Chapter Sixteen

C aptain Carlyon, true to his word, came calling on Harriet the very next day. Bertha was busy with the housework, and Lydia and Theo, begrudging being kept indoors on such a fine morning, were seated at the kitchen table working at their schoolbooks. Harriet, dressed for work in her oldest gown and an apron, was digging the weeds out of the overgrown beds at the front of the cottage in the hope of one day growing flowers there. The ramshackle, wobbly-wheeled and woodworm-infested barrow she’d found in the tumbledown woodshed stood beside her, rescued from being consigned to firewood and now piled high with leggy greenery.

The sound of a horse’s hooves on the gravelly track had her straightening up, her heart, quite out of her control, doing a kind of somersault of emotion that was an odd mixture of fear and excitement as she stared up the track. But it wasn’t Jack. That she’d been hoping it was dawned on her as she felt her heart sink, and a wave of guilty heat surged to her cheeks. Instead of Jack, the singularly more disturbing Captain Carlyon, on his fine gray gelding, came riding towards her, an expression of amused interest on his face.

“Good morning, Harriet,” he called, as he halted the gray ten yards distant. His gaze ran up and down her attire in obvious speculation. Why did he make her feel as though he knew every secret she kept close, as well as what she looked like naked? Again. Most disquieting. If only they hadn’t bumped into him yesterday. But she was going to have to be polite.

The memory of how Jack didn’t like Fitz Carlyon rose swiftly, followed by the unnerving thought that she herself might know more than she should about smuggling activities here, just because the children had seen the ship. She should have been insistent yesterday that she wasn’t ready to accept callers.

She smoothed down her skirts and untied her apron, plastering a welcoming, but not too welcoming, smile onto her face. She’d have to pretend she was pleased to see him. She’d had plenty of practice at pretending.

Fitz Carlyon swung down from the saddle and glanced around himself as though searching for somewhere to tether his horse.

Harriet remembered herself. “Good morning, Captain. I believe there’s a tethering ring at the side of the house.” Although that would mean he could stay for longer than if he had to hold onto his horse. Unless, of course, he took recourse to hitching the gray’s reins to a branch of one of the low trees, as Jack had done.

“Fitz. Please call me Fitz. Everyone does and, as I’m already calling you Harriet, I feel there’s no point in you persisting in calling me ‘captain’ every five minutes.” He led the horse round to the side of the house.

A movement caught Harriet’s eye. Both her children, and Bertha, had their noses pressed to the kitchen window. She waved a hand at them and scowled, having to wipe the scowl off her face in haste as Fitz returned, now without his horse.

Taking his hat off and executing a smart bow all in one fluid movement, he smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his cold and calculating eyes. That he was here for some reason other than to merely call on her seemed glaringly obvious. Or maybe she was just being too suspicious. Maybe she should try accepting people at face value. Or maybe not… she’d done a sight too much of that in the past and look where it had got her.

He pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his hat. “I said I’d call, and here I am. Too much talk of babies going on at Roskilly for me. My cousin Ysella, charming and pretty as she is, can be quite boring when she brings up the subject of her offspring. I’m very much of the ‘children should be seen but not heard’ school.” He glanced at the window, now thankfully empty of those eager faces. “And of course, Nat’s wife is just the same as Ysella. Even Nat’s sister, little Hetty, pretty as a picture and as yet unmarried so quite a distraction, joined in. I don’t know what it is with women and babies. So, with no one to talk to who wasn’t drooling over a baby, I remembered you’d extended a welcome. Hence, here I am.”

She hadn’t exactly extended a welcome to him. More he’d invited himself. Instinct warned her to be wary of this rather predatory gentleman; that perhaps he might prove himself to be less of a gentleman than she thought, if she were caught off her guard. She’d invite him in where there was company. That would be her safest move. “Pray come inside and I’ll ask Bertha to make some tea. You do like tea?” It was mid-morning, after all. Surely he couldn’t want brandy, which was still the only spirit she possessed. But you never knew with men.

Fitz set his beaver and gloves on the bench by the kitchen door and followed her inside. Lydia and Theo kept their heads down, but the pens in their hands remained suspiciously motionless. They were watching out of the corners of their eyes and listening like bats, and so was Bertha, with her back turned and a duster in her hand as she attacked the shelves above the range.

