“Why didn’t it work?” Lucy asked, looking up. It was curious, but he almost sounded approving of her aunt’s plan.
“Well, for one, the Tanner lads kept stealing the chickens and selling them,” Mrs. Wilkins bemoaned. “That was the case we heard last month. They were sentenced to a month’s worth of extra mathematics at school.”
Lucy bit her lip in a smile. That certainly explained Danny’s plans for truancy.
“Also, the eggs all broke when we tried to cart them to Marston,” Reverend Wellsbury explained. “The road is terribly rutted and we can’t afford to repair it. But with the loss of fishing, we need to find some sort of alternative industry to support our town’s residents. And we all know the ground around here has never supported much by way of farming.”
“There’s tin mining up the coast near Marston,” Mrs. Wilkins said, passing a full cup of tea to the postmaster.
“Shining?” Bentley asked.
“No, mining.” Mrs. Wilkins turned to Lord Branston. “You are always poking about up on the moors, collecting rocks and plants and such. Have you seen anything promising up there, something that might help the town? There have been rumors in the past of tin deposits.”
“I’ve seen nothing to speak of.” Lord Branston paused. “And even if there was tin here, it would not necessarily mean improvements for the town.”
“But wouldn’t an industry like that provide a significant boost to the town’s economy?” Lucy pointed out, thinking of Mr. Jamieson’s nearly empty store shelves. “There would be workers for the mine. They would need dry goods. New roads for transportation.” She realized they were all looking at her again, and her cheeks heated. “It seems more sustainable than chickens and broken eggs, anyway,” she mumbled.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” Lord Branston’s gaze seemed heavy. Assessing. “If the tin were found on private land, the town would need to purchase it first.”
Mrs. Wilkins poured her own cup. “Well, you’ve been saying for some time you would like to find something sustainable to invest in here in Lizard Bay, Lord Branston. If we found a rich deposit, you could buy the land and help fund a mining operation.”
Lucy couldn’t help the smirk that made its way onto her face. “What an interesting idea, Mrs. Wilkins. By my understanding, Lord Branston is quite eager to toss his money away. Why, did you know he has over seven hundred pounds he is just itching to invest in a piece of property?”
He scowled at her. “Just because there is tin on a piece of land doesn’t mean the person would be willing to sell.” His gaze felt hot against her skin. “Some people, you see, can be rather stubborn about things like that.” His eyes shifted to meet the larger group’s attention. “It is said a mine is a hole anywhere in the world with at least one Cornishman at the bottom of it—the industry tends to benefit the wealthy off the backs of the poor. Hardly the leg up Lizard Bay needs. And we mustn’t forget the tin mining operation near Marston very likely polluted the river, which is why the fishing along the coast has been off of late. Do we really want to take advantage of our citizens and despoil Lizard Bay’s natural beauty, destroy what makes it special, just to earn a few shillings?”
“I rather think it would bring in more than a few shillings,” Lucy grumbled, though she could admit—to herself, at least—that his argument made a good deal of sense. If mining had poisoned their water and destroyed the fishing opportunities, it sounded as though they needed to give it a little more consideration. And the thought that the citizens of the little town might be hurt by such an operation was difficult to swallow.
“Lord Branston is right,” the vicar said. “If there is tin to be found around Lizard Bay, we must take care not to leap to hasty decisions. After all, the Lord creates temptations, as surely as he creates opportunity. He placed Eve in the Garden of Eden for a reason. To know which is the right choice requires prayer and careful thought.”
Lucy had to school herself not to roll her eyes. Though the first part of the vicar’s speech seemed rational enough, it was the latter part that stuck in her craw. She was reminded, then, of the red ribbon Aunt E had written about, the one she’d sewn on her knickers. She thought of how Reverend Wellsbury had suspected her aunt of trying to seduce all the men in town, when in reality she was forced to deflect their pestering advances.
