Marguerite Kaye - Invitation To A Cornish Christmas

‘I do hope, Mr Bligh, that you are not implying that my discussion with Miss Faulkner is of lesser importance?’

Treeve spoke with an air of quiet authority. His expression was bland, but his message was perfectly clear. Jago Bligh’s jaw tightened. ‘I shall await your convenience back at Karrek House,’ he said finally.

‘Good man. I will see you there once I have escorted Miss Faulkner back to her cottage.’

‘There is no need.’ Unwilling to be the cause of any other further tension, Emily got to her feet, pulling on her cloak. ‘I’ve detained you long enough. In any case, I intend to walk the long way around the headland, get some fresh air while it lasts. Good day to you, Captain Penhaligon, Mr Bligh.’

Outside, the clouds were ominously black, the wind was up, and her cloak whirled around her as she climbed up to the cliff path. Looking back, she saw Treeve emerge from the tavern, striding ahead up Budoc Lane, his estate manager lagging slightly behind, gesticulating in a way that made it clear that whatever he was saying, he wasn’t happy.

Mr Bligh was not unattractive, with craggy but regular features set under a thatch of thick dark hair, and a beard which he kept neatly trimmed. She reckoned he must be about ten years older than Treeve, though he was very fit and muscled, his bulky shoulders and barrel chest testament to the hours he spent at sea, skippering his pilchard boat. Both he and Treeve were captains—how odd that this hadn’t occurred to her before—but they could not be more different.

Jago Bligh was very much respected in the village—though as she had observed for herself in a confrontation between Mr Bligh and Abel Menhenick, it was a respect bordering on fear. She did not like him, and it was not simply because he treated her with the contempt of a man who considered her beneath his notice. He looked to the right when he spoke, never quite avoiding her eyes, but never quite meeting them square on. And he was not confident, he was arrogant.

‘Foolish man,’ Emily muttered to herself, as the pair disappeared from view. ‘In any conflict, I know who my money would be on.’

‘Of course, these are small-scale pieces compared to my father’s,’ Emily said, ‘but the techniques are the same, whether you are making a tea urn or a snuffbox. The first task is to cut a shape from a sheet of metal, such as this, using a template. I make them myself, from practice pieces of brass or copper.’

Treeve watched, fascinated, as she demonstrated, seated at the long wooden bench which took up most of the living space in the cottage. He had planned to call on her yesterday morning, having reluctantly allocated Bligh the rest of the day before, once the blasted man had sought him out at the Ship Inn. But once again his best-laid plans had been holed below the waterline, this time by Austol’s lawyer—correction, his lawyer, who had arrived unannounced with another wooden chest full of documents to be perused. This day, he was absolutely determined to claim for himself, and if he could persuade Emily to spend it with him, then all the better.

‘Next,’ she continued, ‘I use a small hammer to beat out the shape I require.’

‘You don’t need to heat the metal then?’

‘No, it is hammered cold, but as you work it, the silver hardens, so you do have to soften it now and then—we call that annealing. I have a small brazier which burns charcoal, which I keep outside, so you need not worry that I’ll burn down your cottage by dropping hot coals. It’s not big enough for me to do any casting, which is why everything I make is on a small scale.’

‘What happens next?’

‘The piece is soldered together, if required—if it is a box, for example. And of course if I’m making jewellery it requires extensive soldering, using silver wire. Then the last stage is the decoration, which is the part I enjoy the most. See, here are some samples which are complete, apart from final polishing. This is filigree, which is formed from fine silver wire.’

The trinket box was adorned with a delicate pattern of leaves and flowers. A central flower in each panel sent twining garlands out to each corner, and the four little feet were formed from leaves. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Treeve said, tracing the design with his fingers.

‘This one is made using a mixture of hammering and pierced work,’ Emily said, swapping the box for a salt lined with dark blue glass. ‘I buy the glass linings, obviously, and then make the framework to fit each exactly. And here,’ she said, unrolling a piece of chamois leather, ‘are some earrings which I’ve been working on. The stones are paste, I can’t afford precious gems.’

‘Bluebells?’ Treeve asked, gazing down at the tiny flower-like earrings set with blue glass.

‘They are, how clever of you to notice.’

‘It is you who are clever. These are wonderful pieces. And so diverse.’

She beamed. ‘Thank you. I must confess, I enjoy the variety.’

‘Such craftsmanship, I would have thought it would have earned you your fortune.’

‘Sadly not. If I wished to make my fortune, I’d have to set up on a much larger scale, and make much grander pieces too, as my father did. Dinner services, tea services, serving dishes, epergnes, that kind of thing. But aside from the fact that is simply not possible here, I prefer working on smaller, more modest pieces.’

Emily took the earrings from him, rolling them carefully back in the chamois leather before picking up a cloth. He watched her polishing the floral trinket box, a small frown furrowing her brow, her generous lips pursed in concentration. She was wearing a plain gown of soft wool the colour of a pale wintry sky. She had rolled the sleeves up to expose her forearms. Tanned and slender yet far from frail, he could see the ripple of the muscles under her skin as she worked, and dammit, he found it absurdly arousing. She wore her hair up in a knot. There was something arousing too, yet vulnerable, in the long line of her exposed neck as she bent over her work.

Looking up, she caught his eye and smiled faintly, offering him the little box. ‘If you look closely, you’ll see my hallmark.’

‘“EF”,’ Treeve read. ‘If your father was so well known, and you were his apprentice, couldn’t you continue to use his mark?’

‘No. It wouldn’t have been permitted, I was never his official apprentice.’ She got to her feet, retrieving a walnut tea caddy from a shelf, and took out the silver spoon inside. ‘There, you see. “RF”, for Robert Faulkner. That was my father’s mark.’

‘More flowers,’ he said.

‘He made it for my mother. It runs through the female line, the love of nature. There is a beautiful rose garden attached to the big house in Stornaway—that is the main town on the Isle of Lewis. It’s a walled garden, to protect it from the harsh weather. I remember the scent on a sunny day—we did have them in Lewis, every now and then.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Perfume so strong it made you dizzy.’

‘You are never tempted to go back? I do understand what you meant about ghosts, but—being here at Karrek House has also dredged up a plethora of happy memories for me. Things I had quite forgotten.’

‘I can’t possibly go back,’ Emily said bleakly. ‘My happy memories are now tainted for ever. Besides,’ she added, before he could ask her what she meant, ‘more than likely my cousin will have dug up the rose garden and planted potatoes. John-Angus never could see the point of flowers. Needless adornment, he’d have said of that spoon. It’s one of the few of Papa’s pieces I kept.’

Where had the rest gone? The obvious, painful answer, was that they were sold, so Treeve did not ask. He set the spoon down carefully. ‘I can see you’re busy, but I was hoping that I could persuade you to take a walk with me.’