“He’s seen and done things I’ve never dreamed of,” Sophie went on. “And he belongs to a wider world I can’t wait to be part of!”
Her conviction startled Aurelia. Was Sir Lucas Nankivell really such a paragon? She thought back to the man she’d seen in the lane, with his perfect clothes and almost overly refined speech. And that measuring gaze that had seemed to calculate every penny of her toilette…
Well, perhaps she was not being wholly fair because he hadn’t made a favorable first impression on her. No doubt Sophie saw another side to him. “You speak of a wider world,” she began tentatively. “Are you sure that your feelings might not change, once you’ve experienced a bit more of life yourself?”
“That’s possible. But I doubt it.” Sophie smiled ruefully. “There’s a saying in my family: ‘Swans and Tresilians mate for life.’ We tend to choose early, and not change our minds.”
Aurelia studied her thoughtfully. Sophie seemed far older at seventeen than she and Amy ever had—older, and more sure of herself. “Does that always work out for the best?”
Sophie dimpled, suddenly looking her age again. “I would like to say yes, of course, but naturally I can make no such claim. There have been unsuccessful marriages in my family—some quite spectacularly bad—and yet…I do think the good ones have outweighed the bad.”
“Does the gentleman share your sentiments, to the same extent?”
“He wants me to comply with my family’s plans and have a London Season,” Sophie confessed. “To see more of the world, attend parties and dances, and meet other men. And if my feelings do not alter, he says he will be here, waiting.” Her lips formed a slightly tremulous smile. “He says I am worth waiting for.”
“That’s—very generous.” More generous than Aurelia would have thought Sir Lucas could be. And his reluctance to take advantage of such a lovely young girl showed him in a far better light. Aurelia privately resolved to be more charitable should she encounter him again.
“Yes, but I already know how it will be.” Sophie’s young face showed a wealth of determination. “I’ll have my Season and enjoy it, for I’ve never spent much time in London before. But when it’s over, I’ll return to Cornwall—and to him. To our life together. I mean to stand firm about this, and I know he will too.”
Aurelia smiled, pleased for her and just a little envious. How comforting to know exactly what you wanted, and that only time stood between you and the achievement of it! “Then, my dear, I wish you both the very best.”
Sophie returned her smile. “Thank you. But what of you, Aurelia? Have you any special admirer yourself?”
Aurelia thought uncomfortably of Charlie’s unanswered letter, tucked between the pages of one of her travel books. “There is someone,” she admitted at last. “Someone I once knew, who wishes to renew our—acquaintance. But I haven’t yet decided if I wish that as well.”
Sophie nodded her understanding and wisely inquired no further. Unbidden, Trevenan’s face rose in Aurelia’s memory, as she’d seen it last night in the library: strained, weary, the dark eyes slightly overbright—from brandy or emotion, she could not tell. But for just a moment, he’d stood as close to her as when they waltzed and looked at her with something like hunger…
Which was absurd, she told herself. If Trevenan hungered for anyone, it must be Amy. Whatever she’d seen or thought she’d seen in his eyes was no more than the reflection of what he felt for her sister, his intended bride. The sooner he opened his heart to Amy, the sooner they could begin to face these troubles together, as a couple should.
Trying not to think of Trevenan and her sister, Aurelia got to her feet. “The sun’s so much warmer now. And we’ve finished our lunch. Let’s go wading in the sea.”
***
On closer inspection, Sheridan was wielding neither pencils nor pastels but a fine watercolor brush. Mindful of his efforts, Amy did not call attention to herself until he lifted the brush away from the page and paused to study his efforts.
“Mr. Sheridan?” she ventured at last. “We’ve brought you some lunch.”
He looked up, his gaze distracted and seemingly miles away. Then, as he recognized her, his eyes came back into focus and he smiled. “Thank you, Miss Newbold. I appreciate your offering. I’d quite lost track of the time.” Laying his sketchbook aside on the rock, he accepted the pasty and cider she held out to him.
