The Bride Sale

Chapter 4

The place was growing on her. The gardens of Pendurgan, even as winter approached, were full of wonders, especially for one with an eye for herbs and other useful plants.

With little more asked of her than to tend to Davey and provide herbal instructions to Gonetta and her mother, Verity had had plenty of time to explore the grounds in the five days since her arrival. She wandered freely through the terraces on the south side of the house—the only formal gardens at Pendurgan—to the winding paths that snaked through the heavily wooded lower grounds, ending in an ancient-looking granite wall that overlooked the river below. To the east were apple orchards and plots of winter vegetables.

Even with the fading autumn colors and the drab gray of its granite and slate buildings, Pendurgan had a certain beauty.

The place was growing on her.

Verity tucked her cloak snugly about her against the chill air as she meandered along a narrow path in the lower grounds, her favorite of all the gardens. Heavily wooded with golden ash, oak, white thorn, larch, and copper beech, its paths twisted and turned, leading to unexpected broad vistas or intimate rustic alcoves, to fishponds and tiny thatched pavilions. She paused near an old slatestone dovecote to watch two white doves flutter out from the corbel in the domed roof. Following their flight, her eyes were drawn to a patch of Scotch broom farther down along the path. She hitched her basket upon her hip and considered the various uses she could make of even the dry wintry branches.

Clipping the stalks with the hand shears borrowed from Mrs. Chenhalls, Verity considered the Pendurgan cook and her family. Davey’s fever had broken and he continued to recover, slowly but steadily. Verity’s meager talents with herbs had been lauded as a near miracle. The fact that she had stood firm against the physician from Bodmin, who had indeed wanted to have the boy bled, only made Verity’s star shine brighter among the Chenhalls family.

This small victory had given Verity a great deal of satisfaction, and not only for the boy’s sake. She had begun to discover an unexpected bit of backbone she never realized was there.

It took little effort to settle into complacency among the friendly red-haired family who, along with the sweet-faced Mrs. Tregelly, kept Pendurgan running smoothly. Though it was by no means a large estate, Verity had been surprised at the small number of servants. Was the staff so limited because no others wished to work for a man everyone called Lord Heartless?

It was easy to ignore such suspicions with the Chenhalls family, especially Gonetta, who was cheerful and bright and eager to keep Verity at Pendurgan indefinitely. Verity had long ago abandoned the notion that the girl was part of some grand conspiracy—to make her feel welcome, to make her feel safe, to make her want to stay. To make her so complacent she would not notice the evil web being spun around her until she was trapped and the spider pounced. Never in all her life had Verity been prone to such bizarre fantasies.

But it was not all fantasy.

The fearsome Mrs. Bodinar was no figment of Verity’s imagination, and stood in sharp contrast to the amiable staff. She glared, she sneered, she huffed, and she generally made herself disagreeable. When she spoke at all, when they took meals together in the evenings, it was to offer some criticism or to make some remark about having to share a roof with her son-in-law’s trollop.

Verity had chosen not to respond to such attacks. She wasn’t sure what to say in any case. Agnes Bodinar surely was not the only one at Pendurgan who assumed Verity was Lord Harkness’s mistress.

So far, however, she was not.

The fact was, she rarely saw him. He spent much time away from the house, apparently at the mines, and kept very much to himself when he was at home. But when she did see him, his presence still had the ability to unnerve her.

He watched her. She constantly felt him watching her with those cool blue eyes in a way that made her decidedly uneasy, in a way that made her think he would surely come at night to claim his rights, by purchase, of her body.

He had not done so, however, and Verity did not know what to make of it.

She watched him, as well. She often caught herself studying his long elegant fingers with their dusting of dark hair, or his angular profile with the strong, almost Roman nose, or the blue-black sheen of his longish hair in the candlelight, or the oddly attractive sprinkling of silver at his temples. He was not handsome in any sort of conventional way. Even so, there was something compelling about a face with cynical, vivid blue eyes set amid hard planes that might have been carved out of the local granite.

She ought not to notice such things. She ought to keep far away from him, for an air of danger hung thickly about him.

Perhaps that was what drew her, what fascinated her. He was dangerous, like no one she had known before, and she did not know when he might make his move. So there could be no complacency at Pendurgan until Verity understood this dark stranger and the role he intended her to play.

She arranged the broom stalks in the basket along with the other plants she’d collected and began the walk back to the house. She would go by way of the rear entrance to drop off the plants in the makeshift stillroom she’d arranged in one corner of the old kitchen. Tomorrow she would use the broom and comfrey roots to instruct Mrs. Chenhalls and Gonetta in the preparation of various oils and decoctions for stiff or swollen joints.

The wind whipped her skirts as she walked up the narrow, winding path through an archway in the old stone wall. Broader paths, lower walls, and open gateways led finally to the rear of the house and the kitchen garden. The wind picked up and blew strongly against her, almost taking off her bonnet. Verity dipped her head and held down the brim of the hat, using it to shield her face. Fighting her flapping skirts and the cloak billowing behind her like a sail, she hurried along with bowed head, following the familiar gravel path through the herb garden.

“Here now, what’s this?”

