Madeline blinked to attention; she looked at Ben, then up the table at Harry.
Who was frowning. “I don’t know. It seems strange that if there’s such trouble brewing, so few people have heard of it.” Harry looked at Madeline. “Have you heard anything? Are the mines at Carn Brea really closing?”
What? was her instinctive reaction; she swallowed it, and frowned. “I haven’t heard any whisper of such a thing. Where did you hear that?”
“In Helford,” Edmond said. “We went there after we got back from fishing.”
“We went down to the docks to watch the boats come in,” Harry said. “Sam and Joe were there. Sam’s father keeps the tavern in Helford and Joe’s dad is the blacksmith. Both Sam and Joe said their fathers were worried about what would happen in the district when the money from the mines dries up.”
“Both Sam’s and Joe’s older brothers work at Carn Brea,” Edmond added.
When she stared, gaze distant, down the table, Harry shifted. “Could the mines be closing? It’ll be bad for the district if they are, won’t it?”
She mentally shook herself. “Yes to the latter question, but I know of no information that suggests the mines are even in difficulties, much less that they’re on the brink of closing.”
She’d done as she’d told Squire Ridley she would, and had written to her London contacts; she’d heard back only yesterday that all was as she’d thought. She looked at Harry. “I heard from London yesterday that the tin mines, including those locally, are doing very well—in fact, exceeding expectations—and the outlook is rosy.”
“Perhaps I could tell Sam and Joe that, so they can tell their fathers. It seemed they were truly worried.”
She nodded. “Do. In fact, unless you have something pressing to attend to, I think you should go back to Helford today.” She paused, then added, “You”—she tipped her head at Harry—“could drop by and speak with Sam’s and Joe’s fathers directly. That would be the neighborly thing to do. You may tell them I’ve checked very recently and everything’s as it should be. We don’t need rumors of that sort spreading and frightening people.”
Harry, his expression unusually serious—much more adult, she saw with a pang—nodded. “I’ll ride that way this morning.”
“We’ll come,” Edmond said.
Ben, still eating, merely nodded.
Madeline watched while Harry drained the cup of coffee he’d recently graduated to, Gervase’s words about including him more in estate business whispering in her head.
“One thing,” she said. Harry looked inquiringly at her as he set down his cup; Edmond and Ben did, too. “Keep your ears open on the subject of the mines. There might be someone deliberately spreading rumors. We know there’s some London gentleman interested in buying up mining leases, and it’s possible the rumors are in some way linked.”
It took Harry but a moment to see the connection; Edmond was only a heartbeat behind. Ben remained fully absorbed with his last slice of ham.
Harry and Edmond exchanged glances, their features assuming the same expression, one she’d never before seen on their faces.
“We’ll listen.” Harry nodded, quietly grim. “We’ll tell you anything we hear.”
Gervase had been right; they were growing up. Despite the pang she felt near her heart, she couldn’t help feeling satisfied that both boys—youths, young men in the making—clearly possessed real interest in the district, in the industry and people that were part of their patrimony.
Regardless of Harry’s evolving maturity, Madeline did not press him to attend Lady Moreston’s ball that evening.
Her ladyship’s event was one of the many held over summer through which the local gentry and aristocracy entertained themselves through the long, mild evenings. Gowned in mulberry satin, feeling suitably armored as the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne, she greeted Lady Moreston with her customary assurance and followed Muriel into the ballroom.
The long room was bedecked with summer greenery, rather more to Madeline’s taste than ribbons, silks or gilded decorations. Halting at the top of the ballroom steps, she surveyed the room—searching for one curly dark head.
But Gervase wasn’t there, at least not yet.
Descending the steps in Muriel’s wake, Madeline inwardly frowned—then realized and banished the underlying emotion, whatever it was. She couldn’t possibly be disappointed; it was simply irritation at having to remain tense, on guard, until he appeared. Once he was there she would know what he was up to, and she wouldn’t feel so off-balance, trying to imagine what he might do.
Might take it into his devilish mind to do.
The man was plainly dangerous, but she wasn’t some silly witless girl to allow herself to grow too curious for her own good. She was her own person, in charge of her own life. What decisions she made would be her own.
With that determination ringing in her mind, she set herself to make use of the evening in her customary manner. She circulated through the guests, chatting with the gentlemen, listening for any confirmation of the rumors her brothers had heard; she hadn’t yet decided how to proceed on that front.
“I met Penterwell today,” Gerald Ridley told her. “He’d been approached by that agent, too. Not that he has any intention of selling, but like me, he’s wondering what’s behind this.”
“I’ve checked again since we spoke, and everything I hear suggests that all is going well and expected to improve even further. Perhaps this London gentleman simply thinks we’re naïve?”