Bonded Heart

by Jane Jackson

Genres: Family Life; Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A tale of love and hardship set in wild and beautiful 19th century Cornwall. Born into a once-respectable family, circumstances have reduced Roz Trevaskis to working at the local inn. In order to pay the fines incurred through her alcoholic mother?s drunken behaviour, Roz has put herself in debt to some unpleasant people, and has reluctantly turned to smuggling. When her half-brother, Tom, is offered a job as an apprentice on the estate of the local JP, Branoc Casvellan, Roz realises this is an opportunity to dig her family out of trouble. Then Casvellan's brother catches smallpox, and it falls to Roz to nurse him ? bringing her into close contact with her handsome employer. But how will Casvellan ? and his family ? react when the truth about Roz's life comes out?

Release date: March 20, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 248

Sample

Chapter One

Though the inn door stood open and the small-paned windows were flung wide, there wasn’t a breath of wind to stir the summer heat. The aromas of ale, cooked food, illicit cognac, and the pungency of boiling tar drifting up from the slipway were layered with tobacco smoke. The thick fug dried Roz’s throat and made her eyes sting.

Beneath a faded calico gown and coarse linen apron, her shift clung to damp skin as she set plates of steaming beef stew in front of two fishermen whose checked shirts and forearms bore smears of the black pitch they were using to seal the hull of their fishing boat.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘No, my bird. Look ʼand some it do.’ Winnen rubbed scarred hands together.

As Roz nodded, smiled and turned to gather up empty tankards from the table behind, his mate spoke. ‘’Ere, maid, bring us another mug of ale, will ee?’

‘Certainly, Mr Bosanko.’ She waited.

He glanced up. ‘Go on then. I’m chacking here.’

Roz smothered a sigh. It was almost two and she had been at work since six that morning. Her back ached and her feet were throbbing. How could she have imagined she would ever get used to it? ‘The money, Mr Bosanko?’

‘Tell Jack I’ll pay’n later.’

‘With respect, Mr Bosanko, I don’t think he’d believe me.’

‘She got ʼee there, boy,’ Winnen grinned as he caught Roz’s eye. ‘Mean, he is. Tight as a gin. ʼTis some terrible affliction.’

‘I aren’t,’ Bosanko bridled. ‘No such thing.’

Digging into his pocket, Winnen slapped a handful of coins onto the scarred tabletop. ‘Go on, my bird. Take for two pints. Us’ll be here all day else.’

Roz delivered their ale. Then, resting her tray on a vacated table, she began scraping and stacking used plates. The inn was always crowded at meal times. The past three months had been particularly busy as masons from Helston and surrounding villages had arrived to assist local men with rebuilding the harbour wall and quay destroyed by the terrible storm in March.

More fishermen were coming in now that the mackerel season was almost over, though a few of the old men still went out with hand lines and sold their catch on the quay. Boats were being repainted and the nets and sails steeped in vats of boiling oak bark to preserve them before the fleet headed west to the Irish sea to fish for herring. This preparation was hard demanding work that created both a thirst and an appetite for Nell’s savoury pies and rich stews.

As Roz loaded her tray she had a sudden vivid memory of gleaming mahogany covered in crisp white damask, delicate bone china and beautifully presented food. But the faces around the table had been tight-lipped and unforgiving. There was so much she missed. But not that: not the lack of charity.

‘All right, my beauty?’ An arm snaked around her waist.

Roz batted the arm away before it could pull her closer. ‘That’s enough, Jim Kellow.’ Keeping her tone light, Roz moved swiftly to put the table between them. Jim was an appealing rogue. But Roz had no interest in him or his games. Instead she treated him in the same no-nonsense manner she used on her young half-brother when he was naughty. ‘It’s your Susan you should be hugging.’

‘I would, but she’s mad at me.’ The young man pulled a face. ‘Awful teasy she is.’

‘Then you’d best go home and apologise.’

‘But I haven’t –he broke off as Roz raised her brows at him. ‘Well, maybe I did. But it never meant nothing.’

‘All the more reason to tell her you’re sorry,’ Roz advised.

He winked. ‘I’d sooner stay here.’

‘You must do as you wish.’ Shaking her head, Roz picked up her tray and shot him a look that warned him to keep his distance. ‘If you want ale, ask Jack.’

‘Some hard-hearted woman you are.’

Roz said nothing. If she were as tough as he imagined, she wouldn’t be here. She would have turned her back and walked away.

As she carried the heavy tray out of the taproom into the short stone-flagged passage leading to the kitchen she asked herself once again what madness had brought her to this? She had given up a secure, comfortable life for the sake of the mother who had abandoned her: a woman difficult to help. Yet, demanding though it was, didn’t her life have more meaning here than in the stifling propriety of her grandparents’ home?

