He came toward me then, hand outstretched. “Allow me.”
I studied his face. Though his expression was quiet and solemn, his eyes seemed to shine with something very different.Fear?Did my presence here make him that uncomfortable?
Slowly I reached out to take his hand, heart skipping as his fingers closed around mine. Again I noticed how cold he was, and again I wondered at the open window.
He led me to the table, and I sat down in the chair he’d emptied. My eyes followed him as he turned and walked to the hearth. When he came back, he held a glowing ember in a pincer tool. He set the coal in a small pot at the center of the table. Next to the pot was a jar of yellowish bits of rock. He opened the jar and took one out, broke it—not rocks after all—and set one half on top of the ember. A fragrantsmoke began to rise, and I recognized the scent from feast day services at the parish church.
“What is that?” I asked.
His eyes touched mine briefly before he set down the pincers and lifted the teapot. “Frankincense resin. It’s good for purifying the air.”
Between the scent of herbs and the cool, rain-washed breeze drifting in through the window, the air in this room was probably the mostpurifiedI’d ever breathed. I noticed none of the common smells that went along with living. No cooking smells, nothing like unwashed linens or clothing, no pipe or cigar smoke.
My host filled a teacup and slid it toward me. “I have neither milk nor sugar,” he said. “But you may find this doesn’t need it.”
Like my mother, I drank my tea strong with plenty of milk. But I was grateful for it regardless—especially since he’d made and poured ithimself. I wondered again about servants, as well as whether there was a kitchen on the upper floor. I couldn’t imagine it, yet there must be onesomewhere.
I picked up the cup and breathed in the vapor, surprised by the smoky aroma. Taking a sip, I discovered he was right. The tea had a very smooth flavor. I had learned a little about tea since Mrs. Moyle took me on—Ceylon, Darjeeling, Assam—but I’d never tasted anything like this. Then I realized it did remind me of something. My employer had offered me a dram of Scotch whisky once at the New Year—said it had been the last of her husband’s bottles. The tea had a similar smokiness, though the whisky had burned my throat and made my eyes water.
Mr. Tregarrick filled his own cup and sat in the chair opposite me—after sliding it about a foot back from the table.Like he doesn’t want to get too close.I glanced down at my cup, hiding my embarrassment. He was the finely dressed master of an estate; I was a miner’s daughter wearing a tea-stained dress with a muddy hem. In the course of today’s adventure, my hair had come unpinned and now hung almost to my waist. I was bruised and bloodied and probably looked like some poor creature who’d just stumbled out of a fairy ring.
Fidgeting in my seat, I finally broke the silence. “May I ask what kind of tea this is, Mr. Tregarrick?”
He watched the steam rise from his cup. “It’s called Caravan. Traders used to drink it on routes between Europe and the East.”
“It smells like a woodfire.”
His quiet smile opened a chink in the somber mood. “It’s a blend that includes Lapsang souchong—tea leaves that are smoked. I find it warming.” Without thinking, I glanced at the open casement—and he noticed. “I suppose I enjoy the fresh air. Are you chilled, Miss Penrose?”
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, and he stood and closed it most of the way, causing the candle to gutter. Raindrops streamed down the panes both inside and out.
Sitting down again, he said politely, “I’m sorry if you don’t like the tea. You needn’t drink it.”
“I do like it,” I said. “I’m wondering whether it’s something The Magpie should serve. I mean, people tend to like what they like, but Mrs. Moyle likes trying new things.”
At last he sipped from his cup, eyeing me over the rim. “How about you, Miss Penrose?”
A flame flickered in my belly. “Me?”
“Do you like what you like, or do you like trying new things?”
I let out a nervous laugh. His gaze remained fixed on me, and I realized he wasn’t teasing.
Straightening, I replied, “Both, I guess. Sometimes new things make me feel afraid at first. Like my job at The Magpie.”
He nodded. “I think that’s true for us all.” Studying me a moment, he continued, “You’re reflective for someone so young.”
Guessing what he really meant was for someone sosimple, I narrowed my eyes. “And what are you, sir? One hundred?”
His gaze dropped to the table, and in my head I muttered a curse. “That was rude, Mr. Tregarrick, I’m sorry.”
“No indeed, it was well deserved. I do often feel like I’m ancient.”
Glancing around the room, I said, “I can see how living in this old place with no one but ghosts for company might cause that.”
When he didn’t answer, I thought maybe Ihadoffended him this time. But then I noticed that he seemed to be squelching another smile.I amuse him.I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Cheeks flaming, I reached for the basket. “Will you have a scone, sir?”
