Chapter 10

"Good heavens," I murmured from my position near the window, peering down at the garden path below. "I thought tonight's dinner party was for relatives and neighbors, but it looks as if they've invited everyone for ten square miles." Laughter drifted on the evening breeze, as well as the music of a violin striking up a jaunty tune.

"Aye, Cora warned me 'tis a large family," Bree replied, joining me in my perusal of the guests below.

A large family, perhaps, but not of Roscarrocks. Not if Mery was the last of them.

"Much like in the Highlands, everyone here seems to be related to everyone else, in one way or another," Bree added. "Tends to happen when ye live so far from the rest of civilization."

I supposed that made sense. After all, more than half of my brother-in-law's staff at Gairloch Castle in the Highlands were related to each other. This proved to be both a boon and a bane to my sister in her management of the household, for while they all looked out for each other, they could also hold fierce grudges. I suspected the same could be said of the people below. The question was, had one of those grudges gotten Branok killed?

I heaved a weary sigh. Gage and I had already spent much of the afternoon riding about the countryside searching for anyone who might have witnessed anything the day Branok died, but no one admitted to seeing him or anyone else strolling toward the coast path that day. Not after midday that day, in any case, when several of the staff members at Roscarrock House reported they'd last seen Branok to Lord Gage. They'd brought a dish in while he was seated at the dining table, or they'd observed him standing at the side entrance, seeming to be absorbed in watching the antics of a pair of warblers. But none of them could then tell us where he'd gone.

This left a gap of nearly six or seven hours between the time Branok was last seen and when his body had been found. During some of those hours, Branok might have already been dead, but how many? Dr. Wolcott might have been able to tell based on rigor mortis and such, but I'd forgotten to ask him.

However, that would still not tell us whether Branok was murdered, or if he'd thrown himself off that cliff, or if some previously unconsidered circumstances had conspired to cause his death. I'd spent much of my time nursing Emma that evening while contemplating ways an accident still might have occurred. What if he'd tripped over a rock and it had thrown him forward? Or what if he'd been so lost in thought he'd not paid attention to where he was going? Having seen the place from which he'd tumbled, neither of these struck me as likely scenarios. There had been no large rocks to trip over, and the gorse and bracken lining the path was so jagged and prickly, he would surely have been recalled to his senses before he passed the point of no return.

And wasn't all of this terribly morbid to be ruminating over while tending to my sweet daughter?

I rested my head against the window frame, wishing I might have spent the evening rocking Emma in my arms instead of dressing for a party. Considering my awkwardness and failure to grasp social cues that no one else ever seemed to miss, soirees and gatherings were already difficult enough for me even in the best of times, but when I was fatigued and irritable after a long day, they could prove downright disastrous.

"Come, m'lady," Bree said, her voice soft as if she sensed my distress. "Let's finish yer hair."

I allowed her to coax me to sit on the bench set before the dressing table. I scrutinized my appearance in the oval looking glass as she carefully wielded the hot tongs to curl the hairs at my temples. The gauze muslin evening gown Bree had chosen for me was perfect—fine enough for a London ballroom, but not so fine that I would be out of place at this country gathering. We'd been informed there would be dancing, and the full skirts and green gauze ribbons allowed for such movement. The cheery green-and-pink running pattern of the pelerines on the bodice also did much to highlight what little color I had in my cheeks. Of course, my lapis-lazuli blue eyes were as brilliant as always, but there was little that could dim them.

"You mentioned Cora," I murmured, knowing Bree preferred to prattle as she worked. "Is that Dolly Killigrew's maid?"

"Aye. And she's a font of information, I tell ye. Thinks Mrs. Killigrew's expectin' again, though her mistress doesna want to admit it."

I eyed Bree curiously, wondering if this was meant to be an oblique poke at me. It was true, my courses had yet to return since giving birth and I was fatigued. But I was breastfeeding, and I'd also just traveled hundreds of miles and spent an entire day fruitlessly searching for answers to a question that was beginning to seem unanswerable. Given all of this, it seemed premature to assume anything in that regard, though Gage was as attentive as always.

