“Mr. Halliday, how nice to see you again.”
“You’re late,” Mr. Balázs snapped. “I sent you over an hour ago. See to Lady Melcombe and then get about your business. The day is half over and you’ve barely begun.”
“Of course, sir.” With a quick smile and a roll of his eyes, he was gone, but that heady, bubbly feeling I’d once felt in his presence returned, and I shivered.
“Please, my lady. Be very still!”
I subsided, and for the next hour and a half I sat unmoving, until just when I thought I must scratch my nose or die, he laid down his brush and wiped his forehead with a large spotted handkerchief. “We are finished for today.”
As if on cue, Simon reappeared with a restorative cup of tea. “Helps get the blood flowing after sitting still for so long.”
I rose stiffly, my foot asleep, a crick in my neck. The tea was hot and thick with milk and sugar, just as I liked it. “Thank you.”
I barely noticed when Mr. Balázs departed to speak to my mother. Instead, I sipped at my tea, nibbled on a biscuit, and tried desperately to think of something—anything—to break the stilted silence between us. What was it about this man that emptied my brain and tied my tongue like no other person I had ever met? “I hope you’ve been well.”
Simon handed me my wrap. “Very well, thank you.”
“Mr. Balázs sounds like he’s keeping you very busy.”
“I don’t mind. Hard work helps me forget for a little while.”
I started to question him about what he wanted to forget when he suddenly moved away and to the painting. “I sometimes think I’ve mastered my craft and then I see a portrait he’s done and I’m struck all over again by how much I have yet to learn.”
I joined him, stomach tight, hands clenched. Reluctant to be faced once more with Balázs’s unflattering version of my discontent.
Instead, the braced shoulders had been softened so that I looked at ease as I bent toward the sun that filtered green and gold through the leaves to gild the bench and the pearled comb in my hair. Subtle shading and layering of color had transformed the pinched, sour expression into one alive with an almost iridescent radiance. A smile barely touched my lips but shone clearly through my wide, clear eyes.
“He’s captured you perfectly,” Simon said quietly.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, and though the room remained chilly and clouds cast a gray, cheerless pall over the room, warmth dampened my skin and heat burned in my cheeks, for I recognized immediately what Balázs had perceived in those minutes while I sat, body immobilized, mind flying free.
My journal became my confessional as I spent the following days recounting every look that passed between us and each word we’d exchanged, plumbing them for hidden meaning and import. When facts failed me, I daydreamed our next meeting, our next conversation . . . our next kiss. Daydreams seemed all I was liable to have. I’d no idea how we might ever meet again. Papa had visited Mr. Balázs and deemed the portrait a success. It had been wrapped, crated, and sent on to Nanreath Hall. My time with Simon had run out before it even began.
Or so I thought.
“Good afternoon, Lady Katherine. Are you enjoying the exhibition?” he asked, appearing as if by magic as I wandered the National Gallery, catalog in hand. Soon we were discussing the merits of Maris and Pissaro, the hours passing in a blur of heated conversation and congenial argument.
“How wonderful to see you tonight, my lady. Looking forward to the performance?” This time we met by the stairs to Covent Garden’s upper balcony during the interlude. He bought me an ice and we laughed over the horrid dialogue and the plodding plot until the bell sounded us back to our seats.
“Let me take those packages before you topple,” he offered, accepting my latest Selfridges purchases as I tried to summon a cab. In company, we meandered down Bond Street, stopped at a tearoom for late-afternoon sustenance, and ended in Hyde Park feeding the ducks from the crumbs.
Each arranged accident was more exhilarating than the last. Each hour spent in each other’s company cemented the notion more firmly in my mind that Simon Halliday was a man who would be very easy to love.
Taken up with their own comings and goings, neither Mama nor Papa paid close enough attention to note the increasing number of wild coincidences, and my maid, whose job it was to act as duenna, was easily persuaded by Simon’s charming, careless manner to allow us more than the usual privacy as we visited galleries and exhibits, attended concerts and musical revues at Bechstein Hall and the Palladium, and window-shopped along Bond Street.
