Chapter Fifteen

T he dining room at Roskilly was much like the rest of the main house: elegantly furnished in the height of fashion. Or at least Caroline supposed it must be. Nothing like her old home of Cadley Grange, with its oak paneled walls and the well-polished furniture her great grandparents had probably purchased. No. She mustn’t think about that. Too painful.

The long table that stood on an enormous Persian rug had been laid for six, but not in any sociable fashion. The places were spaced out along its length with Mrs. Treloar occupying the seat at the head of the table that must have once been Sir Hugh’s. She had Trefusis close by on her left, with a long gap to where Nat was to sit halfway down one side, while Hetty, Caroline, and Aunt Agnes had seats to her right. None were close enough for quiet conversation.

Caroline had not been in the dining room before, and she had to admit it pleased the eye, with its pale-green walls and exquisite ornamental plasterwork on the ceiling and the delicate cornice at the top of the walls. Despite daylight still ruling outside, the heavy curtains had already been drawn over the windows and a row of silver candlesticks stood down the center of the table. These had been lit, although no fire burned in the grate despite the unseasonable chill in the room.

She kept her eyes averted from Mr. Trefusis, unnerved by the insolence in his gaze, and not wanting to give him the pleasure of knowing how it affected her. She was better than that, but tonight was not a night for staring down his challenge. Tonight was a night for meek obedience and knowing her own place in the hierarchy of the house. Although it didn’t look as though he knew his too well.

When they’d all taken their seats, and the soup had been served, Mrs. Treloar turned to Mr. Trefusis. “Did you manage to extract the rent from the Hammetts at Carnwynnen Farm, as I asked?”

Caroline glanced across the table at Nat but he appeared to be concentrating on his soup. Business seemed an odd thing to discuss at a family dinner. Although it wasn’t really one of those, with her and Trefusis present.

Trefusis possessed such dark eyes they might well have been black, enhanced by the overhang of his heavy brow. “I did… Ma’am , and with the minimum of threat.”

The slight emphasis on the “ma’am” had Caroline wondering if in private he dispensed with it, and wanted to hint at this. Perhaps he wanted them to guess that his relationship with his employer was more than it should have been. The thought sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine. For whose benefit had he done this? Hers or Nat’s? Most likely Nat’s. After all, now Nat was home, would Trefusis be able to justify his job? Surely, Nat could now do that. Trefusis would be keen to let Nat know he had the upper hand here, and would be hard to dislodge.

“Good.” Mrs. Treloar spooned up her soup, her spoon chinking on the china. “We can’t have anyone thinking they can plead poverty, as they did with my father-in-law and husband, and get away with not paying their dues.”

Nat set down his own spoon, his jaw hardening. “My father would rather have seen the Hammetts’ children with food in their bellies than forced them to pay what they can’t afford.”

His mother fixed him with a cold stare. “And look where that got him.”

Nat’s cheeks colored, his hand twitched and his lips formed a tight line.

Caroline glanced at Hetty, but she had her head bent over her bowl as though she didn’t want any part of this.

Nat’s brows lowered, but even so were nowhere near as low as Trefusis’s. He glared at his mother. “At least he didn’t have the empty bellies of children on his conscience when he died. And he died amongst his own people. The people who mattered to him.”

Trefusis laughed, a deep, mocking laugh. “You should remember that it’s thanks to me, not your father, that you’re able to return here and live in the manner you see yourself as entitled to, make no mistake.”

Nat’s hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles whitened. For a moment, Caroline wondered if he might leap up and strike Trefusis.

Mrs. Treloar bestowed an icy smile on her son. “He is quite right, Nathaniel. When your grandfather was in charge prior to his illness, and you were away playing at soldiers, the estate was sliding downhill fast. But he refused to hire a manager as I suggested. It was only when he had to take to his bed, and I had control of the finances here, that I was able to hire Jan.” Something stirred in her cold eyes. “He came to me highly recommended.”

Caroline’s toes curled inside her slippers. The rumors were true. Mrs. Treloar couldn’t hide the way she looked at the man by her side.

Nat appeared to be having a great deal of trouble controlling himself. His face reddened and his dark brows almost met. “I was not playing at soldiers.” His words emerged stilted and strained.

