by Anne Mather
Of course, in latter years her visits to Penwyn had necessarily decreased, both in frequency and dimension. Since leaving school eight years ago, she had had neither the time nor the funds to spend eight weeks every year running free across these hills, and since opening the boutique in Hammersmith, she had been too absorbed with business affairs to pay more than an occasional weekend's visit to Penwyn.
The fact that the Hammersmith boutique had been so successful had enabled her to look farther afield, however, and despite her mother's opposition, she had decided to open a second branch in Pendower, the small country town only ten miles from her uncle's farm.
Mrs Tempest, widowed these ten years, had recently remarried, so Catherine felt no sense of belonging with her. Her stepfather was all right, but there was obviously friction between them, belonging as he did to one of those freakish political organisations with fanatical doctrines long out of date. Catherine had already moved into a flat of her own in London, in spite of all the empty rooms in the house her father had bought for them, and it was only a small upheaval to transplant herself temporarily into a small cottage in Pendower.
It was a whim really, a foolish ideal of recapturing the dreams of her childhood, and she had told herself she could afford one mistake. The fact that the shop had prospered seemed more good luck than anything, and it was ironic when her affairs were going so well that her uncle's should be going so badly.
Lately, she had spent more and more time at the farm, and the reasons were here, at Penwyth. Her uncle was making himself ill with worry, and her cousin, Owen, was not much better. Owen had recently married, and his wife was expecting a baby. None of them had ever considered having to leave the valley, and the tenancy of the farm had been passed down from father to son for generations.
A gust of wind sent a shower of raindrops from the overhanging trees on to the windscreen of the car, and Catherine automatically set the wipers in motion. She was almost there. She could see the ivy-hung walls of the manor house on the rise above her and she changed into a lower gear to negotiate the slope. Her knees felt distinctly wobbly as she thrust the lever forward, and she had to concentrate on what she was doing to rid herself of the feeling of impending disaster.
What was she doing here? she asked herself uneasily. Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded to speak to Mr Glyndower on her uncle's behalf? What could she possibly say to deter him? And why should she imagine he would listen to her? She wasn't involved, not directly anyway, and just because she had a little more experience in negotiation than either her uncle or her cousin, it did not mean she could conduct this interview with success.
What had bargaining for materials to do with farming, or outfitting boutiques to do with mining for lead?
Her fingers were slippery against the wheel, despite the chilly autumn day outside. She was nervous—oh, how nervous she was!—and how she longed to turn the car and drive back to Pendower and put all thoughts of her uncle's problems behind her.
She expelled her breath on a sigh. He would probably not even remember her. It was years since she had seen him, and then only from a distance. They had never been friends, not in the real sense of the word. They had known one another, shared a common interest in horses and riding, even played together, although he had been so much older, almost grown-up in Catherine's eyes, but never really talked together. They had danced together once…
Her mind recoiled from that particular recollection. He would not remember that, but she did. After all, it was only—what? Eight years ago? The last year she had come to Penwyn for the summer. Her last year at school. That last holiday before she started work in one of the big stores in Oxford Street, and learned about clothes and the aptitude she had for designing them. There had been a country ball, she remembered, a village affair, with the squire's son and his lady graciously attending the proceedings. A barn dance had been announced, she recalled, and the Glyndowers had been persuaded to join in. Her own partner, a boy of her cousin Owen's age, had swung her into the line, and halfway through the dance she had halted before Rafe Glyndower.
Her lips quivered in remembrance. He had been totally unaware of her identity, and she had not attempted to enlighten him. They had danced a few bars of a waltz together, and then the music had changed again, and they had both moved on to other partners. It had been a perfectly innocent incident, he had been polite, but nothing more, yet Catherine remembered the feel of his hand at her waist, and the strength of his body, long after the ball was over.
