In those days, Promilla had worked for her parents, who ran an artists' supply shop in one of London's many side streets, but she was just branching out, selling her craft work from a stall in Covent Garden.
Briony had sometimes envied the other girl's warm relationship with her parents. Briony had never felt particularly close to her widowed father. She supposed he was fond of her and she of him. But he'd already been middle-aged when she was born; and he always seemed preoccupied with farm business. He hadn't approved of her going to London to study art. He felt sure that London and all art students were thoroughly decadent, and the outcome of her student days had only confirmed him in his opinion; though, to do him justice, he had stood by her.
Over the intervening years, Briony had kept in touch with her friend. And then, two years ago, when Briony's personal life had touched rock bottom, Promilla, who was herself going through a bad patch, following the death of her parents, had been kind and understanding. They had both felt in need of a new start, a change of scenery.
After much deliberation, they'd settled on the north Devonshire coast, and on Gwinvercombe in particular. Gwinvercombe overlooked Morte Bay, with Morte Point to the north and Baggy Point lining the southern side of the bay. Consisting of a single main street that dropped down to the waterfront car park, the little town had much to recommend it—not only as a setting for the commercial enterprise they planned, but also as a home. For despite its popularity with tourists, it remained relatively unspoiled.
The worst problem they encountered was that of the lanes leading into the little seaside town, which became choked with cars whose drivers either would not or could not reverse. Those residents more interested in self-seeking commercialism than aesthetics suggested the lanes should be widened. But in Briony and Promilla's opinion that would worsen the situation, opening the way for coachloads of the rowdier element. Besides, traffic-choked or not, the winding lanes were part of the character of the place.
The countryside overlooking the bay had a subtle serenity. From the upstairs studio windows the two girls could see the bay, with its wide gleaming water, boats and trailing reflections. And in rough weather they could both see and hear the white breakers as they leapt and staggered and fell with the roar and clangour of grinding pebbles.
'No, I've never regretted coming here,' Briony repeated.
'It's just about closing time,' Promilla said. 'I'll lock up and you can unwrap the goodies.'
Beyond the kitchen was the spacious living-room shared by the two girls. Visitors agreed that entering their apartment was like crossing a frontier. The High Street building was an old one, with large rooms and proportionately lofty ceilings, and the living-room was crammed with Victoriana, as well as the Eastern treasures which had belonged to Promilla's parents. Lining the terracotta walls were Oriental naive paintings and Chinese household gods. Sepia photos flanked religious statues from several cultures. Glass cases of wax flowers and pink seashells stood cheek by jowl with leering Indian masks. Promilla had also brought her late parents' rich hoard of oriental furniture and rugs.
Carefully, Briony removed the paper from her friend's latest purchases.
'Like them?' Promilla called from the kitchen, from which came the fragrant smell of a curry prepared earlier and now being warmed through.
'Like them? I love them! No wonder Mrs Moss was furious.' The major find, so far as she was concerned, was the enormous traditional patchwork quilt in subtle colours. 'I've always wanted one of these on my bed.'
Her enthusiasm had temporarily banished the twin problems of Matthew Rawlinson and Teale Munro from her mind. But as they sat down to eat she found herself thinking about the aggressive stranger.
'I wonder if he will come back?'
'You sound almost as if you hope he will.' Promilla eyed her friend curiously.
'No, not exactly,' Briony demurred. 'But I am curious as to why he wanted to see Matthew.'
'Why not ask Matthew?' Promilla suggested.
'Matthew! Elevenses!'
Matthew had been crouched over the easel since eight-thirty that morning. Now, as Briony entered the studio, carrying two mugs of coffee, he sat up, stretched his cramped body and looked eagerly at her for her opinion.
'What do you think?'
She took a sip of her coffee before giving his work her critical consideration. At last, she sighed wonderingly.
'It's terrific, Matthew, as always. I just can't fault it.'
Despite this unstinted praise, he seemed dissatisfied. By now, Briony had realised that Matthew suffered from the most tremendous inferiority complex.
