The Bride Sale

Chapter 3

James sat with his back to the smoldering fire and read the same paragraph for the third time. It was no use. He could not concentrate on the essay. He let the book fall open on his lap and closed his eyes. But he would not sleep yet. He fought it, as ever, unwilling to surrender without a struggle to the inevitable nightmares. He was not sleepy in any case. His mind was in turmoil.

He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and fingered the bill of sale from the auction. The crisp parchment rustled loudly, inviting him to read it one more time. But there was no need. He had memorized the words some hours ago, and those words plagued him, kept him awake.

All rights. Obligations. Property claims. Services and demands. Obligations. Obligations.

The wretched document would probably not hold up in a court of law. Even so, his signature was there for all to see, and declared that he freely accepted this…this obligation, regardless of the legalities involved. He was a gentleman, after all, and—

His own cynical chuckle interrupted that absurd train of thought. Lord Heartless, a gentleman? There were many who would dispute that fine point.

James tucked away the loathsome parchment in his waistcoat pocket. It had been many long years since he had considered himself either noble or honorable. So, why not just give the woman an apron and a mop, put her to work in the scullery, and be done with foolish anxiety?

Obligations.

What was he to do about Verity Osborne?

He had told Mrs. Tregelly she was a distant cousin down on her luck. The sweet old woman had never once questioned how he had just happened to stumble upon his cousin unexpectedly in Gunnisloe. It was a ludicrous fiction. She had no doubt already heard the tale of the auction from Tomas, but could be trusted to uphold James’s story with the staff and neighbors. It would be widely known as a charade, but Mrs. Tregelly would maintain that charade with her dying breath. She was one of the few people who had not turned their backs on him almost seven years ago, and her fierce loyalty was an enigma to James. He had done nothing to deserve it, yet he had come to count on it.

He sighed and slid down further in the chair. Stretching his arms out, he flexed his tired muscles and linked his hands behind his neck.

He must have a serious conversation with Verity Osborne tomorrow and settle on their story, not to mention their living arrangements. The cousin tale would have to do, with some embellishment of details for veracity. Though, God knew, by tomorrow the whole county would surely be aware of how she came to be at Pendurgan.

It had disappointed him when she had asked for a tray in her room. He had somehow conceived a notion that beneath her prim and docile exterior lurked a scrappy little thing with more backbone. Well, he supposed she had been through enough for one day. He could hardly begrudge her an evening alone. Besides, Agnes had been in one of her moods. The added tension of Verity Osborne’s presence would have been more than he could bear in one evening.

But what of tomorrow?

Or rather, today, he mused as the old lantern clock behind him chimed three times.

An odd shuffling sound in the hallway brought his thoughts up short. Someone was coming. Lobb usually left him alone until dawn. What would make him wander down at this hour?

But whoever approached was more light-footed than James’s valet, a large man whose heavy tread was unmistakable. Who, then?

James sat up and cocked an ear toward the library door, which stood slightly ajar. By the time the small shadowy figure passed the opening, he knew who it was.

“And where do you think you’re going, Verity Osborne?”

The footsteps came to an abrupt halt and he heard a sharp intake of breath. She did not move.

“I think you had better come in,” he said, “and tell me what is going on. If you are leaving, I have a right to know.”

After a long, silent moment, the library door swung open. A heavily draped figure stepped tentatively into the darkened room. A weighty bag of some sort caused her to list slightly to the left. With slow, deliberate movements, she set it on the floor and clasped her hands at her bulky waist. She kept her gaze lowered.

James waited for her to speak.

“What right?” she asked, her voice low and tremulous. But of course, she was afraid of him. They had all made her afraid of him.

“I beg your pardon?”

He watched her swallow. She straightened her back and raised her chin, almost visibly gathering her courage. “What right do you have to know where I’m going?” When she lifted her gaze to look directly at him, her dark eyes caught the light of the dying fire, and for an instant he could have sworn he saw a glint of defiance there. It must have been a trick of the light, for as she continued to look at him, she was clearly frightened, and as twitchy as a bunny under the nose of a fox.

“I truly wish to know,” she continued. “What rights do you suppose that sham transaction in the village square gives you?” Her voice quavered a bit, but she did not look away. “Do you mean to convince me there was anything remotely legal about what took place?”

James stared up at her, astonished. Earlier, she’d seemed hardly capable of speech at all. Yet here she was, still shaken and scared, but able to speak not only in a reasonably rational and articulate manner, but with a hint of challenge as well.

So, she was a scrappy bit of baggage after all. Now that he was faced with it, though, he was not at all sure he liked the idea of a female with spirit. A quiet, docile, shrinking sort of creature would have been so much easier to pack off to the scullery and ignore.

Her large brown eyes gazed steadfastly into his own, attempting a look to match the note of challenge in her voice. But they betrayed her with the merest flicker of apprehension, quickly masked. She certainly was a proud little article.

But not so little, James considered as his eyes roamed up and down her strangely large figure. She had seemed perfectly normal-sized in Gunnisloe, if a bit on the short side. He recalled once again the moment Jud Moody had pulled her dress tight across her bosom to reveal her figure to that randy mob. She had appeared very nicely formed, not unusually plump. But now—

By God, the foolish woman seemed to be wearing every article of clothing that would not fit in her bag! Garment upon garment had been layered on so that she looked as broad and square as an engine house.

