A Wedding in Cornwall
A Song at Twilight ~ Companion Novella
Pamela Sherwood
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Wedding In Cornwall
Excerpt from The Advent Of Lady Madeline
Copyright © 2015 by Pamela Sherwood
Published by Blue Castle Publishing
Cover by vikncharlie
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For all the readers who wanted to know what happened next
Author’s Note
Positioning companion stories within a series can present a challenge, which was certainly the case with A Wedding In Cornwall.
Is it a sequel to Sophie’s story, which was told in A Song At Twilight?
Is it a prequel to Harry’s story, which will be told in Beauty Takes A Holiday?
The short answer to both questions is “yes.”
The slightly longer answer is that I felt I’d glossed over a few things at the end of A Song At Twilight, one of which was Robin and Sophie’s wedding. As they are perhaps my most tortured couple (so far!), I decided that writing about their big day would be a nice present for the characters—and for readers who might like to know how it all came about. I also discovered that matters weren’t entirely settled for Sophie’s eldest brother, Harry. In a family as close as the Tresilians, what affects one member tends to affect the others, so what could be more inevitable than Harry finding himself at a crossroads in his own life just as his sister prepares to tie the knot with the man she’s loved for years?
And so this novella was born. I hope readers enjoy this return visit to Cornwall as much as I did!
Chapter One
All tragedies are finished by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage.
—Lord Byron, Don Juan
November 1896, a fortnight before the wedding…
THE headstone had been set in place two days ago.
Head bared, Robin studied it in silence. Even in the dim autumn light, the inscription showed sharp and clear: Nathalie Pendarvis. Wife of Robin Pendarvis. Beloved Mother of Sara and Cyril. And under that, the dates of her birth and death.
He’d struggled for a long time to find the right words, the ones that would feel true—and not like some pious lie. Most of the county already knew or suspected that Nathalie had been no true wife to him, that they’d lived essentially separate lives, and that Cyril, though deeply loved by the man who raised him, had not been Robin’s son. Nathalie’s violent death, however, had left no room for vindictiveness or spite. And while Robin had ceased to love her years ago, he knew she had not deserved her fate.
In the end, he’d let Sophie’s counsel guide him. “However you felt about her, dear heart, she was your wife in the eyes of the law,” she’d pointed out. “And the mother of your children.”
Children. How like her to remember that he had loved—and mourned—the fragile Cyril as his own. And though he missed the boy keenly, Robin could not help but feel grateful that he’d been spared the shock of his mother’s demise. And it comforted Sara to believe that Nathalie and Cyril were together in heaven.
So, in the end, acknowledging the indisputable facts of Nathalie’s marriage and motherhood had brought Robin a measure of peace. He hoped it had done likewise for his late wife’s restless spirit.
A hand slipped into his, and he breathed in the delicate fragrance of violets. Without looking around, he raised that hand, gloved and slender, to his lips.
“I thought I might find you here, dear heart,” Sophie said softly. Then, “They did a good job with the stone.”
Robin drew a long breath. “That they did.” He turned to face her—his love, his betrothed, his soon-to-be wife—and felt his spirits lift as they always did at the sight of her. The flower of the Tresilian family, with her heart-shaped face, rich dark hair, and those vivid sea-green eyes that were now studying him with the understanding that would only deepen in their shared years. She wore the dark green habit that made her look especially stylish and sophisticated, an effect not in the least marred by the sheaf of purple asters in her arms.
“I stopped by Papa’s grave first,” she explained, holding them out to him. “And then I thought perhaps… you might want some of these too.”
Robin’s heart turned over in his chest. Sophie’s generosity of spirit—even towards the memory of a woman who’d caused her nothing but grief—was one of the many things he loved about her. “Thank you. I didn’t think to bring flowers today.”
He laid about half the asters on Nathalie’s grave, ignoring the small voice in his head that observed sardonically that the living woman would have scorned so simple an offering. The rest he retained for Cyril’s grave just a short distance away.
Sophie accompanied him to the boy’s resting place, stood beside him as he set down the remaining asters, rubbed away a trace of moss from the headstone’s inscription. No words were spoken, or needed to be. Robin had never been one for graveside soliloquies, and from their first to last moments together, he and Cyril had always known what they were to each other, no matter who had sired the child.
Sophie finally broke the silence. “I am so glad that he had you. That you were close.”
“So am I.” Among Robin’s keenest regrets was the knowledge that Cyril would not be a part of the new life he and Sophie would build. That their children, should they be blessed with any, would never know their brother, nor he them. But then, wasn’t it often the case that someone was left behind in such an eventuality? Sophie too, he realized, had her beloved dead—chief among them, her father who’d died when she was still a child, but whose memory she would always cherish. Just as he would cherish Cyril’s.
