Chapter Twenty

N at, meanwhile, had decided to take a ride over to one of the several mines Trefusis was now managing, courtesy of his mother, for his grandfather. As a boy, he’d always had a fascination for what went on in them and had been underground on many occasions with Sir Hugh, who had always been a man who liked to keep his finger on the pulse of his own businesses. “What good is a mine owner who doesn’t know what it’s like to be a miner?” he’d said to the impressionable boy Nat had once been. “If you want to run any business, then you must start at the bottom and learn how every aspect of it works.” So, in his holidays from Harrow, the young Nat Treloar had joined the men who worked for his grandfather in the oppressive, cramped conditions underground and found out for himself what it was like to work the rock face deep under the earth, and often deep under the sea as well.

On his way out of the house, he was sidetracked by his mother, who was in the land agent’s office with the door open and must have seen him walking past. “Nathaniel, do you have a minute?”

Nat set his jaw and turned around, the old boyhood habit of obedience strong. “Yes, Mother.”

She rose from behind her desk as Nat entered the office. By rights, Trefusis should have had a secretary to help him take care of the books, or taken care of them himself, but even when his uncle Robert, and father, Kenver, had been alive, his mother had taken care of the money side of the family business. And neither Sir Hugh nor Robert and especially not his father had protested. All three of them had been more interested in how their empire ran rather than how much money came in. A pair of halfmoon spectacles Nat had never seen before sat on the end of his mother’s long nose, making her look the part of office wallah.

“I’ve been wanting a few minutes alone with you since you returned,” she said, fiddling with the pen in her right hand.

He’d been avoiding her, but it was too late now. She had him snared.

“Sit down, won’t you?”

Nat took the leather upholstered seat in front of the desk and his mother sat down again as well.

She put her pen down with a clunk. “Now you are home from the wars, I think it is high time you thought of what you are going to do next.” Her eyes narrowed. “And as the last male Treloar you owe it to the family to marry and produce an heir.”

Well, that was unexpected. For a moment Nat was speechless. Of all the things he’d been expecting, this wasn’t one of them.

Her eyes narrowed. “You owe it to your father and grandfather as the last male Treloar.”

He had an answer for that one. “I’m not the last Treloar. There’s Yves.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s just a child and a weakly one at that. We cannot be sure he’ll even grow to be a man.”

Nat frowned. “That’s still no reason to be hurrying me into matrimony. And anyway, what am I to offer a prospective bride? My face? My distinct lack of fortune?” Once upon a time he’d been a catch, with his good looks and his splendid uniform. Julia had thought so, anyway. But things had changed since then, and Julia was no longer here.

His mother’s thin lips grew thinner still as her mouth pursed into an expression of distaste, perhaps at the mention of his looks. “You may well inherit the whole estate yet. And if not, your grandfather has bestowed a sizeable inheritance upon you and Hetty. Certainly enough to support a wife.” Her expression was in direct contrast to her words. As though the last thing she wanted was him inheriting anything and this suggestion of marriage might be a ruse for something else.

Although, if his mother was as determined as he remembered, then she’d have him married off by Christmas. But Nat was no longer a boy and no longer under her control. “Mother, I appreciate your concern for the Treloar name, but I have no intention of marrying just for the sake of continuing it.” He might have done so once, but not now. And not with some simpering girl his mother might choose to shove under his nose. “I shall marry when it suits me , not you, and it will be on my own terms.” He would have liked to say he’d marry for love, only what woman would ever love him, looking the way he did? Or he could have told her he’d already been married and widowed once, and he’d decided never to marry again and put another woman through the agony of childbirth that had snatched his wife from him. Not after Julia. But he had no intention of sharing Julia with anyone.

His mother’s eyes narrowed and her brow darkened. Never one to take well to being crossed, even if she hadn’t meant what she’d said, she more than ever had the look of an angry harpy. “You will at least attend further social gatherings down here to consider a suitable young Cornish lady as a bride. And you will accompany Hetty.” Aha, so that was it—she wanted him to escort Hetty to where she might meet a suitable young man. He might have guessed it would be for Hetty’s benefit, or rather, their mother’s, not his.

He sighed. Like the proverbial horse to water, she could, if she meant it, lead him to various suitable young ladies, but she couldn’t make him love them, nor them love him. No doubt one look at his damaged face would have them running for the hills, anyway. The only woman he’d danced with at the Carlyon ball had been Caroline, outside on the shadowy terrace. Almost, a smile tried to curve his up-till-now downturned mouth.

Hawk-eyed, she pounced. “Do you perhaps have a young lady in mind?”

Exasperation had him on his feet. “No, Mother, I do not. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall get on with what I was about to do when you called me in here. Please put all thoughts of marrying me off out of your mind, because I have no intention of complying.” He touched his face. “Has it not occurred to you that this might put off any prospective bride?”

Was that a look of satisfaction on her face or his imagination?

Without waiting for her reply, he marched out of the room, closing the door behind him with a satisfying bang.

Bloody woman. She’d always been like that, trying to control his life from his childhood. Not that she’d seen him often, because she hadn’t. Both he and Hetty had been left in the care of nursemaids and nannies, then a tutor for him followed by boarding school with very few visits to Treloar. No wonder this place didn’t feel like home, when it should.

