Chapter Twenty-Eight

S am rose from the desk in his new office with a feeling of accomplishment. More than two weeks had passed since their arrival. He'd managed to hire three new girls from the nearby village to help with the cleaning, and two young men to work in the wilderness that was the gardens. Rosie had already proved she could manage to provide edible, if not spectacular, food, and Cubert had taken to waiting on table and the duties of a footman with gruff resignation. That none of them possessed any kind of livery to wear could be addressed later.

He closed the ledger book in which he'd inscribed the names of his five new servants, recruited from the somewhat unpromising and poorly trained workforce from the local village. All of whom had now been accommodated in the attic servants' quarters, which were next on the list for deep cleaning.

He glanced at his fob watch. He'd worked too late. Again. Dinner would be served very shortly. As old Gerren, Rosie's white-haired father, had been sent into Penzance today in the trap for more kitchen supplies, it was to be hoped tonight it would be something a little less simple than the stew they'd had last night. Unless, of course, that was all Rosie could manage, which was entirely possible. It had been tasty and filling, but not quite what Ysella was used to. For himself, he was quite happy to exist on homely stews, but he wanted Ysella to feel at home, so he wanted the food, and everything else here, to more closely resemble Ormonde. Rosie permitting. Hopefully…

He glanced down at his clothes. Really, he should change for dinner, but did he have time? Probably not. He doubted if Ysella would notice. She didn't seem to notice much about what he did, as though he didn't matter to her any more than the servants did. A depressing thought. He put away his books, tidied his desk and headed for the hall.

Ysella was already there, dazzlingly beautiful in a white gown with tiny puff sleeves and the smallest of lemon flowers embroidered across the bodice. Her hair had been piled up in rich chestnut curls, a few of which had escaped to lay across the alabaster skin of her shoulders. The sight of her took Sam's breath away, leaving him fumbling in the darkness of his confusion.

She bestowed a radiant smile on him. "Shall we go in? I've been down to the beach at Nanpean again today with Jem, and I'm quite famished."

A pang of jealousy stabbed at Sam's heart. She'd been spending a lot of time with Jem, but of course, he couldn't be seen as any kind of rival for Ysella's heart. The boy was only fourteen and looked no more than twelve. But theirs was a budding friendship that nagged at Sam incessantly. He longed to be the one to walk down to Nanpean with her, to stroll along the sand hand-in-hand and to point out what the tide had deposited, but something held him back from asking her every time he steeled himself to do so. The sensation that she preferred the simple, uncomplicated company of a child wouldn't go away.

Rosie had risen to the occasion. Sort of. They had some kind of indeterminate soup to begin with, followed by a very tolerable joint of mutton in a sauce whose ingredients Sam didn't want to enquire after. But it all tasted good, and he would have tucked away a good proportion of it had he not been, as usual, rendered without appetite by Ysella's presence.

She seemed to have a good appetite though, after her afternoon of exercise and fresh air, clearing both her soup bowl and her dinner plate. Rosie had cooked something called a spotted dick for dessert, which turned out to be a boiled pudding with dried fruit peppered through it. This reminded Sam too much of his schooldays, and he declined to try it. Ysella, on the other hand, ate hers with gusto and returned for seconds.

"You seem to have worked up quite a hunger, Ysella," Sam said, leaning back in his seat and sipping on the claret he'd had brought up from the well-supplied cellars. At least the resident servants hadn't found that, or if they had, they'd left enough to keep him and Ysella in wine for some time to come.

She nodded. "I went down to see Jenifry again, and this time I finally met Uncle Jago." A smile flitted across her face. "I must say, he's an intimidating fellow. I'm not sure he approves of me, and I can't understand what Kit sees in him, to be honest. He's nothing at all like Mama. You wouldn't think they had the same parents." She chuckled. "But Jenifry is lovely."

"It's a long walk," Sam said, who'd been down to visit Jago himself several times over the past two weeks. Ysella probably didn't know he'd done so, though.

"And such a climb back up. But the walking is doing me good. I'm sure it makes me less puffed now, thanks to all the exercise I'm getting."

Sam got to his feet. "Shall we take tea in the drawing room. Or would you prefer coffee?"

She stood up with a giggle. "Do you think the tea might be contraband? That would be funny if it were. I assume the smuggling didn't stop with the raids carried out last year. Jenifry told me they'd just have moved where the stuff comes ashore and kept on going. I'd wager all our servants, too, know exactly what's going on."

Sam laughed himself, glad to be able to exchange banter with her. Dinner seemed the only time of day he was with her at the moment, there was so much work to do. He'd managed to persuade her to spend at least her mornings supervising the house, something she'd taken to quite well, although she continually professed herself bored with it.

Now they had more maids, though, the work was progressing more quickly. She'd also undertaken to supervise the gardens, or rather young Jem, so not a lot of gardening was being done yet, at least, not by Jem. She always seemed to be taking him off, asking him to show her new paths to walk on, and where to pick the wildflowers that were popping up everywhere. She came home every day with armfuls of bluebells and the pretty white three-cornered leeks, or posies of cowslips, primroses, pink campion, stitchwort, and tiny violets. The house now had vases of wildflowers decorating many a windowsill.

They went into the drawing room and over to the hearth. The fire blazed, courtesy of the local chimneysweep, but nevertheless was fighting a losing battle at keeping at bay the chill of spring the house never seemed to lose. It must be those thick walls.

"I think there's a storm brewing out to sea," Sam said as he took one of the tapestry-upholstered wing back chairs that had belonged to Ysella's grandmother. "So tomorrow I wouldn't venture too far from the house, if I were you."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "How can you tell?"

