Page 29 of The Cornish Inheritance

Miss Hawkins pressed her lips together. “I spoke to Mrs. Treloar about it, and she ordered Hester to go to work in the kitchen after nursery supper. Bridget was to put Yves to bed from then on. And Bridget had no qualms about administering the carminative.”

“What’s in it?”

“Opium, or you might say laudanum. Not a particularly high dose, I’ve found out, as it’s meant for babies and small children, not big boys of nine. But I don’t think she was only giving him the carminative. I think she was adding extra laudanum to the bottle. Laudanum from the supply in Sir Hugh’s room.”

Cold fear traced a finger down Caroline’s spine. Could this all be true? After all, why would Miss Hawkins lie to her? Children were astute judges of character, and Yves appeared very fond of her. He surely wouldn’t be fond of a madwoman. Might she be right? “Today is the only day he’s been like this.”

“Perhaps, with no one to blame—and blame someone is what they intend to do—they decided to wait until a new scapegoat had arrived at Roskilly.”

“A scapegoat?”

“Yes.”

“You mean me?” Caroline’s voice rose in alarm. “You mean they’re planning to poison Yves and blame it on me?”

“Yes. I’m almost certain they intended to blame me when I was there, but I questioned the medication. I questioned some of the other things they were doing with Yves. The things Mrs. Treloar was allowing him to do. Jan Trefusis, the land agent, lets him do whatever he wants in the farmyard. Riding on loaded wagons, running in and out of the barns where the men are working, climbing unsafe trees. Going off by himself. Half the time I couldn’t find him because he’d be down in the home farmyard. Or out on the cliffs, looking for birds’ nests. At the suggestion of Trefusis.”

What had Hetty said? That he was always getting into scrapes and her mother never cared? Of course. Why would she care if he did dangerous things? She wouldn’t if she wanted him dead. And if he didn’t die by accident while out playing unchecked, then he could be seen to have died at the hands of his governess, who’d wanted him biddable and quiet… and drugged. The woman employed to take care of him who could be shown to have complained about his boisterousness. “Who is Trefusis? I haven’t met him yet? I mean—what sort of a man?”

“A ruthless one. Only he intends to have his Ruth.” Miss Hawkins’s eyes filled with venom. “A man with his eye for the main chance. He’s after Mrs. Treloar, you mark my words. And he intends her to inherit everything from old Sir Hugh. I’m certain. I wouldn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. Not one inch.”

A desire to see this Jan Trefusis for herself assailed Caroline, to discover what manner of man he was and assess the danger to Yves. Although encouraging a child to be daring and court danger was not the same as trying to poison him with laudanum. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did Mrs. Treloar dismiss you?”

Miss Hawkins sighed. “Because I argued with her about Yves’s care. Because she realized I had surmised her intentions and had discovered she’d ordered Bridget to dose him with the carminative. Because she could see she wouldn’t be able to blame me if something happened to him.”

Caroline swallowed. “And now you’re saying she’s going to blame me?”

Miss Hawkins nodded. “She is.”

Caroline set down her tea, untouched. “And why is she doing this?”

“The oldest and most obvious of reasons. To do away with the rightful heir so she can inherit the title and money.”

“But her son…”

Miss Hawkins’s eyes widened. “Her son?”

An image of that scarred and angry face rose up before Caroline. “Yes. Her son. Major Nathaniel Treloar. He returned to Treloar the day after I arrived. He’s back from the war.”

“Hetty’s brother? I thought he was dead.”

Caroline frowned. “Very much not dead. And I presume that if Yves were to die, he would stand to inherit the estate and mines from his grandfather some time in the near future. Not Mrs. Treloar or Hetty.”

“He would indeed, which would scupper Trefusis’s ambitions. This is interesting news. Tell me. What is he like?”

What was he like? Caroline’s brow furrowed. “Damaged. He has a terrible scar down the right side of his face and is missing two fingers from his right hand. But I don’t mean he’s damaged in that way. I mean it feels as though his very soul is damaged. Almost as though he has no soul. When you see his eyes, they’re as blue as Yves’s, but blank. Dead. I’ve met soldiers before. Indeed, I once fancied myself in love with a handsome young lieutenant, but he never came back from the war. But those that do come back, they’re changed. I would say Major Treloar has probably been changed a lot by his experiences.”

“I never met him in the time I taught the children,” Miss Hawkins said. “I believe he took up a commission straight from Harrow. I have no knowledge of him at all, but was under the impression he’d died in Spain a year ago. Although, if he were to be anything like Hetty, he would not be like his mother at all.”

“He’s not like Hetty. You can be sure of that. But I don’t think he’s anything like his mother, either, from what little I’ve seen of both of them. Perhaps he takes after his father, the late Mr. Treloar?”

“He may well do. I have no idea. Mr. Treloar died before my time at Treloar. A nasty business as far as I can gather.”

“What happened?”

“The son was home from school and his father took him down Wheal Jenny to see the workings. So I was told. Old Pascoe the coachman is a good source of information. Sir Hugh and Mr. Treloar both believed the boy should learn the business from the ground up. They were in one of the adits when there was a cave in. The miners shore up the roofs with wood but there’s a lot of rubble on top. Ten miners were caught in the roof fall. Mr. Treloar was killed and the boy escaped with a broken arm. Old Pascoe told me he was never the same after the accident. Went back to school, then, as soon as he could, persuaded his grandfather to purchase him a commission. Couldn’t wait to get away from Roskilly.”

Caroline bit her lip. She’d been right in counseling Hetty to sympathy for her brother. Not only had war been unkind to him, but so had his boyhood here in Cornwall. No wonder he was so dour and silent.