by Candice Hern
“Prob’bly not,” Gonetta replied in a petulant tone. “I do think ’ee ought to stay. Then ’ee can take more time to teach us and make sure we don’t do somethin’ bad wrong. We do be simple folk, not educated like ’ee. We do need ’ee to help us, ’specially with no doctor an’ all.”
The girl’s plaintive tone was almost more than Verity could bear. She wanted to help, she really did, for against her better judgment she found herself growing quite fond of Gonetta. And she could not forget the grateful, trusting look in Mrs. Chenhalls’s eyes.
Even so, she could not do as they wished. It was impossible.
“I cannot stay, Gonetta,” she said without looking at the girl. “I am leaving Pendurgan, as I’ve told you. Today, if I can finish my packing and locate his lordship.”
“’Ee don’t have to go. Not yet. ’Ee could stay just till Davey be better, like.”
“Oh, Gonetta.” Verity steeled herself against the doleful look in the girl’s eyes. She had to leave Pendurgan. She had to get away from Lord Harkness, who, whatever his motives, still made her decidedly uneasy.
“Please, ma’am. Davey woulda died if ’ee didn’t been here. We do need ’ee, Miz Osborne. Please don’t go.”
“Gonetta—”
“Please, ma’am. Stay. His lordship won’t mind. Will ’ee, my lord?”
Verity stiffened.
“Not in the least,” said a deep voice behind her.
James watched her tight shoulders relax somewhat as she brought her discomposure under control. Even from behind he could see her chin tilt up at that defiant angle he’d seen last night. He could not suppress a mocking smile as she turned around.
But the smile slid from his face, leaving his mouth slightly agape. It was the first time he had seen her in full light without a bonnet shielding her face, and without a heavy cloak or that ridiculous mountain of clothing of last evening. He had not realized how attractive she was. He might almost call her beautiful, though she did not have sort of the fair-haired porcelain beauty he generally preferred.
Her hair, the color of rich, black coffee, swept off her face in deep waves. A few wayward wisps escaped at the nape of her long, slender neck. So lovely a neck, he thought, should never be hidden by bonnets—or be encased in a leather harness. She had a full mouth, a straight nose, and clear, fine-textured skin that made him think of Devonshire cream. Her large brown eyes—now glaring at him while he stood gaping like a schoolboy—were fringed with long lashes and set off by perfectly arched brows. They reminded him of the beautiful Spanish girls who had attached themselves to his regiment years ago.
He swallowed hard and tried not to think about how long he had been without a woman.
“Am I to understand that your brother is better?” he asked Gonetta, attempting to ignore Verity and the way his blood heated up at the very sight of her.
“It do look that way, my lord,” Gonetta replied. “Miz Osborne here, she fixed him right up.”
“Did she, indeed?”
“She did make med’cine fer him, outa plants and all. She know just what he did need and, sure ’nuff, it worked.”
“It is too early to tell—” Verity began.
“Davey, he gonna be jus’ fine now,” Gonetta interrupted. “I do know it, my lord. Miz Osborne here, she cured him.”
“Well, then,” James said, “that is good news. I had sent to Bodmin for a physician for Davey. Perhaps when he arrives later today the boy won’t be in such a bad way. We are most grateful to you, cousin.”
Verity’s gaze narrowed at the word “cousin,” but she said nothing. She was going to be difficult about the ruse. But, by God, if she stayed under his roof, it would be as his relation. He would not have the servants gossiping about her as if she were his lightskirt, though that was, no doubt, precisely what they assumed her to be.
“In any case,” he went on, “I would feel better if a physician examined him. I am sure Davey will need to be bled if he is to fully recover. I doubt Mrs. Osborne is prepared to—”
“You will not have him bled!”
Startled by this outburst, James cocked a brow at Verity. So, despite the obvious anxiety she still felt in his presence, certain issues seemed almost involuntarily to fire her spirit. Interesting.
“He is much too weak,” she continued in a more diffident tone. She fingered the plant in her hand with jittery movements and did not meet his eyes. “Bleeding him will only make him weaker, less able to fight off the fever.”
