verity smiled at what must surely be a look of sheer horror on his face. “I thought it would be nice if you went along with me to deliver Christmas baskets to your tenant farms and the cottages in St. Perran’s.”

James schooled his features into the stern glare he had perfected during his army days. He would have none of this nonsense from her. “You have no need of me for that,” he said in his best Major Lord Harkness voice. “The staff has always taken care of it.”

“Always?”

“Yes, since…since Rowena’s death. She saw to all those sorts of things.”

“And so now you send the servants in her stead?”

“Yes.” He did not trust the direction of this conversation. “What of it?”

Verity lifted an eyebrow. “Do you not think it is a trifle…impersonal?”

“Impersonal?”

“Yes. I would have thought it fitting that one of the family deliver the gifts, and wish all the tenants—your tenants—a happy Christmas in person. I had thought perhaps Mrs. Bodinar might wish to accompany me, but she declined as well.”

James had difficulty suppressing a smile. “You asked Agnes? To visit the cottages in St. Perran’s?”

Verity smiled in return. “Yes.”

“Ha! You are a brave woman, Verity Osborne. I suspect Agnes did not appreciate the invitation.”

“No, I do not believe she did. That is why I am hoping you will come along instead.”

His smile twisted into a frown. “No.”

“It is your largesse we will be delivering, after all.”

“No.”

“It will be much more appreciated coming from you.”

“No.”

“Oh, James. It is Christmas!”

And so it was that James found himself on a frosty Christmas Eve driving out to each of his tenant farms and all the cottages on his land, distributing baskets prepared by Verity and his staff.

Verity ignored the shocked faces and frightened children as she led James from cottage to cottage, as though it were the most normal, everyday occurrence. “Lord Harkness wanted you to have this,” Verity would say, and then press the basket into his hands, forcing him to be the one to bestow it.

It was awkward. It was difficult. James was certain the tenants felt every bit as uncomfortable as he did.

It had not always been so. He had done this with his mother when he was young, and once with Rowena when he’d been home on leave. His wife, however, had always been a trifle condescending when she visited the plain stone cottages and farmhouses. Perhaps aloof better described her manner, for she was not unkind. Verity, on the other hand, knew each family member by name, had a smile and a touch for every child, and a personal word for each adult—more often than not having to do with some ailment or other, as he ought to have expected. She presented her own offerings of clove-studded oranges and prettily tied bags of scented herbs—incongruous luxuries for such simple folk, but effusively appreciated.

It was altogether less hateful a task than James had anticipated. Some of Verity’s goodwill among his people spilled over onto James as well. He was thanked by each family. Uneasily, awkwardly, often reluctantly, but he was thanked in every case. It was the first time in more than six years he’d had a civil word out of most of his people, and it was quite strangely satisfying.

Christmas passed quietly as usual. He had been afraid that Verity, in her obvious efforts to redeem him, would make more of the occasion, attempting to revive some of the old traditions. She did not. She stood by quietly when he went through his usual awkward machinations to have someone else light the great mock. Young Davey Chenhalls was more than pleased to do it again, but asked Verity to help, and the two of them had held the charred faggot from last year to light the fire while James maneuvered to keep his back to them. Verity had then raised a glass of punch with the household, and had sent him a look that told him she understood how difficult the whole ordeal was for him.

She went to church on Christmas morning with Agnes and did not object when James declined to join them. She did not so much as mention any other holiday traditions, though James suspected she had once been accustomed to much more gaiety this time of year. He imagined she had been one to fall into the annual traditions with great enthusiasm. Her natural generosity of spirit would shine during the Christmas season.

Yet she did not attempt to impose any long-lost sentimental custom on this wretched household. She did not ask any more of him this year than the awkward delivery of baskets.

James was relieved, and a little disappointed. He had secretly hoped Verity might have resurrected the kissing bough, though it was probably best that she did not.

