Secrets of Nanreath Hall (7 page)

His companion turned out to be an RAF flight lieutenant whose square-jawed, broad-shouldered vitality only accentuated Hugh's pallid lanky air of dissipation. He smiled, his dark eyes sparkling with laughter as he shook her hand. “Hello there. Tony Lambert. I'm a neighbor of yours over at St. Eval airfield. It's very nice to meet you, Miss—”

“Trenowyth,” she answered, her chin lifting in unconscious defiance. “Anna Trenowyth.” She couldn't help the quick slide of her eyes toward Hugh, who stiffened, his face wiped clean of every emotion but astonishment. So much for lying low and easing her way through without a ruckus.

“Is this a joke?” Hugh demanded.

Lambert's surprise had been fleeting. Now he eyed the situa
tion with smug amusement. A reaction that was oddly reassuring. “I didn't know you had any family living, Melcombe . . . well, except that crazy aunt of yours and her Yank daughter.”

“This is
not
Lucy,” Hugh argued, adding under his breath, “thank God for small favors. Who are you really, Miss whoever you are?”

“I can show you my identity papers if you'd like.”

“You told me your name was Handley. I don't remember much from last night, but I do remember that.”

“Not to take sides, but I think she might be telling the truth,” Lambert interrupted. “There's definitely something similar about the eyes and perhaps a bit round the mouth. A little rouge and lipstick, Hugh, and you'd be her spitting image.”

“Ha bloody ha. You're not helping.”

“Maybe I should leave you two to sort the mystery out without my interference.” Lambert rose, taking up his cap. “It was very nice meeting you, Miss Trenowyth. Good luck with this clod. He's not a bad sort despite his snarling.”

Hugh continued to glare, his hands twitching at his sides, as if he wished to punch something. “Look, Miss Handley or Trenowyth or whatever name you're using today. I'm not sure what you hope to gain, but—”

“Anna! Golly, I wondered where you'd gotten to.” Sophie came careening into the gallery, pulling up out of breath. “Oh dear.” She sighed. “I'd no idea you'd have companions.”

“Don't mind me,” Hugh complained. “I'm just trying to relax in my own home. A pointless endeavor as it turns out.”

“Don't be dramatic, Hugh. It doesn't suit.” Sophie waved his sarcasm off, as if whisking away a tiresome child—or an irritating servant.

“Miss Trenowyth?” Flight Lieutenant Lambert stood just to
the left of the chimneypiece, an odd expression darkening his easy, pleasant features. “You might want to see this.”

Anna followed his gaze. A young woman in a sea-green gown stood with one hand resting upon a metal garden bench. Her head was slightly tilted, as if she stared at something or someone just beyond the edge of the canvas. A smile hovered over her lips, her gold-flecked blue eyes dancing with pleasure.

“It's an incredible likeness,” he said, looking from the painting to Anna and back again.

She swallowed, unable to pull her gaze from the riveting intimacy caught by the artist. So different from the solemn reserve of the locket's photograph. This woman glowed from within.

“You found it.” Sophie's voice broke the spell. “As soon as you told me your name, I immediately remembered this painting and put the two together. It must have been done shortly before the last war.”

“Who is she?” Lambert asked.

Anna sensed Hugh's presence at her shoulder. She felt the tension in his frame like a vibration through the dusty air. “My father's younger sister,” he answered. “Lady Katherine Trenowyth.”

Anna moistened her lips as a strange, quivering excitement centered in her chest. She lifted a hand, as if to touch the swell of alabaster cheek. “My mother.”

N
ight hovered just beyond the dim glow of the green-shaded table lamp, peopled with silent generations of Trenowyths all watching Anna with unblinking eyes and fixed smiles. Did they welcome her as one of the family? Or did they stiffen with indignation, as Hugh had done just before he'd offered her his hand with all the cool politeness of the very angry?

She knew the gallery was off-limits to staff and if she were
caught, there would be hell to pay, but she'd returned at the end of her shift to sit among these men and women in silent introduction.

