Page 14 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Philip wasn’t entirely forthcoming about how he’d spent his first day in Cornwall. He had visited the inn, and he had raced and tumbled off his horse, but he had also gone to the dockyard. As soon as he’d realized Sophia was not playing along with his impromptu race, he headed into town to find out what he could about Malcolm Burns.

He’d begun at the inn. Being generally at ease with whomever he met, he’d fallen into conversation with the innkeeper, who’d seemed eager for company and conversation.

“Have you lived in Cornwall long?” Philip asked over a bowl of stew.

“I was born here, raised here, and I expect I will die here,” replied the innkeeper matter-of-factly. “My missus was born here as well. I suspect between the two of us, we know everyone who lives within fifty miles.” The innkeeper was short and sturdy, with a pleasant, open face and thinning hair. He looked straight at Philip for the first time and said, “You look a stranger to these parts. What brings you to Cornwall?”

Philip estimated the innkeeper to be of middling age. If he’d been born in the area, he may know Mr. Burns’ story.

“I am staying at Worthington Farm as an old friend of Miss Worthington’s.”

“Ah, Miss Sophia. She is a very fine lady, much admired in these parts. That soup you are eating is lamb from Miss Sophia’s farm. I don’t get my mutton anywhere else.”

“She’s an intelligent woman.”

“And are you acquainted with Mr. Burns, as well?” the innkeeper wanted to know.

Philip’s heart sped up. “I have yet to meet him. I’m curious about him, though, as any friend would be. What sort of fellow is he?”

The innkeeper leaned forward on the counter, looking left and right.

Philip counted himself lucky at finding a willing gossip.

“Well, now. Malcolm was a sullen child. He came from a sad home. His mum died young, and his father was given to drink. He left town afore my father passed on, leaving me this inn. I cannot say I know him particularly. Rumors are many about where he went and what he did after he left home.” The innkeeper lowered his voice. “They say he was pirating and that he has a mound of gold hidden away somewhere. But I never give credit to these tales. We hear aplenty of wild doings here by the ocean.”

“I would certainly not want my friend to wed a pirate!” Philip tried to match the innkeeper’s conspiratorial expression. “Do you know where I could find out more about Mr. Burns?”

“Hmm…” The innkeeper scratched his chin and then turned to wipe down the counter. After a moment’s more hesitation, he said, “There is a man down by the docks who works with Mr. Burns. Mr. Tate is what he goes by, a rough and burly fellow. He might know a bit more about Burns, though whether you can get him to talk is another matter. I, for one, would keep away from the likes of Tate. A harder, more violent man than he is rarely met.”

Philip considered the warning. While Philip imagined the tales of Burns the Pirate were exaggerated, he wondered why Mr. Burns would employ such a man. However, if there were a fortune to protect or a business to safeguard, a man like Mr. Tate could be an asset.

Philip pushed away his empty bowl and stood to leave, thanking the innkeeper for his hospitality and promising to stop by on another day.

“Good luck, sir. If you’re headed down to the docks now, mind how you tread,” the innkeeper said.

As Talland village was not large, Philip arrived at the docks in good time. Shops, pubs, and inns wound together down to a bustling dockyard. Philip’s experience in the nautical world was limited to the few trips he’d made across the English Channel to and from France. Whatever hope he had of finding Mr. Tate dissipated among a confusion of boats, cargo, nets, and sailors.

The innkeeper had mentioned the shipping vessels were likely at sea but that a fine yacht owned by Mr. Burns was usually in the harbor. He assured Philip that as the most beautiful boat at the dock, the yacht could not be missed. However, all the boats looked the same to Philip, so the description “fine yacht” was of no real help. After meandering through and around crates and clusters of sailors, Philip decided he may as well return to Sophia’s house. He might have more luck asking around Worthington Farm for more information about Mr. Tate.

A frantic, high-pitched voice captured his attention.

“Mr. Tate, I didn’t take it. I swear.” A lad of about twelve dangled from his collar, held by a thick, ruddy-faced man with stringy blond hair held back in a ponytail. They were about twenty feet from where Philip stood.

“I say you did, and you shall produce it now or wake up tomorrow with a sore backside and no job,” shouted Mr. Tate.

Bent on intervening, Philip stepped toward Mr. Tate while the boy made sputtering attempts to explain. Tate yelled, shook the boy, and finally released him with the promised boot to the backside. The boy scrambled off and was soon lost in the crowd, leaving Tate heaving and sweaty, swearing to himself. Now did not seem the moment for Philip to introduce himself.

“And what are you staring at?” Tate loomed toward Philip.

“Mr. Tate, I presume. I am Philip Eliot.” Philip walked forward and bowed at Mr. Tate, a gesture that was not reciprocated.

Tate glared at Philip, as if waiting for an explanation. Philip was well-liked and got on with just about everyone, but his wealth, good manners, and affability—not to mention his winning smile—were no asset here. He decided that since honesty had never failed him before, he would try it now.

“I’m visiting Miss Worthington, who is engaged to Mr. Burns. I believe he owns that yacht.” Philip waved ambiguously at the surrounding boats. “As a friend of Miss Worthington, I want to learn more about Mr. Burns.” Philip spoke in the open and friendly way that had always served him well.

“Did Mr. Burns send you here?”

“No. I have not met Mr. Burns yet.”