A Shadow's Bliss Read online

  Shadow's Bliss

  Patricia Veryan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Some there be that shadows kiss

  Such have but a shadow's bliss.

  —Shakespeare

  The Merchant of Venice

  Author's Note

  Cornwall, the southwestern "claw" of England, was for centuries rather astonishingly isolated from the rest of the British Isles. She was not entirely cut off from the world, however. Despite her sometimes inhospitable coasts, shipping reached her. As time passed, there arrived conquerors from Rome, immigrants from Iberia, Celts from France, Mediterranean merchants, Irish voyagers, sailors from Spain. Some came by choice, some were cast up on Cornish beaches by the violence of wind and waves. All brought with them their gods, their spells and incantations, and as Cornwall remained remote and overland travel difficult, the superstitions became ever more a part of the way of life.

  Two miles from Veryan Bay lies the charming village of Veryan, where are five cottages, each circular, and each surmounted by a cross, the idea having been to provide no corners in which Satan might hide. I knew of this, but although I am British born and lived in London until after World War II, I had not realised when I started researching this story just how deeply entrenched were the myths and legends and superstitions of the county. I was, in fact, intrigued to discover mat many beliefs and rituals I had assumed to have vanished with the eighteenth century, actually persisted even into the 1940s.

  If, therefore, kind reader, you should feel inclined to raise an eyebrow at some of the episodes in this book, I beg you to believe they are not entirely the products of my imagination. I also assure you that I have left out a great deal more than I have included!

  Chapter 1

  England, Spring, 1746

  Earlier in the day the advent of spring had brought sunshine to warm the modest stone church on the cliffs, but clouds had come in to chase away that warmth, and with the approach of evening the small room behind the sanctuary was chill.

  The wind was rising, and from the beach came the measured booming that told of Atlantic breakers pitting their might against this southernmost toe of England. These were the only sounds to break the silence as one of the men in the room struggled with his thoughts, and the other waited tensely for him to speak.

  The light was fading, and although the only window faced east, away from the gales, a cold draught stirred the faded curtains. Father Mason rose from the bedside. A short, sturdy man with a mane of white hair, his strong face was troubled as he crossed to a chest against the wall and took up a tinder box. He lit one of the two candles, drew the curtains, and carried the candlestick back to the bed. Standing there, he looked down at the man who watched him so desperately. A young face, the light brown hair tumbled and untidy against the pillows, the grey eyes sunken into dark hollows, and the cheekbones high and gaunt above cheeks that were also sunken and marked by lines of suffering.

  The priest asked gently, "How old are you, Jonathan?"

  "I think… perhaps five and twenty, Father." The words came haltingly, and with a timidity oddly at variance with the strong lines of nose and jaw, and the resolute chin.

  Father Mason shook his head, stifled a sigh, and set the candlestick on a table near the bed. He sat down again, and muttered, "So young, to carry such a weight of responsibility. You must have been very good at your chosen profession."

  "Not… good enough." The words were spoken painfully, and the sick man closed his eyes and jerked his head away, as if seeking to escape an unendurable memory.

  "Do you truly wish to atone?" asked the priest.

  The thin face turned to him again. There was the glitter of tears in Jonathan's shadowed eyes, and he said with faint but passionate intensity, "If only I could! I… lack the ability to turn time… backwards, alas."

  "You have the future, my son."

  "Do you mean a—a penance, sir?"

  The priest did not at once reply. His lips pursed, he stared at the flickering flame of the candle, and when he spoke it was to ask another question. "Have you decided where to go when you leave me?"

  "Only that it must be far inland. I cannot—I cannot bear the sounds of the sea."

  "Not surprising."

  The sick man recoiled slightly, but said nothing through another pause.

  "Where—inland?" asked the priest. "Do you mean to try and find your family? You said you recall a lady, I believe? Wife? Sister? Mother?"

  "I don't… know. My life before we sailed is… a jumble. Bits and pieces with no seeming connection. Besides, if there was anyone they would not want me. Not… now." A long thin hand was stretched out; the tormented eyes fastened to the priest's stern countenance imploringly. "Father, I beg you. What must I do? Only tell me."

  "I am an unimportant, and not very learned man." The priest took that outstretched hand and then released it as though the contact was distasteful to him. "I am not omniscient."

  "You are a man of God."

  "Say rather that I am His most humble servant. I cannot grant you absolution, Jonathan. Even were I to point you the way that—were I in your shoes—I would take, my judgment might well prove faulted."

  "Point, sir! I cannot live with… with my conscience and not try to make amends."

  "So be it. First, then, you will not go inland." Father Mason heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and acknowledged, "It will be hard for you, I know. But the sounds you so dread will be a reminder of your guilt, and your vow."

  "Dear God! Better I had died!"

  'Much better,' thought the priest, but he said inexorably, "Will you swear to this? That until you believe with all your heart that you have made atonement you will stay on this coast? Within sight and sound of the ocean?"

  "That must mean for… all my life!" Wretchedly, Jonathan muttered, "Father, how can I ever hope to atone?"

  With rather brutal candour the priest said, "Probably never. You can only try. Well? Shall you take the vow?"