“It does not matter whether it is legal,” he said at last. “I put my name to a document that”—traps, he almost said—“obliges me to take responsibility for you. It also, by the way, makes me responsible for your debts. Before you go tearing off, I should like to know what precise obligations I have taken on.”

She cocked her head to one side and drew her brows together in a deep vee of puzzlement. “I have no debts,” she replied.

“I am happy to hear it. You put my mind greatly at ease.”

“Then may I go now?”

James heaved a theatrical sigh. “Madam, if I allow you to go haring off in the middle of the night, in an area I suspect to be completely foreign to you, how can I be assured of your safety? There is no moon, I believe it is still raining, and you have no idea where you are. Anything could happen to you. You might slip on one of the cliffs and drown in the river, for instance.” He swept his gaze up and down her lumpy figure. “Hell, if you were to fall down with all those clothes on, you’d never be able to get up. You’d just roll around like a turtle on its back.”

Coals in the grate shifted and a burst of firelight illumined her face momentarily. He could swear that a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

“Or you could fall into an empty mine shaft,” he continued, “and break your neck.” The incipient smile died as her mouth set into a grim line. “You could be set upon by drunken miners who would have no regard for your virtue, or your life.”

She seemed to pale at his words. “And if anything like that happened, it would be my fault and my fate. No one would be to blame.”

“I would,” James said.

“Why?”

He fished out the bill of sale and waved it before her. “Have I not signed a paper, madam,” he said, almost shouting, “making me responsible for you? It would go hard with me if some mischief should occur to you while under my protection.”

She glared at him through narrowed eyes, but James could read the indecision and confusion there as plain as a barn fire on a dark night. She didn’t know what to do.

And neither did he. Why not just let her go? It would certainly solve a huge dilemma. What made him play this role of noble protector? He almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

“Of course, if you have someplace to go,” he said in a mocking tone, “I would not dream of stopping you. Indeed, I seem to be making gross assumptions without any foundation. I must apologize for being so precipitous. Perhaps you have friends or family in the area? If so, I would be happy to take you to them in the morning. There is no need for you to tramp out alone on such a night.”

She dropped her gaze and looked at her feet. Ha! He had her.

“Do you have someone to go to?” he prompted.

She continued to watch her toes for a moment. Finally, she looked up and met his eyes. “No, my lord,” she replied in a soft voice. “I have no friends in the West Country.”

Something in her manner—her pride? her courage?—goaded him into mocking her, daring her to go, pushing her to admit defeat. “Well then,” he said in a tone sure to convey his scorn, “perhaps you have friends somewhat more distant to whom you wish to go? And you meant to hire a chaise in town for the journey?”

“No, my lord.”

“No friends or family anywhere to take you in?”

“No, my lord.”

“Well.” James tapped his chin with steepled fingers and beetled his brow. “Well. That is most unfortunate. Ah, but perhaps you meant to hire a companion and find a cottage of your own so that you could live independently. Is that what you had planned, Mrs. Osborne?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you in fact have the means to live independently?”

“No, my lord.”

“I thought not. I suspect if you had, your husband would have taken it for himself, would he not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well then, madam, what had you planned to do? Where the devil were you going in the dead of night in the middle of Cornwall?”

“I was going to follow the river into the next town,” she said, attempting a dignified posture beneath the heavy layers of clothing.

“Bodmin?”

“I suppose so.”

“And what did you plan to do in Bodmin?” he asked.

“Look for employment, some sort of position. Then, as I earned a bit of money I could begin to pay you back the two hundred pounds.”

What the devil?“I beg your pardon?”

“The two hundred pounds you…you paid for me.”

“Good God, woman, you are not an indentured servant! Do not concern yourself with the two hundred pounds.”

“I should not wish to be beholden to you, my lord,” she said. “I will pay you back. If it takes me the rest of my life, I will pay you back. But I must find employment first.”

James clucked his tongue and shook his head. The foolish, prideful woman. What was she thinking? “Mrs. Osborne, have you no wits? In the first place, the money was not given to you but to your husband. You are in no way beholden to me. You may come or go as you please.”

Her eyes widened. What had she expected? That he would keep her under lock and key? But of course that must be precisely what she had thought, otherwise she would not be trying to escape like a criminal in the middle of the night, decked out like the rag-and-bone man.

“And in the second place,” he continued, his voice rising along with his aggravation, “the only way you would find the river in the pitch of dark is by falling straight into it. There is not a gentle riverside for at least a half mile downriver. Here at Pendurgan, it’s a straight drop off steep cliffs.”

Verity chewed on her lower lip, and James knew she was wavering again.

“See here,” he said with weary resignation, “if you truly wish to go to Bodmin in the morning, I shall take you. I don’t recommend it, but it shall be as you wish. Do not forget, though, that I do have this document,” he said, patting his waistcoat pocket, “and I am bound to take it seriously. I am responsible for you. I would prefer that you stay here at Pendurgan so that I can be certain of your safety.”

