Papa had occasion more than once to flee the distaff side of his household and the mounting excitement over the trip to Exeter. Yesterday evening they had all been confined indoors due to an appalling storm swooping in from the northeast, and he had taken refuge in a thick and intimidating book entitled Drainage and Water Management. This morning he had escaped to the stables, where much to Loveday’s disappointment, he had not had the carriage horses harnessed. If he had, she might again have taken Mama’s mare and gone to Truro, this time to give all the assistance of which she was capable to Thomas and Emory in cleaning up after the boiler disaster. Instead, Papa had decided that he and Pascoe must take inventory of the carriages, particularly the older ones left by previous generations of the family.
Papa did not like to dispose of anything that was still useful, even if the oldest might have seen its heyday when old Lady Tregothnan was a bride. Had Loveday been in charge, the old relics would have gone to a local farmer for drayage. But Loveday, as was evident to all, was not in charge.
She bid farewell to a few stolen hours in her workshop and wandered disconsolately back through the kitchen garden, then out by the orchard gate. The apple trees had lost their blossoms a few weeks ago, and now tiny round fruit had appeared on the branches. The harvest would be a good one by summer’s end. She touched the trunks of her favorites as she passed—the Beauty of Bath, the Pippin—and let herself out the ivy-covered gate on to the side lawn.
She could not go back inside and be dragooned into looking at back issues of La Belle Assemblée. It was simply too much to face. Cecily and Jenifer Trevelyan had called, and five women exclaiming over patterns was infinitely worse than only three. She would take a walk instead, bonnetless and out of sorts as she was. The activity would do her good, and the sunshine would improve her mood enough that she would not deal the cut direct to the first person who asked where she had been.
Loveday set out for the cliffs, wondering if she and Papa had more in common than she had ever suspected.
After the storm, the sea was still restless, heaving in toward shore with a hollow thump of waves and a drag and clatter of stones. She would not look to the east to see if anyone occupied the flat observation rock on the cliff. She would simply walk out to Hale Head as usual and enjoy the freshness of the breeze—all right, the strength of the wind. Fortunately the sun was warm, for she wore no spencer, either.
Someone shouted, too far away to make out words. She glanced behind her to see whether she’d been caught trying to escape, but the lawns were empty. Another shout, and she saw a figure on the cliffs in the direction she had been determined not to look, but nowhere near the flat stone. He appeared to be waving a crutch at her.
Goodness, Arthur Trevelyan was hurt!
She picked up her skirts and ran along the cliff path, dodging tussocks of grass and exposed stones as skillfully as ever Iris had on her gallop a few days ago. She ran up to him and stopped short, panting with the sudden exertion. “Are you all right? Can I be of assistance?”
“Did you not see it? I was pointing straight at it!”
“See what? Have you fallen?”
“Of course I haven’t fallen. But someone has—look!”
With one hand, he seized her by the shoulder and turned her so that she faced west again, looking at Hale Head. “Captain!”
He removed his hand as though her sleeve had burned him. “On the beach. Do you see? A body.”
This time when she sucked in a breath, it was from shock. “Was there a wreck? We did not see a signal fire.”
“They must have gone overboard. There may yet be life—you must go down and see. I will fetch help.”
She, go down and see if someone were dead? “But—”
“At once, Miss Penhale! They may be taking their last breath while you stand here dithering!”
The sheer injustice of this galvanized her into action. She snatched up her skirts and left him there to devise how he was going to fetch help at this distance from any house. The path down to the beach from Hale Head was tricky, full of switchbacks and crumbling earth and sharp rocks, but she had been climbing it all her life. She bundled her skirts over one arm—it was too far for anyone but an eagle to see details of leg and ankle—and took the path at as fast a walk as she dared. The last few feet had weathered since the last time she had been down here, but her boots were up to it as she slid to the shingle in a shower of gravel.
The tide was coming in. She must be quick. If there was no life on the beach besides herself, that would mean one course of action. If there were… well, she would deal with it when she knew for certain.
It looked less like a person than a bundle of clothes. She approached closer. Clothes of some quality. Silk.
Good heavens—it was a woman!
Dead or alive?
The woman lay on her stomach with her face turned to one side, white as the stones. Her hair was brown and cropped short. Had she been ill? Oh goodness, had she died aboard ship and her body consigned to the waves?