He glared at her in disbelief. What nonsense was this? “I beg your pardon, cousin, but surely the boy must be bled.”
She looked up at him. “I—I disagree,” she replied, her voice unsteady. “He will recover more quickly with good strong herbals and no bleeding.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” James said. “That is without doubt the most preposterous bit of rubbish I ever heard. Pure quackery.” Her attitude took him by surprise. In spite of these little bursts of spirit, he would have guessed her to be more commonsensical than crackbrained. But then, she had tried to escape Pendurgan in the pouring rain, weighted down with layer upon layer of heavy clothing. Perhaps she was something of a loose screw after all. Damn. That was all he needed.
“Everyone knows that bleeding is necessary to excise bad humors from the body,” he went on in a tone that, even to his own ears, sounded overly pedantic. “Physicians have been bleeding patients for centuries.”
“And most of their patients die,” Verity said.
“Not from being bled.”
She looked up at him again. “How do you know?” she asked. Tension showed in her face, in the angle of her spine, and in her hand, tightly gripping the plant stalk as if it were a weapon.
“How can anyone know,” she said, “if a patient dies from illness or from increased weakness to fight the illness, brought about by bleeding? My mother—” She stopped for a moment, then took a deep, shuddery breath and continued. “My mother was bled to death by well-meaning physicians. She had an inflammation of the lungs and was never allowed to recover her strength, but was bled and bled until there was nothing left of her. Oh, she might have died eventually, but nothing will convince me that her death was not hastened by constant bleeding.”
A loud sob from Gonetta interrupted this remarkable speech. “Is Davey goin’ to die, then?” she wailed. “If doctor come and bleed him, is he goin’ to die after all?”
Verity looked over Gonetta’s shoulder straight into James’s eyes. She raised her brows and sent him a look that dumped responsibility for the answer squarely in his lap. Damn. If he allowed the doctor to bleed Davey now, and the boy subsequently died, James would be the villain once again. Responsible for yet another child’s death.
By God, he would not face that again. Let this opinionated little harridan take the blame for whatever happened.
“Cousin,” he crooned as he swept her a bow, “I defer to your superior judgment in this matter.”
Verity looked momentarily abashed, then returned her attention to Gonetta. “I do not think it is a good idea to have Davey bled,” she said. “It is best that we allow the healing properties of the herbals to take hold first. If he does not show any improvement, then we may discuss with the physician what is to be done next.”
“Then ’ee will stay, ma’am,” Gonetta asked, “to make sure nothin’ do go wrong?”
Ha! Gonetta had her there. James guessed that she was desperate to leave; now it would seem churlish of her to go. He watched Verity struggle with the decision. Her very mobile face registered helplessness, frustration, anger, and finally resignation. She would stay.
He should be pleased. He could oversee her welfare more easily if she stayed on at Pendurgan. Then why was he cursing himself for not getting a doctor sooner so that she could be on her way without a qualm?
“Very well,” she said at last, her body visibly sagging with the weight of her decision. The depth of her frustration shone clearly in her dark eyes, now bri
ght with unshed tears. “Very well. I will stay for the time being. But only until Davey is up and about again.”
“Oh, thank ’ee, ma’am! Thank ’ee. Ma will be so happy. But ’ee do got to stay long enough to teach us ’bout them plants. There do be others hereabouts wot could use yer help, I reckon. Do ’ee know how to help with stiff joints and such?”
“Well, yes. There’s—”
“Then ’ee could surely help Old Grannie Pascow, who do get too stiff to walk sometimes. What ’bout a bad stomach? Can ’ee help that, too?”
“There are herbs that will ease a bilious stomach. But—”
“Then Hildy Spruggins’ll need yer help, too, ’cuz her stomach do be always botherin’ her somethin’ terrible. And what ’bout burns and cuts and bruises and sprained muscles and boils and dropsy and colic?”
Verity sighed. “Herbal remedies may be of some help in all of those cases, but—”
“Well, there do always be somebody wot’s got one of them things wrong wid ’em,” Gonetta said. “There do be a powerful lot ’ee has to teach us, ain’t there? Could take a long time.”
