Please stay! Don’t go. I won’t let you.
‘Do you not mean instead, Mr Pengarron, that Miss Kelynen has fled your side? She has told me how she finds you impossible to live with.’
Luke shook his head without realizing he was doing so. He had no idea how to respond to the young woman’s calm, almost glacial tone. Then he saw a small smile teasing the corners of her handsome pink lips and he smiled back. ‘I fear you may have the measure of me before we can become acquainted, Mrs Carew. Perhaps I may plead my case by pointing out how easily brothers and sisters fall into rivalry?’ Pulling up his great height to a more manly bearing, he indicated a plush upholstered armchair. ‘Please, may I offer you a seat? Mrs O’Flynn is waiting to ring for tea.’
‘I’d be pleased to stay, but I’ll take tea with the old woman.’
‘Old woman?’ Luke swallowed his disappointment and prayed he wasn’t making an utter fool of himself. Who could she mean?
‘Beatrice,’ Sophie Carew explained, and Luke’s heart hit his feet, for she was looking at him as if addressing an idiot. ‘I understand she goes by no other name. Miss Kelynen sometimes takes me along to her room. I find her entertaining. So there is no need for me to keep you. Thank you for sparing the time to speak to me, Mr Pengarron. Please be good enough to ask your sister to call on me when she returns. I’ll show myself to Beatrice’s room. Good morning.’
She walked, floated it seemed, out of the room. Luke followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared. He dropped down into the armchair, feeling his legs would not hold him up another second. So there was such a thing as love at first sight! A foolish notion to him before, something he had thought only women and poets believed in. But it was true! The instant his eyes had reached Sophie Carew he had fallen hopelessly and irretrievably in love with her.
Polly was watching him, both amused and worried. She made a discreet withdrawal to order tea and muffins for Beatrice and her guest.
‘No! Mrs O’Flynn, come back. Tell me everything you know about her. Every last tiny detail.’
An hour later, trying to look as if he just happened to be there, Luke was waiting beside Sophie Carew’s pony when she drifted down the stone steps outside the manor house. He had sent the stable boy away so he could help her to mount.
‘Ah, Mrs Carew, I hope you enjoyed your visit. Beatrice is quite a character, is she not? The family set great store by her.’
‘I’ve spent a pleasant time with her, Mr Pengarron. You are a playwright, I understand. Are you currently writing something?’
‘I am, actually. It’s entitled The Golden Leaves of Winterland' He was elated at her interest. ‘How kind of you to enquire. Kelynen has told you much about me, I see.’ Polly O’Flynn had told him much about this gorgeous young widow. The remnant of her husband’s wealth from tin and copper mining, except for a small house in Marazion and a measly five hundred a year, had gone to the son of his first marriage. Sophie Carew managed without a carriage and only two servants. Her family were of no consequence, there was a vague scandal associated with them. Doubtless, her reason for marrying the tedious old Wilmot Carew had been to gain security. ‘Do you enjoy the theatre, Mrs Carew?’
‘I do, if the offering is well written and well produced, Mr Pengarron. I really must go. Good day to you.’
Luke helped her up into the side-saddle, careful not to touch her for too long, breathing in her sandalwood perfume.
He watched from the top of the steps until she had ridden through the park gates. His play quite forgotten, he was beaming, more full of purpose than when, in a state of depression three years ago, he had asked his father to release him from estate duties so he could buy his own property and concentrate on his new burning ambition to write for the theatre.
He sent a promise soaring skywards. ‘I’m sure we have a lot more in common, Mrs Carew. You won’t dismiss me this easily.’
Six
Chenhalls was shielded by high, dense, weathered walls, part of them the original fortress built centuries earlier, when great landowners were forced to protect themselves from rebellions and lawlessness. The gatehouse was granite and Gothic in design, dark and forbidding, as if telling outsiders to keep out, Kelynen thought as she drove the trap in through the solid, studded wooden gates.
A cocker spaniel bounded up from somewhere and growled menacingly at Rex. Kelynen held her breath. Rex enjoyed a scrap and he could practically make a meal of this smaller aggressor.
