Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dawn’s light crept through the window, painting the kitchen in shades of honey and gold.
Minerva sat at the table nursing a cup of cooling tea.
She had been up for some time, the ache in her throat making her sleep fitful, her thoughts spinning from the horrific events of the previous morning to those of the afternoon.
A wonderful, beautiful, lovely afternoon.
She thought of the way Dashiell had touched her, kissed her, held her. The feel of his skin, smooth over hard ridges of muscle, the tickle of the hair on his chest against her breasts. The fullness of him between her thighs, stretching her, filling her.
Pressing her lips together, she ducked her head.
“You refused to speak of it last night and I showed you the courtesy of not pressing you,” Kitty said.
Minerva’s head jerked up.
“I didn’t hear you come down,” she said. “I was lost in thought.”
Kitty stared at Minerva’s throat for a long moment, at the bruising that had darkened overnight to a mottled purple.
She stood there, quiet, still. Too still. Her eyes filled but the tears did not fall. She pressed her lips together and breathed through her nose, refusing to cry.
“Kitty—” Minerva said.
Kitty shook her head, a single sharp motion, cutting off Minerva’s words and in that moment, Minerva saw all the fear and worry Kitty was fighting to suppress.
Kitty took a breath, then another. Then she crossed to the table and sat down, looking at Minerva with a bright expression that told her Kitty had decided to be all right whether she was or not.
“Pretty thoughts, I’d say from the expression on your face when I came in.
Which makes no sense, given the state of you,” Kitty said, her voice even, her hands folded on the table, her hazel eyes intent.
“A boy came yesterday from Carrek with a note that said you were safe and well. Then, last night, you only hugged me and whispered that you are safe and well. But while I can see that you are safe, I can also see that you are not well, and I will know the truth of it now.” She paused. “If Mr. Penrose—”
“No,” Minerva said. “You cannot think that he—”
“I know not what to think,” Kitty said. She sighed. “I believe I am a good judge of men, and I had not thought him capable of such. I do not want to be wrong about that.”
“You are not wrong.” Minerva wrapped both hands around her cup. “Teague was on the cliff path.” It hurt to speak, her throat aching and sore.
“Teague!” Kitty reached across the table and took Minerva’s hand, squeezing gently.
“With the fog, I did not see him until it was too late. He caught me. He—” She took a slow breath, steadying herself. “He put his hands around my throat. He meant to kill me.”
A small sound of horror escaped Kitty, her grasp on Minerva’s hand tightening.
“Dashiell arrived,” Minerva said. The words were so simple, so innocuous.
But he had not merely arrived. He had swooped down like a dark angel.
She remembered the precision of the punishment he had meted out, each blow specific, intended to cause pain and harm.
What sort of person did it make her that she did not abhor his actions?
“He… dealt with Teague,” Kitty finished for her. “And then he took you to Carrek.”
“Yes.”
“And if Mr. Penrose had not been on that path—” Kitty closed her eyes and made a long, slow exhalation. “All right,” she said, opening her eyes. “I will not think on it because he was on that path and that is all that matters.”
A tear escaped onto Kitty’s lashes, then traced a path down along her cheek.
Minerva shook her head. “I was a fool. Nessa told me she had seen her father at the gate—”
“What? When?”
“I don’t recall precisely. Some time ago.”
“You should have told me. I would have…” Kitty’s voice trailed away as she realized there was nothing she could have done. Nothing any of them could have done.
From behind them came a sound.
Minerva turned to see Nessa standing in the doorway to the passage, her face the color of chalk. Her gaze was locked on Minerva’s throat, her expression one of horror. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Nessa,” Minerva said gently, her voice edged with a rasp.
“My Da did that to you.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” Minerva said.
Nessa sank to the floor as if her legs could no longer hold her, crouching down, back bowed, arms wrapped around her bent knees. A low keening sound came from her.
Minerva and Kitty both rose, Kitty reaching the girl first because she was closer. The two women knelt by her side. Minerva rested her palm gently on Nessa’s back.
“My fault. All my fault.” Nessa moaned.
“Not at all your fault,” Minerva said.
“His choices were his own,” Kitty said. “You had nothing to do with them. You do not take blame for his poor choices, and he cannot take credit for your good choices.”
Nessa lifted her head, her eyes red, tears streaking her face. “Good choices?”
“You chose to come to this house, to work here, to build yourself a life away from him,” Minerva said. “Good choices, all. And they are entirely yours.”
After a long moment, Nessa nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
There came a knock at the door. Kitty went to answer it as Minerva urged Nessa to her feet.
Kitty returned a moment later with a folded note, sealed in plain wax. She handed it to Minerva who accepted it and broke the seal.
Last night, under escort, Teague was put on a ship bound for Australia. He will not return to Cornwall. You have my word. Walk where you wish.
D.
Minerva made a small sound, part sigh, part laugh. Then she looked at Nessa and said, “Your father has left Cornwall. He will not return.”
Nessa stared at her.
“He is gone,” Minerva said. “He cannot come to the gate or the path or accost you in the village. He is gone.”
“He is… dead?” Nessa whispered.
“No,” Minerva said. “He has been sent to Australia.”
“Australia?” Kitty said. Then she laughed. “That’s quite a ways away.”
Nessa stared at them for a long moment and then she burst into tears, her body shaking as she sobbed and Minerva knew it for what it was. Not grief. Relief.
Kitty wrapped her arms around her and held her until the shaking stilled. Nessa finally pulled back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Australia,” she said with a smile. “He’ll hate it. He’s miserable in the heat and he burns in the sun.” She paused. “Good.” Her chin came up. “Good,” she said again, more firmly.
