Page 18 of The Cornish Widow

Theo frowned. “As I’m escorting you, couldn’t we go in there on the way back and see what it’s like? I’ve only been in the kiddley kitchen, with Cado. His ma wouldn’t let him and me go into the taproom, and I’d like to. Bronnen told me her brothers go in there.”

He must have seen the frown on her face because his voice became a wheedle. “So… at least, wouldn’t it be all right for me to go in because I’m a boy. Could I go in there by myself, as you don’t want to?”

“Absolutely not,” Harriet snapped. “Cado’s mother is quite right. Little boys should not go in taprooms. The subject is closed. You are not to go near that alehouse. You’re far too young.”

“Kiddley,” Theo grumbled. “But I can still go over there to see Cado?”

“Alehouse. I suppose you can see your new friend but you must follow his mother’s rules. You are not to go into the taproom. Now, let’s see where this path goes next.” She gave his hand a tug, pulling him closer, and hurried her steps, intent on putting as much ground as possible between herself and the dreaded alehouse. No doubt that was where Captain Trevelyan had repaired to the other day, thus tarring himself with the same brush as Ben. Men. They were all the same. No wonder she wanted to avoid them at all costs.

As they rounded the headland, they came face to face with an imposing granite-built house occupying a spot hard against the top of the cliffs. It overlooked a cove similar in size to the one where their own house lay, sitting square and bleak, as though whoever had built it had focused entirely on making sure it was weatherproof rather than attractive, with few windows in its blank gray walls. As silent and dead as the kiddley. There, even she was calling it a kiddley now. That word had stuck in her head.

“That’s John Carter’s house,” Theo said, with an air of proprietorial pride. “Porth en Alls. Bronnen told me. He was the King of Prussia and Cado’s something-or-other uncle. His great-grandma’s brother… I think…”

“He was the king of where?” This unexpected statement brought Harriet to a halt in front of the house. “Of Prussia?” Although, of course, hadn’t Aunt Bolitho’s man of business in Bath referred to this area as Prussia Cove? There must be some connection. He couldn’t really have been the king of Prussia. Could he? Not with a name like John Carter. Besides, wasn’t Frederick William III, who’d joined the fight against Napoleon, the King of Prussia?

Theo nodded. “Only he’s dead now. She didn’t tell me who lives here nowadays.”

No one, by the look of it. The house’s few small windows appeared dark and forbidding, and its barns and storehouses lay scattered in confusion as though someone had made no plan as to where they should go but rather added another one on wherever there was a space.

“Come along, Theo. No time to stop and gawk, or it’s going to take us all day to get to Roskilly.” Sensing Theo’s reluctance to leave, she pulled him after her along the next bit of the path.

Here, it hugged the clifftop, giving them a view of the rocky foreshore below as the tide was either partly out or partly in. Harriet had no idea how to tell which way it was going. Ahead of them, the cliffs rose higher, skirting around the top of a long sandy beach, but with no apparent way down to it. This must be the beach they had to walk past. The name came back to her. Kennegy Beach.

Out to sea, small fishing boats dotted the deep blue-green water, their sails billowing in the wind, and white foam topped the waves here and there. That same fresh wind tugged strands of Harriet’s hair loose from inside her bonnet and ruffled Theo’s dark curls. The smell of the sea was strong. What a beautiful day to be out walking, especially now they were away from habitation. The glorious loneliness of the coast settled in a balm on Harriet’s damaged soul, washing Bath away as though she were sloughing off a skin, like a snake.

The beauty of the day had infected Theo as well, and he appeared to have forgotten about venturing into the kiddley. She kept a tight hold of his hand though, not trusting him so near to such high cliffs. He was no more used to them than she was, and the fear nagged at her that if she were to release his hand, he’d end up emulating the previous tenant of their cottage. What with kiddleys and cliffs and looking for gulls’ nests, danger loomed on every side if you were a small, adventurous boy.

Their way led over the next headland where the distinctive, tall silhouettes of two tin mines could be seen from afar. The sound of their busy pumps rose above the crash of waves at the cliffs’ feet and the wind snatched the smoke from their chimneys to drive it inland in stringy shreds.

Theo, ever curious, wanted to know what they were, which entailed a long explanation on Harriet’s part of what she knew of the Cornish tin industry. The telling of this, despite the paucity of her knowledge, took them down off the headland and onto what had to be the wide sands of Morgelyn Beach. She could finally release Theo’s hand in safety and watch him run about in delight, cavorting like a gangly colt and leaving pleasingly firm footprints behind him in the damp sand. The tide seemed to have fallen further back, exposing the full glory of the beach, so it must be on its way out.

Halfway along, as she’d been told, a narrow, gritty path wove between the low sandhills leading them to a wider track and the sight of a splendid granite-built house in the distance, larger and more imposing than Rosudgeon. For a moment, Harriet quailed in her shoes, unsure whether Mrs. Trevelyan had been right in advising her to make herself known to her neighbors. Whoever lived here must be of great importance to own such a large house.

A side gate led to a winding path between lawns, still leaf-strewn after the storm, before forking at the house, one path leading towards the front and the other heading off towards the servants’ quarters and the stables at the back. Taking Theo by the hand again, in case he had the temerity to go running off to explore the garden, Harriet started around the house to the front with some trepidation.

In front of a modern façade and fashionable pillared portico, a young, liveried groom stood holding the reins of a large black horse. As Harriet rounded the corner, both turned their heads in curiosity, the horse’s ears pricked and alert. A finely bred, high-crested creature with all the presence of a stallion. The young man tugged his forelock in respect. “Ma’am.”

