White Rivers

by White Rivers (retail) (epub)

  Skye stood with her hands clenched for a few moments, mentally counting to ten and back again. The word Pig came into her head at that moment, and for once she identified totally with the obnoxious Sebby Tremayne’s description of whoever he hated at the moment.

  Quickly, she went upstairs to the sounds of infant screaming, pushing such unworthy thoughts out of her head. Of course she didn’t hate Philip. She loved him. It was just that sometimes he stretched her feelings of love to the utmost.

  The baby was still exercising his lungs when she entered the nursery, his face a furious scarlet with exertion as he stood up rigidly in his cot and rocked the sides with all his might. Nanny was standing by with a bottle in her hand, its milky splashes all over her apron being the evidence of how many times young Oliver Norwood had flung it back at her.

  ‘I can’t do nothing with him today, Mrs Norwood,’ she began in a fluster. ‘He’s cutting his back teeth, and they’re making him that fretful it troubles me to see it. I’ve rubbed his gums with oil of cloves, but it don’t do no good at all.’

  ‘It’s all right, Nanny,’ Skye said soothingly, as the buxom woman eyed her anxiously, clearly afraid she would be blamed for not being able to cope with a two-year-old. ‘Come to Mommy, honey, and we’ll have a cuddle.’.

  Oliver’s arms had already reached out towards her, and Skye picked him out of the cot, feeling his hot little body still twitching from the effects of the sobs. His blue eyes were swollen with tears, and she hugged him tightly to her, uncaring how his steamy little person creased her fine beige linen frock.

  ‘You go off and see to the girls’ tea, Nanny,’ she said now. ‘I’ll stay with Oliver and try to calm him.’

  She sat with the child in the rocking-chair by the window, crooning to him softly until the tears subsided. His dark hair was plastered to his head, but gradually the angry little face became less fraught, and his eyelids drooped.

  ‘Poor baby,’ Skye whispered, seeing how one side of his jaw was redder than the other. ‘It pains us to get our teeth, and it pains us to lose them, doesn’t it?’

  She traced her finger around the curve of his cheek, thinking that even two-year-olds didn’t have everything made easy, and wishing she could have the toothache for him. There must be something she could give him to ease it, but none of the doctor’s remedies did any good. There ought to be some other way, some other method… For a second or two, her head spun, and her heart thudded, as a crazy alternative churned around in her brain. There was an old witchwoman on the moors who could concoct ancient potions that were reputed to cure all ills, the same as any quack doctor professed to do at the annual country fairs. The woman they called Helza…

  * * *

  ‘If you hold him that tightly, you’ll crush him to death,’ Skye heard her husband’s voice say beside her.

  She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t heard him come into the nursery, but as she lay the sleeping Oliver in his cot again, she registered that Philip looked less irritated now. As she straightened, smoothing back her fashionably bobbed hair from where it curved around her chin, he caught at her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love. I’ve had a stinger of a day at the college, but it wasn’t fair to take my frustration out on you the minute I saw you. Can you forgive me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, twisting around until she was in his arms. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

  And if there was, it was too sweet a moment to brood on it. She forgave him readily, the way she always did. Besides, there were always other things to think about. There was her cousin Theo, and why he wanted to see her so urgently.

  One thing she was sure about was that Philip hated to be excluded from any meetings between herself and her cousin, but short of seeming to patronise him by suggesting he sat in on it and said nothing, she didn’t know what else to do. He had never been overly interested in the clayworks, but the pottery was a different matter in his eyes. That was creative work and not manual labour, grubbing about in the earth.

  She had never had any doings with the clayworks until coming to Cornwall, either, she thought, almost defensively. But she had known of it and loved it almost from the day she was born, simply because her mother had instilled in her the love of Cornwall and her intricate family background. And being the inquisitive person that Skye was, in the end it had been inevitable that she should see it all for herself.

