Page 9 of The Cornish Widow

Chapter Five

Harriet woke to the unaccustomed raucous calling of gulls. For a moment, confusion overwhelmed her, then she opened her eyes and saw the beamed bedroom ceiling above her head. Sunlight streamed in through the curtainless window and she was struck by how homely the barren bedroom appeared. Cozy patchwork quilts decorated the two beds, the hump in the other indicating Lydia’s still-slumbering presence, and a bright rag rug lay on the floor between them.

Harriet rolled onto her side and studied the small, now spotless window. Blue sky outside indicated the start of a fine day, which was not always true of Cornish weather, as she well knew. Not a day to be wasted lying in bed. She pushed the covers back and slid out, the old, and now well-scrubbed, boards smooth under her bare feet. No use getting up herself and leaving Lydia and Theo lying in bed. She gave Lydia a shake. “Wake up, Lyddie. Time to get up.” Although what the actual time was, she had no idea, as Mrs. Trevelyan hadn’t thought to lend them a clock.

Lydia pulled the covers over her head. “It’s too early.” Her voice emerged as a grumpy mumble.

“If you want breakfast, then I suggest you get up now. We have chores to do and you can help with them.”

Lydia groaned. “Can’t we employ a maid to do the chores? Can’t Bertha do them?”

Harriet shook her head and dragged the covers down. “You know we can’t afford a maid. That we can’t even afford to pay Bertha and she’s staying with us out of the goodness of her heart. So, you’ll have to get up and help me with my stays, then I’ll help you with yours. Or neither of us will be properly dressed. Come on. Up you get.”

Lydia groaned again, but at least she seemed to have given up on her protest. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Very well, but I shall be good for nothing, I promise you. I’m certain this is far too early. Much earlier than I used to get up at home.”

Twenty minutes later, both of them fully dressed in workaday gowns and boots, they woke Theo up, Lydia with untoward relish, and descended the stairs to find Bertha already attending to the fire. The embers from last night still glowed in the range, and a few well-placed driftwood logs soon had it roaring.

Theo came padding down in his night shirt, barefooted. “What’s for breakfast?” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with one hand and failed to stifle a wide yawn. Had he gone to bed with those smears of dirt on his face? It had been dark last night, and she must have been too tired, to notice.

“Nothing if you don’t get dressed,” Harriet retorted. “But before that, can you go and fetch us a bucket of fresh water from the well, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

After a breakfast of milky tea and the remains of the previous day’s bread, generously spread with butter and jam, Harriet set Theo to bringing in wood for the stove and sweeping the floors, and Lydia to washing and drying the breakfast things to be followed by helping Bertha with the chores, which, of course, she protested about. Then, her apron removed and her best bonnet secured, Harriet set off, having issued orders to her children to stay close to the house that morning and do as Bertha said. Saying a polite thank you for yesterday’s help and furniture was top of Harriet’s list of priorities for the day.

Mrs. Keneder had described how to find Rosudgeon House, so Harriet had no qualms about getting lost. She closed the front door behind her and started up the path inland.

The raucous cries of the gulls permeated the air, joining the steady roar that must be the waves breaking in the cove. That might mean the tide was in. Although she’d been born in Cornwall, as had Ben, she’d never lived near the coast, and the sixteen years of her marriage had been spent mainly in Bath, so she knew little of the sea and her tides. The breeze that had been dancing the branches of the trees around the cottage began to pick up, and a wary glance over her shoulder revealed a dark gray line on the sea’s far horizon that might mean bad weather coming. This, she did know, was typical of Cornwall.

To her right, on the far side of the cove, the tiled roof of a good-sized building rose above the surrounding trees, and a narrow path headed off in its direction, probably a sight too close to the cliff edge for her to feel safe on. But the high hawthorn hedges topping the stony banks on either side of the track soon hid the lower part of the building from view. With surprising speed, clouds were blowing in from the sea to largely cover the earlier blueness, but the day continued fine, and quite warm for September. For Cornwall in September, at any rate.

Every so often, she passed a field gateway, and, peering into it, was rewarded by a view of grazing sheep, or golden stubble or cows. In the far distance, a man was driving a pair of sturdy workhorses in front of a plough, but nothing else. A few birds sang in the hedgerows, but not many as it was autumn.

