by Robin Paige
Letters! Bradford’s stomach knotted.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured mockingly. “I see that you really had forgotten. How like a man, to love a lady and leave her without a backward glance. But I haven’t forgotten, of course. I am glad to say that I have every single one of those sweet, tender letters, tied with a pink ribbon, and kept against the day when I might—”
“When you might use them,” Bradford said tautly. “How dare you, Miss Chase!”
She shrugged her lovely shoulders. “One keeps one’s wits about one, Mr. Marsden, or one does not survive in this unfriendly world. The letters are not with me, of course, but I can produce them whenever they are required.” She tilted her head and gave him a knowing glance. “I feel certain that your wife—Edith, isn’t it? Quite rich, I understand—would be interested in hearing some of the choicest passages.”
“I was unmarried at the time,” Bradford said sullenly.
“Indeed. But some relationships are not so easily brought to a close. It would not be at all difficult to suggest that our intimacy continued past the time of your marriage, especially since we saw one another in Vienna.” Her smile was admiring. “Really, my dear, it was clever of you to marry so very well.”
Bradford felt himself coloring. It was pointless to say that he had not married for money, at least, not entirely, and that Edith’s wealth had come through a post-nuptial legacy from the estate of her godfather, Cecil Rhodes. He only puffed the air out of his cheeks and said, in a low, angry voice, “What happened between you and me has nothing to do with Edith.”
“Of course not,” Miss Chase said with a careless toss of her head, “but there it is.” She leaned forward, her eyes intent. “I, too, have a proposition to make, Mr. Marsden. I propose that, for our mutual advantage, we forget all about this little conversation. I further propose that you say nothing of it to Marconi.” Her voice hardened. “I have no idea of doing a flit, you see. And I doubt very much that you are willing to be embarrassed by those letters. They are very dear and sweet, but I hardly think that Edith would find them amusing.” She stepped back and put out her hand. “What do you say, sir? Have we a bargain?”
Bradford thrust his hands into his pockets.
“How very petty of you.” She withdrew her hand. “How-ever, I shall take silence for assent. Only a fool would want his wife to learn that he had made passionate love to another woman just a few days before their wedding—and I doubt that you are a fool.” The wind tugged at the feathers again, and she put a hand on her hat. “I am going indoors, out of this blasted wind. I expect, sir, that when we meet again, neither of us will speak of this little exchange of views.”
Bradford watched her go. The foxy little vixen! Thought she would get the upper hand, did she? Well, he would not let her get the better of him, by Jove. He might be forced to concede this round to the redoubtable Miss Chase, but there would be another.
Yes, by damn, there would be another!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tristram in ship lay
With Isolde each night,
Play merrily he may
With that worthy wight
In bower night and day.
All blithe was the knight,
That he might with her lay.
Sir Tristram
Middle English poem,
fourteenth century
At breakfast on Friday morning, Jenna asked if Kate and Patsy would like to spend the day sightseeing on the Lizard. “Mrs. Tremaine can make us a picnic lunch,” she said, “and Snood will bring the horse and gig round when we’re ready. Sir Oliver isn’t expected until tea time, so we’ll have the whole day all to ourselves, to go where we like.”
“Lovely!” Kate exclaimed, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.
“Where shall we go?” Patsy asked.
Jenna smiled and passed a plate of toast. “I thought we might drive us over to the sea, to Dennis Head, where we can explore to our hearts’ content. We can come back by way of the stone circle on Tremorder Hill—if that suits you, of course.”
“Wonderful!” Patsy cried excitedly. “I’ll take my camera— I have one of those new Ross focal plane cameras, you know, and I’ve been dying to try it out.”
“And as we drive, Jenna,” Kate said, “you can tell us all about the history of the place—the Celts and the Romans, and the Cornish fairies and pixies, too. I’ve heard so many legends about them.”
