The Bride Sale (23 page)

“Take the pancakes, then, if 'twill keep us safe o' yer mischief,” Grannie said. She opened the bottom half of the door and stepped just outside. She held the plate high amid the pushing and shoving and
shrieking and giggling, and made sure every boy had his share. In little more than the blink of an eye, the plate was empty.

The rowdy group quickly dispersed, calling out thanks around mouthfuls of pancake. A tiny red-haired figure who'd been hidden in the crowd stepped forward and grinned impishly, red jam stains framing his mouth.

“Miz Osborne!” Davey said. “I be a nicky-nan boy!”

Verity bent and tousled the mop of red hair. “So you are.”

“Pa say I be old 'nuff this year. Did we scare 'ee?”

“Almost to death,” Verity said. She gave a mock shudder and Davey squealed with delight. “You'd better run and catch up with the others or you'll miss your cakes.”

Davey gave her a quick hug, then tore off down the lane toward the next cottage. “Ea! Ea! Ea!”

Verity helped Kate tidy up the room from the cooking and then move the table against the wall where it usually stood. They pulled up three chairs close to the fire and sat with their toes outstretched on the hearth. Kate had saved three pancakes, and they enjoyed them along with a cup of tea.

“That little redheaded tacker sure do take to 'ee,” Grannie said.

“Yes,” Verity said. “Davey and I are great friends. I am glad he was able to come down from Pendurgan to take part in all the fun.”

“They always do,” Grannie said.

“Did James?”

Grannie gave Verity a sidelong glance. “Jammez
again. It always do be Jammez with 'ee, Verity Osborne.”

“I'm sorry,” Verity said, bending her head in hopes of hiding the blush that heated her cheeks. “But you said you knew him as a boy. I just wondered…”

“Aye, he were a nicky-nan boy, just like the rest,” Grannie said. “Didn't matter none that he come from the big house. He run wild through St. Perran's along wid all t'others.”

“What was it like at Pendurgan before all the troubles began?” Verity asked. Gonetta had told her about old Christmas traditions of mummers and the caroling at Pendurgan, community traditions that had lapsed since the tragic fire. It was another way in which James had encouraged his dark reputation—putting a stop to old customs. She had learned in her short time here that the Cornish people set great store by customs. Might it not be a good step toward changing attitudes if some of those customs were revived?

“I assume,” she continued, “that people actually came up to the house at times, during special occasions. They must not have always avoided it the way they do now.”

Grannie crossed her arms over her ample chest and pursed her lips. It was a long moment before she spoke.

“No, 'twere not always like 'tis now,” she said. “All my life, old Pendurgan be the great house in the district where the great people gathered. How we did love it when we did be invited to come up. We'd get all cleaned up and put on our Sunday best and feel so proud to be goin' up the big house.”

“I remember that, too,” Kate said. “'Twere always a grand time.”

“When did you come?” Verity asked. “At Christmas?”

“Aye, at Christmas,” Grannie said. “And also fer the annual tenants' breakfast, and o' course fer the—”

“The midsummer's eve festival!” Kate said. “Oh, my, what fun that was.”

“They held a festival at Pendurgan?” Verity asked.

“A grand one,” Kate said. “Every year at midsummer's eve. 'Twere lovely. I do miss that, I tell 'ee.”

“Tell me about the festival,” Verity said. An idea had come to her—a wild and wonderful idea—that took root and began to grow, nurtured by the stories that followed.

 

“You must be out of your mind.”

“I hope I am not,” Verity said in response to Agnes Bodinar's outburst. “Indeed, I believe I am not. I have heard that the Pendurgan festival was the highlight of the year in the district, and even beyond. It seems a shame such a fond old tradition should have lapsed.”

Agnes gave a disdainful snort. “It lapsed because no one in the district—in all of Cornwall—will have anything to do with Pendurgan now.” She glared at Verity as though challenging her to deny it. “Forget about the wretched festival. No one will come.”

