Chapter Five

H arriet woke to the unaccustomed raucous calling of gulls. For a moment, confusion overwhelmed her, then she opened her eyes and saw the beamed bedroom ceiling above her head. Sunlight streamed in through the curtainless window and she was struck by how homely the barren bedroom appeared. Cozy patchwork quilts decorated the two beds, the hump in the other indicating Lydia’s still-slumbering presence, and a bright rag rug lay on the floor between them.

Harriet rolled onto her side and studied the small, now spotless window. Blue sky outside indicated the start of a fine day, which was not always true of Cornish weather, as she well knew. Not a day to be wasted lying in bed. She pushed the covers back and slid out, the old, and now well-scrubbed, boards smooth under her bare feet. No use getting up herself and leaving Lydia and Theo lying in bed. She gave Lydia a shake. “Wake up, Lyddie. Time to get up.” Although what the actual time was, she had no idea, as Mrs. Trevelyan hadn’t thought to lend them a clock.

Lydia pulled the covers over her head. “It’s too early.” Her voice emerged as a grumpy mumble.

“If you want breakfast, then I suggest you get up now. We have chores to do and you can help with them.”

Lydia groaned. “Can’t we employ a maid to do the chores? Can’t Bertha do them?”

Harriet shook her head and dragged the covers down. “You know we can’t afford a maid. That we can’t even afford to pay Bertha and she’s staying with us out of the goodness of her heart. So, you’ll have to get up and help me with my stays, then I’ll help you with yours. Or neither of us will be properly dressed. Come on. Up you get.”

Lydia groaned again, but at least she seemed to have given up on her protest. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Very well, but I shall be good for nothing, I promise you. I’m certain this is far too early. Much earlier than I used to get up at home.”

Twenty minutes later, both of them fully dressed in workaday gowns and boots, they woke Theo up, Lydia with untoward relish, and descended the stairs to find Bertha already attending to the fire. The embers from last night still glowed in the range, and a few well-placed driftwood logs soon had it roaring.

Theo came padding down in his night shirt, barefooted. “What’s for breakfast?” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with one hand and failed to stifle a wide yawn. Had he gone to bed with those smears of dirt on his face? It had been dark last night, and she must have been too tired, to notice.

“Nothing if you don’t get dressed,” Harriet retorted. “But before that, can you go and fetch us a bucket of fresh water from the well, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

After a breakfast of milky tea and the remains of the previous day’s bread, generously spread with butter and jam, Harriet set Theo to bringing in wood for the stove and sweeping the floors, and Lydia to washing and drying the breakfast things to be followed by helping Bertha with the chores, which, of course, she protested about. Then, her apron removed and her best bonnet secured, Harriet set off, having issued orders to her children to stay close to the house that morning and do as Bertha said. Saying a polite thank you for yesterday’s help and furniture was top of Harriet’s list of priorities for the day.

Mrs. Keneder had described how to find Rosudgeon House, so Harriet had no qualms about getting lost. She closed the front door behind her and started up the path inland.

The raucous cries of the gulls permeated the air, joining the steady roar that must be the waves breaking in the cove. That might mean the tide was in. Although she’d been born in Cornwall, as had Ben, she’d never lived near the coast, and the sixteen years of her marriage had been spent mainly in Bath, so she knew little of the sea and her tides. The breeze that had been dancing the branches of the trees around the cottage began to pick up, and a wary glance over her shoulder revealed a dark gray line on the sea’s far horizon that might mean bad weather coming. This, she did know, was typical of Cornwall.

To her right, on the far side of the cove, the tiled roof of a good-sized building rose above the surrounding trees, and a narrow path headed off in its direction, probably a sight too close to the cliff edge for her to feel safe on. But the high hawthorn hedges topping the stony banks on either side of the track soon hid the lower part of the building from view. With surprising speed, clouds were blowing in from the sea to largely cover the earlier blueness, but the day continued fine, and quite warm for September. For Cornwall in September, at any rate.

Every so often, she passed a field gateway, and, peering into it, was rewarded by a view of grazing sheep, or golden stubble or cows. In the far distance, a man was driving a pair of sturdy workhorses in front of a plough, but nothing else. A few birds sang in the hedgerows, but not many as it was autumn.

How good it was to be able to walk along a quiet lane like this and see nobody. What a contrast with Bath’s busy streets, even those in the less genteel area where she’d lived. Too many people, too many carriages, not enough fresh air and sunshine. This place, despite its many all too apparent drawbacks, would be much better for Lydia and Theo. Why she’d ever let Ben take her away from Cornwall escaped her. She must have been mad—or so convinced she was in love with him she hadn’t cared. But that had been sixteen years ago and the passage of time had shifted their relationship beyond recognition. If she’d been able to go back and give her love sick seventeen-year-old self any advice it would have been not to follow her heart in the rash way she had. Too late now. No use berating herself for her own youthful impetuosity.

