Secrets of Nanreath Hall

by Alix Rickloff

  “If you must know, it’s not one of your father’s political allies this time. He has commissioned portraits of the family, and the artist is arriving today, Mr. Balder or Balzac. Something like that. It’s quite a coup. He painted Ena, the late queen’s granddaughter, you know.”

  “Arthur Balázs?” My disgruntlement faded.

  I’d read about Balázs in Country Life. The great families of England were lining up to have their likenesses painted by the talented Hungarian-born artist. Every noble heiress and prominent peer in the country passed through his studio in London. How on earth had Papa convinced the sought-after painter to leave the center of the social universe to travel all the way to Cornwall?

  I couldn’t help but catch some of Mama’s excitement as she ushered me into the house. Not even Cynthia’s moods could sour this unexpected treat. Perhaps that was why I lost myself for a moment and let my normally wary tongue run away with me. “Mrs. Vinter says I have real talent, Mama. Good enough to attend art school in London if I chose to. She has a friend there who—”

  Mama swung round, a cloud heavy upon her brow, lips pursed. “Don’t say any more. You know full well there is no question of art school, and any talent you have would be better spent assisting me.”

  “But Mr. Thorne is a famous professor there. He’s exhibited his works at the Grafton and the New English Art Club.”

  “Enough. You’re too old for these childish flights of fancy. It won’t be long before you’re married with your own household. It would serve you well to know how to run it.”

  “But what if I don’t want to marry or . . . or . . . settle down with a family? I want to be an artist. I want to travel and experience the world. I want to do something important with my life.”

  “And raising children, making a good and happy home, isn’t enough?”

  “No . . . at least not yet.”

  “Green is waiting for you. We’ll discuss this later.”

  But we wouldn’t. I knew that for certain.

  She drifted up the staircase on a cloud of lilac perfume and gray silver-shot chiffon.

  I dropped my gaze to the floor to follow meekly in her wake. I never even noticed the young man until he spoke, his voice hitting me like a hammer blow between the eyes. “Have you ever seen such an architectural monstrosity? It must be like living inside a wedding cake.”

  He was loose limbed and confident, dark hair brushed back off a broad forehead, a mocking twinkle in his deep-set eyes as he set down the luggage he carried and wiped his brow.

  “It is a bit, but one gets used to it,” I replied boldly.

  The man’s startled gaze met mine, and a cold shiver splashed across my shoulders as if I’d been dunked in the ocean. A humiliating heat crept into my cheeks.

  He offered a sheepish smile and held out a hand. “The name’s Simon Halliday. I’ve come to assist Mr. Balázs. And you are—”

  Mother’s rules of proper etiquette had been drilled into me from birth—servants were to be treated kindly, but never encouraged into familiarity—yet something about this brash, handsome young man with his expressive eyes and paint beneath his fingernails caused me to blurt, “How do you do? I’m Kitty. Kitty Trenowyth.”

  If someone were to ask me my favorite place in all of Nanreath’s acres, it would have to be the ancient cliff ruins. Perched at the mouth of a deep, tree-lined creek, the moss-covered remains of an ancient fortress guarded the coast between Hendrum Point to the north and Dizzard’s Pool to the south. In days long past, Bronze Age soldiers manned the ramparts, scanning the sea for potential invaders. Today there was little left but a tumble of crudely carved stones outlining the old perimeter, like an architect’s floor plan, and a gaping archway leading to a set of worn stone steps that climbed to a crumbling watchtower.

  Simon and I walked there after a morning spent working; or rather I sat unmoving in a girlish confection of lace and ruffles that made me look twelve while Simon ran about fetching and carrying for Mr. Balázs. The painter had turned out to be a lively man with bushy side whiskers and a jovial laugh, who immediately put me at ease. He treated Simon more like a prized pupil than an assistant, and I envied him such support for his artistic ambitions.

