Samantha fully expected that the cottage would be no more than the hovel her mother had called it. But she would not be disappointed, she told herself. At least it was habitable. It would do for a while even if not forever. And this was such a beautiful part of the world she would surely not regret moving here.

And then, quite suddenly, just as they were approaching a line of rolling sand dunes, partly covered with gra.s.s, there it was. Or what must be it since there was no other dwelling in sight and the village must be beyond the dunes.

Except that it was not a cottage. Or not what she thought of as a cottage, anyway.

"Oh, goodness," she said.

Ben leaned sideways, his shoulder pressed against hers, so that he could see it with her out of the window on her side of the carriage.

It was a st.u.r.dy, square house of gray stone with a gray slate roof. It looked as if it must have at least four bedchambers upstairs and as many rooms downstairs. There was a porch at the front and a dormer window in the roof above it. A square garden surrounded it, bordered by a whitewashed wooden fence. There was a sizable barn in one corner. What had obviously been flower beds at one time were bare apart from a few weeds, but the gra.s.s had been newly scythed. Its green expanse was unmarred by either daisy or b.u.t.tercup.

"That is a cottage?"

"Well," Ben said, "it is not a mansion, but it is not a hermit's shed either, is it?"

"It is a house," she said. "How on earth could my mother have called it a hovel? Do you suppose there is some mistake?"

"No," he said. "The carriage is turning toward it. Your new maid would say something if this was the wrong place, even though I notice that the sight of Quinn awed her into silence when she met him in the stable yard this morning and I have not heard her voice from up on the box, have you?"

"My great-aunt could really not have been impoverished," she said. "I always a.s.sumed she was."

A large woman in a dark brown dress with a voluminous white ap.r.o.n and matching mob cap had appeared on the steps outside the porch, a welcoming smile on her face. Mrs. Price, Samantha a.s.sumed. She dipped into a curtsy as the coachman lowered the steps and handed Samantha down at the garden gate. Mr. Quinn opened it. Gladys was clambering down from the box, una.s.sisted.

"Welcome, Mrs. McKay," Mrs. Price said. "Everything is ready for you, even at such short notice. I kept everyone's nose to the grindstone yesterday until everything shone and not one speck of dust or dirt remained. And I came over early this morning to get some baking done so that you would have something nice to eat as well as having the smell of cooking in the house. There is nothing so homely as that smell, is there? And is that you, Gladys Jones? Your mam said you had gone off to see if you could be Mrs. McKay's maid. Come inside, ma'am. The gentleman has hurt himself, has he?"

The interior lived up to the outside, Samantha discovered over the next half hour. There were four sizable square rooms downstairs-a parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, and a book room. There were four large bedchambers upstairs and one small one at the head of the stairs, and there was the attic room with its dormer window in the roof. A hallway bisected the house downstairs and contained the staircase, which ran straight up to the landing above.

The architect, whoever he had been, had lacked imagination, perhaps, but Samantha loved the dimensions of the rooms. The furniture, though old and heavy and predominantly dark in color, just as Mr. Rhys had described it, nevertheless looked comfortable. Yesterday, no doubt, there had been a smell of age and even mustiness here, but the opened windows and the fires and the baking had taken care of that.

Finally, Mrs. Price bustled off to the kitchen to fetch some of her newly baked cakes and a pot of tea. Gladys was thumping about in the main bedchamber above the parlor, where Samantha sat with Ben.

"I cannot quite believe it," she said, spreading her hands on the soft old leather of the chair arms.

"That the cottage really exists?" he said. "Or that it is habitable? Or that it is really quite large? Or that it actually belongs to you? Or that you are here at last? Or that you have a beach all to yourself and a view to entice you to your front windows for a lifetime? Or that your life has changed so drastically in such a short time?"

"Oh, stop," she said, laughing. She rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes briefly. "All of those things. Oh, Ben, it is as if I have been s.n.a.t.c.hed away from my life and deposited here in heaven. It really feels like heaven."

