Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “And you, Miss Newbold,” he returned, escorting her cordially to the door.

  Not until she was well on her way home did Amy pause to reflect that the prospect of Mr. Sheridan’s joining them in Cornwall did not strike her as unwelcome or unpleasant.

  A change indeed, from the way she had formerly regarded his company.

  ***

  All that I said to you that night is true. I feel that truth more deeply with each passing day. My past actions are difficult to forgive—indeed, you may find it impossible to do so. But I urge you to recollect how it once was between us. No other woman has taken your place in my heart, which, I assure you, is not the callow, thoughtless organ it was four years ago. I offer it to you now, my dearest Miss Aurelia, in the hopes that you might find it within your own heart to forgive—and to permit me another chance to court you as you deserve…

  Safe in the privacy of her own room, Aurelia exhaled shakily and laid the letter aside. Dear heaven, what on earth was she to say to such a missive?

  Anger surged up, hot, fierce, and welcome. How dare he put her in this position, after all this time! Perhaps she should simply throw his letter on the fire and have done with it. But that would hardly deter him from sending another. Nor, if she were being wholly honest with herself, could she deny that his plea had stirred something inside of her, other than anger or scorn.

  If only she could have felt nothing at all on reading his words. Indifference, not hate, was the true antithesis of love. And she had loved him so much once, with all a young girl’s passion and ardor. Her disillusionment in him had been every bit as intense—and shattering. For the first time in her life, she had believed it was possible to die of a broken heart. But she had found the strength to go on, in spite of it. More to the point, she had found herself again, a victory of which she was justifiably proud and of which she would not allow Charlie or his family to deprive her.

  And yet this letter must be answered, if only for her own peace of mind. But what could she possibly say, with her thoughts and feelings in such a jumble? If she could just talk to someone about all this—but neither her mother nor Amy was a possibility. The same went for her father or Andrew; the latter’s face still darkened at even the mention of the Vandermeres.

  Aurelia straightened up at a sudden inspiration: Claudine, her friend and sometime confidante. Older, sophisticated, a woman of the world—surely it could do no harm to write to her. And surely Claudine would have some guidance or, at the very least, some comfort to offer.

  Crossing to her desk, she sat down and reached for pen and paper.

  ***

  From Aurelia Leigh Newbold to Claudine Gabrielle Beaumont. 4 June 1891.

  …I seem to have found myself in a situation I could never have predicted. The man of whom I spoke in Bad Ems, the one I hoped to meet again, is betrothed to my sister. And another man, whom I believed lost to me long ago, has renewed his suit. I cannot pretend that my feelings for him are as they once were. And yet I cannot deny that I do feel something. As you see, I cannot confide in my sister, nor even my mother. So, my dear friend, I have turned to you for some sorely needed advice…

  Sixteen

  This is my own, my native land…

  —Sir Walter Scott, Lay of the Last Minstrel

  “My goodness, I feel as though we’ve traveled to the ends of the earth!” Amy exclaimed, stepping out onto the railway platform in Truro.

  “Some might consider Cornwall the next closest thing,” Trevenan observed, turning to assist Mrs. Newbold and Aurelia down the last steps. Mr. Newbold and Andrew followed.

  Aurelia glanced around the station, relieved that the long journey was over, or nearly so. The air felt soft against her face, and a watery sun glinted off the spires of a great stone building that looked like some sort of church. A Gothic church, Aurelia discovered, much to her surprise. She had not expected to find such a lofty edifice here, in a place that so many of their London acquaintances dismissed as a backwater.

  Trevenan spoke up from behind her. “That’s the Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”

  Aurelia felt herself flushing at the realization that he’d been watching her. “Do you admire the new cathedral, Trevenan?”

  “I have a preference for some of our smaller, more intimate churches, but this promises to be a handsome structure.” He smiled. “It’s been several centuries, I believe, since a new cathedral was built in England. Perhaps I might offer you a tour at some point during your stay?”

  “I’d like that. We all would, wouldn’t we, Amy?” she appealed to her twin.

