Page 4 of The Cornish Widow

Lydia let out a little squeal and hopped to one side as though in the process of being attacked. “Spiders?”

Theo snorted with laughter. “What did you think made the webs, then? Fairies?”

“Outside, Theo,” Harriet snapped. “Hurry up.”

With her two children gainfully employed… well, perhaps… and while Bertha bustled off upstairs, Harriet turned her attentions to the parlor. If you could call it that. In fact, the whole house had an air of not being what she wanted it to be and being proud of it. As luck would have it, a second broom, even less generously equipped with birch twigs than the first, leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs, where Theo had dumped the first of their bags.

Harriet peered up at the beamed ceiling. Liberally festooned with both spiders and their webs. She wasn’t about to admit it, but she hated spiders as much as Lydia did. If only she had something to put around her head. What was in her bag? She undid the clasp and rummaged inside. An old scarf. That would do. She took off her best bonnet and instead wrapped the scarf around her hair, knotting it securely at the back of her neck. Spider protection.

Now to tackle the eight-legged beasties.

She’d denuded the ceiling and begun on the walls, and Theo had been dispatched to explore the shed at the back of the house in search of firewood, when the knock on the door came. Wiping trailing webs off her face, and no doubt a few spiders as well, Harriet set down the broom and hurried into the kitchen. Lydia, too, had stopped sweeping. Her hair was full of dust and bits of web. Best not to tell her.

“Who is it?” Lydia whispered, as though whoever it was might be dangerous. One of the smugglers, maybe, come to silence them. Her eyes had gone round with fear. Surely her fears were unfounded. Harriet shoved all thoughts of vengeful smugglers aside. Things like that just didn’t happen to people like them.

However… “Go upstairs and don’t come down until I tell you to. It might be best to be as quiet as you can.” Why was she encouraging Lydia’s suspicions? Of course it couldn’t be anyone dangerous, could it? How ridiculous was that. This was 1815, not the Middle Ages. She was quite safe and so were the children. All the same…

Lydia scurried away and Harriet lifted the latch and opened the kitchen door.

A woman was standing on the doorstep. Definitely not a smuggler, she wore a fine muslin gown with a delicate lace shawl about her shoulders and had a pretty straw bonnet set on dark curls gently scattered with gray. Her heart-shaped face hinted at her age, although the lines about her sea-blue eyes and curving mouth spoke of laughter rather than worry. She smiled at Harriet in an open, friendly fashion, as though being greeted by a woman with spiders adorning her head was quite normal. “Good evening. I hope I’m not putting you out by calling to see you like this? On your first day here at Keynvor Cottage.”

Harriet closed her mouth, aware that Lydia had not retreated upstairs but was peering through the parlor door, now their visitor had proved not to be dangerous. Bertha’s heavy footsteps came clumping down the stairs.

“Not at all,” Harriet managed, acutely aware of what a state she must be in, wearing most of the house’s dirt, and wishing the woman anywhere but here, nice as she appeared to be.

The woman, a lady by appearance and speech, smiled again. “I heard Mrs. Bolitho had let the cottage and thought I should come down to welcome you to Bessie’s Cove.” She paused, her eyes flicking to the gloomy inside of the cottage that Harriet and Lydia’s labors had done nothing yet to improve. “And I have to admit that I feared you would find the cottage in this state. Mrs. Bolitho must have known nothing of this, I assume, or she would have prepared for your arrival. In truth, I’m here as your neighbor to offer my assistance.”

Heat climbed from Harriet’s throat to her cheeks, flaming them with mortification that this stranger was here to offer her charity. More charity. Because, of course, this cottage was charity in the first place, and Mrs. Bolitho, aunt or no aunt, had plainly thought her duty done in offering it. Which was true, really, as what did she owe Harriet, who wasn’t even related by blood? The humiliation of her situation washed over Harriet and tears pricked in the corners of her eyes.

The woman stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “My dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m here to offer you my friendship.”

Bertha clumped into the kitchen.

Harriet fought to control herself at this onslaught of kindness, but the tears wouldn’t be denied and, forcing their way out, trickled down her dusty cheeks. For a moment, nothing happened, then suddenly she found herself enfolded in the woman’s surprisingly strong arms and pressed against her chest, soothing hands patting her on the back and stroking her hair.

“There, there,” crooned the woman. “Let it all out. I can see you need to. And don’t worry yourself. I’m here to help.”

This show of kindness was enough to have Harriet sobbing, something she’d not done since before Ben died, and then only in the privacy of her bedroom.

“Mama?” Lydia’s nervous voice intruded, at last.

She’d never let the children see her cry before.

Harriet extricated herself from her comforter’s embrace, swiping at her eyes with her dirty hands, for want of anything else. “I’m so sorry.” The words came out in a mumble. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Nonsense,” the woman said with the air of someone used to dealing with crises. “There’s nothing wrong with showing your emotions. A good cry can do us the world of good. Now, I’d best introduce myself as I’ve just embraced you. Talwyn Trevelyan of Rosudgeon House. I saw the carrier’s wagon pass from my window—there’s only the one road into the cove—and decided to come down here to make sure you were all right. And it’s just as well I did. Mrs. Bolitho doesn’t appear to have made any preparations for your arrival.” She snorted in what might well have been disgust. “Not that I thought she would.”

Harriet remembered herself enough to bob a curtsey. “Harriet Penhallow. Mrs. Bolitho is my late husband’s great-aunt. She owes us nothing. It has been exceedingly kind of her to even allow us to live here. We are most grateful for her kindness.”

Bertha, who owed no such allegiance, snorted. “Common decency would’ve had her make sure as the cottage were in good order though. You’d think.”

Mrs. Trevelyan frowned. “Perhaps. But I am here now, and I insist you allow me to help you.” She held up an admonishing hand as Harriet opened her mouth to protest. “No. I will brook no refusal from you. You have children.” She waved a dainty hand at Lydia and Theo. “You need help. I am here to provide it, as a good neighbor should. Let us go inside and see what is required.”

Without waiting to be invited, Mrs. Trevelyan stepped inside, and Harriet followed her back in. For a moment or two, their guest stood staring about herself, an expression of acute intelligence on her face, as though assessing the amount of work required. “You intend to sleep here tonight?”

“No,” Lydia put in before Harriet had time to answer.

“Yes,” Harriet snapped, shooting an angry frown at her daughter. At least the kitchen was now devoid of cobwebs but dust hung in the air, tickling the nostrils and making her want to cough and sneeze.