Cade laughed. He took her hand, but not to shake. He pulled her forward and she stumbled against him, off balance. ‘Is that how it’s going to be, Rosenwyn? “Cade” when I’m kissing you on beaches and “Mr Kitto” when we’re in public? You need to decide, if we’re going to be friends.’
‘This is how it has to be. It wouldn’t be seemly to use your Christian name in public,’ Rosenwyn scolded, hating herself for the warmth that rushed through her at his nearness, at his touch, at the caress of his words.
‘But in private? Would you use it, then? Would you use it when we are alone as we are now?’ He was the very devil with his wickedness and the temptation was real even when she knew better.
‘I doubt we will have much opportunity for privacy.’ She would make her position clear. There would be no seduction.
‘But if we should, I would prefer you use it,’ he persisted with a winning smile that threatened to melt her resolve. ‘I should escort you home,’ Cade said mischievously. ‘You could practise using my name on the way.’
She surveyed the darkening sky. She could see already how that walk would go: a few more stolen kisses, a few more stolen promises she shouldn’t make. All of it pointless, all of it enough to keep her up at night wondering ‘what if’.
‘No, there is still plenty of daylight and the walk is short. I shall be quite safe.’ Safer than if she was with him.
‘I shall watch you until I can’t see you any longer, then,’ Cade offered gallantly. ‘And I shall rush to your aid if needed.’
This was all Ayleth’s fault, Rosenwyn thought as she walked home—this idea that she needed a brief romance in order to finally put Dashiell behind her and that a worldly man like Cade Kitto was just the sort to oblige her: attractive, skilled and temporary, a man who lived in the moment and loved in it as well. Cade was not the marrying type. He’d told her. Those remarks about being able to support a family told her as much. When he’d spoken of his father’s pride, she’d seen his pride, too. His father wasn’t the only stubborn Kitto in the family. Cade would not take charity either. He’d never be content to live off his wife’s dowry. He wanted to make his own way. In his profession, that meant living from commission to commission. He was not the fortune hunter Dashiell was. Further reason he was perfect for a brief romance.
Rosenwyn touched her fingers to her lips, still feeling Cade’s kisses upon them. Tokens of appreciation, nothing more, nothing less. Well, not quite nothing. They were her souvenirs. When he left in a few weeks, she would have them to remember him by. Her wicked conscience whispered she might have more than kisses. If she were brave, she might have something extraordinary.
Chapter Eight
Cade stood on the cliffs a long while after Rosenwyn had faded from his sight, but not from his mind, or from his body. The day had been extraordinary. His mind still replayed images of her on the beach, his body still burned from the press of her against him. One afternoon had not been enough. He’d not intended or anticipated such a consequence from their kiss. He’d merely intended to satisfy his desire, not create more.
Now, he was left with question upon question. She’d all but admitted she’d been kissed before with her comment about experience and she hadn’t kissed like a novice either. Not that he held it against her. He found experience and confidence in a lover a welcome trait. Lover. What an interesting, unexpected word when applied to Rosenwyn Treleven and a dangerous one, an arrangement that could see him married and headed down the very path he’d spent his adult life avoiding. Marriage meant responsibility, it meant children. No matter how careful a man was, there was always a chance. Bach had had twenty children, ten who had lived and whom he’d had to support. Cade couldn’t imagine supporting a wife and even one child, dragging them all over Europe, chasing commissions or the elusive hope of a permanent post. He also couldn’t imagine the alternative: staying in one place, because of what it would entail, living off his wife’s dowry and financially contributing to his family’s welfare sporadically. He’d become a gentleman composer, a man who composed as a hobby. He’d be no better than his father, another Kitto unable to support his family.