There was a great deal to be seen on the Lizard, and much to be known about its ancient landscape, and Kate was glad for the sightseeing trip. But she was even more glad that Jenna wanted to get out of the house, for their hostess appeared to be under a great deal of strain. Her face was pale, and she seemed anxious and on edge. Kate wondered if her apprehension might have to do with Oliver Lodge’s visit. Whatever the reason, though, a day in the sun and fresh air would do her a great deal of good. And Charles would be with them for dinner tonight, which gave Kate herself something important to look forward to.
As soon as they finished eating, they took the basket Jenna’s cook had prepared, climbed into the waiting gig, and started off in a southerly direction. The morning was lovely indeed. The horse trotted briskly and the gig was large enough for the three of them to fit comfortably, with the picnic basket tucked securely behind them. The breeze brushing their faces was mild and sweet, the sky was a bright, electric blue, traced with delicate wisps of high white clouds, and there was a great vastness of space around them which made Kate want to throw her head back and shout for sheer joy. Patsy, too, was gay, and even Jenna smiled and laughed and joined in their occasional bursts of song. But Kate thought her liveliness seemed forced, and while the fresh air brought a bloom to her cheeks, it did little to dispel the shadows in her eyes.
They left the horse and gig at St. Anthony-in-Meneage, a gray stone church with a square tower overlooking the little harbor of Gillan Creek. It was the oldest Christian site in Cornwall, Jenna told them.
“It’s said that the tower was built,” she added, “at the time of the Conquest. A Norman boat was caught in a storm whilst crossing from France to England. The crew vowed to St. Anthony—the patron saint of sailors—that if they survived the shipwreck, they’d build a church at the point where they came ashore.” She pointed to the inlet, filled with sailboats and fishing boats. “The story must be true, you know. St. Anthony’s tower is built of Norman granite—there’s none of that kind here in Cornwall.”
Ten centuries! Beryl whispered in Kate’s ear. Think of the stories that tower could tell!
Leaving the church, they walked a little distance across green fields and over stone fences to Dennis Head, a great headland jutting out into the blue waters of the Channel. The remains of an old fortification were there, erected by the Royalists during the Civil War, in an effort to command the wide entrance to the Helford River, which lay just to the east. Patsy set herself to taking photographs, while Kate used her binoculars to study birds. There was a spectacular view across the Helford, and south, across the Channel, and the breeze was brisk enough to whip their skirts and tug at their hats. The water was the color of tourmaline, shot through with iridescent blues and greens, and the clouds had become more numerous, so that the surface was now bright, now shadowed.
Kate lowered her binoculars. “Did the Romans settle in Cornwall?” she asked curiously.
“Yes, mostly in the areas where there was tin mining,” Jenna replied. “But it’s possible to find evidences of Roman settlement all over Cornwall.” She pointed to the east. “They would certainly have sailed up the Helford, and used the harbor as a shelter from the Channel storms. After the Romans left, the Celts were here, of course, and King Arthur and Guinevere.” She shaded her eyes, gazing out across the Channel.
“And Tristram and Isolde,” Kate said.
Ah, Tristram and Isolde, Beryl sighed. The tale of a passion which flamed between star-crossed lovers, a tragic romance, for Isolde was the wife of Tristram’s uncle, King Marc. St
anding here on this windswept headland, looking out across the vast water, Kate did not find it at all difficult to imagine Isolde herself waiting at this spot for her lover to return from the sea, full of hope and eager joy.
“Tristram and Isolde.” Jenna’s face clouded. “Such a tragedy,” she murmured, turning away from the view of the sea. “Such . . . hopelessness.”
Kate turned to look at her, struck by the sadness in Jenna’s voice and by the sudden and surprised notion that the romance of Tristram and Isolde must echo something deeply personal and profoundly sad in Jenna’s life. But what? She had lost her child, but there was nothing of that in Isolde’s story. So what was it? A broken marriage? A love affair?
But Jenna’s expression was unreadable, and Kate knew it wasn’t appropriate to pry into what was so clearly a private sadness. So she linked arms with Patsy and pointed out a small flotilla of ships steaming along fast, not far from shore, heading westward, and after a few minutes Jenna rejoined them with a brighter expression.