“Stay as what?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stay as what? Your servant? Your…your…”

“My cousin,” he snapped. He was growing impatient with this game. “I have told the staff you are a distant relation down on her luck. A recent widow. You are to use that identity while you remain at Pendurgan.”

She stared at him with those big doe eyes of hers, clearly suspicious of every word he spoke. “That’s all?” she asked. The tiniest note of challenge had crept into her voice. “A poor relation making herself useful?”

“If you like.”

“And that is all you will expect of me? Nothing more?”

He allowed his gaze to travel up and down her boxy, padded figure. “Well,” he said, “we shall just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

Verity sat huddled in an oversized wing chair by the fire, wrapped in a thick blanket. Soft gray light crept through the edges of the heavy window curtains. Morning, finally. Almost time to go.

She had trudged back upstairs after her encounter with Lord Harkness, disoriented and confused, but ready to grab at the opportunity he offered. Rain continued to pelt the windows, and an occasional clap of thunder rumbled through the old stone walls and rattled the casement. After a while, she had stretched out on the bed, just to rest for a few hours. But exhaustion must have overcome her, for she had fallen asleep.

Dreams of banging kettles and crowds of leering people pushing toward her—closer, closer, closer—disturbed her sleep, and her own screams brought her awake. After two such nightmares, she had given up and moved to the chair, where she sat and spun fantasies about the new life ahead of her. But her thoughts kept returning to the master of Pendurgan.

Lord Harkness was both intriguing and a little frightening, but perhaps one was the same as the other. Last night she had sat in this same chair by the fire and waited for him to come. Still unclear why he had purchased her—but certain he must have some kind of sinister motive, she expected that he might come to her in the night.

Instead, he had left her alone.

He had been toying with her. Surely he suspected she would try to leave. Why else would he have been skulking in the library at that ungodly hour? He sat there the whole time as calm as you please, as though he had expected her. And he had called her name from behind the library door before he could possibly have seen her. How had he known it was she?

He had looked almost ghostly when she entered the room, a dark silhouette against the fire behind him. With the light coming from behind, she could make out little more than the arrogant line of his jaw and the languid tilt of his head. But she had needed no firelight to know his lip was curled in a disdainful smirk. The very air had crackled with his mockery.

Verity rose from the chair, stretched her stiff muscles, and walked to the window. She drew back the heavy curtains to find morning had indeed broken, tinting the gray sky a pale pink in the east. The view she met brought her up short and a tiny gasp escaped her lips.

This could not possibly be the same desolate place she had been brought to the previous evening. The vista that stretched before her was lush, green, and wooded. Terraced lawns edged with flowers dropped away from the house and gave way to a plantation of trees, some still awash in their autumn colors.

If not for the girl’s words the night before, Verity could easily have believed she had dreamed the whole trip to Cornwall and now was back in Berkshire.

If the rest of Cornwall looked more like this than like the colorless granite town where she had been auctioned, she might find some pleasure in starting a new life here.

Her trunk still stood near the foot of the bed. The clothes she had bundled and worn for her attempted escape were still flung in a corner. She untied the bundle and had begun to toss the clothes in the trunk when a soft rapping on the bedchamber door startled her out of her work. Recalling the strange woman in black the night before, she froze.

The little maid, Gonetta, walked in, and Verity let out her breath with a whoosh.

The girl bobbed a curtsy, her eyes downcast. “I come to see if ’ee did be awake yet,” she said. “I brung some hot water.” She walked to the washstand and set down the brass canister. She tested the water and let out a soft sort of wail. “Ea, it do be cool already! I must’ve took too long.”

She looked up with an expression of such distress it appeared she might burst into tears. “I had to go…I went somewheres else first and I hadn’t ought to have done that. I be right sorry, ma’am. I’ll go get more and do bring it right up.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. This water will be just fine.”

“It won’t be no trouble,” the girl said, her voice high-pitched and unnatural.

“Thank you, but this water will do very nicely,” Verity said. “It was kind of you to bring it.”

Gonetta looked up and watched as Verity flung more clothes into the trunk. “Here, now,” the girl said in a shocked tone. “Wot yer doing? Y’ain’t leavin’, is ’ee?”

“Yes, Gonetta, I am. Lord Harkness has agreed to drive me to Bodmin today. I have decided I would be more comfortable making my own way rather than living off my…my cousin’s charity.” She did not know why she felt obliged to explain anything to this young servant, but it just seemed to burst out.

“Oh,” Gonetta said, her tone now almost desolate. “I be right sorry to hear that, ma’am. Right sorry. Here, let me help ’ee with them clothes.”

The girl moved to stand in front of the trunk and pulled out one of the wrinkled dresses. She shook it out, turned to the wardrobe, and hung it up. When she had repeated the process with two other dresses, Verity put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“Gonetta,” she said, “I am going, not staying. The dresses must go into the trunk, not the wardrobe.”

The little maid looked up at Verity and her face crumpled. “Ea, Miz Osborne,” she wailed, “I do be so sorry. It be just…j-just—” She dropped her face into her hands and began to sob.

Good heavens, what was all this?