James wondered where this young girl had learned the art of manipulation so thoroughly. She had Verity pinned to the wall.
He would have been amused if a sudden anxiety hadn’t gripped him as thoroughly as Davey’s fever. Verity was being coerced into staying at Pendurgan indefinitely.
She appeared to be as torn as he was. She chewed absently on the nail of one finger. Two deep furrows marked her brow.
“Well?” Gonetta prompted. “’Ee be stayin’, then?”
Verity threw up her hands in a gesture of resignation. Her eyes had the look of those of a soldier packing up his kit in forced retreat. “All right,” she said. “I will agree to stay. But only until Davey has recovered and I’ve taught you and your mother a few basic herbals. If,” she added emphatically, looking directly at James, “his lordship has no objections?”
“You know you are welcome to stay, cousin,” James said, his voice surprisingly even, considering the state of his nerves. “As I have told you.”
Verity sniffed disdainfully, then turned toward one of the plants. “Let us take some hyssop with us,” she said to Gonetta. “Your brother will need more of it very soon.”
James produced a pocket knife that Verity used to cut several stalks of the hyssop plant. With a now purposeful stride she led them all back to the kitchen. James leaned against the wall next to the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest, as he watched Verity instruct Gonetta in caring for the herbs.
James had no reason to stay and watch. He had much to do about the estate and ought to check on the new pump at Wheal Devoran. In fact, he knew he should get away from Verity Osborne as quickly as possible, and stay away. But something about her piqued his interest. Something more than her physical appeal, though, God knew, there was that. His lip curled into a sneer as he considered how predictably base it was for the biggest scoundrel in Cornwall to lust after the first new woman to cross his path in over six years.
He ought not be interested in her at all. It could only lead to trouble. And yet she intrigued him.
He had always been drawn to the soft, fragile, feminine sort of female for whom he could feel protective. Rowena had been such a woman: fair and delicate as a May blossom. But there was nothing particularly delicate about Verity. Though their strange association gave him every right to feel protective of her, she did not encourage it. Beneath the uncertainty and fear she showed remarkable self-possession in the way she stood up to him, in the way she faced the inevitable decision to stay. Or perhaps it was not true courage, but merely pride.
He wondered what it would take to make her crack.
Just then, Agnes swept into the kitchen like a storm cloud, gathering her black skirts about her as though afraid to touch anything. James groaned. He had never before known her to venture into the kitchen. Why now, of all times?
“What is going on?” she said, her brows drawn together like thunderbolts into a deep scowl. “I demand to know where Cook is. I have been waiting this past hour to review the day’s menu. And now I am forced to come”—she looked around the room, her mouth puckered in distaste—“down here. James, what are you doing here? I demand to know what is going on.”
“I am sorry no one thought to alert you, Agnes,” James said. “But Cook’s youngest son, Davey, has taken very ill.”
“Well,” she said, dismissing such a trifle with a pettish shrug, “does that mean the entire household must come to a halt? Where is Mrs. Tregelly?”
“She is with Cook and Davey,” James said, holding on to his temper with difficulty. “Shall I send her up to you to discuss the menus?”
“Yes, do that.” Agnes turned toward Verity, who was looking at her as though she beheld an apparition. “What is she doing here?” Agnes asked, her voice rigid with icy disdain.
There was no easy way out of this. Agnes had to meet Verity sooner or later.
He moved toward Agnes, took her firmly by the arm, and steered her toward the shelves where Verity and Gonetta had been hanging bunches of hyssop. She resisted, but he tugged her along nevertheless.
“Agnes,” he said, “allow me to make known to you Mrs. Verity Osborne. She is a cousin of mine who has come to stay with us at Pendurgan.”
Agnes looked down the length of her nose at Verity, as though she held a quizzing glass trained on an insect.
“Cousin,” he continued, “may I present to you my mother-in-law, Mrs. Agnes Bodinar.” When Verity flashed him a startled look, he added, “Mrs. Bodinar is the mother of my late wife. She lives here at Pendurgan.”
Verity collected herself quickly. She laid aside the herbs and brushed her hands on her blue wool skirts. She then very calmly offered her hand to Agnes. “I am pleased to be introduced to you, Mrs. Bodinar. At last.”
