‘How dare you?’ The older woman’s voice had been molten with anger. ‘How dare you touch anything in this house, you little—?’
‘It’s not her fault,’ Carrie broke in staunchly. ‘I told her she could.’
‘Then you had no right, Caroline.’ Her mother turned on her furiously. ‘This is a Penvarnon family heirloom, not some cheap toy to be passed around and played with. In future, the case will be locked. And this girl should not be in the house, anyway. I gave strict instructions about that.’ She took a step forward, her hand outstretched, her eyes fixed inimically on Rhianna’s white face. ‘Now, give it back and get out. And believe me—you haven’t heard the last of this.’
‘I haven’t done anything to it.’ The words came out all wrong. They sounded sullen when she’d meant them to be apologetic and reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She glanced up at the portrait. ‘I just wanted to hold it because it was hers, and she’s so beautiful.’
Diaz Penvarnon said with quiet authority, ‘It’s all right, Aunt Moira. I’ll deal with this.’ He moved past Mrs Seymour and took the fan carefully from Rhianna’s numb fingers.
He said, ‘You might not mean to harm it, but it’s very old and consequently extremely fragile.’ He looked at Mrs Seymour. ‘And, as I said when I was last here, it properly belongs in a good costume museum. I shall see to that.’
There was a silence, then Moira Seymour said, openly reluctant, ‘Of course—if that is what you wish.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’ He replaced the fan gently in the case and closed the glass lid. ‘There,’ he added. ‘No real harm done. Now, off you go, both of you, and we’ll say no more about it.’
He’d been as good as his word, Rhianna thought. The expected tongue-lashing from Aunt Kezia had never materialised. And the glass case and its contents had been removed from the drawing room and taken away in a van a few days later.
‘Mummy’s in a fearful temper about it,’ Carrie had reported dolefully. ‘She used to like pointing it out to visitors—our genuine Elizabethan relic. And now she can’t. And she got even more cross when Daddy said the fan belonged to Diaz’s ancestors, not ours, and he was entitled to dispose of it as he saw fit.’
She paused, then looked more cheerful. ‘He also said that barring you from the house was the kind of stupid, unkind rule which was bound to be broken, and he was only surprised it hadn’t happened before. He said that Diaz thought so too. So we don’t have to worry about that any more.’
Rhianna knew they almost certainly did, but kept quiet about it anyway.
Now, all this long time later, nothing had changed, she admitted with an inward sigh. She allowed herself one long, last look at Tamsin, a woman who had fought for and won the man she loved—but not, she thought wryly, without breaking the rules of her own time. Then she turned away—only to halt with a stifled gasp.
Diaz was standing in the French windows, one shoulder negligently propped against the frame as he watched her silently.
She said unevenly, ‘You—you startled me.’
‘Not as much as I’d hoped,’ he said. ‘Or you’d have stayed away.’
Rhianna bit her lip. She said tautly, ‘I meant that I didn’t know you were there.’
‘You were lost in thought,’ he said. ‘Clearly those portraits fascinate you just as much now as they seemed to when you were a child.’
She shrugged. ‘They tell a fascinating story.’ She paused. ‘And that’s an amazing necklace. I wonder why he chose to give her turquoises?’
‘The turquoise is said to represent the connection between the sky and the sea,’ he said. ‘Which makes it an appropriate stone for a Cornishwoman.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Well, I was rather hoping you’d lend it to Carrie for her wedding, so I’d get the chance to see it in reality.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, without a hint of regret. ‘It’s to be worn by Penvarnon brides only, as a symbol of constancy and faithfulness in marriage.’ His brief smile was unamused. ‘Which rather puts it out of the running—wouldn’t you say?’
‘I think Carrie would be a loyal and wonderful wife for any man,’ Rhianna said.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I was actually referring to the groom, in this instance, as I’m sure you of all people should realise.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Whatever. The decision is yours, naturally. And, as I can’t see myself on the guest list when you tie the knot, I’ll just have to resign myself to admiring the necklace only through oil on canvas.’ She paused again. ‘I hope the fan found a good home in the end?’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘With so much else going on I’d almost forgotten about that particular incident. However, I can assure you that it has indeed been well taken care of ever since.’
