Secrets of Nanreath Hall (10 page)

As spring made a tentative appearance in the hedges and meadows, my strength returned and with it, my desire to stretch my legs and wander, pad and paint box to hand.

On a particular nice day in the earliest weeks of May, I bid Aunt Adelaide farewell as I snatched a piece of toast and two or three pieces of bacon from the sideboard. “I'm thinking of walking toward the summit of Dumgoyne today. Cook's prepared a basket, so I won't be home for luncheon.”

She laid down her paper and reaffixed her spectacles with a troubled expression. “Ring round the moon means rain coming soon. You'll catch cold, and a red sniffly nose is never appealing in a young woman, Kitty. Besides, Sir Lachlan is due for dinner.”

“Then I shall see you by six and be sure to powder liberally and carry a handkerchief.” I gave her no chance to respond before I snatched one last sip of my tea and dashed from the room.

A groom waited with the dog cart and Cook's largesse, and soon I was bowling along the lane taking me into the rocky hills and wild meadows overlooking the estate. From my bedchamber, I had often watched the clouds riding heavy along the ridges to the north, and
this was my destination. The landscape's stark beauty and the odd combination of light and air that gave the whole area an ethereal quality would test my rusty skills and hopefully give me the space and quiet I needed to ponder my uncertain future.

Dumgoyne was farther away and the roads less direct than I had thought. It was early afternoon before I ascended the summit and was able to spread a blanket on the ground and set up my portable easel in preparation for work.

Despite a freshening breeze, the sun was warm on my back, and I soon shed my coat and rolled up my sleeves as I sought to paint the scene before me. My hat cast a shadow on the page, and I removed the pins securing it and laid it aside. Aunt Adelaide would be scandalized, but she was far below in the valley's bowl. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. I nibbled on a chicken wing, sipped at the flask of tea, and enjoyed the quiet away from my aunt's ringing bell and her overly officious household. I had yet to decide how best to deal with Sir Lachlan, but here I could concentrate on the wash of color across the paper and leave the rest to worry over later.

So caught in my own head, I never heard the spill of stones or the crunch of boots on the track until the back of my neck prickled and the acrid whiff of cigarette smoke itched my nose. I had no idea how he'd found me. Perhaps a talkative groom had a few extra pennies in his pocket this afternoon.

He hiked the final incline to where I sat, his figure dark against the pale green and silver of the hills. He used a stick for the last few hundred feet, and his curses rang out as the scree tumbled and slid beneath his feet.

“Damn, that was a brand-new pair of trousers. I remember now why I left for milder and less steep environs. Too bloody . . . rustic.”

I smothered a laugh as I turned to meet him, my insides jittery as I wiped my suddenly damp hands over my skirts.

He paused with a heaved breath, running an arm across his forehead to wipe the sweat from his brow. His dark hair clung to his scalp, and there was the shadow of a beard on his square jaw. “I hope you've gin in that flask. I'm parched.”

“Tea.” I handed it over.

Instead of the flask, he grabbed my wrist, dragging me to my feet. He was harder than I remembered, his body all muscle and sinew. Taller, too, I had to look up to meet his eyes, splinters of gold gleaming within the emerald green depths. “Welcome back, Mr. Halliday. How was Italy?” I said, dropping my eyes, suddenly shy.

He tipped my chin so I must look up into his face. “Lovely, and yet all I could think of was getting back to dreary old England as fast as I could.” He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close. I loved the way I fit against him, the smell of his skin, his sharp, angled brows drawn close as he studied me. “You're naught but bones.” He fingered a curl by my ear. “And so pale the light shines right through you. What the hell happened while I was away?”

If only Sir Lachlan's bearlike embrace affected me this way, how easy my life would be. I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Nothing at all. I was merely waiting for you.”

December 1940

C
harles says they live on bully beef and biscuits and he's already had to shake three scorpions out of his boots.”

“Ugh.” Tilly shuddered with disgust. “Sounds horrid.”