In any other situation, Verity would not have thought twice before putting her arms around the girl and comforting her. But there was nothing normal about this situation or this place. She was not prepared to trust anyone at Pendurgan. This might be some charade to put her off-guard.

Yet the girl seemed genuinely distressed. Sobs wracked her small frame in a manner Verity was almost certain could not have been pretense.

After an uncomfortable moment, Verity touched Gonetta’s arm and guided her to the edge of the bed. With a nod of her head, she indicated that the distraught girl should sit down. “There now,” Verity said, somewhat awkwardly, “what’s the trouble? I hope I have done nothing to—”

“It be n-not about ’ee, ma’am.”

“Oh.”

Gonetta looked up. “Oh, I m-meant no d-disrespect, ma’am. I be right sorry ’ee be leavin’ so soon. I liked ’ee right off, I did. Happy to maid ’ee. B-but that be not it. Y’see…y’see…”

Her voice became choked with tears and she could not go on. Verity stood back, feeling unbearably oafish, and let her cry, convinced this was sincere anguish and not some calculated deception. She wondered what could have upset the girl so.

When Gonetta’s sobs quieted to gentle tears, Verity said, “Tell me, please. Tell me what has upset you so.”

Gonetta looked up, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and hiccoughed. “I can’t help it, Miz Osborne,” she said in a trembly voice. “It be me littlest brother, Davey. He do be real sick and Ma says he be d-dyin’. He be only just gone on five, y’see, and always do be such a hellion, beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. I can’t bear to see him sick and dyin’. Not little Davey.”

The girl’s sobs tore at Verity’s heart. “What is wrong with him, Gonetta?” she asked in a soft voice.

“He got the putrid sore throat and it just do get worse and worse. We can’t get nothin’ down him. And now it be gone to a real bad fever.”

“What does the doctor say?” Verity asked. “Has he given Davey any physicks or other preparations to reduce the fever?”

Gonetta gave a plaintive wail. “We ain’t got no doctor just now, ma’am. Dr. Trefusis, he had to go to Penzance on some fam’ly business. So we ain’t had nobody to doctor poor Davey.”

“You’ve had no one to help you with Davey? No one at all?” Verity asked, appalled that no local doctor was available. “Is there no village apothecary?” Gonetta shook her head. “What about local healers, green women, herbalists?” Gonetta furrowed her brow in puzzlement, as though she did not understand, then shook her head again. Verity sighed.

What should she do? Could she stand by and allow the child to die through sheer ignorance? Verity had some skill with herbs and knew a few remedies that could possibly help the boy.

Yet to remain and help would delay her departure from Pendurgan. Nothing was more important than to get away from this place.

Except that a little boy was perhaps dying.

“What have you been doing to care for him?” she asked.

“Just bathin’ him to keep his skin cool, givin’ him tea and honey, when he can swallow it.”

Those things could only make him comfortable. Nothing they were doing would help to break the fever or heal the infected throat.

She began to pace the length of the room. Any sort of delay almost scared her to death. What if she was never able to leave?

Dear God, what should she do?

“I believe I may have something to help him,” she said at last. She could not let the boy die. Gonetta stared at her, wide-eyed. “Do you recall seeing some muslin pouches,” Verity asked, “when you unpacked my trunk yesterday?”

“Them little sachets, ma’am? I put some in each of the bureau drawers to keep yer things fresh.”

Verity cocked a brow and almost smiled. Sachets, indeed. Some of them positively reeked. She pulled open each drawer and rummaged around until she had located all her herbal pouches.

“Does Cook keep fresh honey in the larder, Gonetta?”

“Aye, she do,” the girl replied with a puzzled look, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “Why?”

“With this,” Verity said, holding up one of the pouches, “and this one, too, along with a bit of honey, I can make up a syrup that might help your brother.”

“Truly?” Gonetta asked, her eyes large with wonder. “’Ee can make him better? He don’t got to die?”

Verity must be careful not to give false hope. She was no magician. “I cannot promise anything, you understand,” she said. “It depends on how far along the sickness is. But I have always had good luck with my hyssop infusions and horehound syrups.”

Now that she had committed herself, she was anxious to get on with it. Perhaps her departure from Pendurgan would be only briefly postponed. Gonetta helped her to dress quickly, and within a quarter hour, she was bending over the young freckle-faced Davey.

He was tucked up in his mother’s bed in the servants’ quarters. With his hair as red as his sister’s, Verity had no trouble imagining him as a tiny hellion. But not at the moment. A lump formed in her throat as she examined him. Gonetta held a candle close to his mouth while Verity held open his jaw and peered down his throat. It was scarlet as a poppy, but she could see no white patches. Even so, the child was burning up with fever, his breathing raspy. She hoped it was not too late.

The old woman in Lincolnshsire who’d taught Verity about herbs had often recommended other treatments as well for this type of disease. Verity instructed Mrs. Chenhalls, who was not only Davey’s mother but also Pendurgan’s cook, to bathe her son’s feet and legs with warm water, and then to wrap his throat in wool. This would keep the distraught woman occupied while Verity prepared the herbals.

With Cook now unavailable, Verity enlisted the aid of Mrs. Tregelly. The housekeeper led the way into the ancient-looking, high-beamed kitchen. A huge open hearth dominated one wall, fitted with a swinging chimney crane and rows of adjustable pot hangers above the low, crackling fire.

