by Susan Barrie
“And your mother?”
“I’m sorry to say that they parted. But she’s dead, too, now.”
She thought that his expression grew slightly sombre, and his grey eyes harder between the short thick fringes of his very black eyelashes.
“So we’re both orphans,” he remarked. “But I’ve been an orphan for many years – and I’m used to it.”
“Your uncle?” she enquired politely. “I remember he was Aunt Jane’s doctor.”
“Dead, too, but one of my pleasant memories. I was fond of him.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured automatically.
The landlord had brought a tray of coffee to their table, and had thoughtfully added another cup, but Richard Tremarth refused to be tempted when Charlotte poised the coffee-pot near the rim of his cup.
“Thank you,” he said absent-mindedly, “but I loathe coffee.”
He was frowning as he lighted yet another cigarette.
“You smoke too much,” she remarked, without passing to reflect that it was no concern of hers.
Tremarth shrugged.
“We all have one particular vice, and mine is not smoking.” She watched as the smoke crept upwards in a column and surrounded his sleek dark head. “I heard that Miss Woodford had died, and I came down here to take a nostalgic look at the house. You may remember that I once expressed the determination to possess it myself one of these days.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I do remember that.” “We all have dreams, but some of them are not very practical. However – ” He glanced at her swiftly and then away. “Any objection to my having a look over the house since you’re here, and I’m here, too?”
“None whatsoever,” she assured him.
“I take it you’re not planning to live there yourself?”
“I really don’t know…She sounded surprised. “It’s too soon to make up my mind. To be honest, I’m not yet accustomed to the idea that I own the house.”
“And the contents?” He shot the question at her. “Your aunt left you everything, of course?” “Everything except an income to maintain the place. She died very badly off, I’m afraid.” She was amazed by the appearance of relief in his face.
“Then you can’t even contemplate living there yourself?”
“I’ve told you I’ve no idea what I’m going to do with it-”
“But a young woman of your age! Alone – in a house like that!” Relief gave place to an alert hardness that widened her eyes and aroused in her the beginnings of real resentment. “I mean, you’re not even married. Or are you?” Suspicion edged his voice and narrowed his eyes while, to her astonishment, his fist on the table clenched itself until the knuckles showed up white and gleaming in the rays that were streaming from the ship’s lantern overhead. “You’re not just calling yourself Miss Woodford and living apart from a husband, or anything of that sort?”
“Well, really! ” she gasped.
“Are you?” he persisted, his mouth like a steel trap.
“Certainly not!” She couldn’t remember feeling so indignant for a long time. “For one thing I don’t believe in married couples living apart, and for another I’m not even – engaged!”
“Good!” He relaxed so completely that she could almost have deceived herself that she had imagined that alteration in his expression. She saw his even, well-cared-for white teeth again as he smiled across the table at her, and between his thick eyelashes his grey eyes actually softened. “Then there’s no one to tell you what you must or must not do? You are your own mistress?”
“I hope so.”
“And you probably have a job of some sort?” “I run a typewriting bureau with a friend. She’s carrying on without me at the moment.” He looked as satisfied as if she had supplied him with a very useful piece of information.
He rose from the table unexpectedly.
“You must forgive me if I say good-night to you now,” he said. “Whenever I pay a short visit to Cornwall I like to make the most of it. The tide’s out and the moon will be up in another ten minutes or so” – he consulted his watch – “and I want to take a walk. Discovering the old familiar places is one of my favourite occupations when I’m down here at Tremarth.”
She looked up at him in some surprise. Even by the light of a Cornish moon, discovering old familiar places might be a trifle difficult at that late hour of the day.
“Good hunting,” she replied carelessly, as she poured herself another cup of coffee and realised even as she did so that it would probably keep her awake when she took herself upstairs to her room. “I hope you’ve got cat’s eyes. Or perhaps you normally take your exercise when other people are thinking of going to bed?”
He looked down at her unsmilingly.
“If you’re visiting the house to-morrow, may I go with you? I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I would like to look over it again.”
“Of course,” she answered immediately. “As a matter of fact, I’m leaving here to-morrow morning after breakfast, and shall be staying at Tremarth after that. At any rate, for a while -”
He looked down at her intently.
“Thank you,” he said, “I have my own car. I’ll simply follow you up to the house as soon as I see you leave.”
She was about to call after him that she was sorry she couldn’t offer him lunch because there were no stores, as yet, at Tremarth, but he swept out of the bar with a few quick strides, and she was left with the impression of someone who was a complete and – she suspected – rather ruthless stranger, and a memory that didn’t actually link up with that stranger.
The Richard Tremarth she had known when she was a child had found her a nuisance, but had gone out of his way to please her. This man was not as pliable and she could not imagine him going out of his way to please anyone. He was very much a self-contained unit who conveyed to her the strong impression that he was not visiting that part of the world because of nostalgia, but because he had some sort of an axe to grind.