The kitchen was an inferno. Curls that had escaped from her frilled white mobcap stuck to her temples and the nape of her neck. Perspiration prickled her skin as she rested the tray on the edge of a table alongside a vast wooden tub half-full of scummy water and began to unload the tankards

Keren, the scullery maid, her skinny arms red to the elbows, wiped a pewter plate with a grey rag, plunged it into a smaller tub of cleaner water then slotted it into a wooden rack to dry.

Nell Hicks, the landlord’s wife, a short square woman with work-worn hands and a kind heart hidden behind a commanding manner, clattered the lid onto a cauldron hanging from an iron hook over glowing embers in the huge hearth. She turned to Roz, her face crimson from the heat. ‘Still busy, is it?’

Roz shook her head. ‘Just a few left now. The rest have gone back to work.’

Nell released a gusty sigh. ‘Right, Keren, leave they plates and get this floor swept and washed.’ She glanced round as another woman bustled in from the private dining room carrying a tray. The dishes stacked on it were not pewter, but patterned china; and the cutlery was silver. ‘Everything all right in there, Annie?’

Plump and beaming, Annie nodded. Instead of the coarse linen Roz wore, Annie’s apron was crisp white cotton. Her gown was pale blue, and frizzy fair hair peeped out from beneath her neat cap. ‘Both gentlemen said it was the best stew they’d tasted. Had two helpings of strawberry tart, they did. Soon as they’ve drunk their coffee they’ll be gone.’

‘Paid, have they?’ Nell demanded.

Annie nodded. ‘Jack’s with ʼem now.’

‘Who’s looking after the tap, then?’

‘Toby. And there’s only a few in there. Stop your fretting, Nell. Looking fagged to death you are. Why don’t you go and have a sit-down?’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Nell admitted. ‘Me feet is giving me gyp.’

‘Go on, then. We’ll finish up here. You got a couple hours before you need to start cooking for tonight.’ Annie set down the tray of china.

As she waddled wearily towards the door, the landlord’s wife looked back at Roz. ‘Mind they dishes, won’t you?’

‘As if they were my own,’ Roz promised. Satisfied, Nell nodded and went out.

While Keren fetched the soft broom and a dustpan from a cupboard, Annie helped Roz carry the tub outside. After the fug in the taproom and the kitchen’s heat, the air tasted sweet and fresh. Roz breathed deeply, filling her lungs.

‘I seen Jim Kellow in the tap,’ Annie said, as they tipped the dirty water into the gutter. ‘Susan mad with him again, is she?’

‘He says she’s teasy.’ Roz’s tone was dry.

‘She always was.’ Annie sniffed as they returned to the kitchen and set the tub down. ‘I reck’n she thought she’d tame ʼn. But a man don’t change, not unless he want to.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘If that girl had a lick of sense she’d offer ’n kisses instead of scolds.’ She glanced at Roz. ‘He idn’ giving you no trouble, is he?’

‘Jim’s easy enough to manage. I only wish –‘ she broke off, shaking her head. Crossing to the hearth she picked up a hessian pad and wrapped it around the handle of a large black kettle suspended from the chimney crane. She needed both hands to lift it down.

Annie hefted a pail of cold water and emptied half into the tub. ‘Only wish what?’

As Roz tipped the kettle, turning her head to avoid the steam, her gaze met Annie’s. ‘Will Prowse,’ she mouthed.

Annie set the pail down and straightened. ‘What have he done?’ she whispered.

‘Asked me to marry him.’ Roz shuddered.

Annie’s eyes widened. ‘He never did.’

Roz glanced at Keren on the far side of the kitchen, but she was humming to herself as she swept, happier now Nell was not there to chivvy and scold her.

‘I wish he hadn’t. I can’t imagine why he thought –’ Roz shrugged helplessly. ‘He must have known I’d refuse.’

‘What did you say?’ Annie hissed, agog.

‘I was polite, of course. A proposal of marriage – even from a man like Will Prowse – deserves courtesy, especially when it’s declined.’

‘See, there you are. You got this lovely way with words. But are you sure he knew you was turning him down?’

Roz‘s tightened her grip on the kettle’s handle. ‘He pretended he didn’t. But I know he did. He must have done. Anyway, the point is I said no and I meant it.’ She shuddered again. ‘Annie, I couldn’t marry him. I just couldn’t.’

‘Course not, my bird. Hey, don’t take on so.’

But Roz knew there would be no escaping Will Prowse, because she owed him. And one way or another he would make her pay.