Ever since Verity had blithely announced her intention to resurrect the midsummer's eve festival, James had been stunned into silence. He knew what she was about, of course. For reasons still incompre
hensible to him, Verity had set out to change the hearts and minds of the local people, to repair his blackened reputation. This idea of the festival moved him more than he could ever have imagined.

A revival of the midsummer festival was a significant enterprise, one that could have major results, one way or the other. If Verity's plans failed it would hurt her more than it would James, who was accustomed to the fear and loathing of his own people. But if her plans succeeded…The very notion tied his stomach in knots.

It had been so long, so long since anyone other than Alan Poldrennan had visited Pendurgan. James had preferred to keep himself apart from local society. Did he still?

“Can you really be so sure no one would come?” Verity asked. She looked at James, inviting his response. “Did you hold a festival that no one attended?”

“It was not necessary,” Agnes replied, her tone waspish and scornful. “There has never been any question that the entire district would avoid Pendurgan at all costs.”

“But are you certain?” Verity asked.

Agnes pressed her fists hard against the edge of the table and leaned forward toward Verity. “Of course I am certain.” She spoke through clenched teeth, her jaw rigid. “You silly little fool. Have you not lived here long enough to realize how thoroughly ostracized we are up here? Do you not know that the very names Pendurgan and Harkness are loathsome throughout the district?” She tilted her head back,
slanted a glance toward James, then curled her lip into a sneer. “Or has he got you so besotted you cannot see the truth?”

Verity held Agnes with her forthright, unflinching gaze. She had backbone, to be sure. That quiet courage was one of the things he most admired about Verity. Admired and envied. For she had the courage to fight for the vindication of his name, when he had long ago given up hope that such a thing was even possible.

“I understand what you are saying,” Verity said, her voice calm and controlled, “though, of course, you have lived with the…the aftermath much longer than I have. I can never know what it must have been like for you all those years ago, when the tragedy occurred. But perhaps as an outsider, I can see what those of you closer to the situation cannot. It occurs to me, for example, that elimination of some of the old traditions like the Christmas mummers and the midsummer festival may have simply aggravated any bad feelings in the district. It may have done more harm than good.”

James stared at Verity, captivated by her tenacity. He wondered if there might not be some truth in what she said, though in his gut he knew Agnes had the right of it. It did not matter. Verity's belief in him, however misplaced, was something he would always treasure, even if he ultimately discouraged her from acting on those convictions. He was not at all sure he wanted her to go through with this idea of the festival.

Agnes crossed her arms over her thin chest and
peered down the length of her nose at Verity. “You came here under circumstances that would oblige any sensible woman to hide in shame,” she said, her voice brittle and sharp as broken glass. “And yet you…you interfere and meddle in business that does not concern you, insinuating yourself into village life, dredging up old wounds, making a nuisance of yourself. Somehow you think you can make a difference by reviving the festival. Well, you're wrong. You have no idea what you are talking about. I tell you no one,
no one
, would have come.”

“You may be right,” Verity said. “Six years ago, so soon after it happened, people may have stayed away. But is it not time to leave the past behind? It is not simply a matter of restoring festivals and the like.” She turned to look at James. “It is the distance you maintain, the way you've withdrawn from everything that has allowed all manner of foolish tales to spring up. I have spoken to some of the villagers, and they have told me they would be pleased to see the festival revived. They
would
come, I feel sure of it.”

“Hmph,” Agnes snorted. “So they claim, but I do not believe it for one minute. They would plan some sort of mischief, to be sure. Or more likely, they may simply pretend to go along with you, all the while laughing behind your back, laughing at how you have come under
his
spell.”

“Agnes!” James had finally had enough of her spiteful tongue. “You go too far, madam.”

“Do I?” Agnes glared at him.

“Yes, you do. You have no cause to say such things
to Verity. She is our guest and…my friend.” His eyes met Verity's, and she smiled so sweetly he had to look away.