And she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
“How do you know Adam didn’t deserve his fate?” she asked, taking a not-so-innocent sip of her tea. “After all, men are not to be trusted.” She bared her teeth neatly over the rim over her cup. “Or so I’ve heard my aunt say.”
Reverend Wellsbury’s face reddened.
A mischievous part of her wanted to keep needling him—to honor her aunt’s legacy, if not to vex the almighty hell out of him. But she held her tongue. She didn’t have time for an argument. Something niggled at her, something important. The town was in trouble, and normally this was just the sort of thing that would send her mind spinning with all the ways she might help.
But this wasn’t an ordinary tea: these people truly intended to sit here for hours, talking about tin and chickens and the reproductive vices of the town’s cats.
What was she doing here, balancing a cup of tea on her lap while the minutes marched by? It had been three days since she left London, and her father was very likely en route now, coming to fetch her home. She’d been as patient as she knew how to be, but the discussion of a memorial to honor her aunt had clearly been curtailed in favor of other business.
This was all too much.
They might need to sit here and discuss town politics, but by God she didn’t.
She stood up. The gentlemen clambered to their feet as well, though poor old Bentley had to be poked until he saw she was standing. “Where are you going, dear?” Mrs. Wilkins set her cup down on the table. “We’re just getting started, and Reverend Wellsbury was, I am sure, going to lead us in a moment’s prayer before we discuss any more town business.” She shot him a superior look. “Rules, you know.”
Lucy took a step toward the door. “Unless that prayer is for my safe travels, I am afraid I’ll have to decline.”
“Eh?” Bentley said, cupping a hand to his ear. “Something wrong with her spine?”
“No, my spine is fine, Mr. Bentley. I just need to get to Heathmore. And if no one in this room will help me find it, I am afraid I will need to get there by myself.” She nodded to Mrs. Wilkins, whose look of worry had shifted to more of a look of horror. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Wilkins, and for tea. I think a memorial in my aunt’s memory sounds like a lovely notion, as long as it isn’t roses.” She stepped over a black and white cat that had begun to wind his way around her legs. “It was nice to meet you all.”
“We can’t let her go alone,” she heard Mrs. Wilkins hiss to the group.
But Lucy was already slipping through the door, her mouth stretching to a smile. Finally. She was taking matters into her own hands, doing something besides wearing out the soles of her boots pacing the town’s only street. It might be foolish to attempt it without a proper guide, but she’d tried to be sensible and that hadn’t worked. Now it was time to act. And truly, with the threat of her father’s arrival looming ever closer, she was far past the point of caution.
So she dashed upstairs and grabbed her bag, which had been sitting—packed and ready—since eight o’clock yesterday morning. She flew back down the steps, exhilaration coursing through her. But just as she reached the front door, a shadow loomed in the hallway, blocking her way. The size of it alone was enough to cause her to catch her breath, but the breadth of those shoulders identified the body to whom that shadow belonged all too well.
She pushed past Lord Branston, jolted by the way that slight contact made her skin sing with awareness. “I believe we established that I don’t require your help.”
“Perhaps I intend to follow you, not offer my aid.”
“Follow me?” she scoffed. “It seems more like
you are stalking me. I understand there are dangerous cliffs about.” She glared over her shoulder. “Perhaps you mean to push me to my death so your plans to acquire Heathmore may continue unimpeded?”
“Well, just so you put on a coat before I push you to this mythical death.” He lifted his coat from a peg on the wall. “It’s raining.”
She hesitated. It hadn’t been raining earlier, when she wasted hours pacing Lizard Bay’s dusty street. But he didn’t look as though he was lying. His own coat was a heavy oilskin thing. She nodded grudgingly. “All right.” She dug through her bag and pulled out a light shawl, the only cover she’d brought with her from London.
“Don’t you have anything heavier?”
