“It looks wonderful!” Aurelia exclaimed, and as an American heiress who’d surely seen her share of resort hotels, her opinion counted for quite a bit, Sophie thought. “Just as fine as anything I’ve seen in New York!”
“Thank you, Lady Trevenan.”
Robin’s voice floated down to them, and they looked up to see him, immaculate in black and white evening kit, descending the stairs. Sophie had never seen him looking so confident—or so handsome.
He paused on the landing and smiled. “Welcome, all of you, to the Pendarvis Hotel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pendarvis,” Lady Tresilian replied, smiling back. “You’ve done wonders with this place. I must confess, I had my doubts at the beginning, but no longer. Pendarvis Hall will make a beautiful hotel.”
“Considering how hard we’ve worked, it had jolly well better!” Harry declared with a theatrical grimace, and they all laughed, the formality of the evening yielding to something more relaxed and congenial.
Robin descended the rest of the stairs. “Dinner is about to be served in the Grand Salon. May I have the privilege of escorting the guest of honor?”
Sophie felt herself flush, her cheeks doubtless the same shade as the rose-pink gown she had donned for the occasion. Flattering and disconcerting to be the focus of attention tonight, his attention in particular. She slanted a hopeful glance at her mother, and could barely contain her delight when Lady Tresilian replied in a warm, even indulgent tone, “You may indeed.”
Robin stepped forward and offered his arm to Sophie. “Many happy returns, Miss Tresilian.”
The warmth in his eyes made up for the formality of his words. “Thank you, Mr. Pendarvis,” Sophie replied, just as circumspectly, though goodness knows, her face probably showed everything she felt at this moment: excitement, anticipation, and a happiness so intense she could have sung with it. She settled for tightening her grip on Robin’s arm as he led their party, now suitably paired up, in to dinner.
***
The original dining room of Pendarvis Hall still existed, Robin explained to his guests as they made their way through the passages, but he’d had one of the reception rooms on the ground floor converted into a much larger salon where the hotel guests would have their meals. And it was to this room that he led them now.
A footman in black and white livery opened the doors for them with a flourish and Sophie caught her breath for the second time that night. For the Grand Salon was easily twice the size of any dining room she had ever seen in any great house in Cornwall. And as elegantly furnished and decorated as if the Queen herself was expected to dine here.
Overhead, a fully lighted chandelier cast a bright glow over the entire room, illuminating tables draped in spotless white linen. The largest of these—a round table that could easily seat them all—stood in the middle of the salon. Every place was laid with gleaming silver flatware and Crown Derby china. And Waterford crystal goblets, in which a variety of wines would be served. A silver epergne occupied the center of the table, holding flowers: a glory of June roses in brilliant hues, vibrant reds, glowing yellows, and lush pinks.
Glancing at her companions’ faces, Sophie saw that they were every bit as impressed as she was. “Mr. Pendarvis, this is—just splendid,” she said fervently.
“Your staff has outdone themselves tonight, old fellow,” Harry remarked.
“If not tonight, then when else?” Robin returned, still with that ease and assurance she loved to see in him. “Come, let’s be seated.”
The shape of the table rendered the whole order of precedence largely unnecessary. As they took their places, Sophie was irresistibly reminded of King Arthur and hoped that this Round Table would prove to be as harmonious. Much to her delight, Robin sat to one side of her, Harry on the other. Aurelia and James took up places to the other side of Robin.
“This is simply amazing,” Aurelia declared, gazing about the dining room. “James has told me how this place has been coming alive. But I guess there’s no substitute for actually seeing it.”
Robin smiled at her. “I couldn’t have imagined how well things would turn out myself when I first drew up the plans for the hotel. And I believe I have you as well as James to thank for his coming aboard with this scheme?”
“You certainly do,” James affirmed, with a fond look at his wife. “Aurelia was nothing if not persuasive about my becoming a part of this. And based on the end result, I am exceedingly glad to have yielded to my uxoriousness.”
