“Thank you, Miss Caroline,” Alice said, speaking slowly and very carefully. “They do look wun-wonderful.” Even the girl’s fingers were thin and so very white, the blue veins clear beneath her skin. She looked more fragile than the small Dresden shepherdess on the mantel.
Caroline turned to Evelyn, a girl now almost twenty who’d been seduced by the young gentleman of the house. When she’d become pregnant, the young gentleman had informed his fond mother that Evelyn was a wanton trollop, that she’d come into his bedchamber and climbed into his bed, and just look at what she’d tried to do: compromise him so he’d have to marry her. Of course, she’d been dismissed without a character. She’d not wanted to go back to her parents, which was understandable, since there were already eight children in the small house in Mousehole, and her father was mean when he drank, which was most of the time now. It had been then that Miss Eleanor had found her crying her eyes out in Penzance, there, alone, sitting on the beach, unmindful that the tide was coming in fast and edging closer to her slippered feet.
“Another cup of tea for you, Evelyn?”
“Thank you ever so much, Miss Caroline. It do be a treat. Rather I should say it is very nice of you to offer, very nice indeed, don’t you agree, Miss Mary Patricia?”
“Most assuredly, Evelyn,” said Miss Mary Patricia. “And the company is so very refined.”
Caroline grinned at Miss Mary Patricia, no simple Mary for her. She had a good deal of presence for a young woman who was twenty-two years old and one of five daughters of a vicar who lived in Dorset. She’d been trained to be a governess, and on her first post with two very young, very spoiled children who had nearly killed her with misery, the master of the house, a Mr. Trenwith of East Looe, had caught her in the gardens at the back of the house and raped her. “One time,” Miss Mary Patricia had said, “just one time, and here I was, my life in ruins, not knowing what to do, and this babe growing in my womb.” Aunt Eleanor had found her in a taproom in Truro trying to get a job as a barmaid.
Caroline now handed Miss Mary Patricia a cup of tea and a small cucumber sandwich. It occurred to her then that Owen Ffalkes and Bennett Penrose, both in residence here at Scrilady Hall, were men. Men had done this to her three sparrows. No, she thought, frowning over the name Bess Treath had given them, they weren’t sparrows. They were all individuals and she hoped they would all eventually be able to do what it was they wanted. No, not sparrows by any stretch of the mind.
She saw that Alice was trembling again. Perhaps she knew there were men in the house. Oh dear, what was she to do to reassure them? She knew there was no harm at all in Owen, but what about Bennett? He looked like an angel, true enough, but he was more like a Devil’s familiar, never pleased with himself, and thus impossible for him to be pleased with others. Oh dear.
It was Alice who whispered, “I seen… that is, Miss Caroline, I saw a man. He’s not old and he’s handsome and seems to live here.”
“It’s the handsome ones,” Evelyn said, nodding even as she patted Alice’s thin hand. “Aye, the handsome ones who believe they’re entitled to any woman and of course any woman would want them because they’re handsome and that’s that. Fools, the mangy fools. Now, don’t you worry, Alice, Miss Caroline will take care of things.”
Yes, she would, she thought. She would hit it head-on. She smiled brightly at the three of them and said, “My cousin Owen Ffalkes does live here and he’s very nice. My other cousin, Bennett Penrose, lives here also. He’s the handsome one, and to be honest, he isn’t very nice. However, I will speak to him. I won’t allow you ever to wonder if you’ll be safe here. None of you are to worry.”
Evelyn laughed, a big hearty laugh, then patted her protruding belly. “Even a randy young man won’t be interested in us until after we birth the babes. Take heart, Alice, no one will try to hurt you here. If afterward one of them tries it, I’ll skewer him in the belly, maybe take a nip off the end of his little rod.” She leaned down and pulled up her skirt to show the small knife strapped to her calf. “No more will I be helpless around one of them, er, those wretched snakes.”
“Good idea,” said Caroline. “I should have one. Thank you, Evelyn.”
“I don’t want to be helpless either,” Alice said, then gasped. “I’m just so afraid.”
“You’re also a babe yourself,” Miss Mary Patricia said, patting Alice’s hand. “No wonder you’re afraid. Nothing bad will ever happen to any of us again, will it, Miss Caroline?”