"The clouds. They've been building up on the horizon all day, and, this evening, shafts of sunlight were spearing through them. They're only that noticeable when a storm is brewing." He shrugged. "If we're lucky, though, the storm will pass us by out to sea and head off south into the Bay of Biscay."

"Where's that?"

Cubert, considerably spruced up since his appointment as first, and only, footman, came in with the tea tray and set it down on the low table.

"You can go," Sam said. "I'll pour." He turned back to Ysella. "The Bay of Biscay is hundreds of miles to the south, near Spain and Portugal. Did you never have a lesson in the geography of the world?"

She pulled a face. "Far too boring. I never had a governess who could keep me applied to the work she wanted me to do. We spent a lot of our time walking in the gardens. When she could find me."

Sam shook his head. "It amazes me that you ever gleaned any education at all. Our children won't…" He stopped, blazing heat racing up his throat to his face.

Ysella blushed a matching scarlet.

"I'm sorry," Sam spluttered. "I didn't think."

She fluttered her hand at him. "That's all right."

But he could see it wasn't.

To fill the now gaping silence, he poured their tea and passed Ysella hers. As she took it, their fingers brushed, a current of electricity surging up Sam's arm. She started. Had she felt it as well? Was it to do with what he'd let slip? Thoughtless fool that he was. Their eyes met.

Ysella's lips parted and her bosom rose and fell as though she were finding it hard to catch her breath. Was this still just embarrassment? Or did she want to say something?

Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, then she took the cup, her gaze dropped, and she leaned back in her seat, studious disinterest on her face as the color faded.

Sam hesitated before picking up his own tea, afraid that with his hand shaking so badly he would spill it, or give himself away by letting it rattle.

"I think I'd like to have my bedroom decorated," Ysella said, a little awkwardly. Was her voice strained and tense, and if so, why?

Sam struggled to regain his composure, convinced he hadn't been mistaken in her reaction. "What color do you fancy?"

The moment of tension between them dissipated, melting away into the cold air of the drawing room. Lost but not forgotten.

For a while, then, they talked of their plans for the house and gardens, and Sam told her about the tenant farms he'd visited and the plans he had for innovation on them to help with production levels. All things he'd learned from books and shared with Kit at Ormonde. He expounded for a while on how more modern machinery, and specially bred stock, could make a farmer and his farm more efficient, which in itself could produce more revenue for the farmer, and perhaps higher rent for the landlord. He forbore from mentioning the veiled hostility with which he'd been met at nearly every farm, the suspicious glances, the resentment of his presence.

She listened to him with a rapt attention that seemed quite out of character for her. Surely, she wasn't interested in harrows and seed drills and broadcasting and different breeds of sheep? But it filled what could have been an awkwardness between them, and he was glad of her pretended interest.

They drank their tea, called for more, and eventually, with night drawing in, it was time to retire to bed.

Ysella rose, her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. She must be tired with all the time she was spending out of doors in the fresh sea air, walking with Jem. A further pang of jealousy assaulted Sam. She should be walking with him down the quiet, wildflower-strewn lanes. He should be picking flowers for her to add to her bouquets. Not a simple farm boy, who, regardless of his extreme youth, was undoubtedly smitten by his young mistress. Sam shook himself, angry that he could feel jealous of a child.

He held out his arm, and Ysella took it, the touch of her fingers gossamer light through the broadcloth of his workaday coat. Out of the drawing room, across the hall, up the stairs, turn right at the half-landing and into the gallery. Ysella's room lay at the far end, his, two doors down. No interconnecting doors for them, as Ysella's parents had had.

He walked to her door with her.

She stopped and turned towards him, a questioning look in her eyes, her face serious. What did she want? Might she be about to say something? Was that an invitation in her eyes or was he imagining it?

"Thank you, Sam," she said, slipping her hand off his arm. "Thank you for making Carlyon more of a home for me."

Sam gazed down at her, captivated by everything about her. "It's been a pleasure for me to do so." He reached out and caught her hand. Even through the thin silk of her glove he could feel the warmth of her skin. A shiver of excitement ran down his back. Might she be softening towards him? Might this be the night she invited him into her bedroom? And if she did, would he go? No. She didn't love him. If she invited him, it would be from pity, or some other such emotion. Would he let her give herself to him knowing it wasn't out of love?

"That makes me very happy," she whispered, her voice low and clear in the quiet of the upper gallery.

"My only wish is to see you happy."

She bowed her head, looking down at their joined hands. "I know." She paused. "And for that I feel… a little guilty."

He squeezed her hand. "Never feel like that."

She shook her head, still not looking up. "I feel you have received the bad end of the bargain. You have a wife, but you do not have a lover."

If he hadn't known her so well, he would have been shocked. "Ysella," he whispered, his whole body stiff with tension. "I did not marry you to take you as my lover. I married you because… because of how much I care for you. I know you don't love me. I know you never can. I would never make a demand of you that you did not truly wish to fulfill. You have not in any way discomposed me. I assure you."

Only that wasn't true. He wanted nothing more right now than to take her in his embrace and kiss her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her throat. He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her into her bedroom, banging the door shut behind them and shutting out the world that held Oliver Featherstone. He wanted to love her so much that she'd never think of Featherstone again.

"A pretty speech," Ysella said, and slid her hand out of his with gentle firmness. "I bid you goodnight, dear husband." She raised her head, stared into his eyes for a long moment, then, on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek. "Good night." A chaste and friendly kiss only. A sister's kiss for a beloved brother.

She pushed open the door and went inside her bedroom.

Sam stood outside the closed door, one hand to his cheek, touching the spot she'd kissed. She'd never done that before. Was that an indication of her changing feelings? Did he really mean what he'd said to her?