“S'il vous plaît, play a little.” Frederick stared up at her, his blue eyes beseeching.
“If your uncle does not mind, only.” She glanced over and Camborne nodded. Bettina sat on the bench, arranged her skirt, and brushed her fingers over the ebony keys. It was a Stein with rosewood inlay, a fine instrument. Frederick plopped down beside her. “Eh bien, we will see if I remember.” Encouraged by the child’s exuberance, she tried a short piece from Mozart’s Piano Sonata, and thought it sounded fine even if she was out of practice, and the piano out of tune. She went right into the three movement Sonata in C.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, très magnifique.” Frederick clapped his hands. “Play some more, won’t you?”
Mr. Camborne stared at her, the speculation on his face evident. “You play competently, Miss Laurant. You have had formal training.”
Bettina knew she’d kindled his interest. The sense of being watched by a stern patriarch, wary over this mystifying addition to his fold, stole over her. Now feeling intrusive, she rose to leave. “Yes, a little, a long time ago. Thank you for allowing me.” Her fingers still hummed and she enjoyed that slip back into a carefree moment.
“My pleasure.” His voice still held an elusive edge.
Bettina withdrew into the passage. She tried to fathom why he unsettled her, deciding it wasn’t fear of his repute, but something else akin to danger. If his wife had once played the pianoforte, Bettina might have stirred up bitter memories.
* * * *
Her boots caked with slime, Bettina slogged up the muddy road. The incessant rain during the previous three days had made her feel too cloistered; she didn’t mind the walk. She’d waited longer than expected at the miller’s at the south end of Sidwell. The sun hung low, then slipped behind clouds, turning the sky dark as she headed home with a sack of flour. She found herself humming a pianoforte tune, the notes trilling in her head. Her fingers tapped in rhythm on the sack. It had been another step into the comfort of her past. No doubt she tried too hard to recapture something lost.
Trudging along, her ankles straining with the effort, she grew uneasy, as if someone followed her. She turned to look, but saw no one.
The shadows around her deepened, the air sweeping in from the sea was chilled.
She resumed her walk. Other footsteps sucked in the mud, keeping pace with hers. She hurried to pass through the village, weathered cottages on both sides of her. A woman leaned out a window, beating dried mud from a rug.
The footsteps stopped and started again. The hair on the back of Bettina’s neck bristled and she quickened her gait. Rushing the last few steps to the inn, she splattered mud on her skirt and stockings. She squeezed the sack to her chest and feared that Stephen followed her. Inside the inn, she breathed in gulps and leaned against the thin security of the closed door.
* * * *
Icy patterns of snowflakes formed on the window in Bronnmargh’s front hall. Bettina stared out. Her lesson with Frederick had just ended. “It is snowing so much.” She and the boy watched the flakes fall, glistening in the light from the lantern hung over the porch.
“It hardly ever snows in Cornwall, quel dommage.” Frederick pressed his nose to the pane, leaving a smudge. “The coach isn’t here for you, Mademoiselle.”
“A mid-March snowfall is unusual. I’m afraid the coach may not be able to maneuver the hill in this weather,” Mr. Camborne said, coming up behind them. He patted Frederick gently on the top of his head.
Bettina smiled at them as she put on her cloak. “I can walk probably, it is not far. The snow does not look that deep.” But she didn’t want to walk down alone in the night and waited to see if Camborne would offer to escort her. She had the increasing desire to know him better.
“I can … perhaps … offer you a room for the night.”
“Please do not bother, I will manage.” Bettina pulled up her cloak hood to hide her disappointment. Staying in this forbidding place held no appeal. She stepped to the door.
“You can’t go out alone. It’s dark and rough going. I’ll walk you down.”
“Merci,” she said, glad he proved himself a gentleman. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.
Camborne put on his hat and pulled his greatcoat from the peg. “Frederick, go into the kitchen, Mrs. Pollard has supper prepared.”
