Pamela Sherwood (5 page)

Her wanderings had brought her to the alcove where her favorite chair stood. Sinking into it, she stared unseeingly out the window at the night sky. Her thoughts still swirled and seethed inside her head like a troubled sea.

A faint tug at her hem and a questioning mew made her look down. Tatiana, awakened by her mistress’s restlessness, sat at her feet, gazing up at her with unwinking green eyes. Sophie smiled and lifted the little cat onto her lap. Tatiana turned about a few times, kneaded Sophie’s knees with her tiny needle-sharp claws, then settled down at last, purring.

There was something inherently soothing about stroking a cat. Tatiana’s grey fur was as dense and thick as velvet, and her warm little body vibrated with her purring—as good as a hot water bottle any day. Sophie continued to stroke, her whirling thoughts finally achieving some semblance of order and coherence.

Robin.

She remembered when they’d first met, at Roswarne, during that party for New Year’s Eve. How he’d fascinated her, that tall, spare young man with the arresting blue eyes, who’d stared at her as though she was the only woman in the world. How eagerly she’d anticipated their first dance, their shared supper after—and how disappointed she’d been later to learn he’d slipped away without saying good-bye to her.

A girlish infatuation, she’d told herself at the time. A passing attraction to a handsome newcomer that would fade with subsequent meetings and increased familiarity.

If only it had been so… for both their sakes.

To go or not to go. To keep tomorrow’s tryst—or stay away, sparing herself and Robin the pain of their countless “might-have-beens.”

Sophie breathed out a long sigh, set Tatiana on the floor, and rose slowly from her chair. Impossible to decide now, with her thoughts and feelings in such turmoil. She should sleep—or try to. Perhaps tomorrow she would see her course more clearly.

But when morning came, she was no closer to a decision.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate.

The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;”

And the white rose weeps, “She is late.”

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Maud”

He would
not
look at his watch again, Robin told himself sternly.

He knew already that a good twenty minutes had passed since his arrival at Hyde Park. He also knew there were several possible reasons why Sophie had not yet come, including the lateness of last night’s concert and the earliness of this proposed meeting. Those weren’t the reasons that gnawed at him, of course, but he did his best not to dwell on
those
.

Beneath him, the horse—a serviceable chestnut gelding—sidled and snorted, his breath forming a faint cloud on the misty air. A cool morning for July, fog hovering like a veil over the trees lining either side of Rotten Row.

He gentled his restless mount, patted its gleaming neck, and murmured absentminded nonsense in a soothing voice. Of their own volition, his thoughts drifted back to that spring in Cornwall five years before. All the mornings when he’d waited for Sophie—first by chance, then by design. To see her riding up to him on her dapple-grey gelding, her green eyes alight, that dimpled smile he adored shining forth like a sunrise.

And other memories, slightly less chaste, as what had begun between them—despite his better judgment—gathered force and momentum. The pure curve of her cheek, the tender nape of her neck. The delicate scent of violets—her favorite—that always seemed to cling to her skin and even her hair. And the way her riding habit—plain and dark though it was—limned her developing form, hinting at high, sweetly rounded breasts and surprisingly long, slim legs. God, he’d have had to be stone-blind not to notice how the enchanting girl was becoming a woman, and afflicted with ice water in his veins not to desire her. Clandestine meetings, low voices—she knew the side paths where they could ride or walk undisturbed. Sitting with her on the rocks, watching the sea race to the shore…

A soft coo, followed by a rapid flutter of wings, broke the silence, and he glanced up to see a brace of wood pigeons flying overhead to nest in the trees. Sobered, he looked down again. The surroundings might be different now, but the feelings of anticipation were all too familiar. And the feelings of dread—the unspoken fear that one day Sophie would wake up, realize the folly of her girlish fantasies about him, and leave him waiting in the lane.

If she hadn’t known then what a poor bargain he was, she certainly knew now. The thought chilled him to the marrow, even as he acknowledged the very real possibility that she had changed her mind about meeting him. Some might think he deserved no better—and Robin included himself among them.

And if she did not come… well, he would live with that. Just as he’d had to live every day of the last four years without her.

He glanced up, without any real hope, toward Hyde Park Corner—and his breath caught.

Like a figure out of memory, slim and straight in a dark green habit, she rode toward him through the morning mist.

***

Hardly anyone was stirring in Hyde Park at this hour, Sophie observed as she urged her horse, a dependable bay riding hack, onto the sandy track commonly known as Rotten Row. Most of the fashionable would not make their appearance until the afternoon, when their horses and equipages would crowd the Row and the carriage track running alongside it.

