Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

by Marguerite Kaye

  * * *

  Cador Kitto, Cornwall’s most renowned composer, had come at last, blown in last night with the storm. Rosenwyn Treleven lowered her gaze, her pride smarting at having been caught and reprimanded for a scolding she’d rightly deserved. She’d done nothing wrong but bring Marianne’s high spirits into line. Whether he’d started that little flirtation or not was irrelevant. He should know better than to encourage such behaviour with a young girl.

  That he did know better, and hadn’t, spoke loudly of his character. He was every bit as rakish as his reputation made him out to be and unfortunately just as handsome. His legendary gold waves skimmed his shoulders, his artist’s face with its dramatic angles was shown to advantage in the winter sunlight streaming through Reverend Maddern’s prized glass windows, and those blue eyes, the colour of a Cornish sea in summer, danced with mischief across the aisle. He was stunning and absolutely not for her. She’d learned her lesson in London about handsome men. She would keep her distance from Cador Kitto and see to it that her sisters did the same. One disgraced girl in the Treleven house was enough.

  ‘We’re inviting him to Sunday dinner,’ Marianne whispered excitedly as they all rose to file out after church. ‘Papa is asking him right now.’

  No, not now. Not ever. What was her father thinking to invite him into a house with six unmarried girls? Rosenwyn watched in sinking disappointment as her father crossed the aisle and shook Cador Kitto’s hand, acting as the nominal welcoming committee in the absence of Captain Penhaligon. Her father gestured for them to join him and the last of her hopes to maintain distance faded.

  ‘This is my wife, Lady Treleven, and these are my lovely daughters, Ayleth, Violet, Marianne, the twins, Catherine and Isabella, and my oldest, Rosenwyn.’

  ‘Enchanté, Miss Treleven.’ He bowed over her hand as if they were at a formal ball, his eyes meeting hers, still full of mischief over their previous exchange. ‘I see you are recovered. Something seemed to bother you during the service.’

  ‘Recovered?’ Her mother swooped in with concern upon hearing the word. ‘Are you not feeling well, Rose?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Rose smiled tightly, shooting Kitto a warning glance. ‘I had just got some dust in my eye, it was nothing of consequence.’ He was a speck to her, nothing more despite his handsome face, well-tailored clothes and the fact that he was more attractive close up than he had been from across the aisle.

  Her father had a friendly hand on Kitto’s shoulder, far too familiar with the newly arrived composer than Rosenwyn liked. ‘Mr Kitto, allow me to introduce you to the gentlemen sitting behind us, they’re friends of the family and will be joining us for dinner as well. This is Eaton Falmage, Cassian Truscott, Inigo Vellanoweth and Vennor Penlerick.’ He winked at Kitto. ‘You needn’t worry you’ll be the only man at the table this afternoon. The Reverend will join us as well, although Penhaligon sends his regrets. Shall we be off?’

  Rosenwyn tried, truly she did, to impose some distance between her and Kitto. She meant to walk back to Treleven House with Eaton, but Ayleth and he were already deep in discussion about their shared passion for truffles. Marianne was shamelessly practising her flirtation with Inigo and Vennor, one on each arm, while they egged her on with brotherly advice. Violet was discussing the sermon with the Reverend, and the twins—Isabella and Catherine—were hounding Cassian for stories about his latest travels to Russia. That left her and Kitto to bring up the rear of their little procession. It was the last arrangement she wanted to be in. Rosenwyn sent a final pleading look in Ayleth’s direction for some relief, but Ayleth was oblivious to her distress.

  ‘Is there something in your eye again, Miss Treleven?’ Kitto enquired as they began to walk, his neutral tone of concern a thin mask for the teasing beneath. He’d caught her once more.

  ‘I’m quite fine. Thank you. I was just wondering, how you are enjoying being back in Porth Karrek, Mr Kitto?’ She could play the politeness game, too.

