“Down boy.”
His laugh ended on a strangled bark and he stiffened, the muscles of his arm hardening under her fingers. Anna followed his gaze, her own tension curling cold up her spine. Lady Boxley approached them through the crowd, the vicar and a few local dignitaries following in her wake like ducklings. Despite the make-do outfits of most of the partygoers, Lady Boxley stood out in a sequined crepe de chine midnight-blue gown gathered just under the bust, her face and hair arranged to perfection. All she needed was a scepter and a ruff and she’d be the spitting image of Good Queen Bess just before she sent Raleigh to the gallows.
“So good of you to make an appearance, Hugh,” she snipped. “We’ve been waiting over an hour. Mr. Lester was hoping you’d make a speech, rallying the troops for the cause.” She nodded toward the gray-haired vicar hovering at her shoulder.
“It’s my fault, Lady Boxley,” Anna interceded. “Hugh waited for me to go off duty, and I was delayed due to some patients arriving unexpectedly.”
Lady Boxley acknowledged Anna with a sharp, raking glance and a smile that never reached her eyes. “It’s Miss Trenowyth, isn’t it?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Mother. You know bloody well who she is.”
She put out a limp-wristed hand for Anna to shake—or perhaps kiss. “Yes. Of course. Hugh, may I see you a moment—privately?”
He shot Anna a long-suffering look but followed his mother, leaving Anna alone to face the crowd. Head up, she made her way to a table heaped with food. It was obvious more than one household’s weekly butter and sugar ration had gone into the spread before her. Anna hadn’t seen such delights for ages. She politely chose a slice of pound cake from a tray and forced herself not to fill her pockets.
“You’re one of those girls from the big house, aren’t you?” A tall, thin woman with a helmet of steel-gray hair eyed her curiously as she ladled out a glass of pink fizzy punch.
Anna had the uncomfortable sense she’d been caught at something. “I’m a nurse there.”
It might have been her imagination, but she would swear the woman looked at her with narrowed speculation. She whispered to a woman beside her, “. . . daughter . . . back to Nanreath Hall . . . from London . . .”
Obviously, news of her arrival had reached the locals. By now the pair had been joined by two more. All of them regarded her with expressions ranging from mild interest to outright curiosity.
One of them juggled punch and a plate and stuck out a hand. “I’m Mrs. Crewe.” She nodded toward the other women at the table. “This is Mrs. Polley”—a fussy middle-aged woman in a gray dress prettied up with a chunky red beaded necklace—“Mrs. Thompkins”—round and buxom and pink-cheeked in a loud floral print with a gold brooch—“and the old sourpuss ladling punch is Miss Dawlish.” She continued to regard Anna with a disapproving eye.
“How do you do? I’m Anna Trenowyth.”
“Funny you coming back after all these years,” Miss Dawlish commented in a voice that held no hint of laughter. This pronouncement seemed to break the dam of conversation.
“She can’t be coming back. She’s never been here before.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s Lady Katherine’s daughter. Nanreath Hall is her home.”
“Natural daughter, and I’d imagine Lady Boxley might have a say in that.”
“It’s Lord Melcombe’s say, though, ain’t it? He’s the one in charge.”
“You believe that, Emmaline Crewe, you’re dafter than a turkey chick. It’s his mother what calls the shots.”
“I don’t know about that. He’s such a good boy.”
“Good? He took out a whole stretch of my laurels with that motorcar of his and nearly ran down Tom’s old dog.”
“He’s grieving.”
“He’s drinking.”
“It’s a mean, smelly old dog anyway.”
“That’s not the point. It could as easily have been a child.”
“Not lying in the middle of the road at midnight.”
“You don’t make sense, Emmaline.”
As their voices rose in war with each other, Anna flushed with embarrassment. She shot a pained look toward Hugh, but he remained in unhappy conversation with his mother. “It’s been lovely to meet you all. I never thought I’d get the chance to see where my mother spent so much of her childhood.”
“Wouldn’t have got the chance if the old earl were alive,” Miss Dawlish grumbled. “He was a stickler, that one. Not an ounce of bend in him. He’d have sent you packing like he sent her when she run off with that man and got herself in the family way.”
