“It’s cold enough in this damned savage backwater,” he said, finally turning to look at her, then rising. “God, how I hate this place and all the barren savage cliffs and those wretched ugly tin mines. This is the most desolate spot on the face of the earth. I hate it, do you hear me?”
“I think it’s the most beautiful place on earth, Bennett, so you see, your opinion is just one. Also, tin has been mined here for centuries, even back before the Romans came. The mines provide jobs. Stop being so critical, Bennett.”
“I still don’t understand what happened to your foot or how you got here or why you don’t have any clothes, and why there’s no female with you to act as chaperon. Another thing, Viscount Chilton brought you here. I remember he has the very devil of a reputation. Dark and brooding, like some Byronic hero, and all the local maids swooned over him, but he just looked withdrawn and mean and black-browed. How do you know him? It’s all quite improper, Caroline.”
“It’s a very long story and doubtless it would bore you since all you want to talk about is how you think you’ve been cheated and how much you hate Cornwall. No, don’t say any more, Bennett. Mr. Brogan is here. Shortly we’ll know what’s in Aunt Ellie’s will. You’re in it, else you
wouldn’t have been invited here. Come now and strive for a modicum of manners.”
“Easy for you to say,” he said under his breath, but she still heard him, frowned, but held her peace.
Cousin Bennett was a very handsome man who had the nicest smile, with hair as blond as an angel’s and lovely eyes as blue as the heavens themselves. However, as their acquaintance had deepened the day before—it took only about thirty minutes—he began to show his true feelings, and they were angry and resentful. She looked at him now, his lower lip sullen, and wanted to kick him. For all she knew, Aunt Ellie had left him everything. After all, Caroline was already an heiress and didn’t need Scrilady Hall or any more groats, and Aunt Ellie had known that.
However, it was not to be. Mr. Brogan, pale from spending too many years inside an office, patted his grizzled hair and motioned for the two of them to be seated. “Eleanor Penrose’s will is quite short and to the point, at least at the beginning,” he said, untying the slender ribbon and smoothing out the document. “She had me prepare this will only two years ago. After some bequests to the Penrose servants and several local charities in Trevellas, the remainder of her money goes to you, Miss Derwent-Jones, and it is a sizable amount.”
“No,” Bennett howled, and jumped from his chair. “All her money—my uncle’s money—to Caroline? I won’t accept it. I will fight this, I will—”
“Do sit down, Mr. Penrose. There is much more in Mrs. Penrose’s will, but I will leave this instant if you don’t control yourself.”
Bennett flung himself back into the chair and looked as if he would kill both Mr. Brogan and Caroline.
“Now,” Mr. Brogan said, clearing his throat, “your aunt
had me write down this explanation exactly.” He set his glasses on his nose, lifted the paper, and read:
“ ‘My dearest niece:
I look forward to the day when you will come to Cornwall and live with me. When you become nineteen, I will come fetch you from that awful man Mr. Ffalkes. He will have no more hold over you. Together, my love, we will make Scrilady Hall a home again, filled with laughter and fun and parties. Never forget that I’ve loved you through the years and wanted only the best for you.
Your loving aunt
Eleanor Penrose” ’
Caroline couldn’t help it. She lowered her head and let the tears roll down her cheeks and drip on the back of her hands, clasped in her lap.
“Miss Derwent-Jones, naturally your aunt assumed you would be coming here to live with her until you married. As I said, she wrote the will when you were seventeen and she decided to write you the letter as if she would pass away at that time, because doing it that way, she told me, it would sound as if it came from her heart, which it did.”
He looked up then and saw that she was crying. “Oh dear, I’m so very sorry, Miss Derwent-Jones. Forgive me. This is all such a shock for you, such a tragedy—”
“What about me?”
“Huh? Oh, Mr. Penrose. Why don’t we discuss it once Miss Derwent-Jones has composed herself? This is naturally quite upsetting to her.”
“Why? She’s got all the money.”
Caroline rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, blew
her nose on her aunt’s handkerchief, and said, “It’s all right, Mr. Brogan. Forgive me. It’s just hearing her letter, it’s like she’s here, talking to me.”
“I understand. Your aunt was a fine lady. You wish to continue?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Very well.” Mr. Brogan set his glasses back onto his nose and perused the paper in his hands. “Now, the will becomes complicated and for the both of you, extremely unusual, perhaps startling.
“I suppose the best way to explain it is to tell you that Eleanor Penrose was a strong woman, yet a very compassionate woman, a woman who felt that money carried with it responsibilities toward those less fortunate than herself.”
