Page 95 of The Ladies Least Likely

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

C ornwall had changed almost as much as Amaranthe had.

The lush Tamar Valley was green with the growth of spring, but what she remembered was walking away from it.

Coming back felt strange. For Mal’s enjoyment she pointed out the rugged granite moorlands called Goen Bren, with the peaks known as Rough Tor and Brown Willy, the highest point in Cornwall, carving the sky.

The turnpike road was new and smooth, unlike the rutted track she and Eyde had walked on their flight from Penwellen.

Her stomach tensed as they neared Hingston Downs and Kit Hill, with its ancient mines and quarries, casting its shadow on the old market town of Callington.

“King Arthur had a court here, they say.” She chattered foolishly as she directed the coach through town so she could show him the sights she remembered.

Putting off the approach to Reuben as long as possible.

“The town is mentioned in the Domesday Book. I made copies of the page for the bookseller to sell to tourists. That is St. Mary’s Church with its Celtic cross and the tombs of Lord Assheton and Willoughby de Broke.

His wife was the first owner of my Book of Hours.

There is Well Street, where all the water comes from, and down that street, about a mile, is Dupath Well, which has curative powers. ”

“Is there anyone you wish to see while you are here?” Mal asked. “Anyone you, er, might have left behind. The reams of suitors with broken hearts left scattered in your wake, perhaps.”

She looked away, her heart pinching though he said the words in jest. If only he knew. No man had stirred her heart, or caught at her soul, the way he did.

“I would like to visit Mr. Finney’s bookshop, if we have an occasion. But no, there were no abandoned suitors left in my wake. I danced with Mr. Treen at an assembly once, but that was…” She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “A brief, passing fancy.”

“I detest him already,” Mal said in the most cordial tone.

She forced a laugh at his teasing, but steeled herself as the coach rolled out of Callington toward the tiny village of Haye.

The shadow of six years past hovered over her.

She could almost see the ghost of her old self trudging along this road, a frightened Eyde at her side, fearing with every sound behind them that Reuben was on their heels.

At St. Ann’s Chapel they had found space on a mining cart that took them all the way to Devon, and from there they managed a place atop the stagecoach to Bath.

Looking back, it was a miracle that two young women traveling alone had not been robbed, beaten, and left for dead.

Surely some angel had walked at their weary side.

When the chaise turned down the lane heading to Penwellen, the house was not nearly as imposing as Amaranthe remembered.

Coming from the tiny rector’s cottage in St. Cleer, the stone manor house with its Palladian windows and small porch had seemed a veritable mansion to a girl of sixteen.

Now that she had run tame through Hunsdon House, Penwellen looked tiny.

The fountain in front stood empty of water, green moss lining the basin.

The formal flower beds lay untended and bare, their edges untrimmed.

Grass grew through the gravel in the drive, and panes in several of the windows looked dark as if broken.

A large black wreath hung on the front door.

“The house is in mourning,” Mal murmured. “What should we do?”

Her heart crashed against her ribs. Was Reuben dead? If he were, it would mean an end to all her fears and worries. But on the heels of that hope came the more likely realization. Favella had not survived childbirth.

“We’ll stop in the stables,” Amaranthe said. “The post boy can water and rest the horses before he returns. Thaker, the stable boy, can tell us what happened, if he’s still here.”

“Thaker?” Mal lifted her down from the chaise, and Amaranthe was not so lost in worry that she did not appreciate the swift, firm squeeze of his hands about her. He communicated reassurance and strength.

She had left Penwellen in the clothes she stood up in, welts on her hands and a deep bruise to her pride and her innocence. She returned with far more confidence. And with Mal at her side. How grateful she was to have him with her, sensible, steady, resourceful Malden Grey.

She’d fallen hard and deeply in love with him on this journey south, and she could never tell him that.

“It’s a Cornish word for child, usually a boy,” she answered as Mal unloaded their luggage.

“He was left on the parish with no note, no name, no known parents, much like your Littlejohn. So they named him ‘boy.’ You say ‘cheel’ or ‘maid’ if you mean girl. You say ‘brae’ to mean many, you say ‘proper’ to mean good. And if everyone calls you ‘me luv’ or ‘me andsome,’” and here she gave him a stern look, “you are to think nothing of it. That’s just how we be. ”

He grinned at her. “I do like when your Cornish comes out. It’s very charming.”

