Pamela Sherwood (12 page)

“Well, I did enjoy being in London during the Season,” Sophie conceded. “Such an exciting, bustling city! But Cornwall will always be my home. I can’t begin to tell you how good it feels to be back!
And
I hear your grand opening’s just round the corner—wild horses couldn’t have kept me away from that! When is it to be, officially?”

“July—we’re already booked solid for the first fortnight of the month, and I think we’ll be having more guests once the Season officially ends. Talking of which, are you sure your hosts didn’t mind your leaving London early?”

Sophie shook her head. “Lady Talbot wanted to visit her daughter in Gloucestershire, and the Sheridans have been so busy this spring they’ll scarcely miss me. Did you know Amy’s becoming one of the most popular hostesses in town? And Thomas exhibited two paintings this year at the Royal Academy! Going about with them was tremendously exciting. Amy even had me sing at a musicale of hers, with my teachers’ blessing.”

Robin eyed her closely. “And how did that go?”

“Rather well, I thought. I wasn’t the only performer that evening, and I suspect Amy’s guests would have been pleased by anyone—or polite enough to act as if they were. But several of them came up afterward to tell me how much they’d enjoyed my performance.” She smiled in obvious pleasure at the memory. “If I was in any danger of having my head turned in London, it would have been then. But I still have so much to learn.”

“Don’t underestimate your talents,” Robin told her. “London audiences can be very discriminating, and I’m sure Amy Sheridan was well aware of that when she asked you to sing. Well done, my dear—your teachers must be delighted with you.”

“Well, I
hope
they’re pleased,” she replied. “I used to think they found fault with me in the early days because I was doing everything wrong, until someone else assured me they do so because they believe me to be worth the trouble. Once I realized that, I became a great deal less thin-skinned and truly began to enjoy my training.”

“I hope to hear the benefits of that training soon. I’ve missed your voice—and the rest of you as well.”

“I have missed you too. Which you should most assuredly know by now, since
I
kept up my end of our correspondence!” she added with a hint of asperity.

Robin found himself grinning like a schoolboy. “It appears that I shall be paying for that neglect for some time. Well, then—allow me to
show
you how much I missed you.”

He held out his hands to her as he spoke. She gazed up at him searchingly, then her eyes lit with that soft glow he loved, and she took them. Drawing her close, he kissed her over the bluebells still cradled in the crook of her arm, savoring the warmth and sweetness of her lips.

The first time he’d kissed her without any reservations, without the ghost of the past breathing down his neck. He freed a hand to cup her cheek, the skin like warm satin against his palm, and deepened the kiss, licking at the seam of her lips, then letting his tongue just brush against hers. Sophie shivered beneath his ministrations, a low moan breaking from her throat as she strove to return his ardor.

“You’ve never kissed me like that before!” she exclaimed, once they’d surfaced.

“With good reason,” Robin said, wondering if he sounded as breathless as she. “No objection, I trust?”

“None at all. Only…” She studied his face intently. “You seem
different
today. Not as—not as tense as I remember.”

He smiled ruefully. “Have I been such a misery to deal with? Forgive me. I know I must have tried your patience sorely these past few months.”

“You did rather strain things,” she admitted with the candor he loved in her. “Not that I didn’t understand why, of course. But you’re so much more relaxed now, far more than you were at Christmas.
Freer
—if that makes any sense,” she hastened to add.

“More than you know, my love.”

Her gaze sharpened at his tone. “Robin, do you mean… is this about that
other
matter?”

He took a breath, nodded. “There has been some progress on that front—thanks in large part to James. We’ve become good friends since last summer—even more so, now that he’s decided to invest in the hotel. So I took him into my confidence a few months ago. Not about everything, of course, but I remembered how he’d begun the investigation into his cousin’s death last year. I told him I needed to conduct an investigation as well, on a matter of some sensitivity, and he recommended the inquiry agent he had employed himself. A Mr. John Norris who’s proved nothing if not tenacious.”

“He’s found her, then? Your—wife?” Sophie still had trouble with that word, he noticed.

“Not just yet. But he’s sent me some preliminary reports involving Nathalie’s possible activities for the last few years or so.” Robin paused, uncertain how much to impart. But this was
Sophie
, the girl—no, woman—with whom he meant to share his life. She had a right to know what they might be facing, although he still meant to shield her from the more sordid details.

“It appears,” he resumed cautiously, “that Nathalie has traveled through much of Europe, most notably France, Germany, and Switzerland. At least a woman answering her general description has been seen there—often in the company of a man.”

“The same man?” Sophie asked, without even a trace of a blush.