In the long convalescence after his face wound, he’d had time to think about his future, and he’d come to the conclusion that it couldn’t hold the possibility of another marriage. Not now. Not with this face. What would Julia have thought if she could see him now? For a moment her face rose in front of his eyes: her alabaster skin and lightly flushed cheeks, her cascading golden curls, her wide blue eyes. An angel in human form, or so he’d once told her. But God loves his angels, and she’d been too good to live. God, that most unfeeling of deities, had snatched her from him, along with his infant son, even before the child drew his first breath. And all he had now were his memories.

He clumped down the corridor toward the stables, hands fisted by his sides and, had he but known it, a scowl on his face fit to frighten the devil himself.

Bam. A small tornado cannoned into him and rebounded, gasping.

Nat’s hands went out to steady the tornado and recognized it as Yves.

Caroline came hurrying around the corner. “Yves! You must look where you’re going. I’m so sorry, Nat.

“Are you going to the stables as well?” Yves asked, unabashed.

Nat nodded. “I’m riding over to Wheal Jenny.”

Caroline raised her eyebrows in a question.

Nat shrugged. “One of our tin mines. The nearest one. You can see its chimney from the upper windows. I once had friends who worked there, and I wanted to see how it was faring for myself.” What he didn’t say was that he wanted to see how it was faring under Trefusis’s iron hand and unsympathetic management. “An inspection, you might call it, as I haven’t seen the place for years.”

“You’re going to the mine?” Yves asked, impressed. “Can I come too? I’ve never been, and I’ve always wanted to see inside one of the mines. Are you going down the shaft?”

“I’m riding over,” Nat said. “I’m not sure…”

“Oh, I can ride,” Yves declared. “I ride the garden pony, Blossom. I’d like a horse of my own, but Aunt Ruth won’t let me…” His voice trailed away in disappointment.

“I’m sure Blossom is perfect for you,” Caroline said. “You can’t have a horse until you’re bigger. I only had a small pony until I was twelve, and that’s three years older than you.”

“But I’m a boy,” Yves tried. “Boys get to ride horses before girls do because they’re better riders.”

“Nonsense,” Nat put in. “When I was your age, all I had was a pony.” At least, thanks to his father, it hadn’t been the garden pony though, and he’d pretended it was a flashy thoroughbred as he galloped along the beach with Jacka, who’d had to make do with his father’s cart pony.

Yves squinted up at him. “You haven’t said whether I can come.”

Caroline caught his hand. “I’m sure your cousin has business he wants to conduct at the mine, Yves, and won’t want us hanging about.”

The thought that Caroline might come too caused Nat’s heart to give an unaccountable little flip. Now, why would it do that? But without a doubt, the thought of riding out in female company, despite what he’d just said to his mother, pleased him, after so long amongst just soldiers. Just to have a woman to talk to would be good. That was all. Nothing more. “Do you possess a riding habit?”

Caroline nodded. “I don’t know why I brought it with me. Not many governesses get to ride, I fear. But something prompted me to do so. It was that or give it away, I suppose, and I hate to part with things I love.” Her eyes twinkled at him. She must be relishing the idea of escaping from Roskilly on horseback as much as he was.

“Then Yves and I will go and organize the horses while you change,” Nat said. Hopefully she wasn’t the sort of woman who took forever with her toilette. She didn’t look as though she was, but you never could tell.

She flashed him a smile. “I won’t be long.”

She wasn’t lying, either. Young Pascoe was leading out the mare Nat had asked him to prepare for her just as she emerged from the house. There hadn’t been a lot in the way of horseflesh to choose from. There being no man of the house with his grandfather bedridden, most of the livestock seemed to be for driving. Maybe Trefusis, who must have a horse or two of his own, kept his in his own stables.

Two riding horses remained, though. He had his mother’s aged bay mare, Duchess, again, and Young Pascoe had put a side-saddle on a smaller chestnut with a pretty, Arab head and a long white blaze. Hetty’s horse, Folly. Yves was already astride Blossom and lounging with a negligent hand on her rump, looking at Folly with an acquisitive expression as though he’d have liked to ride her.

Caroline’s habit was of a rich burgundy that suited her well, bringing out the hidden red highlights in her dark hair, on top of which perched a fetching hat. He could almost have described her as pretty, which had not occurred to him before. In fact, now he paused to think about it, the description he would use for her was striking, especially dressed up like some Amazon princess. Prettiness could be a fleeting thing, but a woman with Caroline’s strong features would always be striking.

She used the stone mounting block and was soon on board Folly, gathering up her reins with an air of experience. Nat, who’d waited, mounted himself, observing the way she sat as though a natural. This was a young woman who’d done a lot of riding, perhaps to hounds. Interesting.

Yves, on the other hand, was more of a novice, or if not a novice then a boy who cared nothing for riding style. He had his feet thrust too far into his stirrups, his legs stuck forward and his reins too long. Blossom had the air about her of a pony who intended to get the better of her young rider.

“Can I go first?” Yves asked, the moment Caroline was on. “I know the way, I think. You can see the mine chimney from the nursery window. Just.”

