The Bride Insists (7 page)

Selina felt her internal balance returning in this peaceful place, home of reverence and familiar ritual. The building was different, but the feeling was the same as that she'd first found in her father's church as a child. She took a deep breath and let it out, grateful. In the past few weeks, her life had begun to seem like a tumult of unpredictable events. And now, on top of the deep fatigue of the journey, she faced dust and spiderwebs in corners, tattered hangings, and barren gardens. Huge dogs and hoydenish children. A truculent young man and a weight of unaccustomed responsibility.

Selina breathed again, pushing away anxiety. She'd felt like this when she had no post, she realized, and her future was all uncertainty as she waited to find a new one. To have no idea what was coming next! But her situation was different now. She had her independence; she could leave whenever she liked. Yet leave for what? Her new life was equally unknown, even though the security Clare had provided was a blessing. It had to be created from whole cloth.

Selina understood then how much she was comforted by routine—to rise knowing how the day would unfold, to anticipate the smooth workings of a well-regulated household, to rest in a bastion of good manners and propriety. Had she always been that way? Or was it because that had been her life, nearly all of it, in the homes of her elderly charges? Despite the disadvantages of her situation, she'd enjoyed the—peace of it. Her next breath came out in a sigh. There was no prospect of such an ordered existence at the moment. Feeling tugged in different directions, she bent her head over clasped hands and asked for guidance.

***

Some twenty minutes later, the church door behind her opened and closed; firm footsteps trod up the aisle. Selina turned to see a tall, thin man in a clerical collar passing by her. He had sandy hair going gray above a pleasant bony face, scored by lines clearly etched by good humor. He smiled and nodded.

He looked so cordial, and at the same time so careful not to interrupt a parishioner's meditations, that Selina said, “Hello.”

He stopped beside her. “Good morning. Welcome. I'm Edward Carew, the vicar here.” His smile was full of warmth.

“It's a lovely church,” Selina said.

“Isn't it? A very peaceful feel, I find.”

Startled at this precise echo of her own thoughts, Selina nodded. “Yes, exactly. I was so glad to be able come in.”

“The doors are always open. Are you visiting the village?”

“No, I've come to stay at Trehearth manor.”

“Oh… ah. Are you the new Lady Trehearth? I beg your pardon…”

Of course the village would have heard of Clare's marriage. No doubt it was the subject of great speculation. “No, I'm a… friend of hers. Selina Newton. We've just arrived.” But he probably would know that. The chaise would have been spotted on the road.

“Well, welcome to the village,” he responded. “I hope I will see you all on Sunday.”

“Of course,” said Selina, and then wondered if she should have been so quick to answer for the whole household. She couldn't imagine the twins, for example, in these hallowed environs. With their wild hair and pugnacious expressions, they'd be like feral cats in a duchess's drawing room.

Edward Carew simply nodded and moved on up the aisle. Selina rose and departed, to return to her duty.

Clare was wandering the halls of her new domain when she encountered Selina taking her hat and cloak to her bedchamber. “Did you have a pleasant walk?” she asked the older woman.

“I did indeed.”

“I hope you will find enough to amuse you in this—”

“I'm not here to be entertained,” was the prompt reply. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I'm going to look over the house this morning and consider the most pressing needs. Obviously, I must hire staff. I've already spoken to Anna about that.”

“Shall I come along?” Selina wondered. It would be a discouraging, dirty task.

“No need. I have a scheme in mind for the expedition.”

Selina raised her dark eyebrows at her friend's odd expression, but didn't inquire further. “I could look over your linens and see what needs to be mended or discarded. Although I must say, I find no fault with the sheets on my bed.”

“That would be splendid,” Clare agreed. “Mind, I shall hire someone to do the mending. You should just make a list.” The two women exchanged a smile. They had found they shared a reliance on lists—indeed a real pleasure in making them and ticking off the tasks when accomplished.

As Selina went to inquire about the location of the linen press, the twins skulked into the hallway. Clare had asked Anna to find them and request that they join her there. From the set of their identical jaws, the summons had not been welcome.
Were
they
sought
out
only
for
scoldings?
Clare wondered. Or to be forced to do things they did not wish to do? “I was hoping you'd show me around the house,” she said. She made no reference, in word or expression, to their earlier encounter. “It's your home. I'm sure no one knows it better.”

Tamsyn and Tegan looked at each other, then back at Clare. She thought she saw a spark of gratification in their dark eyes, along with the speculative mischief she had naturally expected. “We can do that,” Tamsyn said.

“We should start in the cellars,” Tegan added. Her sister's sly smile told Clare all she needed to know about the foundations of her new home.