"What else did she tell you?" I prodded, toying with the amethyst pendant draped around my neck.

"That two months ago, Mr. Roscarrock dismissed a third of the staff."

My gaze flew to hers in the reflection of the mirror, finding her eyebrows arched significantly. "Really?"

"Aye. Cora said they've all had to take on tasks they shouldna, but they dare not complain, lest they find themselves dismissed, too."

I pondered this information as Bree began to curl the hair on the other side of my head. "Perhaps the Roscarrocks are not as wealthy as they wish to seem." If so, did that mean they'd been telling the truth when Bevil claimed they were no longer involved with smuggling? Or rather, were they living beyond their means? And what was this evening's party—at no small expense—meant to prove?

I waited until Bree had finished curling the section of hair closest to my skin and allowed it to fall gently back against my face, the tendrils still warm from the tongs, before speaking. "Let us know if you note any other signs of financial strain."

"I can already tell ye the staff have been grousin' aboot a leak in the roof over the servants' quarters. They say the slate has been repaired several times, but what it needs is to be stripped and replaced."

At a hefty cost, I imagined. But was the Roscarrocks' reluctance to do so because it merely inconvenienced their staff and not them? Or was it because they didn't have the money to make the repairs? Either way, I couldn't imagine any of the staff members were happy about this party when the funds could have been put to better use.

I considered all of this as Bree finished my hair and then moistened a towelette with my favorite floral-scented perfume to dab it across my neck and decolletage to help mask any lingering odor of scorched hair and the day's exertions. The noise from the party outside was growing louder and I could only hope it didn't wake Emma sleeping in the room next door. I had seen the tip of her first tooth protruding from her gums earlier, and she was still fretful from it working its way through. Sliding my feet into my dancing slippers, I crossed to the window once more, intending to shut it. However, the old wooden frame appeared swollen, making it difficult.

"Bree, lend me a hand."

She dropped the pile of discarded garments she'd been gathering on the end of the bed and moved to my side, but even with our combined strength we couldn't force it. Leaning closer, she examined the frame. "There's a splinter o' loose wood here. Lower the window slowly while I push it in."

I followed her directions, taking care not to pinch her fingers. Once past the obstruction, it slid shut, sealing out at least some of the merry music and voices. Curious about the sturdiness of the frame, I glided my hand over the trim where the wood had begun to splinter internally, scrutinizing its integrity. But my interest was soon diverted by a marking on the plaster of the wall adjacent to it.

"What is this?" I asked, trailing my fingers over the circular ridged pattern. It appeared almost artistic in design, but then why was it hidden here, next to a window where the drapes would cover it?

"Ye mean, you've never seen one before," Bree responded in some disbelief. "?'Tis a witch mark."

I straightened, removing my hand. "A witch mark?"

"Aye. They used to put them by every door and window, and even the hearth, to ward off witches. Ye see the pattern. 'Tis like a labyrinth the witches get trapped in and canna escape."

I peered closer, noting she was right. There was an opening to the ridged design near the window, but if one followed its path, it circled around and around itself, leading to the center, like the hedge maze at Gairloch Castle.

"Ye can still see them in lots o' older buildings. Houses and cottages, manor homes, churches," Bree explained. "That is, if they havena been plastered or papered over."

"And you've seen them before?"

"They were used in Scotland, too." She turned toward the other window, which was already shut. "My parents' cottage has 'em. So did Langstone Manor."

Gage's cousin's estate on Dartmoor. Given the age of that manor, this did not surprise me.

"Here's another," she said, pointing at the wall in approximately the same place next to the other window behind the drapes.

I moved closer to see that she was correct. "Then they're no cause for alarm?"

"Nay. Simply evidence that someone in the past believed in witches and feared 'em enough to try to keep 'em oot o' their home."

I thought of the strange noises we'd heard the previous evening coming from the area around the window. From the pucker between Bree's brows, I could tell she was thinking of them as well. But I did not believe in witches. At least, not the type who had supernatural powers and could steal into houses unseen.

