Page 83 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Thirty-Three

Nat strode down the corridor to his grandfather’s room, his muddy boots clacking on the wooden floorboards, and rapped smartly on the door.

After a few moments, it opened to reveal Rodgers, her square face creased in a scowl. “Yes?”

“I’ve come to see my grandfather.”

“Much good it’ll do you.”

He glared back at the woman. “Get out of the way and let me in.”

She stood back with surprising meekness for one normally so aggressive to visitors, and Nat entered the room. Immediately, the realization that the room had transformed from simple bedroom to sickroom bore down on him. An unhealthy, stuffy miasma pervaded the air, and his grandfather lay flat and still on the big bed, his slight body raising the covers only a fraction. Beside the bed, on an upholstered stool, sat his stepmother, her bony hands resting on the covers, with Aunt Agnes beside her in a high-backed chair.

Nat approached on hesitant feet. The left-hand side of Sir Hugh’s face had fallen to one side, as though a heavy weight were dragging it down, and his skin had the sunken, waxy look of death, that Nat knew well. Only his stertorous breathing told Nat he still lived.

“What happened?”

His stepmother raised her head. “He had another of his turns first thing this morning when Jan went in to see him. Jan wanted to discuss some matters of business that needed your grandfather’s approval.” Her hands gripped the bedclothes so hard the knuckles whitened. “We sent for the doctor straightaway. He’s been here all day, bleeding Sir Hugh, but to no avail. He was about to leave when you returned. Where have you been, I’d like to know, while the house has been in crisis? We looked everywhere for you after it happened, but it appears you were out gallivanting with the boy and his governess. Doing what, I cannot imagine, having seen the state you were all in. Still are.” She ran her gaze over his filthy, coatless attire and her lip curled in a sneer.

Nat ignored most of what she’d said as being not worthy of a reply. “Can the doctor do anything for him?”

She shook her head. “He bled him copiously, but can do no more. He said it’s just a matter of time, now.”

“Going to meet his maker, he is,” Aunt Agnes put in. “Be with Robert and Kenver, he will.” She chortled. “And I’ll be goin’ there soon, meself. Mark my words.”

Nat’s stepmother shot her a malevolent glare, as though she saw the old woman as an unwelcome intruder in the sickroom.

Nat studied his grandfather’s ravaged face. His stepmother had played no part in this, he felt sure. But what about Trefusis? Was it not rather more than a coincidence that the blackguard had been in here when the apoplexy had occurred? He’d set Yves on the path to explore the beach adit and counted him lost or drowned, which he would have been but for Caroline. No doubt it had been he who’d interfered with Nat’s saddle then removed the evidence. And now Sir Hugh was handily at death’s door. After a visit from Trefusis.

Nat felt grief, of course, but his grandfather had reached a far greater age than most, and he’d disliked being bedridden and at the mercy of Rodgers. No life for a man who’d always been so active. Common sense told him not to feel sorry for Sir Hugh. And besides, Nat had other far greater worries to attend to. The first of which was to get rid of Trefusis before he did any more harm.

“Where is Trefusis now, Mother?”

“Downstairs. Waiting in the parlor.”

Nat turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

The patter of her light slippers told him she’d followed.

Without pausing, Nat descended the stairs and went into the parlor, shoving the door open so hard it banged against the wall. Trefusis was by the window, but he turned as Nat came in. He must have been able to tell by the expression on Nat’s face that all was not well.

“Get out of here,” Nat began with, not being one to beat about the bush. “You’re dismissed. I want you gone.”

The man’s dark face darkened even further. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nat crossed the room and stopped in front of him, almost nose to nose. “You heard. Pack your things and go. You are no longer employed here.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Trefusis said, his normally calm voice edged with tension and his gaze going over Nat’s shoulder toward the still open door. “You can’t do that.”

Nat didn’t bother to look behind him, but guessed his stepmother had come into the room. “Can’t I? You watch me.”

Trefusis’s lip curled in a sneer. “You don’t have the authority to dismiss me. I’m not your employee.”

Nat’s face must have matched his. “Don’t I? You think so? We’ll see about that. If you don’t want me to kick you down the drive, then you’ll leave right now. Or I’ll call the Pascoes and have them throw you out. We’ll all kick you down the drive.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Nathaniel?” His stepmother finally found her voice, an icily cold one. “Jan is needed here. We can’t manage without him.”

Nat didn’t take his eyes off Trefusis. “No. He is not. How do you think my saddle came off my horse, Mother? Someone damaged the girth straps then went out and threw my saddle over the cliff or down an old mineshaft before I could find the evidence. Trefusis delayed Pascoe from retrieving it when I asked, so he could get there first.”