Chapter Nineteen

B ran made a splendid groom. Jowan could not help but wish it was him, and that the bride was Tamsyn, but he kept his feelings to himself and devoted himself to making certain his brother was dressed appropriately and at the church ahead of time. Bran, usually the more level-headed of the two of them, was so busy imagining everything that might prevent the wedding from going ahead that he kept losing track of what he was meant to be doing.

They had spent the night in the village inn since all three women insisted it would be bad luck for Bran to see the bride on the day of the wedding, and Bran had been conjuring possible disasters since Jowan woke in the early hours of the morning to find his brother pacing the floor.

"No, Evangeline is not going to have second thoughts," Jowan said. He'd been saying that in one version or another most of the day. And that the weather had been fine for a week so the vicar who was coming to officiate at the wedding would not be prevented from fording any of the three waterways—more brooks than rivers—between the rectory and St Tetha. In the unlikely event that one or more of the bridges that had stood for a century or more chose today to fail.

Apparently, Bran was going to be marginally insane until he had his ring on Evangeline's finger, for a runaway bride and flooded rivers were only the least unlikely of the disasters he had conjured.

Still, it would not be long now. From his post at the door between the vestry and the nave, Jowan was able to report that the church was filled almost to bursting with their friends and their neighbors, and more people were gathered outside—the estate's tenants, miners from the family's mines, and others, less closely connected to Bran and Jowan.

Patricia came down the aisle. The bride must be close behind. Patricia and Tamsyn were planning to stay with her until Lord Trentwood, who was going to give the bride away, arrived to escort Evangeline. Jowan nudged Bran and the pair of them left the vestry by the outside door to hurry to the lych gate leading into the churchyard.

They were in time for Bran to hand his bride down from the Trentwood carriage. The happy couple would walk up the aisle together, with Lord Trentwood proudly following them and the two official witnesses, Jowan and Tamsyn, walking behind him.

All of Bran's worries must have evaporated. He helped Evangeline from the carriage with his heart in his eyes and a broad grin on his face, and she looked as besotted as he did.

The bride and groom were leading the way into the church. Jowan offered Tamsyn his elbow, and they set off after Lord Trentwood. "Isn't Evangeline a picture?" Tamsyn whispered.

Jowan nodded, and it was true. Perhaps it was her happiness that took her from passably pretty to beautiful, or perhaps it was her gown or something the other ladies had done with her hair or her bonnet.

Despite Bran's fears, nothing happened to spoil the ceremony or, indeed, the day. From the bride's arrival at the church to waving the happy couple off from Inneford House after a delicious wedding breakfast, the day was perfect.

Once they were gone, the part of the day Jowan had dreaded most arrived. Tamsyn and Patricia had accepted an invitation from Lady Trentwood to stay until Evangeline and Bran returned or until their cottage was ready, whichever came first.

Jowan had argued that Patricia, as a widow of mature years, was chaperone enough for Tamsyn to stay, and Tamsyn might have been convinced, but Lady Trentwood overruled Jowan. "People will talk, Trethewey. People are already talking, but we shall at least stop their mouths over this matter. Also, I do not doubt that my support shall be of value in squelching the gossip. Miss Roskilly is accepted at the highest levels of London Society, or so I am informed. I am determined that those narrow-minded people in St Tetha who regard theatre people with such disdain shall be forced to think again when it comes to our Cornish Lark."

So, the day ended with Jowan alone in Inneford House. Alone, that is, apart from the servants, who were having a celebration of their own in the servant's hall and would not welcome their master putting a damper on their company by joining them. He sat in the library with a glass of brandy and did his best to brood, but scenes from the day kept interfering with his determination to be morose.

Bran and Evangeline when they first saw one another outside the church. Evangeline's face as she said her vows. The pride on Bran's face when the rector presented him and his wife to the congregation. The song Tamsyn sang so beautifully during the signing of the register, not skipping a beat when it was her turn to sign as witness. Evangeline's swollen lips, disarranged bonnet, and bright color when the newlyweds' carriage arrived at Inneford House.

So many special moments. Jowan wanted them for his own. His and Tamsyn's. He had promised to give her time to know herself, but he had not promised not to court her, had he? Would that be a breach of the agreement? He wasn't sure, but he intended to find out. Tonight, he would stop feeling sorry for himself and go to bed, and tomorrow, he would pick Tamsyn a posy of flowers and make a formal afternoon call when Lady Trentwood was accepting visitors.

*

Jowan was courting Tamsyn. He took her a posy of flowers the day after Bran's wedding. That first posy was followed by dozens of others—every morning, rain or shine, picking the day's flowers was his first task, and if his work commitments meant he was unable to pay a call to deliver them, he would send them with a groom and a note.

