She felt Walter press a glass in her hand, and his voice was urging her to sip the golden liquid it contained.
‘Take a drop of brandy, Mother, and then we’ll join the others. And please don’t fret yourself. It may all come to nothing, and we must all pray that it does.’
But she knew her son, and if Walter thought there was a risk of anything impeding the progress and prosperity of Killigrew Clay, he would fight tooth and nail to prevent it.
But you couldn’t ward off the inevitable, said a small voice inside her head. National and world events were larger than the doings of one small Cornish company, however successful. They could swamp them, and crush them…
‘I’m well enough,’ she said. ‘You’ll report back to me directly after your meeting tomorrow, and for tonight we’ll say no more about it. Skye will think we’re an odd set of relatives to be closeted in here all evening. Is it agreed?’
They rejoined the women, and it was clear they were both relieved to see them. It didn’t altogether surprise Morwen, for they were like chalk and cheese. Cathy strove so hard to preserve the gentility she had inherited from her mother, while Skye was a modern American girl, with all the exuberence of a young puppy. And there was no denying which of the two Morwen was drawn to the most.
‘Skye has been telling me how shocked she was to see the extent of the clayworks,’ Cathy said, in an obvious attempt to show a dutiful interest in a world that didn’t interest her in the least, beyond the material comforts it gave her.
‘Shocked?’ Morwen said.
Skye grimaced. ‘Aunt Cathy exaggerates my meaning. I was awed at how vast it all was, and how the deep pits had gauged out so much of the hills and moorland. And I was surprised to see how all the workers were covered in the china clay dust.’
Walter laughed. ‘The fine folk of St Austell can tell you all about that. The clayers never had a good name for us when the loaded wagons careered down the steep hills, scattering clay-dust everywhere. Even though it’s mostly transported by rail to the port now, they’re always complaining about turning the streets into a ghost town.’
‘I’m sure Skye must be getting tired of all this clay talk by now,’ Cathy said pointedly.
‘Actually, no. I find it fascinating!’ Skye was quick to say, and meaning it.
‘Oh ah. Townsfolk and upcountry grockles allus find we quaint clayfolk fascinating,’ drawled Theo, putting on a rich Cornish accent.
‘Stop it, Theo,’ his grandmother chided him. ‘Take no notice, Skye. He’s just teasing.’
‘I think I’m beginning to understand that,’ she grinned.
But she was glad when the evening came to an end. Since the discussions in the study, there was an air of tension in the house that was never explained. But it was there all the same, and Skye could feel it as surely as if it was tangible.
* * *
The following week she dressed with some excitement for her outing to the theatre with Theo. A mime concert sounded, well, fascinating, and she reminded herself to keep the word confined to her thoughts.
She hid a smile as she climbed into Theo’s motor. The last time she had seen it he had nearly run her off the track, but since then she had been more cautious in her bicycling visits up to the clayworks, as drawn to it as if it was a magnet. The Pit Captain of Clay One had shown her around, explaining the workings in great detail, and acting as proud as a bantam cock as he did so.
‘I’ll never understand it all properly,’ she told Theo as they sped along towards Truro. ‘But I can see how important an industry it is by the great number of works in the area.’
‘There’s fewer now, but they’ve become more streamlined,’ he told her. ‘Even we’ve shut down two pits. Now there’s just Clay One and Clay Two, since we sold out the others to a china stone works, but production is faster and more efficient.’
‘Didn’t Grandad Ran own a claystone works?’
‘That he did. Prosper Barrows. It was sold some years ago when it was all played out. But that’s enough clay talk for this evening, though I suppose you’re taking it all in for your lady magazine readers.’
Skye bristled at once.
‘How patronising you are! The magazine is a general one, not just for lady readers, and we cover all kinds of features, both domestic and and those of world interest.’
‘Really? Then a war in a far-off country would also be of interest, would it?’
He spoke with idle amusement, but he hadn’t made allowances for her journalist’s instinct.
