Chapter Two

A s the coach bumped over the uneven, pot-holed road surface, shaking the passengers from side to side like peas on a drum, twenty-seven-year-old Miss Caroline Fairfield attempted to reread her letter. She’d received it a week ago, and, on an impulse, decided to take up the offer it held. What else could she have done? The prospect of going with her mother to stay with her late father’s much older sister, Gertrude, having been the only alternative, it had been an easy choice to make. At the time. Now, being bounced around on Cornwall’s less than well-maintained roads, she had an unnerving sensation that she was entering the fabled back end of beyond.

She smoothed the letter out across her lap, and reread her friend Ysella’s crabby, untidy, and poorly spelled missive.

My deere frend Caroline,

I was sore upset to heer of your Familys Misfortune. I had it in a Letter from deere Morvoren who was most sad and unhappy for you and your Mama. I had no idea your Papa was in such strates. I am sure my Brother would have helped him had he but Nown. Morvoren told me in her Letter that you are in search of a posishun post as Governess in a welltodo family. I am happy to tell you that I know of just the One for you.

The Treloars of Roskilly House. Mine owners and landed Gentry if not of the True Nobility. Of good stock my Mama would say. Sir Hugh is very old and keeps to his bed and as both the Sons are dead a manager has charge of his affairs which are the estate and mines and other sundries. Mrs. Treloar is the widow of one of the Sons and she seems a stern sort and somewhat imposing. I was a little afrayed of her myself. She has a Daughter just out of the Schoolroom who needs a Companion of good upbringing. I beleeve they wish for someone who can teach her french and musick altho why they want this for her I have no idea as I hated all manner of lerning when I was young.

Mrs. Treloar also cares for Sir Hugh’s grandson who is only child to the dead older Brother. I beleeve he is heir to old Sir Hugh just a little Boy I have heard but a sickly one Mrs. Treloar said to me when I met her at the Assembly Rooms in Truro. I have not seen the Child nor Nowe of his age or the Nature of his Sicknesses. They need a Governess for this Child and when I told Mrs. Treloar of you and your booklerning and your sichua hardships she was pleased to ignore that you have no previus exsper skill yet at teaching a child. I sang your prases and told them you can teach musick and french for the girl and spelling and reading for the boy and whatever else it is boys do want to learn and are exsepshu very good at reckoning.

Mrs. Treloar is pleased to take you on if you can come down strate away and start as soon as possibel as there old Governess has upped and left all of a sudden.

Your ever loving Ysella (Beauchamp)

Carlyon Court

Cornwall

Caroline refolded the letter and stowed it in her reticule. Well, Ysella’s spelling had not improved one iota for having been married for two years to a grammar-school-educated and intelligent young man.

Sam Beauchamp, Ysella’s husband and the father of her baby daughter, Merrin, had once been land agent to Ysella’s brother Kit, Viscount Ormonde of Ormonde Abbey in Wiltshire. On their marriage, Ysella and Sam had gone to live and manage Kit’s smaller Cornish estate and had been there ever since. Caroline, who’d been close to Ysella’s older sisters before becoming friends with Ysella, had not seen her in all that time. At least this employment by one of Ysella’s neighbors might mean she’d get to meet up with her friend occasionally.

She leaned back against the coach’s faded upholstered headrest and closed her eyes. The rocking of this rather ramshackle vehicle might have had a lesser mortal ready to cast up her accounts, but Caroline was made of sterner stuff. The sort of stuff that could not abide being beholden to someone like Aunt Gertrude and would rather make her own way in the world. She only wished she could have brought Mama with her, and saved her from the ignominy of having to beg the help of that intimidating woman. Ysella’s own mother, Elestren, Dowager Lady Ormonde, had begged Mama to come and live with her, but Mama’s pride had made her turn down the offer. Caroline could understand why. At least Aunt Gertrude was a blood relation.

Poor, foolish Papa had been nothing like Aunt Gertrude, thank goodness, although if he had been, he might not have been such a bad manager. She and Mama might not now be cast penniless into the world thanks to his having not only invested what little fortune he possessed in that fake silver mine in Argentina, but also having gambled away his remaining assets, including their former home—Cadley Grange.

She sighed. Poor man, he’d taken the coward’s way out and ended his embarrassment with one of his remaining pistols, unable to look either Mama or his only daughter in the face. Anger at his selfishness in leaving them to cope alone had finally subsided into a profound sadness at his weak character, and she no longer burned with fury when she thought of him. Even so, it pained her to picture their lost home and Mama’s stricken face as she left it. She pushed these thoughts out of her mind as the coach began to slow down. Was this her stop?

The coach halted. From outside came a distinct thud as the guard jumped down from his position on the back. The door opened and he poked his head inside. “Miss Fairfield? This be the stop for Roskilly House. I’ll get your bags down for you.”

