The Thief of Lanwyn Manor

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Miss Twethewey,” he called, directing his horse closer to the stone wall as he approached her.

  She lifted her head and guided her horse toward him, and as she did something seemed different. Normally, her face was bright and her lips held a smile. Today, her expression was tight, almost nervous.

  As their eyes met, he tipped his hat.

  She smiled at last. “Mr. Blake.”

  Isaac drew his horse to a halt and waited for her to do the same on the other side of the drystone wall. He glanced toward the sky. “It’s not a very nice morning for a ride. I fear we are in for more blustery weather.”

  She looked upward, squinting at the muted light. “You’re right.”

  He frowned at her uncustomary demeanor. “Is something the matter?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” She fussed with her reins and bit her lip. “Well, I’m not sure.”

  He stiffened his spine. In the time he’d known her, he’d found her to be direct, and this new side of her was concerning. “You’re not sure if something’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, her distracted gaze fixed hesitantly on the horse’s milk-colored mane. “The oddest thing happened last night. I wouldn’t bother you with this, but after what happened to us at the inn, I thought you might have some insight.”

  She proceeded to tell him about strange scratching noises, and a shadowy figure on the midnight lawn, and about how she’d spent the morning thus far looking for clues at the tree line. Her words spilled out, a jumble of confused thoughts and possible explanations. “I can’t help but feel as if something is amiss here.”

  He switched his reins to one hand and crossed his other hand over his arm as he considered her story. As much as he would like to calm her fears, he was too well acquainted with the current mood of the local population to discredit her. “I think it best you inform your uncle. It could be quite serious, especially considering what happened at the inn.”

  “Uncle William’s away from Lanwyn. I’m not certain when he’ll return. As it is, Jane is ill, Caroline is frightened and will barely step foot from the tower, and I worry that if I tell Aunt, she’ll descend into hysterics.”

  “If it would make it easier, I will engage a handful of men to stand guard at the property line. At least until your uncle returns.”

  She shook her head. “I would hate to put you to such trouble. After all, no harm was done. Let’s hope it was just an odd occurrence and nothing more.” She forced a rigid smile and looked him in the eye for the first time that morning. “You must think I bring trouble with me wherever I go, Mr. Blake. I just didn’t know who else to tell, and I felt someone should know.”

  “You may tell me anything, Miss Twethewey. And you are not trouble. Not to me.”

  A sharp breeze gusted from the tree line, and her horse whinnied and pawed at the earth. Rain was imminent, and the horses seemed to know it.

  She adjusted the reins in her gloved hands to still her animal. “Let us not linger on such dull topics. Tell me, have you a full day, Mr. Blake?”

  He nodded, relieved to see a glimmer of her normal vibrancy return. “Very. Today we’ll conduct the setting at Wheal Tamsen. ’Twill be a full day. It just pains me that we do not have more work to offer. We’ve opened a handful of new pitches, but it will hardly meet the need.”

  She toyed with the end of her riding crop, as if considering her words. “At the Ladies League meeting earlier this week, the women were talking of Wheal Gwenna and wondering whether or not you intend to open it.”

  He gave a little laugh, careful not to lace it with too much sarcasm. “I wish I could open it.”

  “Why can’t you? If more work is needed, then it seems a viable solution.”

  “Viable, yes, but not simple. You see, at this very moment, it’s flooded. It’s been empty for decades and must be drained before any work can be done. That alone takes time. And money. My father sold the pump after closing the mine, and a great deal of capital would be required for a new one. But the greater gamble is the mine itself. My father said the ground still held copper, but others have said she’s run dry. I’m afraid that even if Wheal Gwenna were to open, it might not produce the way we’d need it to in order to really make a difference.”

  She swiped a curl away from her cheek and straightened her shoulders. “I met a child named Sophia at the sewing circle this week. Do you know her?”

  “I do.”

  “Is her mother really as ill as Miss Prynne led me to believe?”

  He nodded.

