Page 20 of The Cornish Inheritance

It had been good to see his grandfather again, but at the same time poignant to find the old man so reduced. And Aunt Agnes being so confused had brought a sizeable lump to his throat. In a way, it had been good, because after what had happened in Spain, he’d thought he could never feel emotion again. So the sorrow he’d felt on facing up to his grandfather and aunt’s decline had brought home to him that he might not be so numbed to feeling as he’d thought.

But the worst thing had been his mother’s reaction to his disfigurement. She was the only one who’d been horrified by his scar. Only she had withdrawn from him as though from a monster. Not that she’d ever been the sort to hug and kiss her children. Nat had grown up used to her keeping her distance and hadn’t expected any difference in her attitude now he was nearing thirty. But her obvious disgust at his facial injury had bitten to the bone. Perhaps he’d been expecting too much of her, though, and an absence of eleven years had given him a false idea of who she was.

She’d noticed his maimed right hand at dinner last night. He’d not been able to disguise it, although she’d made a creditable effort not to recoil in shock this time. Hetty, sitting beside him at the table, had covered his damaged hand with hers in solidarity, but said nothing.

Now Nat was riding over Penmar Head, having visited a few farms and been offered either tea, ale, or a whisky at each. A wet wind blew in his face, and, down on the beach, rollers charged in from the Atlantic. Quite a different day to yesterday, and definitely not a day for the new governess to be taking his grandfather’s heir anywhere near the water’s edge.

He’d not seen sight nor sound of either her or Yves that morning, when he’d taken breakfast with Hetty in the morning room. No doubt his mother still stuck to her strict regime of keeping children and governesses out of the main part of the house whenever possible. Young Yves had probably been down in the kitchens being fed by Mrs. Teague if he had any sense. Nat had eaten many a meal with the huge cook as a boy.

He put up a hand to jam his hat down more firmly onto his head as the wind snatched at it. Small fields covered the headland, edged by stone and earth-built banks, which themselves were topped by ragged hawthorn bushes, blowing now in the sea wind. The sheep, shorn of their winter coats, sensibly huddled up against the walls, out of the worst of the weather.

He was just heading down the track that would take him to Balwest Farm, when he caught sight of a rider heading in his direction. Whoever it was wore a greatcoat similar to his own, but was a sight better mounted on a classy, bright-bay horse. Nat drew rein and waited for the rider to approach.

The newcomer brought his horse in alongside Bosun and tipped his hat to Nat. “Good day to you, Sir. Not a particularly nice afternoon for a ride.”

Nat, keeping his face turned to the side out of long habit, nodded. “Have you come far?”

The newcomer, a tall and somewhat sturdy young man of approximately Nat’s own age, wiped a hand across his rain-wet face. “A tidy ride. My wife insisted that I should come personally and not trust to a messenger, and she’s not to be denied when she gets a bee in her bonnet.” He held out his hand to Nat. “Samuel Beauchamp, of Carlyon Court.”

Nat took the hand. “Nathaniel Treloar.” No need for him to give himself the title of major. That was all behind him now, and he didn’t need reminding of it.

Sam Beauchamp’s face lit up. “Of Roskilly? That’s where I’m bound. What luck to have bumped into you. I’m not entirely sure of the lanes around here, and there seems to be a surfeit of them that all look the same. Perhaps you can send me on in the right direction.” He tilted his head to one side. “Unless you’re heading back there yourself and could show me the way?”

Why not? The rain was worse than he’d expected, the farms much of a muchness, and the beach would be too windswept for a gallop. And breakfast felt a long time ago. He might as well head back to the Court in this gentleman’s company. He turned Bosun around, and the two horses fell in side by side, Nat keeping to Sam’s right, although he suspected Sam had already spotted the scar but was politely refraining from appearing to notice it.

Sam was clearly a far more garrulous companion than Nat might have hoped for. “My wife made no mention of you being at Roskilly,” he began with. “She told me she met Mrs. Treloar and her daughter, Henrietta, last week at the Truro Assembly Rooms.”

He was clearly fishing. No doubt so he could tell his wife all about Nat later. Probably top of his description would be Nat’s scar.

A pregnant pause ensued that Nat felt forced to fill. “Hetty is my sister.”

“Ah.” Sam nodded. “Although I do believe my wife, Ysella her name is, told me Miss Treloar was a redhead.” He raised his eyes to Nat’s face, pointedly looking at Nat’s own dark hair beneath his hat.

Damn the man. Why did he want to make chitchat like this? Nat would have scowled, only his right eyebrow would not have obliged him. “She takes after my grandmother.” No need to vouchsafe further information. That would have to do. He’d become the master of the short answer in the last six years.

Sam smiled. Did he consider Nat a new friend on such short acquaintance? “Ysella told me your sister is an uncommonly pretty girl. In fact, this is partly why she had me ride over here in this atrocious weather.”

He must be trying to look apologetic, but it wasn’t quite working. Was the man under the thumb of his wife that he leapt to do her every bidding like this? Was Nat now supposed to ask him what his visit portended?

It seemed not, because Sam went on without needing to be asked. “Ysella wanted me to call upon your mother for several reasons. The first being out of a desire to invite her and your sister, who she noted is of an age to enjoy dancing and pleasant company, to attend a ball we’re giving at Carlyon. And the second is that she wanted me to ascertain if her friend Caroline Fairfield is employed now by Mrs. Treloar. You see, it was Ysella who recommended her to your mother, so she feels a vested interest in the outcome.”

Sam regarded Nat as though this time he was waiting for a reply.

Nat sighed. “I’m sure my sister will be very pleased to attend your ball. And I can tell you right now that a Miss Fairfield is indeed performing the duties of governess to my young cousin. I think I was told her name is Caroline. Would that be your wife’s friend?” How did this gentleman’s wife come to have a friend who was a governess? Although, Miss Fairfield had about her the air of a well-bred young lady, so perhaps she’d fallen on hard times. Not that he cared. He did not want to get into discussing the life story of a member of staff.

Sam’s honest face lit up. “The very one. Ysella will be delighted. She has asked me to extend the invitation to Caroline as well as your mother and sister. She longs to see her again.” He paused, his smile honest and open. “Although of course, she would like to see your mother and sister almost as much.”

Nat frowned, doubting very much that anyone might want to see his mother and not at all sure she would approve of an employee being invited to the same ball she and Hetty were going to.

“And now I’ve discovered your existence,” Sam said, with a bit of a flourish, “I daresay Ysella will never forgive me if I don’t persuade you to escort the ladies.”

Oh no. Nat did not at all want to have to go to a ball anywhere and be stared at by the local gentry, people he’d known as a child and gone to school with, their wives he might never have met, and definitely not the over-friendly Sam Beauchamp’s wife, who was probably just like him.

“Shall we trot on?” he asked. “And get out of this rain?”