Kitabı oku: «Invitation To A Cornish Christmas», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

‘Of course, these are small-scale pieces compared to my father’s,’ Emily said, ‘but the techniques are the same, whether you are making a tea urn or a snuffbox. The first task is to cut a shape from a sheet of metal, such as this, using a template. I make them myself, from practice pieces of brass or copper.’

Treeve watched, fascinated, as she demonstrated, seated at the long wooden bench which took up most of the living space in the cottage. He had planned to call on her yesterday morning, having reluctantly allocated Bligh the rest of the day before, once the blasted man had sought him out at the Ship Inn. But once again his best-laid plans had been holed below the waterline, this time by Austol’s lawyer—correction, his lawyer, who had arrived unannounced with another wooden chest full of documents to be perused. This day, he was absolutely determined to claim for himself, and if he could persuade Emily to spend it with him, then all the better.

‘Next,’ she continued, ‘I use a small hammer to beat out the shape I require.’

‘You don’t need to heat the metal then?’

‘No, it is hammered cold, but as you work it, the silver hardens, so you do have to soften it now and then—we call that annealing. I have a small brazier which burns charcoal, which I keep outside, so you need not worry that I’ll burn down your cottage by dropping hot coals. It’s not big enough for me to do any casting, which is why everything I make is on a small scale.’

‘What happens next?’

‘The piece is soldered together, if required—if it is a box, for example. And of course if I’m making jewellery it requires extensive soldering, using silver wire. Then the last stage is the decoration, which is the part I enjoy the most. See, here are some samples which are complete, apart from final polishing. This is filigree, which is formed from fine silver wire.’

The trinket box was adorned with a delicate pattern of leaves and flowers. A central flower in each panel sent twining garlands out to each corner, and the four little feet were formed from leaves. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Treeve said, tracing the design with his fingers.

‘This one is made using a mixture of hammering and pierced work,’ Emily said, swapping the box for a salt lined with dark blue glass. ‘I buy the glass linings, obviously, and then make the framework to fit each exactly. And here,’ she said, unrolling a piece of chamois leather, ‘are some earrings which I’ve been working on. The stones are paste, I can’t afford precious gems.’

‘Bluebells?’ Treeve asked, gazing down at the tiny flower-like earrings set with blue glass.

‘They are, how clever of you to notice.’

‘It is you who are clever. These are wonderful pieces. And so diverse.’

She beamed. ‘Thank you. I must confess, I enjoy the variety.’

‘Such craftsmanship, I would have thought it would have earned you your fortune.’

‘Sadly not. If I wished to make my fortune, I’d have to set up on a much larger scale, and make much grander pieces too, as my father did. Dinner services, tea services, serving dishes, epergnes, that kind of thing. But aside from the fact that is simply not possible here, I prefer working on smaller, more modest pieces.’

Emily took the earrings from him, rolling them carefully back in the chamois leather before picking up a cloth. He watched her polishing the floral trinket box, a small frown furrowing her brow, her generous lips pursed in concentration. She was wearing a plain gown of soft wool the colour of a pale wintry sky. She had rolled the sleeves up to expose her forearms. Tanned and slender yet far from frail, he could see the ripple of the muscles under her skin as she worked, and dammit, he found it absurdly arousing. She wore her hair up in a knot. There was something arousing too, yet vulnerable, in the long line of her exposed neck as she bent over her work.

Looking up, she caught his eye and smiled faintly, offering him the little box. ‘If you look closely, you’ll see my hallmark.’

‘“EF”,’ Treeve read. ‘If your father was so well known, and you were his apprentice, couldn’t you continue to use his mark?’

‘No. It wouldn’t have been permitted, I was never his official apprentice.’ She got to her feet, retrieving a walnut tea caddy from a shelf, and took out the silver spoon inside. ‘There, you see. “RF”, for Robert Faulkner. That was my father’s mark.’

‘More flowers,’ he said.

‘He made it for my mother. It runs through the female line, the love of nature. There is a beautiful rose garden attached to the big house in Stornaway—that is the main town on the Isle of Lewis. It’s a walled garden, to protect it from the harsh weather. I remember the scent on a sunny day—we did have them in Lewis, every now and then.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Perfume so strong it made you dizzy.’

‘You are never tempted to go back? I do understand what you meant about ghosts, but—being here at Karrek House has also dredged up a plethora of happy memories for me. Things I had quite forgotten.’