Caroline took a wary sip of her soup, wondering if all their meals were like this, although probably not, as Nat had only just returned. The challenging look on Trefusis’s face when he looked at Nat betrayed the way he saw him. As an interloper, and someone come back to sponge upon the empire he considered he’d helped to build, or at least, to shore up.

But surely Nat’s mother would take his side against Trefusis?

Hetty, on Caroline’s left, set her spoon down in her empty bowl, but kept her head down. She must be used to keeping silent.

Aunt Agnes gave a cackle of laughter and dabbed her mouth with the hanging folds of the tablecloth. “You’ll be packing your bags before the week’s out, Trefusis, mark my words. We don’t need you now we’ve got our Robert back.”

“For goodness’s sake, Aunt,” Mrs. Treloar snapped. “For the hundredth time, this is Nathaniel, not Robert. Are you blind as well as foolish?”

Undaunted, Aunt Agnes jabbed her fork at Trefusis. “And I, for one, won’t be sorry to see the back of you. Nor our tenants. You with your money-grubbing ways.”

Trefusis snorted with laughter. “If you think I care what you have to say then you’re wrong, old woman.” He flashed a wide smile at Mrs. Treloar, revealing large, tombstone teeth. “You’ll find Mrs. Treloar depends on me.”

This verbal barrage was so unlike the cheerful mealtimes at Cadley. Caroline’s heart twisted as she thought of her mother, then still further as an image of her jovial father came into her head. Happy to the end, laughing away his fortune, until… She bit her lip, unable to swallow any more soup.

Hetty noticed, of course. “Miss Fairfield, are you quite well?” she whispered, leaning toward her.

Goodness. She’d been late to dinner and had taken Yves out without permission and now she was making a spectacle of herself. She kept her voice low. “Thank you, Henrietta, I am well, just a little overcome.”

Mrs. Treloar’s gaze rested on her for a moment. “Is it a little rich for you perhaps? After the simpler nursery fare?” She twisted her face into a smile that could only be described as chilling. What Trefusis saw in her was a mystery. “I’m anxious not to supply the nursery with any foods that might be heating to the blood, lest Yves should become insufferable. You have to be very careful what you feed to boys.”

Oh, how Caroline wanted to ask why she deemed simple bread and butter, and not much of the latter, was sufficient to nourish a growing child. But if she did, it might come out that Yves regularly ate his breakfast in the kitchen with Mrs. Teague. Most likely Mrs. Treloar didn’t know that. Best to play along with her. “An admirable undertaking, Ma’am.”

Aunt Agnes gave another random cackle as though she thought this amusing, or was as batty as everyone seemed to think.

Nat’s hand had relaxed on the edge of the table. “I am sure Hetty is happy she’s out of the schoolroom and no longer has to eat the pap you think suitable for a child.”

Hetty’s eyes widened, probably at her brother’s daring.

Caroline shot him a quick glance. Sitting where he was, with the right side of his face toward his mother, he could be taken for unblemished, his handsome face a little hard, with perhaps a coldness about the mouth. Not, though, the visage of a happy young man.

Mrs. Treloar nodded to the waiting footman, Dickon, in his smartest livery, to clear the soup away. “It is character building to avoid eating to excess while young. Henrietta may thank me later, when she realizes I am to be credited with her retaining her girlish figure into married life.”

Caroline took a swift sideways look at Mrs. Treloar’s scrawny body. Did she want everyone to resemble her? The look on Hetty’s face, as she bowed her head again, spoke volumes. Not a girl who wished to emulate her mother.

For the barest of moments, Trefusis’s eyes rested on Hetty. Just in passing, but in that fraction of a second, Caroline saw something she’d seen once or twice before in the faces of young men. Not that he was young any longer. Lust. Good God. It wasn’t Mrs. Treloar he was after; it was Hetty. Logical, of course. But it looked as though Mrs. Treloar had no idea.

Dickon cleared away the soup bowls and the fish course was served.

“Your favorite, Jan,” Mrs. Treloar said to Trefusis.

Nat’s expression darkened again. Mrs. Treloar couldn’t have made how she favored Trefusis plainer if she’d kissed him on the lips in front of them all.