“You’ll go where your pony fits in best,” Nat said. “Which by the look of her is bringing up the rear. She doesn’t strike me as a front-line cavalry horse.”

“Neither is Duchess,” Yves retorted. “Aunt Ruth likes a plodder. I’ve heard her say so. That’s why she won’t sell Duchess to the knacker man and buy a livelier mount.”

“Nevertheless,” Nat said, hiding the smile that threatened to emerge, “you can ride behind Caroline and me. Where a good child should be.”

Yves’s cheeky grin suggested being a good child was furthest from his ambitions just then, but he brought Blossom in behind Folly and Duchess for the time being.

“And don’t poke your feet that far through your stirrups,” Caroline scolded. “If you fall off, your foot might get stuck and you could be dragged.”

“If I fall off,” Yves said with a scowl, “Blossom will stop. She’s only walking because I keep kicking her. Why’s she so slow when she’s ridden?”

Caroline laughed. “If you recall, she wasn’t fast when in harness, either. I had to keep tickling her with the whip.”

“Can I have a whip, then?”

Nat shook his head. “Learn to use your legs correctly when you ride, and only then can you have a whip. Where you have them at the moment, Blossom doesn’t even know they exist.”

They took the narrow path toward the beach, which seemed to revive Yves’s spirits, much as it would once have done for Nat. And even Blossom seemed to pick up her small hooves and increase her speed. A sea breeze wafted the smell of seaweed and salty air to Nat’s nostrils. If he felt at home anywhere at Roskilly, it was here on Morgelyn Beach.

*

Because of the width of the path, Caroline would have been forced to bump knees with Nat, had she not been riding side-saddle as they negotiated the track. She took a quick, sideways look at him, where he rode on her right, the undamaged side of his face toward her.

His mouth had lost some of the twist she’d taken to be cruelty but now suspected might have been unhappiness, and the wind was blowing his hair back from his forehead, revealing just how young he really was. Hardly any older than she and yet with so much suffering behind him. Was he really a man who would see a child dead to gain an inheritance? His demeanor toward Yves didn’t smack of threatening at all, but would it, if he were what she feared? Surely, he would hide it well. Like this.

She smiled at him. “Thank you for letting Yves and me accompany you.”

He shrugged. “The boy needs to see the businesses that will one day soon be his.”

“He took me to see your grandfather today.”

A raised eyebrow.

“He seems, despite being confined to his bed, to be in good health. Just very old.”

Nat nodded. “At least he still has his wits, unlike Aunt Agnes. She doesn’t know what day it is most of the time. But he’s approaching his eighty-eighth birthday in August, which is old by any standard. He can’t go on forever.”

“When he dies, will you take over Yves’s guardianship?”

He shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to. I can’t see my grandfather allowing my mother such a responsibility.”

Did she detect a hint of dislike for his mother there? Might that be a good thing? Caroline couldn’t be sure. All she could think of was that if Nat were to have control over Yves, anything could happen. Oh, how confusing this was. Part of her wanted to like Nat, especially since he’d revealed some of his past to her in what had felt like touching candor, but another more wary part was screaming out that he would be the one to benefit from Yves’s death, and surely, he must be behind any plot to do away with her small charge, or at least in support of it. However, either way, it would be a good idea to get to know him better and keep him close. What was that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. But was he her enemy or her friend?

They emerged from the dunes onto the beach, where the tide was half in, or that could have been half out. She had no way of telling. Yves gave a little squeal of excitement and, his legs hammering Blossom’s sides in completely the wrong place, trotted past them toward the sea’s edge.

Caroline and Nat trotted after him, the fresh sea breeze tugging loose Caroline’s neatly confined hair. What a good thing her hat was secured by several long pins and she had the spare one in the bodice of her habit.

Blossom did not want to paddle, much to Yves’s chagrin. In fact, she seemed to be harboring a distinct suspicion the tiny waves rolling in toward her were intent on her demise.

“We’ll have a canter, along the sand and not in the water,” Nat said. “This way.”

Folly proved to be a moderately well-schooled horse with an easy stride. They rode in a line, with Nat leading and Yves bringing up the rear, with Caroline keeping a close eye on him. He seemed to manage well though, and Blossom, probably relieved not to have to paddle, trundled along behind Folly with an uncharacteristic show of enthusiasm. Perhaps she was realizing how much nicer it was to be ridden than to have to pull the pony cart or the lawn mower.

At the western end of the beach, Nat led the way through the dunes and onto a narrow path edged by stunted, prickly hedging, uphill toward the heather-covered rise of the headland.

“Penmar Head,” he said as Caroline brought Folly in beside Duchess again. “Which is like calling it ‘head-mark-head’ as ‘pen’ is Cornish for ‘head.’ And the ‘mar’ part of the name refers to King Mark of Cornwall, one of King Arthur’s knights. I suppose it might be the head of King Mark’s head, if that makes any sense to you.”

Ahead of them, the outline of a tall, narrow building appeared, with an even taller chimney beside it. “Wheal Jenny,” Nat said, with a hint of pride. “My great-grandfather’s first mine.”