CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
"Poor Peaches," Jessalyn said, a gurgle of laughter turning her voice husky. "Is that nasty old bird tormenting you?"
The fat orange cat hissed and cackled, then spit for good measure. The object of her enmity was an ugly black-backed gull. The gull, big as a goose, sat atop the paddock fence, tantalizingly near. Yet cat and bird both knew that bird could take flight long before fat cat could pounce.
The gull squawked and Happed its wings; Peaches hissed. Laughing, Jessalyn stroked the cat's marmalade-and-cream-striped backbone. "You have him thoroughly frightened now, m' love," she cooed. Peaches began to purr beneath Jessalyn's hand, her front paws kneading the weathered wood of the windowsill.
The evening was quiet but for the whisper of the surf and the reedy chirring of a nightjar. The sea caught the last light of a dying sun, shimmering purple like a cup of plum wine. End Cottage was only a hundred yards from the sea, but the cliffs were steeper here than they were at Crook-neck Cove, the beach narrower and usually covered by the tide.
Peaches cast one last baleful look at the gull and then with an air of supreme indifference thumped down from the sill and waddled over to the hearth. Last year Peaches had been a skeletal stray, near death from exposure and starvation. Now she was so fat she could barely make it back and forth between the window and the fire.
Jessalyn took the cat's place at the window. She had been restless all evening, tingly and effervescent inside, like a tub of fermenting cider.
The wind came up again, lifting a corner of loose thatch on the stable. The air smelled heavily of the sea and of the hay that had just been gathered and ricked that week. There was a sweet smell, too, from the primroses and daffodils, splashes of bright and pale yellow, that grew along the paddock where a sorrel-colored colt cavorted around a rubbing post.
Folk around the county called End Cottage a stud farm, although that was being generous. Once, years ago, her grandparents had bred horses to race on the great tracks near London Town. Sir Silas Letty, Jessalyn's grandfather, had been known as a bang-up sporting man who always ran his horses fairly, a man who played deep but covered his bets. In those years the Letty stables had acquired a modest reputation among the other members of the Turf, winning just enough today to support the enormous costs of racing tomorrow.
Jessalyn's grandfather had died long before she had come to live at End Cottage, and in the years since his death the Letty luck had gone tepid and then cold. One by one the prizewinning studs and mares had been sold until only the old and the lame and the losers remained.
Jessalyn had never attended a racing meet, never stood at the finishing post and watched her horse nose out the favorite by a whisker. All she'd had were her grandmother's stories. Stories told in the winter evenings by the fire while a wet and woolly Cornish gale blew outside. Stories told so often that she knew just how it would be: the clang of the starting bell, the jockeys flashing by in a rainbow of colored taffeta, the thunder of a hundred hooves beating at the turf... and the sweet, hot taste of winning.
Someday, Lady Letty would say, with the light of the fire —or perhaps it was the dream—sparkling in her eyes... someday, when the right horse came along, they would go to Newmarket and Epsom Downs for the season, and they would race again. Someday, someday...
They had high expectations of the sorrel filly in the paddock, foaled just that spring, such expectations that they had named her Letty's Hope.
A man came out the barn carrying a halter. Jessalyn waved, but he did not wave back. He carried the halter in his right hand, and he had to put it in his teeth to open the paddock gate, for he had only the one arm. The other he had left on a battlefield in the Peninsula five years ago. Small, bandy-legged, and dark, he was as Welsh as his name, Llewellyn Davies. But Jessalyn and her grandmother called him Sarn't Major, which had been his rank in the army. The rest of the folk in the county avoided speaking to him altogether; he was not a friendly man.
A latch lifted with a click behind her, and Jessalyn turned. Her grandmother entered the parlor with a rustle of black bombazine skirts. Although she used a cane, Lady Rosalie Letty was not bent over. A tall woman, she carried her height with pride, her back and shoulders straight and stiff as a lance.
"Close the window, gel," Lady Letty said in accents rough with the burr of Cornwall. "The fire's smeeching."
Jessalyn pulled the old mullioned window shut with a protest of its rusty hinges, then stooped to poke at a fire of furze and bits of driftwood, coaxing out a reluctant flame. Lady Letty lowered herself onto one end of a battered and patched settee. The settee had once been purple but was now faded by sun and age to a sickly puce. She lifted a quizzing glass to her eye, and her sharp gaze honed right in on the nail of Jessalyn's big toe that was poking through her jean house slipper. The old woman's lips pulled and twisted.