He walked forward into the room. ‘But I’m forgetting my duties as host, and that will never do,’ he added courteously. ‘May I get you a drink? Some Pimms, perhaps?’
It was the perfect drink for a warm evening, and Rhianna longed to say yes, but common sense warned that she needed to keep her wits about her, unclouded by alcohol.
She said, ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll stick to lemonade.’
There was an odd pause. He looked at her, his mouth hardening, then said, ‘Yes—of course,’ turning almost abruptly to the drinks tray.
Ice cubes chinked in the tall glass as he poured the lemonade and brought it to her.
‘So, what shall we drink to?’ He raised his own glass in a parody of a toast. ‘Our happy couple? Or your continued good health? More necessary than ever now, I should imagine.’
Rhianna’s brows lifted sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’
He shrugged. ‘The shooting schedule for your series must be fairly hectic. You couldn’t afford a lengthy absence for any reason—especially when there must be dozens of other pretty faces manoeuvring to take your place in front of the camera.’
‘Thank you for reminding me. I expect there are hundreds.’ The lemonade, cold and tangy without bitterness, soothed the dryness of her mouth. ‘But I manage to stay reasonably fit. I won’t need a replacement yet awhile.’
‘But there’s bound to come a time when that will happen,’ Diaz countered. ‘The viewing public is notoriously fickle in its affections. So, will there be life after Castle Pride?’
‘I’m touched by your concern,’ she said curtly. ‘However, I’m not ready for the scrapheap in the foreseeable future. Unless you’ve bought a controlling share in the production company, of course, and even then you’d have a fight on your hands.’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You’re not the type to go quietly, Rhianna. You’ve made that more than clear.’
There was something in his voice that sent all her antennae quivering again. But as she stared at him, questions tumbling around in her head, the door opened and Carrie came in, face flushed and eyes sparkling. But not with happiness.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she burst out furiously. ‘I just don’t. After everything else—now this!’
‘What’s happened?’ Rhianna moved to her swiftly.
‘Mrs Rawlins,’ said Carrie, in a voice that managed to combine anger with despair. ‘She’s happened—again.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Rhianna said quickly, trying to coax her to smile. ‘She’s found out about the veil and she’s planning to sue.’
But Carrie was not to be cajoled. ‘She informed us before she left that she’d invited Simon’s godparents specially early so that they could come out to dinner with us tomorrow—in order to meet everybody. And said how much they were looking forward to it.’
She spread her hands dramatically. ‘Mother immediately explained that the Polkernick Arms can only seat so many people, but she said that she was sure if we all squeezed up a little they could accommodate two more. But they can’t, and they won’t. I know it.’
Rhianna gave her a comforting hug. ‘Well, Simon will just have to talk to his mother. Make her see reason.’
�
��Unlikely,’ Carrie said with unusual brusqueness. ‘She’s already persuaded him that the guest list is heavily loaded in our family’s favour. He’ll say we have to fit them in, even if it means cancelling the Arms and finding a bigger restaurant. Something that’s already been hinted at,’ she added on a note of doom. ‘But there’s nowhere—not at this late stage anyway.’
They were joined by Moira Seymour, looking thoroughly harassed. ‘The manageress won’t budge.’ She addressed Carrie. ‘We’re already at the maximum the regulations allow, as I tried to tell that impossible woman earlier. What on earth are we going to do? We can’t ask other people to drop out to make room for them.’
‘No,’ Diaz said unexpectedly. ‘But in an emergency you can always find volunteers.’ He looked at Rhianna, his mouth smiling coolly. ‘Well, Miss Carlow,’ he said softly. ‘Will you help save the situation for Carrie tomorrow evening by giving up the party and having dinner on your own with me instead? What do you say?’
There was the kind of silence that seemed to last for ever.
Bombshell at the end of Act Two, Rhianna thought, with a kind of detachment. Cast reaction, followed by slow curtain. Old-fashioned, but effective.