  Amy glanced toward the cathedral. “Indeed. Very fine, I am sure,” she said, sounding more dutiful than enthusiastic. “My lord, will we need to hire carriages to take us to Pentreath?”

  Trevenan shook his head. “The carriages should arrive momentarily, my dear, if they are not here already. I wired my aunt two days ago with the full details of our arrival—” He broke off as a man in livery approached. “Ah, here we are!”

  The earl’s aunt had sent three carriages, enough to convey him, his guests, and their servants to Pentreath. Aurelia climbed resignedly into the same one as Amy and Trevenan, as her twin appeared to expect. Fortunately, Andrew chose to ride with them as well, so she no longer had to play gooseberry, as she had on the train.

  Settling back against the seat, Aurelia found herself smiling in anticipation: an adventure, a journey into the unknown. A year ago, she might have shrunk from the prospect; now, it seemed like a splendid outing, and a welcome escape from the social whirl of London. “There is no Society there to speak of,” one of Amy’s witty friends had warned them, but Aurelia had personally found that idea more attractive than off-putting. Besides, she’d read that Truro boasted a theater, a museum, and some fine shops, all of which should please town-loving Amy.

  She glanced at her twin, who seemed uncharacteristically quiet—weary from the long journey perhaps. Aurelia felt a little tired herself, and her left leg had begun to twinge; strangely, it seemed to prefer exercise to inactivity. Well, she might be able to appease it with some rambles in the country, or on the beaches for which Cornwall was so famous. Across from them, the earl appeared more relaxed, now that he was headed back to the place he loved best.

  “How far are we from Pentreath, my lord?” Amy asked as the carriage began to move.

  “Slightly more than a dozen miles. I’m afraid the train comes no closer as yet, though there’s been talk of putting in a track between Truro and Newquay, just north of Trevenan.”

  “That would speed things up a bit,” Andrew approved. “Not that I have anything against carriage rides,” he added hastily. “It’s just that I’ve gotten more used to the train.”

  “No offense taken,” Trevenan assured him. “Progress is inevitable, after all.”

  “Is Newquay the town that’s become something of a seaside resort?” Aurelia asked.

  “Indeed.” Trevenan sounded mildly regretful but resigned. “I understand several hotels have been built or are in the process of being built there. My maternal cousins—the Tresilians—tell me that the fashionable have taken to coming here in droves for sea-bathing and other such diversions. And I can’t fault their taste—Newquay is beautiful in the summer.”

  “More beautiful than Trevenan or Pentreath?” Amy teased.

  He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know that I’d go that far. I’d say Trevenan has its own charms—and I admit I’m in no great hurry for the outside world to discover them yet.”

  “Tell us more. Unlike Relia, I haven’t packed my trunk full of travel books of the area.”

  Aurelia blushed at Trevenan’s quizzical glance. “I like knowing a bit beforehand about the places I’ll be going,” she explained. “It’s just common sense, and it makes everything seem more real, somehow.” She decided not to mention that she’d also packed Tristram of Lyonesse, with which she had quite fallen in love but which could not be described as even the least bit realistic. But to her way
of thinking, one needed poetry as well as prose on one’s travels.

  “So it does,” Trevenan agreed, and Aurelia thought he sounded approving. “Well, then,” he turned back to Amy, “where should you like me to begin?”

  “At the beginning, of course,” she said with the air of one settling in for a bedtime story.

  Trevenan chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent an answering ripple of warmth through Aurelia. Flustered, she darted a guilty glance at Amy, who appeared unaffected, and wondered how she could remain so in her intended’s presence. “If I give you the full history of the Trelawneys at Trevenan, you will be asleep long before we reach our destination.”

  “Perhaps the most basic details, then,” Aurelia suggested. “I understand Cornish to be a highly unusual tongue, and rarely spoken these days. What does ‘Pentreath’ mean?”

  “‘Top of the beach,’ which is fitting, as Pentreath stands upon a rise overlooking the sea. One of my ancestors had a set of stairs carved into the stone, so he and his family could make their way directly down to the beach from the house. We’ve since improved on his efforts, and we keep that staircase in good repair, for our pleasure and that of our guests.”