Cade threw a pebble, watching it arc on its way out to sea. The danger was all hypothetical. Rosenwyn was not the sort of woman to be so easily seduced no matter how fine the kisses. No man swayed her from her path. She, and only she, gave herself permission to deviate, which made her kisses, her passion on the beach, all the sweeter. He had not taken those kisses as much as she had given them. Of course, heaven help the man who ever truly fell in love with her. She’d lead him around by a ring through the nose with her strong opinions and stronger will. She’d tried to fix him today with the walk and all of her questions.
Cade smiled to himself. Rosenwyn had got more than she’d bargained for there. Once he’d started talking, he’d given more and more of himself away: the boy who’d lost his siblings, the boy who’d lost his mother, the boy who’d worked the mines, who found solace in singing in the choir.
There was more he hadn’t told her: the boy who’d been the smallest in his class at the conservatory, who was teased and tricked endlessly, who had his pudding stolen by the older boys. The one no one stood up for. He’d worked twice as hard, though. He knew what those pampered boys did not, that life would not be easy and it sure as hell wouldn’t be fair. He’d excelled because of it. Resilience, Rosenwyn had called it. He hadn’t thought of that boy for a long time. He didn’t like to remember himself as weak, helpless, alone.
Those memories were another reason to despise Porth Karrek. His past peered out at him everywhere he looked. And it always would as long as he was here. There would be more incidents like the one today at Chegwins’. Uncomfortable remembrances of the past raised doubts about his present. Was he any different now as a man than he had been as a boy? He was still scraping for money, still worrying about a roof over his head. Those concerns were merely dressed up these days in Hoby boots and greatcoats.
He turned from the cliffs and began the walk back to the gatehouse. The wind had picked up, blowing the skirts of his greatcoat about his legs. He didn’t mind, he’d weathered colder nights than this with less protection. It was worth the cold to watch the first evening stars fight their way through the clouds. His mother had told him once that stars were loved ones looking down on their families.
Was she looking down now? What would she think if she saw him? Would she see the flaws in him, the man who did not shirk from using every tool in his arsenal to secure a commission, even dallying with married women who used their influence with their husbands, the man who lived a transient life both physically and emotionally, never staying anywhere or with anyone long enough to develop attachments? The man who hadn’t come home when his father had died? Would she understand his choices or would she be ashamed of the man he’d become? His mother had given him everything she had. Was he worth that sacrifice?
Or would she see the best of him? Her precious son well travelled, well educated, well dressed, so no one would ever guess he’d begun life as a miner’s son. The last time she’d seen him, he’d stood beside her bed in a second-hand suit of clothes Reverend Maddern had found for him. He had not worn second-hand clothes for a very long time. Would she know every time he composed a lullaby for a noble child’s baptism it was for her? Every lullaby a reminder of his mother’s wish for her newborn child, every note of it embodying how his mother had found the strength to lift her hand and stroke his cheek, hardly able to speak, but the joy and the hope were there in her eyes even as she faced her own end that he would go on and in that going on, she would go on, too. It was every mother’s look when she held her infant son at a baptism. No matter their station in life a mother worried for her child, hoped for that child and all the things he might be. A mother’s wish transcended class. The wish was always the same: hope.
What had Rosenwyn said about hope today? Resilience, she’d called it. She’
d talked not only of his resilience but the resilience of a mother’s hope, that regardless of the odds her son would survive, that he would change the world despite his humble beginnings. It was the eternal hope of mothers from everywhere and from every time.
That was it. Cade froze. A mother’s wish. That was Christmas. That was the cantata! Sweet Jesu, he had it! Cade began to run, caging the idea in his mind, holding tight to it lest it slip away before he could capture it. He raced into the gatehouse, fumbling as he lit a lamp, fumbling for the Bible on the bookshelf, the idea in full form now. Christmas was about mothers as much as it was about children. His fingers tore through the pages, searching. What was that verse, the one in Luke? There it was.
Mary pondered all these things and kept them in her heart.
Cade stared at the words, relief surging through him. That was what he’d do. A cantata for Mary, a cantata for mothers. Peace settled on him. He had his story, the cantata would come together now. The wall had been breached.