  “We used to clamber all around this place when we were children,” I explained as I reached the small, sheltered platform of rocks and old lumber built years ago with childish ingenuity and enthusiasm. I had spent many an hour battling dragons with William or braiding daisies into my younger sister Amelia’s hair. Now William was gone and Amelia had no interest in such grubby pastimes. These days I came alone with my journal to watch the scuttle of clouds overhead and plan out my life as if I actually controlled my fortunes.

  I would be a great painter and travel the world—Spain, France, the Orient, perhaps even Africa—and when I was old and gray, I’d come to live in a cottage by the sea, keep cats, and dine when I wished and wear what I wanted.

  Those dreams seemed as high and thin as the haze above me this afternoon, and I scolded myself as sternly as Mama ever could for being a ridiculous little girl.

  “Then William had a bad fall and broke his ankle. My father forbade us from coming here after that. He said it was too dangerous.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you don’t follow Papa’s orders?” Simon high-wired his way along the parapet to stand at the very edge where cliff met sky. His face had a distant eager quality as it scanned the ocean, his eyes bright and fixed upon the horizon, as if he might step out into the very air and take flight.

  “It’s a good place for thinking . . . and dreaming.”

  He shot me a smirky glance over his shoulder. “And what does a top-drawer earl’s daughter dream about? Parties and fancy dresses and a handsome young man to sweep her off in his expensive motorcar?”

  If he’d been talking to my sister, Amelia, he’d be right, but I felt his joke like a punch to the stomach. “Is that all you think I’m good for? Parties and shopping and chasing men?” I swallowed my disappointment. Why did I care what he thought of me? I stared out at the sea, thunderclouds gathering like mountains along the horizon.

  “I’m sorry, Kitty.” Simon joined me on the platform, a boyish flop of hair curving over his brow, an apologetic bent to his features. “Can we start fresh? Pretend the bit where I made an ass of myself never happened?” His eyes twinkled as he spoke, fluttering my heart.

  “I don’t know. Can we?”

  His shoulder felt nice where it touched mine, and his cologne smelled woodsy and masculine. He lit a cigarette, offering me a drag, which I tried, coughing madly as my eyes watered like faucets.

  “I see what you mean about thinking and dreaming.” The tip of his cigarette turned to ash. He fumbled in his leather bag, retrieving a pad and a sharpened pencil. With deft, precise movements, his hand moved over the paper; a line here, a curve there. A bit of shadowing with the side of his finger.

  I watched mesmerized, my body crackling as if an electric current passed through it. Even my scalp tingled.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  I paused for only a moment before taking the pencil and pad from him, adding a stroke here, a shadow there. Working quickly and with purpose, lost completely in my desire to capture the truth with a bit of lead and my imagination.

  I handed the pad back, my stomach tight, my fingers trembling.

  There was no way to discern his thoughts from the strong line of his jaw or the flecked green gleam of his eyes. I could only grip the rough plank of my seat and wait.

  “I stand corrected, Kitty Trenowyth,” he said quietly.

  A slippery excitement curled up my spine, and I shivered.

  “So if you aren’t dreaming of jewels and a closet full of ball gowns, what do you want?” he asked.

  Dare I speak? I felt his eyes on me, a little curious, a little admiring, and courage spread warm like honey along my stiff limbs. “I want to attend art school in London.”

  I waited for his laughter. Instead
, he nodded thoughtfully. “So why don’t you?”

  “You’ve met my parents. I’m destined for an advantageous marriage with a young man of good family and the proper political aspirations.”

  “They can’t force you to marry some dull clod with an upper-class lisp and the right school tie.”

  I hugged myself against the chill as the day’s heat was replaced by a cool storm breeze and stared out at the ocean, now sullen and white-capped. The air smelled of rain.

  “Are you happy, Kitty?”

  His question hung suspended in my mind. Three little words that I could not adequately answer. Was I happy? I had everything a girl could want: a family that loved me even if they didn’t understand me; a beautiful home, fine clothes, freedoms other young ladies my age would kill for. So why was I so discontented? Why did I feel the need to escape at every opportunity? Why did the security of family and rank and wealth feel less like a net and more like a noose?