Their unlikely friendship settled into a comfortable easiness. Verity never knew, or at least he hoped she never knew, of the deep longing he still felt for her, as he made a deliberate effort to keep his desire in check. More foolishness than simple desire was involved, but James knew there was no point in going down that path. He was determined to keep her virtue, what was left of it, inviolate. That he had ever thought to make her his mistress seemed absurd. The very idea of further eroding that stalwart dignity was unconscionable to him.

She held true to her astonishing offer of friendship, keeping their relationship strictly within the bounds of propriety. Even so, he found himself drawn to her in ways that seemed beyond his control, and in more ways than the merely physical.

It often took him completely by surprise to find himself longing simply to be with her, to be in the same room with her, to find her at his side while they walked or rode over the estate, to speak with her, to be silent with her. Was that, after all, why he had made that offer for her in Gunnisloe? Had it been simple loneliness that had prompted that impulsive bid?

They rode together when weather permitted, and James took her all over the vast stretches of the moor, pointing out stone circles and other ancient monuments to her obvious delight. When the weather kept them indoors, he showed her all about the house—through the oldest parts and the unused wings, explaining the stages of building over the centuries, the history of the family.

Throughout all of their wanderings, they talked, mostly of their childhoods, their families, their friends, of books and poetry and politics. She loved to hear tales of Cornwall and he was happy to oblige. It had been years and years since he had indulged in such easy, untroubled conversation, and he relished every moment.

He knew she wanted to talk about Spain; he wanted to talk about her nonmarriage. Neither forbidden subject was broached.

Verity strayed close to the prohibited topic only once. They had ridden to the High Tor one chilly but clear morning, left the horses at the bottom, and hiked to the top. They sat perched on a fallen boulder and enjoyed the view until an icy wind made it too cold to remain outdoors. Verity had laughed and gamboled down the hill like a girl, and James had been thoroughly charmed at the sight.

She had slowed her pace when she reached a particularly craggy spot, and James took her gloved hand to help guide her down the rocky hillside. Though there was nothing improper about taking her hand in this way, he could not deny the almost electrical warmth that seeped through the leather of their gloves. A look passed between them and he knew she felt it, too.

Verity had not let go when he had led them onto smoother ground, but had pulled him down the slope, laughing all the way. When they reached the horses, they’d both been panting, their breath creating white puffs in the air. Her smile was brilliant and she looked positively irresistible. James had been hard pressed not to take her in his arms and kiss her breathless. That bloody promise of his was becoming excruciatingly difficult to keep.

“Don’t you simply love this time of year?” she said. “With the air so clear it crackles and so cold it makes your skin prickle?”

“No, actually,” James said, “I have always hated winter.” Until today, he thought.

She sobered and let go of his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Captain Poldrennan told me about—”

She gave a tiny gasp and brought a hand to her mouth, clearly aware she was skirting forbidden territory. But he was feeling particularly in charity with her, though he would have liked to keep hold of her hand, and decided to allow her this one small lapse. “What did he tell you?” he asked.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh!” She stared at him a moment, obviously rattled, studying him to determine if he really meant her to go on. He gave a slight nod of encouragement, and she took a deep breath and continued. “Well,” she said, “he told me about that awful winter in Spain, about the frozen ground, about the trenches, about…about everything.”

“Yes, it was quite miserable,” he said, then gave in to his impulses and kissed her briefly on the mouth. “Now, let’s get back to the house before it becomes as miserable here.”

She smiled and his heart flip-flopped in his chest. She had not objected to his kiss. For a moment, he considered taking her into his arms and doing the thing properly but decided, reluctantly, against it. He did not wish to spoil what was between them. Perhaps she would consider the kiss no more than a chaste salute between friends. He would leave it at that, for now.

They mounted their horses and raced back to Pendurgan in perfect amity. When they reached the house and had discarded their cloaks and hats, he had followed as she bounded cheerfully into the drawing room in search of warmth.

They had found Agnes instead.

Garbed in her usual black—her constant reminder to him that Rowena and Trystan were gone—Agnes had looked up from her needlework with a glare so cold and vicious it stopped them both in their tracks. She laid aside her embroidery, stood, and swept past them without a word.