She drew an uneven breath. She wondered if he remembered her name, if nothing else. It was unlikely, she supposed. After all, a lot could happen in sixteen years, and it must be that long since he had played with her at the farm. He was virtually the squire now. His father was senile, or so it was rumoured, feeble-minded after the stroke which had put him into the county hospital. Rafe had been married for quite a number of years; his wife was beautiful, and, by all accounts, could wrap him round her little finger; and they had a son called Thomas.
It was smattering with rain as she drove beneath the arch that gave on to the courtyard before the heavy oaken door. So this was Penwyth, she mused, trying to keep a sense of perspective. It was certainly imposing, yet apart from viewing the rooftops from a position higher up the valley, she had never been this close before. The tenants never came here, or very seldom anyway. They paid their rents to the estate's agent, and had no reason to approach the Glyndowers themselves.
Parking the Renault, she quickly pulled down the sun visor above the passenger seat and gave her reflection a critical appraisal in the mirror that was attached. Her nose was not shining and her lipstick was not smudged, but her pupils were slightly dilated. Blinking, to remedy this revealing feature, she tucked the strands of honey-brown hair behind her ears, and wondered if she ought to have worn a skirt instead of slacks. It was too late now to alter this, however, and gathering up her handbag, she opened her door and climbed out.
Drawing the collar of her suede jacket about her ears, she hurried towards the porch, sheltering under the overhang as she rang the bell. It was quite a modern bell, of the press-button variety, but hanging beside it was the iron bell-rope which had once been pulled to gain admittance. Shades of Dickens, she thought ruefully, and then stiffened as the heavy door was opened.
The elderly man who faced her was vaguely familiar. She recognised him from occasions she had seen him about the village. She thought her aunt had told her his name was Morgan, but she couldn't be sure.
'Yes miss?' he enquired now, sparse brows descending. 'Can I help you?'
'Oh—yes.' Catherine glanced round at the downpour which had opened behind her. 'I—er—I have an appointment with Mr Glyndower. My name is Tempest, Miss Tempest.'
'Mr Rafe is expecting you, miss?'
'I believe so.'
Catherine glanced round again, hoping he was not about to keep her waiting on the doorstep. It was cold, as well as wet, and she felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.
'You'd better come in, then,' the butler invited grudgingly, and, relieved, Catherine stepped into the warm mustiness of a hall that was panelled in a dark wood that gleamed with the patina of age. The floor reflected a similar lustre, but the wooden blocks were worn and strewn with rugs. As the door was closed behind her, Catherine heard the distinct chink of glass, and glancing upward, she caught her breath in admiration for the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead. She could imagine it illuminated on a cold winter's evening, its warming glow reflected in the panelling, and casting shadows on the shallow treads of the staircase that curved along one wall.
'If you'll wait here, I'll see if the master is in his study,' declared the butler formally, and Catherine hid a smile at the use of the title. The master, she thought, shaking her head. One could get delusions of grandeur for less.
'Miss Tempest?'
He had come upon her unawares, and she was annoyed. She had intended to control this interview from start to finish. Now, swi
nging to face him, she was immediately at a disadvantage, shaken by his sudden appearance, and by the immediate attraction she felt towards him. That hadn't changed, even though she had convinced herself that it must, and she chided herself for allowing a girlish infatuation to effect her so strongly.
'It is—Catherine Tempest, isn't it?' he was saying now, holding out his hand towards her, and despite her misgivings she was forced to take it, hoping he would not associate the dampness of hers with anything more than the weather.
He hadn't changed. He was still the most disturbing man she had ever met, and as soon as it was possible she snatched her hand away, twisting her fingers together, forcing herself to appear composed. She had known she should not have agreed to conduct this interview, had known her reasons were not wholly altruistic. She had wanted to see him again, to speak to him as an equal, and now she was here, and she felt tongue-tied.
As if aware of her embarrassment, Rafe turned aside then, gesturing towards the open doorway she now saw behind him, inviting her into his study. On unsteady legs, she preceded him into the room, and schooled her features as he closed the leather-covered door behind them.