‘Digory, it’s me, Livvy. Come here, boy!’ Recognizing her voice, the spaniel broke off holding its territory in front of the snarling Rex, leapt up on the trap and settled at her side. The women laughed. ‘This is Sir Rafe’s only dog. Lady Portia has lapdogs – they hate the cats. She does too. Sometimes there is quite a to-do.’
Trotting along a wide gravelled road they came to the back courtyards of the great house. The front faced the sea. Kelynen experienced a strange feeling, like an awakening, yet more than that. Like an obscure memory, as if she had been here before. The uncanny sensation grew, as if something was pressing on her, waiting for her. She told herself not be so fanciful. It was the mystery over the foundling that was making her sense the fantastic. Tomorrow, after apologizing to Sophie, she would go home and attend to the estate before Luke made any unnecessary changes.
Passing under the medieval entrance arch, the sisters entered the cobbled retainer’s court where two solemn, blue-and-silver-liveried, bewigged footmen came forward to help them alight. One of them leapt back when Digory shot down off the trap to avoid being bowled over. Digory sniffed Rex, decided the big black retriever was a friend, and then they ran off together.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll come back after they’ve tired of their adventure,’ Livvy said.
Kelynen felt lost and exposed without Rex. Then something inside her soul – the house, she supposed – called to her again and she was eager to see inside it.
While one footman gathered up Livvy’s painting equipment, the other led the way through the porter’s squint into a second court. It was rectangular, flagged, and surrounded by the three main ranges of the lumbering antediluvian house. A small chapel was incorporated into the north range. Little stone statues of strange leonine creatures were set under the square and arched windows, and larger ones with beautiful faces and wings joined the corners high up on the castellated walls. Gazing up, Kelynen thought their perch precarious and that only a brush from one of the clouds, seemingly just above, would bring them crashing down. They had been added much later to the original building, of course, by someone with a sense of the romantic. Luke should see these statues. They were perfect creatures for his current play.
Had Luke met the guest she had invited to the manor? If so, how had he found Sophie Carew? Likely there would be a letter of slight reprove from Sophie awaiting her at the parsonage this evening. Knowing her brother’s fondness for beautiful women, it was unlikely there would be a vexed one from him.
The footman ushered them through the great arched divided door into the vestibule and into the banqueting hall. While Livvy threw off her cloak, Kelynen gazed about, convinced she had stepped back in time. Chenhalls made Pengarron Manor seem very new. There was a feeling of ancient times here, prehistoric times, and she would not have been surprised if a Merlin-like figure materialized and drifted off towards some hidden door to his wizard’s den. Doubtless there was a warren of secret rooms and passages in the house. Harking back to the communal living of the Middle Ages there was a table of feasting proportions, and a yawning fireplace on a raised dais, piled high with fragrant logs. The walls were hung with armoury and weaponry. Kelynen’s steps were soft on the bare lime ash floor as she tilted her head to the decorated arch-braced ceiling. The Tremayne arms, depicting a rampant lion under a pair of crossed axes, appeared above the fireplace and in the heraldic panels in the windows.
‘Take off your hat and cloak,’ Livvy prodded her. ‘I’ve told the footman we’ll make our own way to the gardens. Si
r Rafe is waiting there for me. Lady Portia is with him. She always sits near his side, squawking interference, I’m afraid, but I do find her amusing. You like it here! I knew you would. Why, Kelynen, I’ve never seen you look so awe-struck or so pretty. The family lives mainly in here. They don’t use many of the rooms. We’ll be treated to a feast on that table later, on that you can rely.’
Kelynen allowed herself to be pulled through a door in a corner of the room, then along a cold, dark, stone passage. She did not want to go outside but to wander through the rooms and study the old solid furnishings and things that centuries of Tremaynes – and, of course, Sir Rafe – had brought here: Flemish tapestries, Eastern and European pottery, carved chests, folding chairs, the several and diverse paintings and engravings. She was to learn that Josiah Tremayne had sent home many an interesting piece while on the grand tour. She wanted to explore, to stumble on some fascinating secret, solve a long-held mystery. Chenhalls had that effect, on her anyway, making her fiercely curious, wanting to pry.
