Chapter Two

L ydia, hampered by her long skirts and a little breathless, caught up with her brother. “We saw lots of men, down in a little cove, unloading barrels and bundles onto rowing boats and taking them ashore.”

Theo interrupted, clearly more impressed by the vessel itself. “The ship was sooo beautiful. She had all her sails down and was just bobbing on the sea.”

Lydia clasped her hands. “The sea was beautiful as well. Such a lovely bluey green. Like the painting we used to have in the parlor. The one above the fireplace.” For a moment her face took on a wistful expression as though she were far away, back in Bath.

Harriet frowned. Who could be unloading goods into a quiet cove in the middle of nowhere? Not a question she wanted to know the answer to, because whoever it was must be keen to do it out of sight of the authorities. Even though she knew little about the sea, she had enough sense to know that cargos were generally unloaded in big ports.

“Were they smugglers , Mama?” Theo asked, giving voice to her own fears, but managing to sound as though he thought it the most attractive of options.

Bertha harrumphed as though she thought Theo might be right.

“I’m sure they’re not,” Harriet said, which she knew for an outright lie. “But nevertheless, do you think any of them saw you watching them?” She had to fight to keep the worry out of her voice. They’d only just arrived in their new home, and already danger threatened.

“I was lying on my stomach,” Theo said. “Pretending I was watching out for the Spanish Armada so I could go and warn Drake where he’s playing bowls on the Hard. They couldn’t have seen me .” He squinted at his much taller sister. “But Lydia was standing right on the edge of the cliff.”

Lydia had the grace to blush. “I couldn’t help it, Mama. I didn’t know there’d be anyone there, and I didn’t know they might be smugglers.” Her voice rose in panic. “How was I supposed to know? Do you think they saw me? Do smugglers come after people they think have been spying on them?”

Hands on hips, Bertha peered out of the kitchen door towards where the none-too-distant cliff edge lay beyond the trees, perhaps expecting a cutlass-wielding smuggler to come charging over it at any moment.

Harriet patted her daughter’s arm. “There, there, Lyddie. They’re probably just local fishermen unloading their catch. Your brother’s been reading too many boys’ adventure stories. But all the same, it would be best for you to stay close to the cottage if there are fishermen about. They might be quite rough people.”

Bertha nodded. “Best to keep ourselves to ourselves here, I’d say.”

Harriet bit her lip. In the past year Lydia had changed, almost overnight, it seemed, from an awkward, gawky child into a beautiful young woman, with Harriet’s luxuriant chestnut hair and her father’s heather-green eyes. In Bath, it had been relatively easy to keep young men away from her, mainly because they hadn’t known any, and didn’t mix with people who had sons her age. But Harriet had a feeling that here in Cornwall, things might well turn out to be different. And fifteen was far too young to be considering matters of love, which no doubt an innocent young girl would do if introduced to a handsome young fisherman. Or even a not-so-handsome one who took the trouble to pay her court. Or, heaven forbid, a smuggler.

Lydia pouted but didn’t demur. Perhaps she’d felt more than curiosity on spying the unknown ship down in the cove and instinct had warned her to be more wary. She gave herself a little shake and changed the subject. “Mama, we aren’t going to have to sleep here tonight, are we?”

Theo smacked his hand against his forehead. “Unless you want to walk all the way back to Penzance. The wagon’s gone, remember. What a silly you are.”

Lydia clenched her fists. “Don’t you call me silly.”

Oh no. Harriet recognized the light of battle in her daughter’s eyes. She wasn’t yet grown up enough to resist a fight with her brother if she perceived herself wronged.

Bertha got in there first, though. “Theo, go and fetch our bags in from where the carrier left them. Lydia, let’s see if we can find a broom. Or better still, three brooms.”

Harriet heaved yet another silent sigh. Thank heavens for Bertha. What would she do without her?

Shooting her brother an angry glare, Lydia followed her mother from the kitchen into the parlor, her nose wrinkling still further at the state of it. “I think we’re going to need more than brooms, Mama. Where are the servants? Surely Aunt Bolitho will have sent a maid to prepare the house for us?” She paused, no doubt because the unlikelihood of this was settling over her. “Won’t she?”

“Clearly not,” Harriet said, spotting a mangy birch broom leaning up against a wall. “Here. You take this one and sweep out the kitchen. Start with the ceiling to get all the spiders’ webs down. Then the walls and furniture and finally the floor.”

“Spiders’ webs?” Lydia took the broom between finger and thumb as though it were made of something disgusting. “Can’t we get a maid in to do that? Why do I have to do it?”

“Because we don’t have a maid any longer,” Bertha said. “Only me and you. So if you want to spend the night in a house full of spiders, you go and sit on the grass outside.”

Theo lugged in one of their well-stuffed valises. “Where shall I put it?”

