The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She met his gaze directly. “Liam—all of the children, really—want to know someone is in control and will protect them. It’s a basic desire for everyone. You’ve been kind to allow the children to live in Penwythe Hall, but walls alone do not make children feel safe. People do. It is as simple and as complicated as that. And even though Liam is fourteen, he is still very much a boy with a great deal of growing up to do.”

  He watched her as she walked ahead, posture straight, shoulders back, her skirt swaying with each step. Everything about her exuded kindness and confidence—an uncommon combination. The recent days’ uncertainty had jaded all, but her determination to foster tranquility had a soothing effect on those around her.

  Yes, he liked her—and his curiosity about her was growing.

  * * *

  Later that night, Jac rode out to the south orchard with Cadwur loping contentedly at his side.

  It was lovely out. The light pattering of rain had stopped, and twilight’s purples and pinks intermingled across the sky. All was quiet and still, save for the rustle of the leaves through the shadows. The pink-and-white apple blossoms that had ornamented the branches had nearly all fallen—their colorful remains carpeting the ground under his horse’s hooves.

  Jac rode down the rows, pausing every so often to pull a limb closer, examining the tiny clusters where the blossoms had been. Before much longer those clusters would turn into fruit.

  He then studied the ground. As planned, three angled trenches had been dug across the rows to encourage the rainwater to drain to the valley’s lowest point, where a pond had been established to catch overflow. For days the projects had seemed nothing more than a muddy mess, but now that the workers had cleared out the debris, he could see the fruit of their labor. Some leaves had wilted in sections of the orchard from too much water, but the new irrigation system would alleviate waterlogged soil. It had to. He looked down to the pond at the south end. Already it was full.

  Optimism surged.

  A horse’s steps drew his attention, and he lifted his gaze to the orchard’s west edge to see Andrews approaching. “Are the hedges all in?” Jac called out as the steward drew near.

  Andrews nodded, pulling his horse’s reins to the left and ducking to miss a branch. “Yes. The workmen finished planting them last night. They seem small, though. I doubt they will do much to dissuade the winds. At least this year.”

  Jac surveyed the hedgerows along the north. Andrews was right. The bushes were small, much smaller than he would have liked. If moisture did not threaten the new trees, the angry north and west winds would. “It’ll be at least a full season before we know if this is effective.”

  Andrews shifted his weight in the saddle as he looked toward the west. “Willows were planted in some of the wettest areas, in hopes the water would be drawn to them. At least we needn’t fear a drought.”

  The steward’s voice ceased, and Jac glanced over to see what had captured his attention. On the far side of the hedgerow, Mrs. Greythorne led the girls across the verdant meadowland between the orchard and the moors. Now clad in dark gray, she was only just taller than Julia, who followed closely behind, and the two little ones ran alongside. They stopped, and Mrs. Greythorne knelt to pick something from the grassy carpet and extend it for the girls to see.

  Jac could not decide what to make of them. At times it seemed natural that the children should be here. They were, after all, an extension of Randall. There were other moments, however, when he’d be immersed in activity and almost forget about their presence, and then he’d catch them out of the corner of his eye and shock would strike all over again.

  Jac nodded toward the ladies. “What do you think of Randall’s children being here?”

  Andrews cocked his head to the side. “It’s not really my place to say, is it?”

  “But I’m asking you.” Jac sobered. “You’ve been here at Penwythe nearly as long as I.”

  Andrews’s eyes narrowed, and his countenance grew somber.

  Jac recognized that look—the look of a man loath to say what was really on his mind. He prepared himself for the worst. “Let’s have it.”

  Andrews lowered his reins to his side and leaned toward Jac. “It’s not so much the children that concern me, but Mrs. Greythorne. Talk around the village is that some of the folks aren’t happy about her presence here.”

  “What?” Jac scoffed, swatting a bug away from his face. “That’s absurd. What could she have possibly done to draw censure from anyone?”

  Andrews shrugged. “It’s not so much what she’s done, but what her husband did.”

