Chapter Twenty-Four

Y ves did not seem to be in the right frame of mind for learning all morning. Whether it was the lasting effects of the laudanum dose, or the unfortunate encounter with Nat off to do something Yves regarded as a much preferable alternative to Latin verbs, Caroline couldn’t work out. But she had the distinct sensation she was trying to knock her head against the proverbial brick wall. All the verbs he’d learned had gone out of his head, and he kept yawning and staring out of the window at the enticing blue sky outside.

Caroline couldn’t blame him. What small boy in their right mind would want to be sitting at a desk indoors when they could be out on their own private beach, or riding an admittedly recalcitrant pony across the sand and pretending he was Robinson Crusoe. She quite fancied being out of doors herself, given the beauty of the day, but she didn’t intend to let him know. So, while he pored over his Latin grammar book with a discontented frown on his small face, she turned over in her mind what she was going to say to Sir Hugh that afternoon.

That he knew Yves was in danger had been obvious, but now she had to tell him everything she surmised about Trefusis’s intentions toward Hetty, and the danger she suspected Nat might be in. Would Sir Hugh believe her? She still wasn’t sure she believed it herself. In the cold light of day, or rather in the sunny, warm light of a July day, it seemed increasingly unlikely and more and more like something out of the Gothic novels she and Ysella had liked to read.

The sound of galloping, or at the least cantering, hooves on the gravel in front of the house disturbed her thoughts and Yves’s studies. He was out of his seat and climbing onto the bench by the window before she could utter a reprimand, his nose pressed against the glass.

“It’s Duchess. By herself. And she’s not wearing her saddle.”

Caroline, who’d been about to launch into a diatribe about how schoolboys should not leave their seats unless given express permission, threw caution to the wind and leapt up to join him at the window.

“Oh God.” Fear closed around her heart. He was right. Duchess, flanks heaving and flecked with foamy sweat, was now standing close to the porticoed front doors, her head down, reins hanging broken, and devoid of her saddle and rider. Even as Caroline watched, young Pascoe came running from the stables, his father, Old Pascoe stumping along behind him.

“Where’s Cousin Nat?” Yves’s voice rose in panic. “He must have been riding her. There isn’t any other horse he could’ve taken. How’s she lost her saddle?”

Yves was right. If Nat had ridden to Wheal True as he’d said, he’d have taken Duchess. Folly, although a livelier, younger ride, would have been too small for his six-foot frame.

Caroline glanced at the schoolroom clock. Ten o’clock. He’d been gone barely an hour.

Young Pascoe grabbed Duchess’s reins and Old Pascoe ran his hands down her legs, no doubt to see if she’d done herself any damage. Caroline caught the sound of the front door opening, and in a moment Ennion was there, closely followed by Trefusis and Mrs. Treloar. From above, their faces were invisible, but their voices carried up to the schoolroom window.

“There looks like there’s been some kind of an accident,” Trefusis, on the top of whose head Caroline was absurdly pleased to see a sizeable bald spot coming, said. “Did Nathaniel ride her out?”

A muffled yes from Old Pascoe, standing, cap in hand.

Mrs. Treloar joined in, her voice strident and accusing. “And where is the saddle? How is it not on the horse? Who is in charge of checking the saddlery?”

Old Pascoe fiddled with his cap, head down, only his gray hair visible from above. “I am, ma’am.”

Silence, but Mrs. Treloar must have been glaring at Old Pascoe because he cringed like a beaten dog.

Trefusis put his oar in again. “We’d best organize a search party. I’ll get round to the farm and requisition all the men. And I’ll send Dickon out on Folly to the other farms on the estate. We’ll get a hundred men out looking for him. Don’t worry, Ruth, we’ll find him.”

“Nat!” Hetty burst out of the front door onto the gravel, making Duchess startle. “Is it Nat? What’s happened to him? Oh my God.” Her voice rose into a wail.

Her mother took her by the shoulders. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Henrietta. And stop making a show of yourself. Our men will find him, have no fear.”

Hetty wasn’t to be stopped though, not in the full flow of hysteria. “What if he’s fallen over the cliffs? Or on the beach and hit his head on a rock and the tide is coming in? Or down an old mine shaft?”

