A Gathering Storm

by Rachel Hore

  Rachel Hore worked in London publishing for many years before moving with her family to Norwich, where she teaches publishing at the University of East Anglia. She is married to writer D. J. Taylor and they have three sons. Her previous novels are The Dream House, The Memory Garden, The Glass Painter’s Daughter, which was shortlisted for the 2010 Romantic Novel of the Year award, and A Place of Secrets, which was picked by Richard and Judy for their book club. A Gathering Storm is her fifth novel.

  Praise for Rachel Hore’s novels:

  A Place of Secrets

  ‘Rachel Hore’s intriguing Richard and Judy recommended read . . . is layered with a series of mysteries, some more supernatural than others’

  Independent

  ‘Sumptuous prose, deft plotting, lush settings, troubling personal histories, tragedy, heady romance and even a smattering of eighteenth-century scientific wonderment mark Hore’s fourth novel as her most accomplished and enthralling yet’ Daily Mirror

  The Glass Painter’s Daughter

  ‘Fans of Possession and Labyrinth will recognize the careful historical research Hore has undertaken and enjoy the seamless blend of past and present narratives into one beautiful story’ Waterstone’s Books Quarterly

  The Memory Garden

  ‘With her second novel, Rachel Hore proves she does place and setting as well as romance and relationships. Tiny, hidden Lamorna Cove in Cornwall is the backdrop to two huge tales of illicit passion and thwarted ambition . . . Clever stuff’ Daily Mirror

  ‘Rachel Hore knows the tricks of her trade and keeps the pages turning by adding a hint of a past mystery, too. Cleverly done’ Now

  ‘Pitched perfectly for a holiday read’ Guardian

  The Dream House

  ‘The Dream House is a book that so many of us will identify with. Moving from frenzied city to peaceful countryside is something so many of us dream of. Rachel Hore has explored the dream and exposed it in the bright light of reality, with repercussions both tragic and uplifting, adding her own dose of magic. It’s engrossing, pleasantly surprising and thoroughly readable’ Santa Montefiore

  ‘I enjoyed it enormously and was genuinely disappointed when I got to the end, having read deep into the night to finish it because I couldn’t put it down! I was completely drawn into the plot. I thought it a wonderfully evocative and cleverly woven story’ Barbara Erskine

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011.

  A CBS Company.

  Copyright © Rachel Hore 2011

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention. No reproduction without permission. ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Rachel Hore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India

  Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-84983-288-5

  eBook ISBN 978-1-84983-289-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Typeset in Palatino by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

  For my brother David

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  South London, March 2000

  Slipping into the chapel, softly as a wraith, Beatrice found a seat at the back. Aimless organ music was playing, but she hardly noticed, for she was putting on her spectacles and examining the Order of Service the usher had given her. There was a photograph of Angelina on the front, and the sight of it tugged her straight back into the past.

  It was a picture she remembered well, a snapshot Beatrice herself had taken in Cornwall, on Carlyon beach, just before the war, when Angie was seventeen. Angie’s mother had framed it and kept it on the grand piano in Carlyon Manor. From it, Angelina gazed out across the years, laughing, beautiful, and bathed in sunlight.

  As Beatrice stared into those luminous eyes she felt a hot lava of longing and resentment rise inside. She laid the card face down beside her on the pew. She thought she’d mastered these feelings long ago, wrestled them down during many nights of torment. Now she knew that she was wrong: beneath the veneer of good sense, the passions of the past still raged. She closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts. She should never have come. But there was someone she needed to see.

  Beatrice opened her eyes and looked around. The pews in the crematorium were nearly but not quite full. As her gaze wandered over the rows she noticed they were filled mostly with people of her own generation, the women proper in hats, the old men florid or shrunken inside their dark suits, some, the old war-horses, with medals glinting. There was no one she recognized. Finally, she allowed herself to look towards the front, sitting up a little straighter, craning her neck. At the top of the aisle was the coffin, piled high with blue and white flowers, but her eyes slid over this. Her pulse quickened.

  For there they were. It must be them, though it was difficult to be sure from behind. A middle-aged woman with frizzy hair tinted blonde and tied back with ribbon, her crushed-velvet coat of midnight blue cut in a flamboyant style. The man in a crow-black overcoat, his dark hair, Beatrice noticed tenderly, streaked with grey. It was astonishing, she thought, that Tom must be getting on for sixty. And between them, a girl of perhaps sixteen, who kept turning round to look at everything, so that Beatrice had plenty of opportunity to study her pointed chin, her turned-up nose and the lively expression in her stubby-lashed brown eyes. Lucy, it was.

  And now the congregation was rising to its feet as the minister, his white robes flying, hastened to the front, and the organist started the first hymn. Beatrice grasped the back of the pew in front for support and tried to focus on the words. But she found no strength to sing.

