High Tide At Midnight

Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.Trevennon had a dark and tragic history.As a child, Morwenna had listened to her mother's stories of Trevennon, her old home. Morwenna had pictured a castle full of the magic of love, standing high on the cliffs of Cornwall.So when tragedy struck the eighteen-year-old Morwenna, she fled to Trevennon. Contrary to her expectations, she found a house full of unhappiness and hostility – Dominic Trevennon's hostility.But strangely, Dominic capture Morwenna's heart as completely as her mother's stories had captured her imagination. Only this time, the story didn't seem to have a happy ending.

High Tide at Midnight Sara Craven

High Tide at Midnight

Sara Craven

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

CHAPTER ONE

‘WELL, I wish to make one thing perfectly clear at the outset. She cannot remain here.’

The new Lady Kerslake’s voice, almost strident in its vehemence, resounded plainly through the closed drawing room door, freezing Morwenna where she stood, her hand already raised to knock. A number of thoughts chased wildly through her head as she assimilated Cousin Patricia’s words—among them that it would be far more honourable to turn and walk away, pretending to herself that she had heard nothing, and that eavesdroppers never heard anything good of themselves anyway, but at the same time she knew that wild horses could not make her budge an inch. And it might be a relief to find out what her cousin really thought, as opposed to the saccharine sweetness she had been treated with up to now.

‘Oh, Mother!’ It was Vanessa speaking now, her voice slightly impatient. ‘You can hardly turn her out on to the streets. She has no training and no qualifications. You know as well as I do that she simply wasted her time at school. What on earth’s she going to do?’

‘That is hardly our responsibility,’ Lady Kerslake returned coldly. ‘She chose to neglect her opportunities. She can hardly complain now if they no longer exist. And it was up to her father to make suitable financial provision while he was alive. He knew quite well what the entail involved.’

‘Perhaps, but he could hardly foresee that he and Martin would both be killed in the same accident. Martin was the heir, after all, and he would have looked after Morwenna.’

Standing motionless in the hall, Morwenna felt a fresh stab of pain inside her at the casual words. But Vanessa was right in a way. No one could have foreseen on that bright autumn day, only a few weeks before, that before night came she would have been quite alone in the world, her father and brother both dead, victims of a freak collision with a lorry whose brakes had failed on the steep hill outside the village.

She had always known that the entail existed, of course. Had even laughed ruefully with Martin over the male chauvinism in this era of Women’s Lib of the insistence that the baronetcy and the estate should still descend through the male heirs only. The future hadn’t filled her with a great deal of concern. She was barely eighteen, after all, and more interested in having a good time than considering her future prospects. And her father had encouraged her in this. Always he and Martin had been there like bulwarks, and she had basked secure in the certainty of their affection and spoiling. Until that day—when the chill wind of reality had shown her how fragile her shelter had been.

The solicitors had been very kind, and had explained everything in great detail, including the fact that there was not a great deal of money for Cousin Geoffrey to inherit. Her father, she learned for the first time, had been speculating on the stock market and suffered some considerable losses. Given time, Mr Frenchard had said, he would have recouped these losses—his business acumen was considerable. Only he had not been given time.

During the weeks since the funeral Morwenna had felt that she was existing in a kind of curious limbo, and this impression had been emphasised with the advent of Cousin Geoffrey, whom she hardly knew, and his rather domineering wife, whom she did.

Cousin Patricia, she knew, had expected to find herself a wealthy woman and had been less than entranced with the true state of affairs, although becoming Lady Kerslake and occupying the house, a gem from the reign of Queen Anne, must, Morwenna surmised drily, have been some consolation at least.

At first she had been inclined to gush over Morwenna, but as the days passed, her manner had become more distant. Not that they had ever been close, Morwenna thought. And she had never been on friendly terms with Vanessa either, even though her father had insisted they attend the same school and had paid both lots of fees to achieve this. She had wondered since whether Vanessa had resented this, or whether her main source of grievance had been simply that her younger cousin had the ability to skate lightly over the academic waters where she had frankly floundered. Whatever the cause, Vanessa’s hostility had at times been almost tangible, and there had been little softening of her attitude since her arrival at Carew Priory. On the contrary, Morwenna felt at times that Vanessa was frankly gloating over the reversal in their fortunes. She’d had to be very careful over everything she did and said, making certain that Mrs Abbershaw the housekeeper went to Cousin Patricia for her instructions, even remembering to knock before she entered rooms where the family had gathered. Suddenly she was the outsider in her own home. Yet no longer her own home, as Lady Kerslake was reiterating with some force.