As Annie went out to the pump to draw more water, Roz pushed her sleeves up past her elbows, wet her hands, and worked the block of hard yellow soap between her palms to create suds. After soaking a coarse cloth in the steaming soapy water, she gathered up the silver cutlery from Annie’s tray and carefully wiped each piece clean.

This job had fallen to her as soon as Nell realised she knew how to take care of the china and silverware kept for visitors of quality.

‘Jack never said where you was working before,’ Nell had stated, her gaze suspicious. ‘Somewhere decent, was it? Only I don’t want no trouble.’

Recognising the warning, and understanding Nell’s reservations – for in her heart of hearts, didn’t she share them? – Roz had told as much of the truth as she dared. ‘It was the house of a reverend gentleman, Mrs Hicks. The family was very particular. I was not dismissed. I left because my mother needed me.’

It was Mary-Blanche who had insisted they come to Porthinnis, who urged Roz to try for work at the Three Mackerel, who said she knew Jack Hicks and to mention her name, but not in his wife’s hearing. Weary, disheartened, and anxious to secure any kind of work, for her meagre savings were almost gone, Roz had chosen not to ask questions whose answers she feared would reveal more about her mother’s life than she was ready to hear.

After an instant’s pause, Nell had nodded. ‘Right, well, do what you’re told, work hard, and we’ll get on.’

Roz had earned Nell’s trust and found a friend in Annie. But her mother’s behaviour meant that no matter how hard she worked, she simply couldn’t earn enough.

Toby stuck his head round the door. ‘Any beef stew left? Two of they masons working on the quay just come in.’

Annie frowned at him. ‘How didn’t they come up with the rest?’

‘Waiting for stone they were. Couldn’t leave till it was checked.’

Annie clicked her tongue. ‘I got four pound of strawberries waiting to be –’

‘It’s all right, Annie,’ Roz broke in. ‘I’ll do it. You see to the fruit.’

Wiping her hands dry, she took two clean plates from the rack and ladled stew onto them. Swiftly cutting hunks of bread from the loaf, she piled them onto another plate, placed the three plates and two spoons on a tray and carried it down the passage to the taproom.

The two men were sitting by the open window. As Roz approached, a man passed by outside.

‘Bit of all right that is,’ one of the men beamed up at her.

The other nodded. ‘Starving I am.’

Roz smiled as she put down the tray and set the steaming plates in front of them. A male figure filled the open doorway, briefly cutting off the light.

Looking up, Roz’s smile froze as she recognised Constable Colenso. Her stomach clenched with the all-too-familiar sense of dread. No, please no. Not again. She straightened, picking up the empty tray.

In his fustian breeches and brown coat, his hair drawn back into a queue above a wilting collar, the parish constable looked hot and uncomfortable and he crossed to the bar where Jack was drawing a pint of ale.

‘Any butter is there?’ one of the men asked. ‘Miss?’

Roz dragged her attention back to her customers. ‘I’m sorry, what –?’

‘Butter? For the bread?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll fetch it.’ Maybe the constable was here for something else entirely, nothing to do with her at all.

But as she started towards the kitchen passage she saw him turn from the bar and start towards her. She gripped the tray like a shield. Then realising the futility of her gesture, she let it drop to her side.

‘Sorry, Miss.’ In the dim smoky light she thought she saw pity behind the constable’s frown. ‘You’re to come with me.’

Even as fear leapt, so too did a spark of hope that this time the reason for the constable’s visit had nothing to do with her mother. ‘Is Tom –?’

‘Boy’s fine. He’s downalong with blacksmith. Sorry, Miss. ʼTis your mother.’

Again. He didn’t say it, but Roz heard it in his voice just the same. She swallowed the dryness in her throat. Yet another fine to pay. How was she supposed to – The room swayed.

His hand caught her arm. ‘Steady now. All right are you?’

She sucked in air. It tasted thick and stale. ‘Yes.’ The lie slipped easily from her tongue. As all her hopes had come to nothing and every effort had been flung back in her face, her ability to pretend that it didn’t hurt had become second nature. Where had her mother got the brandy from this time? And how had she paid for it?

‘Thank you, Mr Colenso. I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished here –’

‘No, miss.’ He shook his head. ‘Now. The Justice said he want to see you right away.’

Roz pressed one hand to her stomach as dread spiked. Dread and something else, something – foolish, hopeless. Mr Casvellan had been kind – so far. But he would hold her responsible. She had given him her word. She really had tried. Yet what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t lock her mother in. ‘I –’ she gestured towards the kitchen. ‘I’m still – I have to’

‘Want me to tell Jack, do you?’

