Eden’s future was for David to sort out. Rhiannon could feel the responsibility finally falling away from her. She would love Plas Eden until the day she died. But it had already slipped into the part of her life that was memory, along with her life in London and the boys’ childhood. It would never again be the centre of her life.
Her application for the artist in residence in Vermont was still on her computer desktop, unfinished. The closing date for online applications was midnight tonight. With strong coffee and a good dose of adrenalin, she could just about get it in on time.
Rhiannon took a deep breath. Even if she didn’t succeed with this application, she would keep on trying, pushing away at any opportunity that came her way. At her age, an opportunity might only come once. No second chances. If she was going to be serious about this, she needed to focus on the future. Her future. And that meant freeing herself to take up any chance – any sliver of a chance – that came her way.
At her side, Hodge raised his head, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
‘It’s all right.’ Rhiannon bent to stroke his head in reassurance. ‘It’s only Tash.’ A black shadow slunk beneath the statues, leaping up onto the rounded head of the giant and mewing a plaintive greeting.
If David moved from Plas Eden too, heaven knew what would happen to Hodge and the cats, she thought, as she felt Hodge lean himself lovingly against her. But between them, they’d find a way. There had to be some solution that would keep them all safe and contented. Animals, like people, did move, too. Even to the other side of the world. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.
She gave Hodge’s head a brisk pat. ‘Come on then, you two: let’s get you back and fed.’
Hodge wasn’t one to pass up the allure of dog biscuits topped off by the remains of last night’s stew, but there was the little matter of checking whether this cat really was his cat and not some interloper who needed marching firmly off the premises. Rhiannon waited as he reached up gingerly to touch noses, while Tash graciously bent down from her advantage to return the greeting, claws sheathed.
The darkness was by now almost complete. Rhiannon pressed the button on Hodge’s night-time collar, setting a ring of crimson lights flashing into the blackness. Then she fished out her torch and switched it on. The statues retreated, eyes blank, as she swung the beam around.
Just in case.
‘Come along, Hodge.’ The circle of flashing lights trotted obediently at her side. Up ahead, Tash’s eyes fluoresced in the beam of the torch as she turned to check they were following her lead, tail held high.
Slowly, they made their way up towards the patchwork of lights in the distance, where Eden lay waiting.
There was a fire burning in the grate. I stood there for a moment, feeling its warmth on my skin in the glow of candles on the mantelpiece.
‘You must be soaked to the skin,’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘Just my coat,’ I murmured, shrugging myself out of the damp sleeves. He took it and draped it over a chair next to the fire, where it steamed gently. My hat was in an equally sad state, dripping water down the back of my neck, so I removed that, too. But not my boots. For all I could feel the rain seeping through my stockings, chilling my feet. My coat I could grasp in a moment, or – at worst – leave without. But not my boots. Not without the first policeman I met arresting me for a vagrant. And the questions that might then be asked.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’ He sounded a little uncertain. As well he might, with an unattended young woman arriving at his door in the middle of the night. I shook my head. ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’
‘No! Thank you,’ I added, hastily. For all the fire was warm, I could not stay still. I paced the room for a few moments. The hem of my dress and petticoats were heavy with rain and London mud, I could feel their weight slapping hard against my ankles as I walked.
He watched me in silence. Patiently waiting. I could see the faint enquiry on his face. And the concern. It was the concern that nearly undid me. But it was too late for me to go back now.
‘I came to tell you … to explain about myself,’ I said. ‘And to tell you why you can’t – why you mustn’t…’ I turned away from him. I could hear the crackle of the logs in the grate and the rain tapping rhythmically on the windowpanes. ‘I never was a widow,’ I said, at last.
