Mermaid of Penperro Page 8

  Now that he was close enough to see her well in the kitchen light he had to admit she dried off very nicely. Her brown hair showed hints of red now that it was dry, and was pulled sleekly back into a bun surrounded by a braid. A few short ringlets framed her face on either side. Her dress was white with yellow stripes, the yellow sprinkled with tiny red flowers. The neckline showed the curves of her breasts, pushed up high by whatever underpinnings this new style required. He had not thought to investigate the issue when he had fetched her clothes from the rock crevice.

  He moved past her, and she slowly followed, pushing shut the door. She said something in German to Hilde, then preceded him into the sitting room, where they resumed their seats from last night. He wasn’t certain if he was relieved or disappointed that she was not fresh from the tub, as she had been last night, the damp soapy scent of recent bathing still in the air. He’d had to fight to keep his eyes off her body, hidden so well under the shawl, wrapper, and nightgown, and yet seeming so very accessible simply because she was in her nightclothes. His hand had tingled with the desire to touch her, to lay his hand upon her breast and feel how soft and warm it was, in contrast to what he had felt when she’d been chilled and fresh from the sea.

  After he’d left her last night his mind had followed its own happy male course, imagining the two of them on the floor before the fire, his hands digging into her wet hair as he buried himself within her. It had been longer than he cared to think since he’d been with a woman. His idle fantasies during the past months had made casual use of whatever attractive female he came across, but they had all been interchangeable in his mind, mere mannequins without faces or personality. No one had caught his attention in quite the way Konstanze had.

  He doubted she’d be flattered.

  Tonight she was all formality: during their brief acquaintance, she had gotten progressively more securely dressed. He would be well advised to keep his eyes on the curves of her cheek and chin, and allow his gaze to go no farther down. He didn’t need this type of distraction in his life, and she was married besides. A personal involvement with her was far more trouble than he needed, and doomed to a bad end.

  “Now, Mr. Trewella, do you care to explain about the animals?”

  “It occurred to me that you would be buying them yourself sooner or later, so I’ve saved you the trouble.”

  “I’m quite capable of purchasing my own chickens.”

  “So you are, but your maid has a hard enough time with sausages and bread. You would be the one buying chickens, and I want you to stay out of sight. Hilde can use the donkey for carrying purchases from town.”

  “You assumed that I would accept your offer.”

  “I assumed you would have the intelligence to see that it was to your benefit to do so, yes.” Her lips tightened with, he assumed, some degree of annoyance at his comment. He supposed it did sound a bit presumptuous, but what the hell. This was business. There was no time for playing dainty. “And have you decided to agree?”

  Hilde came in and all but dropped the tea tray onto the small table. She gave a sniff, then stomped back to the kitchen.

  “Sugar?” Konstanze asked, and began to pour the tea.

  “No, thank you.”

  She handed him his cup, poured one for herself and dropped in three lumps, then sat back with her cup and saucer balanced easily in her hand, looking for all the world as if she were the one in charge of this conversation, and not he. “I will agree to play the part of mermaid upon certain conditions,” she said. She took a sip of tea, then set the cup and saucer down on the small table at her side with a lethargic grace that implied she had hours to spare.

  “One,” she said, counting it on her pinkie, “I will design my own costume. Two: the locals will not be permitted to gawk at me—no one will see me except for the Preventive sitter, Mr. Foweather, and his crew, and they only from a distance. Three: if I am ever charged with wrongdoing, you will pay for all legal representation necessary to prove my innocence.”

  She paused to stare at him with raised brows, apparently gauging his response so far. “Four: even should a cargo be lost, I will be paid one pound for my efforts. Five: I will be the one to determine if the water is too dangerous for swimming at any given time, and I will choose which songs to sing. And six: you will never, under any circumstances, inform my husband of my whereabouts or make any attempt to contact him. Do you agree to my terms, Mr. Trewella?”

  He blinked at her. For such a frivolous-seeming young woman, she certainly had a practical head on her shoulders, not to mention a way of getting to the bare bones of what she wanted. He had been expecting at least half an hour of sham protestations of modesty and offended sensibilities, and then a willing acceptance of his proposal along with a demand for a higher percentage of the profits. He felt a bit of cheer at her demands. Now this was a woman with whom he could do business.

  “I want approval of the costume design.”

  “I really think that Hilde and I will be able to devise something appropriate on our own. Hilde has spent two decades in the world of the stage.”

  “And I have a much better sense of what a man would expect of a mermaid than either you or she would, with all due respect to Hilde’s talents. I am asking only that the costume meets with both of our approvals.”

  “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “You agree to the rest?”

  “All except that no one see you. You must realize that someone will have to take you to the proper locations, and help you escape should the need arise.”

  “I will not be paraded about like a maritime Lady Godiva.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you should be. I’ll take you.”

  “You’ll take me?”

  Why did she have to say it as if it were an insult? He’d already shown her in the cave that he could keep his hands to himself. “Was there someone else you’d prefer?”

  “Are there no women who know the caves and landing places who could do it?”