“Don’t you have other people to bother?” she retorted, resenting the question as much for its accuracy as the fact it had come from Lord Branston’s mouth. She should have brought a heavier cloak with her, and a parasol besides. Her nose was still pink from yesterday’s walk up and down the street. But she’d been in such a hurry to leave London without discovery that she’d not put the proper thought into packing.
Not that she felt compelled to admit such a thing out loud.
Shrugging on the bit of lace that passed as a shawl in London drawing rooms—but which she suspected fell woefully short here in Cornwall—she jerked open the door and stamped her way out onto the porch. Immediately, she was struck by a thin curtain of mist. She breathed in, the usual tang of salt air now muddled by the scent of fresh rain and wet earth.
Well, he might be a bounder and a spreader of nefarious gossip, but he hadn’t been exaggerating about the rain.
As if in agreement, the rain picked up, drumming harder on the roof of the narrow porch. Unable to back down now, she pulled the shawl tighter about her shoulders and stepped off the front steps. Turning to the right, she went a good hundred yards down the muddying street before glancing over her shoulder.
Lord Branston was standing in the middle of the road, his arms crossed across his chest, rain already coating his bare head.
“You decided not to follow me after all?” she challenged, though a part of her felt deflated by the thought that perhaps he meant to watch her traipse off alone through the rain.
He shook his head, and she could hear his long-suffering sigh. “No. Not in that direction, at any rate. Heathmore lies to the east, not the west.” He gestured for her to retrace her steps. “Come along, then. Might as well find the perfect cliff to toss you over.”
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
September 2, 1825
It is exhausting always being right. Well, perhaps not always right.
There was that time I kissed the vicar . . .
That lapse in judgment has been firmly rectified today. You see, I voted against Reverend Wellsbury’s proposal to build a proper road to Marston and he stormed out of our town meeting in a great, manly snit. He suspects I cast such a vote only to be argumentative. I don’t deny that after he left I lodged a vigorous and well-constructed argument against his plan. But I had my reasons, and they were not only to needle him.
Marston, I feel, is enjoying the wrong sort of progress. It is growing quickly, a mining town of the worst variety. There are regular fights in the street, and a young man was knifed in front of the gin house, just last week. A better road would carry our citizens to Marston for work, not the other way around. I am in firm agreement we need to collectively consider Lizard Bay’s future, but I think we need to consider measures that preserve the character and charm and—yes, anonymity—of this little town that has become my refuge and my life.
Reverend Wellsbury needs to learn to trust my judgment. I am neither a brainless, helpless female nor a cunning, plotting seductress. Honestly, the myriad ways he views me are becoming quite comical, as though I am multiple women wrapped up in a plain spinster’s body. I am more than willing to work with him . . .
As long as he admits I am right.
Chapter 15
He’d been joking, of course. About the cliff.
But still, Thomas was surprised when she trudged her way back. She stopped in front of him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The sight of it made him feel better about this foolhardy decision to go traipsing off in the rain. At least she was thinking about things.
He was beginning to get a sense she didn’t always before she tossed herself in the direction of her impulses.
“Lord Branston, I . . .” She hesitated, seemingly on the cusp of an apology, but then seemed to settle into a decision. “I suppose I am stuck with you, given that no one else in this town can be bothered to help. If you are inclined to visit Heathmore on this fine afternoon, I suppose it would be all right for me to accompany you.”
Thomas bit back a chuckle, imagining that was about as close to an admission of error or an expression of thanks as he was likely to get where this woman was concerned. “You are welcome.”
She looked away from him. She looked damp. A little lost, shivering in the worsening rain. And so damned desirable he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss away the raindrops clinging to her skin.
But he wasn’t going to do anything about that. He finally—finally—had her trusting him enough to accept his offer of help. He wasn’t going to destroy that with another ill-timed kiss, however tempting the thought.
