Page 22

“Do ye…” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, beginning again with more confidence. “Do ye know the seinin’ companies who be in St. Just?”

She was met with curious glances from each of the Honeysetts, so she rushed to explain. “It’s just that, the word seinin’ sounds familiar.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Honeysett’s dubious expression matched his misbelieving tone. “They be Trenary and Verran of Port Isaac.”

She nodded in silence, attempting to appear unruffled, though relief sailed through her limbs, leaving a numbing shock in its wake.

No Truscott. And she’d not heard of either of the other names. Thank heavens.

“Do they sound familiar to ye, Morvoren?” Mrs. Honeysett questioned.

“Afraid not,” she said, twisting a disappointed frown on her lips.

She went back to her soup, avoiding Mr. Honeysett’s watchful gaze as he drank a sip of his brandy.

He swallowed, then placed his glass near his empty bowl, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I s’pose that can only be a good thing,” he said. “We’d ’ate to ’ave ye connected to those sorts o’ people.”

Morvoren met his gaze, and something within the depths of his eyes laced ice through her stomach. Did he know?

“They ain’t all terrible, son,” Mrs. Honeysett said, shaking her head as she swallowed her food.

Mr. Honeysett sniffed in disbelief. “All the seiners we’ve e’er known ’ave been terrible. And they’ll keep comin’ back over an’ over to poach our men. ’Tis ’cause they ain’t be good enough to keep their own.”

For so long, Morvoren had endured Uncle’s endless criticisms over drifters. “They are as simple and stubborn as mules,” he’d say.

Now, hearing the perspective of seiners from the drifters was rather humorous.

“’Tain’t a lick of honor in ’em neither,” Mr. Honeysett continued. He faced his mother. “Ye’ve ’eard ’bout the drifters in Mounts Bay?”

Mrs. Honeysett shook her head.

He glanced to Morvoren, but she pretended to stifle a yawn. She didn’t want him to think he’d captured her attention.

“The men were served writs by Sir Percival St. John for fishin’ too close to the shore. But the only ones who were served ’em were those who didn’t vote for the man in the county election.”

Mrs. Honeysett shook her head. “Terrible shame, that.”

“Travesty, more like,” Mr. Honeysett followed. “Them drifters ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

Morvoren blew out a disbelieving breath, only to realize too late that she’d done it loud enough for the others around the table to hear. She tried to disguise it by clearing her throat, but Mr. Honeysett’s eyes hardened.

What was wrong with her? She had an opinion stronger than anyone on more matters than she cared to admit, even though Uncle had tried to stamp it out of her. Revealing her opinion, however, would bring more trouble than she cared for.

“Ye ’ave something to say, Miss ’Ollow?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to say exactly what was at the tip of her tongue, but she pulled back. She had very little care for the man seated in front of her, but she didn’t wish to offend his mother and sister.

“Go on,” Mr. Honeysett challenged. “Ye obviously be thinkin’ somethin’. Though I can’t decipher yet if it be ’bout seiners or drifters.”

She pressed her lips together all the firmer.

“Ye be free to speak your mind ’ere, Morvoren,” Mrs. Honeysett said with an encouraging nod. “We don’t always agree on matters, but we still be family. While ye live under our roof, the same goes for ye.”

Morvoren chewed the inside of her lip. Had the woman just said Morvoren was a part of their family? A flame sparked in her center, and she furrowed her brow, unsure of how to respond to such a statement.

“I was only thinkin’,” she began, “that if the drifters didn’t wish to be served writs, they oughtn’t fish so close to the shore.”

She looked pointedly at Mr. Honeysett, but he merely gave her a half-smile, obviously not picking up on her slight.