Invitation To A Cornish Christmas. Marguerite Kaye
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not your only customer. This is Miss Faulkner, who is renting one of the estate cottages,’ Treeve said.
‘I know who she is. I’m assuming it’s coffee you’re after?’
‘If you could find it within yourself to bring us some,’ he answered sardonically, ‘that would be delightful.’
‘I warned you,’ Emily said as Mrs Nancarrow disappeared again, her entrance next door clearly marked by the sudden increase in voices.
‘I wonder, if I’d asked her, if she’d have served me a fine French cognac.’ Treeve sat down again beside her. ‘No, she’d have told me they don’t stock such things, even though they almost certainly do.’
‘You think that is why she was so…’
‘Sullen? Wary? Yes, because she doesn’t want a navy man asking awkward questions as to whether it is contraband or not.’
‘Especially since you own this inn now.’
‘I wish to hell that I did not. Excuse my language.’
‘Oh, for a rough sailor, your language is remarkably civilised.’
Treeve gave a snort of laughter. ‘You have no idea.’
‘If you came here in the hope of gaining acceptance,’ Emily said, keeping her voice low, casting a wary glance at the open hatch, ‘you’d have been better off in the taproom, taking a glass of rough cider and rubbing shoulders with the men.’
‘I’m not sure I’m looking for acceptance. It might be different if I planned to remain here.’
‘You’ve decided that Mr Bligh is trustworthy then?’
‘He seems to have kept things ticking over very well since Austol died, but I’ve discovered in the last few days that there’s a great deal more required than simply keeping things ticking over. A good many decisions have been put on hold. I had no idea. These last few days have been quite an eye-opener. If I told you…’
‘Captain Penhaligon. Miss Faulkner.’
Ned Nancarrow set down a tray bearing two cups, a pewter coffee pot, and a sugar dish. A tall man of sparse build, with hair to match, he had a long face, and a way of looking sideways that gave the impression he was forever keeping a weather eye on his potential escape route.
‘Thank you, Ned,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Well enough.’ The hand was taken, rather reluctantly. ‘Jago tells me you’re headed back to your ship at the turn of the year.’
‘Does he?’ Treeve sat down again, picking up the coffee pot. ‘He knows more than me then.’
‘Said you had leave until the end of December.’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘So you’ll be here for the Nadelik celebrations then—that’s what we call Christmas, Miss Faulkner. You’ll be hosting Gwav Gool up at the big house, as your father did, and your brother, too?’
‘I had not thought that far ahead.’
‘People expect it. No Gwav Gool festival means the harvest will fail, and the catch next year will be poor. You should know that, Captain. It’s a tradition that goes back generations. Perhaps it might be best to leave it to Jago to organise. He’s well versed in local customs.’
Treeve set the coffee pot down again. ‘When you know me better, Ned, and I hope you will take the time to do that, you’ll understand that I prefer to make my own mind up about local customs, both good and bad.’
He spoke quietly. He hadn’t moved from his chair, but there was no doubting the steel in his voice. Emily sensed it, and so too did Ned Nancarrow, who narrowed his eyes. ‘Not sure what you’re getting at, but I sincerely hope you’re not casting no aspersions. The Ship has been run by my family for generations without any complaints from the authorities.’
‘I’m aware of that, and I’m happy for it to stay that way.’
‘I told Jago, you’re a Cornishman, before you’re a naval man.’
‘The world is changing, Ned, and Porth Karrek is being left behind.’ Treeve held up his hand to stall the other man’s protests. ‘I want only what is best for this place, I assure you. We all want that. We should all be on the same side.’
‘Aye, you’re right, we should. Can I get you anything else? Only I’ve some thirsty fishermen in the taproom.’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
The door closed softly, and Treeve pushed a cup of coffee towards Emily. ‘It seems I have my answer, with regards to the cognac at least.’
‘Is smuggling really still a problem here, now that the war is over?’
‘Locals would claim that it’s the over-inquisitive Excisemen who are the problem, not the smugglers earning an illegal coin.’ Treeve stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘For me, it’s not a question of right or wrong, it’s a simple matter of the law. You can’t pick and choose what laws to uphold and which ones to break with impunity, even if they do seem to be unjust, or the punishment seems to far outstrip the crime. I’ve seen that for myself Emily, at sea. I’ve been obliged to enforce ship’s discipline, even when in my heart I wanted to be merciful.’
He finished his second cup of coffee, grimacing. ‘I sound like a pompous ass, but I know what I’m talking about. Mutiny. Whether it’s on board a ship on the high seas or here, in Cornwall where the likes of Bligh and Nancarrow think themselves above the law. I won’t tolerate it.’
‘But how can you stop it, if you are not planning to remain here?’
‘Damned if I know!’ Treeve groaned. ‘Nancarrow’s right about Gwav Gool though. As a man of the sea myself, I know that she has to be placated.’
‘Are you teasing me?’
‘Only a little. Your family are from a seafaring community, you know how superstitious such folk are. Gwav Gool is a very ancient Cornish tradition, celebrating the year gone past, and looking forward to an even better one to come. In Porth Karrek, it takes the form of a dance with a supper hosted, as Nancarrow pointed out, by my family two days before Christmas. What’s more, there are a raft of other traditions, both pagan and religious, all tangled up together.’ He frowned. ‘The shopkeepers dispense gin and cake to their customers in December as a thank you for their custom. As I recall, there’s usually a solstice bonfire on the beach which the Treleven family host a couple of days before Gwav Gool. Then Nadelik—Christmas Day—sees the Reverend Maddern’s yuletide service.’
‘Good heavens,’ Emily exclaimed. ‘It sounds as if the entire month of December is given over to some sort of celebration or another.’
‘It’s a hard life here, it’s not surprising they celebrate with gusto. This will be your first Cornish Christmas. Are you looking forward to it? You’ll be expected to join in, you know.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not—all those things you describe, they are for local people.’
‘Which, for the time being, includes you. Don’t you like Christmas?’
‘I’m simply—I don’t mark Christmas. In Lewis, the New Year is more important, and so it was with my family, even after Mama died. And since Papa died…’ She trailed off, appalled to discover her throat clogging. Not one Christmas in their whole five years together, had been spent with Andrew. How virtuous she had felt, surrendering him to his poor mad mother for the festive season. What a fool she had been to believe that barefaced lie.
‘This year will be different,’ Treeve said, so kindly that she felt herself on the brink of most unusual and unwelcome tears. ‘Since I must host Gwav Gool, perhaps you’ll help me out? On board ship, it’s just another day, it will be