  ‘I’ve only been back a few hours,’ he answered with a polite smile to match his polite, cursory answer. At this rate they would exhaust her store of small talk before they reached Treleven House. ‘However, Porth Karrek is much as I remember it.’ The mask slipped for just a moment and in that moment, Rosenwyn glimpsed disappointment again in his eyes. That was when she knew. The great Cador Kitto had a secret: he didn’t want to be here, in Porth Karrek. Why would a man not want to be in a place that lauded him? That considered him famous? How interesting.

  No. Not interesting, she corrected herself. Men weren’t allowed to be interesting, not after the disaster with Dashiell Custis. She was done with handsome faces and fairy-tale fantasies. Mr Kitto could keep his secrets to himself. She absolutely did not want to know them.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday dinner at the Trelevens’ was of good quality, both in terms of food and the company. Well, most of the company, Cade reflected, gazing around the long silver-laden table, most of the company being all but Rosenwyn Treleven. She had made it plain on their walk she didn’t care for him much, an attitude he felt had to spring from something more deeply seated than smiling at her sister in church. Then again, most of the company didn’t have secrets. Miss Treleven did, he’d wager the last of his coin on it. He knew when a woman had a secret. There was no other reason for her instant dislike of him. He didn’t take it personally. Her dislike was a defence mechanism. She was hiding something.

  Guessing what it might be added an extra dynamic to an already interesting dinner. There was, after all, the usual current that ran underneath these sorts of affairs when there were five unattached gentlemen and, by ‘happy coincidence’, the host’s six pretty, unmarried daughters, four of whom were of an age for consideration. A bachelor intent on survival learned early how to recognise the signs. A composer intent on survival also learned to recognise the potential for future opportunity and this Sunday afternoon dinner was an unlooked-for plum. All four of the gentlemen at Jock Treleven’s table were heirs to the various dukedoms that populated this part of Cornwall. Quality company indeed. London mamas would weep if they could see this fine assemblage.

  No wonder Treleven had laid out the best china, the best silver, the best wine for this afternoon feast. Marrying off six daughters was a difficult task under the best of circumstances with all the resources of London society on hand to assist. Marrying them off in the wilds of Cornwall was not just difficult, it was daunting. Treleven couldn’t afford to squander whatever serendipitous opportunities came his way. And neither could he. These young ducal heirs would have influence they could exert in London on his behalf if they were so inclined.

  The composer in Cade thrilled to the opportunity, while the bachelor in him was wary of circumstances that served up dukes and debutantes in the same sitting. Was it expected he would go through Sir Jock Treleven to get to the heirs? After all, Treleven had been the one to introduce them. Cade would rather not be bound in obligation to Treleven, especially if that obligation involved marriage. He could barely support himself, let alone a wife. Sir Jock could offer him nothing but trouble with those six pretty strawberry blondes and their dowries sitting around the table.

  True, any one of them could solve his monetary problems, but the price would be too high. He would not live off a wife’s largesse. There were names for men like that. Besides, Treleven’s daughters weren’t his type. They were meant for marriage—to dukes if Treleven had his way. Cador preferred a woman who was able to be freer with herself without requiring any commitment on his part. There were plenty of those women in London. He doubted there were many of that sort out here. His tenure in Porth Karrek would likely be lonely and celibate. He was not willing to sacrifice his pride and his dreams to Cornwall. It had taken too much from him already.

  A footman stepped forward to refill Cade’s wine glass, another to clear his plate for the next course. Treleven had cut no corners on the meal either: a first course of h
are soup, followed by mixed game pie, an entrements of vol-au-vent of pear and now footmen served a delicious-smelling fillet of pheasant with truffles which earned an exclamation from Eaton Falmage, who had taken up truffles as a serious pastime. Falmage lifted his glass to Lady Treleven. ‘The white truffles are divine, you must give my compliments to the cook. The flavour permeates the bird perfectly. In fact, I’ve been working on a new truffle preserve. I should send some of my samples over for your cook. It’s the ideal accompaniment when truffles aren’t in season.’

  Falmage turned his attention in Cade’s direction. ‘I am interested in the science of food,’ he explained with an easy smile. ‘I imagine it’s much like your appreciation of the science of music. There’s no end to the possibility of variations.’ That was the hope, Cade thought wryly, although some days he began to doubt music was infinite as he’d once thought, that perhaps he had indeed run out of ways to arrange notes in order to create a unique melody.

