Page 10 of The Cornish Widow

Harriet spun round. Mrs. Trevelyan was standing only six feet away. “Mrs. Penhallow. What a surprise. I didn’t think to see you here this morning.” She sounded as friendly as ever.

Harriet recovered herself, aware her cheeks had taken on an uncomfortable heat. “Why, Mrs. Trevelyan, I had to come to express my most sincere thanks for everything you have done for me and my children. Without your help, we would have been sleeping on those dusty boards last night with no food inside us.”

Her hostess’s blue eyes twinkled, but her face remained straight. “It was the least a neighbor would do for a newcomer to Bessie’s Cove. Had I known you were arriving, I would have made sure all those things had been done beforehand. If Mrs. Bolitho had thought it wise to inform me, which she did not.”

“I fear that my aunt—I call her that as her true relationship is too complicated—would not have thought it fitting to inform anyone that she was allowing us to occupy her cottage. From what your kind servants told me yesterday, she is not a woman who often thinks of others.”

Her benefactress nodded. “Sadly, you are quite right, but they should not have relayed gossip to you. Now, what am I thinking of? Leaving you standing here when I should be offering you a seat.” She gestured at the elegant chairs. “Do sit down. I’ll ring for tea. Unless you would prefer coffee?”

Harriet shook her head, and sat down. “Thank you, tea will be lovely.”

Mrs. Trevelyan pulled the bell rope by the door and the butler reappeared as if by magic. “Ah, Crawford. A tray of tea, if you please. Here in the parlor.”

She sat down on one of the chairs close to Harriet. “I trust you slept well?”

Harriet nodded. “Far better than we would have done had we been lying on the floor, thank you. The beds were very comfortable.” She paused, at a loss what to say next. “Your servants were very kind to us, and we much appreciate you sending them to our aid, so please don’t reprimand them for gossiping. It was me, pressing questions on them that loosened their tongues.”

Mrs. Trevelyan’s brow furrowed. “No need to keep thanking me. If you do, it will become tiresome, and I shall grow bored. Best to leave it at that.”

“Of course.”

The door opened and Crawford came in with the tea tray. He set it down on a small table near his mistress and retreated.

“That will be all, thank you, Crawford,” Mrs. Trevelyan said. “I shall pour.” She dimpled at Harriet, suddenly appearing a lot younger than what must have been her fifty years, and much more like the lively young woman in the portrait.

Harriet’s gaze slid involuntarily to study the painting again. Was there a Mr. Trevelyan somewhere in this house? She resisted the urge to scour the walls of the drawing room in search of his portrait.

“Ah.” Mrs. Trevelyan laughed, a soft, throaty chuckle. “You’ve spotted my portrait, I see.”

“I couldn’t help but admire it. Is it by any chance an Opie?”

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded. “You are right. It is. My… son’s father had it commissioned when Jack was two.” She shook her head. “A long time ago now.”

Jack? Her son? Did he live here with his mother or might he be off in the army like Ben, or perhaps the navy, having been brought up so close to the coast? That would be more likely. Harriet didn’t like to ask, in case, like Ben, he was dead. Her hostess did have a slightly melancholic air about her this morning as she gazed at the portrait.

Even if Harriet had wanted to, she wasn’t about to be given the time to ask any questions. Mrs. Trevelyan leaned forward as she handed Harriet a dish of tea. “Now, tell me all about yourself, for yesterday we had no time to speak of anything but the necessities of life. With them under control, we can progress to becoming great friends, I think. I find it most pleasing to have a new neighbor to converse with.”

Mrs. Trevelyan was clearly well versed in interrogation. Before long she had extracted most of Harriet’s life story, or at least the parts of it Harriet was willing to divulge: the early marriage to the man she’d seen as her handsome, dashing soldier. A man whom she’d never suspected of being such a gambler, nor of being a… She shut that one off inside her head. No one ever needed to know that. The birth of their children, his departure overseas to fight for Wellington and his country, his death at Waterloo and Harriet’s subsequent penury. Mrs. Trevelyan was a sympathetic listener, plying Harriet with tea and patting her hand as Harriet recounted her story. There was something about her hostess that loosened Harriet’s tongue more than she would have imagined possible and had her confiding her fears to this woman when she’d no more have told her own dear-departed mother the details of her plight. At least, not quite all her fears.

“You poor dear,” Mrs. Trevelyan finally said when Harriet trailed to a close, determined not to let the tears forming in her eyes fall. How easy it would be to succumb and cry again. But if she did, what would her hostess think of her? Once was bad enough, but twice? And besides which, hadn’t she suppressed her tears countless times before?

However, when put together like this, her life seemed to be one long succession of things going wrong, so perhaps tears were justified. “At least I have my children. And dear Bertha.”

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded, her gaze rising to the portrait above the fireplace. “One’s children can be such a comfort in one’s hour of need.”

Harriet groped for something to say. “Do you have but the one son?” jumped into her mouth. No sooner had she said it, she regretted her impulsiveness.

Mrs. Trevelyan nodded. “Yes, but one son such as my Jack is more than enough.”

So not dead, like Ben. Probably. Really, she’d disclosed an awful lot about herself to her new friend, but had learnt nothing about her in return. Such as where was Mr. Trevelyan? The feeling that he didn’t exist swept over Harriet. Perhaps Mrs. Trevelyan was a widow, like Harriet, but she could hardly ask such a prying question. Far too impolite. And where was the son? And the son’s wife? And the son’s children? Instead of asking all these questions, Harriet waited, hopeful her hostess might divulge some of this information unprompted.

Mrs. Trevelyan’s eyes lingered on the portrait a little longer. “Such a sweet child.” She gave herself a shake. “So like his father.”

For some reason her words had Harriet wondering if he was no longer so sweet as he used to be, and if so, why not.

She was about to discover why.

The door of the drawing room swung open and a man strode into the room. He ground to a halt as his eyes came to a rest on Harriet.

He must have been over six feet tall, with slightly too long, almost black hair and curiously light brown eyes, so light they might almost have been said to be golden. He wore mud-speckled topboots, brown twill breeches and a navy coat.

Harriet blinked. Never before had she seen such a handsome man. His whole persona oozed masculinity and, right at this moment, an annoyance he was clearly struggling to hide. His dark brows unknit from the heavy frown that had marred them, and he visibly pulled himself together. “Mother.”