A Lady's Honor

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  The man Elizabeth had fallen in love with, the man she might let love her, given another chance.

  No, no, no, she could not.

  It was too much of a risk to trade the security there in Cornwall for a man who could, apparently, switch affection from one cousin to the other in a day.

  A tremor raced through her as though an earthquake shook the cottage. A breath labored into her lungs. She stared at Rowan crouching before Morwenna, holding her hands, soothing her with soft words, and shot to her feet. In a moment, she stood on the path before the house without truly remembering crossing the parlor to the entryway or opening the door. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the woman hired as companion and housekeeper and perhaps guard dog for Morwenna digging in the garden. She started to rise. Elizabeth waved her off, gathered up her skirt, and ran.

  She ran as fast as her long legs would carry her. She ran as she hadn’t run since she was a schoolgirl playing some chase game with Conan and Drake, Morwenna, and some of the village children. She ran toward the sea, not thinking she might strand herself on the beach regardless of potential danger.

  But no matter how far and fast she ran, she couldn’t outrun the soul-deep knowledge that her fears were realized and she had indeed lost her heart to the last man she should.

  The click of the front door latch drew Rowan’s attention from the weeping lady before him. He glanced up. Elizabeth had gone. He should go after her. She shouldn’t be walking around the countryside alone. Yet he couldn’t leave Miss Morwenna in her state. Distress such as hers could bring on her travail. He’d seen it once with one of the women he was helping to freedom. As much as he wished to follow Elizabeth, he dared not leave Morwenna alone until she calmed.

  “Miss Morwenna?” He spoke her name for perhaps the dozenth time. “You should tell your grandparents about you and Conan.”

  Morwenna shook her head. “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk anyone finding out. They might hurt my baby.”

  “But with Conan gone, why would they want to?”

  “You don’t know these men. They’re dangerous to anyone who tries to leave them or betrays them. Conan is dead. Drake was nearly captured. It’s how they survive despite the riding officers.” A spasm shook Morwenna as though she were already in labor. “They would kill the baby and me as a warning to others that once they are involved, they can’t leave. I’ve told you it wouldn’t be the first time. And they must suspect about Conan and me already. Remember the bird and egg?”

  “Then let me place a guard on this cottage. I should have done so sooner.”

  Morwenna shook her head, tears scattering like rain. “They’ll know. And who around here can we trust? Anyone could be involved.”

  A sad fact along the Cornish coast. For all the time he’d spent in the village tavern, Rowan still didn’t know the local men well enough to know who could and who could not be trusted. He could break Morwenna’s confidence and tell Sir Petrok, but did even he know who was loyal and who was not?

  “All right then. I’ll tell the servants at Penmara to keep a lookout for your maid should she arrive with a message.”

  Morwenna wiped her eyes on a now-sodden handkerchief and gave him a long, scrutinizing look. “Why? Why are you doing this for me? Conan couldn’t have been that good a friend. You didn’t have time to know him well.”

  “He was kin to Penvenan.” Rowan chose his words with care as he rose and crossed the room to examine some trinkets laid along the mantel. “And I owe Penvenan my life.”

  “And you’re in love with my cousin.” In the mirror over the hearth, he saw Morwenna smile.

  He smiled back, the sheepish grin of the dreamer he should have ceased being years ago. “Guilty as charged.”

  He picked up a carved jade apple with leaves of some translucent green crystal. “Do you have a bolt-hole, somewhere to go if you truly feel threatened?”

  “I’m a Trelawny. Of course I do.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” But she told him where to meet her on the beach.

  He handed her the jade apple. “Send this to me if you feel the need to run there.”

  A door banged at the back of the house, and she closed her hands around the curiosity. “My chaperone. She won’t be pleased to see us here alone.”

  “I’m only a servant. I don’t matter.” The words emerged with more bitterness than he intended, than he realized he felt. “But I’ll be going.” He headed for the partially open door.

