Page 51 of The Cornish Widow

Never having seen a fishing village other than Penzance up close, Harriet gazed around herself with interest. All along the docks stood teetering piles of weed encrusted baskets, coils of rope, random bits of ships and upturned rowing boats. On the exposed sand below the high sea wall lay more rowing boats, strings of wooden buoys, a thick line of washed up seaweed, and here and there the weed-encrusted detritus of old fishing nets. The smell wasn’t unpleasant as Harriet inhaled a deep breath.

“You like it?” Jack asked, his tone a little hopeful as though her opinion on this tiny French town mattered to him. “This way. Mrs. S’s establishment is down a quiet side street.”

The same cobbles as lined the harbor road also lined the side street, but with far less of a smell of fish about them. Halfway down it, a sign hung off a metal pole sticking out into the laneway. Someone had painted a picture of a witch with long green hair and wild eyes onto it, along with the name The Sea Witch. Behind her, colossal white-capped waves rose from a wild sea.

“The name of the ship her husband served on,” Jack said, pushing the front door open. “She was unusual in having a figurehead—of the witch, of course.”

The room inside was small, square, and low-ceilinged, with twisting stairs going up to the left, and a table and chair in the center back in front of a couple of doors. No one appeared to be about, but the smell of cooking food lingered in the air. Fish, of course.

“Hello!” Jack shouted. “Mrs. S? Anyone about?”

Footsteps sounded and the door beside the stairs swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman in a mob cap and clean white apron, who to all intents and purposes, but for the apron, could have stepped out of a society drawing room in Bath. Not that Harriet had much experience of them, but this was not how she’d been expecting Mrs. S, smuggler’s widow, to look.

“Jack Trevelyan!” she exclaimed, her kind face breaking into a wide smile and her light blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. “You’ve been a stranger to us for too long. And you’ve brought company.” Her surprised gaze ran up and down Harriet and Theo.

Mortified, Harriet attempted to look as though cavorting in boys’ clothing was a normal thing for her. “Good evening,” she said, and for want of being able to hold her skirts out and curtsey, performed an ungainly cross between a bow and curtsey and then wished she hadn’t attempted it.

“My dear girl,” Mrs. S said, her eyes full of compassion. “What has he done to you? Jack—what ever has happened? Did you fish her out of the sea like a mermaid? Or have you taken to dressing your ladies as lads?”

His ladies? Did he come here often with women in tow? The mortification of being just one of a line of ladies swept over Harriet and her cheeks blazed with heat.

Without waiting for him to answer, Mrs. S ploughed on. “A room for you, my dear, and for your son. I’m afraid you’ll have to share. And I’m sure we can find something better for you to wear. Shame on you, Jack, for allowing a lady to come ashore dressed like this.”

Harriet peeked sideways at Jack, but he’d perhaps wisely decided to remain silent and not argue with this diatribe, nor to reveal that the only other option had been a nightgown. At least he possessed discretion.

Not so Theo. Unfortunately. “It’s not Cap’n Jack’s fault. We stowed away on The Fly, and he took us out to sea by mistake. We were hiding in the hold like proper stowaways. Then the sea got rough, and Mama and I were foully sick because of the storm, and all our clothes were dirty. But Mama only had her nightgown.”

Mrs. S’s wide blue eyes widened to their furthest extreme. “My goodness me. Never did I hear such a tale. You poor dears. You go into the parlor, Jack, and Etienne will pour you a brandy. I’m taking Mrs…?”

“Penhallow,” Harriet said, feeling quite weak and feeble before this onslaught of capability.

“…Mrs. Penhallow upstairs with me. And you, young man. You look to me a likely cabin boy.”

Theo, who’d been forced by Harriet to put his shoes and stockings back on, looked most gratified at this praise. “I can stay down here with the Cap’n because I don’t need to change. I’m going to be his next cabin boy. When Clemo gets too big.”

“No you’re not,” Jack said. “And you need a wash. Your face is filthy. That’s what comes of sleeping on sails.”

“Sleeping on sails? What a to do.” Mrs. S clasped her hands together. “Not that I’ve not slept on sails myself in the past. Comfortable bed they make and if it rains you can creep in under a fold. But tonight you’ll rest in my best bedroom, my dears. Have no fear.” She gave a shout through the door she’d emerged from, a stream of gabbled French issuing from her lips. “Marie Hélène. Tout d’suite. Apportez de l’eau chaude au premier étage—la grande chambre. Dépêchez-vous, paresseux, vite, ou je vous donne une gifle bien méritée.”

Harriet hadn’t the foggiest what she’d said, but it produced a distant reply. “Oui, madame. Je viens, je viens.” The gist of which Harriet picked up. Someone was coming with something she’d been asked to bring.

Mrs. S shooed Jack through the door to the right, and, like a farmer herding recalcitrant hens, ushered Harriet and Theo before her up the spiralling stairs. On the first floor landing she opened a door on the right and Harriet went inside, pulling the still resistant would-be cabin boy after her.

For the best bedroom, it was not large, but the bed had the appearance of being well-mattressed, and there were flowers in a vase on the deep windowsill. How very English. “You won’t mind your little lad sharing the bed with you, will you?” Mrs. S asked, turning down the covers. “’Tis a good big bed and most comfortable. The window overlooks the harbor, but there’ll not be much noise overnight as the tide’s on the way out right now and none of the boats can get in.”

Footsteps sounded outside and Marie-Helène, who turned out to be a scrawny French girl in a grubby apron, arrived bearing a jug of steaming water and a china wash basin, cleverly managing to balance this while walking with a towel tucked under one arm and a lump of soap under her chin.

“J’arrive, j’arrive,” she panted, as she set down the bowl and jug on the pine dresser.

Mrs. S waved an airy hand at her. “Descends maintenant. Francine a besoin de ton aide, j’en suis sûr.”

And with a curious, wide-eyed glance at Harriet, the girl hurried off.

“Now,” Mrs. S said with satisfaction. “Let’s turn you back into a lady for your Captain.”

Theo, who’d gone over to sit on the high bed, legs dangling, burst out laughing. “He’s not her captain. It was me that stowed away. Mama was just chasing after me and got shut in the hold with me. She didn’t want to be on the ship at all. I can’t think why. Apart from when we were sick, it’s been great fun.”

Mrs. S raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at Harriet. “Mais, bien sûr,” she said, reverting for some reason to French. “He is quite definitely your Captain, Mrs. Penhallow. I never mistake that look.”