Chapter Eight

C aroline hurried Yves up the stairs to the nursery, having insisted that he leave the still wet and sandy Dash in the kitchen with Mrs. Teague. If she were lucky, no one would have seen the bedraggled state they were both in. Hetty accompanied them, her hated bonnet discarded to hang by its strings from one hand. At the nursery door, she put a firm hand on Caroline’s arm. “You go and change your clothes, and I’ll see to this rascal.”

Caroline hesitated. As governess it must surely be her responsibility to sort Yves’s wet clothes out before her own, but Hetty gave her a firm shove. “I’ve done it enough times before. He’s always in the wars and getting soaked in the sea or in the stream on the far side of the estate. Go on. I know what I’m doing.”

Yves looked up at his cousin with a scowl. “I don’t need to be dressed by anyone . I’m nine , not five.”

“Nonsense,” Hetty snapped. “If we leave it to you, we’ll find you dressed as a pirate.”

Yves’s lower lip jutted. “I like my pirate costume. Miss Hawkins made it for me.”

Caroline suppressed a smile. “Then we shall have a day when we all play at pirates, I promise. Just not today.”

His face brightened. “Hetty too?”

Caroline nodded. “But only if you let Hetty find you suitable clothes right now. Go on. Off you go with her.”

Leaving Yves in a more biddable frame of mind, Caroline headed for her own bedroom in search of a clean gown. If she had much more of this, she was going to run out of suitable gowns altogether.

What a good thing she’d learnt early on to do her own hair, as hers was a windblown mess, despite her bonnet. She stripped off her wet gown and put on a fresh petticoat, then sat in front of her mirror, teasing her chestnut curls into something a little more respectable for a governess. She must have caught the sun, because her cheeks had a warm glow to them that not even an application of powder would disguise.

A tap on her door disturbed her.

“Who is it?”

“Hetty.”

“Come in then, as long as you don’t have Yves with you.”

Hetty, alone, came in. She too had managed to catch the sun, the bridge of her nose being slightly pink. “You mustn’t take on about Yves getting so wet.” She sat down on the bed. “He’s always up to mischief and my mama doesn’t mind at all. You can ignore what my mannerless brother said to you. Mama won’t care a jot that Yves nearly drowned himself.”

Caroline swiveled round on her seat. “Really? I had the impression Yves was considered a trifle sickly, and that I was to take great care of him. At least that’s what my friend Mrs. Beauchamp told me in her letter.”

Hetty shrugged, her auburn curls bouncing. “What rubbish. He might be a skinny wretch, but he’s as tough as… as my old boots.” She kicked her boots in the air in demonstration. “Mama doesn’t mind in the least what he gets up to. She keeps saying ‘ he’s not my child.’ When Grandpapa was downstairs, before he had to take to his bed, he ruled Yves with a much sterner hand. But then again, Yves was only six or seven so much more manageable. Grandpapa didn’t let him go anywhere on his own. He wasn’t allowed to climb trees, go down to the beach, or ride his pony any faster than a trot. Not that Blossom ever wants to go faster than a trot, that is. I used to have to ride her before I had Folly.” She shrugged a second time. “But when Mama took over his care, she said he needed to learn to be a real boy, like Nat was, and Yves took to it with gusto.” She smiled. “I’m not allowed to tell Grandpapa any of that though.”

How puzzling. Mrs. Treloar did not at all look like the sort of person who would allow a boy like Yves to run wild and free. Her whole demeanor of stiff control indicated the exact opposite—that she would have liked Yves to be seen but not heard, kept closeted in the schoolroom and nursery so that his presence might not offend the eyes or ears of the adults of the household.

Hetty kicked her boots against the bed. “Miss Hawkins protested that Yves was being encouraged to do dangerous things. I heard her and Mama arguing about it in the parlor one day. I was outside in the hall and I couldn’t help but overhear.” Her eyes twinkled. “What with having my ear to the door and both of them shouting so loud.”

“An eavesdropper rarely hears any good about himself,” Caroline said, conscious of the fact she should be discouraging Hetty from such behavior.

