Return To Tremarth

CHAPTER II

SHE was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace when he drove up in his car the following day. It was a silver-grey Italian car, and one that was built for speed. When Tremarth alighted from it, also wearing a rather pale shade of grey, there seemed to the watching eyes of Charlotte something lean and almost greyhound-like about him.

He ascended the worn steps of the terrace in a single bound, and stood beside her in the sunshine. He smiled at her in the faintly onesided way that he had smiled at her the evening before.

“I saw you leave,” he said. “I hope you didn’t feel as if I was trailing you.”

She glanced up at him in some surprise.

“Good gracious, no…why should I?” She didn’t know why but with his eyes regarding her somewhat critically – or so she thought

– she felt nervous and a trifle awkward. For no reason at all, she had dressed herself with particular care, and the morning itself was not any fairer than she was, with her warm creamy skin that went with her red-gold hair overlaid with just the faintest tinge of pink.

There was no doubt about it, she felt on the defensive, and there was a crispness in her speech that made her voice sound rather hard and waspish. She was wearing a slim dress of light blue silk, and her small feet were encased in neat white shoes with a medium heel. She had decided against the sort of beach-kit she had brought with her, and which she had intended to wear on such a delightful June day, because somehow she had suspected that Richard was looking upon this visit as a formal affair. And as the new mistress of Tremarth she wanted to be formal, too.

“Will you come this way,” she said. She led the way through open French windows into the drawing-room. It was the loveliest room in the house, and he must have remembered it. She saw his eyes rove round it appreciatively, and his head went back restlessly. The room was in shadow, for that side of the house did not get the full blaze of the sun until the afternoon, but dimness suited this room, for it was a kind of oasis of tranquillity, with white-panelled walls and a quiet grey carpet covering every inch of the floor space.

There were chairs and couches upholstered in silvery-grey damask and brocade, a waterfall of silver-grey damask at each of the windows, and some delightful side tables and charming pictures on the walls… There were- cabinets full of china and the kind of bric-a-brac a house accumulates over the years, a chessboard with carved ivory pieces set out on one of the tables, and a baby grand piano.

Tremarth walked up to it and tried the notes, with a smile of appreciation curving his lips.

“I remember this,” he said. “I remember strumming on it on several occasions when your aunt was out of the room.”

Charlotte did not answer.

“The room is very much as it always was,” was all she said.

Then she turned and led the way into the dining-room, which adjoined at right angles the drawing-room. It, too, was very much as it had always been – except that some of the more valuable pictures had been sold in recent years. There was a magnificent long dining-table of highly polished mahogany, a side-board that should have gleamed with Georgian silver only most of it was badly tarnished and awaiting the ministrations of someone who loved silver, and a very handsome fireplace with a portrait above it.

Richard Tremarth glanced up at the portrait, and then stood rather rigidly in front of it for several seconds. Charlotte glanced at him almost apprehensively, for she knew that the portrait above the mantelpiece represented a Tremarth – one of Richard’s direct ancestors.

He was a portly gentleman in an eighteenth-century wig, and from the uniform he wore he must have been an admiral. Richard appeared transfixed by him and his florid complexion and light grey eyes – actually not at all unlike Richard’s own, save that they held rather more of a nautical twinkle. Charlotte could picture him inhaling snuff and being very gallant to the ladies. Richard Tremarth had his back to her, and so far he seemed scarcely aware of her presence.

“I think my Great-Aunt Jane must have bought Tremarth complete with contents when she took it over,” she observed. “A lot of the things here she added to it, of course, but much of the furniture went with the house.”

Tremarth nodded – a little grimly, she thought.

“That is correct,” he-said. “Miss Woodford took the place over lock, stock and barrel. My Great-Uncle Joseph was in financial difficulties, and he had to part with the place.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then it occurred to her that really she was not sorry.

