One of the footmen stood at the foot of the steps, a sheaf of rolled paper under one arm and a handful of pencils in the other hand. He looked puzzled until he saw her. “My lady, have you seen Mr. Chastain? I was getting materials for him, but now he’s gone.”
“I don’t know where he is.” Strictly speaking, that was the truth. “But he’s a man grown. He’ll find his way back here.” Without waiting for the footman to respond or David to return, Morwenna swept into the library and closed the doors behind her.
The lamps had been extinguished for the night and only embers remained of the banked fire, giving the merest glow of light to the chamber. Morwenna drew a candle from its holder, noticed how the wax taper was broken, held together by its wick alone, and realized it was the one she had jammed into the candelabra earlier that night. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much anger still raged in her heart. Or perhaps she realized it when she smashed the Dresden shepherdess, a ridiculous piece of bric-a-brac if ever there was one.
Still, she should not have allowed her temper to get the best of her simply because she knew the only reason the lieutenant had not walked away with her in shackles was because she was Sir Petrok’s granddaughter. For all Grandfather had no formal education, he knew the law, and he knew power and was never afraid to apply both regardless of the accused’s social rank. She’d been freed by his power, not because anyone believed in her innocence.
She used the candle to gather a flame from the hearth, then used the flame to light one of the lamps. The glowing wicks swam and blurred her vision. Her lids grew hot. She tossed the broken candle into the fireplace and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
She would not weep. She was strong. If she did nothing else well, she excelled at controlling her emotions. That she had lost her temper even for a moment there with David sent a flush rushing through her body and up to her hairline. She didn’t want this anger. She wanted peace and calm and respect. Once upon a time, she wanted love. She had satisfied it with poor substitutes, flaunted her wantonness until Conan came along and showed her something different—true caring from the heart despite her past indiscretions. Then, suddenly, he was gone.
“Why, God? Why?”
The urge to smash something swept over her, and she snatched a book from the nearest shelf, extinguished the lamp, then left the library before she damaged anything else.
The footman was nowhere in sight. Neither was David. Inside, the house lay still save for the normal creaks and snaps of a house built nearly two hundred years earlier. Outside, the storm buffeted the stone walls, howling around the corners and lashing rain against the windows.
“No ships. Please, God, no ships.”
If another vessel wrecked tonight, nothing Grandfather said would keep her from being carried off to another parish, another magistrate’s jurisdiction, to be arraigned and held in jail until the assizes. Not the best barrister in England would keep her out of prison. Book in hand, Morwenna climbed the steps, nodded to the footman stationed in her wing, then climbed another flight to the nursery. She wanted to hold her baby. She settled for opening the door and gazing upon him by the light of a rush burning inside a pierced canister. He lay on his back, his limbs flung in four directions, a half smile curving his lips. He had kicked off his covers. She ventured far enough into the chamber to draw them up again.
His eyes opened and the smile widened. “Mama.”
“Mihal.” She bent and kissed his chubby cheek, then such love for this child, this one right and good thing she had accomplished in her life, overwhelmed her, and she sank to her knees. “Sleep, my baby.”
“Mmm.” He rolled onto his side and nestled beneath the blanket.
“Please, don’t let me lose him too.” She mouthed the prayer, then rose and left the nursery, drawing the door silently closed behind her.
But there was Miss Pross in a pink wrapper, her gray hair in curling papers. “My lady, you shouldn’t risk waking him.”
Morwenna curled her hands as though literally reining in her indignation. “Miss Pross, I will look at my son when I like. If he wakes, I will take care of the matter. I have been doing so for nearly two years. I expect I’ll be doing so for the foreseeable future. Just because—” She broke off and spun away before she said something she would regret.
She regretted too many things she had said in her twenty-two years.
In her chamber, she lit a candle and looked at the book she had collected at random, thinking perhaps she needed to make up for the lessons in literature and history she had neglected when a schoolgirl. She had chosen a copy of The Tempest, a play by William Shakespeare.
