Page 12 of The Cornish Widow

“She’s stayin’ a bit near to the kiddley, I’d say,” Mrs. Pike added, fetching a wicker carrying basket from the pantry. “I’ll put’em in here, shall I?”

Jack nodded again. “Thank you.”

She wrapped each pasty separately in a clean white cloth. “And chilluns, I hear. Bound to be out and about and seein’ what they shouldn’t be seein’, same as all chilluns. What’ll you be doin’ about that, I’m askin’ myself.”

Jack shrugged. “We’ll have to see what happens with them there. We can always make the next run after dark, if the tide’s right.” Mrs. Pike’s late husband had been one of the crew on Jack and Will’s other boat, The Black Joke, and had been one of old John Carter’s Cove Boys all his life, so she knew all about what went on at the kiddley and down in the cove and was understandably protective of it.

She tucked the wrapped pasties into the basket then covered it with an oilcloth as she’d probably already taken a look out of the window at the weather. “There. All done. You can take that upstairs to her now, and no nibbling at them on the way. There’s some down here waiting for you when you’ve done your errand.”

Jack didn’t tell her his mother had commandeered his services as a porter and escort, but picked up the basket, thanked her, and returned upstairs. He found his mother and Mrs. Penhallow in the front hallway, peering out of the open front door at the massing clouds. A wind had risen and the trees encircling the garden bent before the force of it, leaves and branches whipping back and forth. The nearest rose bed already looked depleted of petals.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Penhallow exclaimed, just as Jack came to look outside as well. “I’d forgotten how quickly the weather can change down here.”

Her black gown might have had long sleeves and, with the fichu attached, a high neck, but even Jack could see it would offer no protection should the rain begin while they were on the way back to her cottage.

“You must take my thick cloak, my dear,” his mother said, her tone one that brooked no argument. “I fear we are in for a downpour.” She paused. “Unless you would prefer to wait the storm out here? That might be better.”

Jack pressed his lips together. Having a stranger stay in his house, despite her evident prettiness, was not something he wanted to happen. The fewer people who visited Rosudgeon, the better, as far as he was concerned, and here was his mother virtually offering open house to a stranger. Who, odd as this might sound, might even be a government spy. Who would suspect a woman with two children of anything underhand? Well, he would. The sooner she was gone, the better, from both his house and Keynvor Cottage. He cleared his throat. “The bad weather could well be set to last several days, Mother. Mrs. Penhallow has already said she needs to get back to her children. Just hurry up and give her your cloak and allow us to leave before the rain starts.”

Mrs. Penhallow shot him a sideways glance out of those fearful eyes, but happily received the loan of his mother’s cloak, and with a fond farewell for the cloak owner, stepped out into the portico, Jack right behind her. Crawford, who had been standing by unobtrusively, as usual, closed the door behind them with more force than was needed.

The wind immediately snatched at both of them, billowing the heavy cloak out like a sail and forcing her to hold it together as best she could with her hands. Jack had already hooked the basket of pasties over one arm, and now he felt constrained to offer his other arm to her.

She hesitated.

“If you don’t take my arm, I can’t guarantee you won’t be blown away,” Jack said, a little gruffly, as this inexplicable reluctance of hers was making him impatient. Surely she had no need to be so reticent and timid with him.

She blinked up at him for a moment, as though weighing him up, then, with a visible stiffening of her backbone, slipped a diffident hand into the crook of his elbow. He clamped it firmly lest she decided to remove it, and they set off down the drive.

The wind whipped around them, pushing her towards him, and she had to duck her head and bend slightly forwards to gain against the power of it. Typical Cornish weather—a storm springing up like this in such a short time. Jack pressed her arm against his body more firmly, to keep her close and support her, his own hair blowing into his eyes. It was far too windy to carry on any kind of conversation.

They’d reached only the halfway point in their journey when the rain began. At first just a few drops fell from the leaden sky, but within minutes, rain was pelting down, plastering Jack’s hair to his head and running down his neck. The woman by his side at least had the cloak’s hood to cover her, but the heavy raindrops falling with such force must have been soaking into the fabric.

She stumbled on the uneven footing, her hand clutching at his elbow, and Jack dropped the basket and turned to steady her, taking her by her slender shoulders and feeling her inevitable stiffening beneath his touch.

“Th-thank you.” She had to almost shout above the wind and rain.

There was nothing for it now. He’d have to put a steadying arm about her to keep her upright. With the rain soaking into the wool of his coat, he retrieved the basket of pasties and pulled her bodily towards him. Under his grip he felt her stiffen again, before common sense must have taken over and she leaned into him, perhaps grateful for his strength. They hurried on as best they could.

After what felt like much longer than it should have taken, they reached the short track that led down to the cottage, the building barely visible now through the sluicing rain. Jack hurried his steps and Mrs. Penhallow matched his stride, no doubt as keen to be out of this deluge as he was. Jack and the wind pushed the door open with a bang, and they both tumbled inside. With his foot, Jack kicked the door shut behind them.

Three people were seated at the kitchen table: a stout woman of late middle-age whose apron suggested she might be a servant; a slender girl, her loose chestnut hair falling almost to her waist; and a small, curly-haired boy with a dab of soot on the end of his nose and wide hazel eyes very like his mother’s. If he hadn’t known Mrs. Penhallow to have children before this moment, he would have known these two to be hers with no difficulty, so alike were the three of them.