  “I can’t help but wonder if Uncle William is aware of all the anguish that closing Bal Tressa has caused.”

  Her words surprised him. He expected Lambourne’s niece to side with her uncle on all things, but the opposite seemed to be true. She had an uncanny insight to put compassion for those around her above the comfort of her family. It appealed to him, almost as much as the small dimple that formed at the side of her mouth with each smile.

  “And where has your brother gotten to?” she asked suddenly. “He called at Lanwyn Manor for several days in a row, but then his visits stopped. Aunt enjoyed his company a great deal.”

  The reference to Matthew caught him off guard, and he tensed.

  It always came back to Matthew.

  “Falmouth,” he muttered. “He left two days ago. I expect him back this morning for setting day.” His brother had so much to offer, but Julia had come to Isaac. She’d brought her questions, her fears, to him. Such trust had to count for something.

  It was lovely, he supposed, to believe she might consider him in a romantic way. Her sweet smile and spirited demeanor attracted him, and she already occupied his thoughts much more than she should.

  He was not the sort of man to give up without a fight, and he had a feeling that Miss Twethewey—or at least the chance to win her attention and affection—would be worth fighting for.

  A bit of rain blew in on the breeze, and he lowered his hat. “I must be going, but will I see you out riding tomorrow morning?”

  She jerked slightly.

  He knew what he had just asked. It was one thing for them to encounter one another by accident. It was another thing entirely to plan to meet her, or at least set the expectation.

  She lifted her chin. The breeze caught the tendrils around her face. Her cheeks were pink—whether from the cold or his question he might never know.

  A captivating smile curved her lips. “You will, Mr. Blake.”

  Chapter 26

  Julia studied the lanky Mr. Cornelius Jackaby with skepticism.

  This was her first time to meet the accoucheur, or male midwife, who would attend Jane’s birth, and she was far from impressed.

  “The bloodletting should help ease the general discomfort.” Mr. Jackaby’s voice was unusually high for one so tall. He pressed his bony fingers against Jane’s wrist to check her pulse before he placed a cloth in the crook of her arm to stop the bleeding. “There’s nothing like draining bad blood to restore one’s constitution.”

  Despite the tightening of Julia’s stomach, she smiled reassuringly at Jane, who was propped up in her bed, pillows and coverlets tucked all around her. Julia resisted the urge to wince at the sight of Jane’s pale complexion and the layer of perspiration dotting it.

  As Mr. Jackaby returned to his bag to pack his things, Julia looked to her aunt, who stood by watching with an approving smile. After refusing to consider a local physician, Aunt Beatrice had engaged Mr. Jackaby to tend to Jane as soon as it was confirmed she was with child. Her aunt seemed to accept everything Mr. Jackaby said without question.

  Frustrated, Julia stepped forward and addressed Mr. Jackaby. “Surely there is something else you suggest for us to do. Jane is ill all day long, and she’s so weak she can barely keep her eyes open.”

  The man slowed his movements and fixed beady eyes on Julia. He adjusted the spectacles high on his nose and assessed Julia for several moments. “My dear, I appreciate your concern, but it is not uncommon for wo
men in her condition to be ill, and it does happen that some women experience severe sickness throughout. That is the case here. ’Tis nature’s way, I’m afraid.”

  Julia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She certainly knew very little about such things, but she did pride herself on her common sense.

  Mr. Jackaby retrieved a glass jar from his bag, pushed past Julia, approached Aunt Beatrice, then lowered his voice. “Your daughter is weak but the babe remains strong. As far as timing, I do not see any reason to adjust my estimation on the delivery date.” He handed the jar to her aunt. “See that she eats vegetables every day, if she can manage, and stay away from meats and spices. Dissolve this powder in her drink twice a day. I should like to see the lying-in room before I depart. I trust it’s prepared.”

  “It is.” Aunt Beatrice accepted the jar, eagerness brightening her round face, and she handed it to Evangeline before she swept her arm toward the door. “It’s through here.”

