Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

by Marguerite Kaye

  She stabbed another two pins into her hair before checking her chignon in the mirror. The smooth and simple style suited her thick, heavy tresses, which refused to co-operate with anything more elaborate. Turning and twisting in front of the small hand mirror, she assured herself that she had fastened all the buttons at the back of her gown. Ought she to have worn a simpler dress? Probably, but it was too late now. Besides, she liked this dress, and it suited her, and it suited the occasion, her first formal visit to Karrek House.

  She was nervous. Which was silly of her. It wasn’t as if she’d never paid a morning call before, had never crossed the portals of a country manor before. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to conduct herself in front of a butler or a housekeeper, or a houseful of liveried footmen. But still, she was nervous. It was one thing to meet Treeve on the beach every morning as they had done for the last week, to talk, to walk, even to paddle.

  And to kiss. Such kisses. Salty, windswept kisses which punctuated their conversation. Moments when they stopped talking and looked, simply looked into each other’s eyes, and saw desire reflected. Treeve’s arms tight around her, his lips warm, his cheeks cold, the wavelets which rippled over their bare feet icy, their toes touching, though almost too numb to feel. She loved the graze of his beard on her cheek, the softness of his lips, the press of her breasts against his chest, the dragging, sweet ache inside her that the touch of his tongue roused.

  She ought not to be nervous after sharing such kisses. But she was, all the same. On Karrek Sands they were Treeve and Emily, shielded from the prying eyes of the world. But at Karrek House she was a mere tenant calling on the lord of the manor, to be introduced to the eldest daughter of another of Cornwall’s foremost families, not as an equal but as an artisan in search of a commission.

  She didn’t need the commission at this moment, but it would be very churlish of her to turn down the opportunity. Short-sighted too, for if Miss Treleven was happy, she would tell her friends and her relations and they might put other commissions Emily’s way. What’s more, she reminded herself as she donned her cloak and pulled on a pair of gloves, it was much easier to discuss commissions face-to-face than try to discern what a person required from a letter, as she had been obliged to do since moving to Cornwall. So she shouldn’t be nervous, she should be excited, she told herself firmly, picking up the basket in which she had carefully wrapped a small selection of samples of her work.

  * * *

  A footman opened the door to Emily before she had a chance to pull the bell. Informing her that she was expected, he relieved her of her cloak and gloves before leading the way into a long narrow passage with a shallow domed ceiling decorated with a ribbon-like cornice painted plain white. The walls were a pleasing primrose yellow, the bare floorboards pitted and scrubbed. She felt as if she was walking through a tunnel, crying out with startled delight when it ended in a Great Hall, a massive double-height chamber with an ornately plastered ceiling and a minstrels’ gallery featuring by one of the biggest stained-glass windows she had ever seen.

  ‘It is made of almost six hundred individual panes of glass,’ Treeve said, appearing from a doorway on the other side of the hall, ‘some of them over two hundred years old. Welcome to Karrek House, Miss Faulkner. Thank you, John,’ he added to the footman, ‘we’ll take tea as soon as Miss Treleven arrives.’

  ‘This is a spectacular room,’ Emily said, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling.

  ‘Spectacularly cold, most of the time,’ Treeve said.

  ‘But imagine a ball held here. You could put the orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery.’

  ‘Do you like to dance?’

  ‘I’ve never been to a formal ball, but there was a ceilidh every year for Grandma’s birthday. Everyone was invited, crofters, fishermen, villagers, the great and the good—such as they were. We’d dance reels—Scottish country dances—and people would take turns to entertain, reciting poetry, playing the fiddle, even telling jokes.’

  ‘I’ve attended far too many balls,’ Treeve said, grimacing, ‘which involved escorting an ambassador’s wife sedately round the floor, making polite conversation while wearing full dress uniform. Categorically not my idea of fun.’

  ‘Then hold a ceilidh here for Gwav Gool,’ Emily teased. ‘Invite all of Porth Karrek and dance a hornpipe for them. They’ll see their new lord and master in a very different light.’