‘I can’t possibly go back,’ Emily said bleakly. ‘My happy memories are now tainted for ever. Besides,’ she added, before he could ask her what she meant, ‘more than likely my cousin will have dug up the rose garden and planted potatoes. John-Angus never could see the point of flowers. Needless adornment, he’d have said of that spoon. It’s one of the few of Papa’s pieces I kept.’

Where had the rest gone? The obvious, painful answer, was that they were sold, so Treeve did not ask. He set the spoon down carefully. ‘I can see you’re busy, but I was hoping that I could persuade you to take a walk with me.’

‘Don’t you have other matters to attend to?’

‘I’m beginning to realise that if I wanted to, I could tend to estate business twenty-four hours a day. But I don’t want to. Bligh deprived me of a walk with you the other day, and legal business took up all of yesterday. I’ve earned a break, but I know that your work must come first, I don’t want to…’

‘I work to eat, it’s true, but I reckon I too have earned a break. Do you think the weather will be kind enough to us to allow us to go further than the beach?’

‘I made a special plea to the weather gods,’ Treeve said, ‘in the hope that I could persuade you. The clifftop path from here towards Porth Leven is beautiful.’

‘I’ll fetch my cloak,’ Emily said.

Treeve’s pleas to the weather gods had been answered, it seemed, for it was a lovely afternoon, the skies pale blue with a weak lemon sun, the breeze as gentle as it was possible to hope for at this time of year. Crossing the top of Budoc Lane by St Piran’s church they avoided the village, making for the path that hugged the clifftops.

Emily was wearing one of her favourite dresses of russet-and-cream-striped wool. She had dressed carefully yesterday morning too, in another of her favourite gowns, telling herself that she was merely getting the use out of them, knowing perfectly well she was hoping Treeve would call.

‘Are you immune to the cold?’ she asked, hugging her cloak around her, for he was hatless and gloveless, without even a greatcoat.

‘Try standing on the open deck of a ship in a storm,’ he replied. ‘The cold I never mind, it’s being soaked to the skin that gets to you.’

‘What about the heat? Have you been to the tropics?’

‘I’ve been around the world several times over. I always laugh when I hear people in England complain about the weather. True enough, we have a bit of everything, sometimes all four of our seasons in a day, but it’s all in moderation.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Emily said, smiling. ‘The next day I’m confined to my cottage by the torrential rain, unable to work because it’s as dark at midday as midnight.’

‘What do you do, on those days?’

‘It might sound stupid but sometimes, when it’s really wild, I like to go outside. There’s something so—so elemental about the storms here, you know? Standing on the headland, with nothing in front of you but the horizon, on days like that it can feel as if you’re the only person left in the world.’

Treeve cocked an eyebrow. ‘And that’s a nice feeling, is it? Is that why no one even knows about your little cottage industry? I mentioned it at dinner to the eldest Miss Treleven and…’

She came to an abrupt halt, turning towards him angrily. ‘You told her I was a silversmith!’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t want people talking about me. I mean,’ she amended, for her words had sounded disproportionately defensive, ‘that I prefer not to be the subject of gossip.’

‘I was expressing my admiration, not gossiping.’

‘You hadn’t even seen my work at that point.’

‘My admiration was for your determination to make your own way in life, Emily, for the guts it must take, and the skill to make a living for yourself and, to use your own words, to “cut your cloth to suit your purse.”’

Embarrassed, she felt her cheeks heating, but she could not keep the resentment from her voice. ‘I also told you that I don’t want to be pitied.’

‘It seems to me, it is you who sees yourself as a pitiful creature. I certainly don’t, and nor did Miss Treleven.’

The truth of his words were like a punch in the stomach. ‘I was too hasty,’ she said stiffly. ‘I apologise.’

‘Don’t look so stricken. Whatever travails you’ve endured since your father died…’

‘Are my business, no one else’s.’

Treeve put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘Don’t be so defensive. I didn’t ask you out here to interrogate you. Some polite conversation—you know, a little give and take.’

She smiled reluctantly. ‘I’ve largely forgotten how to make conversation.’

‘Would you like to put some practice in?’

‘Yes, please.’ She liked the way he met her eyes, so straight on, the way he looked at her, not through her, the way he listened to what she said, even if by listening he saw through her enough to tell her a home truth or two.

