Roche Rock #2
He reached for my basket and moved it from the chair to the table. He picked up my bonnet, too, and hung it over the chairback. For some reason, watching him handling my things raised another flutter in my belly.
He came toward me then, hand outstretched. “Allow me.”
I studied his face. Though his expression was quiet and solemn, his eyes seemed to shine with something very different. Fear? Did my presence here make him that uncomfortable?
Slowly I reached out to take his hand, heart skipping as his fingers closed around mine. Again I noticed how cold he was, and again I wondered at the open window.
He led me to the table, and I sat down in the chair he’d emptied.
My eyes followed him as he turned and walked to the hearth.
When he came back, he held a glowing ember in a pincer tool.
He set the coal in a small pot at the center of the table.
Next to the pot was a jar of yellowish bits of rock.
He opened the jar and took one out, broke it—not rocks after all—and set one half on top of the ember.
A fragrant smoke began to rise, and I recognized the scent from feast day services at the parish church.
“What is that?” I asked.
His eyes touched mine briefly before he set down the pincers and lifted the teapot. “Frankincense resin. It’s good for purifying the air.”
Between the scent of herbs and the cool, rain-washed breeze drifting in through the window, the air in this room was probably the most purified I’d ever breathed.
I noticed none of the common smells that went along with living.
No cooking smells, nothing like unwashed linens or clothing, no pipe or cigar smoke.
My host filled a teacup and slid it toward me. “I have neither milk nor sugar,” he said. “But you may find this doesn’t need it.”
Like my mother, I drank my tea strong with plenty of milk. But I was grateful for it regardless—especially since he’d made and poured it himself. I wondered again about servants, as well as whether there was a kitchen on the upper floor. I couldn’t imagine it, yet there must be one somewhere.
I picked up the cup and breathed in the vapor, surprised by the smoky aroma.
Taking a sip, I discovered he was right.
The tea had a very smooth flavor. I had learned a little about tea since Mrs. Moyle took me on—Ceylon, Darjeeling, Assam—but I’d never tasted anything like this.
Then I realized it did remind me of something.
My employer had offered me a dram of Scotch whisky once at the New Year—said it had been the last of her husband’s bottles.
The tea had a similar smokiness, though the whisky had burned my throat and made my eyes water.
Mr. Tregarrick filled his own cup and sat in the chair opposite me—after sliding it about a foot back from the table.
Like he doesn’t want to get too close. I glanced down at my cup, hiding my embarrassment.
He was the finely dressed master of an estate; I was a miner’s daughter wearing a tea-stained dress with a muddy hem.
In the course of today’s adventure, my hair had come unpinned and now hung almost to my waist. I was bruised and bloodied and probably looked like some poor creature who’d just stumbled out of a fairy ring.
Fidgeting in my seat, I finally broke the silence. “May I ask what kind of tea this is, Mr. Tregarrick?”
He watched the steam rise from his cup. “It’s called Caravan. Traders used to drink it on routes between Europe and the East.”
“It smells like a woodfire.”
His quiet smile opened a chink in the somber mood. “It’s a blend that includes Lapsang souchong—tea leaves that are smoked. I find it warming.” Without thinking, I glanced at the open casement—and he noticed. “I suppose I enjoy the fresh air. Are you chilled, Miss Penrose?”
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, and he stood and closed it most of the way, causing the candle to gutter. Raindrops streamed down the panes both inside and out.
Sitting down again, he said politely, “I’m sorry if you don’t like the tea. You needn’t drink it.”
“I do like it,” I said. “I’m wondering whether it’s something The Magpie should serve. I mean, people tend to like what they like, but Mrs. Moyle likes trying new things.”
At last he sipped from his cup, eyeing me over the rim. “How about you, Miss Penrose?”
A flame flickered in my belly. “Me?”
“Do you like what you like, or do you like trying new things?”
I let out a nervous laugh. His gaze remained fixed on me, and I realized he wasn’t teasing.
Straightening, I replied, “Both, I guess. Sometimes new things make me feel afraid at first. Like my job at The Magpie.”
He nodded. “I think that’s true for us all.” Studying me a moment, he continued, “You’re reflective for someone so young.”
Guessing what he really meant was for someone so simple, I narrowed my eyes. “And what are you, sir? One hundred?”
His gaze dropped to the table, and in my head I muttered a curse. “That was rude, Mr. Tregarrick, I’m sorry.”
