HIGH TIDE AT MIDNIGHT (2 page)

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 hi£ 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 light- hearted 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

month, 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 Trevermon 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

four 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