  He laughed sardonically. ‘Different certainly, but still an unwelcome usurper.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t view you like that.’

  ‘And I am sure they are counting the days to the end of the year when they can wave me off, hopefully never to return.’ There was an edge to his words which surprised her, but before she could say anything, he shook his head impatiently. ‘It’s not such a bad idea though, holding a ceilidh, rather than the dance Austol hosted, which I gather was always a rather sedate affair.’

  ‘Tradition with your own twist?’ Emily said.

  ‘If you like.’ Treeve smiled. ‘Yes, exactly that. I think that’s an excellent idea. We’d better go through to the drawing room. Miss Treleven will be here any moment, and before you say anything, the commission was her idea, I am simply the intermediary.’

  ‘I’m very grateful all the same, Treeve, I...’

  ‘You’ve no need to be,’ he said brusquely. ‘I have seen your work and it’s patently obvious even to a man who knows nothing of such things that you are extremely talented and in no need of patronage.’

  ‘No, but a foothold here could prove extremely beneficial. It is much easier to do business face-to-face.’

  ‘Really? I thought you preferred to avoid social encounters. Here was I, preening myself on being the only exception to your rule.’

  His smile, the warmth in his eyes, the quirk of his mouth, sent a delightful little shiver down her back. She couldn’t help but smile in return, and when she did, the air between them seemed to still and she felt as if she had stopped breathing, her skin prickled with awareness. ‘You may preen yourself on being the exception that made me want to change my rule.’

  ‘In that case,’ Treeve said, ‘I shall have to introduce you to the composer when he arrives.’

  ‘Composer!’

  ‘Aha, now I’ve surprised you. I thought I might. To be honest, I’ve surprised myself. He arrives on the first, I believe. The lawyer is making the arrangements. He’ll be staying at the gatehouse.’

  ‘I saw the windows open a few days ago, I had quite forgotten. I had no idea you had any interest in music.’

  ‘I don’t, but Austol’s widow does. The idea was cooked up between her and Reverend Maddern, to offer the man a commission. She wants her piano moved there for him. A gift from Austol to her, apparently, not long before he died. She can’t bear to touch the thing, but from the fuss she made about it, I gather it’s special. Anyway, she wants the composer to have it. Cador Kitto, his name is, have you heard of him?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I’m not particularly musical either. Do you know what sort of piece you have commissioned by proxy?’

  Treeve grimaced. ‘A Christmas cantata, whatever that is, to be played in St Piran’s on Christmas Eve. Cador Kitto is a native of Porth Karrek. Reverend Maddern has known him since he was a child, and has been some sort of mentor to him. I’ve never met the man, he is a few years younger than I, and left the village when he was a lad, to attend a school of music. To my knowledge, he’s never come back.’

  ‘Until now. I wonder why.’

  ‘Oh, that’s an easy enough question to answer. He’s rather down on his luck, and in need of work. Reverend Maddern spoke to my sister-in-law on his behalf. She wrote to me, and under the circumstances I could hardly refuse.’

  ‘Is this Cador Kitto a famous composer? If it is an accomplished piece, you might acquire a name for yourself as a patron of music.’

  ‘Not
a particularly useful attribute for a ship’s captain, though I suppose the commission will do me no harm with the local gentry, let them see that I’m not a complete heathen.’ The doorbell clanged. ‘That will be Miss Treleven, with a much more relevant commission for you, I hope,’ Treeve said, ushering her ahead of him into a large drawing room. ‘You can set your work out here, on the table by the fire. I’ll make the introductions, then make myself scarce.’

  * * *

  Emily wrapped the little trinket box up in a soft cloth and set it carefully inside the basket. Miss Treleven—Rosenwyn, as she had insisted—had commissioned some silver hair ornaments as a Christmas present for her younger sister Marianne. Her admiration for Emily’s work had been quite unfeigned, her delight in the sketches Emily had made for her most gratifying. She was going to make a point of delivering the finished pieces herself. It would make a very pleasant change, seeing Rosenwyn’s reaction to her work, rather than simply dispatching them and receiving, at best, a thank you scrawled on the invoice returned with her payment.