"I daresay," he said, "the Earl of Heathmoor did you a favor when he took Bramble Hall away from you and summoned you to Leyland Abbey. You may never have given this cottage a serious thought if you had not been desperate for escape, or, if you had, perhaps you would never have thought of coming here."

"This was fate, then?" She opened her eyes to look at him. "Something that was meant to be?"

But Mrs. Price came bustling back into the room, bearing a large tray, before he could answer her.

"I did not know if you liked currant cake or seed cake or bara brith best, Mrs. McKay," she said. "So I made all three and you can have your pick. I daresay the major likes all three. Men usually do. I am sure you must both be ready for a nice cup of tea. You would not prefer coffee, I hope? Nasty, bitter stuff, if you were to ask me. I never have it in my own house. My man did not like it either and nor does my son. But I can get some to bring tomorrow, if you like it. If you want me to come again, that is. I wouldn't mind coming in each day to get your breakfast and staying until I have cooked your evening meal, though I would rather not live in. My son would starve since he has not found a wife for himself yet, and I can never seem to sleep sound in any other bed but my own."

"Shall we give your suggestion a try?" Samantha said. "And I am happy to drink tea. Bara ... brith, did you say?"

"This dark full-fruit loaf," Mrs. Price said, indicating the slices of it on the cake plate she had brought in before pouring them each a cup of tea. "There is no cake to compare with it for richness of flavor. That dog is gnawing on a soup bone and drinking his water in the kitchen. I do like a dog in the house, and a cat too, though I have never seen a dog quite like this one."

"And never will again, Mrs. Price, it is to be fervently hoped," Ben said.

Mrs. Price laughed. "Can I get you anything else before I go back to the kitchen?" she asked.

"You have always lived here, have you, Mrs. Price?" Samantha asked. "The village is not far away?"

"Just over those sand dunes," Mrs. Price said, pointing west. "And behind here is Mr. Bevan's land and the big house, though you can't see it from here."

Mr. Bevan's land.

The big house.

"He is your grandfather, I expect, Mrs. McKay, isn't he?" Mrs. Price said. "I wasn't sure who was coming here, though I was told it was the owner. But you look as if you must be his granddaughter. He married a Gypsy lady, you know. But of course you know. You have the look of one yourself, though it sits well on you, I must say. I'll get back to the kitchen. I have some soup cooking and some bread rising."

"Is there an inn in the village, Mrs. Price?" Ben asked as she turned to leave.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir," she told him. "It is a nice, tidy place too. Nothing fancy, but it serves up a good dinner, it do, and is always clean. The stables too. My brother owns it."

"Thank you," Ben said. "I shall probably stay there for a few nights until I am sure Mrs. McKay is properly settled here. I promised her late husband, my friend, that I would, you know."

Samantha took a bite of the bara brith when she was alone with Ben. It really was delicious, but she did not have much of an appet.i.te. She set her plate aside and looked at him. He was gazing steadily back at her.

"He has land," she said, "and a big house. He is still alive."

"Yes."

"Yet he sent my mother here to live with his sister," she said. "He let her go to London at the age of seventeen and did not go after her. He did not go to her wedding or to my christening or to her funeral. It could not have been poverty that caused any of those things, could it?"

"Has imagining that he was poor comforted you over the years?" he asked.

"I have not needed comforting," she told him. "I have not thought of him or wondered about him."

But she knew as she stared at him and as he sat looking silently back that she must have done even if it had not been conscious. And she knew that the conviction that her grandfather had been poor was the only thing that had satisfied the hurt of being cut off from her mother's family at the same time as she was being shunned by her father's.

"I suppose," she said, "it was because she was the daughter of the Gypsy who abandoned him. My mother, I mean. And because I was her daughter. If he knew of me at all, that is."

"Are you going to be sorry you came?" Ben asked.

She looked beyond him to the window, which faced south. Through it she could see the land beyond the garden fence dipping away to the west and then rising again over the dunes. Through the dip she could see the sea and a strip of golden sand-just a stone's throw from her own house. The house itself was warm and cozy. A clock on the mantel ticked steadily. It would be lulling when she sat here alone. If she sat by the open window, she would be able to smell the salt of the sea. She would be able to hear it too.