Peering through the mist, she saw him, astride a chestnut hack. His dark head was uncovered, but even without that, she’d have recognized him. No other man had that tension to him, that restless energy simmering below the surface.

Her mouth dried and her heart pounded as though it would leap from her chest, but she made herself ride onward, reining in when they were just a few feet apart.

His eyes, blue and brilliant, met hers. “You came.”

“I did.” Her voice sounded clipped and curt in her own ears. “I gave my word, I believe?”

His lips curved in that faint, wry smile she remembered so well. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d chosen to break it.”

The ghost of other broken promises hovered between them. “Let’s not… speak of that just yet.” Sophie glanced back over her shoulder. “We appear to be the only ones awake just now.”

“I’ve heard Society won’t be stirring until noon at least. Shall we ride?”

Sophie nodded, and they set off together at a slow walk toward the west end of the Row, unwilling or perhaps afraid to break the silence. For a time, they could sustain the illusion that they were no more than any other lady and gentleman—polite acquaintances—taking the air together. Not thwarted lovers with years of carefully maintained distance between them.

Off to their right, the Serpentine rippled, its waters grey and sluggish beneath the overcast sky. If Sophie strained her ears, she could even hear the slow rush of the current.

Impossible not to remember other mornings, other rides. Meetings like these—only then she’d gone forth with eager anticipation, wanting only to see him again, whereas today… Her palms were damp inside her gloves and the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with what little breakfast she’d managed to choke down.

She stole a glance at Robin; his own face was somber to the point of stoniness. She knew that look of old, from Cornwall—the starkness in his eyes, the grim set of his mouth, closed tight against the secrets he’d guarded from all of them, even her. Perhaps especially her.

How hard she’d tried to breach his defenses, battering herself against them with the persistence of the sea dashing itself against solid rock! And how ridiculously, foolishly pleased she’d been by every morsel she’d managed to extract from him, how certain she’d been that someday there would be no secrets between them—only the trust and confidence that should exist between two people who loved each other as they did.

Seventeen could be an appallingly stupid age, she reflected mordantly. There were times when she could cheerfully have drowned her younger self and thus spared the world and posterity her adolescent folly.

Robin finally broke the silence. “You were splendid last night,” he said. “A credit to your training.”

“Thank you.” Her response was automatic, even mechanical, but she felt an eddy of warmth about her heart all the same.

“I was lucky to be in time to purchase a ticket,” he continued. “I understand your concert sold out quickly.”

She nodded. “My manager was pleased by that development. He thinks it’s because
The
Marriage
of
Figaro
was such a success last year.”

“I wish I had seen you in
Figaro
. But I read your notices in the London papers—I am pleased that you enjoyed such a triumph.” He smiled again, more easily this time. “Cherubino is a delightful role. I am sure you would make an enchanting Susanna too someday.”

“Well, as to that—I’ve had the chance to play Susanna,” Sophie confessed.

His brows arched. “Did you indeed?”

“It was while we were touring in America—New York. The soprano playing Susanna caught the grippe and was off for three nights. I was her cover, so I took over.” She found herself smiling too, reliving the mingled delight and terror of her first evening in the role. “It was frightening, but thrilling too. There are so many wonderful parts for women in that opera.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll sing them all,” he suggested.

“Perhaps.” Sophie changed the subject. “But there’s nothing duller or more insufferable than someone who talks of nothing but her aspirations. How is the hotel?”

“Prospering,” he replied, with evident satisfaction. “Your brother is relieved—and James too, I might add. The last few seasons we’ve sold out all summer. And I’ve been able to modernize further—there’s electrical light in the Grand Salon now, and I had a telephone put in last year.”

“I am pleased to hear it. I know how hard you’ve worked to make it a success.” All those plans and dreams. She had tried hard not to think of Pendarvis Hall these last four years, not to remember the exciting days after he’d first hatched the scheme, the private tour he’d given her, the garden where they’d kissed for the first time… and never the last night she’d been there. The night everything had come crashing down around them.

Robin was still speaking. “I think the staff is finally reconciled to what the Hall has become. It helps, I think, that we are so much in demand and our clientele no less sought after. Even in the off-season we have guests. We were nearly full at Easter, and we held a ball on Easter Monday.”

How strange this was, their exchanging these polite formalities: her career, his hotel. But what other subjects were safe?

She manufactured a smile. “You see? I knew that ballroom would be ideal for such an occasion.”

