Chapter Twelve
“Members who misplace their contributions will be blackballed.”
The Picnic Society, 1812. Pantheon, Oxford Street.
Galloping a frisky Jowlik over the headland, Jack trusted his valet had been able to save him some nosh and a space on the blanket at this al fresco event.
The piliferous paragon Lynch had been granted an hour of Tamsyn’s lone attention due to Jack being occupied by his report for Whitehall, Mrs Mildern’s predictions of salty toes, and Petrok searching for his nuts.
Distant views to the crystalline sea cheered his spirits, but upon nearing the turn for Lowarn Cove, his first thought was he’d stumbled upon a gypsy encampment. Carts, coaches and itinerant lads meandered, tankards in hand, and horses quietly grazed. A few carriages appeared most elegant and he recognised one with the Penrose crest.
Dismounting, he then sidled up to a thin sweaty fellow with his nose in an ale. “What’s all the commotion?”
“A load o’ gentry wanted to eat outside. Ain’t natural but…” A shrug said it all. “Spent an hour carrying everything down. I hope they’re hungry.” The chap peeked up from the froth. “Oy, are you–”
“My thanks. Can I walk a horse down?”
“Nah, caen’t. Some toytish lady from Truro has blocked it with her swanky coach.”
Jack flipped the chap a sixpence to walk Jowlik and sidled past the Truro monstrosity. Hastening down the path, he mused on how many hampers one needed for a cold collation. Three? Four? Six if champagne was involved?
Damn, that reminded him he’d left his Fortnum and Mason picnic contribution in the saddlebag and he halted in his step, but a clamour filtered from the cove below, sounding for all the world like a jammed London soiree with tittering ladies and booming chortles.
Curiosity beat the potted goose.
He rounded a curve cut deep in the cliff and the path broadened…
Lud.
One long trestle table perched in the shingle of the wide beach with elegant ladies and gentlemen seated upon satin-covered chairs. Pristine white tablecloths blinded the eye, festooned with platters of pewter and porcelain. Goblets of crystal clinked and silver cutlery flashed.
’Twas like a banquet in the Winterbourne dining room except an azure sky and craggy cliffs had replaced ornate plasterwork and Great-Grandfather Eustace’s leering portrait – a pirate and scourge of the Caribbean, who’d browbeaten five islands into surrender with nothing more than his Winterbourne gift of the gab. Upon his return, he’d been honoured with an earldom by Queen Anne for, once again…services rendered.
Some twenty persons had descended the path for this intimate pique un niche and Jack could only stare as Penrose servants struggled over the shingle with food and bottles, whilst others hastily erected a canopy.
Well, piskies’ pinkies, he’d defy anyone in London to put on such a sumptuous display, and he gawked around for a string quartet.
Instead, he caught sight of a red-faced Benjamin struggling with an oversized lacey parasol, no doubt set to cast shade upon the party.
“Ben? I thought this a picnic but it’s more like the feeding of the five thousand.”
A snort. “Word got around the ladies and widdy-women that some nob from London was attending.”
Grief.
Surveying the crowded table, Jack located Tamsyn at the far end, seated next to a smug-eyed Lynch and opposite the professor. She glanced up and caught his eye, a soft smile on her lips.
His guts twisted.
“I’ve forgotten my picnic contribution; do you think it matters?” Surely one pot of Fortnum’s goose meat wouldn’t be missed?
“Hard to tell,” the lad replied, parasol listing somewhat. “We’ve got two roast duck, three rabbit pies, a collared calf’s head, one roast fowl, two ribs of lamb, one hog’s pudding, three cucumbers and a salad made by Sally Gundy.”
“A salmagundi, perhaps?”
The lad shrugged. “Dunno. Oh, and a muggety pie from Mrs Greg. Her husband died last year.”
“Is he in the pie?”
“No, he’s in the ground. Then there’s the puddings.” Ben took a breath. “Brandy syllabub, junket, a blancmange in its mould, stewed fruit, two dozen plain biscuits, cold plum pudding and a few jam puffs.”
“Anything to drink?”
The parasol drooped. “Six quart bottles of mead, twelve bottles of claret, two bottles of brandy – polite not to ask its origin round these parts – a hamper of champagne, two bottles of last year’s blackberry wine – be careful with that one, my lord – and some lemonade for the ladies.”
Judging by the giggles, the latter remained untouched.
A snap of fingers interrupted them. “Boy! Over here with the parasol! Lady Bawden has sun on her shoulder.” The shaggy one marched up, moustache pursing. “Good to see you here, Lord Winterbourne.”