She passed a few lanes opening off to left and right with hand-painted signs proclaiming “Beare’s Den Farm” and, astonishingly, “Trengrouse Castle.” This last she had a distant view of, as it was no doubt a lot taller than a farmhouse would be, its fancy turrets rising above the trees that surrounded it. Not the sort of castle a medieval knight would have called home, alas, but more of a medium-sized more recent stately home. Impressive. Who might live there? And might they possibly be in need of a governess for their children? Being a governess was the only thing she considered herself qualified to do, as she was most likely going to have to supplement her meager stipend by working. Or taking in sewing, which would not be a remunerative occupation.

She must have walked nearly a mile before she spotted another turning to the left, between banks of brightly flowering golden gorse, this one signposted Rosudgeon House. Aha. She’d found it.

She set off down this lane with a determined step.

Before long, she passed between tall gateposts and the track widened into a graveled driveway. The house was not as big as she’d expected, being less than half the size of the distantly viewed Trengrouse Castle. Two stone-built wings, with arched windows, must at some point have been attached, one at either end, to a simple manor house, possibly even a farmhouse, giving it a wide aspect and an appearance of opulence. Tall chimneys pointed towards the now threatening sky, and a pillared portico had been built over the front door. Good, not too imposing, but then, Mrs. Trevelyan hadn’t seemed like the sort of woman who would have an imposing residence.

She approached the front door attempting to exude a confidence she didn’t feel. Why did it seem so strange to be going somewhere without Ben telling her what to do and how to do it? She’d done it enough times while he’d been posted abroad with his regiment. What made it so different now? The fact that she was truly alone and always would be from now on. But surely, that was a good thing? She gave herself a mental shake, and tugged on the bell rope.

Somewhere far off inside, she caught the sound of the bell ringing. Would Mrs. Trevelyan have a butler? Was this house big enough to merit one?

It was and she did. A middle-aged man in a smart dark coat and breeches and black stockings opened the door, regarding Harriet from a rather lugubrious face with no hint of any emotion. “You rang, ma’am?”

Harriet pulled herself together in a hurry. “I’ve come to call on Mrs. Trevelyan. Is she at home?”

The butler stepped back. “If you would care to step into the drawing room, I will go and enquire.”

As snooty as any butler in Bath, not that Harriet had much experience of them. She followed him to a door which he opened to allow her through into a drawing room, its walls a powder blue and a Persian rug spread over the polished boards. Behind her, the door clicked shut and she was alone.

She walked across the room to the two large windows and peeked out into what must be the gardens. Immaculately mown lawns stretched away to where tall trees formed a natural boundary and no doubt a windbreak. Most pleasing.

Turning away from the window, she ran her gaze over the contents of the room. What sort of a woman kept a house like this? One with a liking for china ornaments, that was certain. Above the empty fireplace a painting hung, of a young woman in an old-fashioned gown of some thirty years past with a little boy sitting on her knee. The woman, clearly Mrs. Trevelyan in her younger days, was beautiful in a rather wild and exciting way, with her dark curls loose and uninhibited and her gown cut low enough to show her plump, alabaster shoulders and the curve of her breasts. The child was young enough to still be in petticoats, and had an engaging mop of dark curls, very like his mother’s, and a willful expression on his face quite out of keeping with his age. The artist had captured both their characters with skill.

Someone cleared their throat behind her.

Harriet spun round. Mrs. Trevelyan was standing only six feet away. “Mrs. Penhallow. What a surprise. I didn’t think to see you here this morning.” She sounded as friendly as ever.

Harriet recovered herself, aware her cheeks had taken on an uncomfortable heat. “Why, Mrs. Trevelyan, I had to come to express my most sincere thanks for everything you have done for me and my children. Without your help, we would have been sleeping on those dusty boards last night with no food inside us.”

Her hostess’s blue eyes twinkled, but her face remained straight. “It was the least a neighbor would do for a newcomer to Bessie’s Cove. Had I known you were arriving, I would have made sure all those things had been done beforehand. If Mrs. Bolitho had thought it wise to inform me, which she did not.”

“I fear that my aunt—I call her that as her true relationship is too complicated—would not have thought it fitting to inform anyone that she was allowing us to occupy her cottage. From what your kind servants told me yesterday, she is not a woman who often thinks of others.”

Her benefactress nodded. “Sadly, you are quite right, but they should not have relayed gossip to you. Now, what am I thinking of? Leaving you standing here when I should be offering you a seat.” She gestured at the elegant chairs. “Do sit down. I’ll ring for tea. Unless you would prefer coffee?”

Harriet shook her head, and sat down. “Thank you, tea will be lovely.”

Mrs. Trevelyan pulled the bell rope by the door and the butler reappeared as if by magic. “Ah, Crawford. A tray of tea, if you please. Here in the parlor.”