James was accustomed to Agnes’s fits of pique, but he could sense Verity’s dismay. “Come,” he said. “Let us try to get warm. I will ring for something hot to drink.”

Mrs. Tregelly arrived almost at once. James went about ordering tea and biscuits, and when he turned, he found that Verity had moved two chairs near the fire—one, as always, turned away from the hearth. She was already seated in the other.

“Thank you,” James said. “You are most indulgent of my…my problem.” Now he had skirted the forbidden topic. He must be getting soft. He waited to see if Verity would ignore the issue and pretend he hadn’t spoken of it.

She did not.

“Has it…has it happened again?” she asked. “Since that night?”

“No.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “Does it…does it happen often?”

He ought to put a stop to this conversation, but he was weary of the battle. He decided to allow her a gentle probe. “Not so often as the years go by,” he replied. “But I never know when to expect it. At least my dreams are less disturbed, thanks to you. Perhaps the blackouts will continue to decrease over time, as well.”

Verity reached across from her chair and rested a hand briefly on his sleeve. “I pray they will go away forever,” she said.

Mrs. Tregelly arrived with the tea, and their conversation became more general.

James grew used to having Verity around—to seeing her across the dining table, to hearing her laughter with young Davey in the kitchen garden, to catching a whiff of her familiar lavender fragrance as he entered a room, to awaiting her appearance in the library each evening when she delivered her tranquilizing drink. He began to forget how bleak his life had been before her arrival.

January heralded a wet winter. There had been a brief snow flurry just after Christmas, but no more since. The temperature remained brisk and rain fell nearly every afternoon.

The most pressing matter for Verity, though, had been resolved. She was not with child.

When James had mentioned the possibility it had shocked her to the core. She had not even considered it. The very notion that she might be able to bear a child, like any other ordinary woman, was almost too wonderful to comprehend.

She had lied about her knowledge of herbs in that area. That afternoon, she had pored over the herbals to find what information she could. It had not been heartening. Where on earth was she supposed to find pomegranate seeds?

In the end, it had not been necessary. It was a good thing, for how could she possibly have explained a child? Even so, she had cried for the lost hope when she learned there would not be one.

Verity took advantage of each clear morning either to ride with James or to visit the women of St. Perran’s. She began taking Titania into the village after once getting caught on foot in a sudden downpour and having to slog through the mud uphill to Pendurgan. On Titania, she could also venture farther afield.

It was in late January, as she returned from the Penneck homestead, the largest and most distant tenant holding on the Pendurgan estate, when she saw Rufus Bargwanath. It unsettled Verity to see good-natured Mark Penneck leaning on a fence post chatting with that horrid man. She spurred Titania into the opposite direction, every instinct warning her that he was trouble.

She never had told James of what she’d overheard the day Bargwanath was dismissed. That would only remind her that James’s action on her behalf had been a defining moment, the precise moment when she realized she was undeniably and completely in love with him. She was careful to keep such foolish emotions to herself.

The path away from the Penneck farm took her southwest, into an area unfamiliar to her. Verity tried to keep the rabbit-eared tower of St. Perran’s Church in sight so she would not get lost, but after a few twists in the path, it suddenly disappeared from view and Verity found herself thoroughly disoriented.

She slowed Titania to study her surroundings when she heard an approaching horse. Captain Poldrennan soon rode into sight.

“Mrs. Osborne!” He reined in his mount and removed his hat with a flourish. “What a surprise to find you on this path. Were you by chance coming to visit Bosreath?”

Verity looked around in confusion. “Oh, is Bosreath in this direction? I did not know.”

The captain smiled. “Are you lost, Mrs. Osborne?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve lost track of St. Perran’s Church, my point of reference. Or perhaps I’ve been piskey-led at last.”

Captain Poldrennan threw back his head and laughed. When he faced her again, a lock of fair hair fell over his brow and he reached up to flick it into place. “So,” he said, still grinning, “you’ve been warned of the little folk, have you? Here, follow me. I’ll guide you back to St. Perran’s.”