‘No!’ Struggling for control she repeated more quietly, ‘No, Thank you. I’ll do it. Will you wait outside? Please? I’ll be with you directly.’

‘Quick as you can, miss.’ With a nod he turned and left.

Edging between the tables Roz hurried to the bar.

Jack continued wiping up spills on the polished wood as he jerked his chin forward. ‘Trouble?’

Roz nodded.

‘Bl- your mother?’

Roz nodded again. ‘Mr Casvellan wants to see me.’

‘Right now?’ Jack paused, his hand still. ‘John come to take you up there, has he?’

Roz guessed his thoughts were echoing hers. Never before had the Justice demanded she leave her job during working hours. So why had he this time? What was so urgent? What had her mother done? Fighting panic, Roz dipped her head, her face burning. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘’T’idn’ your fault, girl. Go on then.’

‘Thank you. I’ll make up the time. I’ll –’

‘Never mind about that. Quick now, don’t keep ’n waiting.’

Roz hurried down the passage, untying her apron and pulling off her cap. ‘Annie, the two men who just came in want some butter for their bread. I have to go.’ She hung cap and apron on a hook behind the kitchen door.

Annie’s forehead puckered. ‘What’s on, my bird?’

‘The constable – I have to –’ Roz shook her head, unable to continue, her throat stiff with tears of rage, frustration and grief.

‘Dear life!’ Annie snorted. ‘Not again. I know she’s your mother and all. But she’s a bleddy nuisance. Need a good thrashing, she do. Knock some sense into her.’

Keren had stopped washing the flag-stoned floor and was gaping at them.

‘Catching flies, girl?’ Annie snapped. ‘Get that floor wiped. If ʼtis still wet when Nell come down she’ll give you what-for.’

As Keren bent again to her task, Annie patted Roz’s shoulder and went to fetch the butter from the slate-shelved larder.

Her heart thudding, Roz dipped her hands in the pail of cold water and pressed them to her cheeks, her throat and the back of her neck. If only she had time to change and tidy her hair. What difference would that make? Shaking out her faded calico gown, she put on her hat. Her hands trembled as she tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

How many times had she been summoned to Trescowe? Each time her mother had promised it was the last, that from now on everything would be different. Roz had wanted so much to believe her. But despite all her support and encouragement, here they were again. No matter what she did, it was never enough.

‘You don’t understand,’ her mother would sob or snarl. ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through.’

Roz couldn’t argue. She didn’t know. So she bit her tongue, put her mother to bed, cleaned up the mess, and tried to find new hiding places so there would be enough money to buy food and pay their rent. But Tom was growing so fast. He needed new trousers, and his boots were falling apart.

Up till now she had managed to pay the fines. But doing so had put her in debt to Will Prowse. She knew the justice was losing patience. How much longer could she hope to keep her mother out of gaol?

Swinging the muslin kerchief about her shoulders she crossed it in front of her gown, tied the ends behind her back, and tipping her hat forward so her face was in shadow, she walked outside into hot sunshine where the constable waited. 

Chapter Two

Seated at the large table he used as a desk, Branoc Casvellan signed the document placed in front of him by his clerk.

‘What else, George?’ The sun had moved round and no longer filled the room with bright light. But the afternoon heat still lay sufficiently heavy to have forced Casvellan out of the dark green frock coat now on a wooden hanger on the back of the door. Had he been alone he would also have shed his striped waistcoat. But he wasn’t, and had no wish to offend his clerk who cared deeply about the dignity and the respect due to a Justice.

Crow-like in black, his greying hair neatly clubbed in a black ribbon, Ellacott retrieved the document.

‘About Quarter Sessions, sir –’

‘I shan’t attend. It’s a day’s ride each way, then at least half a day wasted on pomp and ceremony that does little but remind certain dignitaries of their own importance. I’ve too much work here.’

‘You’ll be attending the Midsummer Coinage in Helston?’

Casvellan nodded. ‘There’s also a dinner at the AngelHotel to discuss billeting French prisoners-of-war.’ He leaned back, flexing his shoulders. ‘Tell Varcoe to prepare for fifteen. He can use the old stable block. The tack room should allow enough space for three officers. Remind him to check the stove-pipe. It may have rusted through. If they are here for the winter they’ll need warmth and somewhere to dry their clothes. What’s next?’

The clerk glanced down at the open ledger he was holding.

‘The matter of repairs to the moor road, sir. The uphill stretch above Porthinnis? We’ve received four complaints in the last two weeks. Two refer to broken axles and two to broken wheels caused by the depth of the ruts.’

‘Who has the contract?’

‘William Jory bid for it, sir.

‘Well, the work obviously hasn’t been done. Has Jory given a reason for the delay?’