Thus began an odyssey covering every inch of Trehearth House. The twins dragged Clare down through numberless dim basement chambers and up through furlongs of dusty attics. They showed her chaotic storerooms and vacant guest chambers. They obviously reveled in making her crawl under filthy beams and squeeze past piles of moldering boxes. With increasingly puzzled looks as the morning passed, they waited for her to break down and flee. Clare had come prepared, however. She'd put on her oldest, dowdiest gown; she didn't care if it became crusted with dirt. She'd tied a bit of cloth over her hair. And perhaps most importantly, she'd steeled herself in advance against the worst excesses of a neglected dwelling. When she didn't flinch at the nest of squirming baby mice between attic rafters or the scurry of black beetles across a damp brick cellar floor, the sisters softened a bit and began to talk.

The huge entry hall had been their grandfather's pride, they informed Clare. He'd had an actual suit of armor standing at the foot of the carved staircase. “We don't know what happened to it,” Tegan complained.

“We've looked everywhere,” agreed her sister.

“But we can't find it.”

They must have heard stories about the house from the Pendennises, Clare thought. And perhaps others as well. She had no doubt that the girls were masters of information gathering, by whatever means available.

When they'd exhausted all the truly grimy choices, the twins walked her through the dining room on the north rear corner of the building, conveniently next to the kitchen wing. They showed her a large library, with ranks of dark shelves rising to a high ceiling. Moth-eaten armchairs dotted the room, flanking a large table for spreading out oversized volumes and maps. The room's fireplace backed up to the cavernous hearth in the great hall, and its windows looked cozily over the courtyard. “You've certainly had plenty to read,” she dared to comment, running her eyes over the serried ranks of books. She wondered what sort of schooling the girls had had. Some, surely? They spoke well and appeared intelligent. But she knew it would be a mistake to inquire.

“There's lots of books on Cornish history,” Tegan offered.

“And plants,” said Tamsyn.

“And fauna,” her sister added. “They call animals ‘fauna' because—”

“It's Latin.”

“And scientists name things in Latin.”

Clare merely nodded, tucking away this indication of their interests and education. Someone, at some time, had taught them. She would find out who. But not now. She felt that a delicate balance was being established, and with any push from her, it would disintegrate.

“Come see the best room,” Tegan urged.

Clare followed them to a space that spanned most of the back of the house. “You can divide it into three,” said Tamsyn, pulling on a recessed panel that slid across to close off a third of the area.

“Or leave it open to make a ballroom,” supplied Tegan, pushing the panel back.

It would make a fine one, Clare thought. French doors lined the far wall, opening onto a stone terrace that extended almost to the edge of the sea cliffs. Two fireplaces punctuated the inner side of the room, each surmounted by a portrait. “That's Grandfather,” Tamsyn said of one.

“And Grandmother.” Tegan stood before the other. “She was a witch.”

“She was not,” snapped Tamsyn.

The builder of this house looked a bit like Jamie, Clare thought, examining the paintings. He had the same dark hair and eyes. His frame was burlier, though; he faced the viewer with the solidity of a boulder.

“She was too,” Tegan insisted. “I heard John say that the whole county was under her spell.”

“Because she was ‘bewitching,'” her sister retorted. “That's not the same as a witch.”

The subject of their debate was slender, with tumbling raven hair and hazel eyes that seemed to jump from the portrait to skewer the observer. Based on the painting, she wasn't beautiful; her features were too dominant, her face too pointed for that. But her appearance was compelling. The image managed to convey some of the crackling energy that also animated Jamie. And his sisters. The portrait rather reminded Clare of them.

“Sounds the same,” muttered the other twin.

“It isn't, Tegan! You can't just ignore what a word
means
.”

The girls seemed to have forgotten Clare momentarily, and the passion in Tamsyn's tone caught her interest. Clare filed it away with the other characteristics she'd noted in the girls as she walked down the long room. There were several islands of faded sofas and chairs arranged along it, anchored by dusty rugs, but she couldn't imagine sitting here of an evening—even with the fires lit and burning candles in all the holders. Like the great hall, the room was cavernous. It swallowed the sound of voices; it made one feel small. It seemed that the builder of this house had provided no cozy public rooms. She might be forced to adopt one of the empty bedchambers upstairs for her own retreat.

But their final stop on the main floor changed her mind. The twins led her into a parlor on the south corner of the house, with banks of long windows opening onto the terrace on one side and a neglected garden on the other. The space was empty, but it had a pretty parquet floor and a handsome marble mantelpiece. And it was not so large that one felt like a mouse in a barrel.

“Grandpapa called this the solar,” Tamsyn informed her.

“The vicar says that's a medieval de-designation,” added her sister.

“It means ‘sun.' In Latin.”

“Because this is the sunniest room,” Tegan finished.

And it would be her sanctuary, Clare decided. She would have the walls painted in a blue that mirrored the sea, and bring in beautiful, comfortable furniture, a rich rug. These windows would indeed catch any sun available, and she would hang draperies—something sumptuous—to draw across them when the light was gone. Some inner tension relaxed as the picture rose in her mind. She could be contented in such a room.