He turned his horse and led her down a trail Verity had not even noticed. Within minutes, the church tower was once again in sight.

“Were you on your way to the village?” the captain asked.

“Not by design,” she replied. “I intended to return to Pendurgan. I do not like the look of those clouds. I’ve just come from the Penneck farm.”

“The Penneck farm? In this direction?” He laughed again. “Good heavens, you certainly were lost.”

“It’s just that…I saw someone I did not wish to meet.” Verity kept her eyes on the path ahead and wondered why the former steward had been hanging about Pendurgan. All sorts of implications came to mind and she did not like any of them.

The captain’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you mind if I ask who you were trying to avoid? I realize it is none of my business and you need not tell me if you’d rather not. But if someone has been bothering you…”

“It was Rufus Bargwanath.”

Verity slanted a glance in his direction and saw a frown crease his brow. “Bargwanath?”

“Yes,” she said. “I thought he had left the area after James let him go. He was a very unpleasant man.”

“So I thought as well,” he said, still frowning. “Always wondered why James kept him on. Has he replaced him yet?”

“No, not yet,” Verity said. “He’s doing all the work himself. He was busy enough with the mine, what with all this rain and the extra strain on the pumps. Now he’s working doubly hard, poor man.”

Captain Poldennan fell into silence and Verity looked over at him to find him gazing at her with a curious look in his gray eyes. She raised her brows in question and he smiled.

“You seem to have settled in quite comfortably at Pendurgan,” he said.

Verity felt the heat of a blush color her cheeks, as though his words hid a deeper meaning. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose so.”

They rode on for several minutes, negotiating the twists and bends in the path, before Verity spoke again. “Why do you suppose Mr. Bargwanath is still about?” she asked.

“Does he worry you?”

She chose her words carefully. “He made some rather…unpleasant insinuations about me.”

“Ah.”

“I would not like to think he is spreading ugly rumors.”

“I do not think you need worry,” the captain said. “Bargwanath is a malcontent looking to stir up trouble. But James will be the target of his venom, not you.”

That’s as may be, she thought, but what is to stop him from attacking James through implications of an improper relationship with me?

“I can think of no one in the district who would be willing to hire the man,” the captain continued. “He is known to be an unsavory character. Most folks would be glad to see the last of him. He will be on his way soon enough, looking for work where he is not so well-known.”

“I hope you are right, Captain.”

He rode ahead where the path narrowed, and waited for her to pull up beside him when they reached the lane to St. Perran’s.

“There’s the village,” he said. “I defy any malicious piskey to make you lose your way with the church looming just ahead. They wouldn’t dare.”

Verity smiled at his teasing words. If her heart was not already engaged, she might be tempted to develop a fancy for the handsome captain. He was so different from his dour friend.

“Captain,” she said, “may I ask you something?”

He grinned. “Let me guess. More questions about James?”

“In a way. You see, I am determined to help repair his reputation.”

He whistled through his teeth and frowned at her.

“It is not fair,” she said, her voice rising in dismay, “that everyone should think him so cruel for something not his fault. It is not fair!”

One look from Captain Poldrennan and Verity realized how horribly petulant she must sound. Another embarrassed blush warmed her cheeks and she shyly looked away.

“I know how you must feel,” the captain said. “And how badly you want things to be different. But so much damage has already been done…”

“I know that,” Verity said. “And maybe there’s really nothing I can do to clear his name. But I have to try.”

Their horses grew restless as they stood in the path and Captain Poldrennan reached down to stroke the long neck of his mare. His eyes never left Verity’s. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said at last.

“I was hoping you might be able to help in some way.” She went on quickly, before he could object. “You are known to be James’s friend, and yet your reputation seems to have suffered no ill by association. I thought perhaps among your other acquaintances you could…” She never finished the thought for she really had no clear idea what the captain could do.

“Mrs. Osborne,” he said, “it is not the gentry you need to reach. They are less willing to paint one of their own so black—or at least more willing to forgive. Or ignore. Whatever the reasons, James would have no difficulty mixing in society if he wished. But he does not wish, or so I believe. He has remained isolated up on that hill for so long that few outside the nearest vicinity know anything of him.”

