by Sara Craven
‘No,’ he said, suddenly sober. ‘I won’t. Because I really do love her. Maybe it took a stupid, meaningless involvement to teach me how much. To make me realise I couldn’t bear to lose her. Can you understand that?’
‘I’ll never understand you, Simon.’ Her glance was cold and level. ‘Or anything that’s happened in the last months. Not if I live to be a thousand.’ She paused. ‘And my own loss, of course, doesn’t matter,’ she added bitterly.
‘Come off it, Rhianna.’ The mockery was back, coupled with a note of triumph. ‘How can you lose what you never had? Get real.’ He paused. ‘And now, sadly, I must tear myself away. But I’ll be back tomorrow, so remember that I’m about to marry your best friend and be nice, hmm?’ He gave her a valedictory grin, and departed.
Left alone, Rhianna sank down on the edge of the bed, feeling the inner trembling spread through her body, permeating every nerve, every sinew.
Calm down, she told herself. You’ve seen Simon. Spoken to him. You don’t have to do that again. By now he’ll be gone. Tomorrow there’ll be a mad rush to get everything done, and avoiding him should be pretty easy. The trick is not to make it too obvious, or Carrie will notice and wonder.
Tonight, you’ll simply be—pleasant, speaking only when spoken to. You know how to do that. God knows, you’ve had plenty of practice over the years, right here in this house, where you’ll always be the interloper. The unwanted guest.
And when dinner’s over you can yawn, say you’re tired after the journey. Make that your excuse for an early night.
But above all you will not—not—cry. Certainly not now. But not even tonight, when it’s dark, and you’re lying on your own, thinking of—him. Trying not to want him and failing miserably. Just as you’ve done for so many nights in the past. As you’ll want to do for the rest of your life.
Having composed herself with an effort before venturing downstairs again, it was something of an anti-climax to walk into the drawing room, her head high, and find it empty.
But the rest of the party were clearly expected, because a tray of drinks, including large jugs of Pimms and home-made lemonade, plus a cooler containing white wine, had been set out on a side table.
The French windows were standing open, and the evening sun was pouring into the room like warm gold, accompanied by the faint whisper of the sea like a siren call.
Rhianna took two steps towards the open air, then paused. However pressing her desire to escape, she was hardly dressed for scrambling over rocks and sand, or for paddling through the creaming shallows of the tide, she reminded herself drily. Far better to stand her ground and hope the evening would pass quickly.
She wandered back towards the wide stone fireplace, and stood looking up at the portraits which flanked it of Tamsin Penvarnon and her Spanish husband.
Carrie had told her all about them one afternoon, when they’d been alone because Simon had been dragged unwillingly to Truro, shopping with his mother.
‘Several years after the Armada there was a Spanish raid on Cornwall,’ she’d said. ‘They burnt Mousehole and Newlyn, but as they were getting away in their galleys there was a fight, and one of their marine captains, Jorge Diaz, was wounded and swept overboard. He was washed up in our cove and Tamsin Penvarnon, the family’s only daughter, found him there, half drowned. She had him carried up to the house and nursed him until he recovered.’
She gave an impish grin. ‘Then Tamsin found she was having a baby. So she and Captain Diaz got married—only the family put it about that he was really her cousin, one of the Black Penvarnons from near St Just, in case anyone asked awkward questions. He took the family name, but he and Tamsin called one of their sons Diaz, and the tradition has kept going ever since. So when Uncle Ben and Aunt Esther had a boy, everyone knew what he’d be christened.’
She sighed. ‘It’s a wonderful story—especially as it turned out that Jorge Diaz’s father was one of the conquistadores who went to South America and won lots of land and masses of gold, which he left to Jorge’s elder brother, Juan. But Juan Diaz got fever and died too, so everything came to Jorge and Tamsin, which is how the Penvarnon fortune started. And, to add to it all, they found enormous mineral deposits on their estates in Chile. Which is why my cousin Diaz is a multimillionaire and we’re the poor relations,’ she added buoyantly. ‘Only Mummy doesn’t like me to say that.’
Rhianna digested this. ‘Is Mrs Penvarnon—your aunt—dead too?’
