Page 11 of The Cornish Widow

Chapter Six

Jack stared at the stranger in his drawing room. She had to be the woman his mother had told him about last night. The one who was to be living, along with her two children, who were bound to be nosy because children always were, in Keynvor Cottage. They would all be perilously close to the seat of his and Will’s smuggling operation.

His mother had described her as pretty, but that was a mild understatement. Despite being a mother herself, presumably to the well-grown girl he’d seen on the headland, she had the flawless skin of a younger woman, a cupid’s bow of a mouth that looked dangerously kissable, and wide hazel eyes which were right now staring back at him in shocked surprise. The plain black mourning gown she wore accentuated the delicate pallor of her cheeks, where two spots of red had just bloomed.

“Jack, darling,” his mother said, a smile lighting up her face. “I thought you were riding over to Carlyon Court to see the Beauchamps this morning?”

Despite a longing to retreat out of the room as though he’d never been there so as not to have to meet his far-too attractive new neighbor, Jack closed the door behind himself and approached the occupied chaise longue. “Good morning, Mother.”

Still smiling, his mother patted her new acquaintance’s hand. “My dear, may I introduce you to my son, Captain Jack Trevelyan. Jack, this is Mrs. Harriet Penhallow, who will be living at Keynvor Cottage with her children for the foreseeable future.”

Oh no, not just a short visit to Cornwall then.

Jack made a polite bow to both his mother and Mrs. Penhallow, muttering a greeting, then straightened up, ready to make a hurried escape.

“Do sit down,” his mother said, cutting off his hopes of a polite exit as she waved an elegant hand at the nearest seat. “And I’ll pour you some tea. It’s quite fresh still.”

Unable to refuse without seeming rude, which he might well have done had not Mrs. Penhallow been there, Jack swept the tails of his coat out of the way and sat down on the edge of the seat, facing the two ladies, and wishing himself elsewhere. The lovely Mrs. Penhallow’s wide-eyed gaze rested on him a moment too long before she snatched it away, those spots of color burgeoning afresh. For someone who must already be in her thirties, she seemed unusually shy.

“I see from the state of your boots that you have been out riding,” his mother said. “But clearly not so far as Carlyon Court, or you would not be back here so soon.”

Jack took the dish of tea she offered him. “Storm clouds are massing on the horizon, Mother. There’s going to be bad weather, so I thought it best to remain here.”

His mother, who was fond of Sam and Ysella Beauchamp, smiled. “As Mrs. Penhallow is going to be living nearby, it would be nice for her to meet our friends and neighbors, I think. Perhaps we should invite the Beauchamps over for dinner one evening? And the Treloars at the same time.” She turned to Harriet. “The Beauchamps live a good ride away beyond Penzance, but there’s a lovely walk along the cliff path to Roskilly, where the Treloars live. They have a little boy who must be about your own son’s age, I would think. Mrs. Treloar, Caroline, is a dear friend of mine and will be overjoyed to make your acquaintance, I’m certain.” She laughed. “Living down here in Cornwall we can all find the life a little lonely at times, so we relish the arrival of someone new with interesting things to tell us.”

“Thank you. I should like that very much,” Mrs. Penhallow managed, looking a little shell-shocked by this gushing speech by his mother and not at all as though what she was saying was true. She peeked sideways at Jack from beneath her eyelashes in a way reminiscent of a beaten dog expecting a second blow.

What was she staring at? Could it be that it had been her, not her daughter, he’d spotted on the headland, and she’d recognized him? No, the figure had been that of a slight young girl, not possessed of the full-bodied allure of a mature woman, like Mrs. Penhallow. He had to tear his eyes away from where a lace fichu hid her swelling breasts and chastise himself for looking at a widow in that way. A widow, according to his mother last night, whose husband had been dead a scarce three months. No wonder she was still in mourning.

His mother glanced towards the row of windows that looked out over the lawns and tutted her tongue. “You are right, as usual. A storm is indeed brewing. And I had so hoped to keep the garden looking tidy this autumn. If we have a high wind, the last of the roses will shed their petals, and we’ll get bits of twig and branches all over the lawns. Again. What a shame. We’ve had such a good show of blooms this year and the gardens were just as I wanted them to be.”