Verity clucked her tongue in exasperation.

“The way to clear his name is through those who live and work on his own land. It is the miners and farmers you must reach. They are simple folk, some of them very superstitious. Theirs will be the most difficult minds to sway.”

“I thought as much,” Verity said. “It is what I hoped to do.”

She told him about the Christmas baskets and smiled at his look of amazement. “I believe they were as surprised as you appear to be. As you might imagine, none of them offered much of a warm welcome. He wore his usual tight-lipped scowl, after all. Some of them looked positively terrified. But they behaved politely, and all expressed their gratitude, however reluctantly. Even so, it was a difficult ordeal for James.”

“I do not doubt it,” he said. “It cannot be pleasant for him to look upon the faces of men and women who purport to hate him, though, God knows, he must be used to it after all these years.”

Captain Poldrennan shook his head. “Poor old James,” he said, “has taken on the legendary evil of one of our giants or demons. Or like Tregeagle, who sold his soul to the devil.”

He edged his horse slowly forward and Verity did the same with Titania. She was anxious to keep moving; if she read the weather correctly it would be raining very shortly.

“It did not help matters,” the captain continued, “that one of their own, the Clegg boy, was also killed in the Pendurgan fire. Tales of James’s wickedness have grown with years of exaggeration and outright fabrication, but the general belief in his cruelty has held firm. We Cornish, you know, are loath to let go of long-established dogma, especially where evil is concerned. We need our bogeymen to keep the children in line.”

Despite the flippancy of his words, a note of despondency colored his voice. Verity leaned slightly in the saddle, tightening her knee on the horn, and reached out to touch the captain’s arm. “I am glad he has you for a friend,” she said.

He covered her hand briefly before she withdrew it. “I believe he has a friend in you as well, does he not?”

“Yes, he does.”

The captain smiled. “You care for him, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, though she would never reveal the depth of her caring. To admit to friendship was enough. “And I do not believe he is evil,” she continued. “I have seen what the sight of fire can do to him.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I have.” She would not elaborate. There were certain details that ought to remain private, even among friends. “He is ill, not evil. He deserves compassion and understanding, not hatred.”

The captain’s smile broadened and a distinct twinkle brightened his gray eyes. “My dear Mrs. Osborne, it was a fortunate day that brought you to Pendurgan. Perhaps old James will have another chance at happiness, after all.”

Her cheeks flushed again. They were almost through the village and the clouds had darkened to the shade of gun metal. There was little time to obtain the advice she needed, so she pressed on, blushes or no.

“How do I reach the local people?” she asked. “How do I help him?”

“Start with the one they trust most,” he said without hesitation.

“Old Grannie Pascow.”

“Convince her and the others will follow soon enough.”

Throughout the wet days of February, Verity took every opportunity to ride into St. Perran’s. She sat at Grannie’s hearth, chatting and drinking tea with the other women of the district who gathered there. Verity made a point to bring her own tea, since she knew it was very dear, and because most often Grannie’s tea leaves were used over and over, so that they may as well have been drinking hot water.

Sometimes Verity brought an herbal mix she’d made up herself. Though some blends were more successful than others, Grannie and the other women always appreciated the offering. Once she brought a good, strong Darjeeling from Mrs. Chenhall’s pantry. She had asked James’s permission to raid the larder, claiming she did not wish to put a strain an Old Grannie’s meager resources, and he had not objected.

“His lordship sends along the tea, with his compliments,” she announced when she handed Kate Pascow the fine India blend.

Kate’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did he, now?” she asked, one skeptical brow arched expressively.

“Don’t ’ee go mockin’ Miz Verity,” Grannie said in a stern voice. “She be not the type to come round tellin’ tales. Recollect, she did bring Jammez on Christmas.”

“How could I forget?” Kate said. “Like to’ve caused me an apoplexy, he did.”

“He come to our farmhouse, too,” Borra Nanpean volunteered in her soft, shy voice. “I thought it ’twere right kind o’ him to come wid ’ee, Miz Verity. He never done that afore.”

