Heart of Stone

by Jane Jackson

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

Synopsis

In 1840s Cornwall, 25-year-old Sarah Govier supports herself and her illegitimate son, Jory, on the income from Talvan, the granite quarry she inherited from her father.  But businessman Kinser Landry has good reason for wanting Talvan and will stop at nothing to get it. Her problems mounting, Sarah turns in desperation to James Crago, a gunpowder manufacturer whose land adjoins hers.  After twenty years as soldier and diplomat in India, Crago, 37, has returned home, his face horrifically scarred, a wound sustained during his attempt to help the girl he loved escape a despotic raja.  Local reaction to his appearance has turned him into a recluse.  Rejected by society, emotionally bruised and deeply wary, neither James nor Sarah is prepared for the powerful attraction that draws them ever closer. But as others plot against them, can they overcome the past and find the courage to love again?

Release date: June 5, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Sarah Govier hurried along the deeply rutted dirt road towards the quarry. Mud squelched around her leather half boots and caked the hem of her skirt and petticoats. A wet April meant a good wheat harvest and it was mid-May now. With the sun shining in a cloudless sky the colour of bluebells surely the ground would begin drying soon?

The gusty breeze had a mean edge that made her glad of her navy wool cloak with its red worsted lining.

Why hadn’t Jeb come and told her himself? She shouldn’t have had to learn about it from Becky.

As she neared the quarry she could hear the rhythmic clang of sledgehammers hitting a steel-tipped borer. Her heartbeat quickened as she reached the top of the slight incline. Ahead of her, anchored by eight stout chains, she saw the upright mast and angled jib of the wooden crane. Stone lay in untidy waste heaps amid the furze, bracken, and coarse grass that surrounded the gaping hole. Walking into the quarry down the broad shallow slope used by heavy wagons to carry the stone to the town quay, she saw two men working on a huge block of granite and another three examining the new face revealed by recent blasting. As they caught sight of her, hammers were lowered and all five snatched off their caps as they exchanged glances.

Guilt tempered her anger. Why hadn’t they come to her? ‘A word if you please, Jeb?’

He scrambled down, crossing the dusty rock-strewn floor toward her. ‘Miss.’

‘Mr Flynn is not here?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘Have you seen him at all today?’

Jeb shook his head. ‘No, Miss. Nor yesterday.’

Hot and bright as a flame renewed rage flared inside her, and with it remorse. Yes, she had been frantic with worry about her son. But that was no excuse.

‘I understand the men have not been paid for several weeks. Is this true?’

After a moment’s hesitation Jeb nodded, twisting his cap. ‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Why didn’t you come and tell me?’

‘Flynn said you knew.’

Shock rocked her. ‘What?’

‘Anyhow, we didn’t want to give you no more trouble, what with your boy being ill and all.’

Her heart clenched to a fist inside her chest and shame burned in her cheeks. ‘I didn’t know, Jeb. I would never have allowed –’ She shook her head. Now was not the time. ‘How have you managed?’

‘Gived us credit didn’t he,’ Jeb said grimly.

‘Credit?’

His weathered face darkened. No longer silenced by the ganger’s lies, or concern for her, words poured out of him.

‘Flynn own a bakehouse in Penryn, see? He said we could have what we wanted and put it on the slate. Not just bread, neither. He’s in with other gangers who work for Kinser Landry. They got shares in a grocery shop, an iron mongers, and the Black Bull inn. Trouble is, all of ’em do charge higher prices than the other shops. But having no money we couldn’t go nowhere else.’

‘So now you’re in debt?’ Sarah asked quietly. He nodded.

It was pointless telling Jeb he should not have believed Flynn: that he should have come straight to her.

‘And the other men?’

‘’Tis the same for all of us, Miss.’

‘How long is it since you were paid?’

‘Be seven weeks come Friday,’ Jeb said, then lowered his voice. ‘Arthur’s in some state, what with Mary about to have their third. See, even if Flynn do pay’n what he’s owed, once Arthur have settled with the bakehouse and grocer and paid his rent, he won’t have enough to live on till next payday.’

Sarah wanted to shake him. How could Jeb have believed she would have any part in such a wicked scheme? He had worked at Talvan quarry for nearly thirty years. Even her father had never been able to read granite the way Jeb Mundy could. After his death she had offered Jeb the position of ganger. But he had turned it down, saying he hadn’t the heart for hiring and firing men he’d known all his life. She knew other quarry owners and granite merchants had tried to entice him away with promise of higher wages. But Jeb was loyal. How could she berate him for wanting to spare her worry?

‘How much do they owe?’

Jeb scratched his head. ‘I aren’t rightly sure.’ He hesitated. ‘I reck’n we’re all afeared of finding out.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I understand. But we have to put a stop to this now. Flynn had no right to withhold your money. Tell the men when they finish work this afternoon they are to go to each of the shops where they owe money and ask for a settlement figure.’

