Because that, after all, was what he’d gain in the marriage he’d been pursuing.
Her body. Her soul.
Her goddamned property.
“Lucy, please.” Thomas’s voice was strained. “Give me a chance to show you what I am talking about. The heath and the lizardite are only part of it. There is more of value to Heathmore than you think. And a mining operation will not be the boon to the town you think it will be. It would destroy what makes this part of the coast unique.”
The sound of her name on his lips and the hoarsely uttered “please” nearly undid her resolve. She could almost—almost—believe he was sincere.
But she shook her head. “You had plenty of chances to show me already,” she pointed out, thinking of the long minutes they had stood on that narrow slice of ledge, minutes where he’d distracted her with a heart-stopping kiss instead of discussing the fact that the entire cliff face was riddled with veins of tin. “And if I were you, I’d go quickly.” She held up one arm. “After all, I still have a rope.”
His jaw hardened. “You are bloody stubborn, you know that?”
She raised her chin. “So I’ve been told.”
He looked in her father’s direction, as though he was seeking help from that quarter. Stupid man, to think he would find a kinder reception there. Ten minutes ago she was all that had stood between her father’s pistol and his bollocks.
“I believe my daughter asked you to leave, Branston,” her father said, crossing his arms. “You are fortunate I don’t call the magistrate.”
In spite of herself, Lucy rolled her eyes. As if old Bentley—the town’s magistrate and mayor—could hear an explanation like this and think they were talking about anything other than “sin.”
Thomas’s gaze swung back to her. “I won’t give up on this,” he told her, his words like heavy weights, aimed squarely at her heart. “I won’t give up on us, Lucy. And when you’ve had a moment to think on it, when you decide you want to see the rest of it, you have only to ask me to show you.” Then, with a curt nod, he left, striding down the path that led back to town.
She stood, silent, watching him go.
“Well then. Good riddance, I say.” Her father came up to stand beside her, his hand settling on her shoulder. “It seems like we might want to seek some other offers for Heathmore.”
She nodded, trying not to care that he continued to say “we” instead of “you.”
“I could make some inquiries in Marston before we go back to London,” he offered.
Lucy grimaced. London. The word sounded foreign to her ears. She thought of all that waited her there. Balls and gowns and useless, endless parties. Mother, and her interminable frowns. “All right,” she said, not knowing what else to do.
She was so bloody confused. She was usually quick to leap to action, to fix whatever problem loomed large, but in this, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. “But I do not want to sell Heathmore, not without knowing all my options,” she warned.
Her father’s fingers tightened on her shoulder, but his face softened as he nodded down at her. “Of course. Lucy, I am sorry for not trusting your judgment before. I don’t approve of the fact you ran away and left without even a note, but I can see you had reason to come here. You saved us from a tremendous mistake.”
She exhaled, the praise feeling awkward to her ears. So, too, did the word “us.” Hadn’t she saved herself from the mistake? At least Thomas had respected the fact this was her decision to make—even if he’d hidden some of the facts from her.
“I would like to stay in Lizard Bay while you place those inquiries.” She hesitated. “Mrs. Wilkins has been telling me stories about Aunt E.” And the thought of going to Marston, the town her aunt had hated so much, made her feel nearly as ill as the thought of Thomas’s betrayal. She held up a hand as her father opened his mouth. “And before you go on about my needing a chaperone, I would remind you I came here without one.”
After a moment, her father nodded. “All right. As long as you stay with Mrs. Wilkins and don’t wander too far afield.” He hesitated. “I want you to know I am proud of you, Lucy. You’ve a solid head on your shoulders. Your brother could learn a thing or two from you.”
“Thank you.” She stared down at the ground, feeling miserable, rather than pleased. How long had she wanted such affirmation? It seemed nearly her whole life.
But at what cost had she earned it?