'It can't be that good. There must be something wrong with it. You're just being kind. I'll never paint like you.' He got up and prowled restlessly around the studio, his eyes devouring the works in various stages of completion. Some were awaiting a coat of varnish. Others were not yet framed. And on an easel was a rough outline of Briony's next composition. 'I just can't get it right.' Matthew shook his shaggy head in frustration.
'Matt! I've told you before. You don't need to paint like me. You have your own style.' Briony's paintings reflected her nature, warm yet serene. She had evolved a technique of glazing pictures with wax for a deep matt finish that added to their enigmatic appeal, which had been much praised after her last submission to the Royal Academy. 'I'd like to take some of your work up to London,' she told Matthew, 'to a gallery I know.' But Matthew was shaking his head. She'd said this to him before and, as always, he became agitated.
'No, not yet. I'm not ready. I may never be ready!'
Sometimes, Briony wondered if Promilla was right and there was some instability in Matthew's character.
'You never did tell me where and when you first started painting,' she reminded him.
'No, I didn't.' He said it with an air of finality, and she knew he was in one of his uncommunicative moods. His coffee was only half finished, but he bent once more over his easel, already eager to be back at his composition.
Briony had been waiting for the right moment to ask him about Teale Munro. She was a little afraid of the effect on him if she told him the other man was looking for him. It would be a tragedy if Matthew stopped coming to the studio. But now she knew it would be useless to mention yesterday's visitor. Matthew had deliberately switched off. He wouldn't hear a word.
The noise of a buzzer being sounded furiously told her the shop was getting busy and Promilla needed help.
'Staying to lunch today, Matthew?' she asked as she gathered up their mugs. Some days, he refused almost ungraciously. He had a prickly pride. Occasionally, it allowed him to accept the girls' hospitality. More often, it didn't. Today, however, he nodded assent without taking his eyes from the work before him.
'Do you think you'll be able to hold the fort during the lunch hour?' Promilla asked Briony during a temporary lull in serving.
'I should think so. I'll leave the communicating door open so I can hear the bell. Are you lunching out?'
'If I'm lucky. I had a telephone call while you were upstairs. I've got to take that order over to Ilfracombe. "Lady" Wareing wants delivery yesterday—as usual. Sometimes she deigns to offer me lunch.'
Promilla had a regular demand from a shop in Ilfracombe for the strikingly original cushions and quilts she designed and made. Sukie Wareing's 'title' was an ironic one bestowed because of her autocratic manner.
'It's good of you girls to put up with my fads,' Matthew said as he sat at the kitchen table. Once in a while, he remembered his manners sufficiently to thank them.
'I've often thought of becoming a vegetarian myself,' Briony said as she set a tastefully arranged salad in front of him. 'I know all the health and conscience arguments for it,' she went on half apologetically, 'but I'm afraid I enjoy meat too much to give it up altogether.'
Matthew shrugged. 'I used to be into organic vegetable gardening before…' He stopped abruptly. 'Now I can't be bothered. There isn't time. There's never enough time.' He began to bolt his fo
od, and Briony knew he was eager to return to the studio.
'I've never asked you, Matthew—do you live locally?' She knew immediately that the question had been a mistake, as a hunted expression crossed his face. She wouldn't get a straight answer and she could see the relief in his eyes as the sound of the shop bell made a reply unnecessary.
'Be with you in a minute,' she called to an invisible customer. She put a fresh fruit salad in front of Matthew, leaning over him as she did so to collect his empty plate.
'What a cosy domestic scene!'
Briony started and nearly dropped the plate. Indignantly, she turned round to see who had dared to violate the privacy of the living quarters behind the shop. But really she knew there was no need to look; she had recognised that throaty voice.
'Mr Munro…' she began. But she was interrupted by Matthew, who lurched to his feet, his face contorted with fury. It was difficult, looking from one to the other, to decide which of the two men looked angrier.
'Munro! What are you doing here?'
'I might ask you the same.' Teale Munro's voice was harsh, contemptuous. 'Except that I don't need to ask. Up to your old tricks again, are you, Matthew?'