It was New Year's Eve, and Sophie and Tilly were helping Anna prepare for the night's village social with Hugh. Well, perhaps “helping” might be a stretch. Tilly sprawled on her stomach across her bed, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of sherry in the other, and a copy of
Tatler
open between her elbows. Sophie lounged in a chair, her hair in curlers, reading a letter from her fiancé. Anna rummaged madly through her wardrobe, looking for something even halfway acceptable for an evening out.

“He makes it sound like a grand adventure, but I know he's only doing it so I won't worry,” Sophie said. “Sometimes I wish I were there. Not to be with him, of course, but maybe Cairo or Alexandria, somewhere close. That way if the worst happened and he was wounded . . .”

“Try not to even think like that,” Tilly cautioned. “He'll be fine. You'll see.”

Sophie drew in a cleansing breath and gave a shaky smile. No one would admit it out loud, but all three knew the dangers he faced. One tried to lock the fear away and live as normally as one could, but grief hovered close and devastation was never far away. A sister on C ward received a telegram about her husband just last week, and there were two Home VADs who'd lost brothers. Anna grieved for Graham and Prue, but that pain, while still tender, was behind her. She didn't think she could live through that stomach punch of raw anguish ever again. She didn't want to.

“How's your yummy RAF flight officer?” Tilly asked, blowing out a thin stream of blue smoke.

And yet . . .

“He's not my officer,” Anna said a bit more sharply than she'd intended. She'd not seen Tony Lambert in months and spent most of that time regretting her unnecessary harshness. How could he have known she equated speaking of France with having her appendix removed with a dull fork? Smarter men than he had tried to get her to open up. Catharsis, they called it. She called it prying and buried her feelings deeper. Armored over them more thoroughly so no cracks showed.

“You're cruel, Anna,” Sophie said. “He's nice and he obviously likes you. He asks after you whenever I see him down at the pub.”

“He's just being polite,” Anna argued. “Why are you two so determined to pair me off anyway? Why don't you focus your energies on someone who actually needs a man—like Sister Murphy?”

“I think Hitler's already taken.” Tilly laughed as Sophie heaved a pillow at her.

“Really, Anna,” Tilly badgered. “Tony Lambert's lovely. You should give him a chance. What have you got to lose?”

Everything,
Anna wanted to say.

“Leave her be, Tilly.” Sophie folded Charles's letter and tucked it inside her blouse against her heart. “Not everyone is out to snabble a husband.”

“Good. Leaves more of them for me.” Tilly stuck her tongue out at Anna and rolled up to refill her sherry glass from the bottle on the nightstand.

Anna pulled out her red and white cotton—too frumpy.

The black linen with the yellow piping around the neck—too tight around the middle.

A gray tweed skirt and white blouse—too boring.

“Ugh! I give up. I have absolutely nothing that hasn't been let out, taken in, or isn't hopelessly out-of-date.”

“What about your jumper with the pearl buttons?” Sophie suggested.

“I'd love to wear it, but Tilly”—she shot her a long-suffering glare—“mislaid it somewhere in Newquay last week.”

Tilly blushed and eyed the pile of castoff clothes with renewed vigor. “What about that one?”

“A stain on the sleeve.”

“And that one?” Sophie asked.

“It smells like camphor.”

Sophie and Tilly exchanged smothered smiles that made Anna want to throw something at them.

“So you're asking for our help? Is that it?” Tilly asked sweetly.

“I thought that was what you were supposed to be doing from the start.”

Sophie began looking through the dresses, as if she might stumble on a Chanel that Anna had overlooked.

“Here's what you need.” Tilly pointed to a picture in her magazine of actress Vivien Leigh staring up into the eyes of Olivier.
She wore a gorgeous patterned silk gown that would probably have taken Anna's entire yearly salary to purchase.

“Right,” Anna answered tartly. “Add my family diamonds and a tiara and I'm ready for Cinderella's ball.”

“That's it. Of course.” Sophie moved aside the sherry bottle and opened a steamer trunk serving double duty as a nightstand, emerging with a tissue-wrapped package that she laid on the bed. “Mother made me bring it with me—just in case.” She unwrapped the tissue to reveal a deep red velvet gown trimmed across the collar in gorgeous hand-tatted lace. “I can't exactly wear it while emptying bedpans or folding sheets, can I?”