‘Oh, no.’ Carrie shook her head. ‘She lives abroad. She just—doesn’t come back here.’
‘Why not—when it’s so beautiful?’
Carrie shrugged. ‘I asked Daddy once, and he said that though Mummy and Aunt Esther were both Londoners, some people didn’t transplant as well as others. Although Jorge Diaz seemed to manage it,’ she added. ‘He and Tamsin had their portraits painted when they got rich, and she’s wearing the Penvarnon necklace, all gold and turquoise, that he had made for her. Their pictures are in the drawing rooms. One day when no one’s around I’ll show them to you.’
Carrie had been as good as her word, Rhianna recalled, and she’d stood enthralled as she gazed up at the long-ago lovers—he with the kind of saturnine good-looks to die for, and she a red-gold beauty with vivid blue eyes.
Now, as she took another look, the resemblance between Diaz Penvarnon and his Spanish ancestor was truly amazing, she acknowledged with reluctance once again. Shave the black pointed beard, replace the snowy ruff with an open-necked shirt and substitute a mobile phone for the sword Don Jorge’s hand was resting on with such stunning authority, and they could be twins.
Both of them adventurers too, she thought. Their eyes looking outward with challenge, seeking new worlds to conquer and fresh fortunes to be made.
Had Tamsin known what she was taking on that day in the cove? she wondered. Or had she ever sighed for a more settled existence?
She moved slightly closer. Tamsin hadn’t the expression of a lady who suffered from doubts. Her eyes and faint smile held the same proud certainty as that of her husband. One hand toyed with an elaborate feathered fan, while the other pointed beringed fingers at the dramatic chain of turquoises, set in gold, that surrounded her neck, its single pendant stone, encircled by pearls, nestling enticingly in the valley between her breasts.
‘It used to be kept in that display case over there on the table,’ Carrie had told her, as they’d stood gazing that first time. ‘But there were problems with insurance, so Uncle Ben decided it should live in the bank. Penvarnon brides always wear it on their wedding days, so I suppose we’ll have to wait for Diaz to get married before it comes out again.’ She’d darted across the room to the table in question. ‘But the fan’s still here, if you want to have a look.’
I should have stuck at looking, Rhianna recalled ruefully, but the temptation to take the lovely thing from its satin bed and hold it had been too strong.
And as she’d touched it something strange had happened to her, as if the simple action of unfurling a fan and waving it smoothly and languidly had transformed her into a different person—a grown woman, aware of the power of her own beauty. She’d moved slowly across the room, her walk a glide, glancing from left to right under her lashes, as if acknowledging the admiration she aroused.
She’d thought since that that was the moment when she’d known with absolute certainty she would become an actress. That she might be able to hide from her intrinsic loneliness by becoming other people.
At the time, she’d spun round on her toe, laughing almost shamefacedly at her own silly fantasies—only to look past Carrie and see Moira Seymour standing grim-faced in the doorway, with Diaz Penvarnon just behind her.
‘How dare you?’ The older woman’s voice had been molten with anger. ‘How dare you touch anything in this house, you little—?’
‘It’s not her fault,’ Carrie broke in staunchly. ‘I told her she could.’
‘Then you had no right, Caroline.’ Her mother turned on her furiously.
‘This is a Penvarnon family heirloom, not some cheap toy to be passed around and played with. In future, the case will be locked. And this girl should not be in the house, anyway. I gave strict instructions about that.’ She took a step forward, her hand outstretched, her eyes fixed inimically on Rhianna’s white face. ‘Now, give it back and get out. And believe me—you haven’t heard the last of this.’
‘I haven’t done anything to it.’ The words came out all wrong. They sounded sullen when she’d meant them to be apologetic and reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She glanced up at the portrait. ‘I just wanted to hold it because it was hers, and she’s so beautiful.’
Diaz Penvarnon said with quiet authority, ‘It’s all right, Aunt Moira. I’ll deal with this.’ He moved past Mrs Seymour and took the fan carefully from Rhianna’s numb fingers.