“My children,” Harriet said. “And my maid. Bertha, can you bring tea into the drawing room, please, for Captain Carlyon and me?” And before Bertha had time to respond, Harriet ushered Fitz into their rather bare parlor, conscious of the fact that had he ever been on friendly terms with Jack or his mother, he might have seen some of this furniture before. She left the door deliberately ajar and sat where she could see Bertha at the stove, pouring boiling water into the teapot.

To do Fitz credit, he made no reaction, but took a seat when offered on a faded, highbacked wing chair close to the empty fireplace. The sight of the cold grate almost made Harriet shiver, as this room, unlike the cozy kitchen, had a definite chill to it.

“How nice it is to see you again,” she began with, judging it best to stick to polite inanities with this gentleman.

His eyes shone with something that might have been a mix of amusement, admiration and… was that desire? The heat that had ebbed from Harriet’s cheeks renewed itself. In Bath, she’d not dared venture into society for fear of accusations from Ben, unfounded though they would have been. She’d scarcely met any men in the last ten years other than Ben, his friends and the occasional tradesman. Even when he’d been away with the regiment, she’d not dared deviate, for fear someone might tell him she’d been out socializing. He would have taken that the wrong way.

So, being desired by someone, even though she felt nothing for him, was both frightening and a little pleasing, so long as it went nowhere. She sat up all the taller at the thought of it, and pushed thoughts of Jack, who’d looked at her in quite a different way, out of her head.

“In truth,” Fitz said, “I could hardly wait to get away. The memory of your beauty stayed with me all night long, preventing me from sleeping any more than fitfully.”

Good heavens, but he was forward. With her lack of experience with men other than Ben, Harriet recoiled a little in shock at his words. Of course, she knew she had once been pretty, but Ben had instilled into her that only a hoyden exploited her own good looks, and he would not have his wife disport herself like one of those. Plus, she was still confined to wearing black, a color she felt she never wanted to abandon as up until now it had served her as a suit of armor, rendering her untouchable and sacrosanct. Besides, she’d always viewed her looks as not the sort men would fall for. Ben had said… No, she wouldn’t think about that.

“I must apologize for having caused you a problem.” She didn’t look up but regarded her fingers, forcing them to resist the impulse to twist themselves together in her lap.

He laughed, a deep, rolling laugh that was not unpleasant and seemed to reverberate around the cottage’s parlor, filling it to the smoke-stained rafters. “No need for apology, Harriet. It was a pleasant night, if not a restful one. I would have had it no other way. You are quite the distraction to a man.”

She looked up to find him gazing at her out of those speculative dark eyes. There was no denying his attractions, but they were not the sort likely to hold her in thrall. This man was too used to getting his own way—over everything.

She was saved from replying to his declaration by Bertha coming in with the tea tray. This she set down on the low table with a clatter of crockery. She took a step back and stood her ground as though expecting to be asked to do more, or to stand as chaperone to her mistress.

“Thank you, Bertha, that will be all.” With the door left open, Harriet nurtured the illusion of safety.

Bertha gave a harrumph of displeasure and shot Fitz a heavy glare. Despite her instant liking for Jack, she appeared to have taken a just as instant dislike to Fitz. Possibly with good reason. “I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need anything else, Miss Harriet. I’ll leave the door open, in case you call.” She spun on her heel and departed, leaving the door open to its full extent.

“I fear your maidservant has taken against me,” Fitz said as Harriet poured the tea. “I seem to have that effect on some people. I can’t think why.” His tone gave the lie to that. Captain Fitzwilliam Carlyon knew exactly why he wasn’t liked.

“Ignore Bertha,” Harriet said, a little guilty at her disloyalty to her friend. “She’s been with me since my childhood and is of the opinion she’s my second mother and can tell me what to do.” She poured the tea and handed him a dish.

He grinned, more wolfish than ever, making Harriet wonder if she should comment on how pointy his ears were or what long teeth he had, like the fabled Little Red Riding Hood in Theo’s chapbook. “Then you should send her packing. If a servant becomes too familiar, it’s time to say goodbye to them.”

Harriet shook her head. “I could never do that. She’s been my rock these recent months and before that as well.” Very true, although Bertha still didn’t know the extent of what had gone on between her master and mistress. No, that secret still lay clasped tight within Harriet’s heart.

Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. In your loss.” He was looking at her as though he wanted to extract every ounce of her story from her and would know if she told him an untruth. “I’m sorry this has happened to you. It must be very difficult with two children to bring up.”