She laughed at the irony, then settled down to read it until her eyes burned with fatigue, then closed in sleep.
She slept until a maid brought her hot chocolate and offered to help her dress.
“I can dress myself.”
She had constructed her dresses to lace up the front so she didn’t have to concern herself with getting assistance, which was rarely available.
The maid shifted from foot to foot, her face paling as though she expected Morwenna to throw something at her head if she spoke.
Morwenna sighed. “What is it—Rowena, right? You’re a Carn.”
“Yes, m’lady.” The girl relaxed. “I be the youngest.”
“Do you disapprove of my peasant’s garb?”
“No, m’lady. It’s that, um, Lady Trelawny, she . . . um . . .”
“Never you mind. I can guess. She had you remove all my blacks and now I must dress in my cousin’s castoffs.”
“They are ever so pretty.” Rowena darted into the dressing room and returned with a gown of pale pink muslin. “This will look ever so nice with your dark hair.”
“Except for last night, I haven’t worn colors in nearly two years.”
“Then it’s time you did.” The girl blushed. “Begging your pardon for being so bold, m’lady. Sam’s always telling me my tongue will get me in trouble.”
Morwenna snorted. “He’s a one to talk.” She sipped at the hot chocolate, thick and rich as she had not tasted in far too long.
It was one of the seductive lures of staying with her grandparents. But she had overcome the temptation after Mihal’s birth. She would overcome it again.
Feeling like each sip was a pomegranate seed that would hold her to Bastion Point, she drank more of the hot liquid and inspected the dress. “It’ll do if there’s a shawl and perhaps a woolen petticoat to wear beneath.”
“I have the shawl, m’lady.”
Certain she would freeze the instant she stepped into the unheated corridor, Morwenna allowed herself to be buttoned into the frothy pink dress, then wrapped in a shawl of warm but light cashmere. All the while, a question burned on her tongue. Rowena’s cheerfulness suggested the answer. The fact that Morwenna had been allowed to sleep in and then dressed in frivolity proclaimed the answer to be the one she wanted, yet she ached to ask.
She kept her tongue behind her teeth and waited until she stepped into the breakfast parlor on the ground floor. Grandmama had decorated the chamber in Chinese wallpaper painted with bright-yellow chrysanthemums and commissioned a weaver to design fabric to match to cover the chair cushions. With the golden oak floors polished to a gloss, the room appeared bright and cheerful even on days as foggy gray as this one, especially with several lamps and a crackling fire turned high to make up for the lack of sun.
Morwenna was the last to arrive. David and Grandfather rose at Morwenna’s entrance.
David pulled out a chair for her. “May I fetch you coffee or tea, my lady?”
As she had the night before during dinner, taking surreptitious glances at him, Morwenna marveled at his fine manners and proper way of speaking despite the Somerset accent. She felt her lips quiver as though she might actually want to smile his way.
“Coffee, please.” She slid into the drawn chair and nodded to her grandparents. “All was well last night?”
; “No one wrecked a ship, if that’s what you’re asking,” Grandfather said.
“You know it is.”
“You are going to have more than coffee, are you not, Morwenna?” Grandmother spoke with too much haste. “You’re too thin, though you do look lovely in that gown.”
David set a cup and saucer before her. “I am happy to get you anything you like, my lady.”
“No need.” Morwenna looked up at him in time to catch an expression in his face she had seldom seen directed her way—admiration. Lust, hunger, yearning, yes. Admiration—all too rare. Her insides quivered, and she spoke more sharply than she intended. “Sit down, Mr. Chastain. I can serve myself when I want to eat.”
For a moment, his eyes widened, but he said nothing, merely returned to his seat.
Morwenna sipped her coffee, another luxury for her, and addressed Grandfather. “There were lights. I went out to the cliff and saw lights.”
