Page 4 of The Cornish Inheritance

She set off down the lane.

Although the day was fine, with only a scattering of clouds in the sky, it soon became clear that there must have been a lot of rain in the past few days. The ruts had here and there been filled in with rocks, which made uncomfortable walking, even in her smart boots, but, in between, the ground lay muddy and uneven. Ysella had once told her it rained a lot in Cornwall, and it looked like that must be true. The two valises grew heavier with every step she took, and she couldn’t even swap them from hand to hand as both seemed equally heavy. What had she packed in there? Bricks?

Soon she found herself passing through a patch of stunted woodland, the straggly trees bending over the track and stretching out long, spiky arms toward her. Where on earth was this going to take her? Ysella had said this family was gentry, and the name of their house implied she’d had it correct. But was this their main entrance?

She struggled on, the summer sun beating down on her in a most discomforting manner. Sweat sprang out on her back, her face began to glow with heat, and some of the branches had snatched at her hair and pulled tendrils loose. Her boots were now mired in mud and the hem of the plain blue gown she’d chosen for a good first impression was liberally spattered. Conscious she no longer looked at her best, she ploughed on. After all, she could hardly turn back now, could she?

After what seemed like a lot more than one mile, she finally turned yet another corner in the track and spotted what had to be her goal. A large, square mansion stood before her, only she seemed to have come upon it from behind, where the oldest part of the house, that would be hidden by a more modern façade at the front, gave away its ancient origins.

She set down her valises in relief and surveyed the building.

The first thing that met her eyes was the stable courtyard, close beside the tidy barns and outbuildings of what had to be the home farm. The coach driver must have dropped her at the back entrance—the servants’ entrance perhaps. Did she look like a servant? Maybe she did in her rather austere spencer and gown, and with her hair sensibly restrained in a neat bun under a plain and practical bonnet. Not that her hair was neat any longer, of course.

But she was not a servant. She was a governess now, and she was not going to enter by the back door.

Picking up her valises again, she followed a neat graveled path around to the front of the house, where a sweeping driveway bisected wide green lawns. She’d been right. The front of the house shouted new addition loud and clear. Whoever owned this house had spent a great deal of money on bringing it up to date, and relatively recently by the style of it. An impressive, pillared portico, such as was all the rage in houses nowadays, sheltered a double front door, and, on the far side of the carriage turning circle, an iron grilled gateway marked an entrance into a stone-walled garden.

Caroline set her valises down again and attempted to tidy her hair, tucking the loose tendrils behind her ears. If only she had a mirror. And if only she wasn’t now sweating like a navvy. So much for the adage “horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow”—she felt as though she were doing all three at once.

Just then, the gate from the walled garden swung open on creaky hinges, and a small boy in a blue skeleton suit cannoned out of it, short legs going at full pelt, his long golden curls whipping out behind him. An equally small dog, a russet spaniel, ran barking at his heels as though the two of them were racing.

The child skidded to a halt on the gravel ten feet from Caroline, and the dog sat on its haunches, gazing up at its master out of adoring brown eyes.

The dog’s master stared at Caroline for a few long seconds before his freckled face broke into a grin. “Hello.”

Caroline, who liked children, smiled back. “Hello to you, young sir.”

The boy tilted his head to one side as though assessing her appearance. “Why’re you so muddy?”

Caroline glanced down at her clothing. She had to admit it was in a state. “I’ve just walked down that lane over there from where the Penzance coach dropped me off. I think he made a mistake in leaving me there.”

“Are you the new parlor maid?”

She shook her head. “No. Were you expecting one?”

He shrugged. “I think so. You don’t sound much like a parlor maid, though.”

“That’s because I’m not one.”

“Good. I like the way you sound. They don’t like me talking to the parlor maids in case I learn to speak like them, but I do talk to them when no one’s looking.” He frowned. “What are you doing here, then?”

Caroline pressed her lips together. “I did think I was coming to be the governess to a boy who lives here, but I’m not sure his aunt is expecting me. My friend, Mrs. Beauchamp, who lives at Carlyon Court, recommended me to Mrs. Treloar, and sent me a letter telling me to come down here as soon as possible. So here I am, and I very much fear that no one knows I’m coming.”

The boy pulled a face. “I think you must be my new governess then.”

“I was rapidly coming to that conclusion myself.”

He frowned. “I’d decided not to like my new governess after Aunt Ruth got rid of Miss Hawkins. I liked Miss Hawkins. A lot.” His voice took on a note of complaint. “I didn’t want her to go. She took me out walking and showed me all sorts of int’resting things. We found a badger’s sett, but Aunt Ruth sent Roscarrow out to kill the badgers.” The frown deepened. “Miss Hawkins and me, we were going to go back and hide in a bush and watch them, and now I can’t, because they’re all dead.” He rubbed his small nose with a grubby hand.

Caroline wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this. Mrs. Treloar, as her prospective employer, would no doubt want her to back up her actions with the badgers, but Caroline couldn’t help but commiserate with the little boy before her. He had such a doleful expression on his young face.

“Oh dear,” she said, seeking for noncommittal. “Well, if your aunt takes me on as your governess, I promise we’ll look for another badgers’ sett. There’s one in the woods near where I live—lived, and my own dear papa took me down there to watch the creatures from time to time. I loved to see the cubs playing together in the spring. But we had to sit very still and quiet. Is that something you can do?”

The boy’s face brightened. “Of course I can. I’d like that.” He stepped up to her. “I should introduce myself. Aunt Ruth would be quite vexed if she thought I didn’t mind my manners. My name is Yves Treloar.” He held out a small hand, the dirty nails bitten to the quick.

Caroline took it and they shook. “And my name is Caroline Fairfield. Pleased to meet you, Master Treloar.”

He grinned. “Pleased to meet you, too. I think… But I daresay you’d best go in, now, and meet Aunt Ruth. I’ll show you the way if you like.”

Caroline followed Yves to the front door, which he shoved wide enough open to allow her to step inside.

The interior of Roskilly House, like its front façade, possessed an air of modernity about it, as though someone had taken time with all the decoration and furniture to buy everything of the most up to date. The front door opened into a wide and somewhat spartan hallway with black and white tiles underfoot, and a marble staircase leading to a galleried upper floor.

A liveried servant, the butler perhaps, appeared as if from nowhere. “Master Yves, you’re wanted in the nursery for your tea.” He bowed to Caroline, disapproval in his cold stare. “May I be of assistance, Miss?”

Yves stood his ground and looked up at Caroline in expectation.

She drew herself up straighter, wishing she didn’t look so much the worse for wear. “My name is Caroline Fairfield. I’ve come to see Mrs. Treloar.” She glanced at Yves. Best to start as she meant to go on with him. “Hadn’t you best do as you’re told and go to the nursery?”

He gave a resigned shrug, but didn’t move.

She tried to ignore the way the butler was eyeing her bedraggled appearance and look as though it didn’t matter. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to leave your bags here, Miss Fairfield, and follow me this way.” He glanced at the boy. “Off you go, young man.” But she was surprised to see a fond twinkle in his eye.

Yves, trailing his feet, started up the wide staircase, the spaniel trotting at his heels. On the third step, he turned and grinned at Caroline again. She lifted a hand to him, and followed the butler toward an impressively large door on the right of the hall, the feeling of being a fraud washing over her in ever-increasing waves.