Roche Rock #3
I stared, wondering how he knew. I supposed he would have information from his “agent” when he wanted it, though I couldn’t imagine why he would interest himself in me. I recalled what Mrs. Moyle had said. Did it occur to you that he might have been curious about you?
“That’s right,” I replied. “It’s just Jack and me.”
“That must have made your life much harder.”
“In some ways. But we were nearly grown when they died. Mostly I just miss them.” Feeling a familiar ache in my throat, I drained the last of my tea.
“You have no other family in Roche?”
I shook my head. “My mother’s family are all in Ireland. Her parents lived here since before I was born, but they’re both gone now. Da’s parents and two brothers went up north to the cotton mills. They wanted us to go, too, and they quarreled with Da over it. We haven’t heard from them in years.”
I noticed his features had softened as he said, “But you and Jack manage on your own well enough?”
This wasn’t an easy question to answer, and I somehow got the sense he knew that. “I’m grateful for Jack,” I said. “We’re twins, and we’ve always been close. But both of us have changed since our parents died. We don’t always agree about things.”
“I don’t imagine he would like you being here.”
I laughed wearily. “He doesn’t really like me being anywhere except home.” Although this was true, I had a feeling that Jack would, in fact, go up in flames of rage if he knew where I was.
“Perhaps Jack’s afraid of losing you, too.”
I met my host’s gaze, still focused softly on my face, and felt a stab of guilt. It was possible I’d been somewhat blinded by my anger and hurt feelings.
“You could be right,” I said. “The world feels somehow bigger since I started working at The Magpie. All Jack has is what he’s always had—the mine.” And the bottle. “I’ve assumed he holds that against me. Maybe it’s not as simple as that.”
“I think things rarely are.”
Offering a careful smile, I said, “I suppose being a hundred years old has made you wise.”
I only meant to tease him, but his gaze dropped, and though my head still hurt and I shrank from the idea of going out in the rain, I felt like I was wearing my welcome thin.
“I thank you for the tea, Mr. Tregarrick,” I said, stirring in my chair. “I’m feeling much better, and I should probably get home.”
Now his gaze lifted, seeming to pin me in place as a rumble of thunder charged the air. “Forgive me if I seem cold or inhospitable, Miss Penrose. I fear I’ve lived alone so long my manners have suffered.”
Some of my worry seeped away as I laughed. “I deal with ‘ill-mannered’ enough to know it when I see it. You have some of the finest manners I’ve ever seen.”
His smile was doubtful.
“You seem to know all about me, Mr. Tregarrick,” I ventured, “and I confess I’ve always been curious about you.”
The doubtful smile lingered. “Indeed?”
“Well, our cottage is on the edge of your estate. Jack once told me an old sorcerer lived up here.”
My host’s smile broadened. “Perhaps he’s right.”
“Well, supposing he is, what does an old sorcerer do up here all alone, day in and day out?”
“The truth is that ‘old sorcerer’ is not far off. I’m an alchemist.”
I frowned, not recognizing the word. “What does an alchemist do, then?”
“The aim of alchemy is transmutation. Performing a series of actions on a substance with the hope of changing it into a different substance.”
“I don’t think I follow,” I said meekly, ashamed of my ignorance.
“But you do. You’ve done it yourself, I’m certain. Combine flour, water, and yeast, mix and knead them, apply heat, and you end up with something very different from what you started with.”
My brows dipped. “Bread.”
“It’s true. Bread doesn’t occur in nature. Creating it involves art and science, and something of magic, too, I’d argue. I’m not a baker, but what I do is not all that different.”
“What kinds of things do you make?”
He took a breath, gathering his thoughts.
“Alchemy is most known for its pursuit of chrysopoeia—the creation of gold from lesser metals. I have dabbled in that pursuit, but my focus is medical alchemy, which concerns itself with bodily imbalances. I work mostly in the distillation of herbal quintessences.”
The meaning of all this remained murky to me, but he was more animated than I’d seen him yet, and I wanted him to go on.
“Like what you put in the water for cleaning my wound.”
He looked pleased. “Precisely, Miss Penrose. You’re a quick study.”
The praise warmed my skin. “Are they medicines for yourself?”
I watched the heaviness settle over him again. I could have sworn I saw secrets scurry behind his eyes like hens fleeing a fox. “Mostly, yes.”
I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He looked out the window.