Her eyes burned with lack of sleep, while her shoulder throbbed, the ache moving down her arm into her fingers. She had fixed herself a cup of tea, but what she really wanted was a whiskey. Something to ease the pain in both her shoulder and her heart.

She turned her chair so that her mother's portrait was just off to her right. She had merely to cock her head to see the lively smile and clever gleam in Lady Katherine Trenowyth's blue eyes. Anna pulled her locket from her blouse, snapped it open. There was no comparison between the laughing, vibrant woman in the painting and the solemn, rigid features caught by the photographer's camera.

What events lay between these two disparate portrayals?

Would she ever know, or had those answers been lost with Graham and Prue?

A stir of the dusty air and the creak of a floorboard signaled someone's approach. Tilly was right. Sneaking was impossible in this place. She braced herself for the inevitable reprimand.

“Miss Trenowyth? Is that you?”

“Good evening, Mr. Lambert.” She straightened, stuffing her bare feet back into her shoes. Combing her fingers through her thick hair. “I know I shouldn't be here and I'm sorry to intrude, but . . .”

He offered her a weary smile. “Say no more. I'm relieved it's you sitting there. For an instant, I thought I'd been snabbled by Her Ladyship and all my sneaking about was for naught.”

“Why are you sneaking?”

“I was depositing a parcel.”

“At midnight? A bit late for the post, isn't it?”

“Actually, this parcel was rather the worse for drink.”

“Hugh?”

“Afraid so. He should be fine by morning. I think he left most of it along the side of the road between the village and the house. Not all, more's the pity for my poor borrowed motorcar.”

“It's my fault. I shouldn't have spoken. I suppose my turning up like a bad penny came as an awful shock.”

“Losing his leg came as an awful shock. You are a welcome surprise.” His eyes had a nice way of crinkling at the corners when he smiled. “Besides, Hugh's love affair with the gin bottle began long before your arrival.”

He gestured for her to reseat herself while he perched against a table. Pulled a silver cigarette case from his tunic pocket, flipped it open, and held it out toward her.

“No, thank you.”

He took one for himself and lit it, settling himself more comfortably. He had a nice face, all sharp angles and straight lines, large brown eyes and a mouth that seemed always on the poise of laughter. That, and she'd always been a sucker for a whisper hint of an accent.

“Is Lady Boxley that bad?” she asked. “The staff makes her sound like a cross between Attila the Hun and Bloody Mary.”

Tony chuckled. “An apt comparison on both counts. She can be difficult, but Hugh's been all she's had for so long, she's a bit proprietary. Still treats him as if he were in nappies. His injuries in Norway only made it worse.”

“She doesn't sound like someone who would welcome a stranger into the fold.”

“I expect His Majesty King George would find it hard to completely meet with her approval, but don't let her scare you off. She might be able to tell you more about your mother.” He paused. “If that's what you want.”

Maybe it was the compassion in his eyes or the humor in his
voice. Or maybe it was simply the late hour and her own exhaustion, but she found herself confiding in him. Quiet words that fell in the solemn dark of the gallery like a sinner's confession.

“I'm not sure. I had the chance to ask. The Handleys—the couple who took me in after she died—never hid the facts from me. But when they offered to tell me more, I refused. I did everything but hold my hands over my ears and whistle.”

“Why?”

Anna shrugged in helpless incomprehension. “Guilt. Duty. Denial. A desire to be like every other child on my street with normal parents and a normal family. I didn't want to be different.”

“What child does?”

Talking ripped open a wound barely healed over. Grief pressed against her chest like a weight, and it was as if she were back standing on the sidewalk, staring at the ruins of her world. “I suppose I always thought there would be time.”

He stubbed out the cigarette butt in an ashtray. “A lot of us thought that, didn't we?”

November 1913

M
r. Weiss has managed to sell four of my paintings. I've begun to think about leaving Balázs and setting up my own studio. There's a building in Ralston Street. It has space below for display and a flat above. Not much more than a few rooms and a bath, but more than I need.”