“So you said,” he acknowledged. “And we’ve held a few concerts there as well. Along with some smaller entertainments in the garden. The pavilion, to be exact.”

Another suggestion she’d made. The memory set a dull ache just below her breastbone.

She swallowed gamely, willing herself not to dwell on that halcyon afternoon five years ago. “Of course. I hope the weather did not turn inclement. You were always concerned about that, as I recall.”

“So far, our luck has held in that regard. Though our garden concerts are held only in spring and summer.”

“Very prudent.” Sophie’s hands twisted in her horse’s reins.

They were talking about the
weather
now, of all things. More of these polite inanities and she would go stark, staring mad. She glanced ahead, seeing the crossroads that divided Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens, and further on, the spired Gothic canopy of the Albert Memorial. Nearly to the end of their path… and the end of things they could discuss safely.

But it had to be said. There was no way to avoid the subject any longer.

Bracing herself, Sophie prepared to tear off the emotional bandage she had worn for the last four years. “And how is Nathalie?” She felt obscurely pleased when her voice did not waver. “How is—your wife?”

And saw by the way Robin’s eyes darkened and his mouth drew taut that the memory—of all they’d shared and all they’d lost—was burned as deeply into him as it was into her.

O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day;

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away.

—William Shakespeare,
Two
Gentlemen
of
Verona

Cornwall, April 1891

Of all the seasons in Cornwall, Sophie thought she loved spring the most. Almost May now, and the weather was, as always, changeable, but the temperatures were warmer, the breeze mild and carrying the most delicious scents of green, growing things. Gorse bloomed in bright golden profusion on the moors and along the cliff tops, and Sophie thought she’d seen some heather starting to put forth white and purple blossoms. There were fewer primroses and daffodils than earlier in the season, but the bluebells were now out in the woods and on the hillsides, transforming the ground underfoot into a shimmering carpet of lavender blue.

The gardens were also looking their best, in Sophie’s opinion. Her mother had always spent hours in the gardens at Roswarne, fussing over the flowers that prospered in Cornwall’s light, warm soil—lupines, hollyhocks, roses—and so far, they were generously repaying her attentions with a splendid show of color and bloom.

Sophie herself was in the grip of spring fever, rising early in the morning so as not to waste a moment of precious sunlight and going out to ride immediately after breakfast, as she had today. Even her beloved violin could wait a few hours until she had the fidgets worked out of her horse’s legs, as well as her own.

She patted Tregony’s dapple-grey neck as they rode along, wholly in accord with each other that such a morning should not be wasted indoors, whether in a stall or a parlor. Today would be perfect for a gallop or even a brisk canter along the beach, she mused. Intent on her plans, she didn’t notice the rider coming toward her along the lane, not until her horse tossed his head and whickered a greeting.

Startled, she looked up. “Mr. Pendarvis. Good morning.”

He reined in his horse—a fine-looking bay with black stockings—and touched his hat to her. “Good morning to you, Miss Tresilian. You’re abroad early today.”

“Well, it was so lovely when I awoke this morning that I simply had to take advantage.” Sophie paused, feeling just a little shy. Oh, they’d met several times since that New Year’s Eve party, for he and Harry had become good friends, but it had been a while since she had spoken to him without anyone else about. She couldn’t help but remember how congenial a companion he’d been that night, how easy to talk to, and wishing… But that was neither here nor there, she told herself hastily. Aloud she said, “You’re up quite early yourself, Mr. Pendarvis.”

“Indeed. I’m trying to get into the habit of riding every day,” he explained. “It’s been years since my great-uncle rode, and the horses need the exercise. So do I, for that matter. I should soon become as fat as an alderman if I took a carriage everywhere.”

Sophie stifled a giggle. It was hard to imagine anyone as lean and spare as Mr. Pendarvis putting on that much weight. “Do you often come this way?”

“Well, I don’t know St. Perran well enough to say I ride here often, but this seemed a promising track.” He patted his horse’s neck. “At least Gorlois seems to like it.”

Sophie smiled. “Never fear. If you ride out often enough, you’ll come to know the whole county like the back of your hand. We’ll make a proper Cornishman of you yet.”

He smiled back, a softening of those severe lips that made him look quite a bit younger. “Your brother has promised something similar, so I am resigning myself to my fate.”

She raised her brows. “Willingly, I trust?”

“Willingly and happily, I assure you.” He patted his horse’s neck again, his expression growing serious once more. “Still, there’s much to think of, especially now that my life has changed so much these last few weeks.”

“Of course.” A touch guiltily, Sophie noticed the black band encircling his upper arm. “We were all sorry to hear about your great-uncle,” she added quickly.

