She was still looking around and reaching for another chip, when one particular, very masculine figure caught her eye.
Dressed in jeans with a V-necked, black knitted sweater over a white shirt, he was leaning a massive shoulder against the post at the end of the bar while he chatted with a group of farmer-ish types. Lucy decided that he must have been partly obscured before, because he was incredibly eye-catching, with a lot of thick, rather messy black hair and high cheekbones and strong – well, strong everything, really – brow, nose, jaw.
Lucy hadn’t meant to stare, but she couldn’t really help herself. He was so very watch-able.
Just her luck, he turned while she was still checking him out. He looked directly at her.
Gulp.
Her reaction was disconcerting. She had never, until that moment, experienced an across-a-crowded-room lightning flash, but catching the eye of this man was like being zapped by an unseen laser. The merest connection of his dark-eyed glance, and proverbial sparks scorched all the way through her.
It wasn’t supposed to happen to a young woman who was nursing a broken heart.
To make matters worse, Lucy had been in the process of swallowing a chip, but now a sharp corner stuck in her throat, and she spluttered, desperately in need of a drink to wash it down. Sadly, the only drink to hand was her whisky, which made her breath catch and resulted in a coughing fit.
Talk about embarrassing.
As she wheezed and went red in the face, she was aware that the source of her dilemma had not once shifted his cool, appraising gaze from her. And her friendly barman had deserted her, so there was no chance of changing her mind about the offer of water.
Dismayed, she turned her back on the unsettling attention.
Classy effort, Luce. You catch sight of a hot Englishman and then react with all the finesse of a thirteen-year-old.
She tried to shrug this gaffe off as she downed the last of her whisky, but the aftershocks of locking gazes with Black Sweater stayed with her. She was relieved when the barman came back and she could turn her attention to practical matters, like asking him for directions.
‘I believe Penwall Hall is near here?’ she said.
The barman nodded. ‘About a mile up the road on the way to Camborne. I’m not sure the Hall’s open just now, though.’
‘Oh, it is. I’ve already booked a room there.’ She’d had a stroke of luck when she’d Googled the address, discovering that Penwall Hall included a B&B.
Lucy was hoping to meet her great-aunt’s descendants, although she was a bit vague about what might happen after that. She knew she couldn’t expect too much from a brief meeting with very distant relatives. But even if there was only a slim chance that she could shed any light on the mysteries in her family’s past – especially George’s – she felt it would be worth it.
The barman was looking surprised. ‘Are you sure you want to stay out there? There won’t be many young people, and they have nice rooms here at the pub, you know.’
‘Thanks. I’m sure the rooms here are lovely, but I’ll give the B&B a try. I’ve already made the booking.’
‘Oh, aye.’ He shrugged. ‘The grandson from Penwall Hall is here tonight.’ He gave a nod towards the far end of the bar. ‘The tall fellow in the black sweater. Young Mr Myatt.’
Lucy swallowed a groan. He had to be joking. She knew there was only one tall fellow in a black sweater at the end of the bar, and now, as she took a surreptitious peek, her fears were confirmed.
Yep. She’d just coughed and spluttered and blushed in response to a glance from the grandson of Penwall bloody Hall. Which also meant she’d just wasted all that schoolgirl blushing on a guy she was probably related to, albeit distantly.
At least he was no longer looking her way so she stole another sneaky glance, and yes, he was still very hot-looking. Lucy supposed some people might say that he looked distinguished, but now that she knew he was a descendant of the snobby woman who had caused her mum so much grief, she wasn’t inclined to be generous.
‘Did you say his name was Myatt?’ she asked the barman.
‘That’s right. Nicholas Myatt.’ The chatty barman leaned closer, lowering his voice, like a conspirator. ‘The family were about to sell Penwall Hall. Same old story, couldn’t afford the upkeep in this modern day and age, but then young Nick stepped in and turned the place around. You know, like on the TV show, Country House Rescue. Opened it up for weddings and tour groups and turned the wing where you’ll be staying into a B&B.’
