She saw Skye straighten up, flicking back her long black hair from her shoulders. She kept threatening to have it cut, now that she was a happily unmarried old doll of twenty-three, as she gleefully called it, but they all thought it would be a crime to cut that glorious hair. Besides, it marked her out as somebody independent and unconformist. And Skye liked that.
‘Well, I can’t wait to meet them all,’ she declared. ‘Granny Morwen sounds such a darling, and if the rest of them are like her, I shall have a wonderful time.’
‘They’re certainly not all like her,’ Primmy warned. ‘But you wouldn’t expect them to be, would you?’
‘Well, the young ones will be fun, I’m sure,’ Skye said breezily, refusing to be dampened. ‘There are so many cousins I’ve hardly heard of that I can’t keep track of them all.’
But it was a pretty sure bet that they wouldn’t miss her, Primmy thought. Not for the first time, she wondered how they would react to her daughter. Cornish folk were insular in their location and their outlook, and nothing had changed that much over the centuries. They viewed strangers with suspicion, and she remembered when Cresswell had arrived on the scene, just as open and determined to be friendly as their daughter.
And Primmy had almost shut the door in his face, remembering how he had been the catalyst to turn her feeling of family security and belonging upside down in one childish remark. Revealing that she and her brothers weren’t Morwen’s children after all, but her nephews and niece. It had been a huge shock to discover it so brutally, a shock from which Primmy had thought she would never recover. And then the adult Cresswell had marched back into her life and into her heart…
‘You must give me a list of all their names and who belongs to whom, Mom,’ Skye was saying now. ‘I’ll never remember them all.’
‘They won’t expect you to. Just don’t try to do everything at once, that’s all.’
Skye laughed. ‘In other words, take it slowly, and don’t rush in like the proverbial bull at a gate, in my usual fashion, is that it?’
‘It’s just that they live at a slower pace of life, lamb, that’s all. Don’t overwhelm them all at once.’
‘My Lord, they’re not all hayseeds, are they?’
Primmy felt a sliver of anger at this assumption.
‘That they are not!’
Skye’s father came into the bedroom before Primmy could elaborate on this. Cresswell Tremayne had prospered over the years and his real estate company was thriving, set to become even bigger. He was astute and aggressive in business, but he grinned now as he heard his daughter’s remark.
‘Careful, honey, your mother bites whenever her family is criticised.’
‘I do not!’ Primmy said at once, and then laughed, knowing she had taken the bait. ‘Well, maybe I do. They’re a rare bunch, and I wish I could be a fly on the wall when they first get a look at you, love.’
‘Then come with me!’ Skye said at once, just as Primmy had known she would. Just as predictably, she shook her head.
‘We both know that’s not a likelihood. You’ll have your work, and I have my music. Besides, what would your father do without me? And Sinclair, too.’
Skye snorted. ‘Why Sinclair wants to bother with all that political stuff I can’t imagine. And now he’s moved into that Washington DC apartment, he wouldn’t even notice you’d gone.’
‘But your daddy would,’ Primmy said softly, as Cress’s hand reached out and squeezed hers for a moment.
Seeing it, Skye turned away. Those two! Sometimes they acted more like kids than respectable people nearing sixty years old! One of her college friends had thought they were her grandparents, until they saw how they sometimes canoodled and didn’t care who saw it. It was sweet and it was slushy, but she admitted she wouldn’t have them any other way.
‘So are you all ready for the great adventure?’ Cress asked her now. ‘We’re driving you to New York to see you off, of course.’
‘Daddy, I told you it’s not necessary!’ she said with a laugh. ‘And it’s not such a great adventure to cross the Atlantic any more, though it might have been in your day, of course,’ she added cheekily.
‘Tell that to the poor devils who never survived the Titanic a couple of years ago,’ Cress said smartly, and Primmy turned on him at once.
‘Oh, why did you have to say that, Cress? You know how such things play on my mind.’
