The Thief of Lanwyn Manor

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Matthew shot him an irritated glance. “I see you don’t share my opinions.”

  “I see it differently. I’m grateful for this life. This little cottage. Feeling like I am making some sort of contribution.”

  “Contribution,” Matthew muttered as he stood, moved to the mantel, and looked to their father’s weapon hanging there. “You were always more like him, you know.”

  Isaac sobered. Yes, he was more like his father than Matthew. Much more. They had gone outdoors together. Underground together. Fishing. Hunting.

  Isaac cleared his throat. It was not like Matthew to show emotion or be reminiscent. It would not do to linger on the things that had at one time divided them so fiercely. “You said you had two things to share with me. You’ve only told me one.”

  “Ah.” The brightness returned to his eyes, and Matthew reached into his coat pocket. “Look what I stumbled upon at the peddler in Wheyton.” He removed his hand, and dangling from a long chain was a watch.

  Isaac’s watch.

  “Is that . . . ?” Isaac’s question faded as he reached toward the gold timepiece.

  “Yes. Father’s watch. Or your watch, I should say. Seems like the vagabond who stole it from you decided to sell it.”

  Isaac arched his eyebrow. “You just happened upon this?”

  “That would make for a great story, but no. Daniel Lobby told me he saw it there and thought I would like to know, so I paid a call on my way back from Falmouth. Sure enough, I looked in on it, and there it was. Nothing like paying good money for something our family already owned.”

  Isaac cracked a smile as he wrapped his fingers around it. He was not a sentimental man, but this watch reminded him of his father in a way nothing else did. “Thank you.”

  “You can thank me by coming to Tregarthan Friday evening. Remember how I invited the Lambournes to dinner? I received a note today from Mrs. Lambourne that they have accepted the invitation, and I need your help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Convincing Lambourne that we are the adventurers to run Bal Tressa.”

  “I thought you were weary of mining?” Isaac quipped.

  “Weary, yes, but I still need money, like we all do. Besides, Miss Twethewey will be there. I need you to occupy Mr. and Mrs. Lambourne so I can woo their niece. I think Lambourne was impressed with Wheal Tamsen, but we must secure every foothold we can.”

  Isaac shifted. Perhaps now would not be the best opportunity to share his growing sentiments toward Lambourne’s niece with Matthew, or to reprimand his brother for considering such a deception.

  After a bowl of stew and conversation, Matthew departed. Isaac stood at the door as his brother and Marco disappeared into the woodland that served as Tregarthan’s border.

  Matthew had made no reference to their argument from a few days prior. Instead he’d extended his olive branch in the form of a lost pocket watch. The thought was kind, but there was so much about Matthew’s actions of which he could not make sense. Isaac wrapped his fingers around the timepiece, wishing he could be happier in the moment.

  Chapter 27

  Julia placed a book in the basket atop her bed and looked to Caroline. “I do wish you’d come with me. I think you’d be surprised.”

  Caroline crossed her arms as she stood in the threshold and gave a little huff. “You’re a much more charitable person than I. Besides, you know how Mother feels about us interacting with the miners.”

  “For heaven’s sake, they’re just children.” Julia added two more books to the basket and tucked a blanket over them. “You’d be doing them a service.”

  “Just children?” Caroline raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I thought I heard you say that Mr. Isaac Blake was to attend.”

  Julia ignored the implication and looked away, feigning indifference, but she had spoken to him just that morning when she encountered him on their morning ride, and he had assured her he’d be present. She’d told no one at Lanwyn Manor of their morning meetings, not even Jane, who was the person she spent the most time with. The lie slid easily—and perhaps a little too quickly—from her lips. “I’m not certain he’ll even be in attendance.”

  “Perhaps if Mr. Matthew Blake was going to be there you’d have just cause to attend, at least in Mother’s eyes. Is she aware of this excursion you’ve planned?”

