Page 62 of The Cornish Mermaid

Or a husband.

It had been painful to write that. So much so, his hand had shaken, and he’d badly blotted the paper. With any luck she’d be gone by the time he returned to Ormonde. Only that thought didn’t make him happy either.

With an angry huff, he rolled onto his front. Big mistake. Even more uncomfortable. He returned to lying on his back again and did some more breeches readjustment. Better.

And now he really did need to get to sleep. If she’d let him…

*

Morvoren

Ysella and Morvoren tiptoed downstairs carrying their valises. A moment of inspiration on Ysella’s part had been to inform their two maids that they would be staying with Miss Caroline Fairchild whose own maid would be taking care of them, so neither Loveday nor Martha was needed. They’d already dispatched Martha to order four horses to be harnessed to the carriage they’d travelled to the ball in. It was only when they reached the foot of the stairs that something important dawned on Morvoren. “We don’t have any money.”

Ysella turned wide eyes on her, one hand to her mouth. “You’re right. We don’t. And we’re going to need some, I’m certain. What are we going to do?”

Morvoren had stopped dead. “We won’t get far if we can’t buy food along the way. It’s going to be a long journey, and we’ll need changes of horses just like the mail coach does. That won’t be free.”

“And for tollgates and things like that,” Ysella said with a groan. “Why didn’t I think of that before now?” She gazed around the hallway as though one of the paintings on the walls might give her inspiration.

“We’ll have to ask Sam,” Morvoren said. “He was in the office earlier, and he’ll have access to money. We’ll get him to give us some. How much do you think we’ll need?”

Ysella shrugged, and hefting her valise set off toward the office without another word.

Sam was still there, head bent over the ledgers, but he looked up when they came in and, rising to his feet, bowed first to Ysella and then to Morvoren. “Good morning, Miss Ysella, Miss Morvoren.” A very formal young man.

Ysella didn’t beat about the bush. “We need money, Sam. How much have you got?”

Sam blinked a couple of times, no doubt at the abruptness of her question. “I do have money in the strong box,” he said, sounding cautious, “for the staff wages next week. I can advance you a pound or two of pin money from that if you wish to drive into Marlborough for some shopping.” He didn’t sound all that confident. Had he guessed they had an ulterior motive?

“That won’t be enough,” Ysella said. “And we don’t want it for shopping.”

Morvoren kicked her.

She flashed a scowl. “We’re going to Caroline Fairchild’s for a few days and will need to…” she hesitated, “…to tip her servants and buy her some presents. And… and go to the theatre.” She must be trawling for the most expensive activities she could think of.

How unlikely did that sound, though?

Sam clearly thought so as well. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have more than a pound or two. Not with Kit away. He’s very exacting about the allowance he gives you, Miss Ysella, and I’m not allowed to give you more than a pound or two in excess of it. Plus, there’d be mutiny below stairs if I were to let you spend the staff’s wages on fripperies.”

“Don’t tell him,” Morvoren whispered to Ysella.

Ysella ignored her. “It’s a matter of life and death. We’re not really going to Caro’s. We have to follow Kit down to Cornwall immediately, or he’ll be in the worst possible deadly danger. The worst you can imagine. It’s up to us to rescue him.”

Sam’s sandy brows shot up. “I don’t understand. What deadly danger can Kit be in? He’s only gone down to Carlyon Court. There’s nothing dangerous there.”

Luckily, he hadn’t yet latched onto the fact that they were planning a journey by themselves in pursuit of his employer.

Ysella sighed and glanced at Morvoren. “I’ll have to tell him,” she said, with a martyred air. “He won’t help us unless I do, and we can’t go alone with no money.”

“He won’t believe us,” Morvoren hissed, turning away in the faint hope that Sam wouldn’t hear her. “He’ll think I’m mad. He’ll have me locked up.”

“What won’t I believe?” Sam asked.

Ysella ignored him and shook her head. “Nonsense. I don’t think you’re mad, so he won’t. We have to tell him, Morvoren. Or who knows what’s going to happen to Kit.”

Morvoren sighed. “All right, but it’s against my better judgement and if he locks us in our rooms afterwards and sends for the doctor, don’t be surprised.”

So they told him. Coming from both of them at the same time, the tale took a lot longer to tell than when Morvoren had recounted it to Ysella. With that young lady’s constant tangential contributions to the story, poor Sam had a job getting the facts straight in his head. She would keep interrupting, usually at the wrong point with something irrelevant. But at last, Sam had the full story.