Reflections
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
The Leaving Shades Sagas
Copyright
Reflections
Gloria Cook
One
It was a strange thought to occur to her, that since her return here over a year ago to her mother’s house, this was the first time she had been alone in it. Why should that matter now? Beth Tresaile was eagerly awaiting the imminent arrival of her closest friend Kitty, so why think of something so unnecessary, and give it a second thought and even a third?
There was, of course, bad history for her here in the cliff-top Owles House, of the bitter quarrels between her parents, her mother’s heavy drinking, the neglect and fear she had suffered during her early childhood. At just seven years old, Beth had been abandoned alone, locked outside in the bitterly cold dark winter. She had run terrified along the drive, out into the lane and had somehow found her way nearly all the way down to the fishing cove of Portcowl, where a kindly fishing family had taken her in. Beth’s maternal grandmother, Marion Frobisher, from Wiltshire, who had raised her, had showered her with love and care, all the while stressing to Beth that her unstable, alcoholic mother Christina had been fully to blame for her past miseries.
Years later, following her grandmother’s death, and feeling raw from a tragic miscarriage and broken heart, Beth had been driven to confront and rail against Christina over her selfish, demented motherhood. Kitty Copeland, her friend from her peaceful childhood days, had travelled down with her. At the initial reunion, frosty and guarded on Beth’s part, eager and apologetic on Christina’s, emotional for them both, Beth had seen that Christina was rather frail in health and living a quiet, simple life.
While being put right by various locals about the unfortunate past, Beth had soon discovered that much of Christina’s shameful behaviour had been cruelly provoked by her social-climbing, bullying husband Phil Tresaile, and to Beth’s utter dismay, by Christina’s own mother. Taking a Cornish holiday with a young impressionable Christina, Marion Frobisher had made it obvious she despised her daughter. Beguiled by the artful charmer Phil Tresaile, Marion had been observed carrying out an affair with him, before he had seduced and impregnated Christina. Furious and jealous, Marion had allowed the couple to marry, and Owles House had been bought with Christina’s money.
Beth had learned that her father Phil Tresaile had constantly and unjustly accused Christina for being responsible for the almost immediate death of Beth’s sickly twin brother, the son he had so wanted; a secret kept from Beth. Phil Tresaile had deserted his young family but had gone on to partly redeem himself by dying a hero’s death in the Great War. Beth, encouraged by trusting, kind-hearted Kitty, had rightfully concluded that Marion and Phil’s abuse of Christina had pushed her towards alcoholism and her final mental breakdown and disappearance, resulting in her incarceration for many months in a mental institution. Beth had accepted everything about her past. She had no lingering issues, only sad reflections, mainly about the baby she had lost and the secret she was keeping from Kitty, a secret that would shatter her. The father of Beth’s baby had been Kitty’s adored older, married brother, Stuart. The pregnancy had brought the affair to an end, Stuart fearing that a scandal would ruin him and Beth had not wanted to hurt his young family. Ironically, months later Stuart’s wife had left him and their two children for another man, and Stuart had tried, through Kitty, to wheedle his way back into Beth’s life, asking if he could come down to Cornwall where Beth had decided to settle down. Beth had put off the suggestion firmly. Having found strength in her new life she had had no desire for a weak man and she wasn’t going to be second best. She had reflected that it had been selfish and wrong of her to embark on an affair with a married man, and after her years of unjustifiable resentment towards her mother, to be careful in future of the judgements she made.
Beth had sold her property in Wiltshire and bought a cottage locally but she stayed at Owles House most of the time. She continued looking out of the sitting room window into the blustery grey October day for the taxicab ferrying Kitty from St Austell railway station. Beth already had her coat on. She would hurry outside and cry excitedly, ‘Welcome Kitty! I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you again and for you to be back once more to share in the magic of this place.’