Kitty let out a startled laugh.
Minerva smiled, but her thoughts were on Dashiell’s note.
Walk where you wish.
Four words that meant freedom. She could open her gate and walk where she wished and not be afraid of the man waiting in the mist. Because Dashiell had made it so.
Tamsyn Tregian arrived carrying a small pot of preserved plums and Minerva received her in the parlor.
Nessa took herself to the kitchen with the plums. Kitty sat in the chair by the window with her knitting and rose to greet Tamsyn with a smile.
After pleasantries were exchanged, they sat and, as Minerva had known it would, Tamsyn’s gaze went to the purple bruises.
In the two days since Teague’s attack, the color had darkened and deepened.
“My dear,” Tamsyn said, her expression one of warmth and concern. “Are you all right? The whole village has been talking.”
The words landed with a shock. Minerva had been at the cottage since the attack, had spoken to no one outside the household. She did not know how or what the village knew, but she decided against revealing that to Tamsyn.
“I am recovering well,” she said, her fingers straying to the pendant, finding it warm to her touch. “It was an unpleasant incident that has been resolved.”
“So I understand.” Tamsyn glanced at Kitty. “That is Teague’s girl who works here?”
There was nothing untoward in her words or tone, her expression mild, her posture relaxed. Still, Minerva kept her tone cool as she said, “Nessa is employed here, yes.”
“And she is wonderful,” Kitty added with a smile.
At that moment, Nessa entered with the tea things.
Once she had left, Tamsyn said, “Poor creature.”
Minerva exchanged a look with Kitty, one that promised a later discussion, but made no comment. She busied herself pouring and handing out cups.
“The man is gone from Cornwall, they say.” Tamsyn’s attention shifted briefly to Minerva’s throat then back to her face. She took a sip of her tea. “The village talk is that someone made certain of his departure.”
“I see,” Minerva said and took a sip of her own tea, declining to encourage that direction of conversation.
There was a moment of silence, long enough to be uncomfortable.
Then Tamsyn looked around the parlor with an expression of genuine pleasure and said, “I remember this room so well from when I was a child. Catherine was so kind to us. To Jago especially. He was a shy boy and she always knew how to draw him out.” Her expression grew solemn.
“He has not been himself of late. I worry for him.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Minerva said even as Kitty made a sound of sympathy.
Overhead, the floor creaked. All three women glanced up. The pendant at Minerva’s throat grew warmer still.
“William,” Tamsyn said.
“I beg your pardon?” Minerva asked.
“William,” Tamsyn said. “Mr. Todd, walking about in the small room at the back of the house. Catherine said it was his room. I understood her to mean not that he had used the room while he was alive but that he inhabited it after his death.” Tamsyn’s tone was even, laced with a smile.
Minerva thought she was amused by her own tale, not truly believing the picture she sketched.
Kitty looked up from her knitting.
“How extraordinary,” she said in a careful tone.
Minerva cut her a sharp glance. Kitty was never careful, not like that.
“Children imagine things,” Tamsyn said. “And some adults enjoy nurturing that imagination.” She smiled at Kitty with her usual warmth.
The conversation veered to inconsequential things—the village, the weather, the improvement in the kitchen garden.
“Are you happy here in Cornwall?” Tamsyn asked.
“I find it entirely to my taste,” Minerva said. “Though I confess it took a bit of time to adjust to the wind.”
“We who grew up here hardly notice it,” Tamsyn said with a laugh. “And you, Kitty? How do you find it?”
“I notice it constantly,” Kitty said with a grin. “But the wind and I have an understanding. It will do as it likes and I will hold my bonnet.”
“A very sensible arrangement,” Tamsyn said with a laugh. “What are you making?”
“A scarf,” Kitty said, holding it up. It was a generous length of deep green wool. “For Thom.”
“Thom Gloyn?” Tamsyn asked. “His family has been in the parish for generations.” Her tone grew conspiratorial. “Is he a particular friend?”
Kitty’s expression was the picture of innocence. “He has been very kind, showing us the area,” she said.
“Well, then I suppose he is very deserving of a scarf.”
“That is precisely what I think,” Kitty said with a short nod that made her curls bob.
Shortly afterward, Tamsyn set down her cup and said she ought to be going. She rose and smoothed her skirts and turned to Kitty.
“It has been a pleasure,” Tamsyn said. “You are very good company, Kitty. For a woman of your—” She paused. “For a woman of your situation.” Her smile was disquieting, as though the warmth behind it was absent.
Minerva’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth, but Kitty gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Tamsyn said her goodbyes to Minerva with the same warmth as always, touched her hand briefly, and was gone.
Minerva stood at the window, her fingers toying with the now cool pendant.
She watched Tamsyn move along the path, her pace unhurried.
Just before the curve took her from view she stopped and looked back, head tilted, as though she listened for something.
From this distance, Minerva could not make out her expression, but there was something in the way she stood that made Minerva uneasy. Then Tamsyn walked on and was gone.
Minerva turned to find Kitty still knitting, the click of the needles soft and rhythmic.
“Kitty,” she said.
Kitty lifted her head. “I am quite alright.” But Minerva sensed she was not all right at all.
“Tamsyn is not quite right,” Minerva said.
“No,” Kitty said. “She is not.”
Minerva toyed with the pendant. It had been warm… She glanced at the ceiling, recalling the creak of the overhead floorboard. But instinct told her that was not the source of the pendant’s warning.
The Occupant found gaps between intention and action, subverting a person’s will.
She wondered if that was what she had just witnessed, if something dark and ugly had moved through the gap of what Tamsyn meant to say and what she actually said.
Not cruelty. A gap that let the Occupant in.