‘The breeze is gaining in strength,’ said Talek as he watched the greener limbs bending and swaying in the wind. ‘The trees are rustling their leaves as if they are percussionists with rattles.’

‘Talek? Is Caradon Potteries happy with our clay?’

Talek looked down at his sister. ‘Since when have you been interested in what the potteries think?’ he teased. She did not look amused. ‘There are always teething problems with any new contract.’ She grew concerned so he smiled to reassure her. ‘It is nothing that cannot be resolved. Now I have spent most of the day travelling and am in need of water and soap.’ He made his escape, but paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame. ‘How is everyone?’ he asked, without turning round.

‘Henry is recovering. He is up and about and demanding to return to his duties. He wants the ledgers.’

Talek nodded. ‘That is good to hear . . . that he is on the mend, I mean.’ He waited, allowing his chest to rise and fall in the hope Amelia would say more. She didn’t. ‘And Grace? Where is she?’

‘She has taken to her room.’

‘Is she ill?’

Amelia picked up her book and began to turn the pages efficiently, although noisily. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. I haven’t seen much of her of late. The accounts are keeping her busy . . . or at least that is what she tells me.’

‘You doubt it?’

‘I don’t question it. I’m only relaying what she has told me.’

* * *

In the sanctuary of his bedroom, Talek unbuttoned his shirt as he approached the washbasin. Impatient to be rid of it, he resorted to dragging the linen over his head, before casting it aside with a flick of his arm. He could still feel the grime of Longton on his skin and was eager to wash away any reminder of his visit. He sluiced his face and chest, unwilling to wait for the maid to fetch a warmer jug. The chilled water pained him, yet invigorated him, sharpening his mind after the weariness a long journey and a disappointing business meeting can inflict.

As soon as he arrived at Caradon’s office, he knew something was wrong. The board of directors had lined up to greet him, older men with grey speckled beards, sideburns and shiny, freckled foreheads. Their greetings were sombre and no one could meet his eyes, sparking a sense of unease in Talek’s gut as he sat down opposite them. He had expected a new offer to be laid on the table, but the faces behind the ornate table had no plans for the future glinting in their eyes. They came to the point quickly. They were pottery men, after all, and this part of England did not become the epicentre of the world’s ceramic production by not being forthright in their dealings. It was Mr Caradon, himself, who addressed him. Grandson of the original founder, he was now the patriarch of the family firm and it was his shrewd business mind that had trebled their production of ceramics in recent years. Talek greatly admired his ethos, until his steely determined eyes were turned on him.

‘Your clay has produced the finest porcelain,’ he had told him, ‘but we have experienced some problems with a particular batch.’ He paused, gauging Talek’s reaction beneath hooded lids. Talek remained silent and waited for him to continue, unsure if this was some ploy to reduce the price. ‘It is early days,’ Mr Caradon continued, ‘but we felt it important to inform you of our concerns. If it was to happen again, we will begin to suspect it was not a fault on our part, but the product itself.’

Talek was confident that it was not his clay and his confidence finally won them over. He had returned to his lodgings, both angry and fatigued that the trip had been a waste on his part. Yet as the evening dragged by, when time plays the jester and thoughts become deeper, Talek’s doubt began to edge its way in and make a mockery of his earlier confidence. At no point did Caradon Potteries try to reduce the price. The concerns they had raised were legitimate and serious and they had summoned him to help cast some light on the problem. As he laid waiting for sleep, he could not shake off the feeling that all he had worked for teetered on the precipice of disaster should the fault be traced back to his product. The grading of clay was not scientific, but judged by appearance and experience gained through time, like the old miner, Tommy, had. He’d lived and breathed the white powder all of his life. What if Talek had got it wrong? What if the inspectors had been inexperienced? Who would be responsible if another batch failed? Compensation would have to be paid, contracts terminated. The abyss beyond the precipice beckoned.

Talek roughly towelled himself dry. The urge to share his concerns with someone who understood how damaging this could be to his reputation was overpowering. He was used to keeping his concerns locked away, not fighting an urge to speak with someone. Someone who was sensible, intelligent and did not wave his concerns away as Henry would do. The person who came to mind was unsettling, but made perfect sense.

Moments later he was at Grace’s bedroom door, his fist raised to knock, his mind trying to organise the tumble of words in his head to explain his presence. He had told her he had no desire to court her, yet here he was, looking for solace in her arms and the sharing of her wisdom when the situation suited him, not her. He looked at his clenched fist, before letting it fall. It was selfish to unburden his troubles onto her after kissing her in public, then cruelly offering nothing afterwards. His troubles were not a good reason to see her now, despite his body wanting to knock down the door. He looked down at himself, shaken at how much he wanted her. What a spectacle he would have made. He had not even put on his shirt. Tomorrow he would speak frankly to her. He had denied his feelings for her long enough. It was time to stop.