'How did you know… ?' Matthew began.
'You were seen. By a mutual acquaintance, who lost no time in telling Rhoda.'
'And Rhoda had to tell you, of course!' Matthew sounded defeated now. It was as if his anger had drained from him, leaving him bowed and limp.
'Which entailed telephoning me in London, in the middle of a very important conference, and dragging me down here.' The dagger-sharp glare of grey eyes encompassed Briony, too, taking in her long floral skirt, the skimpy T-shirt, the loops of amber beads about her slender neck. 'You always did have a penchant for redheads, didn't you, Matthew? I see this time you've found one who shares your bizarre tastes.' At the contempt in his tone, Briony stiffened. What did he mean by that? She was soon enlightened as Teale went on, 'Isn't it about time you grew up, Matthew? There's something extremely ridiculous and pathetic about ageing hippies.'
'Was that insult aimed at me, too?' Briony asked quietly—deceptively quietly. Those who knew her well could have told Teale that when she was most quiet she was most angry. Her face, haloed by its wealth of fiery-red curls, had paled, making the dusting of freckles across her nose stand out more noticeably. Her blue eyes held storm clouds. His shrug further incensed her.
'If the cap fits, as they say!'
'Mr Munro, you're trespassing,' she pointed out. 'This is my home, not a public thoroughfare. If you have anything to say to Mr Rawlinson, please say it elsewhere.'
'Mr Rawlinson,' he mocked. 'Very formal all of a sudden, aren't you? Is that meant to convince me there's nothing going on between you two? Because, if so, let me tell you it's a failure, like Mr Rawlinson himself.'
Briony looked at Matthew, expecting him to flare up in his own defence. But, tall though he was, and better-nourished than when the girls had first met him—principally due to their efforts—he seemed to have shrunk in upon himself.
'Are you going to stand there,' Briony demanded, 'and let this man insult you?'
'He's done nothing else for the last eighteen years,' Matthew muttered. 'And he's right—I am a failure. I told you that. I'll never be anything else.'
'If you take that attitude and allow yourself to be browbeaten, of course you won't,' Briony retorted. She turned on Teale Munro, far angrier on Matthew's behalf than on her own. 'What right have you to belittle Matthew? How can you deliberately set out to undermine another person's confidence? It's cruel and arrogant. What makes you a better man, fit to judge him? He…' Her voice caught on a sob, not of anger now, but of compassion for Matthew's broken, defeated stance.
'How very touching!' Teale Munro said scornfully. 'How do you do it, Matthew? First Rhoda, then Charlene, and now Miss Briony Kent, RA. What sort of man lets himself be bolstered up and supported by women?'
'You wouldn't understand.' Matthew said it wearily. He brushed past Teale Munro, into the shop, and headed for the outer door.
'Matthew,' Briony called after him anxiously, 'where are you going? What about… ?' She was going to say 'your painting', but he forestalled her.
'I'm not in the mood now, Briony. Perhaps I never will be again. Sorry, and thanks.' The door jangled and closed.
'Sorry about that, Briony!' Teale Munro's hatefully mocking voice came from close behind her, making her start away nervously. 'But it would seem Matthew's "not in the mood" for you, now I've reminded him of too many things he'd rather forget.'
Briony's face turned from white to red. Teale Munro obviously thought he'd interrupted an assignation, that his arrival had deterred Matthew from making love to her!
In that moment, she wished she had never met either man. For the last two years, here in Gwinvercombe, her life had been peaceful, free of the conflict she disliked so much. But, though she hated arguments and rows, Briony had a fiery temper. She deplored it and most of the time she was able to control it. Now she bit on her lip and counted to ten. She was tempted to take Teale Munro up to the studio and show him just why Matthew came here. But she didn't know what Matthew's reaction would be. He might be furious, especially if he'd told no one about his painting. The odds were that he hadn't. It would be on a par with his almost abnormal secretiveness.
'Please go, Mr Munro,' she said stiffly. 'You've achieved your object. You've "rescued" Matthew from my clutches. Be satisfied.'
