Talek walked briskly to his study and sat heavily down at his desk, aware he was behaving like a petulant child left out of a game. His gaze wandered over the polished wood surface. He could always tell when Henry had been working at his desk. He was untidy in his accounting and often left a scattering of notes scribbled with arithmetic. Talek had never voiced his frustration at Henry using his desk, or the minor destruction he left in his wake, as his accounting skills were exemplary and worth the annoyance. Talek, on the other hand, had a more organised way of working, everything in its place and the rest tidied away at the end of the day. His desk had remained as he had left it earlier. It appeared Henry was using another place to do the accounting now, perhaps their St Austell office, in order that his time with Amelia solely focused on her. He should thank the man rather than feel so unsettled.
He pulled out the drawer and reached in deep to locate Margaret’s photograph. He had pushed it well back the last time he had looked at it so it was not on show should the drawer be opened. His fingers touched the silver frame, confirming it was where he had left it, but this time he did not withdraw it. What would Grace think if she knew he still had his former fiancée’s photograph hidden in his desk? Would she think he was behaving like a lovesick youth lamenting for a lost love?
Grace’s face teased his mind. She was laughing at him, with her soft throaty laugh, which he had often heard but she had yet to share with him. He thought of her vibrant auburn hair shining in the sun. Any desire he had to see Margaret’s photograph drained away at the realisation that Grace seemed to like everyone but him. It was a revelation that left him with a deep ache in his gut.
He withdrew his empty hand and sat back in the chair, the photograph all but forgotten. He had refused Amelia’s invitation to join them, despite knowing that he would enjoy listening to the musicians playing their fifes, accordions and mandolins as they paraded through the village. Why? Because Grace had not invited him, said a nagging voice in his head, and that disappointed him more than he cared to admit. The result meant that he had stubbornly refused Amelia’s invitation, yet what good had it done him? The house was empty, but for a few staff lurking in the shadows, while everyone who lived within a three mile radius was enjoying a country gathering in the shadows of the sky tips. And in the midst of them all was Grace Kellow, a woman who had accused him of murder, could not undertake a short train journey a child could navigate and had only been resident in clay country for three months. The reason why she left home and cut her hair off was something he did not want to dwell on too deeply. Daniel Kellow had said she would be no trouble and he had taken him at his word — although perhaps, he thought smiling to himself, he should have asked for his definition of the word ‘trouble’ before he agreed to offer her a job.
* * *
The ancient Cornish dance, ‘The Snail Creep’, was in full swing. Grace did not join the villagers, preferring to watch from the side of the road as the band led a procession of couples dancing to its lively tune. The first pair held aloft branches cut from the old village oak. The swaying wood symbolised the eye stalks of a snail, whereas the villagers formed its body, dancing in ever-decreasing circles until the spiral was so tightly entwined they were forced to turn and retrace their steps to unravel the coil again. The procession snaked through the centre of the village and took up a new position. The road, framed by a scattering of cottages and terraced houses, was normally quiet between the times when the miners arrived and left for their shifts. Today, on the 150th anniversary of the discovery of clay in mid-Cornwall, the road was swarming with the villagers and local inhabitants who had cared enough to travel.
Children ran in and out of the small groups gathering to watch, playing imaginary games made up on the spur of the moment. The dance eventually filed into an adjacent field and the remaining folk followed, keen to sample the succulent, roasted hog waiting for them on a spit. Grace watched them leave the centre of the village as distant grunts and cheers from workers straining at Tug o’ War, carried over the hedge to Grace’s stall. She’d volunteered to help serve mugs of tea and saffron buns for the price of a penny, and although trade had been brisk at first, the demand had now slowed and she was able to rest. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm and was briefly reminded of her short hair. She had forgotten how she must look, thanks mainly to the fact that not one person brought attention to it. They had accepted her odd look, which kicked against expectations of a woman of her standing, and she felt a flutter of freedom that she hadn’t felt since the day she sat at Hel Tor. It was the day she had seen Talek Danning for the first time. After that everything had begun to change.