Waterloo accompanied them from room to room as they made their inspection of the house. Charlotte was very devoted to her dog, whom she had rescued from rather an unhappy way of life, and she had felt her spine stiffen with resentment when Tremarth had at first ignored her favourite companion. But after padding behind them up the stairs on their way to the first floor, Waterloo managed to insinuate himself alongside the tall, aloof figure in immaculate grey, and when they looked into the magnificent master suite which Aunt Jane herself had occupied before she went into the nursing home, the dog’s cold nose accidentally brushed against Tremarth’s hand, and he looked down in surprise that resulted in his whole face becoming illuminated by a smile.

“Hullo, old chap,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Waterloo,” Charlotte answered for him.

Richard’s eyes gleamed, and his white teeth flashed engagingly in contrast with his deeply- tanned skin.

“An unusual name for a dog,” he remarked, “but highly suitable for an occupant of this house.”

And Charlotte knew he was thinking of the admiral downstairs, and of the various military gentlemen whose portraits adorned the walls, and perhaps of one or two of the very elegant Regency ladies who must have tripped up and down the stairs – such a splendid curving staircase. She went ahead of Tremarth into the nursery wing, and showed him the room in which she herself had once slept. There was an old rocking-chair leaning a little decrepitly in front of the nursery fireguard, and on the bookshelves there were still dogeared copies of the books she had thumbed years ago while searching eagerly for the colourful prints they contained.

Richard, in very much the same manner that he had tried the keys of the piano, selected one of the books and opened it at random. It was a very early copy of Through The Looking Glass, and Charlotte felt ashamed when she recognised her own handiwork with a crayon. Almost defiantly – because she felt sure he would be critical – she told him:

“I did that! ”

Very much to her surprise he looked up at her and smiled – and it was the nicest smile she had yet seen on his face.

“You would,” he said, almost as if he was humouring her. “You were a very diligent young woman with a pencil, I remember. Only unfortunately you didn’t make much sense! ” They returned to the ground floor of the house, and she had the feeling that he was clearing the decks for action, as it were, and getting down to the real reason why he had happened to visit Cornwall at the same time as herself.

He started to prowl restlessly up and down the hall, which was now flooded with sunshine because the front door was standing wide open to all the brilliance of the morning. He had a habit of taking long strides, and his footfalls rang firmly on the floorboards. The long shafts of sunlight played over him and his erect figure. Charlotte was, in spite of herself, fascinated by the shimmer of his sleek dark hair and the faint ripple of a wave that there was in it. She experienced a fancy that one of his forebears on the wall appeared to be looking down at him with benevolence.

“Well now,” he said, stopping short in his pacing and swinging round to confront her, “I might as well tell you why I’ve taken up so much of your time this morning. It wasn’t solely because I wanted to renew my association with Tremarth.”

“No?” She looked up at him in a very level and direct way, while almost absent-mindedly one of her hands played with Waterloo’s ears.

“No,” The light friendliness had gone, and his expression was purely businesslike. “I won’t beat about the bush, because no doubt your time is valuable as well as my own. I want to buy Tremarth – and I want to get the details settled up as quickly as possible.” “What!”

She looked as if she was not entirely certain she had heard him right.

He repeated:

“I want to buy Tremarth. I’ll give you any price you care to ask for it. You may or may not know that I’m not a poor man, and money as such means little to me. Just name your price, and you can have it. Of course I’d like to have the furniture, too – or most of it!

– and your price must cover that. It might be better if you get someone to value it for you, although my firm, which deals in priceless antiques and distributes them all over the world, can undertake that job for you. I give you my word they will be completely fair and there is no possible danger that your interests will be disregarded. They will, in fact, have instructions beforehand to be meticulously fair, and after that I can assure you I shall be over-generous rather than under. So how soon would it be convenient for me to send someone down?”

Charlotte was more fascinated by his flood of eloquence than by what he was saying. He had conducted his tour of the house in almost oppressive silence – apart from the one or two observations he had made and the remarks he had flung at Waterloo; but now, it seemed, he could not repeat himself too often, and it was his repetitions that finally secured Charlotte’s full and amazed attention.

