The Bride Sale

Chapter 10

At Alan Poldrennan’s request, James had ridden out with Verity to Bosreath. “She must be bored silly at Pendurgan,” he said. “I’m sure Mother will be pleased to have the two of you for tea.”

The day had been arranged and the weather had cooperated. They saw Alan awaiting them at the entrance of the modern brick house. Growing up in a place as old as Pendurgan, James considered any house only a few hundred years old as modern. Bosreath had been built something less than one hundred years ago, during the reign of George I. Its lines were clean, compact, and symmetrical—about as different as it could be from the sprawling granite mass of Pendurgan.

“My goodness,” Verity said as they ambled down the granite drive. “It looks like home.”

“Home?”

“My father’s house in Lincolnshire had a very similar look—red brick, rows of white paned windows, a pillared porch topped with a simple pediment. How lovely.” A note of melancholy colored her voice and a wistful smile tugged at her lips.

“It makes you homesick,” James said.

Her smile broadened when she turned toward him. “A little,” she said. “But our brick house was set in lush green wolds. Beyond Bosreath’s manicured lawn are the same rocky moors we see from Pendurgan. It is not at all like Lincolnshire.”

Her words brought a frown to his face and she hurried to add, “I did not say Pendurgan, and Cornwall, are not as lovely as Lincolnshire. They are so. But also very different. If you will not tell the captain I said so,” she added in a conspiratorial tone, “I will confess to you that Pendurgan suits its setting far better than does Bosreath. Pendurgan seems to have sprung up straight out of the ground beneath it. Bosreath, charming as it is, looks as though it had been carried from some other place and dropped here.”

James smiled at the image of some great bird dropping the house on the moor as it flew past. Or perhaps Cormoran or one of the other legendary giants. The notion tickled him so that he was actually smiling when they reached the entrance.

Alan called out, “Good afternoon!” as they reined their mounts to a halt. He reached up and placed his hands on Verity’s waist to lift her from the sidesaddle. Was it James’s imagination, or did Alan’s hands linger a trifle longer than was absolutely necessary?

Perhaps James was overly sensitive because of how very beautiful Verity looked today. He had been aware of it from the moment they left Pendurgan. She wore the same outdated green habit and black beaver hat with its faded short green plume that she always wore when they rode, yet there was a new sort of glow about her, in her eyes and in her voice, that unnerved him.

Had she taken extra pains with her appearance for the visit to Bosreath? Did the green velvet hug her curves more tightly than usual? Did she have to smile so brilliantly for Alan? Did Alan have to be so effusive in his welcome?

His good mood shattered, James dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting groom. By the time he climbed the porch steps, Alan had Verity’s hand tucked firmly in the crook of his arm, leading her into the entry hall.

They were met in the modest drawing room by Alan’s mother. The tiny birdlike woman fluttered across the room to meet Verity, chirping a string of nonstop greetings and inanities. “How lovely. So good of you to come. Isn’t this nice? At last we meet. Won’t you sit down? Such a lovely shade of green. So pleased to meet you. How kind of you to call.”

Mrs. Poldrennan’s fidgety movements matched her nervous chatter, her hands and fingers constantly in motion. James hoped Verity was not put off by her manner, thinking she somehow made the woman uncomfortable. Alan’s mother had been nervous and jittery ever since he’d known her. She was like a high-strung terrier nipping at your heels whenever you entered the house. James thought her a trial, but Alan always laughed and used his gentle persuasions to quiet her, or to politely dismiss her when he and James preferred to dine alone.

Verity handled Alan’s mother remarkably well. Her calm patience seemed to soothe the woman somewhat. She even tactfully offered to pour when Mrs. Poldrennan’s shaky hands had sloshed tea over the rim of the first cup poured. “For you must have worked all day,” Verity said, “to keep this lovely house in such good order. Allow me to relieve you of at least this one small task.”

Mrs. Poldrennan was delighted to do so, and embarked on a monologue of how easily exhausted she was these days, how quickly she became winded, how her bones were affected by the cold, and on and on. Verity appeared quickly to have determined that the woman enjoyed complaining. She never once offered one of her herbal remedies as solace, but only nodded and smiled sympathetically.