  The comforting words of the liturgy washed over her. She hardly noticed them, so intent was she on watching the small family in the front row. Lucy stroked her father’s arm but he barely acknowledged her. There was something lonely about the way he stood, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

  And now everyone was sitting down again and Tom was moving to the lectern, so that she saw his face for the first time. So absolutely like his father’s. It was the pallor of his skin, the steady way he pushed on his spectacles, his quiet demeanour as he con
templated his audience. But when, finally, he began to speak, his voice was utterly his own, deep and so low she had to strain to catch the words. And what he had to say astonished her.

  ‘My mother Angelina Cardwell,’ Tom said, ‘was one of the most beautiful . . .’ and here he smiled at his wife and daughter in the front row ‘. . . and certainly the bravest woman I have ever known.’ That didn’t sound right. She’d never thought of Angie in that light before. Beautiful, yes, but brave? What did he mean? ‘. . . a difficult life,’ she heard him continue. ‘The tragic deaths of her brother and mother, her husband’s health problems . . .’ The volume of the words ebbed and flowed in that soft bass voice. ‘It was, I know, a disappointment that I was her only child, and I was always aware of how precious I was.’ He glanced up at his audience. ‘Many of you will know how she struggled in her later years with illness. This too she bore with great courage, never more so than after the death of my father. Beautiful and brave she was, but I also valued my mother for her loyalty. She was a devoted mother and wife and, as all the letters I’ve received since her death bear witness, a warm and loving friend. I was proud to be her son.’

  Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to assimilate all she heard. Devoted, warm, loyal. That’s not how she saw Angelina. When she looked up again it was to find Tom Cardwell staring directly at her, a look of slight puzzlement on his face as though he were trying to place her.

  At the end of the short service, everyone stood waiting quietly as the electric curtains closed around the coffin. Only Lucy broke the tension with a single sobbing cry and her mother seized her hand with a little rattle of bangles.

  It was over.

  She watched Tom, his wife and daughter go out first, and Tom take up a position at the door, to thank everyone as they walked out. Beatrice hung back but saw there was nothing for it; she would have to speak to him. She’d rehearsed some words, but now she wasn’t sure that they were the right ones. As she waited her turn in the line-up, someone jabbed at her arm and spoke her name. She turned to find a familiar face: a stocky old woman with a raffia hat pulled too tight over wispy grey hair and an expression of malicious pleasure.

  ‘Hetty. It is Hetty?’ Beatrice said. Angelina’s sister must be in her early seventies, three or four years younger than herself, but she looked older.

  ‘Of course it’s Hetty,’ the woman said with her usual brusqueness. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Bea?’ The eyes, it was always the eyes that gave someone away. Hetty’s were brown and baleful, and her mouth still turned down. Charmless, that had always been the word for Hesther Wincanton.

  ‘How are you?’ Beatrice said, ignoring the rudeness. ‘I didn’t see you earlier, wasn’t sure you were here.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Hetty said. ‘I was her sister.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I hadn’t spotted you – you weren’t sitting with Tom.’

  ‘No,’ Hetty said shortly. ‘Well, never mind all that. I thought I’d warn you not to say anything stupid. You won’t, will you?’

  ‘Stupid? What do you take me for?’

  Hetty seized her arm and Beatrice felt a spray of spit as the woman hissed, ‘Angelina never told him about you, you know. Never.’

  Beatrice felt the last shreds of hope blow away. ‘Didn’t she?’ she said faintly. Then she pulled herself up straighter: ‘Told whom what?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. So keep mum. Trust me, it’s for the best.’

  She might not like Hetty, but Beatrice saw enough urgency in the other woman’s face to worry her. She gave her the slightest of nods and turned away.

  When she finally reached Tom’s side she felt only numbness, knowing she mustn’t say what was in her heart. She put out her hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he murmured as he shook it, looking at her, curious. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I’m Beatrice Ashton,’ she said. ‘I used to be Beatrice Marlow. A family friend.’ She watched his face change. He knew, she saw immediately. He knew who she was.

  With a supreme effort, Tom Cardwell recovered his composure.

  ‘It’s very nice of you to come, Mrs Ashton. Perhaps you’d join us for refreshments shortly. I’m sure someone could give you a lift to the hotel.’

  ‘I have my own car,’ she said, but already he was turning from her.

  ‘Aunt Hetty,’ she heard him say, as she moved on.

  ‘Such a shame my brother Peter couldn’t take the trouble.’ Hetty’s reply carried clear and loud.

  ‘It’s a long way from New York, Hetty, and I gather his health isn’t good.’

  ‘Well, he needn’t expect us to turn up for his funeral.’ She gave a snorting laugh.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Tom said.

  Beatrice joined the other mourners, admiring the wreaths laid out on the ground. Lucy and her mother, Gabriella, were a little way ahead.