Verity bumped against something solid and found that her blind steps had led her straight into the barrel chest of a man. He grasped her elbows to steady her, and she looked up into the eyes of Rufus Bargwanath, the steward at Pendurgan. She had been introduced to him briefly a few days earlier by Mrs. Tregelly but had not seen him since. He was a burly Cornishman of middle age with thick brown hair peppered with gray, a slightly bulbous nose, and a florid complexion. She had disliked him on sight.

He had a small office in the kitchen wing and must have stepped outside without Verity seeing him. He kept one hand on her elbow while he removed his hat with the other. “Ah. Mrs. Osborne, is it not?”

A sneer curled his lip as he emphasized the word “Mrs.,” and a twinge of alarm crawled up Verity’s spine. His indolent gaze roamed over her body and came to rest on the basket clutched tightly against her breast. Verity became uncomfortably aware of the strong wind molding the thin woolen dress against her body like a second skin. She squirmed, but his grip held firm.

“I had not realized Harkness had put you to work in the kitchen,” Bargwanath said. He did not speak in the friendly broad Cornish of the Chenhalls family but in a rough, gravelly, thoroughly unpleasant voice with only a hint of the local accent in the long vowels. He gave her elbow a suggestive squeeze. “I thought he had other plans for you,” he said.

A lecherous grin revealed a small mouth overcrowded with yellowed teeth. His breath stank of tobacco and onions. Verity wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Excuse me, Mr. Bargwanath,” she said, then stepped around him and hurried toward the back entrance. His jeering laughter rang out behind her.

She raced through the larders and sculleries and into the welcoming warmth of the ancient kitchen. Mrs. Chenhalls stood in front of the enormous open hearth and looked up at Verity’s entrance.

“Afternoon, Miz Osborne. Ogh! Been out gatherin’ more herbs, have ’ee?”

When Verity reached the corner where she had stored plants and other materials for her herbal preparations, she set the basket down and pressed a hand to her chest. Panting as though she’d been running, she took a moment to compose herself. She braced both hands against the wooden counter and inhaled the fragrant aromas of roasting meat and freshly baked bread.

“I’ve been to the lower grounds,” she said at last, then untied her bonnet and hung it on a wall hook. She did not look up as she spoke, knowing her face must still be flushed from the steward’s coarse words. “I found several good plantings down there that will be useful. I will tell you and Gonetta all about them tomorrow, and show you where to find them. If the weather’s clear.”

Mrs. Chenhalls turned back to the hearth and began adjusting a roasting spit between two stout iron fire dogs angled against the back wall. She chattered on about the capricious Cornish weather while Verity emptied her basket and began to tie the plants and roots into bunches. She only half listened to the woman’s thickly accented words, her thoughts distracted by the disturbing encounter with the steward.

This was the only time she’d been truly frightened since that nightmarish first night. Since then, Agnes had been merely unpleasant, and Lord Harkness had kept his distance. Though Verity remained wary of both of them, neither had done anything to physically threaten or frighten her.

Oh, how she wished she was an ordinary guest in an ordinary household filled with ordinary people. Then there would be nothing to stop her from complaining to her host about the steward’s impertinent behavior.

But there was nothing remotely ordinary about her situation.

How could she complain about the steward’s insolent manner to a man whose very presence made her more uncomfortable still?

She fought back the disagreeable feeling of vulnerability. She would not give in to helplessness again. She had come astonishingly far in overcoming her normally submissive nature. She would not give in now.

Verity finished organizing the plants, a routine that acted as a soothing balm to her taut nerves, then stood chatting with Mrs. Chenhalls about Davey’s progress. The boy was still weak and a hacking cough lingered, but he was much better now that the fever had passed. Verity reminded the cook to keep the boy warm, promised to stop by to visit with him after supper.

“He’ll be that pleased, he will,” the cook said. “Think ’ee do be his very own ministerin’ angel, re Dhew. He do be awful keen to get out o’ bed, bless him.”

“Oh, but it is too soon,” Verity said.

“Aye, but he do be too young to know he in’t quite well yet. If ’ee tells him to stay put, though, he’ll listen. The boy’ll listen to ’ee, if not his own Ma.”

Verity smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

She left the kitchen thinking how fond she’d grown of the little red-haired boy who always grinned up at her impishly despite his illness. The small accomplishment of Davey’s recovery banished all thoughts of the wretched steward, and a glimmering of pride brought a smile to her lips as she passed through the Great Hall on her way to the main stairway.

The smile faded and her breath caught when she saw Lord Harkness enter the hall from the outside. Verity did not know why he still unnerved her so, when he had not given her any real cause to fear him. She did not, in fact, fear him. What frightened her was her own foolish reaction to him each time she saw him.

He took off his hat and gloves and placed them on the small table near the door before he turned and saw her. For a long moment, their gazes locked and neither spoke.

“Cousin,” he said at last, and she let out the breath she’d unconsciously held. He seemed uncertain what else to say; she could have sworn he was as uncomfortable as she was. It puzzled her to think why.

“How is your patient?” he asked.

“Improving. The fever has passed and now he must simply regain his strength, poor thing. But he is a fighter, I think.”

“Yes, the lad’s a true Cornishman. We’re a tough race.” Some unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes for an instant, then disappeared. “Most of us,” he said. “Thank you again for being such a help to him.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said.