They left Dennis Head and found a tiny tea-shop beside Gillan Creek, where they sat down to enjoy a cup of tea with fresh scones and jam and clotted cream. In the little harbor, boats moved back and forth, chased by screaming flocks of gulls. On the shore, fishermen tended their nets, a pair of men sawed and pounded on a boat they were repairing, and children played a noisy game. Kate lifted her binoculars to study the boats and saw, to her surprise, the birdwatcher— John Northrup, Captain Kirk-Smythe—standing in the stern of a small sloop which was moored to a piling in the inlet. He, too, was studying the boats.
Then, sitting beside Kate, Jenna seemed to see someone she knew. She gave a little gasp, a look of incredulous joy suffused her face, and she flung up an arm in greeting. And then, forgetting all about Kate and Patsy, she was gone, running toward the beach, flying as fast as feet could take her.
“What in the world!” Patsy exclaimed, standing up and shading her eyes. “Why, Kate, it’s a man! Someone she knows!”
Kate saw him, too. A tall, blond-haired man in yachting clothes, standing beside a white sailboat beached on the shore. He opened his arms, and for an instant, Kate thought Jenna would fling herself against him, but as she reached him, they both seemed to become conscious that they might be seen. He dropped his arms, and she stopped, and the two of them stood, just looking at one another. It was one of those moments when even the most disinterested onlooker must feel that dangerous forces were at work, like an electrical current which could shock, could kill. A hush seemed to fall over the whole scene. The noise of the saw and hammer stopped, the children’s voices quieted. Even the noisy gulls stopped screaming.
Tristram and Isolde, Beryl said ominously. They’re lovers, can’t you see?
“They’re lovers, Kate,” Patsy said with a note of excitement. She dropped back into her chair. “You can tell from the look of them.”
“My goodness,” Kate said, not knowing quite what to say. She felt a chill in the pit of her stomach.
Beryl sighed. I wish we could hear what they’re saying to one another.
“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Patsy asked, propping her chin on her hands. “Wouldn’t you love to know, Kate?”
Yes! Beryl exclaimed.
“No,” Kate said firmly, and poured another cup of tea. “Whatever they’re saying, it’s obviously personal and private. Besides,” she added, “it would probably embarrass us.”
“I don’t know why.” Patsy’s voice was envious. “Love isn’t embarrassing. Just look at them, Kate. I wish someone felt as passionate about me as he feels about her.”
But why do I have the feeling, Beryl mused, that this is not a happy passion?
Patsy frowned. “I wonder whether she came here today to look for him. I wonder—” She rose and picked up her camera.
Alarmed, Kate put out her hand. “You’re not going to photograph them, Patsy!”
“Not them, necessarily,” Patsy said. “Just the boats. It’s a very pretty spot, don’t you think? I’ll be back in a minute, Kate.”
“Really, Patsy,” Kate said, “It’s not considerate to intrude on such a private—”
You can’t stop her, Beryl said. You know how she is.
Kate sat back with a sigh. Beryl was right. When Patsy Marsden decided to do something, it was full steam ahead, a locomotive down the track. So Kate took another scone, sat back in her chair, and tried to pretend that she wasn’t desperately interested in the small drama playing out on the beach in front of her.
Jenna and the man were standing close together but apart, not touching, as if there were some invisible barrier between them. He was speaking to her earnestly, passionately, his fair head bent over hers. She was answering, her face lifted to his. After a moment, he raised his hand and brushed what must have been a tear from her cheek. Impulsively, she seized his hand and pressed it to her lips, then her breast. Then she pulled away. He took two steps after her, his hand raised, and Kate heard him call “Tomorrow, Jenna!” Jenna did not turn.
Kate watched the two of them, thinking that there was something profoundly tragic about their relationship. What was holding them apart?
Tristram and Isolde, Beryl murmured.
“What do we do now?” Patsy asked, returning to the table.
