James drummed his fingers on the window ledge of the carriage. He had never felt so stupid in all his life. He had just bought and paid for a young woman. Now, what the devil was he supposed to do with her?
What had possessed him to do such a rash, impulsive thing? He should have known better. He ought to have stayed out of it, walked away from the market square without a second thought. God knows, he had no business bringing a young woman into his home. Not after all that had happened. And yet he had signed a paper accepting full responsibility for her. How could he have done such a damned fool thing?
And how was he to explain her to his household? He couldn’t exactly trot her out like a new race horse, or deposit her in Mrs. Tregelly’s care as though she were a new kitchen maid. Blast it all, he wished she were in fact some scruffy bit of baggage that could be dumped in the scullery and forgot about. But it had been obvious that she was of his own class, gentry at the very least. She had to be dealt with. Somehow.
And there was Agnes to consider. How was he to explain her to Agnes?
By morning everyone from Liskeard to Truro would have heard the tale, each making his own conclusions about James’s plans for the woman. It did not take a superior mind to anticipate what those conclusions would be.
Bloody hell. He was to be the center of a scandal once again.
He looked over at her, but she was turned, pressed close against the door panel. No doubt she wished to avoid even the slightest contact with her new—what? Owner? But she was not his slave. Employer? She was not his servant, either. Husband? Certainly not.
What the devil was she, then? And what the hell was he supposed to do with her?
She would not even look at him, for God’s sake. He might have known what to do if she had been a weepy, fragile young thing who looked to him for security, who clung to him as her savior after such a public humiliation. He would not have minded that, to have her cling to him. He recalled the full bosom revealed by Moody’s hands. But she did not cling. She did not sob or swoon. Neither did she rant or shout about the injustice of her circumstances.
She did none of those things, damn her eyes, and so he did not know what to do.
She kept one hand at her waist, gripping the edge of her cloak, while the other held on to the strap so tightly James thought she might rip it out of the panel. And she kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window, the poke of her bonnet shielding her face.
He had, though, got a pretty good look at her—Verity, the husband had called her—when he stood before her at the base of the old market cross. She had been all huge brown eyes, wide with apprehension, set in a face of unnatural pallor. Though she tried to stand tall, she was slightly below average in height, the top of her head coming to just below his chin. And she had been shivering as violently as though just lifted from an icy sea. He recognized the great effort of will it had cost her to bring the trembling under control. She made the effort still, with her tight hold on the strap.
If only she would look at him. If only she would say something.
It occurred to James that he had yet to hear the sound of her voice. She had not uttered a single word during the entire ugly proceedings. Not to her husband. Not to Jud Moody. Certainly not to him.
As the carriage clattered and bounced over the broad granite cobbles of Gunnisloe’s main road, he wondered what sort of voice she might have. He supposed it depended on where she was from. Moody had called her a foreigner, but that merely meant she was not Cornish. James gazed out the window at the squat, close-built granite cottages lining the narrow road and thought how bleak and colorless this part of Cornwall must appear to a stranger.
In some irrational way, her continued silence irritated him. He felt certain she would not speak or in any way acknowledge him, or their situation, until it was absolutely necessary. She was all wrapped up in a fierce sort of pride that had allowed her to survive the spectacle at Gunnisloe. She would not break just yet.
At any other time he might have admired such strength of character, but he was not disposed to such nonsense just now. Her quiet self-control, her infernal dignity, began to grate on his nerves. She was an enormous inconvenience, an unwanted and awkward responsibility he cursed himself for taking on.
And so, as the carriage lumbered along, the awkward silence continued, punctuated by the rattle of the windows and the clanging of the swingle bar as they left Gunnisloe behind and passed onto the deeply rutted, muddy road.
James wondered irritably if he should break the silence. But why should he make the effort when she was the one complicating his life? Besides, she—Verity, he remembered—was clearly frightened. Her savage grip on the leather strap signaled the level of her anxiety.