October slid into November. Days stretched golden and warm beneath blue, cloudless skies, the entertainments were endless, and when women cast sidelong glances at Simon, as they always did, I would smile in secret delight that someone so polished and handsome cared for me.
I should have known it wouldn’t last and that when the storm broke, it would break in spectacular fashion.
The day didn’t start out dark and brooding. Rather, the afternoon clouds bunched like cotton across a deep blue November sky, and the temperature had warmed enough to make me perspire beneath the jaunty poplin jacket I sported as Mama and I made the short walk from Reville’s in Hanover Square to the family town house in South Audley Street after a long session of dress shopping.
“Kitty, slow down. We’re not running a foot race.” Mama paused to dab at her brow. “And I’m not as spry as I once was.”
“Sorry, Mama. I can’t help it. Everywhere I turn, there’s always so much going on. I suppose I feel that if I dawdle, I might miss something.”
“That’s no excuse for scurrying as if you were eluding a constable.”
“No, Mama.” I slowed to her pace as we continued onto Bond Street.
“I want to find something nice for Cynthia. It’s been a difficult time for her these last few months. Pearls, I think. Or perhaps sapphires. They would look perfect with her golden hair.”
“Isn’t this something William should be doing? I mean it’s his wife and his son.”
“What goes on between your brother and his wife is none of your concern.”
“But doesn’t it seem odd to you that he’s only been to Nanreath once since Hugh was born? I would think he’d be over the moon, or at the least mildly excited,” I pressed.
The corners of Mama’s mouth turned down, her hand upon her bag tightening. “Marriage is a complicated matter, Katherine.”
“What’s complicated about love?”
It was my turn to hurry after Mama, who plowed ahead, leaving my questions behind.
We turned off the busy thoroughfare and into a side street, letting the current rush past us. Here the way was narrower, the buildings and shops closer together. Held to Mama’s pace, I had the time to study the passersby—two nursemaids pushing prams, a maid flirting with a footman in a doorway, a workman with a barrow of building supplies.
“Dearest heavens! What on earth?” Mama’s voice faltered as did her stride. “Katherine Trenowyth, what have you done?”
I joined her before a cluttered bow window displaying a series of framed paintings on easels; a few pastoral landscapes or dour still-life interiors, but high in a corner framed in a light golden wood was a small portrait of a young woman.
I couldn’t breathe, and I glanced around in helpless desperation, as if I might wake to find this moment a horrible nightmare. “It can’t be.”
But it was.
The artist had caught me as if I’d just turned, a smile of joy upon my sun-browned, freckled cheeks and dancing in my blue eyes. My tangled red hair spilled free of its pins to curl around my ears and over my bare shoulders. I reposed upon a couch, sheets tangled over my hips and artistically draped to insinuate without completely revealing.
“Shameful.” Mama’s voice had gone icy and remote, her eyes hard as agates. “You look as if you just rose from . . . well . . . I shall say no more.”
She was right. This was the pose of a woman in love; a woman made
for love, body ripe, lips kiss swollen, a gaze both knowing and coy. Shocked, I couldn’t turn away. Is this what I looked like? Surely not. This woman possessed a dashing confidence I would never have in a million years. She exuded lust and satisfaction and wisdom born from experience.
“It’s not me.” Shame washed over my back in a cold sweat, leaving my knees trembling. “It can’t be.”
“Who could possibly have created such an abomination?” Mama asked, the merest thread of panic entering her voice.
I looked at the gold lettering above the door—WEISS AND MESSER.
“Whoever it is, I shall put a stop to this immediately.” She pushed past me and into the gallery as I followed, not knowing whether to be appalled or flattered.
A beetle-browed shopkeeper met her before she’d gone ten steps inside. “Good afternoon, madam. How can I help you?”
Mama drew herself up, as if preparing for battle. “The portrait of the girl that you have in your window. Take it down this instant.”