Lucy didn’t glance at ‘young’ Nick Myatt again. She’d seen enough to know that he was probably in his mid-thirties, which did seem a bit young to have achieved so much. She’d had little to do with high achievers and it was hard to believe he was actually related to her, as a second cousin or whatever. The name Myatt didn’t ring any bells either, but then, she knew next to nothing about her family’s Cornish connections.
But damn, just her luck, the man who’d so closely observed her humiliating splutter was a member of the one family in all of England that she had actually needed to meet and impress. She wished she could shrug it off, as she normally would, but there was something about this guy that rattled her.
One thing was certain: if she wanted to tackle him about her family history it would be best to start afresh, so the smart thing would be to make a quick getaway now. This decided, Lucy thanked the barman and said goodnight, then, on the off-chance that Nick Myatt might glance her way again, she slid from the barstool with as much dignity as she could muster and kept her head high as she crossed the room to the coat rack.
Of course, she gave an ever-so-subtle sway of her hips as she walked and, of course, she resisted the temptation to look back.
Outside, Cornwall was colder and wilder than ever. Lucy’s cheeks stung and the ends of her scarf flapped madly as she hurried to the car. As she started up the motor, she consoled herself with the realisation that Nick Myatt was too young to know anything about her mother or her grandmother, so she didn’t really need to speak to him. To get any sort of useful information, she needed to meet someone from his parents’ generation.
The road left the village behind quite quickly, climbing upwards to sweeping moorland. Lucy had her headlights on high beam and as she peered between swipes of the windscreen-wiper blades, she caught glimpses of drystone walls and leafless trees bending low in the wind. A white-tailed rabbit scampered across the road.
She wondered if the Myatt’s family home would be like Wuthering Heights, all Gothic and ghostly and lonely, but before her imagination could get carried away she reached an impressive set of iron gates set in a high stone wall and a sign that showed she’d arrived at her destination.
Nerves kicked in when she slowed the little hire car and turned through the gates. Her chest tightened as she thought of her mum, arriving here, a lonely ten-year-old surrounded by snooty strangers.
Driving sedately now, Lucy headed along a drive lined with huge ancient trees, bare of all leaves. Parkland stretched beyond the trees and every so often her headlights caught a fence line, a winter-bare orchard, a tall barn-like building covered by the twisted ropey stems of a leafless creeper. She sensed that the grounds were extensive, but even so, she hadn’t expected anything quite so grand as the building that greeted her when she rounded the next corner.
She wished it was daylight and not raining so she could see the place properly. But there was enough light from the lamps in the courtyard and the double row of tall, multi-paned windows to show her that the house Nick Myatt had rescued for his family was not only impressively large, but also very beautiful. With grand proportions and elegant columns guarding the front entrance, Penwall Hall was a stately English home in the best aristocratic tradition; built in stone that had stood the test of centuries.
Lucy smiled, thinking of her childhood home, a rather ramshackle box on stilts, and of her grandfather’s humble worker’s cottage. This was so far out of their league that it was hard to beli
eve there was a family connection.
A light shone over a door at one end of the house. The door was set in a kind of rounded turret, and above it there was a sign announcing the reception. Somewhat overawed, Lucy pulled up, climbed out of the car and soon found herself inside a very pleasant, cosily warm room, complete with chintz-covered armchairs, Tiffany lamps and cut-glass bowls filled with roses.
The plump woman behind the counter had salt-and-pepper hair and was probably around fifty. Putting aside the romance novel she’d been reading, she welcomed Lucy with a bright smile.
‘So, you must be Lucy Hunter?’
‘That’s right.’ Clearly there weren’t many guests expected this evening.
‘Wonderful. I’m Jane Nancarrow.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Jane.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve made it here safely. It’s such a terrible night to be out on the roads.’
Lucy was relieved by the warmth of Jane Nancarrow’s welcome. She had, rather rashly, made a booking for seven nights and now, despite the shaky start at the pub, she knew she would be able to relax here, and to once again feel optimistic.