Chapter Sixteen

Grace had been watching the beam of sunshine slowly edge across her desk all morning, its silent journey marking each passing hour. She reached her hand across the desk to bask in its warmth. For the first time that morning, she was tempted to leave her desk and venture outside. The wages were due at the end of the month and the complicated task had given her a place to engage her mind, a valid reason to leave Amelia in the tender care of her maid, and some solace that despite the secrets she was harbouring, she was still helping Talek in her own small way. Grace had also made a decision. She respected — no loved — Talek too much to keep Henry’s secrets from him, even if it meant exposing her own and Amelia’s part in it. How best to tell him that his business partner was lying to him and that his beloved sister was also duplicitous, albeit innocently. She had kept it from him as she feared jumping to conclusions and hurting him, but she now believed that the pain of finding out would be far worse than that of being told. She had to tell him and she had to tell him soon. The decision made, she knew that her time at Roseland would come to an end. It would anyway, she consoled herself, as Henry would no doubt take pleasure in informing him of her own sordid background once the truth of his business dealings were out.

The soft knock on her door did not startle her, seeing the man himself standing on the threshold did. Talek stepped aside to allow a maid, carrying a pot of tea and a small plate of biscuits, to enter.

‘Amelia said you did not touch your breakfast. I thought you might be in need of something.’ He remained where he was, standing sentry at the door, until the maid had left. Only then did he enter. He indicated to a wooden chair. ‘May I?’

Grace put down her pen. ‘This is your home, Talek. You don’t need my permission to sit down.’

He lifted the chair closer to her desk and, straight backed and endearingly awkward, sat down. Grace stifled a smile as she poured them both a steaming cup of tea.

‘If you have come to apologise about kissing me, I would rather you didn’t. Too many apologies can dent a woman’s ego.’

She held a cup out to him.

‘I’ve not come to apologise.’ He took the cup and saucer but placed it on a table beside him with a noisy rattle. Grace suspected there were other things on his mind and drinking tea was not one of them. He had just returned from the potteries. A sense of dread shivered through her.

‘How was your trip? Amelia said that it had gone well.’

Talek cleared his throat. ‘A few teething problems, nothing more. Everything seems to be in order.’

Grace exhaled the breath she had been holding. Perhaps Henry had been right, that his transaction would not have any lasting effects. If only she understood more about the clay industry. She lifted her cup and watched Talek over the rim as she considered how best to broach the subject of Henry’s activities. Talek rubbed the back of his neck. He looked troubled, despite his reassurances and she hated the thought of adding to his worries. Maybe he had already discovered Henry was keeping some of the profits for himself? The urge to blurt it out was overwhelming. He did not deserve to be hoodwinked by a man he trusted. She took a sip of her tea.

‘Would you like to take a walk?’

Grace looked at the cup full of tea. ‘Now?’ To her surprise Talek was already standing and waiting for her to accept. Whatever was on his mind, he obviously thought it was best said walking. Perhaps he had found out about her parentage and was preparing to dismiss her. Her smile faded at the thought as she put down her cup. She would rather have been the one to explain, not some gossipmonger with a spine made of mischief, sharing the sordid news. ‘Yes, I think a walk is a good suggestion,’ she replied, rising from her chair.

* * *

They walked in silence, down the stairs, out into the garden and along the gravel path, which traced the edge of the wood surrounding Roseland. Grace did not press him for conversation, instinctively knowing it was better to wait for him to reveal what was on his mind. Then, perhaps, following his lead, she could broach the subject of Henry. Talek, however, seemed in no hurry.

Small birds pecked at the seeds of the birch and alder catkins, as they strolled, whilst jays scouted for fallen acorns amongst the twig-coated soil.

‘The last of the summer birds are leaving as the winter arrivals are gathering,’ remarked Talek. As if in demonstration, an early arrival of starlings rose up from the treetops as they approached and flew in a tumble of beating wings to settle nearby. Grace could not help noticing that the jovial birdsong and antics were a stark contrast to how she felt inside.

She could wait no longer. She had to tell him.

‘Will you be my wife?’

Grace turned and stared at him, open mouthed.

He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘I have surprised you.’

Grace nodded. ‘A little.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘I mean a lot. But you said—’

‘I know what I said on the beach, but you were right, I have allowed one woman to cast a shadow over my life for far too long.’

‘I did not say that.’

‘You didn’t have to, but it was what you thought. And you are right.’

Grace felt her heart thumping against her ribs, her throat — her breasts.

‘I say a lot of things, not all should be acted upon.’

‘You are refusing me?’

Grace, horrified he would jump to that conclusion, spoke more sharply than she intended. ‘Goodness, no!’ She smiled, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to scold you. You’ve taken me by surprise. It’s not every day that—’

‘I should hope not.’

‘Your proposal . . . has shocked me.’

‘And me too.’