  Andrews’s statement coupled with her unwillingness to speak of her family at the picnic added to the mystery. “But he’s dead. Surely he can’t be a problem.”

  Jac urged his horse forward as if to dismiss the conversation, but Andrews circled around so the animals traversed the narrow row side by side. “The vicar called earlier today. Some of the parishioners voiced concerns about her to him. Do you recall several years back when the excise men raided a merchant ship bound for Plymouth? Nasty business. They attacked the boat while it was still at sea, and seven of the men aboard were either killed or died from injuries. One of the men was from over in Wentin Bay. You remember, right?”

  Jac tensed. Yes, he remembered. It was one of the largest successful free-trader raids that he could recall in Cornwall.

  “Another one of the men killed was Robert Greythorne.”

  “Mrs. Greythorne’s husband?” Jac blurted out as the pieces slammed together in his mind.

  Andrews nodded. “The very one. The villagers have long memories, and now every tongue between here and Bowden Manor is wagging.”

  Jac looked up to the silver clouds, gleaming brilliantly as the sun’s descending light reflected on what he had just heard. Smuggling was a bitter word, especially in a coastal town like theirs. It had been an increasingly difficult battle to fight, and the excise men chose that particular campaign to set a harsh example. The shock of it sent tremors all throughout the heart of Cornwall. Locals sympathized with the men who had been killed, claiming they were about their honest business. The other side believed the smugglers to be the lowest conniving lot. There were no winners or losers in that situation, just a sad end, and no resolution, for free trading continued to this day. From what he could remember, those who were tried were ultimately freed, but even so, the tales were that they were released only because of threats and blackmail.

  “Are you sure about this? That Robert Greythorne was indeed her husband?” Jac asked.

  “Aye, very sure. His family is in a town called Morrisea, which is not that far away, and his brothers are still rumored to be involved in the activity. The Greythorne clan is a wealthy lot. They’re impenetrable. Folks are concerned that Mrs. Greythorne’s presence here might draw the attention of her in-laws or, worse yet, the excise men.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s a governess. She’s no time for anything else.”

  “But the staff is talking—everyone from the chambermaids to the stableboys. Apparently Mrs. Greythorne writes a great deal of letters marked for the south of Cornwall. I forget the name of the town they are addressed to. Even Mrs. Bishop commented about it just this morning.”

  Jac set his jaw firmly. “Randall wouldn’t have hired a smuggler. Besides, if she were involved, she’d have been jailed.”

  Andrews nodded. “I agree, but you know how folks are, especially after the smuggling in Wentin Bay a couple years back. Powerful families can wield their power, even from as far away as Morrisea.”

  Jac looked back toward Mrs. Greythorne and his nieces. She was farther away now, her delicate form merely a silhouette against the green backdrop. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s naught but gossip.”

  Andrews shrugged. “Thought you’d want to know what’s being said, ’tis all.”

  “The solution is a simple one.” Jac set his jaw. “I’ll speak with her about it as soon as possible.”

>   It sounded like a simple task, and yet he knew it would not be. Miss Greythorne, with her colorless gray eyes and disarming dimples, was proving to be quite a mystery.

  Chapter 15

  Jac returned Mr. Simon’s stare with a glare of his own. The man had been a pain to deal with since the first day of his arrival, and today of all days Jac was in little humor for his haughty antics. His gaze did not waver. “As I said, Mr. Simon, the granite wheel is being delivered to the cider barn this morning. I think the boys should see it.”

  Johnny hopped up from his schoolroom chair and spun around to face his tutor, barely able to contain his excitement. “Can we go now?”

  Mr. Simon frowned and stepped forward, placing his hand on Johnny’s shoulder, then gently guided the boy back down in his chair. “Surely, Mr. Twethewey, you don’t intend for them to miss their studies, especially in light of all that has happened. We’ve worked hard to keep on a schedule.”

  Jac gathered his patience. He would not be challenged, not in his own home. “Of course. But in light of all that has happened, this is an important day for Penwythe Hall and those who depend upon it. As masters of Penwythe Hall, they must attend.”