  "Is there—more?"

  "You must forget your former station in life, and neither seek nor accept aid from family or friends, if they should chance to find you. You will live here, among the poor, abandoning all pride and showing always a gentle humility."

  The thin fingers tightened. In a flare of indignation, Jonathan exclaimed, "But I would be a misfit! They'd never accept me!"

  "Your cultured way of speech, certainly, would cause most simple folk to look upon you with suspicion. But they are suspicious of anyone not born in Cornwall."

  "And for a man of my size to behave as you suggest must earn only contempt!"

  "Which you do not deserve…"

  Jonathan tensed, then acknowledged wearily, "Which I deserve. But—Father, I may defend myself if—if the need should arise?"

  "Do you say you still feel you have a right to raise your hand 'gainst another human being?" The priest sounded shocked.

  After a moment, barely audible, came the response. "No. No, I have no such… right."

  "A greater Man than you or I said, 'whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'"

  "I—I don't know if I can be that humble, Father. Am I… would I be allowed to work?"

  "For your food, or lodging. But not for money—unless it is taken t
o help others. Any kind deed you can perform, any kind word spoken, may ease the weight of your guilt. And in this manner alone may you use these." Father Mason touched the fist that was so tightly clenched on the blanket. "To the defence of those who are abused or brutalised. But never—no matter what the provocation—never in your own defence!"

  He drew back, and there was silence again, while the shadows deepened in the corners and the room became ever more chill.

  At length, Jonathan said, low voiced, "You have been very good, sir. To take me in, and—and care for me. The men who found me would do nothing."

  "Cornish folk are a fierce and proud lot, I'll own. But they've been betrayed often down through the centuries. They have no love for strangers. Which will not smooth your path, I fear."

  Jonathan asked hesitantly, "Do you think I shall ever be…"

  "Forgiven?"

  "No. I don't ask that much. But—if I could just be granted… some peace of mind."

  "Conscience is a merciless taskmaster, but perhaps, with time, you will be, my son. Certainly, your physical health improves. You may like to wait until you are fully recovered before you take such a solemn oath. It would be—"

  "No, Father. I'll take it now."

  The priest stood. "As you wish."

  He left the small room where the sexton had lived, when he'd been able to afford a sexton, and walked in his dignified way into the sanctuary to get the beautiful old Bible that was used only for the various services and on such occasions as this one. Taking it reverently from the lectern, he paused, his thoughts on the man he had just left. Such a tragedy, that so fine a young fellow, who had certainly enjoyed all the advantages of birth and breeding, should have made such a shambles of his life. And ended so many others!

  "Some peace of mind," he muttered.

  And, shaking his head, he carried the Bible back into the cold little bedchamber.

  Summer, 1748

  August had been blown in on a great gale which lashed the southeast coast from The Naze to Selsey Bill, and created havoc as far inland as London and Reading. Trees were uprooted, roads flooded, bridges washed away, and countless buildings stripped of roofs and chimneys. Within a week the weather did an about-face and became more normal. Temperatures soared and the southland sweltered. London was stifling, and all who could manage to do so abandoned the Metropolis in favour of country estates or the seaside.

  After its fashion, the far west country followed a different pattern. Devonshire basked in springlike warmth and gentle breezes. In Cornwall the wind blew strong off the Atlantic, but the sun shone benevolently on the great breakers as they exploded in clouds of white spray against Penwith's rugged rocks and cliffs.

  Perched atop those cliffs was Roselley Village. Actually, it was more a hamlet than a village; a widespread scattering of gaunt granite cottages, a small tavern, and a few stunted trees twisted into grotesque shapes by the constant storms that the ocean sent to batter the land. Atop a hill a mile to the north loomed the mighty tower of Castle Triad. Across the moors to the east a tall and crumbling chimney was all that could be seen of the once prosperous Blue Rose Tin Mine, now silent and abandoned.

  On this bright morning the Widow Newlyn was making her way along the wide dirt path that served Roselley as a road. She hummed merrily to herself, seemingly unperturbed by the flapping of her voluminous skirts, or the crinkly dark hair that escaped her cap to be whipped about her round face. There were few people to be seen. Many of the tinners who had been put out of work when the mine closed down had left the Hundred, others eked out a living at the Castle, or hung about the Morris estates, a dozen miles to the south, hoping for a few hours' labour.

  A tabby cat sat on the doorstep of the Lawney cottage, its eyes closed as it cleaned one front paw industriously. The widow paused, watching the little creature. "Over the ear!" she murmured, nodding. "Rain. That's no surprise, puss."

  Three boys darted, squealing, from behind a cottage, confronted the cheerful little woman, and with guilty gasps stopped so abruptly they all but fell over themselves.

  "'Tis the Widow Newlyn!" piped the smallest among them.

  His voice appeared to restore the use of their legs. They averted their eyes and fled.

  "Rascals! You should be in the school," Mrs. Newlyn called, in the pleasant singsong that is the way of Cornish folk.

  The boys had come up from the left, but each had taken pains to pass on her right, and she shook her head rather ruefully. One must, she knew, always pass a witch on the right.

