Chapter Nine

C aroline encountered Miss Agnes Treloar the following afternoon. Clouds had rolled in from the sea and a light drizzle prevented her from taking Yves out for a walk, as she’d planned, even though he declared himself unfazed by “a bit of rain.” Instead, she headed for the library with him and Hetty in search of the chess set Hetty had informed her resided there, a now clean and dry Dash trotting at their heels.

Having spent the morning in the school room introducing Yves to the vagaries of the Latin language in as an appealing fashion as Caroline could think of, followed by algebra and composition, Caroline had seen neither sight nor sound of any other member of the Roskilly household that day. So she was pleased when she and Yves encountered Hetty on the galleried landing and on her advice headed for the library.

Yves dragged his feet. “But I don’t want to learn to play chess. I’d rather be outside, playing ball with Dash.”

“Nonsense,” Caroline retorted. “It’s a game of tactics that makes you think carefully about everything you do. Most useful for someone in your position. Or the position you’ll one day hold.”

Yves stuck out his lower lip in rebellion, but followed her meekly enough into the library.

Twice the size of the one at Cadley Grange, the library at Roskilly boasted a fine array of books. But as Caroline well knew that books could be bought by the foot merely for their appearance and to indicate the supposed scholarship of their owners, she was unimpressed. As with the up-to-date furnishings in the main house, she had a feeling this library had been equipped for show.

Yves, on stepping into the room, let out a cry of delight, and ran across to where two wingback chairs stood close to a roaring fire. “Aunt Agnes! It’s me!” He plumped himself down on the footstool beside her chair, and gazed up at the old lady in evident delight, Dash by his feet. How touching it was to see his love for her.

“That’s Aunt Agnes,” Hetty said, without bothering to lower her voice. “Mad as a hatter and deaf with it. For some inexplicable reason, my little cousin adores her.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll warn you now. I like her too, but she can be a bit smelly.”

Such charming honesty. Caroline followed Yves across the room until she was standing in front of the tiny, almost elfin figure in the wingback chair. Thistledown hair, wrinkled apple of a face, rheumy blue eyes that must once have been like those of Yves, Hetty, and Nat, and hands like a bird’s claws. In her old-fashioned, wide-skirted, black-satin gown, she looked as though she’d stepped out of the last century, and quite some time back in it, as well.

Caroline performed an elegant curtsey. “Good afternoon, Miss Treloar.”

The old lady squinted up at her. “And who might you be, Missy?” The prerogative of the elderly—to be as blunt as they liked. Caroline’s own grandmother, whom she vaguely remembered, had been much the same toward the end.

Yves spoke up before Caroline had the chance to reply. “This is Miss Fairfield, my new governess. Only as we’re not in lessons, I’m allowed to call her Caroline.” His blue eyes twinkled. “But don’t tell Mama that. It’s mine and Caroline and Hetty’s secret.”

Caroline clasped her hands together. “We just came in here to find the chess board and set so I can begin to teach Yves how to play. I do hope we haven’t disturbed you. We can take the board up to the nursery if you’d rather be left in peace.”

The old lady’s face clouded over. “Yves? Who’s he?” She patted Yves on his curly head. “This is my little Robert.”

Yves didn’t appear the least put out at having been mistaken for someone else. He must be used to it.

Hetty leaned over to hiss in Caroline’s ear. “Yves’s father, remember. Aunt Agnes gets confused and most of the time thinks Yves is his father come back to her. Which, to be honest, is no wonder, as Yves is the image of the painting in the dining room of Uncle Robert as a boy.”

“I can read to you if you like, Aunt Agnes,” Yves piped up. “I’d rather read to you than learn to play a silly board game.”

Hetty laughed. “You are such a lazy boy, Yves. Grandpapa taught me how to play chess when I was smaller than you. It’s an excellent game.”

Yves’s head came up, his eyes hopeful. “Grandpapa taught you? Do you mean if I learn to play chess, he might play it with me ?”

Hetty shrugged. “He might, but he won’t like it if you forget the moves and do silly things.” She glanced at Caroline. “We used to play for ha’pennies. The day I managed to beat him, he gave me a guinea.”

Caroline’s turn to laugh. “That seems an inordinate reward for a single win.”