“Hush, Louise. Don’t be such a prude. Lady Katherine wasn’t the only girl that made a mistake. It was the time, wasn’t it? Things were topsy-turvy.”
“Topsy-turvy doesn’t make it right.”
“Maybe not, but it’s over and done a long time ago and no sense behaving like you’re shocked.”
“Heard he died at the Somme.”
“No, it was Passchendaele.”
“No, he ran off with a French dancer and lives in Venice.”
“They said you looked like her, but I didn’t believe it.” This new voice cut through the women’s babbling like an ax. All turned to a faded woman wearing a faded dress. Her face bore the creases and complexion of one who’s worked hard with little thanks, her knuckles knobby and bent, her back slightly bowed. Only her eyes stood out, bright as two turquoise beads.
“Wanted to see for myself if it were true. Imagine, Minnie, I said to myself. Imagine Lady Katherine’s little daughter is come back at last.” She smiled. “Could tell you were hers the instant I clapped eyes on you. That hair couldn’t belong to no one else, now could it? Red as a sunset.”
“You mustn’t mind Miss Smith,” Mrs. Crewe cautioned. “A bit vague these days.”
The woman bristled. “I never am. My mind’s clear as crystal. Can see them days like it was last week.”
“You knew my mother, Miss Smith?” Anna asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hugh and Lady Boxley’s conversation had grown heated. Hugh wore a hard-jawed petulance while his mother’s countenance reddened by the moment. Finally, Hugh walked away, leaving his mother to glare after him. Anna turned her attention back to Miss Smith but not before catching the angry gaze Lady Boxley leveled in her direction.
“Call me Minnie. All my friends do. Of course I knew your mother. What they call a real English rose. Sweet and pretty but with plenty of thorns to keep you guessing.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Lady Katherine spent more time at my mistress’s house than she did her own. Always a smile for me or a how-do-you-do. Not like some of them others at the big house. Never flaunting herself as if she was better.” Minnie’s accusatory gaze swung over the room, lips pursed thin with resentment. “When she came back here round as a pumpkin, I told her I was sorry it didn’t work out with that boy of hers. She smiled at me and gave me a hug just as if we were friends and not lady and maidservant. Like I said, a real English rose.”
Hugh returned to Anna’s side, strain tightening his lazy smile. Amid flustered greetings from the bevy of church ladies, he handed her a glass that upon closer inspection turned out to be whiskey rather than the punch everyone else seemed to be drinking. “Some grease to ease your way through this ordeal.”
She accepted it gratefully. “Hugh, this is Miss Smith. She knew Lady Katherine when she lived at Nanreath Hall.” She took a swallow of the whiskey. “Did you know my mother had come back here when she was pregnant?”
“It makes sense. Unmarried with a child. Where else would you turn but to the people who profess to love you?”
“Yes, too bad they didn’t see it that way,” Anna replied tightly.
Hugh’s gaze sharpened, but Minnie merely smiled. “You come see me, miss. I’ll fix us a pot of tea and we’ll have a nice comfy coze. Anyone can point you to my house. Just tell ’em you’re looking for the Smith place.” She cocked a glance across the room to where Lady Boxley stood surrounded
by a coterie of hangers-on. “Bet the fox is in with the pigeons now with you coming back, isn’t it, miss? She must be jumpy as a cat in a thunderstorm and no mistaking.”
“Why would that be?” Anna asked.
She gave a little shiver and smiled. “I’ll just be getting along. They’re saving a bit of pudding for me to take to Dad. Feeling poorly, he is. I’ve to get home to him before too late.” She patted Anna’s cheek. “Take care, my girl. And remember. Come for tea when you can.”
The evening rolled on with dancing followed by a buffet supper laid out on long tables and a whist drive in which fifteen pounds was raised for the local wounded soldiers fund. Lady Boxley moved easily among the guests, a born hostess, gracious, witty, and charming, but occasionally Anna felt a prickle shiver along her spine. She would look up to catch Hugh’s mother watching her, lips pursed, eyes inscrutable and dark.