Of course she feared him. The bloody fools in Gunnisloe had seen to that. She had heard their malicious whispering and hollow concern—these same people who had been ready to toss her over to Will Sykes. But the big smith was merely gross and filthy, essentially harmless. They considered James the worst sort of monster, as though they feared he meant some kind of harm to her.
And the truly frightening thing was, they might be right.
His gaze wandered and took in the passing landscape. Damnation. He ought to have told his coachman to take the longer, southern route to Pendurgan, along the lush banks of the river. This road ran straight through one of the harsher stretches of Bodmin Moor. She probably thought he was escorting her to some kind of devil’s lair.
As he watched her, James realized the view out her window was even more ominous than his own view of the faraway tors. For in the distance stood the ruined buildings of Wheal Zelah, a mine that had played out in his grandfather’s time. The derelict windlass and crumbling engine house were a common enough sight in Cornwall, but what would this woman make of them, and of the slender chimney starkly silhouetted against the purple sky of dusk? And the slack heaps arranged like pyramids at the base? For one unacquainted with mines it must surely appear strange and godforsaken.
The coachman slowed the horses and edged toward the side of the road as though to allow another carriage to pass. Few carriages besides his own ever took this road, so James leaned toward his companion to get a better look out her window, where the other vehicle would pass. She flinched as his shoulder touched hers. He muttered a Cornish oath and pulled away at once, silently damning the woman for making him feel so awkward. “I beg your pardon,” he said under his breath.
The carriage came to a complete stop to allow an approaching mule train to pass. James gave a soft but thoroughly wicked chuckle over what she would make of this peculiar sight. The big gray mules marched in pairs with panniers of copper ore slung over their backs. The panniers were stuffed full, a sight that brought a brief smile to James’s face, for it was his ore, from his mines.
The wind carried the distant sounds of Wheal Devoran upon it: the low rattle and clang of the draught bob pumping water up from the lowest reaches of the earth, slightly muffled by the mizzling rain that had begun to fall. It was the sound of a working mine and gladdened the heart of any true Cornishman.
“’Tis a good lode this year,” he murmured.
The woman started at his words but did not turn around. Damn her skittish hide. He would keep his mouth shut until they had reached Pendurgan.
In the meantime, he must devise a plan. His servants dared not question him. But Agnes…He would have to tell her something. He must contrive some reasonable explanation of how he had left for Gunnisloe alone and returned with a young woman in tow.
And then he must determine how he was to keep away from her.
Damn, damn, damn.
The last of the mules trudged past the carriage, led by two unsmiling men whose faces and clothes were caked in mud, giving them a dark, almost featureless appearance. They wore broad, stiff-looking hats with odd little stubs of candles stuck on the brims.
A shiver fluttered down Verity’s spine. What sort of place was this? She had grown up in the lush wolds of Lincolnshire, where the landscape was as different from this desolate spot as it could possibly be. Even Gilbert’s home in Berkshire, though ramshackle and remote, had been nestled in the wooded downs. Nothing in her life had prepared her for such a place as this, with hardly a tree in sight, and those solitary few naked and black, as cheerless as the land. It was grim and alien, with its curious ruins and rocky moors, everything a harmonious gray.
And as though Lord Harkness had arranged it especially for her, it began to rain in earnest. A hard wind buffeted the coach so that it swayed and rocked along the rutted road. Verity sat huddled in her corner as they were pitched from side to side, and the sound of the wind mingled with the creaking of the carriage to create a shrill and mournful howl.
She kept a firm grip on the leather strap. She ought to have wrenched her gaze from the distressing, inhospitable landscape, but then she might have been tempted to shift her concentration to the silent stranger at her side. She could not ignore his closeness, or the jolt of apprehension that shook her like a sort of electrical shock each time the rocking of the coach caused her thigh to brush up against his.
The carriage slowed as the rain beat down more violently. Its wheels flung up mud from the road to splatter the window. Within minutes the view of the forbidding moorland had become entirely obscured.