Part of the magic Beth had found here was that the impressive, wisteria-clad mid-Georgian house, the mighty rambling cliffs sheltering the fishing cove below and the waters of the bay were not as her tormented childhood view of them, desolate, lonely and menacing. Instead everything including the tangy salt of the sea and the endless views were enchanting, trustworthy and soothing. Beth had everything she wanted here. She had a fond relationship with Ken Tresaile, landlord of the Sailor’s Rest, the uncle she had been denied access to because her father had fallen out violently with his family. And there were two special people she had not known existed before: Joe Vyvyan, her younger half-brother by her mother’s late second husband; and her older half-sister, abandoned by Phil Tresaile, adopted fisherman’s daughter Evie Vage.
Presently, Christina was attending a social committee meeting at the vicarage and Joe was at school. The daily help, the cheerful Mrs Reseigh who lived down in the cove, had left an hour ago. Normally, Beth would have gone with Christina, they did almost everything together, but Beth was waiting for Kitty’s arrival. Alone. And for some odd reason it unsettled her. Almost as if it was a portent that something bad was on its way.
‘That’s daft,’ she said aloud. ‘Don’t be silly.’
Yet a shiver seared up her back and made her glance over her shoulder. Had it suddenly gone cold in the spacious room where a log fire crackled and hearty flames soared towards the chimney, or was she simply imagining it? All was as usual in the room, the furnishings a careful blend of arts and crafts and gentle fines. The tall windows were allowing plenty of daylight in and there were no shadows. Carlton Ware vases were filled with russet, gold and cream chrysanthemums. A French brass carriage clock ticked softly on the mantelpiece.
Something wet pressed into her hand. ‘Oh!’ Her heart lurched and beat wildly.
She looked down ready to thrust something dreadful off her hand then she was laughing, feeling foolish. ‘Oh, it’s you Chaplin.’ It was Joe’s handsome German shepherd. She wasn’t alone in the house after all. She crouched down to hug Chaplin’s broad neck. ‘I’m such a silly to have forgotten you were here, faithful old thing, such a silly to have taken fright of you, and really daft to get the chills over absolutely nothing at all. And if there were any ghosts here you’d have growled and seen them off, eh?’
Ghosts. Why on earth was she thinking about ghosts? She had lain to rest all the ghosts from her past. Her old loathing and resentment and need for revenge against her mother had been replaced forever with deep love and concern. After his initial distrust, Joe had accepted her. As a boy now approaching his fourteenth birthday he kept a natural distance from her but he s
howed her the odd touch of affection.
Chaplin suddenly scrabbled away from Beth and barked excitedly with his front paws up on the window ledge, and Beth was nearly upended. ‘Kitty!’ She had missed her friend’s approach, something she loved to see. Since returning home to Wiltshire Kitty had set up a small business, but she had twice come down for weekend stays and back in May she had managed a whole week. Now she was allowing herself a long stay that would wonderfully extend through to Christmas and the New Year. Kitty was leaving her personal assistant in charge of Copeland Crafts. It pleased Beth that Kitty, although she never complained about it, would be free for a while from having to shore up Stuart, who was finding life rather hard since Connie’s desertion.
* * *
‘Do you think I tipped the driver enough?’ Kitty asked, surveying her mass of luggage, which the obliging taxicab driver had hauled up to the guest room. ‘I’ve brought down heaps of clothes, of course, but I’ve also packed some things for Christmas presents, and some samples I’d like you all to see of a few of the wonderful crafts I’ve picked up for the business. And he was so good with Grace.’ Grace was the young, long-haired collie-cross that she and Joe had rescued the previous summer as an abandoned starving puppy.
‘Well, he went away with a big smile on his face.’ Beth laughed, petting Grace and thinking that the gorgeous glossy-coated dog reflected the stunning looks of its Titian-haired, grey-green eyed owner. Every inch of Kitty’s slender frame revealed her open friendliness, her avid curiosity and unshakeable optimism. She loved exploring new opportunities, acquiring knowledge, and anything that seemed to be the slightest mystery. ‘You’ve brought enough stuff to last for months! I’ll start on your unpacking while you change and freshen up.’