“Was it?” His eyes narrowed and regarded her intently. “I wonder.”

Verity tried, she really tried, to hold his gaze, to demonstrate some of the new backbone that had lately made her so proud. She did not want him to know how much he rattled her. But she was no match for those cold blue eyes and had to look away.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have work to do.” He walked past her toward his library. She heard the door close behind him.

She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he wanted of her. Anything was better than this uncertainty. At least she had held his gaze, she thought as she approached the landing on her way upstairs to her bedchamber. But was it due to strength of will or simple fascination for a man who was still little more than a dark stranger?

Silly girl. This old place was growing on her all right. It was making her foolish.

“And what could you possibly have to smile about?”

Agnes Bodinar stood on the landing looking down at Verity. She wore her usual black dress and familiar black expression. Her mouth puckered with disdain, and the contemptuous look in her gray eyes caused Verity to halt in mid-stride.

“Well?”

“It was nothing,” Verity replied. She gripped her bonnet tightly in both hands and stood her ground, just as surely as she had with Lord Harkness. “Nothing at all.”

“Hmph!” Agnes snorted. “I should hope not.” She stepped off the landing onto the stair where Verity stood and brought her face to within inches of Verity’s. Verity sucked in her breath and inhaled the fragrance of face powder and starch. The older woman’s eyes narrowed, her brows knit together so tightly they formed deep furrows down the center of her forehead.

“You’ve no cause to smile. You’re not safe here,” she hissed, wagging a bony finger next to her nose. “He’s evil, I tell you. Evil!”

She leaned away from Verity and eyed her from head to foot. “I don’t care what lover’s lies he may have whispered in your ears, or how much he’s paying you. I’m only telling you to be on your guard if you know what’s good for you. The man’s a devil! He means you nothing but harm, mark my words.”

I thought he had other plans for you, the steward had said.

“You should leave this place,” Agnes continued. “Leave while you can.”

Verity turned away from Agnes and bounded up the stairs. When she reached her bedchamber, she slammed the door closed and sank heavily back against it.

Yes, she ought to leave. These shifts between normalcy and nightmare and back again were too much for her. She thought again of sinister plots, of attempts to so confuse her that she didn’t care what happened.

She would leave this place after Davey was fully recovered. She could not bear this bizarre game of wits any longer. She wasn’t yet certain what the stakes were, but she knew they were high. And she was bound to lose.

The problem was, she did not know what sort of loss she faced. Would she ultimately lose her life? Would she merely lose her virtue? Or would she finally, inexorably lose her mind?

Thick smoke filled his nostrils and burned the back of his throat. The night air throbbed with the ceaseless din of gunfire. Shot and shell whistled through the ranks, but James held his men back while the first column stormed the breach. Through the veil of smoke and screaming men, he watched as the brigade was cut to shreds by the French guns.

A handful of intrepid souls scrambled across the trenches dug on either side of the breach where two twenty-four-pounders hurled grape at the attackers. After two more shattering rounds, the big guns fell silent. With only their bayonets, the stubborn men of the 88th must have dispatched the gunners. It was time to move. At Picton’s signal, James waved his men forward onto the ramparts.

“Go!” he shouted as they ran past.

And then the earth exploded beneath him.

Balls of fire fell at his feet, and a heavy, sizzling mass knocked him to the ground. Pain in his left leg shot all the way up his shoulder and down again. Flames erupted all around him, catching everything combustible and sending off smaller explosions every few seconds. Two burning figures ran toward him, completely engulfed. Was one of them Hughes, his sergeant?

He had to help them.

The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose and he thought he was going to be sick. But there was no time for such weakness. He had to get to his men. He had to help them.

But he couldn’t move. Dammit, he couldn’t move. Something pinned him to the ground. He flexed his back to shake it off, and a charred, smoldering arm fell across his face. Shuddering, he flung it away and swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat.

Still, the burning figures approached. Still, James could not move and the pain in his pinned leg had become an agony. One of the figures screamed his name and collapsed in a flaming heap a few feet away. A horrific wail pierced the air, subsided to a whimper, then fell silent.

James stretched out an arm toward him. “Hughes!” he cried out. “Hughes!”

The blackened form of his young sergeant stirred, limbs still licked with flames. The head moved.

But when the face lifted, it was not that of the young soldier looking back at him. It was Rowena. His beautiful Rowena, her face twisted in pain and despair. James watched in immobilized horror as she sat up. He saw the limp form of their son, Trystan, cradled in her arms. Her mouth formed the word, “Please!”

He struggled again to free himself, to go to them, but the burden on top of him seemed to push down, push down, until he could barely breathe. He had to get to them. He had to save them. They would die without his help. And Hughes and all the rest. They needed him. They all needed him.

But he could not move.

Rowena let out a long, mournful cry, and burst into flames.

“No!” James shouted, his eyes flying open as he struggled against the weight pushing down on him.

But it was only the blanket and counterpane, now hopelessly tangled with his thrashing. He fell back against the pillows and let his breath out in a whoosh. His body was covered in sweat and he felt as though he’d sprinted all the way up the hill to Pendurgan.

Damnation. Would he never be free of the dreams?