Nat poked at his fish with his fork. “What kind of fish is this supposed to be?” His voice had taken on a surly, discontented tone, more angry schoolboy than potential man of the house.

His mother, arrested with a forkful on her way to her mouth, frowned. “Dover Sole. I had the menu up from Mrs. Teague and that was what it said. It was what I requested.”

“Overcooked and cold,” Nat said. “I’m going to the Coach and Horses for my dinner.”

Mrs. Treloar’s expression darkened to match his, but there was no other resemblance. “Nonsense. Remain where you are. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the fish. I won’t have it said that a member of this family has to take recourse to a common alehouse for his meals.”

Aunt Agnes scooped up some of the fish. “’Tis passing tasty with this sauce.”

Nat’s jaw clenched more visibly than before. No love lost between the members of this family. Caroline was beginning to wish she’d eaten in the schoolroom with Yves. A lot more peaceful and better company. Hetty didn’t count as she’d barely said a word. Nat didn’t get up and leave, though.

Caroline took a forkful of the fish. “Very pleasant.”

Hetty shot her a smile of thanks. “Tell me, Miss Fairfield,” she tried, keeping her voice low as though she didn’t want to be overheard, “did you find Penzance pleasing?”

Small talk. Hooray. Caroline could do that. “The drive there was most picturesque, as was the town. I was interested by the castle on the little island. Yves told me it’s called St Michael’s Mount.”

“Belongs to the St Aubyns,” Aunt Agnes said, without bothering to swallow her food first. “Distant relations of my mother.”

As Caroline hadn’t heard of this family, it meant nothing to her, so she ate a little more of her fish, which was neither cold nor overcooked.

“It’s possible to cross by the causeway to the island at low tide,” Hetty said, with the air of peacemaker about her. “But I’ve not been. Although I should like to.”

Mrs. Treloar glowered at her daughter. “You will not behave like one of the vapid masses by going to stare at our neighbor’s home.” Her gaze took in Caroline. “And neither will you. I will not have my nephew behaving like the common rabble.”

An awkward silence prevailed. Eating in the nursery with Yves grew more attractive by the minute. Hopefully she wouldn’t be invited to dine with them again. Eating in the kitchen would be better, too.

Hetty came to the rescue. Perhaps she was used to this role. “Mama, I am so excited.” She couldn’t hide the strain in her voice. “I met Mr. Beauchamp when he called, and I’m so pleased he’s invited us all to a ball at his house—in only two days’ time, as well.”

Dickon cleared away the empty fish plates. Even Nat had eaten his.

Mrs. Treloar took a sip of her wine before replying. “He had some absurd idea that Miss Fairfield should go. I am not accustomed to being told by our neighbors to bring our employees to social events.”

Trefusis butted in. “Ma’am, I’ve met Mr. Beauchamp a few times. An astute businessman, it seems, who’s set the Carlyon estate on its feet. It would seem a good idea to humor him as he could be useful.”

Mrs. Treloar tutted as the beef was served. “I had to agree that Miss Fairfield may accompany us. As you are to be my escort, Jan, I could hardly cavil at her also being one of our party.”

Trefusis’s dark eyes flashed momentarily before he had them veiled again. He hadn’t liked the suggestion that he was on a par with a common governess. Clearly this man saw himself as on a level footing with his employers. Now, what had given him that impression? Were he and Mrs. Treloar actual lovers? Unlikely as it seemed that Mrs. Treloar would have any lover at all, Caroline had to acknowledge that the rumors might well be true and their odd relationship might be a physical one.

Trefusis glanced at Nat. “I assume you won’t be accompanying us… what with your handicap .”

Caroline caught her breath. Did this man have no manners at all? No common decency about him?

Before Nat could answer, Hetty did it for him, her words tumbling out in her haste. “Of course he will. Mr. Beauchamp expressly asked him to come. And as for Miss Fairfield, she’ll be coming because Mrs. Beauchamp is an especial friend of hers.”

Trefusis’s heavy eyebrows rose as he glanced again at Mrs. Treloar. He must know how she wouldn’t like this. A governess was not meant to consort with the local gentry, although it seemed a land agent could.