He disappeared from view, and, with a quick goodbye for her remaining fellow passenger, a fat, somberly dressed matron who, despite her austere appearance, had proved quite the chatterbox, Caroline set a hand on the edge of the door and a neat, booted foot on the step. Pausing for a moment, she took in the view. The coach had halted on a narrow lane for which the description of “road” would have been far too generous. High, grassy banks topped by hawthorn hedges edged both sides, with one or two stray sheep grazing them and paying no attention to the coach. Straight in front of her, a side lane opened off, a prospect even more rutted and overgrown than the road they were on. No signpost of any kind indicated this was where she should dismount, and no house was in sight. Not even a distant chimney.

The guard dumped her two valises on the grassy verge, only just avoiding putting them in sheep droppings, and Caroline stepped down onto the road.

“Are you certain this is the right place?” she asked, aware that if it were not, and the coach departed, she might be stuck in the middle of nowhere.

The guard nodded. “That’s right. Down there a bit.” He pointed at the side lane.

“How far?”

“Mebbe a mile.” He grinned. “’Tis the only house, so you can’t miss it.”

“Get a move on,” called the driver from his perch high above the road. “I got times to meet, so you got no time to stand there passin’ the time o’ day with our passengers.”

The guard gave a shrug. “Not that far for a strong young leddy like you.”

Caroline bristled. Yes, she was tall and robust in appearance, but the implication that because of this she should be expected to cart two heavy valises down a mile long, muddy lane irritated her. Had she been small and dainty, like Ysella, no doubt the guard would not have made that remark. Not that Ysella’s appearance didn’t hide a tough inner core, because it did. But that was beside the point.

The guard tipped his hat at her and swung himself back up onto the rear of the coach. The driver clicked his tongue at his horses, and they sprang forward into a shambling trot. The coach rattled away down the road and vanished around the next bend.

In the comparative silence that ensued, Caroline stood for a few moments considering her situation. The thought that the Treloar family might not be expecting her rose foremost in her mind, followed closely by the fear that she might not be up to the job, as she’d never done anything like this before. What if the child was of a difficult temperament, or backward? Ysella had said he was sickly. That could mean anything.

She sighed. All she had to go on was what Ysella had written in that letter, and knowing Ysella, it might not be a correct interpretation of what her new acquaintance, Mrs. Treloar, had said to her at some provincial Assembly Rooms. Because surely if Ysella had got it right, there’d have been someone here to meet her and help transport herself and her bags to Roskilly House. If, indeed, she was even in the right place.

She peered down the lane. It ran slightly downhill, something she had to admit was better than if it had gone uphill, between high banks and hedges, with here and there, odd, stunted, wind-shaped trees overhanging the way. Nothing about it indicated it was much used by anything other than cattle or sheep. Well, if she was going to get to Roskilly House before it got dark, then she’d have to do it herself on her own two feet. She bent and picked up her valises and immediately regretted bringing so many of her belongings with her. However, the sooner she started, the better.

She set off down the lane.

Although the day was fine, with only a scattering of clouds in the sky, it soon became clear that there must have been a lot of rain in the past few days. The ruts had here and there been filled in with rocks, which made uncomfortable walking, even in her smart boots, but, in between, the ground lay muddy and uneven. Ysella had once told her it rained a lot in Cornwall, and it looked like that must be true. The two valises grew heavier with every step she took, and she couldn’t even swap them from hand to hand as both seemed equally heavy. What had she packed in there? Bricks?

Soon she found herself passing through a patch of stunted woodland, the straggly trees bending over the track and stretching out long, spiky arms toward her. Where on earth was this going to take her? Ysella had said this family was gentry, and the name of their house implied she’d had it correct. But was this their main entrance?

She struggled on, the summer sun beating down on her in a most discomforting manner. Sweat sprang out on her back, her face began to glow with heat, and some of the branches had snatched at her hair and pulled tendrils loose. Her boots were now mired in mud and the hem of the plain blue gown she’d chosen for a good first impression was liberally spattered. Conscious she no longer looked at her best, she ploughed on. After all, she could hardly turn back now, could she?

After what seemed like a lot more than one mile, she finally turned yet another corner in the track and spotted what had to be her goal. A large, square mansion stood before her, only she seemed to have come upon it from behind, where the oldest part of the house, that would be hidden by a more modern fa?ade at the front, gave away its ancient origins.

She set down her valises in relief and surveyed the building.

The first thing that met her eyes was the stable courtyard, close beside the tidy barns and outbuildings of what had to be the home farm. The coach driver must have dropped her at the back entrance—the servants’ entrance perhaps. Did she look like a servant? Maybe she did in her rather austere spencer and gown, and with her hair sensibly restrained in a neat bun under a plain and practical bonnet. Not that her hair was neat any longer, of course.

But she was not a servant. She was a governess now, and she was not going to enter by the back door.

Picking up her valises again, she followed a neat graveled path around to the front of the house, where a sweeping driveway bisected wide green lawns. She’d been right. The front of the house shouted new addition loud and clear. Whoever owned this house had spent a great deal of money on bringing it up to date, and relatively recently by the style of it. An impressive, pillared portico, such as was all the rage in houses nowadays, sheltered a double front door, and, on the far side of the carriage turning circle, an iron grilled gateway marked an entrance into a stone-walled garden.