  Damn, he hadn’t thought of that. There were women who helped with the unloading and transfer of goods. He’d been looking forward to watching Konstanze’s mermaid performance, though, and wasn’t about to let go of the prospect. “It’s best that you have someone strong with you, in case of danger. I know how to swim, too, and I don’t know of any women who could claim that.”

  She didn’t look pleased, but did seem to accept his excuses. “Then I suppose I will just have to trust you, Mr. Trewella, to behave as a man of honor.”

  “I always endeavor to do so.”

  She raised an eyebrow in what he could only describe as skepticism. “Then I suppose we have an agreement.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kent

  “Son…” Bugg wheezed.

  Bugg II jumped up from his chair and leaned over his father, turning his head so his ear was near the old man’s mouth. Was there a hidden safe in the house, or a lockbox full of jewels and gold? Were there properties held in another name, of which Bugg II must be told before it was too late? “Yes, Father?”

  “Find her. Bring her back to me,” Bugg said.

  “Find whom?” Bugg II asked, just to be difficult, feeling thoroughly annoyed. He knew damn well whom the old man sought.

  “Konstanze! Find my darling. Bring her back.”

  “No one knows where she has gone. It would be impossible to trace her. She’s probably gone off with a young lover.” It wasn’t a great pleasure, provoking a critically ill man like this, but it relieved some of his spleen that his fool father hadn’t died as the doctor said he would. Prepare yourself for the worst, but pray for the best, the idiot had said.

  “Find her!” Bugg demanded, a bit of color coming into his cadaverous face. “If you want anything more than ten pounds for your inheritance, you will find her and bring her back to me.”

  Bugg II’s eyes widened in horror. A ten-pound inheritance? “What do you mean?” he demanded, tempted to choke the life out of the withered old snake with his
bare hands.

  “Ask Quarles,” his father said, and gave a gurgling chuckle that sounded like rocks boiling in a pan of gravy.

  He would, damn it. He left his father and went in search of the solicitor, finding him drinking by the fire of the drawing room. “What’s this my father says about my inheritance?” Bugg II demanded without preamble. “I’m to have everything except the widow’s portion, am I not?”

  Quarles looked up from his drink, his eyes narrowing in malicious delight. “Are you? Your father is leaving everything but ten pounds a year to his wife.”

  “He can’t do that!”

  “He most assuredly can.”

  “But why?” Bugg II cried. As if he didn’t know. But he had never figured that his father would be so stupid and self-absorbed as to leave all the money to his wife. What a spell she must have woven over him in the bedroom! A son had no way in which to compete with the obsession of an old man with a young woman.

  “It has lately become his opinion that the anticipation of inherited wealth has robbed you of your native ambition, and he believes it is ultimately in your best interest to be forced to find your own way in the world. Konstanze, on the other hand, he believes in need of the protection of a comfortable income. Her wealth will be held in trust for her, so that no unscrupulous young man can either kiss or kick it out of her.”

  “He only lately came to this conclusion?” Bugg II asked, his suspicions rising.

  “Your father does take my opinion quite seriously.”

  “You foul, dung-eating dog! What business is it of yours to whom—” Bugg II stopped himself, a thought hitting him. “And who will administer this trust for Konstanze?”

  Mr. Quarles smiled.

  “Greedy, prick-licking pig—”

  “There, there, Mr. Bugg. Such language!” Mr. Quarles said with a smirk.

  Bugg II stomped and swore for a few more minutes, then settled down enough to start thinking again. There had to be a way out of this. There just had to. It was too much of a nightmare to be true. “But Konstanze has run off. What will happen to the money if she never comes back?”

  “It will remain in trust.”

  “Indefinitely?”

  “Until proof of her demise can be given.”

  Demise. He liked the sound of that. “What happens in the event of her death?”

  Mr. Quarles shifted in his seat, and took a swallow of his drink. He didn’t look quite so happy anymore. “In the event of Mrs. Bugg’s death, the estate reverts back to you.”

  “Ohhh… does it, then?” Bugg II said. “And you wouldn’t have a trust to administer, if that happened.” To administer, and from which to skim a comfortable living for himself.

  “As your stepmother is young and healthy, I don’t think I’d rely on her death if I were you. It would speak ill of you even to contemplate the prospect.”

  “Heavens, no,” Bugg II said mockingly. “I surely would never wish for the least bit of harm to come to dear Konstanze’s pretty head. Why, just now my father begged me to go in search of her and return her to him. Out of filial devotion, I will have to obey. Why, who knows what may have befallen the poor creature, out all alone in the world? I would hate to think that some dread accident had occurred, of which we were unaware, and that she was lying ill or injured somewhere, on the very brink of death.”

  Mr. Quarles snorted. “You don’t have the spine to even try it.”

  Bugg II tried to look smug. “Don’t I?”

  Did he? He didn’t know. He’d have to find Konstanze, though, before he had a chance to find out. The threat of ten meager pounds a year might be enough to push him to extraordinary deeds.

  Father and Quarles were right about that, at least. Lack of funds did wonders for one’s sense of enterprise.

  Chapter Nine

  Cornwall

  “What’s that you’re drawing?” Konstanze asked, curious.