The two women rummaged through the larders and located jars of honey. Mrs. Tregelly grabbed several pots from the wall rack, sending the rest of the cook pots swinging and banging loudly against one another.

Verity froze.

Cold wind whipped across her face and her neck was jerked roughly by the auctioneer’s tug on the leather harness. The shouting from below was almost deafening. The crowd pressed in on her, pushing forward with each clang, clang, clang. Closer and closer until she could hardly breathe.

“Mrs. Osborne?”

The housekeeper’s words broke the spell. Verity’s hand clutched at her throat, where the harness had cut into her neck. Disoriented, she gazed about the perfectly ordinary kitchen and into the concerned gray eyes of Mrs. Tregelly.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Verity took a deep, shuddery breath and shook off her lingering uneasiness. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, Mrs. Tregelly.”

Pots of water were set to boil on the modern close-fire range, oddly out of place in this centuries-old kitchen. Verity opened one of her muslin pouches and sniffed to confirm it was indeed hyssop. She added a small amount to one of the pots of boiling water to begin an infusion. In another pot, she added the horehound in preparation for a honey syrup. For good measure, she added a pinch of horehound to the infusion as well.

She could have done all this almost mechanically, years of expertise driving her actions. Instead, Verity focused her attention on every simple detail of the well-known process: the crisp leaves crushed fine between her fingers, the precise balance of dried leaves to flower tops, the aroma as the herbs infused the water, indicating the proper proportions of horehound. The simple and blessedly familiar routine pushed the anxiety of delay from the forefront of her thoughts. Here, in this role, she was in control.

“I do hope this helps the child,” Mrs. Tregelly said. “He be such a wee scamp, and always up to some kind of mischief, but he has a sweet nature, too. It would go hard with all of us to lose him.” She wrinkled her nose at the strong camphorlike odor that now permeated the kitchen.

“I’ll do my best to help,” Verity said, watching the other pot as the liquid boiled down.

“’Tis our good fortune that you happen to be here just now,” Mrs. Tregelly said, “with the doctor away and all. And that you brought along all these herbs.”

“Yes,” Verity replied absently as she checked the steeping hyssop. “I tossed them in my trunk because I did not know—” She had been about to say that she had not known how long she and her husband would be away from home. “You never know when they will come in handy,” she muttered.

“How is it you know so much about healing, Mrs. Osborne?” the housekeeper asked.

“Oh, I’m not exactly a healer, Mrs. Tregelly. But I do know my herbs, and some of them happen to have great healing properties.”

“I’m afraid I know very little about herbs,” the older woman said. “Cook grows some for the kitchen, and I use lavender and sage and such throughout the house to sweeten the air and the linens. But that is the extent of my knowledge, I fear.”

“Perhaps Cook has some of the best healing herbs right there in her kitchen garden.”

“Perhaps she does,” Mrs. Tregelly replied. “But likely she don’t know it, else she would have made these concoctions herself to help her little boy.”

“’Ee could teach us.”

Verity looked up from her reduction into the anxious eyes of young Gonetta, who had just entered the kitchen. Verity shook her head. “Here,” she said ladling the hyssop infusion into a teacup. “Take this to your brother. Be sure he drinks as much as he can. He will not like the taste, but see that he drinks a good portion.”

Gonetta dashed away to her brother’s sickroom, her hand covering the teacup to keep it from sloshing.

While Verity began to mix the reduced horehound liquid with honey, Mrs. Tregelly watched in interest. “It is almost as strong-smelling as the infusion, is it not?” Verity said. “But the honey makes it go down easier. After drinking the hyssop, Davey will no doubt be glad to swallow something sweeter.”

“Netta was right.”

“About what?”

“You could teach us some of your skills. We’d be that grateful. There be no telling when Dr. Trefusis will return.”

Verity shook her head and continued to stir the honey. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I will not be staying long.”

Mrs. Tregelly clucked her disappointment but did not press the matter. A few minutes later, Gonetta bounded back into the kitchen. “He do be takin’ it!” she exclaimed. “He don’t like it, but Ma be gettin’ it down him.”

“That’s good,” Verity said. “Now find me a jar or a crock to hold this syrup. We’ll see what else we can get down him.”

When they returned to the sickroom, Mrs. Chenhalls smiled up at Verity, her eyes moist with emotion. “Thank ’ee, ma’am, fer helpin’ my boy,” she said. “See here? His breathin’ do be better already. No more wheezin’. He goin’ to be all right now, in’t he?”

Verity leaned over the bed and touched the boy’s cheek. He’d been bathed and wrapped up warmly. It was much too soon to know if the fever would break. Simply inhaling the steam of the infusion, with its heavy camphor aroma, would momentarily ease the child’s breathing. But it was a temporary relief at best.

“I cannot promise anything, Mrs. Chenhalls. These remedies should make him more comfortable, allow him to breathe easier for a time. But please do not get your hopes up too soon. I cannot guarantee a cure. He is a very sick little boy. We will just have to wait. Now, see if you can get him to swallow a spoonful of this syrup. Then give him more infusion every hour. Be sure it is warm. And give him a teaspoon of the syrup every three hours. If he gets any worse, there are other treatments we can try.”