Verity turned away from the window at last, closed her eyes, and imagined that when she opened them, she would find the sunny skies and gentle green wolds of Lincolnshire.
A slight movement at her side caused her to open her eyes. Curious, she slanted her gaze toward Lord Harkness, keeping her head forward so he would not notice. She shifted a fraction of an inch, just so she could peek at him beyond the brim of her poke bonnet. He, too, stared straight ahead. He had tossed his tall beaver onto one of the crates on the opposite bench. His hair looked black as a crow’s wing in the gray light of the carriage. It grew long over his ears and hung slightly over the high collar of his shirt. It appeared to be dusted with silver at the temples, but that may have been a trick of the light. His profile showed a firm jaw and a strong nose with a slight bump along the ridge. She could not see his eyes, and indeed had no wish to do so, recollecting that brief but intense moment when their eyes had met in the town square.
Suddenly the coach lurched sharply, pressing Verity against the back of the bench as it began to climb a steep slope. The rain pounded hard against the windows, washing away most of the mud and revealing a view that caused her to gasp in surprise. The stark moorland gave way, at the top of the hill, to a thick, dark woodland. Though black and looming, as sinister as all she had seen during the journey from the town, the woodland nevertheless appeared incongruous after so much emptiness. The copse of trees seemed to spring magically straight out of the granite moor.
Verity knew in her heart that hidden among that grim-looking forest was her destination: Pendurgan.
“Ah, we are almost there,” Lord Harkness said, startling Verity while she peered curiously out the window. “That is Pendurgan just ahead. My home.”
As the carriage reached the crest of the hill, they entered a lush knoll encompassed by trees—chestnut trees, if she was not mistaken. Imagine that. Chestnut trees thriving in all that granite. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to protect—or hide?—the house.
And then she saw it. It did not look so much like a house as like a small, ancient castle. Squat and gray, its thick, embattled walls were pierced in only two places by high, narrow, slit windows. The rest, seemed to be unbroken, unadorned, unimpeachable granite. The structure appeared to rise up from the very stone beneath its feet.
Dear Lord. It was the sort of place one entered and never left, sinister and malevolent. The thick walls would close upon one like a prison.
The carriage drove through an arched gateway in the thick outer wall into a large inner courtyard. Though less imposing than the outside—at least there were windows, lots of windows—it still appeared a harsh, unwelcoming, rough-looking building.
The carriage came to a halt, and the ginger-haired footman swung open the door on her side and pulled down the step. Verity warily took his hand and climbed down. The rain fell hard upon the gravel drive, and she clutched her cloak close about her as she stood beside the carriage, uncertain what to do.
“Bring her trunk round to the great hall, Tomas,” Lord Harkness said to the footman in a loud, sharp voice. “Jago, take the coach round back to the kitchen and unload the rest. Then get these horses out of the rain.”
He turned quickly to Verity, grabbed her upper arm, and tugged her in the direction of a set of huge wooden doors. It was the first time he’d touched her, and she flinched slightly at the roughness of it. Not from fear, for she knew it had more to do with getting them both out of the rain than with any sort of brutality. There was something else, though, that caused her to flinch, caused her skin beneath his fingers to prickle and flush. She could not name what it was, but it frightened her as much as anything else that had happened this day.
Lord Harkness gave a sort of growl and stopped in his tracks. Tightening the hold on her arm, he turned her to face him. “Dammit,” he snapped, “let us get one thing straight. While you are at Pendurgan, Mrs…. what was it? Russell? Mrs. Russell?”
“No!”
The word was uttered before she could check it. But after all that had happened this day, the name was anathema to her.
Lord Harkness glared at Verity through the curtain of rain that poured off the brim of his hat. A deep scowl beetled his brow as though he wanted to snap her head off for speaking at all.
“No,” she repeated. She could hardly breathe from the effort of speaking even that single word. She wanted to say more, to explain about the name, but the very thought of speaking to this dark stranger who’d brought her to this forbidding place was liable to set her whole body to trembling once again.
