White Rivers

by White Rivers (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s your decision. You must do what you think best.’

  She glared at him. ‘I’m asking for your opinion, damn it. Stop wearing your lawyer’s hat and tell me what you think.’

  ‘I think there’s time enough for further discussion when we know what’s going into the exhibition.’

  She clamped her lips together. She knew she was taking up his precious weekend time, and after they had worked solidly for more than two hours, she needed to get out and into the fresh air. The studio was stifling her, and by now they had selected the major paintings to show.

  There were many likenesses of Primmy, landscapes of the moors and sky-tips, and exquisite watercolours of Truro itself. The exhibition couldn’t fail to charm people, thought Skye. Albie had had such talent, and people should know it. There was just one thing, though…

  ‘Time to go? Or are you still seeing ghosts?’ Nick enquired.

  She realised she had been standing motionless in the middle of the studio. She smiled shakily.

  ‘I guess I was. I’m just wondering how Mom would feel about having her portraits on show for all to see.’

  ‘Well, you could either remove the portraits, which would be a great pity – or put your “No Sale” labels on them, then they’ll still belong to you. You have the choice.’

  She wondered if there was a hidden meaning in his words, but apparently not. There was no need for double meanings, anyway. They were both perfectly clear on the choice they had chosen for themselves. And right now, love seemed a very long distance away from friendship.

  ‘Then let’s get it all set up, and arrange with David to do the advertising,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll take the ones I want home with me now.’

  As she spoke, Primmy’s face smiled out at her from the canvases, beautiful, self-confident, her glossy black hair and lustrous blue eyes the trademark of all the Tremayne women. It was a face that had been painted with expertise and love, and her daughter carefully placed the tissue-wrapped paintings in a soft blanket before she broke down and wept.

  * * *

  The Albert Tremayne Exhibition was reported in The Informer newspaper as a tremendous success. David had done extensive advertising of the event, together with an additional feature about the connection between the artist and Skye Tremayne Norwood, and the proposed change of the studio to the White Rivers Pottery shop.

  Lily had adamantly refused the offer of occupying the living quarters above the shop, so it was decided that it would be used solely for storage for now. There was no doubt that it would be well patronised, and after the exhibition ended with plenty of sales, Theo organised a celebration for the family and all concerned, at Killigrew House.

  ‘I have to hand it to you, cuz,’ Theo said. ‘You’ve a good business head on those pretty shoulders, and turning old Albie’s studio into a pottery shop was inspirational.’

  ‘It was Nick’s initial idea, not mine,’ she protested. ‘He should take most of the credit.’

  ‘Ah well, the two of you make good bedfellows – nothing salacious intended, o’ course,’ he added hastily, seeing his wife’s frown.

  Skye avoided looking at Nick. The exhibition had lasted longer than anyone could have forecast, as people continued to come and view the local artist’s work. Family members who wanted one of Albie’s paintings had been given their choice, and Skye had sent her father the two that she was sure he would love the most. Theo, commercial as ever, commented that once the old boy was gone, the paintings would probably escalate in value, so it was a good investment.

  By the beginning of March the builders and painters were busily at work at the studio, ripping out old fittings and putting in new ones, and transforming the place into gleaming new business premises. Soon, the shop would be in its pristine state, ready for spring, and new beginnings.

  And Nick Pengelly wondered how long it was reasonable to wait before he followed his heart and asked Skye to marry him. How long before the community thought it no longer scandalous for a man to propose to a woman who had lost her husband? Was six months too short a time? To Nick, it seemed as if he had already waited a lifetime to hold her in his arms again.

  But she was so remote now, so unapproachable compared with the loving woman he had known, that it sometimes seemed to Nick that they had never been such passionate lovers at all. Never shared their hearts and bodies… as if he had dreamed it all, or else her heart had simply frozen, and if it had, then he had no idea how to melt it.

  But the situation couldn’t go on indefinitely. He was a red-blooded man, and he wanted her so badly that in the end he had to speak out. They were reviewing the end of progress on the shop, admiring the newly furbished interior and breathing in the smell of new paint that replaced the dank atmosphere of the old studio, and made it live again.

  ‘They’ve done a wonderful job,’ Skye said at last. ‘I couldn’t have asked for better, and Uncle Albie understands a little of what’s happening. I wrote to the matron, asking her to explain it, and she said he seemed pleased.’

  ‘That’s good. When the pottery displays are in the window, we’ll take some photographs to show him when we go to Bristol for William’s wedding. Or even before then.’ He saw her flinch, and he took her hand. ‘Skye, don’t shut me out. We can’t go on pretending for ever that there’s nothing between us. It’s our time now.’

  ‘Is it? I don’t think so – unless some guardian angel came to you in the night and told you so.’

  She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t said those particular words. It was too much like superstitious mumbo-jumbo, and she was done with all that.

  ‘You know I want you, don’t you?’ Nick persisted, refusing to be put off by her angry eyes. He sought to find something to persuade her. ‘Is this how your mother, or your grandmother would have reacted? They were strong enough to know what they wanted out of life. I didn’t think you were a lesser woman than they were.’

  ‘I’m not!’ she declared, once more his volatile darling. ‘Or maybe I am after all. Maybe I need to know what Granny Morwen would have said. She married the two men who loved her, so she must have had to decide when the time was right too.’

