Pamela Sherwood

by A Song at Twilight

  “There’s no one here to object. Harry’s in Truro, John’s at the mine, and Mama’s in the village helping to organize a flower show. So I’m completely at liberty to accept your invitation,” she concluded, smiling at him. “Just give me a few minutes to change into my habit.”

  “No need for that—we can drive over in my gig. And besides”—he paused, studying her with those intense blue eyes—“I find that dress far too becoming to wish you to change it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sophie said lightly, though she could feel herself flushing with pleasure at the compliment. “Then just let me get my hat and coat, and we’ll be on our way.”

  ***

  Fortunately, it wasn’t considered too improper for a lady to drive in the country with a friend, Sophie told herself. And Mr. Pendarvis had become a friend to Harry, and thus to the whole family, these last few months. All the same, she experienced a faint tingle of excitement when he handed her into the gig, and then climbed in beside her and took the reins.

  Sitting in such close quarters, she could feel the warmth of his near thigh through her skirt, and even breathe in his scent, a pleasant mingling of clean linen and shaving soap. Bay rum—her father had favored that scent as well. As a child, she’d come to associate it with the comfort and security she always felt in her father’s company, but it had a rather different effect on her when she smelled it on Mr. Pendarvis.

  She glanced covertly at him as he drove—adroitly, though with understandable caution, as he was still getting used to the roads in Cornwall. It helped that the horse was such a placid, unexcitable beast, trotting along at an easy pace and obeying its driver’s lightest command.

  “I heard a violin playing when Parsons showed me in,” Mr. Pendarvis remarked, once they were underway. “Was that you practicing?”

  “Yes—I hope it didn’t sound too terrible. I haven’t got the knack of that concerto yet.”

  “I’m no expert, but it sounded fine to me,” he asserted. “Indeed, I should like to hear it again sometime, once you’re satisfied with your progress.”

  “Perhaps the next time you dine with us at Roswarne we can have music afterward,” she suggested. “I don’t know if I’ll have mastered Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ by then, but I can give you a decent rendering of his ‘Spring.’”

  “Your favorite season.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “Just so,” Sophie acknowledged, smiling back.

  They chatted lightly of music and seasons for a good quarter hour, then Mr. Pendarvis turned a corner, passed through a gate—and there, at the end of a curving drive, stood the Hall.

  Despite having visited the estate before, Sophie still caught her breath when she looked up at the great facade. Was this how Elizabeth Bennet had felt, looking at Pemberley the first time? She’d heard that the Hall had begun life as a medieval manor house of modest proportions. While various changes had been made to it over the centuries, it had been extensively rebuilt during Queen Anne’s reign on a far grander scale. The owner of that time had commissioned an Inigo Jones–like Palladian front, and the landscape was said to be Capability Brown, and carefully preserved over generations.

  Generations that had got successively smaller, Sophie reminded herself. Ancient as the Pendarvis name might be, their numbers had dwindled nonetheless. Grand or humble, a house only lived if there were people who cared for and maintained it. Sobering to think that Robin Pendarvis might be the last, or among the last, to do so.

  She felt even more somber once they’d entered the house, admitted by the butler, a tall, stern-faced Cornishman with an air of general imperturbability.

  “Ah, Praed,” Mr. Pendarvis began, “this is Miss Sophie Tresilian, Sir Harry Tresilian’s sister. She’s visiting the Hall this afternoon.”

  “Very good, sir. Miss Tresilian.” Praed inclined his head and withdrew, leaving the master to escort his awestruck guest.

  Awestruck and tongue-tied, Sophie acknowledged ruefully, as she took in her new surroundings. Even the entrance hall was impressive, and beyond that lay a house the size of a small palace. Roswarne could probably fit into one wing of it.

  “Any part of the Hall you particularly wish to see?” Mr. Pendarvis inquired.

  “Oh, I’m prepared to be guided entirely by you,” Sophie assured him. “I’d get hopelessly lost if I even tried to explore this place on my own!”