‘A settlement figure,’ the quarryman repeated, frowning.

‘That’s right. Ask for it to be written down on a piece of paper. You do the same. Don’t be put off. You might have to wait a few minutes, but all shopkeepers keep records. They’ll have everything written down. All they have to do is open the account book and find each man’s name. You bring those figures to me first thing tomorrow morning.’

Raising a knuckle to his forehead he nodded. ‘Right you are, Miss. Boy coming on all right is he?’

Sarah smiled and felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. ‘He’s much better, thank you.’

‘’Tis some nasty, that scarlet fever. Still, if he’s on the mend, he’ll be dripping on ’bout being bored.’

Sarah laughed. ‘We’ve heard little else from him all this week.’

‘Wrap’n up warm and send’n out in the fresh air,’ Jeb advised. ‘Tire’n out and you won’t have no trouble getting’n up over stairs of a night.’

‘He went into Penryn with Becky today.’ She hadn’t wanted him to, sure it was too soon. But Becky had said they would take the donkey shay so he wouldn’t have to walk. He had been fine, just as Becky promised. Jeb had raised three sons to adulthood and spoke from experience. But Jory was only six years old. And the terrible days and nights when she had feared she would lose him were still painfully fresh in her mind.

‘I’ll see you in the morning. And Jeb, please tell the men that Flynn lied. I didn’t know.’

‘Glad to hear it, Miss. I did wonder.’ Replacing his cap, Jeb knuckled his forehead once more and turned back to the waiting men.

Wondered, but didn’t come and ask me, which would have spared us all this trouble. With the sinking sun at her back and the breeze urging her along, Sarah headed home.

Facing south the long low cottage was actually two dwellings. The larger had two downstairs rooms, two bedrooms, and a scullery containing the copper at the back. Adjoining it under the same slate roof, with an entrance at the side, the smaller had a single living kitchen with a bedroom over it and a lean-to washhouse.

Thick cob walls gleamed white under their coating of lime wash. Smoke curled from two chimneys, and six small-paned sash windows sparkled in the afternoon sunshine.

Closing the garden gate, Sarah walked up the path and through the open door into the kitchen, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the candied-peel and raisin-stuffed hevva cake Becky was sliding from the baking iron onto a cooling rack.

Jory looked up from the slate on which he was carefully chalking letters, flashed her a beaming smile, and turned the slate so she could see.

‘Look, Ma. I can write.’

Her son: the joy of her life. Philip had forfeited so much. Six years had dulled the pain of his brutal betrayal. Now he rarely crossed her mind. When he did she thought of all he was missing. But he had made his choice.

‘You’re a clever boy.’ Shaking her head she sent Jory a mock glare. ‘And a very grubby one.’

His grin widened. ‘I been busy.’

‘You have? I want to hear all about it.’

‘Later,’ Becky intervened. ‘Right now your ma look like she need a cup o’ tea.’ She turned to Sarah. ‘The kettle have just boiled. Come and sit down.’

Unfastening the cloak, Sarah hung it on the wooden peg beside the door, dropped a kiss on her son’s curly head, and came closer to the fire.

‘Was it right, what I heard?’ Becky asked softly.

Sarah nodded. ‘I should have known –’

‘Oh yes? Got the second sight, have you?’ Becky had set out plates, cups and saucers, buttered bread, fresh scones cut in half, a dish of jam, and another of clotted cream. Setting a glass of milk in front of Jory she filled two cups with tea and pushed one towards Sarah. ‘Come on, my bird. You’ll feel better for something to eat.’ As Sarah drew out a chair, Becky sat down opposite. ‘You’ll never guess who I seen in town this morning?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘That man Crago from Jericho Farm. Great long streak he is.’

Sarah’s lips twitched. Becky was five feet high and the same around. Compared to her everyone was tall.

‘Got some thatch of black curly hair. Don’t look like he been near a scissors since he come back. Folk was staring something awful, poor soul. He was in front of me so I couldn’t see his face. No wonder he don’t go out much. More than two year since he moved into the place, but Ivy reckon he haven’t been in town above twice.’

Sarah cradled her cup. ‘Who can blame him?’

‘Still, he’s doing some lovely job on the farmhouse.’

‘Has Ivy seen it?’

Becky shook her head. ‘No. But with Noah working up there, she do hear all about it. Mister’s grandpa owned the farm. I remember him before he shut hisself away and left the place go to rack and ruin. Slates gone, roof leaking, plaster falling off, the hall floor rotted away. Since Mister came back he’ve spent a cartload of money on it. Told Noah he wanted only the best of craftsmen and materials. Going to be ’andsome when ’tis finished.’

‘Let’s hope he lives long enough to enjoy it.’ As Becky’s eyebrows rose, Sarah rubbed her forehead where she could feel an ache forming. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –’

‘Is he going to die, Ma?’ Jory piped up.