“No indeed, it was well deserved. I do often feel like I’m ancient.”
Glancing around the room, I said, “I can see how living in this old place with no one but ghosts for company might cause that.”
When he didn’t answer, I thought maybe I had offended him this time. But then I noticed that he seemed to be squelching another smile. I amuse him. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Cheeks flaming, I reached for the basket. “Will you have a scone, sir?”
He shook his head. “Thank you, no. But you should eat.”
I slipped my hand under the cloth, forgetting what was there besides scones. I muttered a curse—out loud this time—and drew back my hand. Blood dribbled down my finger, and my host sucked in a breath, his chair digging hard against the wood floor as he slid farther back from the table.
“It’s not deep,” I said quickly, grabbing the cloth and pressing it against the cut. “I forgot I’d put a knife in the basket.”
“Do you need the surgeon, Miss Penrose?”
Hearing strain in his voice, I looked up. He’d gone very pale.
“Is it the blood?” I asked. “I know it bothers some people.”
For a moment he looked shocked to his core; the intensity of it frightened me. But just as quickly his features loosened. “Yes, the blood,” he said. “I’m sorry I cannot assist you.”
Things began to make more sense now. The way he’d kept his distance until I’d cleaned the wound on my head. How he’d sat back from the table. I was relieved to learn it hadn’t been something about me.
“Heavens,” I said, moving my injured hand beneath the table. “I must be your worst nightmare.”
His dry laugh caught me by surprise. Slowly he moved to his chair, scooting it back to the table. “You’re very considerate. I’m all right now.”
Near the window, a vase containing a bouquet of goldenrod rested on the table, and he reached to adjust it slightly. “The knife is a wise precaution,” he said. “Though still I wonder at your going out on the heath alone after what happened. You’re either very brave . . .”
“Or very foolish. Yes.” I waited until he met my gaze and continued, “I know I had no right to be on your land, Mr. Tregarrick. I’ve caused a great deal of bother, and I’m truly sorry.”
“It’s not the first time.” My stomach twisted, but then I caught a glint of mischief in his eyes. “That you’ve been on the estate.”
“No, sir, it’s not. But I promise not to do it again.” The idea of giving up the heath caused a pang, but trespassing on the estate now that I knew him and had been a guest in his home, now that I’d gotten in over my head and needed rescuing . . . it was no longer possible.
“Under normal circumstances,” he replied, “I don’t mind you on the estate any more than I mind the boys who snare rabbits in the birchwood.” Smiling, he added, “Yes, I know about them,” and I thought I must have looked alarmed. “They might as well eat them, since I don’t.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir.”
He reached for the pot and filled our cups again. Rain continued tapping against the sill, and cool air ribboned through the narrow opening. He seemed to have gotten over his uneasiness about the blood, though I wouldn’t have gone so far as to say he looked comfortable.
I couldn’t help wondering what his story was.
Something awful in his past, maybe, that had left him alone and unwilling to seek out the company of his fellow creatures.
It made me sad for him, and grateful for Jack and Mrs. Moyle.
Jack and I had hit a rough patch of road, but we’d been together all our lives. If I lost him, I’d never be the same.
Sipping the smoky tea for courage, I said, “Do you truly live here all alone, Mr. Tregarrick?”
His eyes lifting to mine brought a rush of warmth. “I do,” he said.
“How do you manage with no servants?”
“Very likely the same way you manage with no servants.”
I frowned. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don’t think it is the same. I wasn’t born on an estate such as this. My brother and I were raised to do everything for ourselves because there was never going to be anyone else to do it for us.”
He gave a slow nod. “You make a fair point. Yet what I said was no more than the truth.”
Still struggling to believe him, I said, “You do all your own cooking?”
“I have simple tastes.”
Simple. Glancing around the room again, I thought about what very different worlds we’d been born into.
“Until yesterday,” I said, “I’d never seen you in the village or the market. Where do you shop?”
“Ah, you have me there. I’ve an agent in the village who sees to things that need seeing to, and I suppose that’s a kind of servant. He buys supplies as I need them and handles things like my correspondences. And of course I have—had—a solicitor for estate matters.”
My heart gave a heavy thump. “Poor Mr. Roscoe,” I said softly.
“Poor Mr. Roscoe,” he agreed, glancing down. He fiddled with his empty cup. “You’re nearly alone now yourself, since your parents died, are you not?”