4. Chapter 4
“Stay out of sight,” I say over the biting coastal winds, grabbing his coat sleeve. “And follow close.” I subjected him to many hours on a cramped train and a carriage ride, after which I snuck him down to the footpath and now a windy trek to Clodgy Point. It’s likely he regrets agreeing to come.
That is about to change.
We trace the very rim of the cliff and hunch against the cold. “The beard stays.” His voice is crisp. “And I’ll not be parting with a stitch of clothing in this weather, either.”
“We’ll see about that.” I lead him through the brambled overgrowth that descends the cliff face away from the larger Dunn House where I live… toward my most delightful little secret.
Now I have two of those.
The path slicks beneath our boots, salt air biting at my lips as we near. Waves thump and spray against the caves below, foaming through the boulders. I’ve not even brought my dearest friend Jane here, and now I’m leading a stranger directly to my hidden cottage—and setting him up there.
Yet it feels more like connecting two long-lost puzzle pieces. He’s never been here… yet somehow he reminds me of the forgotten place—even seems a part of it.
I spotted the abandoned little hovel from the water once in my eleventh year, else I’d never have happened upon it. No one scrambles the treacherous footpath this far down the cliff, believing nothing exists there but sheer cliff face, so I have the place all to myself.
The squared tower appears first, emerging from the rock face as if carved from it. It’s a crumbling heap of vines and stone that seems part of the rock itself, clinging to the edge of the world above the sea.
At a sudden burst of rain, we scramble up the steps and into the cool darkness. The silence is immediate. The place is a neglected disaster, but it’s stone-solid. Not unlike the man beside me.
I take a moment to closely observe this stranger I brought home for Christmas.
He’s a rugged sort of handsome, with a sunken, beard-covered face and haggard countenance, but his eyes—those dark, narrow slits—brim with interest. With singular wisdom.
He’s guarding himself, with all his stories and secrets tucked away.
Secrets about himself… and about Papa. All of which I sense he will not tell yet.
But he isn’t paying attention to me at all. I wait, heart in my throat, as this rag-draped stranger surveys my secret cottage. He looks my way, offers a single nod, and says, “This will do.” But his face brightens as if he’s come home.
I offer a smile. “At least they won’t find you here.”
“Who?”
“Whoever you’re running from.”
He leans one arm on the rough mantel, expression guarded again.
“The way you were running… you’ve been arrested before.”
“Yes.”
I pause a beat. “Did you deserve it?”
“Sometimes.”
His lean body is all restless passion and restrained strength. I wonder what he might do to me right now if he were of a mind. “Have you ever… hurt anyone?”
Wind howls. He kicks at the dead ash around the hearth. “Not in a way that matters.”
I stare hard at this man, willing the layers to peel back and reveal the story beneath. “I will not question further, Mr. Balfour, though the temptation is nearly irresistible.”
A smile flickers in the left corner of his mouth. “Good.”
“It scarcely matters now anyway, since you are to make a fresh start this minute. You will find your situation much changed, starting with your dress.”
“I will admit to one thing that might shock you, Miss Snow.” He stands before me, arms folded. “Changing me won’t be an easy task.”
I cross my arms. “Whyever not?”
“Because I don’t wish to change.”
“You cannot mean you enjoy sleeping under a bridge.”
“I can. I prefer it to many other places, in fact.”
“Only because you’ve never known any different.”
He grimaces, but then the door blows open, banging against the wall. I rush to shut it, and we lean against it together while he secures the bar.
“It’s quite drafty in here, I’m afraid,” I say. “No one’s occupied it in years.”
He stills. “This isn’t your home?”
“No.” My gaze flicks over the too-familiar walls. “But I dare say I’d prefer it to be, some days. Hopefully you will, too.” I turn to the cold hearth. “I’ll fetch something from the house to start the—”
“No need.”
“There’s no dry wood in the whole cottage. We’ll never manage to light anything.”
He crouches before the charred ashes, digging a small dry-packet from his sleeve and striking match against hearthstone. “More valuable than you’d guess, these sleeves.” He tosses the moss into the oversized hearth, a tiny flame flickering in its midst.