Aurelia blushed, but laughed along with the rest of them. “Well, I knew you would be in favor of anything that benefited Cornwall,” she told her husband. “You’ve said yourself that there must be some new industry here, if it is to continue to thrive. And I’ve heard there are many village girls who are pleased to have found positions here at the hotel.”
“That’s good to know,” Robin replied. “I’ve retained my own staff at the Hall, but wherever possible I’ve hired local men and women for additional positions. From domestics to wait staff,” he added, nodding toward a pair of liveried men now approaching the table with what appeared to be the first course.
Silence reigned for several minutes as the waiters set baskets of fresh baked rolls on the table, filled their glasses with a pale sherry, ladled out portions of steaming oyster soup from a silver tureen for each of them, and then withdrew with the same quiet efficiency with which they had entered.
Sophie sipped from the spoon, aware that Robin was watching her closely. The first taste of the soup fulfilled every expectation. “Oh, this is lovely! And richer than what we usually have at home.”
He relaxed, just enough for her to sense the faint anxiety lingering under his surface calm. “Chef Renard adds a dollop of cream, and sherry to make it so.”
“Well, you can present my compliments when next you see him,” Sophie declared.
The others murmured their approval, spooning up their soup with enthusiasm. The fish course that followed was just as delicious: a whole poached salmon served upon a bed of tender asparagus, prawns baked in tiny pastry shells, and boiled lobsters with drawn butter. But where could one possibly find fresher fish than in Cornwall, with the sea at one’s doorstep, Sophie mused as she finished the last of her salmon.
“I think even the most particular appetite in London would be satisfied with this dinner,” James remarked, laying down his fish fork.
“I adore the lobster,” Aurelia said, extracting another morsel from a scarlet claw. “I don’t think any of the hotels in Newport could produce anything better.”
Robin laughed, the sound warming the very depths of Sophie’s heart. “Well, it’s not perhaps on the same level as the Savoy, but I think it’ll do nicely. And there’s more to come,” he added, nodding toward the returning waiters.
More was a roast duck in a delicate orange sauce, and fricassee of chicken with truffles, succeeded by spring lamb with mint sauce and new potatoes.
“My favorites,” Sophie said with a sigh of pleasure as the laden plate was set before her.
“So I’ve been told.” Robin smiled at her. “Many happy returns, Miss Tresilian.”
The same words he’d said to her before, but the tone was different: intimate and warm, a caress of velvet against her ear. Sophie suppressed a shiver, her skin deliciously atingle beneath the silk of her gown, and stole a glance at Robin beneath her lashes. Her pulse quickened when she saw that his eyes held some of that hazed, slumberous look she’d remembered from their first kiss in the garden. She dropped her own gaze hastily, half wishing it could be just the two of them dining alone together, rather than with her entire family looking on and—in the case of her mother, at least—speculating on how matters stood between them.
Robin tapped his fork against his wine glass, making the crystal chime, and his guests looked up at once from their plates. “If I may interrupt you for a moment,” he began, “I should like to propose a toast. To Miss Sophie Tresilian, on the occasion of her nineteenth birthday!”
They all drank to the hotel after that, and the hard work of the partners and staff. And the dessert course was brought in, just as delectable as the courses that had preceded it: hothouse fruits, lemon and raspberry ices, exquisitely tinted petit fours, and most striking of all, a spun sugar and meringue confection in the shape of the Pendarvis Hotel itself. They drank another round of toasts, this time with an excellent French champagne that Harry, who prided himself on his cellar, insisted on knowing more about so he could purchase a case himself.
Sophie sipped at her own glass, savoring the fizz upon her tongue. A delectable meal, a beautifully furnished room full of the people dearest to her, a party in her honor held by the man she loved, on Midsummer Eve, no less—what could be more magical than that?
