“You should choose the thinnest ones on the bottom. Those are likely to disturb fewer top sticks than the fat ones, do you not think?”
Elizabeth drew a long and thin blue stick from the bottom of the pile. Half a dozen other sticks collapsed in the gap her draw had created. With a sigh, she laid it on the pile.
Crowing, Senara took her turn, drawing out two fat green sticks, one triangular red stick, and a thin yellow one before the upper layer collapsed with a clatter.
“I’ve three and you have none, and now it is your turn again.”
Elizabeth drew out a fat orange stick this time—and the mound collapsed. She shook her head. “I never win at this game.”
“I get too much practice.” Senara proceeded to increase her winnings.
By the time Grandmama entered the room a half hour later, Elizabeth had collected five sticks and Senara fifteen. The game was nearly over.
Grandmama wore amethyst satin and shimmering stones in the same color. An ermine-trimmed cloak in deep green graced her shoulders.
Elizabeth sprang to her feet. “Grandmama, you look stunning. Are you and Grandpapa dining out this evening?”
“We are. I think we forgot to tell you girls. Just a little dinner party at the Polkinghorns’. Nothing elaborate and all old ones like us, so we won’t be late. Tomorrow is Sunday, after all.”
An entire evening to entertain Senara on her own.
Elizabeth wished an ague would send her to her bed.
Instead, Senara went to hers early. They were in the middle of dinner served in the breakfast parlor instead of the dining room when Senara suddenly leaped to her feet, her hand at her throat, and fled up the steps.
“Is something wrong with the roast?” the footman serving them asked.
“I thought it quite fine.” Elizabeth glanced at Senara’s plate where a slice of roast beef lay in its own succulent juices and surrounded with peas. “She did not even touch hers.”
Gathering up her skirt, she raced up the steps after Senara. She found Senara in her bedchamber in the middle of the bed with the coverlet wrapped around her like a cloak. Her teeth chattered, and her face had grown alarmingly pale.
“Do I need to send for the apothecary?” Elizabeth laid her wrist against Senara’s brow.
It was cold and clammy, not burning with fever.
“I’ll get a fire laid in here immediately and send a maid in to help you into your nightgown.” Elizabeth opened the door to call to the footman in the hall since none of the upstairs rooms sported bellpulls. “Please send in a maid and hot tea.” She glanced back at Senara. “Or would you prefer beef tea? More nourish—”
“No. No. No.” Senara covered her face with her hands and began to rock back and forth. “Just tea. Weak tea.”
Elizabeth conveyed this wish to the footman, then crossed the room to draw the blinds and light half a dozen candles. By the time she finished, a maid had arrived with tea and another with wood for the fire. Through it all, Senara never moved nor spoke, save for shaking hard enough to make the bed ropes creak beneath the mattress. Elizabeth’s questions as to Senara’s wish for care went unanswered. When she did nod in response to whether or not she’d rather don a nightdress than keep on her gown and then slid off the bed, Elizabeth departed to send a groom for Mr. Cardew, the apothecary.
She should return to her friend’s side. She knew she should, but she entered the blue sitting room to await the apothecary. A book lay open on the settee. She picked it up to discover it was a collection of sermons by George Whitefield, some preacher from several decades earlier. A pencil mark marred the margin, drawing her eye to one paragraph.
I see your hearts affected, I see your eyes weep. (And indeed, who can refrain weeping at the relation of such a story?) But, behold, I show you a mystery, hid under the sacrifice of Abraham’s only son, which, unless your hearts are hardened, must cause you to weep tears of love, and that plentifully too. I’d willingly hope you even prevent me here, and are ready to say, “It is the love of God, in giving Jesus Christ to die for our sins.” Yes, that is it. And yet perhaps you find your hearts, at the mentioning of this, not so much affected. Let this convince you, that we are all fallen creatures, and that we do not love God or Christ as we ought to do: for, if you admire Abraham offering up his Isaac, how much more ought you to extol, magnify and adore the love of God, who so loved the world, as to give his only begotten Son Christ Jesus our Lord, “that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life”? May we not well cry out, Now know we, O Lord, that thou hast loved us, since thou hast not withheld thy Son, thine only Son from us!