‘And I can’t imagine why you should be so concerned, Vanessa,’ she added with asperity. ‘You’ve never cared for her particularly.’

‘I don’t care for her now,’ Vanessa retorted waspishly, ‘but we have to consider what people will say, and her father and Martin were extremely well liked locally. We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.’

‘Indeed not.’ Lady Kerslake gave a deep sigh. ‘What a problem it all is! I had no idea the wretched child was simply going to hang around here aimlessly. Wasn’t there some talk of a painting school?’

‘There’s always talk of something where Morwenna’s concerned. But you’re right, she was supposed to be joining Lennox Christie’s class at Carcassonne this month. Whether he’ll be so keen to have her now that the fees are not forthcoming is a different matter. It’s a well-known fact that he fills up his class with rich dilettantes in order to pay for the pupils he really wants.’

Morwenna’s fingers, clenched deep in the pocket of the loose knitted jacket she was wearing, closed shakingly round the envelope she had thrust there not half an hour before. She had seen the postman coming up the drive from her bedroom window and some premonition had told her what he was bringing, and she had run down to intercept him. All the letters were taken as a matter of course to Cousin Patricia now before they were distributed to the appropriate recipients, and Morwenna knew that a letter with a French stamp would have attracted just the sort of attention that she least wanted.

And her sense of foreboding had been fulfilled. Vanessa might almost be a thought-reader, she told herself despairingly. Lennox Christie’s letter had been courteous but adamant. The work she had shown him at her initial interview in London, he wrote, did not justify him offering her a non-fee-paying place in his class as she had requested. However, he would be back in London in the spring, and she could always contact him then with any new work she had produced, so that he could review his decision. It was the final humiliation. The offer of a review in the spring was, she knew, put in as a salve to her damaged pride.

She had never had a lot of faith in her ability as an artist. She had inherited some of her dead mother’s talent, and had been the prize pupil at school, but she had had few illusions about how she would fare in the fiercely competitive art world if ever her livelihood depended on it. It hadn’t before, of course, and only a sense of utter desperation had prompted her appeal to Lennox Christie. She had sensed during their brief interview earlier that year that he had been unimpressed with the range of landscapes and still life she had shown him, but she knew at the same time that she was capable of better things, if not the touch of genius which had been stamped on so much of Laura Kerslake’s work. She had not mentioned her mother’s name to Lennox Christie. There seemed little point. Laura Kerslake had been dead for over ten years and she had painted little after her children were born. Besides, her work was no longer fashionable.

Cousin Patricia had said as much soon after she had arrived at Carew Priory. Morwenna had little doubt that those of her mother’s paintings which were hanging in the house would soon be relegated to an attic, and replacements sought for them in the trendy gallery in London which Lady Kerslake patronised. She had hoped very much that she would be long gone from the Priory before that happened.

She had never intended to stay there in any case. This was what made it so doubly hurtful to hear herself being discussed as if she was some parasite. She had always known that she would have to get a job of some kind. This was why she had been on her way to speak to Cousin Patricia, to ask, cap in hand, if there was any prospect of a job, however menial, at the trendy gallery. At least she had been spared that particular shame, she thought fiercely.

But that was all she was to be spared. Vanessa was speaking again. ‘And are you sure that she is just hanging around aimlessly? After all, she was seeing quite a lot of Guy a few months ago before all this happened. Perhaps she’s hoping to revive all that again and use him as a meal ticket for life.’

Guy’s mother gave an unfeeling laugh. ‘I can’t believe she’s that naïve,’ she exclaimed. ‘Guy may have paid her attention while Robert and Martin were alive, but the circumstances are different now, very different. Guy isn’t a fool by any means. She’s quite an attractive girl, I’ll grant you that, but if she’s hoping for anything more from him than just a casual affair, I’m afraid she’s going to be severely disappointed. Guy can do better for himself than a penniless cousin.’

Vanessa’s ‘Mother!’ was half laughing, half scandalised, but Morwenna waited to hear no more. She turned precipitately and fled back across the wide hall with its rich Turkey carpet and dark panelled walls, and up the gently curving stairs.

In the past few weeks, one room in particular had become her refuge—her mother’s small sitting room in the West Wing. This was one of the few places where Cousin Patricia and her ‘little changes’ had so far not penetrated. Morwenna slammed the door behind her, then flung herself down on the shabby brocaded sofa and gave way to a storm of tears. In a way, it was a catharsis she had been needing. She had hardly shed a tear at the funeral or afterwards, and had meekly accepted the tranquillisers that the doctor, worried by her pale face and shuttered eyes, had prescribed.

