‘Why ever not?’ Marianne protested with a pretty pout bound to drive the London dandies mad in a few months. Rosenwyn almost pitied the gentlemen this Season.
Rosenwyn set down her embroidery and gave Marianne a stern look. ‘Because he has more sophisticated tastes.’ She could not be more delicate than that. The man fairly reeked of that ‘sophistication’, in his well-tailored clothes, the gold waves of his hair skimming his shoulders with dramatic elegance. At the dinner table, he’d looked the complete artiste. He would be devastating beneath the chandeliers of a London ballroom.
‘Oh, pooh, by that you mean he’s had mistresses and opera singers. You can say it, I’m grown up now.’ Marianne tossed her red-gold curls.
The argument sat poorly with Rosenwyn. She was heartily tired of everyone championing Cador Kitto. Her father had invited him home, Eaton had fussed over him, Marianne had flirted with him. Didn’t they see the danger he posed? She fixed Marianne with a strong stare. ‘Very well, what I meant to say is that aside from his reputation, which, by the way, you should know nothing about, he’s arrogant. He thinks Porth Karrek is beneath him and yet he has you trailing after him like he’s the Pied Piper.’ There. She could not be plainer than that. Her sisters stared at her, glances sliding between one another, unsure how to respond to her outburst. They thought she was out of line. Well, she wasn’t going to apologise. Rosenwyn stood. ‘Excuse me, I seem to be ruining your talk of daydreams.’
She pressed her forehead to the cold pane of the drawing-room window and looked out into the night. There was nothing to see but it was better than answering to her sisters. They meant well, but they didn’t understand. They couldn’t. She hadn’t told them everything that had happened in London. She couldn’t save herself, but she could save them from making the same mistake, and she would. It’s what she did. She was a fixer, a saver. She saw problems and she solved them. She was known for it, in fact. When the Cardy children had needed new shoes, she’d seen that they had them. When the grammar school had needed a new bell, she’d organised the raising of the funds. When the graves at the churchyard needed upkeep, she’d arranged for a groundskeeper by recommending young Edward Bolitho, the candlemaker’s son, for the position.
But you couldn’t save yourself... whispered the irony. She did not need to be reminded of that. She’d spent the last year in Porth Karrek throwing herself into charity work trying to forget, trying to atone, trying to prove to herself she belonged here, that the life she wanted was here. She didn’t need London—not its ballrooms full of glittering diamonds and silks, not the applause at the musicales or the flattering whispers that her piano playing rivalled the professionals in the Academy.
She heard the rustle of skirts behind her, felt her sister’s soft touch at her sleeve. Ayleth, the peacemaker, the counsellor. ‘You probably think I am out of line.’ Rosenwyn sighed.
‘No, not at all. I was wondering what Mr Kitto said today that has upset you. It must have been terrible.’ Sweet Ayleth always took her side.
‘He called me a spinster,’ Rosenwyn confessed.
‘He did?’ Ayleth queried. ‘He said those exact words?’
Rosenwyn shook her head. She had to be honest. ‘Not exactly. He said it was good I was happy here because I don’t seem to be going anywhere else.’ His comment today had certainly pricked. It implied she was someone to be pitied and she was definitely not that. What did he know about her? If he knew anything, he’d know she was an essential part of the Porth Karrek community. People depended on her. She had purpose here. She was needed. Wasn’t she? That was her fear rising. She turned to face Ayleth. ‘He’s not right, is he? Is that what people think of me now?’
‘No, my dear, of course not,’ Ayleth was swift to assure her. ‘But you are changed, Rosenwyn. Bolder, sharper.’
‘I’ve never been one to guard my tongue,’ Rosenwyn was quick to argue.
‘It is different, though. The sense of fun has gone out of your wit. It’s a cutting wit now. A man dare not look cross-eyed at you for fear of it,’ Ayleth cautioned. ‘You have become a beautiful rock men break themselves against, lured in by your loveliness, but wrecked by the sharpness of your tongue when they get too close, like The Beasts in the harbour.’
