Page 14 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Seven

At the house, Nat abandoned Miss Fairfield to her own devices, not really caring whether she admitted Yves’s little adventure to his mother or not. Hadn’t he had many of the like when he’d been Yves’s age? Wasn’t that typical of a small boy? And none of them had come to his mother’s attention. However, Miss Fairfield had the distinct look of someone who prided herself on speaking the truth. Not always the best policy with his mother, as he’d learned to his cost over the years.

He led Bosun round to the stable courtyard where he was greeted by a young groom he didn’t know, but who resembled Pascoe enough to have been a son of his. The groom held Bosun’s head while Nat slid down, and Nat handed him the reins. Damned fellow couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scar. Turning his head away, Nat unfastened his valise and left the groom to do the necessary for the cob.

He entered the house by the servants’ door, stepping into the cool, flagstone corridor to be greeted by the rich smell of roasting meat and baking. Following his nose, he made for the kitchens, hoping there would have been fewer changes in there than in the stables.

He was right. The huge and easily recognized form of Mrs. Teague was just taking loaves out of the bread oven and sliding them onto the floured tabletop. She turned her head as the door opened, and her wide face puckered for a moment in confusion, before breaking into a smile of recognition. “Master Nat!”

Nat allowed himself a smile in return, or at least, the half of his face that could smiled. The army surgeon who’d sewn him up had said he’d never have much mobility back on the right side of his face and it seemed he was right. He gazed around the kitchen he remembered so well. He had so many good childhood memories of this kitchen, and the kindness of Mrs. Teague to a small, ever-hungry boy. “Mrs. Teague. I’m very glad to see you still ruling here in the kitchen.”

She wiped her floury hands on her apron. “And I’m that glad to see you back here, Master Nat. Bin a sad quiet place without you, although little Master Yves is heading toward making up for that, I vow. Chip off the old Treloar block, that boy is. Very much like you was.” Her gaze ran over his face and he sensed rather than saw an internal wince as she took in his scar.

But Nat refused to think about it. “That bread smells delicious. Might I trouble you for a slice or two with some good Cornish butter? I’ve sorely missed your cooking.”

Mrs. Teague swelled with pride. “You may indeed, Master Nat. And that happy I am to be able to cook for you again.” She shook her head in what might have been mock desperation. “Your mama, bless her, don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive, and she don’t think anyone else needs more’n her. It’ll be nice for me to have someone around what appreciates my cooking.”

She sliced off two thick and steaming slices of the fresh bread, fetched an earthenware pot of golden butter and applied it in abundance to the bread. Nat didn’t wait for a plate, but picked up the first slice and bit into it as soon as it was ready. “Mmmmm. Wonderful. I’ve been four days on the stagecoach down from London, and the food at some of those coaching inns leaves a lot to be desired. What’s more, they hurry the midday meal so you don’t even get time to eat what you’ve paid for. Nothing’s so good as Cornish food.”

Mrs. Teague watched him demolish the bread and now mostly melted butter with a look of immense satisfaction on her face. “I’m thinking I’ll be seeing you down here for your breakfast in the morning, along with Master Yves?”

So the child had found a way to get around his mother’s insistence that everyone should eat as meagerly as she. Good for him, but Nat had no desire to keep him company of a morning. He seemed the sort who would require answers to constant questions. “You might,” he said, finishing off the last crumb. “But now, somewhat fortified, I fear it’s time I faced my mother.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “Will I find her in the parlor, do you think?”

“You will.” Mrs. Teague’s wide face took on a disapproving frown. “She do meet up with Mr. Trefusis in there every afternoon.” She pursed her lips primly, hands on hips.

Nat ignored this heavy hint to ask about Trefusis and be given Mrs. Teague’s personal opinion, and nodded. “After that, I shall want to see my grandfather.” He paused, frowning. “Can you give me any advice on how he is? All I know is what I had from my old friend Jacka, old Trewin the gardener’s son. I called in at the Coach and Horses to borrow his cob. It was good to see him prospering. He seems to fit in well behind the bar.”

Mrs. Teague sat down with a thud on one of the kitchen chairs. “Not good, not good. Your granfer’s not good.” She shook her head in what looked like sorrow. “Not the man he was, that’s certain. You know it was an apoplexy? Struck him down in church one Sunday. A few folks round here did say it were the wrath of God, but we at Roskilly don’t hold with superstition. And your granfer were always good to me and mine.”

Nat wiped his buttery fingers on his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket. “Go on.”

“They carried him back here on the vestry door. Unscrewed the hinges and took it down. Luckily, Doctor Rescorla were at the service, and he were able to follow your granfer back here. He bled him directly, and I did hear that was what saved him.”

“And the long-term consequences of this?”

“He can’t use his legs no more, so he’s been confined to his room these last two years. And your ma, she engaged a special nurse for him. Miss Rodgers, she’s called. Used to be at the County Asylum, so she ses. Hoity-toity piece she is too. Not like that new governess Master Yves has just got. Now, she’s a nice young lady as knows how to treat us servants. Well brought up, that one, not like that Miss Rodgers who’s no better than she should be.”

“Has no one thought of providing him with a Bath chair?”

Mrs. Teague frowned. “What’s one of them when it’s at home?”

“A wheeled seat that would give him mobility.”

She shrugged. “I can’t speak for Mrs. Treloar, but maybe the old master didn’t want that. He’s a stubborn man, as my old father used to say. Him that was head gardener here before old Trewin, back when the old master was young hisself.” She leaned toward Nat. “And maybe Mrs. Treloar don’t want Sir Hugh out of that bedroom. Did you not think of that?”

Nat met her gaze. This was no joke. She meant her words. Might his mother be happier with her father-in-law kept out of the way? Particularly so if Jacka was correct and she was carrying on with her land agent. This Trefusis.

He sighed. He’d think about that later. For now, first things first and he’d have to see his mother. “I’ll leave you now, Mrs. Teague. Thank you for all that useful information.” He pulled a face. “And the best bread and butter in Cornwall, I feel sufficiently emboldened by it to meet my mother.”

*

He found hismother in the parlor, as he’d guessed, reading a book. No doubt some worthy self-improving tome. She looked up as he came in, and her pale eyes widened in shock. For a moment she stayed seated, then she rose to her feet and came toward him, a smile fixed on her face that did little to enhance her looks and he suspected was not genuine. She’d once been an attractive woman, but the years had not been kind to her and a perpetual frown creased her brow.

“Nathaniel. You’ve seen fit to come home at last.”

And then she saw his face.

Her hands shot up to cover her mouth, but she couldn’t disguise the indrawn breath and gasp of horror, nor the hesitation in her stance.