Secrets of Nanreath Hall (3 page)

She gave a sad shake of her head. “Not much. I was only six when she died. She's more like a dream than a real person.”

Not that Graham and Prue hadn't tried to keep the memory of her mother alive. They had told Anna stories until in her eyes, Lady Katherine Trenowyth became imbued with the same glamour and mystery as the most fantastical characters in her Grimms' fairy-tale book. A tragic princess driven from her beautiful home by evil forces. But where did the fairy tale end and the truth begin? Who was the real Lady Katherine? And did Anna really want to find out?

She'd hoped her parents might be able to help her make that decision. Now they were gone. Who would help her now?

Her gaze fell on Mrs. Willits, who watched her, eyes pinched with sorrow and her own losses.

Reaching into her pocket, Anna pulled out the crumpled letter, the letterhead stark and businesslike. “May I ask you a favor?”

“Of course, my dear, anything.”

“I received this last week.” Anna passed her the letter. “I'd wanted an overseas posting—Egypt or the Far East. Somewhere I could be of use. Instead, I was assigned to . . . well, you can see for yourself.”

Mrs. Willits scanned the letter with a pursing of her lips. “Yes, I can understand your dilemma.”

“I know I've been refused because of my health. Still, of all the convalescent homes in England, did it have to be Nanreath Hall?”

“It does seem a cruel twist of fate to be sent to your mother's old home.”

“I came to ask Graham and Prue what I should do. Now I'm asking you.”

Mrs. Willits folded the letter carefully, tracing a line across each pressed seam, her penciled brows drawn low in thought. “Perhaps you should look at this chance as a gift rather than a curse. You've been given the opportunity to step into your mother's world, to meet the family you never knew. Who's to say what doors might open?”

Anna snatched the letter back and stuffed it in her pocket. “Or what doors might be slammed in my face. Why should I want to meet them? They certainly never cared a tuppence for me.”

Mrs. Willits tapped the locket with her finger, a knowing smile curving her lips. “Perhaps you have questions only they can answer.”

T
he sky was a perfect blue with high, thin clouds stretched like fingers toward the Continent. Birds called in the yew hedges and far off could be heard the hum of morning traffic. A postman cycled by with a ring of his bell. A woman walked her dog. A normal day but for the red, raw cemetery earth and the mourners clinging round the new graves, taking comfort from one another.

Anna stood beside Mrs. Willits, who had shed her mackintosh and gum boots for a donated skirt and blouse, serviceable but sadly out-of-date. Her gas mask hung in its cardboard box from her shoulder. “Is there anyone you can call on now that Graham and Prue are gone?”

“No, but I'll be all right.” Anna offered a game smile. “I'm used to being on my own. What about you?”

“I've had word from my daughter in Cardiff. She's asked me to come stay with her.”

“Ginny's in Wales?”

A clever, popular girl, Ginny Willits had been in Anna's class at school, and the two had been close friends until Anna's enlistment
with the VAD took her from home. Even then, they'd kept in touch until the evacuation from France left no time for letters. And afterward . . . well, silence had been easier.

“Nah, my Ginny's a WAAF, working here in London for the War Office. You should see her. Looks spanking in her uniform. This is my eldest girl by my first marriage, I'm talking of. Her husband's been called up and she could use the company.”

Anna laid a bouquet of autumn flowers on each grave, her hands steady, her eyes dry, only a painful tightness in her chest and a lump that made eating impossible. “I'm glad you'll be safe out of London. I'm sure Ginny feels better knowing you're safe, as well.”

Mrs. Willits sniffed her disdain. “It's too much like running away for my tastes, but there's no help for it, I suppose. And to look on the bright side, I'll have a chance to spend time with my grandchildren. George is seven and little Kate almost three.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“It does, doesn't it? Perhaps if I concentrate on that bit of it, I won't fret over the rest.” She slid her gaze toward Anna. “Family can be a boon in hard times. Nothing better than kin when you've your back to the wall.”

Anna ignored her clumsy salvo as she sent a final prayer heavenward. Graham and Prue were gone. That stark fact hammered against her mind until her head ached. She would not wake from the dark tunnel of this nightmare to the soothing murmur of a nurse and the quiet calm of the hospital ward.

“Have you decided what you're going to do yet? Whether you'll take the posting?”

The mourners began to filter away. Anna turned to follow the rutted gravel path toward the lych-gate. Or rather, where the gate once stood. It, along with the rest of the iron fencing surrounding the cemetery, had been pulled up and taken away for war scrap.

“I know it's not my place, Anna, but I feel responsible for you. I don't like the thought of leaving and not knowing what's to become of you.”