Now grief, humiliation and rage all had their way with her, as she lay, her face buried in the silken cushions. It was dreadful to contemplate how near, how very near she had come to falling in love with Guy. As children, they had been largely indifferent to each other on the few occasions they had met. Then, in the early summer, she had met him again at a party after a gap of several years. In fact they had hardly recognised each other, but the attraction had been, as she thought, instant and mutual. Now she had to face the fact that she had been the one who was attracted, and that Guy had only had an eye to the main chance. She pressed her knuckles against her teeth until they ached.

So many things began to make sense now, particularly the fact that she had seen so little of Guy since the funeral. True, he had been working, and only came down to the Priory at weekends, but even then he had held aloof. She had been grateful then, telling herself that it was respect for her grief that held him in check, but now she knew differently. It was simply that Guy had nothing to gain now in prolonging their relationship. She could only be thankful that she had never yielded to the frank temptation to turn to his arms for comfort.

She had sometimes wondered in the past why it had always been Guy who had drawn back in their lovemaking. There had been several times when she had longed for his kisses and caresses to sweep her away on a tide of passion past the point of no return. Now she wondered if it had been self-control which restrained him, or simply a disinclination to get too closely involved with her. Whatever his motive, it had been enough to keep her eating out of his hand all through the summer, she thought unhappily. In fact, she had come close to quarrelling with Martin on the subject. Martin had been unimpressed with Guy’s blond good looks, and had disliked his sense of humour which tended to poke sly fun at everyone outside the charmed circle in which he moved.

Guy was one of the few subjects they had disagreed on, and now she had to acknowledge that Martin had not simply been playing the heavy brother. He had been wiser than she knew, and she understood his motives now in encouraging her to apply for a place on the painting course. Apart from wanting to get her out of Guy’s way, he had been concerned about her lack of purpose in life, her lighthearted assumption that there would always be someone around to look after her. She was quite aware, without conceit, of her own attractions and knew there were few men who would not be drawn by her pale silky hair, twisted up into a loose knot on top of her head, and her large grey eyes with their long fringe of dark lashes. She supposed now that this was why she had been so easily taken in by Guy. She was accustomed to men’s attentions and admiration, and it had never even occurred to her that her good-looking cousin could have an ulterior motive.

‘What a fool!’ she whispered aloud, pressing her knuckles childishly against her streaming eyes. ‘What an utter fool!’

At last she lay quietly, her eyes closed, capable only of an occasional aching sob. She felt physically and emotionally drained, and she was scared as well. One certain thing had emerged from the unpalatable comments she had heard downstairs—she was going to have to leave the Priory, and fast. But where was she to go? Even the potential refuge of the painting school had been taken from her, and the remnants of her pride forbade her to ask for any kind of help from Cousin Patricia.

She sat up unwillingly, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face, while her brooding gaze travelled round the room, resting with a kind of painful affection on the few pieces of antique furniture that she knew her mother had chosen for this room when she had first come to the Priory as a bride. The fact that the chair covers were faded and the curtains and carpet had also seen better days only added to their charm. Above the white marble fireplace hung Laura Kerslake’s only attempt at a self-portrait, painted only a few years before her death. Morwenna’s eyes lingered on it with peculiar intensity, as if that serene face with the humorous eyes and the wryly twisted mouth, suggesting that the artist knew only too well that portraiture was not her forte, could provide her with some clue what to do for the future. She gave a small weary sigh at her own fancifulness, and her eyes wandered on past the portrait to the small group of landscapes on the adjoining wall.

Here, Laura Kerslake had been thoroughly at home. These were what Morwenna had always thought of as the Trevennon group. They were scenes done from memory of the place where Laura had spent her girlhood. Although she had been born and lived in London during her early years, the outbreak of the Second World War had caused her parents to seek a safer home for her, and so Laura, on the brink of her teens, had made a long, solitary journey to Cornwall to stay with some distant relatives. She had never returned to London. When the news had come that her mother and father had been the victims of a direct hit on their house during the Blitz, she had simply remained at Trevennon.

