old home and drew a long, slow breath as he looked through the open door at a rickety staircase looping out of view. He remembered coming here with Margaret when they were little children to skip with the girl and to play hide and seek in the hedge at the back.
He had been standing only a minute when a gruff, unfamiliar face appeared in the doorway. “Who are you, young man?”
The gentleman looked middle-aged and greasy, his sleeves rolled up and his whole attire covered with a thick leather apron.
“A passer by,” Nigel answered quietly. “I used to know the woman who lived in this house – Molly Smith, she was – are you the new tenant?”
“I am,” the man answered. “And my family. But we aren’t so keen on strangers asking after folks.” His eyes narrowed. “How is it that you know the Smith girl after all? Word is that she was a disreputable sort.”
“Watch you tongue, Victor McHale,” came a sharp voice from behind Nigel. He turned and saw old Mrs Tarrow hovering near at hand with a basket of freshly picked blossoms in the crook of her elbow. “This here is the young Captain Bateson, newly returned to us from the war. He knew Miss Smith when they were children, and deserves your respect.”
The man grumbled and disappeared from view. Nigel turned to her with thankfulness in his heart.
“You are kind to speak so of me,” he said. “I heard from Lady Margaret that you were quite instrumental in helping the child find a home after Molly passed away.”
“It’s good to meet a person in the street here who knows how Miss Smith used to be,” Mrs Tarrow answered sadly. “I’m gratified that at least you, her old friend, were spared the difficulty that befell her when the town turned self-righteous against her reputation. Lady Margaret has done more than you know by taking the child in under her wing. Poor little Poppy would have been a lost cause if she’d been shipped off the orphanage as an illegitimate.”
Nigel winced. “I shudder to think of it.”
Mrs Tarrow tilted her head to the side. “What are you thinking to do now that you are back?”
“I’m on leave, but awaiting orders,” he said with a smile. “My friends in London tell me they are looking to station a new officer here in Cornwall. My Navy experience makes me an excellent choice for the seaside.”
Mrs Tarrow raised her eyebrows. “Are we expecting some sort of attack from the sea?”
“Not at all,” he answered with the same teasing that he had detected in her voice. “But if we were, there would be no hope of any enemy scaling our cliffs.”
“Stranger things have happened.” She exchanged a few more pleasantries with him and then hurried on her way. Nigel lengthened his stride, still loving the feel of the land beneath his feet as if it were the purest of all luxuries. The road looped down beneath some dappled trees and then came up over a particularly large hill to show the grand and sweeping estate of Lord Somerville.
Nigel’s heart seized within him at the sight of it. A rush of memories came back into his mind: tumbling along those paths with Margaret hot on his heels, picking flowers in the garden, running home to his father in the cottage after nightfall. He walked there now, resisting the urge to look in the direction of the towering estate, although he couldn’t help wondering if she were there, looking out the windows at him.
His father opened the door almost before he knocked.
“Are you watching at windows now, Father?” Nigel asked with a laugh.
Guy Bateson shrugged, a wide smile on his face. “How could a body not spot such a sharp figure walking down over the hill in his finest clothes? You seem an impressive personage in these parts.”
Nigel shook his head. “Hardly, Father. I am just your son, the next Bateson in line to your legacy, come to call.”
His father looked over the uniform with a frown. “I’m worried about your visit today, lad. I was going to ask for a bit of help lifting and carrying, but I can’t imagine what will become of all those shining buttons.”
Nigel laughed. “If you can loan me a spare shirt I will strip out of all this Navy nonsense and get to work at once. I consider it an honour that you would think to ask for my help.”
His father’s shirt was more than a little