  Jane had shared with Julia that she disliked Mr. Jackaby, but what could be done? Sensing her cousin’s discomfort, Julia offered her a reassuring smile, reached to squeeze her hand, leaned near, and whispered, “I’ll find out what they say. I’ll return shortly.”

  With her hands clasped behind her, Julia followed nonchalantly into the corridor and trailed her aunt and the accoucheur into the lying-in chamber directly across the corridor.

  “This should do nicely.” Mr. Jackaby stepped to the window, lifted the curtain to look to the grounds below, and then walked around the space, assessing the furnishings. “The windows will need to be sealed, of course. We don’t want any drafts affecting the new mother during her confinement. And you have secured a monthly nurse?”

  “Yes, we have. A respected one by the name of Mrs. Meyer. She is scheduled to arrive on the same day you will be here.”

  “I know Mrs. Meyer. Excellent choice.” He looked back to the chamber. “Considering your daughter’s condition, a wet nurse is advisable. Write to Mrs. Meyer on that count. She might have a recommendation.”

  At the conclusion of his visit, Julia and Aunt Beatrice escorted Mr. Jackaby back down the tower and through the foyer, and watched at the window through the steady rain as he retreated from the courtyard. Julia wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and the women were silent until no sign was left of him.

  “What a remarkable man.” Aunt Beatrice lifted her chin, admiration shining in her pale-blue eyes. “So much knowledge.”

  “I don’t know,” Julia said slowly, turning away from the window. “Something about his manner is concerning.”

  “Concerning?” Aunt Beatrice’s voice rose in pitch, and a flush reddened her cheeks. “He’s highly recommended—the very best London has to offer. Honestly, Julia, you can’t possibly consider yourself well educated on such a topic. You shouldn’t offer your opinion on things you know nothing about.” With a huff she flounced from the room.

  Aunt hated to be questioned. In hindsight Julia would have been wise to keep her opinion to herself. Despite the fact they were family, she was still a guest. But didn’t being a companion to Jane include trying to do the best for her?

  She bit her bottom lip, wringing her clasped hands. The words she’d heard at the church about births at Lanwyn Manor being cursed washed over her. How she wished she could forget them, but they were burned into her consciousness, and fresh fear for her cousin washed over her.

  * * *

  Many hours later, after the day’s tasks were complete, Isaac sat alone in Anvon Cottage’s modest, low-ceilinged sitting room, staring into the fire, clay pipe in hand. With the exception of the occasional pop of the fire, silence prevailed.

  The setting had gone well, and Wheal Tamsen had firm plans for the months to come. Matthew had arrived about an hour prior to the setting, but neither had spoken of the argument over Wheal Gwenna. Their interactions were normal, as if no argument ever occurred. That was Matthew’s way.

  Despite the day’s general success, a nagging sense of discomfort flooded him.

  So many workers had been turned away. Men with families to feed and needs that only steady work could meet. Even now, in the solace of his comfortable, warm home, their disappointed expressions and downcast eyes haunted him.

  If only more could be done to provide for them.

  Isaac glanced over to the meal his housekeeper had laid out for him. It remained untouched.

  In the past Isaac would customarily dine with Charlie after the setting was complete. It was always a celebration of sorts, but now his friend was gone and not many felt like celebrating.

  His thoughts turned to Margaret.

  He’d made inquiries about a new cottage for Charlie’s widow and son, but he was also aware of the gossip intensifying with each passing day. Several village women had decided that he and the widow should become more than what they were.

  And that he could not do.

  Isaac was not a man given to emotion. Emotions were rarely to be trusted. His father had taught him that. But mostly, he attributed the ache in his chest—this nagging restlessness—to mourning his friend and the loss of their plans together. They’d planned to do so much good with Wheal Gwenna. Now, there was no one else he trusted with whom to undertake such an endeavor—not even Matthew.

  The orange kitchen cat slinked in from the doorway and brushed up against his leg. He leaned over to pat the animal’s head when the door creaked open.

