Page 12 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Six

Disinclined to hurry to Treloar Court and all that entailed, and happy with the cob’s generous gait, Nat decided to take the long route back. Turning west, he trotted down the narrow lanes that divided up the small farms until he reached a path he remembered using as a boy. Over to his right, the distinctive shape of the mine workings of Wheal Jenny, and beyond that, those of Wheal True, rose above the skyline, but he ignored them. Time enough to venture that way and see if any of his boyhood friends were still working there.

The surefooted Bosun picked his way down the narrow track to emerge at the western end of Morgelyn Beach, close by the cliffs that bordered Penmar Head.

How tempting the beach looked. What would the cob’s gallop be like if he gave him his head? As a boy, Nat had loved riding headlong across the sand when the tide was out, and today was no different. Only instead of the fiery black pony he’d had as a child, he had Jacka’s sturdy cob. To do him justice, the cob’s ears pricked and his step lightened as soon as he sniffed the salty tang of the sea and felt the breeze stirring his mane and tail. He probably didn’t often get the chance for a gallop.

Throwing caution to the wind, Nat gave the cob his head. He set off at a creditable gallop, thundering along at the sea’s edge and kicking up a wall of spray behind him with his large hooves. Nat crouched forward, lifting his seat out of the saddle to encourage him to go faster, heedless of the bumping of his valise on the cob’s back.

Wait a minute. Was that people halfway along the beach? On his beach. Because even now, after eleven years’ absence, he thought of Morgelyn Beach as being only his. Maybe at a pinch, his and Jacka’s. The cob drew closer, slowing now, as it wasn’t built for continuous speed. Two women, a boy, and a bedraggled small dog. His trajectory was going to take the cob right up to them, standing as they were on the water’s edge. He could have steered away, but curiosity prevented him.

He let the cob slow still further, and it fell into a trot, sides heaving and neck lathered in sweat. The dog gave a warning bark, and all three of the human interlopers turned to look his way.

Nat brought the cob to a halt ten yards from the little group, out of habit keeping his face a little turned to the right to hide his scar. Not because he wanted to talk to them, but because two of them were soaking wet and common courtesy insisted that he check they were not in trouble. The little boy, who must have been about eight or nine, wore a soggy blue skeleton suit and no shoes, so he must have perhaps been paddling, or even swimming. Fully dressed. Nat himself had learned to swim off this beach alongside Jacka, usually naked, but he’d never once tried it in all his clothes.

One of the women, nothing more than a slip of a girl, her face concealed by an enormous bonnet, was quite dry. But the other woman’s gown was soaked, the thin muslin clinging to her shapely body in a most distracting way and showing him far too much of her figure. Her bonnet had taken on a decidedly bedraggled look, as had her dark hair.

She must have been aware of her own predicament, for her hands shot to hold her skirts away from her legs, but there was little she could do to disguise her state.

Instead, she raised her head and looked him proudly in the eye, as if daring him to let his gaze drop to ogle her all-too-obvious figure. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, with some asperity.

Nat held her gaze, partly from a sense that if she were brave enough to brazen this out, he ought to be polite in return, and partly because her direct stare held his interest. Who on earth could these three be? And what were they doing in the middle of Morgelyn Beach—swimming fully clothed. “Good afternoon to you,” he responded, slackening the cob’s reins, but still keeping his face slightly averted. His winded mount was going nowhere.

Good heavens, the chit was looking him up and down as though he were on show at Astley’s, and, from the look on her face, finding him wanting. He took a better look at her. A plain but interesting face was partly obscured by the size of her now-floppy bonnet, but he could see she had intelligent brown eyes and chestnut hair, as well as a determined chin.

His conscience pricked him, much as he didn’t want it to. “Might I offer you some assistance, Miss…?”

She gave her soggy skirts another shake. Really, why did girls wear such barely there gowns and then get in a tizz when men ogled them? Although, not many of them went swimming in the sea in them, which it seemed this girl had done. Young woman. She was too old to be called a girl.

“Fairfield,” she said, standing up a little straighter. “My name is Caroline Fairfield.”

Nat’s mouth fought to suppress an unaccustomed smile at her defensive stance. “Might I venture to inquire of you why you have been so far into the sea as to soak yourself?” He glanced at the waves still rolling in. “I did not know young ladies were so fond of swimming as you appear to be.”

She bristled a little. “I can assure you, sir, that it was quite unintentional. I had not the slightest idea of even dipping my toes in the water when we came down here. But Yves,” and here she pointed at the little boy, who, having lost interest in Nat’s arrival, was busy making channels in the wet sand with the fingers of one hand while he held his dog’s collar with the other, “got into difficulties. I had to go in to save him.”

“Yves?” Wasn’t that the name of his late Uncle Robert’s brat? The one his mother had spoken of so scathingly at John Polmear’s funeral and implied was virtually an idiot.

The child in question stood up, now liberally covered in wet sand, the dog pressed to his side in protective stance. “That’s me.”

Yes, now he took a better look at the boy, he recognized him, even though the last time he’d had a fleeting glimpse of him he’d been barely out of petticoats. Hadn’t he? Hard to remember as children were not something he’d ever been interested in since he’d left childhood behind himself. Three years ago his grandfather had been the main reason for his visit to Treloar, not the old man’s heir. The boy had grown upwards a lot, but not outwards. What was he? Seven? Eight? A slight resemblance clung to the child of his mother, Nat’s late Aunt Lowenna, who’d topped her achievement of producing an heir for the substantial Roskilly estate and mines by promptly turning up her toes before the child was even two days old.

Better make himself known, as it appeared they must be from Roskilly House, the only large house around here. He swung his leg over the pommel and dropped onto the sand with a splash. “Then we are related, young Yves. I am your Cousin Nat, back from the war.”

“Nat!” the younger girl squealed, pushing back her enormous bonnet to reveal her startling red hair. “Do you not know your own sister?”

*

Caroline stared atthis stranger who’d just surprised her by identifying himself as a hitherto-unknown member of her employer’s family. Hetty’s brother, no less. She would have guessed him a soldier by his upright bearing, and it seemed she was right. Of course, there must be a lot of soldiers returning from the continent, with Bonaparte now safely under lock and key. Or not, as her dear Papa had scoffed before his demise. No, she wouldn’t think of Papa.

Now the newcomer was standing before them, she appreciated how tall he was, with his long legs encased in buff breeches and his top boots spattered with wet sand, a well-cut navy coat, and a conservatively tied cravat. A quick pang of pity assaulted her as she caught a glimpse of the right side of his face for the first time. He might have been considered handsome, were it not for the jagged scar running from above his eye down to his chin, puckering the skin and distorting that whole side of his face. The left-hand side of his face, by contrast, hinted at those lost good looks, although his blue eyes possessed little to brighten his expression.

Yves remained standing close to Caroline, one hand gripping her wet skirts, the other on Dash’s head, regarding the newcomer with suspicion. It seemed as though he wasn’t at all familiar with his cousin.

How hard it was not to allow one’s eyes to be dragged as though by a magnet to that terrible scar, and how rude it would be to linger on it. He was clever at disguising it though, keeping his head partially turned away as if by habit. If he were a soldier, it must surely be from a war wound, so not to be hidden away, but proudly worn, like a medal for valor. How long might he have been like that?

The young man, for he could not have been more than thirty years of age, made a cursory bow, and, straightening, put up a hand to sweep his overly long hair out of his eyes. The sun caught them, and just for a moment they seemed to sparkle with life before he had them veiled again. What was this cold exterior hiding? And did it have to do with that terrible scar?

“Nathaniel Treloar, at your service, Miss Fairfield.”