“Your
friend
?” Agnes gave a derisive sniff. “Call her what you will. Everyone knows what
she
is, but clearly she has been seduced into believing
you
are something other than you are. And now that you have her under your control, you have set her to clear your name for you. Well, it cannot be done.” She rose so quickly her chair almost toppled over behind her. “Go ahead, missy, do your best for your…your lover and see what good it does. But do not expect me to be any part of your foolhardy schemes.” In a swirl of black skirts, she left the dining room.

James watched her exit with exasperation. He was used to Agnes's behavior and had made every effort over the last several years to ignore it. After all, she had more cause than anyone else to thoroughly despise him. There were times, however, when her incessant venom became intolerable.

He gave a weary sigh before his eyes met Verity's. “You must forgive Agnes,” he said. “She—”

“Oh, I understand, my lord.” She smiled in response to his lifted brow. “James. I understand her anger. She is only throwing out words in anguish, poor thing. She lost her only daughter and now thinks that I…” Verity's cheeks flushed and her gaze dropped to her dinner plate. She said no more, though they both knew what words had been left unspoken.

“It is more than just that,” James said. “Agnes has suffered more than anyone these past years. Not only has she had to deal with the deaths of her daughter
and grandson, but she is forced to depend upon the man who killed them.”

“James.” Verity raised her head and shot him a concerned look. “You must stop saying that. You did
not
kill them. You know you did not, yet you seem to want everyone to believe you did. I do not understand you. Such remarks only encourage the villainous legend of Lord Heartless to prosper and grow.”

He regarded her gravely. “Agnes is right, you know. It is too late. My name is too black to be restored.” He reached over and touched her hand briefly. “But I do appreciate the effort.”

Verity looked down at the hand where his fingers had brushed hers. “It is worth the effort,” she whispered. “I owe you…that much.”

It became more and more difficult to ignore the affection for her—or was it more?—that had begun to blossom in his heart when her words caused the damned organ to dance a jig in his chest. “You owe me nothing,” he said. She had already given him more than he deserved, while all he could do was take. He had nothing to give in return. “You owe me nothing.”

“Nonsense,” she said, dismissing his words with a wave of her hand. “Besides, the festival will give me something to do. I prefer to be busy at something, and there is only so much I can do with my herbals. It will give me pleasure to plan the festival, truly. Please, do not ask me to abandon the idea. I would so enjoy doing it, and I
know
people will come. They will.” Her eyes were ablaze with enthusiasm and her voice had become decidedly impassioned. She was almost irresistible.

“Yes, I suspect you will be able to convince any number of people to come,” James said, thinking she could probably charm the piskeys from their faerie grove if she set her mind to it.

“Then you will allow it?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you must know, the whole idea scares the bloody hell out of me.”

She pulled a face. “Then you are indeed afraid they will not come?”

“On the contrary. I am very much afraid they will.”

“Oh.” She knitted her brows as she puzzled over his words. She looked so adorably confused he had to bite back a smile.

“It has been a very long time, you see, since people gathered at Pendurgan,” he said. “I am not quite sure I'm prepared.”

Her face lit up like a thousand candles. “You will see, my lord. You will see. If you open your home and your heart to these good people, they will not scorn you. A resumption of some sort of normalcy in the district can only be a good thing. If you will but begin to set things to right once more, they will smile upon you with gratitude and be happy.”

He could no longer restrain himself. James reached for her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. There was much he would like to have said. “Thank you,” was all he could manage.

She slowly—reluctantly?—retrieved her hand. Her cheeks blushed rosily and she looked away briefly. When her eyes met his again, they were fired once more with excitement. “This will be so much fun, I declare. You must tell me, James, the sorts of
entertainments people would most enjoy. I can guess about the general sort of thing, but there are perhaps Cornish games and customs that I know nothing about. There must also be music, of course. And dancing. Are there any traditional Cornish dances we should plan for? And how do we go about arranging for booths and sellers of various goods? Oh, and the food! We must plan ahead for lots of food. You must tell me if—”