Page 65 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Yves, who must have had the sharpest ears, heard the wagon returning first. He leapt up from the table, scattering the draughts board and its pieces in all directions, and ran to the window, Hetty on his heels.

“They’re back. They’re back, and they have the cart with them. I can see Nat sitting on it!” squealed Hetty. “He’s not dead.”

Caroline rose from her seat by the bed, where she’d been sitting quietly with a book while Sir Hugh dozed, and hurried to join them. Sure enough, the cart was rumbling over the gravel with Nat sitting upright in it, his right arm in a sling. He looked disheveled and pale, but he was alive. And that was what mattered. Whoever had tried to kill him today, if that were what had truly happened, hadn’t succeeded. Caroline’s heart gave a great leap of relief. Thank God.

“Can we go down to see him?” Yves asked, jumping up and down at the window. “I want to ask him what happened.”

Sir Hugh stirred. “What? What’s that?”

“Nat has been found,” Caroline said. “He’s being brought back on the cart, but he doesn’t look badly hurt. Thank goodness.”

Were those tears glistening in the old man’s eyes? Had he, like Hetty, been inclined to think some curse hung over the Treloar family males? A sobering thought, and one, no doubt, Trefusis might try to use to his advantage.

Hetty ran to her grandfather and caught his hand. “Nat’s safe, Grandpapa. He’s not lying dead. I’m so happy I could sing.”

“Please don’t,” muttered the old man.

“He’s got his arm in a sling,” Yves pointed out. “So he’s not absolutely all right. I wish I had a sling. Can I have one too, so I can look like Nat? Can I, Caroline? Can I?”

Caroline laughed, a little hysterically due to the relief she was feeling. “Next time you play at pirates you can have a sling, but not just now.” She bit her lip. “And I think, if we’re all very quiet and you two don’t get carried away, we could go to the gallery and maybe down to the hall and see how Nat is. But you have to promise to behave. Both of you.”

“I promise,” Yves said.

“Me too,” Hetty added. “Although why you think I need to make the same promise as Yves, I don’t know. I’m always very well behaved, aren’t I?”

“Come back and tell me how he is,” Sir Hugh called. “Leave the dog with me. He can keep me company.” He hooked his bony fingers into Dash’s collar, but the dog didn’t seem inclined to give up his comfortable billet.

Caroline, Hetty, and Yves hurried to the top of the stairs, where they peered over the banisters. The front door stood wide open, and Ennion, in unaccustomed shirt sleeves, was standing in it. A moment later, Nat walked in, accompanied by Dickon and Young Pascoe, hovering to either side of him as though they feared he might buckle at the knees. His hair was in a mess, his buff breeches covered in dirt, and he’d lost his coat. Feeling Yves start forwards, Caroline put a restraining hand on him and Hetty.

*

Every step Nattook jarred both his shoulder and his head, but he was determined to show nothing. After all, he’d had much worse than this in battle, hadn’t he? And he had rather a large audience.

His stepmother had emerged from the parlor, her face even colder than normal, her eyes like icy pebbles. She didn’t look in the least bit pleased to see him. “Nathaniel. I see you are returned to us. What a furor you have caused, upsetting the whole household who had to leave their work and turn out to search for you.”

What was this? Was she accusing him of doing this deliberately? Of it being somehow his own fault? It wasn’t as if he’d just fallen off like some novice. His saddle had been faulty and come off with him.

His stepmother’s hard eyes ran over the sling and his dirty appearance. “I trust you are not badly hurt. Do I need to call Doctor Rescorla out?”

Nat shook his head, wishing immediately that he hadn’t but even more determined not to show it. “I’ve been well looked after by Gryff Casworan.” He didn’t need to tell her what his friend had done for him. “No need to trouble the doctor. Just a sprained shoulder and a bump on the head.” He turned to Young Pascoe and Dickon. “I can see myself upstairs to my room, thank you. I’m not an invalid yet.”

They stepped back, diffident and wary probably at his tone of voice, much as they’d been all the way back from Wheal Jenny. Having supported Nat’s mended shoulder with his makeshift sling, Casworan had sent a couple of young bal maidens to look for the search parties, and it hadn’t been long before Pascoe and the cart arrived. There being no women present to make a big fuss, Nat had allowed them to help him into the cart without further ado, and they’d set off for Roskilly.

Footsteps sounded in the still open front doorway, and Trefusis stepped into the hall, his face as dark as Nat’s stepmother’s face was cold. Anybody would think they weren’t glad to see him back safe and sound. Well, not all that sound, as Casworan had said, but practically so.

“I heard you were found,” the land agent said. “You seem to have the luck of the devil.”

Did he sound put out? Nat’s head ached too much to ponder that for long.

Instead, he nodded. “I’ve been right through the Peninsular War, so it’s going to take a lot more than a simple fall from a horse to kill me off.” They must know his saddle had come off as Young Pascoe had told him Duchess’s return home without him had sparked the search.

Trefusis managed to get his expression under control and even forced a smile onto his rugged face. “It’s a relief to have you back safe at Roskilly, Nathaniel.”

Why did he get the feeling Trefusis didn’t mean a word he was saying? And he didn’t like the man using his first name. He had ideas above his station.

Nat turned away and glanced around himself. There was about the gathering in the hallway a certain tension, as though everyone there wanted to say something of their own, but none dared. Even the servants looked as though they wanted to speak.