“Sophie?” Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Are you quite all right? Has there been bad news?” She gestured towards the letter, half-crumpled in Sophie’s grasp.
Sophie summoned a reassuring smile. “Not at all, Mama—and I couldn’t be better!” Replacing the letter in the envelope, she shoved it hastily into the pocket of her skirt. “I’ll read the rest later. We still have to settle the menu for the wedding breakfast, don’t we?”
***
No Tresilian has ever been content with anything less than love.
Harry rode along the lane, his mother’s words still echoing in his ears and his mood threatening to turn as gloomy as the overcast sky. Family legacies—and legends—could be the very devil, he reflected morosely.
Swans and Tresilians mate for life. He’d heard that saying more times than he could count. And perhaps when he’d been younger—much younger—he’d dreamed of that sort of grand passion. Indeed, he’d reached his twenties confidently expecting the thunderbolt to strike at any time. Had watched it happen for his nearest and dearest: Cecily, James, Sophie, and John. And through it all, his heart had remained largely untouched, despite the countless eligible women to whom his mother had hopefully introduced him. Pretty women, clever women, whose birth and breeding were above reproach, who would fill the position of Lady Tresilian admirably—and none of them had stirred anything in him beyond a mild liking at best.
Perhaps it was a lack in him that accounted for his indifference to their charms. But what good did it do to keep holding out for a dream of love that might never come true? At least with May there was a strong attraction, and—he believed—a genuine affection between them. Perhaps their relationship wasn’t the perfect union of hearts and souls of which poets sang, but marriages had been based on far less than what they shared. If he could just make her see that… well, he had been patient up until now, and he could be patient a while longer.
Harry touched the invitation resting within his breast pocket, taking heart from the reassuring crackle of the paper. Bless Sophie for understanding—her wedding could mark a new beginning, not only for her and Rob, but for May and himself. His spirits couldn’t help but lift at the thought.
May’s home came in sight, nestling like a dolls’ house beneath the trees. Smiling, Harry prepared to urge his horse to a trot, when he saw the front door open and May step out onto the porch… followed by a man he’d never seen before.
A pang of jealousy shot through him, and he was instantly furious with himself. May had her faults, but she deserved better from him than suspicion and mistrust. If she’d taken another lover or found that she preferred someone else, she’d have told him.
He approached more slowly, his gaze fixed on the pair. As he drew nearer, he could see that the man looked a good fifteen years May’s senior, with thinning hair and a thickening middle. If this was Harry’s rival, he seemed an unlikely one. But his clothes were of a good cut, and he carried himself with the ease of a gentleman. His accent sounded like that of a gentleman too, though Harry could not yet make out what he was saying.
He rode a little closer, keeping to the shadows and straining his ears to make out their conversation. Then the stranger’s baritone rumble ceased, and May’s voice replied crisply, “As you saw, Mr. Burdett, there are four bedrooms in all. Naturally, you may make what changes you see fit, to accommodate your family, provided the Bettesworths don’t object.”
Stunned, Harry came to a halt. Above the humming in his ears and the chill creeping into his heart, he heard Mr. Burdett respond affably.
“It’s a snug little house, ma’am, and no mistake! I daresay one bedroom could serve as a nursery for my two youngest, and another for my two eldest. Mind you, I’ll need to speak to my wife first, but if she’s agreeable, I believe we could take up residence here as early as January.”
***
“When were you planning on telling me?” Harry kept his voice level, though even to his ears, the words sounded strained and taut.
Once Mr. Burdett had departed, he’d emerged from concealment. May had flushed at the sight of him, though her unwavering gaze had been almost defiant. Dismounting without a word spoken, Harry had followed her into the house to have it out in private.
Now came the reckoning. The cozy little parlor seemed ominously quiet, as though bracing itself for a storm.
May shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “Now that you do know, the question is moot, don’t you agree?” She turned away to rearrange the vase of chrysanthemums standing on one of the end tables. “As it happens, I have been considering this move for some time. My sister Dorothea was recently widowed. She has asked me to come and stay with her in Kent, for what is likely to be an extended visit.”
Kent… as far east as Cornwall was far west. “Why have you not spoken of this, before?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed to discuss my every decision with you!” she retorted, her dark eyes flashing as she faced him.
With difficulty, Harry held on to his temper. “Not every decision, merely those that affect both of us.”
Her gaze dropped again. “I—apologize. That was uncalled for. But I have spent three years in Cornwall already. I never intended to stay so long.”
“Why did you, then?”
Her lips quirked in a faint, wry smile. “You, of all people, are asking me that?’
Harry swallowed, obscurely comforted by the admission. “So, if I— asked you to reconsider, and stay longer, would you?”
She looked up, a hint of challenge still lingering in her eyes. “Longer, as in forever? As your Lady Tresilian?”
“How did you—”
“I’m not blind, Harry, or deaf, nor am I impervious to hints.” Her smile was bittersweet. “The last time we were together, it wasn’t hard to deduce that you thought my attending your sister’s wedding would alter my views on remarrying.”