Jessalyn noticed the scowl and ducked her head to hide a smile. "I'm that sorry about losing the boots, Gram," she said. She'd confessed earlier to Lady Letty that the sea had stolen her half boots while she'd been scavenging. She had told her grandmother nothing at all about the explosion. Or the stranger.
Lady Letty thumped her cane on the carpet, snagging the tip in the threadbare nap. "Tis not the loss of the boots themselves, m' dear. Tis the senselessness of it. It's long before time that you stopped behaving like a wild tommy-rigg. Remember who you are—a lady born. Ladies do not walk the beach barefoot."
"Yes, ma'am," Jessalyn said, although she doubted true ladies, even poor ones, went scavenging in the first place. She sat across from her grandmother in a moth-eaten wing chair, folding her hands primly and bringing her holey-shod feet together. She cast a glance up at Lady Letty in time to catch the love softening the old woman's fierce gray eyes, before the wide mouth pressed into a pretended scowl.
The first time Jessalyn sat in this chair her legs had barely been long enough for her feet to touch the ground. That had been a month after her father's funeral, the day her mother had dragged her down to Cornwall and dumped her into her grandmother's care. Dropped her off like a suit of old clothes, no longer fashionable and no longer wanted.
"So the flighty, vain little fool don't want the bother of a daughter now, and she thinks to pawn you off onto me, eh?" Lady Letty had said, peering at Jessalyn through her quizzing glass and not looking as if she had much use either for a skinny six-year-old with fiery red hair and a freckled nose and scabs on her bony knees. But then Lady Letty had laughed and said, "Good God, gel, you're the spitting image of myself at your age." And Jessalyn had thought that perhaps her grandmother thought this a good thing.
"You'll find it ain't easy being a Letty," her grandmother had gone on. She'd flung up a gnarled hand to stop Jessalyn from speaking, although Jessalyn's tongue had been stiff in her mouth, incapable of moving. "No matter that you're her daughter, your father was a Letty. You're of Letty blood, and a Letty I shall make of you. A Letty and a lady, by God."
Being a Letty had turned out to be easy. Being a lady was another net of fish entirely.
It wasn't that she set out to be a hoyden. It was that she could never decide upon the correct and proper way to behave—"the done thing," as Lady Letty called it—until the situation had already come and gone. It was a deficiency in her character, which her grandmother insisted with a perverse sort of pride into turning into an accomplishment.
"Never you mind," Lady Letty would say after Jessalyn had succeeded in making a particular fool of herself. "One must always do the done thing, of course, but there is the ordinary way of doing a thing, and there is the Letty way. Sometimes one must do the unexpected thing, the Letty thing, and tell 'em all to go hang."
The trouble was Jessalyn didn't want to tell them all to go hang. Sometimes she wanted to do the done thing the way everyone else did it—to fit in, to belong, to be a proper young lady who would no longer be a bother of a daughter. Sometimes. At other times... other times she felt like a kite, blowing only where the wind took her. She wanted to break free, to make of herself what she would be.
Sometimes she didn't care if she ever saw her mother again.
The door opened with a bang, startling Jessalyn back into the present. A serving girl entered, carrying a tea tray. She closed the door behind her with a smart slap of her hip, then set the tray on a gateleg table.
The girl straightened with a groan, rubbing the small of her back. "Me blessed life, what a day she bin. Seems like 'tes nothing but heftin' and tottin' and luggin' I bin doin' since cockcrow. 'Tes a wonder I haven't got spasms in me back, it is. 'Tes a wonder I ain't prostitute with exhaustion."
Lady Letty rapped her cane on the floor. "Prostrate. How often must I tell you, you fool gel, that the word is prostrate."
The girl's lace cap bobbed in harmony with her head. She had a face plump as a bun with two black currants for eyes. It might have been a pretty face except for the jagged scar that ran from the corner of her left eye nearly to her mouth. When she was twelve, her miner father in a drunken rage had swung a pick at her head, laying open her cheek. Like Peaches and the Sarn't Major, Becka Poole was another of the misfits and castoffs that Lady Letty was always taking in.
Like me, Jessalyn thought.
"Aye, m'lady," Becka said, with a smile so sweet it could almost make one forget about the scar. "That's just what I do say. Prostitute."
