The Bride Sale (30 page)

There were still questions, however, that needed answers. It had not been only Gilbert who rejected her.

She looked at James. “And so the pain last time—”

“Was my fault entirely. Had I known you were a virgin, my dear, I would have been more gentle. My anger afterward was directed at me, not at you. I was angry and ashamed at the rough way I'd handled you. If only I'd known, if only I'd done a better job of
it, it might not have been so painful for you. It only hurts the first time. The rest of the time—”

“It is quite wonderful.” She hugged him close and burrowed her head against his shoulder. In the space of a moment, she was a new woman. The man she adored found her beautiful and desirable. The pride she would now wear would be real and true, no longer a mask for shame.

“Thank you so much, James. You cannot know what this means to me. I—” She almost told him she loved him but bit off the words before she could say them. She did not know how he felt. Just because he desired her did not mean he loved her. It would only make things awkward between them if she declared her love and he did not.

He kissed the top of her head. “It was my pleasure, madam.” He extricated himself from her embrace and sat up. “Now, my dear, we have much to discuss. Come under the blankets where we can stay warm.”

They rearranged themselves in the bed, propped up against the pillows with the covers pulled up to their chests. James held her hand beneath the blankets.

“I am more pleased than you will ever know,” he said, “that you want to return to Pendurgan, that you have found some happiness there, despite the way it all began. But after the annulment, I would not wish to involve you in yet another scandal by asking you to live there with me as my mistress. For I intend to spend many more nights like this making love to you. I thought it would be best if…if we married.”

Verity's heart lurched in her chest. She did not
know if it could bear another jolt. But this one…ah, this one she would endure. “Married?”

“Yes, if it's all the same to you. It seems the best thing to do, don't you agree?”

The best thing to do. Oh, indeed. “I suppose so,” she said, keeping her elation in check.

“So you will marry me, Verity?”

“Yes, James. I will marry you.”

He reached over and kissed her gently. “Thank you, my dear. I hope you will not regret it. I am not much of a bargain, you know.”

Not much of a bargain? For the first time in her life she saw the prospect of a normal marriage, and perhaps even children, with the man she loved. It seemed a tremendous bargain to her.

“I'm not so young anymore, for one thing,” he said. “Did you know I am all of eight and thirty? Much too old for a beautiful young thing such as yourself.”

She smiled and lifted a hand to touch the silver at his temples. “You are not too old,” she said. “It is just that you have wasted too many years believing yourself a murderer.”

“If I am not a murderer, then at the very least I am surely mad, for I cannot control these spells that happen to me. I really have no right to ask you to saddle yourself with man whose brain is damaged.”

“Your brain was never damaged,” she said, “but only your spirit. Your spirit was broken by your inability to help the men under your command, or to help your own loved ones when they needed you. But unlike a damaged brain, a broken spirit can be repaired, James. Only look what you have done for me
tonight. By showing me that I am not deformed in some way, by teaching me that I can be desirable, you have washed away all the years of private shame and guilt. You have helped to heal my spirit, James. Let me help to heal yours.”

He made an odd strangled sound in his throat and pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. He held her a long time without speaking.

“Thank you, Verity,” he said at last. “Thank you for believing in me. I'll do my best to see that you do not regret marrying me.”

He kissed her, and the kiss quickly became passionate. They made love again, at first slowly and then frantically. Verity fell asleep in his arms, curled up beside him like a kitten, and as content.

 

James's carriage pulled into the long graveled drive just as the sun was setting. He let down the carriage window and gaped at his almost unrecognizable estate: Pendurgan had been transformed into a fairground. He could hardly believe his eyes.

Tents and makeshift structures were sprawled in every direction, and people—dear God, so many people!—milled about everywhere he looked. Bright flaming torches seemed to dot the landscape as well. No, not torches. Something bigger. Tar barrels? It was a sight to behold.

“My dear Verity,” he said. “You have outdone yourself. I am quite literally overwhelmed. This is marvelous!”