‘Of course. If there was one about to happen, I’d be only too pleased to hear about it and report back.’
‘Oh, I was just speaking generally, of course.’
But Skye had the surest feeling that he was not.
* * *
The theatre was small and old-fashioned, well suited to a performance by a mime troupe that was widely advertised as the Cornish Mime Players by colourful posters and placards outside the entrance.
Skye had seen mime artistes performing al fresco in the squares in New York on her few visits there, and had always been impressed by how versatile they were, and how much could be said without a word being spoken. A bit like life, really, she had always thought.
They had the best seats in one of the little boxes at the elevated sides of the stage. She looked across the small, gaslit auditorium to where a group of people were settling in their seats moments before the lights were lowered, and the performance was about to begin.
‘Someone you know?’ Theo whispered, as he heard her audible gasp.
‘I’m not sure… possibly…’ she tried to be casual, even though her heart was beating so wildly now.
‘Well, you’ll have another chance to take a look and see if you know the ladies in the interval,’ he said.
She didn’t know who the elderly woman, and the younger, pale-haired one were. But she would know the man anywhere…
She concentrated on the performance, knowing her grandmother would want to know all about it when she returned to New World. And searingly aware all the while that across the auditorium, no more than a stone’s-throw away from her, was Philip Norwood. And he wasn’t alone.
* * *
‘Do you know that lady, Philip?’ Ruth’s elderly aunt said. ‘You’ve been staring at her for an uncommonly long time.’
‘I apologise, Miss Dobson,’ he said hastily. ‘But I believe it’s Miss Tremayne, whom I mentioned to you before.’
‘The young American woman, you mean? How interesting. Perhaps we may meet her later. I’m sure Ruth would like to meet the lady who made such an impression on you.’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. Nor did he realise he had made quite so much of Miss Skye Tremayne as the lady seemed to suggest.
He was uneasy. He wouldn’t want to hurt Ruth’s feelings, but she had an unerring way of knowing what he was thinking. She could almost be Cornish in that respect, if their sixth senses were anything as accurate as they were reputed to be. He felt her tug at his sleeve, and turned to her at once.
‘I’m sorry, was I neglecting you?’ he said with a smile.
He read her quick hand signals. ‘Is she the one?’
He realised her aunt had been facing Ruth, so she would have read her lips easily enough. He also registered that there had been only one question in Ruth’s mind at that moment. He also registered the way she had queried it.
Is she the one?
He knew he could never answer Ruth with the honesty she deserved. Because ever since the day he had met her, thoughts of Skye Tremayne had filled his mind, and he no longer denied it. But he would never dishonour the lady who wore his ring… though even that was a lie, because he knew he dishonoured her with every passionate longing he felt for someone else.
‘Yes, it’s Miss Skye Tremayne from New Jersey, and I daresay it’s one of her relatives with her,’ he told Ruth.
‘Can I meet her?’
‘Of course. I�
��ll arrange it.’
What else could he say? And how could he truly deny the chance to speak to her, and breathe in her scent, and gaze into her eyes?
He beckoned one of the theatre stewards, and asked him to convey a message to the lady and gentleman in the opposite box, requesting that they join him and his companions for drinks in the theatre lounge after the performance. The message came back that they would be happy to do so, and from then on, there were two people in the theatre who saw none of the rest of the first part of the performance.
* * *
‘How nice to meet you again,’ Skye greeted Philip warmly. ‘May I introduce my cousin, Theo Tremayne?’
Did she notice a glint of relief in Philip’s eyes that the man was a relative and not a beau…?
Skye censured herself for the fleeting thought, for if it were so, then how dare he, when his fiancée was standing so quiet and still by his side? Her thoughts were in turmoil.
Philip introduced his lady companions. The older one was gracious and well-spoken, while Ruth gesticulated quickly, smiling at Skye all the while.