Rosenwyn stared out into the night, her sister’s revelation hitting her hard. ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t realise...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘But is it so wrong to want to protect myself? I do not want to leave myself open to another Dashiell.’
‘And in doing so, you’ve left yourself open to no one,’ Ayleth rebuked gently, taking her hand. ‘Not even me. You used to tell me everything, but I think there was more to London than what you’ve shared. Maybe some day you’ll tell me?’
‘Maybe.’ Rosenwyn was non-committal. She wasn’t sure she’d ever share what had happened. It would only deepen her shame and there was plenty of it to go around at the moment. She’d behaved awfully with Mr Kitto today. Her sharp tongue had flayed him mercilessly with her accusations—accusations she should have kept to herself. He did not have to answer to her. ‘I fear I provoked Mr Kitto today. I owe him an apology.’ She became serious, ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s too dangerous to be let loose with Marianne.’
She squeezed her sister’s hand, silently thanking her for her patience and understanding. She had been difficult, a trial to the family and she hadn’t meant to be. She could do better and she’d start tomorrow with a visit to Mr Kitto. She’d stop by Karrek House in the morning on her way to town for the annual gin and cake progression. After all, an apology was not capitulation or acceptance. It was merely good manners. She could hardly demand good manners from Kitto if she didn’t exhibit them herself. This was something she could fix and fixing was something she was good at. That was the theory at least.
* * *
In theory, removing to Cornwall was supposed to lower his financial concerns while raising his creativity with a change of scenery. Cade put his head in his hands and blew out a breath, frustrated. His excellent accommodations, provided by his still-unseen patron, Captain Penhaligon, in the Karrek House gatehouse certainly satisfied the former, but the latter hadn’t quite worked out that way when it came to his creativity. So far this bright Monday morning, all Cade had managed was to rearrange snippets of ideas he’d hoped to piece together for the cantata, but no inspiration had struck.
The snippets remained as unconnected as they had been in London and just as incoherent. No matter how many times he rewrote them or transposed them, nothing pleasing emerged. The proof was in the untidy state of the parlour where sheets of music lay strewn about on every available surface and books lay open where he’d sought inspiration. Cantatas needed stories and he had four weeks to produce one. Not even that. It also had to be rehearsed. He needed to have these pieces and parts strung together within two weeks in order to give the choir and the little orchestra time to practise.
But today was the day, Cade told himself optimistically as he surveyed the messy parlour. He was not leaving the house until he had a page of music worthy of him. Then, perhaps, he’d treat himself to a nice long walk out of doors if the weather held. If there was one good thing about being in Porth Karrek, it was that he didn’t miss the soot of London. The air here was cleaner, sharper. A man could hike and truly stretch his legs along the cliffs. Too bad he couldn’t compose a symphony to the Cornish weather. Such a symphony would use all the stylistic trends so popular now in music: the chromatic harmony, the free form of the movements evoking emotions. Bach, with his love of format and patterns, would have hated it, of course. This new music was sweeping and emotional, valued for its dramatism as opposed to its mastery of format. If only he had such an inspiration for Christmas, but the images of a Cornish Christmas had been lost to him for years and he was in no hurry to find them.
A knock at the door interrupted his musings. Cade levered forward on his chair, his back to the door, and called out, �
�Come!’ He was expecting the maid, who brought down his luncheon and came to clean, not that there was much to clean. He didn’t want her to touch the parlour or the study. Nor did he want anyone else to visit—on his orders to Captain Penhaligon. He must be allowed to concentrate. Time was of the essence.
Cool air blew in through the open door, teasing the flames in the parlour’s fireplace and rustling his papers. He could feel its bite at his back. ‘You can set the basket in there. I’ll lay the food out later when I’m ready,’ he instructed, waving a hand in the kitchen’s general direction, not looking up from the papers at his desk. Perhaps if he moved this stanza to later in the piece, he might make a better beginning? ‘I’ve set out my laundry for you to take.’