  He warmed to his theme as the carriage wound its way along the country lanes, revealing that he had family in both the village of Trevenan and its nearest neighbor, St. Perran—home of his mother’s relations, the Tresilians, whom he often visited. “Though rather less of late since I inherited,” he added regretfully. “Between estate matters and my affairs in London, I haven’t spent as much time with them as I would like. Nonetheless, my closest cousin and I are partners in the family mine, Wheal Felicity. I expect to see quite a lot of him on my return.”

  “I should be pleased to make his acquaintance,” Amy assured him. “And the rest of the family, of course. Have you informed them of our engagement?”

  “Indeed. I have written to Harry and his mother, my Aunt Isobel.” He smiled at Amy. “They are all looking forward to meeting you.”

  Aurelia could hear the warmth in his voice when he mentioned his mother’s family, a contrast to his guarded tone when he spoke of his father’s. She wondered if Amy had also noticed and deduced how important the Tresilians were to her betrothed. She did not doubt that her sister would charm them from the very first meeting. And if the Tresilians were as estimable as Trevenan’s affection for them suggested, it would be no hardship to befriend them.

  Andrew was now asking about the fishing in Cornwall, which Trevenan assured him was excellent. “We’ve pilchards and mackerel in the sea, and a stream for trout on the estate if you prefer not to venture out on the open water. Indeed,” he added, his expression suddenly grave, “I would not advise a newcomer to brave the tides here without an experienced sailor beside him. The seas on the north coast can be very rough, even before the storms set in.”

  “Storms?” Amy sounded alarmed. “Do you have many of those here, my lord?”

  “Some, mainly in the autumn and winter.” He glanced at Amy with concern. “Does that frighten you, my dear?”

  “Oh, not frighten, exactly,” Amy said, not altogether truthfully. “But I confess, I’m not too fond of storms. I once saw a tree at our country home blasted by lightning when I was a girl. I’ve never forgotten it.”

  Aurelia remembered that day too. They’d been twelve or so, watching from their bedroom window when the lightning struck. And Amy, usually so bold, had paled on seeing the smoking remains of the horse-chestnut tree under which they’d so often played. She’d been frightened too, yet oddly exhilarated; for the first time, she had understood what Miss Witherspoon had told them about having to respect the raw power Nature had at her command. She had tried to share that understanding with Amy later, but her twin had only shuddered and pulled the bedclothes over her head.

  “An alarming sight,” Trevenan agreed with sympathy. “But Pentreath has withstood many generations of storms, though not without some wear and tear,” he added ruefully.

  Amy relaxed, smiling back. “Oh, I’m sure we can deal with those now, Trevenan. Might I ask how repairs to the estate are going?”

  “Well enough. I’ve had the roof fixed, and the main wing is sound. You and your family will be lodged there. The north wing is being renovated, but the overall structure of the house is in better condition than expected.” Trevenan paused. “My late uncle—was not an easy man to live with, but he set great store by Pentreath. He was too proud to let it fall to rack and ruin, though he lacked the resources to maintain it as well toward the end of his life.”

  “Then it’s fortunate indeed that matters have turned out as they have,” Amy asserted. “Pentreath can be made as fine as it ever was—and perhaps even better.” She paused in her turn, going slightly pink. “Er, if it is not too indelicate to ask, might I inquire about the plumbing?”

  “Pentreath does have a water closet,” Trevenan replied. “More than one, actually. And I’ve had central heating installed in the main wing, though not yet in the rest of the house.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Amy declared. “I am especially relieved about the water closets.”

  “I think we’re all relieved about those, Amy,” Andrew put in dryly; Aurelia hid a smile.

  Trevenan chuckled, unoffended. “I am pleased to have allayed your concerns, then. Pentreath does contain most modern conveniences, and my aunt, Lady Talbot, has taken pains that all should be in readiness for your stay. I trust her completely and hope you will as well.”