***
She found out soon after the last dishes had been cleared away and Robin led them from the Grand Salon to the ballroom.
Much to Sophie’s pleasure, the walls were the same delicate green, and the curtains still made of oyster satin, though a bit richer and heavier than the ones she remembered. Unshrouded from its holland cover, the crystal chandelier blazed forth in full magnificence, the light of its shining prisms reflected in the polished floor. More roses here too, snowy white alternating with soft damask pink, arranged in graceful celadon vases. And up in the gallery sat the musicians—a string quartet and a pair of flautists, Robin informed his guests. At his signal, they immediately struck up a lilting Strauss waltz.
“Not quite enough people for a quadrille,” Robin explained. “But then, that’s one advantage of an informal dance such as this. There can be as many waltzes as one likes.”
“And everyone knows that one can never have too many waltzes,” James remarked, exchanging a knowing smile with Aurelia. Watching them, Sophie wondered if, someday, she and Robin would share that sort of wordless intimacy. “May I have this dance, loveday?”
Her smile was answer enough, and soon they had all paired up, with the exception of John and Peter, the two spare gentlemen of the party, though Peter claimed not to mind. At sixteen, he still regarded dancing with any female as a penance rather than a pleasure.
Harry claimed Sophie as his partner for the first waltz—an older brother’s prerogative, he said—and she danced with John, James, and Arthur before Robin stepped in, sweeping her into a waltz with that breathtaking new assurance of his.
“You’ve improved,” Sophie observed with delight, as he led them into a graceful turn.
“Thank you. I did get some practice in while you were away.”
“Oh?” Sophie raised her brows. “Might I inquire who your partner was?”
“No need—she’s here tonight.” He nodded toward Aurelia, circling the floor in James’s arms. “Lady Trevenan did the honors, at least until the last part of her confinement.”
Sophie couldn’t restrain a smile. James and Aurelia always waltzed as though they were one person, not two. “I shall have to thank her as well. You’re a credit to her teaching—I haven’t enjoyed a waltz this much in, oh, ages!”
“With the cream of London Society vying for your dances? I find that difficult to believe, my dear.”
“Oh, but surely you know that enjoying a dance has nothing to do with Society,” she said lightly. “And everything to do with… finding the right partner.”
He stilled for a moment, his eyes gone as dark as midnight as he gazed at her. “I would say the right partner can make all the difference in the world.”
Sophie smiled up at him. “Then we’re in perfect accord, aren’t we? Although,” she added, “since you have mentioned London, I’ve got some news to share.”
His expression lightened. “Good news, I trust?”
She nodded. “I had a letter from my voice teacher yesterday. He wants me to go on a singing tour with several other pupils.”
“A tour? When would it start?”
“In autumn. September or October, lasting until December, and we’d be performing mostly in England, though we might travel up to Scotland as well. Getting our feet wet as professional musicians,” she explained. “The biggest draws will be singers who are already established, but we’d support them—and a few of us will perform solos as well. And we—the ladies—would be duly chaperoned at all times, so that needn’t be a problem.”
Robin’s eyes warmed. “That’s wonderful news, my dear. Shall you go?”
“Perhaps,” Sophie temporized. “I haven’t written back yet. I felt I had to discuss this with my family first. And you.”
His mouth firmed. “You should go, Sophie.”
“Robin—”
“I mean it, my dear. You’ve worked too hard and have far too much talent to give up a chance like this.”
“But everything’s so unsettled right now!” Sophie protested. “Your hotel, and that other situation—”
“Will still exist whether you are in Cornwall or on tour,” Robin broke in. “I have hopes of things being resolved before too long, but even under the best circumstances, it will still take time to… disentangle myself.” He took a breath. “This could turn ugly—divorce often does—and I don’t want you in the middle of it.”
It was on the tip of Sophie’s tongue to argue that she was already in the middle of it, but she stifled her protest when she saw the bleakness in his eyes. “Very well,” she conceded. “I’ll talk this over with my family, and if they have no objection, I’ll go on the tour.”
