Mr. Brogan’s cheeks flushed red, but he managed to say calmly enough, “Actually it does, Mr. Bennett. Mrs. Penrose bequeathed Scrilady Hall, all the lands, the tin mines, everything, to the both of you. However—”
Bennett Penrose whirled around, quite an athletic movement for such a languid young man, his face now scarlet with rage. “What? That’s just more of her bloody nonsense! She gives Caroline all the money and leaves me with half a house, half the income from the rents and the tin mines, half the servants, half of the damned furniture?”
“That’s not quite right, Mr. Penrose. Actually, the two of you will be joint trustees of Scrilady Hall, the tin mines, the farms, and any other income that could accrue from other sources. Scrilady Hall will become a refuge for these young girls. Eleanor Penrose hoped you would take an interest and provide not only a home for them, but also training so they would be able to make something of themselves after they’d birthed their children. She knew there were sufficient funds for the upkeep of Scrilady Hall from the rents and the three tin mines.”
Bennett Penrose could only stand there in front of the desk and stare at Mr. Brogan. He looked incredulous and revolted; he looked nearly to the point of violence. “You say that I’m to live here with Caroline and with a passel of bloody fat-bellied young girls? Common little baggages who can’t speak English, are budding whores, who will whine that they’d been forced by the very gentlemen who employed them, and will drop bastards about the place? This is idiocy and my aunt must have been crazy as a loon when she prepared this damned will. I won’t allow it to stand, Mr. Brogan. I’m not twenty-three anymore and without resources or friends. I will contest this absurd will.”
“I’ll just bet you have no more important friends now than you did when you were twenty-three.”
“By God, you get everything and you have the gall to snarl at me. Damn you, Caroline, I won’t put up with this, I won’t.”
“Do calm yourself, Mr. Penrose. This comes as something of a shock, I can see that. Be seated, sir, and remember you’re a gentleman. What do you think, Miss Derwent-Jones?”
Caroline looked from Bennett’s furious face to Mr. Brogan’s impassive one. She knew she was red in the face, knew she wanted to smack Bennett, but she drew a deep breath and brought herself to the point of it all. She said, “I’ve never known a young girl who got pregnant. It must be frightening. How many pregnant girls are there currently, sir?”
“There are only three at present. They currently reside in a small cottage in St. Agnes under the nominal aegis of the vicar, Mr. Plumberry. He, er, was never very enthusiastic about your aunt’s project, but I suppose he felt it his Christian duty to agree with Mrs. Penrose’s scheme since he was also the recipient of a good deal of bounty himself from your aunt. I assume that the bounty assisted him in doing his duty. The girls are mightily upset by Mrs. Penrose’s death. Dr. Treath tells me that one of them, only fourteen years old, hasn’t stopped crying since it happened. She looked upon Eleanor Penrose as a saint.”
Caroline rose slowly. She looked down at her bandaged foot, which had still throbbed when she’d poured brandy over it the previous night before she’d gone to bed. She smoothed her gown with her hands. She remembered all too starkly that awful night when Mr. Ffalkes would have raped her if she hadn’t managed to get her hands free, if she hadn’t managed to kick him in the groin. If he’d succeeded, why then, she could have ended up pregnant. It was a terrifying thought. Girls were very, very vulnerable, particularly comely girls in the employ of dishonorable men. Finally, she turned to Bennett Penrose and said, “Listen, Bennett, let’s stop the bickering. You must agree that whatever a person wants to do with his or her money should be that person’s decision. I know nothing about being a trustee to anyone, much less to girls who are in such a situation. But this is what Aunt Eleanor wanted. You and I will be in charge, Bennett. I think we should give it a try.”
“You’re just a bloody simpering little saint, aren’t you, Caroline? Just a moment ago you were a damned shrew, squawking and railing at me. You make me ill.” He gave a furious look to Mr. Brogan and strode from the drawing room.
“He isn’t a very pleasant man,” Mr. Brogan said as he straightened his papers. “I knew him as a boy. He hasn’t improved.”