“Heh.” She slammed the book shut and dropped it back onto the settee.
She no longer accepted that God loved her. Once upon a time as a child, she believed with her whole heart. That stopped—when? Yes, when the grandparents allowed her parents to take her away to London against her protests. They, apparently, like her parents, had viewed her as a pawn to advance the family through an advantageous marriage. Perhaps Grandpapa had only extricated her from a marriage with Romsford because he saw no advantage to the alliance. And now, to be good enough for Bastion Point, she must find some elusive treasure without a clue where one might be hidden.
God the Father seemed the same—only wanting her to follow him for his devices.
She was generally a good person, yet she’d done little other than some charity work to make her worthy. In truth, she was a worry to her parents over her spinsterhood, had been trouble to Grandpapa over Romsford and the marriage contract, and wasn’t doing a terribly good job of entertaining and comforting Senara for Grandmama or Senara’s sakes. She simply was not love worthy. She would never sacrifice as Abraham had been willing to sacrifice. She couldn’t imagine loving a person that much, let alone a God who was nowhere near her.
She scowled at the book. Who was Whitefield that he expected a few words to convince people of the truth as he believed it to be?
A rap of the knocker prevented her from picking up the book again to find out. Expecting Mr. Cardew, she entered the great hall in time to see a footman usher in the plump little man who, beyond his leather medical bag, dressed more like a hunting squire than a medical practitioner, in his top boots and leather breeches. He was competent at his work, though, and had more than once patched up Drake, Conan, or her when they got themselves into scrapes—scrapes, gashes, and, with Drake, broken limbs.
He grinned at her and shook her hand. “How’s that arm doing, young lady?”
“Hardly a scar.” Elizabeth smiled down at the man, who barely reached her shoulder.
He’d sewn up a cut she received while learning to fence. “So what’s wrong with Miss Penvenan?” Cardew glanced around as though expecting her to appear out of one of the rooms.
“A chill, I think. We were eating dinner, and she commenced shaking.” Elizabeth started for the steps. “She’s in her chamber. She’s staying with us, you know.”
“Of course I know. This is Cornwall.” Cardew guffawed. “Everyone knows everything unless they’re threatened to keep a secret.”
Like the identities of the smugglers.
“Nasty business that, with Lord Penvenan.” Cardew seemed to have had similar thoughts to Elizabeth’s. “Can’t think why a body would end his lordship’s life like that.”
“Nor can I.” Elizabeth shuddered.
She preceded Mr. Cardew up the steps and down the corridors leading to Senara’s bedchamber. A tap on the door brought the maid, who looked pale and shaken herself.
“Is she worse?” Elizabeth rushed into the chamber.
Senara no longer trembled with cold, but lay on her side, her knees drawn to her chest, the bedclothes tucked up around her ears and a fire roaring on the hearth.
“She l-l-looks dead,” the maid whispered.
“Nonsense.” Cardew hastened to Senara’s side and set two fingers against her neck. “Pulse is good and strong. Miss Penvenan, can you hear me?”
“Good. Are you still cold?”
She nodded again.
“Hmm.” He touched her brow. “No fever. Did you eat too many sweets again?”
Senara shook her head.
“She didn’t,” Elizabeth confirmed. “She didn’t want any today.”
Cardew tapped his chin. “Now that is worrisome. Is your belly hurting, Miss Penvenan?”
Senara shook her head, then croaked, “All of me hurts.”
“Hmm. Well now.” Cardew looked down her throat and into her eyes and touched her pulse some more. After a few minutes, he drew a green bottle from his bag and sent the maid for a glass of water. “A teaspoon of laudanum in a glass of water will help her sleep. If she isn’t better in the morning, give her a few drops of this every four hours.” He drew another bottle from his bag, this one amber in color. “That should set her right as rain.”