‘Well, if that old Cornish superstition of yours hasn’t put you off allowing Skye to travel before now, I reckon she’s still got her lucky star overhead.’
‘Excuse me, Daddy dear,’ Skye put in teasingly. ‘But nobody has to allow me to do anything, remember? I’m twenty-three years old and not exactly an infant any more.’
‘And I’m still your daddy, and you’ll show proper respect for your mother and her family when you get to Cornwall,’ he said, just as mildly, but with an edge to his voice now.
Skye gave him a quick hug, knowing she had gone too far. It would be her downfall one of these days, Primmy thought keenly. Blundering in without thinking, and apologising for it afterwards. And didn’t she know the truth of that!
But they certainly didn’t want to send her off to Cornwall on a sour note, and the time was almost here for her to leave. Primmy determinedly kept up a bright façade on the day they drove Skye to New York, even though she hated goodbyes of any description. She had hated it when Sinclair went off to Washington DC and took up with those damn politicians, and she hated losing her bright star now.
If Primmy had her way, she would keep all families neatly together in close communication – and that was the daftest idea she had had in a long time. People had to move on. It was the way things were, and you couldn’t stop it.
And she was luckier than most. They were the respected Tremaynes, she reminded herself. They had a beautiful home; Cress was a successful businessman; she had her music. She gave piano concerts, both locally and farther afield, and was acclaimed for her talent. She had a good life, and a husband she still adored. Many women would envy her.
‘Now you’ll be sure to write the minute you get there and settle in, won’t you?’ she said, knowing she was acting like a mother hen now, and unable to stop herself.
‘Oh Mom, stop fussing. I’ll be fine, really!’
But Skye’s eyes were as tearfully bright as her own as they hugged one another on the quayside, finally unable to say what was in their hearts. It wasn’t going to be forever, thought Primmy, but it damn well felt like it right now.
* * *
‘I watched you come aboard. Are you travelling alone and unchaperoned?’
Skye heard the male voice speak alongside her when she finally had to stop waving to the miniscule figures on shore. She tried to disguise the thickness in her throat as she answered, not wanting any company right now, and angry with this jerk who had invaded her privacy. And who the blazes needed a chaperone at her age!
‘I’m travelling on business,’ she mumbled, hoping it would discourage him. It was partly true, anyway. She had promised to send batches of features to her magazine editor on the Cornish way of life. She hadn’t looked at the man beside her, but she realised he was pushing something into her hand.
‘Here. I know what it’s like. No matter how many times you take leave of your family, it’s always hard, isn’t it? I’m Philip Norwood, by the way.’
In the midst of the acute misery that she hadn’t expected to feel on departure, Skye registered three things. One was that the guy had real sympathy in his voice. Two, he was pressing a folded handkerchief into her hand for her to dry her tears. And three, his accent was British.
So now she glanced at him. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either. He was probably around forty. Since Skye had been brought up by older-than-average parents, she considered this a perfectly normal and interesting age-group for a twenty-three year old to converse with. She was more comfortable and confident with older people than many young women of her age.
�
��Thank you,’ she said, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘It’s stupid, isn’t it? It’s the trip of a lifetime, or so they tell me, and here I am, weeping like an idiot.’
‘It’s not stupid at all. Everyone feels the same when they have to leave friends and family. It’s normal, and you shouldn’t be ashamed to let your feelings out.’
‘Well, thank you again for the pep talk. No, I mean it,’ she added, in case he thought she was being sarcastic. ‘I guess I needed to know that other folk feel the same way I do right now.’
‘So now that we’ve got that out of the way, why don’t we take a stroll around the deck and you can tell me all about yourself,’ he encouraged.
Skye laughed. ‘Don’t you know that’s the very thing that makes a person clam up immediately? Besides, what’s there to tell? I’m just an ordinary person doing an ordinary job—’
‘Somehow I doubt that. You have a striking beauty that makes you stand out from the crowd, and I’d guess there’s a matching personality. Besides, no one’s ordinary. Everyone’s unique. Didn’t your college tutors impress that on you?’