‘My fiancée remarks on your beautiful hair,’ Philip translated. His gaze wandered to the glossy, blue-black hair that hung so straight beneath the fashionable hat she wore, and was so much in defiance of current trends. She had toyed with the idea of pinning it up, like Miss Ruth Dobson’s, but now she was glad that she hadn’t. Glad, glad, glad, because it was Philip’s eyes telling her that her hair was beautiful.
As the small group took refreshments she was aware of how intently Ruth Dobson concentrated on her. It was natural, she supposed, since the deaf girl was obliged to lip-read the conversation, but although it was her aunt who asked questions, wanting to know all about Skye, it was Ruth whose presence made her feel uncomfortable.
It was nothing to do with her deafness, it was just the feeling that Ruth saw more than the casual meeting of shipboard acquaintances.
At the end of the interval, to her horror Skye heard Theo speak pleasantly to the others.
‘My mother and grandmother are holding a party for Skye at the end of next week. I’m sure you would all be most welcome to join us.’
‘Oh, but shouldn’t you ask Granny Morwen first?’
‘I’m not sure if we will be free—’
Skye and Philip spoke simultaneously, and then paused together. She saw Ruth touch his arm and signal quickly.
‘It seems I am out-voted,’ he said with a smile. ‘Though Miss Dobson does not care for such outings, Ruth and I will be delighted to come to the party.’
‘Please give me the address of your rooms and I’ll see that you’re sent an official invitation,’ Skye said, knowing how stuffy she sounded, but unable now to think of anything but that fate had taken a hand, and that she was to spend an evening with Philip Norwood. Albeit in the company of a dozen or more relatives, and his fiancée… it was a thought that was both dangerous and delicious.
* * *
Morwen made no objection to the extra guests. Nor did she miss the extra glow in the girl’s eyes whenever a certain young man was mentioned.
‘You say the fiancée is deaf?’ she said.
‘Yes. I don’t know if she can talk at all, but she makes no attempt to do so, other than by mouthing certain things. I daresay she found the mime performance very enjoyable.’
Lord, how condescending that sounded! As if Ruth Dobson’s deafness meant she could only take enjoyment in childish things, when she was a grown woman, with all a woman’s feelings and emotions. And a man who wanted to marry her.
‘Did you like her?’ Morwen asked.
‘Of course. Why would I not?’
‘Why indeed?’ Morwen said dryly. She put her hand on Skye’s arm. ‘We don’t always choose the people we love, my lamb. Sometimes they’re chosen for us.’
‘I didn’t say I loved her!’
‘I wasn’t talking about Miss Ruth Dobson.’
Skye said nothing for a moment. And then: ‘How does anyone know if they’re truly in love?’
‘Oh, it’s not that difficult,’ Morwen said, as dreamily as if she were a young girl, as vibrant as the one watching her with such troubled eyes now. ‘You think about him all the time, even when you’ve no intention of doing so. His image comes between you and whatever you’re doing, and his voice is constantly in your head and in your heart. And the memory of his touch is sometimes so real that you feel bitterly betrayed when you turn around and he’s not there at all.’
She gave a small, self-conscious laugh as Skye’s eyes grew more rounded at such revelations.
‘Just listen to me going on so! An old woman shouldn’t indulge in such fantasies.’
Skye spoke softly, unwilling to break the spell. ‘I don’t think they were just fantasies, Granny Morwen. They were too heartfelt – too real.’
‘One day I might prove it to you.’
‘How will you do that?’
Morwen gave a secret smile. ‘You’re not the only one with literary inclinations. Not that an old woman’s rambling diary accounts could be called anything so grand.’
Diaries? Skye’s heart leapt, remembering her casual thought about writing a book based on her family’s lives. It would be exciting, but time-consuming, to try to get all the information she would need for such a project.
But Granny Morwen had diaries.
Before the request could brim on her lips, she saw Morwen shake her head.
‘You’ll have to wait until I’m ready for the telling, dar. And the time’s not ripe just yet.’