  The boys exchanged glances, as if unsure whom to obey.

  Mr. Simon held firm to Johnny’s shoulder. “Schedule and structure are paramount. Besides, these young men must prepare for a more management-focused future and not concern themselves with mere menial details.”

  Jac stiffened. “This menial detail is a vital investment and will affect Penwythe Hall’s future profitability for years to come. We may be in the country, but I assure you, business can be—and is—conducted here.”

  Mr. Simon lifted his hands, as if surrendering. “You’re their guardian. If you believe this to be the best use of their time, then I’ll not interfere.”

  Jac sucked in a deep breath. He could see why Randall chose this man to oversee the boys’ education—Randall never would have been interested in the installation of a granite wheel, only in the revenue it would generate. “I’ll have them back by this afternoon.”

  “You are welcome to accompany us,” Jac added as the boys closed their books and quietly moved from their table. “The day is fine, and it really is a sight.”

  The tutor snorted. “Thank you, no.”

  “Suit yourself. Good morning, Mr. Simon.”

  Jac led the silent boys down the back staircase and through the great hall. They turned and made their way through the entrance hall, which ran the entire depth of the house from the main entrance to the sun-drenched back courtyard. Johnny ran ahead, his enthusiastic footfalls sending up bits of mud from last night’s rain. His excitement, however, was cut short when the groom met them in the courtyard, leading two saddled ponies.

  Johnny stopped short and whirled around, his wild eyes seeking Liam’s. He inched backward from the animals until he was quite close to his brother.

  Jac closed the space and patted the pony’s neck. “Don’t you ride, Johnny?”

  The boy did not respond. His face paled.

  Liam put his arm around his brother. “He doesn’t want to get on the pony. He’s scared of it because . . .”

  And then it struck Jac—Randall had died in a riding accident.

  He cringed at the groom’s unknowing misstep and his own insensitivity. Of course the boy was hesitant to ride. Jac should have thought of that.

  The groom huffed. “Afraid, are you, boy? Six or sixty, doesn’t matter none. It doesn’t do for a man to be afraid of a horse.”

  The groom, oblivious to Liam’s explanation, circled the pony in front of Johnny so he could mount. Johnny scooted backward.

  “No matter.” Jac lightened his tone. “You don’t have to ride alone. You can ride with me.”

  “No.” Liam took a sudden step forward, blocking the space between Johnny and Jac. “He’ll ride with me.” Without another word Liam angled his brother toward the larger pony and assisted the small boy into the saddle. “Don’t worry, Johnny. We’ll go slow.”

  Jac sobered as he watched Liam’s behavior. It sparked memories of how Randall, who was nearly seven years his senior, had tended to him, especially when they’d first arrived at Penwythe. The memory, normally a pleasant one, tasted bitter in light of the week’s events. He was eager for the memory to fade and the day to resume its task.

  Once the boys were settled on the pony and the stable hand had brought Jac’s horse to him, the small group made their way down the muddy road leading from the stable, past the orchard valley, Cadwur trotting alongside them.

  “Why is the cider barn so far away from the stable?” Johnny asked after several minutes of riding.

  “It has to be. Hopefully, once it is all ready, many people will come to use it. All the tenants here have at least a few apple trees, if not their own small orchard, and hopefully they’ll pay to use our crusher to make their cider instead of going to the next town. Be that as it may, we want to keep them away from the main house. The lot of ’em could get noisy.” He smiled down at Johnny, who was leaning to the side to see around the grove.

  They rode on. The road curved at the orchard’s edge, leading to a tall stone outbuilding with several small timbered windows. It was an unassuming structure, with walls of thick dark-gray stone and a thatched roof. On any other day this was a quiet space, disturbed only by the sheep in the neighboring meadow or the larks nesting in its hand-hewn rafters, but today laborers in broad country hats gathered in the courtyard, and a large wagon drawn by oxen stood at the ready. On the wagon’s bed, thick ropes secured a large stone wheel, nearly half as tall as a man, in place.