The wind had blown his hair across his face. Without thinking, she reached up to push it back. He caught her hand. She held her breath as desire flared unmistakably in his eyes, as her body responded, heat prickling her back, tingling deep inside her. He kissed her, but only by brushing his lips on her glove. When he let her go, she felt absurdly disappointed.

‘Look at this.’ Treeve made a sweeping gesture. ‘On days like this, I can see why my brother always said there was nowhere like it in the whole world. Perhaps Cornwall is in my blood after all.’

He had turned them both to face towards Penzance. The tide was out, so the long crescent of beach which stretched almost all the way to Porth Karrek was revealed, and the cobbled causeway leading out to St Michael’s Mount, the tiny rocky island topped with a fortress, was clearly visible. ‘I always think it is some sort of strange ship, moored to the mainland by a stone rope,’ Emily said.

‘There’s another similar island just off the coast of Brittany you know, called Mont St Michel. They were both priories, up until about four hundred years ago or so. Shall we press on?’

They headed off along the path, just wide enough for them to walk two abreast as it hugged the clifftops, giving breathtaking views out to sea. Treeve pointed out a number of lethal-looking rocks similar to The Beasts, visible only because the tide was low. Little London, The Frenchman, The Bears, each had their own special name, and if they had any particular meaning, according to Treeve, it was long forgotten. What each was remembered for were the wrecks they had been responsible for, so many of them that Emily wondered why any fisherman would risk their life in these waters.

‘It’s true,’ Treeve answered her, ‘the Cornish coast is the most treacherous in all of England, the sea can turn from flat calm to a storm in the blink of an eye, but our fishermen must fish, or they will starve. They need to follow the shoals of pilchards wherever they go, regardless of the danger.’

‘Did you ever sail here?’

‘Of course I did. My father taught Austol and I to sail in the harbour when we were very young—he wouldn’t allow us to venture out of Porth Karrek until he was happy we knew what we were doing, because of The Beasts. My father was an excellent sailor.’

‘So it runs in the blood, your own affinity with ships and the sea?’

‘It does, though my father, like my brother, had no interest in any sea beyond this one.’

‘While you wanted to sail them all?’

‘Something like that.’ He frowned. ‘It wasn’t only a case of wanting to see the wider world though, I didn’t relish the prospect of being constrained by the boundaries of their world.’

‘And be obliged to become a vicar, to boot.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Heaven forfend. Truly.’

‘You wanted to be your own man,’ Emily said. ‘I can understand that. I have worked very hard to become my own woman.’

‘Yes, it’s something we share, our refusal to be hidebound. Though it comes at a price. I am master of my own ship, but I still have to obey orders. What’s more, the navy has a book of rules and regulations as thick as—I was going to say Jago Bligh’s skull, but that would be unfair. He’s not the least bit stupid, merely stubbornly attached to the old ways, like most of the village. You’ve experienced that, Emily. You had to swear Bligh’s niece and nephew to silence about their swimming lessons, for heaven’s sake.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s true, they don’t like change, and they are wary of strangers. In that sense, Porth Karrek is very like Lewis.’

‘And the scenery too, from what you’ve said.’

‘Oh, yes. I came here because it was as far south from London as I could get, but I have stayed because it is quite simply beautiful. On days like this, who would want to be anywhere else? I love the sea, as much as you do.’

They stopped to admire the view back to Mount’s Bay from Cudden Point. The causeway had disappeared under the incoming tide. A sudden gust of wind tugged a strand of Emily’s hair free from its ribbon. The sea below was a deep blue, turning to turquoise in the shallower water back at Perranuthnoe where it met the sands, and further out, where the swell was rising, the water was almost midnight blue.

‘But you have been lonely here.’ Treeve turned to her.

‘I have, but that’s partly because I’ve chosen to be. I wasn’t ready for company until you came along. Next April, I’ll have been here a year. I have high hopes that by then, Eliza Menhenick will offer me a loaf of bread without asking me which size I want. Maybe next summer, Kensa and Jack will persuade the Nancarrow boys to join them to swim. In ten years’ time, if I ask for a glass of cognac at the Ship, they might even serve it to me. You see,’ Emily said awkwardly, for the revelation had only just occurred to her, ‘unlike you, I’d like to make my home here. I don’t have any family now, and I can’t go back to Lewis, but this place is alike enough to remind me. I won’t be a stranger for ever.’

‘Shall I build a swimming pool in the rocks, so that you can give your lessons safely?’

