Page 9 of The Cornish Mermaid

“I’m fine in my own clothes,” she tried, glancing at Kit in the hope support might lie in that direction, but to no avail.

“You are indeed much of a size with my mother when she was a girl,” Kit said, ignoring her protest. “Going by the portrait of her when she first married my father, her clothes should fit you well enough, although I’m afraid they won’t be very modish.”

Morvoren’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. What was she supposed to do now? Agree to this? Jenifry had returned to the stairs as though it was the most natural thing in the world to provide clothing for a perfectly adequately, if damply, dressed stranger. “This way, Miss Lucas,” she said, standing back to let her go first.

For a moment, Morvoren hesitated, weighing up her options. She could let them dress her in these old clothes and escape, or she could argue the point and possibly not escape. Huh. No contest. The look of threatening disapproval on Jago’s face had her abandoning her blanket and scurrying up the shadowy staircase in front of Jenifry.

At the top, three oak doors with sizeable iron latches opened off a narrow corridor—one at either end of its short run and one almost opposite the staircase. It was this third door that Jenifry pushed open, then stood back to allow Morvoren to enter first. “In here, Miss Lucas.”

The room was small, with a single gable window in the far wall and a narrow bed tucked away in one corner. Apart from two wooden chests pushed back against the wall beside the bed, everything else lay covered in white dustsheets, as though this room hadn’t been used in a long time. The musty smell of long neglect hung in the air, tickling Morvoren’s sensitive nose. She sneezed.

“Bless you, my dear,” Jenifry said as she followed her in. “We don’t often come in here, so there be a lot o’ dust.”

How right she was. Morvoren’s gaze flicked over the contents of the room and came to a halt on the right-hand wall where a dustsheet had partially slipped from a large oil painting. A small, dark-haired boy in an old-fashioned, navy-blue jacket and knee breeches sat astride a smart bay pony, a white-capped sea in the background. This sea? The cove she’d just struggled up from? Perhaps.

She took a step closer. The picture had been executed in an outdated, classical style. Could it be one of Kit’s ancestors? How very like him the child was with his mass of dark curls. And now she was looking at the picture, a bell jangled in her head and she remembered another painting she’d seen recently. The painting at the smuggling exhibition. A painting of a young man with darkly curling hair… A young man who’d looked like a younger version of Kit. Could the child in this picture have grown up to be the young man in the painting at the museum? Maybe an ancestor of Kit’s?

Jenifry, who’d opened the lid of the larger of the chests, glanced up. “That be Mr. Kit, when he were a nipper,” she said. “Right ’ansum he were on that pony. Proud as punch the day his father give it him.”

This was a painting of Kit? Not one of his ancestors? Really?

Morvoren took a step closer to the painting, peering more closely. Why on earth was he riding in fancy dress? His hair hung to his shoulders and a lace ruffle adorned his throat. Out on the sea behind him, a full rigged schooner sailed. The picture could easily have been painted a time long ago. Yet another odd thing to add to the list of odd things about this farm.

Jenifry had lost interest in the painting and was busy unloading garments from the chest, which seemed to have the properties of Doctor Who’s Tardis. “Best get those breeches off o’ ye right now, Missy. No maid should be seen in breeches. ’Tis improper an’ outlandish.”

Morvoren frowned. Here was that mention of her being a maid, again. Did this woman assume she’d come here to apply for a job within their strange old-fashioned cult? Humoring their eccentricities was one thing, but agreeing to become a servant was another. “I am not a maid,” she said, as firmly as possible. Best to lay down the law from the start.

This provoked a far stronger reaction than she’d anticipated. “Not a maid?” Jenifry squawked, her voice rising in what could only be shock. “You’re not a maid?” Then understanding, possibly, flitted across her face. “Oh, I’m that sorry. Best t’ignore me, ma’am, but I thought Mister Kit called you Miss Lucas. I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Lucas.”

What?

“I’m not married,” Morvoren tried, brain whirling as she became more and more confused. But this, too, turned out to be a bad thing to say.

In an instant, the shock returned to Jenifry’s open face. “Not married and not a maid?” she squawked all over again. “And not afraid to tell anyone? Proud of it even? Whatever next? What be this house a-comin’ to?”

Morvoren’s eyes flew wide as realization dawned. Was this woman talking about virginity? Her virginity? “I mean,” she gabbled, the words tumbling over themselves. “I’m not a servant. Not a maidservant. I’m a nurse. A veterinary nurse. And I don’t want to be a servant.”

Although technically, she wasn’t the kind of maid Jenifry was meaning, either. Probably not a good idea to mention that. She needed to escape this odd cult as soon as possible, where the only normal one appeared to be Kit, despite his odd clothes and serious expression.

Better put on what Jenifry had got out for her, then, if it meant being able to make her getaway all the sooner. Even though the array of clothing before her was like nothing she’d ever seen before. No jeans or sweatshirts in sight.

With deep misgiving, Morvoren kicked off her wet trainers, peeled off her damp jeans and tugged her T-shirt over her head to reveal her matching black lacy bra and knickers. Another bad move.

A horrified gasp emitted from Jenifry akin to the noise the kettle had made when it boiled, and her hands went to her ample hips. “What are those when they’re at home?”

The bra happened to be Morvoren’s favorite underwire and had come from the Victoria’s Secret shop in Reading. She’d chosen the knickers to match, pleased with the little red bows on both. Had this strange woman never seen a bra and knicker set before?

“My underwear.”

Jenifry shook her head in a mix of wonder and horror. “I’ve decent underwear right here for you, Miss Lucas.” Her tone brimmed with righteous disapproval. “I’m sure only a French hussy would wear underwear as scant as that. Here.” And she held out a pair of long white knickers.

Morvoren stared at the proffered garment. Its main drawback appeared to be that the knickers, if you could call them that, were made in two separate legs with a decided gap in the center. A bit drafty.

She took the knickers. “You want me to wear these?” Her own voice rose in righteous indignation that perfectly matched Jenifry’s. “They’re not even finished. Look—someone’s forgotten to sew them together.” Another mistake.

“Together? Why would anyone want to do that? How would you…?” Jenifry hesitated, her cheeks flushed, and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hiss. “How would you use the chamber pot or the privy if you had your drawers sewn up?”

What? They were meant to be like that? Morvoren glanced furtively about the room, but dressed in only bra and panties there was no escape. She was stuck. With a deep sigh, she pulled the strange knickers on, over her own underwear, of course, and Jenifry fastened them around her waist—individually. They reached to below the knees, the edges of each leg finished in age-yellowed lace. Interesting.