“Good.” He relaxed then, the warmth creeping back into his eyes. “You’ll take the rest of England by storm, I have no doubt. And Cornwall will still be here when you return—as will I.”
Relief escaped in a gurgle of laughter at the familiar words. “You sound like me!”
“Do I, then?” He guided her into a swirling turn. “Your optimism must be rubbing off on me at long last.”
“Better late than never,” Sophie teased.
“Indeed. So let us maintain our optimism, and trust that all will turn out for the best. Are you enjoying your birthday celebration?”
“You know I am.” She smiled up at him with all her heart. “It’s been a wonderful night, Robin. Thank you—I feel just like a princess in a fairy tale.”
“You look like one.” Robin’s gaze swept over her gown—a confection of rose-pink silk trimmed with ivory lace—and then up to the budding roses woven in her hair. “I’m partial to you in green, but you’re lovely in this color too. Like a rose coming into bloom.” He drew her closer to him as they danced, his voice low and caressing. “The fairest rose in the garden.”
It seemed impossible to be happier than at this moment—this sure of him, and of herself, and the future before them. Wonderful, Sophie thought, her senses pleasantly blurred with love and champagne. This night could not be more wonderful…
Greatly daring, she let her head rest for a moment upon his shoulder, then pulled back in surprise when something hard pressed against her cheek.
“What’s this—in your pocket?”
He smiled. “Something that might become you even more than that pretty locket you’re wearing now.”
“My locket?” Sophie’s hand went to her necklace. While only a trinket, it had belonged to her mother and grandmother before her, and she was quite fond of it.
Robin stepped back, reached into his breast pocket… and an unfamiliar voice assailed them all, rising above the lilting music from the gallery.
“Mesdames, m’sieurs… can someone ’elp me?”
A woman’s voice, clear, imperious—and not at all English. Robin’s head snapped toward the sound, and the color drained from his face. Her own heart pounding, Sophie followed the direction of his gaze and felt her blood turn to ice.
A fair-haired woman—dainty, almost fairylike in her proportions—stood on the threshold… with a ch
ild of perhaps three clinging to her skirts and another, little more than an infant, slumbering in her arms. Straightening to her full height, diminutive as it was, she addressed the room at large.
“Pardonnez-moi, I am looking for a Monsieur Robin Pendarvis. I am Madame Pendarvis.”
Ten
The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams…
—John Keats, “Lamia”
Madame Pendarvis.
Forewarned should have meant forearmed, but Sophie felt as dazed and stunned as if she were hearing of Robin’s marriage and Robin’s wife for the very first time. And all around her were people who were indeed hearing this for the first time, now staring transfixed at the woman before them. Even the musicians had stopped playing; Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised to find them peering over the balustrade to get a closer look at the scene unfolding below.
Concentrate. With an effort, she forced herself to remain composed as she studied the self-styled Madame Pendarvis more closely.
Contrary to Sophie’s secret perception of her, Robin’s runaway wife did not wear the tawdry finery of a fallen woman, but a plain traveling dress of demure blue-grey twill. The only claim to frivolity was a slightly bedraggled ostrich feather on the crown of her otherwise undistinguished-looking hat. But even such drab apparel could not dim her ethereal beauty. The baby in her arms was swaddled in a heavy blanket, over which a tuft of fair hair was just visible.
The baby… Sophie darted a glance at Robin, whose face was still pale and set. How painful this must be for him, having to deal with not just his wife’s reappearance but the all too evident fruit of her infidelity.
Madame, by contrast, appeared to feel neither shame nor discomfiture. Her gaze swept the ballroom and lighted at last upon her estranged husband. “Ah, Robin, there you are!”
“Nathalie.” Robin’s lips barely seemed to move; it was as if a stone had spoken. “What are you doing here?”
Pamela Sherwood Page 13