anticipation. “Though we cannot be together, you will always have my heart,” he read. The note was signed,‘Lowenna’, and a short postscript read, ‘It’s what is inside that counts’.
“Lowenna...” Laity said. “That’s a nice old Cornish name I haven’t heard in a while. Means joy, if memory serves.”
“What do you make of that postscript?” Amy asked.
“Sounds like a standard sort of phrase. I suppose she just means that it’s how she feels about him on the inside that matters. Even if they can’t be together perhaps.”
A call from inside the shop caught everyone’s attention. “Shop!” It was Mr Trenwith, waving at Laity like the place was on fire.
Laity sighed. “No peace for the wicked,” he said. “Tell you what...” He stood up. “Give me a few hours. One of my locals is bound to know how you go about finding out who lived at Ferryman Cottage.” He leant over the table and collected Amy’s empty coffee cup and the half empty cafetiere. “I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks Tom.”
“Not a problem.” Laity waved the cafetiere. “Fancy a fresh brew?”
“No, I really couldn’t.”
Laity walked backwards to the door. “If you’re this way later on,” he said. “I’ll either still be here...” He rolled his eyes like he fully expected to be. “Or with a bit of luck I’ll be down at the boat. Of course, if I’m neither, then I’m already out fishing!” He was laughing as he disappeared into the shop and the waiting Mr Trenwith.
Amy watched him go, turning the note in her hands. She read it again, thinking about Lowenna and her lover, and of Gabriel and herself. She wondered what circumstance had forced them apart and how this box that once tied them together came to Ferryman Cottage all those years ago.
They met every Tuesday as the afternoon began to fade and whenever chance allowed. But on this particular wet and chilly Tuesday afternoon, late in the spring of 1803, it was to be for the last time. Lowenna’s father had made that very clear.
The caller at Rosemullion Hall left quickly again with James Fairborne’s thanks and a shilling for his trouble. The news he imparted left its receiver with a cold sense of failure. James Fairborne was distraught, unable to fathom where he’d gone wrong.
“Have I not given you everything you could wish for?” he asked, searching his daughter’s eyes for a glimpse of understanding. “That you should set your mark so low!” He began to pace uneasily before the fire in his study. It felt suddenly cold to him. He looked angry now, disgusted. “A farmer!” He spat the word out like it was a wasp lodged in his throat.
“He is a well educated man, father. A landowner, too.”
“Be silent, child!” James Fairborne fell heavily into a tall winged chair beside the fire and sank his head into his hands. “And that you should be seen courting together!” His words were seething.
“But I love him father.” Lowenna reached out to touch his trembling hands. “I am past sixteen years. I want to -”
“You are too young to know this kind of love!” her father snapped, slapping her soft hands away. “And this fool is too far beneath you to deserve it.” His face boiled. Veins throbbed at his temples and spittle glistened in the corners of his mouth. “You will not see him again!”
Her lover was waiting for her at the usual place. The broad oak gave him shelter from the spattering rain and the girth of its trunk afforded them privacy. His cart - sage green, riding on red wheels and undercarriage - looked weathered beside the muddy track that brought him this side of the Helford River every Tuesday - market day. His Shire mare, Ebryl, named after the Cornish for the month of April in which she was born, was happily eating her reward from the morral looped around her
“Lowenna...” Laity said. “That’s a nice old Cornish name I haven’t heard in a while. Means joy, if memory serves.”
“What do you make of that postscript?” Amy asked.
“Sounds like a standard sort of phrase. I suppose she just means that it’s how she feels about him on the inside that matters. Even if they can’t be together perhaps.”
A call from inside the shop caught everyone’s attention. “Shop!” It was Mr Trenwith, waving at Laity like the place was on fire.
Laity sighed. “No peace for the wicked,” he said. “Tell you what...” He stood up. “Give me a few hours. One of my locals is bound to know how you go about finding out who lived at Ferryman Cottage.” He leant over the table and collected Amy’s empty coffee cup and the half empty cafetiere. “I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks Tom.”
“Not a problem.” Laity waved the cafetiere. “Fancy a fresh brew?”
“No, I really couldn’t.”
Laity walked backwards to the door. “If you’re this way later on,” he said. “I’ll either still be here...” He rolled his eyes like he fully expected to be. “Or with a bit of luck I’ll be down at the boat. Of course, if I’m neither, then I’m already out fishing!” He was laughing as he disappeared into the shop and the waiting Mr Trenwith.
Amy watched him go, turning the note in her hands. She read it again, thinking about Lowenna and her lover, and of Gabriel and herself. She wondered what circumstance had forced them apart and how this box that once tied them together came to Ferryman Cottage all those years ago.
They met every Tuesday as the afternoon began to fade and whenever chance allowed. But on this particular wet and chilly Tuesday afternoon, late in the spring of 1803, it was to be for the last time. Lowenna’s father had made that very clear.
The caller at Rosemullion Hall left quickly again with James Fairborne’s thanks and a shilling for his trouble. The news he imparted left its receiver with a cold sense of failure. James Fairborne was distraught, unable to fathom where he’d gone wrong.
“Have I not given you everything you could wish for?” he asked, searching his daughter’s eyes for a glimpse of understanding. “That you should set your mark so low!” He began to pace uneasily before the fire in his study. It felt suddenly cold to him. He looked angry now, disgusted. “A farmer!” He spat the word out like it was a wasp lodged in his throat.
“He is a well educated man, father. A landowner, too.”
“Be silent, child!” James Fairborne fell heavily into a tall winged chair beside the fire and sank his head into his hands. “And that you should be seen courting together!” His words were seething.
“But I love him father.” Lowenna reached out to touch his trembling hands. “I am past sixteen years. I want to -”
“You are too young to know this kind of love!” her father snapped, slapping her soft hands away. “And this fool is too far beneath you to deserve it.” His face boiled. Veins throbbed at his temples and spittle glistened in the corners of his mouth. “You will not see him again!”
Her lover was waiting for her at the usual place. The broad oak gave him shelter from the spattering rain and the girth of its trunk afforded them privacy. His cart - sage green, riding on red wheels and undercarriage - looked weathered beside the muddy track that brought him this side of the Helford River every Tuesday - market day. His Shire mare, Ebryl, named after the Cornish for the month of April in which she was born, was happily eating her reward from the morral looped around her
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