Mermaid of Penperro Page 7

  She sucked in a breath and then forgot to exhale, cold flushes of fear washing over her body. Little pinpricks of light danced in her vision. “You’d tell him where I was?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  Hilde came in just then with the tray of crockery tea things, setting it with a clatter on the small table. “Do you want me to get rid of him?” she asked in German.

  Konstanze shook her head and gestured for the maid to return to the kitchen.

  All Mr. Trewella had to do was send a note to Bugg, and her freedom would be at an end. She’d go back to Bugg House, back to endless days trapped indoors, and back to nights where he tied her to the bedposts and beat her for his enjoyment. She was caught between two despicable choices.

  “What type of man do you take me for?” Tom protested, visibly angered by her accusation. “I should hope I had not sunk so low as to blackmail a woman,” he said.

  She did not trust his words. Her impression of him as an honorable man had been wrong, and formed too quickly. “Then what is your meaning? Why should you mention my husband to me in such a way?”

  “What I meant to say—and would have had you not been so quick to jump to conclusions—was that I thought it likely you would be in need of cash. Your husband obviously will not have provided you an allowance, and whatever money you have with you will not last forever.”

  “Neither would whatever you offered to pay me for this disgraceful stunt.”

  “Play the mermaid, and I will give you two percent of the profits from each cargo you help to preserve. You could take home anywhere between one and ten pounds for a few hours’ work. At the end of the summer I will give you any aid you wish to ensure that you have escaped your husband forever. I’ll see what can be done about an annulment of the marriage, or a divorce. Or I’ll help you sell the cottage and take ship to America, or Europe if you wish it. Whatever you want.”

  “And if what I want is to stay here and live in peace?”

  “Winter is the height of the smuggling season. Open your barn to us, and you can live on those fees as your great-uncle did. Even I wouldn’t ask you to swim in the winter seas, and I doubt Foweather’s interest would hold for that long anyway.”

  Her head ached, and she pressed her fingertips against her temples and closed her eyes. There was too much here, too many possibilities both good and bad. She could not think. For all her repulsion at the idea of playing a bare-breasted mermaid, even worse was the idea of going back to Bugg. She would be a fool to trust that Trewella would keep her secret if she refused to do as he bade. “Must I decide tonight?” she asked, opening her eyes and letting her hands drop down to her lap.

  “Not tonight, but soon. All I ask is that while you deliberate, you avoid the town. Let your maid go if you need to buy things, but keep your own self hidden. It will all be spoiled if Foweather sees and recognizes you, or if there is too much talk of a new, pretty young woman in the area.”

  She nodded, the notion forming that she could escape this neat little trap by “accidentally” letting herself be seen and recognized by Foweather. A glance at Mr. Trewella’s face, however, warned her that he would see through such a feeble plot.

  He stood and picked up his hat. “I won’t trouble you further tonight. I’ll return tomorrow evening for your answer.”

  “Tomorrow evening,” she echoed, her impossible situation overwhelming her mind.

  He gave a short bow and showed himself out. She watched him go without paying attention to what she was seeing, and it was several moments after the door had shut behind him before she returned to her senses.

  Hilde came back from the kitchen. “What happened today that you did not tell me?”

  “I wish that nothing had, Hilde. You do not know how much I wish that.”

  Chapter Seven

  Konstanze sat at the kitchen table, poring over sheets of paper covered with her own fine script. A small pile of banknotes and coins sat in the middle of the table. The afternoon was growing late and the headache left over from last night more painful. She refilled her cup with tea and defiantly dropped in three lumps of sugar, the irregular white cubes splashing drops of tea onto the table and the edge of one of the papers, blurring the figures written there.