Despite the late hour, his mind was a hive of excited activity. He could see the notes, hear the sounds of the instruments, the voices, all in his mind. Cade took the Bible to his desk, pulled a fresh sheet forward and began to write, copying verses, composing stanzas. He needed two da capos arias and three recitative pieces, perhaps five if he wanted to open and close with them as well. He would write all night and through the next day and the next night if need be, as long as the words came, as long as the music came. He’d had such bouts of activity before when the music in him would stop for nothing, not for sleep, not for food. When the music had run its course in a few days, he’d visit Reverend Maddern to discuss voices and available instrumentation.
Cade paused from his feverish plans for a moment and smiled. Rosenwyn had inspired him, after all, in the most unusual of ways. He’d not thought to find inspiration in the darkness of his memories and yet he had. He’d have to thank her when he saw her next. But how to thank her? With more kisses, perhaps, although today had shown him how dangerous and complicated those could be. His gaze moved around the room, landing on the piano. An idea came. Yes, that would be better than even kisses. He would send around a note when all was ready.
Chapter Nine
December 8th, 1822, the second Sunday in Advent
Rosenwyn looked down at the note discreetly hidden in the pages of her prayer book as the Reverend preached about peace: peace with the world, peace with one’s self. She’d had little of the latter since Monday. The note had arrived last night for her by messenger. After six days of no contact, Cade wanted to see her. She was to wait for him after church.
Rosenwyn wasn’t sure what did more to disrupt her peace—the absence of him which had left her spending the week in doubt of their kisses on the beach, or the thought of seeing him again. She ought to tread cautiously. She didn’t want him to think she would come running whenever he snapped his fingers. Yet the prospect of seeing him today had stirred up a heady excitement. She had dressed for church carefully in a deep, forest green gown the colour of the season that brought out her eyes and she’d had Ayleth braid her hair into a coronet with a neat bun at her nape.
Rosenwyn slid a glance across the aisle where Cade sat with Captain Penhaligon, looking immaculate, as he had last Sunday: gold hair brushed to an enviable sheen, his jaw clean-shaven, his dark blue jacket lint-free, the white stock pristine where it rose above the jacket collar. Shoulders straight, eyes forward.
She wished she could see his face. Turn. See me. Look across the aisle as you did last week. But Cade was intent on being good. His gaze did not slide her way once. She should be thankful. He was being circumspect, but part of her wanted him to be a little less discreet.
She wanted a sign that he’d missed her this week or at least that he’d thought of her. She’d thought of him. What had he been doing? Had he found inspiration for the cantata? Had he forgotten all about their kisses? She was curious and a bit angry all at once. How dare he stir things up again with this request? She’d finally reconciled herself to the fact that the kisses were an isolated incident and that was fine. It was how she’d wanted things between them, after all. She’d been the one to walk away that day on the headlands. His silence was merely him respecting her wishes and now there was this note. What did he want? A church was hardly a clandestine meeting place. She should not be disappointed by that. But she was.
Her questions had to wait. Cade made no move, no glance until after the service when he and Captain Penhaligon crossed the aisle as any neighbour might do to visit. ‘Miss Treleven, might I have a moment once the church clears out?’ His voice was quiet at her ear, his touch light at her sleeve, all of it proper. No one would ever guess he’d rolled her beneath him in the sand six days ago and kissed her senseless until waves had wet the tips of her boots, not even her. At least not until she looked at his eyes, blue and hot, two banked coals burning just for her. She had not imagined it that day on the beach. He wanted her. The realisation thrummed through her, made her breath catch, made her pulse race, and time stand still. It took an age for the church to clear out.
* * *
‘Are you ready for your surprise?’ Cade asked once the church was empty. His blue eyes danced as he took both of her hands. Whatever he was up to, he was excited about it.
‘I wasn’t aware I was getting one.’ She smiled, finding his mood infectious.
