Chorus #2
Before long, my employer began falling behind.
On most days, I served customers while she kept to the kitchen, as her aching joints protested all the trips back and forth.
A tray with tea service for one had been sitting on the counter long enough that the spout had nearly stopped steaming, so I called up my courage and carried it out to the dining room, trying to both keep my head down and look for someone sitting alone.
My breath caught as I noticed a man sitting at the same window table where Mr. Roscoe had sat, reading a book. My hands began to tremble, causing the teapot lid to clink.
Steadying myself, I moved toward him. Though the dining room was busy and buzzing, it was almost as if I moved through a kind of tunnel with him at the end of it.
A strange calm had stolen over me, yet something at the back of my mind warned me to beware of this feeling.
As if danger were everywhere, and only the fools around me couldn’t see it.
It’s the shock from yesterday. I drew a slow breath as I reached the table.
The man looked up from his book—not a novel like those that lined Mrs. Moyle’s shelves, but a thick tome one would need both hands to carry. He wore spectacles with round, smoke-tinted lenses, and I wondered how he could see through them well enough to read.
“Good day, sir,” I said. “Are you waiting for tea?”
He tilted his head forward, eyeing me over the top of his spectacles, and my heart flopped strangely.
Often, customers took so little notice of me that I thought they probably wouldn’t recognize me were they to pass me in the street.
This man’s eyes were awake and keen. And their color .
. . a dusty dark blue that reminded me of a prune plum.
His hair was wavy and ashen brown, gathered and bound at the back of his neck.
A few strands had worked free and hung alongside his sharp cheekbones.
The angle of his jaw swept in strongly from his cheek, gentling at last to the blunted tip of his chin.
His lips were very dark, like the stain of a blackberry.
Or a bruise. They made a strong contrast against his skin, even-toned and pale.
I realized then that I was staring at this stranger, and he was staring even harder back.
“F-forgive me for disturbing you,” I stammered, dropping my gaze to the tray. “I thought this might be—”
“Indeed, it is. You may set it down.” His bruised lips formed a tight, dry smile.
Though I would have guessed he was near my own age, something in his manner made me think otherwise.
There was a stillness to him. And watchfulness, too.
He also sounded like a man well used to people following his orders.
“Yes, sir.” Quickly I transferred teapot, cup, strainer, and milk pitcher to the table, noting that I’d brewed his tea in a pot patterned with clumps of blackberry fruit, leaves, and flowers.
As I lifted the pot and poured, I frowned at the dark color and lack of steam. “I fear your tea has sat for too long, sir. It’ll be bitter and tepid. I’ll fetch you a fresh pot.”
“It’s not necessary.” His voice was low and smooth, but I had no trouble hearing him, even with the din in the tearoom. I still had the feeling of being in a tunnel with him.
“I’m afraid we’re not up to Mrs. Moyle’s usual standards today,” I said in a fluster. “I hope you’ll give us another chance. We’re that busy, what with everybody wondering about the . . .”
“About the death.”
“Aye, sir.” Why on earth had I brought it up? Sometimes nervousness made my mouth move when it shouldn’t.
I gave him a short curtsy and was turning to go when he said, “You’re the one who found him, aren’t you?”
I froze, hugging the tray to my chest. I glanced around the room, hoping no one had heard him. Moving close to the table, I said in a low voice, “Begging your pardon, sir, may I ask how you knew that?”
He lifted his teacup and sipped, hand trembling slightly. “Mr. Hilliard told me it was a young woman walking home from her job at The Magpie.”
“Mr. Hilliard?” I echoed, surprised. As I studied the stranger, a thought startled me. “You’re Mr. Tregarrick. Mr. Roscoe was your solicitor.” He was not at all what I had imagined. Even if I was wrong about his age, he was still too young to have closed himself up in a medieval tower.
“I am indeed,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, sir.”
His lips curved down. “A tragedy, to be sure.”
“Had he a family?”