‘I know you’re teasing, but I can’t help but feel that the children here are missing out on so much, not enjoying the sea.’

‘To say nothing of the fact that it’s depriving some of them of the ability to save their own life.’

‘Oh, Treeve, I’m so sorry. That was completely thoughtless of me.’

‘No, but you’re right. If Austol had learned to swim, there’s a chance he may not have perished. I’ve resolved to learn, thanks to you, and see if I can persuade some of my men to do so. Perhaps one day we can swim together at Karrek Sands.’

‘So you do intend to return?’

‘Occasionally, my naval duties permitting. I’ll have to. It’s horribly clear to me that there are a good many things I can’t delegate.’

‘You know, it sounds to me as if being the lord of the manor and being a naval captain are more similar than you think. Both require a steady hand on the tiller, a man who is not afraid to make tough decisions, who can inspire loyalty and command respect.’

‘What is demanded in Porth Karrek, is that the lord of the manor acts in the exact same way as his predecessors did. Austol essentially became my father, when he inherited. Acting the lord of the manor, is precisely what I’d have to do. I refuse to meekly follow in my father’s and brother’s footsteps.’

Emily dared to take his hand, pressing her lips to his knuckles. ‘I, for one, applaud you for that.’

A gust of wind sent her staggering back. Her ribbon was torn from her hair, whirling up into the sky. Instinctively she lunged to catch it, only to be yanked back hard against Treeve as she stepped off the path and dizzyingly close to the edge.

‘Thank you,’ she said, clutching gratefully at him. He put his other arm around her, putting himself between her and the cliff edge. The wind suddenly dropped and the sun came out from behind a cloud, and Emily smiled up at him. His eyes were made golden by the sunlight, his close-cut beard coal-black. His bottom lip was full, his answering smile reflecting not only her own delight in the wild coastal scenery and the glorious freshness of the day, but the latent desire which had quivered between them earlier.

Treeve brushed her hair back from her face, his fingers warm on her cheek, on her neck as he tucked the long tress behind her ear. Her heart began to race. She took a step closer, and he slipped his other arm under her cloak, around her waist. She reached up to touch his hair and felt him exhale sharply as her fingers smoothed the silky soft damp curls away from his forehead. And then the sun was blotted out and the earth seemed to tilt on its axis as he lowered his head and their lips met.

He tasted of salt. His lips were gentle, his beard soft yet prickly, rasping just enough on her skin to delight rather than grate. She sighed, opening her mouth to his kiss, nestling closer into his reassuringly solid bulk, and he brushed his tongue along her bottom lip, making her quiver, her quiver made him sigh, his mouth covering hers, deepening the kiss, until another gust of wind made them stagger backwards.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Luckily the wind blew us away from the cliff.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant, Emily.’ His eyes were lambent, heavy-lidded. It touched her that he needed reassurance. That he took nothing for granted.

‘I’m fine.’ Her words, so trite and so completely inadequate, made her shake her head at her own banality. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ And free, she added silently to herself. Not that she’d tell Treeve, ever, but his kiss had freed her. ‘Truly,’ she said instead.

Treeve laughed, pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again. ‘I feel like I’ve been waiting for months to do that.’

‘Not even a week. I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘You exceeded my very high expectations.’ He wanted to kiss her again, but this was hardly the place! His body was thrumming with desire. For the love of the gods, it was just a few kisses. Extremely enjoyable, enough for him to want more, but dammit, he was not in the habit of going around kissing virgins. Not that Emily kissed like a virgin, though how the hell he thought he knew what a virgin kissed like when he’d never kissed one…

He cursed under his breath, scanning first the horizon and then his watch. ‘I think we’d better turn back.’

Chapter Five

Emily dressed carefully, in a day gown of olive green taffeta silk embossed with pale pink roses. The tightly fitted sleeves were puffed at the shoulder, and the neckline was square-cut, without any adornment, for she had had it made to showcase a pink sapphire necklace she’d once owned, and had unfortunately been forced to sell. Today, she would have to make do with her only remaining piece of jewellery, her mother’s gold locket. Just as well, she thought, for a pink sapphire necklace would be bound to raise a good many questions she’d prefer not to answer.

She stabbed another two pins into her hair before checking her chignon in the mirror. The smooth and simple style suited her thick, heavy tresses, which refused to co-operate with anything more elaborate. Turning and twisting in front of the small hand mirror, she assured herself that she had fastened all the buttons at the back of her gown. Ought she to have worn a simpler dress? Probably, but it was too late now. Besides, she liked this dress, and it suited her, and it suited the occasion, her first formal visit to Karrek House.

