‘I think you better leave.’
‘Not until you have promised to stop.’
‘No harm has come from the transaction.’
‘But it might.’
Henry looked at her beneath heavy lids. ‘I want you to go.’
‘We have large vats in our dairy. They are as high as a man and ten foot wide. Milk from the neighbouring farms are poured into it each morning.’
‘I want you to leave.’
‘We make butter from the milk and sell it. It is one vat. We have six in all. We distribute butter and cheese to shops all over Cornwall and more beyond. I visited the White River the other day. It reminded me of an incident in my childhood.’ Grace ignored his stony stare. ‘A farmer brought us some contaminated milk once. It was a mistake on his part. When he realised he informed us immediately . . . but it was too late. It had already been poured into a vat. One of our workers thought he knew which vat he had contaminated, but he wasn’t sure.’ Grace remembered her father, looming tall and solid in her child’s eye, when he found out. ‘My father immediately orderedfor all the vats to be emptied. He wanted every drop to be drained away.’
Henry had grown impatient. ‘I have letters to write. You are taking up my valuable time.’
Grace ignored him. ‘We watched the milk flow through the yard and away over the sloping fields. I asked him why he had chosen to throw it all away. He told me that once a reputation was lost, it was hard to regain it and he would not take the risk by producing contaminated dairy products.’
Henry’s gaze lowered to a distant spot on the far side of the room. Grace leant towards him. ‘Henry,’ she pleaded, ‘the shipment from Stenna Pit bears the name of Celtic Clay. Your business’s reputation is at risk.’ Her voice almost broke as she pleaded, but Henry didn’t appear to notice. Instead he rested his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.
‘You can’t ignore this. This is not something that will go away.Iwill not go away.’
The door creaked behind them, causing Henry’s eyes to fly open. Grace looked over her shoulder and caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman, with jet-black hair, before she retreated into the shadows of the hall.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Henry, rising to his feet and leaving the room. He pulled the door closed behind him but failed to shut it completely. Grace followed, interested to see who had caused him to momentarily forget his injuries in order to speak with her.
The door remained slightly ajar, no more than a finger’s width, yet it gave Grace an unhindered view of Henry and the mysterious woman. She was beautiful, with eyes the colour of rich walnut and dark arched eyebrows, which promised both teasing seduction and haughty conflict in equal measures. Just as she suspected, she had seen her before. She was the woman standing by the window on her previous visit.
‘I told Wicks that we were not to be disturbed,’ snapped Henry.
The woman raised a haughty brow. ‘I have not seen Wicks. Besides, I can go where I please. Who is that woman?’
‘She is Amelia’s live-in companion.’
‘What is she doing here?’
‘She is here to teach me about the clay industry despite having no experience of her own.’ He jerked his head towards the door. Grace quickly withdrew behind the door, so she could not be seen.
‘Talek has asked her to take over the accounts while I recover. As you can tell, I’m not in the mood to humour her. Now, please leave us alone. I’ll speak with you later.’
A short silence followed, drawing Grace from her hiding place to see if the woman had left. To her surprise, fine cords of sinew had tightened the woman’s elegant neck, as she considered Henry’s request, her gaze dropping and rising, to take in the full length of him.
‘You would like nothing better than for me to leave. You’re afraid of what I might say. Afraid that I will betray your secrets.’
‘And by doing so you will betray your own.’
They continued to stare at one another, the challenge laid out between them, yet neither giving way. The tension was palpable and caught at the breath in Grace’s throat.
‘Sometimes those are the best secrets to hear,’ the woman replied, in a glacier tone, before turning briskly and leaving the hall.
Grace quickly retreated to the window and pretended to admire the view.
‘My cousin is a wilful woman,’ said Henry on his return, ‘but she has no place in this discussion.’
‘Discussion? So you are willing to consider what I have said?’
Henry went to the fire and coaxed it back to life. He straightened and watched the flames rise, his body blocking the heat radiating from the grate. Eventually he turned away, went to his chair and eased himself back into it, wincing slightly at the discomfort in his ribs. His earlier haste had been without thought, now he was suffering the consequences as the pain had returned with a vengeance. However, his weakened state did not change his mind on the matter in hand.
