Pamela Sherwood

by A Song at Twilight

  “That’s quite all right, Mary. I know just how active children are at this age.” Cecily handed Esther over to the nursemaid. “But it’s high time she was in bed.”

  “Yes, missus.” Mary whisked her charge away.

  Cecily turned back to Sophie. “Now, where were we?”

  They found the song in a book of Scottish and Irish airs, and rehearsed it twice before setting the book on the music stand with the other sheet music and returning to the ballroom.

  Guests began to arrive around seven o’clock, and the Tregarths were among the first wave. Sturdy, practical Mr. Tregarth, his slender, elegant wife, and Grace herself a charming blend of the two, with her mother’s looks and her father’s common sense. Tonight she wore a gown the same shade as the golden roses in the ballroom and her bright grey eyes shone like stars. John’s face lit up at the sight of his betrothed: it had been a long wait for them, while John had studied and finally established himself as a lawyer.

  As long as for Robin and herself, Sophie thought with a slight pang. But John and Grace had had the privilege of a pledge and a promise, and they could acknowledge their love openly, without fear of censure. But self-pity was pointless and self-indulgent—all that mattered was that she and Robin could, at long last, have a life together. And someday, perhaps, they could enjoy a night like this, surrounded by family and friends wishing them well.

  She had just exchanged pleasantries with the Prideaux family, when she caught sight of a familiar dark-haired figure, lingering by the doorway.

  Robin. As always, her heart gave that little skip when she saw him.

  Even fully and formally dressed, he drew her gaze like no other man in the room. Granted, that might have to do with her intimate knowledge of how he looked undressed. In her mind’s eye, she could see his lean, hard-muscled torso as vividly as she had during those stolen days and nights in Oxfordshire. She could imagine his touch, the sensation of his cheek against her brow, his warm breath stirring her hair…

  Shameless, Sophie told herself sternly. That even in the shadow of grief and mourning she could still desire him like this. Then his gaze, burning blue, locked with hers, and she knew from the rush of heat that swept through her body that he wanted her just as intensely.

  It took a little time and some discretion, but eventually she managed to drift away from the guests in her immediate vicinity and toward the corner in which he was now standing.

  He wore impeccable evening dress, along with a black armband. His face looked drawn and shadowed with fatigue, but he mustered a smile for her that held just a hint of the smolder she’d seen in his eyes before.

  “Robin.” She extended her hand, aware that they might be watched. “I am so glad you chose to come tonight.” He’d been undecided as of yesterday, she knew, and hearing that the Nankivells were likely to attend hadn’t made the prospect any more appealing for him.

  He took her hand with equal formality, but the contact was still electric for them both. “Well, I accepted this invitation long before Nathalie’s death, so I thought I’d put in a brief appearance, just to wish John and Grace well. I won’t dance, of course, but I’d be happy enough to drink their health.”

  She squeezed his hand lightly before letting go. “They’ll be pleased that you’re here too.”

  Robin lowered his voice. “Sophie, I don’t wish to cause any sort of difficulty for you by having come tonight.”

  “You won’t,” she insisted. “You’re Harry’s friend and business partner. No one will question your being here tonight.” A man in mourning could rejoin society far sooner than a woman in the same situation. Unfair as that was, Sophie couldn’t summon the necessary indignation tonight, when it meant seeing Robin. “And as for me, no one present would dare to criticize me here, in my family’s home—it would be the height of rudeness. Besides, tonight is about John and Grace, so the attention will be on them and rightly so. Grace wishes me to sing a few songs. Nothing too elaborate, just some of her and John’s favorites.”

  His eyes warmed, beacons in his tired face. “Another reason I am glad to have come. You’ve always managed to transport me when you sing. For a time I forget all else, everything difficult or wretched, when I listen to you.”

  “What higher accolade can any singer hope for?” Sophie asked, smiling. “Now, please go and help yourself to some supper from the buffet. I can tell just by looking at you that you haven’t been eating properly today.”

  “I suppose I haven’t found the time for a full meal,” he admitted. “We’re getting ready for a flood of new guests at the hotel. And there’s been Sara to think of.”