“Verity Osborne,” was all she could manage.
“You can call yourself anything you bloody well like,” he said in an angry tone. “Anything, so long as we can get the hell out of this rain.”
“Verity Osborne,” she repeated, relieved at the more controlled tone she’d managed. The tiny victory gave her the will to stand taller and actually look him in the eye.
“Fine,” he replied sharply. “Splendid. But you will be Mrs. Osborne while at Pendurgan. There’ll be the devil of time explaining your arrival in any case,” he continued in the same angry tone, brushing away the rain from his face. “But I refuse to have it put about that I have brought an unchaperoned young miss into my home. God almighty, that’s the last thing I need.”
With that, he tugged again on her arm and led her to the big doors that now stood open. A plump, silver-haired woman in a dark blue dress and white apron held the door. “My lord!” she exclaimed, her hands fluttering in agitation. “Come in quickly before you catch yer death.”
Lord Harkness pushed Verity ahead until they were safely inside an enormous hall. The woman looked at her quizzically. “My lord?” she asked.
“Is the yellow bedchamber made ready for a guest, Mrs. Tregelly?” he asked in a curt, sharp tone as he removed his hat and shook the rain from his coattails.
“Yes, my lord,” the woman replied. “’Twas only last week we aired the mattresses and laid down fresh linen.”
“Good. This is Mrs. Osborne. She will be staying with us for a while. Tomas, bring along her trunk and show Mrs. Osborne the way to the yellow bedchamber. Mrs. Tregelly, a word, if you please.”
Without so much as a backward glance at Verity, he left the room. Mrs. Tregelly regarded Verity with a puzzled look, and then followed Lord Harkness. Verity stood in the entry hall, dripping rain all over the floor, and prayed the woman would come back. She had seemed so…normal. Grunting, the ginger-haired footman heaved the trunk onto his back. “This way, ma’am,” he said.
Tomas, moving slowly with his heavy burden, led Verity across the broad hall. A fire in an enormous fireplace at one end provided the only light. It was difficult to make out details, but the room appeared to have a high beamed ceiling and dark paneling halfway up the whitewashed walls. Above the paneling, on every wall, hung row upon row upon row of swords, pikes, battle-axes, spears, rifles, and pistols of every kind. Scattered among the weapons were bits of armor—breastplates, helmets, and shields. Everything was polished to a sheen and glistened in the light of the fire.
“There be a candle on table just over there, ma’am,” Tomas said, nodding toward a long trestle table placed against one of the walls. “Gets fair dark in these hallways. Best if ’ee takes a candle.”
Verity picked up the candle and lit it by the fire, then followed Tomas as he led her into a dark corridor. They came at last to a stairway, the poor footman grunting and gasping with his burden. After a moment to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, he led her down another hallway and finally to an open doorway. “Here ’tis,” he said, and stood aside waiting for Verity to enter. She hesitated, loath to go willingly into what might be her prison cell. At Tomas’s plaintive look, she straightened her shoulders and walked into the room. The footman followed quickly behind and, with a groan, deposited her trunk near the foot of the bed. He then quickly set about making a fire in the fireplace.
“Is there anything else ’ee needs, ma’am?” he asked after he had initiated a roaring blaze.
Verity glanced about her. It was not at all what she had expected. “No,” she said at last, still unprepared to trust her voice with more than a word or two.
“Very good, then,” Tomas replied. “They dines at six, ma’am. It just be getting on five, so ’ee has a chance to rest up a bit. I’ll make sure someone comes to get ’ee just afore six.”
He bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Verity sank down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. It was a comfortable, if old-fashioned, bedchamber. The furnishings looked to be of a style at least a century old, heavy and dark. The bed and the windows were curtained with exquisite crewelwork on faded yellow cloth. The coffered ceiling was low, and the walls were hung with tapestries. The overall effect was dark, but somehow almost cozy.