“Apparently not. And she seems to have used different names as well—the better to travel undetected, no doubt.” And to avoid paying bills. Nathalie had left a trail of expenses behind her on the rare occasions she’d traveled alone.

“But where is she now?”

“Apparently she came to England about a year ago. And Norris is even now attempting to locate her.”

“England?” Sophie seized hold of his sleeve. “Is she still here?”

“He believes so. And”—Robin took another breath—“he believes her most recent lover to have been an Englishman, though his identity hasn’t yet been confirmed.”

Sophie bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Robin. I know this can’t be easy for you to hear.”

“Not easy, no,” he confessed. “But perhaps less difficult than it might have been. I have not thought of her as my wife for some time now. We’ve lived apart far longer than we’ve lived together.” He paused, thinking over how he’d felt on first reading Norris’s report. Impossible to deny that he
had
experienced anger and even hurt on learning of his estranged wife’s repeated infidelities. But, on reading further, he’d found those feelings subsiding—far more quickly than expected—and in their place, something almost like pity. For the callow youth he’d been, for the flighty, light-minded girl he’d married so hastily and ill-advisedly, and for the mess they’d made between them.

“I don’t wish Nathalie any ill,” he said at last, half-surprised to find that he meant it. “But there’s no point in our continuing in this marriage. She may do as she pleases, as long as I can have my divorce and my freedom. And you,” he added, laying his hand over Sophie’s.

Smiling, she turned her hand palm up and twined her fingers with his. “You will always have me, Robin. I promise. Oh, it will be such bliss when this is over, and we can concentrate on the future!” she added on a sigh.

“It will indeed, my love,” Robin agreed, enfolding her and her by-now somewhat crushed sheaf of bluebells in his embrace. Kissing her again, he deliberately pushed all thoughts of the past aside.

Sophie was right: it was the future that mattered now.
Their
future—and he would do his utmost to make sure that they had one, together.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d

To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Maud”

23 June 1892

The pearls lay in their nest of black silk, a softly gleaming double strand with an ivory sheen just touched with rose. The perfect gift for a girl who’d become a woman.

Nineteen tonight, on Midsummer Eve, Robin thought as he stared down at the luminous spheres. Did the distance between them seem just a little bit less with this birthday? Perhaps nineteen and twenty-seven sounded a fraction closer than seventeen and twenty-five.

He was being absurd, he knew. Eight years was nothing compared to the difference in age between some couples of his acquaintance. And Sophie was mature for her years, far more mature than Nathalie had been, which was one of the many things he loved about her.

When should he give these to her? Given the secret nature of their understanding, it would be unwise to offer them in the presence of her family. In private, then, when they managed to steal a few moments alone. And it would likely be some time before she could actually wear them. When they were in a position to announce their engagement, perhaps?

All the same, he wanted her to have them tonight, somehow. The pearls were a promise of the future they would have someday. When he would be free to shower her with gifts, however extravagant and impractical. When he could call her his love, his future wife, and know it for truth.

“Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it.”

A mansion—well, that was certainly apposite. Pendarvis Hall, his home and someday hers. And wonder of wonders, she did not mind that it was also a business. How many women would choose to be the wife of a country hotelier, rather than the bride of a peer?

One in a thousand, no doubt. But he’d make sure she never regretted her choice. He was a man now, not a bewildered boy fumbling his way through a marriage he and his child-bride had been too immature and ill-suited to handle. And Sophie was nothing like Nathalie—he’d found true gold in her, not fairy gold that would vanish in a trice.

Meanwhile, he was working hard to make the soon-to-open Pendarvis Hotel a fit home for them both. Perhaps in the days ahead, he could show her the wing where they would live after they were married. She could have her choice of chamber, decorate it however she saw fit. She liked cool colors, he remembered—shimmering blues and greens like the sea and sky. Perhaps he’d give her a parure of aquamarines as a wedding gift, if he found some fine enough.

But he’d already begun to furnish a room on the ground floor to accommodate her music: a piano and a harpsichord, just like the ones at Roswarne, and enough space for any other instruments she fancied. They could have musicales there if she liked, or intimate evenings around the piano. Or she could simply use it as a place to practice or even compose. And if, in the fullness of time, they were blessed with children, perhaps some would inherit her talent. The thought made him smile—well, and why shouldn’t their whole brood be musical? They’d be Cornish, after all. Perhaps
he
should consider taking up an instrument at his advanced age. Piano, or perhaps the cello—they could play duets.