  Julia looked to the basket, fighting embarrassment. No, she hadn’t told her aunt or asked her permission. She fussed with her gloves. “She gave her permission for me to attend the sewing circle, and this is but an extension of that. Miss Prynne and Miss Trebell will both be in attendance. Besides, Aunt is away having tea with Mrs. Penna. She’ll not miss me.”

  “I don’t see how reading with children can be an extension of sewing, but your decisions are your own. Far be it from me to interfere.” Caroline smirked and turned from the door. “But as for myself, I fear it might rain. I’ve no desire to fall ill from being out in the elements. Besides, I need to write my Roger. I’m sure he’s impatient to hear from me and to drink in every word I write.”

  Grateful for the change in topic, Julia lifted her eyes. “And what of this fiancé of yours? A Mr. Tremaine, if I’m correct? When shall I meet him?”

  “Oh, he’ll be down anytime now for a visit, and you shall meet him then. He’s not fond of the country, and we are well suited in that respect.”

  Once Caroline withdrew, Julia set several tarts wrapped in paper, which she’d talked Cook into baking, into the basket. She moved to her wardrobe, opened it, and retrieved a blue ribbon hanging on a hook. Young Sophia had admired a similar ribbon trimming on her gown on Julia’s first visit to Miss Prynne’s cottage. Perhaps she’d like this as well. With a smile she pinched it in her fingers, turned, and dropped the ribbon on top.

  Julia slung her basket over her arm, then made her way to the courtyard to where Snow was saddled and waiting for her. She mounted, crossed under the gatehouse arch, and headed toward the village. She was quite accustomed to the ride through the woods now, even though she carried with her Mr. Blake’s words of caution and a watchful eye. The event the night of her arrival was weeks removed and seemed so distant now—more like a bad dream that would occasionally pop into her consciousness but then dissipate as soon as it did.

  Miss Prynne had instructed that they were to meet at the second cottage on the left in Miner’s Row for the day’s lesson. According to the older woman, this gathering was a weekly event where Miss Trebell, Miss Prynne, and other learned adults of Goldweth would share their time with the miner children in the hopes of imparting to them the skill of reading, since most of their parents were illiterate and there was no school to teach them. Julia took High Street and located the cottage without trouble, dismounted and secured Snow, and then stepped toward the cottage, optimism swirling within her.

  She knocked on the door, and Miss Prynne opened it. “Oh, my dear, come in. Do come in.”

  Julia ducked through the doorframe and looked around, surprised to see so many people in a small space. The ceiling was low and the light was dim, but happy tones and laughter put her at ease.

  Perhaps a dozen girls, ranging in age from five to nine, gathered around her. True, they seemed much more interested in her riding habit and the feather in her bonnet than her books, but their enthusiasm was endearing.

  A table over she noticed Mr. Isaac Blake.

  So he had come.

  He was sitting with several young boys, showing them a piece of ore. She watched for several moments as he held the stone up and pointed something out with his finger. He handed it to one of the boys. Across from him sat the widow Benson with her son on her lap.

  Julia had been in Goldweth several weeks now, and even though she’d seen the widow at church each Sunday, she’d not been formally introduced, and her curiosity about this woman was increasing.

  Julia watched them from the corner of her eye. Mrs. Benson leaned forward and must have said something amusing, for Isaac threw his head back in lau
ghter.

  Julia had to admit that Mrs. Benson was very attractive, especially when a smile dimpled her cheeks and her eyes sparkled instead of dimmed with despair.

  Was there really an attachment as she’d heard rumored?

  How she wondered that very thing so many times. During their morning rides Mr. Blake never spoke of the widow, and she never asked. But surely he would not be so engaging with her if his attentions were elsewhere.

  Would he?

  But then she thought of Percy—Percy, who was far more flirtatious than Mr. Blake had ever been.

  But she’d been wrong about him and misjudged his character sorely.

  Who else could she be wrong about?

  It was then Mr. Blake noticed her. He caught her eye from across the room, and he smiled.

  She smiled back, trying to calm the flutter in her stomach and the sudden lightness in her head.

  How that smile had the power to disarm her, she was quickly coming to realize.