“No,” Caroline said, “it won’t, not if I can help it anyway.” She thought about their arrival in the vicar’s small gig, nearly all piled on top of one another, and that damned vicar had treated them like the dregs in his teacup, as if their being with child was all their fault.
He tried to protest their staying here at Scrilady Hall, with naught but a young girl to look after them, but she’d cut him off quickly, saying, “They will be happy here, I’ll see to it.”
“They don’t deserve to be happy! You and your aunt, both of you looking at things the wrong way and—”
“Pray, what is the right way to look at this, vicar?”
“They were cast out. They should remain cast out. They sinned and were caught and have shamed all womankind and—”
Caroline had seen Alice’s face then, all pale and drawn, and she was flinching as if the vicar’s horrid words were actual blows. As for Evelyn, she had blood in her eye, her fists clenched at her sides. Miss Mary Patricia had her chin high in the air, holding herself aloof and apart, or at least trying to. Caroline had said quickly, “You will leave, Mr. Plumberry. Don’t bother to return else I might shoot you.”
“You’re overwrought,” said the vicar, taking a step toward her, his hand outstretched. “You poor child, you don’t know what you’re saying. All this grief, all this unexpected pressure, your dear aunt shouldn’t have thrown this all at you, and—”
“Good-bye, vicar. Go away.”
He’d left, but she knew he believed her nearly hysterical, just a weak woman unable to see the truth of things when they stared her in the face. She’d turned back to the three very pregnant females and said, “Welcome to Scrilady Hall. My name is Caroline Derwent-Jones. You are truly welcome here. Everything will be all right, I promise you.”
But she wondered now how she’d be able to keep her promise. Alice looked less ill than she had, but there was such fear, such wariness in her pale blue eyes that it made Caroline want to howl at the unfairness of life. She’d been set upon by three young bloods near St. Ives and they’d raped her, all of them. As for Evelyn, she had a good deal of bravado, but she did have the sense to strap that knife to her calf. Smart girl. As for Miss Mary Patricia, she looked as calm as a nun at her morning prayers, but if Caroline looked closely enough, she could see the slight tremor in her white hands.
Caroline said now, “I think Evelyn’s very smart. All women are vulnerable because we’re weaker then most men. Unfortunately some men are vicious and have no honor. I myself was nearly raped by such a man, so I do understand something of what happened to you. I will have all of us fitted with knives. All right?”
Alice began to cry, her thin shoulders jerking.
Evelyn turned to her and said gently as she took her into her arms, “Hush now, my baby, hush. Miss Caroline will see that everything works out for you.”
Miss Mary Patricia said thoughtfully, “I think I would prefer a gun. Do they make them small now, do you know, Miss Caroline?”
Caroline didn’t hesitate. It was a brilliant idea. “Yes, they do. I can even have a small strap made for it to fasten to your leg. Is that what you wish?”
“Yes, thank you. Now, Alice,” she continued in a matter-of-fact voice, “it’s time for lessons. You and Evelyn have learned to speak very nicely, but there’s still the reading, and you won’t want to be ignorant girls, will you?”
“No, Miss Mary Patricia,” Alice said, and heaved herself out of her chair.
“Can we read more of that
spicy story written by that Mr. Voltaire fellow?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Mary Patricia, rising gracefully to her feet. She said to Caroline, “Evelyn loves Candide.”
Caroline rose as well. “I like it too. Now, let me get Mrs. Trebaw and we’ll all go to your rooms. I hope you like them.”
Miss Mary Patricia said, “It’ll be better than the cramped single room we all shared in the vicar’s attic after Miss Eleanor died and he insisted that the cottage be closed down. He said there was no reason to waste money on the likes of us.”
“The vicar did that?” Caroline said. At their nods, she felt a lovely wash of anger. “I’ll get him for that.”
“I don’t know if you need a knife,” Evelyn said, and grinned impudently.
15
WHEN CAROLINE WAS alone, Miss Mary Patricia giving lessons to Alice and Evelyn in the long-unused schoolroom at the top of Scrilady Hall, she sent Owen into Trevellas to find a small gun and two knives like the one Evelyn had.
