‘Didn’t you see there was someone swimming and figure they might like some privacy too?’ he asked harshly, then paused, his attention arrested as he saw her distress. He went on more gently. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad, surely? You must have seen a man without his clothes before?’
She hadn’t, as it happened, but she didn’t say so.
‘It—it’s not that.’ She swallowed another sob.
‘Then what’s wrong?’ He was frowning again, but as if he were puzzled rather than angry. ‘There must be something.’ He sat down beside her, his hand cool and damp on her shoulder through the thin tee shirt. ‘Don’t cry any more. Tell me.’
She bent her head, her voice catching on the words. ‘It’s my birthday—I’m thirteen—and no one remembered…’
He said, almost blankly, ‘Dear God.’ Then he was silent for so long that she glanced at him, wondering, and saw the tanned face hard and set as he stared at the sea.
She felt nervous again, and moved restively, dislodging his hand. She said haltingly, ‘I’m sorry. I’m stopping you getting dressed. I—I’ll go. My aunt will be looking for me.’
‘Doubtful,’ he said. ‘In the extreme. But don’t run away. I’ve got an idea that might improve matters.’ He added drily, ‘And my clothes are in The Cabin, so you don’t have to worry. I won’t be blighting your adolescence a second time.’ He sent her a brief, taut smile. ‘So, wait here until I’m decent again, and we’ll walk back to the house together.’
She had a belated but pretty fair idea of what she must look like, and was tempted to ignore his instructions and bolt while he was in The Cabin getting dressed. But something told her that he, at least, was trying to be kind, so it was only good manners to wait and hear what he had to say.
She did what she could, scrubbing fiercely at her face with her sodden hanky, and combing her hair with her fingers.
When he came out of The Cabin, she joined him, eyes down, and they walked up the track side by side.
He took her straight round to the stable block, where Miss Trewint was cleaning the paintwork on their front entrance.
She checked, her lips thinning. ‘Rhianna, where have you been? I hope and pray you haven’t been making a nuisance of yourself again.’
‘On the contrary,’ Diaz said. ‘I found her in the cove, like a sea urchin on a rock, and she’s been excellent company. So much so that, with your permission, I’d like to take her out to dinner to celebrate her birthday.’
He paused, and the older woman gazed at him open-mouthed, her face warming with undisguised annoyance.
‘Unless you have something else planned, of course,’ he added smoothly. ‘No? I thought not.’ He turned to Rhianna, who was also staring at him, dumbfounded and totally lost for words, but with an odd little tendril of disbelieving joy unfurling inside her too.
‘Wash your face, sea urchin,’ he directed. ‘And I’ll be back around six-thirty to collect you.’
Kezia Trewint found her voice. ‘Mr Penvarnon, this is nonsense. There’s absolutely no need for you to go to all this trouble…’
‘Now, there we disagree.’ His smile held charm, but it was also inexorable, and Rhianna felt a faint shiver between her shoulder-blades. ‘So—six-thirty. Don’t be late.’ And he was gone.
Alone in the moonlight, Rhianna let herself remember…
Aunt Kezia, of course, had not bothered to disguise her anger and bitterness at this turn of events.
‘Barely out of childhood, and already throwing yourself at a man.’ She chewed at the words and spat them out. ‘And a Penvarnon man at that. The shame of it. And he must have taken leave of his senses.’
‘I didn’t throw myself,’ Rhianna protested. ‘He felt sorry for me and was kind. That’s all.’
‘Because you told him the suffering orphan tale, I suppose? All big eyes and no bread in the house.’ Miss Trewint scrubbed at the paintwork as if determined to reach the bare wood beneath it. ‘And what will Mrs Seymour have to say when she hears? We’ll be lucky to keep our place here.’
Rhianna stared at her. ‘Mr Penvarnon wouldn’t let us be sent away—not for something he’d done,’ she protested.
‘So you think you know him that well, do you?’ Miss Trewint gave a harsh laugh. ‘Well—like mother, like daughter. I should have known.’ She paused. ‘You’d better get ready, if you’re going. You can’t keep him waiting.’
