pleased. She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “Is something wrong?” She sneezed again.
“What are you doing in here?”
“They have finished in the…” Another sneeze interrupted her response. “Oh dear, I’m sorry.” She fished for her handkerchief again. “They finished cleaning the hall and did not know what to do next. I thought they could spend their time…”
Carrick scowled. “I thought we had agreed that you need not concern yourself any further with their work.”
“But I don’t mind. I hadn’t anything else…” Yet another sneeze burst forth. Her small handkerchief had become too damp to be useful, so Lalia sniffed behind her finger as quietly as she could.
Morgan took her firmly by the arm and led her out of the dust into the corridor. How the devil could he express his displeasure to a woman who kept sneezing? And sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief. “Now…why are you involving yourself in this? You now have other duties.”
“Very few, my lord.” She blew discreetly. “Thank you.” She put his handkerchief in her pocket. He wondered if he would ever see it again. “You and Mrs. Carthew were both away, and Gwennap came and asked me what to do. But I don’t know what to tell him about the draperies. Will you replace them?”
Morgan tried another frown. Somehow he was not getting through. These decisions were no longer her responsibility. “That will be for my mother to decide. When the work is complete, this will again be her home.”
At last she looked at him with something approaching comprehension. The smooth skin of her brow wrinkled. “I see.” Her eyes clouded over. “Then you will write to her about them?”
“Yes, I will ask her.”
“Very well. Perhaps she can select new fabric in London. I really wouldn’t recommend…” She sneezed and reached in her pocket. “These are just too dirty.”
“I will convey your opinion to her.”
I will convey your opinion to her. And what would his lordship convey to his mother about Lalia’s continued presence? The lady must not like her being here any more than Lord Carrick liked it. Somehow Lalia must stop thinking of Merdinn as her home. She had no home. She would be leaving in a few months.
Again the frightening specter of where she would go in the fall arose. Other than her tenants, she knew so few people. She had no idea where to start looking for a position. Would his lordship know of something? She hated the thought of having to ask him, but the unpalatable fact was that she needed his help. If she didn’t have Daj to think of it might be much easier. But she did, and she would contrive somehow. Just as always.
She had just washed her face and hands and looked in on Jeremy’s activities when Watford found her. “The Reverend Nascawan wishes to know if you are in?”
It had been so long since Lalia had the assistance of servants that for a moment she couldn’t think how to respond. “I… I…” Everything was so disrupted by the cleaning… “Yes, of course. I’ll talk to him in the library if his lordship is not using it.”
She made her way down to the book room to find the good parson sipping a glass of brandy to which he had helped himself. Lalia had tried hard to like the man. She truly had. Somehow she never quite succeeded. Tall and gaunt, his emaciated face and wispy hair made her think of a graying cadaver. He always wore a resigned expression, as if he had given her up for lost but felt duty-bound to keep trying. At least he no longer exhorted her to brave the snubs of his congregation by attending services. He bowed.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hayne.” He held out a small, damp bundle. “I have brought you something you might find useful.”
It would be a collection of worn-out clothes. He often brought them. These smelled of seawater and mildew. She reached for them politely, and his bony hand, chill and clammy, lingered against hers as he released them. Why must he always do that? Lalia repressed a shudder. “Why, thank you, Reverend Nascawan. How thoughtful of you.”
“And I must ask you—when did his lordship bring his household here?”
Oh, dear. A lecture loomed. “A few days ago.”
The clergyman drew his eyebrows together and folded his hands before him. Yes, definitely a lecture. “I must say, ma’am, that I am very surprised to see that you are still here. Certainly you must know that for a lady to reside with a gentleman not her husband…” He turned toward the door. “Ah. Lord Carrick?”
Carrick stood in the doorway, his face expressionless. “You have the advantage of me, sir. You are…?”
Lalia, still holding the smelly bundle, hastened to make introductions. Carrick stepped out of the doorway but remained standing. “I see. It was kind of you to call on Mrs. Hayne.”
Nascawan hesitated. Even he could not completely disregard the dismissal, but apparently he felt obliged to make one more sally. “My lord, I must point out to you that your living in the same house with…”
His lordship raised one eyebrow. “Must you?”
Lalia listened in astonishment, all admiration for Lord Carrick. Obviously he did not suffer busybodies gladly. At last she was about to see the redoubtable cleric routed foot and horse.
The pastor, however, was still game. He put on a stern expression. “Sir, under these circumstances Mrs. Hayne’s reputation must be called into question.”
“Not in my house.”
The chilling response stopped Nascawan in his tracks. He blinked and drew himself up. Handing Lalia his glass, he mumbled a haughty goodbye and abruptly took himself off, his dignity trailing behind him.
Morgan moved into the room and took the clothes out of her hands, his nose wrinkling. “What the devil is that?”
“Reverend Nascawan very kindly brought me some used garments.” She grimaced. “He often does so.”
“Clothes? Do you use them?” No wonder her wardrobe looked so shabby.
She shrugged. “Sometimes, if Daj or Peggy or I can wear them. Otherwise, I give them away or use them for cleaning rags.”
Her answer gave Morgan pause. Was her poverty such that she had actually been reduced to accepting that sort of charity? The lady had endured a great deal indeed. He tossed the bundle through the door into the hall. “Surely you won’t use those?”
She smiled. “No, I fear they are past praying for. They did not fare well in their encounter with the sea.”
Morgan settled himself behind the desk and invited her to sit with a wave of his hand. “Do you think they came from the recent wreck?”
“I would think so. The things he brings often do.” She seated herself in the chair opposite him.
“So the good pastor is not above a little scavenging?”
She smiled. “No, nor a little smuggling, I feel sure. He does like a good glass of brandy.”
“In common with many Cornish clergymen. Did you offer it to him?”
“Oh, no.” She looked shocked. “I would not make free with your wine. He must have helped himself.” She giggled. “No doubt a privilege of the cloth. He means well, I’m sure.”
“I’m not.” Another thought occurred to Morgan. The man had been noticeably preoccupied with where Eulalia Hayne was sleeping. “He seemed very interested in our living arrangements. Has he ever accosted you?”
“Mmm…no.” Morgan did not miss the slight hesitation in her voice. “No, not exactly. He just… I don’t know. He is married, after all. Very likely I imagine it.”
“No, you do not.” He recognized that with the certainty of a man who senses a rival for the woman he wanted. “He doesn’t seem very highly principled,