“I am managing tolerably well, thank you. Jack’s mother, Mrs. Trevelyan, very kindly has taken me under her wing.”

His eyes sharpened. “You have been inside Rosudgeon House?”

Harriet hesitated, the feeling that he was only here to mine her for information increasing. “I have. I walked up there to thank her for her kindness.” She sucked in her lips. “Have you not been there, Captain?”

“Fitz. Please call me Fitz.”

Why was it calling Jack by his Christian name felt natural, but calling the captain by his did not? Puzzling.

He shook his head. “Never. She occasionally might organize a dinner or a soirée, but I’ve never been lucky enough to receive an invitation in the three years I’ve been stationed down here in St Ives. Although I’ve dropped enough hints.” A sly look crept over him and his eyes narrowed still further. “Perhaps, if you were to be invited, as you are now friends with Mrs. Trevelyan, I might escort you there?”

The sensation that she was fencing with him grew, and so did the rate of her heartbeat. “If I am lucky enough to receive an invitation, then I shall most certainly think of you.” Oh no she wouldn’t. Far too dangerous. She managed to force a smile to cover the lie, the feeling of being naked under his gaze returning.

He encompassed the room with a quick glance. “How cozy you have made this cottage, and how fortuitous for you that you have it. I believe I’ve encountered your Aunt’s man of business down here in Penzance. Boase, a partner in the bank I use. A man with ambitions to be mayor. A bit of a dry stick of a fellow, but honest as the day is long. That’s what you want in a man who manages your business interests.”

Harriet bit her lip, cold sweat standing out down her back at the memory of her meeting with Mrs. Bolitho. “I had the pleasure of meeting my aunt by marriage while I was in Penzance yesterday. I called to offer her my heartfelt thanks for the provision of this cottage.”

“Ah, so you’ve met the old woman.” He set down his empty teacup and glanced up at the front window and the blue sky without. “You have my commiserations. But never mind that. She’s not here now. And we’re lucky it’s such a glorious day. Might I tempt you to a walk along the cliffs?”

From the sounds emanating from the kitchen, Lydia and Theo had finished their lessons and were helping Bertha. For some reason, she didn’t want Fitz anywhere near Lydia. The fear that her youth would not render her out of bounds to him had arisen. Perhaps she was maligning him, but best not to find out. “A little fresh air would be most welcome.” No, it wouldn’t, but she could see no other way to get him to leave. “I’ll just fetch my bonnet and shawl.”

Outside, the sun was still shining as Fitz picked up his hat and gloves from the bench and drew Harriet’s hand through his arm. He glanced in the direction of the kiddley. “Shall we head east?”

No. Not a good idea as she was sure he wanted to spy on it. The instinct to protect her neighbors, no matter what they were up to, rose in Harriet’s breast. Jack was undoubtedly a customer, and knew more than he should have done about the smuggling. “I haven’t explored the path to the west as yet,” she said, giving him a firm little pull. “Perhaps you could satisfy my curiosity by walking that way? I should very much like to see the headland views. My children tell me they are spectacular.”

A small frown marred Fitz’s all-too handsome face, but he acquiesced. He could have done nothing else and remained polite. “Very well. We shall explore territory unknown as yet to man nor beast. As though we were in the wilds of the Americas.”

She suppressed a smile. Despite the aura of danger surrounding him, there nevertheless remained a physical pull, a charm that some women, not her of course, might find difficult to resist. He probably had little trouble winning over the ladies he met. Not much chance of him charming her, though.

The narrow path west wound along close to the cliffs, which for the most part hid the tiny cove below the cottage. No sign of any ships approaching it today. Jack’s ship must be in Plymouth by now, unloading their cargo. Hopefully a legal one.

Ahead, Harriet’s attention was drawn by a decrepit, one-story, thatched cottage where it crouched against the heather- covered hillside. An old man sat outside it on a low stool, his skinny, gaitered legs outstretched before him, and a fishing net spread over his knees. Wielded by his gnarled old hands, a shuttle darted in and out of the net in a rapid weave.

He must have been deaf, as he didn’t look up until she and Fitz were almost upon him. Shaggy eyebrows jutted over a wizened, bearded face, and a toothless grimace that might have been a smile split his face. Not an edifying sight, but Harriet had seen worse amongst the beggars of Bath. She smiled back at him. “Good morning to you. A fine day to be sitting outside in the sun.”