Rhianna went up to the flat. Whatever Aunt Kezia said, she thought rebelliously, she wasn’t going to allow it to spoil the evening ahead—the prospect of being taken out to dinner as if she was grown-up.
But she couldn’t entirely dismiss the older woman’s unpleasant remarks, especially when she recalled Carrie’s reluctant confidences.
She knew in her heart that Grace Carlow had been a good and loving person, and that she couldn’t have—wouldn’t have—done anything wrong. All the same there was a mystery there, and one day she would get to the bottom of it and clear her mother’s name.
But common sense told her that she must wait until she was older for her questions to be taken seriously.
She had a quick bath and washed her hair, being careful not to use too much hot water, while she mused on what to wear.
She would have given anything to have a cupboard full of the kind of clothes her classmates wore outside school, at the weekends and at holiday times, she thought wistfully, but her aunt considered serviceable shorts and tee shirts, with a pair of jeans for cooler days, an adequate wardrobe for her. And she couldn’t even contemplate what Kezia Trewint would have said about the make-up and jewellery the other girls took for granted.
Which only left her school uniform dresses, still relatively new, full-skirted and square necked in pale blue.
Sighing, she put one of them on, slipped her feet into her black regulation shoes, brushed her cloud of hair into relative submission and went downstairs to wait for him.
He was a few minutes late, and for a stricken moment she wondered if he’d had second thoughts. Then he came striding across the stable yard with a set look to his mouth which suggested that Moira Seymour might indeed have had something to say about his plan.
But his face relaxed when he saw her, and he said, ‘You’re looking good, Miss Carlow. Shall we go?’
His car was wonderful, low, sleek and clearly powerful, but he kept its power strictly harnessed as he negotiated the narrow high-hedged lanes leading out of Polkernick with a sure touch.
It wasn’t a long journey—just a few miles down the coast to another village built on a steep hill overlooking a harbour. The restaurant was right on the quay, occupying the upper storey of a large wooden building like a boathouse, and reached by an outside staircase.
Inside, it was equally unpretentious, with plain wooden tables and chairs, and the menu and wine list chalked up on blackboards.
There were quite a few people eating already, but a table for two had been reserved by the window with a view of the harbour, and a girl in tee shirt and jeans came to light the little lamp in its glass shade which stood in middle of the table, and take their order for drinks.
A combination of excitement and her crying jag had made Rhianna thirsty, and she asked shyly for water.
‘Bring a jug for both of us, please, Bethan. Ice, but no lemon,’ Diaz directed. ‘And just a half-bottle of the Chablis I had last time.’
He smiled at Rhianna. ‘It’s a seafood place,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should have asked if you like fish.’
‘I like everything,’ she said simply, adding, ‘Except tripe.’
‘That’s not a taste I’ve acquired either.’ He paused. ‘Ever had lobster?’
Mutely, she shook her head.
‘Then that’s what we’ll have,’ he said.
And so they did—plain and grilled, with a tossed green salad, a bowl of tiny sauté potatoes, and a platter of fresh, crusty bread. It was preceded by a delicate shrimp mousse, and when the wine came Diaz poured a very small amount into anoth
er glass and handed it to her.
‘To Rhianna,’ he said, raising his own glass. ‘On her birthday.’
She sipped the wine carefully, and thought it was like tasting sunshine and flowers.
Her pudding was a raspberry tartlet with clotted cream, carried ceremoniously to the table by a stout man with a large apron over his blue check trousers who, Diaz told her, was the owner and chef, Morris Trencro. In the middle was a tiny ornamental holder, with a lighted candle for her to make a wish, then blow out.
‘No room for the proper thirteen, maiden,’ Mr Trencro said. ‘But reckon you won’t mind that.’
What was more, he began singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ in a strong baritone, and at his signal the rest of the customers joined in, turning to smile at this young red-haired girl whose eyes were shining more brightly than any candle flame.
And then they’d driven home, as decorously as they’d come.