Slightly comforted by the thought, Robin stepped back from the grave and offered Sophie his arm. “What now, love? Are you heading home?”
She shook her head. “Not just yet. I thought I might—we might—speak to the vicar and the organist about the music for the service.”
“An excellent notion.” Music was Sophie’s passion and her calling, as anyone who’d heard her sing could attest. It still amazed him that a rising star of the opera stage was willing to settle down to a far quieter existence as a country hotelier’s wife in the wilds of Cornwall. But then, Sophie was Cornish to the bone and the seeds of their love had been sown years before the world had discovered her talents.
“Have you a preference?” he asked, as they began to wend their way through the churchyard.
“I thought Handel, perhaps, or Bach.”
“What, no Mozart?” he teased.
Sophie dimpled at him. “I don’t think I could hear Mozart without immediately wanting to burst into song, and a bride’s mind should be on getting married, not performing! Especially as we’ll be having a small, intimate ceremony.”
Robin gave an exaggerated sigh. “I doubt any of our guests would object to a singing bride, but if you’re sure…”
“Entirely. What about you, Robin? Have you a particular preference?”
“Well, I’m partial to Bach. And perhaps the organist will have some suggestions too.” Deep down, Robin knew it wouldn’t matter to him what music was being played at his wedding—as long as Sophie was his wife at the end of it. Still, it was only courteous to take some interest in the details.
“
How are the fittings going?” he asked, remembering that she’d had a dressmaker’s appointment that morning.
“Oh, very nicely. Mrs. Cardew has some wonderful patterns and fabrics in her shop. Cecily wishes I’d chosen white, though—partly because it’s in fashion, partly because of the old rhyme. ‘Married in white, you have chosen all right,’” Sophie quoted, with a comic eye roll.
“Doesn’t another part of it go, ‘Married in black, you will wish yourself back’?”
“No chance of that, no matter what color I wear!” Sophie laughed, tightening her hold on his arm. “I’ve waited far too long for this!”
“We both have.” Years of separation and sacrifice finally, miraculously redeemed—impossible not to rejoice at that. Some might look askance at his remarrying less than six months after Nathalie’s death, but Robin found he didn’t give a hearty damn. “But, just to be certain, you’re not marrying in black, are you?”
“Certainly not. Although,” Sophie cast down her eyes demurely, “older brides such as myself are often encouraged to marry in quieter shades—like grey or lavender.”
“Twenty-three is hardly ancient!” Robin exclaimed, taken aback.
“Well, rest assured that I didn’t choose those colors either! And although I won’t be wearing white, I still hope to dazzle you on our wedding day.”
“You would dazzle me wearing a burlap sack.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “And Sara will dazzle you too, Robin. Just wait until you see her in her new frock.”
The growing friendship between his daughter and his bride never failed to delight him. And the melancholy he’d felt earlier was breaking up now, like clouds scattering before a warm summer breeze—for which he had the woman beside him to thank.
Drawing Sophie into his arms, Robin kissed her lingeringly, savoring the sensation of her soft lips against his own. “Thank you, my love.”
“For what?” she asked, warm and pliant in his embrace.
“For reminding me that life can begin as well as end at the church door.”
Chapter Two
Now I’ve often heard it said by my father and my mother,
That going to a wedding was the making of another…
—“Old Maid in the Garret,” Irish folk song
Ten days before the wedding…
“YOU cannot be serious!”
Sir Harry Tresilian had heard his mistress utter those words before, often with a note of laughter in her voice, for May was serious about once in a blue moon. But never had she spoken them with such incredulity—that bordered on shock.
“Never more so, my dear,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder to where she still sat among the rumpled bedclothes, staring at him with astonished dark eyes. “I should like you to attend my sister’s wedding next week.”
May shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “As to that, not even the most stiff-necked members of the congregation can bar me from the church—”
“And to attend the wedding breakfast afterwards, as my particular guest,” he finished.
She ran a hand through her black curls, spilling in wild profusion over her smooth, pale shoulders. Shoulders Harry had been licking and tasting not half an hour ago. Skin like Devon cream, and a mouth as full and red as summer strawberries—and a tongue more tart than sweet, but amusing nonetheless. “And the wedding breakfast is to be held at Roswarne. Your family home, in which all the Tresilians will be assembled?”
“Perhaps not all of them,” Harry temporized. “Sophie and Robin wanted a smallish wedding. But the immediate family will certainly be there.” He added, more gently, “And you will be welcome. You needn’t worry that my family will make you feel uncomfortable.”
May rolled her eyes. “Not even your sister Cecily? We both know how fond she is of me!”
Harry just managed not to sigh. May did have a point—Cecily was ill at ease around her, and May’s habit of flippancy did not help matters. “Cecy won’t make a scene. It’s to be Sophie’s wedding, after all. And Sophie has nothing against you.”
