Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance)

by Diane Scott Lewis

  * * * *

  In Port Isaac, Bettina handed the fishmonger his payment from Maddie. She stepped outside where the chill wind off the bay washed away the fishy stink. The breeze ruffled papers nailed to the Fish Market’s wooden wall, advertisements for services and goods in exchange for money or fair trade.

  She fingered her frayed shawl, and an idea occurred to her. Bettina reopened the door. “Please, Monsieur, may I post an advertisement?”

  For a half-penny the man handed her the materials and she lettered a sign with anxious strokes: French lessons given for a fair price, from a French woman of liberal education and decent background; please inquire of Miss Bettina Laurant, at Maddie's Ace Inn, Sidwell.

  Beaming, she tacked up her paper, mounted her horse, and rode back up the twisted cobbled lane. From more gossip at the inn, she’d learned that French émigrés continued to accumulate in London, many since before she’d arrived in England. She grimaced when she thought of Armand’s directive to be secretive. If it was common knowledge that aristocrats sought asylum here, why did he order her to conceal herself? What made her so special? She wanted to discount all the old man’s advice, yet decided to hold on to her secret until she could contact other émigrés. Perhaps these people could help locate her mother. Any extra money would aid her journey.

  Bettina huddled against the increasing cold as she trotted Shevall up Fore Street. The wind whipped and moaned up from the cove, swirling in a fog so thick she could have left teeth marks in it. The dampness invaded her muscles, freezing each joint. She heard a footfall and jerked her head to the side, afraid that Stephen might lurch out of the fog and attack her. She swore a whispered ‘froggie’ came from a dark doorway to her left. She kicked the horse to walk faster and rode up to the inn.

  At only four in the afternoon, the November sun sank low, a dribble of orange in the murky sky. A lantern swinging over the inn’s front door shone its light on the salt-encrusted front windows splattered by the turbulent sea.

  Bettina stabled her horse and pushed through the door to the kitchen, relieved to be inside. The smell of meat and smoke that once repelled her now seemed welcoming. Sleeping near the kitchen, and working there, Bettina ended up stinking like whatever they cooked that day. But that too she’d grown used to.

  She leaned against the closed door, shook off her trepidation, and focused her mind on something warm: her bright homeland, the gentle surf of a brilliant blue sea reflecting a hotter sun, the familiar landscape of vineyards.

  “Quite the flaw out there.” Maddie’s voice drew her from her musings. The proprietress stirred a mutton stew in a pot over the kitchen fire. “Did you pay all right? If fish gets more expensive, might have to cut wages a bit so we don’t starve.” She pulled out the spoon and took a taste. “Watch this for me. I has other things to tend to.” Maddie stalked from the room.

  Bettina started, about to dash after Maddie to insist she could never afford a wage cut. She bit back her complaint and slipped to the turf fire, warming her fingers by stirring the pot. She tasted the stew, then sprinkled in some dried thyme. At least she was learning how to cook.

  The previous day, November 6th, had been her eighteenth birthday, but she’d told no one. Swirling the chunks of lamb and potatoes in rich gravy, she refused to flounder much longer in drudgery.

  * * * *

  Kerra shoved her way into the butcher’s with Bettina behind her. The smell of raw meat filled the air. In spite of the chilled late November weather, everyone seemed to have come to town. “Older I get, the more crowded it be.” Kerra scooted to the front, ignoring any protests. She probed a hanging shank of meat and eyed the butcher shrewdly. “I’ll take this leg o’ mutton, if you charge me fair for it. No extra finger on the scale now.”

  “I be as honest as the day’s long,” the man replied in sarcasm, picking at the wart on his chin. He weighed and wrapped the meat and the two women bustled out into the frigid air.

  “Too bad the days be short,” Kerra muttered. She called a hello to a couple of people walking by. “Still need apples and onions. Maddie says she’s gonna make squab pie tomorrow.”

  “Where do we buy the squabs?” Bettina asked, hugging her hands inside the cloak Maddie gave her, found left behind in one of the upstairs rooms. At Maddie’s suggestion, she had rubbed it with rosemary to dilute the smell of the previous owner.