The last time… the words struck him with an almost unbearable poignancy. What if their most recent encounter was to be the very last time?
“And would that be so terrible a thing, May-blossom?” he asked gently, and saw her flinch, just a little. “To marry again—to a man who can offer you affection, comfort, and security?”
She closed her eyes briefly, as though steeling herself for some Herculean effort. “We’ve spoken of this before, and you know my mind on the subject. It—has not changed, nor do I believe it ever will. For which, I think, we should both be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Harry echoed, incredulous.
Her eyes, dark and implacable, gazed straight into his. “You desire me. You are fond of me. But you do not love me, Harry—not as a husband should love a wife.”
“Do not,” he gritted out, “presume to tell me how I feel.”
“Very well. I shall tell you how I feel.” May took a breath. “I care very much for you, but… I do not love you, either.”
The words stung, salt on raw flesh, the starkness of them taking his breath away.
“No man will ever matter as much to me as my independence,” May continued steadily. “But there are other women who would jump at the chance to be your wife, Harry. I feel certain that, once I am gone, you will find someone far more suitable to be your Lady Tresilian, someone whom your family will embrace. And I wish you every happiness with her.”
Harry found his voice again. “So, that’s that, then? After two years together—”
“I don’t believe in delaying the inevitable,” she broke in, almost curtly. “Pray, let us at least part on amicable terms.”
Amicable… Harry shook his head dazedly, staring at his mistress as though she were a stranger. He would almost welcome her familiar flippancy over this cool, distant courtesy that made a mockery of what they’d shared. But there was nothing he could say, no protest he could make, that would not make him sound like some lovesick swain trying to hold on to someone who wanted only to be free of him.
Pride came to his rescue, stiffening his spine and sheat
hing any hurt or distress in pure ice. He was Sir Harry Tresilian of Roswarne, a man of substance, with an ancient and honorable name, who knew his own worth and had no need to whine or beg for anything. Not even love.
“I see you have it all worked out,” he remarked with equal terseness. “I commend your efficiency, and I accept your decision as a gentleman should. Far be it from me to prolong an association that is clearly no longer to your liking. However, since you have mentioned my family,” he extracted the envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her, “your invitation to my sister’s wedding breakfast.”
May’s face whitened as she took in the sight of her name on the invitation. Whatever response she’d expected from him, it hadn’t been this. “What am I to—”
“Do as you like with it,” Harry interrupted with chill formality. “Good day, madam.”
He knew he sounded stiff to the point of absurdity, but at the moment he did not care.
She was still staring at the invitation, as if it were a snake that might bite her, when he took his leave.
Chapter Four
I know a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.
—William Morris, “A Garden by the Sea”
Six days before the wedding…
NEXT to her own home and the beach, the garden at Pentreath—Lord Trevenan’s estate—was Sara Pendarvis’s favorite place. Especially when the sun was out—as was the case today, despite its being nearly December. Just a few days ago, a shower of freezing sleet had descended on the area, but Cornish weather was nothing if not changeable: this afternoon was almost as bright and warm as a St. Martin’s summer.
Perfect for a tea party out of doors, Lady Trevenan had declared, particularly one held to welcome her twin sister, Mrs. Sheridan, who’d arrived in Cornwall with her husband only yesterday. As good friends and even relations of a sort, the Roswarne Tresilians had been invited, and so had Sara and her father.
It was turning out to be a very nice party, with plenty of lively conversation, laughter, and good things to eat and drink. Cyril would have loved an outing like this, and Sara felt a pain in her chest at the thought.
Dear Cyril. She missed him so much. More than she missed Maman, she had to admit, though she kept that to herself. But then Maman had had so little time for her, especially after Cyril was gone.
Sophie, her future stepmother, was different. She really did seem to care what Sara was thinking—and feeling. A few months ago, she’d felt an odd jealous pang when Papa had first told her that he and Sophie would be getting married. But it had lessened over the autumn, along with the fear that Papa would… well, care a bit less about her once he had a new wife. That was how it happened in all the fairy tales, wasn’t it? Except that Papa spent as much time with her as ever, perhaps even a bit more—only Sophie was also there, more often than not. Sophie with her engaging smile and ready laugh, and her sweet singing voice… Sophie who understood how much Sara loved music because she loved it too. Gradually, the circle had got bigger, until Sara found herself looking round for Sophie when it was just her and Papa.
And there was something else to think about: she wasn’t gaining only a stepmother but also aunts and uncles and cousins. Even a grandmother—something that she’d never had before, because Papa’s mother had died many years ago, as had Maman’s. Lady Tresilian was lovely and had always been very kind to her. And the Trevenans’ children Jared and Alexandra really would be family now, since her father was marrying their cousin. Almost everyone sitting about the tea table right now would be some kind of connection to her, after the wedding. It made Sara feel a bit dizzy just thinking about it—but in a good way.
Or perhaps it was merely that she was still a little hungry. “Please, Papa, may I have another scone?”
“Just one more,” her father conceded. “You mustn’t spoil your dinner, sweeting.”
“I shan’t,” Sara promised.