“Oh, I heard nothing about me, either good or bad. But I heard a lot about Miss Hawkins and Yves. Goodness me, I didn’t realize Miss Hawkins had it in her to face Mama down like that, but she did, saying she thought Mama wanted some accident to befall Yves and that Mama shouldn’t be giving him something because it was dangerous. Only Mama got the better of her in the end, because she told her to pack her bags and leave if she didn’t like the way Yves was being brought up.”

Caroline’s ears pricked up. “What? Straight after their argument?”

Hetty nodded. “At the end of it. Mama told Miss Hawkins to leave that very day. Had the pony cart brought round to take her into Penzance. I saw her go.” She paused. “Although Mama kept Yves and me in the parlor with her until Miss Hawkins left. She said she didn’t want us talking to a madwoman. Yves was furious, and Mama had to station Roscarrow, our gardener, outside the parlor door to stop him going out. I was standing at the window, so I saw her leave. Her face was all blotchy and she kept looking back at the house. I think she’d been crying.”

Hetty clearly relished the telling of this tale. Her eyes danced in excitement at the drama she’d witnessed. “And then, the next day, Mama sacked Hester as well, who used to be the head nursery maid, and put Bridget in charge. Bridget used to do Patience’s job. Bridget’s horrible, and I’m glad I’m not in the nursery anymore.”

Good heavens. Was the job of governess here a sort of poisoned chalice? Might Mrs. Treloar decide on a whim that Caroline, too, needed to leave? That was a bit of a worry. Caroline made a mental note never to cross swords with her employer if she could avoid it, no matter what happened.

But this had set her wondering. She changed tack a little. “Am I right in thinking that Yves is the heir to Roskilly?”

Hetty nodded. “His papa was my papa’s older brother. But he’s dead, of course. Well, they both are. Only our two aunts are left now, and we never really see them. Yves’s papa drowned while out in his little boat. He liked to go fishing, you see. I was only ten when he died, so I don’t remember it very well, but I think his boat sank and he couldn’t swim. Yves was three. He doesn’t remember his papa at all. I know because I asked him.”

Turning this over in her head, Caroline went to her wardrobe and sorted through her clothes until she found a nice fawn gown with long sleeves and a high neckline. Governess style. She stepped into it and Hetty jumped up to fasten the back for her, as she tucked her customary spare long hairpin into the bodice out of the way.

“My papa was killed even before that. I was only five.” Hetty fiddled with the ties, tucking them out of the way. “Nat was with him. He was home from school and he and Papa had gone down the mine at Wheal Jenny. I don’t know why. Nat wouldn’t talk to me about it afterwards, and of course, Mama never would. There was a roof fall, that I do know, and Papa was killed.”

“That’s dreadful.” How sad for his two children and his widow. No wonder Mrs. Treloar seemed so cold. Caroline made up her mind to make allowances for her.

Hetty gave a shrug, returning to her original story. “It’s a shame for Yves, really, because he loved Miss Hawkins, but for me it was good luck. With her gone, Mama said I could abandon the schoolroom and become a young lady.” She frowned. “Although she still wants me to practice things like the piano, painting, and speaking French.”

Caroline pressed her lips together. Hetty was such an ingenue, surely she could ask her a few rather loaded questions without the girl noticing. “And if anything were to happen to Yves, who would become heir to Roskilly?”

Hetty shrugged. “I daresay Nat would, although I don’t know for sure. I doubt my two aunts would come into it, even though they were Papa’s older sisters. We females are never considered important enough to inherit anything when there are men about. Especially not a house and businesses.”

“But after Nat, would it be you?”

Hetty nodded. “I suppose it might be.” A frown drifted across her brow. “I’m rather vexed with Nat. I haven’t seen him since Aunt Endelyn’s husband died and he came down for the funeral. And even then, I hardly had a chance to talk to him. I was only fourteen, and no doubt he didn’t want to be bothered with a schoolgirl. He stayed at Bodilly House with my aunt and only came to Roskilly to see Grandpapa. And before that, I think the last time I saw him was when I was six.” She sighed. “Back then, before Papa died, Nat used to play with me all the time. He was such a fun big brother. But from what I’ve seen of him today, I don’t think he’ll ever be fun again.”