Trevennon. Morwenna climbed off the sofa and walked across the room to study the pictures more closely. Of all her mother’s work, these seemed more deeply imbued with the almost mystical, fey element which characterised it than any others. When she was small, Morwenna had gazed at the big, dark house on the cliff top with its twin turrets and tall, twisted chimneys and set her young imaginings of Camelot, of Tristan and Iseult among those sombre stones. Laura had laughed indulgently at such fancies, although at the same time she had pointed out that Trevennon owed more to the tin-miners than it did to any fabled knights and ladies.

Morwenna knew that the rugged coast nearby was littered with the remains of the mine-workings, and the ruined buildings and chimneys stood now only as the landmarks of a vanished prosperity. Trevennon, her mother had said, had been founded on that prosperity, but Laura had never given any hint as to what it owed its present subsistence.

In fact, when she looked, back, Morwenna realised that her mother had said very little about her life in Cornwall. But she had been happy there, or that was the impression Morwenna had always received. Besides, her own name was a Cornish one, and her mother would hardly have chosen it if it had revived any unhappy memories, although at the same time she was aware that her father had not approved the choice. ‘Pure romanticism’, he had called it, but with an edge to his voice rather than the indulgent note with which he usually greeted his wife’s whims. And he had used the same phrase, Morwenna remembered, when he had looked at the Trevennon group—the house on the cliff-top, the deserted Wheal Vaisey mine, the tiny harbour village of Port Vennor, and the cramped beach of Spanish Cove with the dark rocks standing up like granite sentinels against the swell of the tide.

‘Why do you say that?’ As if it were yesterday, Morwenna recalled the lift of her mother’s chin. ‘I wasn’t just painting a place. I was painting my youth, and all I knew then was peace, security and love.’ She had risen from the sofa and walked over to her husband, sliding her arm through his and resting her cheek against his sleeve. ‘I don’t doubt that you’re right, but leave me my illusions.’

‘Peace, security and love.’ As the words came back to her, Morwenna felt herself shiver. They were like an epitaph for her own hopes, she thought unhappily. Then she stiffened. A purposeful step was coming along the passage outside, and she turned to face the door as it opened. Lady Kerslake came in.

‘Oh, there you are, Morwenna. I’ve been looking all over the house for you,’ she said rather pettishly. ‘I was wondering whether you intended being in for lunch.’ She hesitated, then went on, ‘You see, Guy has just phoned to say that he’s coming down and bringing a friend with him and we thought….’ She let the words drift into silence and gave Morwenna a significant look.

Morwenna bit her lip. So Guy was bringing his latest fancy down to lunch, and his mother was checking to see that their inconvenient house-guest would accept the situation without showing that she cared, or making any kind of scene. Her temper rose slowly.

‘How nice,’ she said with assumed indifference. ‘But if my presence is going to cause any embarrassment I can easily pick up a snack at the Red Lion.’

‘Oh, my dear!’ Lady Kerslake’s lips parted in a smile of total insincerity. ‘As if we would expect you to do any such thing! What a silly girl you are, sometimes. Not, of course, that we would wish to interfere if you had made any plans. After all, you’re a grown woman now, and you have a life of your own to lead. It’s perfectly natural that you should want to be independent, and we don’t want to interfere, or feel that we’re holding you back in any way.’ She paused again, invitingly, as if waiting for Morwenna to confide in her. Her tone had been all interest and motherly concern, but Morwenna knew she would not have been deceived for an instant, even if she had not overheard that brief conversation in the drawing room. Cousin Patricia’s whole tone and attitude was hinting broadly that she had outstayed her welcome, and that they were waiting to hear what plans she had made to shift herself.

The humiliation of having to admit that she had no plans, and that even her embryo career as an artist had died an undistinguished death, was suddenly too much to bear. A germ of inspiration lodged in her brain, and before she could reason with herself or question the wisdom of what she was about to do, she spoke.

‘You really don’t have to bother about me any more, Cousin Patricia. I’d intended to tell you over lunch that I’m going away. I—I’ve been invited to stay at Trevennon—with my mother’s people—until I go to Carcassonne in the spring. The letter came this morning. It’s a wonderful opportunity for me. Cornwall’s a marvellous place for painters. My mother used to say that she got all the inspiration for her best work from her time at Trevennon,’ she ended, rushing her words nervously, as the thought occurred to her that Cousin Patricia might demand to see this mysterious invitation.

Lady Kerslake’s eyes rested wonderingly on the group of paintings over Morwenna’s shoulder, then came back to search her face rather frowningly. ‘Your mother had relatives in Cornwall? I wasn’t aware….’