Hetty tossed her auburn curls. “Not really. Grandpapa is not the sort to allow anyone to win as of an act of kindness, so when I finally managed to beat him, he reflected that in the reward I won.”

Aunt Agnes, ignoring this conversation, patted the small round table by her side. “Draw up a chair, Missy, and the girl can fetch the chess set and lay it out on here. I’d like to watch Robert learn.”

“Yves, you deaf old biddy,” Hetty hissed, then raised her voice. “Very well, Aunt. I’ll fetch the board and pieces.”

Caroline, resigning herself to having to stay and provide entertainment for the old lady, pulled the other wingback chair closer to the table, as far away from the heat of the fire as she could get. After all, it was July, even though the house itself didn’t reflect that.

Yves set his chin in his hands and also appeared to have resigned himself—in his case to learning to play chess.

*

Nat was nowhere to be seen at Roskilly that day because he’d chosen to ride out to inspect the estate and see what condition it was in. He set out on his friend Jacka’s cob, which had spent a night of luxury in a spacious loose box with the best oats and hay and was full of the joys of spring, despite it being mid-July.

He didn’t hurry, despite the fine mizzle of rain. He had his greatcoat and his wide-brimmed hat, and, besides which, he’d suffered much worse in a Spanish winter under canvas. It was good to be out of the stifling confines of Roskilly House that only served to remind him of how glad he’d been to get away from it at eighteen. Although, once he was out in the fresh but damp air, and had time to consider the matter, he realized it was not Roskilly itself that had brought on this feeling, but rather the people within it. Mainly his mother. And no doubt the estate manager whom he had yet to encounter. Jan Trefusis. The one consolation being that she’d had the sense to hire a Cornishman.

It had been good to see his grandfather again, but at the same time poignant to find the old man so reduced. And Aunt Agnes being so confused had brought a sizeable lump to his throat. In a way, it had been good, because after what had happened in Spain, he’d thought he could never feel emotion again. So the sorrow he’d felt on facing up to his grandfather and aunt’s decline had brought home to him that he might not be so numbed to feeling as he’d thought.

But the worst thing had been his mother’s reaction to his disfigurement. She was the only one who’d been horrified by his scar. Only she had withdrawn from him as though from a monster. Not that she’d ever been the sort to hug and kiss her children. Nat had grown up used to her keeping her distance and hadn’t expected any difference in her attitude now he was nearing thirty. But her obvious disgust at his facial injury had bitten to the bone. Perhaps he’d been expecting too much of her, though, and an absence of eleven years had given him a false idea of who she was.

She’d noticed his maimed right hand at dinner last night. He’d not been able to disguise it, although she’d made a creditable effort not to recoil in shock this time. Hetty, sitting beside him at the table, had covered his damaged hand with hers in solidarity, but said nothing.

Now Nat was riding over Penmar Head, having visited a few farms and been offered either tea, ale, or a whisky at each. A wet wind blew in his face, and, down on the beach, rollers charged in from the Atlantic. Quite a different day to yesterday, and definitely not a day for the new governess to be taking his grandfather’s heir anywhere near the water’s edge.

He’d not seen sight nor sound of either her or Yves that morning, when he’d taken breakfast with Hetty in the morning room. No doubt his mother still stuck to her strict regime of keeping children and governesses out of the main part of the house whenever possible. Young Yves had probably been down in the kitchens being fed by Mrs. Teague if he had any sense. Nat had eaten many a meal with the huge cook as a boy.

He put up a hand to jam his hat down more firmly onto his head as the wind snatched at it. Small fields covered the headland, edged by stone and earth-built banks, which themselves were topped by ragged hawthorn bushes, blowing now in the sea wind. The sheep, shorn of their winter coats, sensibly huddled up against the walls, out of the worst of the weather.

He was just heading down the track that would take him to Balwest Farm, when he caught sight of a rider heading in his direction. Whoever it was wore a greatcoat similar to his own, but was a sight better mounted on a classy, bright-bay horse. Nat drew rein and waited for the rider to approach.

The newcomer brought his horse in alongside Bosun and tipped his hat to Nat. “Good day to you, Sir. Not a particularly nice afternoon for a ride.”

Nat, keeping his face turned to the side out of long habit, nodded. “Have you come far?”