For instance, she could see that Carrie’s mouth had formed into an ‘o’ of pure astonishment, while her mother appeared to have turned into an ice sculpture. She found that she herself had become rooted to the spot, bereft of words, but numbingly aware of the mockery in Diaz Penvarnon’s grey eyes as he watched her. Waiting for her response.
Moira Seymour found her voice first. ‘But that’s quite impossible,’ she declared. ‘It’s awfully good of you, of course, Diaz, but you’re Carrie’s cousin. She’s being married from your house. You can’t possibly miss the family dinner.’
‘If you recall, it was by no means certain that I was even coming to the wedding.’ Diaz’s tone was dry. ‘And I doubt I’ll be here for the ceremony even now. But the occasion will still go ahead without me.’ He paused. ‘And I believe Rhianna was a late entry to the guest list too,’ he added gently. ‘Which would seem to make us an ideal pairing.’
‘Except that it’s totally absurd,’ Moira Seymour said angrily. ‘You can’t possibly want…’ She paused, as if realising her next comment might be infelicitous. ‘I mean, I can’t allow you to sacrifice yourself like this, my dear Diaz. Miss Carlow—Rhianna—wouldn’t expect it.’
‘Please don’t regard me as some kind of victim.’ He sounded amused. ‘Perhaps you don’t realise there isn’t a man in England who wouldn’t jump at the chance of dinner à deux with television’s top fantasy woman.’
Isn’t there? thought Rhianna. Isn’t there? Because I can think of one standing only a few feet away right now. So why are you doing this? Why?
‘Besides, just think of the moral victory you’ll score over Margaret Rawlins,’ he went on. ‘Arming for a battle and finding it’s been cancelled. All the Brownie points for good behaviour to our side, and only at the cost of two new place-cards.’
He turned to Rhianna. ‘I know you must be disappointed at missing out, but comfort yourself with the knowledge that you’ve headed off yet another difficulty at this happy time, and can bask in the bridegroom’s undying gratitude.’
He allowed an instant’s silence for her to digest this, then smiled at her charmingly. ‘So, are you prepared to make this sacrifice, Rhianna—for Simon’s sake, if nothing else?’
She met his gaze, hard and metallic, like silver. Read its challenge, which held no charm at all.
‘Put like that,’ she said coldly and clearly, ‘how can I possibly refuse?’
His smile widened. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can both think of a number of ways,’ he said softly.
He turned to Moira Seymour, whose expression was still set in stone. ‘I suggest Rhianna goes with you to the hotel for a token appearance at the pre-dinner drinks, which will thrill the Castle Pride fans, and then I’ll whisk her away before the management start counting heads. Agreed?’
‘I suppose so.’ It was Carrie who spoke, her tone reluctant. She walked over to Rhianna and slid an arm through hers. ‘Although it’s the last thing I’d planned—to have two of my favourite people missing.’ She frowned fiercely. ‘But it’s a solution to a problem that should never have arisen, and I shall tell Simon so.’
‘Well, don’t be too fierce.’ Diaz smiled at her. ‘Or he might change his mind and not turn up on Saturday.’
She relaxed, grinning back at him. ‘Never in this world,’ she said.
While Rhianna, her own face expressionless, drank some lemonade and felt it turn to pure acid in her throat.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE dinner that followed was not the easiest Rhianna had ever sat through, although the watercress soup, the ducklings with kumquats, and the crème brûlée which rounded off the meal were all flawless.
At another time she’d have been irritated by Moira Seymour’s faintly fretful monologue about the wedding, and the problems arising from it, all attributable to Margaret Rawlins, a subject from which she refused to be diverted despite her husband and daughter’s best efforts.
But Rhianna was simply thankful not to be required either to contribute or even to listen.
On the other hand, she realised tautly, an absorbing conversation on some neutral topic might have proved a distraction from the presence of Diaz, equally silent, on the other side of the table.
When coffee had been drunk he excused himself, pausing briefly beside Rhianna’s chair on his way to the door. His brief smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Until tomorrow evening, then. At the hotel.’
She made herself look back at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. Until then.’