  Skye looked at him as a glimmer of memory filled her mind. Her grandmother had died shortly after Celia was born, so she could no longer ask her for advice. There had been many times when she hadn’t needed to do so, for Morwen’s ethereal voice was so often in her head when she needed it.

  But there was another way. There had always been another way, and it was only now that she intuitively knew the reason for something Morwen had done so long ago.

  ‘Nick, could we go to your chambers?’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘I want to see Granny Morwen’s diaries.’

  * * *

  Skye didn’t really know what she was looking for, and when Nick had finally brought the bulky box of journals to her, she looked at them in bewilderment, not knowing where to begin, and aware that she still couldn’t bear to read them all. It would be impossible, anyway, for they represented a woman’s lifetime. She tentatively opened one or two of the books, still feeling as if she was prying into someone’s innermost thoughts and feelings, and then realised that the yellowing entries were often sketchy, haphazard accounts, recorded whenever anything significant occurred in Morwen Tremayne’s life. But however brief, always written with the passion that was in her soul.

  ‘You’ll want to be left alone,’ Nick stated, making her jump. ‘I have papers to deal with in the outer office, so just call me when you’ve found what it is you’re looking for.’

  He left her then, and she flipped through the pages of the early diaries quickly, pausing to read of Morwen’s anguish when her brother Matt, Skye’s own grandfather, fled to America with the infamous Jude Pascoe. And then how her beloved brother Sam died in Ben Killigrew’s railtrack accident, and how she and Ben had later adopted the three orphaned children, Walter, Albert and Primrose.

  Other pages were filled with joy, such as when she and B
en had their own children, Justin and Charlotte. Skye turned the pages quickly, covering the years, her emotions at fever-pitch, almost frantic for what she was trying to find, without really knowing what it was she sought. But she was driven to it, and an instinct stronger than reason told her that here, somehow, she would find the answer.

  And then at last she found it. She caught her breath. Morwen had been no scholar in her early years, but simple words were often more eloquent than the most lyrical ones, especially when they were written in capital letters.

  “TODAY, RAN WAINWRIGHT CAME INTO OUR LIVES.”

  To anyone else, it might have been an odd, disjointed statement. To Skye, looking for answers, it was significant. He was significant. It needed no elaboration. At that time, Morwen was still married to Ben. And as she read on, skimming the dates, Skye could sense the torment in Morwen’s heart because of her growing attraction towards another man. It mirrored her own life, except for one thing.

  Morwen had still loved Ben, and was tormented by her own conscience, while Skye had fallen out of love with Philip long before Nick came to mean so much to her. Did that make a difference? She smothered the thought.

  There were many gaps in the diaries, and many disjointed references, especially after Ben Killigrew’s death, while Morwen struggled to do what was right by their large family of children. Then Skye’s eyes widened and her nerves prickled.

  “I’m going to copy out the letter I sent to Ran”, Morwen wrote, “to remind me that if everything goes wrong, I have only myself to blame. He wants to marry me, but ’tis too soon after Ben, and so I sent him away. I wonder now if I shall regret it all my life.”

  Skye couldn’t bear to read more than small sections of the letter, feeling as if she was looking into another woman’s soul. Yet she was very sure she could feel Morwen’s loving presence as she read her letter to Ran.

  ‘… I know that nothing matters but the feelings of a man and a woman, and to have your love again I would gladly give away Killigrew Clay and everything I own. It was never really mine, anyway. It was always Ben’s, and part of a man’s world… I’m no good at being noble, so don’t expect me to dance at your wedding to one of the Pendewy girls, because I shan’t! I love you.’

  That last part was so – so Morwen, thought Skye, defensive to the end. And of course she knew that Ran Wainwright had never married a Pendewy girl, but Morwen herself. The entry ended there, and dated some while later there was a single line that needed no capitals to make it the most important entry of all.

  ‘Today, Ran and I were married, and I am whole again.’

  Skye slammed the ledger closed, her eyes stinging. That was it. That was the feeling. She had been in some kind of No Man’s Land for months now, feeling only half alive, and torn by guilt at wanting to be whole again. To be part of someone again. Someone that she loved with all her heart.

  She heard him enter the room, and she turned her head very slowly, then heard him catch his breath as he saw her brimming eyes. In seconds he had crossed the room to her and held her close to his chest. He spoke roughly, unable to hide his own emotion.

  ‘Leave the diaries for another day, my love. There’s far too much to take in all at once, and it’s upsetting you.’

  She shook her head, her voice soft, but full of a new determination now. ‘I shan’t look at any more of them, ever. I know all that Granny Morwen wanted me to know, and now I shall burn them all, and no one else will ever see them.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what she would have wanted?’

  Skye wound her arms about his neck, and kissed Nick’s mouth with an uninhibited passion, and as she felt his instant response, her spirit soared.

  ‘I know it,’ she said simply. ‘The way we Tremayne women always know these things.’

  Next in The Cornish Clay Sagas:

  September Morning

  Perfect for readers of Emma Hornby, Rosie Goodwin and Lesley Pearse, September Morning is an emotional and unputdownable saga of love and war

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  First published in the USA in 1999 by Severn House Publishers Inc

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Rowena Summers, 1999

  The moral right of Rowena Summers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788634724

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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