  Rosenwyn, more a redhead than a strawberry blonde, was no simpering country miss, but a decided, rather sophisticated young woman with several London Seasons behind her—glad to have them behind her, was what she had actually said, for she could not bear to be away from her beloved Cornwall. Beautiful, clever and kind, if Treeve was looking for a bride, Miss Treleven would be perfect.

  Emily wandered over to one of the tall, narrow windows which flanked the marble fireplace. The view outside was of the knot garden, looking decidedly dreary in the rain, which drifted down from the sky like a gauzy veil, drops so small they seemed harmless, but so fine they seeped into your bones. Cornish rain, Emily called it, turning her back on it. The fire in the hearth blazed brightly in comparison to the dull exterior. The walls of the drawing room were painted a soft creamy mushroom colour, a few shades lighter than the stained floorboards. The rugs and the curtains, the sofa coverings, were in complementary muted tones, the other furnishings minimal, drawing attention to the beauty of the ceiling which, like the others, was white-painted and ornately corniced. It was a lovely room, understated, tasteful and tranquil.

  Fortunate Treeve, to have inherited such a delightful house. Save that he didn’t think himself fortunate at all. Was he in the least bit tempted to remain here? A house like this should be lived in, not left cold, unloved and neglected, as it would surely be, when Treeve left to sail the high seas again.

  She would miss him. Though it was not quite two weeks since she had first encountered him, she had grown used to his company, looked forward to their conversations. When he was gone, she’d be alone once more. Ought she to pursue a friendship with Rosenwyn? Or make friends with Derwa Nancarrow, perhaps, a woman nearer her age and station—and with two children who could be taught to swim! Emily smiled wryly, trying to imagine how any such overtures would be received, but her smile quickly faded. When Treeve left, she would feel even more isolated than ever. She’d have to make more of an effort. Perhaps the Chegwins would sell some of her plainer pieces in their shop.

  Of course, she wasn’t obliged to remain in Porth Karrek herself. But she didn’t want to move. Turning restlessly back to the window, Emily watched the Cornish rain fall. She liked the rain. And the wind. And the sun. She liked that they came one after the other in quick succession, sometimes. She loved the sea here, and the clifftop walks. And the village. She had come here to hide and lick her wounds. She hadn’t expected to find contentment, but she had. And she hadn’t expected to change, but she had. She was a very different person from the woman who had arrived here in April. With a bit of effort—and a lot of time, she added wryly to herself—she could find a niche for herself here. She would be part of the scenery. She might even come to be seen as a useful part, whether it was teaching swimming or silverwork.

  It would take time, but she had time, and more importantly, she had the inclination. Thanks to Treeve, she had rediscovered her confidence. In her work—because she could admit it now, she had been extremely nervous, showing Rosenwyn her wares—but more than anything in herself. Talking to Rosenwyn had been—well, easy, natural, fun. Yes, fun. It made her realise how much she missed Beth. She’d been forced to lie to her best friend about her reasons for leaving London. She would write to her, Emily resolved. A long letter, telling her the truth. And she’d finally make good on her promise to visit too, she was able now, to see Beth’s little brood again with pleasure rather than pain. After Treeve was gone. There were about six weeks of the year left. He would not leave for ever, he had already decided that he’d have to visit, that it was not possible to abdicate his new duties entirely.

  Here Emily firmly reined in her musings. Treeve was an interesting man. He was an extremely attractive man. But for heaven’s sake, Andrew Macfarlane was an interesting and attractive man. He was also a blackguard and a scoundrel! She was pretty sure that Treeve was neither of those things, but then she’d been pretty sure that Andrew wasn’t either, and look how wrong she had been proved.