Amy angled her head to study the sketch. Sheridan was as skilled with watercolor as he was with oils, capturing the sea’s shifting hues in alternating strokes of blue and green. For a moment, she experienced the old pang—half-wistful, half-envious—over her own lack of talent.
He followed the direction of her gaze. “I thought I’d make a watercolor sketch or two of my subject before committing it to canvas. That’s how I start out, usually.”
“It’s very impressive so far.” Amy peered more closely at the sketch. “Is that—yellow ochre, under the blue and green?”
“It is. I applied a thin wash of it to the paper before adding Prussian blue and viridian. I find cool shades need an underlying warmth to support them.” Sheridan glanced at her. “Not everyone notices that. You have a good eye, Miss Newbold.”
Amy shrugged, trying not to feel too pleased by the compliment. “Thank you, but I doubt it’s that extraordinary. And in my case, a good eye has never translated into a painting good enough to hang in the Royal Academy—or anywhere else for that matter,” she added ruefully.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I know how frustrating—and painful—it is to feel you cannot create as you wish.”
Amy sighed. “Well, no one gets everything they want in life. And I’m fortunate in many other ways, so I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I’ll never be an Angelica Kauffman or even a Mary Cassatt.” Though not before she’d shed some private tears over the loss of that girlhood dream, and consigned her portfolio of insipid watercolors and lifeless sketches to the fire.
“Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right medium,” Sheridan suggested. “But a keen aesthetic sense is not to be disdained, and I’d venture to say you use it more than you know.”
Amy blinked. “I do?”
He smiled. “You are one of the few women I know who always looks exactly right: your clothes, your hair, even the angle of your hats. And before you accuse me of excessive flattery, an artist notices such things.”
Amy flushed, caught between surprise and pleasure at his words. “I could just have a clever maid,” she pointed out. “Mariette is French, after all.”
“An asset, no doubt. But I suspect that you have the final say in whatever you wear.”
“I do,” she admitted. “And I can be very stubborn about it, as you’ve no doubt guessed.”
“Can you indeed?” There was a spark of mischief in his green eyes.
Amy suppressed a smile. “Well, if you’ve forgotten, I’ll be sure to remind you once you begin my portrait. Which reminds me—when should I come to sit for you?”
“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Newbold.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” she suggested. “Depending on the weather, we can decide whether it should be indoors or out.”
“Very well. I’ve set up a studio in what James calls the old schoolroom: eastern exposure, good light, especially in the early part of the day. We can meet there to start—after breakfast, if that’s not too soon for you.”
“It’s not. But you surprise me, Mr. Sheridan. I never imagined that you rose so early.”
His eyes glinted. “Because of my dissipated life in London? I assure you, I am a different creature here. Country life has its own rhythm, quite distinct from that of the town, and I do not pine for one when visiting the other. Besides,” his expression grew somber, even intense, “any artist worth his salt knows that the work comes first, town or country, day or night.”
“Forgive me,” Amy said, contrite. “I did not mean to be impertinent.”
“Not at all,” he
returned politely. “Now, have you decided what you wish to wear?”
“I have a Liberty silk gown, almost medieval in style. High-waisted, flowing. Pentreath has this Tudor charm. I wonder if the gown might complement it.”
“A pleasing conceit.” Sheridan scanned her intently, as if he was already picturing her so attired. “And a softer, more natural look becomes a bride.” He gave a decisive nod. “I said your aesthetic sense was impeccable. Wear the Liberty tomorrow, for your sitting.”
Amy swallowed, feeling self-conscious again. “Very well—tomorrow morning, then. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Sheridan.”
She left him biting into his pasty and headed back toward her companions.
***
Halfway down the stairs, James paused, gazing at the figures frolicking on his beach.