‘I’m not here for the laundry, Mr Kitto.’ Firm, clipped female tones brought him to his feet, with no small amount of surprise. What was she doing here? After yesterday, Rosenwyn Treleven was the last person he’d expected to interrupt him. Yet here she was, smiling, rosy cheeked from the cold and looking entirely too attractive in a long coat of blue wool trimmed in dark fur at cuffs and collar. It was hard to remember what a shrewish tongue she had when she looked like the personification of fresh air. ‘I had business up at Karrek House and took the liberty of bringing your lunch basket and your patron, Captain Penhaligon.’
A tall, broad-shouldered man with windblown hair dressed in boots and greatcoat stepped forward with an air of confident self-possession, his hand extended. ‘Mr Kitto, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I must apologise for being the most distracted of hosts. It’s been an intense few days with the storm and the wreck.’
Cade nodded, taking the Captain’s hand with a firm grip of his own. He’d have to take the Captain’s word for it. ‘I certainly understand.’ He rather thought there was more to the Captain’s distraction than bad weather and a boat wreck, both of which Porth Karrek was used to. The Captain had the look of a man who’d just come straight from bed and meant to be back there soon.
Penhaligon cleared his throat, trying to look as if there was no other place he’d rather be. A clear lie. ‘How was the carriage? The inns? Everything was satisfactory? The gatehouse is up to your expectations? The piano?’ Penhaligon enquired, his eye drifting over the disarray that populated the parlour with a faint air of disapproval. A military man would not appreciate the mess that often accompanied creativity.
‘Everything is ideal. Thank you.’ Cade’s first thought upon arrival two nights ago had been that the place was marvellous—a whole house to himself. He couldn’t dream of affording such space in London. ‘The piano is exceptional.’ It sat at an angle in the far corner, a grand piano in elegantly carved rosewood done in the recently revived late rococo style, far too elegant for a mere gatehouse parlour.
‘I had it sent down from the main house for you. Reverend Maddern assures me it’s in tune, but you must tell me otherwise. My brother purchased the instrument for his wife last December, right before the accident.’ His voice faltered over the last. He cleared his throat again and crossed the room to the decanter, suddenly eager to keep busy. ‘We’re both prodigal sons, aren’t we? Perhaps a small toast is in order, if Miss Treleven doesn’t mind?’ He poured them each a drink and handed a tumbler to Cade. ‘Here’s to our first Christmas back in Cornwall, Mr Kitto. May it be merry and bright.’
Cade drank to the toast out of politeness. He didn’t care whether Christmas was merry or bright. He cared only about getting through it, surviving intact with his bank balance in the black on the other side of the year and his demons thrust securely back into their cages.
Pleasantries observed, Penhaligon was distracted once more. ‘I do apologise again for being a poor host, but I must excuse myself. Miss Treleven, Kitto, good day.’
Just like that Cade was alone with a woman who had given him the impression yesterday she’d wanted nothing to do with him. Yet she was here, of her own accord it seemed. It certainly made a man suspicious.
Chapter Five
Miss Treleven trailed her fingers over the keys, experimenting with the release. ‘This piano is a Sébastien Érard, it has the double escapement action.’ It was something Cade liked in an instrument, although it was a technique currently much debated among musicians.
‘I’m impressed. You know something of music and its instruments, Miss Treleven.’ She’d played expertly yesterday, but it was an interesting surprise to see that her knowledge extended beyond playing.
‘Yes.’ She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘I had the chance to play a prototype in London. To have such an instrument at your disposal is almost worth the journey, is it not?’
‘Almost,’ Cade said tightly, resisting the temptation to engage in conversation. The instrument had pleased him greatly, but he didn’t have time to discuss its merits today. ‘I am not prepared to receive.’ He made no excuse for his dishabille. He was dressed only in trousers, shirt and waistcoat, his shirt open at the neck, his waistcoat unbuttoned. He’d not bothered with a cravat or any of the usual ornamentation—no fobs, no watch chains. At home, working, there was no need to play the well-dressed gentlemen. He’d not been expecting visitors. Certainly not visitors dressed in expensive blue coats that showed off their complexion. ‘Was there something else you needed, Miss Treleven? I apologise, but I have work to do.’
Miss Treleven’s sharp eyes narrowed contemplatively. Her shoulders straightened as if she were gathering herself. Cade braced himself. ‘There is something else, Mr Kitto. I came down here to do some apologising of my own. We parted on poor terms yesterday and that was my fault. I said things that were out of line.’
