Page 61 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sam rose from the desk in his new office with a feeling of accomplishment. More than two weeks had passed since their arrival. He’d managed to hire three new girls from the nearby village to help with the cleaning, and two young men to work in the wilderness that was the gardens. Rosie had already proved she could manage to provide edible, if not spectacular, food, and Cubert had taken to waiting on table and the duties of a footman with gruff resignation. That none of them possessed any kind of livery to wear could be addressed later.

He closed the ledger book in which he’d inscribed the names of his five new servants, recruited from the somewhat unpromising and poorly trained workforce from the local village. All of whom had now been accommodated in the attic servants’ quarters, which were next on the list for deep cleaning.

He glanced at his fob watch. He’d worked too late. Again. Dinner would be served very shortly. As old Gerren, Rosie’s white-haired father, had been sent into Penzance today in the trap for more kitchen supplies, it was to be hoped tonight it would be something a little less simple than the stew they’d had last night. Unless, of course, that was all Rosie could manage, which was entirely possible. It had been tasty and filling, but not quite what Ysella was used to. For himself, he was quite happy to exist on homely stews, but he wanted Ysella to feel at home, so he wanted the food, and everything else here, to more closely resemble Ormonde. Rosie permitting. Hopefully…

He glanced down at his clothes. Really, he should change for dinner, but did he have time? Probably not. He doubted if Ysella would notice. She didn’t seem to notice much about what he did, as though he didn’t matter to her any more than the servants did. A depressing thought. He put away his books, tidied his desk and headed for the hall.

Ysella was already there, dazzlingly beautiful in a white gown with tiny puff sleeves and the smallest of lemon flowers embroidered across the bodice. Her hair had been piled up in rich chestnut curls, a few of which had escaped to lay across the alabaster skin of her shoulders. The sight of her took Sam’s breath away, leaving him fumbling in the darkness of his confusion.

She bestowed a radiant smile on him. “Shall we go in? I’ve been down to the beach at Nanpean again today with Jem, and I’m quite famished.”

A pang of jealousy stabbed at Sam’s heart. She’d been spending a lot of time with Jem, but of course, he couldn’t be seen as any kind of rival for Ysella’s heart. The boy was only fourteen and looked no more than twelve. But theirs was a budding friendship that nagged at Sam incessantly. He longed to be the one to walk down to Nanpean with her, to stroll along the sand hand-in-hand and to point out what the tide had deposited, but something held him back from asking her every time he steeled himself to do so. The sensation that she preferred the simple, uncomplicated company of a child wouldn’t go away.

Rosie had risen to the occasion. Sort of. They had some kind of indeterminate soup to begin with, followed by a very tolerable joint of mutton in a sauce whose ingredients Sam didn’t want to enquire after. But it all tasted good, and he would have tucked away a good proportion of it had he not been, as usual, rendered without appetite by Ysella’s presence.

Sheseemed to have a good appetite though, after her afternoon of exercise and fresh air, clearing both her soup bowl and her dinner plate. Rosie had cooked something called a spotted dick for dessert, which turned out to be a boiled pudding with dried fruit peppered through it. This reminded Sam too much of his schooldays, and he declined to try it. Ysella, on the other hand, ate hers with gusto and returned for seconds.

“You seem to have worked up quite a hunger, Ysella,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat and sipping on the claret he’d had brought up from the well-supplied cellars. At least the resident servants hadn’t found that, or if they had, they’d left enough to keep him and Ysella in wine for some time to come.

She nodded. “I went down to see Jenifry again, and this time I finally met Uncle Jago.” A smile flitted across her face. “I must say, he’s an intimidating fellow. I’m not sure he approves of me, and I can’t understand what Kit sees in him, to be honest. He’s nothing at all like Mama. You wouldn’t think they had the same parents.” She chuckled. “But Jenifry is lovely.”

“It’s a long walk,” Sam said, who’d been down to visit Jago himself several times over the past two weeks. Ysella probably didn’t know he’d done so, though.

“And such a climb back up. But the walking is doing me good. I’m sure it makes me less puffed now, thanks to all the exercise I’m getting.”

Sam got to his feet. “Shall we take tea in the drawing room. Or would you prefer coffee?”

She stood up with a giggle. “Do you think the tea might be contraband? That would be funny if it were. I assume the smuggling didn’t stop with the raids carried out last year. Jenifry told me they’d just have moved where the stuff comes ashore and kept on going. I’d wager all our servants, too, know exactly what’s going on.”

Sam laughed himself, glad to be able to exchange banter with her. Dinner seemed the only time of day he was with her at the moment, there was so much work to do. He’d managed to persuade her to spend at least her mornings supervising the house, something she’d taken to quite well, although she continually professed herself bored with it.

Now they had more maids, though, the work was progressing more quickly. She’d also undertaken to supervise the gardens, or rather young Jem, so not a lot of gardening was being done yet, at least, not by Jem. She always seemed to be taking him off, asking him to show her new paths to walk on, and where to pick the wildflowers that were popping up everywhere. She came home every day with armfuls of bluebells and the pretty white three-cornered leeks, or posies of cowslips, primroses, pink campion, stitchwort, and tiny violets. The house now had vases of wildflowers decorating many a windowsill.

They went into the drawing room and over to the hearth. The fire blazed, courtesy of the local chimneysweep, but nevertheless was fighting a losing battle at keeping at bay the chill of spring the house never seemed to lose. It must be those thick walls.

“I think there’s a storm brewing out to sea,” Sam said as he took one of the tapestry-upholstered wing back chairs that had belonged to Ysella’s grandmother. “So tomorrow I wouldn’t venture too far from the house, if I were you.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “How can you tell?”

“The clouds. They’ve been building up on the horizon all day, and, this evening, shafts of sunlight were spearing through them. They’re only that noticeable when a storm is brewing.” He shrugged. “If we’re lucky, though, the storm will pass us by out to sea and head off south into the Bay of Biscay.”

“Where’s that?”

Cubert, considerably spruced up since his appointment as first, and only, footman, came in with the tea tray and set it down on the low table.

“You can go,” Sam said. “I’ll pour.” He turned back to Ysella. “The Bay of Biscay is hundreds of miles to the south, near Spain and Portugal. Did you never have a lesson in the geography of the world?”

She pulled a face. “Far too boring. I never had a governess who could keep me applied to the work she wanted me to do. We spent a lot of our time walking in the gardens. When she could find me.”

Sam shook his head. “It amazes me that you ever gleaned any education at all. Our children won’t…” He stopped, blazing heat racing up his throat to his face.

Ysella blushed a matching scarlet.

“I’m sorry,” Sam spluttered. “I didn’t think.”

She fluttered her hand at him. “That’s all right.”