  The feeling was alarmingly similar to how Percy had made her feel, but it was just that—a feeling. An emotion and nothing more. It was one thing to enjoy his company on misty morning walks or to capture his attention, but she must not read more into it than what was there.

  Julia shook the thoughts away and gathered with the girls near the fire. Dusk was still hours away, but with only three windows the cottage was quite dark. When they were settled around her, Sophia among them, Julia began to read aloud.

  Time passed quickly with the young girls, and homesickness’s familiar pang stabbed afresh. She missed her own sisters. The mining children’s vitality was something she missed while at Lanwyn Manor, and she felt her own vitality increase with their company and influence. Her heart went out to them. They were so hungry to learn whatever she could share with them.

  She sobered. How easy it was to take the advantages she’d been given for granted.

  At length the group thinned, and the hour was growing quite late. Aunt Beatrice would miss her if she remained much longer. As she packed her things back in her basket, she sensed someone watching her.

  She turned. Sophia’s brown eyes were fixed on her.

  Julia waved for the girl to draw near. “I have a present for you.” She put her hand in the basket. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

  With a little jump of excitement, the child squeezed her eyes shut and cupped her hands.

  Julia pulled the length of blue ribbon from the basket, rolled it into a ball, and placed it in Sophia’s hands. At the touch Sophia’s eyes widened and she gasped. “Is this for me?”

  “It is. And it will look beautiful on you.” Julia took the ribbon back, motioned for the girl to turn around, and tied it at the end of the girl’s long plait. “There you go. So lovely.”

  Sophia threw her arms around Julia’s neck and then ran to show Miss Prynne.

  Satisfied with the girl’s happiness, Julia returned her attention to the rest of the children and dispensed the remaining tarts. Mrs. Benson stood not far behind the children. Her long auburn hair was in a loosely bound plait down her back. Every time Julia had encountered her, Mrs. Benson had been quite pale, but today color highlighted her high cheekbones, and she even smiled.

  Feeling confident after so many pleasant interactions, Julia stepped toward the widow and extended a pastry. “Would you care for a tart, Mrs. Benson? I fear it’s grown cold, but I am sure it’s still delicious.”

  A sudden shadow darkened Mrs. Benson’s expression, and she pivoted to face Julia fully. “You may bring tarts and gifts for the children, that is one thing entirely, but I do not need, nor do I want, your charity.”

  Taken aback by the sharp tone, Julia drew in a sharp breath. “I—it isn’t charity.”

  “What is it, then?” The midwife braced her hand on her hip, tilting her head to the side.

  Her defenses rising, Julia tucked the basket on her arm and lifted her chin. “It is a token of goodwill, nothing more.”

  “Goodwill?” Mrs. Benson huffed. “Do you suppose that you can move to the large house on the hill and imagine you are the benefactor of us all, of these children, when it is the master of the very house you call home who has brought the trial on our heads?”

  Mr. Blake, who’d been standing nearby, stepped forward. “That’s not fair, Margaret. Why don’t we—”

  “Nay.” Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s not fair is that my husband’s dead. What’s not fair is that there are children who this very eve are hungry or away from their papas, while the Lambournes pretend to offer their charity and goodwill to the very people they are hurting. That is what’s not fair.”

  Isaac took her arm again, his voice low. “You might come to regret the sharpness in your tone.”

  “Oh, I do have regrets.” Mrs. Benson jerked her arm free and pinned her hard gaze on Julia. “But I’ll not regret saying what needs to be said.”

  Julia blinked and glanced around the room. Disapproval dented Mr. Blake’s forehead. Miss Prynne held her hand to her mouth, and Miss Trebell, for once, was speechless. Several children still remained, and for the first time, they were all quiet.

  Julia was certain she had never felt so out of place in her life.

  Mr. Blake seemed to be defending her, and yet she could not bring herself to look in his direction.

  No good could come from arguing.