  Kerra groaned and rolled her eyes. “Don’t use no squabs in a genuine Cornish squab pie. That’s what the mutton’s for.”

  Bettina knew she condemned her as a hopeless foreigner who would never grasp the finer points of the West Country. She deemed herself a stranded outsider, desperate because two weeks had passed with no inquiries for her French lessons, and fretted over what else she could do.

  “That sounds as odd as the ‘star-gazy pie’ we made a few days ago,” Bettina replied. “Who has heard of a pie with fish heads poking out the top crust with their bulgy eyes?” She’d grown tired of what seemed the constant Cornish diet of pies made from fish or sheep entrails.

  Kerra waved off her words, and they went next to the market stalls. The few straggling booths were surrounded by mud peppered in footprints. Two elderly women in front of them were having a loud discussion, their breath misty in the breeze. They both wore pattens, the wooden overshoes on metal rings that elevated their shoes above the mud. Bettina looked down at her shoes squishing in the mire, her stockings already damp.

  “…still think it be an awful disgrace, how could something like this happen? Just a disgrace,” the skinny matron wearing the red cloak said.

  “Don’t know—hard to believe. But I guess it ain’t for us to judge,” the stooped-shouldered woman in a faded blue pelisse replied.

  “Who would leave a young child with such a man, after what he done?” red cloak continued, poking a veined hand amongst the apples. “Hope these ain’t too soft inside like last time.”

  “There musta been no other livin’ relatives. And they never proved he done anything, after all.” The woman in blue delicately sniffed one of the apples. “Seemed a decent family enough, afore them rumors.”

  Like a cat, Kerra noticeably pricked up her ears, sidling closer to the women.

  “Well, still, up in that gloomy place, what’s the boy to do there? It be a cryin’ shame is all I can say.” The red-cloaked lady huffed, then glared at a wizened man behind the produce. “’Fess up, Hedley, these the best you got?”

  The one in blue sighed and replaced her apple. “Let’s pray that everything works out for the better. Mr. Camborne’s parents was good, God-fearin’ people.”

  “’Scuse me, but what might we be talking about?” Kerra, never one to be shy, interrupted at last.

  The woman in red threw up her hands. “Ain’t you heard? Mr. Camborne’s sister passed away and her son’s come to live with him. He be only nine years old, this boy. And you know ’bout Mrs. Camborne’s disappearance. Now the nephew’s living all alone with that man? I tell you, something bad’s gonna happen.”

  Kerra poked her face forward. “So do tell.”

  “Kerra, pay no attention to this gossip. It is unkind,” Bettina said in a surge of disgust. The scowl from the woman in the red coat made her shudder.

  “If that ain’t the screw,” Kerra said when they toted their purchases back to the inn. “Them two old biddies be from outlying farms, and they hear the gossip afore me.”

  “There is probably no truth to those ugly rumors.” Bettina wanted to believe that a man gallant enough to come to her aid couldn’t be a scoundrel.

  * * * *

  Prying open the floorboard, Bettina counted her saved wages. She’d been forced to buy a pair of sturdy leather half boots, her old slippers full of holes and thin as paper. Out of necessity, she had also purchased warm worsted stockings in ugly black, an itchy woolen petticoat, a thicker but used blanket for her bed. This, along with the upkeep of the horse, had devoured most of her money. Perhaps she’d have to sell the nag, but then Kerra
owned part of him, and she’d feel trapped completely. She intended to give the old gelding to Maddie as a parting gift.

  She shoved the board closed, crawled out, and hit her head on the bed frame. Grimacing, she rubbed her scalp. Her greasy hair caught in her fingers. Disgusted by this and her body smell, she strode to the kitchen, snatched up a bucket and carried it out the back door.

  Bettina dropped the bucket under the spout and wrenched down the pump handle. After a squeak, the water trickled out as she watched her hands turn pink with cold. A gush of anger swept through her at the jaded aristocrats she’d heard ridicule the laziness of the poor when she lived in France. The truth was the poor worked hard with little to show for it. But she’d never have known this without suffering their day-to-day existence.