Her gaze fell on the satchel that Thomas had left behind. It was a sign of how upset he was that he’d forgotten it. The bulging sides made her wonder if the contents might contain samples of tin and rock, collected from her property and spirited away for analysis. But when she picked it up and peered inside, she saw only an odd mix of plants, their roots carefully bundled in cloth and twine. A few more lizardite rocks, their green mottled hue scarcely recognizable as the same rock in the pendant about her throat. And, near the bottom, dirt-smudged but unmistakable, a thick sheath of papers, addressed to the Linnean Society of London.
She caught her breath at the utter lack of evidence for his nefariousness.
Plants. Rocks.
Oh, God. The man was obsessed with nature. How many unintelligible scientific names had he quoted to her in the course of their brief but memorable acquaintance? Worse, holding the satchel now reminded her of how he’d carried both his own bag and hers up the wet path last night. And this morning, when he’d pulled out the bunch of heath, drooping and wilted . . .
How could he be so kindly in one moment and scheming in the next? She didn’t know, but the answers weren’t going to fall out of the sky.
Perhaps, though, they might fall out of her aunt’s diaries.
She glanced back toward the cottage, where the volumes were still tucked inside her bag—the very bag he had carried up here for her. Had Aunt E known about the tin on the property, and held opinions of her own on the right way to proceed? Lucy was scarcely halfway through the third volume. Any clues must be buried in the later passages. The morning had uncovered one dramatic secret, one she wished she’d known earlier.
Could more be waiting?
“I need to fetch my bag before we go,” she mused, looking down to realize with horror she was standing out of doors in only her chemise and stockings. “And put on my spare dress,” she said in a rush, wincing at the thought of how this must all look to her father. She might be a scandalous spinster, but she didn’t relish the thought of strolling back to Lizard Bay dressed like this. “It’s in the house.”
“You stayed here last night?” her father asked, looking suddenly a little less proud of her. “With him?”
“Nothing inappropriate occurred. We were trapped by the weather.” A partial truth, perhaps. Last night had been . . . well, in the harsher light of morning, perhaps the right word might be “confusing.” She sighed, staring down the path that had just swallowed him.
Never trust a vicar farther than you can throw him, Aunt E had written.
Apparently, one shouldn’t trust a marquess either.
But at what point did she need to begin to trust herself?
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
March 16, 1832
Though it is hard to admit out loud, there are times when I miss my family. I miss the sound of voices, a house full of people. I miss my brother, and even Father, with his blustering, forceful views on the place of women.
Perhaps I am simply waxing nostalgic. It isn’t that I hold any regrets. But for better or worse, the lending library and its new periodicals have shifted my awareness of London and the things I left behind. The Illustrated London News has proven a particular source of comfort and despair, and I find myself eagerly searching for some word of my family. Yesterday, I found it.
A birth announcement for Miss Lucille Westmore. My brother’s child.
And apparently my namesake.
In nearly twenty years I’ve not been brave enough to send a note to Father, fearing that despite the passage of time,
he might still swoop down onto Cornwall and try to force me into an asylum. But my brother . . . there is an avenue to forgiveness I had not previously considered. Perhaps a congratulatory note on the birth of my niece might not be out of order.
And oh, to eventually be able to see my niece, to hold her in my arms . . . that would be the sweetest of impossible dreams.
Chapter 22
“I’ve brought you a letter, Miss L.”
At the sound of the boyish voice hovering at the doorway, Lucy looked up from her aunt’s diary. Welcoming the distraction of some conversation and the chance to rest her eyes, she smiled at the lad and motioned him in. Danny skipped into Mrs. Wilkins’s shabby parlor, his right hand already held palm out, seeking recompense. A pair of scrawny cats curled around his legs, meowing a welcome. Her pulse began to thump more forcefully inside her skin when she saw the letter in his left hand.
Could it be from Thomas?
It had been two days since that awful confrontation on top of the cliff. Two days since Father had headed for Marston. She had started the fourth volume of her aunt’s diaries this morning, and her eyes ached from the strain of trying to decipher the increasingly unintelligible print of her aunt’s arthritic hand. But it had also been two days of misery, long, restless hours when she’d spent far too much time thinking about a handsome auburn-haired marquess, wrestling with the memory of every word, every touch, ever exchanged between them.