Becky clicked her tongue, muttering, ‘I tell you, that child is sharp as a tack. He don’t miss a thing.’

‘No, my love. It’s just – Mr Crago owns a gunpowder mill and that’s a very dangerous place.’

‘Will it blow up?’

‘I hope not.’

‘Grampa blowed up, didn’t he? In the quarry?’

Sarah’s eyes met Becky’s. The blasting accident had killed her father and Becky’s husband: a shared loss that had drawn the two women even closer.

‘Yes, but –’

‘You going to eat that scone, boy?’ Becky interrupted. ‘Cause if you aren’t –’

‘I am! I am!’ Jory said quickly and took a huge mouthful that left smears of jam and cream around his mouth. Sarah picked up his slate and diverted his attention by writing his name for him to copy.

When they had finished eating, Becky washed up. Drying the dishes Sarah replaced them on the dresser and gave in to Jory’s pleas to be allowed to go and lock up the chickens for the night.

Becky wiped the table. ‘The boy didn’t mean nothing by it, my bird.’

‘I know,’ Sarah hung the dish-towel over the clothes dryer. ‘Children are so open, aren’t they? Saying whatever comes into their heads. Father would have been the first to laugh. Oh Becky, I do miss him. Jeb admitted that they’re all in debt. No ganger would have dared take advantage if –’

‘If your father was still living, you wouldn’t have needed no ganger. When you took Flynn on, you done what you b’lieved was best for the men and the quarry. ‘Tidn your fault that he turned out bad. Now, leave it go. If you’re up half the night fretting you’ll be no use to man nor beast.’

‘You’re right.’ Sarah sighed, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. ‘Becky, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Get on,’ Becky snorted. ‘Right, I’m gone. You mind what I say. You done your best.’ As the door opened and Jory came in, Becky bent, caught his face in her hands, and gave him a noisy kiss. ‘Goodnight, my ’andsome. Sleep tight.’

‘Mind the bugs don’t bite,’ Jory grinned back at her and scampered away as she pretended to chase him.

‘Goodnight, Becky,’ Sarah said. ‘And thank you.’

With a dismissive wave Becky closed the door behind her.

Her best? Sarah had believed so. But it wasn’t enough.

Half an hour later she had Jory stripped and standing in the big enamel basin in front of the fire while she soaped him down.

‘Ma? Now I’m better, can I go with Uncle Noah again? I like being with the men.’

‘I’ll ask him.’ Kneeling, she scooped water over him to rinse off the soap. Looking at his pale skin, gilded by the firelight, she recalled the livid rash and high fever that had terrified her.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’ Wrapping him in the towel she lifted him out onto the rug. ‘Foot.’

He rested his small hand on her shoulder and lifted his foot so she could wipe it. ‘When I was in town I saw Micky Keast. He said you were a horse.’

For a moment Sarah was baffled. ‘Did he? I wonder why?’

Jory shrugged and changed feet. ‘Aunty Beck heard him and her face went all red. She said he was a wicked boy and stung his legs. He ran away then. I don’t like him.’

As she realized what Micky Keast had really said Sarah held her son’s small body close, her heart raging. Not against the skinny ferret-faced child with two older brothers and a mother clearly terrified of her husband. The focus of her fury was Micky’s father, Nathan Keast, an arrogant flirt with a reputation for bedding any woman he set his sights on.

Ever since Jory’s birth she had been a target. But having known Nathan since they were children she was unimpressed by either his looks or his slick charm. Realizing he counted any reaction – even disgust – a victory, she simply ignored him, responding neither to greetings or comments, she continued on her way as if he didn’t exist.

In calling her a whore Micky had been prompted by his father. Becky had not mentioned it. Sarah guessed there were many such incidents Becky chose not to mention, believing least said soonest mended. That Jory had misheard was a blessing. But how much longer would she be able to protect him?

‘Ma? Why did Aunty Beck smack him?’

Dropping the towel she slipped the warmed nightshirt over her son’s head. ‘Because it’s rude and unkind to call people names.’ She kissed his soft cheek and shooed him away. ‘Go on now, up to bed.’

‘Will you read me a story?’

Sarah pretended to consider.

‘Please, Ma? Please?’

Helpless against his pleading grin, and nodded. ‘All right. Only for a few minutes, mind. Which would you like?’

‘Ivanhoe,’ he said at once.

‘Again? Go on then. I’ll count to five. One,’ she clapped her hands. Giggling, he scampered up the wooden staircase. 

Chapter Two

Each morning on waking, James Crago walked through the echoing empty house and opened every window, for Sam had warned against painting until the fresh plaster had had time to dry out. The rising sun beamed pale light into rooms as empty as his soul.