‘So here’s the key to your room,’ she was told as she finished filling in the form with her details. ‘You have a view all the way to the sea.’ Jane smiled. ‘Well, you will have a nice view if it ever stops raining.’
Lucy smiled back at her. ‘I don’t really mind about the weather.’
‘You’ve come from overseas,’ Jane said, reading the Townsville address on the form.
‘Yes, from Australia.’
‘Oh dear. You’ll be used to all that sunshine.’ She gave a smiling shrug. ‘Well, at least in January, you won’t be jostling elbow to elbow with tourists. In fact, you’ll have Cornwall almost to yourself. And because it’s so quiet, we’ve upgraded your room.’
‘Goodness. Must be my lucky night. Thank you.’
‘But I’m afraid the main Hall isn’t open for tours in winter,’ Jane said next.
This was a disappointing blow that Lucy hadn’t foreseen, but she didn’t want to dwell on it now. Perhaps she would pluck up the courage to announce her connections. Somehow or another, she would find a way to tour the Hall and meet its residents. She had plenty of time to sort something out.
‘There are all kinds of wonderful walks over the moors and along the seafront, though.’ Jane pointed to a pile of coloured brochures and maps. ‘Take some of these to browse through. There are fine art galleries in the area, too, if you like that sort of thing.’ Her dark eyes twinkled. ‘And you’ll always find hot chocolate and a blazing fire here when you get back.’
‘What more could I want?’ Lucy rewarded her with another broad smile.
‘Now, have you eaten?’ Jane asked next. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a restaurant, but there’s quite a good pub just down the road. The Seaspray Arms in Portreath.’
‘Oh —’ Lucy had no plans to return to The Seaspray Arms this evening and she wondered if half a packet of crisps could sustain her till morning.
‘Or we can do a nice homemade supper on a tray,’ added Jane. ‘Toast and scones and hot tea? Perhaps a little pâté and a pot of jam?’
Lucy almost hugged her. ‘Jane, that would be perfect.’
Her room, she soon discovered when she went up the two flights of thickly carpeted stairs, was also perfect. Despite being generously proportioned with high ceilings, it wasn’t intimidating or too dauntingly old-fashioned. It was all very tasteful, with pink floral curtains and a framed mirror, a vase of tiny cream roses on the chest of drawers, pretty lamps by the bed, an antique writing desk and chair, as well as an armchair upholstered in rose brocade. It wasn’t the sort of room Lucy had ever really yearned for, but here in this house, it felt just right.
After a hot shower and Jane’s tasty supper, delivered, as promised, on a tray, she went to bed early and slept soundly.
Miraculously, the rain stopped during the night. Lucy had forgotten to draw the curtains and she was woken by pallid grey dawn light streaming through two tall windows. She slipped out of bed to get a better view and her breath caught. Jane was right. She had a wonderful view over the garden terraces and flights of stone steps to the sloping, winter-pale fields that ran all the way down to the sea.
As she watched, she saw a small boat plough valiantly out through the choppy waves. Then a bird, a proper English robin redbreast, flew onto her windowsill, and it looked so alert and bright and alive, she felt a sudden impulse to dress and hurry outside.
There was time for a little exploration – fortunately, breakfast ran quite late in winter – so she rugged up against the biting cold, and went downstairs and out through the vacant reception area.
Outside, her running shoes crunched on the frosty gravel drive as she crossed to a small, green door in a stone wall. It opened easily and she followed a path to the back of the house where she found a terrace edged by a low wall and huge urns that no doubt spilled over with colourful flowers in the summertime. A broad sweep of stone steps took her down to another terrace with potted shrubs and trees and elegant garden furniture.
After yet another short flight of steps, Lucy reached a long grassy field covered in a heavy dew that sparkled like diamonds in the morning sunlight. The air had a bracing, good-to-be-alive crispness and, in the distance, she could see the choppy sea already changing from grey to a smoky blue. After the stormy night, the morning was so clear and beautiful, she felt compelled to run across the fields and all the way to the dazzling, dancing bay.
