“I’m more likely to twist an ankle in a hole along the route.” She smoothed her hand over Mihal’s head.
He grinned at her around the corner of a wooden block he was trying to tuck into his mouth. The block was too big for him to swallow, but Morwenna doubted the flaking paint was good for him, so she removed the block from his hands, set it with its mates on the floor, and beat a hasty retreat before he began to cry and she felt compelled to remain.
For the first half of her two-mile walk into the village, little moisture reached her through the overgrown canopy of trees along the drive. Once she reached the more open passage of the road, the skies released a torrent of water that roared upon the oiled skin of the umbrella, and wind that drove the water beneath the ribs and into her face. Mud caked upon her walking boots and rimmed the bottom of her skirt. By the time she reached the shelter of the church porch, she looked like what she was—an impoverished widow too proud, too angry with how her grandparents had treated her in the past, to ride in dry comfort.
But she was there for the service as she had been every Sunday since her churching a month after Mihal’s birth. As had occurred since that Sunday, the local people bobbed curtsies or bowed heads in acknowledgment of her rank of Lady Penvenan, but drew back from her as though the water and mud on her clothes would leap off and soil them. The local gentry had not yet arrived. Morwenna planned her entrance that way. They were friends of her grandparents and most of them preferred to avoid her rather than annoy the Trelawnys.
Morwenna annoyed them enough on her own. At the front of the sanctuary, the Penvenan pew faced that of the Trelawnys. The latter would soon hold her grandparents and Miss Pross, Grandmother’s companion, and perhaps a guest or two. Morwenna sat alone in the Penvenan pew.
“You should sit with us,” Grandmother had suggested more than once over the past year and a half. “You look so lonely in that big pew all by yourself.”
“I am honoring my husband and his family by sitting here.” Morwenna thought that sounded better than telling her grandmother that she thought taking advantage of their pew, with its brazier of hot coals to warm the inhabitants, was too hypocritical of her to enact in church of all places.
“I will save Penvenan on my own. I will raise my son on my own. I will not take your guilt money.” Behind the closed door of the pew, she mouthed the vow over her Book of Common Prayer as though it were a prayer and not the determination that kept her going when she was lonely or sitting stiffly to keep herself from shivering.
She raised her head to see steam issuing from the Trelawny pew, or rather the damp clothing of its occupants—its eight occupants. Grandmother and Grandfather had invited others to join them that morning—Jago Rodda and the Pascoes with their two grown sons. The younger of those sons tried to catch her eye. She returned her attention to her Book of Common Prayer and that day’s readings. She would not encourage either Tristan Pascoe or Jago Rodda. Marriage to either of them would solve nothing. They didn’t have money, but her grandparents would give them the dowry they hadn’t had the opportunity to bestow upon Conan, a dowry Grandfather withheld as a lure to encourage her to marry again.
As though she would ever let herself fall in love, or marry without love.
My faith will sustain me. She hoped those weren’t empty words. She clung to them as she clung to her Bible and liturgy—with stiff, cold fingers.
Mrs. Kitto, the vicar’s tiny wife, began to pump out the first hymn on the wheezy old barrel organ. Morwenna rose and sang the lines of the hymn from rote. Her voice seemed to echo off the sides of the pew. She squirmed and resorted to merely mouthing the lines. The hymn wasn’t important. She came for Mr. Kitto’s encouraging homilies, for his prayers. At the end of the service, she rose with renewed strength of mind and spirit and waited for the congregation to depart ahead of her, unlike the Trelawny crowd, who recessed ahead of everyone else. In the event no one wanted to speak to her, Morwenna preferred to exit behind everyone else. On this rainy day, her grandparents and their guests would be long gone before she reached the porch.
But she was wrong. They waited for her along with the Pascoes and the rest of the Roddas.
“Good morning, Morwenna.” Grandfather greeted her first.
Grandmother reached out her gloved hands. “You will come home to dinner with us, will you not?”
“Do please come.” Tristan Pascoe reached past Grandmother to clasp Morwenna’s hand. “It will be ever so dull without you.”
Morwenna glanced into his handsome, boyish countenance and wanted to smile. He was so ridiculous.
Behind him, Mrs. Pascoe grimaced, and Morwenna held back her automatic response to a flirtatious male. “I need to return to my son.”
“We can carry you to fetch him,” Jago Rodda offered.
“Dinner is no place for a child.” Mrs. Rodda addressed her son without acknowledging Morwenna.
“You are correct, ma’am.” Morwenna smiled at the lady, then turned to Grandmother. “Thank you for the invitation.” Though it had been issued like an order. “I must be off home. I have . . . responsibilities there.”
“Indeed.” Grandfather grasped her elbow and propelled her to the other end of the porch. “We need to talk about that . . . responsibility. You must be rid of it.”
“Shall I leave him on the sand for the tide to carry off, as the wreckers intended?” Morwenna spoke through teeth gritted behind a false smile. “Or just dump him off a cliff?”
“Don’t be pert with me, young lady. I don’t have to let you continue on your own, you know.”