“That's wonderful, Simon. It's exactly what you wanted.”

The two of us had found an out-of-the-way corner in Mrs. Comersby's busy front parlor. Mr. Balász's sister was just as I'd imagined she would be; a wide-hipped, apple-cheeked hausfrau wreathed in welcoming smiles who plied us with food and drinks until my initial uneasiness was overcome, and I felt myself melting into the loud, uninhibited chaos of her bohemian salon.

A shout went up as the door opened to admit new guests. I could just make out the drape of a fur coat and a sleek bob of dark hair from my corner.

“It is what I want, but not at the expense of seeing you hurt. I'm
very sorry about the painting.” Simon sipped at his cloudy glass of absinthe. I had left mine untouched, the strong aromas of anise and fennel not to my taste. But wine I'd imbibed in plenty until I was quite relaxed and a bit buzzy-headed.

“I admit it was rather a shock to see myself in such a . . . manner, but I've decided I quite like it.” The guests moved into the front parlor, two gentlemen in evening dress, and the woman who had removed her fur to reveal a daring Worth gown in sky-blue silk and Brussels lace. “Mr. Balázs once said what we believe is hidden is actually visible if one has the eyes to see. Perhaps the Red-Haired Wanton exists locked somewhere deep inside me and all I need to do is”—the woman turned her head and my mouth dropped open like a codfish's—“hide!”

I leaped from my seat as if I'd been scalded, ducking into the relative safety of the kitchen, which was thankfully empty.

“Kitty, are you all right?” Simon had followed and now eyed me as if I'd run mad. “You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

“Worse. It's Lady Ashdown. She's one of the biggest gossips in London. If she sees me and gabs it to my mother . . .” I furtively peeked round the swinging door to see if I'd been spotted.

“I see.” Simon's clipped and icy voice drew me back into the kitchen long enough to observe that his expression bore all the marks of one having trouble chaining his temper. “I'm good enough for you, but not for your family.” I sensed deep hurt beneath his anger.

“Don't be absurd. Of course you're good enough, but you don't understand my family. They need time to accustom themselves to the idea. I need to ease into it slowly.”

“Like you eased into telling them about art school?”

The accusation struck me like the tip of a lash, and I gasped.

“A cage is still a cage, Kitty, no matter how gilded the bars.
When are you going to finally stand up for what you want? When are you going to let them see what I see? That you're a strong, smart, beautiful young woman who doesn't need Mama and Daddy telling her how to live her life?”

I had no answer to that. I was still trying to adjust to being called strong, smart, and beautiful. It dawned on me that the only time I felt that way was in Simon's company. He gave me confidence because in his eyes I was confident. “You really think I'm all those things?”

His voice softened. “Of course, you darling idiot. Why do you think I've skulked about like a criminal to be with you?”

His kiss took me by surprise, but I didn't shrink from it as I had his first attempt so many months ago. This time I savored the slow exploration of his lips and the wickedly daring dip of his tongue. My bones turned to jelly as the knots in my stomach tightened, and excitement flushed my skin so that when the swinging door into the entry hall opened, the blast of cooler air was like an arctic shock.

“Hi-ho, good people!” A gentleman giddily waved a bottle of whiskey in one hand while his other arm was thrown about the waist of a blowsy woman dressed in yellow silk. “What have we here? An interrupted tryst?”

Terror splashed cold across my shoulders as I drew in a ragged breath. “Good evening, William. Funny meeting you here.”

I
f being found out by Lady Ashdown would have been a disaster, to be tumbled by my own brother was a hundred times worse. To say I was surprised to see him here was a mild understatement. It would be more accurate to say I was at once astonished, appalled, and sick with nerve-tightening fear. If William's initial reaction was any indication, he suffered from the same powerful mix of emotions. I clung to that with every ounce of quickly disappearing hope
as his initial euphoria sank to a brooding silence, helped along by a few strong cups of Mrs. Comersby's potent Turkish coffee. He sat at her kitchen table, staring into his cup, his face gray-green and jumping with mental agitation.