He said, ‘You might not mean to harm it, but it’s very old and consequently extremely fragile.’ He looked at Mrs Seymour. ‘And, as I said when I was last here, it properly belongs in a good costume museum. I shall see to that.’
There was a silence, then Moira Seymour said, openly reluctant, ‘Of course—if that is what you wish.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’ He replaced the fan gently in the case and closed the glass lid. ‘There,’ he added. ‘No real harm done. Now, off you go, both of you, and we’ll say no more about it.’
He’d been as good as his word, Rhianna thought. The expected tongue-lashing from Aunt Kezia had never materialised. And the glass case and its contents had been removed from the drawing room and taken away in a van a few days later.
‘Mummy’s in a fearful temper about it,’ Carrie had reported dolefully. ‘She used to like pointing it out to visitors—our genuine Elizabethan relic. And now she can’t. And she got even more cross when Daddy said the fan belonged to Diaz’s ancestors, not ours, and he was entitled to dispose of it as he saw fit.’
She paused, then looked more cheerful. ‘He also said that barring you from the house was the kind of stupid, unkind rule which was bound to be broken, and he was only surprised it hadn’t happened before. He said that Diaz thought so too. So we don’t have to worry about that any more.’
Rhianna knew they almost certainly did, but kept quiet about it anyway.
Now, all this long time later, nothing had changed, she admitted with an inward sigh. She allowed herself one long, last look at Tamsin, a woman who had fought for and won the man she loved—but not, she thought wryly, without breaking the rules of her own time. Then she turned away—only to halt with a stifled gasp.
Diaz was standing in the French windows, one shoulder negligently propped against the frame as he watched her silently.
She said unevenly, ‘You—you startled me.’
‘Not as much as I’d hoped,’ he said. ‘Or you’d have stayed away.’
Rhianna bit her lip. She said tautly, ‘I meant that I didn’t know you were there.’
‘You were lost in thought,’ he said. ‘Clearly those portraits fascinate you just as much now as they seemed to when you were a child.’
She shrugged. ‘They tell a fascinating story.’ She paused. ‘And that’s an amazing necklace. I wonder why he chose to give her turquoises?’
‘The turquoise is said to represent the connection between the sky and the sea,’ he said. ‘Which makes it an appropriate stone for a Cornishwoman.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Well, I was rather hoping you’d lend it to Carrie for her wedding, so I’d get the chance to see it in reality.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, without a hint of regret. ‘It’s to be worn by Penvarnon brides only, as a symbol of constancy and faithfulness in marriage.’ His brief smile was unamused. ‘Which rather puts it out of the running—wouldn’t you say?’
‘I think Carrie would be a loyal and wonderful wife for any man,’ Rhianna said.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I was actually referring to the groom, in this instance, as I’m sure you of all people should realise.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Whatever. The decision is yours, naturally. And, as I can’t see myself on the guest list when you tie the knot, I’ll just have to resign myself to admiring the necklace only through oil on canvas.’ She paused again. ‘I hope the fan found a good home in the end?’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘With so much else going on I’d almost forgotten about that particular incident. However, I can assure you that it has indeed been well taken care of ever since.’
He walked forward into the room. ‘But I’m forgetting my duties as host, and that will never do,’ he added courteously. ‘May I get you a drink? Some Pimms, perhaps?’
It was the perfect drink for a warm evening, and Rhianna longed to say yes, but common sense warned that she needed to keep her wits about her, unclouded by alcohol.
She said, ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll stick to lemonade.’
There was an odd pause. He looked at her, his mouth hardening, then said, ‘Yes—of course,’ turning almost abruptly to the drinks tray.
Ice cubes chinked in the tall glass as he poured the lemonade and brought it to her.
‘So, what shall we drink to?’ He raised his own glass in a parody of a toast. ‘Our happy couple? Or your continued good health? More necessary than ever now, I should imagine.’
Rhianna’s brows lifted sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’
He shrugged. ‘The shooting schedule for your series must be fairly hectic. You couldn’t afford a lengthy absence for any reason—especially when there must be dozens of other pretty faces manoeuvring to take your place in front of the camera.’