“It could have been the riding officers,” Grandmother suggested.
Morwenna started. “I hadn’t thought of that. Did the lieutenant say anything, Grandfather?”
“I don’t think he would have told me if those were his intentions, but it’s highly unlikely.” Grandfather’s dark eyes fixed Morwenna with a glare as hard as obsidian. “The good lieutenant and his men were set upon on their way back to their quarters last night.”
“Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.” Morwenna shot to her feet, the back of her hand to her mouth. She was going to be sick. Bile clogged her throat, burning away anything else she might have said.
Across the table, David had gone pale and his hands gripped the edge of the table.
“When?” Morwenna managed to squeeze the single word past her constricted throat.
“Immediately upon leaving Bastion Point.” Grandfather rose, coffee cup in hand. “You were in front of half a dozen people all the while and could not have given any messages commanding anyone to do so, which lends credence to your innocence. Unless . . .” He sighed and glanced at David then back to Morwenna. “I could have given such an order.”
Morwenna caught her breath. Her heart had plummeted with enough force to crush her insides. She folded her cold hands around her coffee cup for the warmth, for something to hold on to in a world spinning out of control.
Across the table from her, David’s face had turned to stone, his eyes more gray than green, his lips compressed into a hard, thin line.
“No one would suspect you of anything, Petrok.” Grandmama rose, her skirts whispering. “We need fresh coffee. This is getting cold.” She swept from the room, elegant and straight even at seventy.
Grandfather’s gaze followed her from the room, the jet eyes softening, his lips curved in a gentle smile. Love. He gazed upon his wife of fifty years with love and adoration.
And Morwenna wanted to weep. In the midst of distress having to do with his youngest grandchild—again—he took a moment to admire his wife. Not for the first time, Morwenna wondered if Conan and she would have been able to hold on to their love that long. During their brief marriage, she thought so. Conan had saved her from destroying her life with her rebellious spirit. Now that he was gone, she had only her fledgling faith and her will to save her.
Though her coffee had grown cold, she now clung to the coffee cup as though it were the familiar ache and anger that sustained her through the grief of losing Conan. “I should return to Penmara. It will separate you from suspicions against me.”
“You shouldn’t be over there alone except for Henwyn and Nicca.” Grandfather patted her arm. “I don’t think you’re safe if these people are willing to place evidence in your house.” He turned to David. “I am sorry you are dragged into our family crisis.”
“I think tossed into it is more the point, sir.” David’s face relaxed, and he smiled, the green returning to his eyes.
A shiver ran through Morwenna and she rose to stand by the fire, except the heat of the flames didn’t make that kind of gooseflesh go away, the kind that warned her she longed for the warmth of arms around her. She needed to return to Penmara to be away from this man, this stranger, who so disturbed her with a simple smile, a light touch on her shoulders, a rich-timbred voice with an accent that was barely tolerable among the country gentry, let alone anywhere else.
“I should go to Mihal.” She turned toward the door, but Grandmother had opened it.
“You have had no breakfast, child.” She stepped aside. “Here is more coffee and the mail.”
Two servants entered, one bearing a coffeepot with steam issuing from the spout, and the other bearing a tray upon which resided several newspapers and a handful of letters. The coffeepot went to Grandmother, the letters to Grandfather.
Morwenna returned to her seat and watched Grandfather sort through the mail as one of the footmen took away her cold coffee and replaced it with a clean cup.
“Shall I fill a plate for you, m’lady?” the man asked in an undertone.
“Yes, George, do that.” Grandmother spoke up before Morwenna could refuse.
“There’s a letter here for you, Mr. Chastain.” Grandfather slid a thick packet of paper to their guest.
David picked it up, hefted it, and glanced at Grandfather, a faint flush on his cheeks. “You didn’t have to pay the extra postage on this, did you, sir?”
Grandfather shrugged. “I have no idea. My steward takes care of such minutia.”
