Chapter Thirteen

M iss Hawkins’s house lay down a side street whose distant end gave a narrow view of the blue of the sea. Set back from the lane, it proved to be a substantial house with front and rear walled gardens and enough windows to indicate it possessed three floors. She opened the front door and ushered them into a long, tiled hallway. “Come into the parlor. I have it to myself, so no one will disturb us in there.”

Caroline and Yves followed her into a fussily feminine parlor furnished with old-fashioned pieces and a surfeit of china ornaments and faded oil paintings of children, dogs, and horses.

Miss Hawkins turned to Yves. “Could you go down the corridor to the kitchen at the back of the house and give Mrs. Penrose, the cook, a message for me, do you think?”

He nodded with enthusiasm.

“Ask her to bring a tray of tea to the parlor and to give you some of her wonderful fruit cake. You can eat it in there with her so you won’t get crumbs on the floor in here.”

Yves vacated the parlor with alacrity at the suggestion of fruit cake being on offer.

Miss Hawkins turned back to Caroline. “Mrs. Penrose has grandchildren of her own and is very fond of little boys and knows how to feed them. He’ll be quite safe with her. Do sit down, Miss Fairfield.”

Safe? Miss Hawkins’s choice of words set alarm bells ringing. Caroline sat on one of the stiffly upholstered chairs, folding her hands in her lap.

Miss Hawkins also took a seat, perching on the edge of hers and leaning forwards, her brow furrowed in concern. She licked her thin lips. “I expect you’re wondering why I invited you back here.”

There didn’t seem to be an answer to this, so Caroline remained silent, waiting for her to go on.

“As you’ve gathered, I was Yves’s and Hetty’s governess until just over a week ago.”

Caroline nodded.

Miss Hawkins waved a hand around the crowded parlor. “This isn’t my home. This is my place of employment. I hold the position of companion to an elderly, bedridden lady, Mrs. Bristow.”

Again, Caroline just nodded.

“I’ve been praying that something might bring whoever the Treloars hired as a new governess for the children into Penzance, but I could never have hoped you’d come so soon.” She clasped her thin hands, fingers intertwining, and two spots of bright color flared on her cheeks. “This is difficult for me to say. Please hear me out before you dismiss what I have to tell you as mad.” She held Caroline’s gaze. “When I was dismissed, Mrs. Treloar made certain I could have no contact with the children before I left. She had me pack my bags immediately and Young Pascoe drove me into Penzance in the pony cart. I told him I’d be catching the stagecoach up to London to find employment there. But I didn’t. I stayed a night in the Star and heard Mrs. Bristow needed a nurse-companion. I applied, and this is where that led me.”

Did this have something to do with the bottle of medicine Caroline had found? A bottle Miss Hawkins seemed as though she might be familiar with. Caroline nodded to Miss Hawkins to keep going.

“I didn’t want to be far from Roskilly. I couldn’t just abandon Yves to his fate.”

Caroline’s eyes widened. The nagging worry she’d been feeling almost since she’d arrived at Roskilly began to coalesce into a real fear. “What fate do you mean?”

Miss Hawkins leaned further forward. “He’s in terrible danger, Miss Fairfield. Old Sir Hugh can’t leave his bed to keep him safe any longer. He’s nearly ninety years old and is tended only by the nurse Mrs. Treloar hired. The nurse who used to work in an asylum and is in her pay. His rooms were where I first found a bottle of laudanum. In Sir Hugh’s dressing room, where the nurse sleeps.” She glanced over her shoulder as though, even in the safety of the parlor, she imagined someone might be creeping up behind to listen. “My suspicions were aroused because lately every time I took Yves to see his grandfather, whom he loves, the old man was either sleeping, or so sleepy he could hardly speak.”

“So who exactly is in danger? Do you mean Sir Hugh or Yves?”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“They both are.”

The door opened and Yves came in, telltale crumbs around his mouth, closely followed by a rotund woman in a voluminous apron. She set down the tea tray she was carrying on the low table between the chairs. “Shall I take young Master Yves back with me to see the cat’s kittens?” she asked, with no preamble.

Miss Hawkins nodded. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Penrose. But mind he doesn’t try to take one home with him. They’re too young to leave their mother yet.”

