For a moment Rose couldn’t think of a thing to say by way of reply, all too aware of his scrutiny, and the closeness of his knees almost touching hers. But if he thought to patronise her, he had misjudged his mark. ‘Do other widows of your acquaintance laugh more than I do? If so, then perhaps they miss their husbands less.’ Oh dear, she was really becoming quite sharp, a veritable virago. Rose waited with bated breath for his response, certain Bryce would view her words as a criticism of Lady Tregowan, which, in effect, they were. But he took her completely by surprise by laughing out loud.
‘Touché! Don’t expect my mother to weep. She’s had four husbands and never grieved for any one of them. Marriage, so far as Lydia is concerned, is little more than a business arrangement, which I suppose makes a certain sense.’
‘Does it? Is that how you see marriage too, as a business arrangement?’
‘I most certainly avoid making observations upon my mother’s marital career,’ he said, not quite answering her question. ‘At least she will never be disappointed in love, which is not pleasant.’
‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’
‘I am twenty-three years of age, so not entirely untainted by the charms of the female sex.’
‘Yet no one has captured your heart?’
‘Not yet, but I live in hope.’
Dark eyes narrowed as he turned his head to gaze unfocused at the passing scenery, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. Was he already pining for someone? Rose wondered. And was that person Gwenna? And why should it matter to her if he was? She certainly had no intention of pressing him on the subject. ‘Perhaps you have someone in mind?’ she challenged, instantly quashing this decision.
The corner of his mouth quirked upwards into a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I do. But dare I take the risk of pursuing my fancy, that is the question? It could all go horribly wrong and the lady in question rebuff any approaches I make, which can be mortifying for a fellow, do you not think?’
Could the sparkle in his eyes be sending her a certain message, or was that her fevered imagination? ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Isn’t that what they say?’ Rose remarked, rather flippantly, studiously ignoring the fluttering of her heart.
‘Ah yes, and better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all is another old saw. Do you believe in all that nonsense? I don’t. Better either to love the right person for life, or leave the whole business well alone, which I fully intend to do.’
‘But that could result in rather a lonely life, if you don’t ever find the right person, or decide to take a gamble on someone, couldn’t it?’
‘I leave gambling to my brother,’ Bryce snapped, before adding more calmly, ‘A solitary life is surely better than marrying the wrong person?’
‘Oh, I would never marry except for love,’ Rose agreed with some fervour. Wasn’t that the reason she had resisted Joe’s advances?
‘You already did,’ he quietly reminded her, resting his elbows on his knees as he leant closer.
‘Did what?’ Rose felt mesmerised by the way he was gazing into her eyes, as if he were studying her and rather liked what he saw.
‘Married for love.’
Startled by this second blunder, she hastily readjusted her thoughts, sliding smoothly back into dear Rosalind’s skin, as she was becoming increasingly adept at doing. ‘I did, yes, of course. What I meant was, I would never marry again, unless I loved him as much as I loved Robert.’
Bryce let out a sigh. ‘But how could you ever do that?’
Rose began to tremble. Was he mocking her, or was he suspicious? Had he guessed that she was an impostor, and really only a young virgin who had never been married at all, didn’t even know what it was to be in love?
Bryce sat back in his seat, propping one leg across the other as he did so. His thighs, Rose couldn’t help but notice, were well muscled and strong. ‘Of course, I may opt to follow my mother’s example. Both Jago and I are expected to marry an heiress,’ he said, his expression carefully bland. ‘Do you know of any suitable candidates?’
He was making fun of her, or else he was deadly serious and about to proposition her. Rose could never be certain how to take these droll comments of his. He was a most confusing man to understand. She opted on the side of caution. ‘How should I, since I’m new to the area?’
‘Ah, of course. But you may be able to recommend someone, once you are settled into society. We are, after all, related, at least by marriage, are we not? But how, I wonder? What are we? Let me see. My mother married the father of your late husband. Correct?’
‘Yes,’ Rose agreed, in her quietest voice. Was this the moment he would challenge her claim? Her heart began to race.
