by Nora Roberts
3
LILY BOLTED UPRIGHT. The sun was up—had been for some time—and the door to the corridor was open. A girl in a red sweater and jeans stood just inside the threshold. Her eyes showed white around the irises, and she was shouting down the house as if she was demented.
The sound of running feet came from beyond the door. Lily heaved a sigh of relief. Help was on the way.
“What’s all this, Portia? Found a mouse in the mattress or the moth in the carpet?” a male voice said.
A young man with reddish hair appeared beyond the young woman’s shoulder. “What in bloody hell…!”
The girl had stopped screaming. She took a deep breath. “Sorry, James. I thought for a moment that she was a ghost.”
“Catherine T.? She does have a bit of the look of her, doesn’t she? Well, go down and ring up Constable Polkenny. Tell him we’ve got an intruder on our hands.”
He pushed past the girl in the red sweater and faced Lily, arms akimbo. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he said.
Lily glared at him. “I was sleeping!”
“I can see that.” He moved closer.
Lily edged to the far side of the bed. “Good. Now, would you please go away?”
“Aye, I will. And bring the constable back with me. Then we’ll see how that sits with you.”
She frowned and pushed back her hair. “Is everyone under this roof, except for Mrs. Penhale, stark raving mad?”
A thought hit her belatedly. Mr. Tregarrick had seemed more than a little odd last evening. Perhaps she’d just committed a terrible gaffe.
Lily edged to the far side of the bed, in case she had to make a bolt for it. “Ah, this…er, isn’t a sort of place for…I mean a…a rest home?”
James gaped at her. “No,” he said. “It’s a bloody museum.”
It was Lily’s turn to stare. “Oh!”
Small wonder that everything looked so authentic. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How peculiar. I didn’t know! When Mr. Tregarrick brought me here last night, it never occurred to me that this wasn’t a private home. And evidently no one told you that I was here.”
James was regarding her oddly. He backed away toward the door. The girl he’d called Portia was still standing there, frowning at Lily. The young man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Mr. Tregarrick.”
“He rescued me on the headland last night. Saved my life, really. I was almost washed out to sea by the tide.”
James turned his head to Portia, but his eyes never left Lily’s face. “You had better ring up Dr. Landry as well.”
“Look,” Lily said, “I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor. I need my clothes. The housekeeper took them to dry—Mrs. Penhale said she’d hang them in the kitchen by the stove.” She saw the blank looks on their faces. “Mrs. Penhale, the housekeeper.”
Portia hadn’t moved an inch. She put her hands on her hips. “There is no Mrs. Penhale here, although there was once, a long time ago. I have her receipt books. And as for your Captain Tregarrick, there’s been no one by that name under this roof in almost a hundred years.”
Lily was dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when the doctor arrived. Portia had brought her scalding-hot black coffee and shared the last stale donuts in a bakery box with her while they waited.
James had found Lily’s clothes in the kitchen, just as she’d said, neatly pegged out on a line stretched across the room. Her shoes had gone missing, and Portia had obligingly fetched a pair of rubber thong sandals from a service closet.
“I got them at a jumble sale and wear them when I hose down the terrace,” she said. “Or when I’m pottering about my grandmother’s garden, at Old Cross Farm. You can drop them back here anytime. Just leave them on the side porch if I’ve locked the place up.”
Lily sipped her coffee. “You take care of the museum, then?”
Portia smiled, looking younger than the twenty-two years she’d claimed. “I’m the curator. I’ve a degree from university, but in reality I do a bit of everything: keep the catalogues up-to-date, dust the knickknacks and hoover the carpets, schedule group tours, and generally see that everything is kept shipshape and in good preservation.”
“That’s a weighty responsibility.”
The girl dimpled. “It’s a family tradition, you might say. Ah, there’s the doctor now. He’s got an ancient Morris-Mini and you can hear him come sputtering halfway up the hill from St. Dunstan.”