Yves danced out of the room with the cook, and his voice, raised in question about the kittens, vanished down the hall.

Miss Hawkins poured two dishes of tea and handed one to Caroline.

Caroline took a sip but it was still too hot to drink. “Do you mean someone is trying to poison Sir Hugh with a laudanum overdose? Or just keep him sleepy and biddable? I’ve not met him as yet.”

Miss Hawkins nodded. “Both, in all likelihood. But that’s not all.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Mrs. Treloar asked Hester, who was the head nursery nurse, and who was in charge of getting Yves to bed after his supper, to dose him with Dalby’s Carminative. The same thing you mentioned. She said it was for his digestion and to help him sleep. Hester came to me because she was worried about giving him anything she didn’t think he needed, and because she was my friend. I’ve been caring for him now since he was five years old, so I know him well. He’s always been an energetic child in the daytime, and consequently has slept very well at night, woken early and been alert and lively. But three nights of being dosed with the carminative, and he was waking late and half asleep all morning, learning nothing.”

“He was like that this morning.”

Miss Hawkins pressed her lips together. “I spoke to Mrs. Treloar about it, and she ordered Hester to go to work in the kitchen after nursery supper. Bridget was to put Yves to bed from then on. And Bridget had no qualms about administering the carminative.”

“What’s in it?”

“Opium, or you might say laudanum. Not a particularly high dose, I’ve found out, as it’s meant for babies and small children, not big boys of nine. But I don’t think she was only giving him the carminative. I think she was adding extra laudanum to the bottle. Laudanum from the supply in Sir Hugh’s room.”

Cold fear traced a finger down Caroline’s spine. Could this all be true? After all, why would Miss Hawkins lie to her? Children were astute judges of character, and Yves appeared very fond of her. He surely wouldn’t be fond of a madwoman. Might she be right? “Today is the only day he’s been like this.”

“Perhaps, with no one to blame—and blame someone is what they intend to do—they decided to wait until a new scapegoat had arrived at Roskilly.”

“A scapegoat?”

“Yes.”

“You mean me ?” Caroline’s voice rose in alarm. “You mean they’re planning to poison Yves and blame it on me?”

“Yes. I’m almost certain they intended to blame me when I was there, but I questioned the medication. I questioned some of the other things they were doing with Yves. The things Mrs. Treloar was allowing him to do. Jan Trefusis, the land agent, lets him do whatever he wants in the farmyard. Riding on loaded wagons, running in and out of the barns where the men are working, climbing unsafe trees. Going off by himself. Half the time I couldn’t find him because he’d be down in the home farmyard. Or out on the cliffs, looking for birds’ nests. At the suggestion of Trefusis.”

What had Hetty said? That he was always getting into scrapes and her mother never cared? Of course. Why would she care if he did dangerous things? She wouldn’t if she wanted him dead. And if he didn’t die by accident while out playing unchecked, then he could be seen to have died at the hands of his governess, who’d wanted him biddable and quiet… and drugged. The woman employed to take care of him who could be shown to have complained about his boisterousness. “Who is Trefusis? I haven’t met him yet? I mean—what sort of a man?”

“A ruthless one. Only he intends to have his Ruth.” Miss Hawkins’s eyes filled with venom. “A man with his eye for the main chance. He’s after Mrs. Treloar, you mark my words. And he intends her to inherit everything from old Sir Hugh. I’m certain. I wouldn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. Not one inch.”

A desire to see this Jan Trefusis for herself assailed Caroline, to discover what manner of man he was and assess the danger to Yves. Although encouraging a child to be daring and court danger was not the same as trying to poison him with laudanum. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did Mrs. Treloar dismiss you?”

Miss Hawkins sighed. “Because I argued with her about Yves’s care. Because she realized I had surmised her intentions and had discovered she’d ordered Bridget to dose him with the carminative. Because she could see she wouldn’t be able to blame me if something happened to him.”

Caroline swallowed. “And now you’re saying she’s going to blame me?”

Miss Hawkins nodded. “She is.”

Caroline set down her tea, untouched. “And why is she doing this?”

“The oldest and most obvious of reasons. To do away with the rightful heir so she can inherit the title and money.”

“But her son…”

Miss Hawkins’s eyes widened. “Her son?”