He rubbed his hands in anticipation of a sale. “Ah, The Red-Haired Wanton. A fine choice, madam. We’ve had quite a lot of interest in that one.”
“I am not interested in purchasing it. I am interested in burning it.”
His smile faded to a confused frown as he looked from Mama to me, as if for reassurance he wasn’t dealing with a raving lunatic. Then his face cleared with instant comprehension and admiration. “You. You’re the wan—”
“Don’t say that word if you value your life.” Mama clutched her handbag, as if preparing to beat him with it while all I wanted was to sink into the floor. “Her name is Lady Katherine Trenowyth. You will remember to address her as such.”
“Mama, please,” I pleaded, heat scorching my face. “Let’s just leave. I’m sure there’s been a mistake.”
“That is no mistake, Katherine. That is libel.” She stared me down until my stomach shriveled. “Or worse.” She spun round to spear the poor man with a cold look down her long, perfect nose. “I want that scandalous indecency you have displayed in your window for the world to gawk at removed immediately or my solicitors will descend to drive you back under the rock from whence you came.” She fairly radiated righteous vengeance from the tip of her wobbling peacock feather to the toes of her black button-strapped shoes.
“I’m sorry, madam, but that’s not up to me. I just attend to the accounts. Mr. Weiss is the owner of the gallery. He’s busy with a client at present, but I can let him know of your concerns.”
“If you won’t remove it, I will.” She shoved past him, all grace and elegance gone in her wild agitation.
“Madam, please. If you’d only wait a moment.” He grabbed her arm. She yanked herself free.
By now the tumult had drawn attention. An older gentleman with a long, sallow face and a pear-shaped body entered from the back. But it was his companion that froze then heated my blood and made me tremble.
“Lady Melcombe. Lady Katherine.” Simon Halliday acknowledged each of us with a gentlemanly nod. “What a delightful surprise.”
I was thinking more along the lines of unmitigated disaster myself.
“You!” Mama jabbed Simon in the chest, nearly knocking him off his feet. “You are a serpent.” Another hard poke right in his sternum. “A defiler. A base creature slinking into the bosom of our family to wreak havoc and destruction.”
Before she could strike a third time, Simon caught her wrist, his own ire increasing. “Lady Melcombe, I assure you I haven’t defiled anyone. If the Red-Haired Wanton resembles Lady Katherine, it was mere chance. My painting is solely a creation wrought from my imagination.” His diamond-sharp gaze found mine, and a tremor began in my legs before spreading upward to infect my heart until it raced and jumped. In that moment I hated Simon for bringing down this catastrophe on my head, and yet I found myself reveling in his obvious desire.
Perhaps Mrs. Vinter was wrong. Perhaps I was a bad girl, after all.
Mama huffed, her lips pressed tight. “It’s more than obvious what you were imagining.”
He paled but remained firm.
“Fine.” Mama crossed her arms, her voice icy and regal. “Then I will purchase it from you. How much?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Fiddlesticks. This is an art gallery. The intent is to sell the paintings. I wish to purchase that one.”
Mr. Weiss stepped into the fray, a brave man seeing his profit about to slip from his hands. “Let’s not be hasty, Mr. Halliday. Of course, Lady Melcombe, if you’re interested in the painting.” He paused as if calculating in his head. “It’s marketed at one thousand pounds.”
Mama blanched. I gasped. And Simon went a few shades of pink then gray.
“You must know I haven’t that sort of money on me,” Mama seethed.
Mr. Weiss spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Then I’m afraid, there is nothing I can do for you, my lady.”
Mama continued to bluster and threaten, all but dragging Mr. Weiss into his office.
Simon used the distraction to sidle his way close to me. His words were a low purr that shivered along my skin. “Mr. Balázs’s sister is hostessing a party tonight. Come with me.”
“You’re mad,” I spat under my breath. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not packed off to a convent posthaste.”
“I’m sorry, truly. I had no idea anyone who knew you personally would ever see it, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“So it would seem,” I huffed, straining to remain resolute despite the mounting heat dewing my skin as his hot gaze burned through me.