Hugh, on the other hand, seemed gauche and ill at ease. He stood morose and silent, a drink never far from his hand, as older women asked after his health and sighed over his injuries or younger ones giggled and cast sidelong glances at him from across the room. Occasionally, he would grow animated, though even his laughter possessed a wild edge as he drank with the older men who swapped stories of the last war and toasted his heroism with blustery guffaws and tasteless jokes. There were few younger men besides Hugh.
By the time he rose to make his speech to herald the New Year, he needed to steady himself against a table, and bright spots of red burned high on each sharp cheekbone. As the crowd quieted, he lifted his glass. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight and for making this event such a success.” He paused, his glassy eyes raking the crowd. “What would us wounded soldiers do if it weren’t for the pity of a nation?”
A ripple spread through the crowd. Anna tensed.
“In Wellington’s day, old soldiers who’d outlasted their usefulness ended on street corners begging for pennies. Now we end in church halls begging for shillings and half crowns. Not much has changed, has it?”
Lady Boxley looked as if she wanted to do murder, her face stone-white and frozen. The rest of the room moved and shifted uncomfortably. Some laughed nervously. Hugh wobbled, dropping a hand to Anna’s shoulder. He glanced down at her, and Anna swallowed hard. This was not going well and was bound to become very much worse.
“Maybe you don’t all know it yet, but we have a new addition to the family. Oh, don’t look so excited,” he said as a murmur rose from the audience. “I’m not shackling myself to any dewy young thing, as if any would have me with this metal leg of mine. But we have here the prodigal sheep come home to us. Stand up, Anna. Let the people ogle you.”
Now she was the one who wanted to do murder. Her jaw clenched as she shot him a dagger look.
He lifted a brow in inebriated nonchalance. “No? Suit yourself. Anna here is a Trenowyth. Those of you old enough, and by the gray hairs I see, most of you are plenty old, will remember Lady Katherine Trenowyth, the aunt I’m not supposed to speak of except in a shameful whisper.”
Oh God, was he really doing this? Was she really going to sit here and let him? But how on earth could she stop him without causing more of a scene? She looked to Lady Boxley, hoping his mother might charge in and stop the onrushing disaster, but she remained poker-straight in her chair, her face completely wiped clean of any expression. Only her eyes spoke her fury.
“Smart woman, my aunt,” Hugh maundered on, oblivious to the growing unease . . . or rather reveling in it. His mouth curved into a hard, brittle smile. “She had the good sense to run as far and as fast as she could from this godforsaken little back corner of the world. But now her daughter has returned. Why, I have no bloody idea. Why did you come back, Anna?”
She felt the blood rush to her face before dropping like a stone into her shoes, leaving her breathless and a bit sick.
Hugh waved an unsteady hand toward Lady Boxley. “My mother finds it terribly embarrassing. I can’t see why. It’s not like it’s her illegitimate child, now, is it?”
Someone laughed. Anna thought it might have been Minnie Smith.
The clock struck midnight. The crowd shifted again. Some raised glasses. Others gave a halfhearted cheer. Anything to drown out Hugh’s performance.
Lady Boxley stood, shoving roughly back from the table. “Sit down, Hugh.”
“I’ve not finished with my toast, Mother.”
“I believe you’ve given us adequate words to chew on at present.”
Hugh glanced at Anna, who silently pleaded with him to agree.
He raised his glass. “Here’s to Lady Katherine and her daughter, Anna. Welcome home, cousin.”
Uncertain, the captive and captivated audience followed suit. Anna wanted to sink into the floor or just die on the spot.
The vicar, finally breaking free of the train wreck unfolding before him, stood and took over seamlessly with words about the ongoing struggles ahead and our determination to continue the fight no matter what. Anna barely registered the toasting of 1941. She pushed her way through the crowds toward the door. Anywhere she could get away from the curious stares and murmured whispers.
“Anna!” Hugh shouted after her, but she didn’t stop. He tried following, but stumbled, his bad leg catching hard against a table, sending plates smashing to the floor, a candle falling to smoke and spit in the evergreens. People flocked to put out the smoldering fire. Women clucked like chickens while the men laughed and cheered him on.
Outside, the cold soothed her burning cheeks. She stared up at the distant stars. She couldn’t breathe except in quick, snatching gasps that froze her lungs and cramped her stomach.