‘Very distant relatives,’ Morwenna broke in. ‘Cousins heaven only knows how many times removed.’ Wildly she searched her memory for names that would add weight to her story. ‘It—it was Uncle Dominic who wrote to me.’ That was the name her mother had mentioned most of all. Dominic Trevennon who had taught the city-born girl to climb barefoot over the rocks, to row a boat, to fish, to lift the lobster pots and relieve them of their snapping contents. It had been Dominic too who had told her the legends that Morwenna remembered as bedtime stories. Tales of the ‘knackers’, the small malevolent spirits who inhabited the tin mines, whose tapping hammers presaged disasters, such as flooding or earthfalls. Tales of the galleon which had foundered off Spanish Cove during the storms that pursued the ill-fated Armada, and the gold it had carried, still to be found, Laura had said, among the sand of the cove by anyone reckless enough to climb down the cliff to search there and risk being cut off by the racing tide. And Morwenna had lain there round-eyed among the comfort of the blankets, hearing the screech of gulls and feeling the sand gritty under her bare toes as she delved among the shifting grains for the doubloons.

‘It all seems very sudden,’ Lady Kerslake was saying, her lips drawn into a thin line. ‘But I suppose you know what you’re doing. Have you met any of these—er—cousins before?’

‘No, but I feel I know them. My mother told me so much about them.’ Morwenna, guiltily conscious just how far this was from the truth, surreptitiously crossed her fingers in her jacket pockets.

‘Well, it’s very kind of them to offer you a home, under the circumstances,’ Lady Kerslake said sourly. ‘I do hope you won’t take advantage of their generosity, Morwenna. You can’t expect to be a burden on other people all your life, you know. But if it’s only until the spring, I don’t suppose it will matter too much.’ She gave a brisk nod. ‘Now, what about lunch?’

‘Oh, don’t bother about me.’ Morwenna’s nails dug deep into the palms of her hands. ‘I think I’ll go and see about my packing.’ Another meal in this house, she thought, would choke me.

‘As you wish,’ Lady Kerslake concurred, not troubling to hide her relief at the way the situation seemed to be resolving itself. She turned towards the door, then hesitated as if a thought had occurred to her. ‘If there are any of your mother’s paintings, Morwenna, that you would care to take with you, I hope you won’t hesitate to do so. Geoffrey and I were talking last night, and we agreed it would only be fair that you should have some keepsake of her, although there is no actual legal entitlement. I’m not suggesting, of course, that you should take any of the better-known canvases hanging downstairs, but if you want any of the pictures in this room you may have them. I don’t think they can be regarded as her best work by any means, but naturally they will be of sentimental value to you.’

If she had expected a show of delight, she was disappointed. Morwenna’s face was impassive and her few words of thanks merely polite. Lady Kerslake went away to arrange her lunch party reflecting that the girl was probably put out because she had not been allowed to take her pick of the more valuable paintings.

As soon as she could be sure that she had departed, Morwenna sank back again on the sofa, her legs shaking. She stared across the room at the painting of the lonely house on the bleak headland and her stomach contracted nervously. She thought wildly, ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’

She had always tended to be impulsive. It was a family trait, but it had never carried her to these lengths before. It had been impulsiveness that had led her to apply to the painting school. Many of the friends she had been at school with were rather desultorily pursuing careers as personal assistants or secretaries, but they seemed to be little more than glorified dogsbodies as far as Morwenna could see. Or they were helping to run boutiques, or serving in West End department stores. Somehow she had wanted more than that. And it hadn’t particularly pleased her when people said tolerantly, ‘Oh—Morwenna? Well, she’ll get married, of course,’ their eyes lingering appreciatively over her slender figure with the gently rounded hips and small, firm breasts.

She tried to control her whirling thoughts. After all, she wasn’t committed to going to Cornwall. Trevennon had been a let-out—the inspiration of the moment—something to save her face with Cousin Patricia. She didn’t have to actually do anything about it. Anyway, a wave of colour flooded her face, she couldn’t just wish herself on a group of strangers, in spite of her brave words to Lady Kerslake. She had no means of knowing whether the Dominic of whom her mother had spoken with such affection was still alive. He would be in his sixties at the very least, and the years that Laura Kerslake had spent at Trevennon would only be a distant memory.