Caroline set her valises down again and attempted to tidy her hair, tucking the loose tendrils behind her ears. If only she had a mirror. And if only she wasn’t now sweating like a navvy. So much for the adage “horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow”—she felt as though she were doing all three at once.

Just then, the gate from the walled garden swung open on creaky hinges, and a small boy in a blue skeleton suit cannoned out of it, short legs going at full pelt, his long golden curls whipping out behind him. An equally small dog, a russet spaniel, ran barking at his heels as though the two of them were racing.

The child skidded to a halt on the gravel ten feet from Caroline, and the dog sat on its haunches, gazing up at its master out of adoring brown eyes.

The dog’s master stared at Caroline for a few long seconds before his freckled face broke into a grin. “Hello.”

Caroline, who liked children, smiled back. “Hello to you, young sir.”

The boy tilted his head to one side as though assessing her appearance. “Why’re you so muddy?”

Caroline glanced down at her clothing. She had to admit it was in a state. “I’ve just walked down that lane over there from where the Penzance coach dropped me off. I think he made a mistake in leaving me there.”

“Are you the new parlor maid?”

She shook her head. “No. Were you expecting one?”

He shrugged. “I think so. You don’t sound much like a parlor maid, though.”

“That’s because I’m not one.”

“Good. I like the way you sound. They don’t like me talking to the parlor maids in case I learn to speak like them, but I do talk to them when no one’s looking.” He frowned. “What are you doing here, then?”

Caroline pressed her lips together. “I did think I was coming to be the governess to a boy who lives here, but I’m not sure his aunt is expecting me. My friend, Mrs. Beauchamp, who lives at Carlyon Court, recommended me to Mrs. Treloar, and sent me a letter telling me to come down here as soon as possible. So here I am, and I very much fear that no one knows I’m coming.”

The boy pulled a face. “I think you must be my new governess then.”

“I was rapidly coming to that conclusion myself.”

He frowned. “I’d decided not to like my new governess after Aunt Ruth got rid of Miss Hawkins. I liked Miss Hawkins. A lot.” His voice took on a note of complaint. “I didn’t want her to go. She took me out walking and showed me all sorts of int’resting things. We found a badger’s sett, but Aunt Ruth sent Roscarrow out to kill the badgers.” The frown deepened. “Miss Hawkins and me, we were going to go back and hide in a bush and watch them, and now I can’t, because they’re all dead.” He rubbed his small nose with a grubby hand.

Caroline wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this. Mrs. Treloar, as her prospective employer, would no doubt want her to back up her actions with the badgers, but Caroline couldn’t help but commiserate with the little boy before her. He had such a doleful expression on his young face.

“Oh dear,” she said, seeking for noncommittal. “Well, if your aunt takes me on as your governess, I promise we’ll look for another badgers’ sett. There’s one in the woods near where I live— lived , and my own dear papa took me down there to watch the creatures from time to time. I loved to see the cubs playing together in the spring. But we had to sit very still and quiet. Is that something you can do?”

The boy’s face brightened. “Of course I can. I’d like that.” He stepped up to her. “I should introduce myself. Aunt Ruth would be quite vexed if she thought I didn’t mind my manners. My name is Yves Treloar.” He held out a small hand, the dirty nails bitten to the quick.

Caroline took it and they shook. “And my name is Caroline Fairfield. Pleased to meet you, Master Treloar.”

He grinned. “Pleased to meet you, too. I think… But I daresay you’d best go in, now, and meet Aunt Ruth. I’ll show you the way if you like.”

Caroline followed Yves to the front door, which he shoved wide enough open to allow her to step inside.

The interior of Roskilly House, like its front fa?ade, possessed an air of modernity about it, as though someone had taken time with all the decoration and furniture to buy everything of the most up to date. The front door opened into a wide and somewhat spartan hallway with black and white tiles underfoot, and a marble staircase leading to a galleried upper floor.

A liveried servant, the butler perhaps, appeared as if from nowhere. “Master Yves, you’re wanted in the nursery for your tea.” He bowed to Caroline, disapproval in his cold stare. “May I be of assistance, Miss?”

Yves stood his ground and looked up at Caroline in expectation.

She drew herself up straighter, wishing she didn’t look so much the worse for wear. “My name is Caroline Fairfield. I’ve come to see Mrs. Treloar.” She glanced at Yves. Best to start as she meant to go on with him. “Hadn’t you best do as you’re told and go to the nursery?”

He gave a resigned shrug, but didn’t move.

She tried to ignore the way the butler was eyeing her bedraggled appearance and look as though it didn’t matter. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to leave your bags here, Miss Fairfield, and follow me this way.” He glanced at the boy. “Off you go, young man.” But she was surprised to see a fond twinkle in his eye.

Yves, trailing his feet, started up the wide staircase, the spaniel trotting at his heels. On the third step, he turned and grinned at Caroline again. She lifted a hand to him, and followed the butler toward an impressively large door on the right of the hall, the feeling of being a fraud washing over her in ever-increasing waves.