She was nervous. Which was silly of her. It wasn’t as if she’d never paid a morning call before, had never crossed the portals of a country manor before. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to conduct herself in front of a butler or a housekeeper, or a houseful of liveried footmen. But still, she was nervous. It was one thing to meet Treeve on the beach every morning as they had done for the last week, to talk, to walk, even to paddle.

And to kiss. Such kisses. Salty, windswept kisses which punctuated their conversation. Moments when they stopped talking and looked, simply looked into each other’s eyes, and saw desire reflected. Treeve’s arms tight around her, his lips warm, his cheeks cold, the wavelets which rippled over their bare feet icy, their toes touching, though almost too numb to feel. She loved the graze of his beard on her cheek, the softness of his lips, the press of her breasts against his chest, the dragging, sweet ache inside her that the touch of his tongue roused.

She ought not to be nervous after sharing such kisses. But she was, all the same. On Karrek Sands they were Treeve and Emily, shielded from the prying eyes of the world. But at Karrek House she was a mere tenant calling on the lord of the manor, to be introduced to the eldest daughter of another of Cornwall’s foremost families, not as an equal but as an artisan in search of a commission.

She didn’t need the commission at this moment, but it would be very churlish of her to turn down the opportunity. Short-sighted too, for if Miss Treleven was happy, she would tell her friends and her relations and they might put other commissions Emily’s way. What’s more, she reminded herself as she donned her cloak and pulled on a pair of gloves, it was much easier to discuss commissions face-to-face than try to discern what a person required from a letter, as she had been obliged to do since moving to Cornwall. So she shouldn’t be nervous, she should be excited, she told herself firmly, picking up the basket in which she had carefully wrapped a small selection of samples of her work.

A footman opened the door to Emily before she had a chance to pull the bell. Informing her that she was expected, he relieved her of her cloak and gloves before leading the way into a long narrow passage with a shallow domed ceiling decorated with a ribbon-like cornice painted plain white. The walls were a pleasing primrose yellow, the bare floorboards pitted and scrubbed. She felt as if she was walking through a tunnel, crying out with startled delight when it ended in a Great Hall, a massive double-height chamber with an ornately plastered ceiling and a minstrels’ gallery featuring by one of the biggest stained-glass windows she had ever seen.

‘It is made of almost six hundred individual panes of glass,’ Treeve said, appearing from a doorway on the other side of the hall, ‘some of them over two hundred years old. Welcome to Karrek House, Miss Faulkner. Thank you, John,’ he added to the footman, ‘we’ll take tea as soon as Miss Treleven arrives.’

‘This is a spectacular room,’ Emily said, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling.

‘Spectacularly cold, most of the time,’ Treeve said.

‘But imagine a ball held here. You could put the orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery.’

‘Do you like to dance?’

‘I’ve never been to a formal ball, but there was a ceilidh every year for Grandma’s birthday. Everyone was invited, crofters, fishermen, villagers, the great and the good—such as they were. We’d dance reels—Scottish country dances—and people would take turns to entertain, reciting poetry, playing the fiddle, even telling jokes.’

‘I’ve attended far too many balls,’ Treeve said, grimacing, ‘which involved escorting an ambassador’s wife sedately round the floor, making polite conversation while wearing full dress uniform. Categorically not my idea of fun.’

‘Then hold a ceilidh here for Gwav Gool,’ Emily teased. ‘Invite all of Porth Karrek and dance a hornpipe for them. They’ll see their new lord and master in a very different light.’

He laughed sardonically. ‘Different certainly, but still an unwelcome usurper.’

‘I’m sure they don’t view you like that.’

‘And I am sure they are counting the days to the end of the year when they can wave me off, hopefully never to return.’ There was an edge to his words which surprised her, but before she could say anything, he shook his head impatiently. ‘It’s not such a bad idea though, holding a ceilidh, rather than the dance Austol hosted, which I gather was always a rather sedate affair.’

‘Tradition with your own twist?’ Emily said.

‘If you like.’ Treeve smiled. ‘Yes, exactly that. I think that’s an excellent idea. We’d better go through to the drawing room. Miss Treleven will be here any moment, and before you say anything, the commission was her idea, I am simply the intermediary.’

