The Cornish Widow, page 16
Mrs Ponsonby questioned every detail of my time in Plymouth, which was difficult because I couldn't tell her about the trial. So everything she heard was a product of my imagination, though it has eased her mind. In my fictional account, Mrs Tremayne was with me every second of every day, and I comfort myself knowing that she was hardly there at all. But nothing dire occurred. I did not explode in flames or pass out from exposure to other people, so whatever fears Mrs Ponsonby had came to nothing. At least this means I can escape again in future should the possibility arise. My safely conducted visit has greatly relieved my guardian.
I check the clock. Time has inched forward a little, but the sacrifice I made in not going to the library has left me with a lot of day and not much with which to fill it. I could go for a walk, but it's blowy outside, and I'm not in the right frame of mind. I've finished the three Crawford Newson books, and I should have returned them. I'm halfway through my last library book and now must eke it out over a week, so I can't read either. I am so bored that I contemplate helping Elys in the kitchen.
I am preparing to rise and take my teacup through when I hear a loud rap at the door. I wait for Elys to answer but she must be elsewhere, and someone is impatiently hammering the door with the flat of their hand. It is an unexpected noise, and so soon after the first knock, that I jump and almost drop the cup. Where is Elys? Where, for that matter, is Mrs Ponsonby? I deposit the cup on the sideboard and pick my way down the hallway, calling "Wait a moment," as I peer into the parlour, hoping Mrs Ponsonby is around. She is not and would have to be deaf to have missed the commotion. There is nothing else for it. I'll have to answer the door myself. I inch it open and peer cautiously around the side.
"Well, look at you," says an unfamiliar voice. "You must be little Connie, though you're not so little now."
I appraise the woman in the doorway. She is in her mid-fifties and is slender and exquisitely dressed in a tailored coat. Her sleekly coiffured hair is brunette without a trace of grey. I stare in baffled amazement.
"Close your mouth, my dear. You'll catch flies," the woman says. "Can I come in?"
"No," I say. "I don't know who you are. Is Mrs Ponsonby expecting you?"
"Not exactly," she says. "Where is Vera then?"
"I don't know," I say. "She was here."
"Well, I'm not made of money," says the woman. "I can't keep the driver waiting any longer. I'll have to get my bags and hope for the best."
She disappears in a flurry of fur stole and high heels and makes towards a smart Bentley parked to the left of Pebble Cottage. Moments later, she returns with a uniformed driver, puffing as he carries two heavy suitcases with a carpetbag tucked under his arm.
"Pop them inside," commands the woman.
"You can't," I say. "What will I tell Mrs Ponsonby? And who are you?"
"Don't you recognise me?"
"No," I say emphatically.
"Well, it's been a good few years," she says. "Probably the best part of twenty."
"No wonder I don't know you," I say, feeling a surge of irritation now that I am less surprised.
"Coralie Pennington," she says, thrusting a well-manicured hand towards me. I lightly shake it, unable to overcome habit even though she is not welcome, and I'm not at all sure I believe her. "Now, are you going to invite me in?"
"I don't know," I say. Then the kitchen door opens, and Mrs Ponsonby appears, followed by Elys.
"Ah, Vera. There you are."
Mrs Ponsonby looks up and stops motionless in the hallway. For a few moments, she stares in shocked silence, then speaks with a tremble in her voice. "What are you doing here?"
"What sort of greeting is that to an old friend," says Coralie.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. This is so unexpected," says Mrs Ponsonby.
"Well, I received your parcel and then had a bit of trouble, and I thought, I know, I'll visit Vera. She'll know what to do."
"But I thought we'd agreed never to..." Mrs Ponsonby's words trail away.
"It's been twenty years, Vee," says Coralie, as I stop myself sniggering at her pet name. "Nothing has happened, nor will it. I'm tired and cold. Now, can I please come in?"
Mrs Ponsonby beckons her inside.
"I'll see to your bags," says Elys.
"But where will she sleep?" asks Mrs Ponsonby.