Chaplin, who was more or less allowed the run of the house, followed them up with Grace, to the twin-bedded, charmingly Regency-themed room, and Kitty fell to her knees to give him an affectionate hug. ‘Us dogs and people are going to have a brilliant time, eh, boy? How’s Charlie, eh? Are you and the lovely pure white cat still the best of friends?’
‘They are.’ Beth grinned wryly. ‘Just as long as Chaplin allows Charlie to have the superior position, you know what cats are like.’
Kitty hefted a heavy suitcase up on to one half-tester bed. ‘Would you start pulling this one out, Beth? Don’t touch the tartan case. The presents are in it. I’ll push it under the bed.’ She went to the window, which was west facing and looked out over a neat lawn and sheltered flower beds at the side of the house. Just beyond the straight staunch hedgerow were the woods where Grace had been dumped. Kitty also got a glimpse of the sea. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to be back and not to be leaving for several weeks. I can’t wait to get out on the cliffs and down to the beaches and to spend lots of time down in the fishing village. How is everyone? I want to hear all about the Reseighs and the Praeds and young Richard, and your Uncle Ken and Evie, but first tell me about the new vicar. I want to know all about him before Christina gets back from the vicarage. How have the locals taken to him? Does he match up to the curate who held the fort so admirably after the poor old Reverend Oakley had to retire? He’s young and single, you said over the phone, so are any of the young ladies showing hopes for him? Is he handsome?’
‘Sort of handsome, I suppose. Actually, he’s a bit strange,’ Beth replied, from where she was putting Kitty’s clothes away into the large rosewood wardrobe. She immediately regretted her quick judgement. She had met the Reverend Jacob Benedict twice. The first time when she’d shaken his hand after his first morning service. The second time when he had called here at Owles House as part of his aim to meet everyone who lived in the parish. Beth hadn’t given him much thought but Christina described him as pleasant and easy company. He had shown great interest in the people of Owles House and its animals, the house itself, the well-maintained gardens and the splendid views. He was not high-minded and had begun his round of visits at the terraced Quayside Cottages down in the cove, all inhabited by fisherfolk, including Beth’s half-sister, Evie Vage. Iris, when pregnant with Evie had gratefully married a man much older than her, fisherman Davey Vage. Beth and Evie had bonded at their first meeting, but it was hard for them to meet owing to Davey’s possessiveness and contempt for anyone named Tresaile.
Kitty whirled round from the window. ‘Strange? How brilliant! I can’t wait to meet him. One of the best things about coming to Portcowl is there’s always a sense of mystery here among the superstitious, spiritual Cornish.’
‘Oh, Kitty,’ Beth smiled. ‘Portcowl is just a hard-working fishing village full of ordinary people living ordinary lives.’
Kitty’s eyes sparkled and she gaily dragged Beth to gaze with her into the dressing table mirror. Kitty spoke to Beth’s startled reflection. ‘Now tell the truth, when we first came here did we not discover mystery after mystery and get involved with some outlandish characters? Gabby Magor, a woman who’s more like a man.’ Kitty added softly. ‘Spinster Muriel Oakley’s tragic dead baby, another child your father had sired. Ordinary, my foot.’
Beth was struck at the stark differences between her reflection and her buoyant, almost innocent friend. Beth was taller and not as good-looking as Kitty, her butterscotch-coloured hair was bobbed while Kitty’s was shingled, but the outstanding disparity was Beth’s tendency to be serious and more grounded. Right now Kitty’s whole being was pulsing with possibilities of entertainment, while Beth wanted only to look forward to happy, quiet times.
Why had she termed the Reverend Benedict as strange? Beth mused. Why had her mind suddenly decided to believe that about him, when in fact he had come across as a congenial and polite individual suited to his position. Was Kitty right about the whole region being steeped in mysticism? Only a short while ago being alone in the house had made Beth feel unaccountably anxious and the house seem creepy. Was she picking up on something and if so, what for goodness sake?