“You think I should go.”

“I do. The Trenowyths are your blood, and in times like these, blood is important. Knowing who you are and where you come from is important.”

“And if they toss me out on my ear?”

“Then you'll know that, too, won't you? You won't spend your life wondering what might be. You'll know what is, and that's good, steady ground to start on.”

“Mrs. Willits, you knew Graham and Prue better than anyone. When I told them about my posting, they asked me to come home. They said they wanted to discuss my mother. That it was very important and they were afraid they might have left it too long.” She kicked a chunk of concrete from her path, eyes cast on the pavement ahead of her. “Do you know what they might have wanted to tell me?”

“I'm afraid not, dear.”

Anna tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh well. I just thought . . .”

Mrs. Willits patted her hand, sympathy shadowing her motherly gaze. “I'm glad you asked, dear, and if I think of anything, I shall write and let you know immediately. You have my word. And write to Ginny if you can. She'd be happy to know you're better and doing well.”

“I will. I promise.” Ignoring the hustling passersby, Anna stopped in the middle of the pavement and hugged the older woman. “Thank you for everything. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“Pish tush, dear. I've done nothing but pry my nose into your
business and offer you a lot of unwanted advice, as if you were one of my own girls.”

“No, you've made me see clearly, just as Graham and Prue would have done had they been here.” Anna jerked her chin sharply in decision. “I'll report to Nanreath Hall as ordered. Even if the high-and-mighty Trenowyths brush me off, I'll still be able to work hard and help as I can. Perhaps if I do a very fine job, I'll get the posting abroad that I want.”

“That's the fighting spirit, my girl. And who knows, Anna—the high-and-mighty Trenowyths may surprise you.”

Her smile felt awkward and uncertain, but Anna's heart lifted and the lump in her stomach unknotted. She threaded an arm through Mrs. Willits's, and together they walked briskly down the street away from the church. “They may, but one thing is for certain—I will definitely surprise them.”

Nanreath Hall, Cornwall

August 1913

L
ady Katherine, I would say this is a surprise, but I woke this morning with the most delicious premonition that you were coming to see me today.”

Mrs. Vinter welcomed me with her usual exuberant, patchouli-scented embrace, so different from my parents' parsimonious affection.

A somewhat mysterious and glamorous figure, she had retired to the village of Melcombe after an exhilarating, globe-trotting, cosmopolitan life I could only imagine and envy. And while most of her neighbors considered her nothing more than a harmless eccentric, I alone knew her true worth. She was a stiff wind of freedom and unwavering approval where everything about my life was planned and every shortcoming noted with weary resignation.

“You see? I had Minnie lay the best china and bake those jammy cakes you enjoy so much.”

I followed her billowing, parrot-colored figure into the tiny breakfast room where sunlight streamed in through windows thrown open to the sea air and an extra plate had been laid for tea. Puccini's “Addio di Mimi” from
La Bohème
wove itself into the softer strains of the ocean and the maid's pleasant humming as she worked. A sleeping cat kept time with the tip of its orange-striped tail.

I shed my hat and gloves, feeling a release from familial expectations with each article removed. “I'm sorry it's been so long. Lady Boxley's been ill and Mama needed me at home.”

Mrs. Vinter merely nodded sagely, and I had the feeling she knew all too well what truly ailed my new sister-in-law. Since William, my elder brother and heir to the earldom, had left for London, Cynthia dragged about the house like a martyr, her growing stomach and shrinking temper setting everyone's teeth on edge.

“You're a good girl, Lady Katherine.”

“I don't know about that.”

“Take it from a very bad girl, I know your kind well. You make the rest of us appear positively beastly.” She winked, her fingers clacking the long strands of beads she wore in excited agitation. “Now, let me look, let me look.”

She clapped her ringed hands until I handed her my portfolio of sketches. Then as I poured the tea and sliced the cake, she intently studied each work, her brows furrowed, her gaze solemn and assessing. I never spoke during these critiques but sat silently on pins and needles awaiting her judgment.

She reached the final drawing, sat back in her chair, a smile creasing her lined parchment face. A small sigh of pleasure escaped her lips. “This one, Lady Katherine. This one is your best yet.” She laid a picture of William on the table beside her cup of Lapsang souchong.

I sat up in my chair. “Really? But it's just a quick pen and ink. Barely more than a doodle.”

“And yet you can feel his patient frustration, the unhappiness he seeks to hide behind the quiet solemnity of his features, and then there is perhaps a touch of the hangover behind the eyes . . . just there.”

“You can see all that?”

“I see it because you put it there. You are a talented artist. You have a gift.”