‘But I was my mother’s son from a previous marriage and only Sir Ralph’s stepson, so half-brother – no, stepbrother – to Robert. Can that be right? I assume one can have stepbrothers? Which makes you and I … Goodness, that’s far too complicated to work out. In-laws of some sort?’
Despite her fears, Rose began to laugh, perhaps with relief as he seemed to be tying himself into knots. ‘Step in-laws?’
‘Nothing close anyway, thank goodness,’ he said with a grin.
After which enigmatic remark Rose confined their discussion to safer topics such as the weather.
Lydia clipped off a dead rose and tossed it into the rubbish basket, wishing she could as easily rid herself of that chit. ‘Our newly appointed Lady Tregowan is a mite too independent, do you not think? She is certainly not the shy, retiring person I first took her for. All that business over those dratted candles for one thing. Would you believe both Quintrell and Rowell approached me on the subject, claiming there had been a spate of accidents recently as the maids couldn’t see what they were doing. I was obliged to double the candle ration as a result. What an interfering little madam she is. And have you any notion where she is going today?’
‘I’ve no idea and even less interest,’ Jago snapped, pacing restlessly to and fro, still fretting over the way she’d stood up to him so brazenly on the cliff top. They were in the conservatory and Lydia was cutting flowers for the house, and indulging in a little gentle watering with a tiny copper watering can, in the fond belief this ladylike activity could be described as gardening.
‘There is an intrinsic stubbornness about her that I find deeply troubling. Too much independence must undoubtedly be curbed. There are limits to my tolerance. She may well have the law on her side, for now, but I will not have my family ousted from our home. Nor will I have my rules flouted, or stand by and do nothing while she takes over. The chit must learn that she cannot simply walk in here and do as she pleases.’
‘My thoughts entirely, dearest Mama. A point I attempted to make clear to her only the other day.’
Lydia cast her son a sharp glance. ‘Obviously not too successfully.’
‘Indeed not. On this occasion. But there will be other opportunities. For the moment we must hold fast to our patience and wait for the right moment to present itself, as it surely will.’
‘And if the little madam thinks she can foist that brat on us and take possession of the title, property and entire inheritance, then she is sadly mistaken. As the only son Sir Ralph has known in twelve years, you should be granted your rightful share of the estate. It is only fair and proper, considering the amount of time you have given to it. I would sooner die than see you robbed of your true deserts.’
‘And we can’t have that, Mama, can we? Better she, or the brat, be the one to suffer such a fate. And babies are so vulnerable, I have always thought. Do you not agree?’
Lydia drew in a sharp breath, setting the watering can down with a clatter. ‘Take care what you say, my love. Walls have ears.’ She glanced about, as if to give proof to the fear.
‘We are all minutes from death, as you and I have discussed before, I seem to recall.’
Lydia’s cheeks flushed to a dark pink. ‘I cannot think what you mean. I remember no such discussion.
’
Jago laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. ‘Can you not? How very surprising, for I recall it all too clearly. I believe you were tending to your dearly departed husband at the time. Not suffering a nudge of conscience, are you, dearest Mama?’
‘Enough!’ Striding over to her son, Lydia slapped his face with a sharp crack of her hand. ‘Sometimes your tongue runs away with you, and I will not have it. I don’t want you doing anything rash, do you understand? We’ll deal with the brat through the proper channels. Right now, it is more important than ever that you concentrate on diverting some of the estate income to our personal accounts, as I instructed.’
His smirk of satisfaction still in place, and looking far from chastened by his mother’s show of temper, Jago inclined his head by way of agreement. ‘Have no fears on that score, Mama, everything is in hand. Those who cannot pay their rents will be evicted, their farm or smallholding sold, and the resulting sums will not all slip into the estate coffers, I do assure you. Bryce can please himself but we, that is, you and I, deserve some recompense for our loyalty and patience over the years.’
She smiled at him now, leaning into him, her hands smoothing his chest as she gazed adoringly up into his beloved face. ‘Indeed we do, my love. We will finish what we started without let or hinder.’
It was but a short drive to the little town of Fowey. Rose thought it fortunate the carriage was a small, neat equipage, drawn by one chestnut mare, since any larger vehicle would have great difficulty in negotiating the steep, narrow streets. They clattered down Lostwithiel Street and came to a halt on the Town Quay.