  “Someone’s inside, asking about lessons,” Ann, her long, rangy figure on the back step, interrupted these gloomy musings. “Lessons, is it? Don’t know why they’d bother. What could you teach anyone?”

  “Is this true? You are not teasing?” Bettina jerked the pump handle again, then recalled that Ann had little inclination to jest or tease. She’d never seen the woman rearrange her face into a smile.

  “In the taproom, don’t keep him waiting.” After her acerbic reply, Ann turned, jumped, and made an awful screech.

  “What is the matter?” Bettina asked, flexing her red fingers.

  A small creature near Ann’s foot hopped off, croaking. “A toad on the step. Means we be ill-wished. Means bad luck is coming.” She glared at Bettina as if she conjured up the toad herself. “If my God ain’t given me enough to bear.”

  Kerra had told Bettina a few Cornish superstitions and a toad had to be on the ‘front’ step to bring bad luck, but she wouldn’t belabor the point. Ignoring her shabby appearance, she dried her hands on her apron and rushed into the inn. The place seemed strangely quiet this early Saturday, with Kerra and Maddie off on an errand. Dory was the only one in the taproom, and she smirked at her when she entered.

  A short man of about sixty years, built square and hard like a flagstone, stood near the front door. Bettina took in his fine black frock-coat and breeches. She stuffed at her hair under her cap. “Good afternoon, Sir. I am Miss Bettina Laurant.”

  The visitor’s sour expression didn’t soften, nor did he bother to conceal the twitch of his sharp nose. “Afternoon. I’m Mr. Slate. I am here to inquire as to what you charge for these lessons, and on your specific qualifications to teach them? But I think my employer has made a mistake.”

  “I would charge two shillings per lesson, lasting two hours, and I speak fluent French. I am well-educated and French is my native language.” Bettina spoke in dulcet tones in an effort to contain her excitement. She raised her preconceived price after noting his affluence, not to mention his disapproval.

  “It is evident you’re French. Very well, I have doubts, but first you must meet the master, to see if he’s in accord.” Their conversation appeared to be a burden to Mr. Slate.

  Bettina ran her fingers through the tangle of hair that fell back down on her shoulder. “The master?”

  “A coach will be here tomorrow afternoon at promptly four o’clock to pick you up. And do wear something … more suitable.” He crisply put on his hat and departed.

  Irritated by his attitude, Bettina’s spirits still soared over the impending interview. She turned to see Dory duck out of the room. Bettina tramped back outside for her bucket and decided not to mention anything to Maddie or Kerra, until certain of success.

  * * * *

  A man sat hunched in the driver’s seat of a small black coach when Bettina rushed outside the following day. Who in the village could own such fine equipage? With no footman to attend, she climbed in and slipped her hands over the buttery seats, breathing in the rich smell of leather. Then she stared in dismay at her chipped fingernails, even though she’d massaged Maddie’s hand-cream mixture into her cracked skin.

  The coach turned around, rambled down and entered a narrow road just south of the inn. Ascending the twisting steep grade that mounted the hill, she gazed out the window with a quickening pulse.

  Their destination could be none other than Bronnmargh.

  Chapter Eight

  The coach drove past a coppice of bare ash and beech, then down a long gravel drive. Bronnmargh loomed stark on the right. Massive and square, built of harsh brown stone, the manor’s roof was hipped at the corners, giving it a severe line. High sash windows and bold projecting cornices added to the effect.

  The driver stopped at the entrance, but no one came to open the coach door. Bettina waited a moment, perched on the edge of the seat, then alighted and walked up three steps to the carved double portal. It didn’t surprise her that they thought her beneath gracious treatment.

  With a deep breath, she pulled the bell cord and mildew rubbed off on her hand. She appraised the decay of the building, the crumbling neglect and cobwebs in the corners. The manor looked so impressive from the village below. Through the stark trees, she beheld a spectacular view of the sea. The wind moaned around the building and whipped her hair into her face.

  The massive door creaked open. “You should have been brought around to the back. Ah, well, come this way.”