She shivered. ‘Tell you what, Kitty, despite the heating being on it’s a bit chilly, don’t you think? You carry on here and I’ll pop downstairs and bring us up a hot drink. You’re probably gasping for one anyway.’
Right, she told herself, doing something as ordinary as making two cups of steaming hot coffee will end this silly eerie rubbish for good.
But before she reached the foot of the stairs she was turning round to glance behind. It was as if something was trying to catch up with her.
Two
Joseph Vyvyan was brought home from his St Austell private school in a taxicab. Today the cab had taken a short detour beforehand to the vicarage and collected his and Beth’s mother, Christina Vyvyan from the committee meeting.
In her energetic manner, Kitty beat Beth outside to greet them. She opened the back door of the taxi and helped Christina out safely on to the gravelled drive. Christina’s former years of alcohol abuse and poor mental health had left her a little frail and since then she had developed an arthritic hip, and with her soft pale looks and edge of uncertainty she drew the need in others to cherish and protect her. She used an ebony-handled stick to aid her walking.
Beth held back and waited while Kitty and Christina exchanged kisses and sincere, excited pleasantries. Christina beamed on as Kitty and Joe joined in a matey hug and lots of jollity. Beth felt a pang of envy. Joe had bonded with the outgoing, open-eyed, sporty and fun-loving Kitty from the outset, while he had remained wary and suspicious of Beth for some time, warning her at first never to upset Christina, whom he shielded vigorously against the slightest distress. Next Joe made a great fuss of Grace. He and Kitty had rescued the shiny-coated dog, then only a tiny whimpering raggedy handful, and they had that in common too. They believed the local misfit Gabby Magor had dumped puppy Grace in the woods at the side of the property.
Beth walked Christina up the steps and into the house. ‘Did you have a good meeting, Mum? Kitty and I have got afternoon tea all ready and the fire is roaring nicely in the sitting room.’ She studied her mother’s perfectly made up, wanly el
egant face for telltale hints of disquiet. Like Joe, Beth’s chief concern was to ensure their mother never took on anything she wasn’t up to. Christina’s second husband, Francis Vyvyan, had been the one responsible for lifting Christina out of her despair, to cope with life without drink, and cope with losing Beth, her then seven-year-old daughter. After his untimely tragic death in a boating accident, Joe, despite being so young, had admirably shouldered the task as Christina’s mainstay. Christina had rarely gone out of the grounds, but on becoming reconciled with Beth she had taken on the confidence and zest to take part in village life again. Beth was pleased to see Christina was looking not at all tired but quite animated.
‘Yes, darling, the meeting was very interesting. There were quite a number of people there. Tea will be lovely. Thank you, darling. Thank you, Kitty.’
The three women had started on the tea, lemon drizzle cake and sultana scones when Joe hurtled, as was his way, into the room with Chaplin. Joe had changed out of his school uniform and was wearing an open-necked shirt and patterned sleeveless pullover, and he was proud to be at the age to wear long trousers. He sat down near the tea table with all the aplomb of a great statesman and stretched out his long legs. He steepled his fingertips together and smiled at the women in a satisfied manner, as if he was pleased to see them all together and safe under his care. ‘You ladies all look very elegant.’
‘Thank you, Joe.’ Beth smiled, as he jumped up right away to take the poker to the fire, pushing and prodding the logs to produce gentle nuzzling flames – taking responsibility for the ladies’ comfort. It wasn’t a common sight in Owles House for Beth, Christina and Kitty to be dressed up, but for Kitty’s arrival they had all made the effort. They were in tubular, low-waist frocks, Christina’s had a scalloped hem and the younger women’s had handkerchief points. All wore shimmery cardigans and Louis heels. Christina was usually in plainer and looser things for comfort and easier movement. Kitty preferred a sportier look and often wore loose trousers and walking shoes. Beth didn’t often trouble herself to follow the dictates of fashion. Any new clothes she bought nowadays were of watered down fashions to fit in better with the local women’s plainer mode.
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