Page 17 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Eight

Caroline hurried Yves up the stairs to the nursery, having insisted that he leave the still wet and sandy Dash in the kitchen with Mrs. Teague. If she were lucky, no one would have seen the bedraggled state they were both in. Hetty accompanied them, her hated bonnet discarded to hang by its strings from one hand. At the nursery door, she put a firm hand on Caroline’s arm. “You go and change your clothes, and I’ll see to this rascal.”

Caroline hesitated. As governess it must surely be her responsibility to sort Yves’s wet clothes out before her own, but Hetty gave her a firm shove. “I’ve done it enough times before. He’s always in the wars and getting soaked in the sea or in the stream on the far side of the estate. Go on. I know what I’m doing.”

Yves looked up at his cousin with a scowl. “I don’t need to be dressed by anyone. I’m nine, not five.”

“Nonsense,” Hetty snapped. “If we leave it to you, we’ll find you dressed as a pirate.”

Yves’s lower lip jutted. “I like my pirate costume. Miss Hawkins made it for me.”

Caroline suppressed a smile. “Then we shall have a day when we all play at pirates, I promise. Just not today.”

His face brightened. “Hetty too?”

Caroline nodded. “But only if you let Hetty find you suitable clothes right now. Go on. Off you go with her.”

Leaving Yves in a more biddable frame of mind, Caroline headed for her own bedroom in search of a clean gown. If she had much more of this, she was going to run out of suitable gowns altogether.

What a good thing she’d learnt early on to do her own hair, as hers was a windblown mess, despite her bonnet. She stripped off her wet gown and put on a fresh petticoat, then sat in front of her mirror, teasing her chestnut curls into something a little more respectable for a governess. She must have caught the sun, because her cheeks had a warm glow to them that not even an application of powder would disguise.

A tap on her door disturbed her.

“Who is it?”

“Hetty.”

“Come in then, as long as you don’t have Yves with you.”

Hetty, alone, came in. She too had managed to catch the sun, the bridge of her nose being slightly pink. “You mustn’t take on about Yves getting so wet.” She sat down on the bed. “He’s always up to mischief and my mama doesn’t mind at all. You can ignore what my mannerless brother said to you. Mama won’t care a jot that Yves nearly drowned himself.”

Caroline swiveled round on her seat. “Really? I had the impression Yves was considered a trifle sickly, and that I was to take great care of him. At least that’s what my friend Mrs. Beauchamp told me in her letter.”

Hetty shrugged, her auburn curls bouncing. “What rubbish. He might be a skinny wretch, but he’s as tough as… as my old boots.” She kicked her boots in the air in demonstration. “Mama doesn’t mind in the least what he gets up to. She keeps saying ‘he’s not my child.’ When Grandpapa was downstairs, before he had to take to his bed, he ruled Yves with a much sterner hand. But then again, Yves was only six or seven so much more manageable. Grandpapa didn’t let him go anywhere on his own. He wasn’t allowed to climb trees, go down to the beach, or ride his pony any faster than a trot. Not that Blossom ever wants to go faster than a trot, that is. I used to have to ride her before I had Folly.” She shrugged a second time. “But when Mama took over his care, she said he needed to learn to be a real boy, like Nat was, and Yves took to it with gusto.” She smiled. “I’m not allowed to tell Grandpapa any of that though.”

How puzzling. Mrs. Treloar did not at all look like the sort of person who would allow a boy like Yves to run wild and free. Her whole demeanor of stiff control indicated the exact opposite—that she would have liked Yves to be seen but not heard, kept closeted in the schoolroom and nursery so that his presence might not offend the eyes or ears of the adults of the household.

Hetty kicked her boots against the bed. “Miss Hawkins protested that Yves was being encouraged to do dangerous things. I heard her and Mama arguing about it in the parlor one day. I was outside in the hall and I couldn’t help but overhear.” Her eyes twinkled. “What with having my ear to the door and both of them shouting so loud.”

“An eavesdropper rarely hears any good about himself,” Caroline said, conscious of the fact she should be discouraging Hetty from such behavior.

“Oh, I heard nothing about me, either good or bad. But I heard a lot about Miss Hawkins and Yves. Goodness me, I didn’t realize Miss Hawkins had it in her to face Mama down like that, but she did, saying she thought Mama wanted some accident to befall Yves and that Mama shouldn’t be giving him something because it was dangerous. Only Mama got the better of her in the end, because she told her to pack her bags and leave if she didn’t like the way Yves was being brought up.”

Caroline’s ears pricked up. “What? Straight after their argument?”

Hetty nodded. “At the end of it. Mama told Miss Hawkins to leave that very day. Had the pony cart brought round to take her into Penzance. I saw her go.” She paused. “Although Mama kept Yves and me in the parlor with her until Miss Hawkins left. She said she didn’t want us talking to a madwoman. Yves was furious, and Mama had to station Roscarrow, our gardener, outside the parlor door to stop him going out. I was standing at the window, so I saw her leave. Her face was all blotchy and she kept looking back at the house. I think she’d been crying.”

Hetty clearly relished the telling of this tale. Her eyes danced in excitement at the drama she’d witnessed. “And then, the next day, Mama sacked Hester as well, who used to be the head nursery maid, and put Bridget in charge. Bridget used to do Patience’s job. Bridget’s horrible, and I’m glad I’m not in the nursery anymore.”

Good heavens. Was the job of governess here a sort of poisoned chalice? Might Mrs. Treloar decide on a whim that Caroline, too, needed to leave? That was a bit of a worry. Caroline made a mental note never to cross swords with her employer if she could avoid it, no matter what happened.

But this had set her wondering. She changed tack a little. “Am I right in thinking that Yves is the heir to Roskilly?”

Hetty nodded. “His papa was my papa’s older brother. But he’s dead, of course. Well, they both are. Only our two aunts are left now, and we never really see them. Yves’s papa drowned while out in his little boat. He liked to go fishing, you see. I was only ten when he died, so I don’t remember it very well, but I think his boat sank and he couldn’t swim. Yves was three. He doesn’t remember his papa at all. I know because I asked him.”

Turning this over in her head, Caroline went to her wardrobe and sorted through her clothes until she found a nice fawn gown with long sleeves and a high neckline. Governess style. She stepped into it and Hetty jumped up to fasten the back for her, as she tucked her customary spare long hairpin into the bodice out of the way.

“My papa was killed even before that. I was only five.” Hetty fiddled with the ties, tucking them out of the way. “Nat was with him. He was home from school and he and Papa had gone down the mine at Wheal Jenny. I don’t know why. Nat wouldn’t talk to me about it afterwards, and of course, Mama never would. There was a roof fall, that I do know, and Papa was killed.”