He fetched a lantern and they stepped outside. As they walked side by side in front of the manor, Bettina watched the illuminated snowflakes twirl and fall, thickening the ground cover. Cuddling her cloak around herself, she pondered what repartee might draw his interest. “What is the history of this manor? What does Bronnmargh mean?”
“My great-great-great grandfather built this place. His name was Marcus Camborne. Bronnmargh means ‘Mark’s hill’ in Cornish.”
“Your family comes from here in Cornwall then?”
“We’re an old line, from a … Balcherus de Camberon, from the twelfth century.” He sounded proud of this.
She couldn’t mention the ancient line of her family without revealing her former status—a status she was once so proud of, too. When they turned at the bend, her foot slipped on an icy patch and she landed with a poof in the snow.
“Ma foi!” she gasped, the freezing fall knocking the wind out of her.
“Are you hurt?” Mr. Camborne sounded concerned and reached down to help her up.
“No, I am fine.” Except that she felt a complete fool. She shook ice from her cloak.
Camborne took her arm, linked it with his, and they started down the hill. The man stood so tall, she felt like a child next to him instead of a young woman past eighteen. She tasted the thinning snowflakes on her lips and swallowed hard. His hold to steady her affected her just the opposite, making her feel askew. Her heart fluttered.
Where Newlyn’s silence had irritated her, she considered Camborne’s a challenge. However, several minutes elapsed before she mustered up something more to say. “Look at the sky, it is clearing—you can see a few stars coming out. Sometimes at night I look out at the stars and know they see the same stars in France. Yet France is … so far away.”
“You’re homesick, I take it?” His voice sounded almost gentle.
Bettina felt breathless with excitement. Their arms rubbed together, the heat spreading to her shoulder and neck even with her cheeks and the tip of her nose numb with cold. “Only for a France that exists no more.” Her throat tightened.
“I too gaze at the stars now and then.” Camborne’s rich tone revealed there were still more layers to him. “From the balcony of the manor. I have a telescope mounted there.”
Bettina wanted to ask if she could gaze through this telescope. But he might think her too brazen. “How fortunate for you, and Frederick.”
“There is something I would like to discuss with you, Miss Laurant.”
“Pease do.” He sounded serious again and she tensed. They neared the bottom of the hill, their booted feet crunching over ice the only sound around them. Even the perpetual surf lay quiet as if frozen.
“You are doing a superb job with Frederick. He’s been quite happy since you came to work with him. You do know that his mother died and that’s why he came to live with me?”
“Yes. I am very sorry. For a young child to lose his mother, and … for you to lose your sister.” His grip on her arm increased for a moment, but she continued: “What about Frederick’s father, is he living?” The child had never spoken of a father to her. She bit her lip, remembering too late what Kerra had told her about Camborne’s wife cheating with the boy’s father.
“He isn’t relevant.” Camborne’s words came out clipped. They stopped walking. “All this has been difficult for the boy. I’ve been seriously thinking of sending him to boarding school. There are a few distinguished ones in London.”
Bettina sucked in her breath, icy in her lungs. “But you just said he is happy here, and he told me he is. If I may be so bold, please do not send him somewhere where he will be alone … with strangers.” Be
sides, she’d lose the wages. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She immediately regretted her selfish thought.
“That’s the one reason I haven’t followed through. He’s had so much change in his life already. I do worry about him.”
Bettina saw the sensitivity this man strained to conceal. This furthered her faith in his character. He couldn’t be the evil person many of the villagers claimed him to be. “When he is older, perhaps boarding school will be suitable. He has had far too much change.” Bettina still wasn’t sure if she fought for Frederick, or herself.
“I’ll take your advice into account. Of course, I want what’s best for my nephew. Well, it’s late. We had better get you home.” He resumed walking with a crunch, holding firm to her arm.
Bettina almost relaxed into the warmth of him, before she chased off that inappropriate response. Her skirt hem, stiff with ice, slid over the tops of her shoes.
Upon reaching the inn, Camborne assisted her up the steps. “Goodnight. If this weather lasts it will be difficult to send the coach. It … also wouldn’t be safe for you. Perhaps we ought to curtail Frederick’s lessons until the weather improves.”