There had been a moon that night too, thought Rhianna, and Diaz had put quiet, beautiful music—Debussy, she thought—on the CD player. And what with that, all the gorgeous food and that little drop of wine, she’d had to fight to stay awake, because she didn’t want to miss a single moment of her heavenly evening.
Of course, there had been repercussions later, she recalled wryly. Not from Aunt Kezia, oddly enough, although that was probably due to the brief, private interview Diaz had had with her in the sitting room after he’d brought her home.
But Moira Seymour had seemed to develop another layer of ice whenever she saw her.
And worst of all, she thought, was when she’d returned to school in September and found herself the object of unwanted and unwarranted attention from some of the older girls.
‘My sister Bethan saw you at the Boathouse in Garzion with Diaz Penvarnon,’ Lynn Dellow had announced, looking Rhianna up and down. ‘She says he was making a big fuss about your birthday, and pouring wine down you. She says you were wearing your yucky school dress and looked a proper sight.’ She giggled. ‘I thought Mr Penvarnon liked ladies his own age, not little schoolgirls.’
‘That’s a disgusting thing to say,’ Rhianna told her hotly. ‘It wasn’t like that. I—I didn’t have many birthday presents, and so he gave me a treat, that’s all.’
‘Did he try and snog you on the way home?’ someone else asked eagerly.
‘No.’ Shocked and upset, Rhianna felt her face turn the colour of a peony. ‘No, of course not. That’s rubbish. He wouldn’t do anything like that.’ And suddenly she remembered the night when she’d inadvertently glimpsed him on the terrace, intimately entwined with that girl, and how it had made her feel. How she’d found herself guiltily wondering what it would be like to be kissed—caressed—in that way by a man…
‘Bet you wish he had, though,’ said Lynn. She sighed gustily. ‘Sex on a stick, that one.’
‘Well, you’re quite wrong.’ Rhianna lifted her chin, dismissing the inconvenient jolt to her memory. ‘As it happens, Diaz Penvarnon is the last man in the world I’d ever fancy.’
There was some derisive laughter, and a couple of girls looked at her as if she’d grown an extra head.
‘Pretty high and mighty for a nobody, aren’t we?’ Lynn said critically. ‘So who’s your dream man, Lady Muckcart?’
Rhianna swallowed. She had to say something—name someone—if only to get them to stop talking about Diaz in that horrible way, which made her burn everywhere all over again.
‘Simon Rawlins, actually,’ she said, adding, ‘If you must know.’
After all, she told herself defensively, it wasn’t that much of a lie. Who wouldn’t want Simon? And hadn’t she been secretly hoping she might run into him in the village again some time?
‘That tasty blond bit who comes down here every summer?’ Lynn stared at her. ‘Lives at the top of the village? Thought he hung around with Carrie Seymour.’
‘Not all the time,’ Rhianna tossed back over her shoulder, as the bell sounded and she walked away.
‘That wouldn’t stop her,’ she heard someone say. ‘Takes after her mother, I dare say.’ And there was more laughter.
And she hadn’t had the courage to turn back and say, What are you talking about? What do you mean?
But even without that her image of Diaz smiling at her across the table had become blurred, as if it had been touched by a hand dipped in slime.
And her precious birthday celebration had been spoiled—tainted, she thought, with a sigh that was almost a sob.
She recovered herself with a start, and slid down from the rock, smoothing her skirt. Bed for you, my girl, she told herself, with a touch of harshness. Before you get maudlin, remembering a time when he could be kind.
Because tomorrow night, when you have dinner with him for the last time, kindness will be the last thing on his mind and you know it.
Ten years on, at least she didn’t have the same problems over her wardrobe, she thought wryly, as she viewed herself in the mirror the following evening.
She’d decided to wear the dress she’d originally planned for that night, a wrap-around style in a dark green silky fabric, which accentuated the colour of her eyes. The skirt reached mid-calf, the sleeves were three-quarter length, and its cross-over bodice revealed a discreet plunge.
She’d slept badly the previous night, and she’d been jumpy all day, thankful for all the tiny last-minute tasks that she’d been able to help with, while all the time she was turning her mind by sheer force of will away from the prospect of the evening ahead of her.
