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CHAPTER SEVEN

Morvoren winced as bright sunshine crept across her closed eyes. Surely morning could not have arrived already.

With a drawn-out yawn and a stretch of her back, she slowly opened her eyes. A brief moment of confusion clouded her mind, then she caught sight of the small hearth before her, her underclothing still hanging before the fire.

That was right. She was in the fisherman’s home.

She yawned again, the ache in her chest and burning in her throat having eased only slightly from the morning before. She glanced out of the window beside her bed, blinking away the moisture brought to her eyes as the sun filed past the threadbare curtains in sharp rays of light.

It was sure to be a beautiful day. If she were north in St. Ives, she would be forced to accompany Uncle Truscott to watch his fleet of boats casting their seine nets into the seas. Here in Tristwick, she was condemned to remain in her bed due to an aching foot.

She didn’t know which was worse.

The night before, after attempting and failing to leave her bed again, she’d finally resigned herself to the fact that she couldn’t walk to St. Just, so she would be missing the coach to Sennen. She would catch the next one in a week—or perhaps her ankle would heal sooner than Dr. Kent expected, and she could make the journey to Sennen on foot.

Either way, each moment she spent in Tristwick was a moment closer to Uncle potentially finding her, and with the Honeysetts having no mode of transportation, she knew she was out of luck. Apparently, she’d used it all up yesterday, being rescued from the sea.

As the frightful memory flashed before her mind’s eye once again, Morvoren flinched. She’d never been more terrified than when that water had trickled into her lungs, no amount of struggling being able to free her from the net’s hold.

That same darkness that had crept over her in the sea now returned from the mere memory, but Morvoren forced her fears away, filling her lungs with the air around her. She was finished dwelling on what might have happened.

Instead, she was going to focus on what needed to happen—namely spending an entire week in Tristwick while feigning memory loss. Mrs. Honeysett had generously offered to house Morvoren until she was well. All things considered, such a stay wouldn’t be too terrible. After all, the Honeysett women weren’t the ones who caused Morvoren concern.

She shook her head to be rid of any thought of her supposed rescuer. Trevik Honeysett didn’t trust her, even though he had no reason not to. Except, of course, that she was lying. But there was no way for him to know that. He was no doubt suspicious of her merely because she’d slapped him. And now she was trapped with another selfish fisherman who forced his workers to labor for a pittance and stunk of fish.

She wrinkled her nose. Uncle always smelled of codfish and oysters. She was not so naïve as to believe that all fishermen were terrible people. But after seeing what the trade had done to Father and Uncle and after meeting the man Uncle intended for her—that…that incorrigible seiner, Mr. Foss—she knew she’d never be happy living a life so close to the industry.

If the last two days had proven anything, it was that she was determined to escape that life once and for all.

With a sigh, she turned her head to the other side of the room. There, her eye caught sight of the portmanteau on the table beside her.

Relief flooded through her again, just as it had when Mr. Honeysett had first brought the bag to her. She really had convinced herself that her belongings had been stolen, so to see them returned to her had been a godsend.

Struggling to sit up, her ankle still pulsing in protest, Morvoren reached for the portmanteau, anxious to see if all was intact.

She unfastened the latches, peering at the items within the leather carrier. A few dresses, her underclothing, a coin purse—thank heavens her money was still accounted for—one pair of traveling gloves, hairpins, a soft bonnet, boots, a coat. But where was—ah, there it was.

Carefully, she pulled out the turquoise shawl that had once belonged to her mother, wrapping it around her shoulders. She drew in a deep breath of the fabric, the musty smell calming her nerves.

She moved the portmanteau back to the table, leaning against the bed before she caught sight of a scrap of paper that had fallen onto her lap.

How had that escaped? She’d read the piece of paper over and over again, the address ingrained in her memory forever, but still, she’d brought it with her as a symbol of the control she had finally taken over her life.

Tap, tap, tap.

Morvoren looked to the door. “Come in,” she said, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders and hiding the address beneath the turquoise fabric. Would it be Mr. Honeysett, come to interrogate her further?

Instead of the fisherman, Mrs. Honeysett appeared with a bright smile and a cane in hand. “Good mornin’, Morvoren. Feelin’ better, are ye?”

“Much better, thank ye,” Morvoren said, her shoulders relaxing. Her accent was still not as thick as the Honeysetts’, but it came much more fluidly now, as if her tongue had found its place in this lower-class home.

“I be that glad. And ’ow be your foot?”

“Still sore, I fear. But the swellin’ be down.”

Much to Mrs. Honeysett’s aid. The woman had come in multiple times throughout the night, ensuring Morvoren was still breathing well and that her foot was elevated and wrapped in a cold cloth.

Mrs. Honeysett raised the cane. “This ought to ’elp ye when ye be ready to walk about. Borrowed it from a neighbor.”