  ‘Oh, this is all so . . . weird,’ cried the girl passionately, and started to cry. Gabriella tried to soothe her. Beatrice watched them walk away together into the garden. It seemed she wasn’t to speak to them either. No one talked to her. She was a stranger – no, worse, a ghost.

  Finally losing her courage altogether, she decided to skip refreshments and looked for the path to the car park.

  Later, she was to agonize over her cowardice. If Hetty hadn’t warned her, who knows what she might have said to Tom and the effect it would have had. Perhaps it was better for the truth to lie sleeping. After all, who would benefit from it coming to light? Maybe only herself. But hadn’t her own mother always enjoined her to tell the truth? A lie leads to a bigger lie, she used to say. It wasn’t originally Beatrice’s lie, but Angelina’s.

  Chapter 1

  Cornwall, April 2011

  ‘Please, Will.’

  ‘Lucy, we’re already late. If you girls hadn’t taken so long packing up . . .’

  ‘It’s not far on the map – look.’

  ‘I can’t when I’m driving, can I?’ Will’s eyes didn’t flicker from the road ahead.

  ‘There’ll be a sign to Saint Florian soon,’ Lucy said. ‘I showed you on the way down, remember? Oh, Will, it’s only a few miles to the coast. Come on, please. I did say I wanted to go there.’ She tried not to sound petulant.

  ‘And we’ve been busy doing other things all week. Are you going to blame me for that?’

  ‘I’m not blaming you for anything. I just want to see the place.’

  ‘Listen, Lu, we’ll go another time, how about that? Jon says let’s come again in the summer.’ As if to settle the matter, Will touched a paddle on the steering wheel and rock music pulsed through the car, drowning all possibility of conversation.

  Lucy traced a finger along the wobbly line of the Cornish coast, with its promise of smugglers’ coves and wild headlands, and privately wondered if there would be a second visit. She’d hardly known Jon and Natalia, the other couple; they were friends of Will’s, and she hadn’t even been seeing Will very long. She sneaked a look at him and her pessimism grew. That scowl was becoming an all-too-recognizable reaction to being crossed. He was twenty-seven, as she was, but despite his longish hair and the attractive, unshaven look, which in London she’d taken to mean laidback and open to new ideas, he hadn’t turned out that way at all. As for the others, Jon, like Will, was obsessed with finding the best surfing beaches, Natalia with shopping, and Lucy was the only one prepared to walk the cliffs if more than one drop of rain was falling. But as the newcomer to the group, and lacking her own transport, she’d had to comply with their plans. She folded her arms and stared out of the window, trying to ignore the ugly music.

  Will glanced at her and turned down the volume. ‘You look pretty miserable,’ he remarked.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so desperate to get home.’

  He shrugged. ‘I want to get the drive over with. Anyway, there are things to do. I’ve booked the editing suite this w
eek and I need to go over the brief.’ Will was a freelance film editor, and Lucy worked for a television production company as a production assistant.

  ‘You’re not thinking about work already, Will?’

  ‘You’re lucky having next week off.’

  ‘I feel I’ve earned it . . . Oh, look!’ A road sign had come into view. Lucy sat up straighter. ‘The turn-off. Please, Will. It’ll only take twenty minutes, I promise. Let’s go, please.’

  Will, who was a little alarmed by Lucy’s impetuous side, gave in and swung the driving wheel.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lucy breathed, touching his arm. His forehead creased into a frown.

  They drove on in silence, the narrow road winding between high hedges. Several times they were forced to pull in to let cars pass from the opposite direction, Will’s fingers tapping the steering wheel.

  ‘How much further?’ he growled.

  ‘Just another half-mile. Oh, look, the sea!’

  They had crossed a plateau and reached the point where the land sloped down to a horseshoe-shaped bay. To the left, high cliffs curved out to a headland with a lighthouse. The view to the right was blocked by a line of Scots pines crowded with rooks’ nests. Ahead, the road dipped steeply towards a cluster of whitewashed houses, presumably the beginning of the town.

  Another sign, this one pointing right, along a lane behind the pines: ‘The Beach and Carlyon Manor,’ Lucy read aloud. ‘Will, stop! It’s Carlyon!’

  Will checked his mirror before jamming on the brakes. ‘For goodness’ sake, Lu. I thought you wanted the town.’

  ‘I do – but Carlyon Manor, don’t you see? That’s where Granny lived when she was little.’

  Will muttered something impatient under his breath, but turned right anyway. Lucy gazed out of the window at the wild daffodils in the hedgerows and her spirits rose.

  Half a mile on, they came to a fork in the road. A white noticeboard detailing parking charges pointed left to the beach. ‘Right again,’ Lucy said, and the car swerved between a pair of granite posts and along a deep lane, where newly ploughed fields spread away on either side. Then came another bend and a short driveway to the left, to where a pair of high, wrought-iron gates was set in a long stone wall.