  ‘Devil take it, Emily!’ she muttered, irked with herself. Why on earth had she allowed her mind to wander down this pointless track? The situation was straightforward enough. She should make the most of Treeve’s company while she could. If she wished—yes, she wished!—and if he wished—which he seemed to!—then they could also indulge in a little harmless dalliance. And it would be harmless because they were both perfectly well aware that it would end, because Treeve was leaving. The sea was his one true love. He couldn’t have made that any clearer. And as if that wasn’t enough, then there was also the fact that Emily would rather cut her heart out than give it to anyone ever again. And if that still wasn’t enough, if she was ever so unbelievably stupid as to fall in love again, and if Treeve decided to upend his own world, and choose Emily over the navy, then there was the fact that she could never, ever allow him to marry her, for one overwhelming reason which he must never be privy to.

  But it would never come to that. The odds were heavily stacked against it. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the window panes and nodded firmly to herself. ‘When all is said and done,’ she muttered, ‘it can’t be anything other than harmless.’

  * * *

  ‘What can’t?’ Treeve said, smiling as he re-entered the drawing room.

  Emily coloured. ‘Nothing. I was talking to myself.’

  ‘Is that why you like your own company so much, because you always win the argument?’

  ‘And I’m never wrong either! I wasn’t sure whether or not you expected me to wait.’

  ‘I’m very glad you did. I was up in the attics and saw Miss Treleven leaving. There is a panoramic view from the windows, all the way over to the Lizard, and out into the Channel for miles I thought you might like to see. It’s a bit dusty up there though, I don’t want you to ruin your lovely gown.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emily said, colouring even more, ‘this old thing! A little dust won’t harm it.’

  ‘Silk. French, if I’m not mistaken. And though I’m no expert in lady’s fashion, not so very old.’

  ‘I had it made for my birthday two years ago.’

  Two years ago, she had been well enough off to have a silk gown made, to celebrate a birthday. With whom? Perhaps no one. And if there had been some man? It was two years ago. He had no reason, nor any right to feel jealous, devil take it!

  ‘The colour suits you,’ Treeve said, though he wasn’t looking at the gown, but into her eyes.

  What was it about Emily that drew him? Less than two weeks, he’d known her. It felt like a lifetime, and also a matter of hours. He desired her, but not in the way he had desired women before. It was not her stormy-sea eyes, or her sensual mouth, or even the curve of her bottom or her breasts that kept him awake at night. It was the clearness of her gaze when she looked at him, the little frown that pulled her brows together when she was thinking, the way she closed her eyes, the little quiver ru
nning through her, when the first wave rippled over her bare feet, the little half-smile she wore when she dug her toes into the sands.

  He felt as if he knew her, but at the same time, he felt that there was a great deal more she wouldn’t let him know. She fascinated him and intrigued him. It worried him that their time together was fated to be so fleeting, for he must return to his ship at the end of next month. He would miss her. So he’d better make the most of the time they did have!

  Treeve shook his head, for Emily’s brows were raised in a silent question. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I was trying to recall whether there was a shawl or something I could lend you. It’s cold up in the attics.’

  ‘I’m a hardy soul, Treeve, us Hebridean women are made of stern stuff.’

  * * *

  He led the way up the central staircase, slightly bemused by Emily’s obvious admiration for the house. He had never really looked at the cornicing as anything other than a ceiling, never thought of the staircase as anything other than a means of getting from one floor to another.

  ‘You really think it beautiful?’ he asked, as they gazed down into the Great Hall from the minstrels’ gallery.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I’ve never considered it at all. It was my father’s house. Then my brother’s. Now—it does seem a shame that it will lie empty.’

  ‘Perhaps you should think about installing some tenants.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Treeve exclaimed, horrified by the idea. ‘There have been Penhaligons living here since the main house was built back in Elizabeth’s reign—’ He broke off, disconcerted by his own reaction. ‘I will not be at sea for ever. And there will be times, when I am between ships, or when my ship is being refitted, when I’ll want to return.’