“You’d better get home before you’re missed. Don’t go out of the house or say anything to anyone.”
“What will you do?”
“What a responsible citizen—er—subject is supposed to do. I’ll go fetch the coroner and tell the magistrate what I know.”
“Shouldn’t someone watch over him?”
“Do you wish to volunteer? Or would you like to ride for the coroner and announce to the world you were with me all night?”
A punch in her middle would have hurt less. She couldn’t tell anyone she was with him all night without mentioning Morwenna, and she’d done enough damage there.
“You needn’t destroy your reputation over me.” He softened his tone. “I’ll only be gone long enough to send a Penmara servant for the coroner. Now go before you’re discovered out here.”
She went. She climbed the path to Bastion Point, each step heavier than the last, each crunch of her boot heels on the rocky ground proclaiming her a coward.
Yet ruining herself, destroying her future, would not bring Lord Penvenan back. He’d been on the beach during the night or in the early morning when he should not have been if he knew he was in danger. She’d already risked a great deal spending the night in the caves with Morwenna and Rowan. Sir Petrok’s granddaughter, the elder one by four months, must remain above reproach if she wanted any kind of a future.
Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Yet she couldn’t help the thoughts that ran through her head. Learning of Rowan’s illegitimacy rang the death knell on a future between them. Whether material or spiritual, that was no kind of treasure the grandparents wanted for her. He had no future in which a wife fit. Hers lay behind the gray stone walls of Bastion Point, walls he was not welcome to enter as an equal. She certainly never treated him as one in public as though she were shamed of him even before she knew of his low birth. Yet he claimed to love her, had sacrificed his work and his tenuous relationship with his father for her.
How could it be so when she was so free to denounce him? She denounced everyone who claimed to love her. A self-centered prig like her didn’t deserve to be loved. Perhaps her self-centered behavior had killed his love for her.
She leaned against the inside of the garden door, inhaling the morning sweetness of dew-drenched herbs along the path. If she plucked some mint or rosemary, no one would question her presence outside so early if they smelled the herbs and not Morwenna’s blood on her gown covered by her cloak.
Her cloak covered the blood like everyone’s belief in her goodness covered all her lies of omission. She was undeserving of love.
While we were yet sinners Christ died for us. The verse rang in her head.
If anyone was a sinner, she was. She might not have shamed herself and the family as had Morwenna and Drake, but she’d shamed herself.
You can’t possibly love me, Lord.
She believed she didn’t deserve for anyone to love her. She must fill in the empty spaces with what she had—Bastion Point, respect, the ability to attract sycophants, if not friends, material things to which she could cling.
After gathering enough mint leaves for a cup of tea, she headed for the kitchen entrance, the only one that would be unlocked that early. A maid building up the fire and a scullion pouring water into the reservoir behind the chimney that provided hot water for the household both startled in surprise at her entrance, but asked no questions. The maid took the leaves and prepared a cup for tea.
“Water’ll be hot in the kettle in but a moment, miss.”
“Thank you. I’m not feeling well.” Elizabeth climbed the back steps to her chamber.
In her room, she flung off her cloak and stared at her gown. It was a ruin from the birth. Somehow she must hide it until she could burn it. With the drawstring gone, it was easy to pull off. She stuffed it beneath her mattress, washed in chilly water, and donned a new nightgown and dressing gown. By the time she finished, the maid had arrived with her tea.
“It’s hoping I am that you’ll be feeling better, miss.” She set the cup on the table beside the bed. “If you need more, you don’t be needing to go fetch it yourself.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth slipped beneath the covers. “Please tell the household that I’m unwell and need to rest more.”
She needed to think, to add things together, consider the notion that Romsford was after more than her, was worse than an aging rake. Surely no one killed for possession of a derelict mine or two. Surely . . .
The maid departed.
Elizabeth sipped at the fragrant tea and was suddenly so weary she could no longer keep her eyes open. And by feigning illness, she’d have a better chance of slipping down to the cave to help Morwenna.
