Page 18 of The Cornish Inheritance

“That’s dreadful.” How sad for his two children and his widow. No wonder Mrs. Treloar seemed so cold. Caroline made up her mind to make allowances for her.

Hetty gave a shrug, returning to her original story. “It’s a shame for Yves, really, because he loved Miss Hawkins, but for me it was good luck. With her gone, Mama said I could abandon the schoolroom and become a young lady.” She frowned. “Although she still wants me to practice things like the piano, painting, and speaking French.”

Caroline pressed her lips together. Hetty was such an ingenue, surely she could ask her a few rather loaded questions without the girl noticing. “And if anything were to happen to Yves, who would become heir to Roskilly?”

Hetty shrugged. “I daresay Nat would, although I don’t know for sure. I doubt my two aunts would come into it, even though they were Papa’s older sisters. We females are never considered important enough to inherit anything when there are men about. Especially not a house and businesses.”

“But after Nat, would it be you?”

Hetty nodded. “I suppose it might be.” A frown drifted across her brow. “I’m rather vexed with Nat. I haven’t seen him since Aunt Endelyn’s husband died and he came down for the funeral. And even then, I hardly had a chance to talk to him. I was only fourteen, and no doubt he didn’t want to be bothered with a schoolgirl. He stayed at Bodilly House with my aunt and only came to Roskilly to see Grandpapa. And before that, I think the last time I saw him was when I was six.” She sighed. “Back then, before Papa died, Nat used to play with me all the time. He was such a fun big brother. But from what I’ve seen of him today, I don’t think he’ll ever be fun again.”

Caroline thought about the disfiguring scar running down Nat’s face. “I should imagine war has changed him a lot, Hetty, and you may have to be patient with him. And not just his appearance will have changed. If he’s been so severely wounded, then, inside himself, he may be hurting very much. You’ll need to try to be patient and understanding even if he seems surly and rude.” Advice she would do well to adhere to herself, given how she’d taken such a dislike to Nat on the beach.

*

Nat, meanwhile, hadleft his grandfather sleeping and gone in search of Great-Aunt Agnes. This lady he discovered in the library, a room aptly fitting its title as shelves of books lined every wall.

A large stone fireplace occupied the center of one wall, a fire burning in it despite the clement weather outside. Two wingback chairs had been drawn up close to the heat, and in one sat a tiny, bird-like old lady, reading a book with a large magnifying glass. She looked up as Nat came in, and her lined face lit up with delight. “Hugh! Have you just returned from the hunt? Did the hounds make a kill? I asked Mama if I could accompany you, but she made me stay and read to her.” She closed the book and set down the magnifying glass on the table by her side.

Nat went down on one knee beside her chair and took her frail hands in his. She’d been reading the book upside down. “It’s Nat, Aunt Agnes. Hugh is my grandfather, your brother.”

“Nat?” The old lady stared at him, for a moment bemused. “But my Nat’s just a little boy. I see him playing out in the gardens, or sliding down the stairs on a tea tray.”

“That’ll be Yves, Uncle Robert’s boy.”

She shook her head, suddenly peevish. “And where is Robert, I want to know? I haven’t seen him for days. He can’t keep hiding from his auntie or I won’t have any treats for him.” She reached down to the side of her chair and fished up a large cloth bag. “I keep my treats in here, for the little ones. For my little Nat.”

Nat sighed. His great-aunt had been heading toward senility when he’d last seen her after the funeral, but nothing as bad as this. Just a little forgetfulness as far as he could tell at the time. Now, her mind seemed addled and befuddled. “I’m your Nat,” he tried again. “Come home from the wars.”

She lifted the magnifying glass, and, holding it up to her right eye, peered through it at him. Her own rheumy eye was hugely enlarged by this procedure as she had the glass the wrong way round. She squinted at his face, moving the glass closer to his scar the better to see it. “What’s this? My Nat don’t look like this.” She lifted a bony hand and reached out to touch his scar.

Nat flinched, the effort of preventing himself from starting back enormous. No one had ever touched his scar save the surgeon who’d stitched it back together. Her cool, dry fingers felt the raised and puckered skin. He grit his teeth. She explored the ridges of scar tissue, that the surgeon had said would eventually lessen, from above his right eye, down his damaged cheek to his chin.

“Why,” she said at last, her voice soft as an autumn leaf blowing in the wind, “who did this to you, Nat? My little Nat come back to me.”

Nat pressed his lips together. “A Frenchman. I’ve been away fighting Bonaparte, Aunt Agnes, but now I’m back.”

Her faded eyes sharpened, and her hand dropped to seize his in a claw like grasp. “You’re back for good?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I’ve not thought about what to do now I’ve resigned my commission and said goodbye to the army.”

Her grip tightened. “You have to stay.” Her voice hissed with urgency. “You have to stay and protect the child.”

Nat frowned. “What child?” Surely, she didn’t mean Yves?

But her moment of lucidity had gone, if it had ever been that. “You have to protect my Robert. My golden boy. I wonder why I’ve not seen him for so long. He usually comes to sit with me of an afternoon, and I listen to him read. Such a kind boy.” She released his hand, looking down at the book in her lap. “Perhaps he’ll read to me from this book today.” It was Johnson’s Dictionary.

On an impulse, Nat leaned forward and kissed the wrinkled old cheek. “Dear Aunt Agnes, it’s good to see you again.” She smelled of lavender water and old lady.