Directing another fierce scowl at the girl, Lady Letty took a tortoiseshell snuffbox out of her pocket. She flicked the lid open with one hand in spite of fingers that were bent and gnarled with rheumatism. Raising a pinch of the pungent powder to her nose, she sniffed delicately. Lady Letty's skin was laced with tiny wrinkles like a dried apple, but age had not eroded the bones beneath. Hers was a strong face that conveyed the strength of her will and character.
For as long as Jessalyn had known her, Lady Letty's hair had been dark gray, the color of the tin ore brought up from the Cornish mines. But Jessalyn had heard it said that once her grandmother's hair had been like a flame. Once that formidable old woman had been young with a laughing mouth and a saucy way of walking and talking. She had been a bal-maiden, a girl who worked in the mines.
The story went that Rosalie Potter had been walking home after her shift at Wheal Ruthe when a well-set-up gentleman had come riding by. Silas Letty was of proud and ancient lineage, a son of a landed Cornish gentry family that could trace its name back to the Battle of Hastings. Silas had taken one look at that laughing mouth and all that red hair and had fallen in love. Nothing would do but that he must have his bal-maiden. But being a Letty, he had done the unexpected thing and married her, instead of simply bedding her.
Later Silas had been elected to Parliament and gone to London, where he had done a service for the king, some secret favor that nobody was allowed to speak of, and the king had made him a baronet. Once again Silas had done the unexpected thing: He had accepted the baronetcy to please his king. But Silas had still thought it a trifling thing. Unlike other families, the Lettys did not need a title to increase their consequence.
The tide did please Sir Silas in one way. For Rosalie Potter—onetime bal-maiden, who had been born and brought up by the scruff of her neck in a hovel next to the gritty slag heaps of Wheal Ruthe—his Rosalie became a lady.
It was such a wonderful story, more romantic than any tale Jessalyn had ever read in the library bluebooks. Once upon a time a beautiful bal-maiden had captured the heart of a baronet, a man so far above her he might as well have been living on the moon.
Jessalyn's sigh turned into a frown. She wondered what her grandmother would make of a man who had scars and calluses on his hands and swore worse than a costermonger. Who experimented with steam contraptions that blew up and took off all his clothes in front of her to go swimming in the sea. Who had looked at her and touched her—
"Have you fleas, gel?" Lady Letty snapped. "Tain't the done thing to squirm in one's chair like a hooked herring."
"That'd be the exposition what's got her nerves on edge, m'lady." Becka Poole, finished with her arrangement of the tea service in its proper order on the table, straightened with another melodramatic groan. "Look at me own hands. Shakin' they be, like a leaf in a gale."
Lady Letty smothered a snuff sneeze with her handkerchief. "Exposition? What sort of exposition?"
"The gret big sort, m'lady. It happened this afternoon whilst ee was gone up to Mousehole wi' the Sarn't Major. I was just sittin' down to a dish o' tea when, without a breath o' warning—crash! Boom! And the ground she be rumblin' like an old hag's chest when she snores. Gret big exposition it was. 'Tes a wonder I didn't fall away dead on the spot."
Jessalyn got up to poke at the fire, hiding her face from her grandmother's tin gray gaze. She was sure that with one look Lady Letty would see instantly all that had happened today. That she had lain on a man's body—never mind that it was an accident, done in all innocence... Watched that same man walk naked into and out of the sea. She had not kissed him, though... Dear life.
"Becka," Jessalyn said, more sharply than she'd intended, "could you cut up some seedcake, please, to take with our tea?"
"Ais, miss. Though how ee can eat so hearty after the scare us had this afternoon, I bain't the one t'say. Threw me off me feed, it did. I had to take some of Dr. Dooley's disgusting restorative, and even then I could only but manage a bite or two of the taties and some leg o' mutton."
Lady Letty watched, her mouth pursed, as Becka Poole sashayed from the room. "That gel! What, pray, is Dr. Dooley's disgusting restorative?"
Jessalyn let out a relieved breath, grateful at the change of subject. "Digestive restorative, Gram." She laughed suddenly. "Though as it's composed of bat dung, snail water, and ground wood lice, disgusting may be a more fitting appellation."
Jessalyn sat down across from her grandmother and poured the tea into a pair of unmatched cups. When times were especially bad, as they had been lately, they tried to make the leaves last three days, and this was the third day. The tea looked like dirty rainwater.
As Jessalyn handed the cup to her grandmother, the old lady's lips twisted into a grimace, which was her version of a smile, and patted Jessalyn's knee. "Don't fret yourself about the boots, gel. We'll scrounge up the ready for a new pair somehow. If worse comes to worst, I can sell one of my boxes."
