Page 50 of The Cornish Inheritance

They took the narrow path toward the beach, which seemed to revive Yves’s spirits, much as it would once have done for Nat. And even Blossom seemed to pick up her small hooves and increase her speed. A sea breeze wafted the smell of seaweed and salty air to Nat’s nostrils. If he felt at home anywhere at Roskilly, it was here on Morgelyn Beach.

*

Because of thewidth of the path, Caroline would have been forced to bump knees with Nat, had she not been riding side-saddle as they negotiated the track. She took a quick, sideways look at him, where he rode on her right, the undamaged side of his face toward her.

His mouth had lost some of the twist she’d taken to be cruelty but now suspected might have been unhappiness, and the wind was blowing his hair back from his forehead, revealing just how young he really was. Hardly any older than she and yet with so much suffering behind him. Was he really a man who would see a child dead to gain an inheritance? His demeanor toward Yves didn’t smack of threatening at all, but would it, if he were what she feared? Surely, he would hide it well. Like this.

She smiled at him. “Thank you for letting Yves and me accompany you.”

He shrugged. “The boy needs to see the businesses that will one day soon be his.”

“He took me to see your grandfather today.”

A raised eyebrow.

“He seems, despite being confined to his bed, to be in good health. Just very old.”

Nat nodded. “At least he still has his wits, unlike Aunt Agnes. She doesn’t know what day it is most of the time. But he’s approaching his eighty-eighth birthday in August, which is old by any standard. He can’t go on forever.”

“When he dies, will you take over Yves’s guardianship?”

He shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to. I can’t see my grandfather allowing my mother such a responsibility.”

Did she detect a hint of dislike for his mother there? Might that be a good thing? Caroline couldn’t be sure. All she could think of was that if Nat were to have control over Yves, anything could happen. Oh, how confusing this was. Part of her wanted to like Nat, especially since he’d revealed some of his past to her in what had felt like touching candor, but another more wary part was screaming out that he would be the one to benefit from Yves’s death, and surely, he must be behind any plot to do away with her small charge, or at least in support of it. However, either way, it would be a good idea to get to know him better and keep him close. What was that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. But was he her enemy or her friend?

They emerged from the dunes onto the beach, where the tide was half in, or that could have been half out. She had no way of telling. Yves gave a little squeal of excitement and, his legs hammering Blossom’s sides in completely the wrong place, trotted past them toward the sea’s edge.

Caroline and Nat trotted after him, the fresh sea breeze tugging loose Caroline’s neatly confined hair. What a good thing her hat was secured by several long pins and she had the spare one in the bodice of her habit.

Blossom did not want to paddle, much to Yves’s chagrin. In fact, she seemed to be harboring a distinct suspicion the tiny waves rolling in toward her were intent on her demise.

“We’ll have a canter, along the sand and not in the water,” Nat said. “This way.”

Folly proved to be a moderately well-schooled horse with an easy stride. They rode in a line, with Nat leading and Yves bringing up the rear, with Caroline keeping a close eye on him. He seemed to manage well though, and Blossom, probably relieved not to have to paddle, trundled along behind Folly with an uncharacteristic show of enthusiasm. Perhaps she was realizing how much nicer it was to be ridden than to have to pull the pony cart or the lawn mower.

At the western end of the beach, Nat led the way through the dunes and onto a narrow path edged by stunted, prickly hedging, uphill toward the heather-covered rise of the headland.

“Penmar Head,” he said as Caroline brought Folly in beside Duchess again. “Which is like calling it ‘head-mark-head’ as ‘pen’ is Cornish for ‘head.’ And the ‘mar’ part of the name refers to King Mark of Cornwall, one of King Arthur’s knights. I suppose it might be the head of King Mark’s head, if that makes any sense to you.”

Ahead of them, the outline of a tall, narrow building appeared, with an even taller chimney beside it. “Wheal Jenny,” Nat said, with a hint of pride. “My great-grandfather’s first mine.”