Elaine
So Gareth was courting Miss Tippet. That explained the girl’s blush when she had mentioned him the other day.
Elaine had no idea of Miss Tippet’s connections and standing. Her father had been a militia man, so he must come from a family with some portion of property. Miss Tippet would be hard-pressed to find a better man than Gareth. He was handsome enough, to be sure. And far from the dandies Elaine had seen in London who had dressed finer than china but had been soft from playing cards and prowling the prospects at Almack’s. Not that she’d ever been admitted there.
Gareth had the rugged look of the Cornish—dark hair, lean and sturdy as the rocky cliffs that lined the coast, unbreakable against wave after pummeling wave. He was clever too. Miss Tippet was right to be interested in him.
Elaine climbed over the last stile and entered the lane that led to Havencross just in time to see a carriage stirring up dust out on the main road. Aunt Rose.
She broke into a run, cutting through the house and bursting out the front door just as the coach rounded the drive.
Her mother was there too. “Where have you been all morning?”
“Walking.”
“Always walking. It’s not seemly to be out wandering the heath.”
The Beafords’ carriage clattered to a stop. Two footmen rushed forward and began unstrapping Aunt Rose’s wheeled bath chair from its resting spot on the back of the coach. The door opened, and Uncle Charles emerged, a large grin on his tall, narrow face.
“Welcome, Uncle,” Elaine said, stepping forward and clasping his hands. “I hope your journey was pleasant.”
He pulled her in for a hug. “Wonderful. We took a detour through the moors. What fascinating landscape.” He held her at arm’s length. “Look at you. Quite grown up, I daresay.” He extended a hand toward her mother.
She gave him a weary smile. “So good of you to come to us under these difficult circumstances.”
The men had the bath chair set up and dusted off. Brixton wheeled it over, and Uncle Charles turned his attention to extracting his wife from the coach. He reached in, and a pale hand appeared, grasping his.
He pulled Aunt Rose forward, lifting her into his arms. “Here you are, my dear.” He lowered her gently into the bath chair, smoothing out her muslin dress and tugging it down to ensure it covered her ankles.
Aunt Rose seemed more thin and pale than ever.
Uncle Charles wheeled her over to Elaine’s mother, where she reached out her hands. “Oh, my dear sister. What a nightmare you’ve been through. You must be weary to the bone.”
Her mother leaned over to let Aunt Rose wrap her arms around her.
It wasn’t until that moment, when her crippled aunt tried to console her mother, that Elaine realized the absurdity of the situation. It should be her mother’s job to console her younger sister. Aunt Rose was confined to a chair, her body wasting away, yet she was the one offering sympathy and strength to a woman whose health was excellent, however depressed her spirits might be.
“Come inside,” Elaine said. “You must be half starved.”
Uncle Charles pushed her aunt’s chair, tipping it back to get it up and over the front steps. Brixton helped lift it, and Aunt Rose squealed and laughed when it leaned too far to one side.
The bath chair at last landed smooth and properly on the top step. Uncle Charles nodded a thanks to the footman as he brought Aunt Rose across the threshold. Her aunt veered the chair into the drawing room with the long lever attached to the front wheel.
“Send for the tea, please,” Elaine said to Brixton.
“Out walking again, miss?” he asked. He smiled at her and bowed.
That man needed to keep his nose in his own affairs. He was going to get himself in trouble one of these days.
Uncle Charles positioned Aunt Rose in a patch of warm sunlight.
“How did you find the moors?” Elaine asked.
“Exquisite,” Aunt Rose said. “You know how I love the moors.”
“But it’s so bleak,” Elaine’s mother said. “Nothing but grass and piles of rock as far as the eye can see. All those pagan stone circles make my blood chill. Any moment out there, I just know a puck or hobgoblin or some kind of devil will be after me.”
Aunt Rose laughed. “Well, I find the landscape very mysterious, and I can never get enough of it.”
“What about you?” Uncle Charles turned to Elaine. “Do you believe there are spirits haunting the moors?”
Bodmin Moor lay on the other side of Camelford, but Elaine’s thoughts immediately jumped to the woman she’d found in Merlin’s Cave. Gwen. Gwenevere, as Gareth called her, or her ghost or some such nonsense. Perhaps he wasn’t so far off. She had seemed to vanish into thin air. But then, where was her shawl, because it too had vanished. And she’d never heard of spirits bleeding.