‘Wait for us here,’ Bryce instructed the driver as he lifted the bassinet, then took Rose’s hand to help her out of the carriage. His grip felt firm and warm, a hand one could depend on. ‘You’ll find refreshment at the Ship Inn on Trafalgar Square, John. Have your meal put on my account. But no more than one tankard of ale, mind. We have no wish to be driven home by a tipsy driver.’
‘I’m a Methodist, sir, and never touch strong liquor.’
‘Excellent, then we are in safe hands.’ Turning to Rose while Tilly fussed over the baby, he continued, ‘We’ll go our separate ways, then, since I have business matters to attend to. For all it is Sunday, I dare say I will find my colleague in his office. Shall we agree to meet back here at, say, three o’clock? Will that be sufficient time for you? There is something I would like to show you, Rose, and it would be a shame not to take advantage of this glorious day.’
Rose’s heart seemed to turn over at the prospect of yet more time alone with Bryce Tregowan, not sure whether she welcomed the notion or feared it for some reason. And she really must consider Tilly, whose day off it was. But the arrangement would allow them three hours with her parents as it wasn’t quite twelve o’clock, surely ample time for a visit. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Had you any particular excursion in mind?’ he asked. ‘A walk to Readymoney beach perhaps?’
Rose cast a desperate glance across at Tilly, who quickly came to her rescue. ‘I thought we might take the ferry and I’d show milady Polruan, where I was born.’
‘Ah, splendid idea. I’m very fond of Polruan. Then if there is no tea shop open, you might try the Lugger.’
‘Ma will give us a bite to eat,’ Tilly told him. ‘And I’ll make sure we’re back sharp on three.’
Bryce smiled at Rose as he again took her hand, then stunned her by raising it to his lips to kiss it. The touch of his mouth upon her fingertips was light, but sent shivers of emotion rippling down the length of her arm. ‘Farewell then, My Lady, till we meet again later,’ he teasingly remarked, before sauntering away on his long, easy stride.
Tilly giggled. ‘I reckon he’s taken quite a shine to you, milady.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Rose demurred, blushing furiously. Then as they climbed into the ferry boat, she remembered their conversation earlier in the carriage. More likely it was her inheritance which interested him, and for the first time in her life Rose wished she were still poor.
There was a light offshore breeze and the sky was a cloudless blue as the small ferry tied up on Polruan Quay alongside a few clinker-built rowing boats full of happy families setting out for a picnic on this lovely June day. Several fishing boats stood idle, this being a Sunday. Even so, nets seemed to be hanging everywhere while the men sat mending them, chatting as they worked like gossipy old women. Children were swinging in some of the nets, using them as hammocks, but nobody seemed to object.
‘It’s a long pull up the hill,’ Tilly warned. ‘Do you reckon you can manage it?’
‘I can if you can.’ Rose grinned. She was greatly enjoying herself, loved the feel of the wind in her hair, and would welcome any challenge which stopped her thinking of Bryce Tregowan’s enigmatic smile.
It certainly took all her effort to make the long climb, the bassinet carried between them, and Rose was quite out of breath by the time she reached the top, with a stitch in her side. But it was surely worth it as the Carwyn family lived high above the tiny fishing village, from where they enjoyed spectacular views across the river to the cluster of white cottages that comprised Fowey, all seeming to lean together as if for protection against the blustering winds.
‘How marvellous to grow up here, Tilly. You were very lucky,’ Rose said, thinking of the lodging house on Fishponds Road in Bristol where she’d spent her own formative years.
‘Wonderful views, aye, but you might not think me so fortunate when you see where I actually lived,’ laughed Tilly.
It was a simple Cornish cottage with one living kitchen on the ground floor, and a wooden ladder leading up to what was probably one bedroom above, where the entire family no doubt slept. Rose had lived in worse, but kept that fact to herself.
A wood fire burnt in the grate, despite the warmth of the day. Rose suspected it had been lit in her honour to stave off the dankness of the cottage. Several small children sat on the pegged rug before it, or stood about shyly with their thumb in their mouth, regarding their visitor in wide-eyed wonder. She couldn’t help noticing how thin and ragged they all looked, reminding her so much of her own younger days.