Even Morwenna loved her child enough to sacrifice comfort and privilege and respect to keep him safe. Never again would Elizabeth show disdain for her cousin regardless of the mistakes Morwenna had made. She loved her baby. She must have loved Conan to keep his secret so long.
Lord, show me what is missing in my life. The vague prayer was the last thing she knew until her bedchamber door burst open later enough that the sun streamed through the westward window.
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth, wake up.” Senara pounced on the bed and shook her. “You cannot continue sleeping.”
“Why ever not?” Yawning, Elizabeth rubbed her eyes. “Tired.”
“But you must hear the news.” Senara shook her. “Rowan Curnow has been arrested for my cousin’s murder.”
Elizabeth snapped awake, eyes wide, blood racing. “What? He can’t be. He couldn’t have. He—” She woke enough to shut her mouth before blurting out she’d been with him. “Lord Penvenan was murdered? When? How? How do you know Rowan has been accused?”
“Mr. Curnow says he found him on Bastion Point beach, dead with a knife in his back. Then I heard Sir Petrok speaking with the constable, Sam Carn, and the coroner about arresting Mr. Curnow.” Senara’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Perhaps he killed Conan as well.”
“He couldn’t have. He was—”
With her then too.
Elizabeth flung back the bedclothes and slid to the floor. “Where’s Miss Pross? I must get dressed.”
She rang her bell, then dashed into the dressing room to pick out a gown, something sober in memory of the latest man to ask for her hand because of her fortune. Nothing too somber, a spiteful voice taunted inside her head.
A somber gown because a man was being falsely accused of murder. A conviction of murder, if the inquest jury found enough evidence to send Rowan to the assizes on the next quarter day, meant hanging, especially once they learned Penvenan was Rowan’s father.
His father. A father who had rejected him. A father who had forced him to work for him, had courted the lady Rowan wanted. More than enough motivation to take the case to trial when the circuit judge came around.
Elizabeth yanked a lavender gown from the clothes press and dug for a matching pelisse and slippers.
“When is the inquest?” she called back to Senara.
“This afternoon, as soon as they round up twelve eligible men for the jury.”
“Why so quickly?” She emerged from the dressing room with her clothes over her arm.
Senara shrugged. “They want a good reason to lock him up before he flees back to America.”
“They can round him up in America and bring him back here.”
“Why waste all those months and risk him vanishing into that great wilderness if they can avoid it?”
“But they could hang an innocent man.” Elizabeth dropped onto the dressing table stool and began smoothing on her stockings.
She must look nice before speaking with Grandpapa.
“Do you truly believe he’s innocent?” Senara asked. “Who else would kill my cousin?”
“The same person or people who killed your brother.”
Senara wrinkled her nose. “Like him.”
“Senara, he couldn’t have killed Conan. That was established at that inquest. Besides,
how could two different murderers be roaming Cornwall?”
“Smugglers.” Senara shrugged. “Conan wanted to quit, and they needed our caves. Good reason for killing off my cousin if he wouldn’t let them.”
Elizabeth shuddered. “You sound so bloodthirsty about it.”
“I like Mr. Curnow, but I make no secret of not liking Austell Penvenan.”
“But now that he’s—” Memory of Penvenan lying facedown on the sand, a knife jutting from his back, flashed into Elizabeth’s mind, and she covered her face with her hands. “Justice must be served.”
But serving up Rowan Curnow to the gallows would not be justice.
Miss Pross bustled into the room. She smoothed a hand over Elizabeth’s brow. “So glad to see you feeling better. One of the maids said you’d been ill.”
“Of course she’s ill,” Senara said. “Bastion Point is no longer a bastion.” She giggled over her jest, then covered her mouth, her eyes huge above her fingers. “I didn’t mean to be laughing. This is horrible. So glad I’m staying here and not at Penmara.”
“Histrionics,” Miss Pross muttered. Aloud, she said, “Let me help you, Miss Elizabeth. You were never going to dress without your stays.”