“He be doing a lot o’ things he never done afore,” Grannie said.

“’Tis so,” Hildy Spruggins said. “I do hear tell that he be helpin’ with the lambin’ this year. And Nat’s brother Joe seen him plowin’ up the north field, steering them big ol’ oxen all by hisself.”

“That is because he has no steward right now,” Verity said. “Even so, you surely cannot believe he is above a bit of hard work? He cares for his land. And his mine. And all of you, as well. He always has.”

Kate gave Verity a sidelong glance as she poured boiling water into Grannie’s old brown teapot. “I do think the lady be sweet on Lord Heartless.”

That set all the women to laughing, and Verity knew she must be blushing to the roots of her hair.

Grannie did not laugh. A frown deepened the creases between her brows as she glared at Verity in a most uncomfortable manner. Hers was not going to be an easy mind to change.

Verity let the conversation veer into other directions. She did not want to be any more obvious than necessary in her attempt to sway opinion. On subsequent visits, she simply continued to drop hints of James’s hard work and sense of responsibility when the conversation allowed it. The rest of the time she went about maintaining her own credibility with the women. If she won and held on to their trust, perhaps they would more easily accept her views on James.

Strange as it seemed, this very small, very insulated community had in four short months accepted her, a “foreigner,” into its bosom. Verity prayed for the soul of Edith Littleton each night, for if that fine lady had not been so willing to share her knowledge of herbs, Verity might not have found it so easy to be accepted here in Cornwall. Her remedies had helped many of the local families through bouts of winter colds, fever, and sore throats. Most popular of all, though, had been her Christmas pomanders and potpourris.

“We been gettin’ a Christmas basket from Pendurgan long as I can remember,” Tamson Penneck said. “But they always be filled with food—smoked meats and jams and pies and cider and other things to help us through the winter. It all be most welcome, to be sure. But it were a real pleasure to get somethin’ that just be pretty to look at or nice to smell—a bit of extravagance, like. It made Christmas right special for me, I can tell ’ee.”

So Verity’s small effort at thoughtfulness had paid off. She now appeared to be accepted in a sort of lady-of-the-manor role. Despite her local heritage, Agnes Bodinar was not looked upon with any degree of affection. In fact, Verity got the impression she was actively disliked throughout the district.

Verity enjoyed sitting around Grannie’s hearth with all the other local women. She had never been one to covet solitude, and it was sometimes very lonely for her at Pendurgan with only the waspish Anges for company while James was busy about the estate and the mines.

Agnes had grown particularly irritable lately; clearly she disapproved of the new amity between Verity and James. She had not seemed to mind nearly so much when she believed Verity to be James’s mistress. Any real affection between them, though, would be seen as a threat to Rowena’s memory.

Verity often wished she could make Agnes understand that there was no possibility of her usurping the role of Lady Harkness. But Agnes, when approached, refused to speak of the matter. More often than not lately, she refused to speak at all. She could be found silently perched on the edge of a chair, like a black crow in her worn and faded mourning clothes—stiff-backed, silent, grim, disdainful.

From the start, Verity had suspected Agnes was slightly unbalanced. She became more convinced of it as the winter wore on and the older woman’s hostility grew more pronounced.

One cold evening in mid-February when she delivered her nightly infusion to James in the library, Verity approached him about another favor for the villagers. She asked if there was firewood or coal to spare for the cold stone cottages in St. Perran’s.

“You are taking a great interest in the local families,” he said, eyeing her speculatively.

“I do spend a lot of time with them, you know,” Verity said. “I have nothing to do up here and there is no company, save for Mrs. Bodinar. I enjoy chatting with the local women. I only notice that they seldom have firewood and burn peat most of the time.”

“They need only ask.”

“But they won’t, as you well know.”

“Yes,” he said, “I do well know. So they have asked you to intercede on their behalf?”

“Certainly not,” she said. “It is my idea, not theirs. The peat fumes sting my eyes, so it is for very selfish reasons that I ask for firewood.”