He begged leave to escort Tamsyn and Patricia to church on Sunday and it became a regular practice. He invited her to walk with him on the village green and to visit the inn's private parlor for tea and cake, meeting Patricia there for propriety's sake.

He bought her little gifts—a pair of gloves, a china dish for trinkets, a box of fudge in fancy wrappers. Tamsyn protested that he would set the gossips quacking, but he said they could quack away, for he had nothing that they could turn into anything but the truth—Sir Jowan Trethewey was courting the Roskilly girl. The one who had gone away to be a singer and had become famous.

And rich, at least by local standards. That had come as a shock. The bank in Plymouth had written asking her to present herself with evidence of her identity since someone else had recently claimed the account in her name.

Jowan went with her when she met the bank manager. "The Earl of Coombe claimed he was your guardian, Miss Roskilly," the man told her. "He was able to show us a contract with your mother, but he was not able to produce any evidence that he was executor or trustee of the account, and it was evident from the date on the contract that it was no longer valid. Without any authority from you to release the money to him, we refused."

"You were right to do so," Tamsyn told the man. "The Earl of Coombe was my manager but is no longer. He certainly has no right to my money, and if you had given it to him, you may be certain that I would not have seen a penny of it."

Jowan took her and Patricia out to lunch to celebrate the successful claiming of the account. "At least we know why Coombe was in Plymouth," he said. "He probably thought you were in Plymouth on the same errand and left before we had him arrested for attempted theft."

"Quite possibly," Tamsyn said. "It is certainly a large enough sum to tempt him. I cannot believe Mother never touched a penny. With the interest, the amount is… If I never work another day in my life, I will be able to live quite comfortably."

It was not what London people would call a fortune and thank goodness for that. When he asked her to marry him, Jowan didn't want her to think it was for her fortune. Nor, for that matter, did he want her to agree to marry him because of his.

The investments his father had made had multiplied in the years since he and his agent died. Most proceeds had been tucked into a bank account where they accrued a tidy amount of interest. One of the groups who had invested in a cargo, unable to find the missing solicitor and give him the profits owed to Jowan's father, had reinvested on the unknown investor's behalf, and they had been lucky. That particular investment had more than doubled in four years.

Jowan and Bran decided to leave it in the group, but from now on they would track the earnings.

*

Lady Trentwood and Patricia smiled on Jowan's courtship, even if he was not yet certain Tamsyn did. They made excuses to leave the pair of them together—suggesting a walk in the garden or suddenly remembering an errand on the other side of the house that would require them both.

He and Tamsyn were not left alone for long, and never with a shut door between them and the household, but it was a sign of favor to his intentions. "They think you are courting me," Tamsyn said, a few days after their return from Plymouth. Lady Trentwood and Patricia had just declared an urgent need to visit the kitchens for a recipe supposedly promised to his cook.

What was Jowan supposed to say in answer to Tamsyn's comment? "I hope you think so, too," he offered. "I am not trying hard enough if you haven't noticed."

Tamsyn blushed. "I was not certain," she said. "I have never been courted before."

The artless comment had him flabbergasted. Certainly, what she'd said during her delirium had left him in no doubt that she had had many lovers.

"I have had stage-door followers, of course," she admitted. "But it is all pretend with them. For a start, they woo an illusion, not a real human being. Also, most of it is showing off for other men rather than aimed at the female they claim to wish to impress." Her blush deepened, and she looked away. He could barely hear what she said next, in a voice that would not have reached across the room. "You know I have had lovers. Or not-lovers. Seduction, I think, has little to do with love, and it is certainly not courtship."

If it had been left to Jowan, he could have lived the rest of his life, preferably with Tamsyn, without thinking about or mentioning her previous experience. But if she needed to talk about it, then he would have to find a way to do that, too. His mouth was dry, and his heart was pounding too fast, but he kept his voice calm and quiet.

"I have had lovers, too. And I agree that the word lover is misleading. Something was always missing, even when it was a coming together to meet mutual needs."

He had moved closer, and their bodies were almost touching when she looked up into his eyes, her own telegraphing a mixture of anxiety and hope. "You do not mind that I have been with other men?"

He minded fiercely, but that was the wrong answer. An incomplete answer, for what he minded was not that she had been with other men, but that she had been with men who did not respect her.

Something—perhaps it was divine inspiration—guided him to say, "I mind that you have been hurt, dearest Tamsyn." That was all the truth. The choices she had made in the past, the mistakes she had made, if any—those did not matter to him. But her pain mattered; would always matter.

She smiled, then, and the ease of it caused his chest to unclench and warmth to flow through him. "I am healing, Jowan. I shall always be grateful to you for that."