She had sometimes wondered why her mother had not maintained contact with Trevennon over the years, but at the time it had never occurred to her to ask. She had been too young to consider the complexities of the situation, she thought, and after her mother’s death, too much probing into the past had never seemed quite appropriate. Besides, she had always had the feeling that her father had not shared her mother’s nostalgia for Cornwall. Nothing had ever been said, but the impression had been a strong one. Perhaps it had been nothing more than ordinary, and only too human jealousy of a time when she had lived and been happy without him, Morwenna thought wryly. Sir Robert’s love for his wife had been all-encompassing. But somehow she had felt the past was an area where she should not trespass with her questions, and now they could never be answered—unless of course she went to Trevennon herself.

She shook her head slowly, clenching her fingers together in her lap. She must stop thinking along those lines. The fact of the matter was that she was homeless, but that wasn’t the disaster it seemed. Friends were always flouncing away from the shelter of the parental roof after some devastating row or other, and they managed to survive. There were a number of names in her address book which she could call on in an emergency. People were always swopping flats, or marrying and moving out. There would be someone somewhere wanting another girl to make up the numbers. And there were jobs too. Not the sort of creative work she had planned on. For those she would need training—qualifications. But she would find something to do which would pay her share of the rent and food bills, and there were always evening classes she could go to.

She suppressed a grimace. It was a far cry from the spring in the South of France that she had envisaged, but she had only herself to blame. She was capable of far better work than that she had shown Lennox Christie. But she had known the money was there to buy her a place in his class, and she had simply not tried too hard. If she were trying now, it would be very different.

She took the crumpled letter out of her pocket and read it again slowly. While it held out no definite hope, it did offer her a second chance. But she would need to work very hard over the next few months to convince him that she had sincerity and application as well as talent, and wasn’t just another wealthy playgirl looking for an undemanding few months in the sun.

She got up restlessly and walked over to the window, staring out at the prospect of smooth lawns and leafless trees which unfolded itself before her. What she needed was a few months’ grace to do some serious painting, when what confronted her was the urgent necessity for job and flat-hunting. She tried to do some swift mental calculations, but the results were depressing. The pitifully small amount of money she had in her bank account would not be enough to feed and house her while she pursued this tenuous dream. It was time she recognised her hopes of a career even on the fringes of the art world as the fantasy they were, and got down to realities.

She sighed and cast a regretful look back over her shoulder at the group of paintings on the wall. Their appeal had never seemed more potent. If she took any of her mother’s work away with her when she went, it would be those and the self-portrait above the mantelpiece. But if she did take them, heaven only knew what she would do with them. She could not imagine them as a welcome addition to the decor in any of her friends’ flats. She supposed drearily they would have to be stored somewhere until she could find a proper home for them. Whenever that might be.

She was halfway to the door when the thought came to her. She stopped dead in her tracks and swung round again to survey the pictures. She might not be able to claim a temporary home at Trevennon, but surely, for her mother’s sake, they might be willing to store the paintings for her. If she took them down to Trevennon and explained the situation…. As long as she made it clear it was only a temporary measure. They would be far better there than locked away in some warehouse. And it might give the Trevennon family some pleasure too to know that Laura Kerslake had never forgotten….

There was some relief to be gained in knowing she had solved at least one of her problems, minor though it was. It was doubtful whether she would find such ready solutions for those that remained, nevertheless as she went to her room to begin to sort through her clothes and belongings, a tiny ray of hope began to burn deep inside her.

The next few days were not comfortable ones. Morwenna was thankful that she had announced that she was leaving in advance, otherwise she felt the atmosphere in the house would have been well-nigh unendurable. As it was, she could remind herself that the little barbs and snide remarks which came her way were only for a little while longer.

She had been totally ruthless with her packing. Most of her extensive wardrobe was now at the Vicarage awaiting the next jumble sale, and she had retained only the most basic elements. But this did not grieve her as much as parting with the childhood books and possessions that still occupied her bedroom. She had thought sentimentally that one day all these things could be passed on to her own children, but she knew she had to travel lightly, and the cherished articles were disposed of to the charity shop in the nearby town. She had soon reduced her possessions down to the contents of one large suitcase, while her painting gear was consigned to the depths of an old rucksack which she found in one of the attics. The Trevennon pictures and her mother’s self-portrait were carefully taken from their frames under Lady Kerslake’s eagle eye and made into a neat parcel.

Life did not become any easier with the arrival of Guy with his latest girl-friend in tow. She had dark, elaborately frizzed hair and a giggle that made Morwenna want to heave, but judging by Guy’s air of smug satisfaction, he saw nothing amiss.

Morwenna also had to cope with the added humiliation that Guy had obviously told this Georgina all about her, possibly with embellishments, and that Georgina’s reaction to the situation was to treat her with a kind of pitying contempt, mixed with triumph that Morwenna’s loss had been her gain.