Still irritated by Alan’s marked attentions to Verity, and equally piqued by the way she positively basked in those attentions, James sat silent and sullen throughout the brief meal. Alan steered the conversation away from his mother’s complaints to more general topics and Verity drew in Mrs. Poldrennan as often as possible. She tried to draw in James as well, but accepted his rebuffs with an indulgent smile.

After three-quarters of an hour had elapsed, Alan suggested a walk through his small garden. The day was clear and sunny, so they all agreed to the plan. Alan was able to dissuade his mother from joining them, warning she might take a chill and that she really ought to lie down and rest. Mrs. Poldrennan agreed without argument, though she fussed over the rest of them, especially Verity, to make sure they were wrapped up warm enough to venture outside. She dashed upstairs and returned with a stack of woolen scarves, insisting each of them take one. She gave Verity two, and helped her to wrap them about her neck and shoulders.

“You must forgive my mother,” Alan said once they had left the house. “She tends to dither and fuss, but she means well.”

“I found her quite charming,” Verity said.

Alan looked at James and winked. “A born diplomat,” he said.

When Alan indicated the path to the garden, to James’s utter astonishment Verity moved to his side and took his arm. All of a sudden, the day grew warmer, the sun shone brighter, and James’s black mood melted away. He bent his head to look at her, and she gave him a smile that sent a bolt of heat coursing through his veins like a shot of whiskey.

A flicker of surprise lit Alan’s eyes for the briefest moment. Then he moved to Verity’s other side and offered his arm. “You shall have a double escort,” he said, “as we wander through my vast and spectacular garden.”

James felt not a twinge of jealousy that Alan held her other hand on his arm. She had approached James first, after all, and he felt ridiculously cocky for it. Her only motive might have been simply to reassure him she had no designs on Alan. It did not matter. He had been so circumspect in his behavior, had so seldom allowed himself to touch her in any untoward manner, that he relished the soft pressure of her gloved fingers on his sleeve. He reached over and covered her hand with his.

The garden was small and not terribly impressive in its sparse winter foliage, though a few early primroses bloomed brightly. They circled its perimeter three times before Alan suggested they be seated on two facing stone benches on either side of the path. Verity released Alan first, so that it was a simple matter for James to draw her down beside him on one of the benches.

James’s mood had brightened considerably during their walk. They had all talked and laughed—yes, even he had laughed—about every subject that came to mind. It was one of the few completely contented days he’d experienced in many years: comfortable, unguarded, frivolous conversation with the only two people in the world he could call friend.

When the subject of some activity or other in the village came up, it triggered a memory. “Speaking of St. Perran’s,” James said, “the damnedest thing happened yesterday.”

Verity’s head bobbed up like a cork. “Oh?”

He eyed her quizzically. “Yes. I had been out in the fields with Mark Penneck and rode back through the village. Old Grannie Pascow stood leaning out her half door and waved me over. Said she wanted to thank me for the firewood, and to tell me how the family had enjoyed the Christmas ham. Later, as I reached the end of the lane, Ewa Dunstan called at me. When I pulled up, she stood there in the lane and thanked me, too, for the firewood, and told me how grateful she and Jacob were to have had the roof leak repaired.”

Verity chewed on her lower lip and looked away. Alan raised his brows in question. “What is so strange about that?” he asked.

“Alan! These are the same women who gather their children, close the doors, and draw the curtains every time I pass by. Now suddenly they are anxious to express their gratitude to me. Old Grannie never speaks to me but to chide and berate, or to hiss some epithet at me. Ewa Dunstan hasn’t spoken more than three words to me in all her life, and more often than not makes a surreptitious sign of the devil when she sees me. Yesterday she still found it difficult to look me in the eye, but she seemed compelled to speak to me. I cannot imagine what has got into them. Can you?”

They both looked at Verity. When she lifted her head, her eyes were overly bright and her lips, though smiling, trembled slightly. “Is it not wonderful?”

James knew in that moment that what he had suspected was true. Verity had been the instrument of the changes he sensed in the village. Her influence had begun to break down barriers he thought could never be breached. If Alan had not been there, James might have been tempted to enfold her in his arms and never let go. What spark of goodness in his wretched life had earned him the right to such a sweet advocate?

Verity walked into St. Perran’s the next day, for there was no threat of rain. As she ambled down the lane toward the village she savored memories of yesterday, of the ride to Bosreath, of the walk through the garden, of James’s warm hand covering hers on his arm.