“He had what I believe are called expectations, sir. Do you know, Mr. Brogan, why Aunt Eleanor left her estate in such a way?”
“I believe, Miss Derwent-Jones, that Eleanor felt Bennett could be salvaged. I strongly disagreed with her assessment, but it was a belief she held about most of her fellow men, despite the obvious rottenness of the individual under discussion. Bennett was always borrowing money from her after his uncle died, not that he ever did anything productive with any money she gave him. I think she hoped with a challenge he just might become a better person, perhaps even grow up, perhaps even learn responsibility. It probably isn’t fair to you, but she thought you could be of help to Bennett, direct him, perhaps, make him do the right thing. She had a great deal of faith in you, and respect for you.”
Caroline just stared at him. “But how could she possibly know that I would be willing to give it a try? How could she know that I wasn’t a silly little twit who would wring her hands and whine?”
Mr. Brogan unhooked his glasses from behind his ears and polished them with his handkerchief. “She told me you had your father’s sense of justice and your mother’s forthrightness. She said you had your own stubborn streak that should carry you through any unpleasantness.”
Caroline sighed. “I don’t want to disappoint her, truly, Mr. Brogan, but this is a great responsibility and there are others involved in all this as well.” She thought of Mr. Ffalkes, always in the back of her mind. She thought of Owen, then of Bennett Penrose. “Perhaps we should include ill-mannered wastrels in amongst our pregnant girls. Provide them training and counseling.”
Mr. Brogan, for the very first time, actually smiled at her. “Excellent,” he said. “This is just excellent.”
“You think so, do you?”
Caroline convinced Mr. Brogan to remain for lunch, though when she saw what Mrs. Trebaw, the Scrilady housekeeper, brought in from the kitchen, she wasn’t so certain it was such a good idea. But Mr. Brogan said, rubbing his hands together, “Ah, stargazey pie, how very delightful.”
Caroline stared at the huge round pie, stared even harder at the pilchard heads sticking out of the sides, eyes open.
Mr. Brogan grinned at her. “The Cornish are a very thrifty people, Miss Derwent-Jones. It’s wasteful, you see, to cover the inedible pilchard head with crust, thus they’re all left to stick out. On the other hand, if one cuts off the heads, then all the oil is lost and thus doesn’t soak into the meat.”
She ate the crust, unable not to keep eyeing that damned pilchard head.
Dr. Treath appeared after luncheon, and Caroline, realizing quickly that Dr. Treath had been more than just a friend of her aunt’s, asked him to stay. He looked at her foot, questioned her closely, then, satisfied, patted her knee and said, “Very well, I know you want to speak to Everett here. If I can be of some assistance to Ellie’s niece, it would be my pleasure.”
She drew a deep breath. “I need all the help I can get, Dr. Treath.” She told them about Mr. Ffalkes, what he’d
tried to do, how she’d taken Owen hostage and he’d been too bewildered to realize he could have ridden away at any time. She told them about North Nightingale and how he’d helped her when Owen had fallen ill at the inn in Dorchester. “Finally,” she said, aware that they were staring at her as hard as she’d been staring at those glassy-eyed pilchard heads, “I don’t doubt that Mr. Ffalkes will be coming here to Cornwall. He needs money. He wants mine. He said he would be able to make me marry him. I need your help, gentlemen.”
There came a quiet voice from the drawing room door, “And mine as well, Caroline.”
She turned, giving North a dazzling smile. She jumped up from her chair and limped over to him. If he was surprised at her enthusiastic greeting, he didn’t show it. He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. She rushed into speech when his warm mouth touched her flesh. “Ah, North, you’ve come to visit. Do come in. How much did you hear me telling Mr. Brogan and Dr. Treath?”
“Enough. Well, gentlemen, what do you think? Shall we hire an assassin to go blow off Mr. Ffalkes’s head?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Treath. “He sounds like a thoroughly disagreeable fellow.”