Mrs. Treloar raised her right hand and a resounding slap echoed. But it worked. Hetty shut up. “Be silent, you stupid girl. He will be perfectly all right and just having to walk home which will take him a lot longer than it has his horse. Go inside and find Miss Fairfield and remain with her. She can look after you.”

Yves jumped down from the window. “I’m going looking for Nat, too.”

Caroline just managed to grab his arm. “No, you’re not. We’re to let the farm workers and servants do that. They know the countryside far better than we do. And you heard your cousin—there are old mine shafts out there. We don’t want to make things worse by giving them more people to look for. Besides, Hetty’s coming to find us. We have to look after her.”

Despite her words, if only she hadn’t had Yves to look after, Caroline would have been out there herself, searching for Nat. This couldn’t be a coincidence, surely. How did a saddle come off a horse if it had been maintained properly? Old Pascoe was going to get the blame for this, without a doubt, and it probably had nothing to do with him. Unless he was in the pay of Trefusis, of course, which seemed unlikely.

Hetty burst through the door, her face waxy pale with a glare of red on one cheek and tears running down her face. “It’s Nat!” she wailed. “His horse has come back without him.”

“We know that, silly,” Yves said, displaying zero compassion. “And now we have to look after you, while everyone else goes out to search for him. Which isn’t fair, because I want to look for him as well.”

“Something bad’s happened,” Hetty continued, oblivious to his reply. “I know it has. Bad things happen all the time here. Like when Papa died, and then Uncle Robert. Our family always dies in accidents. At least the men in our family do. It’s a curse, I know it is.”

“Be quiet, Hetty, you’re frightening Yves.” Caroline kept her voice level and calm.

“I’m not frightened,” Yves protested. “I’m cross because I’m stuck in here with her .”

Caroline shot him a fierce frown. “Yves. You can be quiet, too. Ring the bell for Patience and we’ll have some tea brought up to the schoolroom. No running off.”

Luckily, a bell rope hung by the schoolroom door for just such an eventuality. Yves gave it a vigorous tug and returned to Hetty and Caroline, a cunning expression on his face. “If we’re not doing lessons but looking after Hetty, do I still have to call you Miss Fairfield until twelve o’clock?”

Caroline shook her head in exasperation. “Caroline will be fine. Come and sit down, Hetty. Here at this desk. Now breathe deeply and try to stop crying.”

“What a baby,” Yves observed, going back to the window. “Nothing to see. They’ve all gone.”

“You can come and sit down too,” Caroline said, taking hold of Hetty’s hand. “Your cousin needs us to be brave for her.”

“I am being brave,” Yves said, brow furrowing. “It’s her that’s not.”

“I’m a girl,” Hetty sniffled. “I’m allowed to not be brave.”

“Girls.” Yves curled his upper lip in an attempt at scorn that only made him look rather silly.

Hetty gave a watery smile. “One day you’ll like girls.”

As Yves seemed about to enter into an argument about why he would never like girls, Caroline held her hand up. “No arguing. We have to support one another while the search goes on.”

A timid knock came on the door, and Patience pushed it open. “You rang, Miss?”

“We need sweet tea, for shock,” Caroline said. “And for you to tell us if the servants are all going on the search party?”

Patience nodded. “There’s only me and Mrs. Teague left, and that Rodgers up with Sir Hugh seein’ as he can’t be left on his own.”

Aha. Just what Caroline wanted to hear. This was the perfect opportunity to get rid of that laudanum-loaded medicine for good. Even if it risked the wrath of Mrs. Treloar. She couldn’t let Yves take another dose or it might be fatal.

Patience shortly returned with the tea, and Caroline asked her to remain. Then, leaving Hetty and Yves with her, and all three of them drinking the tea, much to Patience’s mixture of delight and embarrassment, Caroline went into the nursery.

Bridget, presumably co-opted onto the search, was not there. Thank goodness. It was a work of only a minute to retrieve the key from under her pillow, unlock the cupboard and take out the medicine bottle. She uncorked it, sniffed it, and just for good measure inserted her finger then licked the tip. Yes, the bitter taste of the laudanum had returned. Presumably Mrs. Treloar, or Trefusis, or both of them, but not Nat, had decided the initial dose had not been enough and they should increase it.