“I suppose we wait,” Kate said. “We certainly can’t go off and leave her here alone.” And Jenna would have been alone, for the man had pushed his boat out into the water, jumped onto the prow, and unfurled the sails. Kate eyed Patsy’s camera. “Did you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Patsy said. “I couldn’t resist the temptation— although you’re right, I’m afraid. I’m sure they didn’t know I took the picture, but even so, I’m ashamed of myself. It was an invasion of their privacy. The way they felt was written all over their faces. You could see it the way they held themselves. Anyone looking at them would know.” She smiled. “In fact, I wasn’t the only photographer. A man on that boat out there.” She pointed. “He was taking their picture, too.”
Patsy was pointing in the direction of Kirk-Smythe’s sloop, and Kate looked toward it. He had cast off his mooring and was pulling up his sail with a great show of casualness. Kate frowned. That he was here—was it a coincidence? It did not seem likely, but she could think of no other explanation. He couldn’t have known that the three of them would be here, for they hadn’t known it themselves, until breakfast. She would have to tell Charles about it. She wondered if he had got her letter, and whether he had made contact with Andrew.
Jenna returned a few moments later, her eyes red and puffy. She made no explanation, except to say that she had seen a friend and remembered something she had meant to tell him. After that, she fell into silence. In a somber mood, saying very little, the three retrieved the horse and gig. Kate half-expected that the encounter had so darkened Jenna’s mood that she might suggest returning to Penhallow. But, still saying nothing, she drove north and west, the narrow road twisting and turning between stone walls and low hedges, the land rising as they passed the village of Manaccan and the smaller hamlets of Choon and Crowns, deeper into the heart of the moor, onto Goonhilly Down. And as they drove, the sky turned gray and a cooler breeze blew, laden with the scent of rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.
The Wind in the Willows
Kenneth Grahame
Affecting a casual nonchalance, Andrew Kirk-Smyth cast off the mooring line on the sloop he had hired in Helford and pulled in the mainsheet. Wolf had pushed off the beach, clambered onto the prow of the Mistral II, and run up his jib. Now, he was tacking for the mouth of the little inlet. Kirk-Smythe did not want to let him get too far ahead, but he did not want to be seen as following tack-for-tack, either—and anyway, he couldn’t. The hired sloop hadn’t near the speed of the larger yacht; it was built for weather, not for speed. So he luffed along until the Mistral roun
ded Dennis Head, sailing east toward the Helford River, then he tightened up on the jib and the main, put the helm down, and sailed as close to the wind as he could.
As Andrew sailed under Dennis’s high cliff, the faster, heavier yacht was well ahead of him. But a few moments later, it began to fall off, running downwind with the main and jib out, making for the mouth of the Helford. Andrew relaxed a little and began to enjoy himself. He didn’t have to sail hard now, for he knew where Wolf was bound, where he aimed to moor the Mistral. Frenchman’s Creek.
The early morning—it had just gone seven when they put out of Mullion Cove on the tail of the ebb and began the swing round Lizard Point—had been beautiful: a sharp blue sky over an aquamarine ocean, the water heaving in long, slow rolls, the surf beating against the rocks, the seabirds swooping overhead. As they passed Lizard light, which had stood stalwart against all gales for nearly three hundred years, the southerly breeze was fresh against Andrew’s right cheek, and the tiller of the little boat—sturdy, seaworthy, for all its small size—shivered and shuddered like a live thing under his hand. It was a moment of unrestrained, uncompromised, unmitigated pleasure. Whatever his reason for being there, Andrew was glad to be messing about in boats, as his father, a man with a deep love of the sea, had always put it.
But as they beat around Black Head and past the Manacles and then around Nare Point into Gillan Harbor, the clouds had begun to thicken and take on the color of lead. And now, having left the refuge of Gillan, Andrew was glad to be making the turn for Helford and a safer harbor, for the following wind was gaining strength, the waves were higher, and it looked like being rather dirty weather in a few hours. But the run downwind was easy, so he let out the sail, sat far back in the stern, and kept a firm hand on the helm, the prow riding high as the wind hard aft pushed the little sloop forward. This was her favorite point of sail, and she leapt into it with a joyful abandon, planing across the water, skimming the tops of the curling waves like a gull. Andrew felt a thrill strike through him and he gave a wild war whoop.
