The Cornish Widow, page 18
I rise, take my stick, and examine my face in the mirror. I have already applied light makeup, and I am dressed for dinner and waiting for Cora to arrive. Though the artists carry out many of the routine daily tasks in their spare time, they employ the services of a cook and a maid. I may not meet them all tonight as they eat dinner in different sittings but that's a good thing as I cannot cope with too many people at once. It makes me feel hideously self-conscious.
I hear a soft tap at the door, which opens to reveal Cora.
"Are you ready?" she asks. I nod, trying to stifle a yawn. I am looking forward to supper, but the journey has caught up with me, and I am beyond tired.
"Come on then," she says, linking her arm through mine, and we make our way along the landing.
"There you are," says Mary, as she spies us descending the stairs. "Come through." She guides us into the dining room, towards a large but shabby area to one side of the table where several battered sofas cluster around a large, stone coffee table strewn with art magazines. "Can I fetch you a drink?"
"Rather," says Cora, and I nod. "Gin, wine or something else?"
"Either will do nicely," says Cora.
"Gin," I mumble, hoping that it's a single measure.
Mary returns in due course carrying three drinks and she is accompanied by an older woman who bears such an obvious familial resemblance she's evidently her mother. Mary introduces us, and we sit on the sofas and chat until a few more people arrive.
"Ah, new blood," says a white-haired man walking briskly towards us. He throws himself into a leather chair by the fireplace, narrowly avoiding spilling his whisky. "Do you paint?" he asks.
I look towards Mary in a blind panic, unsure what to say.
"No, she doesn't. Connie is my guest," says Mary. "As is Coralie. This gentleman is Gulliver Harding, an inspiration to us all. You might say that he's the father of the colony."
"Surely he's not old enough," says Cora, with a slow, deliberate wink. I cringe with embarrassment. She is in her mid-fifties, still married and openly flirting with a much older man. But Gulliver Harding beams at her and they begin a conversation, heads bowed and laughing. With one sentence, she has destroyed the bounds of English reserve, and they are chatting as if they have known each other all their lives. I watch her enviously, only half-hearing Mary's conversation, as I wonder how Cora has the self-confidence to behave with such audacity. There are days when I can't bring myself to look in the mirror, yet here she is glowing with excitement and the love of human company.
Next to join us is a woman in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. It is hard to tell as her slim build defies certainty. She has high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, and a superior catlike smile. "This is my dear friend Boo Lyons," says Mary and Boo watches me through half-closed eyes as if she is sizing me up. For a moment, I sense a frisson of dislike – jealousy perhaps, but by the time we have finished our gins, Mary, Boo, and I have found common ground discussing the works of the Brontë sisters and all awkwardness has vanished. Soon the maid enters and ostentatiously bangs the gong. I wonder at the formality, but it doesn't take long to realise that it is the artist's idea of a joke. There are no butlers or waiting staff. It is all hands on deck. Mary guides us to the table and shows us where to sit while the others head towards the kitchen and return laden with food dishes.
Dinner is a free-for-all, and we help ourselves to whatever is within reach. The food is basic, but the artists have spared no expense on the wine and have liberally scattered bottles across the table. Cora sits to my left and Mary to my right. Opposite me is a young man called Carrington Blake, who bears a passing resemblance to Kit Maltravers. He chats easily with Mary and Boo but largely ignores me, and after a while, the silence becomes uncomfortable. Fortunately, Cora brings me into her conversational orbit. "Have you met Stephan?" she asks, nodding to the man sitting next to Carrington Blake.
"Not yet," I say brightly, trying to mask my social awkwardness.
He leans across and offers his hand, shaking vigorously, and nearly knocking the wine bottle flying. "Stephan St John, painter of seascapes," he announces.
"Like Turner?" I ask.
"Only in terms of subject matter," he replies, pulling a face.
I cringe inwardly, wishing I knew more about art. I thought I was on safe ground comparing him with such a skilful artist but judging by the look on his face, I have fallen short.
"I'm an impressionist," he says, "Turner was a romanticist."
