by Eve Silver
Dolly reached for her, age-twisted fingers curling around her wrist.
“Have you seen him, Dolly? The new owner?” Jane asked, though for certes she already knew the answer. If Dolly had seen him, the entire village of Pentreath would have known within the quarter hour.
Speculation about the newcomer was rampant. Even without the man having actually put in an appearance, people had talked of nothing else for more than a fortnight. Her father welcomed the gossip, for the villagers needed somewhere to meet and discuss their conjectures, and a pint of ale at her father’s hostelry was usually the venue of choice.
“I’ve not seen him. Other than old William, no one has,” Dolly replied, hooking her arm through Jane’s. “He arrived under cover of night, never stopping at the pub for drink or conversation. I wonder what kind of man shuns the company of his neighbors.”
“A man who prefers his privacy.” Jane pulled out her black wool gloves from the small pouch she had sewn to the inside of her cloak near the slit for her arm. She slid them onto her hands, keeping her arm linked with Dolly’s throughout.
“Aye. But why does he prefer his privacy? A good question.” Narrowing her eyes, Dolly tapped the tip of her forefinger against the sagging skin of her wrinkled cheek. “And why did he choose this place? There are less isolated houses about, and in better repair.”
Jane thought she understood such a choice. She had long ago learned to appreciate the magnificence of the stark and lonely countryside that had been her home for more than a decade. She knew the splendor of the moors, the harsh appeal of the wind-and-salt-spray-etched face of the precipices that jutted into the sea, the tors with their caps of jagged granite. And she knew that Trevisham House called to those who would listen. “Perhaps he views isolation as privacy.”
Dolly grunted. “Isolation is good for certain activities... those that are carried out on a barren rocky coast with none to bear witness.”
A heaviness settled in Jane’s chest, stalling her breath. She shook her head, and said firmly, “Perhaps he chose Cornwall because this is a place of beauty.”
“Aye. That it is. Barren. Lonely. Beautiful.” Dolly hooted at some secret jest. “But that is not why he came. Mark my words. This man is cloaked in death... I feel it in the depths of my old soul.”
“Death is no stranger to Pentreath. No stranger to Trevisham,” Jane replied, thinking of the pitiable, nameless woman whom she had watched Jem and Robert drag from the ocean.
She dared not let her memories wander farther back than that.
At length, Dolly gave Jane’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll leave you now. I have mending to do and I need what there is of the light on this dreary day to do it. Best see to your visiting, Janie, and make your way home before the storm.”
Yes. She would do well to make her way home before the storm. The lesson was one well learned. Cold fingers reached forward through the years to touch her skin, making her shudder. Memories nipped at her like a beast poked with a stick. She would have done well to hurry home another day, far in the past, to hurry home before that long ago storm.
With a forced smile, Jane spoke her farewells, and Dolly hobbled off in the direction of her small cottage nestled at the edge of the village. Watching her go, Jane tried to stifle her unease, to tamp down the restless urgency that gnawed at her, the sense that great misfortune was soon to come to Pentreath. Of course, grand calamity had already come, not to Pentreath but to her, carried on her father’s foibles and poor choices. Yet, she sensed something bigger, stronger, something worse.
Only once before had Jane felt such a strong forewarning building inside her until it seemed to take on a life of its own. On that day her world had tilted and all she knew as safe and good had shattered. Gone in an instant. She remembered the storm and her mother’s voice calling out to her, then the sharp crack of sound, and the pain. She well remembered the pain.
She remembered Mama dead, broken like a porcelain doll on the rocks, her long, dark hair hanging wet and limp like seaweed.
“No.” With a whispered denial, Jane tore her thoughts away from the cheerless remembrance, away, too, from the terrible guilt, for if she allowed it to surface it would easily overwhelm her. She had learned over the years to control it, rather than letting wave after wave of crushing sorrow control her.
Her grief was old now and tinged with bittersweet recollection, misty memories of joy and warmth tempering the horror of her loss.
Turning, she shambled with her uneven gait toward the tall square bell tower that loomed in the distance, its crenellated cornice reaching to the menacing sky. The way was familiar to her. At least once each week she made this journey to the church, to the graveyard that lay in its shadow.
She paused beside the low stone wall that surrounded the building, and rested a wool-gloved hand against the chilly surface, silently acknowledging the ever present dull ache in her left knee. The winter damp seeped right through the joint. She could barely remember a time when the muted pain had not been her constant companion.
A noise caught her attention. Frowning, she turned and looked over her shoulder, certain that she was no longer alone. But, no. There was no one behind her on the well-traveled dirt path.
Opening the ancient iron gate, Jane set her teeth as the rusted hinges emitted a strident squeak. The gate was in need of oiling. She would mention it to the vicar’s wife, who in turn would mention it to the vicar. Such was the way of village life.
Fallen autumn leaves, brown and parched, tumbled end over end, whipping between the headstones with a dry, rustling sound as Jane walked through the graveyard.
Suddenly, the wind died, and all was still. In the eerie silence, she glanced about, her gaze coming to rest on the dead and blackened elm that stood in the far corner of the cemetery, its lifeless limbs arching over the etched stones. High upon a narrow branch perched a solitary raven, watching her.