Exactly. Where in this filthy house should they store their bags? “The bottom of the stairs,” Harriet said. They could sweep out the ground floor and then go upstairs, but for now the stairs, dirty or not, were the best place for their bags. “Can you go and get the rest?” She turned back to Lydia who still held the broom as though it might bite her. “And you can get started. Off you go. I’ll do the parlor.”

“Theo gets to do the easy job, as usual,” Lydia moaned.

Theo scowled at her. “These bags are heavy. What did you pack in yours, Lyddie? It feels like bricks. Did you pack bricks? Did you?”

Lydia raised the broom like a weapon.

Harriet stepped between them. “If you persist in arguing, we’ll never get this house done by nightfall, and we’ll all have to sleep amongst the spiders. Get on with it, both of you.”

Lydia let out a little squeal and hopped to one side as though in the process of being attacked. “Spiders?”

Theo snorted with laughter. “What did you think made the webs, then? Fairies?”

“Outside, Theo,” Harriet snapped. “Hurry up.”

With her two children gainfully employed… well, perhaps… and while Bertha bustled off upstairs, Harriet turned her attentions to the parlor. If you could call it that. In fact, the whole house had an air of not being what she wanted it to be and being proud of it. As luck would have it, a second broom, even less generously equipped with birch twigs than the first, leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs, where Theo had dumped the first of their bags.

Harriet peered up at the beamed ceiling. Liberally festooned with both spiders and their webs. She wasn’t about to admit it, but she hated spiders as much as Lydia did. If only she had something to put around her head. What was in her bag? She undid the clasp and rummaged inside. An old scarf. That would do. She took off her best bonnet and instead wrapped the scarf around her hair, knotting it securely at the back of her neck. Spider protection.

Now to tackle the eight-legged beasties.

She’d denuded the ceiling and begun on the walls, and Theo had been dispatched to explore the shed at the back of the house in search of firewood, when the knock on the door came. Wiping trailing webs off her face, and no doubt a few spiders as well, Harriet set down the broom and hurried into the kitchen. Lydia, too, had stopped sweeping. Her hair was full of dust and bits of web. Best not to tell her.

“Who is it?” Lydia whispered, as though whoever it was might be dangerous. One of the smugglers, maybe, come to silence them. Her eyes had gone round with fear. Surely her fears were unfounded. Harriet shoved all thoughts of vengeful smugglers aside. Things like that just didn’t happen to people like them.

However… “Go upstairs and don’t come down until I tell you to. It might be best to be as quiet as you can.” Why was she encouraging Lydia’s suspicions? Of course it couldn’t be anyone dangerous, could it? How ridiculous was that. This was 1815, not the Middle Ages. She was quite safe and so were the children. All the same…

Lydia scurried away and Harriet lifted the latch and opened the kitchen door.

A woman was standing on the doorstep. Definitely not a smuggler, she wore a fine muslin gown with a delicate lace shawl about her shoulders and had a pretty straw bonnet set on dark curls gently scattered with gray. Her heart-shaped face hinted at her age, although the lines about her sea-blue eyes and curving mouth spoke of laughter rather than worry. She smiled at Harriet in an open, friendly fashion, as though being greeted by a woman with spiders adorning her head was quite normal. “Good evening. I hope I’m not putting you out by calling to see you like this? On your first day here at Keynvor Cottage.”

Harriet closed her mouth, aware that Lydia had not retreated upstairs but was peering through the parlor door, now their visitor had proved not to be dangerous. Bertha’s heavy footsteps came clumping down the stairs.

“Not at all,” Harriet managed, acutely aware of what a state she must be in, wearing most of the house’s dirt, and wishing the woman anywhere but here, nice as she appeared to be.

The woman, a lady by appearance and speech, smiled again. “I heard Mrs. Bolitho had let the cottage and thought I should come down to welcome you to Bessie’s Cove.” She paused, her eyes flicking to the gloomy inside of the cottage that Harriet and Lydia’s labors had done nothing yet to improve. “And I have to admit that I feared you would find the cottage in this state. Mrs. Bolitho must have known nothing of this, I assume, or she would have prepared for your arrival. In truth, I’m here as your neighbor to offer my assistance.”

Heat climbed from Harriet’s throat to her cheeks, flaming them with mortification that this stranger was here to offer her charity. More charity. Because, of course, this cottage was charity in the first place, and Mrs. Bolitho, aunt or no aunt, had plainly thought her duty done in offering it. Which was true, really, as what did she owe Harriet, who wasn’t even related by blood? The humiliation of her situation washed over Harriet and tears pricked in the corners of her eyes.

The woman stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “My dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m here to offer you my friendship.”

Bertha clumped into the kitchen.