More than anything, he wanted to show her why Heathmore was so special. To show her its hidden secrets and see the wonder on her face when she realized the potential to be found in the land. Given her interest in helping orphans and fixing the town’s stray cat population, he had a feeling she might champion this cause if it was presented in the right way. She seemed to latch onto good causes the way the beleaguered cats of Lizard Bay latched onto free meals. If she cared enough for the place and the town to stay, perhaps the land would be safe in her hands after all. But first he had to get her there.
He steered them east, out of town. A good, hard tramp was an excellent way to take his mind off the dilemma this woman posed, and he knew from experience that one lay ahead of them now. Lizard Bay had originally been founded as a small fishing village near the mouth of the Helford River, and it was sheltered on three sides by crumbling cliffs. The town’s geography, however, had been its ultimate downfall, the tight rocks ensuring the town’s architecture never expanded much past a single street and a few hundred hearty souls. Besides the single road leading in, there were perhaps a dozen foot and cart paths, scattered among the rocks, leading to a few homes and other secret places.
They began to climb one of those foot paths, the twisting, rocky path a series of mad switchbacks that always left him puffing, no matter how fit he was.
On sunny days the climb could be spectacular, with breathtaking ocean views and the dizzying acrobatics of the jackdaws that nested in the cliff face as entertainment. But today the jackdaws were more sensibly hunkered down in their nests. The path was shrouded in fog, and with the curtain of rain to contend with, he didn’t dare take his eyes off the path for a second, or else risk slipping on wet rocks and loose earth.
“How did you know which path to take?” she asked, panting along behind him, dragging her bag with her. “They don’t appear to be marked.”
“No,” he answered. “They once were, mind you. When I came here three years ago, there were still a few old directional signs left.” He glanced back at her and stopped, realizing she was almost soaked through. Her shawl was scarcely the right sort of armor for a Cornwall rain, but he suspected she would only refuse his help if he offered his own coat, given that she had already twice refused his offer to carry her bag. “The salt air tends to weather the wood, and they don’t last more than a few years. You just get to know the right path after a while.”
“Well, there’s your new industry for the town,” she said, stopping beside him and wiping a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. “Directional signs.” She set her bag down in the mud. “It’s perfect. You’ll need a constant supply. Perhaps you can even
sell them to the almighty Marston.” She made a face. “I swear, that town needs its comeuppance. Did they really poison your fish?”
He chuckled, remembering how Miss E used to harbor a similar opinion against the nearest town, always resenting how Marston had flourished while the residents of Lizard Bay struggled to make ends meet. “I am sure the Marston Mining Company would deny it if asked. And while directional signs are a good idea, you are forgetting one important thing.”
“Oh?”
He lifted a hand to the high edge of the cliff, beyond which waited an expanse of grass and rock. “No trees. We’d have to buy the lumber for the signs from—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t say it.”
“Marston,” he finished, his grin spreading higher.
She nodded. “All right, then,” she said worrying her lower lip. “We’ll have to just keep thinking about what other sort of industry might help Lizard Bay.”
Thomas stared down at the sight of those neat white teeth against the pink curve of her lip. Damn, but it made him want to kiss her. Taste those lips again. What would she do if he took the invitation she probably didn’t even realize she offered? Kissing her three days ago had proven a heady, unique experience. She was different than any woman he’d ever known. She appeared to approach everything in life with unrestrained passion, leaping first and asking questions later. And he couldn’t help but admire that sort of spirit.
Her determination to reach Heathmore—no matter the distance, no matter, even, the miserable weather—was a perfect example. She was a reckless counterpart to his own scripted isolation, and a part of him envied her that freedom. The most unplanned thing he had ever done was flee London three years ago. That wasn’t passionate or courageous, it had been cowardly. He’d just run—charged, really—seeking solace from the tattered remnants of what had once been a promising life. And then, once he reached Cornwall, he’d fallen into a defined, pitiable pattern of grief and isolation. For some reason, this woman made him want to loosen his hold on that increasingly distant part of his life.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 18