  The sound of hammering hung loud on the air, and she followed it, halting briefly outside Mr. Gundred's cottage to steady herself against the sturdy post from which hung a sign proclaiming simply shop. There were no windows on this side, of course, but the gust that had rocked the widow also blew the front door open. Several men gathered about the hearth looked up. The proprietor hurried to shut the door, and greeted the widow genially. In the spring she had relieved his little daughter of terrible nightmares, and he was grateful.

  "Put the sign back up, has ye?" she said redundantly.

  "Aye."

  "I wonder you don't just paint it on your wall."

  "I'll not bow to the wind," he declared. "Besides, what'd me mates have to bet on if I gave in?"

  "A penny says it'll be down by Friday."

  He nodded. "A penny you've bet," he said, and bade her good day.

  Noah Holsworth's was the northern-most cottage of the village, and quite a distance from Gundred's shop, its nearest neighbour. It was to Noah's that Mrs. Newlyn was bound, but reaching the cottage, she changed her mind and went on past to where the inward curve of the cliffs marked the start of Bridget Bay. A small stream flowed busily from the high moors to hurl itself over the edge in a tiny waterfall, known locally as Devil's Ladder. From here to far past Castle Triad the cliffs were too sheer to be scaled unless a man had climbing equipment, but at this point the stream had worn a slight depression in the face of the rock, and a few reckless young men had struggled to the top, though more had fallen in the attempt. An ascent could only be tried in dry weather when the stream was reduced to a trickle, and even then it was treacherous, as the winds could blow up very suddenly and with devastating force.

  The widow paused at the very edge of the cliff, but her intent was far removed from climbing. She sought about for a leaf, discarding several until a large yellow one pleased her. She held it to her lips between both hands, muttering in the ancient tongue now all but forgotten, and at length placed the leaf carefully in the stream. It was gone in a flash, and in her eagerness to see what became of it, she lost her balance and had to hop frantically to regain it.

  "Phew!" she exclaimed. "Thank you, wind from the west! Now—where did my Informer go?" She peered again, but this time took the precaution of doing so on hands and knees. She had expected to see the leaf in one of the tidal pools on the sands. Her eyes were keen, but although she narrowed them and sought about painstakingly, there was no sign of the "Informer."

  "You are most disobliging," she grumbled. "You know very well this is the only day this side of the next full moon that I can cast you off! You are yellow enough, goodness knows, which is why you were chosen, since yellow can be seen for a greater distance than any other—Good gracious!" About to give up her search, she checked, inspecting a clump of dandelions on a small outcropping. "Is that you? Oh, well then, you are a silly!" She stood, brushing off her skirts, then peered downward once more, and admonished sternly, " 'Tis no use hiding yourself in those dandelions. I see you, and you are quite mistaken! Were there any strangers about, I should know. Especially that many strangers! Stuff and nonsense!"

  She was still disgruntled when she returned to Holsworth's cottage, and made her way around to the leeward side. Two men toiled busily here. One she knew to be her own age, which was five and forty. The other was younger, but his age she did not know, since Jonathan—or Jack, as most folks named him—couldn't recall exactly what it was.

  "
… and even if they do hear, they don't listen, so what good is it?" Noah Holsworth's mighty voice matched his mighty frame. He was not as tall as his companion, but his breadth of chest and shoulders and a pair of muscular legs conveyed an impression of power, only slightly mitigated by the fact that a mining accident had taken his left hand and wrist.

  "Hold it steady, Jack," he roared, "so I can whack it square." He raised his hammer, only to emit a howl of frustration as his helper was staggered by the wind, and lost his grip on the board. "Curse and confound it," raged Holsworth, his deep-set pale blue eyes glinting. "I said steady! Can you not even—" He broke off as the younger man drew back, his head ducking as though in anticipation of a blow.

  The Widow Newlyn clicked her tongue impatiently, and hurried along the path between the neatly kept rows of flowers and vegetables that struggled to survive in the shelter offered by the cottage. "Might have known I'd find you bellering, Noah Holsworth," she scolded. "Great brute that ye be! And Jack half your size."

  Holsworth reddened, and snatched off his wool cap, subjecting his thick greying hair to the mischief of the wind. He said uneasily, "Half my size he may be, Widder, but he's taller'n me, and nigh half my age I'll warrant, and has both arms, ye'll mind. 'Sides'—he raised the steel hook that served him in lieu of a left hand and rapped it gently on the other man's broad but thin shoulders—"he do know as I mean him no harm, does ye not, Jack?"

  The wind-blown fair head lifted again. A pair of grey eyes met the widow's and a deep but diffident voice said, "My fault, Mistress Newlyn. Mr. Noah's kind. I'm just—I'm clumsy, is all."

  "Then kind Mr. Noah won't mind me taking you off, will he?" she said, with a warm smile for the man she called Jack, and a toss of the head for Holsworth.

  "Taking him off?" echoed the big man with considerable indignation. "Ye did but now lend him to me! And full well you know how hard it be for me to work without no helper."

  "Fiddle," said the widow. "You've got your hook, which is worth two helpers!"