Harriet fought to control herself at this onslaught of kindness, but the tears wouldn’t be denied and, forcing their way out, trickled down her dusty cheeks. For a moment, nothing happened, then suddenly she found herself enfolded in the woman’s surprisingly strong arms and pressed against her chest, soothing hands patting her on the back and stroking her hair.

“There, there,” crooned the woman. “Let it all out. I can see you need to. And don’t worry yourself. I’m here to help.”

This show of kindness was enough to have Harriet sobbing, something she’d not done since before Ben died, and then only in the privacy of her bedroom.

“Mama?” Lydia’s nervous voice intruded, at last.

She’d never let the children see her cry before.

Harriet extricated herself from her comforter’s embrace, swiping at her eyes with her dirty hands, for want of anything else. “I’m so sorry.” The words came out in a mumble. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Nonsense,” the woman said with the air of someone used to dealing with crises. “There’s nothing wrong with showing your emotions. A good cry can do us the world of good. Now, I’d best introduce myself as I’ve just embraced you. Talwyn Trevelyan of Rosudgeon House. I saw the carrier’s wagon pass from my window—there’s only the one road into the cove—and decided to come down here to make sure you were all right. And it’s just as well I did. Mrs. Bolitho doesn’t appear to have made any preparations for your arrival.” She snorted in what might well have been disgust. “Not that I thought she would.”

Harriet remembered herself enough to bob a curtsey. “Harriet Penhallow. Mrs. Bolitho is my late husband’s great-aunt. She owes us nothing. It has been exceedingly kind of her to even allow us to live here. We are most grateful for her kindness.”

Bertha, who owed no such allegiance, snorted. “Common decency would’ve had her make sure as the cottage were in good order though. You’d think.”

Mrs. Trevelyan frowned. “Perhaps. But I am here now, and I insist you allow me to help you.” She held up an admonishing hand as Harriet opened her mouth to protest. “No. I will brook no refusal from you. You have children.” She waved a dainty hand at Lydia and Theo. “You need help. I am here to provide it, as a good neighbor should. Let us go inside and see what is required.”

Without waiting to be invited, Mrs. Trevelyan stepped inside, and Harriet followed her back in. For a moment or two, their guest stood staring about herself, an expression of acute intelligence on her face, as though assessing the amount of work required. “You intend to sleep here tonight?”

“No,” Lydia put in before Harriet had time to answer.

“Yes,” Harriet snapped, shooting an angry frown at her daughter. At least the kitchen was now devoid of cobwebs but dust hung in the air, tickling the nostrils and making her want to cough and sneeze.

Mrs. Trevelyan’s gaze lit on the range. “No one has lived here, I doubt, since old Brewinney Pascoe fell over the cliff on his way home from Bessie’s Kiddley three years ago. And it looks to me as though no one’s been in here to clear up after him.”

Theo burst through the door, his arms piled high with dry driftwood, and skidded to a halt on the stone-slabbed floor, eyes wide with surprise.

Mrs. Trevelyan bestowed one of her lovely smiles on him—enough to make his cheeks blossom with color.

“My children,” Harriet said, a trifle belatedly, still wiping at her eyes. “Lydia and Theo. And this is Bertha, our maid.”

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded. “Work is required in here immediately to render the cottage habitable for you tonight. You are not common mine workers, as Brewinney was, and cannot be expected to live like this.” She waved her hand at her surroundings. “When I next see Mrs. Bolitho, I shall have something to say to her about the state of her property.”

Oh no. She couldn’t be allowed to do that. Harriet shook her head. “Please don’t. We are very much reliant on her kindness in allowing us to live here, as I’ve said. She might well take the cottage away from us if you were to tax her with its state. I’m sure once we have it cleaned it will look much better.”

Mrs. Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “Well,” she said, with a shake of her head. “If you allow me to offer my assistance right now, perhaps I might not bother your aunt about it.” She eyed Harriet up and down. “One thing is certain. You cannot do this by yourselves in the few hours of daylight remaining. What do you say?”

Harriet glanced at Bertha and Lydia, who both nodded with determination.

Theo didn’t count. He was the sort of boy happy to sleep in a barn.

Harriet swallowed. “Then in that case, dear Mrs. Trevelyan, we will happily accept what neighborly assistance you can offer us. Thank you very much for your kindness.”

Mrs. Trevelyan beamed. “It’s decided, then. I will hasten home and send down a wagon of supplies for you with some of my hardest-working servants. Many hands will make light work, as they say. You must tell me what you need, because I have plenty of furniture in storage that I can send down.” She glanced at the range. “And someone to make sure this contraption works.” She gave the rust a poke. “I’m sure it’s just on the surface and nothing worse, although kitchens are no longer familiar to me.” She benefitted them with her charming smile once more, her eyes fixing on Theo’s armful of driftwood. “And I doubt there is much in the way of firewood here. I’ll add that to my list.”