She said good-night to the landlord and made her way up to her room in the quaint centuries-old inn. Her bed was turned down, and the room itself looked very inviting, but after switching on the light for a moment she switched it off again and went across to the window. Below it lay the cobbled village street, a small opening opposite at the end of which she could see the sea.
Richard Tremarth had been quite right about the moment when the moon would rise, for it was already lifting itself above the rooftops and shedding a light across the placidly heaving sea. From where she stood at her window she could see a semi-circle of glistening white beach, and some dark cliffs looming above it. She could also see a tall figure striding out across the sand, making for the line of cliffs and looking very purposeful, and not in the least as if his sole purpose was to enjoy himself.
A faint frown drew her slim eyebrows together. Since they were such old friends, why hadn’t he asked her to accompany him? After all, as he had reminded her, he had once given her piggy-back rides round the orchard at Tremarth.
Try as she would, she couldn’t imagine him giving her anything but a few formal minutes of his time after this lapse of so many years.
CHAPTER II
SHE was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace when he drove up in his car the following day. It was a silver-grey Italian car, and one that was built for speed. When Tremarth alighted from it, also wearing a rather pale shade of grey, there seemed to the watching eyes of Charlotte something lean and almost greyhound-like about him.
He ascended the worn steps of the terrace in a single bound, and stood beside her in the sunshine. He smiled at her in the faintly onesided way that he had smiled at her the evening before.
“I saw you leave,” he said. “I hope you didn’t feel as if I was trailing you.”
She glanced up at him in some surprise.
“Good gracious, no…why should I?” She didn’t know why but with his eyes regarding her somewhat critically – or so she thought
– s
he felt nervous and a trifle awkward. For no reason at all, she had dressed herself with particular care, and the morning itself was not any fairer than she was, with her warm creamy skin that went with her red-gold hair overlaid with just the faintest tinge of pink.
There was no doubt about it, she felt on the defensive, and there was a crispness in her speech that made her voice sound rather hard and waspish. She was wearing a slim dress of light blue silk, and her small feet were encased in neat white shoes with a medium heel. She had decided against the sort of beach-kit she had brought with her, and which she had intended to wear on such a delightful June day, because somehow she had suspected that Richard was looking upon this visit as a formal affair. And as the new mistress of Tremarth she wanted to be formal, too.
“Will you come this way,” she said. She led the way through open French windows into the drawing-room. It was the loveliest room in the house, and he must have remembered it. She saw his eyes rove round it appreciatively, and his head went back restlessly. The room was in shadow, for that side of the house did not get the full blaze of the sun until the afternoon, but dimness suited this room, for it was a kind of oasis of tranquillity, with white-panelled walls and a quiet grey carpet covering every inch of the floor space.
There were chairs and couches upholstered in silvery-grey damask and brocade, a waterfall of silver-grey damask at each of the windows, and some delightful side tables and charming pictures on the walls… There were- cabinets full of china and the kind of bric-a-brac a house accumulates over the years, a chessboard with carved ivory pieces set out on one of the tables, and a baby grand piano.
Tremarth walked up to it and tried the notes, with a smile of appreciation curving his lips.
“I remember this,” he said. “I remember strumming on it on several occasions when your aunt was out of the room.”
Charlotte did not answer.
“The room is very much as it always was,” was all she said.
Then she turned and led the way into the dining-room, which adjoined at right angles the drawing-room. It, too, was very much as it had always been – except that some of the more valuable pictures had been sold in recent years. There was a magnificent long dining-table of highly polished mahogany, a side-board that should have gleamed with Georgian silver only most of it was badly tarnished and awaiting the ministrations of someone who loved silver, and a very handsome fireplace with a portrait above it.
Richard Tremarth glanced up at the portrait, and then stood rather rigidly in front of it for several seconds. Charlotte glanced at him almost apprehensively, for she knew that the portrait above the mantelpiece represented a Tremarth – one of Richard’s direct ancestors.
He was a portly gentleman in an eighteenth-century wig, and from the uniform he wore he must have been an admiral. Richard appeared transfixed by him and his florid complexion and light grey eyes – actually not at all unlike Richard’s own, save that they held rather more of a nautical twinkle. Charlotte could picture him inhaling snuff and being very gallant to the ladies. Richard Tremarth had his back to her, and so far he seemed scarcely aware of her presence.
“I think my Great-Aunt Jane must have bought Tremarth complete with contents when she took it over,” she observed. “A lot of the things here she added to it, of course, but much of the furniture went with the house.”
Tremarth nodded – a little grimly, she thought.
“That is correct,” he-said. “Miss Woodford took the place over lock, stock and barrel. My Great-Uncle Joseph was in financial difficulties, and he had to part with the place.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and then it occurred to her that really she was not sorry.