But now the time was nearly here. In less than an hour, she thought, glancing at her watch, she’d be setting off for the Polkernick Arms in one of the taxis that had been ordered.
Where Diaz would be waiting…
She drew a deep breath as she fastened her prettiest earrings—small gold hoops studded with tiny emeralds—into her lobes. She still couldn’t fathom the actual motive behind his invitation. If she was feeling charitable, she might attribute it to his wish to solve the Seymours’ unexpected problem and save them further embarrassment.
But charity isn’t the name of the game, she told herself silently. For either of us.
She took one long, final look, checking that the pink polish on her finger and toenails was still immaculate, and that her make-up was understated but effective.
Then she collected the green patent purse that matched her elegant strappy sandals and went downstairs.
There was the usual momentary hush as she entered the drawing room, and she knew that many of the older people in the room would be looking at her and seeing someone else entirely—her mother, Grace Carlow.
Knew too that someone would be saying in an undertone, ‘But you must remember—all that appalling scandal. That’s why Esther won’t be here. She doesn’t come near the place. Hasn’t done for years now. Poor Moira must be devastated.’
The devastated Moira simply gave her a look and turned away, but Francis Seymour came over to her with a smile. ‘Every inch a star, Rhianna,’ he told her kindly. He handed her a glass of pale sherry. ‘I hope this is to your taste. You look like a fino girl to me.’
She laughed. ‘You guessed right.’ She raised the glass. ‘Here’s to the family gathering. I hope it goes well.’
He gave her a dry look. ‘I would not put money on it, but we shall see.’ He sighed suddenly. ‘Sometimes I wish that Carrie hadn’t been quite so single-minded about her future. That she’d had other serious boyfriends besides Simon. Oh, I’ve nothing against the boy. But she was so very young—hardly more than a child—when she decided he was the one, as, of course, you know, which is why I can mention it to you.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She cleared her throat. ‘I think—I believe that sometimes it can happen like that. You meet someone—and you know. And that’s it—for ever. No questions. No second thoughts.’ She stared down at her glass. ‘So then you have to hope that he feels the same.’
She took another steadying breath, praying that her voice would
not shake. ‘And Simon clearly does, which is why there’s going to be a wedding tomorrow.’
‘And you, Rhianna?’ he said gently. ‘When are we going to be invited to your wedding?’
She managed another laugh. ‘Oh, I’m an impossible case. Married to my career, as they say. On the other hand, I might meet someone at tomorrow’s reception. You never know.’
‘No,’ he said. He gave her a reflective look. ‘Although there was a time when I thought I did.’ He paused. ‘But now I see my wife beckoning, so I must go.’
Rhianna put down the sherry glass untouched. Carrie’s father was a shrewd man, she thought, her stomach churning. What had he been trying to say just then? That he’d once seen something—and guessed how she felt…?
No, she thought. Please, no. Let it stay a secret for just a little while longer. Another twenty-four hours and I’ll be gone for good. And no one need ever know—anything.
The initial free-for-all at the Polkernick Arms had some of the overtones of the Montagues versus the Capulets, Rhianna thought detachedly, with the Seymours and Penvarnons on one side of the private bar, and Clan Rawlins on the other. It was to be hoped that the knives in the dining room weren’t that sharp, or there could be mayhem.
She was keeping strictly to the edge of the room, away from the small charmed circle of well-wishers where Carrie stood, her arm through Simon’s.
She hadn’t looked at him, or he at her, while they’d murmured their conventional and meaningless greetings to each other.
Would there ever come a time when she could look at him and see simply Carrie’s husband? Maybe one day—once time and distance had done their work. Or that was all she could hope.
She knew, of course, the exact moment that Diaz arrived, and for a blinding instant she wished with real savagery that she could turn back the clock and wipe out the past months with their burden of lies, secrets and shame.
That she could turn and see him standing in the doorway and be free to walk to him, smiling, and say in her turn, ‘Diaz—it’s been a long time.’ And offer him her hand, or even her cheek. That she could see the silver eyes warm with surprise—and something more…
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