Leaving the master bedroom he crossed the landing to a wide shallow staircase that curved down to a generously proportioned hall. Beneath his palm the new balustrade was satin-smooth.

The new floorboards were dusty and bore traces of mud, but soon they would gleam with varnish. Doors had been taken down, the old paint and door furniture removed, new applied and fitted, then rehung. Rotted and rat-gnawed panelling had been replaced, the upper walls re-plastered. It was nearly finished. What then?

Despair yawned in front of him, a vast black pit that terrified and enticed. He blinked, breathed deeply, and thrust it back, locked it away. Then? Then he would unpack the cases he’d brought back from India, bring the few good pieces that had belonged to his grandfather out of storage, buy whatever was lacking, and furnish the house. After that – he would not think beyond that.

Back in the kitchen he folded the blankets, laying them neatly on top of the wood and canvas folding bed that currently occupied one corner and part of the inner wall. At its foot stood a large dresser. Between shelves above and cupboards beneath the broad surface was covered with neat piles of invoices, bills, orders and other paperwork, each pile held in place by a glittering lump of granite he had picked up off the moor.

To the right of the kitchen window a pump supplied fresh water from the well. Beneath an oblong brown stone sink on brick pillars with a draining board alongside, were two buckets, a dustpan and brush, and a wooden box containing rags, boot-blacking, and brushes. Alongside the back door another door led into a scullery.

A large oblong table of sycamore wood occupied the centre of the kitchen with a single chair tucked under it. A wheelback armchair with a flattened cushion on the seat stood beside the range. Draped over the drying rack suspended from the ceiling above the mantelpiece by a pulley were shirts, stockings, and several towels.

Crago straightened, arching his back and flexing his shoulders. He had forgotten what it felt like to sleep in a proper bed. But the new one was almost finished: a spacious rectangular frame that would accommodate his six-foot-plus length in comfort. Noah Triggs had made a superb job of the oak head and foot-boards. On the new range, a monster of black iron and polished brass that drew the workmen’s gaze every time they entered, a large copper kettle – dented and green with verdigris – heated for the second time.

Washed and shaved, Crago spooned tea from a metal caddy into the blue and white teapot. Putting the tin back on the mantelshelf and using a scorched pan holder, he poured water on the leaves and replaced the lid. A smile briefly lifted one corner of his mouth as he fitted the thick knitted tea-cosy. A few weeks ago Noah Hichens had tossed it onto the table and said his wife hoped it might be useful: a small act of kindness, unexpected and appreciated.

Since his return to Cornwall Crago had deliberately limited his contact with people. He saw Zack, Nessa, and his team of workmen. That was enough.

After long years of neglect the house was nearly ready. Confident in Sam and his team, he had set up his business quarter of a mile away in a steep-sided valley that marked the edge of his land.

After diverting the small river into a leat to drive a waterwheel he had hired Noah Hichens’ cousin Joe and his apprentice to build several sheds. His instructions, to make one side of each shed deliberately weak, had been met first with bemusement then startled realisation. Once the sheds were finished, Joe and his lad had joined the team working on the house.

The isolated position of the farmhouse meant that on wet mornings men arrived soaked. Crago knew all too well what that felt like. In India during the monsoon he had spent more time wet than dry. Boots and clothes had sprouted mildew overnight.

Riding the two miles into Falmouth, his hat pulled down over his forehead, he had bought a tea service of blue and white willow pattern china with an additional set of cups and saucers, paying extra for immediate delivery.

Two days later, a cold rainy October morning, he had brewed a fresh pot of tea, refilled the kettle and milk jug, and set out every one of his new cups and saucers. First to arrive as usual, Sam Venner had paused on the threshold to shake the rain off his coat. Stepping into the kitchen he had glanced at the table.

‘Help yourself,’ Crago said mildly. ‘It’s just been made.’

‘Never expected this.’

‘I know,’ Crago said.

‘The lads’ll take it kindly.’

With a nod, Crago had shrugged on his coat, picked up his hat, and left the house.

When he returned that evening the men had already gone. The cups were set neatly at one end of the table, washed and dried. From that day on, every man arrived ten minutes early.

Hearing footsteps and voices he lifted a hand to loosen the cord that held back his hair while he washed and shaved. He shook his head so it tumbled forward, half-masking his face.

The voices grew louder. There was a brisk knock and immediately the back door opened. Sam led the way in with Noah close behind.

‘Morning,’ Sam said.

‘Another lovely day,’ Noah added.

‘Good morning,’ Crago nodded. Of all the men currently employed in the house, only Sam and Noah ever met his gaze directly, though never for long. He knew it wasn’t disgust that made them avert their eyes, but sympathy. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Dropping the basket containing his croust and pasty dinner on the flag-stoned floor, Noah crossed to the table then paused, glancing up. ‘All right if I –?’

Crago gestured for him to go ahead. Noah began pouring the tea. A. . .