‘Are you comin’ to the field?’ asked Tommy. Grace turned to find both Tommy and Billy beside her, Tommy looking at her with his wise old eyes as Billy, head bowed, stabbed at the scattered crumbs on the table. He has done this before, smiled Grace as she watched him expertly pick up each crumb with a moist single finger and pop them into his mouth.
‘In a bit. Would you like a bun, Billy?’
Billy looked up. ‘Can’t miss. Don’t ’ave no money. Gave me wages to Mother.’
‘Well my mother don’t need mine where she is,’ said Tommy, winking at Grace. ‘Been dead twenty years!’
At first Grace was unsure how to respond, but when Tommy and Billy both began to laugh, she found herself smiling too. Eventually their laughter settled.
‘Let me treat you to a bun,’ said Tommy, handing over a penny and selecting the biggest. ‘You need a big one. This will put muscles on you.’ Tommy touched his cap in farewell to Grace. ‘’Ope to see you in the field later, miss,’ he said. She nodded in reply as he turned to walk away. Billy hurried in his wake to catch up.
‘Buns don’t make you grow muscle, Tommy,’ said Billy through a mouthful of food.
‘Buns made with saffron do, boy. What do I always tell ya?’
Billy must have swallowed his bun, for his mimicry of the old man was loud and clear to Grace, despite the growing distance between her and them.
‘ “Stick with me boy an’ I’ll look after you an’ teach you all you need to know.” ’
Grace smiled as Tommy rubbed Billy’s cap into his hair. The old man and boy had a friendship to envy, a bond as strong as any father and son. She thought of her own and felt the familiar ache of sadness rise up inside her. She gave herself a little shake and looked up to the sky. The sun was shining and there was music and laughter in the air. This was not the place to become maudlin.
Grace began to tidy her stall. She was pleased that Amelia and Henry had visited, although only briefly. Amelia appeared happy during the visit and Henry, who looked less so, had attended to her needs in an efficient and caring manner. Grace could tell that caring for an invalid didn’t come naturally to him, but at least he was showing a willingness to try. Talek, on the other hand, hadn’t come at all, which Grace thought was ill-judged. He should show an interest in what his workers did in their spare time. She began to clear her stall with an efficiency only frustration and an eagerness to catch up with the band could supply. She glanced up to find herself staring at the man who occupied her thoughts, as he weaved amongst the last of the hangers-on. Her stomach flipped as he came striding towards her, a mixture of surprise, pleasure and anxiety tying itself in knots inside her to an almost painful degree.
‘You came.’
Talek surveyed the stall littered with crumbs and spilt tea. ‘I didn’t intend coming.’
‘But you’re here now and I think your workers will appreciate it.’
‘I didn’t come for them. I think they’ll enjoy what is the rest of the evening without their employer watching their every move.’
Grace’s breath caught in her throat. ‘So why are you here?’
He reached for her hand and guided her around the stall. His grasp, although firm and strong, held her hand gently in his as he led her away.
‘I came for you.’
His words sent a surprising thrill coursing through her veins. Until then, she hadn’t been aware his need of her company would mean so much.
‘For me?’ she asked, as her heart thumped at an alarming speed.
‘Yes. Your aunt is here and she wants to speak to you.’
Chapter Ten
Molly was in the field, sitting on one of the wooden chairs brought from the village hall. Despite the heaving and grunting of the Tug o’ War game playing out in front of her, her gaze remained fixed on the gateway, waiting for Grace to arrive. Despite her years, the beauty of her youth still shone brightly, and Grace felt the usual stirring of the love she’d always felt for her aunt. But this woman, who she had always admired and trusted, had lied to her too. Grace crossed the field, sat stiffly down in the vacant seat next to her and stared ahead, fixing on the line of men as they dug their heels into the dirt to gain more traction. She felt Molly looking at her.
‘We’ve been worried,’ said her aunt.
Grace could hear her pain. She recognised it for she felt it too.
‘There’s no need to be,’ she replied, crisply.
‘You left so suddenly and cut off your beautiful hair.’
Molly lifted her hand to touch it. Grace flinched away.
‘Please, don’t . . .’
Her aunt’s hand slowly fell. ‘Do you hate us so much?’
‘I don’t hate you.’
‘Then tell me what you feel?’