Uncle Charles chuckled. “I didn’t mean to ask you such a troubling question, Elaine. I hope we haven’t spooked you with talk of specters and ghosts.”
Elaine glanced at her mother. If not for her, Elaine might have shared with Aunt Rose what had happened in the cave. But she’d not add to her mother’s anxiety by letting on how far she’d gone on her own. Then there was Gareth’s part, which she’d rather no one ever know.
Mr. Winkleigh opened the door and brought in a tray of tea, and the footman—not Brixton this time—followed with another of cold meats, beet salad, and ginger cake. Uncle Charles licked his lips. He was tall and lean and ate everything in sight. One of the great mysteries in life was where he managed to put it all.
Before Elaine or her mother could rise to their feet, Uncle Charles was up with plate in hand. “What can I get you, then, my dear?” he asked his wife.
Aunt Rose smiled at him. “I’m not really hungry.”
“Nonsense.” He put one of everything on her plate and then balanced it carefully on her tiny lap. “You’ve got to eat. Husband’s orders.”
She stared at the plate.
“I insist,” he whispered softly, though Elaine was close enough to hear. It was a secret, lovely moment between the two of them, and Elaine turned her head away so as not to intrude.
Only when she and her mother had gotten their food did Uncle Charles help himself. He piled it high, tucked his napkin into his waistcoat, and lifted his fork. “Now then,” he said, before taking his first bite, “tell us what happened in London.”
As if he were asking about the weather or the condition of the roads.
Elaine’s mother began weeping immediately, probably because she had no knitting needles in hand to manage her grief. Uncle Charles turned to Elaine for his answer.
“Well . . .” This was not the easiest subject, especially because Elaine herself was in the dark. “Apparently . . . my father and Lady Forton . . .”
“Oh, hush now,” her mother wailed. “Why do you make her speak of such things? She’s only a child.” This from the woman who’d agreed only a few days ago that Elaine was ruined.
“You are quite right, Harriet.” Uncle Charles cast Elaine an apologetic glance. “I do beg your pardon, Elaine.”
Of course Elaine had heard the rumors—and plenty of them—but her father’s silence and her mother’s tears had left her to assume the worst without really knowing for certain if the worst had actually happened. Perhaps there had simply been a breach of etiquette.
If a man and a woman vow fidelity, there should be no straying, not even of the slightest. This casual way society had of overlooking such vows left a bitter taste in her mouth. Such marriages could not possibly bring happiness to either partner. There could be no trust.
Even if her father was guilty of such a breach, it was odd that it had become the rage of the town. They were no one of consequence to rouse the fiery tongues of London society. The whole affair seemed off somehow.
Her mother wiped her nose. “Let us speak of happier tidings. Elaine has some marvelous news.”
“What is it?” her aunt asked.
“I am to be married.”
A smile broke out upon her aunt’s face. “Why did you not say so sooner? This is wonderful news.”
“Who is the fortunate man?” Uncle Charles asked as he helped himself to a second plate of food.
“Edmund Crawley, Earl of Chiverton.”
Her uncle chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’m acquainted with him.”
“An earl.” Her aunt waggled her eyebrows. “Well done, Elaine.”
She couldn’t help smiling. What a pleasure to have her aunt and uncle here lightening the mood. This whole house had been nothing but dreary since London.
“That’s not why I am marrying him,” she said.
Her uncle grinned wickedly. “Then, pray, tell us why you are marrying Edmund Crawley, Earl of Chiverton.”
She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “He is handsome.”
Her aunt laughed.
“He is kind,” Elaine continued. “He is well-educated. He is attentive. He cares for me. He traveled all the way from London to Havencross to tell me so and to ask for my hand in person.” The longer she went on, the bolder she got. “He smells of almond from his shaving soap.”
“When did you get close enough to smell his shaving soap?” Uncle Charles asked.
She looked down at her tea. “It is high quality Pears soap, so the fragrance is very strong.”
Her aunt and uncle burst out laughing. Even her mother smiled.
Elaine laughed with them. She was going to marry the man; she need not be embarrassed by her affection.
“Well, I am very happy for you,” Aunt Rose said. “He sounds quite marvelous. When shall we meet him?”
“He has gone to Plymouth on business but will be back in a fortnight. The wedding is set for the week after that.”
Uncle Charles stood. “And that is my cue to leave. When the women start talking wedding plans, I find it best to take myself away.” He placed his empty plate to the side. “I think I’ll go give my greetings to Francis. Where might I find him?”