  He leaned close, and before I understood what was happening, his lips touched mine. A soft brushing that sent my senses tumbling. I knew I should recoil with a slap to his cheek to put him firmly in his place, but I couldn’t breathe for the glorious expectation of something . . . though I knew not what at the time, only that I ached for it with every cell in my body. His body was hard and muscular. I could feel his strength as he held me and smell his aftershave and hear his breath.

  When it was over he smiled, not the impish grin or the cynical smirk but a smile of genuine warmth and respect. “Papa would definitely not approve.”

  Chapter 3

  Cornwall

  October 1940

  Anna stood on the station platform, bags at her feet, heavy coat slung over her trunk. By the light of a crescent moon, she strained to check her watch against the station’s ancient clock. Eleven on the button. Six hours later than she’d been expected, but there had been no help for it. Her train had been sent to a siding twice to sit idle as endless cars of freight rolled by toward the coastal ports at Southampton and Portsmouth.

  She wandered the platform, hoping to locate a telephone or a porter, but neither seemed available, and the doors were locked tight. A village lay in a shallow valley below. No welcoming lights, but the gray and silver outlines of rooftops and chimneys gleamed in the frosty moonlight, and Glenn Miller floated on the cool breeze ruffling her collar. Perhaps someone there could drive her to Nanreath Hall.

  Leaving her trunk for collection in the morning, she hoisted her duffel on her shoulder and set off down the road, praying some nutter with dimmed head lamps didn’t come whizzing round a curve in the dark and smash her flat. As she clung to the verge, she listened for the telltale growl of a motor, but aside from the strains of distant music and the creak of tree branches, all was quiet.

  At the crest of an old stone bridge, she paused to rest and catch her breath. What seemed a short walk from the top of the hill had become a long, tiring slog on narrow, winding lanes lined by high hedges and thick copses of trees. Wiping a sleeve across her forehead, she stretched and windmilled her bad shoulder before leaning against the baluster, watching the sliver moon shimmer and ripple among the mossy rocks below. The wind smelled sweet and loamy, but she tasted the brine of salt at the back of her throat along with the tartness of sea air.

  Leaving her bag, she clambered down to the shore where she scooped up a handful of water and splashed it against her face and ran a damp hand over the back of her neck. She dipped her hand in again and impulsively put it to her lips. Icy, the water bit against her tongue and cramped her empty stomach.

  The low drone of planes drowned out the faint notes of “Begin the Beguine.” Anna stiffened. Her hands trembled, and her throat closed around a sob. The muscles in her calves tightened as she crouched like a rabbit caught by the poacher’s lamp, and she squeezed her eyes shut, whispering under her breath.

  This was not France. The road was not clogged with panicked refugees, their hands outstretched and eyes pleading for help as the ambulances crawled ever west and north toward the beaches. These were slow, ponderous Junkers, not the deadly German Stukas. Her hands were not covered in Harriet’s blood; her shoulder was not shattered and useless as she struggled to escape the sinking cruiser.

  This was England . . . this was England . . . this was . . .

  She took a deep breath, letting the past wash through her. She refused to fall to pieces, yet still she reached to massage her opposite shoulder as a ghost pain seared her right side.

  The bombers continued eastward, the terrible drone of their engines fading beneath the normal country night sounds of creaking branches and nesting birds. She struggled to her feet. “You’ll never get posted to a forward hospital that way, Anna old girl,” she chided herself.

  Beyond the eastern horizon, flashes of light burst across the sky accompanied by a string of earth-shaking thumps. She jumped, shoulders twitching toward her ears, heart leaping in her chest. So focused on the whump-whump-whump echo of falling bombs, she never heard the bang and rattle of a horse-drawn wagon heading toward the bridge until it was skittering on the road above her.

  “What the devil?” Gravel spat as the wagon racketed to a halt. “Ho, boy. Easy now. Easy.”

  Anna scrambled up the bank to the bridge to find a broad-backed gray horse stomping and tossing its head and mouthing at the bit.