  “Mr. Curnow?” Morwenna called after him.

  He waited.

  “The reason I know Elizabeth will tell no one about what I told you all today is the very reason you should find someone else to love. Only one thing matters to Elizabeth now—inheriting Bastion Point.”

  “I know.”

  If only he could give his heart to someone else.

  “She’s a fool, of course,” Morwenna continued. “I think you’re worth a dozen fine houses.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A lot of ladies would care for you like you deserve.”

  Was she offering?

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. Her tears had dried. Despite red and swollen lids and blotchy cheeks, she glowed with a beauty rich enough it belied the talk of her lack of morals and concern for others. And for a moment, he considered taking her up on her unspoken offer. An alliance with her would solve many difficulties for her and for himself.

  But his heart, his soul, his body ached for Elizabeth. He felt nothing when he held Morwenna’s hands. He felt far too much when he simply looked at Elizabeth, nay, simply thought about her. When he considered a life with Morwenna as his wife, his mind went cold. When he thought of Elizabeth as his wife, he longed to find her, hold her, seek a way to convince her no amount of wealth protected a heart absent of love.

  “Send to Penmara if you need anything.” He departed with her soft laughter rolling behind him.

  He looked for Elizabeth along the lane leading back to Bastion Point. The only motion in the distance came from the trees. He’d lingered too long at Morwenna’s side, trying to comfort her, and getting his heart battered with the truth in return.

  He needed to let Elizabeth go.

  But not to Penvenan. That was just too cruel.

  Keeping an eye out for her, Rowan made short work of the mile between Morwenna’s cottage and Penmara. Penmara lay in all its dilapidated glory against a backdrop of blue sky and bluer sea. With a new roof and a great deal of paint, replacement glass for cracked and broken windows, and new furniture, the manor would prove a fine house once more. And Austell Penvenan intended to make it a fine house again. It would raise his status even higher in the eyes of Charlestonians, who still honored nobility, despite having thrown over the king forty years earlier. As far as Rowan knew, Penvenan had no interest in freeing his slaves.

  Rowan entered the house to find Penvenan. As expected, he sat behind a massive and scarred desk in the one truly livable room in the manor—the library. One more estate ledger lay open before him.

  He glanced up at Rowan’s entrance, then returned to tracing a column of figures on the page with the tip of the quill before dipping the other end in the pot of ink to write in another ledger.

  “Why did you lie to the Trelawnys?” Rowan demanded.

  Penvenan kept reading figures.

  “You have no intention of freeing your slaves with or without Miss Trelawny’s dowry,” Rowan pressed.

  At last Penvenan looked up and smiled. “But there, Rowan, you’re incorrect. The lady believes every man who courts her is after her fortune, so I had to give her a reason why I didn’t want it for myself.”

  “Even if it’s not true?” Rowan pressed his fists against his thighs, his insides taut.

  “But it is true.” Penvenan’s eyes went out of focus, distant, almost dreamy. “If I have to acquire land in Canada or the Northwest Territory to relocate all four hundred slaves and transport every man, woman, an
d child in Penmara to South Carolina to work the fields and tend the houses, I’ll do so to have Elizabeth Trelawny as my wife.”

  Rowan stared at Penvenan, Morwenna’s words shrieking through his head. She’ll never have you. She wouldn’t, not now that Penvenan was willing to give her his heart as well as his title. The former would please Elizabeth, as she could believe him. The latter would please her family. And Rowan had too little ammunition with which to fight back unless he sacrificed his pride and told her the truth about himself and endangered the lives of too many people.

  CHAPTER 22

  ELIZABETH FED A FILAMENT OF YELLOW SILK THREAD through the eye of the needle and began to work the complex knots that formed the centers of the purple daisies decorating the cream satin ribbon. She needed to create ten yards of the stuff for prizes at Grandmama’s charity fete, and had only produced three with but a week to go before the festivities.