As usual he’d stayed awake last night as long as possible, having learned that the deep sleep of exhaustion, or occasionally of drunkenness, was often dreamless. But sometimes the nightmares came anyway, usually in the morning just before waking.

The bed chamber door opened quietly and Samuel Lobb entered. “Morning, m’lord.”

James grunted a reply and burrowed deeper into the pillows, trying to shake off the dream images. But it was useless. They were always there, skirting around every conscious thought during waking hours and interrupting what passed for sleep. They were constant reminders of his weakness, his cowardice, his shame.

He heard the manservant walk to the fireplace and begin stoking the coals.

“Another bad ’un, m’lord?”

Poor old Lobb had suffered through many a bad night with James. More than anyone, Lobb understood about the dreams. He’d been at Ciudad Rodrigo, though as his batman and not therefore in the thick of fighting. Shortly after the explosion, when the 3rd Division stormed the retrenchments and took the town, Lobb had searched through the bloody, scorched mass of bodies and found James. He had pulled off the charred corpses whose weight had pinned James to the ground and carried his semiconscious employer to safety.

Lobb understood about the dreams.

“You’ll be needin’ this, m’lord.” He set a steaming mug on the table next to the bed. Strong black coffee laced with brandy and a few other ingredients that Lobb kept to himself: his remedy for a particularly bad night.

James shrugged off the bedcovers and reached for the mug. “Thank you.”

He took a long swallow and let the brandy soothe his nerves while the coffee prepared him to take on the day. He did not know what he would do without Lobb.

He was suddenly struck by an errant thought. “Lobb,” he said, “I’ve heard it whispered about that Mrs. Osborne suffers nightmares, too. Do you know if it’s true?”

The manservant pulled a fresh shirt from the clothespress and shook it out. He looked over at James, his brow furrowed as though he was hesitant to speak. James arched a questioning brow. “I believe it was true at first, m’lord,” Lobb said at last. “Several of us heard her cries at night.”

James winced, wondering what role he played in the woman’s nightmares.

“But I could not say if it is still true,” Lobb went on. “I have not personally heard her cry out these last few nights.”

“If you do, perhaps you ought to send her some of this,” James said, holding up the steaming mug. “It might help.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

James crawled out of bed and settled into the business of washing and shaving. His thoughts drifted to Verity Osborne. Despite her cries in the night, she seemed to have settled in quite comfortably. The staff doted on her, possibly because of the recovery of the Chenhalls boy. As far as he could tell, she had been true to her word about instructing them in the preparation of her herbal remedies. He had often seen her gathering plants, though he made a point of keeping his distance. Those deep brown eyes and the long white column of her neck bedeviled him.

But he studied her closely during the evenings when she took supper with him and Agnes. She never flinched during Agnes’s frequent taunts, never spoke out to correct the impression that she was his mistress. She sat silent and dignified, the prideful angle of her jaw a clear refusal to be intimidated. Perhaps it was merely false bravado, though, with no real strength beneath it. After all, she did have nightmares.

When James had dressed and breakfasted, he made his way to the steward’s office to check on the progress of the winter threshing. Rufus Bargwanath was a rough character at best, but a decent steward. Old Tresco, steward since James was a boy, had left after the tragedy in 1812. It had been difficult to get anyone to work at Pendurgan after that. Bargwanath knew it, and took advantage of the situation by requiring a salary far beyond his worth. James paid it just the same. He had no choice.

He found Bargwanath at his desk, his office in its usual disarray. James spent a half hour going over the stocking of fresh straw for the winter, and the progress of ditching and hedging.

Satisfied that Bargwanath had it all well in hand, James took his leave. When he reached the office door, the steward called out to him.

“I chanced upon that new warming pan o’ yers yesterday,” Bargwanath said. “You keepin’ her all to yerself, or what?”

James spun around. “Watch your mouth, Bargwanath. Mrs. Osborne is a relation of mine and you will treat her with respect.”

The steward gave a crack of laughter and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck. “You don’t expect nobody round here to fall fer that cousin story, do you? Hell, we all know how she come to be here. And what you paid for her. I just figured since you had her workin’ in the kitchen that she was fair game.”

“How dare you!” James took a step toward the desk, reining in the fury that had him ready to throttle the man.

“Looks to have a bit of spirit, she does. I like that in a woman, don’t you?”

James placed both palms down on the desk and leaned forward. He fixed the man with a glare he’d honed to perfection in the army, a glare that had sent soldiers scurrying to do his bidding. “Keep your hands off her, Bargwanath,” he said, his voice edged with steel, “if you know what’s good for you. She has not been put ‘to work,’ as you call it. She is a guest at Pendurgan and I expect you to treat her accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

Bargwanath shrugged indolently. “Sure, sure. I was only askin’.”

James held the man’s gaze for several long moments before Bargwanath lowered his eyes. He stormed out of the office, furious with the steward and his bloody impertinence. If he ever heard that Bargwanath had laid so much as a finger on Verity Osborne, he would kill the man with his bare hands. The very thought of him touching her twisted his gut into knots.

Too keyed up to check on the work at Wheal Devoran, James decided to ride off his anger. Jago Chenhalls saddled Castor for him, and James took off for the moors.