Of a sudden she was back outside, gasping in fresh air, blinking, for the sunlight was now strong, while Livvy was banging shut a heavy, creaking, planked door. They were at the side of the house, where the coast beyond Mearnon Point stretched all the way to the Lizard. The fishing village of Porthleven was tucked away out of sight beyond the point. Livvy prodded her to look inland. Kelynen gasped, lost in wonder. Down over a gentle slope, amid grounds of natural undulations and copses, and sheltered from behind by an arc of trees, lay a sunken garden, landscaped in the medieval style of the knot, a geometric pattern within a square made up of clipped box hedging and herbs. A simple fountain was in the centre.
Peeping above the trees were the parapets of a square tower. ‘What’s that? I must see it!’
‘Not now, you can’t. It’s a folly. Sir Rafe’s father had it built. Look, down there in that quiet arbour. It’s Sir Rafe waving to us.’
Forsaking the steps and formal path, Livvy suddenly took off at a run down the grassy slope, taking Kelynen with her. They raced, gaining speed and squealing as they had as little girls, and were laughing and pink-faced by the time they presented themselves in front of Sir Rafe Tremayne. An elderly lady was sitting close to him on a stout chair. Her maid-cum-companion, a staunch, ruddy-faced woman named Jayna Hayes, was beside her on a high stool.
‘My, having a wonderful time already,’ Sir Rafe said, flashing brilliant eyes on each sister. ‘That’s what I like to see. Livvy, beloved, how good to see you. How divine you are, as always.’
Embarrassed after her abandoned moments, Kelynen watched, amazed, when the baronet gathered her sister into his arms and kissed her firmly on the mouth.
‘And who is this?’ Sir Rafe’s laughing eyes danced all over Kelynen the instant he let Livvy go. ‘Your sister? You are not greatly alike but there is some resemblance.’ He lifted Kelynen’s hand and kissed it, once, twice, three times. Feeling a fool, all she could do was stare up at him. He was a tower, broad of shoulder, a wearer of gaily coloured clothes, although at present his coat was flung across the companion’s lap. His hair was thick and dark and he looked much younger than his forty-seven years. His face was full of strength and hilarity. ‘Miss Kelynen Pengarron, you are beautiful! And blessed with a pretty Cornish name; it means holly, does it not?’ He kissed her then on both cheeks, warmly, resoundingly.
Shaken, bewildered, unused to affectionate contact with men (unless with her father, brothers or brother-in-law), Kelynen thought she should be offended by this noble taker of liberties. But that wasn’t the effect Sir Rafe Tremayne had on women. Kelynen blinked, feeling she could all too easily succumb to the spell he unconsciously cast. He would have been a formidable beau in his youth – still was. She found her voice.
‘It’s an honour to meet you, Sir Rafe. I like your house and gardens very much.’
Sir Rafe threw up a large hand. ‘Do wander about at will, m’dear. Your sister and I will be occupied for some time. She’s a tyrant with the brush and forbids me to move for hours, but I’m sure you know that. But first, come and meet the old dear, my sister. And the cats.’
It was then that Kelynen saw the cats. There were eight of them, every one exquisite. None were of the usual breeds. These had oriental features, with eyes of sapphire blue, deep copper or vivid green. Some had long tails, some sharp, pointed ears. Some had sleek coats and others had coats that were long, of lavender, silver-blue or chocolate. All were perfectly groomed. Her father would never stand it here. He was allergic to cats and banned them from the manor and home farm.
‘I won’t bore you with all their names.’ Sir Rafe swept up an armful of the gorgeous creatures. ‘This is Lady Portia Custentin, my very much older sister.’
‘Dah! Insolent boy!’
‘What do you think of this lovely little bud, Kelynen, old dear?’
Lady Portia rose with difficulty, clasping against her flat bosom two small white dogs of an indistinct terrier breed. She was tall and thin and shaky on her feet. Gold-rimmed spectacles sat astride her long nose. She was wearing a pale-green gown, fussily decked with ruffles, lace and ribbons. Kelynen likened her to a reedy bendy branch overgrown with anaemic leaves. Her wig was discreet and dressed with green silk flowers, and her jewels were emeralds. She had a high domed forehead and strong cheekbones, clues to her aristocratic birth. Her voice was loud and boisterous. Every few words her eyes half closed as if clogged with sleep, but Kelynen fancied she missed nothing. ‘I bid you welcome to Chenhalls, Miss Pengarron. I’ve heard about you. You’re your father’s favourite and no wonder. You look a loyal, sensible sort. Our grandfather was in love with your grandmother, Lady Caroline, did you know, but Sir Daniel Pengarron got to her first.’