“Good morning.” Harriet bestowed a slight smile on him as she headed for the porticoed front door. Theo’s head swiveled to inspect the horse as he passed, but she had him firmly in tow.

Her knock was answered by a butler clad all in black, the thin white hair on his head, as well as his unusually pale face, in stark contrast to his outfit. For a brief moment, his appraising gaze flicked over her appearance—smart in her best black dress—before he executed a small bow. “Good day, ma’am.”

Harriet had already fished in her reticule for her calling card, a remnant of her more affluent days in Bath. “Good morning to you. My name is Mrs. Penhallow. Might Mrs. Treloar be at home?”

The butler didn’t even glance at the card. “If you will allow me to escort you into the drawing room, I will enquire for you, ma’am.”

Inside, the house was as up to date as the front façade, decorated mainly in plain white with some expensive ornaments in alcoves and tasteful portraits on the walls. Underfoot, stark black and white tiles gleamed with fresh polish. Whoever ran this household must keep a tight ship.

Harriet and Theo followed the butler into a similarly tasteful drawing room, and he departed with her calling card. As soon as the door closed behind him, Harriet’s hard-won confidence deflated. What if Mrs. Treloar wouldn’t see her? How embarrassing would that be? She might be the sort who didn’t like new people, even though Mrs. Trevelyan had said she was nice. Especially not ones who lived in tiny cottages on the charity of others. One person’s definition of nice was not everyone else’s.

She didn’t have long to wait. The door opened, and a young woman of about her own age entered the room, with a boy by her side. Tall, dark haired, and not what anyone would call classically pretty, she nonetheless possessed an unusual striking beauty. Intelligence shone from her eyes, and, thank goodness, a smile hovered on her lips.

“Mrs. Penhallow, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” She held out her hands to Harriet. “Please sit down.” Her warm hands on Harriet’s cold ones conveyed a sense of welcome just by their touch, aided by the kindness in her dark eyes. Was everyone down in Cornwall this kind? Having left the county as a girl of seventeen to follow the colors with her new soldier husband, Harriet had few clear memories of what it had been like to live here. Once her parents had died, there’d been nothing to lure her back to Truro and besides, Ben would never have allowed it.

Harriet perched on the floral camelback sofa and indicated to Theo to sit down as well. However, he seemed to be too taken up with staring at the boy who’d come in with Mrs. Treloar. Clearly a year or two younger than he was, the boy possessed a mass of unruly blonde curls, a mass of freckles and a cheeky upturned nose. And he seemed as fascinated by Theo as Theo was by him.

Mrs. Treloar took a seat on a pink chaise longue. “Sit down, Yves.” With a show of obedience, the boy sat beside her, and Theo dropped onto the sofa next to Harriet, his eyes still on the boy—Yves. A rather French-sounding name. Or might it be Breton?

Mrs. Treloar smiled. “I can see both of our boys are eager to make each other’s acquaintance. Why don’t we allow them to run off together so Yves can show your son around. I’m certain they’d prefer that to sitting here and listening to us talk.”

Theo’s head swiveled to stare at Harriet, hope in his eyes. She nodded. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’m sure Theo would enjoy that.”

When the boys had gone, both a little wary of the other, Mrs. Treloar turned back to Harriet. “My dear, I’m more than glad you’ve decided to call on me. Roskilly is so isolated we don’t get many callers willing to trek out here. I gather you’ve taken Keynvor Cottage, and that Mrs. Bolitho is your late husband’s great-aunt?”

Good heavens. There must be some kind of message system around here that worked even when the weather was bad. “That is so,” Harriet said, a little carefully. The idea that she might be the object of gossip disturbed her more than a little. Speculation usually went hand in hand with gossip. Heaven forbid she should be the subject of gossip and speculation.

“How delightful,” Mrs. Treloar said. “We are quite close together if you use the cliff path—is that the way you came today?”

Harriet nodded. “It is. A beautiful walk on a fine day, but I imagine in the storm, it wouldn’t have been the place to be.”

Mrs. Treloar nodded back. “We do seem to get more than our fair share of Atlantic storms. It never ceases to surprise me how many brave fishermen put out to sea all year round. If I were them, I would be afraid to do so.”

Which made Harriet think of Captain Trevelyan’s worrying offer to take Theo and Mrs. Trevelyan’s little boy, Yves, to sea in his ship. Unsure how to broach this, in case his mother didn’t yet know, she changed the subject. “Have you lived here long?”

Mrs. Treloar’s kind eyes twinkled. “Only a little over a year, so I am quite the newcomer, like you, which is why dear Talwyn suggested you should call. And yes, I spoke to her yesterday when I called on her.” She smiled. “Having no wish to keep secrets from you, and as it is common knowledge amongst my friends, amongst whom I hope to claim you, I will freely admit that I first came to Roskilly as governess to Yves, whose parents are both long dead. Then I met the man who was to become my husband, Yves’ cousin Nathaniel.” She smoothed her skirts, a secretive smile gracing her lips. “And now Nat and I have been blessed with our own child, dear little Nicholas.”

Well, that was interesting. So, Yves wasn’t her son. Harriet opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment the door from the hallway swung open and two men strode into the room. One of them she didn’t know, a tall gentleman with a soldierly stance who might have been considered handsome but for the disfiguring scar that marred the right side of his face. The other was Captain Jack Trevelyan.