After all, hadn't I been called a witch enough times to prove what an archaic, ignorant, intolerant term it was? In this enlightened age, calling a woman a witch was nothing more than slander.

I frowned, recalling how Mery had called me a witch, though he'd tried to imply it wasn't an insult. Just as those who called my eyes witch bright attempted to laugh it off as merely a jest. Mery had claimed that witches were welcomed here in Cornwall, but these witch marks would appear to contradict this. He'd also used another word I'd thought it better not to ask him to explain.

"Bree, do you know what a pellar is?"

She eyed me curiously. "From what I can gather, they're like witches, but also no'. They heal wi' herbs and folk remedies, and work charms and such. But they're also somehoo like a justice o' the peace or a magistrate, and also somehoo like a priest." She shook her head in a mixture of bafflement and disbelief. "I overheard two o' the women who were hired to help wi' the dinner preparations discussin' the matter while they peeled potatoes and cut onions. The cook didna look happy wi' 'em, but seein' hoo she was already run off her feet, she couldna afford to offend 'em by shushin' 'em. She told me no' to mind their quibblin'," Bree finished, reaching out to adjust the fall of the sleeve of my gown.

"But why? Pellars don't sound particularly ominous."

"Because the women seemed convinced that if a pellar were aboot, the matter o' Mr. Roscarrock's death would already be solved. Though they seemed to disagree on what sort o' justice the pellar would deem was merited. One woman claimed it was sinful to wish ill o' anyone, while the other thinks Mr. Roscarrock got what he deserved."

I suddenly felt cross. It was easy, and perhaps tempting, to believe that a person with supernatural powers could discern the truth with a wave of their hand. However, the world did not work that way. It took hard work to put the pieces together to uncover the truth and unmask a killer.

"How did you hear about pellars?" asked Bree.

"Mery Roscarrock mentioned them in passing."

Bree's expression darkened. "The staff are no' fond o' that one."

I arched my eyebrows, urging her to explain.

"He's a brooder. Sour and temperamental. And a scoundrel." Bree gathered up the pile of clothes on the bed again. "There may be nay more legitimate Roscarrocks, but rumor has it there are plenty o' illegitimate ones."

I didn't have a response to this, and a burst of muted laughter coming through the now-closed window reminded me it was long past time I made an appearance. So I donned my warm plum pelisse trimmed with ermine and made my way toward the stairs. Five children ranging in age from about one and a half to seven years old lined the rail to stare over the banister at the guests gathered below. Knowing Dolly and Tristram had only three children, I surmised two of them must belong to guests. I smiled at them all and their nursemaid before lifting the skirts of my gown to descend.

I spied Gage's golden head among those gathered in the entry and, as if sensing my scrutiny, he lifted his gaze to meet mine. A soft smile of pleasure lit his face, warming me to my toes. But before I could take even two steps in his direction, Great-Aunt Amelia latched on to me with a remarkably strong grip for someone her age.

"Kiera, there ye are. I've some people for ye to meet."

Her use of the word some was a bit misleading, for the number of people she introduced me to was well over two score. She propelled me through the house and out into the gardens, gleefully presenting me to everyone we passed as both Lady Darby and Mrs. Gage. True to Bree's report, everyone did seem to be related to nearly everyone else, but I lost track of the names and degrees of separation in the thicket of family trees that formed their community. Blearily, I wondered if they would all have to be interviewed about Branok. It would take days. No, weeks to complete the task.

The very thought was daunting, and while I tried not to reveal my bewilderment and dismay, I feared I wasn't entirely successful. Not if my father-in-law's commiserating smile was anything to judge by. I had thought to be the one offering him consolation, for I knew tonight would not be easy for him, but he appeared to be holding up rather well under the strain.