Rose shook Mr Carwyn’s hand, smiling with genuine warmth as she introduced herself. He politely bowed his head while Mrs Carwyn bobbed a curtsey, just as if she were a queen and not plain and simple Rose Belsfield. But then they believed her to be Lady Rosalind Tregowan, she must remember that.
Tilly’s mother insisted on making her tea, using a lovely china teapot which no doubt only came out on special occasions. There was mackerel for dinner, running with butter they could probably ill afford to spare, followed by plain scones, which Mrs Carwyn called Cornish splits.
‘This is Mother’s best home-made blackcurrant jam,’ Tilly proudly informed her, as she passed her the stone jar.
‘It tastes wonderful,’ Rose said, trying not to take too much as she knew how poor these people were. ‘And I can’t remember when I tasted mackerel as good, or as fresh.’
‘I caught them yesterday,’ Ennor Carwyn told her. ‘So they don’t come much fresher.’
Rose looked surprised. ‘You fish as well as farm?’
‘I do, milady.’ Tilly’s father explained how he rose each morning before dawn to go out with the fishing fleet, leaving his wife to see to the milking and mind the animals. ‘We keep half a dozen cows, and grow all our own feed: mangels and turnips and the like, to save on the hay. We brings the animals into the barn in winter, d’you see, when it gets cold. Then there’s barley which we grinds up for the pigs. They gets the peelings and bits o’ cabbage too, whatever we has handy. They sows do like to run around so we has to put rings in their noses to stop them rooting up all the field. Wife gives the chickens a handful of corn each day, and we rears a few geese for Christmas.’
Rose was struggling to take in all this rush of information, not being conversant with country living. ‘It sounds like a hard life.’
‘I reckon ’
tis, but we’re used to hard work here. We keep a few long-wool sheep, South Devons crossed with a Suffolk ram. Then when the butcher comes to see to ’em, he pays us what ’ee can but the price keeps on going down, d’you see? Can’t blame him, ’ee does his best by us, see. It’s the fault of the government and they taxes, ’ee says. We don’t spend a penny we don’t has to,’ he finished, on a note of defiance.
‘It must be difficult to make ends meet, Mr Carwyn.’
‘It ain’t getting no easier, that’s for sure. We don’t ever enjoy the meat ourselves, you understand. We depend largely on rabbit.’
‘Leastways we did till Mr Jago accused us of poaching,’ put in his wife, a bitter tone to her voice. ‘Which was a bit of a puzzle to us, rabbits being wild and running everywhere. Proper nuisance they are, and best in a pot.’
Even Rose understood that the countryside was not short of rabbits. ‘Jago accused you of poaching? I wonder why he should do such a thing.’ She chose her words with care, not wishing to sound disloyal, or for her to seem to criticise him to his tenants. That would never do.
‘We used to be allowed the odd pheasant, once over,’ Dolly Carwyn said. ‘But those days are long gone.’
Rose understood now why the children were so thin, with legs like sticks, their faces pale and washed-out-looking. Their parents didn’t appear much healthier. In fact Tilly’s mother looked as if one breath of wind might blow her away. ‘Do you have enough vegetables for your stock pot?’ she asked, thinking of her own mother’s valiant efforts to feed her brood over the years, and how she would walk for miles to find a field where a farmer might have missed a few of those tiny potatoes called chats, when he harvested.
‘We’ve cabbage and potatoes in a good year,’ Dolly assured her. ‘We grow leeks and peas, runner beans when we can get them, and there are plenty of fruit in the hedgerows.’
Rose remembered scouring the hedges too, for blackberries, and coming home with a rim of black juice around her mouth, feeling slightly sick. But she knew that there were many times when the years were not good, when the potatoes caught some blight or other, or the peas and runner beans didn’t flourish. So she listened with close attention as Ennor Carwyn outlined their lives in painful detail, his family gathered close about him, offering their silent support. Finally, she asked, ‘So tell me what you are being asked to pay in rent for this holding.’
My Lady Deceiver Page 13