  Concentration on any task required she sit still, whether attending church, listening to Grandpapa’s daily Bible readings and prayers, or even eating a meal. She wanted to ride, walk, dive into the cold, clear water of the sea, anything but perch upright on a chair in the garden parlor, with Grandmama reading sermons aloud or working on her own embroidery, Miss Pross stitching away at one project or another, and Senara reading as many novels as she could obtain, then starting over again when she’d finished all in the house.

  Walking and riding required an escort. Swimming, according to the grandparents, was out of the question for a young lady Elizabeth’s age. The escort she could have in Lord Penvenan. Despite having told her grandparents she would not marry him, they no doubt now thought she had changed her mind. He called every day. He took Elizabeth driving. It was more sitting, listening to him talk, his plans for Penmara and his “people” back in America. It required no action but that she look as pretty as possible, and smile, offer an occasional comment or insert the right question at the right time, and avoid any of his lordship’s attempts to touch her.

  He never asked to play tennis again. Occasionally they walked in the garden. More often than not, they sat in a parlor or drawing room, depending on how many people were present, and Elizabeth performed more of the social skills she’d learned at her mother’s instruction and demonstration. And all the while she needed to steer him or anyone else clear of talk of a future between her and Penvenan.

  She longed for those weeks of morning rides with Rowan Curnow. He, however, had been playing least in sight. At least he didn’t come near Bastion Point. He arrived in church every Sunday. He bowed to her across the sanctuary. He never spoke and never responded to her attempts to catch his eye. Each time her heart tore a little more.

  He did, however, visit Morwenna, Elizabeth learned from a snatch of conversation she overheard between Grandpapa and Penvenan.

  “I don’t think there’s any significance in the calls on Miss Morwenna,” Penvenan had said. “Rowan has an overly kind heart for outcasts and what he calls the downtrodden.”

  As had a masked stranger at a ball, asking her to dance twice and touching her heart for the first time.

  “But it could be encouraged, if you like.” Penvenan’s voice droned on.

  “It is something worth considering,” Grandpapa had responded in a thoughtful tone.

  “You could do worse for the girl than my . . . secretary.”

  Feeling as though she were about to burst into tears, Elizabeth had scurried on before she overheard anything else about an alliance between Rowan and Morwenna. Morwenna could do worse than Rowan Curnow. Elizabeth didn’t blame him for calling on her cousin. Nor did she blame him for staying away from her. She’d treated him abysmally. Too late, she realized that even if he only wanted her fortune, she’d have him. Now, if he had held any regard for her, he had abandoned his attempts to woo her. Because of her arrogance, she’d frozen him out of her life and left him vulnerable for Morwenna’s machinations.

  “ ‘The Lord Jesus Christ, my dear sisters,’ ” Grandmama read from a sermon by George Whitefield, “ ‘doth choose you merely by his free grace; it is freely of his own mercy, that he brings you into the marriage covenant: you, who have so grievously offended him, yet, the Lord Jesus Christ hath chosen you; you did not, you would not have chosen him; but when once, my dear sisters, he hath chosen you, then, and not till then, you make choice of him for your Lord and Husband.’ ”

  Jesus didn’t want her for his bride. If he did love her, she’d rejected him so much he, like Rowan, had likely given up on her as eternally lost.

  “ ‘The Lord Jesus Christ when he first comes to you,’ ” Grandmama continued, “ ‘finds you full of sin and pollution; you’re deformed, defiled, enslaved, poor, miserable, and wretched, very despicable and loathsome, by reason of sin; and he maketh choice of you, not because of your holiness, nor of your beauty, nor of your being qualified for them; no, the Lord Jesus Christ puts these qualifications upon you, as may make you meet for his embrace; and you’re drawn to make choice of the Lord Jesus Christ because he first chose you.’ ”

  If only she could find room in her heart to believe the claim that Jesus made her fit for him, that he loved her for nothing more than her. No one ever had, not even the grandparents. They only seemed pleased with her because she still allowed Penvenan to court her. They no longer spoke of treasures beyond the price of Bastion Point and other material goods. They spoke of her security lying in making a good match just like Mama. If she ran off with Rowan, or anyone unworthy of a Trelawny, the grandparents would likely rob her of the only stability she’d ever known—the land, possessions, Bastion Point.