She took Waterloo by the collar and shut him out on the terrace; then she said to Tremarth that he had better-return with her to the drawing-room. A little impatiently, for one who admired the place so much, he accompanied her.

Once inside the room Charlotte assembled her brightest wits and delivered what she personally considered a particularly final type of speech.

“I don’t know what gave you the idea that I might be willing to sell this house, Mr. Tremarth, but I do assure you I have no such intention of parting with it. At any rate not for the moment. A few months from now I may have come to some decision about the house, but for the present I’m well content to try living in it – despite the fact that they may be a little difficult.”

“It will certainly be extremely difficult.” His brows were bent and he was gazing at her as if he simply could not credit the evidence of his ears. “For one thing, it badly needs modernisation… and I don’t suppose you have any domestic staff available?”

“I believe there’s a daily woman who comes up from the village to open the windows and remove the surplus dust – that sort of thing.” She smiled at him as if she fully realised how inadequate that kind of assistance might turn out to be. “And a friend is coming to stay with me for a few weeks, so between us we shall manage. In fact, I’m looking forward to giving the place a magnificent spring-clean.”

She walked across to the piano and ran her finger across the ebony top of it. She held it up for his inspection.

“See? The daily woman isn’t all that good.” “Good?” His voice sounded explosive. “You could hardly expect a village woman to keep this place as it should be kept – ”

“I don’t.” She continued to smile at him, almost sweetly. “That’s why I’m looking forward to the arrival of Hannah Cootes. As a matter of fact, she’s on her way down from London at this very minute… I’m picking her up at the station this afternoon.”

“And you won’t sell?”’ His voice was hard and icy.

“I’ve told you, not at the moment. If you like to contact the local estate agent in, say, three months’ time, you might possibly discover that I’m open to offers.”

“I can make you my offer here and now. You’ll never get anyone else to be so generous!”

“Why not?” She leaned against the piano and. regarded him with a bright and curious gleam in her eyes. “After all, you may be rich

– and presumably because you’re rich you don’t want to do anything with the house, such as turn it into a hotel – but there are all sorts of people motivated solely by the eagerness to make money who might see in Tremarth a very valuable property. You must admit it would make a wonderful hotel or country club – ”

She was quite alarmed by the bleak ferocity of his expression.

“If you turn Tremarth into something of that sort, I – ” He drew a long breath. “I simply won’t allow it! ”

“You can’t prevent me, Mr. Tremarth,” she reminded him sweetly.

He took a few obviously agitated turns up and down the room, and then returned to her with his pocketbook in his hand. From it he removed an impeccable slip of pasteboard and placed it in front of her on the piano. She saw that it was beautifully engraved with his name and address in Grosvenor Square, London.

“I don’t think either you or your friend will find it very much fun housekeeping in a house with twenty bedrooms,” he observed in such a tight voice that she realised he was having difficulty controlling his temper. “At any rate, not after the first couple of weeks. So I’m leaving you my card in order that you can get in touch with me. I shall not get in touch with you again myself… but I feel fairly confident you will have a change of heart in a very short time from now – possibly within the next forty-eight hours! – and I have no doubt at all that I shall be hearing from you! It’s fortunate for you that I am a fairly patient man!”

It was not what Charlotte herself would have described him as, seeing the taut look about his mouth and the frustrated gleam in his eyes, but it was his impudent assumption at that moment that impressed her most, and because of the unmistakable red in her hair her temper rose.

“I think it is quite unlikely that you will be hearing from me, Mr. Tremarth,” she emphasised, “either within the next forty-eight hours or the next six months.”

He shrugged his shapely shoulders.

“I have warned you that I’m a patient man.” As if he had suddenly realised that his time was valuable and he was actually wasting some of it he turned away and headed for the drawing-room door. But before he reached it he remembered that he owed her something, and turned and delivered himself of some slightly acid thanks.