  “I felt much the same on my first visit,” he observed. “And I kept wondering how many regiments could have been quartered here.” A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Pendarvis Hall as a barracks—Great-Uncle would have been horrified.”

  Sophie stifled a giggle. “Only if you actually planned to garrison soldiers here one day!”

  “It’s not likely to come to that. Although he’d no doubt take a dim view of my plans for the Hall, if he knew.” A shadow flickered across his face. “Well, one cannot be a slave to the past forever. Let’s start with the main wing. I promise in advance not to run you off your feet.”

  ***

  True to his promise, Robin avoided running Sophie off her feet, but he rather suspected she’d have run him off his if their positions were reversed. Nearly two hours later, she showed no sign of flagging, her interest and enthusiasm in his project undimmed. What a partner she’d make, he mused, and quickly suppressed the pang that arose in him at the thought.

  Now he watched as she moved about the chamber they were currently viewing, her expression thoughtful, even admiring, as she surveyed the daisy-patterned wallpaper and the canopied bed with its matching coverlet and curtains of spring green brocade.

  “A woman’s touch,” she said at last, so emphatically that Robin had to smile. “And not just here—all through the house! Who decorated the Hall most recently?”

  “My Great-Aunt Martha, I believe. Sadly, I never knew her,” he added. “Great-Uncle was a widower when I first came to Cornwall, but I’ve heard that she had a kind heart and quite good taste, for a merchant’s daughter.”

  “Well, good taste isn’t solely the provenance of the aristocracy. I’m sure there are duchesses and even queens with the most hideous taste imaginable.” Sophie glanced about the chamber again. “This is—restful and elegant, rather than magnificent.”

  Robin raised skeptical brows. “And that’s an advantage?”

  “Absolutely—magnificence can be oppressive. If I were a guest, I’d very much enjoy staying in such a room. Any lady would.” She smiled, her eyes aglow. “Oh, I can imagine your hotel so much more clearly now that I’ve seen the house again!”

  Robin studied her closely, but saw no sign of dissembling. “Can you really?”

  “I do—honor bright!” Sophie assured him, crossing her heart for good measure. “But you’ll need some help if you’re to realize all this.”

  “Investors,” he interpreted without difficulty, stifling a sigh. “I know my best chance is to find some people willing to back this scheme.”

  “Would your family help? The ones in Yorkshire, I mean?”

  “It’s possible. My uncle Richard owns a part-share in a few London hotels.” He smiled wryly. “No doubt he’d consider this far more practical than designing cathedrals in France. I’ll write to him tonight and ask his opinion. If he approves, he might be willing to advance me some capital, if only for the sake of family. But I suspect it would help even more if I could interest some of the local gentry in this venture. Do you think—Harry would be open to it?”

  “He might,” Sophie replied, after a moment. “If he felt it benefited the county—and the rest of Cornwall. He thinks hard times are coming. Mines have been closing down, workers emigrating—a hotel could give them a reason to stay. Steady work and safer than going down a mine or out to sea. And you’d be offering employment to women as well, wouldn’t you?”

  The practicality of her argument impressed him, but then, Sophie came from a practical family, Robin reflected. The Tresilians owned not only a tin mine, but also shares in local fisherie
s. “I’d planned to.”

  “Well, then, I’m sure Harry would be willing to hear you out at the very least.” Sophie fretted her lower lip, a sight that Robin found more endearing—and distracting—than he cared to admit. “And maybe the Prideauxes. I know Roger Prideaux likes to have a finger in different pies. And the Tregarths, the Polwheles, and maybe the Nankivells—”

  “No.” He hardly recognized the cold, clipped monosyllable as his own voice.

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “I—beg your pardon?” she ventured, after a moment.

  Robin surreptitiously unclenched his fists, willing himself back to calm. “If you were referring to Sir Lucas Nankivell, then—no. I would prefer not to do business with him.”

  “Oh.” To his chagrin, Sophie was still eyeing him warily, as if he were a bomb about to explode. “Well, I suppose you may be right to feel so. Sir Lucas has never been known for having much of a head for business. It’s just that his family has such an old name in the county, and I know that can lend a bit more credibility to a project.”

