The Sun Is Often Out

Chapter Two

Uncle Jago and Lance appeared on the third day of May's residence in Redruth House, and she warmed to them both immediately. Her uncle was a jovial man, his Cornish accent still thick despite twenty-five years in the colonies. They shared a particular quirk—he too detested his Christian name, having been baptised Fergus Jago, but preferring the latter had divested himself of the former entirely. Lance had a broad, kind face, though he was not handsome, and again May felt he had been misnamed, for he did not resemble the Lancelot of her imaginings in any way. He seemed to be Jessie's favourite, and it was clear from their interactions that the feeling was mutual in the way he doted on his baby sister.

Walter cottoned on quickly to her change of name, merely commenting 'like the flower', leaving Jessie to scratch her head until she decided he meant lily of the valley. From that point on she always called her May-bells, joking that the delicate flowers suited her perfectly, appearing sweet on the surface but full of venom for the wicked and dim-witted. Olive received a great many glares from her sister before she realised her mistake, and May worried that this slight had made an enemy of her sullen cousin.

On Christmas Eve the Francis Hale's arrived, with plans to stay until the new year. The house was full to bursting, with each bedroom occupied. May felt guilty that she had a room all to herself while the rest had to share, but Jessie reassured her that the only ones who might complain were the 'prims', that they would only do so under their breath, and no one who mattered cared either way.

The 'prims' had little to differentiate them—aged from twelve to seventeen, they wore identical white linen dresses and shaded their complexions at every opportunity. None were particularly pretty, but their general air was one of calm deference; they walked meekly, sipped their tea without spilling a drop, and spoke only in whispers. Their only colour came from their names, for each was named for a flower. The pest, however, exceeded his description. As the long desired heir to his father's kingdom, and the fifth child, he had been bestowed the ridiculous moniker of Quintus Tullius, in some attempt to link this fat-faced, smirking brat of eleven with the nobility of Rome.

May decided the reason he had been delegated his own room while Lance shared with Walter was so both of them could avoid his company as much as possible. She loathed him from the moment when, in church that evening, he had taken the place beside her and made it his mission to embarrass her. His foul ministrations willed her to cry out—his elbow nudging at her again and again, then when that failed he pinched her arm. May gritted her teeth and uttered not a sound. He would have no satisfaction from her.

The next morning May woke to find a bright, plump orange on her pillow, still cool from the larder. She tucked it away in a drawer for a later treat and, after Annie helped her to dress, headed downstairs to thank her aunt and uncle. The day was already hot, the loud hum of cicadas still audible over the bustling noise of the household.

The brat himself was loitering in the hall. With her back straight, May moved to pass him, but he stepped into her path.

"You're the orphan, aren't you?"

She stared back at him, saying nothing.

He leered at her, bringing his face close to hers, as if he were inspecting her. "You're not much to look at. I suppose you'll do."

"What?"

Rocking back on his heels, he replied: "Father says I'm to marry you once you're old enough. Then your land will be mine."

"Quintus!"

Walter stood in the doorway to the dining room, and his cousin turned to look at him with a scowl.

"Your father asked to see you in the parlour."

With an exaggerated sigh, Quintus stomped off in the opposite direction, leaving May and Walter standing awkwardly in the hall.