“The women don’t need weapons, Caroline,” he said, utterly aghast. “Why, I’m here and you’re here. You wouldn’t let anyone hurt them.”
“It’s not that, Owen,” she said patiently. “They feel frightened. Look what men did to them. If a knife or a gun makes them feel safer, they should have them. By the by, that second knife is for me. If I’d had one the last time your father got me, perhaps you wouldn’t have had to go against your father. I also might have gulleted him, which is an excellent idea if you look at the problem in a certain light.”
“He still is my father, Caroline.”
She sighed. “I know, Owen, and I’m sorry for it. We’ll think of something.”
Owen’s eyes lit up. “Maybe they’ll shoot Bennett by mistake.”
“Buy three pistols, then. Goodness, what an utterly fragrant thought. Where is he anyway?”
“In Goonbell, probably in Mrs. Freely’s taproom drinking ale until it comes out his bloody ears.”
“Just as well. Goodness, there’s so much to be done. I know, Owen, you can go to the mines and find Mr. Peetree, the manager. Find out what’s going on and then we can discuss it later. Ask him what he thinks about the flooding in North’s tin mine, Wheal David. I do know that our mine, Wheal Kitty, is just fine. The two mines are very close. Ask him why this is happening at North’s mine and not in ours. Also there’s Wheal Daffel and Wheal Bealle. Do learn all you can about how they’re run, the production, the equipment.”
Owen turned pale. “But I don’t know anything about tin mines, Caroline. I don’t know what to say to him, truly, my father always did—”
“Owen, stop sniveling and acting like a nitwit. You saved both North and me. You proved yourself. Now, you will introduce yourself, explain that you’re my partner, and that since we’re new to the area and to tin mining, you need to learn about it. Find out if repairs are needed. As I said, ask what the production is. Ask what the wages are—oh goodness, Owen, just use your brain. You know what to do. Write down what he tells you. Oh, and be properly humble. We don’t want to set anyone’s back up.”
He left and she would swear she heard him speaking aloud, saying, “Mr. Peetree, would you mind very much telling me what the mines’ annual production is?”
She grinned, shook her head, hoping Owen wouldn’t be that diffident, and headed for the stables. She needed to go to Trevellas to the seamstress. Yes, she’d do that before seeing her estate manager, Mr. Dumbarton. There were five farms on Penrose land and it was time she discovered what was needed. She wanted to meet her tenants. Also, her pregnant ladies needed clothes, damn that miserable vicar. Miss Mary Patricia had told her that the vicar’s wife had sold the clothes Miss Eleanor had made for them. All they had was what they’d arrived wearing.
She rubbed Regina’s nose—now back in her own stable where she belonged, despite her obvious affection for North—gave her a carrot, and watched as Robin, the one and only stable lad, saddled her. She wondered what she would do to the vicar.
“Excellent,” she said, and let him toss her into the saddle. “Tell Mrs. Trebaw I’ll be home in a couple of hours, hopefully with the seamstress in tow.”
“Er, Miss Caroline.”
“Yes, what is it, Robby?”
“The little girls what have their bellies filled—”
“Yes?”
He was flushing violently. “Er, if there’s sumthin’ I can do to help ye, jest ask.”
“Thank you, I will. Just keep an eye on them when they’re outside. Particularly the very young girl, Alice. She’s very frightened. Be gentle, Robby.”
She rode away from Scrilady Hall, looking back once over her shoulder at the lovely peach brick facade shining so cleanly beneath the noonday sun. She particularly loved the five gables and the four chimney stacks that rose a good twenty feet above the roof. It was her home now. There weren’t, however, enough plants or trees around the house. That was another thing she had to do—speak to the gardener, whatever his name was. She grinned then. Perhaps she should hire a female gardener, perhaps she should make Scrilady Hall a household of women.