  ‘What are you sitting there smiling about?’ Philip asked her over supper, when the children were in bed. ‘Are they private thoughts, or can anybody share them?’

  ‘I was just thinking how lucky we were to have met on the ship coming over from New York, and how our lives would have been changed if we’d never met at all.’

  She hadn’t really meant to say all that, and she wished she hadn’t when she saw the small frown on Philip’s face. Ever since coming home from the dress fittings at St Austell she had the feeling he had something to tell her, and she guessed that it was nothing to do with her cousin Theo.

  ‘I had a letter from Ruth today,’ he said abruptly.

  Much as she tried not to react, hearing the name was like dashing a tumblerful of cold water into Skye’s face.

  ‘Another one?’ she asked, as mildly as she could.

  Philip threw down his napkin with a gesture of impatience. ‘For God’s sake, Skye, Ruth and I have known one another since childhood. You can hardly expect me to forget she ever existed.’

  ‘Nor that she expected you to marry her, and had every right to do so,’ she added swiftly.

  She chewed her bottom lip, not wanting to be reminded in this way of the shipboard romance that had sprung up so innocently between herself and the handsome college lecturer. At least, it had been innocent on her part – but not so innocent on his, since he already had a fiancée waiting for him on the Falmouth quayside on that fateful day when Skye had set foot in Cornwall for the first time.

  The sensible part of her told her not to be so petty over Ruth, and that friendships between men and women were perfectly natural. But the fiery, passionate part of her recognised her usual upsurge of tension, and the rapid, sickening heartbeats that told a different story.

  It was all so long ago, and she had never truly stolen Philip from Ruth. It had been Ruth who had realised what was happening, and given him up, but Skye sometimes suspected that Philip had carried the guilt of his betrayal around with him all these years. Especially now that Ruth had begun corresponding with him again.

  ‘What does she want this time?’ she said, before she could stop herself.

  ‘Jealousy doesn’t become you, my dear,’ he retorted.

  ‘I’m not jealous!’ she exploded, knowing that of course she damn well was. ‘Why on earth would I be jealous of a—’

  ‘Deaf woman?’

  Skye felt her face flame, and she snapped back at him. ‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing! I was about to ask why I should be jealous of a successful teacher of deaf children? Ruth has turned the tables on her disability, and I admire her for that. But don’t make her out to be a saint because of it, nor me a sinner, Philip.’

  ‘I seem to have hit a nerve, though, don’t I? As for what she wanted, she’s visiting Cornwall with her aunt in the summer, and would like to call on us. Do you have any objections?’

  ‘Of course not. She’s never seen the children, and I’m never averse to showing them off,’ she said, as evenly as she could. ‘In fact, she and her aunt would be quite welcome to stay at New World for a few days if they wished to do so.’

  She was gratified to see her husband’s face relax. She didn’t want to be at war with him over Ruth, but no matter what he said, he was still defensive about her, Skye thought uneasily, and she doubted that that would ever change. But he reached across the dining-table to squeeze her hand now.

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, darling, but I’m sure they’ll have made plans of their own by then.’

  Skye let out the breath she hadn’
t realised she had been holding, thinking fervently that she sincerely hoped so, and changed the topic of conversation quickly while they moved into the drawing-room, awaiting her cousin’s visit.

  * * *

  Theo Tremayne had always prided himself on keeping the family business’ head above water. Killigrew Clay had prospered in fits and starts since the end of the war, but now that the European markets were open to them for the spring and autumn clay dispatches again, he couldn’t complain.

  And with the import of expert craftsmen, the pottery had done better than he had ever believed it would. The one thorn in his side was having to have the American upstart, as he privately referred to her in his mind, as his partner. In Theo’s opinion, women should be kept in their rightful places, as his wife had always respectfully accepted. One place for wives, another for dalliances…

  He smiled with satisfaction as he drove towards New World after supper, anticipating how this evening would end at Kitty’s House. The original madam had gone years ago, but the new owner was a big, blowsy woman of indeterminate years, who supplied the best for her favoured clients. Theo had been a favourite for many years, with his handsome Tremayne features and his ready purse, and his new sweetfluff was a pretty little French mam’selle called Gigi.

