Page 58 of The Cornish Bride

The middle-aged woman stepped forward, smoothing her grubby apron. “I’m Rosie Enyon, Miss, Jem’s ma. It were right cold up in them attics this winter and right into spring. We only come down to keep a bit warmer.”

Ysella frowned. “No matter the reason, you should not have presumed to occupy the best bedrooms, thinking your master far away and ignorant of your actions. He has asked Mr. Beauchamp and me to come down and set the house and estate to rights.” She paused. “Mr. Beauchamp is my husband, so I am no longer Miss Ysella. You may address me as ma’am.”

To say this was met with a stunned silence would have been a gross underestimation. Her gathered servants looked from her to Sam and then back again. All of them knew who and what Sam was, and every one of them looked not just surprised but shocked.

Ysella didn’t give them time to think. “Rosie. Upstairs now and sort out two of the bedrooms for us, and make sure the sheets are spotlessly clean. Martha will help you.”

Martha huffed again at the prospect of having to do a housemaid’s work.

Ysella ignored her. “I shall take my mother’s old room.” She met Sam’s eyes. “You men, outside and help James with our belongings. You as well, Jem.” She glanced at the old woman. “And you can go to the kitchen and prepare something for us to eat. It’s been a long journey.” She looked back at Sam, whose eyes held admiration. “My husband and I will wait in the drawing room.”

*

Sam pulled thedust covers from the furniture, setting a cloud of dust fluttering through the stuffy air of the drawing room. The furniture revealed was old-fashioned but serviceable—probably the furniture that had belonged to the old viscount, or perhaps even to his father, who Sam knew had only inherited the title from a childless older brother late in life.

Moving on from the seating, Sam went to the three long windows and, unfastening the catches, swung the wooden shutters back to reveal the small leaded panes of yesteryear, the glass marked by the bullseyes that indicated its extreme age. The late afternoon sunlight streamed into a room, which, like the hall, had long ago been decorated with oak paneling. Everything about this house was dark. After Ormonde, with its high stuccoed ceilings and munificence of windows, Carlyon Court seemed a gloomy rabbit warren.

Ysella was busy removing the rest of the dust sheets, adding them to a pile on the floor by the main doorway. “This place reeks of the last century,” she said, wrinkling her nose and sneezing. “And not the end of it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it’s not changed at all since my grandfather was a boy. And he would be a hundred were he alive now.”

Sam had moved to the hearth, where the ashes of the last fire, possibly from years ago, had never been removed. Bending, he gave it a prod with a brass poker. Was that the skeleton and desiccated wings of a bird that had fallen down the chimney? All the chimneys were going to need a good sweeping before they risked lighting any fires. He straightened up. “A good thing it’s no longer cold, although these shut up rooms hold the chill well.”

He ran a finger along the mantelpiece, his fingertip coming away thick with dust. “If we’re to get this house back to its former glory, I suspect we’re going to need more servants than that motley group. One of whom is too old to still be working, I’d say.”

Ysella walked over to one of the long windows, and Sam followed her. Just unkempt gardens with nothing to indicate how close they were to the sea. She sighed. “You’re right. This place feels awful, but I think that we can improve it.”

At least she seemed to be looking at this in a more positive frame of mind than he’d expected. Perhaps the challenge was spurring her on. After all, this was going to take a lot of work to put to rights. He looked down at her. How beautiful she was in the golden light of the late afternoon, the sun’s rays gilding her hair and face so she resembled a bronze statue. How small and delicate, yet how resilient. If only she could find it in her to love him, then his life would be complete.

His fingers twitched, and he glanced down. How close her hand was to his. How much he wanted to reach out and touch it. To take it in his own, to thread his fingers between hers. He resisted the impulse. He mustn’t frighten her off. If he could have nothing else, he’d have her as his friend again, even if that took a long time to happen. He could be content with her friendship.

She looked up at him out of her wide dark eyes, her face besmirched with dust. She had the longest and thickest lashes he’d ever seen. Her lips curved in a smile. Oh, how he longed to kiss them. “The views from upstairs are much better than the ones from down here.”

Lost for words and in his own longing, Sam nodded. “You can see the sea from up there. Kit showed me when he brought me down here. I had a bedroom with a view of the sea.”

She nodded. “I opened the shutters on the landing window. The windows were dirty but I cleaned a spot to peer through.” Her smile widened. “D’you know, Sam? I think I might be going to like it down here. After seeing the sea when we were down here before, even if it were ever so briefly, I rather have a hankering to see it again, up close this time.” She dimpled, naughty as a schoolgirl. “And perhaps if it’s warm enough, I’ll be able to paddle my feet in it.”

“Then you shall do it, Ysella,” Sam said. “I promise you that.”

Her hand slipped into his and squeezed. “Thank you, Sam.”

His heart felt as though it would burst, her touch sending shivers through his body. He’d held her hand before, particularly on the occasion when they’d taught Morvoren to dance, but somehow, this sudden warm contact she’d initiated felt quite different. More intimate. For a start, he was alone with her in the drawing room. Before, she’d just been Miss Ysella. Now, she was his wedded wife, even if only in name. He could only dream that one day she might want to do more than hold hands so chastely. Like a pair of old friends.