James wondered what she meant by that. “Have you met already, then?”
“Mrs. Bodinar stopped by my room last night to welcome me to Pendurgan,” Verity said, her eyes never leaving Agnes’s.
Good Lord. What had Agnes done?
“But she left before I learned her name,” Verity continued, cool as could be in the face of James’s formidable mother-in-law. He would have expected her to be frightened of Agnes, who, Lord knew, frightened most everyone else with little more than a glance. Yet after that initial moment of well-concealed shock, Verity did not tremble at the sight of the old woman; her voice did not quaver.
“I am so happy to know who you are, Mrs. Bodinar. I wanted to thank you for being the first to welcome me.” Verity continued to hold out her hand, though Agnes looked as if she’d rather touch a toad.
“Hmph! Cousin, indeed.”
She would, of course, know the true story of how Verity came to be here. All of Cornwall would know it by now. But James was determined that in his own household, at least, the charade of the poor relation would be maintained.
“Yes, my dear,” he said. “A distant cousin, but a relation, nonetheless. I trust you will afford her the same respect you would show any guest at Pendurgan.”
Agnes turned away from Verity without a word. “Send Mrs. Tregelly to me at once,” she said to James as she gathered her skirts about her and headed out of the kitchen. The rustle of fabric rang out in the silence of the cavernous room. At the doorway she stopped, turned around, and fixed Verity with a piercing gaze.
“Doxy!” she hissed, and left the room.
Chapter 4
The place was growing on her. The gardens of Pendurgan, even as winter approached, were full of wonders, especially for one with an eye for herbs and other useful plants.
With little more asked of her than to tend to Davey and provide herbal instructions to Gonetta and her mother, Verity had had plenty of time to explore the grounds in the five days since her arrival. She wandered freely through the terraces on the south side of the house—the only formal gardens at Pendurgan—to the winding paths that snaked through the
heavily wooded lower grounds, ending in an ancient-looking granite wall that overlooked the river below. To the east were apple orchards and plots of winter vegetables.
Even with the fading autumn colors and the drab gray of its granite and slate buildings, Pendurgan had a certain beauty.
The place was growing on her.
Verity tucked her cloak snugly about her against the chill air as she meandered along a narrow path in the lower grounds, her favorite of all the gardens. Heavily wooded with golden ash, oak, white thorn, larch, and copper beech, its paths twisted and turned, leading to unexpected broad vistas or intimate rustic alcoves, to fishponds and tiny thatched pavilions. She paused near an old slatestone dovecote to watch two white doves flutter out from the corbel in the domed roof. Following their flight, her eyes were drawn to a patch of Scotch broom farther down along the path. She hitched her basket upon her hip and considered the various uses she could make of even the dry wintry branches.
Clipping the stalks with the hand shears borrowed from Mrs. Chenhalls, Verity considered the Pendurgan cook and her family. Davey’s fever had broken and he continued to recover, slowly but steadily. Verity’s meager talents with herbs had been lauded as a near miracle. The fact that she had stood firm against the physician from Bodmin, who had indeed wanted to have the boy bled, only made Verity’s star shine brighter among the Chenhalls family.
This small victory had given Verity a great deal of satisfaction, and not only for the boy’s sake. She had begun to discover an unexpected bit of backbone she never realized was there.
It took little effort to settle into complacency among the friendly red-haired family who, along with the sweet-faced Mrs. Tregelly, kept Pendurgan running smoothly. Though it was by no means a large estate, Verity had been surprised at the small number of servants. Was the staff so limited because no others wished to work for a man everyone called Lord Heartless?
It was easy to ignore such suspicions with the Chenhalls family, especially Gonetta, who was cheerful and bright and eager to keep Verity at Pendurgan indefinitely. Verity had long ago abandoned the notion that the girl was part of some grand conspiracy—to make her feel welcome, to make her feel safe, to make her want to stay. To make her so complacent she would not notice the evil web being spun around her until she was trapped and the spider pounced. Never in all her life had Verity been prone to such bizarre fantasies.