  He felt the familiar stirrings in his loins, remembering her teasing tricks, and the softly seductive accent that aroused his senses as she whispered outrageous things against his willing flesh. Once, years ago, Betsy had been as willing, but never as inventive, he mused…

  He didn’t see the rut in the road until it made the motor lurch out of control, and he cursed loudly, knowing he had best keep his attention on the business ahead, and reserve his carnal lusting for later. First, there was the meeting with Skye, and that was enough to set him scowling again.

  As if she wasn’t enough, the stuffy husband kept trying to poke his nose into affairs that were none of his concern as well. Time and again Theo had cursed his grandmother for making him share his business interests with the colonial cousin. But then, Morwen had always been besotted with her daughter Primmy and her American offspring.

  St Austell folk had frequently observed that the three of them were like the proverbial peas in a pod when it came to beauty and temperament, and no doubt the Norwood brats would be every bit as fiery when they grew up. They were docile enough now, compared with Theo’s own roisterous boys, but that could change, he thought dourly.

  And then he put them all out of his mind as he roared up the driveway towards the house known as New World, yanking on the brake as he halted his motor, and sending the gravel flying in all directions.

  He was shown into the drawing-room, and gave Skye a brief kiss on the cheek, noting the fact that she always smelled as fragrant as a woodland stream. He conceded that it was preferable to Betsy’s unfortunate flatulence and Gigi’s cloying French perfumes, but none of it endeared her to Theo. She simply irritated him, and always would.

  ‘So to what do we owe this honour, Theo?’ Skye said with a smile, after they had made the obligatory pleasantries, and he was supplied with a glass of New World’s best brandy.

  Philip cleared his throat. ‘If you want to discuss things with Skye, I have things to do—’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Theo said, to his surprise. ‘It’s good news, anyway. We’ve had a massive pottery order from a German firm, wanting supplies in good time for next Christmas. It’s mighty early to place an order but apparently they have a huge market for such things, and while their usual supplier has been trying to push them into taking gaudy stuff, they’re impressed by the way we’ve stuck to white embossed.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Skye exclaimed. ‘From what Betsy said, I imagined you were coming here with tales of imminent strikes at the clayworks or something.’

  Theo snorted. ‘Ah well, the day the clayworkers don’t kick up a fuss about summat is the day pigs will fly. But you don’t want to take no notice of Betsy’s empty-headed prattle. Women usually get the wrong end of the stick, anyway.’

  ‘So it seems I was right about the white embossed then, doesn’t it?’ Skye said sweetly, ignoring the barb, and knowing that it had been all her idea to keep the image of their White Rivers goods as pure and white as the name implied, with just an indented, meandering groove around the base of every piece to reflect the image of a river, and a single embossed flower for relief. She had even invented the name for the pottery, and that had been a source of annoyance to her cousin too.

  ‘Oh ah, I’ll give ’ee that the white embossed was a brainwave,’ Theo was forced to admit now.

  ‘I’d say this calls for a celebration,’ Philip put in. ‘We’ve a bottle of champagne in the cellar waiting to be opened, and this seems like a fair occasion for it. Will you take a glass with us, Theo?’

  The cousins turned to look at him as if only just realising he was there, resentment in their identical blue eyes at his intrusion. Philip felt a small, savage shock at the look.

  Even when these two were practically involved in a cat-fight, he knew that something stronger than personal dislike would always draw them together. It was something that those who married into the Tremayne clan should always be aware of, for it always put them at a disadvantage.

  He knew it had always been the same. The closeness between all the Tremaynes had always been uncanny and unswerving, shutting out the rest of the world; even the creepy artist uncle and his seeming obsession for Skye’s mother, his own sister. But when outsiders threatened, they were as immovable as a mountain, and it was a well-known fact that you couldn’t move mountains.