  She sat back and sipped the too-sweet drink, hoping it would somehow help the headache as well as her worries to go away. She had thirty-four pounds, eight shillings, and sixpence to her name. It was enough to see both her and Hilde through a year of frugal living, but there would be no wages for Hilde out of that. The maid had received a paltry sixteen pounds a year from Bugg, and at times in Europe had received nothing when Konstanze’s mother had trouble finding work. Konstanze knew that Hilde would stay with her even without wages, but she hated having to ask that of her. It had been Konstanze’s decision to leave Bugg, and Hilde should not have to pay for it.

  She had a year’s leeway until the money ran out, and had thought that in that time she would think of what to do next. Now, unexpectedly, Mr. Trewella was offering her a job. A job! Not a respectable job, but a job nonetheless. She’d never had one. With the money from it she could pay Hilde and save enough to stay on at the cottage for another year, perhaps even two. She wouldn’t have to sell it. Money was security, and money was freedom.

  Ten pounds for a few hours’ work—it was more than Bugg’s scullery maids earned in a year.

  She did not like the idea of floating around naked, though. She’d be too embarrassed to utter so much as a squeak of song. Really, it was quite unthinkable.

  She sipped tea, and thought about it anyway. She and Hilde could design a costume, something silky and green that clung to her from the hips down but left her feet free underneath, so she could swim. Maybe some sort of shell bodice could be constructed to cover her chest. And pearls in her hair, that would be nice; she could wind them in amongst braids and dangling locks as she had seen in portraits from the Renaissance.

  She saw herself sitting on a rock as the sun lowered to the west, casting the water and sky in an orange and pink glow, the light soft on her skin. She’d sing something of Purcell’s, perhaps. She liked Purcell. Mr. Trewella would be waiting in a cave nearby, but as she sang he’d be drawn out, lured by her voice. When he saw her he would forget that she had a husband; he’d forget everything except how beautiful she looked, his eyes roving over the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the slight, gentle swell of her belly that was not covered by the shell bodice. He’d come toward her and—

  And what? Probably tell her to sing a little louder, as he wasn’t certain the Preventive sitter could hear her.

  She clunked her cup onto the table and gave a sigh of frustration directed solely at herself. Mr. Trewella was no one about whom she should be spinning fantasies. He was not to be trusted, and she only wished she had known that sooner. Surely the only reason she was even allowing herself to think of accepting his “offer” was the fear that if she didn’t, he would tell Bugg where she was. It did not matter that he had claimed he would not. That determined look in his eye told her he got what he wanted. She’d rather not find out how far he would go to ensure it.

  It was a rotten world where escaping one man landed her firmly in the clutches of another.

  Hilde could smell the town before she could see it. She was used to cities that held the stench of human habitation and streets filled with horses and livestock, but this was completely different. This stench was like a belch of warm air from the belly of a whale.

  Fish. Rotten fish. There was no other smell like it.

  She crested the hill and looked down on the town, which was wedged into the bottom of a crack in the land where a creek flowed down to the sea. The harbor was nothing more than the widening of the creek’s mouth, protected from the force of the sea by three stone piers staggered on either side. The buildings inside the protection of the harbor came right down to the edge of the water—or of the mud, as the case was at the moment. The tide was out, and several fishing boats sat balanc
ed on their keels in the mud.

  The path zigzagged down the steep rocky slope, turning to stairs and then back again to an uneven slope of stone, winding between houses as she approached the bottom. She had come to buy food, that which they had brought with them having been finished off this morning.

  Hilde trod steadily through the town, heading for the center. Town, village, or city, the food was always to be found at the center. She had moved through half of Europe with Marguerite, Konstanze’s mother, and foreign towns and people held no fears for her. She rather enjoyed being the outsider in a new place. Although she often found the mannerisms of the local people annoying, she liked the challenge of getting what she needed in a new environment.

  She explored the town, which consisted of a street on either side of the shallow creek, buildings on both sides of each street. There was a bridge crossing the creek at the landward end of the harbor, right next to a tavern that backed onto the creek, the Fishing Moon. The smell down here was worse than elsewhere. Any thoughts of buying fish for dinner fled her mind.

