Page 37 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Sixteen

The day of the ball came around much more quickly than Caroline expected. She kept a strict eye on Yves for the whole of this time, and he played his part by pretending to be sleepy in the mornings. Although not so sleepy as to miss out on his breakfast in the kitchen, which Caroline had taken to sharing with him. Anything was better than a couple of slices of dry toast and a cup of weak tea, with the added benefit being she could keep watch over him and what he ate. Not that she thought Mrs. Teague would slip anything into his food, but Bridget certainly might if she happened to be in the kitchen too.

She kept Hetty company every afternoon, and organized her piano practice, a little against Hetty’s will, in the music room, before taking both children, for Hetty was still very much a child in her eyes, for a daily walk down to the beach. Although she was careful to prevent the adventurous Yves from getting himself soaking wet again.

On one occasion on their way back up from the beach carrying handfuls of shells Yves and Hetty had collected, they encountered Jan Trefusis in the gardens. He appeared from behind a bush very much as though he’d been lurking there waiting for them. A bush that happened to be out of sight of any of the windows of the house.

“Ah,” he said, his Cornish accent more in evidence than it had been at dinner. “Miss Fairfield and Hetty, or should I say Henrietta, now you’re a woman grown?”

That the implication of that soubriquet was purely sexual, Caroline had no doubt. The man’s dark eyes burned with lust.

Hetty shrank against Caroline, dropping her shells as her small hand seized hold of Caroline’s.

Trefusis’s black eyes ran over Hetty’s girlish curves. “Looking pretty today with your hair all windblown.”

Yves stepped out from behind Caroline, a little turkey cock ready to fight. “Miss Treloar, to you,” he said, some of the gravitas of his statement lost in his youthful rendition of the putdown. “And I will thank you not to approach my cousin without invitation.”

Trefusis took a step closer to them all, looming larger and more threatening. “You’ll regret those words, boy. I’m the one with the power here. Not you. I can get Ruth to send you off to boarding school hundreds of miles away just like that.” He clicked his fingers. “And you wouldn’t see Cornwall or Roskilly again until you were eighteen.”

Yves stood his ground, a sight braver than his cousin. “No, sir. You will regret your words. For when I inherit Roskilly and become Sir Yves, you will be the first to go.”

Good heavens. Not a wise move, but it was too late now to stop him. This outburst spoke of a long-matured dislike of the man.

Trefusis, his face suffused with anger, raised his hand.

Caroline rose to her two charges’ defense.

“Mr. Trefusis. You cannot raise your hand to your employer’s heir, or I will have to tell him, and no doubt Sir Hugh will have you dismissed on the spot.” She took a quick breath, amazed at her own daring. “And Yves is quite correct. You should not lurk in the garden waiting to accost Miss Treloar. It is my obligation to protect both my charges, and I will do that to the best of my ability against anyone.”

Trefusis glowered at her, but now his hot eyes were running over her body as well, acquisitive and greedy. She had the unpleasant sensation he knew what she looked like naked.

Grabbing Yves’s hand and pulling Hetty with her, Caroline marched past Trefusis toward the house, heart pounding in her chest. She could only hope he wouldn’t twist this to his own advantage and report it to Mrs. Treloar, who would not look on it in the same way as Caroline did. Well, she might if she discovered how Trefusis was looking at her own daughter instead of her.

As soon as they were out of earshot of Trefusis, Hetty leaned toward Caroline. “You were so brave. I couldn’t have done that.” She put a hand on Yves’s shoulder. “And so were you.” She paused, scowling. “I hate that man. I wish he’d never come to Roskilly.”

“It was your mama who brought him here,” Yves retorted, sounding scornful, perhaps at Hetty’s lack of backbone.

“Well,” she snapped, “it wasn’t me. So don’t blame me. He’s awful. I hate the way he looks at me.” She returned her gaze to Caroline. “I wish he wasn’t coming to the ball with us. His presence will spoil it entirely for me.”

Caroline remained silent, secretly in total agreement with Hetty.

*

Between them, Hettyand Caroline, with a little reluctant help from Yves, had selected their ballgowns. “You’re going to look like one of Mrs. Teague’s iced cakes,” Yves told Hetty in disgust, “if you wear all those ribbons and things. ’Specially if you wear that bobbly shawl.”

The shawl in question could offer no real warmth, being made of finest gauze, but it did have a lot of extra “bobbly” bits attached, in pink to match Hetty’s chosen gown.

Yves had more approval for Caroline’s demure choice. “That’s better. No fiddly bits. You’ll look like a real person in this, and Hetty’s going to look like one of her soppy dolls.”

Hetty did indeed have a collection of very pretty china dolls, all done up in abundant gay finery as though they, too, were off to a ball. That some of the dolls must have been fifty or so years old didn’t help, as their gowns were wider and more elaborate than anything a self-respecting doll would wear nowadays.

“That doll,” Yves said, pointing an ink-stained finger, “looks like she has a really fat bum.”

Caroline wagged a finger at him for this lapse. “That is not a word we like to use. Neither Hetty nor I would say it, so neither should you.”

Yves grinned. “Can I say bottom then?”

Hetty giggled.