Chapter Seven
The nearer the date of the party, the more nervous Skye became. Walter and his family were the first to arrive at New World, followed swiftly by Albie and Rose. And then Charlotte and Vincent Pollard arrived with their two daughters. Luke put in the briefest appearance, then said he had to be away to his duties. And Emma and Will Roseveare swept in, bringing a faint whiff of the farmyard with them, and an air of vitality that Skye warmed to at once.
All these children and grandchildren belonging to Morwen, she marvelled, and all of them so different in temperament, yet all with a look of the old family about them that both her parents had inherited.
‘Once a Tremayne, always a Tremayne,’ Primmy had once said. ‘Grandad Hal once told me that no matter how many others might come between, we stick together.’
‘I wish I’d been able to meet him,’ Skye had said. ‘He sounds such a darling.’
And Primmy had laughed, and told her he was a darling and a stubborn old stick, and that most of them had inherited that as well – including her ewe-lamb daughter.
Skye remembered the words now, as she took the gift that Emma was handing to her with a cheerful smile.
‘Open it, my dear, and then show it to Mammie. She’ll be surprised. She thinks all I have time for is the farm, but I’ve found a new interest of late.’
Skye opened the parcel, and smiled with pleasure as she saw the little jug inside it. The clay hadn’t been fired to a gloss, but its earthy matt surface had been painted with glossy yellow flowers around its base. The flowers stood out in sharper relief because of the contrast in textures.
‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ Skye exclaimed. ‘And how clever you are to have done it all.’
‘Oh ah. We hay-seeds busy ourselves with other things besides the chicks and pigs,’ Emma said without rancour. ‘See, Mammie? What do you think?’
Morwen smiled indulgently. ‘I never fail to be amazed at anything you do, Emma. You know that.’
‘It’s beautiful, Aunt Emma—’
‘For the Lord’s sake, girl, call me Em, or you’ll make me feel a hundred years old.’
‘Well then, it’s beautiful, Em,’ Skye said with a laugh. ‘Don’t you think so, Granny Morwen?’
Before Morwen could reply, Theo had taken the pot from her hands and was examining it carefully, before handing it over to his grandmother for her inspection.
‘It’s made well enough, Emma, but it
’s inferior clay,’ he said. ‘You should have come to us for the best quality.’
‘Why haven’t you made your own pots before now then?’ Skye asked. ‘I would have thought it was a natural extension of the clayworks.’
‘And there speaks a babe in arms,’ Walter stated.
‘Have I said something I shouldn’t?’ Skye asked, thinking it no more than was usual if she had.
‘Take no notice of ’em, my dear,’ Emma said breezily. ‘The whole family’s been stick-in-the-muds where the clay is concerned. Anybody with half an eye can see there’s money to be made in pots and plates. But these clayfolk just keep sending it off for others to profit out of we simpletons.’
‘I’d thank you not to call Walter and Theo simpletons, Emma,’ Cathy said frigidly, while Charlotte’s two daughters simply sat and giggled at the sudden spat going on between the older ones. ‘It’s a handsome enough pot, I’ll grant you, but it’s hardly going to rival the big potteries.’
‘It’s not intended to, ninny.’
‘Well, I think it’s perfectly lovely,’ Rose said, to Skye’s surprise. She had sat in the background for so long, seemingly overwhelmed by these forceful relatives, but now her face was pink as she came to Emma’s defence.
All the menfolk had drifted to another part of the drawing-room by now, and Skye could see that Morwen was tiring of all the bickering. She wished Philip would come. And just as surely, she wished he would not. It had been a bad idea on Theo’s part to invite him, and her nerves were already jumping at knowing he would be here soon.
As the womenfolk prattled on, covering the slight awkwardness of moments ago, her journalist’s ear caught a snippet from the far side of the room. Men’s conversation was frequently more interesting to her than domestic affairs, but this would seem to concern her.
‘If there’s any hint of danger, her mother will be whisking her back home, if I know anything about Primmy.’
‘They’ll have heard about it by now. All the newspapers here were full of it, and such news travels fast. The poor bastard was murdered in cold blood, and his wife with him.’
Primmy's Daughter Page 10