  “You there,” a man shouted from the wagon’s bench seat. “Are you trying to cause an accident?”

  “I’m sorry,” Anna began politely. “I only meant to—”

  “Who leaves their bloody luggage in the middle of the road at night where anyone could blunder into it?” He set the brake and tied off the reins before clumsily lowering himself to the ground. “I nearly ran into the creek avoiding a collision with your unmentionables. Bloody fool woman.”

  She hoisted her duffel to her shoulder. “You needn’t be insulting. How was I to know you’d come charging down the road as if the hounds of hell were after you? This isn’t Oxford Circus, after all.”

  He soothed the horse with a murmur and a pat on its flank, rubbed its nose until it butted at him, whuffling its contentment. “A good thing. God knows what sort of mayhem you and your luggage would create there.” As he approached, the moonlight shone on a thin, pale face, long, narrow cheekbones, and eyes of a luminous gray that narrowed as he studied her. “What are you doing wandering around out here in the middle of the night anyway?”

  Anna adjusted her cap. Straightened her cuffs. Set her coat round her shoulders. “My train was delayed and I’ve missed my ride. I’m due at the convalescent hospital at Nanreath Hall.”

  His gaze traveled from the top of her horrible navy-blue “egg cup” hat to the RAF gold eagles on her collar down to her sensible shoes. “You’re a nurse?”

  “Red Cross Voluntary Aid Detachment.”

  “So you’re here to do the muck work the proper sisters don’t have time for.”

  “I’ll do whatever is needed for those who need it most.” She took in his disheveled state of dress, wrinkling her nose at the powerful scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and stale perfume, adding, “I’m very good at dispensing aspirin and making strong coffee.”

  “I’ll wager you are.” He snorted his disdain. “Come along. I’ll take you. If I leave you to walk to Nanreath alone, you’re liable to be shot as a spy by some overzealous farmer or wander onto the moors and be trampled by a sheep.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any more trouble.”

  He took her duffel and tossed it into the back of the wagon. “No trouble. I’m headed there anyway.”

  “You work at the hospital?”

  “That’s one way of putting it. The name’s Hugh, by the way.”

  He didn’t sound like a local farmer, but then what did she know of the inner workings of grand estates? Perhaps he was part of the medical staff or a governmental functionary.

  “How do you do? I’m Miss—” She hesitated. If he’d been working at Nanreath Hall for any
length of time perhaps he was acquainted with the Trenowyth family. Even if he was part of the temporary staff, he might have gossip about them to pass along, a hint of what she might be getting herself into with this ridiculous posting. “I’m Miss Handley.” She swallowed the lump in her throat along with the white lie. “Miss Anna Handley.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Anna Handley. Now that the social niceties have been dispensed with, can we be on our way? It’s been a long night and my bed awaits. I might even manage a few hours’ sleep before I’m routed out at dawn.”

  He helped her onto the bench, where she smoothed her skirt over her knees and folded her hands in her lap. With another awkward clamber, he was beside her, taking up the reins.

  “Is it far?” Anna asked.

  “A few miles south of here. It won’t take long unless we come across more of your lot tramping the Cornish hills.” He slanted her a skeptical glance. “An army of misplaced VADs wandering in circles?”

  “Just me.”

  “Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Well then, let’s be off.”

  A slap of the reins and the wagon jerked forward, nearly tossing her into his lap. Hugh steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. Anna moved away with a cool stare down her nose until he slid to the far side of the bench with a chuckle.

  “You can’t fault a lad for trying. It’s a pretty night, you’re a pretty girl, and I’m properly soused. But I’ll not push where I’m not wanted. Don’t worry.”

  She couldn’t help the smile twitching her lips. “Oh, I’m not worried. I grew up in the city. I know how to deal with rats.”

  He laughed, his surliness easing into friendly sociability. “I like you, Miss Handley. You can leave your luggage scattered about in the road anytime.”

  They set off, the village falling behind them until it was finally lost from sight behind a wrinkle of hills as the ground rose toward the western cliffs.