Page 19 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Nine

Caroline encountered Miss Agnes Treloar the following afternoon. Clouds had rolled in from the sea and a light drizzle prevented her from taking Yves out for a walk, as she’d planned, even though he declared himself unfazed by “a bit of rain.” Instead, she headed for the library with him and Hetty in search of the chess set Hetty had informed her resided there, a now clean and dry Dash trotting at their heels.

Having spent the morning in the school room introducing Yves to the vagaries of the Latin language in as an appealing fashion as Caroline could think of, followed by algebra and composition, Caroline had seen neither sight nor sound of any other member of the Roskilly household that day. So she was pleased when she and Yves encountered Hetty on the galleried landing and on her advice headed for the library.

Yves dragged his feet. “But I don’t want to learn to play chess. I’d rather be outside, playing ball with Dash.”

“Nonsense,” Caroline retorted. “It’s a game of tactics that makes you think carefully about everything you do. Most useful for someone in your position. Or the position you’ll one day hold.”

Yves stuck out his lower lip in rebellion, but followed her meekly enough into the library.

Twice the size of the one at Cadley Grange, the library at Roskilly boasted a fine array of books. But as Caroline well knew that books could be bought by the foot merely for their appearance and to indicate the supposed scholarship of their owners, she was unimpressed. As with the up-to-date furnishings in the main house, she had a feeling this library had been equipped for show.

Yves, on stepping into the room, let out a cry of delight, and ran across to where two wingback chairs stood close to a roaring fire. “Aunt Agnes! It’s me!” He plumped himself down on the footstool beside her chair, and gazed up at the old lady in evident delight, Dash by his feet. How touching it was to see his love for her.

“That’s Aunt Agnes,” Hetty said, without bothering to lower her voice. “Mad as a hatter and deaf with it. For some inexplicable reason, my little cousin adores her.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll warn you now. I like her too, but she can be a bit smelly.”

Such charming honesty. Caroline followed Yves across the room until she was standing in front of the tiny, almost elfin figure in the wingback chair. Thistledown hair, wrinkled apple of a face, rheumy blue eyes that must once have been like those of Yves, Hetty, and Nat, and hands like a bird’s claws. In her old-fashioned, wide-skirted, black-satin gown, she looked as though she’d stepped out of the last century, and quite some time back in it, as well.

Caroline performed an elegant curtsey. “Good afternoon, Miss Treloar.”

The old lady squinted up at her. “And who might you be, Missy?” The prerogative of the elderly—to be as blunt as they liked. Caroline’s own grandmother, whom she vaguely remembered, had been much the same toward the end.

Yves spoke up before Caroline had the chance to reply. “This is Miss Fairfield, my new governess. Only as we’re not in lessons, I’m allowed to call her Caroline.” His blue eyes twinkled. “But don’t tell Mama that. It’s mine and Caroline and Hetty’s secret.”

Caroline clasped her hands together. “We just came in here to find the chess board and set so I can begin to teach Yves how to play. I do hope we haven’t disturbed you. We can take the board up to the nursery if you’d rather be left in peace.”

The old lady’s face clouded over. “Yves? Who’s he?” She patted Yves on his curly head. “This is my little Robert.”

Yves didn’t appear the least put out at having been mistaken for someone else. He must be used to it.

Hetty leaned over to hiss in Caroline’s ear. “Yves’s father, remember. Aunt Agnes gets confused and most of the time thinks Yves is his father come back to her. Which, to be honest, is no wonder, as Yves is the image of the painting in the dining room of Uncle Robert as a boy.”

“I can read to you if you like, Aunt Agnes,” Yves piped up. “I’d rather read to you than learn to play a silly board game.”

Hetty laughed. “You are such a lazy boy, Yves. Grandpapa taught me how to play chess when I was smaller than you. It’s an excellent game.”

Yves’s head came up, his eyes hopeful. “Grandpapa taught you? Do you mean if I learn to play chess, he might play it with me?”

Hetty shrugged. “He might, but he won’t like it if you forget the moves and do silly things.” She glanced at Caroline. “We used to play for ha’pennies. The day I managed to beat him, he gave me a guinea.”

Caroline’s turn to laugh. “That seems an inordinate reward for a single win.”

Hetty tossed her auburn curls. “Not really. Grandpapa is not the sort to allow anyone to win as of an act of kindness, so when I finally managed to beat him, he reflected that in the reward I won.”

Aunt Agnes, ignoring this conversation, patted the small round table by her side. “Draw up a chair, Missy, and the girl can fetch the chess set and lay it out on here. I’d like to watch Robert learn.”

“Yves, you deaf old biddy,” Hetty hissed, then raised her voice. “Very well, Aunt. I’ll fetch the board and pieces.”

Caroline, resigning herself to having to stay and provide entertainment for the old lady, pulled the other wingback chair closer to the table, as far away from the heat of the fire as she could get. After all, it was July, even though the house itself didn’t reflect that.

Yves set his chin in his hands and also appeared to have resigned himself—in his case to learning to play chess.

*

Nat was nowhereto be seen at Roskilly that day because he’d chosen to ride out to inspect the estate and see what condition it was in. He set out on his friend Jacka’s cob, which had spent a night of luxury in a spacious loose box with the best oats and hay and was full of the joys of spring, despite it being mid-July.

He didn’t hurry, despite the fine mizzle of rain. He had his greatcoat and his wide-brimmed hat, and, besides which, he’d suffered much worse in a Spanish winter under canvas. It was good to be out of the stifling confines of Roskilly House that only served to remind him of how glad he’d been to get away from it at eighteen. Although, once he was out in the fresh but damp air, and had time to consider the matter, he realized it was not Roskilly itself that had brought on this feeling, but rather the people within it. Mainly his mother. And no doubt the estate manager whom he had yet to encounter. Jan Trefusis. The one consolation being that she’d had the sense to hire a Cornishman.