It had been the first physical sign of affection she had received from him since that brief kiss on the moor. All throughout the evening and again today she had cherished the remembrance of the sheer pleasure of his touch. If this was all she ever had from him, it would surely be enough.

Verity walked to Grannie’s door. The upper half was open as though it were a warm, summer day. Kate saw her and waved her in.

Grannie’s parlor, as she liked to call it, was uncharacteristically empty of visitors. Kate and Grannie had moved a long table near the hearth and were busy making what appeared to be pancakes in a black iron skillet balanced on a tall trivet over the fire. Dozens of the thin cakes were stacked on a pewter plate at one end of the table. Verity stood in the doorway, uncertain if she should intrude.

“Come in, come in,” Grannie said, waving her inside with a spoon. “We do be about done. Kate can finish up.” She wiped her floury hands on her apron and sank down on a bench that had been pulled up next to the table. She indicated Verity should join her. “Re’m fay, I do be worn to death. I be glad you come, Verity Osborne. It do give me an excuse to rest my weary bones.”

“Is there something I can do to help?” Verity asked.

“Thank ’ee, no, Miz Verity,” Kate Pascow said. “It only do need a bit o’ jam to finish up, then we be done.”

“They look delicious,” Verity said as she watched Kate drop a spoonful of jam in the center of each pancake, roll it up, and sprinkle it with sugar.

“Aye, and they’ll be gone soon enough,” Grannie said.

“Oh, I am intruding,” Verity said, and rose to leave. “You are planning some sort of family celebration. You must forgive me for getting in your way.”

“Sit yerself down, Verity Osborne,” Grannie said. “’Tedn’t no celebration. Only the nicky-nan boys.”

“The what?”

Kate laughed at Verity’s confusion. “Don’t s’pose they do have nicky-nan boys up-country, eh?”

“Not that I know of.”

Grannie added her laughter to Kate’s, her plump form shaking with mirth. Verity grinned at both women.

“Poor ign’rant foreigner,” Kate said, smiling broadly. “Best ’ee should tell her, Grannie, afore she do make a fool o’ herself.”

Grannie wiped her eyes with the back of a hand, and leaned slightly forward on the bench, hands on her knees. “It be Shrove Tuesday today,” the old woman began.

“Ah. So it is,” Verity said. “I’d forgot.”

“Every rascally boy in the district do come on Shrove Tuesday, callin’ theirselves the nicky-nan boys, threatenin’ mischief if ’ee doesn’t give ’em pancakes.”

“Aha. No wonder you’ve been working so hard,” Verity said. “I suppose that’s where all the other women are. At home making pancakes?”

“Aye,” Kate said. “Else no tellin’ what them boys’ll do.”

“Goodness, I hope Mrs. Chenhalls has made up a batch, too.”

Kate’s busy hands froze and she shot Grannie a sharp look. The old woman shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Ain’t no nicky-nan boys goin’ up to Pendurgan, Verity Osborne.”

“Oh, of course,” Verity said. “I ought to have known. But do you think—”

“Ea! Ea! Ea!”

Verity almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the strange, high-pitched cries.

“Ea! Ea! Ea!”

“Here they be,” Kate said. She placed the last of the filled cakes on the plate and brushed the sugar off her hands. Grannie rose and leaned out the door, glaring at the large gathering of boys outside. There must have been thirty or more of them, all ages and sizes.

“What do ’ee pesky wags want, eh?” Grannie said.

To Verity’s delight, the boys began to chant a rhyme.

Nick, nicky, nan,

Nick, nicky, nan,

Give me some pancake and then I’ll be gone.

But if ’ee give me none, I’ll throw a great stone

And down, down, down your door shall come!

Nick, nicky, nan.

“Take the pancakes, then, if ’twill keep us safe o’ yer mischief,” Grannie said. She opened the bottom half of the door and stepped just outside. She held the plate high amid the pushing and shoving and shrieking and giggling, and made sure every boy had his share. In little more than the blink of an eye, the plate was empty.

The rowdy group quickly dispersed, calling out thanks around mouthfuls of pancake. A tiny red-haired figure who’d been hidden in the crowd stepped forward and grinned impishly, red jam stains framing his mouth.

“Miz Osborne!” Davey said. “I be a nicky-nan boy!”