"I see," I reply disingenuously, knowing that I am completely out of my depth. Carrington Blake breaks from his conversation with Boo. "Would you like to know the difference?" he asks, and my cheeks burn red. "Yes," I say, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. I neither know nor care, but he's forced me into replying in the affirmative because any other response would appear rude. I wish he'd just left me alone in my ignorance. I try to look interested as he explains, and I am no doubt better educated by the time he has finished. I thank him, but neither of us can think of anything else to say, and Stephan St John breaks the silence.
"Have you met the lovely Coralie yet?" he booms at Carrington.
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm trying to introduce you," he continues, and I'm sure I detect a slight slur in his speech. "This is Coralie, er Mrs, or should I say Miss. Dash it, what is your name?"
"Pennington," says Coralie with a self-assured smile.
"God. You're not related to that rotter, Bob Pennington, I hope?"
Coralie purses her lips, and I feel for her. She still hasn't told me about her marital problems and would be mortified if they spilt out publicly over the dinner table. There is only one solution, and I take it. I reach for my wineglass and accidentally knock it, sloshing red wine across the table and splattering Carrington Blake. He jumps back as if scalded.
"Oh no," he says, dabbing at his formerly white shirt with a napkin.
"I'm so sorry, I say."
"Clumsy girl," says St John, shaking his head, thoughts of Robert Pennington forgotten. Coralie glances towards me, her face a mask of restraint. "It was an accident," she says. "I'll sort it out. Go and change," she says to Carrington. "Quick smart if you don't want it to stain."
He does what she says, returning five minutes later clad in a fresh shirt and thrusts the stained one at Cora.
"You don't have to do this," he says as she takes it from him. Cora disappears into the kitchen, leaving me feeling adrift. But Mary steps in and carries the conversation while we pick at platters of fruit. We have moved to the comfortable sofas by the time Coralie returns, with Carrington sitting some distance away. "It's clean now," she says. "Nothing to worry about, and I've told him where to get it in the morning."
I thank her, but she responds with an enigmatic smile. "We'll talk later," she says, and the rest of the evening soon passes as we get to know the other members of the colony. I am too tired to wait up for Coralie and leave her talking to Stephan St John as I return to my room, desperate for a good night's sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Attack
HE COMES IN THE NIGHT and tries to possess me. I have fallen asleep on top of my bed but wake on the astral plane. Darkness surrounds me; indigo skies peppered with twinkling stars. I am awake; I am sleeping, but I am not alone. I see his portly form before me, his pale jowly face only inches from mine. If I were in physical form, I could reach out and touch him. I could smell his breath and run my fingers over the embossed silver pendant he wears around his neck. His eyes lock mine, and I am trapped in his gaze like a mongoose in thrall to a cobra. I can't move, yet my mind is active, and somehow I know I must protect myself. He is trying to find me. My presence in the world holds some importance to him. I know this without a spoken word as he probes my mind, his thirst for knowledge projecting like creeping tendrils through my memories. They slide, oily black and insidious as he snuffles my thoughts like a truffle pig. I resist and project an iron shutter. It slams through the tendrils, snapping them clean away, and they skitter along the floor, leaving slimy trails in their wake. Then they vanish into the darkness.
His eyes flicker, and he winces and stares at me as if he cannot comprehend what has happened. My mind is clear. I have successfully blocked him this time. But as I watch his lip curl in disgust, I understand the scope of his power. He has brought me here by means I do not understand, unwilling and afraid. And because I don't know how he did it, I cannot stop him in the future. But he doesn't know where my earthly body lies. What does he want with me? Why the desperate need to find me? I am nothing to him, with no meaning or importance. But I have learned one thing tonight – I have an inherent instinct to protect myself. It is dark, and I know I can flee. So, I close my eyes against the stars, and his bottomless eyes, feel the now-familiar vibration and will myself back to safety.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cormorant House
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1930
"I thought we would visit Crawford's house today," says Mary Newson, after breakfast.
I raise an eyebrow, wondering if I have misheard. I am still groggy from my broken night's sleep, but I know Crawford is dead and wonder why she should suggest this.
"It's Laura," says Mary, "Crawford's wife. She's lonely, and I visit her most weekends".
"Will she mind us coming?" asks Coralie.
"Not at all. Laura knows I have guests and has asked me to bring you along."
"Then, that would be lovely," I say, exchanging glances with Coralie, who is smiling at the prospect of another trip.
"Be ready in half an hour," says Mary.