But the chaos of her emotions robbed her of any sense of comfort. Seemingly normal servants, the offer of dinner, this lovely old room—none of it was in keeping with the forbidding granite exterior, the sinister-looking hall of weapons, or the mysterious master of Pendurgan himself. Which was the true face of Pendurgan? And which was the true nature of her own fate?
Verity sat unmoving on the bed for several minutes, too unsettled to stir. She considered unpacking her trunk, just to have something to do, to help keep her mind off the events of the last few hours. But to unpack would be tantamount to admitting defeat, to accepting this strange and dreadful situation. She lost track of time as she sat there on the bed, her mind a blank, as though waiting for someone to tell her what to do.
Finally she rose mechanically, untied her bonnet, and placed it on the bed. Then she removed her damp cloak and draped it over a chair near the fire. She had held her hands out to the flames to warm them when she heard the door behind her open. Startled, she straightened and turned around to find a dark figure silhouetted in the door frame. It was a woman, tall and thin, with her arms folded across her chest. She stepped into the room.
The light from the fire showed her to be an older woman with a pinched face and silver hair swept up in a style of some thirty years ago. She wore a simple black bombazine gown with no more ornament that a stark white fichu at the neck. She made an altogether strange and startling appearance, and Verity stared at her as though she were an apparition.
“So,” the woman said at last, her voice dripping with disdain, “you are the one he brought here.” Her eyes raked Verity from head to foot in a most insolent manner.
Who was this woman? Her manner of speech, if not her words, was refined, without the thick Cornish accent of Tomas or the softer Cornish of Mrs. Tregelly. She was certainly not a servant—a servant would never use such an impertinent tone. Unless, of course, it was directed to another servant. That must be it. Despite the comfortable bedchamber and apparent hospitality, she was to be a servant after all. But what sort of servant?
Unnerved by the woman’s brazen scrutiny, Verity could only stare.
“Hmph. And you’re not even pretty,” the woman said, her sharp gaze taking in Verity’s soaked hem and flattened hair. Unconsciously, Verity smoothed back stray wisps of hair at her temples and tucked them behind her ears. Why did this peculiar old woman care so much about her looks? Unless…unless she was being inspected for her suitability in a role where a woman’s looks, and body, were of primary importance?
“Nothing like Rowena. Nothing at all. She was a beauty.” The woman continued to glare at her in such a disquieting manner that Verity finally dropped her gaze to the floor. “Well, you will discover the truth about him soon enough.” She turned quickly and walked away, the black skirts rustling with her brisk movement. When she reached the door, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “And then, by heaven,” she said, “you will rue the day you ever came to Pendurgan.”
Verity sank down on the bed and decided she’d had enough. She must get out of this place. Somehow, she had to escape. There was no one to help her; so she must be calm and she must think, without giving in to the wave of utter helplessness that threatened to overcome her. She was not used to taking matters into her own hands, and had generally allowed others to direct her life—her governess, her father, her husband.
But now she must take charge of her own fate. She was twenty-three years old, healthy, and reasonably sensible. She had never in all her life suffered an attack of nerves or indulged in a fit of the vapors. Now was not the time to give in to weakness.
Verity took a deep breath, pushed herself off the bed, and strode across the room to the door. Had the woman in black locked it behind her? Was she a prisoner? But of course she was—she was here against her will, was she not? It was merely the degree of confinement that was in question.
Verity grasped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened. She uttered a small sigh of relief and stepped into the hallway. It was lighted at intervals by brass wall sconces—and was perfectly empty. She was neither locked in nor guarded.
After one last look down the empty hallway, she quietly closed the door and walked across the room to the windows along the far wall. She swept back the heavy drapery and gazed out. Dusk had settled into darkness, and rain hammered against the mullioned panes, making it difficult to see anything outside. But there were no bars. Just simple, old-fashioned casement windows with ordinary sliding locks that had no more sinister purpose than to hold fast against the wind and rain. There even appeared to be a large tree adjacent to the window, several of its limbs within easy reach.