“Please, Kitty. I want you to meet my friends, and they want to see who’s finally managed to knock me head over heels.”
Would it be wrong to say I was flattered? My resolve weakened along with my outrage.
“You’re a grown woman, and Sophia Comersby is a perfectly respectable matron of impeccable reputation with a house in Bloomsbury,” he cajoled. “What’s stopping you?”
I couldn’t help the flick of my eyes toward my mother, still arguing with the gallery owner, though it was obvious by Mr. Weiss’s firm chin and gleaming eye that he’d already won this round.
“What happened to the girl who doesn’t like to follow orders?” Simon dared me.
“Come along, Katherine.” Mama’s reappearance drew me back from a heady brink. “Your father will know how to deal with this effrontery.”
“I’ll wait for you at the corner of Curzon and Piccadilly,” Simon whispered. “Meet me at ten.”
I shot him a cornered are-you-trying-to-get-me-killed look.
He just smiled. He knew I would come.
Chapter 5
October 1940
As an auxiliary to the military hospital in Southampton, we’re used mainly for soldiers recovering from disease rather than injury, and those cases which would most benefit from the quiet of the country. We’re a small staff, but I assure you, no less dedicated to our mission.”
Sister Millbank, the hospital’s matron, had the commanding bulk of a battleship and a voice that could cut glass. She sat behind an enormous desk littered with ledgers, forms, and a steaming cup of Bovril. Sun streamed through the window behind to halo her like an avenging angel, wimple wobbling in stern agitation. “I’m pairing you with Kinsale. She can teach you the day’s routine, which is strictly enforced, and introduce you to the orderlies on your ward. Do not bother our MO, Captain Matthews, unless absolutely necessary. He has enough to do.” She puffed up like a baker’s loaf, chest and chin jutting equally. “I run a taut ship, Trenowyth. You’re here to do a job, and I won’t offer you any favors despite your connection to the family so don’t expect them. Ask Kinsale if you don’t believe me. She’s been given the same stern warning.”
“No, ma’am,” Anna replied. “I mean . . . yes, ma’am. That is . . . it’s a very distant connection.”
“Well, all to the better. They’re not happy to have us here, and I’d rather not have to put up with even mo
re nonsensical complaints about the way in which the military’s ruining the family mausoleum than I already do. Now, I’ve work to complete. I leave you in very capable hands, don’t I, Kinsale?”
Sophie looked as if she were tempted to drop into a curtsy, but gave a submissive nod, instead.
The two of them had risen promptly at six, though Anna had already been awake, lying in her borrowed bed as she turned over Sophie’s words, sifting them like sand for the answers she sought. The Trenowyth family never recovered. Scandal, debt, injuries, death. None of these things had been mentioned in the Debrett’s she’d scanned among the stacks at the lending library, curled in a chair and hidden away from prying eyes, as if she were ashamed. Dry facts were all she’d had to go on: names, marriages, dates, coats of arms, honors, and benefits bestowed by various kings and queens over the centuries.
There had been nothing about a runaway daughter and a bastard child in the formal paragraph. No hint of the tumult such an occurrence must have caused. No clue to the identity of the man who had led a petted daughter of the house astray and then died forgotten in the mud of a French battlefield.
Would she learn anything more here, or would Nanreath Hall keep tight to its secrets?
With Matron already turning back to her desk and her Bovril, Sophie motioned Anna to follow as she led her down a second-floor corridor to a set of curving stairs and thus into a warren of storage rooms.
“Most of the house has been turned over to the war effort,” Sophie explained, her tone clipped, her movements as crisp as her apron and veil. “Lady Boxley wasn’t happy about it, but in the end, there was nothing she could do. She and her son keep a few rooms in the west wing. We don’t see them unless they want to be seen.”
“Hugh seems to move back and forth between realms at his leisure.”
Sophie paused at a door, sliding a key from her ring into its lock. “Hugh does what he likes, as you must already know, Miss Trenowyth.”
Secrets of Nanreath Hall Page 5