He’d ridden as far as one of the high tors before he slowed down. Caressing the gelding’s damp neck, James let him walk, guiding him carefully along the ridge of broken and balancing granite rocks, of deep horizontal joints and sharp protrusions. Ageless and inviolable, the place never failed to inspire him, to exert its inexplicable power over him. There was a spiritual quality to it, elemental and secret. It was a place of ancient tombs and stone circles, of ghosts and piskeys, of legend and lore.

He led Castor slowly down the gentle slope of the rugged, boulder-strewn hill, allowing himself to absorb the spirit of the moor. Despite all the bad he’d seen and felt and wrought in his life, there was still this. There was still Cornwall.

James continued down through dun-colored wastes dotted with the deep green of furze, and onto the sweep of upland where the transition from moorland to cultivated countryside was abrupt and dramatic. He was on Pendurgan land now.

He saw a rider coming his way. When the familiar figure of Alan Poldrennan drew closer, James brought Castor to a halt and awaited the approach of the only man in the world he could rightly call his friend.

“Harkness! Well met,” Poldrennan said as he reined in the bay mare. His genial smile was a welcome distraction. “Are you on your way home?”

James looked up at the darkening sky and realized he had been out on the moors for hours. “Damn,” he said. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. I must have lost track of time.” A look of concern flickered in Poldrennan’s eyes. James sighed. “It’s all right, Alan. I was just wandering the moor, deep in thought.”

Poldrennan smiled. “And so are you expected at home, or would you care to follow me to Bosreath and share a bottle with me? A bottle and a bird, perhaps?”

“By God, I think I will,” James replied.

“Splendid!”

The two men turned their horses to the west toward Poldrennan’s neighboring estate. “I haven’t seen you in over a sennight.” Poldrennan slanted a look at James. “I believe there have been changes at Pendurgan. Was it those changes that kept you so deep in thought you lost track of time?”

“I suppose you’ve heard the whole sorry tale?”

“News travels swiftly around here,” Poldrennan replied. “I suspect there are few who have not heard some version of the tale. I’d be interested to hear what really happened.”

As they rode toward Bosreath, James told his friend about the auction.

“What made you do it?” Poldrennan asked. “Were you thinking perhaps that she might…that you would…Well, dammit, I suspect it’s been a while since you were with a woman. Was that why you bought her?”

James bristled. “No! No, of course not. That’s not it at all. At least…at least I don’t think it is.” He slapped his thigh angrily. Castor misunderstood and set off at a gallop. James reined him in, crooned an apology in his ear, and waited for Poldrennan to catch up. “Damnation,” he continued as though there’d been no interruption to their conversation. “Don’t you think I’ve been asking myself the same question for the last week? Why? Why did I do it?”

“And?”

“And I still don’t know.” He flung up a hand in a vague gesture of frustration. “All I can tell you is that something inside me could not bear to see that poor woman handed over to Big Will Sykes. It made my stomach turn to think of it. And before I knew what I was doing, I’d bought her myself.”

“Sykes, eh?” Poldrennan shuddered and began to chuckle. “I suppose I might have done the same,” he said. “The man’s disgusting.” They rode on in silence for a few moments before Poldrennan spoke again. “And so it was not merely an impulse, but your honorable instincts that drove you to do it. To rescue her from a worse fate.”

“Ha! I do not believe honor had anything to do with it. I suspect it was something much more base at work.” He cast his friend a sheepish glance. “She’s a frightfully good-looking woman.”

“And yet I gather you have not acted on these baser instincts?”

“No.”

“You see? You are honorable after all.”

“No.”

“But she’s frightfully good-looking.”

“Yes.”

“And so what do you intend to do?”

“Stay away from her.”

“Sounds honorable to me.”

“Not honorable. Cowardly.” James gave a disdainful snort. Poldrennan knew the depths of James’s cowardice. He’d been in Spain. He’d been in Cornwall six years ago. He knew the truth. “I can’t trust myself around her,” James went on. “What if…what if during…Well, what if I harmed her? How could I live with that again?”

Poldrennan reined in to a halt. When James had done the same, Poldrennan reached over and placed a hand on his arm. “You must stop punishing yourself, Harkness. That was over six years ago. And it has not happened again.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. So do you. It will not happen again. She is safe with you.”

James flicked the reins and urged Castor into a gallop along the path to Bosreath. “I wish I could believe that.”

“All right, Gonetta. I am ready.”

The girl flashed Verity a brilliant smile, adjusted her bonnet, and reached for one of the large baskets they’d prepared. She walked toward the scullery door with a bounce in her step. When she realized Verity was not following, had not in fact moved, Gonetta turned, smiled again, and raised her eyebrows in a sign of encouragement.

Verity needed all the encouragement she could muster.

“C’mon, then,” Gonetta said and headed out the door.

Verity took one last deep breath and followed. Was she making a horrible mistake? Should she stay behind?

Gonetta had told her that the villagers would be grateful for her knowledge of homemade remedies for common ailments, but Verity doubted the girl’s confidence in the villagers’ reception. These were small, close-knit communities who did not take well to strangers. Not only was she a “foreigner,” but one who’d come to Cornwall under peculiar circumstances. What sort of welcome could she truly expect from these cautious, insulated people who likely believed her to be Lord Harkness’s mistress? What if some of them had been at the auction and seen her? What if some of them had been among the kettle-banging, surging crowd that still haunted her dreams?