Indeed he did not. As a woman, she was neither trustee of her son’s inheritance, nor was she his guardian under the law. Grandfather held the latter role and influence over the trustees of Penmara. With a word, they could remove her son and Penmara from her control.
But then Grandfather would remove any hint of power over her.
She inclined her head. “My guest is too ill to move at the moment.”
“And your reputation is too fragile to not move him.”
“I shattered my reputation at least seven years ago, sir, and marriage to a baron who was murdered for smuggling has not repaired it.” She made herself look into Grandfather’s obsidian eyes. “Mr. Chastain is not going to hurt it further.”
“Do not be so sure of that, my dear.” Though he touched her cheek with fingertips so cold she felt it through his glove, Morwenna took the words for what they were—a threat to her freedom, to her determination to succeed without the help of those who wanted to use their money to control her.
The journey to Cornwall had been so horrendous the first time, jouncing over roads not fit for a horse, let alone a post chaise, David had decided to sail.
And ended up in a shipwreck.
He’d been carrying something important. Money? Yes, of course. Necessities in a valise? Most definitely. And . . .?
In another time of lucidity, he woke to find the disgruntled maidservant in the chamber. Disappointment, sharp as thorns, pricked his chest.
“Where is my lady?”
“Off to church, where any decent soul should be come Sunday morning.” The grumbling tones held censure.
David held back a laugh for fear it would hurt his ribs. “I will go straightaway.” He sat up as though intending to climb from bed, and realized the pain in his back and side had lessened to a dull ache. Some of his strength had returned.
Not nearly enough. He could sit up without aid, but his head swam at the effort, and he lay back against the pillows. “My things?”
The woman tramped across the room, her footfalls clomping as though she wore wooden clogs. “The vermin left you with nothing.”
“What happened? I remember grabbing my luggage and then—” He shook his head. His brainbox swam as though seawater had gotten in and not drained out.
But he knew he had something else. Something important.
His fingers scrabbled at his throat. His bare throat.
“Wher
e is it?” he demanded.
The maid glared at him. “Where is what?”
“Where is the medallion?”
“Don’t know nothing of any jewelry.”
“I had a medallion around my neck when I went into the sea.”
The woman her ladyship had called Henwyn spun from the table and glared at him. “Are you accusing us of thievery?”
“Someone took it.”
“Like as not those who attacked you and stole your purse, if you had one, and left you to drown.”
Possibly, but the medallion had been securely tucked beneath his neck cloth and shirt so no one would see it. Yet if someone had beaten him, they might have removed his clothes first.
“Was I . . . disrobed when I was found?”
The maidservant sniffed. “You were dressed, though your clothes was cut to ribbons.”
“Then how—?” He decided not to badger the maidservant. Still, he wondered for a moment if the kindness these people were showing him—at least the manservant and her ladyship—stemmed from guilt. But surely not. They would be more likely to take his money, a considerable sum for his travels, nearly all the family could scrape together after Father’s disappearance and subsequent death.
“I’ll ask her ladyship.” If she had found him, she was the most likely person to have it.
Henwyn stomped across the floor. “You do that. Her ladyship said she’ll be up after church if you’re sensible, though I’m certain you’re no such thing.” The door closed, not quite a slam this time, but far harder than necessary.
David leaned his head back on the pillows. He didn’t fall asleep. With only a minor amount of discomfort, he managed again to push himself to a sitting position against pillows and the elaborately carved headboard. Not until he sat in a more upright position did he realize that he wore a threadbare nightshirt that was a little too small. It pulled across his shoulders and didn’t button at the throat. He heard footfalls in the corridor and snatched the coverlet up to his chin. He must have dozed like that, for the next thing he knew, the door opened and the lady glided through.
Though her gown looked dull and a little worn, she could have donned a flour sack and not disguised her natural beauty of porcelain skin, fine bones, and that sad, full-lipped mouth.
With a jerk of his head, he raised his eyes and met her gaze—and held it too long for courtesy. He thought perhaps a crowbar would be necessary to break him away from staring into the fathomless depths of her eyes in an attempt to work out what she might be thinking, why she didn’t smile even in a polite pretense of pleasure, why she didn’t look away from him at once.
“You look much better.” She still gazed at him as she spoke. “Shall I have Nicca in to help you shave?”
He raised one hand to his chin, which must sport a week’s growth of beard, and nodded, managing to stop staring at her. “Please. I’m shamed to have a lady see me thus.”
“I’ve seen worse.” She glanced down at the coverlet. “I have acquired some clothes that might fit you better than my late husband’s.”
Ah, yes, the husband who hadn’t survived wounds he’d received. No wonder she looked sad. Surely she was too young to be a widow.
“Was he a soldier, my lady?”
She snorted, a sound that would have been unladylike on anyone less delicate and calm. “He was the heir to a barony and inherited this crumbling pile.”
Not exactly an answer.
“He was where he shouldn’t have been and ran into some evil people.” She added the last while turned away from him.
David studied the set of her narrow shoulders, too straight, too rigid. “Seems like you have a lot of those around here.”
“Poverty often drives men to perform heinous acts they might otherwise never think to perform. A need to feed one’s babies can drive a body to the unthinkable.”
And she had a baby to feed.