She hauled up the sash window and tipped the entire contents of the bottle into the flowerbed. A jug of water stood on Bridget’s washstand, which made it an easy job to refill the bottle and return it to the cupboard. At least this gave her a little over twenty-four hours to try and do something. Tonight, Bridget would go to dose Yves and find only water in the bottle. Even if she noticed, which she might not if Caroline was lucky, she wouldn’t be able to do anything right then. Although, surely after Yves was in bed she’d be reporting to Mrs. Treloar. And if she did spot the substitution tonight, when everyone was back in the house, she wouldn’t know it had been Caroline who’d emptied it. Hopefully. Although she’d most likely suspect it was. But with no proof, what could anyone do?

With determined fingers, Caroline locked the cupboard, returned the key to under the pillow and went back to Hetty and Yves.

*

After he’d left Caroline and Yves to continue on their way upstairs to the schoolroom, Nat strode around to the stables in search of a horse. Well, in search of Duchess, as there was nothing else there except for the carriage horses, Hetty’s mount, Folly, or Blossom. He encountered Young Pascoe engaged in mucking out the loose boxes. The groom set down his wooden, manure-laden barrow. “Shall I get Duchess ready for you, Mr. Nathaniel?”

Nat shook his head. “No need. I’ll see to that myself. You look like you have plenty to do already, and I formed a habit of taking care of my horse for myself while I was in the army.”

Young Pascoe picked up the barrow again. “Thank’ee, Sir.”

Nat found the saddle he’d used before in the tack room and carried it, with Duchess’s bridle hooked on the cantle, down the passage to the loosebox she occupied. Her ears pricked as she saw him set the saddle on the stable door, and she gave a little, welcoming whicker. She might be getting on in years, but she’d been a good horse in her time.

Ten minutes later, he was riding out of the stableyard and onto the track that would lead him in the direction of Wheal Jenny. With Wheal True lying on the far side of the headland, he didn’t need to take the main road but could thread his way along the narrow farm tracks that wound between the small, square fields. Bright sunshine beat down on him, tempered by the usual sea breeze that lifted his still-too-long hair off his forehead. What a day to be alive. He could almost feel his heart swelling inside his ribs. Something about Cornwall, that he’d forgotten in his long absence, was sneaking its way back into his very bones.

Duchess seemed full of the joys of life as well, stepping out smartly with her ears pricked at each and every bird, sheep, or cow they came across. Although he liked her well enough, it might be nice to find himself a horse of his own, for in truth she was a lady’s mount, not a man’s. And at the same time, he’d look for a pony for that imp of a cousin of his. A boy his age deserved a pony with some life in it, not the old plodder that pulled the pony cart and worked in the garden.

He urged Duchess into a trot, the wind lifting her black mane, as they reached the open moorland that rose toward Penmar Head. Maybe he’d let her have a canter. From a boyhood spent exploring the surrounding countryside with Jacka, he knew where all the abandoned mineshafts were, and had no fear of riding into one.

Duchess sprang into a canter with enthusiasm and, out of sheer joy, Nat encouraged her to go faster as the track ran uphill toward the distant mine buildings.

She was in a skittish mood, possibly in season, which always made a mare more of a handful, but he didn’t mind, and stood in the stirrups to encourage her to go faster. The path wove between clumps of gorse and the many rocks that peppered the heathery moorland, but she was sure-footed and he had faith in her.

As they breasted a low rise, from out of the heather on his right, a female hen harrier rose, a vole clutched in its talons. The bird’s brown wings flapped, Duchess’s ears shot forward, and she leapt to the left as though she were a just-broken three-year-old.

Nat would normally have had no problem sitting out a sudden shy like that, but as she leapt, her saddle slid violently to the right. Nat’s weight was thrust too far to the right, and he had no chance to readjust it. The saddle kept on going, and he and the saddle spun through the air. The uneven, rocky ground came up to meet him with a bone-jarring smack, as though he’d run into a brick wall. He rolled, blue sky and heather spinning, dimly aware that he was tumbling downhill, for what felt like forever, until he hit something even more solid than the ground and his head snapped back. Bright lights flashed in his vision for a moment before darkness descended. He knew nothing more.