I grab the bellows beside the hearth and pump a quick burst of air. Soot billows out. I inhale and cough, stumbling back.
His warm hand closes over mine. “Gently. You must persuade it.” Bracing his hands on his knees to balance, he blows until the moss glows orange.
Once it’s steady, he vanishes outside. He returns with a small armload of dry branches and wood and tosses them onto the hearth.
I try not to look shocked. “Where did you—”
“Caves. Right along the cliff face, where the rain doesn’t reach.”
“How resourceful.” Everything in Cornwall, it seems, is damp most of the time.
When the fire swells to a pleasant glow, he leans against a pile of empty crates, for there’s no furniture about, and says, “So what is this place?”
I perch on a crate, hands out toward the fire. “A forgotten cottage on my uncle’s land. It’s my own secret, and belongs only to me. Well, in my mind at least. It doesn’t seem to belong to anyone else.”
“No one who cares for it, anyway,” he says, batting away cobwebs as thick as blankets in the beams overhead.
“I cared for it—once. When I could spare the time. It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?”
The fire pops and hisses. “When is this dinner?”
“Tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. This should keep you until then.” I touch the basket I’d collected from Dunn House’s kitchen upon our arrival, just before I’d whisked him away here. “We’ve plenty of work to do in the meantime.”
He lowers himself before the fire, holding out his hands encased in fingerless gloves. “Such as?”
“Have you decent table manners?”
“I’ve handled flatware once or twice.”
“I assume you can carry on an intelligent conversation.”
“When forced.”
I sigh. “Why such an aversion to polite society?”
He stares at me, tipping his head. “Why the fierce attachment to it?” He pokes the fire with a stick, then sits back on his heels to watch it glow.
“Perhaps you would do better to avoid speaking, actually. My uncle is hard to please. He’s an important man, and he’s very…”
“Pretentious?”
I tense. “It would be prudent not to cross him.”
“I never try to cross anyone.” He leans back against a crate on the floor. “But there’s no sense mincing words.”
I bite my lip. “Perhaps it would be best to take your meal out here. You seem quite comfortable, and I can have it—”
“Rubbish.” His eyes glitter dangerously. “It’s the house up on the landing, yes? The large one with the pillars?”
I cross my arms. It’s a chess game, and if he’s playing, so am I. “Yes, that one. Be there by eight.”
“Will there be red currant jelly?”
I smile in the dim cottage. “More than you can possibly eat.”
“I accept the challenge.” He glances down, a curtain of dark hair covering his face, then he shoves it back. He flicks his gaze toward me and gives a single nod. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
I cannot undo this now.
My nerves are wrapped tight as I leave the cottage, as I make the final preparations for the following day’s reception, as I wonder how this stranger I brought home would choose to present himself before our distinguished guests whose opinions often form in an instant.
My nerves nearly strangle me when Uncle Elias descends upon the library for a final word. “I see you decided to make an appearance after all.”
I lick my lips. “Good evening, Uncle. I trust you’re well.” I sink onto the window seat, aware of my disheveled appearance. I hadn’t even taken the time to change from my traveling gown. Then I’d climbed the cliff face, exposed to the wind.
He scowls and flips out his newspaper. “Heaven knows why your maid appeared hours before you—I suppose your car was delayed beyond the rest of the train.” His eyebrow lifts, expression resigned as it passes over me, head to toe. “It would seem you’re all in one piece, as it were.”
“I’ve been detained by a concerning matter, and I thought perhaps I might ask your perspective on it.” I present a polished smile as I gather the lines I prepared for years, in case I should succeed in locating my father. “We are blessed with so much, and others haven’t even a roof to—”
“And you’ll leave well enough alone. They are not worth your notice.”
I go still. Warmth flushes my neck.
Then he adds, almost absently, as if presenting an obvious truth, “Some men fall, Rosalyn, while others rise. All men land where they belong.” He levels that commanding look upon me.
“There’s no kindness in pretending otherwise.
” He flips out his paper again, lifting it between us.
“You’d best get off to bed, my dear. I shall see you tomorrow at the reception. ”
My throat tightens. “Tomorrow, then.”
He nods from behind his paper. “Tomorrow.”