Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On the fifth morning after their arrival, the weather had turned briefly kind, the sky a wash of pale blue, the wind gentle.
Minerva was in the sitting room, a book open before her, Kitty sitting across from her, darning a sock.
Nessa was somewhere above, moving through the upper rooms, the occasional domestic sound carrying through the ceiling.
A knock came, sharp and precise. Minerva set aside her book and went to the door.
Tamsyn Tregian stood on the step, her gown of ice blue the precise shade of her eyes, a mantle of ivory wool trimmed with braid at the edges draped over her shoulders. Her bonnet was adorned with a small cluster of cream silk blossoms, tied beneath her chin with silk ribbons that matched her dress.
“Miss Ashworth.” Her voice was warm, her smile immediate and unforced, dimples in both cheeks. “I hope I am not intruding.” She held out a small, covered basket. “My cook makes excellent seedcake. I thought it might be welcome.”
“That is very kind,” Minerva said, accepting the basket and stepping aside. “Please do come in, Miss Tregian.”
“Tamsyn, please. And I will call you Minerva. I thought we had already settled that.”
Kitty had followed Minerva from the sitting room and came forward with an expression that made clear her pleasure at the prospect of company. She and Tamsyn exchanged greetings and as Minerva went to lead them to the parlor, Nessa descended the stairs carrying a bucket and mop.
She froze, then bobbed an awkward curtsey, keeping her eyes low.
Tamsyn’s gaze moved to her with a naturalness that was almost seamless.
Almost. But Minerva saw the fraction of an instant where the other woman hesitated, her expression shifting to one of surprise before smoothing out once more.
Tamsyn took a step forward, effectively blocking Nessa’s path to the scullery.
Nessa held very still, eyes on the floor, body stiff.
Tamsyn glanced at Minerva. “How fortunate you are to have found someone so quickly. It is difficult to manage a house without help. Particularly when you are new to a place.”
“Nessa has been invaluable,” Minerva said.
“It is a long walk from town and back each day,” Tamsyn said.
“Our Nessa stays here with us,” Kitty said.
“My goodness!” Tamsyn stared hard at Nessa. “I am surprised she agreed to work here, let alone sleep here. The townsfolk are a superstitious lot.”
There was nothing in either words or tone that should have stiffened Minerva’s spine. It was a simple observation, one that alluded to a fact that Minerva already knew: the villagers were wary of Cliff Cottage. Still, she felt the comment as a barb.
“We will have tea in the parlor, Nessa,” Minerva said.
“And do set out the cake Miss Tregian has brought.” Nessa looked at the mop and bucket she carried then at the basket Minerva held.
Seeing the issue, Minerva glanced at Kitty.
“Please show Miss Tregian to the parlor. I will be along in a moment.”
Minerva carried the cake to the kitchen. There, she paused as Nessa set down the bucket and mop.
“Nessa,” she said. “Miss Tregian has been kind to me since my arrival. Is she…well regarded in the village?”
Nessa was silent a moment, her back to Minerva. “She is well regarded, Miss.”
“But?” Minerva said.
“Folks say she has not been herself these past months. That her temper can change in an instant. That she can be…cruel, though she never was before.”
“And has she been cruel to you?”
Nessa turned. “I don’t speak with her much, Miss.”
Minerva wasn’t certain that was an answer.
When she entered the parlor, she found Kitty sitting in one of the brocade chairs and Tamsyn on the sofa, the two women already engaged in conversation.
Tamsyn spoke easily of village anecdotes, of the tides and the weather, and the temperament of Cornish winters. “You have come at a good time. You’ll have the pleasure of the remainder of spring, and all of summer and autumn before you’ll face the winter.”
“Will we see frost and snow?” Kitty asked.
“A little,” Tamsyn said. “But mostly it is rain, rain, and more rain.”
The conversation turned and she spoke of Catherine, her gaze distant in the way of genuine memory. “She was good to us. All of us.”
There was something in the way she said all, sad and melancholy and a little lost.
“I’m sorry,” Minerva said. “It must be difficult to see someone else in her home.”
Tamsyn was silent for a moment, her gaze turning sharp, assessing. “No, not at all. I am so very glad for your good society.” Her gaze encompassed first Minerva and then Kitty.
The words, the expression, they were perfectly constructed, gracious and warm. And yet—
Minerva realized the pendant had grown warm against her skin.