“I am certainly to be considered less fortunate than my uncle’s blasted widow.”
“Mr. Penrose, you will hold your tongue,” Mr. Brogan said with unaccustomed heat. “Now, Mrs. Penrose was a lady of standing in the area, and beyond that, she had begun working many hours with young girls who had become pregnant out of wedlock. These girls had invariably been seduced or even raped by their employers or their employers’ sons and thus cast out even by their own families and left with nothing. She saved them, brought them here, and put them in a small house in St. Agnes. She and Dr. Treath had become close during the past couple of years. One reason I suppose is that she brought him a steady supply of patients.”
It was an attempt at a jest, and Caroline forced herself to smile. Mr. Brogan had tried. He cleared his throat and continued. “After the young girls gave birth, Eleanor would help them do whatever it was they themselves wished. If they chose to keep the children, she would see that they obtained positions that would make that possible. If not,
then the children were adopted.”
“What utter nonsense,” Bennett Penrose said, rising to pace to and fro in front of the desk. “A pack of silly young girls who couldn’t keep their legs together—what the devil does this have to do with me? With us? Seduced by their employers, you say? You mean their betters? What’s wrong with that? It’s their fault for getting pregnant, it’s a witless thing to do. As for the rest of it, why—”
“Be quiet, Bennett,” Caroline said, rising and limping to stare him right in his eyes. “You will shut your damned mouth or I will hit you, I swear it. Maybe I’ll even shoot you. I’m quite a good shot, you know.”
“No, don’t get violent on me. Just listen, none of this has anything to do with us, Caroline.”
Mr. Brogan’s cheeks flushed red, but he managed to say calmly enough, “Actually it does, Mr. Bennett. Mrs. Penrose bequeathed Scrilady Hall, all the lands, the tin mines, everything, to the both of you. However—”
Bennett Penrose whirled around, quite an athletic movement for such a languid young man, his face now scarlet with rage. “What? That’s just more of her bloody nonsense! She gives Caroline all the money and leaves me with half a house, half the income from the rents and the tin mines, half the servants, half of the damned furniture?”
“That’s not quite right, Mr. Penrose. Actually, the two of you will be joint trustees of Scrilady Hall, the tin mines, the farms, and any other income that could accrue from other sources. Scrilady Hall will become a refuge for these young girls. Eleanor Penrose hoped you would take an interest and provide not only a home for them, but also training so they would be able to make something of themselves after they’d birthed their children. She knew there were sufficient funds for the upkeep of Scrilady Hall from the rents and the three tin mines.”
Bennett Penrose could only stand there in front of the desk and stare at Mr. Brogan. He looked incredulous and revolted; he looked nearly to the point of violence. “You say that I’m to live here with Caroline and with a passel of bloody fat-bellied young girls? Common little baggages who can’t speak English, are budding whores, who will whine that they’d been forced by the very gentlemen who employed them, and will drop bastards about the place? This is idiocy and my aunt must have been crazy as a loon when she prepared this damned will. I won’t allow it to stand, Mr. Brogan. I’m not twenty-three anymore and without resources or friends. I will contest this absurd will.”
“I’ll just bet you have no more important friends now than you did when you were twenty-three.”
“By God, you get everything and you have the gall to snarl at me. Damn you, Caroline, I won’t put up with this, I won’t.”
“Do calm yourself, Mr. Penrose. This comes as something of a shock, I can see that. Be seated, sir, and remember you’re a gentleman. What do you think, Miss Derwent-Jones?”
Caroline looked from Bennett’s furious face to Mr. Brogan’s impassive one. She knew she was red in the face, knew she wanted to smack Bennett, but she drew a deep breath and brought herself to the point of it all. She said, “I’ve never known a young girl who got pregnant. It must be frightening. How many pregnant girls are there currently, sir?”
“There are only three at present. They currently reside in a small cottage in St. Agnes under the nominal aegis of the vicar, Mr. Plumberry. He, er, was never very enthusiastic about your aunt’s project, but I suppose he felt it his Christian duty to agree with Mrs. Penrose’s scheme since he was also the recipient of a good deal of bounty himself from
your aunt. I assume that the bounty assisted him in doing his duty. The girls are mightily upset by Mrs. Penrose’s death. Dr. Treath tells me that one of them, only fourteen years old, hasn’t stopped crying since it happened. She looked upon Eleanor Penrose as a saint.”