  Somehow she managed a weak smile. “It was not my intention to upset you. I apologize if I caused offense.” Fighting tears of frustration and embarrassment, she reached for her cloak and turned to the girls she’d been reading with and managed a little smile. “Thank you, ladies, for allowing me to spend a lovely afternoon with you.”

  Without another word she left the cottage.

  The cool air whipped around the corner and collided with her as she exited, burning against the tear tracks on her cheeks. She’d never been spoken to in such a manner, especially never with such vehemence and what could only be perceived as hatred.

  What was worse, Isaac Blake had witnessed the entire ordeal.

  With each step the tears clouding her vision grew thicker, and their heat pricked stronger. Oh, what was she thinking, coming here and trying to insert herself into village life as if she were some sort of benefactress? Had she learned nothing? The villagers at Braewyn were proud, she knew. It had taken her years to be truly welcomed among them. Did she really think these villagers would be much different?

  She quickened her steps to where she had tied Snow and stepped on the mounting block. Gripping her reins and crop in her left hand, she used her shaky right to hold the iron stirrup steady to put her left foot on it. But tears blinded her vision, and her boot was wet from the ground. She gripped the sidesaddle to pull herself up, but her foot slipped from the iron and she nearly fell.

  Disheartened, she tried it again.

  A sharp, deep voice called her name.

  Mr. Blake.

  Increasing her pace, she fumbled with the iron. Frustration flared. She’d never had trouble mounting before. Why now?

  “Miss Twethewey, wait! Please.” His footsteps were coming behind her more quickly.

  She’d not try to mount again, not when he was so near. She wiped her eyes, stepped down from the mounting block, and turned to face him. “Yes?” Her words snipped sharply with injured impatience.

  “Are you all right?”

  She did not answer.

  He reached around her to take the horse’s head collar and hold it steady. “I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t deserved.”

  His arm blocked her from attempting to mount. She was trapped between the horse and him.

  “I do not wish to make excuses for Mrs. Benson,” he continued. “All I can say is that she’s grieving and wants to blame someone.”

  Julia huffed a weak smile. “So that someone is me.”

  “I don’t share this sentiment.” He fixed his hazel eyes on her. Intently. Intimately. “Far from it.”

  “Whet
her you do or you don’t, it’s becoming increasingly clear that I don’t belong here. I don’t know what I was thinking to come.”

  “I think you thought you were doing a kindness.”

  “A kindness,” she repeated as she adjusted her crop in her hand. “And yet one cannot force kindness where it is not wanted.”

  He reached forward and gripped her hand, commandeering her attention. “I—I want you here.”

  Her stomach twisted as she looked into his eyes—a familiar ache—one she’d experienced not too long ago.

  How she wanted to believe him.

  But he was so connected to Mrs. Benson. And had not another man said something similar?

  It had been a lie when Percy said it, and perhaps it was a lie now.

  She did not respond. Instead she brushed his arm away and gripped the saddle.

  This time, he did not try to stop her. He formed a cup with his hands to make it easier for her to mount. “Allow me.”

  At first she hesitated. She didn’t want help. But the sooner she was mounted, the sooner she could return home.

  She accepted his assistance and was quickly settled in the sidesaddle.

  Without another word she urged the horse forward. She could not leave Miner’s Row fast enough.

  Chapter 28

  Mrs. Sedrick informed her that Mr. Blake had called and was waiting for her in the great hall. Julia could not bring herself to ask which one.

  It would not do to delay the inevitable. If it was Matthew Blake, he would be a pleasant diversion. If it was Isaac Blake, well, she’d have to see him again at some point.

  She stepped through the passageway to the great hall.

  There stood Matthew Blake.

  Her stomach sank with unexpected disappointment.

  And the very fact that she should care so much annoyed her.

  It had been several days since the incident at the cottage on Miner’s Row. She’d told no one at Lanwyn Manor about it. Fortunately, persistent morning rains had kept her indoors and Snow in her stall, so she’d not encountered Mr. Isaac Blake at all. She made no trips into the village and stayed behind from church. Additionally, Jane’s condition had worsened, so Julia made a greater effort to spend as much time as possible keeping her company.