She let her gaze wander away, across the rows of stones. Faint whispers in the darkest corner of her mind had haunted her since she had jerked from slumber at the first rays of dawn. There was a wind of change swirling over Pentreath, carried by the storm. A wind of change, bearing menace and danger.
Chilled to her marrow, Jane fastened the highest button on her cloak and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders as she slipped between the graves, making her way to the carved granite headstone that marked her mother’s final rest. She reached into the pocket of her cloak to pull out the small, perfectly coiled pink shell that she had taken from the beach. With a sigh, she trailed her fingers along the stone to the engraved words that were her mother’s epitaph.
Sacred to the memory of Margaret Alice Heatherington
the wife of Gideon Heatherington of this Parish
who departed this life 18th day of July
in the year of our Lord 1802 aged 29 years.
In this life a loving wife, a tender mother dear.
Silently mouthing the phrases, Jane closed her eyes against the insidious tide of sadness that flooded her heart. There were still days that she awakened expecting to hear her mother’s voice.
“Good morning, Mama dear,” she whispered as she placed the shell on the top of the tombstone. A hazy memory flitted through her mind of her mother running barefoot along the beach, laughing as she paused to gather shells. That night she had strung them on a length of yarn, making a necklace for her daughter. As a child, Jane had treasured the gift; as a woman grown, she treasured it still more.
Her touch strayed to the small, painted miniature—fronted in glass—that her father had ordered embedded in the stone. An exorbitant expense, but one her father had insisted upon. Jane ran her finger over the glass, noting that the winter’s harsh kiss had forced a jagged crack. Her heart twisted and a tear escaped to carve a path along her cheek.
The glass would remain as it was, broken, for there were no funds for its repair. Her father’s folly had seen to that.
She traced the twining vines that the m
ason had carved about the picture to frame her mother’s likeness. The artist had done a wonderful job. The minute painting resembled Margaret Heatherington in all details, just as it resembled Jane, who took after the woman who had borne her to an uncanny degree.
Mother and daughter shared the same tall, slim build, the chestnut hair, the ready smile. Jane well remembered her mother’s flashing dark eyes, tipping up just a bit at the corners. She could see those eyes looking back at her in the mirror each morning. And she could see the subtle differences, too. Her nose was smaller, her lips fuller, her chin slightly squared where her mother’s had been soft and round.
“Oh, Mama, I miss you so.”
Her only answer was the mournful howl of the wind, which had renewed itself and bit through Jane’s cloak and shawl.
With a single piercing cry and a great flapping of feathers, the raven took flight from its lofty perch. Startled, Jane spun about. Her gaze sought the source of the sound and she watched as the bird spread its wings and soared above the secluded cemetery, flying free and unfettered.
Oh, to be that raven. To be free of the situation her father had thrust upon her. Free of her twisted limb. Free to roam the world and see all manner of wonderful things.
She watched the bird until it was only a dark speck in the distance, and then she shivered.
Again, she felt the sensation that she was not alone.
Slowly, she lowered her head. Her breath caught in her throat as her blood rushed hot and rich in her veins. Taking a stumbling step back, she felt the unyielding solidity of the granite stone at her back, and she leaned against it, touched by an equal measure of trepidation and fascination.
Her heart stuttered, and then raced.
Because, no, she was most definitely not alone.
Chapter 2
At the far edge of the churchyard, separated from Jane by the low wall, stood a man.
He was broad and tall. The stone fence reached nearly to the tops of his thighs, while it rose all the way to Jane’s waist. The new owner of Trevisham House. He could be no other.
The wind caught the tiers of his long black greatcoat, making it billow. His proud bearing, the cut of his coat, the confident tilt of his head, they bespoke wealth. And power. His hair was long, past his collar, honey-brown shot with gold, the rich color telling her he was no stranger to the sun. Hard, unsmiling, his face was as harshly beautiful as the Cornwall landscape.
He was a vision from a fairy tale, a battle-hardened knight. A man of mist and dreams. A young girl’s hero. She swallowed, reminding herself that such fantasies were not for her. Her story did not include a prince. Even the men of Pentreath who knew her so well, who laughed at her tales, who valued her kind words, even they saw her as the innkeeper’s crippled daughter. Surely a man of means and station would spare no notice for her.
Nor do I want him to, she thought defiantly.
She stood, frozen, watching him warily as he turned and made his way around the perimeter of the graveyard, following the course of the stone wall. He opened the gate and stepped inside, his stride confident, his boots crunching the dry, dead leaves. All masculine grace and power.
The pace of her heart accelerated with each step that brought him closer, and she waited, her feet rooted to the ground.
“Good afternoon,” she said, offering a tentative smile as he approached. Years of work in her father’s pub called up a friendly salutation as a matter of habit.
Stopping some three feet from her, he inclined his head politely but did not return her smile. “I did not mean to disturb you,” he said.
There was a subtle shade to his vowels, some peculiarity to his pronunciation. Jane could hear that he was not a Cornishman, but she could not place his origin. His voice was low, a touch gravelly. The sound reached deep inside her, made her want to lean closer, to touch his smooth lips, to feel the words pour from him. With a frown, she pressed her palm against the icy granite at her back, girding herself against such odd and ridiculous notions.