An image of that scarred and angry face rose up before Caroline. “Yes. Her son. Major Nathaniel Treloar. He returned to Treloar the day after I arrived. He’s back from the war.”

“Hetty’s brother? I thought he was dead.”

Caroline frowned. “Very much not dead. And I presume that if Yves were to die, he would stand to inherit the estate and mines from his grandfather some time in the near future. Not Mrs. Treloar or Hetty.”

“He would indeed, which would scupper Trefusis’s ambitions. This is interesting news. Tell me. What is he like?”

What was he like? Caroline’s brow furrowed. “Damaged. He has a terrible scar down the right side of his face and is missing two fingers from his right hand. But I don’t mean he’s damaged in that way. I mean it feels as though his very soul is damaged. Almost as though he has no soul. When you see his eyes, they’re as blue as Yves’s, but blank. Dead. I’ve met soldiers before. Indeed, I once fancied myself in love with a handsome young lieutenant, but he never came back from the war. But those that do come back, they’re changed. I would say Major Treloar has probably been changed a lot by his experiences.”

“I never met him in the time I taught the children,” Miss Hawkins said. “I believe he took up a commission straight from Harrow. I have no knowledge of him at all, but was under the impression he’d died in Spain a year ago. Although, if he were to be anything like Hetty, he would not be like his mother at all.”

“He’s not like Hetty. You can be sure of that. But I don’t think he’s anything like his mother, either, from what little I’ve seen of both of them. Perhaps he takes after his father, the late Mr. Treloar?”

“He may well do. I have no idea. Mr. Treloar died before my time at Treloar. A nasty business as far as I can gather.”

“What happened?”

“The son was home from school and his father took him down Wheal Jenny to see the workings. So I was told. Old Pascoe the coachman is a good source of information. Sir Hugh and Mr. Treloar both believed the boy should learn the business from the ground up. They were in one of the adits when there was a cave in. The miners shore up the roofs with wood but there’s a lot of rubble on top. Ten miners were caught in the roof fall. Mr. Treloar was killed and the boy escaped with a broken arm. Old Pascoe told me he was never the same after the accident. Went back to school, then, as soon as he could, persuaded his grandfather to purchase him a commission. Couldn’t wait to get away from Roskilly.”

Caroline bit her lip. She’d been right in counseling Hetty to sympathy for her brother. Not only had war been unkind to him, but so had his boyhood here in Cornwall. No wonder he was so dour and silent.

She looked back at Miss Hawkins. “Do you think he might be a danger to Yves as well?”

Miss Hawkins pursed her lips. “I don’t know. When did he return?”

“Only a few days ago.”

“Then he can’t be a part of the plot to poison Yves because it was in place before his return.”

“No, but he would be the recipient of the good fortune his mother wants.”

“That won’t please Trefusis. He won’t want someone stepping between him and his rich heiress.”

Caroline swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Keep Yves safe.”

Caroline shivered. “I don’t know how I can do that if his aunt and this Trefusis are determined to do away with him.” How awful and doom laden those words sounded. She was one person, up against at least two very determined people who wanted to remove the obstacle to their inheritance. Should she really include Nat in that bracket as well? Did he look the sort of man who would see a child killed to smooth his way to money and position? But if Nat inherited from his grandfather, Trefusis would get nothing… What a tangled web was being woven at Roskilly.

But Nat had resigned his commission, and without the inheritance, what would he do? If Yves were gone, he wouldn’t need to leave Roskilly ever again. Wouldn’t need to hide his scars away whenever he went out in public, as he seemed determined to do. He could just inherit the estate and mines when his grandfather died, and, up until then, he could help manage them. And push Trefusis out of his job. Why wouldn’t he want Yves removed?

*

The man in question was at that very moment riding over to the Coach and Horses to return the cob Bosun to his friend Jacka. He rode his mother’s rather aged bay mare, and led Bosun by his reins, as he jog-trotted up the rutted back track Caroline had so recently struggled down.

With the sky only sparsely decorated with clouds, a warm sun heated his back, and from the trees and bushes to either side came the song of small hedge birds, a sound he’d longed for during all those years of soldiering in arid Spain. Despite the drizzle of yesterday, the track wasn’t too bad, and the two horses had no difficulty negotiating the route.