  She made her way back to the one small butcher shop, its goods hanging from hooks in the low ceiling. A middle-aged man was grinding meat at the counter against the back wall.

  “Sausages,” Hilde said loudly in English. “Four pounds of sausages.”

  “Eh?” the man said, and turned around. “Pardon me, what was that?”

  Hilde looked the man over. He had good muscles in his biceps, and a belly that was large enough to make you feel like you had a man in your arms, but not so big that it sagged. As he came closer she saw that he had bad skin, though. His nose was marred by large black pores, especially profuse on the sides, in that crevice around the nostrils. She gave a little “umph” of disappointment.

  “What was that you wanted?” he asked again.

  His teeth were about average, a couple missing, one or two gone a spotty gray. It was too bad about the skin. She liked good skin on a man. “Sausages. Four pounds. Please.”

  “Eh?”

  “Sausages!” she said more loudly.

  “‘Zah-zahg?’ ”

  “Yes, beef. Four pounds.”

  “Where are you from? Are you Scottish or something?”

  Hilde rolled her eyes. She could understand English much better than she could speak it. She knew what he was asking, but she wasn’t about to go into an explanation of who she was. She would be here all day with this simpleton. “Sausages! Four pounds!”

  He scratched at his hairline, right above the temple, looking confused and a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry, could you say it one more time?”

  “Saaa-saaa-je.”

  He screwed up his face and hunched his shoulders a bit. “Once more?” he asked in a small voice.

  She sighed and looked around the shop, spotting a looped collection of what she wanted. She went over and tapped them.

  “Ohhh, sausages!” he exclaimed, relief all through his voice and body. “Why didn’t you say so?” he scolded, taking down the links.

  O Gott. This was going to be a long day.

  The sausages purchased, she moved on. Cheese was next on her list. She would try to find one of the soft French cheeses that Konstanze liked so well, but she knew it was a fairly hopeless endeavor in a place such as this.

  Poor Konstanze. Like her mother, she was a lamb at the mercy of wolves, and in need of a shepherdess such as Hilde for protection. The child had no sense of how to protect herself, her head always in the clouds, her thoughts far from the mundanity of life. Konstanze would be unable to get along without her Hilde, that was for certain. She was quieter than her mother, more subdued, but Hilde knew she was just as helpless and in need of her care. The poor thing likely hadn’t even given thought to how long her money would last.

  A large chunk of white cheddar was purchased after much ado and a few barked orders on Hilde’s part. The woman she bought it from did a bit of her own barking in return, which Hilde appreciated. The woman was red-faced and had her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set as she watched Hilde put the cheese in her basket. Hilde gave the woman a curt nod before she left, feeling that she might have made a friend there.

  She finished her purchases and was walking back up one of the twin streets when she caught sight of a lush, beautiful head of white hair. She stopped, standing still, her basket hanging heavily in her hand and tilting her off balance.

  The man was conversing animatedly with another man through a cellar doorway. She paid no attention to the words—they were too quick and too heavily accented to understand anyway—and just stared. Now there was a man to crawl into bed with on a cold winter’s night! He looked to be about her height and had that stocky, barrel-shaped chest that she could not resist. There was something so very primitive about it, something strong and solid that made her think of godlike men with war hammers, or great bulls stomping through the fields.

  The man finished his conversation and turned toward her. Bliss upon bliss, he had a clear complexion, pinkened by sun and wind, deep lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes and down from the corners of his nose. He saw her staring and frowned.

  Hilde hiked the basket back up her arm and resumed walking toward him, her gaze intently on him. With her free hand she ran her fingers lightly over her hair, tucking a stray strand of graying blond behind her ear. She moistened her lips and straightened her back, pushing forward her breasts as well as she could.

  Her chin raised, she walked up to him and paused, meeting his eyes with a gaze of arrogant approval. She saw his blue eyes widen, and she grinned, her eyes roving over his body, and then in German told him, “I could eat you in one night.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he said, confusion in his eyes.