“Thank you so much for the invite, Captain Lynch. You have created quite an occasion.”
The captain gazed over the proceedings. “It’s adequate; shame we couldn’t fit the pavilion in. You’re placed alongside Lady Cooch.” And Lynch pointed to the empty seat furthest from Tamsyn.
The be-whiskered blighter.
Lady Cooch fluttered a hand and tipped so far forward her bodice ribbons dangled in the hog’s pudding, but as Lynch departed, Miggens materialised at his shoulder with a glass of something hay-coloured. “Although beneath my principles, I have just bribed Mr Fisher to swap seats. You owe me three guineas fifty and a night off.”
Patting Miggens’s arm, he accepted the proffered glass and rounded the table to take said pawn’s place – two squares nearer his queen.
“Oh, Lord Winterbourne, what a pleasure.” Mrs Tripconey, to his left, fluffed her hair. “Do sample my licky pie?”
“Pardon me?”
“That would be the leek and bacon pie to your right,” came a murmur from opposite, and he glanced to Mr Sewell who held a vague curl to one side of his lip.
“My thanks, old chap. It wouldn’t do to sample the wrong pie.” And he winked, reaching for a slice.
“Delightful, Mrs Tripconey,” he said distractedly whilst narrowing his eyes and contemplating his next move. Sir Henry Bawden lay in his path but a marquess always beat knight.
“So, Lord Winterbourne,” purred Mrs Tripconey, skimming a hand along his arm. “Why haven’t you called upon me?”
The captain proffered a slice of rabbit pie and Tamsyn smiled her pleasure, the inviting sea glinting in the distance.
As they had all trooped down the path, trepidation had bit at her heels.
Would visiting this place cause dread to well as memories assailed her – of that cave beyond the outcrop, of death and pain? Or would tears be shed, recalling the carefree days with Jonathan, roasting squabs down here on an open fire with fingers the only cutlery required.
But none of that had happened.
Instead she’d felt…anger. Anger she’d stayed away for so long. That she’d let that beast frighten her from her own land.
Because it was all so beautiful.
Wave rushed upon shore, reclaiming smooth pebbles for its own, whilst a freshness which couldn’t be found on land drifted its saline breeze upon them. Jagged boulders hid shallow pools deserted by sea, the biting crabs and clinging limpets awaiting its return.
How could she have stayed away so long?
Memories of Jonathan no longer pained quite so deep but gave pleasure, of her childhood, a time she’d forgotten…or hidden away.
A trill of thrilled giggles broke from further down the table where the marquess was wedged beside Miss Roskruge. Although, hadn’t he been seated with Mrs Tripconey not a moment past?
Tamsyn gritted her teeth.
Lord Winterbourne, as she was back to calling him, appeared to be in full rogue demeanour this morning – teasing, flirting and being so full of affability that she wanted to muffle him with that perfect mathematique neckcloth.
“Fop,” declared Captain Lynch from her side. “Wouldn’t have lasted a moment on the battlefield. Downed like a hare.” He clicked fingers in her face.
Was she supposed to do something? Fill his wine glass? Salute? Agree?
Maybe once she would have agreed but now she no longer knew. Last night, Lord Winterbourne had been so protective, reassuring and…he’d kissed her.
Such a light touch and yet even her toes had savoured a tight tingle of passion.
Pushing her rabbit pie to one side, Tamsyn sipped mead instead, allowing the heather honey to soothe her thirst. Cook added rosemary and ginger to the brew and its refreshing taste suited such fine weather.
Many guests had quaffed the blackberry wine with imprudent haste, and she suspected great advantage would be taken of the sumptuous reposing area for an afternoon snooze.
The poor servants, in stark contrast, had looked worn to the bone, and she’d told Benjamin to simply leave the pudding dishes on the table as the guests could help themselves.
“Lowdy?” she asked. “Could you pass the blancmange?”
“Hmm?” Brown eyes swivelled from Mr Miggens, sitting upon a boulder, book in hand whilst the rest of the servants began to get giggly on a flagon of cider in the shade of the cliff face. “No thank you, not for me.”
Tamsyn blinked, a little baffled, before unencumbered tittering ensued from three places down the table.
“If I were to squeeze in here,” a deep rumble suggested, “you would see it better.”
Frowning, Tamsyn noticed Lord Winterbourne now sitting beside Mrs Heligan, a widow of little fortune but large bosom.
Scoundrel.
Captain Lynch passed her another glass of mead and smiled; at least, she supposed he did, as his moustache shifted upwards.