I heard him move. Take a step closer to me. ‘And do you think I didn’t know? I didn’t guess?’ He grasped my hands, and pulled me gently back towards the warmth of the fire. ‘How many “Mrs Smiths” do you think come through the door of the hospital each year? Do you think I don’t know their stories, and the suffering they have been through? And do you think such a thing matters to me? You matter to me. Nothing else.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, very gently, holding my hands tight. His lips were warm on the back of my hand. ‘I know you. You as you are now. And that’s all I ever need to know.’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You don’t understand.’ I kept my eyes on my fingers, still held close within his. I swallowed hard. But it had to be said. ‘There was a child…’ My voice was a whisper. I waited for the hands to fall away from mine. If anything, they held me tighter.
‘Any child that is yours is part of you,’ he said. ‘I never aimed to pick and chose what I loved. I love everything about you.’ I looked up at that, and met his eyes. They were clear and untroubled. And I knew at that moment just how much I loved him. And how much it was I would lose.
He released one of his hands, reaching up to brush the wet hair from my face. ‘Plas Eden is a lifetime away from London. No one knows you there. No one need ever know. I’m not the only man to marry a widow –’ His finger rested on my lips, stilling the protest with a smile. ‘Or to adopt her child and love it and raise it as his own.’
I said nothing. I could not speak. But he must have seen it, there on my face. ‘Oh dear God,’ was all he said. ‘Oh my dear God.’
I don’t know if his hands drew away from me, or not. All I knew was that I held him, tight as a drowning woman, and I rested my cold, cold forehead on the warmth of his hands, so that I could not see his eyes as I spoke.
Part Three
Chapter Sixteen
Very little was said on the drive down to Cornwall. Carys was tired after two days pulling apart the pieces of her life in Chester, and thankfully David appeared to be in a similarly uncommunicative mood. They were both happy to let the radio do the talking as they took it in turns on the long journey south.
Of course she would go back to Chester. Her friendship with Poppy was as strong as ever, and she would almost certainly keep in touch with her other friends. Besides she was lucky Tylers didn’t want to lose her, even if in the end she decided not to apply for the full-time post. To her relief, they had been understanding about her commitment to Mam and agreed to her taking on more clients while working from home. This meant that even if she stayed in Pont-ar-Eden, she would be travelling back to Chester at least once a month for meetings. But it wouldn’t be the same.
But at least she didn’t have to go back to the flat ever again, and her contact with Joe – quite obviously painful on both sides, during their brief but necessary, conversations – could now be mainly via a solicitor. It wasn’t that she hated him, but it had amazed her, how quickly they had grown apart in just a few months, until there seemed to be no point of contact at all.
She hoped that one day they’d be able to return to a friendship like the one they had shared before. But somehow she doubted it. Joe was already the high-powered businessman. She felt like a slightly shabby hippy at his side. They were already at opposite ends of a spectrum with utterly different aims for the future. And a whole lot of hurt feelings caught in the middle.
Now the remains of her life in the flat were sitting in Poppy’s office at the top of her house. She had left the big items, like furniture. There was nowhere to store them and too many reminders. And an
yhow whatever her future held she had a feeling it would not fit the clean, minimalist lines of the pieces she and Joe had chosen together. There seemed very little left of a shared life. The thought was depressing.
By the time they left the motorway at Exeter, heading for the north Cornwall coast, Carys was relieved to relinquish the wheel to David again.
‘Not long now,’ he said, following the reassuring tones of the SatNav as she directed them along the dual carriageway, then smaller, winding roads.
At last, over the brow of a hill the rocky coastline appeared, the calm afternoon light gleaming on a wide expanse of sea.
‘We’re here,’ said Carys, as ‘Welcome to Treverick’ appeared at the side of the road, along with a request to drive carefully.
‘Great,’ muttered David, who was beginning to look tired, and more than a little strained. His bad leg had clearly been bothering him for the past hour, which only made him more stubborn in his refusal of Carys’ offer to take over. She resisted the urge to kick him for his pigheadedness. It definitely wouldn’t help.
A steep street and a few more lanes between pretty cottages, and the SatNav finally announced that they had reached their destination.
‘Oh, charming,’ muttered David irritably, gazing round at the deserted village square with a network of roads leading off in several directions.