Caroline rose slowly. She looked down at her bandaged foot, which had still throbbed when she’d poured brandy over it the previous night before she’d gone to bed. She smoothed her gown with her hands. She remembered all too starkly that awful night when Mr. Ffalkes would have raped her if she hadn’t managed to get her hands free, if she hadn’t managed to kick him in the groin. If he’d succeeded, why then, she could have ended up pregnant. It was a terrifying thought. Girls were very, very vulnerable, particularly comely girls in the employ of dishonorable men. Finally, she turned to Bennett Penrose and said, “Listen, Bennett, let’s stop the bickering. You must agree that whatever a person wants to do with his or her money should be that person’s decision. I know nothing about being a trustee to anyone, much less to girls who are in such a situation. But this is what Aunt Eleanor wanted. You and I will be in charge, Bennett. I think we should give it a try.”
“You’re just a bloody simpering little saint, aren’t you, Caroline? Just a moment ago you were a damned shrew, squawking and railing at me. You make me ill.” He gave a furious look to Mr. Brogan and strode from the drawing room.
“He isn’t a very pleasant man,” Mr. Brogan said as he straightened his papers. “I knew him as a boy. He hasn’t improved.”
“He had what I believe are called expectations, sir. Do you know, Mr. Brogan, why Aunt Eleanor left her estate in such a way?”
“I believe, Miss Derwent-Jones, that Eleanor felt Bennett
could be salvaged. I strongly disagreed with her assessment, but it was a belief she held about most of her fellow men, despite the obvious rottenness of the individual under discussion. Bennett was always borrowing money from her after his uncle died, not that he ever did anything productive with any money she gave him. I think she hoped with a challenge he just might become a better person, perhaps even grow up, perhaps even learn responsibility. It probably isn’t fair to you, but she thought you could be of help to Bennett, direct him, perhaps, make him do the right thing. She had a great deal of faith in you, and respect for you.”
Caroline just stared at him. “But how could she possibly know that I would be willing to give it a try? How could she know that I wasn’t a silly little twit who would wring her hands and whine?”
Mr. Brogan unhooked his glasses from behind his ears and polished them with his handkerchief. “She told me you had your father’s sense of justice and your mother’s forthrightness. She said you had your own stubborn streak that should carry you through any unpleasantness.”
Caroline sighed. “I don’t want to disappoint her, truly, Mr. Brogan, but this is a great responsibility and there are others involved in all this as well.” She thought of Mr. Ffalkes, always in the back of her mind. She thought of Owen, then of Bennett Penrose. “Perhaps we should include ill-mannered wastrels in amongst our pregnant girls. Provide them training and counseling.”
Mr. Brogan, for the very first time, actually smiled at her. “Excellent,” he said. “This is just excellent.”
“You think so, do you?”
Caroline convinced Mr. Brogan to remain for lunch, though when she saw what Mrs. Trebaw, the Scrilady housekeeper, brought in from the kitchen, she wasn’t so certain it was such a good idea. But Mr. Brogan said, rubbing
his hands together, “Ah, stargazey pie, how very delightful.”
Caroline stared at the huge round pie, stared even harder at the pilchard heads sticking out of the sides, eyes open.
Mr. Brogan grinned at her. “The Cornish are a very thrifty people, Miss Derwent-Jones. It’s wasteful, you see, to cover the inedible pilchard head with crust, thus they’re all left to stick out. On the other hand, if one cuts off the heads, then all the oil is lost and thus doesn’t soak into the meat.”
She ate the crust, unable not to keep eyeing that damned pilchard head.
Dr. Treath appeared after luncheon, and Caroline, realizing quickly that Dr. Treath had been more than just a friend of her aunt’s, asked him to stay. He looked at her foot, questioned her closely, then, satisfied, patted her knee and said, “Very well, I know you want to speak to Everett here. If I can be of some assistance to Ellie’s niece, it would be my pleasure.”
She drew a deep breath. “I need all the help I can get, Dr. Treath.” She told them about Mr. Ffalkes, what he’d tried to do, how she’d taken Owen hostage and he’d been too bewildered to realize he could have ridden away at any time. She told them about North Nightingale and how he’d helped her when Owen had fallen ill at the inn in Dorchester. “Finally,” she said, aware that they were staring at her as hard as she’d been staring at those glassy-eyed pilchard heads, “I don’t doubt that Mr. Ffalkes will be coming here to Cornwall. He needs money. He wants mine. He said he would be able to make me marry him. I need your help, gentlemen.”