Aurelia and Sophie were already at the water’s edge, their laughter floating back toward the onlookers. Amy walked a little more slowly, picking her way down the beach with almost finicky care. Like a cat, James thought with an involuntary smile.
His gaze went to Aurelia, standing barefoot in the sea, the way she had that first morning. No seductive phantom, as she had appeared in last night’s dream, but a laughing, carefree, slightly disheveled young woman. The only similarity was that both of them glowed more brightly than the sun itself, at least to his eyes.
How strange that it should be the quiet twin who had embraced Cornwall and all its wildness, and the bolder twin who regarded it with a wary eye. In London, Aurelia had been somewhat overshadowed by her more sociable, vivacious sister. Here, in Cornwall, she seemed to be coming into her own.
She looked like she belonged here. The realization struck him with the force of a wave knocking him off his feet.
“James, do you mean to go down or not?” Harry asked testily from behind him.
James roused at once. “Sorry, old fellow,” he apologized, resuming his descent.
Sophie looked around just as they set foot on the sand, and waved to them, smiling. So did the twins. Quickening their pace, James and Harry joined the ladies at the water’s edge.
Harry slipped an arm about his sister. “Hullo, snip. Didn’t know I’d find you here.”
“John’s gone off fishing with Andrew Newbold,” Sophie explained. “I came too, with a picnic lunch, and we ladies decided to have it on the beach. Now where have you two been?” she asked. “You were downright mysterious about it when you left this morning, Harry.”
Harry glanced at James, then shrugged and said in an offhand tone, “No mystery involved, actually. We just called on a distant relation of James’s who lives up the coast.”
“But as he was from home, nothing of import occurred,” James added. He did not look at Aurelia, but he sensed by her sudden stillness that she had grasped the significance of his news. He turned instead to Amy and offered his arm. “My dear, will you walk apart with me? I’ve some things to discuss with you.”
***
So he meant to tell Amy at last, Aurelia thought as her twin accepted Trevenan’s arm and the two of them started down the beach together. And it was right that he should, she told herself fiercely. Ridiculous to mind, to feel even the slightest bit excluded, now that Trevenan was doing what she had so often urged him to do: confiding in his future wife.
Turning away, she found Sir Harry watching her with disconcertingly shrewd green eyes. Uneasily, she wondered if something in her face or demeanor had betrayed her.
To her relief, all he said was, “You’re right about the marvelous view here, Miss Aurelia. Now you must come to St. Perran and see our beach as well.”
Aurelia managed a smile. “Thank you, Sir Harry. I’d be happy to. Especially those caves you mentioned at dinner.”
“They’re worth seeing, I promise you. A few are almost as large as Merlin’s Cave at Tintagel, and just as atmospheric, in my opinion. And then,” he added, “there are some that have more recent historical associations.”
“More recent?” Aurelia echoed, mystified by the wry quirk of his lips at the last words.
“He means the free trade,” Sophie explained. “Centuries ago, smugglers would hide their contraband in the caves, at least until it could be moved to a safer place, like an attic or cellar. Some caves even had connecting tunnels and passageways dug so smugglers could transport the goods unseen, without being spotted by the revenue officers.”
“Yes, I read about that in one of my books,” Aurelia recalled. “And how most of the gentry sympathized with the smugglers, so they’d turn a blind eye—or actively help them out.”
“Yes, well…” Harry cleared his throat. “Times were hard back then, I understand.”
Sophie stifled a giggle, and Aurelia stared at him. “Sir Harry, your family?”
“Guilty,” he confessed with a rueful grin. “Many Tresilians had a finger in that pie. My great-grandfather even had a smugglers’ cache built under the floor of our music room at Roswarne. I’d say most of the families on the north coast were involved in the trade, one way or another. Including the Trelawneys, as James could tell you.”
“A blot on the family escutcheon,” Sophie intoned in a sepulchral voice.