She must not be a coward or let her imagination run away with her. Loveday dropped to her knees and touched her hand.
The hand was cold—so cold. But did she yet breathe? Loveday grasped her shoulders and turned her over, and as she did, seawater gushed out of her mouth. The sensible thing to do was as she’d seen them do when the lifeboats went out—turn her on her side, grasp her, and put pressure on her lungs to squeeze out any remaining water.
A great rush of it came out, and the woman coughed.
“Blessed Saint Piran, you’re alive!”
She groaned, and tried to curl away from Loveday’s grip.
“No, you must get all the water out. Please forgive me.” She squeezed her again, and what seemed to be the last of it dribbled down the woman’s chin and into the gravel. A bout of coughing finished the job, and her half-dead patient was at last able to open her eyes.
“An—Angle—England?” she croaked, clearly having difficulty forming the word.
“Yes, you are in England. My house is just above.” She indicated the cliffs with a lift of her chin. “Someone has gone to get help, but we must get you higher up the beach. The tide is coming in.”
“England,” the girl repeated, as though confirming the salient point in all this information.
Perhaps she spoke a different tongue. “Yes,” she said. “Ja. Si. Oui.”
With a sigh, the girl went limp, and Loveday realized she had fainted.
“Oh, dear.” She got her feet under her and her hands under the girl’s armpits. “What a lovely redingote,” she told her unconscious companion. “This may not be very comfortable, but I am sure the last thing you wish is to be submerged again. Come.”
Loveday hauled her up the beach to where the path had decanted her into the pebbles. There was nothing for it now but to wait and hope that Captain Trevelyan had succeeded in finding help long before he was in need of it himself.
Of all the times for his body to betray him!
Arthur Trevelyan struggled up the slope toward Hale House, which lay far closer than his own, cursing with each painful step. Finally by sheer chance he discovered that if he swung himself off both feet in a regular rhythm, he could cover the ground much faster than taking one hop-and-step at a time. The only thing he must watch for was—
“Arghh!” One crutch went into a rabbit hole and wrenched itself out from under him. He went down—turned himself to land on his good side—and clocked his head on a tussock of grass that was nowhere near as soft as it looked.
“Arthur!” His sister Cecily screamed his name, and now practically the whole Penhale household came streaming down the lawn to witness his ungainly struggle to his feet.
Thank heaven. The situation was too urgent for pride.
“Arthur, are you all right?” His sister was as white as her own sprigged frock.
“Yes, I’m fine. Cecily, you must fetch Mr Penhale and some of his men. There is a body on the beach on the east side of the Head, cast up by the storm.”
Cecily gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Then she whirled and practically ran into Mrs Penhale. “Arthur says there is a body on the beach. The tide is coming in—we must organize the men to bring it up.”
“The person may yet be alive,” he called as the tide of females turned to ebb back up the lawn. “Miss Penhale has gone down to see.”
“Loveday!” Mrs Penhale gawked at him. “Gone to see if they are dead or alive? Captain, how could you have let her?”
“Someone had to go, ma’am.” It had not until this moment occurred to him that there was something improper about seeing whether or not someone was alive. On the battlefield, proof of life was essential when one’s comrades were under enemy fire. As a general rule, though, perhaps he ought not to have demanded such a task from a young lady of gentle breeding.
Never mind, he thought in the next moment. It was Loveday.
Mr Penhale, one of his grooms, and Cowan from their own home farm came around the side of the sturdy stone manor house at a jog. The groom carried what appeared to be one half of a door from an ancient carriage under his arm with which to transport the body up the cliff.
“Do come inside, Captain.” Mrs Penhale urged him. “There is nothing more you can do but wait until they come back.”
The truth, no matter how irritating, must be acknowledged gracefully. “Thank you.” But he could not keep from lagging behind, his gaze drawn to the line of the cliffs where surely they must appear.
“Perhaps a restorative cup of tea on the terrace might help while we wait.” Mrs Penhale wasted no time in ordering it, and soon his sisters and the Penhale girls were seated about the small terrace like so many drifts of snow in their white dresses. He himself could not sit. So he balanced his cup and saucer on the wall and acted as watchman. Superfluous, really, as every one of his companions were doing the same. But it was all he could do.