Cora accompanies me back upstairs, but she doesn't go inside when we walk past her room. Instead, she follows me down the corridor.
"Don't you want to freshen up?" I ask.
"Can we talk, dear?" asks Coralie.
We enter my room, and I sit at the dressing table, brushing my hair as Coralie speaks. I think I know what's coming, and it suits me to be facing the other way.
"I wonder if young Mr Blake has collected his shirt yet," she asks.
I bite my lip. The conversation is going in the direction I'd feared.
"I am sorry for being so clumsy."
I see Cora raise an eyebrow as I watch her reflection in the mirror.
"I'd think you deliberately spilt the wine if I didn't know better," she says.
"Why would I make a mess on purpose?" I bluster. "There's no reason to inconvenience a man I have only just met."
"Unless you were protecting a friend," she says.
Damn her percipiency. She has seen right through me.
"You know, don't you," she says. "I'm surprised at Vera."
"She didn't tell me," I blurt out, shocked at my sudden instinct to protect Mrs Ponsonby.
"Then how do you know?"
"I overheard. I was listening at the door."
Cora Pennington rises and touches me on the shoulder, leaving me with no choice but to turn around. She examines my face as if she is searching my soul.
"Do you dream?" she asks.
"No more than anyone else."
"Are you sure, dear? It's important."
"Quite sure," I say, concentrating on maintaining eye contact while my heart is thudding to an almost audible beat.
"Very well. It was good of you to head Mr St John off the track. I have a complicated personal life, and if I'd have thought about it, I wouldn't have used my real name here. I expected to be safely anonymous this far from the capital."
"Does your husband know where you are?"
"No. And I'd prefer it to stay that way for the time being. If anyone asks again, I am unmarried."
I nod. "Of course," I say as Coralie walks towards the door. She reaches for the handle, then pauses.
"And thank you for intervening. It was a useful distraction."
"Talking of which..." I say.
Coralie raises an eyebrow. "Go on."
I take a deep breath. "Thinking about Mrs Ponsonby's husband has left me distracted recently."
Coralie Pennington turns and leaves the room as if I hadn't spoken. And as the door closes, I exhale, not realising I'd been holding my breath, still shaken by what has passed between us. What possessed her to ask me about my dreams? How could she know? Surely, she couldn't have guessed that I was in the room with her when she spoke to Mrs Ponsonby about her husband's affair. Nobody in their right mind would assume that when my confession of eavesdropping at the door was so rational. And having the nerve to ask about Mrs Ponsonby's marital status is something I hope I won't regret. I blame Peter for not approaching the question in the right way when he spoke to his mother. Isla Tremayne clammed up, implying that she knew something. And clearly, Cora Pennington does too, and her reaction indicates that I caught her on the hop without a ready reply.
I grab my stick and walk towards the window, raising the old sash a few inches despite the cold. I sit on the wide window ledge and gaze across the village, towards the harbour and the whitewashed cottages with their mellow brick and lichen-covered rooftops. The view is tranquil, though my stomach is in knots. I knew instinctively not to reveal the truth to Coralie Pennington. As much I like her, I cannot afford to disclose what I'm hiding. I am alone and adrift despite Mary and her kindness. Only Peter knows my secret, and he is still reeling from the shock. I wish he were here, but I pull myself together. Another week will pass before I return home to Porth Tregoryan, and I will make the most of Bosula no matter what it brings. I collect my coat and hat and make my way downstairs.
PENHALLOW HOUSE ON the outskirts of St Buryan is a pleasant drive from Bosula, despite the greying clouds and blustery wind. It is a short trip made cheerful by Mary's determination to take us on the most scenic route while passionately relating the area's history. I am in much better spirits by the time we arrive, and Cora is all smiles. We pull up outside the substantial house, and I am almost breathless at the beauty of the surrounding woodland, which seems to go on for miles. I wish I could dream walk through the grounds and run, arms outstretched, among the azaleas and rhododendrons. Spring must bring a profusion of scents and colours, and now that I have seen it, I make a mental note to return one day unencumbered by my broken body.
The front door opens, and Laura bursts out and runs towards Mary with her arms outstretched. She hugs her tightly as if she hadn't seen her for months. They are clearly great friends. "Come inside and get out of the cold," she says. "I've set the fire, and it's cosy."