But this was old ground. Verity had been over it and over it in her mind before finally agreeing to Gonetta’s enthusiastic invitation. Besides, she had become restless. Even with Pendurgan’s extensive grounds and gardens, she felt confined. A small part of her welcomed this excursion, regardless of its outcome.

And so here she was on her way to call on some of the good people of Pendurgan’s village of St. Perran’s.

Leaving the formal grounds of Pendurgan, Verity was comforted to find the lane flanked on both sides by green fields crisscrossed with hedgerows. It seemed so very normal. So very English. What had happened to all that bleak granite moorland they’d passed through on their way to Pendurgan? She looked right and left, but saw only lush countryside.

She caught Gonetta’s puzzled glance. “Wot ’ee lookin’ fer, then?”

Verity smiled and shrugged. “I was just remembering all that granite wasteland we drove through on our way to Pendurgan. Did I imagine it?”

Gonetta stopped, took Verity by the shoulders, and swung her around toward the house. “See there?” she said and pointed to a hill beyond Pendurgan. Higher even than Pendurgan’s own hill, it was crowned with great rock outcroppings weathered into all manner of fantastic shapes and littered with masses of fallen rock.

“That do be the High Tor,” Gonetta said. “It do be a kind o’ trick o’ the landscape, Pa says, the way ’ee can’t see it at all from Pendurgan. But from here it do loom up big in the distance. That do be what ’ee seen comin’ from Gunnisloe.”

“It’s amazing,” Verity said. “I was beginning to think I’d dreamed it.”

“The moor do be a queer place,” Gonetta said. “It do play tricks on ’ee. Or the piskeys do. Lots o’ folks get piskey-led on the moor, clean lost in land they been walkin’ fer their whole lives. They’ll run ’ee in circles, the piskeys will. But this lane to St. Perran’s, it do be straight and clear. No odd turns for piskeys to hide in.”

Verity smiled at the girl’s perfectly serious notion of faeries. At least she assumed that was what a piskey must be. “And what’s that?” Verity asked, pointing to two tall, slender structures rising from the stone rubble at the base of the western slope.

“Them stacks? Why, that do be Wheal Devoran.”

“The mine?”

“Aye, one o’ his lordship’s copper mines.”

Gonetta stood patiently while Verity studied the odd structures, starkly elegant amid the rough landscape. A thin stream of smoke, or perhaps it was steam, rose from one of the chimneys and drifted toward the desolate tor.

“Wheal Devoran do be where most of the menfolk round here work,” Gonetta said. “Them as don’t farm. Most o’ the girls, too. I do be one o’ the lucky ones, workin’ up at big house. Better’n a bal-maiden at mine.”

So the mysterious lord of the manor not only provided farms for his tenants to work but also employment for the rest of the population. “If Lord Harkness employs most of the local people,” Verity wondered aloud, “why is he so disliked? I know he is called Lord Heartless. Why?”

Gonetta’s face went blank as an egg. She shrugged, then continued walking down the lane.

The girl’s guarded attitude toward Lord Harkness caused all Verity’s earlier doubts and fears to swirl momentarily like a sinister fog in her brain. What was the mystery of the lord of Pendurgan, the mystery that only Agnes Bodinar dared speak of?

“C’mon, then,” Gonetta said, and Verity turned to follow her, more curious than ever about the black-haired man with the penetrating blue eyes.

In this direction, toward the village, they were once again surrounded by fields of green. What a study in contrasts was this strange land. And its people.

She could see the village in the near distance. As they grew closer, Verity began to feel very much a foreigner. Here was no familiar warmth and charm of the wold villages of her youth, or even those of Berkshire where she’d spent the last two years. There were no whitewashed cottages and no thatched roofs. No timber framing or vine covered walls.

Instead, it was a miniature version of the frightful Gunnisloe. Graceless, squat cottages of rough granite with slate roofs were scattered haphazardly along random dirt paths branching off the main lane. Boxy, utilitarian structures with no character and little individuality, they stood colorless, drab, and uninviting.

On a slight rise at the far end of the cluster of cottages stood the church. Built of the same slate and granite as the cottages, it was only slightly more refined. The square tower was topped with four finials that looked like rabbits’ ears from a distance. The few trees in the village seemed to be clustered near the church.

“Here do be the Dunstan cottage,” Gonetta said. “We’ll stop here first.” She lowered her voice and leaned close to Verity. “Jacob Dunstan do work one o’ the pump engines at Wheal Devoran. It do make his wife think they be better’n some since he don’t have to work a pitch like most of t’others. She do put on airs, sometimes. Afternoon, Miz Dunstan,” she added in a louder voice.

A stocky dark-haired woman in a plain blue dress and white apron stood in the doorway of the stone cottage. She did not reply to Gonetta’s greeting and eyed Verity suspiciously.

“I brung Miz Osborne to meet ’ee, from up to Pendurgan. She do be a cousin of his lordship’s come to stay awhile.”