  “You’re making certain that she eats, aren’t you?” she countered. “It’s only common sense that you do so too, and not just when your friends are watching you to make sure. Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Something James told me. That you would start looking after me, rather than the other way around, and if I had any sense, I would let you.”

  “And do you intend to?” Sophie inquired, raising a brow at him.

  Robin smiled as he began to move off. “I shall bow to my friend’s superior wisdom, and do just as he suggests.”

  Sophie lost track of time for a while, helping to greet other guests who arrived with warm wishes for the betrothed couple. But she next glanced over toward the corner where the buffet stood and observed with satisfaction that Robin had acquired a plate of food, which he was consuming steadily, if absentmindedly.

  Soon after that, the entertainment began, the guests filing into the music room and taking their seats. Cecily sat down at the piano, while Sophie positioned herself beside it. They exchanged a smile, remembering all the times they’d done this over the years, then Sophie turned to face the audience.

  “Good evening, everyone,” she said, pitching her voice effortlessly to fill the salon. “Thank you all for coming. My future sister-in-law,” she smiled at Grace, sitting in the first row of chairs, her hand linked with John’s, “has asked me to sing a few songs that are especially dear to her and my brother. I dedicate this performance to them, along with my warmest wishes for their happiness. To John and Grace!”

  “To John and Grace,” the audience echoed, and Sophie nodded at Cecily to play the introduction to the first song.

  The performance went smoothly—even the song she and Cecily had just rehearsed—and the audience was in a mellow mood, willing to be pleased by Grace’s selection of sweet, simple love songs. Sophie even persuaded them to sing along with her on the choruses, and soon the room echoed with their joined voices. Buoyed along by song and sentiment, Sophie let herself relax and enjoy the moment, as she seldom had leisure to do during her formal concerts.

  Four songs in the programme—just the right number for an occasion like this. But Sophie’s heart had turned over just a little when she’d recognized the last one on Grace’s list: the song she had sung in Robin’s pavilion five years ago, the true beginning of it all. Her gaze sought and found him now, sitting a few rows back from John and Grace, watching her with that heart-stopping intensity. She sent him a smile and embarked on the final song, her sense of their history—the bitter and the sweet—lending the words a deeper poignancy:

  “Once in the dear dead days beyond recall

  When on the world the mists began to fall,

  Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng

  Low to our hearts Love sang an old sweet song.

  And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam,

  Softly it wove itself into our dream.

  Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,

  And the flickering shadows softly come and go,

  Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,

  Still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,

  Comes Love’s old sweet song.”

  The audience joined Sophie on the chorus, but her voice rang out alone and triumphant in the last verse, affirming love’s power to transcend pain, hardship, ev
en the end of life itself:

  “Even today we hear Love’s song of yore,

  Deep in our hearts it dwells forevermore.

  Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way,

  Still we can hear it at the close of day.

  So till the end, when life’s dim shadows fall,

  Love will be found the sweetest song of all.”

  The applause was enthusiastic, but it was the glowing pleasure on Grace and John’s faces that made Sophie’s evening. Afterward, while graciously accepting her performer’s due of praise, she made sure to direct the attention back to the betrothed couple as quickly as possible, then looked about for Robin.

  As before, he’d found a quiet corner, and she made her way unhurriedly to his side.

  “I hope you enjoyed the performance, Mr. Pendarvis.” She kept her tone light and casual.

  “Yes, very much.” His tone was equally light, but the warmth in his eyes was like a caress. “I’ve developed a certain fondness for that last song.”

  “You do not find it hopelessly sentimental?”

  “Sentimental, yes, but far from hopeless. I’ve come to understand, at long last, that love should never be without hope.”

  “At long last, indeed,” Sophie observed, smiling to take the sting from the words.

  “Not before time, you’ll agree. Do you know, I could almost envy John and Grace, just a bit, for being at the beginning of it all?”

  “We’re at the beginning of it too,” Sophie reminded him. “An interrupted beginning, to be sure, but no less sweet for that.”