"You owe me no gratitude," he growled, offended at the very idea. "I did what was right for the friend of my childhood. And if I have fallen in love all over again with the woman you have become? The fault for that, if it is a fault, is all mine. You owe me nothing, Tamsyn. But I hope one day you will be willing to give me everything, not in repayment for a debt, but because you want to."

They were interrupted then, by the sound of loud talking as Patricia and Lady Trentwood made certain the courting couple knew they were about to have company. Jowan was satisfied enough. They had broken some new ground in their conversation, and he had declared his hand. The next move was over to Tamsyn.

*

By the time Apple Cottage was ready for her and Patricia to move in, Tamsyn had finished going through her mother's belongings. Many of them now graced the cottage, and she had had some of the old furniture refurbished. She had also spent some of her jewelry money on new furniture and furnishings and had taken money from her newly found bank account to pay for a square piano, which fitted more comfortably in the space than the massive piano Jowan insisted had been purchased for her.

Every day was still a challenge. Keeping busy with one project after another meant that the cravings did not dominate her days, but they were still present in the background.

She had a list of tasks to complete for Evangeline, to make certain the steward's cottage was ready for the newlyweds when they returned, but after that, she would need to make sure her mind was occupied.

What she needed was a purpose. Some work to do that gave her joy and kept her busy. She had her music, of course. She practiced every day. She continued to compose. Perhaps she could publish her work, in time, but Coombe had undoubtedly been right that it would be harder for a woman.

In any case, it would not consume her days and keep her mind from her cravings.

"Do you have any work I might be able to do?" she asked Jowan on one of their outings. They were at the site of the new mine, where work on the initial shaft was complete, the mine head was in place, and the smelting works were being constructed.

"Do you have time?" Jowan asked. "Whenever we talk, you've been busy."

"I need to keep busy," she told him. After a moment's hesitation, she explained. He claimed to be courting her, after all. If anything, talking to him about her lovers had made him more attentive rather than turning him away. But he had a right to know how damaged she was.

"I don't go a day without craving opium or alcohol or anything that will take me into the false promise of bliss. In truth, several times a day, I find myself thinking about how easy it would be to succumb, and how good it would feel, though I know the second part is a lie. The sensations I would have are transient and leave me worse than before. But I am constantly afraid I will forget that when the cravings are hard."

The color had drained from his face. "I had no idea," he said. "You seem to be managing so well."

"I can manage. I have been managing. But it is easier to forget the need if my brain and hands are busy." She frowned at the shock on his face. "It will get easier, Evangeline says, but it will never go away. That is how I live now."

"I…" He gulped back whatever he had been going to say, shoved his hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. "Yes. Evangeline warned us. I should have remembered. What can I do to help? Do you need something to do right away?"

Tamsyn could have flung herself at him and kissed him. Once again, she had shown him how broken she was, and once again, he had absorbed the blow and come to meet her. To give herself a moment to recover her poise, she outlined what she'd been doing and planned to do.

"I have finished going through my mother's papers. We will be moving into the cottage tomorrow, and it will not take more than a day or two to settle everything to our liking. And I've no more than half a dozen items to pick up for the steward's cottage, plus Patricia and I mean to see that the bed is made, that we've lit fires in the main rooms for several days ahead of their arrival to make sure the place is dry and warm, and that a meal is hot on the stove."

"So, after that?" Jowan asked. He had recovered his equanimity and had the look that meant he was coming up with a plan. "I was going to wait until Evangeline came back—I have been meaning to talk to all three of you ladies about an idea I had."

Tamsyn raised her eyebrows in question.

"You know Bran and I would like to offer more schooling for the older village children. Those who want to go further. I wondered if you three ladies might take on some of the children who are ready for more than our teacher can handle. The teacher is the wife of the innkeeper and is only able to give us four mornings a week. I thought maybe you ladies could teach the girls painting. Fine sewing. That kind of thing. Perhaps even music lessons."

She felt her eyebrows shoot higher. "Or classics and science if their talents lean that way. Patricia has a fine education, and mine is certainly up to teaching a twelve-year-old girl." Painting and embroidery, indeed. Sometimes, even Jowan could be a typical man. "We will need to talk to the others, and to the teacher. But I am eager."

He reduced the minuscule dent in her faith in him. "I imagine you will teach anything for which they have an interest or talent. Something their parents see a value in, but also things that will lighten their hearts and brighten their days—and those of their families in the future."

Still a very male point of view, to assume that the future of all those girls held marriage and children. But Tamsyn loved him. Not just the memory of the boy, but the wonderful man he had grown into. Her only doubt was whether her love was going to bring him joy or despair, in the end.