Morwenna suffered this in a kind of teeth-grinding impotence, but she knew there would be no point in trying to convince Georgina that her relationship with Guy had been very much in the embryo stage, and that she was not stoically trying to conceal an irrevocably broken heart. It would have given her immense satisfaction to tell Georgina that she was welcome to Guy, and that her only regret was that she had not had the wit to see the truth behind his advances in the first place, but she knew that the other girl would not believe her.

However, it was Vanessa’s attitude that Morwenna found the most surprising. As the time approached for her departure, her cousin became almost cordial, even to the point of insisting on driving her up to London to catch the Penzance train. Morwenna accepted the offer, but she did not deceive herself that it was promoted by any new-found liking for herself. She suspected that Vanessa was taking her to the train merely in order to make sure that she was in fact going to Cornwall, and was seeking her company during her remaining hours at the Priory simply to enable her to avoid Georgina to whom she had taken an instant and embarrassingly open dislike.

Life at the Priory, Morwenna decided on reflection, seemed likely to become hell for man and beast quite shortly, especially if Guy decided to marry Georgina and her father’s money of which she spoke so often and with such candour, and in a way this helped to alleviate the pain of parting from her home. Nevertheless she cried herself to sleep each night, her tears prompted not merely by grief for the losses she had suffered but fear as well. It was all very well to tell herself robustly that no one need starve in these days of the Welfare State, but there was no escaping the fact that she had led a reasonably sheltered existence up to a few short weeks ago, and that what faced her was likely to be both difficult and unpleasant. Nor was it any consolation to remind herself of the thousands of girls of her age who were far worse off than she was herself. She felt totally and bewilderingly alone. From being the pivot on which the family’s love turned, she was now an outcast, and she felt all the acute vulnerability of her position.

But when the day of her departure actually arrived, she was relieved. She said a stilted goodbye to Sir Geoffrey in the study which had once been her father’s and was acutely embarrassed when he handed her with a few mumbled words a slip of paper which turned out to be a sizeable cheque. Blushing furiously, she managed a word of thanks and as soon as she was outside the door, she tore the cheque into tiny fragments and stuffed them into a jardiniere, conveniently situated on its pedestal further along the corridor.

Lady Kerslake returned to her former saccharine amiability, giving the impression that it was only Morwenna’s own intractability that was taking her away from the Priory. Morwenna, putting her own cheek dutifully against the scented one turned to her, wondered with a wry twist of her lips what Cousin Patricia’s reaction would be if she suddenly took her at her word and announced that she was going to stay.

Vanessa was waiting in the hall tapping her foot impatiently. She made no attempt to help Morwenna with her case or rucksack but walked briskly ahead of her to the car and sat revving the engine while her cousin stowed her luggage in the boot. Morwenna climbed into the passenger seat and looked steadily ahead of her. There was no point in looking back. The Priory was closed to her now and lingering backward glances as the car started down the drive would only distress her.

Vanessa gave her a sideways glance as they waited to emerge from the drive on to the road.

‘You’re a cool customer, I must say, Wenna,’ she remarked. ‘One moment you’re drooping about the place like Patience on a monument or something, and the next you’re off—and to Cornwall of all places! You must be completely mad. I mean, it may be all very well in the summer, except for the crowds, of course. But in winter time—my God!’

She paused but Morwenna made no response, so she continued, ‘I thought Guy might have made the effort to come down and say goodbye—especially under the circumstances.’ She waited again, but there was still no reply, and her voice was slightly pettish as she went on, ‘I suppose he thought if he made a fuss it might upset the frightful Georgina.’

Morwenna said calmly, ‘There was absolutely no reason for him to make any kind of fuss.’

‘Oh, come off it, Wenna.’ Vanessa put her foot on the accelerator and overtook a van on a slight bend to the alarm and indignation of its driver. ‘You know quite well that you and Guy had a thing going. It can’t be pleasant for you to see him with someone else. I don’t blame you at all for going off to lick your wounds somewhere—I think I’d do the same in your position. But if it’s any consolation to you, Mother was furious over Georgina. It’s been almost amusing watching her try to be civil to her. I think in some ways she would have preferred it if Guy had insisted on sticking to you.’

Vanessa hunched a shoulder. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. After all, you were pretty involved with him. He’s lucky to have got away as lightly as he has.’

‘Without having to make an honest woman of me, do you mean?’ Morwenna was controlling her temper with some difficulty. ‘Is that what you all think?’

