‘How far is the house?’ she asked. ‘Can you take us there?’
‘Not but a step, ma’am. Over yonder.’ He pointed into the darkness.
Caroline strained for a glimpse of lights shining from the windows, but could make out none. ‘Is there a carriage I might hire to take us there?’
‘Sorry, my lady, there’s only my cart and Steren, here.’ The young islander patted his pony on the rump. ‘You and the lad are welcome to ride if you can find a perch among your baggage.’
Wyn ran over to the cart and the young man hoisted him in. Caroline was about to climb after her son when a cough drew her attention back to Albert. Even if it was ‘not but a step’, the footman would never be able to hobble that far on his injured ankle. One look at the brimming cart told her it had room for only one more person.
‘Get in.’ She beckoned the footman. ‘I don’t want to be out on a night like this any longer than we have to.’
They were soon on their way. Caroline had never thought the day would come when she would walk so a servant could ride. At least the exertion of trudging behind the cart made her somewhat warmer, while the gusts of salty air helped settle her queasy stomach.
But even they could not blow away the sense of guilt that nagged at her for dragging Wyn off on such a miserable journey. If she’d had more time to anticipate the consequences of her actions, perhaps she might have left him to his familiar nursery routine and the competent care of Mrs McGregor. But the dread of never seeing her child again, and her desire to be a more attentive mother during the time they had left, had overridden every other consideration.
‘Are you all right, Wyn?’ she called to him.
‘Y-yes, Mama.’ He sounded cheerful enough under the circumstances. ‘I’ve never been allowed outdoors after dark before and I’ve never ridden in a cart. It’s like an adventure!’
Parker muttered something under her breath that Caroline did not catch.
‘Here we are,’ announced the islander as his cart came to a halt. ‘This is the Maitland house.’
‘There must be some mistake.’ Caroline surveyed the rustic stone dwelling by the wildly flickering light of their guide’s torch. The place was no bigger than the groundskeeper’s lodge at Sterling House. All the windows were shuttered and not even the faintest gleam of light escaped through the slats. ‘It looks quite abandoned. Are there no caretakers living here?’
‘Not for ten years, ma’am.’ The helpful reply demolished all of Caroline’s hopes. ‘Mag and Jack Harris used to keep the place for the lady who owned it. But after Jack passed on, Aunt Mag went to live with her daughter on Bryher. The house has been shut up ever since.’
‘Does anyone have a key?’ Caroline’s voice grew shrill with desperation. ‘So we can at least take shelter from this wind.’
‘No need for locks and keys on Tresco, ma’am.’ The carter assured her. ‘Off-islanders think we’re all smugglers, but we’re honest folk and there’s few enough of us that we’d soon know if anybody was making away with what didn’t belong to him.’
To demonstrate, he lifted the latch and pushed the door open. The hinges gave a painful-sounding squeal.
Wyn scrambled down from the cart and followed his mother into the house behind the carter, who lit the way with his torch. As her anxious gaze swept around the parlour, Caroline’s heartening visions of warm fires, chocolate and a hot bath crumbled into cold dust like the kind that covered every surface in the room. Cobwebs draped the ceiling corners. Dead insects littered the floor.
‘What is that smell?’ Parker fanned her nose. ‘Did someone set fire to a load of rotten fish?’
‘Oh, no, miss.’ The carter inhaled. ‘That’d be smoke from the summer kelp fires. I reckon it seeped in over the years and never got aired out properly.’
Just then, Caroline would have given anything to be back at Sterling House—even in the servants’ hall, which would be warm and clean. If Wyn had not been with her, she might have sunk to the floor and wept in despair. As it was, it took every scrap of pluck she could muster to shore up her faltering composure.
‘We cannot stay here tonight.’ She shook her head. ‘Everything will need to be cleaned and aired before we take up residence.’
‘Not by me.’ Parker crossed her arms in front of her flat chest. ‘I’m a lady’s maid, not a charwoman. I’d sooner swim back to Penzance than scrub all this.’
Caroline was too tired and cold to argue the matter just then. She cast the carter a pleading look. ‘Is there anywhere we can find lodging for the night? Did you say Tresco has an inn?’
‘Aye, ma’am. T’other side of the island.’
Parker and Albert groaned.
‘We can be there in half an hour,’ added the carter, ‘if we step lively.’
Though Caroline welcomed the news that the inn was not far away, it disheartened her to realise how tiny this island must be if it took such a short time to cross from one coast to the other. Tresco would be her remote, rustic prison—as different as it could possibly be from the luxurious, stimulating life she’d enjoyed in London.
How long would she be obliged to stay here? she asked herself as her small party trudged through the dark windy night to the inn. Just until the tattle about her and Fitz Astley died down? Or would she be stranded here for the rest of her life once Bennett divorced her?
Somehow she managed to keep going for another two hours, hiring them rooms for the night, ordering a modest supper and finally putting Wyn to bed. Once he had dropped off to sleep, she slipped out of the room. In the narrow hallway she encountered the innkeeper’s wife, a small, neat woman with a ruddy complexion and dark-brown hair, grizzled at the temples.
‘Are you ailing, my lady?’ the woman asked in a kindly tone. ‘Tell me your trouble and perhaps I can brew you a remedy.’
‘I’m not ill, Mrs Pender, only tired.’ Caroline contrived a poor substitute for a smile. ‘It has been a long journey from London and I have not slept well.’
‘I see,’ replied Mrs Pender. ‘Well, if it’s nothing worse than that, I reckon a cup of camomile tea would do you a power of good. Would you care to join me in my parlour?’
Caroline hesitated for an instant. What would her friends in London say if they knew she was keeping company with a rural innkeeper’s wife? Some of them might think worse of her for that than for being caught kissing Mr Astley at Almack’s.
But she was a vast distance from London now. And none of those friends were here to comfort or divert her. Indeed, she doubted any of them would have come to visit her if she’d still been back in London. They seemed to view scandal as some sort of contagious malady that might infect them if they ventured too near.
This woman was the first to have shown her any kindness since that awful night her world had come crashing down. Until this moment, she had not realised how starved she was for a bit of agreeable company.
‘That is most obliging of