"Oh, no, Gram, you mustn't!"
Lady Letty had a wonderful collection of eighty-nine snuffboxes, made of every material imaginable—from papier-mache to japanned copper to cut crystal. All had been acquired during the better times, given to her as gifts by the baronet to mark every race their horses had won or placed in.
"Don't you tell me what I must or mustn't do, gel." Lady Letty dusted a sprinkling of snuff off her bodice. "'Tis a waste when you're as old as I am to have more of a thing than you can use." She took a sip of tea and grimaced. "Bah! This tastes like something that came out of the back end of a cow. Pour me some port, if you will."
Jessalyn got up to pour the port from the decanter that sat on a nail-studded chest beside the window. She poured the thick wine slowly, careful, as she had been taught, not to make bubbles and thus disturb the flavor.
It had grown dark since Becka had brought in the tea. Using a spill of twisted paper, Jessalyn lit the tallow candles on the mantel. As she moved from one to the other, she caught her reflection in the mildew-spotted mirror. Wild color stained her cheeks, and a strange light glimmered in her eyes. Startled, she looked away.
Jessalyn turned to find Lady Letty peering at her through her quizzing glass. "Now tell me about this explosion that seems to have occurred this afternoon?" the old woman said. "Was that when you met the Trelawny boy?"
Jessalyn's mouth fell open. "How—?"
"Simple deduction, m' dear. You've a look about you as if you've just seen your runner beat the pack to the post by a furlough and you'd a hundred pounds extra laid by on the winner. Only one thing besides a fat purse will put that look into a Letty's eyes. I ask myself who's young and male and new to the countryside, and only one candidate leaps to mind."
"But when did he—why is he— He's a Trelawny!" Jessalyn found her chair with the backs of her knees and subsided into it. "Not the earl surely?"
Lady Letty tapped her snuffbox with a blunt-nailed finger. "The late earl had three boys, but I reckon this one would be the youngest. I remember they went and named him after a horse at his christening, some Irish nag the earl had backed in the Newmarket Whip the day he was born. Mc-something. He was only a little tacker when last I saw him. That would be at his father's funeral in '01. Fell down some stairs in a drunken stupor and broke his neck, the late earl did. He'd be in his twenties now—the younger son, not the dead earl, of course—and doubtless up to his hocks in debt and well on the path to perdition. There's bad blood in that family, bad blood. Dangerous to know are the mad earls of Caerhays... They all die young, violently, and in disgrace."
Jessalyn had heard the stories. How Charles Trelawny, the tenth earl of Caerhays, had died fifteen years ago of a broken neck after falling down a flight of stairs. In his cups as usual, some said. Though others insisted it wasn't too much port that had murdered the earl but the jealous husband of one of his many mistresses. He was succeeded by his eldest son, another Charles, who had died of a ruptured spleen after falling from his horse during a wild midnight ride. In his cups, they said again. Though others said his soul had been fetched to hell by the ghost of a man he had killed in a duel.
Now the second son, and current earl, was living a life of dissipation in London and not likely to see his next birthday. The mad earls of Caerhays... Jessalyn tried to remember what the gossips said about the third son. That he had bought himself a cheap commission in a line regiment and nearly gotten himself killed last year at Waterloo.
"Gram? Do you know what..." She tried to remember if she'd ever heard a particular rank mentioned in connection with the youngest Caerhays heir. She settled on captain. "Do you know what Captain Trelawny is doing in Cornwall? Has he left his regiment? Is he here to stay, to manage the estate?"
"What's to manage? Caerhays was bled dry years ago. The Trelawnys have never cared tuppence for their Cornish lands. Would have sold em off long ago were they not so heavily entailed. Nay, he's here on recuperative leave, so they say, but he's spent most of his time working at the foundry in Penzance, pursuing some cork-brained, addlepated experiment having to do with steam locomotion. Disgraceful behavior it is, such that even a Trelawny cannot hope to live down. Just like a common blacksmith, no better than a tutworker really." Lady Letty shuddered. "Getting calluses on his palms and dirt beneath his nails. 'Tain't the done thing at all."
Into Jessalyn's mind flashed an image of long, dark fingers thrust through wet hair. There hadn't been any dirt beneath his nails. But the hand that grabbed her ankle had been rough and had held on to her with a hard, taut strength....
The parlor door flew open, and Becka Poole pranced in, bearing a tray of seedcake in one hand. She put the back of her wrist to her head like a tragedienne traipsing the boards of Covent Garden.