The woman gave a muffled snort that told Verity how much she believed the cousin relationship. Verity braced herself for an uncomfortable afternoon. Gonetta ignored the woman’s rudeness and turned toward Verity. “This here do be Ewa Dunstan, ma’am. Her husband, Jacob, he do work up at Wheal Devoran.”

“Above ground,” Ewa Dunstan was quick to add, “in the engine house.”

Verity reached out a hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Dunstan? I am pleased to meet you.”

The woman looked momentarily abashed, but finally took Verity’s hand. “How do ’ee do?” she said.

“Ma baked an extra batch of fuggan and asked me to bring some,” Gonetta said. She reached into her basket, pulled out one of the wrapped cakes, and offered it to Ewa Dunstan. “I been tellin’ Miz Osborne how Ma’s fuggan cakes be the best in district. Can ’ee credit it? Miz Osborne never had no fuggan before she do come here. Guess they don’t have it where she do come from.”

“Indeed?” Ewa said. “And where do ’ee come from, ma’am?”

“I grew up in Lincolnshire,” Verity said in as pleasant a tone as she could manage, determined to rise above the scorn of a miner’s wife. “But I have grown very fond of Mrs. Chenhalls’s fuggan. They are delicious.”

“Brought some more stuff, too,” Gonetta said. She pulled out one of the muslin packets they had prepared, and regaled Ewa Dunstan with tales of Verity’s knowledge of herbs. Verity interrupted a lengthy discourse on Davey’s miraculous recovery.

“I understand the local physician is still away,” she said, “and so I thought perhaps to distribute these packets of herbs to the village families. They can be used to make an infusion for common head colds that are bound to strike as winter approaches.”

Verity proceeded to give Ewa Dunstan directions in how to make and dispense the infusion, and the dour woman began to unbend slightly.

“I been bothered with the toothache,” she said. “Don’t s’pose ’ee got somethin’ to help fer that?”

Verity told her that she could indeed recommend a gargle and would prepare the ingredients and deliver them tomorrow. She took out a small notebook and pencil and scribbled a note to herself.

Grateful, Ewa went so far as to invite Verity in for a dish of tea. Gonetta replied before Verity could say a word.

“That be right kind o’ ’ee, Miz Dunstan,” she said, “but we do got to deliver these here cakes and pouches to rest o’ village. Miz Osborne, she made up a special tea, though, that I do be hopin’ we can convince Old Grannie to brew up. Come on down to her cottage in a while and try some.”

Gonetta had spoken of Old Grannie Pascow as a sort of matriarch of the village, and Verity was anxious to make a good impression on the elderly woman. As they left Ewa Dunstan, Verity asked Gonetta if it was quite proper to invite someone to Mrs. Pascow’s without the old woman’s consent. Gonetta laughed.

“’Ee’ll see how it do be soon ’nuff,” she said. “All the women do end up at Old Grannie’s anyhow. Don’t need no invitation.”

The visit to Ewa Dunstan marked the pattern of the rest of the visits through the village and the outlying tenant farms. Initial wariness gave way to politeness and sometimes downright friendliness. And everyone had an ailment or complaint of some kind. Hildy Spruggins had stomach pains, Dorcas Muddle’s baby suffered colic and gas, Lizzy Trethowan’s husband had strained a back muscle while repairing a hedgerow, Annie Kempthorne endured severe menstrual cramps, and Borra Nanpean’s daughter had a chronic cough.

Verity filled her notebook with lists of preparations for the villagers. She ultimately felt welcome in each cottage by farmer’s wife and miner’s wife alike. By the time they had made their way to Old Grannie Pascow’s cottage, Verity was almost giddy with relief.

The old woman’s cottage was no different from the rest: a simple stone square with plain gabled roof and small, wood-frame windows. Despite the austere exteriors, however, each cottage had been warm and cozy inside.

Grannie Pascow stood in the doorway as though expecting their arrival. A short, plump, silver-haired woman of indeterminate age, she had a formidable nose and small, dark eyes that missed nothing. She stood regal as a queen during Gonetta’s brief introductions, then, with a sweep of an arm, invited them inside.

It was clear why they’d been expected. Several of the village woman Verity and Gonetta had visited earlier were already seated inside, clustered around a large hearth. The low-beamed ceiling made the room appear smaller than it was. A corner staircase indicated that a second floor had been accommodated beneath the steep gable of the roof. Gonetta had told Verity that Grannie’s grandson and family shared the cottage with her.

Grannie Pascow moved slowly to the chair nearest the fire. It was a high-backed wooden armchair, the only armchair in the room. The old woman eased herself stiffly into the seat of honor.

Gonetta touched Verity lightly on the arm. “I best leave ’ee alone here,” she whispered, “and return to Pendurgan. It do be gettin’ on afternoon and Mrs. Tregelly’ll have my hide if I don’t get them grates cleaned. I don’t want ’ee feelin’ bound to hurry on my account. Take yer time here. The way back do be easy enough, I do think.”

A pang of anxiety struck Verity at the thought of being left alone with these women, but it passed when she caught Borra Nanpean’s friendly smile and realized she’d be fine. Gonetta transferred a few remaining items from her basket to Verity’s, made her polite farewells, and quietly left the cottage.