“Thank ’ee, ma’am,” Mrs. Chenhalls said. “Thank ’ee. I do be grateful ’ee come to stay with us. Gras e dhe Dhew. Drusona!”

Verity darted a questioning look at the woman’s daughter, but the girl kept her eyes averted. “She do thank God that ’ee came,” Gonetta whispered.

“Come along,” Verity said, eager to escape the emotions that tugged at her. “Let me teach you and Mrs. Tregelly how to make more of these remedies, so you can tend to Davey after I leave.”

Gonetta followed in silence. While Verity gave instructions for making both the infusion and the syrup, Gonetta did no more than nod now and then. Mrs. Tregelly made precise notes.

“Now, the only problem,” Verity said, “is the supply of hyssop. I have enough horehound to leave with you. It takes very little to make the syrup. But I do not have much hyssop left. Do you suppose your mother has hyssop in her kitchen garden, Gonetta?”

“Don’t know, ma’am. Wouldn’t know it if I seen it.”

“But I would,” Verity replied. “Let’s take a look.”

Gonetta led her to a tidy, prosperous kitchen garden just beyond the scullery door to the outside. There were rosemary, sage, parsley, dill, fennel, thyme, tarragon, lovage, tansy, and lemon verbena. Verity scanned the plantings for the familiar tall stalks of hyssop. Sure enough, there they stood, next to their minty relatives.

“See here,” Verity said, breaking off a leaf and rubbing it between her fingers. “You have everything you need. This is hyssop, which is used in the warm infusion. But I used dried leaves. You must double the amount if you use fresh leaves. Can you remember that?”

“Prob’bly not,” Gonetta replied in a petulant tone. “I do think ’ee ought to stay. Then ’ee can take more time to teach us and make sure we don’t do somethin’ bad wrong. We do be simple folk, not educated like ’ee. We do need ’ee to help us, ’specially with no doctor an’ all.”

The girl’s plaintive tone was almost more than Verity could bear. She wanted to help, she really did, for against her better judgment she found herself growing quite fond of Gonetta. And she could not forget the grateful, trusting look in Mrs. Chenhalls’s eyes.

Even so, she could not do as they wished. It was impossible.

“I cannot stay, Gonetta,” she said without looking at the girl. “I am leaving Pendurgan, as I’ve told you. Today, if I can finish my packing and locate his lordship.”

“’Ee don’t have to go. Not yet. ’Ee could stay just till Davey be better, like.”

“Oh, Gonetta.” Verity steeled herself against the doleful look in the girl’s eyes. She had to leave Pendurgan. She had to get away from Lord Harkness, who, whatever his motives, still made her decidedly uneasy.

“Please,ma’am. Davey woulda died if ’ee didn’t been here. We do need ’ee, Miz Osborne. Please don’t go.”

“Gonetta—”

“Please, ma’am. Stay. His lordship won’t mind. Will ’ee, my lord?”

Verity stiffened.

“Not in the least,” said a deep voice behind her.

James watched her tight shoulders relax somewhat as she brought her discomposure under control. Even from behind he could see her chin tilt up at that defiant angle he’d seen last night. He could not suppress a mocking smile as she turned around.

But the smile slid from his face, leaving his mouth slightly agape. It was the first time he had seen her in full light without a bonnet shielding her face, and without a heavy cloak or that ridiculous mountain of clothing of last evening. He had not realized how attractive she was. He might almost call her beautiful, though she did not have sort of the fair-haired porcelain beauty he generally preferred.

Her hair, the color of rich, black coffee, swept off her face in deep waves. A few wayward wisps escaped at the nape of her long, slender neck. So lovely a neck, he thought, should never be hidden by bonnets—or be encased in a leather harness. She had a full mouth, a straight nose, and clear, fine-textured skin that made him think of Devonshire cream. Her large brown eyes—now glaring at him while he stood gaping like a schoolboy—were fringed with long lashes and set off by perfectly arched brows. They reminded him of the beautiful Spanish girls who had attached themselves to his regiment years ago.

He swallowed hard and tried not to think about how long he had been without a woman.

“Am I to understand that your brother is better?” he asked Gonetta, attempting to ignore Verity and the way his blood heated up at the very sight of her.

“It do look that way, my lord,” Gonetta replied. “Miz Osborne here, she fixed him right up.”

“Did she, indeed?”

“She did make med’cine fer him, outa plants and all. She know just what he did need and, sure ’nuff, it worked.”

“It is too early to tell—” Verity began.

“Davey, he gonna be jus’ fine now,” Gonetta interrupted. “I do know it, my lord. Miz Osborne here, she cured him.”

“Well, then,” James said, “that is good news. I had sent to Bodmin for a physician for Davey. Perhaps when he arrives later today the boy won’t be in such a bad way. We are most grateful to you, cousin.”

Verity’s gaze narrowed at the word “cousin,” but she said nothing. She was going to be difficult about the ruse. But, by God, if she stayed under his roof, it would be as his relation. He would not have the servants gossiping about her as if she were his lightskirt, though that was, no doubt, precisely what they assumed her to be.