He sat her down in the pew with firm instructions. ‘Close your eyes.’ For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her but then he let go of her hands and she felt him move away. Thank goodness she hadn’t done anything foolish like part her lips. He was used to more sophisticated women who knew what they wanted from a man.
‘Can I look now?’ she called to him.
‘No, this is not something to see. It’s something to hear,’ he called back, striking the first gentle chords of her surprise. He’d written her a song! She gasped with the realisation. Cador Kitto had composed her a song when he was supposed to be composing a cantata. The song was beautiful, deceptively simple in its arrangement, the music was soft, surging and ebbing like waves against the shore. Her eyes flew open despite his instructions. He’d written the beach! Their beach. Where they’d talked and kissed. The music told the story of their words, sometimes sharp, sometimes reluctant, sometimes sweet accord.
Rosenwyn couldn’t look away. Her gaze was riveted on Cade’s back, on his hands, on his head, bent forward as he played. He was entirely absorbed in the music, turning his soul over to it. The sight was mesmerising and hauntingly erotic. How many women had he teased with such an image, giving them a glimpse of what it would be like if they gave themselves over to him under more intimate circumstances? Although this was intimate enough. He was telling their story in music, binding them together with a song. The piano keys danced, flitting suddenly in a jump and a skip and then surged into strong, loud, crashing chords. She recognised this. The tide had come in. The song was nearly done. He finished with a flourish.
Cade turned from the bench, his eyes moving to where she sat. ‘Did my surprise please you?’
‘I am stunned.’ It was the best way to describe it. ‘What did I do to deserve it?’
‘You helped me find the cantata.’ He beamed at her as he crossed the space between them. ‘That day in Budoc Lane and on the beach, you helped me find the story I wanted to tell. I wanted to thank you.’ He gave her a long look, a furrow forming between his eyes. ‘What’s wrong? You did like it, didn’t you?’
Did she like it? She liked it and hated it. How dare he play with her emotions? For what purpose did he compose that song when he knew very well there could be no consequence? He was not the sort of man she should seek out, but he was the man she wanted. Oh, what foolishness! Why did her heart have to choose a man driven to moods by his passions and his secrets, a man plagued by a dark past, who struggled with ghosts, who was far from perfect and near to flawed? A man who would n
ot stay. A man who would leave after Christmas. It was to have been the perfect scenario. Why now did it seem an impossible one—to only have him for fourteen days and then give him up. The song had been a thank you, but it had also been an invitation to something dangerous, something extraordinary. He wanted her.
‘Why did you do it, Cade, when you know very well...?’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. The words were too risky, they exposed too much of her, what she wanted, what she felt. There was always the chance she was wrong, that she’d read too much into it.
‘What do I know very well?’ he prompted, taking her hands again.
‘That flirting with me can lead nowhere,’ Rosenwyn said boldly and then the floodgates burst. ‘You steal kisses, you write me a song, you are a man of the world. These things mean little to you, but...’ Her voice faded and this time he let her cry off.
‘But you’re afraid those things might mean more to you, that you can’t help but ascribe meaning to them. It’s the meaning that frightens you, not the passion,’ he finished for her. ‘Tell me why.’
The church had grown quiet and the silence stretched between them until Cade gave a soft laugh. ‘It’s harder when the shoe’s on the other foot, isn’t it? I told you about my ghosts. Why don’t you tell me about yours?’
‘I don’t have ghosts.’ She tipped her chin up defiantly.
‘Yes, you do.’ He laced his fingers through hers. ‘Why is it that a woman of your musical talent and good looks has fled London? You were so well thought of, Sébastien Érard had you try out his prototype and yet you’ve tucked yourself away in Porth Karrek and dedicated yourself to community work? It doesn’t make sense. You should have caught a husband long before now.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve had a week to think about you, Rose, and the pieces don’t add up. I’m an open book in comparison to you.’
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