"If it's any solace, none of them expect you to remember their names," he leaned down to murmur when I found myself standing next to him at the periphery of the gathering. The whirlwind that proved to be Great-Aunt Amelia had spun itself out, and now she was seated in a comfortable cane-back chair being plied with sustenance by well-meaning family members. "They'll not hold your reputation against you either, seeing as how many of them believe the gentle folks in London to be far too soft." He exhaled a long breath. "Here, death—and everything that goes with it—is simply a part of life."

This was the first time I'd heard him say anything remotely complimentary about this land of his ancestors, and I couldn't help but study him out of the corner of my eye. His shoulders were tight, and he was undoubtedly far from relaxed, but either by force of will or desire, a genial smile curled his lips rather than the contemptuous sneer he'd adopted much of the time since our arrival. He was also right. I hadn't detected any disgust or enmity when Amelia had disclosed my past—in both subtle and not-so-subtle ways—to those she'd introduced me to, only curiosity.

"I suppose Emma is asleep?" Lord Gage said, softening my heart toward him even further. "She would be enthralled to see the garden like this."

I had to agree. Lanterns had been strung throughout the garden from trees and poles, lighting up the night, and placed down the center of the tables draped in white cloths. A profusion of camellias, hydrangeas, tibouchina, and myrtle filled vases and porcelain pitchers, lending their sweet fragrance to the evening air. The last vestiges of sunset were fading in the west over the sea, while stars filled the canvas of the sky overhead. Three firepits crackled and popped merrily at the periphery of the gathering, spaced evenly to provide both additional light and warmth, as well as a place to roast nuts, cheese, and various other tidbits, of which there were plenty.

The long table inside the dining room practically yawned with food, both familiar and unfamiliar. Pilchards, lobsters, oysters, mussels, potatoes prepared three ways, asparagus, fruits, and cheeses nestled alongside local specialties like pasties, saffron buns, and young nettle tips. Bree had already warned me about the stargazy pie. The Cornish delicacy sounded fanciful enough, but was made from six types of local fish and decorated with fish heads and tails which emerged from the crust like live fish leaping out of the waves. Some sort of heroic tale explained the origin of the dish, but even had I known it, I wasn't sure I would have found the pie any more appealing.

"I'll concede one thing," Lord Gage remarked, his eyes fastened on the fiddlers in the corner playing a lively reel. "My relatives certainly know how to enjoy themselves."

A makeshift dance floor had been created, and several couples twirled across its expanse while others clapped in enjoyment.

"They remind me of my mother's family," I told him, feeling a sudden pang of longing for Uncle Andrew and Aunt Sarah, for cousin Jock and all the others. Then a welcome pulse of amusement superseded my melancholy as a fellow dancing with a large pilchard spun into view. "Including him."

Lord Gage actually chuckled. "There's always one in every family."

With his face lit with good humor and his silver eyes twinkling with merriment, I was reminded of what a good-looking man my father-in-law was still purported to be, and how much his son resembled him. From the strong jawline and cleft in his chin to the sculpted cheekbones and the twist of curls at his forehead—though Lord Gage's hair was no longer blond but gray. This was how my husband would look in twenty-five years' time.

Like everyone here, he was dressed to impress. Though, truth be told, much like his son, Lord Gage rarely appeared anything but impeccable. Tonight, he was not wearing his usual dark evening attire, but a more colorful frock coat and trousers, like the other gentlemen present. His coat was a lovely pigeon blue which gave his gray eyes almost a crystalline quality.

I was about to tease him about his informality, considering the fact he'd required Gage and I to dress for dinner every night at Bevington Park. A tradition strictly maintained by much of society, but one that Gage and I sometimes eschewed when it was just the two of us dining together. But I noted a woman approaching us, hesitantly at first, and then with more assurance.

"Stephen," she murmured in a pleasing alto. "Stephen, is that really you?"

Lord Gage stiffened, and I thought for a moment he was going to deliver her a set-down for speaking to him so familiarly. Then I realized it was not outrage but astonishment that he felt.

"Tamsyn?" he replied, almost in wonderment.

She smiled in answer, drawing a smirk from him and a crack of laughter.

"By God, it's good to see you."