She sat down on one of the chairs close to Harriet. “I trust you slept well?”

Harriet nodded. “Far better than we would have done had we been lying on the floor, thank you. The beds were very comfortable.” She paused, at a loss what to say next. “Your servants were very kind to us, and we much appreciate you sending them to our aid, so please don’t reprimand them for gossiping. It was me, pressing questions on them that loosened their tongues.”

Mrs. Trevelyan’s brow furrowed. “No need to keep thanking me. If you do, it will become tiresome, and I shall grow bored. Best to leave it at that.”

“Of course.”

The door opened and Crawford came in with the tea tray. He set it down on a small table near his mistress and retreated.

“That will be all, thank you, Crawford,” Mrs. Trevelyan said. “I shall pour.” She dimpled at Harriet, suddenly appearing a lot younger than what must have been her fifty years, and much more like the lively young woman in the portrait.

Harriet’s gaze slid involuntarily to study the painting again. Was there a Mr. Trevelyan somewhere in this house? She resisted the urge to scour the walls of the drawing room in search of his portrait.

“Ah.” Mrs. Trevelyan laughed, a soft, throaty chuckle. “You’ve spotted my portrait, I see.”

“I couldn’t help but admire it. Is it by any chance an Opie?”

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded. “You are right. It is. My… son’s father had it commissioned when Jack was two.” She shook her head. “A long time ago now.”

Jack? Her son? Did he live here with his mother or might he be off in the army like Ben, or perhaps the navy, having been brought up so close to the coast? That would be more likely. Harriet didn’t like to ask, in case, like Ben, he was dead. Her hostess did have a slightly melancholic air about her this morning as she gazed at the portrait.

Even if Harriet had wanted to, she wasn’t about to be given the time to ask any questions. Mrs. Trevelyan leaned forward as she handed Harriet a dish of tea. “Now, tell me all about yourself, for yesterday we had no time to speak of anything but the necessities of life. With them under control, we can progress to becoming great friends, I think. I find it most pleasing to have a new neighbor to converse with.”

Mrs. Trevelyan was clearly well versed in interrogation. Before long she had extracted most of Harriet’s life story, or at least the parts of it Harriet was willing to divulge: the early marriage to the man she’d seen as her handsome, dashing soldier. A man whom she’d never suspected of being such a gambler, nor of being a… She shut that one off inside her head. No one ever needed to know that. The birth of their children, his departure overseas to fight for Wellington and his country, his death at Waterloo and Harriet’s subsequent penury. Mrs. Trevelyan was a sympathetic listener, plying Harriet with tea and patting her hand as Harriet recounted her story. There was something about her hostess that loosened Harriet’s tongue more than she would have imagined possible and had her confiding her fears to this woman when she’d no more have told her own dear-departed mother the details of her plight. At least, not quite all her fears.

“You poor dear,” Mrs. Trevelyan finally said when Harriet trailed to a close, determined not to let the tears forming in her eyes fall. How easy it would be to succumb and cry again. But if she did, what would her hostess think of her? Once was bad enough, but twice? And besides which, hadn’t she suppressed her tears countless times before?

However, when put together like this, her life seemed to be one long succession of things going wrong, so perhaps tears were justified. “At least I have my children. And dear Bertha.”

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded, her gaze rising to the portrait above the fireplace. “One’s children can be such a comfort in one’s hour of need.”

Harriet groped for something to say. “Do you have but the one son?” jumped into her mouth. No sooner had she said it, she regretted her impulsiveness.

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded. “Yes, but one son such as my Jack is more than enough.”

So not dead, like Ben. Probably. Really, she’d disclosed an awful lot about herself to her new friend, but had learnt nothing about her in return. Such as where was Mr. Trevelyan? The feeling that he didn’t exist swept over Harriet. Perhaps Mrs. Trevelyan was a widow, like Harriet, but she could hardly ask such a prying question. Far too impolite. And where was the son? And the son’s wife? And the son’s children? Instead of asking all these questions, Harriet waited, hopeful her hostess might divulge some of this information unprompted.

Mrs. Trevelyan’s eyes lingered on the portrait a little longer. “Such a sweet child.” She gave herself a shake. “So like his father.”

For some reason her words had Harriet wondering if he was no longer so sweet as he used to be, and if so, why not.

She was about to discover why.

The door of the drawing room swung open and a man strode into the room. He ground to a halt as his eyes came to a rest on Harriet.

He must have been over six feet tall, with slightly too long, almost black hair and curiously light brown eyes, so light they might almost have been said to be golden. He wore mud-speckled topboots, brown twill breeches and a navy coat.

Harriet blinked. Never before had she seen such a handsome man. His whole persona oozed masculinity and, right at this moment, an annoyance he was clearly struggling to hide. His dark brows unknit from the heavy frown that had marred them, and he visibly pulled himself together. “Mother.”