Verity bent and tousled the mop of red hair. “So you are.”

“Pa say I be old ’nuff this year. Did we scare ’ee?”

“Almost to death,” Verity said. She gave a mock shudder and Davey squealed with delight. “You’d better run and catch up with the others or you’ll miss your cakes.”

Davey gave her a quick hug, then tore off down the lane toward the next cottage. “Ea! Ea! Ea!”

Verity helped Kate tidy up the room from the cooking and then move the table against the wall where it usually stood. They pulled up three chairs close to the fire and sat with their toes outstretched on the hearth. Kate had saved three pancakes, and they enjoyed them along with a cup of tea.

“That little redheaded tacker sure do take to ’ee,” Grannie said.

“Yes,” Verity said. “Davey and I are great friends. I am glad he was able to come down from Pendurgan to take part in all the fun.”

“They always do,” Grannie said.

“Did James?”

Grannie gave Verity a sidelong glance. “Jammez again. It always do be Jammez with ’ee, Verity Osborne.”

“I’m sorry,” Verity said, bending her head in hopes of hiding the blush that heated her cheeks. “But you said you knew him as a boy. I just wondered…”

“Aye, he were a nicky-nan boy, just like the rest,” Grannie said. “Didn’t matter none that he come from the big house. He run wild through St. Perran’s along wid all t’others.”

“What was it like at Pendurgan before all the troubles began?” Verity asked. Gonetta had told her about old Christmas traditions of mummers and the caroling at Pendurgan, community traditions that had lapsed since the tragic fire. It was another way in which James had encouraged his dark reputation—putting a stop to old customs. She had learned in her short time here that the Cornish people set great store by customs. Might it not be a good step toward changing attitudes if some of those customs were revived?

“I assume,” she continued, “that people actually came up to the house at times, during special occasions. They must not have always avoided it the way they do now.”

Grannie crossed her arms over her ample chest and pursed her lips. It was a long moment before she spoke.

“No, ’twere not always like ’tis now,” she said. “All my life, old Pendurgan be the great house in the district where the great people gathered. How we did love it when we did be invited to come up. We’d get all cleaned up and put on our Sunday best and feel so proud to be goin’ up the big house.”

“I remember that, too,” Kate said. “’Twere always a grand time.”

“When did you come?” Verity asked. “At Christmas?”

“Aye, at Christmas,” Grannie said. “And also fer the annual tenants’ breakfast, and o’ course fer the—”

“The midsummer’s eve festival!” Kate said. “Oh, my, what fun that was.”

“They held a festival at Pendurgan?” Verity asked.

“A grand one,” Kate said. “Every year at midsummer’s eve. ’Twere lovely. I do miss that, I tell ’ee.”

“Tell me about the festival,” Verity said. An idea had come to her—a wild and wonderful idea—that took root and began to grow, nurtured by the stories that followed.

“You must be out of your mind.”

“I hope I am not,” Verity said in response to Agnes Bodinar’s outburst. “Indeed, I believe I am not. I have heard that the Pendurgan festival was the highlight of the year in the district, and even beyond. It seems a shame such a fond old tradition should have lapsed.”

Agnes gave a disdainful snort. “It lapsed because no one in the district—in all of Cornwall—will have anything to do with Pendurgan now.” She glared at Verity as though challenging her to deny it. “Forget about the wretched festival. No one will come.”

Ever since Verity had blithely announced her intention to resurrect the midsummer’s eve festival, James had been stunned into silence. He knew what she was about, of course. For reasons still incomprehensible to him, Verity had set out to change the hearts and minds of the local people, to repair his blackened reputation. This idea of the festival moved him more than he could ever have imagined.

A revival of the midsummer festival was a significant enterprise, one that could have major results, one way or the other. If Verity’s plans failed it would hurt her more than it would James, who was accustomed to the fear and loathing of his own people. But if her plans succeeded…The very notion tied his stomach in knots.

It had been so long, so long since anyone other than Alan Poldrennan had visited Pendurgan. James had preferred to keep himself apart from local society. Did he still?

“Can you really be so sure no one would come?” Verity asked. She looked at James, inviting his response. “Did you hold a festival that no one attended?”

“It was not necessary,” Agnes replied, her tone waspish and scornful. “There has never been any question that the entire district would avoid Pendurgan at all costs.”

“But are you certain?” Verity asked.