It was almost too easy.
Was she perhaps overreacting, finding evil where none existed? Could it be that there was nothing truly out of the ordinary about this household, that she was in fact perfectly safe? After all, would Lord Harkness have made escape so apparently effortless if he truly meant harm to her, to confine her?
No, no, no, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. She could not allow herself to become complacent through the lack of bars on the windows and the absence of guards at her door, nor by the genial footman and sweet-faced housekeeper. She would not be lured into believing in her own safety. It could be a ruse. A trap. A trap that would be sprung once she had become comfortable, resigned, vulnerable.
No. She would persevere. She was going to leave—this very evening, if possible.
She peered out the window, squinting against the rain. No doubt the view was every bit as forbidding as it had been from the carriage. But Verity was willing to brave almost anything, just to be free of this place and this untenable situation.
She started at a loud rapping on the bedchamber door. Before she could respond, it was opened by a young girl with unruly wisps of red hair peeking out from beneath a mobcap.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” the girl said with a wary smile. “I brung hot water an’ such for ’ee.” She entered the room and placed the steaming brass canister on the washstand, along with a stack of white towels and a bar of soap.
Verity stared at the girl. What was this? Another seemingly friendly face and false amenities to lull her into comfort?
But hot water and soap sounded like heaven on earth. Verity felt not only grimy, but violated by the events of the day. Nothing would feel so good as to wash it all away.
The girl raised questioning brows at Verity’s silence. “Thank you,” Verity murmured. Though tension still gripped the back of her throat, only the slightest tremble colored her voice. Perhaps the girl would not notice.
“I’m to help ’ee unpack, too, ma’am, an’ to see that ever’thin’ be comfort’ble for ’ee.”
So Verity was not to be a servant. But if not a servant, then what? The only answers that came to mind fueled her determination to flee.
“Thank you,” Verity said, her voice still more tentative than she would have liked. She drew the curtain back down over the window, realizing she could see nothing to help her in her plan. She needed information. Perhaps the girl could be useful, if Verity could get her to talk. “Thank you,” she repeated, more controlled this time.
“Mrs. Tregelly, she do say I’m to maid ’ee whilst yer at Pendurgan, ma’am,” the girl said and bobbed an awkward curtsey. “My name’s Gonetta.” She stood facing Verity, hands behind her back, head lowered.
“A pretty name,” Verity said. “Most unusual.”
The girl shrugged. “’Tis but an old Cornish name, ma’am. Common ’nuff round these parts.”
“Not common to me, I’m afraid,” Verity said, reaching for any topic that might get the girl talking. “I’ve never been to Cornwall, and so the language and names are quite new to me.” She attempted a friendly smile.
The girl smiled readily in return. “I do hear tell,” she said while fussing with the towels, “that folks from up country do find it hard to get their tongues round our words ofttimes. But don’t ’ee be worrin’ none. If ’ee do be stayin’ awhile, ’ee be gettin’ used to it soon ’nuff.”
Staying awhile.
“Meanwhile, ’ee just tells us to slow down when our talk’s not so clear. Now, me brother Tomas—he do be the footman what brung yer trunk up—he don’t be sayin’ much anyhow, so ’ee ought not have no trouble wid him. But me…Ma tells me I do rattle on fast as can be most times, but I’ll try to be extra careful with ’ee, ma’am, ’ee bein’ a foreigner an all.”
Al tray tuh bay exter cawrfil wid ee, mum, ee bain ah furriner an awl. The accent was thick and unusual to Verity’s ear, as hard to decipher as that of a Yorkshire-man.
It was difficult not to smile at this seemingly ingenuous young girl, regardless of her role in this drama. But Verity had her own role to consider, and not necessarily the one assigned her. She would never have thought herself capable of dissimulation of any kind, but at the moment she thought she might be capable of any number of things, just to get out of here.