‘I didn’t know that, Lady Portia. What dear little dogs you have. Mine is about somewhere. I’m afraid he ran off.’ Kelynen was praying Rex wouldn’t show up here. He would run amok among the cats and create mayhem. Sir Rafe might lose his humour, although it seemed he had a constant supply of it. She had the impression it bubbled up inside him like a hot spring, along with a strong amorous drive. Apparently he had never been without a mistress, or two. She was worried Livvy was in danger of being dazzled by him, but her sister appeared set only on organizing her painting things and telling the footman where to place the easel and unfinished portrait. Sir Rafe, after the inappropriate kiss, was speaking to her now in a kindly, professional manner.
‘Bring your dog to show me as soon as you’re able.’ Lady Portia wobbled and Jayna Hayes helped her to sit down. ‘My little Cosmo and Hartley like canine company, don’t you, my precious boys? Take my advice, Missy, and stick to dogs for companionship. I’m happy to say my husband has been one of the blessed above for the past forty years and I don’t regret a day of it! Rafe, it’s time you and Mrs Lanyon got started. And keep those infernal cats at a distance from me!’
Kelynen was eager to track Rex down. To explore these wondrous grounds was an exciting prospect. After receiving a handsome smile from Sir Rafe, no one paid her any attention, so she walked off towards the trees where Rex was likely to be. It was her intended destination anyway; she was curious about the tower folly.
Almost at once she was brought to a halt by the sound of music, a skilled performance on a violin. It was an unfamiliar tune, sweet and pure and strangely disturbing, evocative of the sort of hazy dreams one had about paradisiacal places. The music was soughing out through the trees, most likely from the tower. Had she heard music on her arrival without realizing it? Was that what had called to her?
‘That’s my nephew who is playing,’ Sir Rafe called after her. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s composing, m’dear, so I’d advise you to keep a wide berth.’
‘I will,’ Kelynen replied. So Josiah Tremayne wrote and played beautiful music. She was curious to meet him. Livvy had said many complimentary things about him. Was he wickedly entertaining like his uncle? she wondered.
Once within the oaks, beeches and elms
she saw Rex and Digory crashing on ahead. ‘Rex!’ she shouted, hoping the dogs would not interrupt Josiah Tremayne. She dashed after them. Digory probably knew to keep away from the tower but Rex was altogether too inquisitive and playful.
Now she was out of the trees, the tower came fully into sight. It consisted of five small rooms, one on top of the other. The lower four were sheltered and private; the highest room and the parapets must afford a fine view over the sea. It was an ugly but fascinating folly and Kelynen’s imagination took flight to its purpose. Almost hidden away from the great house, it did not aspire towards ornamentation. If a memorial, the deceased must have meant little to the builder. The music was indeed coming from inside. It was the perfect secluded place to compose and practise music. Josiah Tremayne had switched to the harp, making ripples of sound so beguiling that Kelynen would have stopped and listened if the dogs would only obey her calls. They were heading for the tower and she set herself in pursuit.
A low portal in the side of the tower was ajar and first Digory and then Rex plunged through it. Hoping Josiah Tremayne would not be too angry over Rex’s encroachment, Kelynen squeezed inside the gap, trying not to make a sound. She took half a dozen steps, her feet making hollow sounds on the paved floor. Rex and Digory had disappeared. There was nowhere for them to go except up the narrow stone stair incorporated into the far wall.
The music had stopped but instead of leaving a feeling of tranquillity, there seemed a heavy brooding resonance in this first airless, unfurnished room where there was only a small fireplace. The low rectangular windows were of dull stained glass and therefore let in little light. It was quiet now, an unearthly hush, as silent as a graveyard. Kelynen had a sudden horrible feeling of being cut off from all life and purpose. The dark seemed to wrap itself around her. And it was cold. A bleak cold that chilled her flesh and invaded her bones. She hugged her arms to her body and wondered what she had let herself in for by agreeing to come to Chenhalls.
Pengarron Rivalry Page 4