She was learning to notice its moods: It had been hot in the cellar, and warm on the coach road approaching Fowey.
It had pulsed when first she crossed the threshold of Cliff Cottage as if it meant to convey a message though she could not say what that message might be.
And she could not account for why she felt the heat of it now, sitting in her own parlor on a sunny day with a charming neighbor, eating seedcake.
As soon as the thought formed, the pendant cooled.
Tamsyn’s gaze slid to the piano. “Do either of you play?”
“Not at all,” Kitty said cheerfully.
“A little,” Minerva said.
Tamsyn tipped her head. “I suspect rather more than a little.” She offered a small smile. “Catherine played beautifully. She taught me when I was a girl.” Her expression turned rueful. “I was not a gifted pupil, but she was patient with me regardless.”
“Would that my teacher had been patient,” Minerva said. “He would rap my knuckles when my scales were less than satisfactory. I quickly learned to make certain they were always satisfactory.”
Both Kitty and Tamsyn laughed, the sound easy, filling the room.
Tamsyn nodded toward the piano and said, “I used to sit at that bench and hear the floorboards creak overhead. Every lesson, without fail.” She shook her head. “As a child, I was convinced that the house was listening to me play and expressing its opinion of my progress.”
“An unsettling possibility,” Minerva said, keeping her expression neutral, her tone mild.
She did not look at Kitty, did not need to in order to know that she too was thinking of the creak of the stairs on the far side of the closed cellar door.
She wondered if Tamsyn knew that Minerva had heard things in this house.
Felt them. Seen them. And then she wondered if that was, in fact, the entire point of the anecdote.
After a perfectly acceptable amount of time, Tamsyn took her leave. At the door, she paused. “I am very glad you decided to come. I hope Cliff Cottage proves kind to you.” She held Minerva’s gaze. “Kinder than it has to others.”
Then she descended the path, her ivory wool mantle pale against the wide blue sky.
Kitty appeared at Minerva’s shoulder.
“She was lovely. I hope she comes again,” she said.
“Yes,” Minerva agreed.
Kitty’s brows rose. “You don’t think so?”
Minerva went to the window and looked out at the garden. The camellia had shed a few more of its browning blossoms.
Kinder than it has to others.
Had Tamsyn meant to issue a warning or express a genuine wish… or both simultaneously? The woman’s grief for Catherine and her warmth toward Kitty had been genuine and true. And yet, there had been something.
Minerva had trusted warmth before and been abandoned by those warm people when she had needed them. They had taught her that genuine friendship and constructed acquaintanceship were so closely interwoven they could not be easily teased apart.
“She is fluent in the use of warmth and charm, and she is very good at visiting,” Minerva said.
“Oh!” Kitty laughed. “Well, I hope she visits again with her warmth and charm.”
She looped her arm through Minerva’s and together they returned to the parlor.
The book had been sitting on the corner of Dashiell’s desk for nearly a year, a volume of poetry Catherine had lent him. After she died, there had been no urgency, no one to return it to.
There was someone to return it to now.
He readily acknowledged that the book was a pretext.
He would go to Cliff Cottage with or without it because he wanted to see her, the flash of defiance in her eyes, the mulish set of her chin, her soft lips narrowed in disapproval.
Her fingers tapping a rhythm as she held her secret demons in check.
He heard her words in his mind. Then the experience may prove educational for you.
He had found in the days since last he saw her that it had been.
The cliff path was cold and clear, the morning bright.
He walked with the book tucked under his arm, thinking about his last encounter with Minerva Ashworth.
Their conversation had been brief and not particularly friendly, and he had replayed it in his thoughts with more frequency than was warranted.
His arrival at the cottage sometime later was not expected, but in the fraction of a second before Minerva assembled her composure after she answered the door, he caught her unguarded expression. It was not displeasure.
“Mr. Penrose,” she said, her voice even, her expression neither wary nor welcoming.
In that instant, his own thoughts were briefly unguarded, though he held his expression in check.
He wanted, with a specificity that surprised him, to make her laugh.
To summon words that would break through her composed and calm surface and free the woman beneath.
He wanted not the measured, careful attention she offered him but the less controlled version of her. A version that belonged only to him.
He was not a fanciful man, but something about Minerva almost made him one.
He was also neither a charming man nor a humorous one, so he offered no witty repartee.
“Miss Ashworth.” He offered the book. “This belonged to your cousin. I borrowed it some time ago. I should have returned it sooner.”