"What in blazes? You scared the living daylights out of me," Mira gasped as the hand fell from her mouth.
"I'm sorry I frightened you. But I didn't want anyone to see you. I did not expect to run into you here, since I intended to go to the house to find you." Kit reluctantly loosened his grip but kept his hands on her shoulders as they faced each other.
The closeness disconcerted Mira. The man standing before her was so familiar, yet not. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and an apron covered his leather breeches. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes were fixed intently on her.
She shifted her gaze. "I did not want to wait any longer. I looked for you at the forge, but you weren't there."
"His Lordship's stallion lost a shoe, so I was called to the stables." He dropped his hands and stepped away.
"So this is what you do here. Fixing his Lordship's horseshoes."
"Among a host of other things. They use me as a jack of all trades."
He picked up a wooden stool, set it upright for her to sit on, then looked around for another. There was a tiny wood-burning stove used by the stable hands to warm their drinks.
Mira watched as Kit lit a fire in the stove. Then he picked up the other stool and placed it next to hers, leaning his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the fire.
Silence fell between them.
"Talk to me," Mira said. "I need to know why. I need to know why you've been here all this time, obviously doing well, plying your trade, but not only that, you have become an indispensable member of this estate. And you never, not a single time, not even once, sent a message. A note, a letter, or, if writing proved too cumbersome for you, a messenger that you were alive and well. All these years. Not a single word. Why?" Her voice had risen.
"It wasn't for lack of trying..." he began, but Mira cut him off.
"Start at the beginning. That day. The morning of the fifteenth of June. I sent you to fetch eggs."
He nodded slowly, as if remembering the day.
She'd wanted to prepare pasties, with swede, potatoes, and meat inside. Succulent and delicious, they had been Kit's favourite meal. Mira loved making them, folding the ingredients into the crescent-shaped pastry dough and crimping the edges. Only that morning she'd run out of eggs, so she'd sent him to Farmer Smith.
Kit had grabbed the basket, planted a kiss on her mouth, followed by two more, and he would have stolen another if Mira hadn't pushed him out of the door, and he'd grinned and sauntered through the garden gate with a cheerful whistle on his lips.
He hadn't returned.
Mira had waited and waited for hours, certain at first that he must have been distracted. He must have met some friends or colleagues who would have summoned him to the Old Ferry Inn for a pint of ale.
When he returned, she would scold him for going to the tavern in broad daylight.
But he did not return by the afternoon.
Mira threw down her apron and went to see Farmer Smith, who confirmed that Kit had indeed picked up a dozen eggs that morning.
"But that was long before lunchtime. He must've gone to the tavern with some mates," the farmer suggested, confirming Mira's suspicion.
Mira marched into the village and headed for the Old Ferry Inn, which was on the banks of the river Fowey.
The innkeeper denied he'd ever set foot there, nor was he in the taproom of the Old Rooster.
Kit had the day off, so he wouldn't be at the smithy, would he? Master Williams frowned when she went to ask for him.
"You know he wouldn't be here today of all days, lass," he'd said.
Mira had made her way back to the cottage, confused. The first strands of worry had begun to nag at her. She took a different path this time, not the shortcut across the meadow, but along the road. Surely he couldn't have gone into the neighbouring village? Or to the fair in St Austell to pick up fairings? He knew how much she loved them.
There, in the middle of the junction of two roads, she saw a dark object lying on the ground, amidst a sticky yellow mass.
It was the basket with broken eggs.
Mira clenched her hands as she remembered the anguish of the days that followed.