"God's me life, me nerves be frazzled worse'n a hangman's rope. And there's a gret big pain in me chest. Heart pulpy-taties, I be havin'—"
"Palpitations," Lady Letty said with a sigh, and tossed down a hefty swallow of port.
"Aye. Pulpy-taties. I'd better be takin' a double dose of rhubarb powder afore retirin' this night, else I'll not be gettin' a wink o' sleep."
Becka Poole's hearty snores floated down from the attic, croaking and creaking like a pondful of frogs.
Jessalyn rolled onto her stomach and pulled the pillow over her head. Normally she could sleep through anything. She was famous for it in truth—ever since she had slept through a Cornish flagh, a great storm that had uprooted a big elm tree and sent it crashing like a battering ram through her bedroom window. Tonight the air was still, with no sounds to disturb her except for the distant whisper of the surf, the occasional cry of a curlew, and Becka's snores. A small but comforting fire burned in the grate, and a hot brick had been rubbed between the sheets of her old-fashioned box bed. All in her world was as it should be, as it had always been since her first night at End Cottage, and yet...
Yet there was an ache in her chest, a muted ache that had been swelling all evening, like a pan of dough set to rise on the windowsill.
"Bloody hell." Jessalyn punched the pillow, then rolled onto her back, staring wide-eyed at the shadow-filled dark. She counted Becka's snores, getting as far as forty-one, before she kicked off the covers and got up.
Lighting a candle, she went over to the cheval looking glass that stood beside her clothespress. She tilted the mirror so that she could look at the full length of herself, frowning at what she saw. The hem of her night rail gaped several inches too short, showing off her thin legs and big feet. The last time she'd gone to Penzance to be fitted for a new dress the mantua-maker had poked her ribs and said she was as skinny as a new-spawned herring. She hadn't grown any curvier in the intervening months, though she had certainly grown taller.
You are a rather gawky, gangly thing....
She picked up the candle and moved closer to the mirror. Gram said her hair was a loamy color, like the last russet leaves of autumn before they were stripped by the winter winds. That was a lot of flummery; red was red. She would have plucked out every single hair from her head if she could have been assured it would grow back blond. Gram also said she had strong, enduring bones, that she would be thankful for such bones when she was forty. But forty was old; of what use would good bones be then? It was her mouth anyway that spoiled her face. It was a clown's mouth, wide and red.
She stuck two fingers into the sides of her mouth and pushed her lips apart, wiggling her tongue and making her eyes bulge out like a cockchafer's. She started to laugh, but the laughter caught in her throat.
She knew she wasn't pretty, but it hadn't seemed to matter before. Well, perhaps it had always mattered a little....
A man like him, though. He was handsome, even in his hard-mouthed way. And an earl's brother, too. He could have any girl he set his fancy for. She could tell that just by the way he talked, that cocky, teasing way he had of talking, that girls, women, always took to him. Anyone he fancied.
He wouldn't look twice at a girl like her.
She turned away from the looking glass. An old walnut bureau with peeling varnish stood next to the window, listing to starboard, for it had lost one of its feet. Jessalyn went to it and took out the journal that Gram had given her for her birthday four months ago. She ran her palm over the tooled Spanish leather, dyed an emerald green. With reverent care she opened the cover, breathing deeply the smell of crisp, new paper. The leaves were slick and smooth like silk, gilded gold on the edges. She had never written in it. She felt an odd reluctance to spoil the pristine whiteness of the pages. It was beautiful and expensive and one of the few gifts anyone had ever given to her.
Yet she yearned suddenly to preserve the memory of today. It would be like pressing the first primrose of the new year between the covers of a book to take out later, during the coldest, darkest day of winter. The petals would be dry and flattened, and the bright gold of spring would have faded to a dull yellow. But the memory would be there still—in the soft whiff of a lingering scent and the shape of the flower, a starburst of petals frozen forever in time.
After a frustrating search through the bureau, she found a pen and standish that still had a bit of wet ink left in it. She gathered this up, along with the journal and candle. Settling onto the bed, she wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs. She was content just to sit for a moment and watch a blister of grease run down the candle and into the dish. She dipped the pen in the inkwell and scrawled out the date in appalling penmanship.
She brushed the soft quill across her cheek, back and forth. She thought of him walking out of the sea, naked, strong, and beautiful. And she smiled.
The night was still and quiet now, except for the scratch of pen across paper.
I met a man today...