The lovely Mrs. Penhallow set her empty tea dish on the tray, those beautiful eyes of hers wide with a hint of relief as though she were glad of an excuse to leave. “If there’s to be a storm, I think I should be getting back to my children, who are no doubt running rings around their nursemaid by now with their excitement at being so close to the sea. I don’t want them venturing near the cliffs in a high wind.” She kept her gaze on Jack’s mother as though deliberately avoiding his presence. “Thank you again, Mrs. Trevelyan, from the bottom of my heart, for all the help you’ve given us. It is most appreciated and is very kind of you.”

His mother squeezed Mrs. Penhallow’s hand. “Not at all, my dear, and do, pray, call me Talwyn. I would much prefer it. Whenever anyone calls me Mrs. Trevelyan, I feel quite ancient. And it was the least I could do to help you settle in. Now you have the cottage all straight, and we are friends, I hope you will come again to visit me. We are a trifle isolated here…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced sideways at Jack, an accusatory look in her eyes, as if he were responsible for her loneliness. “It would be a kindness to me if you would perhaps bring your children next time. It’s been so long since Rosudgeon House echoed to the sound of a child’s laughter.”

Were those tears sparkling unshed in their visitor’s eyes? Jack looked away so she could deal with them. What sort of a life had this woman led that his mother’s small kindness could produce such a reaction in her? Because it was only a small kindness to a new neighbor. Just furniture he’d had in storage and supplies from their own pantry. Nothing, really. His mother would have done the same for anyone she thought might need it, of any class. And frequently did. At his expense.

Young Mrs. Penhallow, her tears controlled, rose to her feet and so did Jack’s mother. She gave a tentative smile. “You have been the kindest of neighbors. Of course I will return and bring the children. They would love to come here, I’m sure.”

His mother patted their visitor’s hand again. “I’m so glad.” She glanced at Jack, a glint in her blue eyes that had him worried. “Jack, dear, perhaps you could escort Mrs. Penhallow back to her cottage, as the weather is so rapidly deteriorating. I know Mrs. Pike has been hard at work this morning baking pasties, and I’m sure our new neighbors would like to try them, as they are quite the best pasties in the whole of Cornwall. You can ask Mrs. Pike for a basket and carry them down for her.”

Mrs. Penhallow’s eyes widened for a moment in what looked like real fear, before she had them under control again. How odd. Did she not want the pasties, the generosity or to be escorted home by him? Or was it just by a man in general?

Fortunately, Jack was well accustomed to schooling his own face into blank indifference, something he frequently had to practice when out for the occasional unavoidable dinner at some local dignitary’s home when the conversation turned to smuggling. He managed a gracious smile for his mother. “Of course. If Mrs. Penhallow doesn’t mind waiting, I’ll just go down to the kitchens and retrieve the pasties, shall I?”

Relieved to escape at last, but with the reprieve only of short duration, Jack bowed again to the ladies and beat a hasty retreat down to the kitchens, scene of many escapes from duty throughout his boyhood.

Mrs. Pike, who closely resembled one of her own doughy buns, with two deep-set currants for eyes, was just taking a second batch of pasties from the oven of the huge black range. Already, a row of six sat cooling on the large oak table. The scent of savory pasty filled the air, making Jack’s mouth water. Molly, the dowdy little kitchen maid, was engaged in chopping turnips for the next batch at the other end of the table and from the expression on her face was as hungry as Jack.

“Master Jack,” Mrs. Pike exclaimed, setting the hot tray on the low trivet on the table. “Following your nose, I don’t doubt. Be you hungry?” She chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, and her ample body quaked with the effort. “When was you ever not? These ones here are about cool enough to eat.”

Jack grinned. “Alas, I’m not here for my own gratification, tempting as your pasties smell. My mother wants to send some of them to our new neighbor as a gift and has sent me down to collect them. If I take the hot ones, they’ll still be warm by the time she reaches her home.”

Molly, ever nosy, squinted up at him in open curiosity.

Mrs. Pike banged the table at her. “You keep chopping and stop earwigging. ’Tain’t good for a girl to go earwigging.” She turned her gaze to Jack. “That’ll be the leddy your ma sent all the supplies down to yesterday?”

Jack nodded.