As he moved behind the square desk that dominated the room, she allowed herself a surreptitious appraisal of the boy who had grown into such an attractive man. Those summer days at Penwyn had never seemed so distant, or her own relationship with him so remote and unreal. He was truly his father's successor, while she—she was still just the niece of one of his tenants, and no amount of success in her own field would alter that. He was older, of course. There were strands of grey in his dark hair, and the lines beside his mouth were deeply engrained. But his hair was still as thick as it had ever been, and longer than he used to wear it, and his mouth as deeply sensual as his lower lip denoted. He wore casual clothes—moleskin pants that clung to the powerful muscles of his thighs, a black shirt that accentuated the darkness of his skin, evidence of the time he spent outdoors, and a dark green corded jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.
'Now, Miss Tempest,' he said, indicating that she should take the leather chair opposite him. 'Why did you want to see me?'
Catherine made a movement towards the chair, and then stilled. It might be easier standing up, although she sensed his mild impatience when he was obliged to remain standing, too. Clearing her throat, she endeavoured to meet his gaze, and was surprised to find a certain guardedness about his eyes.
'My uncle asked me to speak to you,' she said, and then wished she had not put it quite like that. 'That is—he would have spoken to you himself, but—well, I offered to come.'
'Did you?' His dark eyebrows ascended.
'Yes.' He wasn't making it any easier for her. 'You— you must know why I'm here.'
'I have a strong suspicion,' he agreed evenly. Then: 'Won't you sit down? I'm sure you'd find it much more comfortable.'
Catherine hesitated only a moment longer before moving forward, albeit reluctantly, to seat herself in the chair he offered. With a sigh of satisfaction, Rafe Glyndower took his own leather armchair, and with long fingers beating a tattoo on its arm, he said: 'Your uncle wants to know whether any decision has yet been made about the mine.'
Catherine pressed her lips together. 'Yes.'
He nodded. 'I guessed as much.' His fingers stilled.
'Naturally, he's worried,' Catherine justified herself. 'It is his livelihood—the livelihood of his family. Naturally, he wants to know what's going on.'
'Naturally,' agreed Rafe Glyndower dryly, and she wondered for a moment whether he was mocking her. But his expression was perfectly serious, and in any case, his next words drove all thought of mockery out of her mind. 'You can tell him that no decision has been made—yet. When I do know anything definite, he'll be the first to hear.'
'Thank you.' There was not much else she could say, even though she had still to voice her own opinion in the matter. 'I'll tell him what you've said. I know he'll be relieved.'
'Good.' Was there a trace of anger in his voice now? 'I'm glad to have been of service.'
Was that all? Catherine sought for words to express herself. 'Do you—that is—do you know when you'll have something definite to relate?'
'I'm afraid not.' He was definitely withdrawing now, pushing back his chair, getting to his feet. 'It's been very nice seeing you again, Miss Tempest. Give my regards to your aunt and uncle, won't you?'
Wail a minute!
The words were never spoken, but they drummed in Catherine's head. Any minute now, she was going to be dismissed, and she still hadn't voiced any of the objections she had come here to espouse.
'Mr Glyndower…'
He was moving round the desk towards her as she spoke, but her words arrested him. 'Yes?' He was cautious, and pushing back her chair, she rose to face him.
'You—you do appreciate my uncle's position, don't you, Mr Glyndower?' she ventured nervously, and although his lids lowered ominously, she hastened on: 'I mean—there's more to this than just losing the land.'
'I do know the arguments for and against,' he reminded her, his tone colder than before, but now she had his attention, she was not about to relinquish it.
'It would—destroy the whole community,' she continued. 'I don't know what's involved, but I do know that new roads would be needed for the vehicles transporting the ore to the smelting plant—would that be in the valley, too, by the way?—and the cottages in the village simply aren't built to withstand that kind of vibration.'