She’d been left more confused than ever.
Far from providing the clues she sought, Aunt E’s third volume had rambled on for a good three hundred pages, filled with bits of daily life and nostalgic wanderings of an aging mind. Lucy had read all about the cautious reconciliation between her aunt and Father. She’d read about her own visit as a child, and her father’s provision of a quarterly stipend, a gesture that had apparently granted her aunt the ability to delay any hard decisions about selling her property. She’d read about her father’s eventual acquisition of the title, and the invitation he’d issued to Aunt E to come and live with them in London, provided she take pains to “hide” her past to protect the children. And she’d read about her aunt’s despair to realize that reestablishing a proper relationship with her family was contingent on leaving the town she loved, and worse, pretending to be someone other than she was.
Lucy could no longer blame Aunt E for choosing to stay. She could see, through her aunt’s written words, the choice had been a difficult one, a decision borne out of love and a desire to protect her nieces and nephew, not neglect. But though Lucy now felt she understood her aunt’s choices far better, she was still no closer to understanding her aunt’s wishes on the matter of what to do about Heathmore.
And disappointingly, she hadn’t read anything yet about Thomas either. Lucy knew she shouldn’t want to read about him. She shouldn’t want to think about him.
But she did, almost constantly.
How could she not? Everyone in Lizard Bay was talking about Heathmore and the discovery of tin, and that, in turn, made her think about him. The excitement in town had grown to a fever’s pitch, the trouble with ghosts forgotten. Jamieson’s store was buzzing with locals wanting to know if the rumors were true. Poor old Bentley had to have it explained to him no less than four times. And on Sunday, Reverend Wellsbury had lectured them all on the dangers of temptation—using the example of Eve in the Garden of Eden again.
As if it wasn’t Eve who had lost everything in that whole sordid tale.
Lucy had tried—in vain—to remind herself of Thomas’s betrayal. But in truth, she was no longer sure her hasty conclusions regarding his motives held merit. He had rescued her. Saved her life. Her hand lifted to her neck, her fingers pressing against the delicate skin there. Far from poisoning her, he’d done the opposite: her rash was now completely healed. Neither could she reconcile the contents of his satchel with a man bent on gaining a financial advantage. He scarcely lived the life of a man bent on magnifying his wealth.
She thought of the papers she had seen in his bag, addressed to the Linnean Society of London. He collected plants, for heaven’s sake, not samples of tin. He had been Lizard Bay’s most outspoken opponent of a tin mining operation, and he spent his days seeing to the care and well-being of a quartet of unruly orphans. And by outward appearances, Danny and his brothers were clearly doing well under his tutelage.
She smiled at the boy, who was standing beside her in an almost mannerly fashion. Aunt E would have been proud. Closing the diary, she patted the sofa beside her.
Danny skipped forward, the scent of licorice clinging to him like an aura.
She breathed it in, realizing, then, that school must be out for the day. She must have read longer than she’d thought. It surprised her to realize how much she knew about the workings of the little town, how much she had absorbed in only a few short days. In spite of herself, she glanced toward the door, hoping to catch sight of a broad-shouldered shadow, or hear a hint of his voice, out in the hallway. But there was naught but an empty doorway and the ring of disappointment in her ears.
“Do you know who sent the letter?” she asked as the boy settled himself beside her, happily kicking his feet. She tucked the diary into the folds of her skirts. Not that she imagined one of the Tanner boys might ever be tempted to steal an actual book, but better not to take the chance.
Danny shook his head, his cheeks full of licorice. “No. But Mr. Bentley said to bring it, straightaway. It came on the mail coach.”
Frustration settled in her stomach. Thomas wouldn’t mail a letter, not when he could just hand it to the boy. She pulled one of her few remaining coins from her pocket and handed it to Danny, then took up the letter, staring down at it. The handwriting was her father’s, the emblem on the red wax seal her family’s own crest. She ought to be excited to see it, given that it likely contained news on the value of her property.
