Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Under the sustained weight of Mr. Penrose’s stare, Minerva forced herself to turn toward Miss Tregian.
She summoned an inane comment about the weather, about the bracing sea air, though the words tasted flat on her tongue.
She nodded when Miss Tregian replied, but the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears rendered the reply meaningless.
All she could hear was the echo of Mr. Penrose’s voice, low and controlled.
All she could feel was the weight of his attention.
The way he looked at her—
Heat lingered where his eyes had touched her, along the curve of her throat and the hollow beneath her collarbone.
He did not fully belong in the ordinary rhythm of polite interaction, his attention honed and controlled and dangerous. His presence shifted the very air around him. Even with her back to him, she knew he had not looked away.
The answering flutter in her belly was not the sweet tremor of girlish fancy. It was more like standing at the edge of a sharp drop and feeling the ground give way beneath her boots.
“Here is Thom now,” said Miss Tregian as a cart pulled up before the platform.
Minerva drew a deep breath, relieved on more than one count.
She would be glad to reach her new home.
But she would also be glad to remove herself from the open hostility that crackled between the Tregians and Mr. Penrose.
She imagined they were all quite pleasant taken separately, but together they formed something unstable. Something combustible.
“We’ll take our leave,” said Miss Tregian. She held out both hands, one to Minerva and one to Kitty, offering each a gentle squeeze.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Tregian. Mr. Tregian,” Minerva said.
“Do call me Tamsyn.” She glanced at her brother. “And Jago. This village is small and offers little in the way of pleasant society. I know we will become dear friends, and dear friends should not stand on formalities.”
The words were gracious, the tone warm, but Tamsyn Tregian bore the same polish as the girls who had turned their backs on Minerva when misfortune rendered her inconvenient.
A veneer of warmth was easily summoned. True friendship was not so easily gained, and Minerva’s trust was doled out in precious drops, each one earned.
But Tamsyn had not shunned Kitty as beneath her, and that elevated her a notch in Minerva’s esteem.
The Tregians departed. Mr. Penrose did not. The wind tugged at the hem of his coat as he stood rooted to the quay stones, watching her the way a hawk watches its prey, utterly still, eyes copper bright, missing nothing.
Glad for the excuse of the newly arrived cart, she turned away first, though it felt suspiciously like retreat. A young man climbed down. He was sturdily built, with thick, sandy hair and a handsome, boyish face.
“Mr. Gloyn?” she asked.
“That’s my father. I’m just Thom,” he said. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long. I had a list of purchases from your Mr. Granger. Got them all for you.”
“Did you get the broom?” Kitty asked. She had insisted on the addition of that item to the list, though Minerva had said there was likely a broom already at the cottage.
“I did, Miss.”
Minerva stifled a smile as Kitty said, “An old broom carries old dirt, and worse, old troubles. A new broom is a fresh start.” She set a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “Did you buy bread? And salt?”
“I did, Miss,” Thom said, staring at Kitty for a long moment before dropping his gaze.
She turned to Minerva. “Bread when we arrive means the household will never know hunger. Salt to ward off spirits, ill luck, and decay.”
“A new home needs bread to invite blessings,” Thom said.
Kitty beamed at him.
A flush darkened Thom’s cheeks. He ducked his head and asked Minerva, “Shall I load your trunks, Miss?”
“Please do,” Minerva said. “I am eager to see the cottage.”
Thom loaded their trunks in his cart, already laden with stacks of supplies.
He helped first Kitty, then Minerva onto the slat of wood that served as a seat, which left him sitting next to Kitty as he climbed up and lifted the reins.
Minerva did not miss the quick look he settled on Kitty or the way she fluttered her lashes in response.
Clucking his tongue, Thom set the brown mare walking at a sedate pace. The cart rolled forward with a jolt, the wheels rattling on the stones.
Minerva told herself not to look back and lasted almost a full minute before she conceded defeat. Mr. Penrose had not moved. He stood where she had left him, broad-shouldered and lean-waisted, his hair swept by the wind as he watched her.
Danger did not always arrive with a snarl, she thought. Sometimes it arrived impeccably dressed, hat tipped, voice low.
Turning away quickly, she straightened her spine, certain that he would still be watching even after the cart had disappeared from view.