'Your concern does you credit,' Rafe retorted shortly, but when he would have moved towards the door, she went on:
'That's without the destruction of the beauty of the valley. The river—would it become polluted, too? And what would they do with the rock they dig out? Would there be piles of debris everywhere?'
'Miss Tempest—Catherine!' He spoke through his teeth. 'I know very little more about what's involved here than you do. I'm as appalled as anyone else by the possible effects such a scheme might have on the ecology of this area, but there are other considerations. So far, all that's been determined is that there are grounds for believing that a seam of ore may exist in the land above Penwyn. Your uncle knows there have been geologists working in the area. As yet, no actual drilling has been done, so all their work is purely speculative. It could be a cold trail. No one knows. Without further exploration, they never will.'
'And—and that's your decision. Whether or not to grant drilling rights?'
'Yes.'
Catherine gazed at him, trying to read his mind, trying to penetrate the mask-like schooling of his features. For the first time she noticed the muscle jerking at his jawline, and the lines of weariness around his eyes. They were revealing aspects, and she realised, with a stirring of compassion, that he was not without a conscience. This was not easy for him, and after all, he need not have agreed to see her. For a moment the gulf between them narrowed, but as she parted her lips to utter some conventional words of gratitude for granting her this interview, the door opened behind him, and a slim, dark-haired young woman stood on the threshold.
Catherine recognised Lucy Glyndower at once. Apart from that occasion when she had accompanied her husband to the ball, she was regularly seen about the town. She drove a Volvo estate car, and Catherine had encountered her in the supermarket on more than one occasion. Not that Lucy acknowledged her. She seldom acknowledged anyone other than the manager of the store, and Catherine had heard the girls at the check-out grumbling about her haughty ways. Until this moment she had thought they exaggerated, but the look Mrs Glyndower cast in her direction was completely devoid of interest, and she turned immediately to her husband, almost as if Catherine wasn't there.
'I've just been speaking to Thomas!' she declared, and there was a note of anger in her voice. 'Are you aware—'
Her husband's intervention halted her tirade. 'We have a guest, Lucy,' he reminded her evenly. 'Miss Tempest was just leaving. We can discuss Thomas later.'
His eyes held hers, a
nd Catherine sensed the antipathy between them at that moment. Then, as if unwillingly accepting her husband's injunction, Lucy Glyndower turned to face her.
'Oh, yes,' she said. 'You're Powys's niece, aren't you?' The way she said it made Catherine's resentment bristle, but she managed to disguise it. 'My husband remembered your name. But you don't live here in the valley, do you, Miss Tempest? So the loss of your uncle's farm will mean little to you.'
Catherine squared her shoulders, glad that in height at least she had the advantage, although Lucy's daintiness was obviously more feminine. 'I live in Pendower, Mrs Glyndower,' she retorted smoothly. 'But I've always considered the valley my second home. Anything that affects Uncle Mervyn affects me, too.'
'Oh, dear!' Lucy didn't sound at all sympathetic, though. 'Still, I'm sure he'll be well compensated.'
Catherine blinked. 'Well—compensated?'
'Yes,' Lucy nodded. 'When he has to move.'
Catherine's eyes went straight to Rafe Glyndower's face, and what she saw there in no way reassured her. 'You mean—you mean the decision has been made, then?'
'Oh, yes.' It was Lucy who answered. 'Didn't my husband tell you?'
'Lucy!'
Rafe Glyndower's warning came a little too late, however, and Catherine was already gazing at him in angry disbelief.
'You said—you said—'
'My husband was probably trying to avoid any unpleasantness,' Lucy remarked, shaking her sleek head. 'Surely you realise, Miss Tempest, that we cannot allow sentiment to stand in the way of business?'
'Lucy, for God's sake—'
'Oh, please. Let her go on!' Catherine's fingers clenched painfully. 'I'd rather hear the truth than a pack of lies!'