A short time later he came up the stairs and into the Green Chamber. Dr. Landry was a kindly-looking man, with a thick thatch of silver hair and a military moustache. Lily let him give her a brief examination. The situation had her baffled.
“Ticker working, lungs clear, oriented to person, place, and time,” he announced. “Although I gather that time was rather out of whack for you earlier.”
“It seemed so real,” she told him a little shakily. “I would have sworn that it was!”
“Let me see. Ah, you’ve quite a knot here,” he said, probing the side of Lily’s head. “My guess is that it took quite a blow to put it there.”
“It must have happened when I lost my footing in the waves. I did a foolish thing,” she told him. “I went walking along the strand and got lost in the fog.”
He tugged at his silver moustache. “At Yearning Head?”
“Is that what it’s called? How peculiar.”
“The maps call the headland Dunstan’s Head. No one here calls it that, though. It’s been Yearning Head as long as any can remember. Some say it’s because the waves sound like lovers’ mingled sighs; others who’ve tarried there claim that they were filled with a great longing, like a terrible loneliness, when the wind blows in and the tide is just right. The old-age pensioners say that if you yearn for something hard enough there, it will come to be.”
Lily remembered the strange feelings that had swept through her. “It is a beautiful spot, but very eerie.”
“Yes. A dangerous one, too. You were fortunate. It was high tide last night. Others have been less so, and were washed out to sea.”
Lily shivered. “And I would have been another, if not for Captain Tregarrick…uh, rather, for the man who saved me, whatever his name. He saw me from the cliff and guided me to the stairs carved into it, just in the nick of time. I would never have found them on my own.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor give her the same long, assessing look that James had. “Tell me about the man you called Captain Tregarrick. Could you describe him to me?”
Lily closed her eyes and conjured up his image. “He’s tall. Strong. Dark-haired, with a patrician nose and a stubborn-looking jaw. Oh, and his eyes! I thought they were black at first, but in the lamplight I could see they were as many shifting shades of blue and gray as the waters of the bay.”
“A poetic description.” Landry cocked his head. “Many artists come to St. Dunstan to paint the views. Are you perhaps among them?”
Lily shook her head. “When I was in college I wanted to paint…” She broke off.
“Ah, now that’s interesting. Not to be a painter, but ‘to paint.’ Your choice of words tells me that painting is something with a great deal of meaning for you—yet you say you became a design engineer. Tell me, do you paint now?”
“No.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“I tried. I haven’t the talent for it.” She frowned. “It never came out the way I intended it.”
“You’re a perfectionist, then.”
“That isn’t the reason I forsook my canvases.” She laughed. “It was my stunning lack of talent. I wanted to be a dashing artist, blending shapes and colors with abandon and genius. Unfortunately I can only copy what I see, like a camera. But not nearly as well!”
A gleam came into Dr. Landry’s eye. “Tell me, was your hotel room furnished with local brochures?”
“There were some in the desk.” She shrugged. “I glanced at a few and put them back. I wasn’t interested
in doing the usual ‘touristy’ things.”
“I believe the mystery is solved, young lady. Come along to the drawing room with me, and you’ll understand what I mean.”
He escorted Lily down to the ground floor and through a set of high pocket doors. She wondered how she had missed the strategically placed velvet ropes that kept people from getting too close to the matching Oriental cabinets in the main hall, or the sign welcoming visitors to Star House. Gently she touched the bump at the back of her head. It was quite a knot. It seemed less real than her invented memories of the previous night.
The doctor escorted her to a sunny parlor with white wainscoting and pale blue walls. It had elegant proportions, with long windows on two sides and a fireplace at the far end. Dr. Landry indicated the portrait over the mantel.
“Is there any resemblance to your mysterious rescuer?”
Lily’s jaw dropped. She frowned up at the painting. The frame was formal and unfamiliar, but the pose and the subject were not. The dark-haired man in the painting wore a thick ivory fisherman’s sweater, like the one she had worn last night. His head and upper torso were depicted against a background of blue sky and a bluer sea. She recognized St. Dunstan Bay, obviously in another century, its surface dotted with assorted sailing ships.