“Yes, that may be wise.” Her reply didn’t betray the sudden upset inside her.
“The situation will improve,” Camborne said, as if sensing her thoughts, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. He reached out as if to clasp her arm again, then withdrew his hand.
Bettina smiled and nodded, feeling a little dizzy on the step. “Bonne nuit.”
Camborne tipped his hat and waited for her to enter. Once inside, she went to the taproom window and watched him through the frosted panes as he strolled away in a pool of lantern light.
Chapter Eleven
Water mixed with Maddie’s soapwort concoction sloshed over the cauldron rim when Bettina stuffed in dirty laundry. She stared at the wet floor, her damp apron. Out the window, snow continued to fall as it had for the past several days, and her thoughts returned to Bronnmargh. She missed the respite from the hectic inn—and, she had to admit, the chance of encountering the squire. But this new worry plagued her.
“He cannot send that child to boarding school,” she repeated when Kerra walked into the kitchen.
“You be losin’ all them wages, ’twould hurt plenty.” Kerra plopped down another pile of sheets on the little table. “Think there’s blood on these ones.”
Bettina folded them over. “I do care for the boy. It is not just the wages.” Still, her own selfishness tangled with any compassion. With Frederick gone she’d revert to being a brew wench. Her time at the manor had brought her closer to a life without hardship. Yet she did need the funds. “Mr. Camborne thought enough of me to admit his quandary over Frederick. That proves he is a good man.”
“Maybe. So you’re getting closer, aye?” Kerra winked and nudged her with an elbow. “But as Maddie told you, best be careful. Men is men.”
“And what do I need with men?” Bettina muttered. She turned from Kerra and stirred the turf fire, raising the flames under the pot. Camborne’s touch had made her feel odd, almost weak, something she couldn’t define. But she’d enjoyed it.
“Fie, he probably won’t send the mite off. But ever’one in the village be talking about you goin’ up there, and what might happen. Either you disappear, or a tryst with the master.” Kerra picked up a broom and swept toward the hall. “Did he try to kiss you when he walked you down the hill?”
“Of course not! He is a gentleman.” Bettina flushed, left the fire’s heat and followed Kerra to the foot of the stairs. “That is absurd, for me to have romantic notions about my employer.”
“’Scuse me, young wenches. Who do I have to see to get clean sheets for my bed?” A lodger shouted from the floor above. His legs were swollen with gout, his belly pushing through the rail like rising bread.
“In a minute, sir.” Kerra flashed him a wide smile, then grumbled under her breath, “Wouldn’t know clean if it bit him in the arse. An’ our bedbugs be just as good as anyone else’s.” She turned her pert face back to Bettina. “Stephen Tremayne says there’s much more to it than you teachin’ French to the nephew.”
“That imbecile is jealous. Everything is proper as it should be.” Bettina turned to walk back to the kitchen, fuming that she’d never earn enough to leave Cornwall before he decided to send Frederick away. Then guilt pricked at her, as if her presence might keep the child safe here.
Kerra snorted, shouldered the broom and tagged after her. “I know Stephen’s a braggart. But I’m only concerned for you.”
Bettina halted and they almost collided. “Have these villagers nothing better to do than speculate about me?” So much closed in on her, she didn’t know which to consider. Certainly she didn’t intend to have designs on Mr. Camborne; but perhaps she could use his influence to get in touch with the émigrés. She clasped her friend’s hand. “Do not worry, Kerra, I will take care of myself.”
The child and Mr. Camborne figured too much in her thoughts lately. She needed to define where her ‘self’ belonged.
* * * *
The old gray gelding slipped and slid on the snow-crusted hill. Bettina clung to the saddle, almost regretting her determination to not be excluded from the manor. She dismounted and knocked on the door with chilled knuckles.
It opened, and Frederick grinned up at her. “Oh, Mademoiselle, I’m so glad you came.”