And only she was aware that the hand replacing her cup on its saucer was not entirely steady.
‘You didn’t eat much at dinner,’ Carrie commented critically, as the pair of them walked on the headland later, enjoying the cool, moonlit stillness. ‘But be warned—you’re not allowed to be ill—not just before my big day.’
‘I think I’m just a little tense,’ Rhianna admitted, trying to inject some lightness into her tone. ‘Thinking more about tomorrow night’s meal instead.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Carrie consoled her. ‘In fact, though I hate to admit it, you’ll probably be far better off elsewhere.’ She grimaced. ‘This family dinner promises to be tricky in the extreme, accompanied by a strong whiff of burning martyrs. And after all,’ she added, ‘it’s not the first time Diaz has taken you out to dinner à deux.’
Rhianna stared at her, her throat tightening. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your birthday treat,’ Carrie prompted. ‘You can’t have forgotten the high note of your early teens? I’ve never been so jealous in my life.’
‘No,’ Rhianna said quietly after a pause. ‘I—hadn’t forgotten.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘I might walk down to the cove before I turn in. I love seeing the moon on the water. Want to come?’
‘Not in these heels,’ Carrie demurred. ‘And you take care, too,’ she added severely. ‘I’m not having you hobbling into church with a broken ankle either.’
‘All right, Granny,’ Rhianna said meekly, and dodged, laughing.
A broken ankle would heal, she thought as she made her way down the track. But what do you do about a breaking heart? And how do you prevent the ache of all the lonely years ahead of you?
Shoes in hand, she walked down the beach until she reached a particular flat rock, and sat down, looking at the sea, smooth as glass in the moonlight.
Nothing to be seen this time. No movement in the water. No dark head, sleek and glossy as a seal’s, breaking its surface in the glitter of the late afternoon sun of that long-ago day.
Although she’d been too immersed in her own unhappiness to notice anything around her. Or not immediately, anyway.
Her thirteenth birthday, she’d been thinking with desolation. And no one had remembered. She’d received no presents. Not even a card. And Aunt Kezia hadn’t
even wished her Many happy returns of the day. While Carrie, who would at least have sung ‘Happy Birthday’, was away on a school field trip.
She’d waited in vain all day for something—anything. A token recognition of this milestone in her young life. Disappointment and hurt had built up inside her as she’d remembered past birthdays.
Her mother had always made them special, she thought. Magical. Parties for her schoolfriends, including more recently a theatre matinee, and a hilarious trip to an ice rink. Always a cake with candles, and the warmth of arms round her. The knowledge that she was loved and treasured.
She’d tried hard to be brave, telling herself it didn’t matter that the day had been ignored this time. That next year it would be different. Knowing that it probably wouldn’t.
Until eventually she’d escaped down to the cove, the place where she’d been happiest since she arrived at Penvarnon, and once there, sitting on her favourite rock, had found her eyes blurring as she was suddenly tipped over some edge into a morass of loneliness and pain, where tears were the only relief.
And once she’d started to cry it had been impossible to stop, and she’d lain, hunched and shaking with her sobs, on the hard, flat surface.
She’d been pushing herself upright again, hiccupping a little as she tried to drag a strand of drenched hair away from her face, when she saw him.
Saw Diaz Penvarnon emerging from the sea, completely nude, the salt drops glistening on his body as he strode through the shallows to the beach, as unaware of her presence as she’d been of his. Until then.
The sound she had made, however, a small choking cry of shock and embarrassment, had brought his head round sharply, and he’d stared at her, brows snapping together.
He’d said, with a kind of resignation, ‘Oh, God,’ then walked to the folded towel waiting on a patch of shingle, winding it swiftly round his lower body.
Then he’d walked across to her, grim-faced. ‘Rhianna Carlow,’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to be by myself,’ she said huskily. Her eyes were gummed with weeping, and her face was hot with mortification as she pressed her hands to her cheeks. ‘I thought all your visitors had gone and you’d left as well.’
Blogger Bundle Volume VI: SB Sarah Selects Books That Rock Her Socks Page 24