It was time to return to Lord Trentham's. Jowan helped Tamsyn into his curricle and set the horses trotting over the path out of the moors, and down into the valley. They were approaching the village when another vehicle thundered towards them—a carriage, pulled by four galloping horses.

The driver didn't shift from the center of the road—Jowan had to swerve his horses and curricle onto the grass at the side to miss being hit as the equipage hurtled by.

"Fool!" Jowan spat after the rapidly receding carriage.

Tamsyn was thinking of a few choicer words.

"Could you make out anything about the carriage or the driver?" Jowan asked. But the driver had been muffled in a scarf, with a hat pulled down over his eyes and a bulky coat concealing his form. The horses were two bays, a chestnut, and possibly a black, but the black was the rear offside, and neither of them had managed a good look as it raced past. And the carriage was plain and also black.

They were still discussing the incident when they entered the village and saw a knot of people gathered on the road outside of the inn. "What has happened?" Jowan wondered. Someone ran from the crowd to the inn stables.

"An accident of some kind?" Tamsyn speculated.

The scene was becoming clearer as they approached. Someone was lying in the road, but too many people were gathered around to see any details.

"It looks as if the victim has plenty of help," Jowan commented. "I'll just go straight through to the manor, shall I?"

Tamsyn was about to agree when she caught sight of the bonnet lying abandoned just beyond the cluster of people. She would know it anywhere. She had helped choose the colors for the ribbon and braid and had watched them being attached to the felted wool shape, stitch by stitch. Her heart rose to her throat, and she heard herself say, "No, stop. That is Patricia's bonnet," almost before she even thought to speak.

She leaped down from the curricle even as Jowan drew it to a halt, lifting her skirts so they would not trip her, and not waiting for Jowan's help. Because there was Patricia, lying in the road, her face white, her arm at an odd angle, and her gown torn, her green and blue aura torn by jags of dirty red.

One of the villagers recognized Tamsyn and made way for her to sink down beside her friend.

"She is alive," reported the innkeeper, who was holding a wadded-up neckcloth against Patricia's forehead, "but she has been kicked in the head."

"She didn't have time to get out of the way," someone else commented.

"He drove straight at her," said another. "Straight at her."

A horse erupted at a gallop from the inn stables, thundering off in the opposite direction. "Johnny has gone for the doctor," the innkeeper explained.

"Make way," said someone else. "Mother Wilson is coming."

Mother Wilson was the local midwife, and probably the best person after Evangeline to see to Patricia's injuries while they waited for the doctor, who lived ten miles away, and might not be at home even when the messenger reached him.

Mother Wilson knelt on the other side of Patricia, and Tamsyn took over from the innkeeper so the woman had more room. Behind her, she could hear Jowan organizing the villagers, sending some off to make a device to carry the patient, instructing two of them to take up positions on the road and divert traffic, and telling the rest to stand back and make room.

"I can't examine her properly without undressing her," Mother Wilson said, "which I cannot do on the road. However, I believe it is safe to move her. She reacts to pain, though she is unconscious, and she does not show any signs of pain when I touch her back or her abdomen. She might have one or more broken ribs, and she certainly has a broken arm, but with care, she can be shifted to somewhere close."

Tamsyn had retrieved Patricia's reticule and checked inside it. She must have been visiting the cottage, for her set of keys was inside. "Apple Cottage," Tamsyn said to Mother Wilson and Jowan. "We planned to move in tomorrow, but it is all ready, and it is just around the corner."

Some of the neighbors came back with poles and sheets, and within a few minutes, they had carefully slid the sheet under Patricia, made up the stretcher taking care not to jostle the patient, and were on their way.

Tamsyn hurried ahead to unlock the cottage and fold back the blankets and top sheet in Patricia's room. She then assisted Mother Wilson with her examination, and afterward let Jowan into the room to hear the experienced woman's assessment.

"The ribs are just bruised, I think, Sir Jowan and Miss Roskilly. In fact, most of the injuries are bruises or grazes. The horses would have tried to avoid her, of course. Even the kick to the head was a glancing blow, or she'd have a broken skull, and as far as I can tell, it is intact. And the wheels also missed her. Also, the arm seems to have a clean break, or two clean breaks, to be precise. It could have been much worse. She has been lucky."

Given that the doctor could be several hours, they decided Mother Wilson would clean and, where necessary, bandage the cuts and bruises. The leg she immobilized between two straight boards. "I'll not bandage it more than needed to keep it still, for the doctor will undoubtedly want to see it when he comes."

Tamsyn helped, and so was there when Patricia stirred and came to. "I hurt," were her first words.

"Just lie still, Patricia," Tamsyn told her. "You have been in an accident. Mother Wilson says it is mostly cuts and bruises, but you have broken your arm."

"Not an accident," Patricia insisted. "He swerved to hit me."