  Chapter Two

  The following morning the two little Norwood girls pressed their noses against the nursery windowpane, watching for the arrival of their governess. Skye heard their squeals as they vied to be the first one to spot Miss Landon, bicycling tortuously towards the house, her sensible hat rammed and skewered onto her head at a crazy angle, due to the swirl of the onshore winds.

  Cleaned, fed and belched now, young Oliver was handed over to Nanny’s care, and a few minutes later Skye and the girls greeted Miss Landon in the schoolroom, where they regaled her with news about their bridesmaid dresses. And then the day was Skye’s own.

  Not for the first time lately, she wondered what she was going to do with it. Luxury and the indolent life was a wonderful thing to aim for when you didn’t have it. But when it happened there were times, especially when your whole life had once been full and busy, when you could experience an odd sense of being in limbo, of not belonging, of life shifting sideways and not taking you with it.

  She knew it was the feeling of many of the returning Tommies after the war, when suddenly there was nothing for them to do, and it was so hard to adapt to a normal pattern of life again. However terrible life had been then, whatever agonies they had suffered, or tragic sights they had seen, the purpose for their existence and the camaraderie they had shared, was gone. Each of them was Mister Ordinary again.

  Skye blinked, guilt assailing her as she realised she was in danger of feeling sorry for herself, and with no good reason, for heaven’s sake. Her life was still full and happy. She had a husband and three children she adored, a beautiful home and thriving business interests. At thirty-three years old, she didn’t need a mirror to tell her that men still found her vitally attractive. What more could any woman want?

  But the uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away, and just for a moment she let it swamp her, comparing herself with those returning Tommies. It was all a long time ago now, but she too had lived with danger in France, tending the wounded, sending back true reports of conditions to the local newspaper, and writing letters home for soldiers who couldn’t see, or had no hands to hold a pencil.

  Dear God, it was shameful for anybody to be nostalgic for such times, she thought furiously now, as the memories came flooding back. She knew exactly what her Mom would be saying to her – and Granny Morwen too. Especially Granny Morwen.

  ‘Get a hold on yourself, girl,
and be grateful for what you have. There’s many a young ’un working in a city sweatshop who’d give a sight more’n tuppence to breathe in the scents of the open moors and the sea that’s on our doorstep. Go out and fill your lungs with it all.’

  She was right too. They were both right. She had it all. Except a purpose. And without that, she had nothing.

  Ruefully, she recognised the journalist background in her that was making her think in short, staccato sentences now to prove a point. The joy of writing had been overtaken with motherhood and family life. And she was even more appalled to think, for a tiny moment, that she could resent the fact.

  Once, when she had tentatively broached the subject of returning to the Truro newspaper world she had inhabited on a part-time basis, Philip had damned the idea at once.

  “Your place is here now, Skye, and if you still want to dabble in your writing, do what you always said you would. Get those diaries of your grandmother out of the lawyer’s chambers and start on the family history. It would be a proper pastime, and preferable to writing up local scandal stories.”

  She seethed, remembering. “Dabble” in her writing, indeed. Indulging in a “proper pastime”! Before she met him she had worked on a highly respectable New Jersey magazine. And it had never been her idea to write up the family history, at least not in the way he said. He was the historian, the sometimes pompous college lecturer, and clearly wouldn’t approve of his wife doing anything less gracious.

  She couldn’t deny that she had once thought vaguely about writing a novel based on the diaries. But ever since her grandmother had left them to her, Skye had been totally unable to read them. They were mouldering, for all she knew, in the lawyer’s chambers in Bodmin. They contained Morwen Tremayne’s life, all the early poverty and memories of a family beholden to the masters of Killigrew Clay, all the trials and tribulations, the loves and pleasures and heartbreaks… and they were private.