The clerk shook his head. ‘I wrote to him two weeks ago requesting that information, but he has not replied.’

‘Has he been ill?’ Casvellan knew his clerk would have made enquiries.

‘No, sir. However, I understand he bid for several additional contracts, among them were two for Sir Edward Pengarrick.’

‘Did he indeed.’ Casvellan tried to ignore the mingled enmity and irritation that inevitably followed mention of the baronet’s name. ‘No doubt those have taken precedence. But the road must be mended at once. This dry weather won’t last indefinitely. If it’s in such a poor state now, little rain will be needed to make it impassable. Who else bid?’

‘Henwood Berryman. Anticipating your wishes, sir, I took the liberty of drafting a letter.’ He set it in front of the Justice. ‘Also another to Mr Jory informing him that his contract is voided and the work transferred elsewhere.’

Reaching for his pen, Casvellan scrawled his signature on each of the documents, then glanced up as Ellacott cleared his throat, uncharacteristically hesitant.

‘What is it?’

‘As you were busy on the estate all day yesterday, sir, you probably won’t have heard.’

Leaning back in his chair, Casvellan stretched long legs clad in buff-coloured breeches and black topboots in front of him. He planned to ride later. Raad needed exercise and so did he. A good gallop would loosen his muscles and perhaps relieve some of his frustration.

‘Heard what?’ he enquired. As he saw his clerk swallow he knew the news must be bad.

‘Four Mousehole men sentenced to transportation.’

Fury catapulted Casvellan from his chair, the movement so swift and sudden that his clerk flinched. ‘Damn Pengarrick to hell and back!’ He raked a hand through black hair that fell over his shirt collar in thick waves. ‘Were they regular offenders?’

‘As to that, sir,’ the clerk replied carefully, ‘I couldn’t say. But if you are referring to previous appearances before a court, I understand only one of them had been arrested prior to this, and that was for disturbing the peace.’

Casvellan paced the room, anger churning inside him. ‘God’s blood! What’s wrong him? Pengarrick must know those men would never take such desperate risks were it not for the high prices caused by this war.’

‘Of course he does, sir.’ Anger clouded Ellacott’s normally placid features. ‘Just as he knows you would have treated them far more leniently.’

Casvellan turned. ‘That’s why he’s done it.‘ Inhaling deeply, he fought his rage and returned to his seat, his gaze rising to that of his clerk. ‘You’re right, of course. Those men and their families mean nothing to him. They must bear the punishment, but it is me he’s aiming at. Any questions I raise concerning his sentencing would give him carte blanche to interfere with mine. I cannot – I will not – permit that.’

He made a conscious effort to set the matter aside. He could not waste time and energy on a situation outside his control. Looking up once more he smiled, and saw his clerk relax. ‘What would I do without you, George?’

‘It is my sincere hope that such a circumstance will never arise, sir.’

‘So, what else?

‘Ah. The – er – matter of Mary-Blanche Trevaskis.’

Rising once more from his chair, Casvellan crossed to the window. Folding his arms, he looked out, but did not see the lofty trees, their leaves unstirred by the slightest breath of wind. ‘What am I to do with her?’

‘Well, sir –’

‘It was a rhetorical question, Ellacott,’ he said gently. ‘If she were a vagrant I could send her back where she came from.’

‘Penzance was her last place of residence, I believe, sir.’

 ‘Quite so. But she is not a vagrant. So, much as I might wish it, that avenue isn’t open to me. Nor, as she lives with her daughter, could I send her to the workhouse even if there were room.’ He gazed down on to the gravelled circle in front of the open square formed by the house and the two buildings set at right angles to it, and felt a muscle jump in his jaw. ‘Pengarrick’s policy of gaoling or transporting men for comparatively minor crimes has thrown scores of women and children on to the mercy of the parish. If he cannot see how short sighted and counter-productive his actions are, then he’s even more of a fool than I thought.’

The clerk remained silent.

Casvellan blew a sigh. ‘She’s a damn nuisance, Ellacott.’

‘And must be a sore trial to the young lady, sir.’

‘Young lady, George?’ he questioned, intrigued by the slight softening in his clerk’s tone.

‘Indeed, sir.’ Ellacott regarded his employer steadily. ‘However, should you consider I have made a misjudgement then I will apologise and beg your pardon.’

Casvellan shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. We both know you are rarely wrong.’

The clerk bowed. ‘That is most gracious of you, sir.’

Casvellan turned from the window. It had been immediately clear to him that despite her obvious poverty and her job at the inn, Roz Trevaskis came from a far higher station in life. What had happened? What had brought her to this?

The fir. . .