A Lady's Honor

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “You need a nice Cornishman.” Mrs. Kitto smiled, turning her sweet, elderly lady’s face into a map of wrinkles that showed she had smiled a great deal during her life.

  Of course she had. The vicar adored her. Much to her embarrassment, Elizabeth had once caught them holding hands during an alfresco meal on the village green.

  “It’s a good thing,” Mrs. Kitto continued, “that you have an eligible gentleman so close at hand.” She cast a glance to the other end of the chamber.

  Elizabeth gripped her hands together in her lap. “He seems quite fine.”

  “He has expressed his wish to court Elizabeth,” Grandmama announced. “It would make us happy to see her settled as we grow older, and her parents show little interest in her returning to them.”

  “For which I am thankful.” Elizabeth pressed her hands flat against the sofa cushions.

  She rose. “Would you care for more tea, Grandmama, Mrs. Kitto?”

  “That would be lovely.” Grandmama nodded. “And go ask the gentlemen if they wish for some.”

  Elizabeth nodded, then crossed the red-and-gold carpet to the cluster of chairs on which the gentlemen rested.

  “I need to purchase some riding stock,” Lord Penvenan was saying. “We can’t continue to borrow from your stables, Sir Petrok. The way Curnow spends his days in the saddle inspecting the estate and overseeing the builders, I fear we will overuse our privilege.”

  “Not at all. They spend most of their days eating their heads off— Ah, Elizabeth, what is it?” Grandpapa rose.

  The other gentlemen followed.

  “Grandmama sent me to ask if you’d like more tea.”

  They agreed they would, and Elizabeth headed for the door to make the request of the footman stationed outside in the corridor. Behind her, Mr. Kitto was telling Penvenan about a horse fair in Redruth.

  “You might find something suitable for your needs. What are you seeking?”

  Elizabeth’s hand shook on the door handle. She so wished to return to the men and discuss the merits of horse conformation. It was far more interesting than Grandmama and Mrs. Kitto’s endless talk of fete preparations, receipts for the meat pies they would serve, how many lemons they must require for the day’s supply of lemonade . . .

  “Curnow is my resident expert on the livestock,” Penvenan answered the vicar. “He spends most of his time on the horse farm in Virginia these days.”

  No wonder he rode so well.

  Elizabeth shook her head to clear it of an image of Rowan on horseback and gave the order for more tea. Back on the sofa with the older ladies, she asked Grandmama when they could go to Truro.

  “Tuesday, weather permitting.”

  The weather was not permitting on Tuesday. Rain fell so hard during the night and into the morning, even Elizabeth didn’t want to step outside the house. She curled up on the rug before the blue salon fire and worked on embroidering the hem of a gown she thought too dull while Grandmama read in the melodious voice Morwenna had inherited. Elizabeth’s voice, to her ears, was too clear, too sharp—like icicles.

  Because she was an ice maiden.

  She certainly felt a little cold inside—cold and hard and a bit calculating. She was going to allow a man to court her simply to make the grandparents happy. She wanted to make them happy in the event the treasure eluded her.

  Stormy days like this, while the winds roared, the rain lashed, and the sea pounded the base of the cliff, the house stood like a fortress against the onslaught of an enemy with her tucked up safe and warm inside. Safety, solidity, warmth that would eventually melt the hard core of ice inside her.

  Stormy days were also an excellent time to explore the house for clues, if not the treasure outright. With Senara keeping to her room, Elizabeth began with the library in search of books on family history. She was perched atop a stool to reach the uppermost shelf and row of dusty volumes containing the Trelawny family chronicles when Grandpapa entered.

  “What are you doing up there with those old books?” His dark eyes twinkled up at her. “I read you the parts suitable for a young lady.”

