Roche Rock
Drip, drip, drip.
The rain sounded like it was inside the house. Jack would have to climb up and repair the roof again. I burrowed deeper under the bedcover, hoping for just a few more minutes before facing the day.
A wave of confusion—and a dull, sickening throb on the side of my head—brought me fully awake.
Peeking out from the blanket, I discovered the light was all wrong.
Across the room I saw an unfamiliar window, its casement partly open and a candle burning on the sill.
A wine-colored velvet curtain hung heavily to one side, tied back with a gold cord.
Rain fell against the window’s outer sill (the reason for the dripping sound) as thunder rumbled over the downs.
The smell of the place, too, was strange—spirits, herbs, and something that reminded me of church. Cold stone and incense.
Where am I?!
I sat up quickly, and the room spun. My head throbbed again, and I groaned.
Footsteps sounded on a creaking floor above me.
“Hello?” I called out hoarsely.
At one end of the room was a stone stairway that curved to an upper floor. A man was coming down, and my heart nearly jumped out of my throat.
“All is well, Miss Penrose.”
Mr. Tregarrick! It came to me suddenly that I was inside the old chapel. Inside Roche Rock. The walls of this smallish, square room were mostly covered with paintings and tapestries, but I could see the black stone between them. How could this be?
Reaching to touch my left temple, I found a lump. The skin was sticky, and when I looked at my fingers, I saw a smear of blood.
My gaze darted back to Mr. Tregarrick, who was watching me closely from the foot of the stairs, where he’d stopped. He stood very still, as if afraid of frightening me away. Like a fox watches a rabbit.
“What—what has happened, sir?” I asked in a quavering voice.
His lips curved down. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
I pushed back against the fear coiling around my brain, making it hard to think. The pool. The slab. The startled magpie. “I fell,” I choked out. “I . . . No. Something knocked me down.”
“And did you see it?”
I shook my head, causing another wave of dizziness.
In a voice low and calm, Mr. Tregarrick said, “I will tell you what I can, Miss Penrose. But first, there is water on the table for cleaning your wound. I’ve added quintessence of usnea—of old man’s beard—to prevent putrefaction.”
Following his gesture, I saw a washbasin and cloth on a tea table beside me. Though I was still bewildered, my heart slowed as I began to accept that there was no present danger.
The chair I rested in had a long seat, very much like one in the tearoom that Mrs. Moyle called a reading chair.
The room around me was richly furnished, with white taper candles burning in each window and on every surface.
A fire blazed away in the hearth, near my chair, and under the casement that I’d noticed on first waking was a small dining table.
Two regular armchairs also rested near the hearth, covered in the same dark-red fabric as most of the room’s other furnishings.
I guessed that the chapel’s upper floor, with its stained glass window facing east, must have served as the bedchamber.
My eyes moved again to Mr. Tregarrick, who still had not shifted an inch.
“How have I come to be here, sir?”
He let out a quiet sigh and seemed to steady himself before taking two steps toward me—and suddenly stopping.
I noticed his dress was very different from the first time I’d seen him.
This clothing, though just as neat and clean, seemed dated to my eye—fawn breeches, black boots, and a billowy white shirt with ruffles at the neck, like a character in one of Miss Austen’s books might have worn.
He wore no waistcoat or cravat, but the lawn of his shirt was soft looking and very fine.
His wavy hair was gathered and bound, as before.
The smoky spectacles were missing, and he looked younger without them.
Had I seen him passing in the village, my eyes would have followed.
Yet his gaze—gleaming and keenly focused on me—caused me to tremble.
“I found you unconscious by the pool and brought you home. You haven’t been here long. Perhaps half an hour.”
“Brought me?” Did that mean what I thought it did?
A few ticks of silence passed before he said, “Carried you. I thought it best.”
My breath stopped, my brows knit, and my jaw fell half open. He picked me up. Carried me across the heath in his arms.
It was a lot to take in, and I sat quietly, trying. If something like that happened to a person, would they not feel it in some way afterward, even if they hadn’t been awake? My eyes moved over his arms and chest, trying to imagine my body pressed against them. A fluttering heat filled my belly.
Swallowing thickly, I managed, “Did you see any . . . any creature nearby?”
One of his brows lifted. “I saw no more than a shadow, and by the time I reached you, it had fled.”