Grandfather didn’t care about an extra penny or two on a letter over the penny post rate. David apparently did. That spoke of the same sort of poverty Morwenna suffered. All the more reason why she should steer clear of her growing attraction to the man. She couldn’t afford to involve herself with another penniless man if she wanted to save Mihal’s future.
She peeked at him from beneath her lashes as the footman slid a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast before her. David still gripped his letter, his thumb braced over the seal as though anxious to open his missive, but too polite to do so in front of everyone. His face bore such a look of anticipation and longing, Morwenna felt like laughing in true amusement for the first time since she could remember.
“Go ahead, Mr. Chastain,” Grandmother said. “As you see, Petrok is reading his mail. You may also read any of the newspapers you like.”
“Thank you, my lady. I, um, perhaps should be excused.”
“Nonsense.” Grandfather spoke without looking up from his letter. “We all eat while we read our mail. Phoebe, I believe I see your latest issue of The Ladies’ Monthly Museum here.” He slid a rolled periodical across the table.
Grandmother picked it up and began to scan the contents.
Morwenna forked up a mouthful of bacon and watched David break the seal on his letter and unfold the sheets. Other than love notes secreted to her by various means, Morwenna had never received a letter in her life, unless bills counted. In the short time she had spent at school, she hadn’t made friends with her classmates. Other females rarely interested her. Her cousin and Conan’s sister had been enough in the way of female friends. Now they were both gone.
Looking down at her plate, she tasted the eggs. Oh, they were good. She must buy chickens for Penmara in the spring. If they produced more than her small household could eat, she could sell them or trade them for things like milk. Mihal needed milk to grow—
“You should read this, Morwenna.” Grandfather interrupted her musings to hand her the letter he’d been reading.
Surprised, she dropped her fork with a clatter. Grandmother glanced up. David’s gaze never lifted from his letter.
Morwenna took Grandfather’s post and began to read with growing excitement. When finished, she glanced at Grandfather, her eyes wide, her lips parted. “I know I should be angry that they wrote to you instead of answering me, but this is wonderful that they are willing to invest.”
“I am one of the trustees of the estate, child.” Grandfather rescued the letter from dropping onto Morwenna’s eggs. “I have given you free rein because I believe f
emales are capable of managing estates on their own, but few men see things that way.”
“More fool them,” Grandmother said from the other side of the table.
Grandfather laughed. “I will make arrangements to go to Falmouth to meet with these men.”
“Falmouth?” David’s head shot up. “Begging your pardon, did you say something about going to Falmouth?”
“We did.” Morwenna arched her brows at him. “Do you wish to go?”
“I . . . must.” David laid his hand on his letter, the long fingers and broad palm nearly covering the page. “Soon.”
“Can you ride?” Grandfather asked. “We can take a carriage, but riding is faster.”
“Not with the way he’s bruised.” Morwenna spoke before thinking how inappropriate such a remark was, not to mention how inappropriate her having seen the extent of his bruising was.
And if he couldn’t ride, it only emphasized his poverty.
“I can,” he said. “My mother finds carriage travel . . . uncomfortable, so we all learned to ride for traveling to Bath to see her family.”
“Then as soon as you feel well enough for the travel, we will go.” Grandfather gathered up his newspapers and rose. “I will be in the library reading. The papers will be there when anyone wants them.” He excused himself and departed.
David gathered up his letter’s pages and looked to Grandmother. “If it’s all right, my lady, I would like to go to my room.”
“Of course. Would you like me to send up tea or coffee?”
He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Coffee would not go amiss.”
Morwenna wanted to go see Mihal, but Grandmother seemed inclined to linger. Leaving her would be too rude.
But they were, and Grandmother fixed her eyes upon Morwenna. “He seems to be a fine young man.”
“He has nice manners.”
“And a beautiful face and form.” Grandmother smiled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed.” Morwenna toyed with the eggs she no longer wanted to eat.
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