He measured out a dose of the laudanum and helped Senara sit up enough to aid drinking the medicine, then gave the bottles into Elizabeth’s care. She raised her brows in question at this action, but he gestured to the door and left the room.
“Elizabeth, I believe Miss Senara’s troubles are more blue devils than an illness.” Cardew paced away from the bedroom door. “She appears to have nothing wrong with her—no fever, no redness of the throat, and so on. But she’s not herself, and with the recent death of her brother, I think her mind and heart are overset.”
“But she has done so well.”
A little too well, except for her anger with Lord Penvenan, which also seemed to have dissipated.
Cardew shook his nearly bald head. “We don’t know why these things happen, but sometimes a body doesn’t feel the impact of a death for weeks, and then—poof.” He swept his hand out, nearly knocking a globe from a wall sconce. “Something can happen and the loved one left alive goes into a decline.”
Elizabeth hugged her arms over her chest, feeling cold herself. “What should we do for her other than the medicine? Should I stay with her? Read to her? Something?”
“Let her rest and make sure she eats nourishing food, not those sweets she loves too well. Nothing too heavy. Chicken and fish and white soup.” He paused at the top of the steps. “But just let her sleep tonight. Perhaps leave a maid in the room with her in the event she needs anything.”
“And why did you give her medicine to me?” Elizabeth still clutched the bottles.
“Precaution.”
Not liking the implication of his words, Elizabeth bade the little man good night, continued to her chamber to tuck the bottles in the chest with her chemises, and then hunted down Miss Pross to see if she was interested in playing a game of chess or Map of Europe. She preferred the former, since she didn’t know another female willing to play the strategy game and be as good at it as she was. Miss Pross was usually better, and Elizabeth welcomed the challenge. Despite her concern for Senara, who slept soundly under the influence of the drug, the time sailed past until the grandparents returned from their dinner party.
Elizabeth rose from the table. “We will have to finish tomorrow.”
Miss Pross also rose. “Monday, child. Tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth’s nostrils pinched at the prospect of yet another tedious day keeping company with Senara, who stayed home due to the depth of her mourning, while the others attended the church in the village. It was an advantage of London—few people cared about the day of the week if they wished to have a party on that date.
Miss Pross departed, and the grandparents entered. Both looked tired, with shadows beneath their eyes, but their smiles and greetings for Elizabeth held warmth that assured her their love was genuine and near. But, of course, she had never given them much trouble.
“Has Senara gone to her bed?” Grandmama asked.
“No, she’s . . . not well.” Elizabeth told them of Senara’s attack and the apothecary’s visit.
Grandpapa sighed, looking even wearier. “I’ve seen this after battle. A man is all right for days, and then one day he starts blubbering like a babe.”
“The poor child. We will go in and pray for her before we turn in.” Grandmama seated herself on the settee. “Now I’d like a cup of chamomile tea. Will either of you join me?”
Grandpapa grimaced. “I’ll take China tea.”
Elizabeth gave the order and returned to her seat at the game table. She needed to again attempt to persuade Grandpapa to relent with Morwenna. She had seemed genuinely frightened. Then again, that disgusting display with Rowan earlier disinclined Elizabeth to give her cousin any favors. Still, Elizabeth didn’t quite approve of exiling Morwenna. They had been friends once and—
“So you will do that, will you not, my dear?” Grandmama asked.
Elizabeth jumped and glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You do beautiful needlework on ribbon. Will you work on a few yards we can give as prizes for the games involving the village girls?”
“Well, yes, of course. I’ll need to go into Truro for supplies, though.” Elizabeth squirmed. “Um, what games?”
Grandpapa raised his brows. “Have you not been paying attention, child?”
“No, sir, I was thinking about . . .” She hesitated.
“You haven’t forgotten the midsummer fete, have you?” Grandmama asked.
“Yes, I had.” Elizabeth smiled. “Or rather I wasn’t thinking it was so soon.”