She was enjoying every step of her run until she rounded a rocky headland and came face-to-face with a galloping horse.
Of course she shrieked. She couldn’t help it. And the horse shrieked, too. Or at least, it let out an ear-splitting whinny as it reared up, with its black hooves striking at the air.
Horrified, Lucy shrank back against the rock, throwing a hand up to protect herself and instinctively shutting her eyes.
When the whinnying stopped, she was miserably aware that her army training had been completely useless in this sudden emergency. She forced her eyes open.
The horse was no longer prancing and rearing, but standing quite sedately, constrained by its grim-faced rider’s tight grip on the reins.
Lucy took a second look at the rider. From her cowering position she had to look up. Up past the magnificent, shiny black stallion, and up –
Oh, for crying out loud. No, it couldn’t be.
But it was.
Still with that shock of black hair, made even wilder by the wind, Nick Myatt looked more impressive than ever in a rusty brown riding jacket, thigh-hugging jeans faded to a soft blue and a tattered tartan scarf knotted at his throat.
Lucy was grateful to remember the useful cliché about good looks being skin deep. It was a lesson she’d learned from Sam and it had well and truly sunk in.
Not that it mattered in this instance, as Nick Myatt was no more pleased to see her than she was to see him. A dark scowl marred his fine looks as he dismounted.
It was so Jane-Eyre-meets-Mr-Rochester that Lucy might have laughed if she wasn’t so nervous.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked gruffly.
At least he had the grace to appear concerned.
Lucy nodded, and then, because she was determined to improve on last night’s flustered spluttering, she lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry I startled your horse. I didn’t see you coming until it was too late.’
‘Well, you don’t seem to have done him any harm.’ He ran an expert eye over his mount and gave its mane a soothing pat, but when he turned back to Lucy, his dark brown eyes narrowed again.
She was pretty sure that he recognised her as the silly, red-faced girl in the bar. Instinctively, she squared her shoulders.
‘You’re the new house guest from Australia.’
‘How did you know?’
He smiled – and wow! What a difference a smile could make. ‘Word spreads fast around here, and your accent’s not easy to m
iss.’
‘So, that’s me sorted.’
‘Not quite sorted,’ Nick Myatt replied. ‘I don’t know your name.’
Now that he’d stopped scowling, she could almost enjoy this exchange and she could feel her old mojo returning.
‘The name’s Lucy,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Lucy Hunter.’
‘How-do-you-do, Lucy. I’m Nick Myatt.’ His handclasp was strong, but at least it wasn’t bone-crushing, and his English accent was truly beautiful – cultured, but not too toff. ‘I live at the Hall.’
‘Nice to meet you, Nick.’ Resisting the cheeky impulse to drop a quick curtsey, Lucy gave a polite nod, which he returned.
‘I hope you enjoy your stay here.’
‘I’m sure I will. Jane Nancarrow’s given me plenty of sightseeing brochures.’
‘Jane’s a good stick.’
It was all so jolly polite now, but as far as Lucy was concerned, inadequate. She had far too many questions to ask and, with the Hall closed for winter, she knew she shouldn’t waste this chance to open doors.
Already, Nick Myatt had his foot in the stirrup, preparing to mount his horse.
Grasping at straws, Lucy nodded towards Penwall Hall with its long double rows of deep windows glittering in the morning sun. ‘You don’t live alone up there, do you?’
Wariness crept into Nick’s eyes. ‘Not normally, no.’
‘It’s just – it’s just that it’s so huge. I can’t imagine what it must be like.’
He withdrew the foot from the stirrup and assumed an expression of cautious mistrust. ‘I’m afraid the Hall’s closed to visitors during the winter.’
‘Yes, so I was told.’ It was hard to not be intimidated by the suspicion in those smouldering dark eyes. Lucy dropped her gaze and felt so stupidly nervous again, she almost chewed a fingernail. ‘The thing is,’ she said quickly before she lost her nerve, ‘I’m not exactly your everyday average visitor.’
The Secret Years Page 13