“That is so,” Mrs. Treloar said, her jaw so tense she could scarce open her lips. “Miss Fairfield is to accompany us for that very reason.” Her eyes snapped. “I can only credit that Mr. Beauchamp sees this as normal as he was once his brother-in-law’s land agent, and perhaps is still, for all we know. A grammar-school boy, no doubt.”

That same momentary annoyance flashed across Trefusis’s swarthy face. Perhaps he too had been a grammar-school boy, or not even reached that high in society in his youth.

Caroline bit her lip. Oh, how she longed to lean over and slap Mrs. Treloar across the face for her casual snobbery and bad manners. But of course, she didn’t. That would be to sink even lower than her employer, tempting as the prospect was. The more she saw of this woman, the more she disliked her. Thank goodness Hetty did not resemble her, although sour-faced Nat, despite his damaged good looks, seemed as though he might share her acrid personality. Although, she had to admit he had shown admirable concern for starving children. Something her dear friend Morvoren would have approved of.

She took a nibble of the beef, which was very good. Saying what she thought to Mrs. Treloar was the road to instant dismissal, and she had to metaphorically sit on her hands and control herself. She couldn’t leave Yves unprotected, so she would have to endure the dreadful manners of her employer. For his sake.

“Nothing wrong with being a grammar-school boy,” Nat said. “My own great-grandfather, Sir Hugh’s father, was one himself. And it stood him in good stead. None of us would be sitting here now if it weren’t for him. It was he who built up the mining business and provided my grandfather with the means to buy this house.”

This killed the conversation stone dead.

The meal continued with only sporadic chatter, which Caroline kept out of, content to merely observe her employer’s family. Mrs. Treloar maintained a frosty disapproval of everything that went on, except Trefusis, of course. Poor Hetty struggled to keep up a stream of somewhat inane chatter with her aunt, the strain showing in her eyes. And as for her brother, he just sat and silently ate, the expression in his cool blue eyes faraway, as though his mind were in a distant place, divorced from the goings on in the dining room.

What a relief it was when the meal ended and the ladies could withdraw, leaving Nat and Trefusis to smoke and drink port. If that was what they would do together, which seemed highly unlikely.

Caroline and Hetty followed Mrs. Treloar to the drawing room, Aunt Agnes tottering along behind them on two sticks, still cackling to herself every so often as though at some joke no one else appreciated.

Once settled in their respective seats, Mrs. Treloar wasted no time in turning her icy stare on Caroline. “Tell me, Miss Fairfield, how it is you are acquainted with Mrs. Beauchamp and her husband. I am curious to know how a governess should know the daughter of a viscount.”

How much had Ysella told Mrs. Treloar when she met her at the Assembly Rooms? The thought of revealing her family’s misfortunes to this supercilious woman revolted Caroline. “We were neighbors,” she said, glancing at Hetty who appeared to be all ears.

“In Wiltshire, am I to understand?”

“Yes. I was more of an age with her older sisters, but once they were married, Ysella, who is now Mrs. Beauchamp, and I became good friends.”

“Despite the difference in your status.”

Caroline grit her teeth for a moment. “I have not always been a governess.”

“So I gather. Do you still possess parents?”

“A mother only.”

This catechism on her life grated.

“What of your father?”

If she weren’t careful, she was going to commit the fatal sin of rudeness to an employer and ruin all chance she had of saving Yves. “My father is dead.”

Hetty stifled a yawn behind her hand. “Mama, I am so tired I think I might retire to my room. Perhaps, Miss Fairfield, I might trouble you to accompany me? I would be most honored if you would help me choose my gown for the ball.” Her limpid blue eyes gazed guilelessly at her mother. “You won’t mind if we go, will you Mama? I should so love to have some help deciding. You know how I am—cannot decide a single thing by myself. And you have Aunt Agnes to keep you company down here.” She rose to her feet before her mother had chance to answer. “And you, Miss Fairfield, can show me the gown you’ve chosen to wear.”

Thank you, Hetty. Caroline grabbed this lifeline with both hands and also rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Ma’am?”

Mrs. Treloar, her mouth screwed tight as the Cadley kitchen cat’s bum, waved a resigned hand at them both. “Off you go then. And mind your own gown reflects your position in life, Miss Fairfield. You are not to be the belle of any ball in Cornwall.”