We enter, and Laura guides us towards a spacious, well-lit living room. The fire is blazing, and colourful paintings adorn the walls. "Sit down," she says, ringing a bell. A middle-aged man appears, carrying a tray of cakes, a teapot, and cups. He arranges it on a large, square coffee table in the middle of the room. "Thank you, Jonathan," says Laura.
Coralie eyes her quizzically.
"I don't know what I'd do without him," says Laura. "He is my man Friday, butler, cook, odd-job man and domestic servant. My friends say it is inappropriate to keep him on, but Crawford relied on Jonathan, and if it was good enough for him, then it's good enough for me."
"Don't listen to them," says Mary. "You do as you see fit."
"That's a wonderful painting," says Coralie, pointing to a scenic harbour with ochre roofs beyond and a low sun dominating the sky.
Mary beams. "It's one of mine. I painted it in Tuscany."
Laura sighs. "I long to go abroad again. I don't think my sadness will ever lift until I am under a Mediterranean sun."
"You must come with me to Gibraltar," says Mary. "I'm going in May, and I would love some company."
Laura beams, and I am pleased for her, yet saddened as I would love to travel, but who wants to take someone with my restrictions?
We spend a pleasant morning with Laura, and after we have eaten, she asks if we would like to walk around the estate. Mary is on the verge of accepting, then changes her mind. I realise at once that she is reluctant to walk, knowing that I cannot keep up.
"Oh, please go," I say. "I will come with you a little way and return to the house if it is too much."
"Are you sure? It's rather cold outside."
"I don't mind," I say, and we don our coats and hats and set off. We stroll along natural pathways that head down towards a stream. Nearby is a wooden building that Laura tells us was Crawford's studio. The paths snake through woodland. I enjoy being outside, but after a while, I tire and lean on my stick.
"Are you alright?" asks Mary. "We should go back."
"There's no need," I say. "But I need to rest a little."
"Would you like to sit in Crawford's studio?" asks Laura. "I keep it unlocked, and there is a little paraffin stove inside. You can sit for a while before you go back to the house."
"That would be lovely," I say. It is only a short distance away and will do very well.
The women wait while I make my way to Crawford's workshop, only resuming their walk when I am safely inside. I unlatch the door and swing it open, expecting to smell damp in my nostrils. Instead, I find a freshly aired hut, which is clean, tidy, and regularly used. Laura must visit often. Mary mentioned Crawford had a study in the house, but he must have used this workshop for his writing too. A wooden desk stands against the back wall of the building with bookshelves on either side. Along the front, a floor to ceiling window allows uninterrupted views across the spectacular grounds. Inspiration would have come easily to Mary's brother in these surroundings. I light the paraffin stove, and instead of sitting on the comfortable sofa nearby, I relax into the chair behind the desk and imagine being a writer.
Five minutes later, I have had my fill of the silence, and boredom is setting in. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I investigate the desk drawers. Someone has cleaned them out as little remains except for a half-empty ink bottle, a paint strewn smock and an old iron key. I touch the key and immediately feel a vibration running up my finger. I pull back and slam the door shut. The only time it's happened before was when I picked up Annie Hearn's handkerchief. I know that if I touch the key again, it will reveal something. I am alone in the hut, and it is so peaceful that I cannot hear a sound from outside. The silence is deafening and makes me fearful of meddling in something I don't understand. But eventually, curiosity outweighs fear, and I reach for the key again. My fingers tingle, and I commit wholeheartedly and grasp it. Newson is alive; Newson is dead. The message vacillates bringing confusion. I see him in my mind's eye, a tall, fair-haired man, confident and prepossessing. The image fades. He is back, this time approaching a sturdy trunk with trepidation in his eyes. A fizz, a blur, and he disappears, and when he returns, Newson hunches as if broken, his red-rimmed eyes staring hazily as if paralysed by an unknown terror. I have never met Crawford Newson, but I know it is his image, and the key conveys terrible suffering, but not death. I don't know what to make of it. When I touched Annie Hearn's handkerchief, I knew she was alive. She is alive. I do not doubt it. On that basis, I should know with certainty if Crawford has drowned. But I don't. Perhaps my newfound skills haven't developed enough to get it right every time.