  “You want me to find a treasure.” She jumped off the stool with the first volume of the family chronicle. “I thought those journals might carry a hint of what it is.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Grandpapa’s eyes shadowed. “If only our ancestors had found this treasure and I’d found it as a young man . . .”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Treasures in life that are worth more than dowries and property and the amount of money deposited in The Funds.” He squeezed her hand. “Perhaps you should read those journals. In reading about their lives, perhaps you can work out what was missing. I think you already knew at one time in your life. But no time for reading now. Your grandmama wishes for you to join her in the garden parlor.”

  Journal in hand, Elizabeth started down the corridor leading to the cozy parlor overlooking the garden. Above her, a series of thuds sounded, rather like men in boots were moving furniture. Then a high-pitched scream threatened to shatter the windows and more thumps resounded through the main staircase—loud, rhythmic thumps. More screams.

  Elizabeth dropped the ancient book on the floor and raced for the front hall. That wasn’t furniture plummeting down the steps. It was a person. A female, one who could shriek like a banshee. A maid or—

  “Senara!” Elizabeth reached the bottom of the steps in time to catch her before her head hit the stone floor of the entry hall but not in time to stop herself from falling under the impact of Senara’s weight.

  The two of them landed in a heap at the feet of the butler and half a dozen footmen. Elizabeth lay winded, with Senara’s head butted into her middle. Senara was whimpering and twitching like a puppy in its sleep.

  “Miss Trelawny, Miss Penvenan.” Unflappable as ever, the butler crouched beside them. “Are you all right?”

  Absurd question. Of course they weren’t all right or they wouldn’t be lying there like a heap of old rags.

  She managed to gasp out, “I think so.”

  “I’m not.” Senara began to wail.

  “Where are you hurt?” Elizabeth levered herself to a sitting position and addressed the servants. “Send for the apothecary. Fetch Grandmama.” She turned to Senara. “Do you think anything is broken?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Senara’s voice rose. “Everything hurts.”

  “Of course it does.” Elizabeth patted Senara’s hand. “You just fell down the steps.”

  “Fell?” Senara glared up at Elizabeth. “I was pushed.”

  “Nonsense. Who would push you?”

  No one had been close to the steps. The upstairs footman had been called to the other end of the corridor and hadn’t been close enough to be positive no one was there. “But I don’t think ’twas so. There weren’t nobody at my end of the hall either. Quiet as a tomb it were.”

  Senara continued to insist she was pushed until the apothecary arrived, assured everyone Senara hadn’t suffered anything time wouldn’t heal, and fell asleep under his latest tincture.

  Elizabeth and Grandmama returned to the garden parlor and their needlework. “Do you think she was pushed?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No.” Grandmama shook her head. “She most likely fell and didn’t want to admit it.”

  “It’s very odd.”

  But then, Senara was odd. Her behavior had been odd all their lives, full of histrionics and tantrums. But claiming an assault when she had merely been clumsy was another matter.

  Seated before the fire, her head bent over snarled threads, Elizabeth tried to think why anyone would want to push Senara. She might be annoying, but she was harmless.

  “Why would she invent the notion of someone pushing her?” Elizabeth mused aloud. “But the idea of someone pushing her is just as absurd. Perhaps someone dripped rainwater onto the step and she slipped and struck her back on the railing. And speaking of rain, do you think it will keep any caller
s away, or should I change my gown?”

  “No need.” Grandmama studied a length of creamy ribbon from her workbasket. “I doubt anyone will come in this deluge.”

  But in the middle of the afternoon, Penvenan arrived with Rowan Curnow. Rain poured from their hat brims and off the capes of their greatcoats. She had seen the former the day before. Elizabeth hadn’t seen the latter since Saturday, and her heart stuttered to see him looking so well.

  “Gentlemen, do give your coats to the footman and come sit by the fire.” Grandmama invited them into the parlor. “I’ll order hot coffee and pastries.”

  With a flounce, Senara snatched up the novel Miss Pross had been reading and retreated to a corner to peruse on her own. Miss Pross followed with the knitting.

  Both men looked at Elizabeth where she stood on the hearth rug, her hands full of snarled thread.

  “We are intruding on a lovely domestic scene.” Penvenan strode forward to take her hand.