“Giss on, you!” she tossed over her shoulder, then turned and lifted a long pole to thump on the ceiling of the hay mow above them.

“Thaker used to relax there in between duties,” she explained.

“He doesn’t hear, but he can tell when vehicles and horses are about by the vibrations. This used to be our signal when we?—”

She stopped when she saw the figure standing in the open doors of the stable. Thaker was no longer a boy but a man full grown, sandy haired, wearing a leather coat and breeches and a set of filthy boots. His beard split in a wide grin.

“Am!” he called in greeting. She had tried to teach him spoken language, while together they developed a system of signs, expressions, and wild gestures by which they communicated well enough.

Amaranthe held out a hand to shake, but he pulled her into an exuberant hug, then turned with an expectant smile to Mal.

“M-A-L,” she signed, drawing the letters in the air. His letters had been one of the first things she taught Thaker when she arrived, and in return he taught her how to hitch a cart and take care of horses.

Thaker grinned and held up a hand, circling a finger as if with a ring. Amaranthe shook her head. No, not my husband.

Thaker shrugged and grinned. Why not?

She circled her arms in a wreath, then pointed to the big house and crossed her hands over her chest. Who died ?

He shook his head sadly and made the motion of rocking a baby in his arms. The lady. Her babe, too .

“Favella died in childbirth,” Amaranthe said to Mal, her throat tightening. “I should have come sooner.”

“I doubt there was anything you could have done, Amaranthe.” Mal rubbed her shoulder.

And Reuben? she asked Thaker, making the sign they had used to refer to the baronet, straight-armed, stomping feet.

Angry . He made a face and curved his hands into claws.

“I feared that, too,” Amaranthe said to Mal. “Reuben will not be in a good frame of mind. Perhaps we should wait before we go to the house.”

Thaker tapped his chest and made the ring sign again.

Married? Amaranthe asked him in delight. You?

He nodded, then rocked his arms again, twice.

With babies! Amaranthe signed back. I want to meet them!

Thaker led them out of the stables and past the gardens to a small set of cottages that had been set aside for servants.

Amaranthe noticed that most of them sat empty and neglected, but one had a small flowering garden in front and ivy climbing the sides.

The smell of fresh bread drifted out to meet them as Thaker opened the door and called inside. “Weh!”

“Da!” A small infant in a linen gown crawled across the floor to him with a joyful, drooling smile.

Across the room, beyond a dining table, lay a warm kitchen lit with a merry fire.

A woman sat in a rocker next to the hearth, nursing a baby.

She drew a shawl over her bosom as they entered and gave them a contented smile.

“Wasson, my lover!” she said to Thaker, signing and speaking at the same time. “You ought to have warned me we’d have guests.”

My wife, Wenna . Thaker beamed, spelling her name. He introduced Amaranthe and Mal to Wenna, then indicated the children. The babe is Morvath, a bonny maid, and this, he lifted the crawling child, is Branok, my big strapping boy .

“Da!” The boy beamed at them, drooling around a tiny white tooth.

“They’re absolutely beautiful, Thaker,” Amaranthe answered, signing. “Congratulations to you both.”

“So this is his Miss Amaranthe!” Wenna said. “Come in, come in. I’ll fix you a tea dreckly when the cheel is fed. He goes on and on about you, miss. Says you’re top ’o the trees, you are.” She gave her husband a saucy grin, and he signed back.

Cheeky.

“Thaker was my one friend while I lived here.” Amaranthe took the seat Wenna indicated. “This is Mr. Malden Grey, who will be a barrister. Favella sent for me to be with her in childbed, but it appears—I was too late.”

Her throat closed unexpectedly. She and Favella had never been close, but her cousin’s wife, not much older than Amaranthe, had been her companion after her parents died and she was left alone.

Though nervous and prone to bouts of the vapors, a fretsome woman who found the ill in everything, Favella had been better than nothing.

Wenna shook her head and captured the tiny fist waving from beneath the shawl.

“She took to bed weeks ago when the doctor advised it.” With her free hand she signed for Thaker.

“But the pains started a week ago, and she suffered for days. At the last, the baronet insisted the doctor cut her open, thinking to save the baban, but ’e’d the cord wrapped fast around the neck, poor mite.

” She clasped her babe closer and her face was soft as she watched her older child attempt to climb his father’s leg.

“What a terrible end for her,” Amaranthe said. “Reuben must be devastated.”