How good it was to be able to walk along a quiet lane like this and see nobody. What a contrast with Bath’s busy streets, even those in the less genteel area where she’d lived. Too many people, too many carriages, not enough fresh air and sunshine. This place, despite its many all too apparent drawbacks, would be much better for Lydia and Theo. Why she’d ever let Ben take her away from Cornwall escaped her. She must have been mad—or so convinced she was in love with him she hadn’t cared. But that had been sixteen years ago and the passage of time had shifted their relationship beyond recognition. If she’d been able to go back and give her love sick seventeen-year-old self any advice it would have been not to follow her heart in the rash way she had. Too late now. No use berating herself for her own youthful impetuosity.

She passed a few lanes opening off to left and right with hand-painted signs proclaiming “Beare’s Den Farm” and, astonishingly, “Trengrouse Castle.” This last she had a distant view of, as it was no doubt a lot taller than a farmhouse would be, its fancy turrets rising above the trees that surrounded it. Not the sort of castle a medieval knight would have called home, alas, but more of a medium-sized more recent stately home. Impressive. Who might live there? And might they possibly be in need of a governess for their children? Being a governess was the only thing she considered herself qualified to do, as she was most likely going to have to supplement her meager stipend by working. Or taking in sewing, which would not be a remunerative occupation.

She must have walked nearly a mile before she spotted another turning to the left, between banks of brightly flowering golden gorse, this one signposted Rosudgeon House. Aha. She’d found it.

She set off down this lane with a determined step.

Before long, she passed between tall gateposts and the track widened into a graveled driveway. The house was not as big as she’d expected, being less than half the size of the distantly viewed Trengrouse Castle. Two stone-built wings, with arched windows, must at some point have been attached, one at either end, to a simple manor house, possibly even a farmhouse, giving it a wide aspect and an appearance of opulence. Tall chimneys pointed towards the now threatening sky, and a pillared portico had been built over the front door. Good, not too imposing, but then, Mrs. Trevelyan hadn’t seemed like the sort of woman who would have an imposing residence.

She approached the front door attempting to exude a confidence she didn’t feel. Why did it seem so strange to be going somewhere without Ben telling her what to do and how to do it? She’d done it enough times while he’d been posted abroad with his regiment. What made it so different now? The fact that she was truly alone and always would be from now on. But surely, that was a good thing? She gave herself a mental shake, and tugged on the bell rope.

Somewhere far off inside, she caught the sound of the bell ringing. Would Mrs. Trevelyan have a butler? Was this house big enough to merit one?

It was and she did. A middle-aged man in a smart dark coat and breeches and black stockings opened the door, regarding Harriet from a rather lugubrious face with no hint of any emotion. “You rang, ma’am?”

Harriet pulled herself together in a hurry. “I’ve come to call on Mrs. Trevelyan. Is she at home?”

The butler stepped back. “If you would care to step into the drawing room, I will go and enquire.”

As snooty as any butler in Bath, not that Harriet had much experience of them. She followed him to a door which he opened to allow her through into a drawing room, its walls a powder blue and a Persian rug spread over the polished boards. Behind her, the door clicked shut and she was alone.

She walked across the room to the two large windows and peeked out into what must be the gardens. Immaculately mown lawns stretched away to where tall trees formed a natural boundary and no doubt a windbreak. Most pleasing.

Turning away from the window, she ran her gaze over the contents of the room. What sort of a woman kept a house like this? One with a liking for china ornaments, that was certain. Above the empty fireplace a painting hung, of a young woman in an old-fashioned gown of some thirty years past with a little boy sitting on her knee. The woman, clearly Mrs. Trevelyan in her younger days, was beautiful in a rather wild and exciting way, with her dark curls loose and uninhibited and her gown cut low enough to show her plump, alabaster shoulders and the curve of her breasts. The child was young enough to still be in petticoats, and had an engaging mop of dark curls, very like his mother’s, and a willful expression on his face quite out of keeping with his age. The artist had captured both their characters with skill.

Someone cleared their throat behind her.