Oh goodness, she thought suddenly, there was Honeymead Manor and Mrs. Tailstrop. She would have to speak to North about having someone go there and take charge of things. He would know what had to be done. Odd, how she didn’t even hesitate. North was there, in the back of her mind, always there, when he wasn’t in the front of her mind, or standing in front of her or perhaps even kissing her or caressing her. “Oh goodness, Regina, I’m beginning to think that North Nightingale is always going to be there. And you, you lazy nag, you quite adore him, don’t you, all because he changed your name. Regina! Ha, if I had any sense I’d call you Petunia again.” North. Yes, he was always there. She thought about their dinner the previous evening. Only Owen was present, Bennett gone yet again to Goonbell to drink with his cronies. She would have given her new stockings to have Owen at least twenty miles away from Scrilady Hall.
But alas, he was there and would remain, but the evening had been full of fun and jesting and good food until they’d spoken of Mr. Ffalkes.
North had spooned a bite of almond blancmange into his mouth, savored the crisp flavor, then said, “Your father, Owen, is not a happy man. I spoke to him this afternoon. When he finished cursing me, cursing my antecedents, cursing Caroline and every friend she’s ever had, he calmed down. I put it to him, Owen. I asked him what I should do with him since he had this obsession with Caroline. He claimed there was no more obsession. He said at last he knew he couldn’t have her, or rather her money.”
“Please don’t speak as if I’m not here,” Caroline said. “Do you believe him, North?”
“I don’t believe him,” Owen said, leaning forward, a glass of port between his hands. “My father is craftier than a moneylender in Bear Alley in London, and I’ve heard that they’d steal the gold from their grandmothers’ teeth without her realizing it, and if they did realize it, they’d just conk them on the head and steal the teeth anyway. No, North, he hasn’t given up.”
“I tell you what, Owen. Why don’t you travel to London and speak to your father’s associates. Find out what his financial situation really is. In the meanwhile, I’ve already written instructions to my man in London to see to the transfer of Caroline’s inheritance from your father’s control, with Mr. Brogan’s assistance.”
When Owen finally took himself off, giving the two of them knowing looks and a silly grin, Caroline said to North, “He won’t give up, North, Owen’s right about that. He’s more stubborn than a stoat and more determined than a bishop in a roomful of infidels.” She stopped then and gazed up at him through her lashes. She swallowed. “ Perhaps I should marry. As you said, that would be the best way to ensure that he wouldn’t kidnap me again.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Would you marry me, North?”
He stared down at her, pale now and silent and very still.
“I’m probably very rich.”
r /> He still said nothing, merely looked at her, even more silent if that were possible.
“Do you find me so very unacceptable?”
He leaned down and kissed her. In an instant, she was against him, her arms around his back, holding herself tightly to him, on her tiptoes now, her mouth wild on his. “Don’t stop,” she said into his mouth, “please, North, don’t stop. It feels so very nice.”
“Nice?” he said, and kept kissing her. “Just nice?” He didn’t want to, but his hands were stroking down her back, lower and lower until he cupped her buttocks and lifted her tightly against him. She froze against him, then he felt her shock disappear and now she was interested, feeling things she’d never felt before in her young life, and wanting more. Good Lord, she was full of passion, but she was innocent and now here he was, seducing her in her own home, his hands wild on her bottom, and he knew he had to stop. He didn’t want to marry, even Caroline, even this girl he wanted more than he’d ever wanted a female. But that was lust, honest lust, and he could deal with that, but he couldn’t deal with marriage. Not yet, not ever, probably, at least he couldn’t deal with it the way his ancestors had done, beginning with his great-grandfather, and there were too many memories of his father’s rage and anger, so clear in his mind right this instant, for the rages had begun when he’d been just a small boy, becoming more bitter and uglier as North had grown older, fanned by his grandfather, who should have died years before he actually did because he was such a miserable old bastard. It had never stopped.
Then he felt her warm tongue touching his and thought he would spill his seed at that very moment.
He grabbed her arms and pulled them back. “No,” he said, gasping for breath. “No, dammit. This has got to stop, Caroline. I don’t want to marry you. I just want to bed you and that can’t be. You’re a lady, and when I manage to remember, I’m a gentleman. I’ll take care of my lust with someone else, but not you, never you. I’ll never shame you, Caroline, even though when I touch you I want to fling you to the floor and pull up your skirts and come down over you… Jesus, I’ve got to stop this. You’re so bloody innocent and you haven’t the faintest notion of what I’m even talking about.