  Matthew stepped across his threshold. Anvon Cottage was not part of the Tregarthan estate, and yet Matthew always walked in as if he owned it. Normally, it didn’t bother Isaac. He needed little privacy and had little to hide. But Matthew was changing, and the sight of his brother in the door made Isaac’s defenses rise.

  Perhaps it was he who was changing.

  Isaac did not stir as Matthew shrugged off his coat. “The housekeeper left stew over the fire in the kitchen. You’re welcome to it if you’re hungry.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Odgers’s stew. Always was the best.” Matthew’s countenance was calm, almost jovial. Everything from the cadence of his gait to the looseness of his jaw suggested that the argument was behind him, and true to Matthew’s nature, he naturally assumed that if he had put it behind him, then Isaac had as well. “It still irks me that she would rather keep house for you than at Tregarthan.”

  Isaac raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps she considers you a terrible master.”

  Matthew scoffed, swept his hat from his head, and dropped it unceremoniously to the table. “I do like to insist on things being accomplished a certain way.” He trudged toward the fire and sat on the high-backed settee against the side wall.

  His light hair was cut shorter than normal, and a new blue double-breasted waistcoat peeked from beneath the worsted wool coat. Isaac swiped his hand over his own tan waistcoat, mindful of the dust still there from the afternoon’s work, and propped his booted foot up on the footstool. “What brings you to Anvon Cottage tonight? Surely it is not just because you desire my company.”

  “Actually, I’ve two things to share with you.” Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled out a rock. “This was found at the mine this afternoon. I told Beale I would bring it by to show you.”

  Isaac’s interest focused on the glittering item in his brother’s hand. “Where’d they find it?”

  “Two fathoms down, on the west end. Looks promising, no?”

  Isaac pivoted the stone in the light, studying the color and the way the firelight reflected from the surface. “It does.”

  “I thought we would pull some of the men to do a bit of exploratory work over the next couple of weeks.”

  Isaac stood and put the rock atop the mantel and then returned to his chair.

  Matthew retrieved his enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat, opened it, pinched the black powder between his fingers, and inhaled.

  Seconds stretched to minutes, and they sat in comfortable silence. In times like this, when all was quiet, it almost seemed as if they were boys again, and the
cares and realities of their world did not weigh on their shoulders. Matthew did not seem to share the sentiment. He jerked suddenly and returned the snuffbox to his pocket. “Do you never grow weary of it?”

  Isaac lifted his head at the odd statement. “Weary of what?”

  “Of stones.” Matthew threw his arm out, motioning to the collection of oddly shaped ore that had been collected on the mantelpiece over the years. “Of mines. Of dark tunnels and the sound of pick on stone.”

  Isaac shrugged. “Weary or not, ’tis our way of life.”

  “And is it so easy for you to just accept it? Do you never give a thought to what else could be done?”

  “Father left us with a duty.”

  Matthew huffed. “Duty indeed. He left us more with a stone tied about our necks, threatening to pull us underneath. We’ve one life to live, and is this how we are to live it?”

  Isaac sobered at his brother’s unusual countenance, and yet somehow he was not surprised. Matthew had been avoiding the mine as of late. His travels had increased, and an obvious thread of discontent wound its way through his words and actions.

  Matthew jumped to his feet, as if unable to contain the emotions warring within him. “Sometimes I’ve half a mind to sell it all, but who would buy into such a fickle thing? Even if I did sell it, I doubt I could even cover my debts.”

  Unsure of how to respond, Isaac leaned with his elbows on his knees and stared at the toe of his boot for several seconds. “What brings this on?”

  “I understand your desire for Wheal Gwenna and a mine of your own. I do. I felt the same way when the reins of Wheal Tamsen were handed to me. But I can’t understand why you would wish this uncertain, thankless life for yourself and simply accept it without as much as a thought of what else you could do. I don’t believe I was meant for a life like this.”

  Isaac scoffed. “A life where you own an estate and have funds at your disposal? A life where you own a thriving mine and have influence in the community? A life without want?”