And it was all hers.

It was her heritage.

"No." She opened her mouth to say more and shut it again.

"But-?"

"I am a bit afraid, perhaps," she admitted. "Afraid of Pandora's box."

He got slowly to his feet, abandoned one of his canes, and reached out his free hand. She set her own in it, and he led her to the window.

"Look at the sea, Samantha," he said. "I learned the trick when I was at Penderris. It was there long before we were thought of. It will be there long after we are forgotten, ebbing and flowing according to the law of the tides."

"Our little affairs are insignificant?"

"Far from it," he said. "Pain is not insignificant. Neither is bewilderment or fear. Or conditions like poverty or homelessness. But somewhere-somewhere-there is peace. It is not even far off. It is somewhere deep inside us, in fact, ever present, just waiting for us to look inward to find it."

She turned her head to look at his lean profile.

"It is how you learned to master your pain," she said with sudden intuition.

"It was, at last, the only way of doing it," he admitted. "But I sometimes forget. We all do. It is human nature to try to manage all our living for ourselves without drawing upon ... But I am sorry. I did not intend to be so obscure. Just don't be afraid, though. Whatever you discover here, the knowing cannot bring you any real harm even if it feels painful, for these things are whether you know them or not. And perhaps the knowing will bring you some understanding and even perhaps some peace."

He continued to look out through the window, and she continued to look at him.

His pain, she thought, was fathoms deep. He had learned to master it. But he was still adrift in life. Unlike her, he had not found his home. But, also unlike her, he had learned not to fear.

"You will stay for a while?" she asked him. Oh, she hoped she was not being selfish. But just for a few days ...

"I will stay," he said, lowering his eyes to hers. "For a while."

15.

The village of Fisherman's Bridge consisted of just one street worth speaking of. It followed the coastline for perhaps a mile. There were no high cliffs here, only a sea wall with golden sands stretching beyond it to the water's edge.

The inn was halfway along the street on the seaward side, the stables beside it rather than behind, where they would have obstructed the view from the dining room and taproom windows. There was a room available, and the landlord was delighted to let it to Major Sir Benedict Harper. It was quickly clear to Ben that the man knew exactly who he was. News traveled fast in small places. He knew too that Ben had come with Mrs. McKay, who was taking up residence in old Miss Bevan's cottage beyond the sand dunes. He asked if it was true that she was the granddaughter of Mr. Bevan, and Ben confirmed that she was. There was no point in denying it. It was no secret, after all.

But who the devil was Bevan? It appeared that he was some sort of landowner.

His room was comfortable and afforded a view over the beach and sea. His dinner, prepared by the landlord's wife, was tasty and plentiful, as Mrs. Price had predicted. He was the only occupant of the dining room, though if the sounds of boisterous voices and laughter were anything to judge by, the taproom next door was crowded. The landlord must be serving in there. It was his wife herself who brought Ben's food and lingered to talk.

"It is lovely to know there is someone in Miss Bevan's cottage again," she said. "I have hated to see it sitting empty when it is such a pretty place."

Ben could not resist doing some probing. "Mr. Bevan lives close to here, does he, Mrs. Davies?"

"Up at the big house, yes," she told him, waving a hand inland. "If you go along the street to the bridge, you will be able to see it up on the hill in among the trees. A lovely situation, it is. His father before him chose the perfect spot for it when he decided to build."

"There was no house on the land before that, then?" Ben asked.

"Only a farmhouse," she said. "But it wasn't big or grand enough for Mr. Bevan. Well, it stands to reason, doesn't it? He had that fortune he made from his coal mines, but it was here he chose to live and set up as a gentleman. He wanted a big house, and a lovely one he built. Our Marged works there as a chambermaid, and she gets a decent wage."

"This roast beef is almost tender enough to cut with a fork," Ben remarked. "And the roast potatoes are crisp on the outside and soft on the inside-just as I like them."

"I do like to see a man tuck in to a hearty meal," she said, clearly pleased.

"The present Mr. Bevan still has the mines, does he?" Ben asked.