Of his companion, I had seen nothing since Simon stepped into the brittle, ugly shock of our first meeting and whisked her away. His eyes met mine, and I saw in that moment both sympathy for my potential disaster and a reassuring strength I could lean upon no matter what befell me. It made me brave despite my quaking knees and jittery stomach.

“I met Letitia at the Alhambra,” William mumbled into his coffee. “Charles Blakeney introduced us. She's a friend of a lady he . . .” His words trailed into a quiet mumble.

Not that I needed him to finish his sentence. I could well imagine what sort of lady both Letitia and her friend were, though I didn't express this aloud. To cast stones seemed not the wisest course at present. And there was a part of me that thought if I remained quiet, perhaps William would finally reveal what kept him from Nanreath, his new baby, and bad as it was to say—me.

I was not used to secrets between us. William might have been five years my senior, but we connected in a way I'd never been able to duplicate with Amelia, for all we were sisters. William and I shared a similar nature, though behavior deemed acceptable and even encouraged in the son and heir had always been seen in a daughter of the house as less than ideal. Still, when no one else seemed to understand me, it had been William who championed me time and again. I wondered what he would think of my dubious celebrity as the Red-Haired Wanton. Would he laugh it off as a grand joke or would he play the stern, protective older brother?

Until now, I could have answered with certainty. Now I was not
so sure—about that and about a lot of things I had always taken for granted about my brother.

“I'm surprised we haven't seen you more in South Audley Street since our arrival. But I suppose your friendship with Letitia occupies all your time,” I said, hoping to sound mature when in fact I felt completely out of my depth.

He looked up from his coffee, his eyes starting to focus in the same direction, his long face seeming longer in its inebriation. He rose, grabbing his jacket from the chair and swinging it across his shoulders. “Come along, Kitty.”

I had no choice but to follow, leaving Simon and my increasingly horrid evening behind.

We walked the empty dark streets, slick with rain from a passing shower. The gas lamps flickered their greasy circles of light along the pavement, and in the distance someone sang a plaintive love song from an open window. It made me unaccountably sad and very lonely, despite having William by my side.

He broke the silence first. “She doesn't mean anything to me. She seemed a good sport and up for a lark. That's all.”

“Her kind usually are,” I grumbled.

“Kitty!”

So much for remaining nonjudgmental. “I'm not a child, William, despite what everyone in this family thinks.”

“But you
are
a well-bred young lady . . . out alone in company with a gentleman.” My head snapped round. “Or did you think I wouldn't notice that part of your adventure?” he added with an air of wilted triumph.

I jerked my chin upward, as if preparing for a fight. “Don't turn this into an indictment of my behavior. I don't have a wife and child waiting for me at home.”

He had the grace to look away, his shoulders stiff, hands shoved in his pockets.

“William, what is going on? I know Cynthia isn't the easiest person to get along with, but she's your wife. You love her.”

His laughter was cold and ugly. “Kitty, you tell me you're not a child, but then you say such beautifully ridiculous things. Do you really think love had anything to do with our marriage? It was her money for our connections. Simple as that.”

“You didn't have to agree to the marriage.”

He responded with a snort that told me I was being a sentimental female. “You know the impossibility of defying Father once he's made his mind up. One would have greater luck holding back the tide. And since my duty was to marry, it may as well have been Cynthia as anyone.”

It wasn't that I didn't understand the pressures and expectations, but that didn't make me any less nauseated by William's plainspokenness. “You've only been married a few years. Perhaps given time, things will change between you, especially now that you have Hugh.”

“Yes, Hugh. He does change things, doesn't he?” William said with a puzzling ambiguity. He took my hand in his own. “Come on, Kitty. Let's get you home before Mother realizes you're gone.”

“You won't tell?”