Vanessa shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Well—not precisely. But Guy is sleeping with Georgina—and being utterly blatant about it, so….’

‘So naturally you all assumed that I’d fallen into bed with him with equal ease.’ Morwenna forced a smile. ‘I can’t pretend I’m flattered, or does Guy usually restrict his attentions to pushovers?’

‘Well, let’s say he doesn’t usually waste a great deal of his time on frightened virgins,’ Vanessa returned derisively.

Morwenna caught her bottom lip savagely in her teeth. ‘I see.’ She was silent for a moment. It was difficult to know which was worse—the assumption that she had been Guy’s pliant mistress or the alternative inference that she had not been sufficiently attractive to him for him to have attempted seduction. She would have preferred not to be ranged in either category.

She managed a light laugh. ‘Actually our relationship was based more on mutual convenience than anything else,’ she said, digging her hands into the pockets of her sheepskin coat to conceal the fact that they were trembling. ‘We—we both needed someone to be seen around with. And I don’t blame Guy at all for confining himself to ladies with money. Now that our positions are reversed, I’m doing more or less the same thing.’

‘You are?’ Vanessa gave her a slightly flabbergasted look. ‘I don’t follow you.’

Morwenna allowed her smile to widen. ‘Well, I’m not going down to Cornwall for my health’s sake, let’s say.’

‘Of course there’s a man,’ she said without a tremor, crossing her fingers superstitiously in the shelter of her pockets. ‘I’d hardly be travelling to the back of beyond at this time of year otherwise.’

‘Well!’ Vanessa’s tone was frankly congratulatory. ‘I always knew you couldn’t possibly be as innocent as you looked. Have you known him long?’

Morwenna shrugged. ‘Long enough,’ she said airily. Since I was a small child, she thought hysterically, in dreams and stories, and please don’t let her ask me how old he is or any other details. I don’t care if she does think me a gold-digger or worse. Anything’s better than being regarded as a charity case. And I’ll never see any of them again, so they can think what they like.

Vanessa was speaking again. ‘And do your plans include marriage, or is that an indelicate question?’

‘Oh, that would depend on a lot of things,’ Morwenna said hastily. ‘I—I prefer to cross that bridge when I come to it.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘And if I can persuade him to provide the money to send me to painting school next year, I may never have to cross it at all.’

‘I see,’ Vanessa said blankly. ‘Well, all I can say is that I wish you luck.’

‘Thank you,’ Morwenna laughed. ‘But I don’t think I shall need it.’ Her tone implied a total confidence in her own power of attraction, and for a moment she despised herself for playing Vanessa’s game, but what did it matter after all? They were never likely to meet again. Once she was out of the way, Morwenna guessed that her cousins would breathe a sigh of relief and put her out of their minds. In a way she could see their point of view. While she had remained at the Priory, they could never feel their inheritance was truly theirs. She was a wholly unwelcome reminder of the old days, and relations between the two families had never been on the most intimate terms.

But it was chilling to have to recognise that she was now alone in the world with her own way to make. There had been times, not long ago either, when she had inwardly rebelled against the loving shelter of the Priory, when she had been sorely tempted to thrust away her father’s and Martin’s concern for her and take off on her own like so many of her contemporaries. In some ways now, she wished she had yielded to the impulse. At least now she would not feel so bereft.

Later, as she stowed her solitary suitcase and her haversack, with the bulky parcel of canvases attached, on the luggage rack and felt the train jerk under her feet as it set off on the long run to the West, a tight knot of tension settled in the pit of her stomach. She watched the platforms and sidings slip past with increasing despondency. In spite of her brave words to Vanessa, each one of which she now bitterly regretted, she knew she might well be embarking on a wild goose chase.

She swallowed past a lump in her throat. The request that the Trevennons should store her mother’s pictures until she was able to come for them had seemed quite a reasonable one when she had first formulated it. Yet what right had she, a stranger among strangers, to ask any favours at all? Wouldn’t she have done better to have stayed in London and hardened herself to sell the pictures? That would have been the sensible thing to have done instead of tearing off on this quixotic journey to a corner of England she only knew from bedtime stories and a few romantic images on canvas.

She sighed unhappily. For better or worse, she had started on her journey and she wished very much that she could put out of her head the fact that someone had once said it was better to travel hopefully than to arrive.

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High Tide At Midnight - Сара Крейвен - High Tide at Midnight Sara Craven Читать онлайн любовный роман

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