“It is, isn't it?” Her smile was brighter than the bonfire and he could feel her almost bouncing off the seat in excitement and pride.

She had done it for him. He gathered her in his arms and held her tight. His emotions ran so strong that words seemed a poor instrument, so he simply held her and hoped she understood.

As the carriage approached the great stand of chestnut trees, a shout went up from a group gathered around the tables placed on the lawn outside the main entrance. Within moments, so many people surrounded the carriage that the driver was forced to pull it to a stop.

“Welcome home!”

“A fine festival, my lord!”

“Lord Harkness is here!”

Nick Tregonning opened the carriage door and pulled down the steps. Tossing his hat and greatcoat on the opposite bench, James alighted, turned to hand Verity out, and then faced the crowd of men and women wanting to shake his hand. He was grabbed from every direction. Zack Muddle and Gerens Palk and Ezra Noone and Ned Trethowan and Dickie Nanpean and Tom Bedruthan and so many others he could hardly keep track as he was spun in one direction, then the other to receive an astonishingly warm welcome.

His hand was pumped, his back was slapped, and he was tugged along toward the center of the festivities, escorted through the crowd like a king among his people. It was literally breathtaking. These good people, who had hated him, scorned him, even feared him for almost seven years, now treated him like a returning hero. A tankard of ale was thrust in his hand by none other than Old Artful. The grizzled old kiddly minder raised his hand for silence.

“Here be a toast to his lordship,” the old man said, “fer givin' us this here fine festival again, and better'n ever. To Lord Harkness.”

“To Lord Harkness!” the crowd shouted in unison.

James raised his tankard with the rest and drank, savoring the good, strong local ale. He then raised his own hand for silence.

“I want to thank you all for coming,” he said. “I am sorry to be so late, but now that we're here I am pleased to see so many of you. Here's hoping we continue the tradition every year.”

“Here, here.”

“And one more important toast,” he said, and steered Verity to the front of the crowd. “To Mrs. Osborne, for working so hard to make the festival a success.”

“To Miz Osborne,” the crowd sang out.

Verity blushed with pleasure and James beamed at her. He would like to have announced their marriage plans to this happy crowd, but it was probably best to keep that news private for now, until the annulment was accomplished.

“Please continue to enjoy the festival,” James said, “while I take a look around for myself. Thank you all again for coming.”

“I'm going to dash upstairs and change,” Verity whispered, “and then make sure everything is running smoothly. I will see you later.”

She gave him a look so sizzling with promise he almost lost his balance.

 

Verity enjoyed a tearful reunion with the household, though there was no time to linger over senti
ment. Her corps of volunteers had been wonderful, with Mrs. Tregelly overseeing it all in Verity's absence. Word of the festival had spread well beyond the district, and peddlers and trinket merchants and craftsmen had poured onto the estate to set up temporary shop. Even an old gypsy woman had showed up offering to tell fortunes.

Jago Chenhalls and George Pascow, Kate's husband, had organized foot races, sheep-shearing competitions, wrestling matches, and various contests of strength for the men. Borra Nanpean and Annie Kempthorne had organized the children's games. Ezra Noone, who played the fiddle, had rounded up groups of other musicians and lively music had filled the air when Verity arrived.

Mrs. Chenhalls commanded a troop of local women, including Mag Puddifoot from Gunnisloe and a French pastry maker from Bodmin, who had been engaged to help with food preparations. The cavernous old kitchen bustled with activity. Young girls came and went bearing trays of savory pies, saffron cakes, figgy obbin, and other local favorites to be loaded onto several long trestle tables set up near the front of the house.

The troupe of players had brought with them jugglers and acrobats and puppeteers as well. The make-do stage had been scheduled to present performances of all kinds throughout the day and evening.

Verity wandered about the stalls that meandered over the grounds, and was hailed here and there by people who seemed to take her presence at Pendurgan for granted.