For the first time in many years, the urge to whistle came over Nat.

He rode around to the rear of the inn, where he came upon Jacka splitting logs with a hefty axe. As soon as he spotted his returning friend, he straightened up, the considerable pile lying to one side of the splitting block indicating his industry.

Nat swung down from the bay and held out Bosun’s reins. “I said I’d return him, and here he is. Thank you for the loan. How goes it?” Somehow, he didn’t feel the same reticence with Jacka he felt with everyone else he met. Maybe it was their boyhood relationship, or perhaps because he knew that Jacka, as the son of a gardener rather than a scion of any of the local wealthy families, had always accepted him for who he was.

Jacka leaned the axe against the splitting log, and held out a work-roughened hand. “Business is good. Two coaches in today.” He nodded to where a phaeton stood in one corner of the yard. “And two young men who decided my ale was of the best and have chosen to stay the night.”

Nat shook hands. “I’ll not go in then. I’ve no taste for meeting strangers and letting them stare at me. I can do without their pity… or their revulsion.”

Jacka nodded, taking Bosun’s reins. “Shall I fetch you out a tankard of porter?”

Nat allowed himself a smile. “That would be welcome. I’ll tie Duchess in one of your stalls, if I may?”

The two men led the horses into the long stable block, where two matched chestnuts, who must be the phaeton’s team, were pulling hay from their hayracks and swishing their tails at the few flies. Jacka slipped saddle and bridle off Bosun, but Nat only took Duchess’s bridle off, making it easier for her to chew the hay in her manger, and loosened her girth a couple of notches.

Jacka departed into the back door of the inn, to return a few minutes later with two tankards of the promised porter. They perched side by side on the edge of the well in the center of the yard, the sun on their backs.

“How’d you find being back home, then?” Jacka asked. He’d never been one to hedge around a subject.

Nat wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Odd.”

Jacka grinned. “I daresay. Eleven years is a long time.”

“Time doesn’t stand still, no matter how much you’d like it to.”

They both drank some more, Nat watching a pair of buzzards riding high above the inn on a thermal. He envied them their freedom. “I’m back to feeling trapped.”

Jacka was silent a few moments. “Like before?”

“Yes.”

“Not fallin’ over themselves to kill the fatted calf for you, then?”

Nat shook his head. “Hetty was pleased to see me. But my mother… well, she could barely conceal her disgust at this.” He touched his fingers to his scar. “It was good to see my grandfather, and Aunt Agnes. Although she thought I was my late Uncle Robert come back. Her mind’s going.”

“D’you see the little heir?”

“I did. A precocious child. And his new governess.” Why he’d mentioned her, he had no idea. The image of her ingenuous smile after she’d beaten him at chess had leapt into his head and the words had followed in its wake.

“I did hear as how they sacked the last one. What’s this one like? Starchy old spinster?”

Nat frowned. “Well, you got part of that correct. She’s a spinster, but she’s not old. Well, she’s younger than me, I’d say, so not so young as all that.” He shook himself. “I’ll concede she must be a clever woman, so that bodes well for the boy.”

“I saw ’em drive past in the pony cart, not so long ago,” Jacka said. “Headed toward Penzance, they was. First time I’ve seen the lad. I’d heard he were a sickly brat, but he reminded me of you, he did. And you were never sick a day in your life, I don’t think.”

Nat’s mouth, or rather half of it, curved in a smile. “It’s a long time since I had golden curls.”

Jacka set down his empty tankard. “Didn’t see much of her, though. Had a bonnet on hiding her face.”

Nat shook his head. “There’s something about her… I’m not sure what it is, but she intrigues me. A little. She’s clearly well educated and intelligent, and yet she’s down here in the depths of Cornwall, teaching one small boy.” He straightened up. “She’s a mystery I don’t intend to waste my time in solving, however. And now I’d best be heading home.” He shrugged. “Home. It doesn’t quite sit right with me as yet to call Roskilly home. Not after all this time. I feel like I’ve been washed up on a beach at high tide, just a piece of flotsam on the water of life. And I don’t fit in.”

Jacka clapped him on the back. “Give it time. You’ll feel more at home soon. And whenever you need to escape, there’s room here for you. We can get drunk together.”