Marguerite Kaye - Invitation To A Cornish Christmas

‘Ah, the very person!’ Treeve exclaimed, emerging from the shop. ‘If I hadn’t bumped into you here, I’d have called at your cottage. I’m afraid I haven’t had a moment to call my own since I last saw you.’

‘I did warn you that would be the case.’

‘You’re on your way home,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you can wait for half an hour or so, then I can walk back with you? No, it’s wrong of me to ask. The light is good. You’ll be wanting to get back to your workbench, so I won’t detain you.’

‘I can spare half an hour,’ Emily found herself saying, which she wouldn’t have, had not Treeve acknowledged that she too had other claims on her time.

‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I appreciate that. I’m told I can get a decent cup of coffee at the Ship, will you join me?’

‘I’m not sure that I’ll be welcome there. As a female, I mean.’

‘This is not London, Emily. The Ship has always been the hub of the village, a place for men, women and children to relax—not in the taproom, obviously, but there is a parlour.’ Treeve pursed his lips. ‘But you must know that, you’ve lived here long enough. What you mean is that you don’t think you’d be welcome as an outsider. I’ll let you into a secret. I am not convinced I’ll be welcome either, and I own the place. Shall we step inside and find out?’

‘Oh, what the devil,’ Emily said, earning herself a raised brow and a conspiratorial smile.

The parlour of the Ship was empty. It was cosy and low ceilinged, a fire smouldering in the stone grate that took up most of one wall. The floors were bare boards, pitted and scarred from decades of contact with the customers’ hobnail boots, the seating a combination of tall settles on two walls, and rickety chairs, with a scattering of small wooden tables, as scarred and pitted as the floor. The air was pungent with the smell of stale ale and the vinegar used to mop it up. The room was dark, lit only by a small window, and smoky, not only from the fire but the open hatch through which the taproom could be seen—and could likely be heard too, Emily presumed, were it not for the deathly silence which greeted their arrival.

Treeve pulled two chairs and one of the tables closer to the fire, stretching his long legs out to rest on the hearth. He was wearing buckskin breeches and boots today, another wide-skirted coat, dark blue, made of fine wool, with a waistcoat to match. His linen was pristine, making his beard seem more blue than black—not that it was quite a beard. Emily wondered how he managed to keep the bristle in trim, for he looked like a man who must shave at least twice a day, yet it was every bit as neat and tidy as it had been when she first saw him.

A low mutter had resumed in the taproom, but no one had yet appeared to serve them. Treeve, rolling his eyes, was just pushing back his chair to get up, when the door opened.

‘Captain Penhaligon.’ Derwa Nancarrow, the Ship’s formidable landlady, was about the same age, Emily reckoned, as herself, with the black hair and very pale skin of the Celt so common in Cornwall. She was a handsome woman, with deep-set brown eyes and a mouth that was capable of producing a sultry smile, but today was decidedly sullen. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I see I have no need to introduce myself,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet. ‘How do you do, Mrs Nancarrow? I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘I’m from Helston. You had left Porth Karrek for the navy before I married Ned. Your brother is much missed. He was a true Cornishman.’

If she had not been watching him closely, Emily would have missed the slight tightening of his mouth at this barb. ‘None truer,’ Treeve replied blandly enough, however. Not indifferent, but determined to be seen to be. She admired him for that.

‘What can I get you?’

‘I’m not your only customer. This is Miss Faulkner, who is renting one of the estate cottages,’ Treeve said.

‘I know who she is. I’m assuming it’s coffee you’re after?’

‘If you could find it within yourself to bring us some,’ he answered sardonically, ‘that would be delightful.’

‘I warned you,’ Emily said as Mrs Nancarrow disappeared again, her entrance next door clearly marked by the sudden increase in voices.

‘I wonder, if I’d asked her, if she’d have served me a fine French cognac.’ Treeve sat down again beside her. ‘No, she’d have told me they don’t stock such things, even though they almost certainly do.’

‘You think that is why she was so…’

‘Sullen? Wary? Yes, because she doesn’t want a navy man asking awkward questions as to whether it is contraband or not.’

‘Especially since you own this inn now.’

‘I wish to hell that I did not. Excuse my language.’

‘Oh, for a rough sailor, your language is remarkably civilised.’

Treeve gave a snort of laughter. ‘You have no idea.’

‘If you came here in the hope of gaining acceptance,’ Emily said, keeping her voice low, casting a wary glance at the open hatch, ‘you’d have been better off in the taproom, taking a glass of rough cider and rubbing shoulders with the men.’

‘I’m not sure I’m looking for acceptance. It might be different if I planned to remain here.’

‘You’ve decided that Mr Bligh is trustworthy then?’

‘He seems to have kept things ticking over very well since Austol died, but I’ve discovered in the last few days that there’s a great deal more required than simply keeping things ticking over. A good many decisions have been put on hold. I had no idea. These last few days have been quite an eye-opener. If I told you…’

‘Captain Penhaligon. Miss Faulkner.’

Ned Nancarrow set down a tray bearing two cups, a pewter coffee pot, and a sugar dish. A tall man of sparse build, with hair to match, he had a long face, and a way of looking sideways that gave the impression he was forever keeping a weather eye on his potential escape route.

‘Thank you, Ned,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Well enough.’ The hand was taken, rather reluctantly. ‘Jago tells me you’re headed back to your ship at the turn of the year.’

‘Does he?’ Treeve sat down again, picking up the coffee pot. ‘He knows more than me then.’

‘Said you had leave until the end of December.’

‘That’s true enough.’

‘So you’ll be here for the Nadelik celebrations then—that’s what we call Christmas, Miss Faulkner. You’ll be hosting Gwav Gool up at the big house, as your father did, and your brother, too?’

‘I had not thought that far ahead.’

‘People expect it. No Gwav Gool festival means the harvest will fail, and the catch next year will be poor. You should know that, Captain. It’s a tradition that goes back generations. Perhaps it might be best to leave it to Jago to organise. He’s well versed in local customs.’

Treeve set the coffee pot down again. ‘When you know me better, Ned, and I hope you will take the time to do that, you’ll understand that I prefer to make my own mind up about local customs, both good and bad.’

He spoke quietly. He hadn’t moved from his chair, but there was no doubting the steel in his voice. Emily sensed it, and so too did Ned Nancarrow, who narrowed his eyes. ‘Not sure what you’re getting at, but I sincerely hope you’re not casting no aspersions. The Ship has been run by my family for generations without any complaints from the authorities.’

‘I’m aware of that, and I’m happy for it to stay that way.’

‘I told Jago, you’re a Cornishman, before you’re a naval man.’