‘Yes, they did,’ she said, so startled by his swift assessment and clarity of thinking that she ignored the compliments. ‘But how come you know so much about it?’
‘I’m one of those dreaded college tutors.’
‘Oh! Well, now I am tongue-tied.’
‘Please don’t be. Actually, I don’t usually reveal my credentials on so short an acquaintance. But since we have five days to spend on board, and nowhere to go to avoid one another, why not!’
It was the hammiest sort of chat-up line Skye had ever heard. On a ship of this size, there were probably plenty of ways she could avoid Mr Philip Norwood if she had a mind to do so! But she was surprised to know how much she was enjoying this brief and heady conversation, and saw no reason to curtail it here and now.
‘I’m Skye Tremayne,’ she said simply, stretching out her arm and putting her slim hand in his.
‘I’m very pleased to know you, Skye Tremayne. And where is your destination when we reach Falmouth? Incidentally, with a name like that, you’re going to feel right at home.’
‘I hope so. I have a large family living in Cornwall, mostly around St Austell and Truro.’ Just saying the magical names sent the old excitement surging back through her veins. ‘My grandparents came to New Jersey to visit soon after I was born, but I don’t remember it, of course, so it will all be completely new to me.’
And yet not unfamiliar, with all the family history she had begged her mother to tell her over the years, even if she had been strangely reticent over some matters. And Skye had avariciously absorbed the various paintings and water-colours of Cornwall and their heritage that her Uncle Albie had sent as birthday and Christmas gifts.
‘Do you know Cornwall at all?’ she asked her new companion as they leaned on the ship’s rail for a breather, watching the skyline of New York fade into nothingness.
‘A little,’ he said.
‘Have you ever heard of an important clayworks near St Austell, called Killigrew Clay…?’
Chapter Two
Walter Tremayne glowered at his handsome son, Theo, across the breakfast table. It was high time the boy found himself a wife to tame him, and moved out. Not that he was a boy any more. He was nearing his thirty-seventh birthday, and the thought of how time was moving on always gave his father a minor shock.
Theo had inherited old Hal Tremayne’s salty ways, Walter thought now, but none of his tact. He had taken on his grandfather’s old mantle at the clayworks, but he dealt with the clayworkers as if they were scum, in a way his grandaddy never had. It was a pity he hadn’t taken account of the name he and Cathy had bestowed on him and turned pious and churchified, like his Uncle Luke, Walter thought sourly.
‘I don’t care what you say, Father,’ Theo snapped now, throwing down his newspaper. ‘The bloody workers have got to be kept in line.’
‘And you’ll be heading ’em straight for strike action if you don’t handle ’em with due care.’
‘Oh, and is that how it happened in the past?’ Theo said sarcastically. ‘I don’t think so, from all I’ve been brought up to believe. And who are the bloody bosses, anyway?’
‘Well, not you, my son, and don’t you forget it.’
Walter spoke now with the mildness that always infuriated his hot-headed son. He’d been hot-headed himself once. Still was, in many ways. He still thought of the clay with a passion, but that passion burned less fervently now that he was getting on in years.
But not yet past it, he reminded himself. And not likely to be, not intending to be, while there was breath in his body to keep Killigrew Clay alive.
‘You don’t need to keep reminding me that the clayworks are in the hands of you and Granny Morwen. Though what she knows or cares about it now could be written on a postcard—’
Walter lunged forward across the breakfast table so fast he knocked over the cruets and rocked his wife’s obligatory vase of spring flowers. He cared nothing for that. He only wished he’d been near enough to grab Theo by the throat instead of digging his heavy hand into his shoulder.