“Bother. They take so long to lace.” But she dared not go into public, even Grandpapa’s study, without them.
The library. The secret stairs. Morwenna alone with the baby and scared.
“Hurry.” Elizabeth stepped behind the embroidered silk dressing screen and tossed off her dressing gown. She must talk to Grandpapa. She must tell him of Morwenna, even if she didn’t want anyone to do so.
She must tell Grandpapa about Morwenna and Rowan?
No, no, she could not admit that Rowan had been in her chamber, through the house, and down those steps alone with her in the middle of the night. Grandpapa might think the worst once he knew she’d been with Morwenna. He might place her in the same class as her cousin. She would lose his regard, she’d lose Grandmama’s regard, and she’d lose Bastion Point for certain. Without Bastion Point, she had nothing to offer anyone.
Yet Rowan was certain to tell Grandpapa or the coroner or both of them that he had witnesses to his innocence. People might not believe Morwenna, but they would believe Elizabeth.
“Hurry,” she said again. “I must talk to Grandpapa.”
If Rowan had said nothing yet, perhaps she could stop the progress of the inquest before anyone needed to testify.
Heart racing, toe tapping, Elizabeth submitted to Miss Pross’s slowness in hooking up the back of her gown. All the while, Senara talked about what would happen to Penmara now.
“There are no heirs now. But there’s money. My cousin said he had seen to that—making sure there’s money to keep the land going. Wasn’t that generous of him?”
“Quite.” Elizabeth snatched up a brush and began to work it through her hair. “Is that why you were so much kinder to him of late?”
“He cared about Penmara and continuing the line. A pity—”
“Excuse me, Senara, I cannot wait any longer.” Elizabeth tossed the brush onto the dressing table, grabbed her pelisse, and sprinted for the door.
“Your hair,” Senara and Miss Pross called together.
Elizabeth let the door slam behind her. She sped down the front stairs and spun around the newel post to the study. “Grandpapa?” She flung open the door.
The room lay empty.
Elizabeth whirled toward the nearest footman on station. “Where is he?”
“Gone to the inquest, Miss Trelawny. Coroner didn’t want to be coming out here twice when it’s easy enough to get a jury together.”
A local jury that could be made up of local men who had conspired to murder.
“But he cannot. I need—” She needed to follow, not talk to an impudent footman. “Thank you.” She closed the study door in his face and locked it.
Five minutes later, she entered the cave chamber.
“I wondered when you’d return.” Morwenna glanced up from the baby in her arms. “No food? I’m starved. I ate the last of the bread and cheese hours ago.”
“I am terribly sorry, Wenna, but I had to tell you about Lord Penvenan.”
Morwenna listened with shock whitening her already pale face. “But he’s innocent.”
“I know. And you know. But if he won’t speak up for himself to protect us, they’ll hang him.”
And he wouldn’t speak up for himself. Elizabeth knew it as clearly as she knew he should. But he wouldn’t ruin her or risk Morwenna’s life because he was a good and kind and loving man she loved. She would love him even if he chose returning to America over staying in Cornwall with her. If he asked her again, she would give up Bastion Point to show him she loved him. Even if he changed his mind about wanting to marry her, even if he turned out to be like the others and wanted only her fortune to ease his lot in life, she would still show him her love in the one way she knew best—she would save his life.
And if a selfish, spoiled creature like her could love like that, how much more could Jesus love without expectation of return?
“Unconditional love,” Elizabeth murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” Morwenna arched her perfect brows.
“Jesus’ unconditional love is real.” Turning toward the outside entrance, she said over her shoulder, “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
The tide wasn’t quite out. Heedless of her kid slippers or muslin gown, Elizabeth splashed through the foot or so of water lingering at the mouth of the tunnel and sped up the beach. She would take a horse from Penmara. Fewer questions asked with the master dead and his secretary the subject of an inquest.