The newcomer, a tall and somewhat sturdy young man of approximately Nat’s own age, wiped a hand across his rain-wet face. “A tidy ride. My wife insisted that I should come personally and not trust to a messenger, and she’s not to be denied when she gets a bee in her bonnet.” He held out his hand to Nat. “Samuel Beauchamp, of Carlyon Court.”

Nat took the hand. “Nathaniel Treloar.” No need for him to give himself the title of major. That was all behind him now, and he didn’t need reminding of it.

Sam Beauchamp’s face lit up. “Of Roskilly? That’s where I’m bound. What luck to have bumped into you. I’m not entirely sure of the lanes around here, and there seems to be a surfeit of them that all look the same. Perhaps you can send me on in the right direction.” He tilted his head to one side. “Unless you’re heading back there yourself and could show me the way?”

Why not? The rain was worse than he’d expected, the farms much of a muchness, and the beach would be too windswept for a gallop. And breakfast felt a long time ago. He might as well head back to the Court in this gentleman’s company. He turned Bosun around, and the two horses fell in side by side, Nat keeping to Sam’s right, although he suspected Sam had already spotted the scar but was politely refraining from appearing to notice it.

Sam was clearly a far more garrulous companion than Nat might have hoped for. “My wife made no mention of you being at Roskilly,” he began with. “She told me she met Mrs. Treloar and her daughter, Henrietta, last week at the Truro Assembly Rooms.”

He was clearly fishing. No doubt so he could tell his wife all about Nat later. Probably top of his description would be Nat’s scar.

A pregnant pause ensued that Nat felt forced to fill. “Hetty is my sister.”

“Ah.” Sam nodded. “Although I do believe my wife, Ysella her name is, told me Miss Treloar was a redhead.” He raised his eyes to Nat’s face, pointedly looking at Nat’s own dark hair beneath his hat.

Damn the man. Why did he want to make chitchat like this? Nat would have scowled, only his right eyebrow would not have obliged him. “She takes after my grandmother.” No need to vouchsafe further information. That would have to do. He’d become the master of the short answer in the last six years.

Sam smiled. Did he consider Nat a new friend on such short acquaintance? “Ysella told me your sister is an uncommonly pretty girl. In fact, this is partly why she had me ride over here in this atrocious weather.”

He must be trying to look apologetic, but it wasn’t quite working. Was the man under the thumb of his wife that he leapt to do her every bidding like this? Was Nat now supposed to ask him what his visit portended?

It seemed not, because Sam went on without needing to be asked. “Ysella wanted me to call upon your mother for several reasons. The first being out of a desire to invite her and your sister, who she noted is of an age to enjoy dancing and pleasant company, to attend a ball we’re giving at Carlyon. And the second is that she wanted me to ascertain if her friend Caroline Fairfield is employed now by Mrs. Treloar. You see, it was Ysella who recommended her to your mother, so she feels a vested interest in the outcome.”

Sam regarded Nat as though this time he was waiting for a reply.

Nat sighed. “I’m sure my sister will be very pleased to attend your ball. And I can tell you right now that a Miss Fairfield is indeed performing the duties of governess to my young cousin. I think I was told her name is Caroline. Would that be your wife’s friend?” How did this gentleman’s wife come to have a friend who was a governess? Although, Miss Fairfield had about her the air of a well-bred young lady, so perhaps she’d fallen on hard times. Not that he cared. He did not want to get into discussing the life story of a member of staff.

Sam’s honest face lit up. “The very one. Ysella will be delighted. She has asked me to extend the invitation to Caroline as well as your mother and sister. She longs to see her again.” He paused, his smile honest and open. “Although of course, she would like to see your mother and sister almost as much.”

Nat frowned, doubting very much that anyone might want to see his mother and not at all sure she would approve of an employee being invited to the same ball she and Hetty were going to.

“And now I’ve discovered your existence,” Sam said, with a bit of a flourish, “I daresay Ysella will never forgive me if I don’t persuade you to escort the ladies.”

Oh no. Nat did not at all want to have to go to a ball anywhere and be stared at by the local gentry, people he’d known as a child and gone to school with, their wives he might never have met, and definitely not the over-friendly Sam Beauchamp’s wife, who was probably just like him.

“Shall we trot on?” he asked. “And get out of this rain?”