I hugged my arms around my chest. “Do you think it might have been the same creature that . . . ?”
“That killed Mr. Roscoe?”
I nodded.
“According to the constable, my solicitor was killed by a rabid dog. I don’t think that’s what this was.”
“But then . . .” I frowned, thinking. “It doesn’t seem likely there are two creatures attacking people on the heath. Could Mr. Hilliard and the others be mistaken?”
The ghost of a smile visited Mr. Tregarrick’s lips. “While I can’t argue with your logic, I’m afraid I have no answers for you.”
Yet I got the feeling there was more he could say but was choosing not to.
Unsettled by his keen, quiet manner, I glanced again around the room. I had seen no servants and began to think I might be here alone with him.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Well, it was very kind of you to rescue me, Mr. Tregarrick.”
I shifted on the chair and lowered my feet to the floor. As I stood, a fresh wave of dizziness caused me to sway.
I felt cold fingers close around my upper arms and gasped. How quickly he’d reached me!
“Please sit, Miss Penrose.” I found myself looking into his dusty plum eyes. “I insist. Clean your wound, so it doesn’t fester. I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Then I’ll see you home, if you’re feeling recovered enough.”
Breathless at his sudden closeness, and still befuddled by the knock on the head, I managed only, “I thank you, sir.”
Yet the urge to leave was strong. Were it known that I’d been here alone with him, it could start unpleasant talk.
Jack and I had trouble enough between us.
And though my host had been more than kind—and I was growing more curious about him by the second—there was also something about him that made me uneasy.
But Mr. Tregarrick, who everyone knew did not welcome visitors, had possibly saved my life by bringing me here. I wasn’t willing to risk offending him by flying off against his wishes.
I watched him climb the stairs, his movements slow but not plodding.
Unhurried. Yet a moment ago he’d been at my side in an instant.
And the very idea that he’d had the strength to carry me across the heath to Roche Rock .
. . up the steep stairway to the chapel .
. . I doubted even hale and hearty Jack could have managed it!
I had no birdlike figure. Mum had always called me heavy-boned, like her father, who’d brought his family to Cornwall from County Cork in Ireland so he could work in the copper mines.
I sank back down on the chair, picked up the cloth he’d left for me, and dipped it into the water, which smelled slightly of spirits.
It stung as I pressed it to the lump, but the coolness was soothing.
I took a deep breath and rested against the chairback.
My uneasiness about Mr. Tregarrick seemed altogether unreasonable, considering how he’d put himself out to take care of me.
I could still hardly believe I was here. I’d never heard of anyone in the village coming to Roche Rock except Mr. Hilliard, the night I’d found Mr. Roscoe. At one time of my life, I would have barely been able to contain my excitement at the notion of bragging to Jack later.
He’ll take to locking me in if he finds out about this.
The place was far more comfortable than you would expect from the outside.
The fire easily heated this room, though I did wonder at the open casement, letting in the damp, chill air.
While I was sure the black stone must have been cold to the touch, most of it was covered, and great rugs had been spread over the wooden floor planks.
A tapestry on the wall behind me showed ladies in filmy gowns dancing under great trees, and the many paintings were a mixture of fine scenery and old portraits. On the wall next to the stairway, a man wearing a dark cap with a white feather had a gaze that sent a chill through me.
I didn’t know whether the chapel had ever been used for religious purposes. It was said the family had lived here all the long years since the manor burned. I found it strange, them remaining in such cramped quarters instead of simply building another house. Maybe hard times had come to them.
“I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you but tea,” said my host as he came back down. He carried a tray to the dining table beneath the window. “I am unused to visitors.”
I noticed for the first time that my basket and bonnet were resting on one of the dining chairs and said, “If my basket hasn’t emptied onto the heath”—again—“I have Mrs. Moyle’s scones to offer.”
I stood up to join him, but again he protested, “I think you should be still, Miss Penrose. I can bring your cup to you.”
“I’m feeling steadier, sir,” I argued, “and I will have to walk soon enough. You can’t carry me all the way home.” Picturing this in my mind brought a flush of warmth.
“No,” he admitted, looking down. “It probably wouldn’t be advisable.”
I noted he was saying that he shouldn’t, not that he couldn’t.