“That’s because Sophie doesn’t know me,” May pointed out. “No doubt she’d find plenty to object to, if she did!”
“Nonsense!” Harry did his best to sound bracing. “Sophie’s always been one to extend a hand in friendship. And she’s perhaps the least judgmental of us all.”
“Hm.” May did not look or sound convinced. Throwing aside the sheet, she swung her feet to the floor and reached for her discarded dressing gown, a sheer silk confection the color of ripe peaches that no staid, respectable sort of woman would be caught dead in. Harry had loved seeing her in it—and taking her out of it even more. “I highly doubt your sister Sophie and I would have much in common.”
“You might be surprised,” he retorted. “Sophie is an opera singer. She’s had—some experience of the world these last four years or so.” Though, if truth be told, Harry did not much like to think what that experience might have included; there were some things he wasn’t comfortable thinking about in connection with his youngest sister.
May glanced at him, her expression suddenly sly and a hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes. Reading his mind again, confound her.
He improvised hastily, “What I’m saying is that Sophie has traveled far beyond Cornwall, and they do say that travel broadens the mind—and Sophie was broad-minded to begin with. You needn’t fear a snub or a cold shoulder from her. Besides, I doubt she’ll have eyes for anyone but Rob in any case,” he added with a wry smile. “To look at them you’d think they were married already.”
As we might be. As we could be. The words hung unspoken on the air: an old subject, and a sensitive one. One that May consistently avoided… as she did now. Lips compressed, eyes averted, she busied herself with tying the sash of her robe about her trim waist.
“Well?” Harry probed at last, unnerved by the continuing silence.
She glanced up, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “I don’t wish to make anyone at the wedding uncomfortable. Or to be made uncomfortable myself.”
“And I give you my word, as a Tresilian and a gentleman, that neither of those things will happen. Does that count for nothing?”
Her voice was low, but vehement. “You know just what it counts for, with me.”
“So I should hope.” He paused, then resumed, more gently, “I know this is unexpected, May-blossom. But I hope you’ll think about it, at least.”
She flushed at the endearment—as he’d known she would—and dropped her gaze, but not before he saw the warring emotions in her eyes. “Very well,” she conceded, almost sullenly. “I promise to think about it.”
For all her flippancy, May did not make promises lightly. Taking it as a small victory, Harry stole a farewell kiss before he let himself out of her chamber.
***
He left by the back entrance, where his horse was already waiting for him. As always, May’s grooms were models of discretion—not surprising given how long he’d been coming here—and as always, Harry slipped them a coin to keep it that way.
He looked up and down the lane before venturing out, but, fortunately, no one was in sight. A fair portion of St. Perran might suspect that he and May were keeping company—Harry’s own family had long since twigged to it—but there was no need to provide more food for the gossips by flaunting their association. And if it had been solely up to Harry, they would have formalized matters soon after becoming lovers. But how did one make “an honest woman” of someone who showed not the least desire for it? Who brushed off any attempt to talk seriously about the future as if it were no more than a speck of lint?
Nearly three years he’d known her, Harry mused as he and his horse made their leisurely way along the lane. Three years since the widowed Mrs. George Bettesworth had taken up residence in St. Perran, occupying a small property that belonged to her late husband’s family. She’d been about halfway through her year of mourning then, keeping decorously to herself for the most part. Harry h
ad glimpsed her now and then, at church on Sundays or shopping in Truro—a demure, black-clad figure with what seemed to be a perpetually downcast gaze.
They hadn’t officially met until a ball given by Aurelia, Lady Trevenan, his cousin James’s American wife. To celebrate the Fourth of July and her country’s liberation from British tyranny, Aurelia had claimed with a teasing glance at her husband. More like his country’s liberation from ungrateful colonials, James had retorted, though his smile was as uxoriously fond as ever when he looked at his wife.
Whatever the occasion, the evening had been most convivial, boasting good food and drink, pleasant company, and skilled musicians playing their way through a lively succession of polkas, waltzes, and galops. After partnering one young lady in the latter, Harry had found himself in need of a respite. Choosing a quiet corner, he sipped at a cup of punch and idly watched couples take to the floor for a waltz, James and Aurelia foremost among them.
He wasn’t sure what had caught his eye—some random movement or a flash of color, but he’d found himself glancing towards whatever it was… and found himself unable to look away.
Over by the French windows stood a dark-haired woman, fanning herself with slow, even languorous strokes. Half-mesmerized, Harry watched the gradual rise and fall of black ostrich plumes, accompanied by the equally gradual rise and fall of a most attractive bosom, just visible above the lady’s décolletage.
“Ah, good evening, Tresilian,” a familiar voice remarked at his shoulder. “Splendid party, don’t you think?”
Adam Prideaux, one of his neighbors, Harry’s memory supplied. “Indeed,” he responded vaguely, his eyes still on the lady.
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