Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
A considerable fortune had been made from these mines, and the profits swelled the Trevelyan coffers over the centuries. But they were closed in the late 1800s as they became less profitable, and the workers emigrated to places like Australia and South Africa, where the mining industry was flourishing. I spread my hand over the worn stone of the chimney stack, cold and rough to the touch but still standing after all these centuries.
Like the earls of Trevethick…
My visit has been a success. Oliver had made a good call insisting I visit both estates. And I’m beginning to reevaluate my doubts about him. He’s done nothing but steer me in the right direction. Perhaps he does have the Trevethick earldom and its continuing prosperity in his heart. The staff now know I’m behind them and that I don’t want to make radical changes. I’ve discovered that I’m very much an “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” devotee. My smile is rueful….I’m also too lazy to be anything else, for now. But truth is, under Kit’s authority and shrewd management the Trevelyan estates have been thriving. I hope I can keep them that way.
I’m weary from being encouraging and upbeat for the past few days and from listening to everyone. I’m not used to expending such positive energy. I’ve met so many people here and at Angwin in Oxfordshire, people I’d never met before who work on each estate. I’ve been coming to both of these places since I was a child, and I never had an inkling how many people work behind the scenes. Meeting everyone has been draining. All that talking, listening, reassuring, smiling—especially when I don’t feel like smiling.
I gaze at the path that leads down to the sea and think of Kit and me as two young boys racing to the soft, sandy beach below. Kit always won…always. But then he was four years older than me. And then in late August, armed with bowls and buckets and anything else that would hold them, we three children would pick blackberries from the brambles that lined the path, and our cook, Jessie, would make blackberry-and-apple crumble for supper, Kit’s favorite.
Kit. Kit. Kit.
It was always Kit.
The heir. Not the spare.
Fuck.
Why race through the icy lanes on a freezing night?
Why? Why? Why?
And now he lies beneath cold, hard slate in the Trevelyan family crypt.
Grief tightens my throat.
Kit.
Enough.
I whistle for Kit’s gundogs. On command, Jensen and Healey, two Irish setters, return from their romp along the path and come bounding toward me. They are named after cars. Kit was obsessed with all four-wheeled vehicles, especially fast ones. From an early age, he could strip an engine and put it back together in no time.
He was a true all-rounder.
The dogs jump up at me, and I rumple both sets of ears. They live at Tresyllian Hall on the Trevethick estate, cared for by Danny, Kit’s housekeeper. No. My housekeeper, for fuck’s sake. I’ve contemplated taking them back to London, but my apartment is no place for two working dogs used to roaming the Cornish countryside and the thrill of game shoots. Kit adored them, even though they are useless gundogs. And Kit loved a shoot, too.
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. Shooting is big business, which means the holiday homes are booked out year-round. Bankers and hedge-fund managers seek their thrills at the wrong end of a gun during the open season. Affluent surfers and their families rent from spring through to autumn. Surfing I enjoy. Clay shooting I enjoy. But I am not a fan of killing helpless birds. My father, on the other hand, like my brother, loved the sport. He taught me how to shoot, and I do understand that the sport helps to keep the estate profitable.
I pull up my collar, push my hands deeper into the pockets of my overcoat, and turn to trek back up to the great house. Feeling glum and restless, I trudge through the wet grass, the dogs following close behind.
I want to be back in London.
I want to be back near her.
My thoughts keep returning to my sweet daily, with her dark eyes, her beautiful face, and her extraordinary musical talent.
Friday, I’ll see her Friday, provided I haven’t scared her away.
* * *
Alessia shakes the umbrella free of the snowflakes that had started falling fast and furious on her way to the Mister’s apartment. She is not expecting him to be at home—after all, he’d left money for her last week that included payment for today. But she is ever hopeful. She has missed his brooding presence. She’s missed his smile. She has thought of him constantly.
Taking a deep breath, she opens the door. The silence that greets her is nearly her undoing.
No alarm noise.
He is here.
He is back.