He cast her a knowing look and the half smile that still had the power to make her weak in the knees, no matter how hard she fought it. “I doubt that very much,” he said. “But it shall be as you ask. I shall have Tomas load up a cart and distribute the wood.”

For a moment, she was lost in the blue depths of his eyes, hardly hearing his words. When she was finally able to respond, her voice sounded too husky. “You are most kind, my lord.”

He held her gaze for a long moment and she wondered if he, too, was thinking of that kiss on the moor. Or those kisses in the library before he’d…taken her. “I am nothing of the sort,” he said at last. “I am simply helpless against any entreaty of yours, as I am sure you have discovered. I have not forgotten about Christmas. You fight hard when you want something, do you not? The villagers shall have their wood.”

When she next visited Grannie Pascow’s cottage, the sweet scent of woodsmoke filled the room. “I ’spect we do have ’ee to thank fer this, too?” Kate Pascow asked.

“Oh, no,” Verity said as she seated herself beside Dorcas Muddle and reached out to stroke the soft cheek of her infant son. “You must thank his lordship. He wanted to put the Pendurgan surplus to good use. It was his idea, I assure you.”

“Hmph.” Kate’s scornful snort was echoed in the faces of the other women.

Grannie kept a scowl firmly planted on her face, as she did whenever James was mentioned. Something about that recalcitrant look, after yet another generous offering from James, caused Verity to snap. She sprang to her feet.

“What is wrong with all of you?” Her voice rose almost to a shout, and she looked straight into the eyes of each of them, one after the other—Grannie, Kate Pascow, Ewa Dunstan, Hildy Spruggins, Lizzy Trethowan, Dorcas Muddle. “Why must you always think the worst of Lord Harkness?”

“For good reason,” Ewa Dunstan said, “after what he done.”

Verity fixed Ewa with a hard stare. “And what do you know of anything he may or may not have done? Except to give your husband a good job at Wheal Devoran. Or to keep your cottage in good repair. Or to look the other way, Hildy, while your Nat poaches game from his lordship’s land. Or to allow your rents to go into arrears when the crops are bad—yes, Lizzy, I know about that, too.”

She had spun to face each woman she addressed, pounding the air with her fist. The women looked at her as though she’d gone mad. “I ask you again, what do you know of what he may have done? What?”

After a long moment, Kate Pascow cleared her throat. “We done told ’ee,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Old Nick Tresco, him what used to be steward at Pendurgan, he told us.”

“Yes, I recall what you said about Nick Tresco,” Verity said, facing Kate with hands on her hips. “But he did not see James start the fire, did he? He did not see him toss the two boys and then his own wife into the fire, did he? No, he only saw him standing there, watching. Standing there!” Exhausted by her unexpected outburst, Verity sank back into her chair. The six women eyed her skeptically. She took a few breaths to compose herself, then continued in a softer voice.

“Just standing there,” she repeated. “Did it never occur to any of you how strange that was? Even if he had started the fire deliberately, when a witness came on the scene would he not have pretended to help, to deflect suspicion from himself? Grannie, you have known James since he was a boy, have you not?”

Grannie’s small, dark eyes narrowed. “Aye,” she finally said, “I done knowed him since he were borned. Everybody here,” she said with a sweep of her hand, “done knowed him all their lives.”

“And was he a vicious, evil little boy?” Verity asked.

Grannie lifted her chin a notch. “No, he weren’t.”

“What was he like, then?”

Grannie’s posture relaxed a bit. She took a swallow of tea before answering. “He were just a normal little boy. Full of life. Him and Alan Poldrennan, they done be thick as thieves, always up to some mischief, but nothin’ vicious, like. Just good-natured devilment. He were a nice young feller, too, as he growed up. Heard tell he did butt heads with old Lord Harkness often, though. That be why he left for the army, or so it were told.”

“And it wasn’t until he returned from Spain,” Verity said, “that he changed into…something else?”

“Aye, he did come home mean and spiteful as the devil,” Grannie said. “It were a sad thing to see what did become of him, how bad he turned out.”