“Look, Min,” Kitty said. “The church spire in the distance. Oh, and there’s the blacksmith’s shop. And a tavern.” She was quiet only long enough to draw breath before she continued. “And fishermen. Do you see the fishermen, Min?”
“I see them,” Minerva said, taking everything in, Kitty’s excitement stoking her own.
As the cart continued past the edge of the village and up the hill, Minerva had the odd impression of crossing some invisible boundary. The air seemed to settle differently against her skin. The pendant lay cool at her throat, yet her fingers rose to toy with it all the same.
“Do you know Mr. and Miss Tregian?” she asked, leaning forward to speak to Thom.
“I know they’ve lived here all their lives, as have I,” said Thom, his tone bland.
“They were most welcoming,” Minerva said.
Thom only nodded in reply.
“And Mr. Penrose? Do you know him?” Kitty asked with a sly look at Minerva.
“I do,” said Thom. “He’s only ever been fair with me.”
Minerva blinked. An odd thing to say, as if there might be those hereabouts who felt he had not been fair with them.
“I cannot wait to see Cliff Cottage,” Kitty said, fairly bouncing on her seat. “Do you think it is large? Do you think it is really on a cliff?”
“A good size, it is,” said Thom. “And yes, it’s on a cliff.”
“Oh, we did know that didn’t we, Min?”
“We did,” said Minerva, thinking of the terrible way her cousin had died.
They had travelled some two miles when Thom drew the cart to a halt and said, “There it is. Cliff Cottage.”
Minerva was grateful that he’d stopped to allow her to take it all in from a distance.
The vast ocean views, blue and gray with a froth of white.
The small, walled garden, more green than she had expected so early in the spring.
Dark ivy claimed the stones in glossy sheets, tufts of coarse grass pushing through the gravel path.
Primroses clustered in pale drifts near the gate, and a camellia bush sat in the far corner, its deep pink blooms beginning to brown at the edges.
At the center of it all was the slate and stone cottage, though to her mind it was a house.
‘Cottage’ conjured an image of a small, simple place.
This was neither. From the front it presented a modest face, with two windows either side of the door.
But the building extended back a fair distance, additions accumulated over generations, the newer stone a slightly different color than the older, the whole thing having grown in a way that was indifferent to any original plan.
For a second, Minerva could not speak. As a child, she had lived in a house far finer than this. Then she had lived in a barren room, damp and cold in the winter, sweltering hot in the summer. And now she would live here.
It’s beautiful.
My house. My home.
Mine.
The words felt bold in her mind. Presumptuous. Impossible.
“It is lovely, but so far from the village,” Kitty said, looking behind them to the road they had travelled.
“Less than an hour’s walk,” Thom said and set the cart in motion once more.
The gulls swooped high, emitting their shrill cries as the cart rolled closer and closer to home.
Minerva’s gaze flitted up to the first floor where the windows sat small and dark beneath the low roofline, looking back at her. For a moment, she had the unsettling impression that Cliff Cottage was not vacant at all but waiting.
The wind slid around the house with a low, hollow sound as the cart rocked to a stop. Minerva clambered down before Thom could make his way around to help.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said, clearly worried that he had somehow come up short.
“Miss Dorsey would appreciate your help,” Minerva said.
She’d been doing for herself for three years and she had found that she liked it.
She was no invalid. She could very well climb down from a cart.
But the inheritance from her cousin meant she had regained the social standing she had once lost. Well, if not all of it, at least some part.
She’d have to remember to at least try to behave accordingly.
“I’ll unload your trunks there,” Thom said, indicating the side of the road. “Maybe you’d like to go in and have a look at the rooms and such. Once you let me know where each one is to go, I’ll carry them inside for you.”
“Thank you,” Minerva said, and paused to study the house before her, stone and glass and weather-worn wood.
She drew forth the key Mr. Granger had provided, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Closing her eyes, she held still and just breathed. Sea and salt, the smell of beeswax, the lingering hint of wood fire, dust, and a hint of floral.
The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped inside, the sound echoing along the hallway. For an instant, she felt the pendant press against her skin, as though heralding her entry.
Drawing a slow breath, she thrust aside such notions, refusing to allow her anxious nature to conjure unsettling fancies and ruin this moment.