“It was good of you to show me over the house,” he pronounced stiffly. “I was not surprised to discover that it’s exactly as I remembered it – even to that coating of dust on the piano. I don’t think your Great-Aunt Jane was exactly well served by her domestics, but at least they were hardly a problem in her way.”

He strode out into the hall, and she followed him more slowly. Just before he disappeared into the blaze of sunshine on the terrace he cast his glance in her direction and wished her a formal good-bye.

She answered mechanically:

“Goodbye…” And then, with a dimple appearing at one comer of her mouth, she added, “Richard!”

Tremarth paused for a moment as if in surprise, and then continued on his way out to his car.

Charlotte drove into Truro that afternoon and met the London train, and the slight gloom that had held her since the morning evaporated when she caught her first glimpse of Hannah’s cheerful countenance.

Hannah Cootes had been her friend since her schooldays, and there was virtually no difference between them in age. But Hannah looked several years older, and she was one of those people who always struck everyone else as ‘sensible’. She had an outdoor complexion, short dark hair, and because of the closeness of her work she invariably wore glasses. She painted miniatures, and was already acclaimed as quite a competent artist. Charlotte, who always itched to take her in hand and dress her just a little bit more smartly, as well as set her hair for her and get her to experiment with one of the more reliable brands of cosmetics, felt her lips curving in amusement when she realised that Hannah had left London in the same old paint-stained corduroy slacks she used when she was working, and for luggage she had only a single suitcase.

Charlotte took it from her and assured her that she was delighted to see her.

Hannah apologised for the working clothes.

“But it was as much as I could do to catch the train, let alone furbish myself up a bit,” she admitted. Then, admiring, her eyes flickered over Charlotte. “But you look wonderful, as always! Why you ever bothered to start a typewriting bureau when you might have been modelling clothes I can’t think.”

Charlotte smiled at her.

“There are any number of girls who look good in clothes,” she assured her admiring friend, “but typing other people’s letters is one sure method of earning a living. However, my future plans are somewhat different now, and I may not return to typing letters. I shall probably sell out my share of the partnership and invest it in something else.”

“Oh!” Hannah’s eyes were bright and questioning as they walked towards Charlotte’s small parked car. “Such as what?” she enquired.

Charlotte glanced round at her almost impishly over her blue clad shoulder.

“Tremarth?” she suggested. “I had an idea this morning, and I may yet make it work!”

On the way back to Tremarth there was so much to talk about that Charlotte did not pursue for the time being whatever plan it was she had formed for the house that had once belonged to her great-aunt. And when they finally arrived at Tremarth Hannah was so full of admiration for its attractive exterior that it seemed a pity to introduce such a purely commercial topic as making the place pay when the new arrival simply wanted to reproduce it on canvas.

“It’s a lovely old house,” she declared. “It’s a long time since I had a go at a really large canvas, but to-morrow I’ll set my easel up on the terrace and see what I can achieve. Luckily I’ve brought several canvases with me – ” it had been difficult to find a place for them in Charlotte’s tiny car – “as well as my oils. I can see that I’m going to have a heavenly time now that I’ve actually arrived!” and she sounded really enthusiastic.

Charlotte smiled at her affectionately and led her inside the house. Hannah’s enthusiasm increased and she practically dissolved into rhapsodies over the splendid hall fireplace and the panelling that was so remarkably well preserved.

“If this house belonged to me,” she declared in a reverential whisper, “I’d settle down and live in it, and I’d never return to London.” “Ah, but you’re an artist,” her friend reminded her, “and artists can settle down almost anywhere if they like the surroundings enough. I’m a very practical person, and I think the kitchen is a bit of a problem… But you’ll discover that later on!”

They ascended the stairs to the room she had got ready for Hannah. It was next door to the one she had selected for herself, and they both had magnificent views, looking directly out to sea, and had the added convenience and touch of intimacy of sharing a bathroom.