Waterloo accompanied them from room to room as they made their inspection of the house. Charlotte was very devoted to her dog, whom she had rescued from rather an unhappy way of life, and she had felt her spine stiffen with resentment when Tremarth had at first ignored her favourite companion. But after padding behind them up the stairs on their way to the first floor, Waterloo managed to insinuate himself alongside the tall, aloof figure in immaculate grey, and when they looked into the magnificent master suite which Aunt Jane herself had occupied before she went into the nursing home, the dog’s cold nose accidentally brushed against Tremarth’s hand, and he looked down in surprise that resulted in his whole face becoming illuminated by a smile.
“Hullo, old chap,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Waterloo,” Charlotte answered for him.
Richard’s eyes gleamed, and his white teeth flashed engagingly in contrast with his deeply- tanned skin.
“An unusual name for a dog,” he remarked, “but highly suitable for an occupant of this house.”
And Charlotte knew he was thinking of the admiral downstairs, and of the various military gentlemen whose portraits adorned the walls, and perhaps of one or two of the very elegant Regency ladies who must have tripped up and down the stairs – such a splendid curving staircase. She went ahead of Tremarth into the nursery wing, and showed him the room in which she herself had once slept. There was an old rocking-chair leaning a little decrepitly in front of the nursery fireguard, and on the bookshelves there were still dogeared copies of the books she had thumbed years ago while searching eagerly for the colourful prints they contained.
Richard, in very much the same manner that he had tried the keys of the piano, selected one of the books and opened it at random. It was a very early copy of Through The Looking Glass, and Charlotte felt ashamed when she recognised her own handiwork with a crayon. Almost defiantly – because she felt sure he would be critical – she told him:
“I did that! ”
Very much to her surprise he looked up at her and smiled – and it was the nicest smile she had yet seen on his face.
“You would,” he said, almost as if he was humouring her. “You were a very diligent young woman with a pencil, I remember. Only unfortunately you didn’t make much sense! ” They returned to the ground floor of the house, and she had the feeling that he was clearing the decks for action, as it were, and getting down to the real reason why he had happened to visit Cornwall at the same time as herself.
He started to prowl restlessly up and down the hall, which was now flooded with sunshine because the front door was standing wide open to all the brilliance of the morning. He had a habit of taking long strides, and his footfalls rang firmly on the floorboards. The long shafts of sunlight played over him and his erect figure. Charlotte was, in spite of herself, fascinated by the shimmer of his sleek dark hair and the faint ripple of a wave that there was in it. She experienced a fancy that one of his forebears on the wall appeared to be looking down at him with benevolence.
“Well now,” he said, stopping short in his pacing and swinging round to confront her, “I might as well tell you why I’ve taken up so much of your time this morning. It wasn’t solely because I wanted to renew my association with Tremarth.”
“No?” She looked up at him in a very level and direct way, while almost absent-mindedly one of her hands played with Waterloo’s ears.
“No,” The light friendliness had gone, and his expression was purely businesslike. “I won’t beat about the bush, because no doubt your time is valuable as well as my own. I want to buy Tremarth – and I want to get the details settled up as quickly as possible.” “What!”
She looked as if she was not entirely certain she had heard him right.
He repeated:
“I want to buy Tremarth. I’ll give you any price you care to ask for it. You may or may not know that I’m not a poor man, and money as such means little to me. Just name your price, and you can have it. Of course I’d like to have the furniture, too – or most of it!
– and your price must cover that. It might be better if you get someone to value it for you, although my firm, which deals in priceless antiques and distributes them all over the world, can undertake that job for you. I give you my word they will be completely fair and there is no
possible danger that your interests will be disregarded. They will, in fact, have instructions beforehand to be meticulously fair, and after that I can assure you I shall be over-generous rather than under. So how soon would it be convenient for me to send someone down?”
Charlotte was more fascinated by his flood of eloquence than by what he was saying. He had conducted his tour of the house in almost oppressive silence – apart from the one or two observations he had made and the remarks he had flung at Waterloo; but now, it seemed, he could not repeat himself too often, and it was his repetitions that finally secured Charlotte’s full and amazed attention.
She took Waterloo by the collar and shut him out on the terrace; then she said to Tremarth that he had better-return with her to the drawing-room. A little impatiently, for one who admired the place so much, he accompanied her.
Once inside the room Charlotte assembled her brightest wits and delivered what she personally considered a particularly final type of speech.
“I don’t know what gave you the idea that I might be willing to sell this house, Mr. Tremarth, but I do assure you I have no such intention of parting with it. At any rate not for the moment. A few months from now I may have come to some decision about the house, but for the present I’m well content to try living in it – despite the fact that they may be a little difficult.”
“It will certainly be extremely difficult.” His brows were bent and he was gazing at her as if he simply could not credit the evidence of his ears. “For one thing, it badly needs modernisation… and I don’t suppose you have any domestic staff available?”
“I believe there’s a daily woman who comes up from the village to open the windows and remove the surplus dust – that sort of thing.” She smiled at him as if she fully realised how inadequate that kind of assistance might turn out to be. “And a friend is coming to stay with me for a few weeks, so between us we shall manage. In fact, I’m looking forward to giving the place a magnificent spring-clean.”