I looked upon my sketch with new eyes, trying to see what Mrs. Vinter did in the hasty dash of my pen over the page. I had done it in the final moments before William's train had come. We sat on the station platform, just he and I, with nothing to say that wouldn't embarrass us both. I had understood his desire to leave. I had longed to go with him.

That was a month ago.

My desire had only increased over the ensuing weeks.

“Have you given any more thought to my suggestion about sending your work to my friend Mr. Thorne at the Slade?” Mrs. Vinter asked. “The school would welcome a talent such as yours. You could study under some of the best artists of the day.”

I choked down my last bite of cake. “I have. And I want to. But Mama would never allow it. She would say it's not what a proper lady should do with her life.”

Mrs. Vinter leaned forward, her face alive and intent. “Then the question you must ask yourself is this—are you a proper lady?”

I folded and refolded my napkin. “I am. At least I want to be. It's complicated.”

“I know well this tangle of loyalties, so will say no more about it—for now.” Her eyes twinkled, and I knew she would bring it up again and again until I surrendered. Her vision for my future
might be different from my mother's, but her persistence was very similar.

“You chafe at your fetters like a wild thing, Lady Katherine. One day, you will fight your way free. I only hope I'm alive to watch you soar.” She spread her arms wide, the scarlet and yellow drape of her scarves wafting in the sea breeze as she laughed with joy.

We finished our tea in pleasant accord, chatting about the latest London exhibitions, the newest novels, and the most provocative plays. It was an exhilarating afternoon, all too soon over. The brass ship's clock she kept on her mantel chimed four, sending me into a mad panic. I threw myself from my seat, shouting for Minnie to bring me my hat and gloves.

“We're expecting guests this afternoon, and Mama wanted me home in time to bathe and change. She's going to kill me . . . worse, she'll offer me one of her freezing stares that makes me feel the size of a worm.”

“I know well that maternal stare, my dear. Think no more about it. But come again when you can. Minnie and I shall be here with tea, cakes, and conversation.”

I gave her one last wave as I hurried across the meadow toward the stile separating her property from the edge of our park. Cutting across the fields would take a mile from my walk back to the house. I might even be able to slip inside and to my rooms unnoticed.

“Katherine Trenowyth, why can you not remember simple instructions for more than two minutes together? Your father's guests will be here any moment and here you are, looking like a gypsy hoyden.”

So much for my grand plan. Mother waited for me on the terrace, a hand shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, her tone expressing her all-too-familiar disappointment. “Amelia's already dressed and waiting.”

“I'm sure she is,” I muttered under my breath.

“Why can't you be more like your sister?”

“And spend all my hours planning out my wedding? No, thank you.”

“Green has already drawn your bath. If you hurry, you can be dressed and in the drawing room before your father realizes you're late.”

“An awful lot of bother for one of Father's tedious friends, if you ask me,” I continued to grumble. “All they do is complain about Lord Asquith's government and smell up the house with their cigars.”

“If you must know, it's not one of your father's political allies this time. He has commissioned portraits of the family, and the artist is arriving today, Mr. Balder or Balzac. Something like that. It's quite a coup. He painted Ena, the late queen's granddaughter, you know.”

“Arthur Balázs?” My disgruntlement faded.

I'd read about Balázs in
Country Life
. The great families of England were lining up to have their likenesses painted by the talented Hungarian-born artist. Every noble heiress and prominent peer in the country passed through his studio in London. How on earth had Papa convinced the sought-after painter to leave the center of the social universe to travel all the way to Cornwall?

I couldn't help but catch some of Mama's excitement as she ushered me into the house. Not even Cynthia's moods could sour this unexpected treat. Perhaps that was why I lost myself for a moment and let my normally wary tongue run away with me. “Mrs. Vinter says I have real talent, Mama. Good enough to attend art school in London if I chose to. She has a friend there who—”

Mama swung round, a cloud heavy upon her brow, lips pursed. “Don't say any more. You know full well there is no question of art school, and any talent you have would be better spent assisting me.”

“But Mr. Thorne is a famous professor there. He's exhibited his works at the Grafton and the New English Art Club.”

“Enough. You're too old for these childish flights of fancy. It won't be long before you're married with your own household. It would serve you well to know how to run it.”

“But what if I don't want to marry or . . . or . . . settle down with a family? I want to be an artist. I want to travel and experience the world. I want to do something important with my life.”

“And raising children, making a good and happy home, isn't enough?”

“No . . . at least not yet.”

“Green is waiting for you. We'll discuss this later.”

But we wouldn't. I knew that for certain.

She drifted up the staircase on a cloud of lilac perfume and gray silver-shot chiffon.

