‘We found them both. Daniel wants me to drive the wagon home and get back to work. We have a delivery to prepare and he wants me to oversee it.’ He threw the crowbar into the footwell and climbed into the wagon.
‘You are leaving Father alone with him?’ asked Grace, shocked he was going.
‘Daniel is in no danger. He wants you to join him.’ David flicked the reins and began to manoeuvre the wagon in a circle. Grace hastily retreated to avoid the wheels. She watched him turn then stepped into his path, her hands firmly on her hips. Her uncle reined in the horse and looked down at her.
‘Tell me what happened. I should at least be prepared.’
Her uncle’s expression was at first unreadable, until a slight smile curved his lips.
‘He wants to put your mind at rest,’ he reassured her. ‘You have nothing to fear now.’
Grace reluctantly stepped aside and watched him leave. He had said, ‘Nothing to fear now.’ Had they found them both dead? Or perhaps the man was captured — or injured after putting up a fight. Her uncle’s noisy departure left an eerie silence in his wake. An injured man could be dangerous too, Grace thought, instantly regretting not retrieving her uncle’s crowbar from the footwell. She decided she should prepare herself for the encounter.
Grace looked down at the ground and selected a small rock to use as a weapon. Testing the weight in her hand, she looked up at the tor for any sign of movement and headed towards the boulder where her uncle had emerged. The soft rustle of her dress, dragging on the moorland grass, seemed much too loud as it marked each determined stride she made towards the unknown.
* * *
As Grace drew nearer, she heard the low tones of a male voice, although at first she could not make out the words or who was speaking them. She tightened her grip on the stone and followed the sound, finally stepping into a small clearing surrounded by granite. Her father stood in the centre, deep in conversation with the man she had seen earlier. Neither had seen her approach, as her father had his back to her and the man was looking out to the horizon. Their conversation appeared oddly amiable, considering the circumstances.
Somehow this man had convinced her father that there was no crime committed. How had he managed it? He certainly carried off the persona of a respectable man. He was dressed in black, with a long frock coat, waistcoat and matching silk necktie. His starched white collar grazed a strong, shapely jawline and mirrored his stance, which was stiff, formal and impeccably groomed. He was an oddity — a gent more suited to the city than the barren landscape around him. Curiosity overriding fear, Grace took a step closer. The man sensed her presence and turned his gaze upon her.
His hard, hazel eyes, which had moments before been admiring the view, held her own briefly, before dropping to the sodden hem of her dress and back up to her wild, auburn hair. His intense gaze was unreadable, but she saw a flicker in his jaw as it tightened. Without saying a word, he returned his attention back to the horizon. The message was clear. She must make her own presence known.
‘Father?’ said Grace, hesitantly. Her father turned and for the first time Grace noticed a woman sitting primly on a rock between the men. Grace’s heart lifted. The woman was very much alive, although her skin was pale, her face rather lean and her frame too fragile to be called healthy. Soft ringlets danced in the breeze, as pastel blue eyes, glinting with amusement, stared at her. Grace realised she had wrongly accused a man of murder. More disconcertingly, she suspected the woman knew about her accusation. Her heart sank. No wonder her father had sent the wagon away. He wanted to walk home alone with his daughter, where he would speak to her frankly, impart a little of his years of wisdom and Grace would come away realising she still had a lot to learn about life. She was too quick to jump to conclusions would be the life lesson he would teach her today.
Her father was speaking, introducing her to these out-of-place strangers.
‘This is my daughter, Grace.’ Grace returned the young woman’s smile, with a reticent one of her own. ‘Grace, this is Mr and Miss Danning. They are here . . .’ her father looked pointedly at his daughter ‘. . . to admire the view and take the air.’
Grace held her breath, unsure what to reply.
‘I hear you were concerned for my safety,’ said the young woman, still smiling. Perhaps Miss Danning had the right approach, thought Grace. Best face her accusation head on. Even so, it was hard to do.
‘A little . . .’
‘More than a little,’ replied the man as he continued to stare out to the horizon. What could she say? She decided to say nothing. The man turned his gaze upon her again, this time it was less intense, yet, strangely, more unnerving. It lowered to the stone in her hand. ‘Perhaps it is your own safety you are concerned for now?’
Grace felt the weight of the stone. She had forgotten she still carried it. What had seemed a serious weapon, now felt a childish hope. She slid it behind her back and dropped it on the ground. It bounced on a rock with a loud thud.
‘I believed you were carrying a body and thought it best to fetch help. I’m sorry.’
‘For being wrong?’ goaded the man.
Grace felt herself bristle, ‘For believing Miss Danning was dead.’
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘But not for accusing me of murder?’
‘No slight was intended. I acted in good faith.’
The man addressed her father, effectively dismissing her from the conversation. ‘I accept your daughter’s apology. She acted hastily and needs to learn patience.’
Grace smarted under his criticism. She was not a child and would not be treated like one.
‘Can someone act too hastily if they’re in fear of their life? I would have thought acting hastily is the right thing to do, under the circumstances. If one is hesitant or changes one’s mind, it may be too late.’
He turned his gaze upon her again. ‘My victim was already dead, according to you.’
‘But I was not. I was very much alive. I am very much alive.’
Grace caught a whisper of softening in his eyes. ‘I can see that.’ A brief silence descended, accentuating his words for them all to consider. It must have caused him some discomfort, for he turned his attention to the young woman on the rock and said, ‘It’s time we went home.’
‘My brother is afraid I will overtire,’ said the woman, ‘but I think the fresh, bracing air is doing me good. Don’t you agree, Grace? May I call you Grace?’
What could she say other than she did not mind? After all, she had accused her brother of murdering her, besides formality was something Grace preferred to avoid. She gave a slight nod of her head.
‘Splendid. My name is Amelia. This is Talek.’ She looked towards her brother, amused by his obvious unease.
‘Talek is a good Cornish name,’ said her father. ‘You’ve chosen a fine day to admire the view. Where do you come from?’
‘Near St Austell.’
‘The clay lands,’ remarked her father. A curt nod of Talek’s head confirmed he was right.
‘Clay lands?’ asked Grace.
‘The land of clay mining,’ explained her father. ‘The skyline is shaped by white peaks and deep quarries. It is where the production of porcelain begins. We have clay mines on Bodmin Moor, but the area is vast and they are less in view.’
Amelia looked about her. ‘For one, I’m thankful that they’re so sparse and don’t spoil the landscape. It is why we are here. I had a fancy to see a far distant horizon without heaps of waste spoil ruining the view. Do you come here often?’ Once again, she was aiming her question at Grace.