The funeral had taken place in early April. A rather quiet affair, as most of Simon Pendarvis’s friends and contemporaries had predeceased him, but the Tresilians had attended. So had several other notable families in the county, if only to meet the new owner of Pendarvis Hall. Sophie had noticed several young ladies eyeing Mr. Pendarvis speculatively during the funeral service and at the reception that followed. Calculating little things… Sophie had experienced a secret twinge of relief when he’d showed no particular interest in any of them.

“Thank you.” Mr. Pendarvis inclined his head. “Although I suspect death might have come as a release to him, in some respects. And at least it was a peaceful passing.”

“What will you do now? Settle permanently in Cornwall or go back to London?”

He did not reply at once. “I’ve been considering the former, but I still have a number of decisions to make—none of them easy. I thought a ride might clear my head.”

“Have you tried riding down to the shore? It’s not far from here, and I go there sometimes when
I
need to think. Something about the wind and the water always helps to blow the cobwebs away. I was heading there now actually.” Sophie hesitated, wondering if he would think her bold for asking, but ventured all the same, “Would you care to accompany me?”

“Thank you, Miss Tresilian,” he replied after a moment. “I should like that very much.”

Sophie smiled. “Right this way, then,” she said, and kneed Tregony forward, as Mr. Pendarvis and Gorlois fell into step beside them.

***

Riding at a brisk trot, they soon neared their destination. Mr. Pendarvis kept pace without any sort of problem, Sophie observed with approval. His position in the saddle was good, his back straight without being stiff as a poker, and his hands were light on the reins. Gorlois appeared to respect his mastery too, perhaps the ultimate testament to his rider’s skill.

They reached the margin of the beach, stony and covered with marram grass, then yielding to softer, finer sand after the first few yards. Catching the salty scent of the wind off the sea, Tregony tossed his head and snorted with pleasure, while Gorlois flicked his ears and stood staring at the great expanse of bounding water in the distance.

Mr. Pendarvis stroked his horse’s neck as they ventured onto the sand. “I’ll wager it’s been a while since he’s been near the sea. I hope it doesn’t make him nervous.”

“Oh, I daresay he’ll remember, by and by,” Sophie assured him. “Especially if you start riding him here more often. Our horses all love the beach.”

She glanced at the wide stretch of pale gold sand now before them, and bit back the temptation to say “Race you,” as she might have to one of her brothers. “Shall we canter?”

Mr. Pendarvis was willing and they urged their horses forward to a brisker pace, speeding up to a canter once they reached the water’s edge. And suddenly, without a word exchanged between them, they
were
racing, breaking into a full gallop, side by side along the shore. The stiff ocean breeze whistled in Sophie’s ears, stung the blood into her cheeks, as Tregony’s hooves thundered beneath her. Breathless and half laughing in sheer pleasure, she glanced at her companion and was surprised by a grin, wide, brilliant, and utterly unguarded, that transformed that too-serious face into something almost boyish—and devastatingly attractive.

It wasn’t just the race that had her short of breath now. Flushing, she concentrated on pulling ahead, but he kept pace with her, Gorlois matching Tregony stride for stride.

They pulled up at last, panting and laughing. And Mr. Pendarvis’s laughter was every bit as potent as his grin, Sophie discovered.

“I’d say we call that even, wouldn’t you, Miss Tresilian?” he remarked, patting Gorlois’s gleaming neck. The bay gelding snorted, his earlier misgivings about the water gone, clearly keen to go on racing.

“A draw, I confess it,” Sophie gasped, holding up a hand as Tregony sidled and danced beneath her. “Oh, dear—I think I’ve got a stitch in my side!”

“Then we’ll stop at once,” he said with instant solicitude. “Do you need some help down from the saddle?”

Sophie felt her heart give a curious sort of flutter that had nothing to do with the race they’d just run. She took an extra moment to reply, letting her breathlessness mask her confusion. “Thank you. I would be glad of some assistance.”

He swung down from the saddle—very smoothly, a part of her mind noted—and then came around to her side. Sophie slipped her leg from around the pommel, then turned to descend into his waiting arms.

His hands caught her about the waist and lifted her down as if she weighed nothing at all. Strong hands, with a firm grip; she felt their warmth even through his leather gauntlets and her woolen habit, and an answering warmth flooded through her from head to toe. Flushing again, she looked down as he set her lightly on the sand.

“All right then, Miss Tresilian?” he asked, stepping back a pace.