  “There can be no higher recommendation,” Amy assured him. She glanced out the carriage window. “We’re approaching a gateway, my lord. Does that mean we’ve arrived?”

  Trevenan looked through his own window. “Indeed it does.” And Aurelia could hear the anticipation in his voice, the barely contained eagerness.

  She understood that eagerness when their carriage passed through the gateway and bowled along the gentle curve leading up to the house. Aurelia caught her breath as Pentreath rose before them, solid and silvery-grey, its mullioned windows glinting in the light of the westering sun. The curving Dutch gables added a touch of whimsy that made her smile.

  “Most of Pentreath was built during Tudor times,” Trevenan said. “But improvements were made over the years—without altering the character of the house, I am happy to say.”

  “It’s certainly a handsome estate,” Amy observed. “In an unusual way. And the view must be splendid from those windows.”

  “There is hardly any prospect that can fail to please.” The pride in the earl’s voice was almost palpable. “I hope that you can see yourself as mistress here, Amy.”

  “Any woman would be proud to call herself mistress of such a place,” she replied.

  The carriage came to a stop, and they alighted before the short flight of steps leading to the massive front door. Trevenan’s aunt awaited them at the foot of those steps. Remembering Lady Talbot’s poise and graciousness, Aurelia was surprised to see hints of strain about her eyes and mouth now. Two other people stood beside her: a fair-haired woman and a rather weedy-looking gentleman. To judge from their expressions, neither appeared friendly.

  “Good Lord! Helena?” Trevenan sounded at once surprised and aghast by these new arrivals. “And Durward? What brings you to Cornwall?”

  “James, I tried to make her see sense,” Lady Talbot began, but the remainder of her explanation was lost as the fair-haired woman straightened to her full height, stalked up to Trevenan, and dealt him a ringing slap across the face.

  “Murderer!” she shrilled.

  Seventeen

  Open your ears; for which of you will stop

  The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?

  —William Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV

  Murderer. The ancient stones of Pentreath seemed to give back the echo.

  Dumbstruck, Aurelia stared at Trevenan, who had gone slightly pale but appeared otherwise composed. His face bore the reddening mark of the fair-haired woman’s hand, but he did not s
o much as raise his own to touch it.

  “That’s quite a greeting, cousin,” he said at last, his tone level, almost uninflected. “Whom am I supposed to have murdered?”

  Cousin? Aurelia looked more closely at—Helena, Trevenan had called her—but saw no close resemblance. This must be one of his other relations, from his father’s side of the family.

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, cousin!” Helena practically spat the last word at him. “The coroner may have exonerated you in my brother’s death, but I am not so blind!”

  Aurelia felt her sister stiffen beside her, heard Andrew’s faint intake of breath. For her part, she remained silent, watching the cousins intently.

  Trevenan said as calmly as before, “I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed where Gerald was concerned. I am sorry for your loss, Helena, but I am not responsible for it.”

  “Indeed not!” Lady Talbot stepped between her niece and nephew. “And the sooner you accept that and stop conducting yourself like a madwoman or a spoiled child the better!”

  Helena’s face grew mottled. “Simply because you have always taken his part against Gerald’s or mine—”

  “That will do!” Trevenan’s voice rang with an authority Aurelia had never heard him use before. It had the welcome effect of silencing Helena, though she still practically vibrated with fury. “I understand you have a quarrel with me, cousin, but I will not have you enacting an ill-bred scene before my guests. Pelham,” he addressed a black-clad butler who had just appeared in the doorway. “Please escort Lord and Lady Durward to the library for the time being.”

  “Very good, my lord,” the butler returned with the imperturbable calm Aurelia had come to associate with English servants. “Lord Durward, Lady Durward—if you will follow me?”

  “This isn’t over,” Helena hissed up at Trevenan, who merely inclined his head. Incensed by his lack of response, she gathered up her skirts with a sharp twitch and stalked up the steps and into the house. Lord Durward, clearly a nonentity, shot Trevenan what might have been an apologetic look and all but skulked after his wife.