Grandmama nodded. “Four weeks off. We decided not to cancel it despite Conan’s death. He’d understand, we believe.”
The annual event raised money to help the families of out-of-work miners, too many of them now, and most from the Penmara mines.
“Conan’s father’s mismanagement is one reason so many miners are out of work,” Grandpapa grumbled.
“Now, Petrok.” Grandmama clucked her tongue. “Be nice. He was terribly young when he inherited, and his trustees were greedy, dishonest men.”
Grandpapa turned back to Elizabeth. “So what has you woolgathering, my dear? Senara? I know having her here is a burden, but we can scarcely send her home.”
“Senara isn’t much of a burden. And the apothecary believes she will be all right in time. She needs rest and fewer sweets and kindness.” Elizabeth stared at the chessboard, plotting her next move. “I was thinking of Morwenna.”
Grandpapa’s face closed. “My mind is made up there. I will hear no more about it.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, then clamped her teeth onto her lower lip.
“Elizabeth, I see you’ve been reading this.” Grandmama spoke a little too loudly as she picked up the book of sermons.
“Only a little. I was—” Elizabeth caught her breath.
Where the book had been open facedown on the sofa, it was now closed with a bit of paper protruding from the top.
“It was rather interesting.” Elizabeth crossed to Grandmama. “May I take it with me?”
Grandmama’s eyes sparkled. “Of course.”
Elizabeth looked past Grandmama so as not to meet her eyes and give away her guilt at the fib. A fib that held consequences, as now she must read the sermons because Grandmama, no doubt, would quiz her on their contents. Served her right. They thought her righteous and pure, and here she was deceiving them.
Deceiving them for what? She held no doubt in her mind where the note came from—and from whom the note came. What baffled her was why. He knew she didn’t want to see him again.
Another stab of her conscience smote her over deceiving herself on that head. She didn’t in the least not wish to see him again. She told herself it was only to tell him how disgusting his display with her cousin had been.
Too restless to sit now, she carried the book to the door. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll go to my bed after all. Here is your tea.” She opened the door to the footman, then slipped past him and raced to her bedchamber. Once inside, she lit a candle and tore open the note without trying to break the wax firs
t.
Elys, please, I need to speak with you. Tomorrow. Cove. Low tide. R
The R was an ornate copperplate initial in comparison with the scrawl of the rest of the note. And he had spelled her Cornish name correctly. No one, not even Drake, spelled her Cornish name correctly, forever using an iz instead of ys.
Such a silly thing should never touch a lady’s heart, never soften even the tiniest corner, but that carefully lettered name pummeled her with the memory of how softly he spoke it, and how softly he had kissed her—
She ripped the note in two. “You have nothing to say to me, Rowan Curnow.” She ripped the pieces again.
She would not, would not, would not meet him the next day or any day. Would not give her heart to anyone with reason to want more than her person. She didn’t need to make any kind of an alliance now that she would inherit property and especially once she found the treasure worth more than Bastion Point. She tossed the pieces of the note into the cold fireplace. But in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, she rose, lit a candle, and retrieved the fragments of paper to tuck them deep in a drawer of violet-scented gloves.
CHAPTER 14
ELIZABETH COULDN’T HAVE GONE TO MEET ROWAN EVEN if she had allowed herself to do so. The vicar and his wife and Lord Penvenan came back to Bastion Point after church services Elizabeth did not attend in order to watch over a drowsy Senara. After dinner—a cold collation so the servants could have the afternoon off to visit families—Elizabeth sat at one end of the Chinese drawing room with Mrs. Kitto and Grandmama while the men sat at the far end of the chamber, a room large enough to seat twenty without being crowded. Senara, though saying she felt better, had elected to stay in her bedchamber, and Miss Pross was keeping her company with a game of Map of Europe and reading to her from the latest Gothic novel.
“So why didn’t you marry in London?” Mrs. Kitto asked. “You’re such a pretty girl.”
“I’m a full head taller than most men. I think it set them off.” Because she thought she sounded harsh, she added, “And I’m particular.”
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