‘Over there.’ Carys indicated an illuminated sign in the far corner of the square. ‘It’s the village pub as well, remember.’
‘Right. I hope there’s parking.’
‘Bound to be.’
They followed a tiny lane and arrived in a large gravel parking space next to a busy pub garden, where drinkers were enjoying the last of the warmth.
Yawning and stretching, they stumbled stiffly out of the car.
‘Well, we made it.’ David limped round to the boot to lift out their luggage.
‘Why? Did you think we wouldn’t?’
‘No. No, of course not.’ He zapped the locks on the car. ‘But I promised Rhiannon I’d let her know as soon as we arrived. I think she was feeling – well, a bit superstitious?’
‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Carys, slinging her bag over one shoulder, and following him inside.
The Treverick Arms had low, dark beams and comfortable, slightly battered-looking chairs. A warm smell of chips mingled with the pub smell of beer. Carys found she was ravenous.
Having booked in, they were shown up creaking wooden stairs to their rooms, along the same corridor, but discreetly distant from each other.
‘Fancy seeing if there’s somewhere open in the harbour?’ said David.
Carys nodded. ‘Sounds good to me. Meet you in the bar in half an hour?’
‘Perfect.’
Her room was small but pretty, tucked under the eaves at the back of the pub, with a view towards the sea. It was immaculately clean, with a flowered bedspread and a bale of fluffy white towels in the bathroom. She was hot and sticky, smelt vilely of car fumes and ached all over. A quick shower and a change of clothes later, and she at least felt human again.
Making her way down to the bar, she discovered David deep in conversation with the owner, Mr McIntyre, as declared on the website and alcohol licence.
‘Treverick Hall,’ Mr McIntyre was saying. ‘I can’t say I’ve heard of it. There’s a Treverick Gardens, just outside the village. You’ll see the signs at the harbour. I haven’t heard anyone mention a Hall. But then I’m not from around here.’ As Mr McIntyre sounded unmistakeably Scottish, this revelation came as no surprise. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve tried Google?’
‘’Fraid so,’ David replied with a smile, as Carys joined them. ‘No mention of Treverick Hall. Or any gardens, come to that.’
‘Well, they’re not exactly gardens. More like overgrown scrub really. Been a bit of an eyesore for years, until the council decided to do something about it earlier this summer.’ He eyed them both with mild curiosity. Young man and young woman, not obviously related but not sharing a room. Carys could see his point: not exactly twenty-first century stuff. Treverick was probably just as bad as Pont-ar-Eden when it came to gossip, she considered, hiding a grin. This one would no doubt keep the villagers spinning stories around them for weeks. ‘On holiday, are you?’
‘Sort of,’ David replied, slightly warily.
‘Plus a bit of research,’ added Carys. Mr McIntyre might not know every detail about Treverick, but he must have regulars who did. ‘We’re part of a family history project.’ Almost true, without going into details.
‘Really?’ He looked up from pouring a pint. ‘And was that where you came across this Treverick Hall, then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thanks, Will.’ Mr McIntyre handed over the finished pint to his customer and scattered coins into his till with a thoughtful air. ‘Well then, it’s my wife you need to talk to. She’s into local history.’ He grinned. ‘Mary’s a proper Treverick girl, see.’
David caught Carys’ eye. Change of plan? Scampi and chips and a pint, and save the harbour for later? Carys nodded.
‘Might she be around at all?’ David enquired.
Mr McIntyre shook his head. ‘Off with our daughter in Port Isaac. Being a grandmother,’ he added, with unmistakeable pride. ‘But she’ll be back in time for tomorrow’s breakfasts. You can certainly speak to her then. I’ll mention it to her, if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ said David. ‘That would be great.’
‘Thanks,’ called Carys, as, scampi and chips abandoned, they made their way out into the village.
