Marguerite Kaye - Invitation To A Cornish Christmas

‘The world is changing, Ned, and Porth Karrek is being left behind.’ Treeve held up his hand to stall the other man’s protests. ‘I want only what is best for this place, I assure you. We all want that. We should all be on the same side.’

‘Aye, you’re right, we should. Can I get you anything else? Only I’ve some thirsty fishermen in the taproom.’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

The door closed softly, and Treeve pushed a cup of coffee towards Emily. ‘It seems I have my answer, with regards to the cognac at least.’

‘Is smuggling really still a problem here, now that the war is over?’

‘Locals would claim that it’s the over-inquisitive Excisemen who are the problem, not the smugglers earning an illegal coin.’ Treeve stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘For me, it’s not a question of right or wrong, it’s a simple matter of the law. You can’t pick and choose what laws to uphold and which ones to break with impunity, even if they do seem to be unjust, or the punishment seems to far outstrip the crime. I’ve seen that for myself Emily, at sea. I’ve been obliged to enforce ship’s discipline, even when in my heart I wanted to be merciful.’

He finished his second cup of coffee, grimacing. ‘I sound like a pompous ass, but I know what I’m talking about. Mutiny. Whether it’s on board a ship on the high seas or here, in Cornwall where the likes of Bligh and Nancarrow think themselves above the law. I won’t tolerate it.’

‘But how can you stop it, if you are not planning to remain here?’

‘Damned if I know!’ Treeve groaned. ‘Nancarrow’s right about Gwav Gool though. As a man of the sea myself, I know that she has to be placated.’

‘Are you teasing me?’

‘Only a little. Your family are from a seafaring community, you know how superstitious such folk are. Gwav Gool is a very ancient Cornish tradition, celebrating the year gone past, and looking forward to an even better one to come. In Porth Karrek, it takes the form of a dance with a supper hosted, as Nancarrow pointed out, by my family two days before Christmas. What’s more, there are a raft of other traditions, both pagan and religious, all tangled up together.’ He frowned. ‘The shopkeepers dispense gin and cake to their customers in December as a thank you for their custom. As I recall, there’s usually a solstice bonfire on the beach which the Treleven family host a couple of days before Gwav Gool. Then Nadelik—Christmas Day—sees the Reverend Maddern’s yuletide service.’

‘Good heavens,’ Emily exclaimed. ‘It sounds as if the entire month of December is given over to some sort of celebration or another.’

‘It’s a hard life here, it’s not surprising they celebrate with gusto. This will be your first Cornish Christmas. Are you looking forward to it? You’ll be expected to join in, you know.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not—all those things you describe, they are for local people.’

‘Which, for the time being, includes you. Don’t you like Christmas?’

‘I’m simply—I don’t mark Christmas. In Lewis, the New Year is more important, and so it was with my family, even after Mama died. And since Papa died…’ She trailed off, appalled to discover her throat clogging. Not one Christmas in their whole five years together, had been spent with Andrew. How virtuous she had felt, surrendering him to his poor mad mother for the festive season. What a fool she had been to believe that barefaced lie.

‘This year will be different,’ Treeve said, so kindly that she felt herself on the brink of most unusual and unwelcome tears. ‘Since I must host Gwav Gool, perhaps you’ll help me out? On board ship, it’s just another day, it will be quite a change for both of us.’

A radical change, and a refreshing one. Emily nodded gratefully. ‘If you think it won’t be resented—my helping you, I mean?’

‘They’ll get short shrift from me if anyone does. Anyway, it’s a good few weeks away yet. I wish I’d thought about it last night, I could have discussed it with Sir Jock Treleven. It is his family who host the bonfire. I had dinner at the Trelevans’ and met all six of his daughters.’

‘Several of them are of marriageable age, I believe. Sir Jock was making hay.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think—’ Treeve broke off, looking aghast.

‘Oh, come now, you are not so naïve. The new lord of a very wealthy manor, unattached, very far from his dotage—quite the opposite in fact. Sir Jock would have been signally failing in his duty, if he had not introduced you to his little stable of fillies.’

‘I’m not in the market for a horse, far less a wife.’

‘But if you were,’ she persisted, ‘then you would struggle to find anyone more appropriate than one of the Miss Trelevens. I have not met any of them, of course, but I have heard they are all very convivial, and have dowries as attractive as they are.’

‘They are undoubtedly both pretty and convivial, though I’m not sure I could tell one from the other.’ He eyed her coolly. ‘I am not a thoroughbred to be put to stud, Emily. If I married, it would be because I had found a woman I didn’t want to live without, not to provide Karrek House with an heir.’

‘I was only teasing.’

‘It didn’t sound as if you were.’

Mortifyingly aware that he was right, that her words had been laced with an inexplicable and most unworthy envy, Emily pushed back her chair, but Treeve stayed her with a hand on her wrist. ‘Why do you consider yourself so beneath them—the Trelevens, I mean? No, don’t deny it. “I have not met them, of course”, that’s what you said. Why of course ?’

‘I’m a silversmith, the daughter of a silversmith, eking out a living in one of your cottages.’ She tried to free her wrist, but his fingers tightened around it.

‘Your mother was the only child of a clearly respectable and wealthy Lewis family. From what you’ve said, your father was no lowly artisan. Your accent and manners betray your roots and your education, the quality of your clothes, the fact that you need to eke out a living is a relatively recent development. The only thing that makes you an unlikely friend for the Miss Trelevens is your age.’ He smiled at her. ‘Quite in your dotage as far as they are concerned, though I consider you the perfect age to make for interesting company.’

‘A back-handed compliment if ever there was one,’ Emily said drily. She was flattered, but wary too, for Treeve had garnered a great deal from the little she had told him of herself.

‘A compliment, sincerely meant.’ Treeve let go of her wrist, but only to cover her hand with his.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to compliments.’

‘You have been hiding yourself away for far too long.’

‘I think you might be right.’

She smiled. Treeve smiled back. Their eyes locked. Her fingers tightened in his, and she felt a quivering response, saw a flare of heat in his eyes that she was sure was reflected in her own. She wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss her. The possibility drew them towards each other, then the grating opening of the door sent them jumping apart.

‘Mr Penhaligon.’ Jago Bligh entered the parlour, pulling up short when he saw Emily. ‘Beg pardon if I’m disturbing you,’ he said, drawing her a look that made it very clear he disapproved of her presence, ‘but I believe we had an appointment.’

‘As you can see, I am currently otherwise engaged.’ Treeve eyed his estate manager with some hauteur. ‘Why you felt it necessary to seek me out when there are, as you have told me several times now, not enough hours in the day for you to attend to your work—’

‘We have important matters to discuss,’ Jago interrupted truculently.