“Crikey! Is that a Madeleine Vionnet?” Tilly breathed, stroking the velvet's soft nap.

“Mother and I bought it in Paris the summer before the war.”

“You're mad. I can't possibly borrow that.”

Sophie shook it out, the fabric spilling down to the floor in a soft sweep of vibrant color. “Don't be silly. Of course you can. I'm hardly going to be drinking champagne and dancing while Charles is sweating in the desert with scorpions and snakes.”

“And Jerries,” Tilly added.

“Exactly. So wear it, Anna. Then I can at least tell my mother it was worn. She doesn't have to know it wasn't me wearing it.”

Anna slipped out of her skirt and blouse and slid into the gown. Sophie zipped her up the back, fluffing the skirt around her ankles as Anna admired herself in the mirror.

She should say no. She really should. If anything happened to this gown, she'd owe Sophie Kinsale her firstborn. But after a year of making do, wearing this exquisite dress was a dream come true. The color was a deep rich crimson. The lace looked as if it had been spun by a battalion of spiders, and the fit accentuated her less than ample bosom while making her waist look positively tiny.

“Just so you know, I was joking about the Cinderella bit,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her face.

“Shut up, Anna. You look lovely,” Sophie said.

“If Sophie's your fairy godmother, what does that make me?” Tilly asked. “An ugly stepsister?”

“Um . . . about that. Are you certain you don't mind my attending this dance tonight with Hugh? I mean, he didn't really ask, it was more like a direct order.”

Tilly leaned back against her pillow. “Of course I don't mind, dearie. You're part of his family, not some siren on the make. Besides, Hugh's jolly good fun and I like him a lot, but he's not exactly the type to bring home to my mum and da, is he? What would they talk about? Da's job at the shipyard? Ma's victory garden? I know my place, and lady of the manor isn't it.”

“Don't sell yourself short, Tilly Jones. You'd be the best thing that ever happened to him,” Sophie scolded. By now, she'd guided Anna into a chair and was brushing out her hair before pinning it up. The movement of her hands as she worked hypnotized Anna. She felt her eyes close, her shoulders relax, and her roommates' voices seemed to float to her through a haze.

“Ha! We'd kill each other within a month. It's different with you and that lieutenant. The two of you have things in common, lives that make sense together. When Charles comes home, you'll marry in some big wedding with a train of twenty bridesmaids and a reception at the Ritz and have beautiful babies and live a perfect life.”

Sophie paused. Her hand trembled upon the brush. A bunch of pins clattered onto the floor at Anna's feet.

“Sophie?” she asked, attempting to glance through the hair hanging in her face. “Are you all right?”

Sophie sank into a chair, tears leaking down her cheeks. “I'm so
scared. I try not to be. I try to be strong and carry on like they say we should, but I can't help it. I hate not knowing what's happening to him or where he is or whether he's alive or dead.”

Tilly threw Anna a look of helplessness. “Maybe you
should
ask for that transfer to a forward hospital, Sophie. If nothing else, it would keep you too busy to fret.”

“My parents would never allow it,” she answered through her sniffles. “It was bad enough when I joined the VAD in the first place. Father wanted to arrange for me to get a comfortable clerical job with one of his cronies at the Ministry of Food so I could live at home. If I told them I was going overseas and into harm's way, they'd probably lock me in a room for the duration.”

“That's right. We're so bloody safe here with the Germans knocking at our door,” Tilly snorted.

“You know what I mean.” Sophie's breath came in quick spasms as she fought to calm herself. “You served in a battalion hospital in France, Anna. What was it like?”

Anna's muscles tightened with an all-too-familiar sense of dread. She stared down at the red of the gown's skirt as it draped across her lap. How had she not noticed it was the exact color of fresh blood? She swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. “It's a different world. The men come in caked head to foot in filth. Some are terrified or weeping for the mothers. Others are deathly quiet. It's chaotic and heartrending and terrifying and you've never worked so hard in your life or been so tired, but at the end of the day, you feel as if you've done something important, as if you really mattered.”