  “Perhaps even sweeter,” Robin agreed, mouth curving in a faint smile. “I should go and congratulate the happy couple. We haven’t spoken much before—” He broke off, stiffening beside her, his gaze arrowing across the room over her shoulder.

  “Robin, what’s wrong?”

  His voice was taut. “Look, over there.”

  She turned her head, following the direction of his gaze. “Sir Lucas and—his wife?”

  They were standing by Grace and John, offering their good wishes no doubt. Sir Lucas looked uncomfortable, Sophie was pleased to note, but Constance Nankivell, a petite brunette with a round, softly pretty face, was smiling.

  Robin’s hand closed about her arm like a vise. “Lady Nankivell is wearing Nathalie’s diamond necklace.”

  Sophie snapped her attention back to him. “What? Are you sure?”

  He nodded, tight-lipped and flint-eyed. “Entirely. The circumstances in which I saw it are impossible to forget.”

  Sophie winced, remembering what he’d told her in Oxfordshire. “What do you want me to do, dear heart?” she asked, pitching her voice for his ears alone.

  His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “Why, procure me an introduction, of course.”

  “Of course.” Sophie kept her tone mild and pleasant as she slipped her own social mask back into place.

  She stole a glance at Robin as they crossed the room, uneasily aware of something… dangerous behind his eyes, something more than anger—tightly contained for now, but lethal if allowed to escape. Even when she looked away, she could feel it radiating from him like heat from a furnace.

  The Nankivells were just turning away from the engaged couple as Sophie and Robin approached. Sophie glanced first at Sir Lucas, and saw a look of dismay cross his face before his gaze slid away from them both. Remembering the many times he’d tried to injure or humiliate Robin, the last just a few days ago, Sophie felt a stab of vindictive satisfaction at his discomfiture. Suppressing it as best she could, she turned to his wife.

  Constance Nankivell looked younger than she had from a distance, nearer to Sophie’s own age, and her round brown eyes, along with the pale pink gown she wore, added to the impression of youth and artlessness. Trying not to stare at the diamond pendant blazing splendidly, even garishly about her smooth throat, Sophie opened her mouth to begin the introduction, but Lady Nankivell spoke first.

  “Miss Sophie Tresilian?” The brown eyes were guileless, even friendly. “I wanted to tell you how well you sang tonight.”

  Any opening was a start. Sophie smiled brilliantly. “Thank you, Lady Nankivell. I am glad you enjoyed my performance.”

  “Oh, call me Constance, please,” Lady Nankivell entreated. “I still haven’t got used to my title, even hearing it from friends—or those I should like to consider friends.”

  Sophie decided Lady Nankivell was much nicer than her husband deserved. “Constance, then,” she agreed. “Grace tells me you have but recently returned to Cornwall?”

  Constance colored slightly. “I’ve been visiting my parents in Birmingham for the last few weeks. But Cornwall is my home now.”

  Sophie did not miss the emphasis on that last word, and wondered whom it was Constance was trying to convince. “And a wonderful home it is,” she agreed. “I’ve been away for several years myself, but I still consider Cornwall the home of my heart.”

  Beyond his wife’s shoulder, Sir Lucas was shifting from foot to foot, clearly desiring nothing more than to remove himself and his wife from the vicinity. Fortunately, Constance showed no inclination to oblige him. “That’s not surprising if your roots are here. I understand the Tresilians are one of the county’s oldest families?”

  “Oh, we are, along with many of our neighbors.” Sophie sensed Robin coming to a point beside her, like an actor preparing to make his entrance. “Talking of which, may I present to you Mr. Robin Pendarvis, an old friend of the family?”

  “Pendarvis?” Constance’s eyes widened, then a slight flush mounted to her cheeks. “Oh, you are… pray accept my condolences on the loss of your wife. I was—not well-acquainted with her,” she rushed on, her flush deepening. “But what a terrible thing to happen, all the same.”

  “Thank you, Lady Nankivell,” Robin returned, bowing punctiliously over her hand. “It was terrible, indeed.”

  His grave, measured tone seemed to irritate Sir Lucas beyond bearing. “In light of your terrible bereavement, Pendarvis,” he broke in, “I am surprised to see you in attendance tonight.”