  Robin exhaled. “Forgive me. I did not mean to bite your head off. I’m aware that the Nankivells are a long-established family in St. Perran, but I feel there’s a certain—conflict of interest that would prevent any sort of profitable partnership between Nankivell and myself.”

  “Conflict of interest?” she echoed blankly. “Over what?”

  Over more things than you can imagine, Robin thought, looking into her lovely, uncomprehending face. Aloud he said, “I mentioned before that I’d inherited some railway shares from my grandfather. Nankivell recently approached me about acquiring them, but I am disinclined to sell.”

  “I see. Well, then, what about James—as a possible investor, I mean?”

  “Your cousin—the new earl? I thought he was having financial difficulties of his own.”

  “Oh, he is, but that doesn’t necessarily rule him out as a potential backer. In fact, he might be even more receptive to your scheme because of his own situation.” Sophie paused, then added significantly, “He wrote in his last letter that he was courting a Miss Newbold from New York. We think she may be an heiress. And if they marry, he might be in a better position to invest in your hotel, especially if she supports the idea too. I’ve heard that Americans are great admirers of industry and entrepreneurship.”

  “A possibility,” Robin conceded, “but let’s not count our chickens just yet. The lady might choose another. I’ve heard some heiresses won’t consider anyone lower than a duke.”

  “Miss Newbold would be lucky to have James, even without a title!” Sophie declared staunchly. “Besides, he described her as lovely and charming, so she must be both. And there’s no harm, is there, in being just a little ambitious?”

  “I suppose not, provided one isn’t burdened with unrealistic expectations.” A memory from a less pleasant time tugged at him and he forced it back. “Well, I hope your cousin’s suit prospers, and if it does, perhaps I’ll approach him then. Now, as we’ve seen most of the first and second floors, would you care to stop and have some refreshment? The first time I toured the Hall as Great-Uncle’s heir, I had to fortify myself with a whiskey and soda,” he added wryly, “but you might prefer tea.”

  Her dimpled smile flashed out at him. “Tea would be welcome, but there’s something I should like to see first, downstairs.”

  “Downstairs? On the ground floor?”

  She nodded. “Would you show me the ballroom, Mr. Pendarvis?”

  ***

  “Dear life,” Sophie breathed, gazing about the salon. “It must be twice the size of ours!”

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised.” Mr. Pendarvis sounded less than enthusiastic about that circumstance. “Pendarvis Hall used to entertain on a lavish scale—house parties, pheasant shoots, hunt balls, and the like. But there hasn’t been anything like that here for a good five years. Maybe even ten.”

  “At least your staff keeps this room swept and dusted,” Sophie pointed out. The ballroom floor still held a gleam of polish, and the walls—tinted a pale blue-green—showed no sign of mildew or peeling paint. The wall sconces were free of rust, and the panes of the French doors were likewise spotless. The draperies might be a little faded, but they were oyster brocade, and pale enough for their age not to show too obviously.

  She glanced up at the high arched ceiling and the huge chandelier, its crystal prisms swaddled in Holland cloth. “Mr. Pendarvis, you want guests of a certain—quality, don’t you?”

  “I’d take anyone who could pay, but I suppose I am hoping to attract a particular clientele,” he admitted.

  “What Society calls ‘the best people,’” Sophie supplied, without difficulty. “No shame in that. But if you’re trying to entice them down here, fresh from London and the Season, you’ll need to offer more than food and lodging. They’ll expect to be entertained as well—to enjoy at least some of the pleasures they enjoy in town.”

  He stared at her, clearly appalled. “Oh, God.” The words came out half-strangled. “Will you think me a complete dunce if I tell you that had never crossed my mind?”

  “Not at all. You’re an architect—naturally you’re more intent on getting the house in order. But there’s plenty of time to learn how to plan activities for your guests. Or you could simply hire someone to direct your entertainments instead,” she added as he blanched visibly.