Aurelia laughed. “I wouldn’t feel too guilty about it. We have our share of dubious ancestors as well, including some notable robber barons. And then,” she added with a wry smile of her own, “there are those who think of American girls like Amy and me as pirates.”
“If so, you and your sister are in good company,” Harry countered genially. “We Tresilians have a buccaneer or two in our past as well, though not nearly so attractive.”
“A true buccaneer?” Aurelia inquired, smiling. “Do tell me more.”
He obliged, which soon led to a lively discussion among the three of them about whose forebears were the most scandalous. A welcome distraction, Aurelia thought as she regaled her companions with the history of a particularly disreputable great-uncle. Even if it couldn’t entirely make her forget Amy and Trevenan, walking some distance away, or stop wondering just what they were speaking of at this very moment.
***
They made their way along the sand, heading south. Thomas was there, James noticed, packing up his painting kit. He nodded to his friend as they passed, then looked again at Amy. She was still shod; unlike her sister and Sophie, she hadn’t removed her shoes and stockings. Irresistibly, he thought of Aurelia standing barefoot in the sea, then forced the thought away.
“What was it you wished to tell me, James?” Amy’s eyes gazed into his with so much trust that he disliked himself even more for making the comparison.
“Mainly how sorry I am. I haven’t spent nearly as much time with you as I should.”
“Oh, pray don’t apologize for that!” she insisted. “I know how preoccupied you’ve been, and I certainly don’t expect you to dance attendance on me every waking moment.”
“I know, and believe me, I appreciate your forbearance. But I don’t wish you to feel excluded from my confidence. I feel I’ve wronged you, by keeping you so much in the dark.”
Amy’s brow furrowed. “In the dark about what, James?”
Tell her, Aurelia had insisted repeatedly. So, at long last, he did, choosing his words with care but relaying all the essential details, however unpleasant. Amy listened attentively, her face growing increasingly perturbed throughout his recital.
“How dreadful for you!” she exclaimed, after he had finished. “Are you any closer to finding out who’s writing those awful letters?”
“Sadly, no,” James admitted. “I’d hoped to get some answers when I visited my heir, but as he’s out of the country entirely…” He shook his head.
She touched his hand. “Well, you know you have my full support, always.”
“Thank you.” James took her hand, deriving some comfort from the way her fingers twined companionably with his. “Have you any insights to offer, my dear? I wouldn’t mind hearing a fresh perspective, just in case there’s something I’ve overlooked
entirely.”
Amy hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Cornwall is still so unfamiliar to me. I haven’t met anyone yet except the Tresilians, and this seems to be such a—volatile situation. I don’t want to make things worse for you, by interfering in what I don’t understand.”
“Of course not,” he said at once. “I understand your restraint.”
“Try not to worry,” she said, giving his hand a consoling squeeze. “I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of this soon. And the evidence is on your side anyway, isn’t it? Witnesses saw you at a party that night, and the inquest cleared you of any involvement in your cousin’s death. So I shouldn’t think these vicious slanders will stick.”
“I hope not.” James fought back an obscure sense of disappointment.
Amy had said all that was proper, all that was encouraging. She trusted him to handle the situation, without interference from her—a proper, ladylike stance that still showed her loyalty and faith in him. What more could he expect from her?
An image of Aurelia rose in his mind’s eye. Aurelia, her face intent, her brow creased in thought: Who is your heir, Trevenan? Who benefits from your misfortune?
You cannot take me into your confidence one day, and expect me to forget it the next.
Unfair to compare them like this. They were different people, Amy and Aurelia—he’d understood that from the first. Better to count his blessings, chief among them a sweet, supportive fiancée who believed wholeheartedly in his innocence. “Thank you for your understanding,” he said more warmly, gazing down into her lovely face.
She smiled up at him. “Anything I can do to help.”
On impulse, James skimmed his fingers along the curve of her cheek, like warm satin to the touch. “I can think of something that might help enormously. If you’ll permit me, that is.”
Waltz With a Stranger Page 29