“Come sit here by me, Verity Osborne,” Grannie Pascow said, patting the worn rush seat of the chair next to her.

Verity stepped across Ewa Dunstan and Lizzy Trethowan and took her seat by the old woman. After more introductions, she offered the last of the fuggan cakes to Grannie, along with a pouch of elderberry and rosehip tea she’d brought with her from Berkshire. Grannie thanked Verity and handed both to Kate Pascow, her granddaughter-in-law, and asked her to brew the tea and slice the cake.

“I do heard ’ee knows ’bout herbs,” Grannie said. Ah d’heerd ee naws boot harbs. Verity’s ear was becoming accustomed to the peculiar Cornish notion of grammar, and the local accent with its long R’s and rolling vowels, with its quizzical lift at the end of each sentence, the almost musical way a final syllable was drawn out and up. Even so, she had to strain to understand every word. “Ever’body claimin’ ’ee do be goin’ to fix ’em up with some remedy or t’other,” Grannie Pascow continued. “Where’d ’ee learn so much? From yer ma?”

“There was an elderly woman in the village where I grew up,” Verity said, pleased to begin with such a comfortable and welcome topic, even knowing it was Grannie’s way of uncovering pertinent details of family and station and connections. “Her name was Edith Littleton and she was the local green woman. My mother was prone to illness, and so I took an interest in Edith’s work, hoping to help my mother. Edith took me under her wing as a child and taught me everything I know.”

“We do be most grateful fer that knowledge just now,” Grannie Pascow said, “with no doctor in the district and only that fool surgeon Mr. Trevenna at the mine.” She shifted her hip awkwardly in the chair and stretched out one leg toward the fire.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pascow—”

Verity was interrupted by laughter from all around, including Grannie Pascow. It was the first time the old woman had cracked a smile, and a sheaf of deep creases spread across each cheek like a fan. It transformed her totally, and reminded Verity so much of her beloved Edith that she almost cried.

“’Ee go callin’ me Miz Pascow and I be lookin’ ’round to see who ’ee be talkin’ to. Just call me Grannie. Ever’body else do. Or Old Grannie. They does call me that behind my back and think I be too ancient to know. But I don’t care none. I be old.”

Verity smiled. She was going to like Grannie Pascow. “What I was going to say, Grannie, is that I couldn’t help but notice the stiffness in your hip. Gonetta told me that you suffered from rheumatism. I hope you won’t think it too impertinent of me, but I took the liberty of making up this oil for you.”

She reached in her basket and pulled out a small corked bottle of brownish-yellow liquid and handed it to Grannie. The old woman held it up to the firelight, turning it first one way, then another, as if it were something rare and precious.

“I’ve had great success with this mixture,” Verity continued. “The oil is heated with branches of broom, chamomile flowers, and comfrey roots. Massage it into your joints, then lie quietly for a half hour or so and you will feel much better, I promise you.”

Grannie’s dark eyes had grown wide with wonder as she continued to stare at the small bottle. The room grew silent. Finally, the old woman cocked her head toward Verity and smiled. “I will use this, child,” she said. “Yes, I will. It be most kind of ’ee, Verity Osborne. I be that grateful to ’ee, child.”

The women began to pepper her with medical questions and Verity had to remind them she was no physician. She deftly steered the conversation to their own families, their farms, their children. Grannie Pascow sat silent during most of the conversation, directing the distribution of tea and cake by her granddaughter-in-law. Though she seldom spoke, she listened intently, her eyes on Verity more often than not. Finally, while Hildy Spruggins chattered on about how her son Benjie was now working at Wheal Devoran, Grannie held up her hand for silence. Hildy’s mouth shut like a trap.

“I won’t be mincin’ words, Verity Osborne,” Grannie said. “Tedn’t no point. Here it be, then: we all do know how ’ee come to be at Pendurgan.”

Verity’s heart sank to her toes. She held her breath and waited for the other shoe to drop.

“None of us got the right to ask ’bout that bit o’ business in Gunnisloe. Some been there, anyway. Hildy been there with her Nat.” Hildy Spruggins hung her head and blushed scarlet. “Annie, too,” Grannie continued. “I already done spoke harsh to ever’body here’bouts fer their part. ’Twas shameful. Pure shameful.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved from woman to woman, castigating each with no more than a glance. She let the awkward silence fill the room before returning her attention to Verity.

“But I do tell ’ee to yer head that I think ’ee do be a fine woman, Verity Osborne,” she said. “Coulda been that ’ee stayed up to the big house and never concerned yerself wid us village folk. A woman like ’ee, a gentleman’s daughter, wid education and fine manners, ’ee might’ve ignored us, never set foot on our plain dirt floors. Like some. ’Ee didn’t have to come down here wid yer remedies and advice, but ’ee did and we do all be thankful fer it.”

Murmurs of agreement came from all around the room.

“Thing is,” Grannie went on, “wot’s done be done an’ there be no changin’ it now. I just want to make myself easy about yer being up there an’ all. I wouldn’t want to hear of no harm coming to ’ee. So you tell Grannie straight right now, and I’ll not be askin’ ’ee again. Do everythin’ be all right with ’ee in that house? Do that boy be treatin’ ’ee right?”