“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.”