  Elizabeth dropped the thread to take the fingers in their cold leather glove. “It’s a productive way to while away the rain.”

  Rowan sauntered forward and retrieved the dropped threads. “No tabula rosa?”

  Elizabeth’s lips twitched at the reference to John Locke’s philosophy on education and the blank mind of the child. When he straightened and his blue gaze touched her eyes, then her lips, her mind became a tabula rosa.

  “Your silk, Miss Trelawny.” He lifted her hand and laid the floss onto her palm. He had taken the time to remove his gloves, and his hands were warm.

  She closed her fingers around the tangled threads and felt the edge of yet another note tucked amongst them. “Thank you.” She managed the proper response, though she wanted to shove the note down his throat and cry, “Stop this. I will not meet you.”

  “Do make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” Grandmama was saying. “Mr. Curnow, feel free to pull that chair closer to the fire.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I am off to talk with Sir Petrok about a mine matter.” He bowed to Grandmama, nodded to the two ladies in the corner, and departed.

  All too conscious of the note in her hand, Elizabeth started to draw the extra chair forward. Penvenan waved her back. “If you were more comfortable on the hearth rug, return to your work. You looked charming there.”

  Silk threads scattered across her skirt and her hair hung in a tail down her back, but she accepted the compliment and returned to her position on the hearth rug. “You needn’t have come out in the rain, my lord.” Perhaps not the most gracious way to begin a dialogue.

  “I’d had enough of account books that don’t add up.” He lowered his voice. “My cousin was not the best at keeping an accounting of expenses and income.”

  “My brother was quite good at his arithmetic,” Senara called from the corner. “He simply refused to put on paper where much of his income came from.”

  If only his secretary would stop putting things on paper, Elizabeth thought.

  “Another difficulty. But estate business is dull. Tell me, Miss Trelawny, what is your favorite country activity besides riding?”

  “Swimming. Fishing. Playing royal tennis or cricket.” She may as well be honest straight off.

  Penvenan cleared his throat. “Not picnicking or being rowed on a lake?”

  “We live on the sea. Rowing isn’t practical. Sailing is fine, but only if I can handle the tiller.”

  Grandmama cleared her throat, warning Elizabeth she was going too far, even if she spoke the truth.

  “At least I did when I was here as a girl. I didn’t enjoy vigorous activity in London.”

  Unless she managed to sneak out of the house for an early morning gallop in the park, as she had sneaked out of the house to gallop with Rowan.

  If the note was another invitation to ride, she might find it difficult to resist.

  “Maybe we can go sailing when the weather is fine,” Penvenan suggested. “I haven’t played royal tennis for many years. Would you be willing to teach me?” He smiled, and her heart softened a little.

  He had a nice smile, rather gentle, and his eyes held a wistfulness. Perhaps he was lonely.

  “I can try,” she agreed. By her agreement to meet with Lord Penvenan the next day, she did not agree to the note’s request to meet Rowan.

  The next day, as sunny and clear as the previous day had been dark and gloomy, but with the road too muddy for travel, she donned a gown that came only to the middle of her calves, with a pair of Drake’s pantaloons beneath, and took Penvenan onto the court Grandpapa had built a decade earlier. They never played a game. Elizabeth spent a quarter hour teaching him how to serve, then another quarter hour showing him how to hold the racket. When he didn’t manage to strike a single ball she lobbed to him, she suggested they go inside for lemonade.

  Rowan, no doubt, could play. Or perhaps not. Workingmen didn’t have time to learn games requiring special courts. If he were to court her, they would have just as little in common ground as did she and Penvenan, perhaps less.

  But how she and Rowan could have less in common than herself and his lordship Elizabeth didn’t know. Penvenan was twice her age.

  When they attended a dinner party at the Pascoes’ estate the following Friday evening, he gathered in the library with the older men, while Elizabeth found herself in her usual abandoned position against the wall. The other young people danced.

  Senara, not dancing due to her mourning, sat beside Elizabeth, frowning at the frolic. “All these girls act like Morwenna always did.”