Robin shook his head over the fanciful drift of his thoughts.
Castles
in
the
air
. But then, what was so wrong with that? How could one
live
without something to look forward to? And it wasn’t as though what he dreamed was so impossible, or completely beyond his reach. Indeed, the future for which he and Sophie both longed seemed closer than ever before. Once he’d taken the first steps to dissolve his marriage to Nathalie, he could talk to Harry, let him know he meant honorably by Sophie. Despite their friendship, he knew Harry had had reservations about him as a suitor for his youngest sister. But surely things were different now, or would be soon. And now that Sophie had had her Season and come back still unattached…

Perhaps they’d have to wait a year or so until the divorce decree was finalized. In which case, Sophie could return to the College of Music for another year if she so wished. It was only right that she have the opportunity to develop her gifts further. Perhaps she might even accept some engagements as a professional singer—just to see if she had any liking for a performer’s life. But she’d affirmed that she wanted
him
and a life in Cornwall, and if she were truly sure of that—well, he had no real desire to persuade her otherwise.

Hope. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to indulge in it that the merest taste was like to intoxicate him. It fizzed along his veins like the champagne she loved. If his voice had been better than merely passable, he would have burst into spontaneous song.

If he were only free, he could speak tonight and ask Sophie to be his forever. But that was sheer greed, Robin told himself sternly. At least they had an understanding now—and this would be a night to remember, for both of them.

He’d got the idea just a few days after Sophie’s homecoming. The hotel would open for business next week, in time to accommodate the first flood of summer guests fleeing the heat and dust of London for the seaside. James and Harry had told him there were likely to be more in August, after Parliament closed. Granted, much of Society would migrate north to shoot grouse. But for those less inclined to blood sport, a resort hotel in the West Country provided an appealing alternative. And in the meantime, what could be more appropriate than a private party at the hotel that he, Harry, and James had labored to create together? A party to celebrate not only their success but Sophie’s birthday as well? Sophie, whose casual suggestion just over a year ago had started him on the path to this, though she refused to accept any credit for it, insisting that the achievement was all his.

The Tresilians and Trevenans had hailed the idea with enthusiasm and delight. So they would all assemble here this evening—the partners and their families—to sample the pleasures the new Pendarvis Hotel had to offer. Monsieur Renard, the hotel’s new chef, had prepared a birthday feast fit for Queen Victoria herself, and the dining salon and ballroom had both been suitably decorated, and musicians engaged to play for the evening.

The mantel clock chimed the hour and Robin looked up from his study of the pearls. Seven o’clock—his guests would be arriving any moment now, if they hadn’t already. Smiling, he snapped the jewel box closed and slipped it into his breast pocket before heading downstairs.

***

Sophie had always been secretly pleased that her birthday fell on Midsummer Eve, with its traditional associations of magic and enchantment. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d taken a special delight in all Midsummer festivities, from masquerades to bonfires. Last year, Harry had held a ball at Roswarne in honor of her birthday, and while the evening hadn’t ended well, she had enjoyed
some
parts of it—at least until Sir Lucas’s slanders against Robin, Harry, and James had come to light.

But that was in the past. Tonight promised to be far more enjoyable. She’d been at once flattered and touched by Robin’s suggestion to celebrate her birthday here—and quick to accept, for she hadn’t yet seen the Hall since her return. Nor had any of the other women in her family, though that was understandable, given that Cecily lived on another coast and Aurelia had recently borne James a son and been preoccupied with motherhood.

But tonight they were all here: Sophie, her mother and brothers—including Peter, home from school and several inches taller than he’d been at Christmas, James and Aurelia, even Cecily and Arthur, up from the south coast just for the occasion. Descending from the carriage, Sophie glanced up at the Palladian facade of the Pendarvis Hotel and felt the same thrill she had the first time she had seen it: imposing as ever, especially since repairs had been made to chimneys, roofing, and other areas of stonework. Minor repairs, according to a relieved Robin—the bulk of the renovations and remodeling had been to the interior of the Hall.

The great front doors stood open to the warm summer night, a tacit invitation and welcome to all comers. Following her family up the steps and into the hotel itself, Sophie caught her breath at her first sight of the entrance hall—the same, and yet arrestingly different. For a start, it seemed so much larger, though that could have been the effect of the freshly painted white walls and the gilt-framed mirror that reflected everything back at them with dazzling clarity. To Sophie’s left, a doorway—wider than she remembered—afforded a view of a spacious reception room, converted from what she remembered as being the front parlor: furnished with low tables and comfortably padded armchairs, thickly carpeted, and dominated by a huge desk of gleaming oak, all neat compartments and pigeonholes. No one stood behind it at present, but according to Harry, they had employed a most efficient man, who’d managed hotels in York and London, to take up the position of concierge in three days’ time. For the moment, Praed was fulfilling those duties along with his own as butler.