Agnes pressed her fists hard against the edge of the table and leaned forward toward Verity. “Of course I am certain.” She spoke through clenched teeth, her jaw rigid. “You silly little fool. Have you not lived here long enough to realize how thoroughly ostracized we are up here? Do you not know that the very names Pendurgan and Harkness are loathsome throughout the district?” She tilted her head back, slanted a glance toward James, then curled her lip into a sneer. “Or has he got you so besotted you cannot see the truth?”

Verity held Agnes with her forthright, unflinching gaze. She had backbone, to be sure. That quiet courage was one of the things he most admired about Verity. Admired and envied. For she had the courage to fight for the vindication of his name, when he had long ago given up hope that such a thing was even possible.

“I understand what you are saying,” Verity said, her voice calm and controlled, “though, of course, you have lived with the…the aftermath much longer than I have. I can never know what it must have been like for you all those years ago, when the tragedy occurred. But perhaps as an outsider, I can see what those of you closer to the situation cannot. It occurs to me, for example, that elimination of some of the old traditions like the Christmas mummers and the midsummer festival may have simply aggravated any bad feelings in the district. It may have done more harm than good.”

James stared at Verity, captivated by her tenacity. He wondered if there might not be some truth in what she said, though in his gut he knew Agnes had the right of it. It did not matter. Verity’s belief in him, however misplaced, was something he would always treasure, even if he ultimately discouraged her from acting on those convictions. He was not at all sure he wanted her to go through with this idea of the festival.

Agnes crossed her arms over her thin chest and peered down the length of her nose at Verity. “You came here under circumstances that would oblige any sensible woman to hide in shame,” she said, her voice brittle and sharp as broken glass. “And yet you…you interfere and meddle in business that does not concern you, insinuating yourself into village life, dredging up old wounds, making a nuisance of yourself. Somehow you think you can make a difference by reviving the festival. Well, you’re wrong. You have no idea what you are talking about. I tell you no one, no one, would have come.”

“You may be right,” Verity said. “Six years ago, so soon after it happened, people may have stayed away. But is it not time to leave the past behind? It is not simply a matter of restoring festivals and the like.” She turned to look at James. “It is the distance you maintain, the way you’ve withdrawn from everything that has allowed all manner of foolish tales to spring up. I have spoken to some of the villagers, and they have told me they would be pleased to see the festival revived. They would come, I feel sure of it.”

“Hmph,” Agnes snorted. “So they claim, but I do not believe it for one minute. They would plan some sort of mischief, to be sure. Or more likely, they may simply pretend to go along with you, all the while laughing behind your back, laughing at how you have come under his spell.”

“Agnes!” James had finally had enough of her spiteful tongue. “You go too far, madam.”

“Do I?” Agnes glared at him.

“Yes, you do. You have no cause to say such things to Verity. She is our guest and…my friend.” His eyes met Verity’s, and she smiled so sweetly he had to look away.

“Your friend?” Agnes gave a derisive sniff. “Call her what you will. Everyone knows what she is, but clearly she has been seduced into believing you are something other than you are. And now that you have her under your control, you have set her to clear your name for you. Well, it cannot be done.” She rose so quickly her chair almost toppled over behind her. “Go ahead, missy, do your best for your…your lover and see what good it does. But do not expect me to be any part of your foolhardy schemes.” In a swirl of black skirts, she left the dining room.

James watched her exit with exasperation. He was used to Agnes’s behavior and had made every effort over the last several years to ignore it. After all, she had more cause than anyone else to thoroughly despise him. There were times, however, when her incessant venom became intolerable.

He gave a weary sigh before his eyes met Verity’s. “You must forgive Agnes,” he said. “She—”

“Oh, I understand, my lord.” She smiled in response to his lifted brow. “James. I understand her anger. She is only throwing out words in anguish, poor thing. She lost her only daughter and now thinks that I…” Verity’s cheeks flushed and her gaze dropped to her dinner plate. She said no more, though they both knew what words had been left unspoken.

“It is more than just that,” James said. “Agnes has suffered more than anyone these past years. Not only has she had to deal with the deaths of her daughter and grandson, but she is forced to depend upon the man who killed them.”

“James.” Verity raised her head and shot him a concerned look. “You must stop saying that. You did not kill them. You know you did not, yet you seem to want everyone to believe you did. I do not understand you. Such remarks only encourage the villainous legend of Lord Heartless to prosper and grow.”

