Page 2 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
I arched an eyebrow. “Abitof a folk healer?”
Mr. Owen ignored me and carried on. “Lothlel Green, I believe the village is called. Tiny little spot. Nothing but cows and cliffs and sweeping vistas dotted by creatures of the ovine persuasion. I daresay you might even find the place charming.”
Lothlel Green. My stomach knotted at the name. A place I hadn’t thought of in quite some time.He’s a baronet, Ruby. Don’t you see what this means? I think, perhaps, I could be happy there.Her voice echoed in my mind. In truth, I made it a point tonotthink on it. Or her. Or Cornwall for that matter. I’d expressly vowed to never set foot in the godforsaken county ever again.
“It isn’t much of a town, mind. It’s a handful of miles from Bodmin Moor, on the way to Tintagel. You’ve been there, haven’t you? On one of your little sojourns. I could have sworn you’d gone off for a wedding some years back for a friend of yours. Just after you moved in here.”
Yes, well. The old man seemed to have a very keen memory. Any trace of my good humor evaporated as I stared into my teacup, wishing for something a bit stronger than oolong in its depths. Oh, I’d been there. And I’d watched my best friend—the only person I’d ever truly loved—marry another. And not out of love—that I could understand—but out of… I wasn’t even sure out of what. Inertia, perhaps? “I’m afraid I’m not feeling quite up to—”
“Nonsense, child, you were more than able to entertain your human menagerie last night. And if you could carry on in such a manner then, you can do this for me now. Tell me you took the handsome one to bed at least?”
Bed? I’d just spent the evening in a deck chair. What feats of acrobatics did he expect of me? Besides, I hadn’t taken a loverin a scandalously long time, as sexual congress had lost a bit of its charm. I must be as dissipated as the neighboring ladies’ association whispered behind gloved hands. No, it was worse than that—I was suffering the worst case of ennui since the dawn of the nineteenth century.
“What was his name?”
I sniffed and took another sip of tea. “I haven’t a clue to whom you are referring. And I don’t believe it’s any of your business what cavorting I do, or do not do.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “It’s not the bed sport I take issue with, my darling girl, it’s that you’re wasting yourself on these young jackanapes.” He pointed at me with his forefinger. “A girl like you, Ruby Vaughn, has more potential than the lot of those gents who come here every Saturday eve in hopes of getting in your good graces. Half of them couldn’t decipher their arse from their elbows if given a Michelin guide.”
I nearly snorted the tea out my nose. My eyes watered. He wasn’t wrong. I was searching for something. Needed it. Only I hadn’t quite determined what exactly I sought.
Fiachna, Mr. Owen’s house cat, on the other hand, knew precisely what he was after. The great feline hopped up into my lap, purring loudly. I stroked his ebony ears. His claws caught the silk of my gown as he settled in for a good rub.
“I mean it, girl.”
“Why don’tyougo if it’s that important?” I shot back, changing the subject.
“You know my gout has gotten to the point I can hardly walk.”
There was no arguing with him when he was in this mood.
He stretched, rising from his own deck chair, and steadied himself on a simple rowan walking stick. “Come along. I have something to show you.”
Very well then. I scooped Fiachna into my arms and set off inside, following Mr. Owen through the terrace doors into his personal library. He tugged on the heavy velvet drapes, allowing the morning sun in through the ancient leaded windows. Illuminated dust danced in the air. The room was lined floor-to-ceiling in books. Dark. Hidebound spines facing outward.
All the mundane titles he kept in the bookshop, butthis room—this room housed all the exceptionally rare and valuable tomes, along with those particular titles that the government took issue with.
He lumbered across the room and thwacked an enormous case with his walking stick. “These are them.”
A box of books?!A trunk more like, and an old tatty one too. “What’s in there? The butcher? Are you certain Mrs. Adams left, or did you do her in and stuff her in the trunk so I can dispose of what’s left of her?” I wrinkled my nose, reaching down for the clasp and shifting Fiachna’s snoring form to one side. The black cat let out a mewling sound of protest at the inconvenience and I set him down.
Mr. Owen’s cane came down on the top of the trunk with a loud crack about three inches from my fingers. “You’re not to open it. You understand me, girl?”
He’d never spoken to me that way before and I didn’t care much for his tone. I opened my mouth to tell him the same when it struck me—in the nearly four years I’d lived with him, he’d never forbidden me to touch anything. Never forbidden me to look at a book, even handle one. I’d gone through some of his most delicate volumes. Pages as thin as butterfly wings and twice as fragile without him voicing a single protest. What in this box could be so different?
“These are ancient things, my girl… dangerous ones.”
“Honestly, Mr. Owen, they’re books. How dangerous can they be?” I was beginning to wonder if perhaps he was the one who had too much to drink last night.
He set his jaw firm beneath his thick white beard.
I glanced back down at the trunk. “They are books, aren’t they? I was only teasing about Mrs. Adams…”
“Of course they are books, lass. But books themselves are seldom the danger, it’s what’s within them that carries the risk.”
“Oh, good God, they’re not illegal, are they? After the last time I thought you’d had your fill of banned books.”
“Me?” He gave me an innocent look.