Sophie smiled and offered her future stepdaughter the plate. Taking a scone, Sara cut it in half and prepared it the Cornish way, with strawberry jam and then cream on top. She firmly agreed with Sophie that clotted cream was one of the best foods in the world.
All around her, the conversations went on, a pleasant hum that occasionally caught her attention with a familiar phrase or an unusual new subject. A few minutes ago, Mr. Sheridan had made a comment about Parliament—Sara’s new governess, Miss Martin, had started teaching her about the two Houses—and mentioned that a Mr. Daventry would be giving up his seat and going abroad with his family soon after. For some reason, Papa and Sophie had looked very serious on hearing that, but neither had said much in response.
Now Mrs. Sheridan was discussing a play she’d recently seen in London. Sara liked plays, though she hadn’t seen many, so she listened with interest.
“Of course, most of the men in the audience were hoping to see Mrs. Langley in breeches,” Mrs. Sheridan was saying. “I’m sure it was a great disappointment to them to find she was playing Celia and not Rosalind!”
“Well, Celia can be almost as good a part, with the right actress playing her,” Lady Trevenan pointed out. “How was she, by the way? I’ve never seen her myself.”
“Rather good, actually,” Mrs. Sheridan admitted. “Possibly even a little better than the actress playing Rosalind. Though she could have been absolutely dreadful, and they still would have applauded her. Such are the perks of being a professional beauty!”
“I saw her last spring in Much Ado about Nothing,” Sophie chimed in. “And was pleasantly surprised. Given the role and her reputation, I thought she would just preen and posture—but she turned in an actual performance. I’d be willing to see her in something again, and not just because she’s the Mrs. Langley!”
“Mrs. Langley?” Sara’s father paused with a sandwich halfway to his mouth. “The clerk at the print shop tried to sell me her picture when I purchased yours!”
“And did you buy it?” Sophie inquired, regarding him with slightly narrowed eyes.
He shook his head, smiling. “There’s only one beauty for me, my love.”
“Too flattering!” Sophie laughed, but her gaze had softened, Sara noticed.
“Well, that settles it,” Lady Trevenan declared. “We simply must go up to London sometime, James, to see this lady act!”
“Very well, loveday,” Lord Trevenan agreed. “In the spring, perhaps, when the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations are to be held.”
The conversation turned at once to the Jubilee, and Sara listened raptly as she ate her scone. At just turned eight, she found the thought of sixty years on the throne almost unimaginable, though Miss Martin had said the Queen had been very young when she was first crowned. Perhaps Papa and Sophie would want to see the celebration, if they were back from their wedding trip by then. And perhaps they would let her come too…
***
Once tea was cleared away, James proposed a stroll in the garden to help the digestion. Revitalized by food, the children soon took the lead, dashing ahead of the adults along the paths. Bringing up the rear with Robin, Sophie was glad to note that Sara was fitting in comfortably with Cecily’s two eldest children as well as with four-year-old Jared. And to judge from his smile, Robin appeared similarly pleased by that.
She glanced towards their remaining companions: Arthur and Cecily, John and Grace, paired like the devoted couples they were. Aurelia, however, had linked arms with her twin, while Mr. Sheridan was partnering Sophie’s mother, and James fell into step beside Harry.
The last could be only a good thing, Sophie reflected. James had long been Harry’s confidant, and her brother had been in an uncertain mood since learning of Mrs. Bettesworth’s impending departure from Cornwall: morose and despondent by turns, though he did his best to hide it—just as Cecily and Lady Tresilian did their best to concea
l their relief at the news. For her part, Sophie could summon only sympathy. Harry was such a good man: loyal, honest, clean-living, and kind, with a sound head on his shoulders and a strong sense of responsibility towards his family and his dependents. Handsome too, with his athletic build, coppery dark hair, and sea-green eyes. It seemed so unfair that the great love the rest of them had found had somehow eluded him. Perhaps Mrs. Bettesworth might reconsider? Though Sophie suspected that, if the widow had not fallen head over ears in love with Harry during their two years together, it was not likely to happen now.
“Sophie?” Robin touched her arm. “Are you all right? You look a bit—troubled.”
She smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m fine, dear heart! Just concerned about Harry,” she added, nodding towards her brother and her cousin walking side by side on the path ahead.
“Mm.” Robin regarded his friend with sympathy. “A pity that matters haven’t turned out better for him. And as someone once crossed in love myself, I wish there was something I could say to help, but I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound trite or banal.”
“In Harry’s present humor, I think it’s better not to say anything than resort to platitudes,” she agreed ruefully. “Well, James is usually the best person to be around him when he’s out of sorts like this.”
They walked on a little further, then Robin spoke again, a touch hesitantly, “Is it—only Harry you’re worried about? Forgive me, but you’ve seemed a bit distracted for the last day or so. And I couldn’t help wondering if you were perhaps… having second thoughts.”
“About our wedding? Never!” Sophie exclaimed. “Oh, dear heart, there is nothing in this world or any other that could give me second thoughts about marrying you!”
A Wedding In Cornwall Page 3