He regarded her gravely. “Agnes is right, you know. It is too late. My name is too black to be restored.” He reached over and touched her hand briefly. “But I do appreciate the effort.”

Verity looked down at the hand where his fingers had brushed hers. “It is worth the effort,” she whispered. “I owe you…that much.”

It became more and more difficult to ignore the affection for her—or was it more?—that had begun to blossom in his heart when her words caused the damned organ to dance a jig in his chest. “You owe me nothing,” he said. She had already given him more than he deserved, while all he could do was take. He had nothing to give in return. “You owe me nothing.”

“Nonsense,” she said, dismissing his words with a wave of her hand. “Besides, the festival will give me something to do. I prefer to be busy at something, and there is only so much I can do with my herbals. It will give me pleasure to plan the festival, truly. Please, do not ask me to abandon the idea. I would so enjoy doing it, and I know people will come. They will.” Her eyes were ablaze with enthusiasm and her voice had become decidedly impassioned. She was almost irresistible.

“Yes, I suspect you will be able to convince any number of people to come,” James said, thinking she could probably charm the piskeys from their faerie grove if she set her mind to it.

“Then you will allow it?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you must know, the whole idea scares the bloody hell out of me.”

She pulled a face. “Then you are indeed afraid they will not come?”

“On the contrary. I am very much afraid they will.”

“Oh.” She knitted her brows as she puzzled over his words. She looked so adorably confused he had to bite back a smile.

“It has been a very long time, you see, since people gathered at Pendurgan,” he said. “I am not quite sure I’m prepared.”

Her face lit up like a thousand candles. “You will see, my lord. You will see. If you open your home and your heart to these good people, they will not scorn you. A resumption of some sort of normalcy in the district can only be a good thing. If you will but begin to set things to right once more, they will smile upon you with gratitude and be happy.”

He could no longer restrain himself. James reached for her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. There was much he would like to have said. “Thank you,” was all he could manage.

She slowly—reluctantly?—retrieved her hand. Her cheeks blushed rosily and she looked away briefly. When her eyes met his again, they were fired once more with excitement. “This will be so much fun, I declare. You must tell me, James, the sorts of entertainments people would most enjoy. I can guess about the general sort of thing, but there are perhaps Cornish games and customs that I know nothing about. There must also be music, of course. And dancing. Are there any traditional Cornish dances we should plan for? And how do we go about arranging for booths and sellers of various goods? Oh, and the food! We must plan ahead for lots of food. You must tell me if—”

“Verity!”

She stopped chattering and gazed at him quizzically, head cocked to one side. He smiled broadly and noted how her eyes softened to a liquid brown as she watched him. He had not failed to note her frequent use of “we” as she spoke of her plans. It gave him a strangely heady feeling.

“You have almost three months and more to prepare,” he said. “There is no need to rush into it this very minute. Mrs. Tregelly can answer many of your questions on the games and dances and such. She has helped plan many a midsummer festival at Pendurgan. And Mrs. Chenhalls can advise on the food and drink.”

“Wonderful!” She leaned forward in her chair and gazed at him with infectious eagerness. “Then we shall—”

“But I must warn you to be careful of Agnes.”

His words brought a hint of apprehension to her eyes.

“She already has some notions about our friendship,” James said. “You know what she thinks.” Verity nodded. “Agnes will make this very difficult for you. She hates me, and with good reason. Because of what she thinks is between us, she no doubt has as little love for you as she does for me. She will not like to see you try to mend my fences for me. She will use her own venom to tear them down again. Be careful of her. It was Rowena, you know, who always arranged the festival, even during my absences. Agnes will take no pleasure in watching you take Rowena’s place.”

A look of profound sadness gathered in Verity’s eyes. “Poor woman. How it must pain her. But what about you, James? Your pain must have been greater even than Agnes’s. Will it be awkward for you to see me planning the festival, just as Lady Harkness had done?”

Her question took him aback. Perhaps he ought to have felt some twinge of regret that someone else now took on tasks Rowena had once done, but he did not. He had loved Rowena, and there would ever be a dull ache in his heart for the loss of her. In truth, though, he had spent so many years consumed with despair over his role in her death that he had often forgot simply to miss her.