  But how could she wed Austell Lord Penvenan when she loved his secretary, of all things?

  The sermon was right. She was miserable and wretched. She couldn’t continue to ply her needle on something as frivolous as purple daisies on a satin ribbon.

  She tossed the embroidery into her workbasket and rose in one fluid motion. Senara dropped her book. Grandmama stopped reading in midword.

  “Please excuse me. I need some air.” Without a by-your-leave, Elizabeth swept from the room and all but ran to the nearest door. It led to the walkway leading directly to the stable. She might not be allowed to ride alone, but she could visit Grisette over the fence around her paddock. The mare came to her, nuzzling Elizabeth’s hand in search of a treat.

  “I am sorry, girl. I came in too much of a hurry to bring you something.”

  The mare snorted and trotted away, tail high.

  “It looks as though even your horse wants something from you.” Senara spoke from so close behind Elizabeth, she jumped.

  “What are you doing here? You dislike horses.”

  “I dislike riding horses. They are beautiful to look at. Besides, you looked overset. I wanted to be sure you are all right.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth faced her friend and leaned against the rail.

  Senara had grown quieter over the past few weeks, especially since her accident. She rarely complained about Penvenan taking over Penmara. In fact, she’d complimented him on the improvements already taking place. She’d grown thinner too, and rarely wanted to play more than a round or two of Map of Europe or Spillikins. Coming out to the stable yard, spotlessly clean, yet still reeking of equines, to be sure Elizabeth was all right was another sign that life surrounded by people who were caring for her despite her bad behavior was having a positive effect.

  Elizabeth gave her a warm smile. “I am simply weary of being inside on such lovely days as these. I could have stayed with my parents for all the exercise I am getting here.”

  “That will all change once you’re wed.” Senara did not smile. “At least I presume you’re going to marry my cousin.”

  “It is a good match,” Elizabeth hedged. If she told Senara outright she wouldn’t marry him, Senara would tell the grandparents within the hour.

  Even though the grandparents no longer spoke of treasure, Elizabeth continued to read the family chronicles in search of what t
hey had not found. Perhaps she could trade that knowledge for marriage.

  “At least he wants my fortune for something altruistic.” If she said it enough, she might convince herself to accept a proposal.

  Senara grimaced. “But he is so old. He’ll be in his dotage before your children are out of petticoats. They cannot make you wed, you know. The Hardwick Marriage Act ensures that.”

  “It also said they could not force me to wed Romsford, but there are ways to persuade a female to wed against her will—place her in a compromising position, social ostracism, confinement . . .”

  Confinement—what she was nearly suffering now.

  She allowed her gaze to travel across the yard to where one of the grooms pretended to clean a trough while watching her the whole time. He was willing to take a bribe. What if she bribed him to take Grisette to the beach in the early morning? She could sneak down through the secret staircase and the caves. This was a new quarter, and she’d spent next to nothing of her pin money, an allowance greatly increased by Grandpapa with little to spend it on.

  “Your grandparents would do none of those things to you,” Senara was saying. “They care too much about you.”

  “Hmm.” Elizabeth caught the groom’s eye. “Senara, just a moment, please. I need to give the grooms some instruction about Grisette’s care.”

  She was despicable and loathsome for lying to Senara. Despicable and loathsome like the sermon said.

  Shaking off the guilt, she crossed the cobbles to the groom. “Do you know when low tide is tomorrow?”

  He ducked his head. “Five of the clock, Miss Trelawny.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you there. With this mare.”

  “But, miss—”