The master of Roche Rock lifted a napkin from the table, touching it to his lips, though he’d taken only a sip of his tea. “I believe he did, though our relationship was strictly a business one.”
I clucked and looked away. “The poor things. Everyone’s saying it was an animal of some kind. It’s so strange and awful.”
“Yes. And very worrying. I wonder at your being out alone on the road again today, Miss . . . ?”
“Penrose,” I said, heart skipping as I met his gaze. “Mina Penrose.”
Again he frowned. “Well, Mina Penrose, don’t you think it might be better if you kept close to home for a while? No one would want to see something like that happen to you. An out-of-town solicitor is one thing, but a young woman who must be familiar to many—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t see how my comings and goings are any of your concern.
” Tears stung my eyes, as I regretted my words almost before they’d finished coming out.
But he’d sounded so like Jack for a moment, and I supposed I was still raw from our argument last night. Still raw from all of last night.
“No, of course not,” he replied coolly, eyes lowering to his book. I had opened my mouth to offer an apology when he continued, “Thank you, Miss Penrose. That will be all.”
I strode quickly back to the kitchen, cheeks burning. I found Mrs. Moyle there, hurriedly arranging scones and tea things on a tray.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, moving to take over for her. “A tray was sitting here, and I took it out, meaning to help you, but got held up.”
She laughed. “No need to apologize for getting held up by a young gentleman. I only wish we got more of them in here. He’s an odd fellow, though, isn’t he? I don’t recognize him.”
“Mrs. Moyle, it’s Mr. Tregarrick!”
She raised her eyes from the laden tray. “Heavens! I’d thought him an old man.”
“So did I, though I don’t know why. I’m sure no one’s ever told me anything about him.”
Tipping milk into a pitcher, she said, “Did he mention his solicitor?”
“That’s how I learned it was him. He asked if I was the one who found Mr. Roscoe.”
Her brows lifted. “And did you tell him?”
“I didn’t like to lie about it.”
“What did he say?”
I let out a sigh and picked up the notebook of tea orders. “That I ought not to be walking around the village on my own.”
“Well,” my employer replied, lifting the tray, “he likely has a point. Frankly, I thought your brother would insist you stay home today.”
“I’m too old for Jack—or Mr. Tregarrick—to be telling me what to do,” I said shortly.
I felt Mrs. Moyle’s eyes on me. “I’m not going to join the chorus, but if anything happened to you, Mina, I’d never get over it.”
With that, she took the tray out to the dining room.
I was uneasy after that, and my thoughts kept drifting back to the master of Roche Rock and his oddness.
There were things other than the ones I’d first noticed.
Contradictions, you might call them. For example, though he was quite a handsome gentleman, as well as finely dressed, neither his face nor his clothing had looked very lived in.
The wealthy could of course afford to take better care of themselves, but despite his paleness, Mr. Tregarrick looked fresh from the shop.
Had he not been moldering away for years in that old tower?
There was something more that I struggled to put my finger on until almost closing time, when business had finally slowed. His address to me had been too familiar for a stranger.
I wonder at your being out alone on the road again today.
How had he known I was alone? Something in his way of speaking had made me feel as if he were aware of my habits.
It was true I walked alongside his estate going to The Magpie, but I’d never once seen him.
I couldn’t help wondering—had he been watching me?
Ridiculous. Why would he do such a thing?
By the time Mrs. Moyle locked the front door behind the last customers, we’d served every scone and pasty in the house. I heard the floor creaking as she made her way to the kitchen.
“You’d best start soon,” she said as she joined me. “I want you home before sundown.”
“I will, Mrs. Moyle. There’s time for washing up.”
I’d had to do some of the washing as we worked today so we could keep up with the orders.
But there was a stack of dishes on the worktable I hadn’t gotten to yet.
As Mrs. Moyle heated water on the stove, I noticed the teapot decorated with blackberries—and went cold inside.
My employer started chattering lightly about the day’s business, but I heard not a word of it.
I’ve done it on purpose. Left his teapot until the end, without being fully aware of it.
I stepped to the worktable and picked it up.