Hannah spent some time examining the furniture and assessing its value from the stand point of one who was fairly knowledgeable about such matters, and then they went downstairs to the kitchen to make a pot of tea Waterloo accompanied them, and since he and Hannah were old friends it was a very satisfactory day for the old dog. In the morning he had met a man he had liked – although Charlotte was considerably at a loss to know why he had actually fawned on him. And now Hannah had contrived to stay with them, as evidenced by the luggage she had brought with her, and that gratified Waterloo very much indeed.

Even Hannah, however, was brought up a little short when she saw the size of the kitchen. A coach and horses could have filled it with ease, and left room for a team of outriders. The paintwork was decidedly drab, and the vast kitchen dresser was crowded with china that was unashamedly dusty. The daily woman during her tours of duty had obviously had little time to devote to it, and as Charlotte lifted cups off the hooks she carried them fastidiously over to the sink and washed them under a running tap before drying them on a clean tea-towel.

Hannah nodded in an enlightened way.

“Yes, I see what you mean.” She perched herself on a comer of the big centre table. “But I still think it’s a wonderful place, and you’re lucky it’s yours. Miracles could be achieved with a lick of paint in this kitchen, and I’m not entirely a decorative artist, you know – I can stoop to working with an ordinary pot of house paint, and in fact I’m rather good at it. I painted every inch of the woodwork in my own flat, and if you’d seen it before I did it you’d unhesitatingly acclaim me as nothing short of a miracle-worker.”

“As a matter of fact I did see it,” Charlotte replied. “I happened to call one afternoon when you were up to your neck in high gloss paint.”

“Then you’ll agree that I’m no mean performer, and my services ought to be utilised here. How soon can we get hold of some paint, do you think?”

“We could go into Truro again to-morrow… or we could probably get some locally.” “Splendid! Then let’s try and see what we can do locally.”

But as they sipped tea and ate buttered scones with strawberry jam at the kitchen table Charlotte felt the need to point out to her friend that it might be a wasted effort if they made an attempt to improve the distinctly drab appearance of the kitchen. For one thing, it would involve a lot of paint, and if they were to do the job properly they would have to scrub and treat the woodwork first, and the whole enterprise would take several days of united effort. Unless someone was going to live in the house afterwards – and she emphasised the word live’ deliberately – it seemed hardly worth it to exhaust themselves simply because Hannah was rather skilled at transforming dingy paintwork.

Hannah helped herself to another scone and added a generous topping of strawberry jam to it, and then looked along the length of the table at her friend with rather more of an alert look in her eyes.

“But you kind of implied you had some sort of plan to live here,” she reminded her.

Charlotte looked diffident.

“If I did, it probably wasn’t practical. In fact, I’m reasonably certain it isn’t in the least practical,” she replied.

“But it was a plan? You had some sort of brilliant idea?”

“In a way – ”

“Can you possibly afford to live here without doing something to make the place pay for its upkeep?”

“You know perfectly well that I can’t.”

“Well, then… What was this brilliant idea?”

Charlotte slipped a piece of cake to Waterloo, who demolished it in a flash.

“I dismissed the notion of running it as a hotel, because everyone dreams of turning their home into a hotel when they want to make it pay. And it’s not a very original idea, anyway… But I did think I might have some success if I ran it as a nursing-home.”

“A what?”

A faintly pained expression crossed Charlotte’s delightfully smooth and attractive face.

„I don’t know why you should be so surprised,” she protested. “After all, you have had some experience as a nurse. I mean, you did do two years as a probationer, didn’t you? And if you hadn’t become so obsessed with the idea of painting miniatures you might have stuck at it And although I know nothing at all about nursing I could look after the domestic side… and we could employ people! Just one or two,” rather more vaguely, “when the thing was going well enough to justify the expense. At first it might be a good idea if we catered for convalescent patients only.”