“Miz Verity!” Jacob Dunstan called out to her as she passed Old Artful's slapdash temporary kiddly. “Miz Verity, where be his lordship? When he did send word to close the mine for the day, I did think fer certain he'd be here, but I ain't seen him.”

“He arrived a short time ago,” Verity said. “He is having a look about. I'm sure you will see him soon.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jacob said. “Did want to raise my glass to him, I did, fer bringin' back the festival.”

“He's certain to make his way to the kiddly before long, Jacob. I am sure he will be pleased to know you are enjoying yourself.”

“Slap me if I ain't,” he said. “'Tis the finest time we did have round these parts fer many a year.”

Verity smiled at Jacob and was about to stroll on when she caught sight of a familiar figure perched on a barrel and leaning against the long board stretched between two sawhorses that served as Old Artful's counter. Rufus Bargwanath. What on earth was he doing here? She thought he had left the district months ago.

He leered at her and gave a lecherous wink. Verity whirled around and almost stumbled over Jacob Dunstan's outstretched legs.

“Careful there, Miz Verity,” he said, and offered a hand.

“Jacob,” she whispered, “what is
he
doing here?” She tilted her head in the direction of the former steward.

“Bargwanath? Don't rightly know. Likely he do be out o' work again. Or maybe he just did come back to stir up trouble, like he always done. Don't 'ee be wor
rin' 'bout him, Miz Verity. Me and t'others'll keep an eye on the rotter.”

“Thank you, Jacob.” She glanced over her shoulder to see Bargwanath grinning at her with those big yellow teeth. She quickly strolled away back toward the stage, where the players were entertaining a boisterous crowd with a broad farce. She was hailed again after a few moments by Gonetta, full of excitement.

“It do be getting on time for the bonfire,” she said, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. “Where be them little bundles of herbs we did tie up so pretty?”

“Oh, dear,” Verity said. “I left the basket full of them in the kitchen. Come with me and we'll pass them out to the girls.”

She had trouble keeping up with Gonetta who practically ran back to the house. They retrieved the basket and swung it between them as they trudged up the rise where the wood and kindling had been stacked in a huge mound. A crowd had already begun to gather as word spread that the fire was soon to be lit.

Verity and Gonetta distributed the herbs to all the young girls—bunches of clover, cinquefoil, vervain, and restharrow, all tied up with colored ribbons. It was a local tradition that each girl would toss her herbs into the fire and make a wish for her favorite young man to fall in love with her.

“I do be takin' one fer meself,” Gonetta whispered. “I got me eye on Josh Trethowan.”

Verity smiled and surreptitiously took one and tucked it in her pocket. She had a wish of her own to make.

She was glad James did not join the crowd around the woodpile. It would have been a shame if the fire had triggered one of his spells and spoiled his successful reentry into local society. Fortunately, no one seemed to think it strange that James was not present. George Pascow, Nat Spruggins, and Cheelie Craddick carried torches to the mound of wood and used them to light it all around the bottom, then threw the torches on top of the pyre to great shouting and applause. The blaze took off quickly, and within minutes the flames were soaring to the sky.

Girls, giggling and squealing, threw in their herbs, and soon all the young people began to “thread the needle” around the bonfire. When she thought no one was looking, Verity tossed her own bunch of herbs into the fire. She looked up to find Grannie Pascow smiling at her from across the flames. The old woman winked, and Verity grinned sheepishly.

“'Tis a shame James wasn't here to start the fire.”

Verity spun around to find Agnes Bodinar standing just behind her. It was the first time she'd seen her, though she showed no surprise to find Verity had returned. Verity assumed she would have remained inside the house and ignored the festival entirely.

“To start such a great, huge fire would have suited him,” Agnes said. “Don't you agree?”

Verity protested Agnes's words with a click of the tongue. “You are not being fair,” she said. “After all these years under his roof, you must surely know how fire affects James.”

“I only know he shows an uncommon fascination
for the flames,” Agnes said. “Whenever there is a fire, he always seems to be there. A pity he should miss this one.”