  “There is that.” He exhaled, some of the panic receding, and summoned a sheepish smile. “You’re quite right—I’ve been focusing on the hotel as a building to be renovated, rather than as a place where actual people will be staying. Thank you for pointing that out to me.”

  “Well, I’ve never stayed at a hotel, but I have attended a few house parties and helped Mama plan some at Roswarne. The comfort of one’s guests is always the most important thing to consider. Even in the country, people want to be amused and entertained.” She glanced around the salon again. “Fortunately, with a room this size, you can hold all sorts of grand events. And it would be something, wouldn’t it, to see this place come alive again?”

  “It is a bit like a tomb, isn’t it?” he observed dryly.

  “That’s not what I meant.” She looked up once more at the swaddled chandelier. “Can’t you imagine it? Everything lit and blazing. The floor polished and shining. Flowers everywhere. The musicians up there in the gallery, and the guests all dancing. You could probably fit most of the county in this ballroom.”

  “Good Lord, really?” Mr. Pendarvis eyed the salon with distinct unease. “I’ve never hosted as much as a dinner party, let alone a ball!”

  “It isn’t easy, planning something of that size,” Sophie admitted. “But neither is it impossible. Your staff would know what to do, and you could ask your friends and family for advice as well. Hotels do hold formal balls on occasion—there was one at the Newquay resort this past Easter Monday.”

  “Yes, I heard something about that myself.” He paused, studying the room with new interest. “And that they have dances some afternoons, at teatime.”

  “Good thinking,” Sophie approved. “And don’t forget receptions, concerts—maybe even plays!” Excitement began to kindle inside of her as she considered the possibilities. “You could mount a stage over there.” She gestured toward the far wall. “Nothing too huge, just a raised platform, and put down a carpet and rows of seats in front.”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to see as she saw. “Perhaps. The concert idea may have some merit. I don’t know about plays—the theatre in Truro would be better equipped for that.”

  “Dramatic recitals, then,” Sophie suggested. “Some of your guests might even be persuaded to take part themselves. You’d be amazed at how many frustrated thespians there are.” She struck a dramatic pose and declaimed with great fervor, “A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, / There was lack of women’s nursing, there was dearth of women’s tears—”

  “Stop.” Mr. Pendarvis held up a hand. “My dear, I would much rather hear y
ou sing.”

  My dear. The words took her by surprise, and she glanced at him, suddenly hesitant. “What, now?”

  He raised his brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown self-conscious about your voice, Miss Tresilian! I remember how poised you were at New Year’s. And I should like to hear just how your voice sounds in this great cavern. How else should I know if it’s suitable for those concerts you’ve suggested?”

  “Well, if you’re certain—” Sophie wandered toward the center of the room and positioned herself below the highest point of the ceiling. The soft light of early afternoon rippled along the pale green walls, casting a watery pattern that made her think of undersea caves and grottos. Inspired, she cleared her throat, took a breath or two to steady herself and pitch her voice properly, then launched into “The Mermaid’s Song,” a Haydn canzonetta she had always loved:

  “Now the dancing sunbeams play

  On the green and glassy sea,

  Come, and I will lead the way

  Where the pearly treasures be.”

  Her voice rose, gratifyingly clear even in this vast space. A faint echo resounded from the walls and ceiling, but not strongly enough to distort the sound. Encouraged, she sang on:

  “Come with me, and we will go

  Where the rocks of coral grow.

  Follow, follow, follow me!

  Follow, follow, follow me!”

  She lowered her voice just a fraction, let it become confiding, even enticing. Mermaids were sirens, after all, eager to lure unsuspecting mortals beneath the waves. Enchanting creatures, but dangerous too—she added a note of cajolery as she embarked on the next verse:

  “Come, behold what treasures lie

  Far below the rolling waves,

  Riches, hid from human eye,

  Dimly shine in ocean’s caves.

  Ebbing tides bear no delay,

  Stormy winds are far away.

  Come with me, and we will go

  Where the rocks of coral grow.

  Follow, follow, follow me!