“It would be the only idea,” Hannah offered it as her opinion, without actually wishing to pour cold water on the scheme. “Unless you’ve got a large amount of capital tucked away somewhere you couldn’t possibly equip this place for really ill people. But I’ll admit it’s the ideal location for convalescence. Not only is the house perfect for that sort of thing, but you’re right on top of the sea, and you’ve got extensive gardens and are far removed from any intrusive sounds. It couldn’t be better, in fact, looked at from the point of view of situation – ”

“Well, then?” Charlotte enquired eagerly.

Hannah shook her head.

“For one thing, I’m not a qualified nurse, and I’ve got a job to do even if I were. And unless you’re hand-in-glove with a Harley Street specialist you’ll never get any patients.” “I could advertise,” Charlotte suggested with the same eagerness.

“You still won’t get any patients. Anyway, do you know anything at all about the doctors down here?”

“Not so far. But there must be one quite near. In fact – ” and she broke off.

“Yes?”

“There used to be one with a house down in the cove. He was my Aunt Jane’s doctor… a Dr. Tremarth. His people once lived here at Tremarth…” “How interesting.”

“And when I was a child I played with his nephew who came to stay with him.”

“More and more interesting,” Hannah commented. “In fact, quite absorbing. But I fail to follow your line of reasoning. You’re not suggesting that this Dr. Tremarth might still be functioning as the local G.P.?”

“Of course not! In fact, I know he’s dead.” Hannah’s eyebrows rose.

“Spirit healing?” she suggested. “Or has the nephew taken his place?”

Charlotte rose restlessly and started to prowl about the kitchen. She stood in front of the cold and empty range and regarded it dubiously as she decided to take Hannah more fully into her confidence. She told her about her visitor of the morning… the man who had once, as a mere gangling youth, carried her around her aunt’s orchard and helped her rob the apple trees of their fruit, and who was now so changed that it was difficult to identify him with that slightly besotted youth. For there was no doubt about it, at that time, despite the nuisance value that she had for him, he had been under some sort of a spell that she exercised… a kind of willing slave to all her more precocious whims.

She had responded by treating him with supreme childish arrogance… had pulled his hair and even kicked him at times, when she felt in the mood, and he didn’t come to heel immediately. It was true that at times he had looked as if he would like to give her a jolly good spanking. But he never had.

And now every time his grey eyes flickered over her they did so with a kind of contempt and she had the feeling that his only possible use for young women of her sort was motivated by the knowledge that she stood between him and something he desired ardently… far more ardently than his bleak grey eyes could possibly make one believe.

“He wants to buy Tremarth,” she ended with a bluntness that made the words sound almost brutal. “It’s his family home, and he wants it. And he’s got so much money that I simply have to name my price!”

Hannah sat forward as if her attention had been firmly riveted at last.

“And -?” she asked.

“I’m not going to let him have it. I won’t sell! ”

Hannah drew a long breath that was almost like a breath of acute relief.

“I’m glad,” she said. “If you sell the place I won’t be able to come and stay here… and I’ve every intention of spending my summer holidays here for the next ten years. After that, we’ll see. I’ll probably try Bournemouth, or somewhere like that.”

Charlotte looked very nearly as relieved as her friend sounded.

“Then you do think I’m not just being awkward refusing to sell?”

“Of course I don’t… For one thing, you’ve hardly had a chance yet to find out whether you like it here, and even if you do ultimately sell you ought to allow yourself a brief respite in which to enjoy your sudden inheritance. Your Aunt Jane would probably haunt you for the rest of your life if you handed the place over to a stranger immediately because the colour of his money dazzled you – ”

“But Tremarth isn’t a stranger! His people once lived here.”

“Yes, you’ve already explained that to me. But if family pride is one of their principal virtues why did they ever part with the house in the first instance?” “They were probably hard up -”

“But this young man is rich! ”

Charlotte remembered that Richard had always given the impression of being rich. And, in fact he had admitted it.

“I believe it belonged to another branch of the family. In fact I’m almost sure it was his uncle who sold the place to Great-Aunt Jane.” “Then your great-aunt was probably doing him a service when she bought it.”

Charlotte looked doubtful.

“Aunt Jane wasn’t even Cornish!”