Yet, her fingers hesitated.
“Ain’t you going to read it?” Danny asked, sucking his candy. “The schoolmaster makes me read out loud, all the time. Lord Branston, too.” He made a face. “Says it is even more important than mathematics.”
In spite of her uncertainty, she smiled at him. “I hate to say it, but I am afraid Lord Branston is correct on the matter of reading.” Danny just sighed, rolling the licorice around in his mouth. Lucy handed him the letter. “Why don’t you read it to me?” His sour look made her laugh. “I might be convinced to double your tip if you do.”
That had him sitting up straighter. He swallowed his candy, tore open the wax seal, and cleared his voice in a way only a mischievous eight-year-old could, though it made Lucy wince to realize that—to her mother, at least—she probably sounded very much the same way.
“ ‘Dear Lucy.’ ” His eyes widened up at her. “Gor! Is that your real name, Miss L?”
She nodded. “Go on.”
“ ‘I’ve met with great . . .’ ” His nose wrinkled. “What’s this word?” He pointed to the page.
Lucy glanced over. “Success.”
“ ‘I’ve met great success in Marston. I gained an audience with the Marston Mining Corporation, and they would like to come and inspect the property. It is likely worth at least one hundred times what Lord Branston offered, so it seems you have some important decisions to make. I must consult with a . . .’ ” He pointed again.
“Solicitor,” Lucy prompted. “You really do read very well, Danny.” And the lad was only eight years old. Perhaps Thomas’s hopes for university for the young scamp weren’t entirely unfounded.
“ ‘I must consult with solicitor first, but will return with an inspector on Tuesday, and we can return to London thereafter.’ ” Danny lowered the letter, his eyes wide. “What did Lord Branston offer?” he asked in a hushed tone.
Lucy considered her response. Probably best not to mention the offer of one thousand pounds. That would require more explanation than she was comfortable delivering to an eight-year-old. “He’s offered me seven hundred pounds to buy
Heathmore Cottage,” she conceded, remembered the last solid offer between them.
His eyes grew round. “Gor! That’s . . . that’s . . .” His nose wrinkled again. “Seven thousand pounds?”
She nodded, the amount making her feel ill instead of glad. When it had been only a few hundred pounds at stake, the potential for a misstep hadn’t seemed as great. But now Marston Mining Corporation was coming to inspect the property? Wasn’t that the company that had poisoned Lizard Bay’s fish? “See?” she murmured. “Ciphers can come in handy.”
But her mind wasn’t on ciphers. Bugger it all, she was going back to London tomorrow. Part of her was glad. She desperately wanted to see Lydia, to tell her every grand thing that had happened on this mad lark.
But a part of her—a stubborn, insistent part—wanted to stay in Lizard Bay.
“I’ll say! That’s a lot of money to count!” Danny jumped to his feet, his face dissolving into the largest grin she’d ever seen. The boy held out his palm. “I think you might want to do more than just double my tip, Miss L,” he crowed. “Seems like you can afford it.”
Lucy smiled as she gave him the last coins left over from Wilson’s generous loan. He skidded around Mrs. Wilkins, who was coming through the door with a tea service in her hands, and eagerly dashed for the door.
“It’s two o’clock!” Mrs. Wilkins said, setting the tray down. “Time for tea.” She glanced back toward the door. “Did Danny give you the letter he brought?”
Lucy nodded, staring at the steaming teapot. Thank heavens it was a Monday, not a Friday. She didn’t know if she could face the notion of having the entire town crowd into Mrs. Wilkins’s parlor, discussing what to do about the tin and Lizard Bay’s future.
A shadow fell across the doorway, and she looked up, her treacherous heart once again leaping in hope. But it wasn’t Thomas. It was only the vicar, his white collar like a stick to the eye. Her heart sank. She may not have read much about Thomas yet in her aunt’s diary, but she’d read quite a bit about Reverend Wellsbury. It was exhausting to read about the constant bickering that came from two determined shepherds trying to steer the same flock of sheep.
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