Carefully, the Reverend undid the ribbon and allowed the letters to fall onto the small writing table. There were six letters in total, and all were written in the same spidery handwriting.
‘Do you think we should wait until morning to read what’s in them?’ Percy commented after a particularly loud snore from Freddy, but after getting no response from his accomplices, subsided with a grimace, looking enviously at the foxhound sprawled out on the bed.
A few seconds later, Reverend Shackleford gave a sigh and passed the letter he was holding over to Charity. ‘Your eyesight is better than mine,’ he conceded.
Eagerly, Charity unfolded the missive and lifted it closer to the candlelight. ‘Don’t set the deuced thing on fire,’ her father warned, earning him a scathing glance.
‘It’s very difficult to read,’ she murmured, ‘but it’s addressed to Ginny, which I think we can safely assume is Genevieve … and…’ she paused and bent her head, concentrating on her task. Suddenly her head snapped up. ‘I think it’s from a man,’ she breathed.
‘How do you know,’ the Reverend demanded.
‘Because his name is Stefan.’
∞∞∞
The next morning dawned bright and clear which Jago assured them at breakfast was entirely uncharacteristic of late February. ‘Would you like to take advantage of the clement weather and visit Wheal Tredennick with me this morning?’ he added. His question was clearly meant for Charity, though he made sure to include the Reverend and Percy in his invitation.
Charity, whose mind was still on their discovery of the night before, was torn between wanting to continue deciphering the contents of the letters and wanting to spend time with the handsome Cornishman. ‘I thought we could take a picnic,’ Jago added, thinking perhaps her hesitation due to the destination.
‘In truth I’m a little weary,’ the Reverend responded before Charity had chance to say anything. ‘With your permission, Jago, I believe I will spend some time in the library. The light is good in there, making it so much easier to read.’ The last part was directed towards Charity, and gritting her teeth at the thought of having to hand the letters over to her father, she nevertheless gave a miniscule nod.
‘How about you, Percy,’ Augustus Shackleford continued. ‘Would you care to join me? You can work on your sermon for when we return home.’ He paused before adding jovially, ‘In fact, I’m almost certain you could get three addresses out of the events of the last week. Four if you count the evils of drink.’ Percy gave a thoughtful crease of his brow, then nodded.
‘I would be delighted to accompany you,’ Charity answered Jago finally. And any other day, it would have been entirely true. Still, she managed a wide smile as she pushed back her chair, declaring her intention of fetching her cloak.
Once in her room, she scooped up the letters, wishing she’d managed to read their contents the night before. Unfortunately, the lack of light had proved their undoing as the tallow candle finally burned down to the wick, leaving them in total darkness. Indeed, it was surprising her father and Percy didn’t wake up the whole household by the time they achieved their own bedchambers, three stubbed toes and a narrowly avoided broken leg later.
Charity stared down at the bundle of letters in frustration, wanting nothing more than to childishly hold them behind her back at the sound of her father’s knock. Then, sighing, she threw open the door and petulantly held out her prize.
‘Jago will unlikely be around for afternoon tea,’ placated her father, unable to hide his glee entirely, ‘so we’ll await you in the library to share our findings.’
A few minutes later, Charity went to pick up her old cloak, before pausing and looking at the beautiful fur trimmed one belonging to Genevieve. Jago had said she could keep it, and she was persuaded that the midnight blue colour did much to balance the boring brownness of her eyes. Truly, it was of much better quality than hers, and after a quick hesitation, she picked it up and laid it over her shoulders before heading downstairs.
Within half an hour, Charity found herself seated in a small curricle with a blanket across her knees. ‘I did not think to ask if you ride,’ Jago apologised as he navigated out of the driveway. ‘However, the road to Wheal Tredennick is very picturesque even if it is a little longer.’
‘In truth, neither I, nor any of my sisters ride well,’ Charity admitted, ‘though perhaps it would behove me to learn.’
‘The track along the cliffs is not for a novice,’ Jago admitted, ‘It would all too easy to be cast onto the rocks below if the horse was spooked and you didn’t have absolute control.’
Charity shuddered. ‘Then mayhap I will be content with learning to drive a curricle,’ she quipped. ‘Indeed, if you’d observed my efforts on a horse up to now, you’d undoubtedly agree.’
The rest of the drive was so enjoyable, Charity forgot entirely about letters and mysteries. Instead, she found herself regaling Jago with tales of her unconventional family. By the time she got to the part about Queen Charlotte’s unfortunate accident in the duck pond at Hope’s wedding, the Cornishman begged herto stop, his mirth such that he was entirely certain his sides were about to rupture.
Laughing with him, Charity wondered at the ease with which she’d revealed the warts and all details about her family, but it was her fervent hope that one day soon, Jago would be able to lay his sister to rest and move on with his life. And if that life was ever to include her, there could be no secrets between them.
In the end it took them nearly an hour to get to the mine via the road, though Charity was convinced that calling the rutted track such was someone’s idea of a jest. In truth, it was as beautiful as Jago had said. The Cornish coastline was magnificent – much more dramatic than that of South Devon. She’d been told that the north Devon coast had a similar ruggedness but had yet to see it for herself. Finally, coming round a sharp bend in the hills, Charity beheld Wheal Tredennick in all its glory. ‘I had not thought it so big,’ she breathed in surprise.
‘We hold our own,’ Jago commented, pride evident in his voice as he guided the horses towards the cluster of buildings surrounding the engine house.
Finally bringing the curricle to a stop, he hopped down and went round to help her alight. As he lifted her down effortlessly, his big hands encircling her waist, Charity was suddenly reminded of the erotic fantasies she’d indulged in the night before. Unable to stop it, her face suffused with colour. As she slid down his hard length, it was as if he could read her thoughts. For the next few seconds, the world and everyone in it disappeared, leaving only the two of them.
‘Thank you,’ Charity muttered finally, her voice husky. Before Jago could respond, a gruff voice hailed him.
‘Mr Carlyon, din’t think to see you ‘ere today. And a guest too. How ‘onoured is we?’
The sarcasm in the voice was good natured, and Jago did not appear to take offence. ‘What are you doing loitering up top, Jori? Aren’t you supposed to be digging up my retirement fund?’
‘Reckon ye’ll be diggin’ yer own bloody grave afor that ‘appens,’ came the chuckled retort.