  Sophie stiffened, thinking the same could be said of the baronet. Had he not lost a mistress, after all? To say nothing of the baby he might have fathered. She leveled a withering stare at him. “Mr. Pendarvis is here at our express invitation, Sir Lucas. We do not deny our friends the comforts of our home and our companionship in times of trouble.”

  Constance looked uncomfortable, but Robin did not even deign to acknowledge Sir Lucas’s remark. All his attention, his single-minded focus, was on the baronet’s wife. “What a magnificent necklace you’re wearing tonight, Lady Nankivell. Might I ask how you came by it?”

  Constance touched the pendant. “It was a gift from Sir Lucas, on my return.” She paused, eyeing Robin uncertainly. “Why do you ask, Mr. Pendarvis?”

  Robin swallowed, but his gaze and voice were perfectly steady. “Because the last time I saw that necklace, it was around the throat of my late wife, Nathalie.”

  Constance stared at him, the color draining from her face as the significance of his words sank in. “But Sir Lucas…” Her voice trailed off in confusion.

  “Absurd!” the baronet interrupted again. His face was flushed—with anger or with nerves? Sophie suspected it was both. He stabbed a furious forefinger at Robin. “You are delusional, Pendarvis! I gave this to my wife and my wife alone!”

  Now Robin looked at his nemesis, and Sophie caught her breath at the icy rage that had uncoiled in his eyes. Only his voice was colder. “I know what I saw, Nankivell. And when I saw it. As should you, for you were present at the time.”

  “Come, my dear.” Sir Lucas took his wife’s arm. “I will not stay here to be maligned.”

  “Oh, I think you will, Nankivell,” a new voice remarked.

  Harry had appeared behind Sir Lucas—and he was flanked by James, John, and Arthur. Silently, the four men formed a circle around the baronet, cutting him off from the rest of the room. Sir Lucas’s eyes
darted from one face to the other, but found no mercy in any.

  Was he remembering how they’d taken him down five years ago? Not for the first time, Sophie wished that she’d seen it.

  “I suggest we remove ourselves to the library,” Harry continued. “As we did before.”

  Mouth tightening, Sir Lucas drew himself up haughtily. “I don’t have to go anywhere with you, Tresilian. Let me pass, all of you!”

  No one moved. Robin said coolly, “Shall we send for Inspector Taunton? I am sure that he, and perhaps even his superior, would be interested in knowing just where my late wife’s stolen property has turned up.”

  Constance stifled a gasp, her hand straying to the pendant, then dropping away at once in revulsion. Sophie felt a pang of pity for her—the innocent dupe of an unscrupulous man.

  Sir Lucas, who’d paled visibly at the mention of Taunton, now rounded on Robin. “How dare you distress my wife, Pendarvis, with your talk of police and stolen property! I will not stay to be insulted further!” He bent over Constance in a display of solicitude as fulsome as it was false. “Come, my lady, let us depart at once.”

  “No.” The word was faint but definite. To everyone’s amazement, Constance swallowed and repeated more firmly, “No.” Freeing her arm from her husband’s clutches, she straightened to her full height and faced them all. “I am not going anywhere at present, Sir Lucas. I want to hear what Mr. Pendarvis has to say. All of it.”

  ***

  Sophie knew from bitter experience that there was no easy way to break a woman’s heart—or shatter her illusions, at the very least.

  To his credit, Robin made the effort to do so with a minimum of cruelty, speaking calmly and without heat of finding Nathalie and Sir Lucas together—his tone left no doubt as to his meaning—and seeing the necklace around Nathalie’s throat. All the same, it was painful to watch the color, along with any remaining vestige of hope, drain from Constance’s face as she listened.

  Sir Lucas had lapsed into defiant silence, arms crossed, refusing to look at anyone in the library. No doubt he was recalling his previous defeat at the hands of Robin, Harry, and James—and seething that they’d brought him to this point again. John had gone back to the party with Grace, but quiet, watchful Arthur remained, pen and paper close at hand should some record of this meeting become necessary. Sophie herself had flatly refused to be dismissed.