Whatever the portrait’s age, the man who had sat for it was almost an exact double of the man who had rescued Lily on the cliff.
“They could be twins,” she said slowly. “Except for his eyes. They’re the same dark blue and gray, with those little flecks of white, but the expression in them is totally different.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man in this portrait is young and happy and carefree. The one I met was older. Stern and bitter.” Lily stopped and reconsidered. “No, I think I used the wrong words. Perhaps ‘burdened’ is a better choice. As if the weight of the world had come crashing down on him.”
“That painting,” Dr. Landry told her, “is of Rees Tregarrick. He captained his own clipper ship and made a fortune in the China trade. He’s the most well-known citizen of St. Dunstan, having contributed generously to the village. His picture is found on the cover of local tourist guides, as well as several area businesses.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Perhaps not consciously. But without realizing it, you had seen his face before. The artist in you took note. Later, when you injured yourself and stumbled upon the museum, his image was already impressed on your brain. Exhaustion and that bump to your head did the rest.”
Lily’s eyes were still on the portrait. It drew her against her will. She seemed unable to look away. “Is that a polite way of pretending you don’t think I’m insane?”
Landry laughed. “People who are truly mad don’t seem to be aware of it. They usually think they’re perfectly normal. If need be, I’ll attest that you’re as sharp as I am, Miss Kendall.”
Lily smiled back. “I’ll take a census of local opinion, then, before committing myself.”
He roared at that. “I’m afraid you’ll find it sharply divided. I’m considered one of the local eccentrics,” he told her. “I’m on my way to Penzance. May I give you a lift back to your hotel?”
“Yes, thank you.” With a long glance at the painting, Lily allowed the doctor to escort her to the door.
The painted lapis-blue eyes seemed to follow her with their gaze. She felt self-conscious, as if he were actually there, watching her leave the room. What a powerful man Rees Tregarrick must have been, Lily thought, that even a painting of him could stir up something in her soul!
Portia and James were out on the porch, examining a loose railing, and waved cheerily as Lily and the doctor drove off down the steep and winding hill.
Dr. Landry pointed out a few places of local interest as his ancient car puttered down the cobbled streets. There were artists painting, their easels atop the granite wall. The view was breathtaking, overlooking the dull green and navy and cinnamon-colored slate roofs of the village, and the sparkling turquoise variations of the harbor beyond.
This, Lily told herself, is the calm, picturesque place I wanted. There was plenty to explore, while managing to stay away from isolated stretches of beach. And yet she knew she would go out to Yearning Head again. It called to something wild and lonely in her blood.
The car stopped for a fat tabby chasing a yapping terrier, then turned at a corner. The window of a small antiques shop displayed tin soldiers and Staffordshire pugs, and pair of striking blue-and-white vases.
“Those vases might have come over with Captain Tregarrick,” Dr. Landry said. “He imported a great quantity of fine porcelainware.”
But it wasn’t the vases that had caught Lily’s attention. “I thought there was a tea shop on this corner. I must be turned around.”
Her companion glanced at her. “Are you sure you’ve never been to St. Dunstan before? There was a family-run tea shop there for generations. It went out of business when I was a lad, after old Miss Truro passed on.”
“I suppose I might have heard it mentioned,” Lily said doubtfully. But in her mind’s eye she could envision lace curtains at the window, and a cozy tearoom done up in mauve-and-green chintz. Even a verdigris grasshopper on the ledge above the slate fireplace.
In less than five minutes she was standing in front of her hotel overlooking the harbor. Lily leaned down to the open window of the car and expressed her thanks to the doctor. “I know now that I imagined the entire episode,” she added, “but I have to tell you that it still seems very real in my mind.”