It was only a few minutes’ walk down to the sea, past neat rows of cottages painted in soft pinks, blues and yellows. Seagulls chattered from the rooftops, taking off every now and again with a raucous shriek, or swerving down towards the sea, while cats stretched out on any convenient piece of wall, yawning in the warm evening sun.
Built within the curved rocky bay of a natural harbour, the little quay was buzzing by the time they arrived there. Tourists mingled with the beautiful surfing dudes among the outdoor tables of restaurants and a small kiosk selling ‘award-winning’ pasties ‘as seen on TV’. The tide was high, and in the harbour a small collection of fishing vessels rocked and swayed, sending a decidedly fishy aroma rising from the waves.
‘Treverick Gardens,’ said Carys, pausing at a small, rather roughly made tourist sign and forgetting her empty stomach and the delicious smells overpowering the sea when the wind was in the right direction. The arrow pointed away from the harbour, towards one side of the village.
David glanced at her. ‘Fancy a quick look? We can have a proper nosy tomorrow morning. Unless you prefer to eat.’
‘It’ll be dark before long. How about going to the gardens first?’
He grinned. ‘Sounds good to me.’
They followed the sign along the paved walkway in front of the harbour. After a while, the walkway became a path, leading them up a small rise.
‘Wow, beautiful,’ sighed Carys, as they reached the top of the small mound. Behind them they could see the harbour, full of life, while in front, the rocky coastline opened out. Ranks upon ranks of sheer cliffs stretched into the distance. Dark rocks rose up from a clear turquoise sea, now touched with a glow of orange light as the sun began to set. Despite the stillness of the evening, rollers crashed every now and again, sending up wild sprays of foam.
‘This must be it,’ said David, indicating a stone wall half hidden in ivy and undergrowth, which ran the length of the ground rising up from the sea. ‘I don’t know about a garden, but if I was going to build Treverick Hall, I’d certainly build it here.’
Sure enough, a few minutes later a simple, decidedly temporary-looking sign set next to an archway in the wall, announced ‘Treverick Gardens’.
‘That looks like the illustration on the pub sign,’ said Carys. ‘Except it’s honeysuckle, not clematis.’ There was no gate to bar their way, and they stepped, slightly gingerly, inside. ‘Oh, wow.’
There we
re no two ways about it; it was like walking into a magical landscape. Warmed in the soft evening light, the gardens opened up into intricate swirls of flowerbeds between gravel pathways, framed by a small woodland. Immediately the noise from the harbour vanished, leaving only the chatter of sparrows and the clear song of a blackbird.
‘There’s a fountain,’ said Carys, hearing the quiet ripple of running water between the birdsong. It took a moment to work out the direction, but eventually they made their way into the trees.
‘They must be still working on this,’ said David, as they paused at newly dug earth.
‘It has to be a fountain of some kind.’ Carys peered into the shadows, trying to make out the source of the watery sounds. The sun had finally vanished, bringing dusk to the little gardens. She hesitated, torn between curiosity and being ever so slightly spooked.
David had followed a path to one side between newly – and severely – restrained rhododendrons. ‘I think it’s a waterfall.’
He was right. They ducked beneath a second arch, heavily entwined with clematis and heady with an exotic scent that vaguely hinted at spiced chocolate. There a waterfall meandered down among rocks, with bright little alpine plants glowing on either side.
‘That doesn’t look natural.’ Carys had her gardening head on. ‘The ground doesn’t look steep enough behind to bring down that amount of water. It looks like one of those Victorian water features. The ones that are supposed to look like wild places. I bet this is another part of the garden design.’
‘You’re right.’ David was crouched down, peering at a small sign that was no more than a laminated piece of A4 tacked to a post. ‘It says here that this is the wilderness area of Treverick Gardens, which is still in the process of being restored.’
‘It is pretty.’ Carys made her way onto the stone bridge over the stream where the waterfall ended in a small pool, and then vanished underground. ‘I’ve seen some that look really tacky, but this is almost natural – oh!’
Eden's Garden Page 22