But Verity was not Rowena. She was as different from Rowena as she could possibly be—in looks, in temperament, in character. A comparison of the two had seldom even crossed his mind.

“No, it will not be awkward for me,” he said at last, though in truth his unrequited desire for her, and his promise not to act on it, made her mere presence exceedingly awkward for him at times. Like now, when frustration was so painful it was a physical ache. “I have never thought of you as Rowena’s usurper, Verity. You do not even bring her to mind. She was so…Well, you are nothing like Rowena.”

An unreadable emotion flickered briefly in Verity’s eyes, but she smiled quickly and the expression disappeared. “Then if you have no objections, my lord, I would ask your permission to proceed with plans for the midsummer’s eve festival.”

“You have it,” he said. “Along with my gratitude for your efforts. But I must ask one more thing of you.”

“Yes?”

“If Agnes is right and no one comes, you must not blame yourself.”

A smile wreathed her face and lit her eyes, almost taking his breath away. “No one come? Don’t be silly, my lord. Everyone will come!”

For her sake, James hoped she was right.

Verity threw herself into the planning of the midsummer festival with abandon. She was determined to succeed. After quizzing everyone at Pendurgan and all the ladies of St. Perran’s, she had a pretty clear notion of what the festivals had been like in the past. She had discarded the fantasy of making this one the grandest of all. It was enough that it be familiar. Everyone seemed to have fond memories of the Pendurgan festivals. If nothing else, those memories alone would bring them back. Verity was sure of it.

One constant thread in all the recollections of the festival, though, had made her uneasy. It was the custom in Cornwall to light huge bonfires at midsummer’s eve. There could be no festival, she was told, without a bonfire, and for that reason Verity had been ready to cancel all festival plans.

But James convinced her to proceed. “If I know it is there, I will be fine,” he assured her. “It is sudden, unexpected blazes that seem to affect me. I shall simply be cautious when the fire is lit. After that, there should be no problem.” No matter how many times she offered to call it off, James had insisted she go on with her plans.

One afternoon, Verity invited Mrs. Poldrennan to tea, and when the captain came to collect her afterward, she had the opportunity to pull him aside and ask about the wisdom of the festival.

“I am so concerned for James,” she said, “and how he might react to the bonfire. It is the only aspect of the festival that truly makes me nervous.”

“I would not worry about it,” the captain said. “James is no doubt right. If he is prepared for it, he will have no trouble. You and I can both stay close at his side, just to be sure. Besides, I think the whole idea is splendid. It is long overdue.”

“I’m sure you are right,” she said, “though I cannot help being concerned. Not only are there…sad associations with fire, but James—”

“Is it not fitting,” Agnes said, her approach unnoticed by Verity, “that the master of a festival of fire is himself so well linked with fire?”

The spiteful remark brought an awkward hush to the room, silencing even the tittering Mrs. Poldrennan. The captain was the first to respond. “Come now, Mrs. Bodinar,” he said, “I doubt the people will associate the bonfires with what happened here almost seven years ago. Besides, it is too much a part of tradition. I do not believe the festival would be a success without the fires.”

“I suspect you have the right of it,” Verity said, ignoring Agnes’s disdainful snort.

“As for me,” the captain said, “I think the fires make the whole thing so much more festive. Once, when I was in Penzance at midsummer, flaming tar barrels atop tall poles were placed throughout the streets of the town. It was the most spectacular sight. I say, why don’t you do that for your festival, Mrs. Osborne? Flaming tar barrels throughout the estate. What do you say?”

“I don’t know, Captain,” she replied. “I am still trying to accept the notion of a bonfire.”

“I think it is a lovely idea, Alan,” his mother said, plucking at his sleeve. “It is something I should certainly like to see.”

“I agree,” Agnes said, smiling at the captain. “The more fires the better. Perhaps the old place will burn to the ground.”

Verity frowned at her. She had hoped Agnes would be more polite in company, but apparently not. She seemed to be getting more vicious, determined to see that the festival was a failure.

“I hope it will not come to that,” Verity said. “I am willing, though reluctant, to agree to a bonfire, but I will have to think about the tar barrels, Captain.”

“I am at your service,” he said, “if you decide in favor of them.”