Reluctantly, she allowed the twins to urge her onward. The south wing contained the estate offices and more storerooms below, and rooms for male servants above, next to box rooms for storing luggage and unused furnishings. The upper floor of the main block boasted nine bedchambers. The twins shared one of the largest on the north corner, as far as possible, Clare noticed, from Jamie's room at the south. The Pendennises had quarters above the kitchen in the north wing, next to rooms for female servants, a spacious sewing room, and linen storage, where they encountered Selina. “Great heavens,” the older woman cried when they appeared in the doorway. “What happened to you? Are you all right?”

Clare looked down at her filthy gown. Her hands were black with dirt, and she suspected her face was smudged as well. She put a hand to the cloth over her hair and came away with a bit of spiderweb.

Selina had rounded on the twins, who exhibited their own share of dirt. “What have you—?”

“We've just been exploring the house,” interrupted Clare. The girls' expressions had hardened. “We're nearly done.” She turned away before a dispute could erupt. “Is there more than one staircase?”

There was. Besides the grand sweep of steps in the great hall, each wing contained a small stair for the staff's use. Had there been any staff.
How
many
would
it
take
to
put
this
dilapidated
place
to
rights?
Clare wondered.

Her list now filled both sides of the page she'd carried with her; her pencil was worn down to a nub. Everywhere were dust-laden threadbare carpets and tattered draperies, moth-eaten upholstery and cracked windowpanes. It was a setting straight out of a gothic novel. Except that such stories airily glossed over accessories like mildew and black beetles, rat droppings and woodworm, which Trehearth offered in plenty. Not to mention enough dirt to choke a whole herd of horses. A good portion of which currently covered her from head to foot, made her skin itch, and roused desperate yearnings for a real bath. But the home Jamie had described with such love had nothing resembling a bathroom. Clare thought wistfully of some of the gleaming modern versions she'd seen in fine London houses. One of the smallest bedchambers was ripe for conversion—if she could find workmen here in the country to do it. She shook her head. No, she
would
find them. What was the point of inheriting a fortune if you couldn't indulge in a bit of practical luxury?

Clare scribbled more notes as they made their way downstairs again. Her pencil lead gave out completely. She would have to find a penknife to sharpen it.

“That's all the rooms,” said Tamsyn.

“We're going outside now,” added Tegan.

“We need to let Randolph out of the stables.”

“He gets very lonely there.” The tone was reproachful, the look accusing.

“He howls.”

Clare thought that they were actually rather bored, which was better than rebellious or sullen. It was a small step. The girls didn't seem to mind the dust that streaked their shirts and breeches. “I'm sure he would enjoy a run,” she said. “Thank you for showing me—”

The front door opened and Jamie strode in, greatcoat flapping, bringing a rush of cold, fresh air into the great hall. His circuit of the land had brought him near the house, and guilt had brought him inside. That, and the thought that he could snatch some bread and cheese from the kitchen and save himself time.

Pushing the door closed, he was confronted by a trio of filthy, disheveled figures; it took him a moment to identify them as his wife and sisters. They all looked as if someone had dragged them through a chimney backward.

He was inured to seeing the twins dirty. They so often were. But the sight of the elegant, fastidious Clare with smudges of dust on her cheeks and forehead, dirt and mold streaking her arms and gown, pale hair wrapped in a blackened rag, was appalling. “What have you done?” he exploded. He had told the twins, repeatedly, in writing, that they were to treat his new wife with consideration and respect. But as usual, they'd ignored him. Of course they'd played some prank that had reduced her to a shambling wreck. Jamie remembered the time his sisters had lured a prospective governess into the midden heap. They'd barely escaped legal proceedings that time. At least Clare wasn't crying. Yet. He strode closer and loomed over his sisters. “I gave you very clear instructions, and you chose to pay me no heed. You are confined to your room except at meal…”

The twins began a storm of protests: “We didn't do anything.” “We were helping.” “She asked us.”

Jamie raised his voice to be heard over them. “…times. At which you will appear properly dressed and
clean
. You will cease roaming the countryside like tinkers. And I'm getting rid of that blasted dog!”

“Noo,” Tegan wailed.

“That isn't fair!” Tamsyn cried.

Once again, their voices overlapped in a maddening cacophony. “Randolph didn't…” “We were helping.” “She wanted to see…”

Under her coating of dust, Clare burned with humiliation. Was she destined to look a fright whenever she saw Jamie in this house? But he was undoing the modicum of progress she'd made with the twins. She couldn't run for cover. She had to intervene. “It's all right.”

Her remark was lost in the chorus of shouting.

“It's all right,” she yelled as loudly as she could.

The other three fell silent in surprise.

“We've been exploring the house,” Clare said. “I asked Tamsyn and Tegan to take me around. It's… badly in need of cleaning.” She shook her skirts and only managed to raise a cloud of dust motes around her head. She suppressed a cough.