'Oh, I'm far from satisfied,' he told her somewhat ambiguously, his voice a deep drawl.
'What more could you possibly want?' Now they were alone, she was aware once more of his swarthy attractiveness. On his first visit, he had worn a suit that screamed Savile Row. Today, he wore faded hip-hugging jeans—designer jeans, admittedly—and a silver-grey sweatshirt that matched his eyes. But despite the casual clothes he was immaculately groomed, from crow-black hair to well kept fingernails and polished shoes.
'The answers to a lot of questions.' Teal Munro was not unaware of her appraisal, and he let his eyes roam over her in a blatant scrutiny of her flushed, heart-shaped face and, more particularly, her figure, noting her unstudied sexuality.
'I doubt if I have anything of interest to tell you.' Briony assumed he meant to question her about Matthew. Before he spoke, his mouth widened into a one-sided smile that seemed to mock himself rather than her, and she knew that she'd misunderstood.
'Oh, I disagree, Miss Briony Kent. Under different circumstances, I think I might find you very interesting indeed!'
CHAPTER TWO
Even in the face of this provoking remark, Briony did not sacrifice her natural dignity. She drew herself up to her full five feet two inches. Only the widely spaced, sapphire-blue eyes betrayed the intensity of her feelings.
'Mr Munro, I dislike having to be rude to people. So I'm asking you once more, politely, to go.'
'Oh, I'm going, Miss Kent.' Despite the sarcastic note, his laughter had a vital sound that, under other circumstances, Briony would have found very attractive. 'But only because I want a word with our mutual friend Rawlinson, before he disappears under his stone again. I'll be back.'
Tensely, she watched him go. She was angry. But she was a woman, and capable of appreciating Teale Munro's height, his deceptively lean build. There was power in the wide shoulders, arrogance in the set of his dark head. She knew nothing about him, yet she suspected him of being a man who had made his mark in life. His whole carriage, his long, easy stride, bore the unmistakable stamp of success and self-confidence. Which made it all the more despicable, she reminded herself, that he should taunt Matthew with his failures.
'It's a good job I don't work in a china shop,' Briony muttered to herself as the door closed behind him and his departing steps continued to echo in her mind, 'because I feel like smashing something.' Though her past relationships with the opposite sex had not always been very happy ones, she couldn't remember ever feeling this furious with a man.
Her ne
rves remained distinctly on edge for the next hour or so, until Promilla returned and Briony could let off steam to her friend.
'Has it occurred to you,' Promilla asked diffidently, 'that Mr Munro might have good reason for the things he said to Matthew? Matthew is a bit of a mystery man.'
'So is Teale Munro,' Briony argued. 'We've known Matthew for a couple of months now. He's never been any trouble. He's a darned good artist. And I like him. We know absolutely nothing about Teale Munro. Anyway,' she concluded with a toss of her red curls, 'I'm going to try and forget about the wretched man. I don't expect he will come back again, not now he's tracked Matthew down. The trouble is, Matthew may not come back, either. It'll be a crime,' she said fiercely, 'if that man's managed to put him off! Matthew could have had a great future before him.'
Despite her declaration that she intended to forget Teale Munro, it was surprising how often her thoughts returned to him during the evening that followed. When she wasn't painting, which she did very quickly and intensively, in bursts of almost manic energy, Briony normally had a talent for total relaxation. She loved to read, or watch old films or play with the cats. Tonight, neither her book—a shudder-a-minute horror—nor an old black and white 'weepy' on television could hold her interest. Not even the presence of her favourite cat, Tara, on her knee could soothe her.
'How dare he refer to me as an ageing hippy?' she demanded of Promilla, unconsciously stroking the Siamese's honey-coloured fur the wrong way. 'I don't deliberately create any image. I just wear what I like.' It was true. Briony could as easily have been wearing one of the old twenties costumes in her collection. She loved dressing up, even to serve in the shop, and most customers enjoyed seeing her individual clothes, they were appreciative and admiring. The Siamese took exception to her mood and jumped down to curl on the hearthrug beside a silver tabby.
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