Before I could get out another of my questions, he rose from the table, saying, “If you’re feeling up to it, we should get you home before your brother misses you.”
The dark clouds made it impossible to say whether the sun had set, but likely it had. There was still enough light to make it home without a lamp. Jack likely wouldn’t be there for a while yet, but I had his supper to make.
“Yes,” I agreed, rising. “But you needn’t go with me. You’ve been very kind already, and—”
The look he gave me stopped my words and my breath. “Miss Penrose, leaving aside the fact a head injury rendered you unconscious not more than an hour ago, it is obvious the danger in Roche has not yet passed. I shall by no means leave you to find your own way home.”
I swallowed, shaken by the change in his manner. He went from soft to hard as suddenly as he did from slow to quick.
But he was right. And as the excitement over my visit to Roche Rock wound down, the facts began to sink in as they hadn’t before. Though I had no real memory of it, I’d been attacked on the heath just like Mr. Roscoe.
“Thank you, Mr. Tregarrick,” I said, a tremor in my voice.
Carefully I put on my bonnet, picked up my basket, and followed him to the heavy, iron-studded door, where he donned a hat and greatcoat that hung on a tree there. He slipped his spectacles from a pocket and put them on.
As we stepped outside, lightning stabbed across the sky, followed by a closer thunderclap.
I jumped, and his fingers came briefly to my waist to steady me; there was no real landing at the top of the steps, and barely enough room for two people to stand.
He was close enough that I could feel how cold he was even through my clothing.
It’s not just his hands. Yet his nearness caused another flush.
“I don’t like setting out in this,” he said, “but I don’t see it letting up before dark.”
“No,” I agreed. “At least it’s not far.”
“You must take my hand for support.”
I wasn’t sure there’d be any surviving a fall down the steep, wet stairway, so I reached with my uninjured hand to grasp his. The steps weren’t wide enough for us to stand abreast; he went down in a sideways fashion, one step ahead of me. It made for slow progress, but I was grateful.
Halfway down, the rain changed to pea-size hail. I hunched my shoulders and ducked my head, but this only led to ice sliding down my collar in back. The weather had been so fine when I left The Magpie that I’d forgotten my shawl, and my blouse was wet through.
When at last we reached the bottom, we exchanged a glance. “Are you all right?” he asked.
He, too, was hunched against the hail, now mercifully giving way to rain again. His hat didn’t provide as much protection as my bonnet—which was a very fine one, with a wide brim, that Mrs. Moyle had given me last Christmas—and droplets slid over his cheekbones.
Despite my best efforts to contain it, I let out a bark of nervous laughter. “Do you think we’ve done something to anger the heavens, Mr. Tregarrick?”
He grinned, and for a moment I saw the boy he must have been once. “I think perhaps we have. Let us keep going.”
We followed the path that led around the oak wood to the gap in the hedgerow—the same one I passed every day. I had never expected to find myself on this side of the hedge and wished I could take everything in. Instead I kept my head tucked against the rain.
After a few minutes we reached the road—deserted in the violent weather—and started for Carbis. When finally we arrived at our cottage door, it felt wrong not asking Mr. Tregarrick to step inside out of the weather. But of course I couldn’t, and he was already taking his leave anyway.
“You feel well enough to remain here on your own until your brother comes home?”
“Yes, I’m much recovered, and I must thank you again, sir. I believe you may have saved my life.”
“I believe I may have, too. I know I have no right to ask you to do anything, but please—for my sake if not for your own—take more care, Mina Penrose.”
The chill brought on by my wet clothing fled as he spoke my name.
He was turning to go, but then he stopped and said, “Might you have a cross you can wear?”
A cross? I frowned. “My mother wore one that I still have, though I’ve never worn it myself. You don’t mean for . . . for protection?”
“I know it may sound strange, and I confess I don’t think of myself as a religious man, despite the fact I live in a chapel. But would you . . . would you wear it for me?”
For him! My heart skittered to a stop. The request so surprised me that my wits fled, and I didn’t ask what I really should have—what did he know about the creature that had killed Mr. Roscoe that made him think it might be bothered by a cross?
Instead, I replied, “If you like.” Then, on impulse: “May I know your name, sir?”
“That’s just what I’d like to know.”
I gasped at the sound of Jack’s voice. He stood a few yards behind Mr. Tregarrick, on the road in front of the cottage.