“You did not disturb me.” She gestured toward the headstone. “I came to be with my mother.”
She had no idea why she told him that.
The silence stretched and grew thin. Jane cast about for some topic of conversation.
“Do you... that is, are you here to visit someone in particular?” she blurted, not at all certain why she felt so nervous in his presence.
“Yes.” He watched her intently, elaborating no further, and making no move toward any of the graves.
Her eyes widened as she had the bizarre thought that he had come here to see her. How absurd.
Unnerved, she looked away, scanning the distant clouds, looking anywhere but directly at this glorious man whose mere presence somehow left her feeling both exhilarated and wretchedly confused.
“I fear we are in for a storm,” she said hurriedly. “You’ll want to make your way back to Trevisham House before the crossing becomes impassable.” As the words left her lips, she realized that she had given away the fact that she had surmised his identity. Darting a quick glance at his face, she found him regarding her with an expression that hinted at amusement. The emotion seemed awkward for him. The carved planes of his face, so handsomely etched, had the look of a man who rarely smiled.
“I could seek shelter at your father’s inn.” There was a discernible undercurrent to his words. Sarcasm? But that made no sense.
The mention of her father reminded her of the dire uncertainty of her situation. Regret was a bitter tonic.
Yes, for this night, and perhaps the next, the Crown Inn belonged to her father, but one day soon his rash debt would come due.
What would happen then?
Likely, the inn would no longer belong to Gideon Heatherington. Likely, the inn would be sold for whatever coin it could fetch, leaving Jane and her father with no home and no means of support. And then... No, she would face that tragedy only when it arose in truth, rather than in the haunted uncertainties that plagued her.
“Do you know my father?” she asked.
“We have met.” His tone was brusque.
“He never said.” Odd that her father had not mentioned having made the acquaintance of the new owner of Trevisham House, for such personal association would have brought in many curious patrons for a pint or a meal, and a spot of conversation and gossip.
“It was a lifetime ago.” He smiled darkly. “Somehow, I doubt he will remember the occasion.”
Jane raised her head, and her gaze locked with his. Indigo ink. Polished granite. His eyes were a stunning mixture of blue and gray, changeable, dazzling, rimmed with thick lashes, set beneath straight honey-brown brows. Beautiful eyes. But shadowed. Eyes that had seen much; windows to a soul that had suffered.
She shivered, uneasy. And then she wondered why she was not more uneasy in the presence of this man, this stranger. Had she learned nothing from the lessons of her past?
She frowned, suddenly aware that he knew who she was, who her father was, yet she had never told him her name. “I do not believe that you introduced yourself.”
His expression became shuttered. “No, I did not.”
“I think I should go.” She made to step past him, and then paused, unable to restrain her curiosity, however foolhardy. She turned her head to look at him. “How did you know who I was? That my father owns the Crown Inn?”
He gestured at a spot behind her. Turning, she found herself facing her mother’s gravestone, the name Heatherington clearly stamped in the granite.
“Oh. Of course.” Had she thought him prescient? Perhaps imagined that he was the one who had been following her, watching her from the cliff that morn? Stalking her for some nefarious and unspecified reason? The idea was laughable. He had only to read the stone to know who she was. Despite the fact that he had yet to visit Pentreath, he would have heard of her father, who owned the only inn for many miles. There was not another to be found until one reached the New Inn, which sat smack-dab in the middle of Bodmin Mo
or.
“Have you ever been inside Trevisham House, Miss Heatherington?”
At his politely spoken question, she shifted to face him once more. A tingle of awareness danced across her senses as she realized he was a step closer than he had been before.
“Inside the house? No, I have not.” She had never been inside the house itself. Had not even been to the island since that one terrible day, the waves crashing her against the rocks, and the pain—
She shook her head. “I was quite small when my family moved to Cornwall. The previous owner of Trevisham left some years before that. He never returned. The house has been vacant until... well, until you, Mr....”
“Warrick,” he supplied. “Aidan Warrick.”
She thought the name fit quite well. He did not look like a Charles or a William. Definitely not a Harry. Aidan Warrick. A dashing name that suited him as perfectly as his well-tailored coat.
“Well, Mr. Warrick, I must confess that I have seen Trevisham House only from the outside.”
“That will change.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” She felt disoriented. Was he inviting her to visit his home? The thought was extraordinary. Much less than proper. And frighteningly appealing.
As her thoughts tumbled one over the next, she saw the nonsensicality of such notions. Most likely, he meant to offer her a position in the scullery or the kitchen.
He looked up at the sky, and she followed the direction of his gaze. Angry clouds gathered overhead, no longer a distant threat on the horizon.
“We should be away,” Mr. Warrick said, cupping Jane’s elbow with one leather-gloved hand.
She gasped at the contact. He was touching her. Touching her. And it was like no touch she had ever known. Despite the leather of his glove and the layers of her clothes, the connection between them arrowed deep, as though, somehow, she had waited her entire life for him to touch her, to warm her, to send fire licking through her veins.