The other women nodded and mumbled agreement. Verity reined in her anger.

“He did not turn out so badly,” she said, trying with great difficulty to keep her voice even. “You have all forgot about the lively young boy you once knew and created a monster out of him. Did it never occur to any of you that he might have suffered greatly in the war?” She had to be careful here. She wanted their understanding, but she could not reveal all she knew without betraying James in a way he would never forgive.

“Did any of you consider that he might have been wounded in ways you could never understand?” she went on. “And is it not possible he has been made to feel like a criminal for something he did not do?”

Once again, it was Kate who finally spoke into the awkward silence that followed Verity’s words. “I do think, Miz Verity, that the man done bewitched you.”

“Hush, Kate!” Grannie’s stern voice brought a flush to Kate’s cheeks. “Let Verity Osborne have her say,” the old woman continued. “Now, what is it ’ee be tryin’ to tell us?”

Verity managed a wan smile and spoke directly to Grannie. “You say he was a normal little boy and a decent young man. In your heart, do you really believe the boy you knew could have killed the woman he loved and their child, and the Clegg boy as well?”

Verity watched Grannie’s face as she considered a response. The old woman set her mouth in a grim line while a knobby finger tapped against her lips. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the wood fire and the occasional gurgle from Dorcas Muddle’s baby.

When at last she was ready to speak, Grannie Pascow leaned over to place her cup of tea on an old stool. She sat up straight, placed her plump forearms squarely along the chair arms, and faced Verity with a direct, piercing gaze.

“Old Nick Tresco done be the only witness to that fire,” she said. “He told his tale and left Pendurgan, along with half the servants. Jago and Athwenna Chenhalls, them an’ their family do know their place and don’t never go tellin’ tales of goin’s on up to the big house. And Mary Tregelly, she do be loyal to the grave. So we only did have Old Nick’s word for what did happen there.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she seemed to weigh her thoughts. When she finally spoke again, she leaned forward, one hand fisted on the edge of the chair arm. “I tell ’ee true,” she said, and looked hard at each of the other women, as though daring them to challenge her, “that I never did believe it at first. Not at first.” She fixed her gaze on Verity. “But then Jammez, he did act like he done it. He never did seem to be sorry. Just got meaner and meaner. He did act like he done murder, so he were treated like he done murder. He ain’t never denied it, all these years.”

Verity collapsed back against the chair like a deflated balloon. Relief so overwhelmed her that she felt the sting of tears building up behind her eyes. Success was within her grasp, for Grannie Pascow had once doubted James’s guilt.

She took a few ragged breaths, determined not to cry and give any credence to Kate’s suspicions about her motives. “Just because James never denied it,” she said in a voice more tremulous than she would have liked, “does not mean he did it. You say he got meaner. Have you considered perhaps his fearsome manner was simply a way of masking his pain? I tell you all that I know—I know—what happened that day of the fire. I cannot reveal what I know. But I will tell you that he is not to blame. He could not have saved those boys, or Rowena. It was impossible.”

“How impossible?” Kate asked, her voice scornful. “He were there. Right there!”

“I cannot tell you more,” Verity said. “Only that it was impossible for him to act. He could not save them, and that fact has tortured him for almost seven years.”

“But—”

“I do think I understand,” Grannie said, interrupting Kate with a raised hand. “I think ’ee be sayin’ that somethin’ happened to Jammez in the war. Somethin’ more than a bullet in the leg.”

So they knew of his leg injury, but not how it had actually happened. “Yes, something did happen, but I can say no more. Just remember the boy you knew, and consider how he could possibly have become the monster you created, the monster he allowed you to create.”

“He were always a proud one,” Grannie said. “Not likely he’d let on to some…some weakness. I take yer point, girl.” The old woman gave her a look that made Verity feel as though she could see straight into her heart. A blush heated her cheeks and she dropped her gaze before the old woman could see more than she ought.

“My, my,” Grannie said. “Jammez done found him a fine champion in ’ee, Verity Osborne.”