  ‘Will you play for us this afternoon, Mr Kitto?’ Falmage asked across the table. ‘I hope I am not too forward in the asking?’

  ‘Not at all, I would be happy to,’ Cade replied. He would play whether he wanted to or not because no one turned down a chance to audition in front of four ducal heirs. This was a prime opportunity to secure his next patron, and his next. The composer’s world was a dog-eat-dog existence where one must play the sycophant to navigate the politics of European courts. Commissions did not go to those who were most worthy, but to whomever had the best advocate. Otherwise, he’d never have left Vienna. Even the great Beethoven struggled, especially now that his hearing had failed.

  ‘Rosenwyn, will you play as well?’ Falmage turned to her and Cade noted her hesitation.

  ‘I don’t think my music is quite at the level of Mr Kitto’s,’ she prevaricated, but Cade did not miss the sharp look she gave Falmage, encouraging him not to press the matter. Falmage was not daunted.

  ‘I hope you will change your mind. It’s just family today, and I’ve missed hearing you play.’ He nodded towards Cade. ‘Perhaps you can encourage her, Kitto? Our Rosenwyn was the toast of London drawing rooms when she bothered to grace us with her presence. Musicales last Season felt her absence keenly.’

  ‘Please do not let me intimidate you, Miss Treleven,’ Cade coaxed in order to please Falmage and perhaps to provoke her in payback for her cold reception on the walk. He’d chosen his words carefully. One word in particular and it had the desired effect.

  Miss Treleven’s green eyes flashed and her defiant chin raised just a fraction as if she’d been challenged. ‘I am not intimidated by any man, Mr Kitto. If it pleases Falmage that much, I am happy to oblige.’

  Falmage smiled and clapped his hands in decisive approval. ‘Then, it’s settled. We’ll have an afternoon musicale. I cannot think of a more pleasant way to spend a Sunday.’

  * * *

  Rosenwyn could think of several more pleasant ways to spend an afternoon as they adjourned to the music room with its piano and stringed instruments, and none of them included playing for Kitto, a man who felt he was too good for Cornwall. She wanted to scold Eaton for his part in it, but it was hard to be upset when Kitto sat down at the piano and began to play. He’d chosen a Bach piece she recognised as ‘Air on a G String’. He played it to perfection with its plaintive treble and its contrapuntal bass. The music filled the drawing room with a quiet sweetness well suited for a reflective winter afternoon. She closed her eyes and let the music float over her, let it take her worries. It was difficult to dislike a man who could make Bach sound effortless and song-like. Despite Kitto’s reputation for courtly affaires, the man was truly a genius. But her adulation needed to stop there, her conscience warned. He was still arrogant. He still had a reputation with the ladies. He still needed to be guarded against. No doubt he used his music to worm his way into a lady’s affections along with those good looks and bold smiles.

  ‘That was splendid!’ Eaton applauded when the piece concluded. ‘You must give a private concert while you’re here. Sir Jock can host and I can arrange it, if you’d like.’

  ‘Perhaps, that is most gracious of you.’ Kitto rose from the bench and smiled at Falmage with what was supposed to be gratitude and appreciation, but Rosenwyn noted his eyes didn’t dance and his smile was tight, polite, as it had been on the walk. It was not at all the wide, easy smile he’d given Marianne. ‘A small concert is not out of the question, although, my priority is the cantata. There is much to be done and only three weeks to do it.’

  ‘Understood. I don’t want to steal your attentions. Still, I think there are those who would be eager to meet you in a personal setting.’ Falmage pressed his point in a stealthy exercise of his influence. ‘Rosenwyn, will you honour us perhaps with Pachelbel’s serenade? It’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rosenwyn stood. Resistance would be useless. If Cador Kitto could not refuse Eaton, she surely couldn’t. She wondered how Kitto felt about that? All that genius and he had to put himself at the beck and call of the likes of Eaton Falmage. Eaton was an excellent fellow, almost a brother to her and her sisters, but still, she knew what it felt like to be reliant on the good will of others for one’s own well-being even when that good will was well intended. Perhaps that was the reason he didn’t want to be in Porth Karrek. The effort of being here wasn’t commensurate with the gains. What could he gain here that would make it worth his while when he might be in London or in Vienna or Paris? She loved Cornwall, but others did not. In London, society talked of Cornwall as if it were the ends of earth.