“Yes, thank you.” Sophie wondered if she still sounded breathless. His body was mere inches from hers: lean and hard-muscled—sparer than those of her brothers’, whose frames tended to the compact, even solid. Mr. Pendarvis was built more like her cousin James, though James had never affected her in this way, never set every cell in her body tingling with this heightened awareness. Nor had any other man of her acquaintance, however attractive, and despite her youth, Sophie had experienced her share of girlish infatuations. This was something else entirely: headier, and subtly dangerous.

And she was being exceedingly foolish, almost as silly as those girls who’d made eyes at Mr. Pendarvis at his great-uncle’s funeral, though she had some consolation in knowing she wasn’t anywhere near as mercenary. It was the man himself who compelled her: the sinewy strength of his body that moved with such loose-limbed grace, those strong, angular features, framed by thick dark-brown hair and enlivened by those intense blue eyes. And that element of mystery, of hidden depths below the surface of his rather infrequent smile. But however attractive she found him, Mr. Pendarvis was a friend and a neighbor, nothing more—certainly not someone to encourage the idle fancies of a girl barely out of the schoolroom. She stepped back, summoning what she hoped was a bright, friendly smile.

“Why don’t,” her voice husked slightly, so she cleared her throat and tried again, “why don’t we sit down on those rocks over there until we’re recovered our breath? The horses could probably use the rest as well.”

He agreed, and they made their way up the beach to where a cluster of large rocks stood, gathering warmth in the sun. Sophie sat down on one with an obligingly flat top, twitching the skirts of her habit into place. Mr. Pendarvis leaned against the rock beside hers, and they watched the sea in companionable silence while their horses stood nearby, nosing at heaps of beached kelp and other sea-borne flotsam.

The sea was a clear blue today, laced with green—like a piece of shot silk Sophie had once seen in a shop window. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying raucously, and cresting waves raced toward the shore, sending up columns of spray as they dashed themselves upon the sand.

Sophie stole a glance at Mr. Pendarvis. He looked such a different man out here in the open, relaxed and at ease as he seldom was in public. Just now, his expression conveyed only contentment, which sharpened into pleasure, even awe, as a towering wave struck the shore and flung a volley of foam into the air.

“I think the sea is putting on quite the show for us today,” she observed, smiling.

“Is it always so fine here, on the coast?” he asked.

“On the north coast,” Sophie told him. “It’s gentler on the south shore. Still lovely, but less dramatic. My mother grew up on the south shore, and we’ve gone to visit her family there, but I know in my heart I’ll always be a north coast girl. This beach is one of my favorite spots—of course, there are so many beautiful places to be found in Cornwall, especially in the spring.”

His smile warmed her, set her heart fluttering again. “And I’ll wager you know them all.”

“A good many of them,” she confessed. “But then I’ve lived here all my life. It would be very strange if I didn’t know my own county.”

“Have you ever thought you might live elsewhere someday? Most young ladies dream about going to London for their Season. Or even further abroad, to Paris.”

“Well, I am to have a London Season,” Sophie replied. “Next spring, Harry says. And I wouldn’t mind visiting Paris, and perhaps Italy as well—Florence and Milan. I should love to attend an opera at La Scala one day. But as for where I’d choose to live”—she made a gesture encompassing the sea, the sky, and the distant cliffs—“my heart is here, and always will be.”

“
This
is
mine
own, my native land
,” Mr. Pendarvis quoted with a faint half smile.

“Yes, that’s it.” Sophie tried not to sound self-conscious, or worse, defensive. “Perhaps that makes me a bit provincial, but—”

“Not at all. I think it must be very reassuring to know exactly where you belong.”

“I suppose it is,” Sophie said, after a moment’s reflection. “It goes back for generations, you see. There have always been Tresilians in St. Perran, and even further afield in Cornwall. You might come to feel that way yourself, eventually,” she added. “I understand that the Pendarvis name is a very old and respected one in the county.”

“So Great-Uncle Simon told me, any number of times.” His smile turned rueful. “I couldn’t help feeling that he disapproved of me a bit, for not growing up in Cornwall.”

“Well, that wasn’t anything
you
could control. Wasn’t your father a younger son?”

“A son of a younger son, and destined for the army, like his father,” he clarified. “But they were both born in Cornwall, and I swear, it must have got into their bones.”

“Cornwall has a way of doing that—getting into your bones
and
your blood.”

“So I understand. However far they traveled or wherever they served, my father and grandfather thought of Cornwall, and even Pendarvis Hall, as home.” He glanced wistfully toward the tumbling sea. “I hope someday I can say the same.”