  “Fins for your feet,” Hilde replied, hunched over a piece of paper that was covered with a multitude of small drawings.

  “I thought we’d decided it would be too difficult to swim with legs in a tail.” They had spent the entire day at the kitchen table, discussing costuming ideas. Konstanze was having more fun than she had for a very long time. Living with Bugg had encouraged her to fantasize, but she’d never done anything about those phantasms of the imagination. She rather liked the idea of bringing something created in her mind to life. So to speak.

  “I did not say it was a tail. I said it was fins for your feet. If someone does see you and you must swim, it would not do to have your human feet splashing about.”

  “True enough, but Mr. Trewella said I shouldn’t be seen, except from a distance.”

  Hilde snorted.

  “No, I don’t trust him either,” Konstanze said. Hilde had been very much against Mr. Trewella’s preposterous plan, and they had argued about it well into the night after Mr. Trewella left. Hilde still refused to give her approval to it, but when Konstanze started making her own designs for a mermaid costume, the maid had been unable to resist taking charge. If it was going to be done, Konstanze knew, Hilde would want it done right. Hilde wouldn’t want her charge appearing in less than the perfect habiliment.

  She set down her own pen and massaged her cramped fingers. She had splotches of black ink on them, and there was a dent pressed into her reddened writer’s callus. “I don’t think Mr. Trewella is going to like our ideas,” she said, cocking her head and looking critically at the small sketches that she had circled as her preferred options. There was not a bare bosom to be seen, each and every mermaid modestly covered. Trewella’s comment about what men expect in a mermaid had given her plenty of warning about what he himself would want to see.

  “Then he can find someone else,” Hilde said. “Your mother is rolling in her grave already, without you showing your breasts to men.”

  Konstanze felt a twinge, wondering if her mother could indeed see her from the afterlife. No, she would not be happy about this, not at all. She would have rather Konstanze sold the cottage, or let the smugglers use her barn if she needed money. She felt another little twinge, and shifted on the hard seat of the chair as she recognized that she was enjoying the drama of the situation.

  No, that could not be right. She was the lady her mother had sent her to boarding school to become. She was a good girl, one who desired stability and peace and respectability. Singing to an audience of herself and Hilde should be excitement enough for her.

  She slid off the chair and went to the window, looking out through the rippled green glass at the hills. It had drizzled all morning, the air damp and cold and pushed along by a gusting wind off the ocean, but the late-afternoon sun was showing itself now, and the winds had died down.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk, Hilde,” Konstanze said, turning away from the window. She was suddenly impatient with the confines of the indoors. “My legs ache from sitting in that chair all day.” They ached with the desire to move, in a way that she remembered from Bugg House, where there was no place to go.

  “Mr. Trewella won’t like that.”

  “Mr. Trewella will simply have to recognize that he cannot keep me in a cage.” No more cages for her, not ever. “There is no reason I should not take a walk, as long as I avoid the shore and the town. I shall simply be a woman out and about, unworthy of anyone’s notice.”

  Hilde shrugged. “As you wish. I would be happy to have his plans foiled.”

  “They won’t be. I’ll wear a veil on the off chance that I do come across someone. If I’ve learned one lesson, it’s that there are people where you least expect them.”

  A few minutes later and she was on her way, wearing a dark green dress and a black velvet spencer, the short jacket coming to just beneath her breasts. She wore a smart black hat with an overabundance of veiling, the long tails of the netting lifting and flapping in the slightest breeze. She felt independent and strong, striding off across the countryside.

  She found
a narrow path and headed westward, in the direction of Penperro. She would be good as her word and avoid the village itself, but that was no reason not to explore the space in between. She hummed under her breath, tempted to sing a lively song or two as she marched along—perhaps something Scottish, to fit the patches of heath—but then thought better of it. It was a disappointment, but it wouldn’t do for anyone to hear her singing.

  After a good two miles or so she came over a low hill and looked down upon a long valley covered in bracken fern. Gray stones poked out of the greenery here and there, speaking of the rocky soil beneath. The bracken was all but useless, inedible to most livestock and prone to invading otherwise grazeable land. Her grandmother had said all it was good for was stuffing mattresses, and Konstanze had spent years sleeping upon the rustling, crunching dried fronds.

  The path, narrow and covered in small loose stones, continued down the hillside and then along the valley floor, leading to somewhere out of sight behind the curve at the end. She decided she would go that far, just far enough to see what was at the end of the valley, and then turn back.

  Still humming contentedly, she let her palms brush along the tops of the ferns as she walked, setting the plants swaying. Many of them reached to chest height. Nuisance though the bracken might be to farmers, she thought there was something rather magical about the way it coated every inch of ground, the green walls of the valley rising up on either side of her. She would have had great fun playing here as a little girl.

  She came around the curve at the end of the valley and saw what had been concealed from her sight. The land dropped off to the ocean except for one headland, upon which sat a stone church, its square tower short and squat, as if built to withstand the buffeting of the coastal winds. The late-afternoon sun, cutting through breaks in the clouds, touched the small leaded windows with reflections of gold. This must be Talland Church, which Mr. Mogridge had mentioned.