appeared in the open doorway and beckoned Laura into his study. “I am sorry, my girl. I think you would have welcomed an evening out. You enjoy far too little entertainment or society.”
“That’s all right, I don’t mind. I think I shall walk over and visit Miss Chegwin.”
He gave her a rueful look. “The society of a woman in her seventies was not what I had in mind.”
She reached up and adjusted her uncle’s cravat, noticing his softening jaw, long silver side-whiskers, and kind hound-dog eyes. How the years and loss had aged him. Fastening the collar of his greatcoat, she said, “Button up. It’s a blustery night.”
“Yes, the wind is rising. If I don’t miss my guess, we’ll be hearing Tregeagle before the night is out, wailing for his lost soul. . . .” He cleared his throat. “If I believed in such things, which, as a learned man of God, I do not.” He winked. “Mostly.”
He was referring to the old legend of the wicked man who sold his soul and had been wandering the coast and moors ever since, bewailing his fate. When the wind rose to its worst, its howl did sound almost human, hauntingly so. Cornwall, Laura had learned, was full of such myths, though the fierce storms and deadly gales were all too real.
“If Mrs. Bray did not have her heart set on a match between Eseld and Mr. Kent, I would beg off,” he continued, “but she won’t hear of us not going. I pray to God we don’t regret it.”
“Be careful,” Laura urged. Uncle Matthew was the closest thing to family she had left, and she didn’t want to lose him too.
“We shall be.” He patted her hand and reached for his hat, then turned back. “If you go out tonight, take Wenna or Newlyn with you. I don’t like the idea of you out alone after dark on a night like this. It’s not safe.”
“I can see Miss Chegwin’s cottage from here,” Laura protested.
“Please. For my sake, all right?”
“Very well, though it shall have to be Newlyn, for I dare not ask Wenna. She is still cross about her pot.”
“Wenna is always cross about something.” He grinned. “Good thing she’s an excellent cook.”
Laura let herself into nearby Brea Cottage as she always did, her neighbor long ago insisting she treat their home as her own. Moreover, Miss Chegwin might not hear a knock above the howling wind.
Short, plain Newlyn sat resolutely on the small bench in the entry porch, refusing to go any farther.
“You can come in, you know,” Laura said. “She does not bite.”
“No, but Jago might.” The seventeen-year-old housemaid shuddered.
“Silly creature. He is harmless.”
“All the same, I’ll wait here.”
“Suit yourself.”
Laura entered the snug sitting room, and the old woman looked up, delight written on her craggy features.
“Good evening, my lovely. How are’ee?”
“I am well, Mamm-wynn.” Laura called her Grandmother as a term of affection and respect, for she knew it pleased her.
Mary Chegwin smiled, the lines of her wrinkled face softening under her halo of white hair. “Meur ras, my dear. And what brings you out on such a foul night?”
“I came to see you. The others have gone to Roserrow.” She glanced around the humble sitting room. “Where is Jago?”
“Out looking for firewood.” Trees were scarce in the area and firewood dear.
“I see.” Laura sat down near the dying fire, keeping her cape fastened around her.
The woman watched her. “And did you not wish to go to Roserrow?”
“I . . . would rather see you.”
The blue eyes, still keen, glinted knowingly, but she did not press her.
“I brought you something.” Laura stretched out her hand.
“What is it?”
“A coin purse. See the embroidery there?”
The old woman squinted. “Pretty. Now if only I had a farthing to put in it!” Mary giggled like a girl. “Did you find it today?”
“No. That one is still wet. This one I found a year and a day ago.”
Mary gave her a crooked grin. “You’ll have to become less exacting if yer ever to be a Cornish lass.”
“If I have not become one by now, I doubt I ever shall.”
“Well, there are worse things, though I can’t think of any at the moment.” She cackled again.
“I also brought you some cake.” Laura handed over a napkin-wrapped bundle.
Mary’s eyes widened. “Wenna sent me cake?”
“No, I saved mine for you.”
“I can’t eat yer cake.”
“Of course you can. You like it more than I do. But it will cost you.”