  Bettina started at the appearance of the man she had spoken with yesterday. His hard-lined face still morose, he looked her over from around the door’s edge.

  She assumed he didn’t like what he saw, her drab attire not ‘suiting’ him in the least. Ignoring her qualms, she trailed him a short distance down a gloomy, dark-paneled hall—a narrow introduction to this pretentious abode. The place smelled musty, unhappy somehow.

  “Wait in here … ah … Miss.” He opened a door on the left. His eyes were slits of disdain, and he seemed perturbed with the whole affair.

  “Thank you, Mr. Slate,” Bettina said to his disappearing back. She kept her tone airy, though she resented his rudeness. She wondered briefly if Ann had a puny brother.

  She stepped into a handsome room with walnut paneled walls. An imposing stone fireplace graced one end. Flames crackled in the grate, smelling of coal rather than turf and furze. Floor-to-ceiling cases filled with books stood to the right behind a large oak desk. The desk had a tooled green leather inlay. A brass inkstand sat atop, with sharpened quill pens, near one neat stack of papers. Two winged leather chairs faced the desk.

  Bettina stood in the room’s center. After what seemed half an hour, she grew impatient. Perhaps they’d decided not to bother with her. She wanted to admire and touch this elegance, something so out of her reach now. Walking over to peruse the bookcase’s contents, she caressed the smooth leather covers: Shakespeare, Alexander Pope, Laurence Sterne, Daniel Defoe. As she was about to pull one off the shelf, the door opened behind her. She withdrew her hand and turned. A towering lean man with brown hair and assessing blue eyes stood in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Mr. Camborne.” Camborne didn’t smile nor attempt to press her hand in welcome. But his stern expression added to the interest of his features: a patrician nose and chin, with a wide mouth beneath a trimmed mustache.

  “Bonjour, Mr. Camborne. I am Mademoiselle Laurant.” Bettina inhaled the fresh scent of him—so very different than the inn patrons. She thought him unique, as most men were clean-shaven. Was this the sort of man who might murder his wife?

  “Won’t you have a seat, Miss Laurant?” His tone formal, he sat behind the desk, his gaze still studying her. Tense with anticipation, she took one of the winged chairs.

  Camborne appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore no wig and his hair was unpowdered. His style of dress, though refined, was simple; he wore a buff frock coat over his broad shoulders, and a waistcoat of unadorned cloth.

  Bettina liked the intelligence she saw in his eyes, though his stare unnerved her. She felt dowdy in his presence and smiled to hide her discomfort. “I believe we have already met.”

  “Slate says I should determine if you are
… appropriate enough to teach my nephew French. I have my doubts about someone who resides and works at an inn.”

  “Mr. Camborne, I am French. My knowledge of my own language is très excellent.” She dug her fingers into the soft leather of the chair seat. “I consider myself a person of decency, no matter the circumstances.”

  “My nephew has a regular tutor for his grammar and mathematics, but learning a foreign language is always useful.” Camborne shuffled a few papers on his desk as he scrutinized her. “It is difficult to find a specialized tutor so far removed as we are here, without having to … board someone. Do you have any references?”

  “No. This would be my first tutoring position.” Bettina tried not to squirm in the chair.

  “You do look quite young. Do you think you possess the skill and intellect to instruct a nine-year-old boy? And personally, I must be careful of my nephew’s influences.”

  “Sometimes appearances deceive.” Disappointed by his boorishness, she realized she should have expected it. “I am sorry that you doubt my ‘appropriateness.’ But I would like to tutor your nephew. My influence will meet with your approval, I assure you.”

  “I see you have an excellent command of the English language.” Camborne raised an eyebrow, his gaze probing her again. “I suppose you would walk up here from the inn for these lessons. That would be the best arrangement.”

  “The hill is very steep. I would appreciate the convenience of your coach.” Bettina smiled, hoping it sweet, amazed he still wished to hire her. She desperately needed this position, but wanted to be treated with respect. “If you would be so generous.”

  Camborne’s jaw muscles tightened. “Indeed. It is close to Christmas and we’ll be traveling to London for the holidays. We will begin these lessons in February.”