  “They are shocking flirts.”

  One young woman clung to a youth’s lapels as Morwenna had clung to Rowan’s. Elizabeth shifted on her spindly chair and switched her gaze to the left, then right of the too-friendly couple.

  “A pity your beau has neglected you,” Senara said. “Not very good of him, is it?”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “You don’t seem distressed over it, though,” Senara continued. “Do you not care for him?”

  “I like him well enough.”

  “Well enough to marry?”

  “It’s early yet, but it might be worth it. If I can’t inherit without marrying Lord Penvenan, since that seems to be what the grandparents think I need, then I expect I’ll do so.”

  “You cannot inherit with him. He’ll get it all.” Senara curled her short upper lip.

  “That is the rub of it, isn’t it?”

  “But you’ll do anything to make your grandparents happy.”

  “I expect they want the alliance with Penmara land. I was supposed to marry Conan, apparently.”

  Senara pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  Elizabeth made her way to Grandmama, pleaded a headache, and asked if they could leave. She tried to think of a way to ask the grandparents how she could face a future of being seated with the women who were already grandmothers while her husband talked about interesting things with the older men. But she could say nothing in front of Senara, and when Penvenan called to take her driving the next day, the grandparents looked so happy, she couldn’t disappoint them.

  She always hated disappointing them. All her life they had sheltered her, except when they sent her to London. The grandparents had given her a happy childhood, and now they had kept her from her parents’ machinations with Romsford.

  Yet was not propelling her into Penvenan’s arms little different from her parents’ attempts to force her into those of the marquess? The price she paid to have her grandparents’ love and approval. That was the difference with her parents—the grandparents loved her when she was obedient. Even when she had done everything they asked, her parents merely asked for more.

  Heart too frozen to ache, Elizabeth sat straight backed and stony faced in the pew on Sunday, her first service to attend since returning to Cornwall. She kept her gaze fixed on the vicar, on the cross, on the window over the Penvenan pew, its stained-glass dull with the mist behind. She looked anywhere so as not to look at that p
ew’s occupants. Rowan still wanted to talk to her, his attempts to catch her eye said, and the smile Penvenan bestowed on her reflected a gleam in his dark eyes, rather self-satisfied.

  Because he had gotten into the habit of taking her arm anytime he saw her, a proprietary hold, Elizabeth slipped outside too quickly for him to have gotten away from those who wished to pay homage to the new lord of Penmara, and headed up the quiet, mist-shrouded lane from the village to Bastion Point. Despite her efforts to escape, however, footfalls hastened up behind her. Apparently his lordship had caught up with her.

  A hand touched her arm. “Elys.”

  She jumped. “Rowan. I mean, Mr. Curnow, what are you doing chasing after me?”

  “I need to talk to you about Morwenna.” He tucked his arm through hers, and instant warmth seeped through her. “Or simply talk to you.”

  “If you wish to carry on with my cousin in her current condition, it is none of my concern.” She drew away, and the chill of the day bled through her veins. “Perhaps Grandpapa will approve and turn over her dowry in exchange for a wedding.”

  “I have no interest in your cousin other than her safety.”

  “Ha.”

  “Please, Elys, she needs your help.”

  “What she needs is morals.” She increased her pace to reach the safety of Bastion Point all the sooner.

  He kept up with her without effort. “And you are so righteous selling yourself for a title and more land?”

  She staggered as though he’d struck her. Her soft leather shoe slid over loose pebbles wet with the fog, and she dropped to one knee. “How. Dare. You.”

  “I dare because it’s true. And it’s a waste.” He grasped her hands and lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  Her knee throbbed. Her heart felt as though it would explode out of her chest. She couldn’t speak for a lump forming in her throat.

  Behind her, voices drifted through the mist.

  “Penvenan is coming. We don’t have much time. Have you talked to your grandfather?”

  Elizabeth swallowed. “I have. He cannot risk her ruining my reputation with her presence.” She wrenched her hands free and stepped back.