"She can take my room. I'll go to my mum's for a few nights. Don't worry. She's only a mile away, and I can be back here in time for breakfast."
"Or she could stay at the hotel?" I offer, outraged at the suggestion that Elys should make way for the uninvited visitor.
"No," says Mrs Ponsonby.
"I could if it's too much trouble," says Coralie. "But it would be better if I stayed somewhere less public."
Mrs Ponsonby raises an eyebrow. "Could you fetch some tea, Elys," she asks, then directs Coralie Pennington into the parlour. I follow, but Mrs Ponsonby holds her hand across the door. "We'd like a little privacy," she says before shutting the door in my face.
I hobble up the stairs and find Elys on the landing. She has deposited the suitcases in her room, and her face is puffy and red with exertion from carrying the weighty luggage.
"Who does she think she is?" I ask angrily.
"Oh, I don't mind," says Elys.
"Well, you should. How dare she. What gives her the right?"
"They are old friends," says Elys.
"How do you know?"
"Mrs Ponsonby has mentioned her once or twice. They used to work together."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Mrs Ponsonby didn't say."
"Well, I don't like it."
"That's up to you, Connie," she says. "But I can't stay here gossiping. I must make tea."
I slump on the bed, contemplating how badly the day is going. I have nothing to do, and now I am banished from the parlour. I may as well go to sleep. Sleep – I wonder? I have never tried dream walking in daylight hours. Not once, not ever. But if I could, then I might find out what they are talking about downstairs without me. I light the candle and stare.
ONLY SECONDS PASS BEFORE I feel a frisson of goosebumps followed by a vibration that tingles from forehead to feet. I know at once that my plan has worked, and I have attained my goal quicker than ever before. I rise quickly, conscious of the conversation going on downstairs. I want to hear every word, and I lose no time in making for the door. Instinctively, I reach for the door handle, but it evades my grasp, and just before I pass through, I look back at my sleeping body. That one glance is enough to feel the now familiar pull in the back of my head, but it isn't as painful as before, and I find it easy to ignore.
Seconds later, I am outside the parlour listening to Mrs Ponsonby's voice growing shriller. I can't quite hear what she's saying and decide to risk entering in the hope that they won't see me. I slip through the door, but Mrs Ponsonby stops and looks around as I arrive. I quickly duck behind the sofa, feeling foolish.
"What was that?" asks Mrs Ponsonby.
"What, Vee?" asks Coralie.
"I don't know. Something's wrong. I haven't felt like this since..."
"Since Operation Calico."
I wonder what has triggered this memory. Surely, they can't see me. Yet Mrs Ponsonby's disquiet coincided with my entry into the room. The two women have fallen into silence and quietly examine their surroundings, eyes darting from wall to ceiling.
"Wait a moment," says Coralie as she stands, places her hands on the windowsill and leans forward, scrutinising the outside. "There's nothing out there."
"What did you expect to see?" asks Mrs Ponsonby. "It doesn’t work that way."
"I know. I thought it might be Robert."
"Your husband? Why would he come here?"
Coralie sighs and closes her eyes as if in pain.
"He shouldn't turn up," she says. "He doesn't know where you live."
"Quite right too," says Mrs Ponsonby curtly. "But that doesn't explain why you think he might appear."
"I don't think he will, but it depends."
"On what?"
"On whether he comes looking for me."
"You haven't?" Mrs Ponsonby stares, open-mouthed, at her friend.
"I didn't intend to. It just happened."
"I will never forgive you if you bring trouble to my door after all this time and the sacrifices I've made."
"It's not a risk unless he's followed me, and I'm sure he hasn't. I left without notice. He wasn't there, and he didn't see me pack."
"But he's a bloody politician, Cora. With friends in high places."
"And low ones," Coralie says, shaking her head. I barely notice her in my shock at Mrs Ponsonby's language. She hasn't sworn in all the years I have known her. Judging by the state of her clenched hands and pale cheeks, she is seething with barely controlled anger.
"Does he know who I am?" hisses Mrs Ponsonby. "Does he?"
