Page 36 of The Cornish Inheritance

Mrs. Treloar tutted as the beef was served. “I had to agree that Miss Fairfield may accompany us. As you are to be my escort, Jan, I could hardly cavil at her also being one of our party.”

Trefusis’s dark eyes flashed momentarily before he had them veiled again. He hadn’t liked the suggestion that he was on a par with a common governess. Clearly this man saw himself as on a level footing with his employers. Now, what had given him that impression? Were he and Mrs. Treloar actual lovers? Unlikely as it seemed that Mrs. Treloar would have any lover at all, Caroline had to acknowledge that the rumors might well be true and their odd relationship might be a physical one.

Trefusis glanced at Nat. “I assume you won’t be accompanying us… what with your handicap.”

Caroline caught her breath. Did this man have no manners at all? No common decency about him?

Before Nat could answer, Hetty did it for him, her words tumbling out in her haste. “Of course he will. Mr. Beauchamp expressly asked him to come. And as for Miss Fairfield, she’ll be coming because Mrs. Beauchamp is an especial friend of hers.”

Trefusis’s heavy eyebrows rose as he glanced again at Mrs. Treloar. He must know how she wouldn’t like this. A governess was not meant to consort with the local gentry, although it seemed a land agent could.

“That is so,” Mrs. Treloar said, her jaw so tense she could scarce open her lips. “Miss Fairfield is to accompany us for that very reason.” Her eyes snapped. “I can only credit that Mr. Beauchamp sees this as normal as he was once his brother-in-law’s land agent, and perhaps is still, for all we know. A grammar-school boy, no doubt.”

That same momentary annoyance flashed across Trefusis’s swarthy face. Perhaps he too had been a grammar-school boy, or not even reached that high in society in his youth.

Caroline bit her lip. Oh, how she longed to lean over and slap Mrs. Treloar across the face for her casual snobbery and bad manners. But of course, she didn’t. That would be to sink even lower than her employer, tempting as the prospect was. The more she saw of this woman, the more she disliked her. Thank goodness Hetty did not resemble her, although sour-faced Nat, despite his damaged good looks, seemed as though he might share her acrid personality. Although, she had to admit he had shown admirable concern for starving children. Something her dear friend Morvoren would have approved of.

She took a nibble of the beef, which was very good. Saying what she thought to Mrs. Treloar was the road to instant dismissal, and she had to metaphorically sit on her hands and control herself. She couldn’t leave Yves unprotected, so she would have to endure the dreadful manners of her employer. For his sake.

“Nothing wrong with being a grammar-school boy,” Nat said. “My own great-grandfather, Sir Hugh’s father, was one himself. And it stood him in good stead. None of us would be sitting here now if it weren’t for him. It was he who built up the mining business and provided my grandfather with the means to buy this house.”

This killed the conversation stone dead.

The meal continued with only sporadic chatter, which Caroline kept out of, content to merely observe her employer’s family. Mrs. Treloar maintained a frosty disapproval of everything that went on, except Trefusis, of course. Poor Hetty struggled to keep up a stream of somewhat inane chatter with her aunt, the strain showing in her eyes. And as for her brother, he just sat and silently ate, the expression in his cool blue eyes faraway, as though his mind were in a distant place, divorced from the goings on in the dining room.

What a relief it was when the meal ended and the ladies could withdraw, leaving Nat and Trefusis to smoke and drink port. If that was what they would do together, which seemed highly unlikely.

Caroline and Hetty followed Mrs. Treloar to the drawing room, Aunt Agnes tottering along behind them on two sticks, still cackling to herself every so often as though at some joke no one else appreciated.

Once settled in their respective seats, Mrs. Treloar wasted no time in turning her icy stare on Caroline. “Tell me, Miss Fairfield, how it is you are acquainted with Mrs. Beauchamp and her husband. I am curious to know how a governess should know the daughter of a viscount.”

How much had Ysella told Mrs. Treloar when she met her at the Assembly Rooms? The thought of revealing her family’s misfortunes to this supercilious woman revolted Caroline. “We were neighbors,” she said, glancing at Hetty who appeared to be all ears.

“In Wiltshire, am I to understand?”

“Yes. I was more of an age with her older sisters, but once they were married, Ysella, who is now Mrs. Beauchamp, and I became good friends.”

“Despite the difference in your status.”

Caroline grit her teeth for a moment. “I have not always been a governess.”

“So I gather. Do you still possess parents?”

“A mother only.”

This catechism on her life grated.

“What of your father?”

If she weren’t careful, she was going to commit the fatal sin of rudeness to an employer and ruin all chance she had of saving Yves. “My father is dead.”

Hetty stifled a yawn behind her hand. “Mama, I am so tired I think I might retire to my room. Perhaps, Miss Fairfield, I might trouble you to accompany me? I would be most honored if you would help me choose my gown for the ball.” Her limpid blue eyes gazed guilelessly at her mother. “You won’t mind if we go, will you Mama? I should so love to have some help deciding. You know how I am—cannot decide a single thing by myself. And you have Aunt Agnes to keep you company down here.” She rose to her feet before her mother had chance to answer. “And you, Miss Fairfield, can show me the gown you’ve chosen to wear.”

Thank you, Hetty. Caroline grabbed this lifeline with both hands and also rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Ma’am?”

Mrs. Treloar, her mouth screwed tight as the Cadley kitchen cat’s bum, waved a resigned hand at them both. “Off you go then. And mind your own gown reflects your position in life, Miss Fairfield. You are not to be the belle of any ball in Cornwall.”