She forced a wider smile. “Thank you, Gonetta. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. And I am—”
“Miz Osborne. I do know all about ’ee, ma’am.”
Verity winced as though slapped. Of course, she would already be the subject of servants’ gossip. What must they all think of her, a woman purchased at auction?
“Ma do say as how ’ee be his lordship’s cousin and all,” Gonetta went on. “And as how ’ee lost yer husband real sudden, like. I do be right sorry to hear that, ma’am. And as how ’ee had no place else ter go. ’Tis a real shame, ’tis, all that grief and hardship fallin’ down on ’ee all at once, like.”
So, she was to be Lord Harkness’s cousin? She had wondered how he would explain her sudden appearance, or even if explanations were necessary. For all she knew, it might have been common enough for him to bring home unknown young women. She had assumed she would be acknowledged as his lordship’s doxy, and that she would, in fact, be precisely that. Perhaps it was still the plan, but he was masking his intentions with this cousin story.
She shivered at the thought of all that implied, but it did not matter. Verity did not intend to stay around long enough to find out.
“Ea, but listen at me!” Gonetta exclaimed, blushing to the roots of her carroty hair. “I do got no right to be sayin’ such things to ’ee. Beg pardon, ma’am, but me tongue it do run on sometimes.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth, apparently flustered at the perceived breach of familiarity.
Gonetta’s nervous babbling was precisely what Verity needed at the moment. Fortunately, no prompting was necessary.
“’Tis a fine old place, Pendurgan be,” Gonetta went on, looking up once again. “Old as the tors, almost. I do hope ’ee will be likin’ it here,” she added shyly. “I’ll be startin’ the unpackin’ now.”
“Thank you, Gonetta.” At the girl’s request, Verity retrieved the trunk key from her reticule and reluctantly passed it to her. Verity turned away, not wanting to be distracted by her possessions and all that they meant to her now that she was alone and cast adrift, without resources, without friends.
Somehow, after Gonetta’s careful unpacking, Verity must gather up only what she could comfortably carry. She would have to resign herself to leaving the rest behind.
“I wonder, Gonetta,” Verity said, forcing a cheerful tone to her voice, “if you could tell me a bit about Pendurgan and this area of Cornwall. I’ve never been to the West Country, you see, and it is quite unfamiliar to me. As we drove to Pendurgan it was dark and rainy and I could not see much. But I confess the land looked quite barren and rocky.”
“Oh, ’ee must o’ come from the north, then,” Gonetta said as she gently shook out a favorite muslin frock and hung it in the wardrobe. It was probably too frivolous a garment and would have to be left behind. “Through the moor,” Gonetta continued. “’Tis a shame ’ee came in that way. ’Tis craggy and harsh in that direction, to be sure. But look here.” She stepped to the window and drew back the curtain. “Oh, it do be too dark to see much, but honest, ’tis quite lovely from the south. There do be gardens and lawns out this way, and the river runs just at the edge of the estate, over there,” she said, pointing to the east.
“Oh.” Verity quelled her excitement. A river! If she could make her way outside, it would be simple enough to follow a river. “I did not know there was a river nearby,” she said with feigned nonchalance. “We came from…oh, goodness. I cannot recall the name of the town.”
“Gunnisloe, ma’am. Not much of a town, ’cept on market day when folks do come from all over.”
Yes, Verity knew all about market day in Gunnisloe. She would not attempt escape in that direction. “Are there other towns or villages nearby, along the river?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Gonetta replied. “The next big town up river do be Bodmin, o’ course. But St. Perran’s be only a step away to the south. That do be our village, St. Perran’s. Not much more’n a few cottages, the church, an’ a kiddly or two. Mostly miners do live in the village proper. The tenant farmers do be more spread out.”
“Farmers? There is farming at Pendurgan?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Did his lordship not tell ’ee?” Gonetta clucked her tongue as she folded a muslin and lace cap. “Jus’ like a man to be more interested in the mines an’ all that fancy machinery. But, yes, there do be good farmin’ here. We do grow wheat and barley, and do keep a small herd of sheep.”