“How could I neglect you?” Happy not to face the snobbish butler, Bettina followed the boy to the library. She opened the desk drawer where Mr. Camborne allowed her to keep lesson papers.
Frederick scooped more coal onto the smoldering fire. “It’s been snowing so much … I wanted to play in it.” He kicked his toe against the raised stone hearth, shoulders hunched.
Bettina studied the child, and wondered how much fun he was allowed to have. She rustled through the papers, restless herself. For some silly reason, she’d hoped that Mr. Camborne might have come to greet her, but he evidently remained distant. Now she pitied Frederick. “Is your uncle near? We can ask him if it is all right to go sledding.”
“Could we?” His little face lit up, eyes shining. “That would be grand. Très bien. Uncle is working in the dining hall. Come with me, Mademoiselle Bettina.” The boy scampered from the room and down the passage.
Bettina followed slowly, curious yet wary about venturing into the deeper regions of the manor.
A cavernous chamber opened up before her and she stood back as the child rushed to his uncle. “Mademoiselle says she’ll take me sledding, Uncle. May we?”
Mr. Camborne stacked papers into a valise on a long table. “I don’t recall that we have a sled, Frederick … Miss Laurant.” He gave them both a distracted glance.
“I understand, sorry to interrupt.” Bettina walked up and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder to steer him away. The walnut paneling, which gave off a feeling of intimacy in the library, looked medieval in here. Severe dark walls stretched to a high ceiling. A bulky oak sideboard and a few large chairs with straight lines and woven rush seats sat against the wall, as if in judgment. She shivered in the chill and hated to admit it, but the manor seeped under her skin in a distasteful way. “Let us leave your uncle in peace, Frederick.”
Frederick pouted and Camborne’s features softened. Bettina knew her disappointment couldn’t have mattered to him.
“Just a moment. I’ll have Slate search the cellar—there might be one down there.”
The infamous cellar, where the villagers swore he had buried his wife … Bettina dashed that thought away with a shudder, hoping nothing showed on her face.
Not long after, the butler dragged an aged sled down the hall. He dropped it at her feet in the library doorway, just missing her toes. His groan and sneer proved this trivial duty was beneath him.
Bettina hid her grin as she and Frederick bundled up in their coats and pulled the sled outside onto the crisp snow. Their shoes crunched across a surface that sparkled like fields of sug
ar in the fading sunlight.
At the small hill south of the garden, they crawled onto the sled and skidded down, the runners scattering snow. Flecks of ice and chilled air bit at Bettina’s cheeks. She jumped off, laughing. Frederick squealed with delight. He grabbed the leather strap and dragged the sled back up the hill.
Bettina trudged after him, sliding in his footsteps. At the top, she climbed back onto the cold wooden seat, hugged the boy to her and pushed off again. The sled skittered, bumped and flipped on its side. Bettina cried out, ice and snow in her nose and mouth.
Frederick hopped up and reached a mittened hand down to help her to her feet. “Where are your gloves, Mademoiselle?”
“I forgot them, how foolish of me.” Bettina stuffed her freezing hands inside her cloak, ashamed to tell the boy she couldn’t afford such a luxury. “We will do it again, hurry! Allons-y.” Carefree moments were so rare for her, she wanted to savor the joy.
After a few more spills and giggles, both the child’s boots and hers brimmed with snow, and their hair was matted with ice. “We better go back inside the house now.” She rubbed her numb fingers and hustled him to and through the front door.
“Can we sled again before it melts?” Frederick asked as they knocked the snow from their clothes and shoes, leaving icy clumps on the floor. Their laughter vibrated through the hall.
“We will see.” Bettina nudged the ice back outside with her boots.
“I know how you can warm your hands, Mademoiselle.” Frederick opened the parlor door. “Play another song.”
Bettina followed him, a protest on her lips. She felt brash invading Mr. Camborne’s ivory parlor, but the sight of the pianoforte pulled at her. She stirred the embers in the grate to ease the room’s chill and thawed her hands close to the coals. The marble chimney-piece featured intricately carved roses and she traced a finger across them.
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 11