An inquest that wouldn’t be taking place if she weren’t so worried about her reputation and keeping hold of a house and land. Instead of staying with Rowan and assuring everyone he had been with her—not even Morwenna, but her.
Breathless and perspiring, she reached the Penmara stable. The horses stood in their boxes loose with no sign of a groom. She found a gelding she’d helped choose at the fair, slipped a halter over his head, and led him to the mounting block. She didn’t waste time finding a saddle, but swung onto his back with her wet skirts clinging to her calves and her hands buried in the gelding’s mane. “Go, lad.”
He went, galloping faster than safe on the rutted drive, faster than anyone should ride saddleless. Will, strength, and the grace of God kept the horse from stumbling and Elizabeth on his back until they reached the village.
A crowd gathered outside the church, quiet save for the handful of people repeating what was being said inside so everyone could hear.
“Terrible fight they had,” echoed across the square. “His lordship were shouting and throwed a decanter after Mr. Rowan.”
Condemnatory words, more reason for Rowan to lose his own temper and get revenge.
Elizabeth slid to the ground and began to push through the crowd. People muttered in protest. Others hushed them.
“ ’Tis Miss Trelawny.”
Soon, “Make way for Miss Trelawny” all but drowned out those repeating the proceedings inside.
“And what did Mr. Curnow do once he was dismissed?” Likely the speaker inside now was the coroner.
“He left, sir.”
Elizabeth reached the church door. The constable tried to bar her way; then his eyes widened as he realized who she was.
At the front of the church, a dozen businessmen and freehold farmers sat like a row of carven images upon the Penvenan and Trelawny pews. Grandpapa sat behind this jury, and Rowan stood before them, his clothes disheveled, his face stony, his eyes bleak.
An apothecary from Truro who served as coroner stood before him not even reaching Rowan’s shoulder in height, but surpassing imagination in rotundity. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Curnow?”
Rowan said nothing.
“Mr. Curnow?”
“I will say nothing in my defense.” His voice rang out strong and determined.
&nbs
p; Elizabeth ducked under Sam Carn’s arm. “He may not say anything out of honor,” Elizabeth cried, “but I’ve a great deal to say.”
The church erupted in exclamations and enquiries.
“Elizabeth, no.” Rowan’s voice rose above the hubbub as he lunged forward.
The coroner’s bulk blocked his way. “Constable.”
Sam plowed forward.
Elizabeth followed. “Quiet, everyone. I’ve something to say.”
“I thought women weren’t supposed to speak in church.” From one of the box pews stepped the Marquess of Romsford. “Miss Trelawny, you look deranged. Perhaps we should remove you to—”
“What is it?” Grandpapa stepped between Elizabeth and Romsford and grasped her arm. “You look like you just climbed from your bed.”
“My looks aren’t important.” She pulled away from him. “This is.”
“Then you may speak to me in private.”
“No . . . sir.” She spun to face the packed church and raised her arms for silence.
The dull roar of voices died to a rumble.
Elizabeth raised her voice to be heard above it. “This man is innocent. I am a witness.”
The growling murmurs inside swelled to a cacophony outside as word spread. Elizabeth waited for the constable and others to bring order and quiet. They would. They did, for she had already made one shocking pronouncement. She intended to say more, though perspiration ran down her hairline and between her shoulder blades at the sight of two hundred pairs of eyes upon her, Grandpapa’s dark and troubled ones close at hand, and Romsford’s one good eye gleaming like a black beacon from beneath a lowered lid.
Behind her in the growing stillness, Rowan spoke in a near groan, “Don’t do this to yourself, my love. It’ll ruin you.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “What does my reputation matter when Jesus loves me?”
Rowan’s lips parted and his eyes widened. He shook his head. His lips moved as though he were about to say something.
“Miss Trelawny.” The coroner, face red, wheezed with each breath. “This is highly irregular to interrupt the proceedings. I really must ask— Oh, fiddle.” He raised his voice above a renewal of the hubbub. “Quiet, everyone, or I’ll have Sir Petrok order the constable to arrest you all.”
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