Page 41 of The Cornish Inheritance

He held up his hand. “You have no need to tell me.”

“I’d like to.”

“Then walk with me to the summerhouse and sit a while where we won’t be interrupted.”

What would Mrs. Treloar say if she discovered Caroline had gone out by herself in the dark and encountered her son for what would seem like a secret rendezvous? Then walked with him into the gardens, to the shelter of the summerhouse. With any man, that would be bad enough, but with her employer’s son? Caroline stiffened her resolve. What did she care? She was beyond the age of giddy silliness and compromise, and if she wanted to talk to someone by herself, even if they were a man, then she would.

They descended the stone steps to the lawn and crossed it to where a small, white-painted summerhouse sat in an arbor of shadowy, overhanging trees. How like Ysella to have had this built. Nat pushed open the flimsy door and they went inside. The thin sliver of the moon showed the octagonal, glass-paned building to have cushioned seats around the edge.

Caroline sat down, careful to choose the darker side of the summerhouse where Nat would feel less exposed. He sat beside her, close enough that had she wanted to, she could have reached out and touched him.

Out here, no sound carried to them from the house, but somewhere in one of the nearby trees an owl called. The night was still and warm, and although this felt far away from the house and other people, Caroline felt no fear at being out here alone with Nat.

“My father,” she began again. “My father was a kind and generous man, not given to parsimony, but selfish in his own way. I loved him dearly, as did my mother. But he had one terrible fault that made him worse than selfish, and that was gambling.”

“Most men like to gamble. I do myself, as you saw.”

She nodded. “I know, and some will come in time to the straits my father found himself in, where they have wagered away their homes and livelihoods and still have gambled on.” She swallowed. “My father did that. Like all men in his position, he truly believed his luck would change if he kept on wagering. So that was what he did. And lost everything on the roll of a dice and the turn of a card.”

“And left you destitute?”

She nodded again. “My mother and myself.” Now came the hard part. “But he is not here to share our ignominy with us. It would have been easier, by far, had he chosen to remain, but he didn’t. He took the coward’s way and left us to face our fate alone.” She paused. “He was selfish to the end and shot himself in his study.” Her voice shook as she said aloud the words she’d so often thought inside her head but never spoken, not even to her mother.

Nat stayed silent. The owl called again, the sound lonely and haunting, as though even the night bird were joining in with her mourning.

“You hold it against him?” Nat asked, his voice gentle. Perhaps for him, too, it was easier to talk like this when neither could see the other’s face.

“I did,” Caroline said. “I did for some time, but now, perhaps, I don’t. I see him for what he was—a weak and selfish man who could not say no to his vice. But I loved him and love him still, for he remains my father and I shall have no other. And as for me, now I am learning to pay my own way through employment. My mother, though, is with my father’s sister and her family. I could not bring myself to do that. I could not live on another’s charity.” She shook her head. “I just wish I could provide a home for my mother with me, so she needn’t remain my sainted aunt’s poor relation and charitable cause.”

“It does you credit that you don’t hold it against your father.”

She chuckled. “Oh, I did at first, believe me. I’m no saint despite possessing a saintly aunt. No daughter could have been more angry with a parent. I thought, perhaps rightly, that he’d not loved my mother and me enough to stay with us. Made worse because when he did it, he chose to do it in a spot where one of us would find him.”

“But I suspect he did love you in his own way, and you know it.”

“You are right. We were a loving family.”

“Unlike mine.”

What to say to this? Would it be rude to agree? “Hetty is very loving.”

A snort. “Oh, Hetty was always so. You would not think her my mother’s child. But then, my mother had no hand in her upbringing. From birth she was in the hands of nurses and nannies, fortunately for her, women with kinder natures to model herself on. I believe my mother only saw her but once a month or so. She is a woman with no feeling for her children although I’d hoped she might find some for Hetty.”

Caroline was not at all sure she should be having this conversation, but at least, as they were alone, she could deny it had ever happened were she questioned about it. Although lying was against her strict principles.

“I’m sure your mother loves you in her own way.”

Another snort. “You may choose to think that, but I have evidence to the contrary.”

Caroline frowned, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t see her do it. If his mother didn’t love him, then why was she trying to kill her nephew? Because the person who would benefit in the end had to be Nat, who stood to inherit all that should one day belong to Yves, but only if Yves were gone. Unless it wasn’t his mother at all who was attempting to do away with Yves… But it couldn’t be Nat, could it, for he’d been hundreds of miles from home when Miss Hawkins had discovered the plot and been dismissed by Mrs. Treloar. No, it had to be his mother. Or Trefusis—although why he’d kill for another man’s benefit was a puzzle. Or was Nat lying?

“I’ve told you my secret,” Caroline said. “Will you tell me yours?”

Silence. His hand went up to his face again before dropping into his lap. “I imagine that to be a fair exchange.”

She waited.

“You know, of course, that I was a soldier?”