‘I’m very grateful all the same, Treeve, I…’

‘You’ve no need to be,’ he said brusquely. ‘I have seen your work and it’s patently obvious even to a man who knows nothing of such things that you are extremely talented and in no need of patronage.’

‘No, but a foothold here could prove extremely beneficial. It is much easier to do business face-to-face.’

‘Really? I thought you preferred to avoid social encounters. Here was I, preening myself on being the only exception to your rule.’

His smile, the warmth in his eyes, the quirk of his mouth, sent a delightful little shiver down her back. She couldn’t help but smile in return, and when she did, the air between them seemed to still and she felt as if she had stopped breathing, her skin prickled with awareness. ‘You may preen yourself on being the exception that made me want to change my rule.’

‘In that case,’ Treeve said, ‘I shall have to introduce you to the composer when he arrives.’

‘Composer!’

‘Aha, now I’ve surprised you. I thought I might. To be honest, I’ve surprised myself. He arrives on the first, I believe. The lawyer is making the arrangements. He’ll be staying at the gatehouse.’

‘I saw the windows open a few days ago, I had quite forgotten. I had no idea you had any interest in music.’

‘I don’t, but Austol’s widow does. The idea was cooked up between her and Reverend Maddern, to offer the man a commission. She wants her piano moved there for him. A gift from Austol to her, apparently, not long before he died. She can’t bear to touch the thing, but from the fuss she made about it, I gather it’s special. Anyway, she wants the composer to have it. Cador Kitto, his name is, have you heard of him?’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m not particularly musical either. Do you know what sort of piece you have commissioned by proxy?’

Treeve grimaced. ‘A Christmas cantata, whatever that is, to be played in St Piran’s on Christmas Eve. Cador Kitto is a native of Porth Karrek. Reverend Maddern has known him since he was a child, and has been some sort of mentor to him. I’ve never met the man, he is a few years younger than I, and left the village when he was a lad, to attend a school of music. To my knowledge, he’s never come back.’

‘Until now. I wonder why.’

‘Oh, that’s an easy enough question to answer. He’s rather down on his luck, and in need of work. Reverend Maddern spoke to my sister-in-law on his behalf. She wrote to me, and under the circumstances I could hardly refuse.’

‘Is this Cador Kitto a famous composer? If it is an accomplished piece, you might acquire a name for yourself as a patron of music.’

‘Not a particularly useful attribute for a ship’s captain, though I suppose the commission will do me no harm with the local gentry, let them see that I’m not a complete heathen.’ The doorbell clanged. ‘That will be Miss Treleven, with a much more relevant commission for you, I hope,’ Treeve said, ushering her ahead of him into a large drawing room. ‘You can set your work out here, on the table by the fire. I’ll make the introductions, then make myself scarce.’

Emily wrapped the little trinket box up in a soft cloth and set it carefully inside the basket. Miss Treleven—Rosenwyn, as she had insisted—had commissioned some silver hair ornaments as a Christmas present for her younger sister Marianne. Her admiration for Emily’s work had been quite unfeigned, her delight in the sketches Emily had made for her most gratifying. She was going to make a point of delivering the finished pieces herself. It would make a very pleasant change, seeing Rosenwyn’s reaction to her work, rather than simply dispatching them and receiving, at best, a thank you scrawled on the invoice returned with her payment.

Rosenwyn, more a redhead than a strawberry blonde, was no simpering country miss, but a decided, rather sophisticated young woman with several London Seasons behind her—glad to have them behind her, was what she had actually said, for she could not bear to be away from her beloved Cornwall. Beautiful, clever and kind, if Treeve was looking for a bride, Miss Treleven would be perfect.

Emily wandered over to one of the tall, narrow windows which flanked the marble fireplace. The view outside was of the knot garden, looking decidedly dreary in the rain, which drifted down from the sky like a gauzy veil, drops so small they seemed harmless, but so fine they seeped into your bones. Cornish rain, Emily called it, turning her back on it. The fire in the hearth blazed brightly in comparison to the dull exterior. The walls of the drawing room were painted a soft creamy mushroom colour, a few shades lighter than the stained floorboards. The rugs and the curtains, the sofa coverings, were in complementary muted tones, the other furnishings minimal, drawing attention to the beauty of the ceiling which, like the others, was white-painted and ornately corniced. It was a lovely room, understated, tasteful and tranquil.