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“No. It’s always been locked.”
“You haven’t tried to get in?”
“It’s a sturdy door, and I saw no reason to disturb the spiders.”
Making an entry in her small notebook, Cecelia asked, “Have you noticed any leaks in the roof when it rains?”
“No. But then I don’t venture near the roof.”
“You make no effort to care for the place where you stay?”
“To what end?” he asked. He seemed fond of the phrase.
“A sense of satisfaction?”
He snorted at the idea.
Sarah left them and walked over to the vegetable garden. Merlin certainly cared for this plot of land. It was both lush and neat. She walked around it, breathing in the scents of herbs and warm earth.
A breeze stirred the ivy that draped the cliff at the back of the garden, and the strands parted like a curtain and fell back together. There was a space behind the vines, Sarah noticed. She went over and parted them, discovering a narrow, hidden pathway under an overhang, dim and green. And more than that, a few yards away, the stone gave way to a cave mouth.
Cornwall had many caves, Sarah knew. But she’d never ventured into any until lately when they seemed to have become her fate. She slipped behind the ivy and went to look inside.
This cave was dry rather than sea girt, hardly wider than her spread arms, with a low ceiling. It seemed to be small. Sarah stepped in, rocks shifting under her shoes, and walked to the back. But here she found not an end but an abrupt turn to the right, hidden until one was upon it, a passage into darkness. She didn’t dare go farther without a light. “The hollow hills,” she murmured. She turned to go and tell Cecelia about her discovery, but by the time she’d passed out through the ivy, she’d decided to save this story for Kenver instead.
Kenver aimed his horse at a brushy hedge and urged him to it. Dancer gathered himself and jumped, easily clearing the bushes. The duke followed on a horse from the Poldene stables, and Kenver led him on a satisfying gallop along the lane on the other side. Men and mounts all enjoyed the vigorous exercise. Going over rather than through several gates, they passed by a number of scenic stretches of country before circling back toward the house.
They rode side by side then, and Kenver examined his companion in fleeting sideways glances. How had the man attained such effortless assurance? Yes, he was a duke, but Kenver had met men of lofty rank who were timid as mice in comparison. He’d wager that no one told Tereford what room to use in his own house or deceived him with false patches of damp. Might he have any advice? But how to ask, and why would Tereford wish to give it?
On one level, the duke was approachable, affable. But Kenver did not mistake this for an invitation to confidences. They were barely acquainted.
“Tresigan would be that way?” Tereford asked, pointing, after a stretch of silence.
“Yes. Well spotted. It is a shorter journey on horseback than in a carriage. Did you wish to go there?”
“No. Cecelia will have things well in hand.”
“The duchess has an extraordinary grasp of estate management.”
“Oh yes,” his companion replied.
“You seem happy to leave it to her.”
“Delighted, in fact.”
This was interesting, even a bit unusual. “My mother is the same,” Kenver said.
This brought him raised eyebrows and a puzzled glance.
“I mean, she helps manage Poldene,” Kenver said. Otherwise, one could hardly compare the charming, witty duchess to his stern mother.
“Indeed.”
“Did the duchess learn her skills from her family?”
This elicited a slight smile. “You could say so. But only in the sense that they threw it all onto her shoulders and walked away.”
Not literally, Kenver assumed.