I dropped my gaze to the floor to follow meekly in her wake. I never even noticed the young man until he spoke, his voice hitting me like a hammer blow between the eyes. “Have you ever seen such an architectural monstrosity? It must be like living inside a wedding cake.”

He was loose limbed and confident, dark hair brushed back off a broad forehead, a mocking twinkle in his deep-set eyes as he set down the luggage he carried and wiped his brow.

“It is a bit, but one gets used to it,” I replied boldly.

The man's startled gaze met mine, and a cold shiver splashed across my shoulders as if I'd been dunked in the ocean. A humiliating heat crept into my cheeks.

He offered a sheepish smile and held out a hand. “The name's Simon Halliday. I've come to assist Mr. Balázs. And you are—”

Mother's rules of proper etiquette had been drilled into me from birth—servants were to be treated kindly, but never encouraged into
familiarity—yet something about this brash, handsome young man with his expressive eyes and paint beneath his fingernails caused me to blurt, “How do you do? I'm Kitty. Kitty Trenowyth.”

I
f someone were to ask me my favorite place in all of Nanreath's acres, it would have to be the ancient cliff ruins. Perched at the mouth of a deep, tree-lined creek, the moss-covered remains of an ancient fortress guarded the coast between Hendrum Point to the north and Dizzard's Pool to the south. In days long past, Bronze Age soldiers manned the ramparts, scanning the sea for potential invaders. Today there was little left but a tumble of crudely carved stones outlining the old perimeter, like an architect's floor plan, and a gaping archway leading to a set of worn stone steps that climbed to a crumbling watchtower.

Simon and I walked there after a morning spent working; or rather I sat unmoving in a girlish confection of lace and ruffles that made me look twelve while Simon ran about fetching and carrying for Mr. Balázs. The painter had turned out to be a lively man with bushy side whiskers and a jovial laugh, who immediately put me at ease. He treated Simon more like a prized pupil than an assistant, and I envied him such support for his artistic ambitions.

“We used to clamber all around this place when we were children,” I explained as I reached the small, sheltered platform of rocks and old lumber built years ago with childish ingenuity and enthusiasm. I had spent many an hour battling dragons with William or braiding daisies into my younger sister Amelia's hair. Now William was gone and Amelia had no interest in such grubby pastimes. These days I came alone with my journal to watch the scuttle of clouds overhead and plan out my life as if I actually controlled my fortunes.

I would be a great painter and travel the world—Spain, France,
the Orient, perhaps even Africa—and when I was old and gray, I'd come to live in a cottage by the sea, keep cats, and dine when I wished and wear what I wanted.

Those dreams seemed as high and thin as the haze above me this afternoon, and I scolded myself as sternly as Mama ever could for being a ridiculous little girl.

“Then William had a bad fall and broke his ankle. My father forbade us from coming here after that. He said it was too dangerous.”

“Why do I have the feeling you don't follow Papa's orders?” Simon high-wired his way along the parapet to stand at the very edge where cliff met sky. His face had a distant eager quality as it scanned the ocean, his eyes bright and fixed upon the horizon, as if he might step out into the very air and take flight.

“It's a good place for thinking . . . and dreaming.”

He shot me a smirky glance over his shoulder. “And what does a top-drawer earl's daughter dream about? Parties and fancy dresses and a handsome young man to sweep her off in his expensive motorcar?”

If he'd been talking to my sister, Amelia, he'd be right, but I felt his joke like a punch to the stomach. “Is that all you think I'm good for? Parties and shopping and chasing men?” I swallowed my disappointment. Why did I care what he thought of me? I stared out at the sea, thunderclouds gathering like mountains along the horizon.

“I'm sorry, Kitty.” Simon joined me on the platform, a boyish flop of hair curving over his brow, an apologetic bent to his features. “Can we start fresh? Pretend the bit where I made an ass of myself never happened?” His eyes twinkled as he spoke, fluttering my heart.

“I don't know. Can we?”

His shoulder felt nice where it touched mine, and his cologne
smelled woodsy and masculine. He lit a cigarette, offering me a drag, which I tried, coughing madly as my eyes watered like faucets.

“I see what you mean about thinking and dreaming.” The tip of his cigarette turned to ash. He fumbled in his leather bag, retrieving a pad and a sharpened pencil. With deft, precise movements, his hand moved over the paper; a line here, a curve there. A bit of shadowing with the side of his finger.

I watched mesmerized, my body crackling as if an electric current passed through it. Even my scalp tingled.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I paused for only a moment before taking the pencil and pad from him, adding a stroke here, a shadow there. Working quickly and with purpose, lost completely in my desire to capture the truth with a bit of lead and my imagination.