“Did you know,” Agnes said, “that the fires were meant to strengthen the sun at the beginning of its long journey down toward the winter solstice?” She gave a mirthless chuckle. “Fire to feed the terrible pagan god. Again I say, how appropriate.”

Verity wished they would get off the subject of fire. “I recollect some business about lights and candles at midsummer in Lincolnshire,” she said. “But it was not the focal point of any celebrations. Mostly I remember picking St. John’s wort to make into wreaths. But even it is a sun symbol, is it not, with its bright yellow flower. Did I tell you, Mrs. Poldrennan, that I plan to make wreaths this year?”

“To ward off evil spirits?”

Verity smiled at the serious tone in Mrs. Poldrannan’s voice. “No, ma’am. Just to look pretty. I am hoping to enlist Mrs. Bodinar’s help in weaving them this year.”

Agnes frowned, but did not reject the idea. Verity bit back a smile. Edith Littleton had once said, “If someone doesn’t like something you’re doing, ask them to help.”

The Poldrennans stayed for a short time longer, but declined the invitation to stroll the gardens. Mrs. Poldrennan was feeling tired and wished to return home, and the captain acquiesced.

When they were gone, Agnes turned on Verity. “What do you mean, trying to involve me in your horrid little festival?” she said. “I told you once, I want nothing to do with it.”

“I hoped you had changed your mind,” Verity said. “I could use your help. I have always admired the flowers you embroider so beautifully. I thought perhaps weaving a few real ones might be something you would enjoy.”

“Hmph. We shall see.”

Verity cast her a brilliant smile. It was the first real sign that there might be a chance to win over the old woman.

The rest of the Pendurgan household had thrown themselves into the planning with obvious pleasure. Verity was the center of all activity, coordinating every aspect of the event. She took notes and made endless lists of things to do and ideas to consider and questions to be answered. She sat for hours with Pendurgan’s cook and made lists of foods to prepare. Mrs. Tregelly helped make lists of vendors and food stalls and planned a trip into Bodmin to approach various shopkeepers about setting up stalls at the festival. Gonetta volunteered to make bunches of herbs tied with colored ribbons for girls to throw in the bonfire.

Young Davey was determined to help as well. His father, who had agreed to help organize sports and contests for the men and boys, enlisted Davey’s help in finding local boys to compete in the foot races.

Even James, though busy with estate business in the absence of a steward, did what he could to help. He worked with Jago Chenhalls to build rudimentary structures for food stalls and wrestling matches. He even volunteered to go into Bodmin, or farther if needed, to engage a troupe of players.

Verity’s lists began to grow. She had lists of food, lists of games and contests, lists of materials to make or buy, lists of entertainments, lists of potential helpers to prepare food and fairings, lists of tasks requiring workmen, lists of schedules, lists of questions, and on and on. She carried them about in her pockets and was liable to pull one out at any moment when a new idea or question came to her.

“I ain’t never seen the like, Verity Osborne,” Grannie Pascow said when Verity next visited her. She watched Verity unload her stuffed pockets and laughed so that her plump bosom jiggled like aspic. “’Ee do got a list fer everything. I declare I never did see so many lists.”

“It is a big project, Grannie, and I need to be organized if I am to pull it off. Now, let’s go over the entertainments once again, to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”

Verity spread out a list on Grannie’s trestle table. She had ruthlessly taxed Grannie’s memory on past festivals, and listed all the various entertainments that had ever taken place. She had no notion of introducing all of them into her plans. She merely needed to understand what sort had been offered over the years in order to help her select the most appropriate for this year’s revival.

It was difficult to keep Grannie’s concentration on the task at hand. She tended to become sidetracked with wistful recollections of festivals past. As on several previous occasions, Grannie’s reminiscences sparked others by Kate. When Hildy Spruggins joined them, she had memories to share as well. Verity surreptitiously took notes when some story inspired an idea. She was more than ever convinced that the festival would mark a new beginning for Pendurgan and for James. There was already a spark of excitement in the air of St. Perran’s. Verity had no doubt the women carried that spark home to their own families. By mid-June, the district would be agog with anticipation.

And perhaps the tragedy of 1812 could finally be put behind them. James would be able to hold his head up again, to walk proudly among his own people, to turn his life around.

When the question of her own role in his future tugged at her reason, she pushed it aside. The festival was all that mattered for now. She had a mission, and it consumed her. When it was over…well, she would think about that later.