Verity was encouraged by this information. The land she had seen on the carriage ride to Pendurgan could not have supported a bean, much less healthy crops of wheat. And if they kept sheep then there must be grazing land. It would be much less dreadful, she thought, to escape over familiar-looking farmland than across the rocky moors.
“I must say,” she said, “it certainly sounds different from the land we rode through today.”
“Like night an’ day it do be, ma’am,” Gonetta replied. “Night an’ day. Just wait till ’ee do see it in the morning and ’ee’ll know what I do mean.”
Verity hoped to be well on her way before morning. “I long to see it,” she said. “Tell me, Gonetta. We entered through a courtyard into a sort of great hall—”
“The Killin’ Hall.”
A chill crept down Verity’s spine. “Killing Hall?”
“Aye,” Gonetta said, placing Verity’s ivory brush and comb on the washstand. “Did ’ee ever see so many awful old weapons an’ such? I do call it the Killin’ Hall cuz I figure them things done their fair share o’ killin’ over the years.”
“Indeed,” Verity said, “but not lately, one hopes.”
“Oh no, ma’am,” Gonetta said emphatically. “Mrs. Tregelly, she do keep us polishin’ ’em to such a shine. Like as not she do be the first to murder anyone what do touch ’em.”
“That is certainly reassuring,” Verity murmured. “But how does one get out to the south side,” she continued, “where the gardens are? I tend to rise early and may want to take a walk around the place, explore a bit.”
“Oh, ’ee do just go downstairs like when ’ee do first come,” Gonetta said, “only don’t be goin’ toward the Killin’ Hall. Go left from the stairs past the lib’ary and out the south entrance.”
“And can I get to the river from the gardens?”
“Oh, aye. The grounds skirt the river. ’Ee can’t miss it. ’Tis a pretty sight in the early hours, ’tis.”
“Will I be any trouble if I wander very early?” Verity asked. “Will the entrances be locked?”
Gonetta stopped folding a chemise and looked up. “Locked? Lord bless me, nuthin’ do be ever locked at Pendurgan. Who be gonna break inta this sturdy old place, perched way up here all by itself? Ha! Don’t ’ee worry ’bout nuthin’, ma’am. We be safe as milk up here. Just ’ee wander about all ’ee wants.”
Verity savored the tiny burst of newborn confidence. Though Gonetta made it sound not at all difficult, it would surely be the hardest move Verity had ever made—striking out on her own, friendless, with little more than pin money and a few trumpery pieces of jewelry to sustain her.
But she would be away from this place. Away from him.
She could do it.
“What would ’ee be wearin’ for dinner, ma’am? Shall I be havin’ somethin’ pressed for ’ee?”
Dinner? Good Lord. The momentary rush of elation collapsed like a house of cards. She had been tricked by the early darkness into forgetting that she had an entire evening ahead of her before she could effect an escape. An entire evening she was no doubt meant to spend in the company of Lord Harkness and perhaps the woman in black.
No. Not now, just when she had screwed up what little courage she had to do this. She might lose her nerve if she had to face that man again.
“Oh, Gonetta,” she said, not even having to feign a tone of distress, “would you see if I might have a tray in my room? I really am quite fagged to death and do not believe I am up to dressing for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be bringin’ a tray up m’self, an’ a nice pot o’ tea to soothe yer bones. Then we be tuckin’ ’ee up all right and tight so’s ’ee do be getting’ a nice long rest. If ’ee do need anythin’ whilst I do be gone, ’ee just do pull that there cord by the bed and I do be up in two shakes.”
As soon as the door closed behind the girl, Verity slumped against the bedpost with relief. She would not have to see him again. She would not have to face those menacing brows and piercing blue eyes. The man called Heartless would not be able to frighten her out of doing what had to be done.
She began to rummage through her clothes, deciding what she would carry with her on her escape.