Unease rippled through David. She had rescued him, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t robbed him.
He watched her from beneath half-closed lids. She crossed the room to settle on a chair by the window and picked up her needlework. Not needlework as his mother did when seated in the parlor in the evenings. This was more like mending a small garment.
Odd that a lady would need to mend her child’s garments. Even his mother, wife of a humble boatbuilder, managed enough servants to do menial tasks like darning. A scan of the room in the light of day, gray though that light was, showed that she either didn’t have money for upkeep or had placed him in a shabby room on purpose. The wallpaper was faded blue-and-green stripes, the chair cushions once velvet, now held little nap, and not so much as a small hooked rug lay on the floor. In one corner of the ceiling, a dark spot suggested a leaky roof. But the furniture was all carved mahogany that had once been expensive and was now at least half a century old.
“This room seemed like the best choice, Mr. Chastain.” She didn’t look up from her work, but must have realized he observed the chamber and found it wanting. “Other than mine, it’s the only one in good repair. But my cousin by marriage who lived here for a while restored a few rooms downstairs and put on a new roof. You shan’t get rained upon.”
“As though I’d complain about a little rain after you have been so kind.”
“It’s nothing anyone wouldn’t do.” She bent her face closer to her work. A tendril of glossy hair slid across her cheek, and David wanted to smooth it back for her. She pouched out her lower lip and blew the hair away.
David swallowed and looked out the window. It afforded him a view of woods, barren land, and a tumbledown engine house for a mine.
“So where precisely am I?” he asked to distract himself from that lower lip.
“We are a two-hour ride to the west of Truro.” She raised her head for a moment. “And we are on the sea, as you likely guessed, though I don’t hear it from here right now. Is that more comfortable for you?”
“You think I’ve taken a dislike to the sea after being ship-wrecked?”
“I would.”
“I’d better not.” He smiled at her. “I’m a boatbuilder.”
“Ah, so that explains why you traveled by sea.” She flashed him a quick glance. “I wondered.”
“Have you ever ridden overland from Bristol to Falmouth?”
“I’ve never been farther east than Exeter.”
“I have.” He shifted on the bed and the ropes squeaked. The pain returned with a vengeance at the memory of that frantic cross-country ride, days of worry and wonder, anger and apprehension.
He gripped the coverlet so hard some of the stitching around the edge came loose. “The first time I went to Falmouth.”
She said nothing, simply continued to look at him.
“I went to claim my father’s body. I took it home by sea, then set out to sail back to conclude my business I couldn’t take time for then.”
“How curious.” She didn’t ask what that business was.
He wanted to ask her about the medallion, but fatigue washed over him as had the sea the night of the shipwreck, consuming, chilling, brutal. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding. Darkness tumbling him over and over, then the pain, waves, then nothing like he’d ever experienced. He closed his eyes, unable to think how to politely accuse her of taking the pendant he shouldn’t have been wearing.
Fabric rustled. “I will leave you to sleep, Mr. Chastain. Nicca will be up in a few hours to tend your wounds and do anything else for you.” The door handle rattled.
“My lady?” He had to know, force the words out. “What happened to my purse?”
“If you had one, then the wreckers stole it.”
“Wreckers?”
“Men and women who lure ships to the rocks for easy pickings.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“And illegal. Transportation or hanging if caught and convicted.”
He lay still for several moments, absorbing this terrible news, then, figuring he knew the answer, asked, “My medall
ion?”
“The one with the family crest on it?”
Shock shoved the fatigue away like the waters of the Red Sea. He straightened, eyes flying open. “You saw it? You have it?”
Slowly she approached him, her dark eyes intense. “I saw it when I hauled you onto the shore. I saw it that once. But I made the mistake of leaving it around your neck in my haste to fetch help. While I fetched that help, the medallion disappeared.”
“Indeed.” He let all his skepticism ring in his voice. “Who else was tramping over the beach when you were . . . on your way to fetch help, you say?”
“I’d like to know that myself. I would also like to know”—she leaned forward so her face loomed within a foot of him—“from whom did you take it?”
He met her challenge. “Why should it matter to you?”
“Because—” She stopped. “Why do you have that crest if your name is Chastain from Bristol and you are a m—a boatbuilder?”
Certain she had been about to say “mere boatbuilder,” David stiffened, ignoring the sudden stab of a dozen pokers in his back. “I cannot see how that is any concern of yours.”
“I do.” The other corner of her mouth turned up, yet he couldn’t think of the stiff curve that didn’t reach her eyes as a smile. It was more a bitter twist. “My name is Morwenna Trelawny Penvenan, and that is the Trelawny family crest.”
“Then what,” David asked, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer driving home a spike into solid wood, “was it doing on my dead father’s body?”
CHAPTER 3
MORWENNA ROCKED BACK WITH THE IMPACT OF Chastain’s words. “How could your father have been in possession of that medallion? I never knew it existed.” She broke off to change her rambling speech to one that made sense. “When and where and how did your father die?”
“He died in Falmouth three weeks ago. I don’t know how.” His face twisted. “Or why he was even there.”
A Stranger's Secret Page 3