“Who was Harriet?” Sophie asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Anna's nerves skittered, the hair along her arms rising as she stiffened.

“You call her name sometimes in your sleep.”

Tilly nodded in agreement.

Anna didn't want to talk about Harriet. “No one.” She rose from her chair, grabbing up her handbag, a false smile pasted on her lips. “So, where's my pumpkin?”

D
espite wartime restrictions and a somber restraint on the part of the organizers, the church hall was beautiful. Electric lights had been replaced by candles, which flickered amid centerpieces of fragrant holly and pine on every table. A small stage had been set up at the far end of the room where a rather haphazard band played carols and the occasional dance tune while guests mingled.

“It's lovely, Hugh.” She took his arm as they entered, admiring the way he looked in his RAF uniform, his blond hair slicked back, cap under his arm. This was what he must have looked like before injury and then bitterness had dulled the golden glow. “As are you. I'd no idea you'd scrub up so well. You're positively dashing.”

He grimaced. “Not sure how I feel about being called lovely, but thank you all the same. It's part of the job. I'm here playing double duty as lord of the manor and local wounded soldier. Might I return the compliment? You're looking jolly good yourself.” He leaned close. “You smell nice, too.”

“Down boy.”

His laugh ended on a strangled bark and he stiffened, the muscles of his arm hardening under her fingers. Anna followed his gaze, her own tension curling cold up her spine. Lady Boxley approached them through the crowd, the vicar and a few local dignitaries following in her wake like ducklings. Despite the make-do outfits of most of the partygoers, Lady Boxley stood out in a sequined crepe de chine midnight-blue gown gathered just under the bust, her face and hair arranged to perfection. All she needed was a scepter and a
ruff and she'd be the spitting image of Good Queen Bess just before she sent Raleigh to the gallows.

“So good of you to make an appearance, Hugh,” she snipped. “We've been waiting over an hour. Mr. Lester was hoping you'd make a speech, rallying the troops for the cause.” She nodded toward the gray-haired vicar hovering at her shoulder.

“It's my fault, Lady Boxley,” Anna interceded. “Hugh waited for me to go off duty, and I was delayed due to some patients arriving unexpectedly.”

Lady Boxley acknowledged Anna with a sharp, raking glance and a smile that never reached her eyes. “It's Miss Trenowyth, isn't it?”

“Oh for God's sake, Mother. You know bloody well who she is.”

She put out a limp-wristed hand for Anna to shake—or perhaps kiss. “Yes. Of course. Hugh, may I see you a moment—privately?”

He shot Anna a long-suffering look but followed his mother, leaving Anna alone to face the crowd. Head up, she made her way to a table heaped with food. It was obvious more than one household's weekly butter and sugar ration had gone into the spread before her. Anna hadn't seen such delights for ages. She politely chose a slice of pound cake from a tray and forced herself not to fill her pockets.

“You're one of those girls from the big house, aren't you?” A tall, thin woman with a helmet of steel-gray hair eyed her curiously as she ladled out a glass of pink fizzy punch.

Anna had the uncomfortable sense she'd been caught at something. “I'm a nurse there.”

It might have been her imagination, but she would swear the woman looked at her with narrowed speculation. She whispered to a woman beside her, “. . . daughter . . . back to Nanreath Hall . . . from London . . .”

Obviously, news of her arrival had reached the locals. By now the pair had been joined by two more. All of them regarded her with expressions ranging from mild interest to outright curiosity.

One of them juggled punch and a plate and stuck out a hand. “I'm Mrs. Crewe.” She nodded toward the other women at the table. “This is Mrs. Polley”—a fussy middle-aged woman in a gray dress prettied up with a chunky red beaded necklace—“Mrs. Thompkins”—round and buxom and pink-cheeked in a loud floral print with a gold brooch—“and the old sourpuss ladling punch is Miss Dawlish.” She continued to regard Anna with a disapproving eye.