‘Thank you for reminding me. I expect there are hundreds.’ The lemonade, cold and tangy without bitterness, soothed the dryness of her mouth. ‘But I manage to stay reasonably fit. I won’t need a replacement yet awhile.’
‘But there’s bound to come a time when that will happen,’ Diaz countered. ‘The viewing public is notoriously fickle in its affections. So, will there be life after Castle Pride?’
‘I’m touched by your concern,’ she said curtly. ‘However, I’m not ready for the scrapheap in the foreseeable future. Unless you’ve bought a controlling share in the production company, of course, and even then you’d have a fight on your hands.’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You’re not the type to go quietly, Rhianna. You’ve made that more than clear.’
There was something in his voice that sent all her antennae quivering again. But as she stared at him, questions tumbling around in her head, the door opened and Carrie came in, face flushed and eyes sparkling. But not with happiness.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she burst out furiously. ‘I just don’t. After everything else—now this!’
‘What’s happened?’ Rhianna moved to her swiftly.
‘Mrs Rawlins,’ said Carrie, in a voice that managed to combine anger with despair. ‘She’s happened—again.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Rhianna said quickly, trying to coax her to smile. ‘She’s found out about the veil and she’s planning to sue.’
But Carrie was not to be cajoled. ‘She informed us before she left that she’d invited Simon’s godparents specially early so that they could come out to dinner with us tomorrow—in order to meet everybody. And said how much they were looking forward to it.’
She spread her hands dramatically. ‘Mother immediately explained that the Polkernick Arms can only seat so many people, but she said that she was sure if we all squeezed up a little they could accommodate two more. But they can’t, and they won’t. I know it.’
Rhianna gave her a comforting hug. ‘Well, Simon will just have to talk to his mother. Make her see reason.’
‘Unlikely,’ Carrie said with unusual brusqueness. ‘She’s already persuaded him that the guest list is heavily loaded in our family’s favour. He’ll say we have to fit them in, even if it means cancelling the Arms and finding a bigger restaurant. Something that’s already been hinted at,’ she added on a note of doom. ‘But there’s nowher
e—not at this late stage anyway.’
They were joined by Moira Seymour, looking thoroughly harassed. ‘The manageress won’t budge.’ She addressed Carrie. ‘We’re already at the maximum the regulations allow, as I tried to tell that impossible woman earlier. What on earth are we going to do? We can’t ask other people to drop out to make room for them.’
‘No,’ Diaz said unexpectedly. ‘But in an emergency you can always find volunteers.’ He looked at Rhianna, his mouth smiling coolly. ‘Well, Miss Carlow,’ he said softly. ‘Will you help save the situation for Carrie tomorrow evening by giving up the party and having dinner on your own with me instead? What do you say?’
There was the kind of silence that seemed to last for ever.
Bombshell at the end of Act Two, Rhianna thought, with a kind of detachment. Cast reaction, followed by slow curtain. Old-fashioned, but effective.
For instance, she could see that Carrie’s mouth had formed into an ‘o’ of pure astonishment, while her mother appeared to have turned into an ice sculpture. She found that she herself had become rooted to the spot, bereft of words, but numbingly aware of the mockery in Diaz Penvarnon’s grey eyes as he watched her. Waiting for her response.
Moira Seymour found her voice first. ‘But that’s quite impossible,’ she declared. ‘It’s awfully good of you, of course, Diaz, but you’re Carrie’s cousin. She’s being married from your house. You can’t possibly miss the family dinner.’
‘If you recall, it was by no means certain that I was even coming to the wedding.’ Diaz’s tone was dry. ‘And I doubt I’ll be here for the ceremony even now. But the occasion will still go ahead without me.’ He paused. ‘And I believe Rhianna was a late entry to the guest list too,’ he added gently. ‘Which would seem to make us an ideal pairing.’
‘Except that it’s totally absurd,’ Moira Seymour said angrily. ‘You can’t possibly want…’ She paused, as if realising her next comment might be infelicitous. ‘I mean, I can’t allow you to sacrifice yourself like this, my dear Diaz. Miss Carlow—Rhianna—wouldn’t expect it.’