To judge by the reactions of those around her, Sophie wasn’t the only one impressed by what she saw. Her mother, Cecily, and Aurelia were all gazing about the foyer with astonishment and growing pleasure.

“It looks wonderful!” Aurelia exclaimed, and as an American heiress who’d surely seen her share of resort hotels, her opinion counted for quite a bit, Sophie thought. “Just as fine as anything I’ve seen in New York!”

“Thank you, Lady Trevenan.”

Robin’s voice floated down to them, and they looked up to see him, immaculate in black and white evening kit, descending the stairs. Sophie had never seen him looking so confident—or so handsome.

He paused on the landing and smiled. “Welcome, all of you, to the Pendarvis Hotel.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pendarvis,” Lady Tresilian replied, smiling back. “You’ve done wonders with this place. I must confess, I had my doubts at the beginning, but no longer. Pendarvis Hall will make a beautiful hotel.”

“Considering how hard we’ve worked, it had jolly well better!” Harry declared with a theatrical grimace, and they all laughed, the formality of the evening yielding to something more relaxed and congenial.

Robin descended the rest of the stairs. “Dinner is about to be served in the Grand Salon. May I have the privilege of escorting the guest of honor?”

Sophie felt herself flush, her cheeks doubtless the same shade as the rose-pink gown she had donned for the occasion. Flattering and disconcerting to be the focus of attention tonight,
his
attention in particular. She slanted a hopeful glance at her mother, and could barely contain her delight when Lady Tresilian replied in a warm, even indulgent tone, “You may indeed.”

Robin stepped forward and offered his arm to Sophie. “Many happy returns, Miss Tresilian.”

The warmth in his eyes made up for the formality of his words. “Thank you, Mr. Pendarvis,” Sophie replied, just as circumspectly, though goodness knows, her face probably showed everything she felt at this moment: excitement, anticipation, and a happiness so intense she could have sung with it. She settled for tightening her grip on Robin’s arm as he led their party, now suitably paired up, in to dinner.

***

The original dining room of Pendarvis Hall still existed, Robin explained to his guests as they made their way through the passages, but he’d had one of the reception rooms on the ground floor converted into a much larger salon where the hotel guests would have their meals. And it was to this room that he led them now.

A footman in black and white livery opened the doors for them with a flourish and Sophie caught her breath for the second time that night. For the Grand Salon was easily twice the size of any dining room she had ever seen in any great house in Cornwall. And as elegantly furnished and decorated as if the Queen herself was expected to dine here.

Overhead, a fully lighted chandelier cast a bright glow over the entire room, illuminating tables draped in spotless white linen. The largest of these—a round table that could easily seat them all—stood in the middle of the salon. Every place was laid with gleaming silver flatware and Crown Derby china. And Waterford crystal goblets, in which a variety of wines would be served. A silver epergne occupied the center of the table, holding flowers: a glory of June roses in brilliant hues, vibrant reds, glowing yellows, and lush pinks.

Glancing at her companions’ faces, Sophie saw that they were every bit as impressed as she was. “Mr. Pendarvis, this is—just splendid,” she said fervently.

“Your staff has outdone themselves tonight, old fellow,” Harry remarked.

“If not tonight, then when else?” Robin returned, still with that ease and assurance she loved to see in him. “Come, let’s be seated.”

The shape of the table rendered the whole order of precedence largely unnecessary. As they took their places, Sophie was irresistibly reminded of King Arthur and hoped that this Round Table would prove to be as harmonious. Much to her delight, Robin sat to one side of her, Harry on the other. Aurelia and James took up places to the other side of Robin.

“This is simply amazing,” Aurelia declared, gazing about the dining room. “James has told me how this place has been coming alive. But I guess there’s no substitute for actually
seeing
it.”

Robin smiled at her. “I couldn’t have imagined how well things would turn out myself when I first drew up the plans for the hotel. And I believe I have you as well as James to thank for his coming aboard with this scheme?”

“You certainly do,” James affirmed, with a fond look at his wife. “Aurelia was nothing if not persuasive about my becoming a part of this. And based on the end result, I am exceedingly glad to have yielded to my uxoriousness.”

Aurelia blushed, but laughed along with the rest of them. “Well, I knew you would be in favor of anything that benefited Cornwall,” she told her husband. “You’ve said yourself that there must be some new industry here, if it is to continue to thrive. And I’ve heard there are many village girls who are pleased to have found positions here at the hotel.”