The old man nodded a head whose shagginess matched his eyebrows, although the beard on his chin was wispy and thin, as though nature, having bestowed upon him such a fine, thick head of hair, had skimped elsewhere. “G’mornin’ to you, too, my luvver.”

The greeting, made with as broad a Cornish accent as Harriet had ever heard, might have offended a person less accustomed to Cornish vocabulary, but Harriet knew the term ‘my luvver’ was a much-used address amongst the working classes. Her own mother had used it from time to time, having learned it from her old nurse, and Bertha often said it to the children.

The old man’s faded blue eyes slid past Harriet and came to rest on Fitz, suddenly sharpening, as though in recognition. In a hurry, he bent his head over his net and resumed his job. “Gotta get on wi’ my work. No time to sit and pass the time o’ day, Missus.”

How odd. For a moment, it had seemed as though he was about to be friendly, until, that was, he’d laid eyes on Fitz. If Jack didn’t like Fitz, it seemed this old man didn’t either. But why? She could understand why Jack might see Fitz as someone to dislike, but why would some strange old man in the middle of nowhere look at him as though he were the devil incarnate? Did he, perhaps, know what Fitz represented? Did everyone locally know?

Fitz gave her arm a gentle pull. “Let’s move on. I don’t like the look of this character. A little disreputable for you to have for a neighbor. I hope your front door has a good lock.”

The old man grunted but didn’t raise his head at this insult, which he must have heard as Fitz hadn’t bothered to lower his voice. Perhaps not so deaf after all.

With only one quick backward glance to where the old man was now staring after them from beneath those shaggy brows, Harriet allowed herself to be escorted away from the hovel to where the path climbed onto the headland. Below the cliffs, surf thundered onto their rocky feet, and gulls wheeled in the breeze, calling harshly to each other. The wind snatched at Harriet’s hair, making her glad she had her bonnet.

“I believe there’s to be a ball at the assembly rooms in Truro very shortly,” Fitz said, his eyes scanning the coastline as though searching for something.

Should she consider it an insult that he wasn’t looking at her while he was talking to her? “Oh?” was all she could think of to say in reply, as she, too, scanned the horizon. Far out on the blue-green expanse, the red-brown sails of a few small fishing boats looked tiny. But no sign of any larger ships. An odd feeling of relief settled on her.

“I was wondering,” Fitz said, still not looking at her. “I was wondering if I might prevail upon you to attend? That is, unless you’d planned to go with Captain Trevelyan.”

Oh no. This needed nipping in the bud. “I fear, Fitz, that you have not fully understood my position here in Cornwall.” The sea breeze blew a strand of her hair across her face, and she had to tuck it behind her ear. “I am not at liberty to attend any social gatherings, either with you or with Captain Trevelyan, whom I do not know at all well, as not only am I still in mourning, but my… income… does not extend further than our day-to-day expenses.” It was oddly easier to admit this to him when he wasn’t looking at her. “So balls of any kind are out of the question.”

Indeed, they had been ever since she’d married Ben. As a girl of seventeen barely out of the schoolroom who’d only been to the one ball where she’d met him, she’d longed to attend some of the enticing social events in Bath, but he’d forbidden it. She was his, he’d said, and would not go disporting herself in public, especially not when he was away with his regiment. Which he had been most of the time. The one time she’d disobeyed him… well, she’d not done it again. The thought that she could disobey him now suddenly arose, but not temptingly enough to make her want to accept Fitz’s request.

He turned to look at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. And I wrongly assumed that you and the brave Captain might already be friends as we came upon you riding together.”

So he did have some fellow feeling for others. She shook her head. “He merely offered to escort me to Penzance so I could see Mrs. Bolitho. His mother has been kind to me.” A small lie but an expedient one. “I don’t feel awkward. Apart from my lack of funds, as I said, I’m also still in mourning. I would not in all propriety be able to dance, so it would be a waste of time.”

He didn’t look at all bothered, so perhaps his question had been to find out her relationship to Jack. “Perhaps when you are out of mourning?”

She bowed her head. “Perhaps.” Only if she had her way that wouldn’t be for a very long time. If ever. With a little shiver, she drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. “This wind is chilly. Do you mind if we walk back now? It must be time for the children to have their luncheon.” As good a way as any to inform him that his visit was over.