An agonizing half hour passed before his sharp eyes spotted movement on the cliff. “They are coming,” he said tersely, and on one crutch, hobbled down the three flagstone steps.
A single figure in a white dress materialized as she climbed the last of the path and set off toward them across the lawns at a rapid walk. When she was within hailing distance, Loveday called, “She is alive! They are bringing her directly. Mama, we must prepare a room for her at once.”
“Good heavens!” Mrs Penhale said blankly. “The dead body is a woman? Alive?”
Some terrible tension within him relaxed. Alive!
Miss Rosalind tossed her tea in the rosebushes. “Cecily, come with me. We will make up the guest room.”
Mrs Penhale recovered herself. “Jenifer, dear, if you would run down to the kitchen and ask Mrs Kerrow to start some kettles of water boiling, our guest may wish a bath. If she is injured, we may need water for that, too.”
“What can I do?” Miss Gwendolyn asked.
By this time Loveday had arrived and absently drained the teacup Arthur had left sitting on the wall. “She appears to be about your size, Gwen. You could choose a dress for her, and some small clothes. She has nothing but what is on her back, and after goodness knows how many hours in the sea, that may not be salvageable.”
Her youngest sister whirled and disappeared into the house after the other girls.
Loveday looked about her at the empty terrace. Then her knees appeared to collapse, and she sank into a chair. “You look as though you need another cup of tea,” Arthur suggested. He offered his empty cup, and she poured some for herself.
“Thank you.” She downed half of it and then looked up at him, still standing so uselessly on the steps. “If you had not seen her, she would have gone out with the tide, likely still unconscious.” Her voice was hoarse from all her efforts.
The image chilled him. “Did she regain consciousness? Is she hurt?”
“She has no visible injuries,” Loveday said. “She awakened just long enough to ask me if this was England.”
He tilted his head. “Curious. Would a person not say, ‘Where am I?’”
“I have not been nearly drowned, so I cannot say. But if such a question indicates that her mind has not been disordered, then I am glad. She cannot be much older than I.”
From the corner of his eye, he again caught movement on the cliffs. “Here they come.”
Loveday went to the terrace doors. “Mama!” she called into the house. “They have reached the top of the cliff. They will be here in moments.”
Arthur could not hear the reply, but above, under the gables of the roof, a window was thrown open and he could hear his sister Cecily excitedly giving Miss Rosalind the report of the men’s progress. And likely completely forgetting she was supposed to be making up a bed.
Loveday stood, too, marking her father’s steps as he accompanied the other men, one on each end of the carriage door. “At least that old coach has been put to some use today,” she murmured. “Even if there are no horses involved.”
His lips twitched in a smile, and then both their attention was completely absorbed by the limp figure upon its makeshift bier. He had a brief impression of pale skin and dark hair rimed with salt as it dried, and a strange garment sticking to her limbs that resembled breeches reaching all the way to the ankle.
And then she was lowered to the flagstones and the groom instructed to lift her and take her upstairs.
“Thank you, Captain, and you, Loveday,” Mr Penhale said. “You have saved a life today. The tide line was within a foot when we reached them,” he added for Arthur’s benefit.
“A higher power was watching out for the young lady,” he said soberly. Time and chance bringing both himself and Loveday to the cliff’s edge were all that had saved her. In a strange way, it gave him a bond with Loveday Penhale, odd as she was, that he was not entirely comfortable with. “You will send someone with a message later, to let us know how she does?”
“Of course,” Mr Penhale said. “And now I will send your sisters down to you, so that you may escort them home. Allow me to order the carriage brought around for you.”
“Absolutely not, sir,” Arthur said. “It is an easy enough walk now that the emergency is past.”
It would not be easy. But not for worlds would he admit it. He would be forced to take to his bed tomorrow, but he was happy to pay that price.
It was clear that Mrs Penhale and her daughters had everything well in hand. So Jenifer and Cecily walked home along the cliff path with him, slowing their own more lively paces to his awkward one. As his sisters hopped across the flat stones forming a path over Gwynn Bourne, he looked back over his shoulder.
A slender figure in white raised her hand in farewell. Then she turned and went into the house.