“My father keeps himself to the library,” Elaine said.
Uncle Charles leaned closer and asked quietly, “By his wishes or your mother’s?”
“Both, I believe,” Elaine whispered back. As far as she could tell, neither one wanted anything to do with the other.
Before leaving, Uncle Charles removed his wife’s plate from her lap. She’d eaten a fair bit of it. “I’ll see you later,” he said to her.
She nodded, and he strode out of the room, his long legs making the crossing in only a few steps.
When the door closed behind him, Elaine’s mother turned to her sister. “It’s so good of you to come. You can’t imagine the difficulty we’ve been through. Forced to leave London. Poor Elaine has been beside herself.”
“I’m sure it must have been awful.” Aunt Rose said in a gentle voice. “But how nice for you to be back in Cornwall. And this news of Elaine’s advantageous match must be some consolation.” She turned to Elaine. “You must be pleased to be back at Havencross after so many years away.”
Elaine glanced around the room. It was comfortable, pleasant. Though the furnishings were a little heavy, they were soft and inviting and warm during the cold winter months. It did feel like home, and yet it didn’t.
John should be here playing tug-o-war with the dog on the carpet. And her father sitting by the fire, cursing whatever piece of news he’d read in the paper. Her mother laughing at the latest tale of King Arthur and his knights Elaine had made up for her childhood entertainment. All that was gone now. It would never come back.
Her mother had assumed Aunt Rose was asking her. “My dear sister, you are too kind, but you know this country does not agree with me. Everything is damp and windblown. There is no society. Sometimes it is a very lonely place.”
“Then it is a good thing Charles and I have come to give you company. For you know there is no society as good as family.” Aunt Rose gave Elaine a wink. “Now. I must hear more about Lord Chiverton. He sounds quite delicious.”
“Really, sister. You speak of men as if they were pastries.”
Aunt Rose shrugged. “We are stuck with them for a long time. We might as well enjoy it.”
“Rose!” her mother scolded.
“Well, at least he adores you,” Aunt Rose said to Elaine.
All Elaine really knew about adoration was that Uncle Charles adored his wife and Elaine’s father did not adore her mother. Lord Chiverton had said he admired her—more than admired. Not quite the same thing as adore.
He must care for her though—love her, even. At least she hoped he did. She had no way of knowing his true feelings. All she did know was that Lord Chiverton was her knight in shining armor come to carry her away.
“Pish posh,” her mother said. “Marriage has nothing to do with adoration.”
Aunt Rose merely shrugged her narrow shoulders. She was much younger than Elaine’s mother, and though both sisters had had their fair share of troubles, Aunt Rose always seemed to come out better for it.
About half a year before John’s death, her uncle’s carriage had overturned while they were touring the Lake District. Uncle Charles had walked away with barely a bruise; her aunt never walked again.
“I would love to go out back and take in your view,” her aunt said. “Elaine, could I trouble you for a push?”
Elaine leapt to her feet. Nothing would make her happier.
She got behind her aunt’s bath chair and gave it a nudge toward the back door that led to the gardens and the cliffs overlooking the sea.
***
Elaine left the house early, eager to get back down to the cave. She’d not had time this past week with her aunt and uncle here and all the wedding arrangements. She’d been to Camelford three times for cloth and ribbons and trimmings and to be fitted for a wedding gown. The dressmaker was busy sewing away, a few simple sprays of hawthorn blossoms were planned to decorate Saint Piran’s church, and her mother had sent to the London house for her strand of pearls. All was well in hand.
Today, Elaine could wait no longer to try to find the mysterious woman she’d encountered in Merlin’s cave.
She wouldn’t mind getting her shawl back either. She rather liked that one, made of thickly woven indigo silk from the East Indies. Assuming Betsy could get the bloodstain out.
Steps of flat moorstone protruded from the rock wall of the hedge, covered in lichen and winding brambles. Cornwall’s version of the stile. Placing each foot with care, she climbed over and onto the path heading north. A glorious day. Sun and warmth and not a cloud to be seen. Even the wind had died down to a gentle whisper instead of its usual scream.
She took off her bonnet and tipped her head toward the sun. An act that in London would have drawn scowls. Sun on the face was for farmers and field laborers. But she was not in London now, and until Lord Chiverton took her back there, she would let the rays warm her skin.
“Careful,” said a man’s voice. One she recognized immediately as Gareth’s.