Caroline thought about the disfiguring scar running down Nat’s face. “I should imagine war has changed him a lot, Hetty, and you may have to be patient with him. And not just his appearance will have changed. If he’s been so severely wounded, then, inside himself, he may be hurting very much. You’ll need to try to be patient and understanding even if he seems surly and rude.” Advice she would do well to adhere to herself, given how she’d taken such a dislike to Nat on the beach.

*

Nat, meanwhile, had left his grandfather sleeping and gone in search of Great-Aunt Agnes. This lady he discovered in the library, a room aptly fitting its title as shelves of books lined every wall.

A large stone fireplace occupied the center of one wall, a fire burning in it despite the clement weather outside. Two wingback chairs had been drawn up close to the heat, and in one sat a tiny, bird-like old lady, reading a book with a large magnifying glass. She looked up as Nat came in, and her lined face lit up with delight. “Hugh! Have you just returned from the hunt? Did the hounds make a kill? I asked Mama if I could accompany you, but she made me stay and read to her.” She closed the book and set down the magnifying glass on the table by her side.

Nat went down on one knee beside her chair and took her frail hands in his. She’d been reading the book upside down. “It’s Nat, Aunt Agnes. Hugh is my grandfather, your brother.”

“Nat?” The old lady stared at him, for a moment bemused. “But my Nat’s just a little boy. I see him playing out in the gardens, or sliding down the stairs on a tea tray.”

“That’ll be Yves, Uncle Robert’s boy.”

She shook her head, suddenly peevish. “And where is Robert, I want to know? I haven’t seen him for days. He can’t keep hiding from his auntie or I won’t have any treats for him.” She reached down to the side of her chair and fished up a large cloth bag. “I keep my treats in here, for the little ones. For my little Nat.”

Nat sighed. His great-aunt had been heading toward senility when he’d last seen her after the funeral, but nothing as bad as this. Just a little forgetfulness as far as he could tell at the time. Now, her mind seemed addled and befuddled. “ I’m your Nat,” he tried again. “Come home from the wars.”

She lifted the magnifying glass, and, holding it up to her right eye, peered through it at him. Her own rheumy eye was hugely enlarged by this procedure as she had the glass the wrong way round. She squinted at his face, moving the glass closer to his scar the better to see it. “What’s this? My Nat don’t look like this.” She lifted a bony hand and reached out to touch his scar.

Nat flinched, the effort of preventing himself from starting back enormous. No one had ever touched his scar save the surgeon who’d stitched it back together. Her cool, dry fingers felt the raised and puckered skin. He grit his teeth. She explored the ridges of scar tissue, that the surgeon had said would eventually lessen, from above his right eye, down his damaged cheek to his chin.

“Why,” she said at last, her voice soft as an autumn leaf blowing in the wind, “who did this to you, Nat? My little Nat come back to me.”

Nat pressed his lips together. “A Frenchman. I’ve been away fighting Bonaparte, Aunt Agnes, but now I’m back.”

Her faded eyes sharpened, and her hand dropped to seize his in a claw like grasp. “You’re back for good?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I’ve not thought about what to do now I’ve resigned my commission and said goodbye to the army.”

Her grip tightened. “You have to stay.” Her voice hissed with urgency. “You have to stay and protect the child.”

Nat frowned. “What child?” Surely, she didn’t mean Yves?

But her moment of lucidity had gone, if it had ever been that. “You have to protect my Robert. My golden boy. I wonder why I’ve not seen him for so long. He usually comes to sit with me of an afternoon, and I listen to him read. Such a kind boy.” She released his hand, looking down at the book in her lap. “Perhaps he’ll read to me from this book today.” It was Johnson’s Dictionary .

On an impulse, Nat leaned forward and kissed the wrinkled old cheek. “Dear Aunt Agnes, it’s good to see you again.” She smelled of lavender water and old lady.