"Only that you're an old friend. He thinks you live abroad."
"Unless he saw the parcel with the Cornish postmark."
"Good Lord, no," says Coralie, lightening the mood with a soft laugh. "The butler brings our post separately."
"So, the butler will have seen the postmark."
"He won't say anything," says Coralie, shaking her head. She is wearing a pair of drop earrings covered in sparkling stones, which twinkle with every movement. When I first noticed the earrings, I assumed they were costume jewellery, but now I am not sure, given this talk of butlers. If they are real diamonds, then Coralie Pennington is a wealthy woman, but this does not accord with someone who baulks at the idea of staying in a hotel. I stare, entranced, as Mrs Ponsonby gets to her feet and starts pacing the room.
"I wish I'd never sent the bloody thing," she says. "I thought it would be safe after twenty years, and it was your birthday, and I was feeling nostalgic. Haven't you got any other friends to go to?"
Coralie swallows. "Not real friends, no," she says. "I thought I had, but when the scandal broke – well, they all took Robert's side."
"I am surprised you remember where we live after all this time," says Mrs Ponsonby.
"It hasn't changed since the day we found it," says Coralie. "It's lovely and homely."
"Don't patronise me," says Mrs Ponsonby bitterly. She's clenching her jaw, and a flush of red has settled over her pale cheeks.
"That's not my intention," says Coralie. "I know you had the rough end of the deal."
Mrs Ponsonby shoots her a withering glare. "I'm not going to dignify that with a reply. Why are you here, Coralie? What do you want from me that's worth the risk?"
"I don't think there is a risk – truly, I don't. I just need somewhere to stay for a few weeks until the furore has died down."
I hear a cough, and the door opens to reveal Elys carrying a tray. If I am visible, then she will see me. There is nowhere to hide from her viewpoint. But she says nothing and deposits the tray on the coffee table before retreating. Mrs Ponsonby coughs, and I crane my neck before realising to my horror that she has perched on the arm of the sofa, and I have brushed my head through her leg. She flinches as if burned.
"What is it, Vee?"
Mrs Ponsonby shudders. "A goose walked over my grave," she says. I shrink back into the sofa. She definitely feels my presence. Yet Elys didn't.
"Come here, Vera," says Coralie Pennington, patting the seat beside her. This won't be easy, but I'll tell you what happened, and you might feel able to help."
Mrs Ponsonby takes the offered seat and perches on its edge, legs facing towards the door as if she would rather be anywhere else than here. "Is it another man?"
"How well you know me," says Coralie, sarcastically.
"I didn't mean to imply..."
"I think you did. There was a time when you respected me."
"I do," says Mrs Ponsonby. "It's a shock after all these years. I trust you as well as I ever did."
"Good," says Coralie. "It's not a man. She's a woman – Robert's fancy woman. He's been seeing her for years, and everyone knew but me."
Mrs Ponsonby gasps. "I don't know what to say. I'm shocked and saddened for you."
"And you're no doubt wondering how I missed it after the heady days of our youth. How many husbands did we catch at it?"
"More than I can remember. I'm so sorry."
"It gets worse," says Coralie. "He has a child. A six-year-old son."
Mrs Ponsonby's face crumples. "Oh, my dear," she says, patting Coralie's hand as a tear trickles down her face.
"Don't. You'll make me start."
"He's a rat. I never liked him," says Mrs Ponsonby, wiping her face. She pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and blows loudly.
"I can't say you didn't warm me."
"Your marriage lasted two decades. Long enough to prove me wrong."
"No. You were right," says Coralie. "My marriage has been a sham for the last ten years, at least. But the humiliation of finding out about Rory was the final straw. Trudie Farquharson let it slip at a dinner party, and I made a terrible scene. Robert was furious, and because I humiliated him in front of his friends, he saw no reason for any further subterfuge. Robert has openly walked out with this woman in public, and I found out last week that they'd spent a fortnight at his mother's house. Robert is powerful, and his lady friend has money. They want to marry, but I won't give him the satisfaction of a divorce."