"Those and the ironworks up the valley by Swansea there," she told him. "That is where our oldest boy has gone to work. He earns good money. A number of lads from around here go there for work, and to the mines too. He is a good employer, Mr. Bevan is. Good to his workers. But he is getting on in years, and he has no sons to carry on after him, more's the pity. Mrs. Bevan-the second one, that is-never was blessed with children before she died, poor lady."

Ben was feeling guilty. All this was none of his business-except that he probably would have been having this exact conversation even if he were a stranger here. He would have been asking questions and finding out information of interest for his book. Indeed, he probably would have been delving deeper.

He wondered what Samantha was going to make of these facts when she knew them. What had she said to him earlier?

I am a bit afraid, perhaps. Afraid of Pandora's box.

Some box!

"Perhaps he will take comfort from his granddaughter," Mrs. Davies added. "A widow, is she, sir?"

"Her husband was my friend," Ben explained. "I promised him before he died that I would see her safely settled here."

Someone called from the kitchen, and Mrs. Davies hurried away with an apology for leaving him.

Was Bevan going to be pleased to find his granddaughter living on his doorstep? And did he know yet that she was here?

One thing was sure, though, Ben thought as he cleaned off his plate. He was going to remain here until some of his questions had been answered. Samantha might yet need him.

It felt like an enormous relief, that realization.

Ben rode a horse from the inn stables to the cottage the next morning, Quinn behind him in order to help him dismount and then mount again for the return ride.

The sun was sparkling off the sea by the time they had ridden over the dunes, and there was warmth in the air. The front upstairs windows of the cottage were open, and the curtains were flapping in the breeze. The front door stood open too, and Samantha-yes, it was she-was bent over one of the bare beds under the parlor window, pulling out weeds. She was wearing gloves and an ap.r.o.n and an old, floppy-brimmed straw bonnet he had not seen before. She had left off her blacks again. Her dress was a pale lemon muslin and looked as if it had probably seen better days.

Ben drew his horse to a halt in order to enjoy a longer look at her. She looked relaxed and wholesome, as if she had always belonged here. The realization caused him a pang of something. Exclusion? Loneliness? For she would probably belong here long after he had gone.

Something alerted her even though the horse's hooves were making no great noise on the sandy gra.s.s. She straightened up and turned their way, a small trowel in her hand. She smiled. The dog, who had been stretched out in the sun at the foot of the porch steps, was on his feet too, wagging his tail and woofing.

"I always fancied myself as a gardener," she said as Ben rode up to the garden fence. "I used to dabble as a girl, but I never had a chance at Bramble Hall-Matthew always needed me in the sickroom. Now I do have a chance. Mr. Rhys said that my great-aunt kept a pretty flower garden here, did he not? Well, I am going to restore it, even if I have to start with some destruction. I hate killing weeds. They are plants, after all. They are living things. And who decides what are flowers and what are weeds, anyway? I love daisies and b.u.t.tercups and dandelions, but everyone banishes them from their lawns as if they carry the plague."

"Perhaps because they would destroy those lawns if left to grow and spread unchecked," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

She had been in the house alone since neither her maid nor Mrs. Price was to live in, at least for a while. He wondered if that fact had bothered her. He had worried about her a bit during the night.

"I slept with the window open," she told him. "I could hear the sea and smell it, but only for a very short while, I must admit. I fell deeply asleep and did not rouse until I could smell bacon cooking. Mrs. Price put me to shame and came early. Is the inn a decent place?"

"Very comfortable," he said. "You have a barn at the back big enough to stable the horses while I am here. I'll go back there now with Quinn, if I may, and then come visiting."

The ap.r.o.n and the gloves and trowel had disappeared by the time he walked back to the house from the barn, but she was still outside and still wore the floppy-brimmed bonnet, which was surely as old as the hills and made her look absurdly pretty. The dog was beside her, wagging his tail in clear expectation of being entertained. He really did a.s.sume that the world revolved around his large, ungainly self.

"You could never walk on the beach at Penderris Hall, I remember your saying," she said, "because it was at the foot of a high cliff. Was there a way down?"