“In any case,” he went on, “I would feel better if a physician examined him. I am sure Davey will need to be bled if he is to fully recover. I doubt Mrs. Osborne is prepared to—”

“You will not have him bled!”

Startled by this outburst, James cocked a brow at Verity. So, despite the obvious anxiety she still felt in his presence, certain issues seemed almost involuntarily to fire her spirit. Interesting.

“He is much too weak,” she continued in a more diffident tone. She fingered the plant in her hand with jittery movements and did not meet his eyes. “Bleeding him will only make him weaker, less able to fight off the fever.”

He glared at her in disbelief. What nonsense was this? “I beg your pardon, cousin, but surely the boy must be bled.”

She looked up at him. “I—I disagree,” she replied, her voice unsteady. “He will recover more quickly with good strong herbals and no bleeding.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” James said. “That is without doubt the most preposterous bit of rubbish I ever heard. Pure quackery.” Her attitude took him by surprise. In spite of these little bursts of spirit, he would have guessed her to be more commonsensical than crackbrained. But then, she had tried to escape Pendurgan in the pouring rain, weighted down with layer upon layer of heavy clothing. Perhaps she was something of a loose screw after all. Damn. That was all he needed.

“Everyone knows that bleeding is necessary to excise bad humors from the body,” he went on in a tone that, even to his own ears, sounded overly pedantic. “Physicians have been bleeding patients for centuries.”

“And most of their patients die,” Verity said.

“Not from being bled.”

She looked up at him again. “How do you know?” she asked. Tension showed in her face, in the angle of her spine, and in her hand, tightly gripping the plant stalk as if it were a weapon.

“How can anyone know,” she said, “if a patient dies from illness or from increased weakness to fight the illness, brought about by bleeding? My mother—” She stopped for a moment, then took a deep, shuddery breath and continued. “My mother was bled to death by well-meaning physicians. She had an inflammation of the lungs and was never allowed to recover her strength, but was bled and bled until there was nothing left of her. Oh, she might have died eventually, but nothing will convince me that her death was not hastened by constant bleeding.”

A loud sob from Gonetta interrupted this remarkable speech. “Is Davey goin’ to die, then?” she wailed. “If doctor come and bleed him, is he goin’ to die after all?”

Verity looked over Gonetta’s shoulder straight into James’s eyes. She raised her brows and sent him a look that dumped responsibility for the answer squarely in his lap. Damn. If he allowed the doctor to bleed Davey now, and the boy subsequently died, James would be the villain once again. Responsible for yet another child’s death.

By God, he would not face that again. Let this opinionated little harridan take the blame for whatever happened.

“Cousin,” he crooned as he swept her a bow, “I defer to your superior judgment in this matter.”

Verity looked momentarily abashed, then returned her attention to Gonetta. “I do not think it is a good idea to have Davey bled,” she said. “It is best that we allow the healing properties of the herbals to take hold first. If he does not show any improvement, then we may discuss with the physician what is to be done next.”

“Then ’ee will stay, ma’am,” Gonetta asked, “to make sure nothin’ do go wrong?”

Ha! Gonetta had her there. James guessed that she was desperate to leave; now it would seem churlish of her to go. He watched Verity struggle with the decision. Her very mobile face registered helplessness, frustration, anger, and finally resignation. She would stay.

He should be pleased. He could oversee her welfare more easily if she stayed on at Pendurgan. Then why was he cursing himself for not getting a doctor sooner so that she could be on her way without a qualm?

“Very well,” she said at last, her body visibly sagging with the weight of her decision. The depth of her frustration shone clearly in her dark eyes, now bright with unshed tears. “Very well. I will stay for the time being. But only until Davey is up and about again.”

“Oh, thank ’ee, ma’am! Thank ’ee. Ma will be so happy. But ’ee do got to stay long enough to teach us ’bout them plants. There do be others hereabouts wot could use yer help, I reckon. Do ’ee know how to help with stiff joints and such?”

“Well, yes. There’s—”

“Then ’ee could surely help Old Grannie Pascow, who do get too stiff to walk sometimes. What ’bout a bad stomach? Can ’ee help that, too?”

“There are herbs that will ease a bilious stomach. But—”

“Then Hildy Spruggins’ll need yer help, too, ’cuz her stomach do be always botherin’ her somethin’ terrible. And what ’bout burns and cuts and bruises and sprained muscles and boils and dropsy and colic?”

Verity sighed. “Herbal remedies may be of some help in all of those cases, but—”

“Well, there do always be somebody wot’s got one of them things wrong wid ’em,” Gonetta said. “There do be a powerful lot ’ee has to teach us, ain’t there? Could take a long time.”

James wondered where this young girl had learned the art of manipulation so thoroughly. She had Verity pinned to the wall.

He would have been amused if a sudden anxiety hadn’t gripped him as thoroughly as Davey’s fever. Verity was being coerced into staying at Pendurgan indefinitely.

She appeared to be as torn as he was. She chewed absently on the nail of one finger. Two deep furrows marked her brow.

“Well?” Gonetta prompted. “’Ee be stayin’, then?”