Tamsyn beamed back and he angled his chair close. “Miss Penrose, my esteem for you is limitless. Shall we–”
“Have you any Cornish legends for us, professor?” bellowed Lord Winterbourne, on his feet again with decanter of brandy.
“Oh, er…” The professor peered up from his claret, half a jam puff to his mouth as Lord Winterbourne seated himself next to Mrs Tresize nigh opposite, a widow of both large fortune and bosom.
Double the scoundrel.
“If I might suggest,” Mr Sewell interrupted from further down the table. “Perhaps the mermaid of Zennor?”
The professor gazed into his goblet as though searching for her in the red depths. “Hmm, good one. You start, Rufus, and I’ll pour another little nip for us both.”
Mr Sewell’s gaze swept over the table, and Tamsyn was surprised he’d spoken up as she’d thought him a man of sullen temperament but his tone was pleasant with a Yorkshire bent.
“The legend tells of Mathew Trewella, a fine young man with a tremendous melodic voice, who every evening would sing the closing hymn at the church of St Senara, on the north coast.”
Tamsyn closed her eyes and settled back to listen to the time-worn tale that mothers had forever told their children and would continue to tell until the sea ceased its own melodic singing.
“Well,” Mr Sewell continued, “his dulcet voice attracted a fetching young mermaid from the ocean depths, who listened in raptures and so fell in love with the sound that she yearned to find its source. Covering herself, she struggled from sea to church, only remaining for as long as she dare. But with every evening, she grew bolder, staying longer, until one evensong their gazes met.”
Sensing Captain Lynch’s own heavy gaze, Tamsyn squirmed. She refused to meet it, but his fingers brushed her wrist, calloused and–
A jostle of seats, knock of claret, and Hugh withdrew his hand, cursing.
“Lud, sorry, old chap. What a blunder,” drawled Lord Winterbourne, blotting the spilled wine from the tablecloth.
Dumbfounded, Tamsyn could do nothing but stare as the marquess landed in between the professor and Great-Aunt Sarah opposite.
His boot tips disturbed the hem of Tamsyn’s dress and a smoky eye winked. “Good day, Miss Penrose, and…checkmate,” he murmured. “Do carry on, Mr Sewell.” And all eyes returned courteously to the storyteller.
“They fell in love immediately. But the call of the sea is too strong for one such as her; the land can only bring death, and so she forsook his love, turning for the shore once more. Bereft, the young man followed, and she was forced to reveal why it could not be – her mermaid’s tail. But did he spurn her?” Mr Sewell glanced around for an answer, his expression troubled. “No, for it mattered not to his love. ‘Then I will go with ye,’ Mathew assured. ‘For with ye is where I belong.’”
The ladies sighed. The gentlemen rolled their eyes. The sea endlessly surged.
“And so, Mathew lifted his mermaid and rushed her to the water, till gradually they were both submerged. And although he was never seen on land again, the fishermen still hear his dulcet tones. He sings soft for fair weather, deep for rough seas, and the men of Zennor know when ’tis safe to fish for ever more, thanks to the mermaid and her beloved.”
“Oh,” sighed Mrs Tripconey, gazing at the storyteller in admiration. “How handsomely told.”
“The very seat,” Mr Sewell continued with a smile, “from which she listened and fell in love can be found at the church of St Senara, a carving of a mermaid upon the wood. A reminder that love can conquer all.”
Mrs Pencally wiped a discreet tear and many a guest stared to the deep-blue abyss in silence.
Tamsyn sipped her mead. To have a man give up everything for his love. To declare his feelings in such a way. How romantic.
Romantic but fanciful codswallop.
“Hmm. well done, Rufus,” slurred the professor. “Couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Well, I’m afraid,” murmured Lord Winterbourne, almost to himself, “that I would have to decline the mermaid’s invitation as I dislike water.” He cleared his throat and shook his head. “It causes silk to shrink.”
Captain Lynch’s moustache curled into a sneer.
And Tamsyn agreed with him, of course.
She breathed the sea air and shuffled back her chair to stand. “No, please don’t,” she hurriedly said as all the gentlemen made to rise. “I wish to walk a little.”
“Miss Penrose, allow me to accompany you,” pleaded the captain.
He looked most fine today in his acorn-coloured waistcoat and billowing muslin shirt, although oppressive shadows always haunted his uncovered eye and she ached for the pain he too must have endured.
“Thank you, but I… I’d prefer to walk alone.”
And with a nod, she left this convivial setting, ready to confront her last held fear.