  As they approached the site, Jac’s chest swelled with pride and optimism for what lay ahead. This was what they’d all been working toward—the key to the future of cider making in Braewyn. The stone would crush apples and prepare them for the press. This addition could swing Penwythe’s fortune in their favor.

  Johnny’s expression brightened at the commotion, and he wiggled in the saddle to get a better view. Liam, however, remained reserved. His lack of enthusiasm flattened his voice. “This is it?”

  “Ah, it’s what this will become.” Jac smiled and nodded for the boys to follow. “Come on.”

  Once at the building’s small courtyard, Jac dismounted, helped Johnny down, and waited as Liam slid from the saddle. They secured their mounts and entered the building. It was much cooler inside. The wide barn doors stood ajar, shedding light on a large granite ring—the apple crusher—which had been installed the previous week, the side of which came up to Jac’s knee. The ring had a wide groove in the top of it, and in the middle, packed straw was nestled around a large wooden pole sticking upward.

  “It looks like a big round water trough.” Johnny frowned.

  “Does it?” Jac stepped closer and knelt next to him. “Now the big wheel from the wagon will be lowered into this groove. When the apples are ready, we’ll put them in the groove and a horse will pull this wheel around and crush the apples to prepare them for the press. Once pressed, the cider will be stored in the barrels over there.”

  “Where’s the press?” Johnny looked around the large, empty barn.

  “It hasn’t been delivered yet.”

  Johnny tilted his head, his focus clearly still on the crusher in front of him. “How are they going to get that wheel into the ring?”

  “Oxen.” Jac nodded to the thick wooden beam crossing the vaulted roof. “We’ll harness them to it, and then, using the beam, they’ll lift the wheel and lower it into position.”

  They returned to the courtyard to watch the workers wrestle the wheel from the wagon to the ground. The morning was warm, and last night’s rain had done little to still the dust and dirt swirling with the breeze’s whim. Grunts echoed as the men wrestled the stone, trying to finesse the stubborn mass.

  Jac glanced around. Many familiar faces were in the courtyard watching the spectacle—tenants, workers, local businessmen. Even the vicar was present.

/>   But one man in particular caught his eye.

  “There you are, Twethewey,” Colliver called, lifting his walking stick to gain Jac’s attention. “Quite a hullabaloo here today. I had to come and see it for myself.” His tone suggested he found amusement with the situation. Jac didn’t like it.

  Colliver folded his arms over his chest. “So this is the crusher you’ve been speaking of. I’d like to say that I share your optimism on the potential, but it seems impossible that this barn, this equipment, will yield the desired result.”

  “Braewyn’s well overdue for a cider mill.”

  “The people can always make their own cider in the comfort of their homes and barns.”

  “Yes, but this is faster. It’ll save time. And money.”

  “Well then, I’m eager for you to prove me wrong.” The man’s hard eyes glittered.

  It was difficult to tell if he was joking or not, but Jac was in no mood for jests. “This is only part of it, Colliver.”

  “I know, I know, the orchards.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I wish you luck with your endeavor, Twethewey. I really do. The folks in this area could use some success, at any measure.” Colliver pivoted and bowed toward the boys in mock formality. “Good day, gentlemen. And what do you think of this?”

  Johnny stepped closer to Jac, trepidation radiating from his young form. “I like the oxen.”

  A loud, low laugh rumbled from Colliver. “Of all this, the oxen draw your fancy?”

  The boys shook the older man’s hand before Colliver returned his attention to Jac. He nodded toward the cider barn. “I’m off, then. I’ve business of my own to tend to. I’ll see you next at the Frost Ball. The ladies in my home have been talking of nothing else. I do believe that a new gown or two has been requested for the occasion.” Colliver took his leave.

  After several moments of watching the men work, Johnny squinted as he looked up at Jac. “What’s the Frost Ball?”

  “It’s a soiree hosted at Penwythe Hall every year, after the danger of frost has passed. It means that our crops, and in our case, the orchards, can no longer be damaged by frost.”