‘No offense taken. You are free to speak your mind.’ He would give her polite absolution, but nothing more. He knew how these conversations went. She’d apologised to set the tone, perhaps to give him the chance to reciprocate. He would not. There were consequences if he did apologise. She would feel the scales had now been rebalanced and they could now ‘start again’, on fresh ground, or some such nonsense women liked to believe. He did not need to start again or to start anything with Miss Rosenwyn Treleven. She wasn’t good for a man’s equilibrium, one moment a vision in blue, the next a probing harpy calling out one’s secrets.
She drifted from the piano to the table where his papers were spread out. ‘How is the cantata going, Mr Kitto? I admit to being curious.’ She studied the pages of half-written stanzas and he hoped she wouldn’t see right through the lie he was about to tell.
‘It’s going well enough. It will be ready for Christmas Eve.’ He offered her nothing more. Perhaps now she’d take the hint of dismissal.
She looked up from the pages with an arched brow that called him to account. ‘Don’t lie to me, Mr Kitto. Remember, I know something of music. The choir is set to begin rehearsals in two weeks and you have nothing of substance here.’
‘How kind of you to point that out,’ Cade drawled, on the defensive. The parlour suddenly seemed smaller with her in it. She was so...vibrant, everything about her carried an edge, not just her tongue, not just her gaze. All of her. She stopped to pick up the pages nearest the piano. ‘Please, don’t touch those.’ He stepped forward to take them from her, but she merely evaded him, sat down at the piano, set the sheets on the music shelf and began to play.
Cade winced as she showed no mercy on the loud, sweeping chords of the opening. He supposed writers must feel like this—hearing their own words read out loud. He felt exposed, naked and in no way erotically so. She came to an abrupt halt where his stanza ran out, unfinished, and pronounced her verdict. ‘It’s too loud. It batters the soul.’
He knew that already. His cantata was nothing more than sounds that represented nothing but themselves. They didn’t tell a story because he didn’t have one yet. Every cantata needed a storyline to determine the music. Her comments shouldn’t sting. Professional composers were supposed to be immune to criticism. All the same, how dare she critici
se his work? What did she know? But it didn’t matter what she knew, he already knew she was right. ‘I don’t believe I asked for your opinion.’ Still, he felt compelled on principle to defend his rather mediocre opening. ‘Beethoven is loud.’
Miss Treleven gave him a look that said such a thing was irrelevant. ‘You are not Beethoven, Mr Kitto. Why be someone you are not? Loud might be the thing in Vienna, but this is Porth Karrek. It won’t do.’
‘Captain Penhaligon hired me to bring a little sophistication to this part of the world,’ Cade argued. This woman was positively infuriating with her honesty and penetrating green eyes. Any more bluntness from her and his pride would be bludgeoned to death.
‘Ha, if you believe that, then the Captain has done quite the job fooling you.’ She laughed and stood up from the piano. ‘The Captain has asked you here to make himself presentable. The whole of Porth Karrek is divided over whether or not to accept him. Jago Bligh and his cronies find the good Captain too much of an outsider, while my father and others see him as a prodigal returned and are willing to give him a chance. I think his rescue efforts on Saturday garnered him a few more followers. Of course, there’s still the issue of how he’ll line up on smuggling, being Royal Navy and all. If he doesn’t make allowances for the smugglers, no cantata in the world will save him,’ she said matter-of-factly.
She was patronising him, as if he weren’t a man of the world. ‘You don’t need to condescend, Miss Treleven,’ Cade replied tersely. He did not need to be lectured about the petty politics of Porth Karrek. He’d never admit he found her insights on the Captain’s motivations useful. He had been too caught up in his own situation to fully understand what the Captain had been angling for when he’d hired him. And, in hindsight, he suspected there was more at play than just Penhaligon’s desire to bring a bit of culture to Porth Karrek, but to look too deeply into those motivations might be a blow to his pride. His pride had sustained blows enough. ‘I know how this part of the world works. I was raised here.’
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