His eyes met mine, deep hollows shadowing the pinprick gleam of his irises. “Not if you won't.”

“Never.”

He chucked my chin. “That's my girl.”

And just like that, we were pals and comrades once again.

S
imon's painting eventually turned up at an exhibition at the Freeman Gallery in New Bond Street, and within days
The
Red-Haired Wanton
—and the model who'd inspired her—became the talk of society.

I knew I should have been upset or embarrassed, but there was only a feeling of inevitability, as if my life were unrolling toward some unknown end beyond my control. Unfortunately, my parents felt none of my serenity in the face of such public scorn. Raised voices behind closed doors and the arrival of Mama's personal physician had the household walking on eggshells. Even the servants cast me furtive glances, their manner cheekier, as if I'd already lost my respected position within the family.

I ignored them all as best I could, though each passing day grew harder to endure. The morning after a particularly galling evening, I rose as dawn crept steely gray over my windowsill. Taking up my journal, I tried writing out my wild swing of emotions, hoping the soothing act of putting pen to paper would untangle my tumultuous thoughts, but there was no peace to be found even in that familiar refuge.

Looking round my room with its girlish frills and naive innocence, seeing my flushed and agitated reflection in the mirror, the desire to step into the unknown nearly overwhelmed me. In that moment I would have traded every elegant trapping of my privileged upbringing for the confidence and poise Simon had rendered with a few dabs of oil paints and canvas. I didn't want to be Lady Katherine, whose fear held her captive. I wanted to be plain Kitty Trenowyth with the courage to fly.

Dressing quickly, I took up my journal and workbox and left the house. As Burton opened the door for me, I let him know, should my parents inquire, which was doubtful since neither would rise before ten, that I had walked to Green Park and would be back in time for breakfast.

A skittish wind had picked up overnight and the clouds sat
thick and damp in an unsettled sky, causing the normal city sounds to seem muffled and forlorn. I headed south past the dawn inhabitants of South Audley and onto the busier thoroughfare of Curzon Street, and from there to the early-morning bustle of Piccadilly, ignoring the admiring looks and occasional greetings shouted from passing omnibuses or mumbled shyly with a tip of the cap and a nod. I entered the gates at Green Park where the fog hung in tattered veils along the ground and the grass dragged against the hem of my skirts as my heels sank into the earth. I chose a likely spot looking west toward Buckingham Palace and spread a blanket upon the ground, settling in to work. Soon enough the whirl of my thoughts focused down to the movement of my hand over the page.

“You'll catch your death on that damp ground.”

Immersed in my own imagination, the shock of his voice sent a startled shiver up my spine, and I dragged my pencil like a pale gray thread across the page. “Bother! Now look what you've made me do.”

Simon knelt beside me, laughing. “I thought for sure you'd seen me clomping up the hill toward you.”

My hat shielded my face from close scrutiny, but I was sure my answering smile was obvious. I'd not seen him since our illicit rendezvous, but the brief pleasure of that one evening returned tenfold. “I was consumed with trying to manage that shadow along the path, but my pencil's gone dull and I've forgotten a knife for sharpening.”

“Allow me.” He joined me on the blanket, pulling a pocketknife from his jacket and whittling away at the little nub. “It's awfully early to be out, isn't it?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“Neither could I.” His eyes cut sidelong toward me, and his
hand upon his knife tightened. “I haven't been able to do much of anything since I saw you last. Even Mr. Balázs has started to notice I'm off my feed.”

“So you decided to stalk me?” I said it with a small laugh, but his eyes remained on his work and my joke fell flat.

“I don't know what I meant to do. I suppose stare at your bedroom window like some lovesick Shakespearean swain. When I saw you coming along Piccadilly, I couldn't believe my good luck.”

“How could you tell it was me?”

He frowned, and there was a solemnity to his features that seemed at odds with his usual breezy wit. “I could pick you out in a crowd of a thousand.”

I felt the heat rise into my cheeks as I fought the battering of stomach butterflies.