"Wouldn't it be easier to let go?" asks Mrs Ponsonby.
"Perhaps, but I need time to think. It is too much to bear."
"You can stay here for as long as you need to," says Mrs Ponsonby.
Coralie bites her lip, and the tears she has held in for so long start to flow. She puts her head in her hands and wails, guttural sobs wracking her slender body. Mrs Ponsonby puts her arm around her friend and buries her nose in her hair. It is time to go. I slide through the door, make my way to the bedroom, walk inside, and stand in front of my sleeping body, feeling awkward. I don't know what comes next, and it hasn't happened for a long time. Not since the early days when I didn't know what dream walking was, let alone how unusual. I struggle to remember how I used to return to my body without the prompting tug. I stare at myself, feeling adrift, and wonder what to do next. Then, perhaps from some forgotten memory, or primal instinct, I reach to touch my arm. And at once, I am absorbed back inside myself, melded and complete. I wake and sit up, brain banging with all I have seen and heard. Who is Vera Ponsonby? Who is she? This woman who has guarded me wolflike for all these years is a stranger. I don't know her at all. I pull my legs up and hunch over, hugging my knees as I stare at the sea beyond. I am still staring when Elys calls me for supper.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Peter's House
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1930
It is seventeen days and four hours since I last spoke to Peter, and I miss him so much that I can't remember why I was cross with him in the first place. I haven't been to the hotel for ages and have resorted to reading old copies of Women's Own to get through the day. Elys smuggled newspapers in for a while until Mrs Ponsonby found out, and I am now cut off from the outside world with no books or visits. I am so miserable that I haven't been for a walk since Monday and feel weaker than ever. The only light in an otherwise tedious existence is Coralie Pennington's presence. She is currently installed in Elys' bedroom and not at all what I expected. Though stuffy to start with, Coralie has a wicked sense of humour that grows bolder the longer she's here. She spends the evenings in the parlour with Mrs Ponsonby while I keep to my bedroom or the dining room. But whenever Mrs Ponsonby leaves the house, Coralie seeks me out, befriending me and telling me about her glamorous life married to a politician.
"Call me Cora," she said, the day after she arrived, and I have done so ever since, even though Mrs Ponsonby purses her lips whenever she hears it. But though Cora Pennington tells me all the exciting details about her former life, she has not mentioned the separation. And I am careful not to let the cat out of the bag. But she is good fun, and the house knows more laughter, and we play the occasional card game now she is here. And when we talk, it is as if I am chatting to a woman of my own age. I want to tell her about my quarrel with Peter, but I haven't had a chance yet. And if I do, it won't be for a while as she has popped out with Mrs P, and I am alone. Even Elys is too busy to talk.
I adjust my position on the couch and stare outside as I slouch over the windowsill, chin in hand. I can see the rear of the hotel, and it is busy with delivery drivers and hotel staff crisscrossing the snow-laden lane as they stock up for Christmas. The big day is only two weeks away, and things are getting busy. Dolly, who is now back at the hotel, will be rushed off her feet. I wonder if Peter has seen her yet, and I feel crushed at the thought of them talking together without me.
I didn't realise how much I missed Peter until a few nights ago. He was not in the flesh as usual, but I saw him suddenly and unexpectedly in the middle of the night in a waking dream. That dream was another first. I did not instigate it, nor did I wake in my bed to find myself detached from my body. One moment I was asleep, and the next, I was conscious in a completely different place, wandering around as if in a daze. That moment between the soundness of sleep and the disorientation of being somewhere unknown filled me with blind panic. I was so frightened that I almost allowed the tug on my head to take me home. Had I not recognised one of the fishermen's cottages by the chandlers, I would have allowed the pull to take me. But I resisted because I knew that I wasn't far from Peter's house if I was near the harbour.
The lanes were dark, and an early morning haze drifted through the silent streets. Here and there, a door opened, and a bleary-eyed worker emerged to begin the day. It must have been four thirty, maybe five o'clock, as I drifted towards Peter's house with little effort.