The door opened and closed behind her. She braced herself for Hugh’s babbling drunken apologies but it was Lady Boxley whose words cut the brittle, icy silence. “My son won’t remember any of this in the morning—but I will, Miss Trenowyth. I can assure you of that.”
Anna never took her eyes from the faraway pinpricks of ancient light until the door opened and closed once more.
Nanreath’s gallery was dark but for a lamp by the door. Heavy blackout curtains drawn across the west-facing windows cut off even the tiniest sliver of winter moonlight but couldn’t completely muffle the distant roar of the surf.
Anna had come here as soon as she’d returned to the house. The walk back from the village had been cold—her feet still hadn’t thawed out—but it had given her time to calm down. By the time she’d skirted the main gates to avoid nosy sentries, followed the same grassy track Hugh had used to bring her to Nanreath that first night, and climbed the stairs to the deserted gallery, her kicked-in-the-gut feeling of nausea had subsided. Now she just had a horrid headache, eyes that burned from cigarette smoke and lack of sleep, and the realization that no matter how much she wanted to belong, this wasn’t her house and these people weren’t her family. But damn it, that was her mother up on the wall, no matter how they tried to erase her embarrassing existence.
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, unused to the heavy weight of her borrowed gown. A gown fit for an earl’s daughter with its lace and its velvet. No wonder they laughed at her tonight. She was no more meant to wear a gown like this than take tea with the queen. She was not one of them. She never would be.
“Coming here was a mistake. I should have known they’d want nothing to do with me. I let myself believe and then hope and then . . . who was I fooling? You’re still the trollop who stained the family honor and I’m still the embarrassing reminder. Nothing will change that. And I’m a fool to ever believe it could be any other way.” She tilted her head back to stare into the dark. “God, I’m cracking up. Now I’m spilling my guts to a painting.”
Her mother smiled down from her place on the wall, but not at Anna. No, she seemed to stare at some hidden delight just beyond the portrait’s edge, her body poised, as if waiting for the artist to put down his brush so she might flee the stiff formality of her pose, a radiance about her and yet a shyness in her expression, a pens
ive sweetness, as if she were in love.
As if she were in love . . .
Anna fingered the inscription and snapped open her locket to study the picture of her father, as if she didn’t have every line and shadow memorized from his soldier’s cap and corporal’s stripes to his sleek dark hair and thick-lashed gypsy eyes. Was this who she swayed toward as a flower turns to the light? This stranger whose blood Anna carried in her veins, a man who had cared so little he left her mother with neither ring nor name? There was a scholar’s ascetic about him and yet he bore the broad shoulders of an athlete, the lean, chiseled features of an aristocrat. Had he known of her birth? Or had he been long gone by that time? Had her mother wept over him? Or had she been relieved at his abandonment?
Forgive my love.
What did the mysterious inscription mean? What had Graham and Prue wanted to tell Anna that was so important they’d called her home to London?
A door slammed. A draft whistled cold around her ankles. She fisted her hands around the locket. Damn. She’d thought she didn’t care if they discovered her trespassing, but faced with being caught red-handed, the idea of being dragged in front of Matron for a harsh reprimand sent nervous butterflies through her stomach.
She’d only time to draw deeper into her chair when Hugh staggered into the room from the far doorway, his steps unsteady. Gone was the polished RAF officer. His cap was gone, his hair mussed, a lipstick stain smeared his collar, and his left eye bore the marks of someone’s fist. He stiffened when he saw her, his every movement possessing a drunkard’s precision. “Happy New Year, cousin Anna.”
He lifted a hand as if raising a glass, swayed for a drawn-out moment then buckled to his knees, as if taking a slug to the jaw to go with his black eye. Without thinking, Anna leaped to catch him before he landed on the floor in a heap. Instead, they both ended in a tangle, his artificial leg twisted awkwardly underneath him, his trousers yanked high to reveal the ugly prosthetic, the hinge of his false knee. She brushed the steel clamps attaching what was left of his thigh to the leg. He winced. Her fingertips came away stained faintly red. “You’re bleeding.”
Secrets of Nanreath Hall Page 11