Verity threw up her hands in a gesture of resignation. Her eyes had the look of those of a soldier packing up his kit in forced retreat. “All right,” she said. “I will agree to stay. But only until Davey has recovered and I’ve taught you and your mother a few basic herbals. If,” she added emphatically, looking directly at James, “his lordship has no objections?”

“You know you are welcome to stay, cousin,” James said, his voice surprisingly even, considering the state of his nerves. “As I have told you.”

Verity sniffed disdainfully, then turned toward one of the plants. “Let us take some hyssop with us,” she said to Gonetta. “Your brother will need more of it very soon.”

James produced a pocket knife that Verity used to cut several stalks of the hyssop plant. With a now purposeful stride she led them all back to the kitchen. James leaned against the wall next to the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest, as he watched Verity instruct Gonetta in caring for the herbs.

James had no reason to stay and watch. He had much to do about the estate and ought to check on the new pump at Wheal Devoran. In fact, he knew he should get away from Verity Osborne as quickly as possible, and stay away. But something about her piqued his interest. Something more than her physical appeal, though, God knew, there was that. His lip curled into a sneer as he considered how predictably base it was for the biggest scoundrel in Cornwall to lust after the first new woman to cross his path in over six years.

He ought not be interested in her at all. It could only lead to trouble. And yet she intrigued him.

He had always been drawn to the soft, fragile, feminine sort of female for whom he could feel protective. Rowena had been such a woman: fair and delicate as a May blossom. But there was nothing particularly delicate about Verity. Though their strange association gave him every right to feel protective of her, she did not encourage it. Beneath the uncertainty and fear she showed remarkable self-possession in the way she stood up to him, in the way she faced the inevitable decision to stay. Or perhaps it was not true courage, but merely pride.

He wondered what it would take to make her crack.

Just then, Agnes swept into the kitchen like a storm cloud, gathering her black skirts about her as though afraid to touch anything. James groaned. He had never before known her to venture into the kitchen. Why now, of all times?

“What is going on?” she said, her brows drawn together like thunderbolts into a deep scowl. “I demand to know where Cook is. I have been waiting this past hour to review the day’s menu. And now I am forced to come”—she looked around the room, her mouth puckered in distaste—“down here. James, what are you doing here? I demand to know what is going on.”

“I am sorry no one thought to alert you, Agnes,” James said. “But Cook’s youngest son, Davey, has taken very ill.”

“Well,” she said, dismissing such a trifle with a pettish shrug, “does that mean the entire household must come to a halt? Where is Mrs. Tregelly?”

“She is with Cook and Davey,” James said, holding on to his temper with difficulty. “Shall I send her up to you to discuss the menus?”

“Yes, do that.” Agnes turned toward Verity, who was looking at her as though she beheld an apparition. “What is she doing here?” Agnes asked, her voice rigid with icy disdain.

There was no easy way out of this. Agnes had to meet Verity sooner or later.

He moved toward Agnes, took her firmly by the arm, and steered her toward the shelves where Verity and Gonetta had been hanging bunches of hyssop. She resisted, but he tugged her along nevertheless.

“Agnes,” he said, “allow me to make known to you Mrs. Verity Osborne. She is a cousin of mine who has come to stay with us at Pendurgan.”

Agnes looked down the length of her nose at Verity, as though she held a quizzing glass trained on an insect.

“Cousin,” he continued, “may I present to you my mother-in-law, Mrs. Agnes Bodinar.” When Verity flashed him a startled look, he added, “Mrs. Bodinar is the mother of my late wife. She lives here at Pendurgan.”

Verity collected herself quickly. She laid aside the herbs and brushed her hands on her blue wool skirts. She then very calmly offered her hand to Agnes. “I am pleased to be introduced to you, Mrs. Bodinar. At last.”

James wondered what she meant by that. “Have you met already, then?”

“Mrs. Bodinar stopped by my room last night to welcome me to Pendurgan,” Verity said, her eyes never leaving Agnes’s.

Good Lord. What had Agnes done?

“But she left before I learned her name,” Verity continued, cool as could be in the face of James’s formidable mother-in-law. He would have expected her to be frightened of Agnes, who, Lord knew, frightened most everyone else with little more than a glance. Yet after that initial moment of well-concealed shock, Verity did not tremble at the sight of the old woman; her voice did not quaver.

“I am so happy to know who you are, Mrs. Bodinar. I wanted to thank you for being the first to welcome me.” Verity continued to hold out her hand, though Agnes looked as if she’d rather touch a toad.

“Hmph! Cousin, indeed.”

She would, of course, know the true story of how Verity came to be here. All of Cornwall would know it by now. But James was determined that in his own household, at least, the charade of the poor relation would be maintained.

“Yes, my dear,” he said. “A distant cousin, but a relation, nonetheless. I trust you will afford her the same respect you would show any guest at Pendurgan.”

Agnes turned away from Verity without a word. “Send Mrs. Tregelly to me at once,” she said to James as she gathered her skirts about her and headed out of the kitchen. The rustle of fabric rang out in the silence of the cavernous room. At the doorway she stopped, turned around, and fixed Verity with a piercing gaze.

“Doxy!” she hissed, and left the room.