Hannah smiled at her and waved her hands in the air.

“Don’t be sentimental,” she implored. “A business transaction is a business transaction, and at the moment the house is yours. My advice to you is to hang on to it… for a while, at least. I realise you haven’t the money to live here in the same way that your great-aunt lived here, but that doesn’t mean you have to rush into a sale because someone else insists on it! I don’t like the sound of this man one bit. He sounds arrogant and inconsiderate, and he must have followed you all the way down from London when you left it. You say that he was actually staying at the local inn when you arrived?”

“I found out later that he had booked a room by telephone and arrived about half an hour before me.”

Hannah frowned.

“I hope you left him in no doubt that you were unlikely to change your mind?”

“I did.”

“And if he comes here pestering you again I’ll help you deal with him.” Nothing further was said that night about turning Tremarth into a convalescent home, but before they went to bed Hannah put an arm somewhat clumsily about Charlotte’s shoulders and squeezed affectionately.

“When in doubt, do nothing,” she advocated. “Get your bearings… and leave it to your Aunt Hannah to think out some escape from your difficulties if the problem really arises! And now I feel so tired, as a result of all this good sea air that is filling the house, that I expect to sleep like a log in my four-poster bed, and I hope you’ll do so in yours!”

The two girls parted outside Charlotte’s door, and while Hannah went to test the temperature of the bath water in their adjoining bathroom Charlotte walked across to her window and stood looking out across the open expanse of cliff on to which the rambling gardens of Tremarth abutted, and straight out to sea.

It was rather a cloudy night, and there was no moon at this hour. She remembered that on the previous night Richard Tremarth had said he was waiting for the moonrise to discover some of the old familiar places he had known when he was a boy.

She had actually seen him walking on the sands below the inn, and had wondered whether he would have the audacity to peer into darkened caves in which he had once pretended he was a smuggler, or venture into the silent woods that crept down with the creek to the murmuring seas’ edge. She was absolutely certain those woods had figured very largely in his activities when he was a boy, and as this was a nostalgic pilgrimage he was making

– apart from his intention of acquiring Tremarth – he would not overlook one tiny comer that could be revisited, especially once a cold round moon stole up out of the sea.

Charlotte was about to draw her curtains over her window when her eye was caught by something on the cliff top, and she went closer to the glass to concentrate her full attention upon whatever it was. In the end she decided that it was a stationary beam of a pair of dipped car lights, and the vehicle itself was quite indistinguishable in the gloom. She stood listening to the booming voice of the sea breaking on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs, and while she did so the car lights moved slowly forward until they disappeared like pale sword- thrusts into the night.

The last thing she was able to make out before the car finally disappeared was a twinkling rear light that reminded her of the twinkling eye of a ruby under the slow-moving pall of thick white cloud.

The mass of cloud moved out to sea, and the stars shone forth and the motionless surface of the sea became irradiated by a diffusion of moonlight that appeared to be made up of glittering diamond points and mellow primrose light. Impulsively she thrust open her window and leaned out, and the moonlight poured across her hair and gilded the coppery curls.

Below her the gardens were tranquil and sweet, with night. There was a smell of roses floating in the cool night air, and the short sweet turf almost immediately below her window exuded a kind of incense. She felt slightly bemused by the beauty of it all, and she leaned there far longer than might have been wise considering the slight nip from the sea and the feeling of prevailing moisture gathered beneath the centuries-old trees.

Tremarth, she thought…A lovely home that the members of the Tremarth family who had once had the pleasure of living in it must have cherished in the same way that some people – particularly women – cherish jewellery and lovely clothes. She herself had never possessed any valuable jewellery, and most of her clothes were fairly simple because she was unable to afford couture models. But if she had to choose between a Paris wardrobe and the opportunity to go on living in this graceful house that was now hers by right…

“I’d choose Tremarth,” she thought, running her hand lovingly over the sill of the window. “I wish somehow it would become possible for me to go on living here at Tremarth!”