  It was becoming clear to her that Kitto thought the same. She could almost read his mind as she passed him on the way to the bench. Who could he possibly play for that would be worth spending his talents on? Captain Penhaligon must be paying him a small fortune for the cantata in order for him to overlook the issue of his limited audience—Porth Karrek gentry, miners, merchants, fisherman, smugglers. Hardly the sort that could give him anything but applause in return. It helped that Eaton and his friends were here, but their arrival had been unplanned. Kitto and Penhaligon wouldn’t have known that beforehand.

  If the ratio of effort to output was the reason Kitto didn’t want to be here, it invoked the question, why was he here at all? One more secret to add to the growing pile of interesting things to know about Cador Kitto. Rosenwyn sat down and sorted through the music, looking for the serenade. It was one of her favourites, too. Eaton had chosen well in that regard.

  She began to play, losing herself in the easy flow of the piece, letting herself forget that Eaton had coerced her into this, that Kitto was an inveterate flirt who likely thought her a prude for rebuking him in church, that Dashiell Custis had made her into an embarrassment, so that she never dared to show her face in London again for fear of scandal. She loved this piece—it was even better with a violin. She’d no sooner thought it than the wistful sound of a bow drawn long over its strings joined her, raising its melody to hers in poignant harmony. She opened her eyes to find Cador’s intense blue gaze on her from behind the length of a violin tucked beneath his chin, his elegant fingers on the strings, on the bow.

  In that moment, she was swept away, elevated. Nothing in the room, no one in the room mattered except the music, except him, urging her with each measure he played to let go, to let her soul fly free with him, and it was intoxicating. She had not been free, not in her heart, for over a year, not since she’d fled London in ignominy. For a few moments, she was alive again. As long as she held his gaze, she was Icarus soaring to the sun.

  The room was silent when they finished. She could not look away from him, knowing full well the moment would end when she did. She would be Rosenwyn Treleven again, a woman disgraced because she’d been foolish in love, a woman who could never risk such a thing again. And he would be Cador Kitto, a complicated genius of a man who had landed in the one place he least wanted to be. They had nothing to offe
r each other beyond this moment. He gave her a slight nod of his head, a warning that the spell would be broken. She braced herself as he set aside the violin, looked away and let her tumble back to earth.

  Eaton was on his feet and the others were, too, clapping as if it were a concert hall. Eaton gave her a brotherly hug. ‘Thank you, my dear. That was absolutely magical.’ He shook Kitto’s hand and everyone was exclaiming at once.

  ‘We should play charades next,’ Marianne suggested when the excitement ebbed. ‘Girls against boys.’ It was a suggestion taken up enthusiastically as the sides arranged themselves; the men grouping around Vennor and the ladies flocking to Marianne. ‘Come play, Rose.’ Marianne patted an empty seat beside her on the sofa.

  Rosenwyn shook her head. ‘In a minute, let me put the music away.’ She wasn’t ready to give the moment up just yet. She reached for the violin to put it back in its case.

  ‘Let me do that, I was the one who got it out.’ Kitto took the instrument, his hand brushing hers in the exchange, sending a jolt of awareness rippling up her arm, a reminder that he was charming and seductive even without the music.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ She needed to be on her guard. She was weak just now, still reeling from the emotion of the music.

  ‘Falmage coerced you. You didn’t want to play.’

  ‘Neither did you.’

  He shrugged, managing to look elegant. ‘I am used to it, it’s a musician’s lot in life to always be performing. It didn’t have to be yours. I thought it was unfair. Mine, I could do nothing about without offending Falmage. But yours, I could. Perhaps I was sorry for my part in coercing you. At least I could make you glad you chose to play.’ He smiled, his voice low and private in contrast to the loud laughter of charades going on behind her. ‘So, Miss Treleven, tell me. Was it worth it to play, after all?’