  She nodded once, a promise in the gesture, and then left him. It wouldn’t do to come on too strong. She knew he watched after her as she mounted the steps between houses that led up to the path: She could feel his eyes on her back. She swung her hips for his enjoyment, then bent down as if to adjust her shoe, giving him a good view of her backside.

  Perhaps Cornwall was not such a bad place, after all.

  “Come on, move it, you mangy donkey,” Tom said, yanking on the halter of the beast in question. The donkey flattened its ears and made a move to sit down. “Oh, no, you don’t, not again.” Tom reached into his pocket for his last remaining carrot, and used it to coax the creature forward, the small cart with its cages of squawking chickens and bags of feed trundling behind.

  The donkey had been cheap even by donkey-purchasing standards, costing him a mere five shillings. He could understand why, now that he had shared the creature’s company for two miles in the near dark. He had bought it and the chickens and cart from one of the farmers from whom he often hired horses to haul smuggled goods.

  The livestock was for Konstanze, more a move of practicality on his part than of generosity. All of Penperro was talking of Hilde’s visit to town, of her brusque ways and her incomprehensible speech. Tom had found Matt tossing back whiskeys, the light of a hunted creature in his eyes. “That woman’s going to track me down and haul me off to the moors to have her way with me,” he’d said. “And she looks strong enough to do it.”

  “She probably is. She left a bruise on my arm from where she grabbed it last night.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Tom had laughed, but when one of the Preventive crew overheard speculation about Hilde, it became necessary to concoct an explanation for her foreign presence on the off chance that questions might lead anyone to the Penrose cottage.

  Keeping as close to the truth as possible, Tom had the information spread that Hilde was maid to the lady who had inherited the Penrose cottage. The lady was, unfortunately, an invalid, and had come to the cottage for the sea air and for the utter quiet and privacy in which she hoped to regain some of her former health. He would have to ask Mogridge not to talk any more about the young singer he had brought to the cottage, and warn others to watch their words near the Preven
tive crew.

  He had little doubt that Konstanze would agree to his plan eventually. She would not have listened to him half as long as she had last night if she were not in need of money, and he had seen proof enough in his time of what a person would do to ensure a full larder. She already swam around naked and sang sitting on the rocks, so allowing a man to glimpse her from afar while she did so should be but a slight change for her, and worth the profit. If he were in her place he’d do it, no question.

  The cottage came in sight, and after a little more argument with the donkey he persuaded the creature to go around to the back. Tom unloaded the chickens into the chicken house and stored their feed by the last light of day, then unharnessed the donkey and put it and the cart in the barn.

  “Who is dere?” Hilde demanded from the back doorway, as he emerged from the barn. She had a fire poker in her hand, both she and the weapon silhouetted against the warm light from the kitchen.

  “Tom Trewella. Good evening, Hilde. I hear you went shopping today.”

  Distressingly, she appeared to be getting a firmer grip upon the poker. Its angle rose, as if she was contemplating the best position from which to take a whack at his head. “Vhat do you vant?”

  “To speak with Miss Penrose.”

  “Hilde, put that down,” he heard Konstanze say from within the kitchen. Hilde turned her attention to her mistress, and a short argument ensued in German. Hilde reluctantly moved out of the way, and Konstanze stepped out onto the stone step.

  “Mr. Trewella. Is there a reason you are skulking about in the yard instead of knocking upon the door?”

  “I’ve brought you chickens and a donkey and cart.” The message was greeted with long moments of silence.

  “Have you?” she finally asked. “And why, pray tell, did you do that?”

  “May I come in? We can talk about it inside,” he said, coming up the steps and forcing her to move back. She pressed herself against the edge of the door frame, staring wide-eyed as he turned sideways to fit past her, their bodies just inches apart. When he met her gaze she quickly looked down and turned her head slightly away.