‘The day you know more than your granny about the workings of the clay is when you can hold your head up high, boy, so don’t insult her—’
‘Oh aye, we all know how she worked as a bal maiden in her youth,’ Theo went on recklessly, not yet ready to give up, but his words were becoming desperate, due to the squeezing pain his father was inflicting in his shoulder. ‘But she’s in her dotage now, and not much use to man nor beast as far as business is concerned—’
From somewhere behind him, he felt a stinging blow strike the side of his cheek, and he bellowed out loud. He swung around to see his mother glaring down at him, arriving downstairs later than usual after a restless night, her normally gentle voice brimming with anger.
‘How dare you, Theo! That lovely old lady is worth ten of you, and you’ll apologise to your father at once for insulting his mother in that way.’
‘She’s not even his real mother,’ he scowled, rubbing his bruised cheek. Cathy was slight in stature, but she had what Walter always called a backbone of steel when it came to getting her own way.
‘Mebbe hot, but we’re all family,’ Walter whipped out. ‘And you just think on this, boy. If Hal Tremayne hadn’t made me his sole beneficiary to inherit his part of Killigrew Clay, and made me a partner along wi’ Morwen and Ran Wainwright, then you and your brother wouldn’t have had the fine education you did. And you wouldn’t have been lording it over those poor bastards still toiling in the clay in all weathers, in order to put food in your belly and clothes on your back.’
‘Can we stop this, please?’ Cathy said, having heard it all too many times before. ‘It’s too early in the day to be squabbling, and I hope you’re not going to carry on like this when Primmy’s daughter comes to visit.’
Theo got up from his chair, pushing it back with a scrape, unheeding of his bad manners. Walter hid a small grin, despite his anger with his son. Because such pithy outspokenness was only to be expected, both in the headstrong Tremaynes, and the brusque Yorkshire side of the family.
Walter himself had had to fight tooth and nail to prise his Cathy away from her uncouth father, and marry her. Tom Askhew had never been his favourite person, but Walter had raised no objections when his second son, Jordan, had begged to live with the Askhews in York to learn the journalists’ trade on his grandfather’s newspaper, The Northern Informer.
There had been too many uproars between them all in the past to deal with that one. In any case, Jordan was a man, not a boy, and he couldn’t have stopped him, anyway. Walter felt a brief sadness for the days when a man guided his sons’ destiny through all the days of their lives – though some might say it was manipulating it rather than guiding it.
And he had never allowed himself to be manipulated by anyone in the whole of his life. Nor dissuaded from working with the clay. It was in his blood.<
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* * *
After Theo had stamped out of the house, Cathy let out her breath in a deep sigh, and handed Walter another cup of tea.
‘Your family were always hotheads, Walter,’ she observed.
‘And yours weren’t?’ he countered.
She laughed, not taking offence. It was all too true, anyway. ‘Oh, I grant you my father and yours never got on, even though they managed a fine sort of subterfuge between them at one time, didn’t they?’
Her face tinged red, even now, after all these years, remembering how Morwen had once revealed how Cathy’s prissy mother Jane had had clandestine meetings with the brash young newspaperman, Tom Askhew. When all the time, Jane’s family had believed she was meeting the highly approved Ben Killigrew.
It had shocked Cathy at the time. And she had to admit that somehow she couldn’t imagine her own mother having a passionate relationship with anyone. Morwen yes… oh yes! Even now, at eighty years of age, Morwen still had a sensual quality about her… But Jane was far too genteel and fussy and so different in every way from her husband.
‘And so did we, my love,’ Walter said, in answer to her question. Reminding her of how they had once made a sweetheart pact, hiding in the little turret room at Ran Wainwright’s house, New World, wanting only to be together, against every kind of parental disapproval.
Walter Tremayne had been so determined to have her, and it had been such a sweet and innocent need that drove them to hide away, but it had almost caused a scandal. They had been forced to separate for a long while, but in the end they had won. It said much for the tenacity of them both.
Cathy squeezed his hand in silent agreement.
‘It’s strange how so many folk want the very ones their families are most against, isn’t it? It’s almost as if we’re driven to it.’
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