Dr. Landry smiled. “The human brain is capable of creating the glories of the Sistine Chapel, or sending men to walk upon the moon, Miss Kendall. It’s small wonder, then, that it can make a dream seem like reality—often down to the finest details, no matter how seemingly bizarre.”
“That’s very true,” she answered, shaking her head. “Right down to the crutch he leaned on!” She gave a little wave and started toward the door.
“Wait!” Dr. Landry called after her. “How did you know about Captain Tregarrick’s injury?”
He was certain that there was nothing in the tourist literature about the tragic misfortune that had injured the captain and killed poor young Catherine Tregarrick.
It was too late. Lily had already vanished inside the Castle Inn. The doctor was still wondering about it when he passed the antiques shop on the corner, where the Grasshopper on the Hearth Tearoom had stood in his youth.
4
LILY WENT UP to her demi-suite with its papered walls, chintz curtains, and Victorian walnut furnishings. At least here nothing had changed. After a hot shower and shampoo, she put on a floaty dress of white cotton eyelet, threaded with blue ribbon.
The summer shorts and her jeans were still neatly folded in the drawer, untouched since her arrival. Somehow they didn’t seem appropriate to the village of St. Dunstan. She felt cooler and more comfortable in the long, retro dresses that swirled around her slim ankles.
Only when she’d bound her long hair up into an old-fashioned coronet did she dare to lift the lid of the antique desk and remove the handful of pamphlets that discreetly touted the local wonders. Her fingers were unsteady as she spread them out on the desktop.
There were brochures of St. Dunstan village and other points of interest throughout the Cornish countryside: deserted tin mines, medieval monk’s towers, rings of prehistoric standing stones, and the man-made moonscapes of white china clay.
There was nothing at all about Star House or Captain Rees Tregarrick.
Lily noticed the edge of a glossy leaflet peeking out from beneath the brown paisley lining paper. The front showed the slate-and-granite Victorian manor she’d seen through the fog, with gables and turrets and great starburst window. “Visit the Star House Museum.” it read, “and take a Journey to the Untouched Past.”
“Well, I certainly did that!” Lily turned it over.
Her heart gave a lurch that was not entirely unpleasant. There he was aga
in, Captain Rees Tregarrick, in all his masculine splendor. The reproduction of a full-length sepia photograph was almost an exact likeness of the man she remembered…or had dreamed up—the wide brow, the strong jaw and aquiline nose, the firm, sensual mouth.
Again, only the eyes were different. There was no anger in them. And, Lily noticed, no crutch or blackthorn cane braced against his side.
She started to slip it back into the desk, then paused. Instead she tucked it into her purse.
Dr. Landry had recommended a nap: “Mother Nature’s cure-all.” But the sun was out, the sky a brilliant blue, and Lily felt absolutely wonderful. She hadn’t come to Cornwall to nap, and her stomach was protesting its lack of lunch. Slicking pink gloss over her lips, she went down to the spacious dining room, with its rock-walled fireplace and tall windows overlooking the sea. It was still early, and only a handful of others were there.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kendall. Your usual place?” the hostess asked.
Lily hesitated. For the past four days she’d requested a seat in the sunny bay with the morning paper, and a view of the picturesque village. Dear God, I’ve become such a creature of habit!
She’d been running on the Washington gerbil wheel too long. She was in danger of making routine her god, change her enemy. No, worse, God help her! She was in imminent danger of becoming a career bureaucrat. And that wasn’t the real Lily Kendall. Not really.
Was it?
She smiled at the hostess. “I think I’ll change my routine today. I’d like a table with a view of the sea.” Of the headland.
She didn’t say it aloud, but she was given a table with a partial view of the harbor and beyond, the dark granite cliffs of Yearning Head. The sea was all slick, blue Bristol glass, rimmed with crystalline spray.
Star House was hidden by the headland’s sharp uplift of terrain, and a frieze of stunted trees, bent sharply by the prevailing winds. Lily was almost glad of it. Despite Dr. Landry’s explanation, she felt uneasy.
