Pamela Sherwood (28 page)

“Robin mentioned that. I’m glad his daughter has a playmate in your son.” Sophie fiddled with her teaspoon. “Aurelia, do you think
I
could meet Sara sometime? Just as a friend,” she added hurriedly. “Just so she can start getting… used to me. And I wouldn’t tell her about Robin and me, not yet,” she rushed on. “That’s
his
responsibility, in any case. But I know how important she is to him, and I don’t want her to feel that she’s going to be cut out, or that I’m going to be this evil stepmother who’ll steal away her father’s love, or make her wear rags and sleep among the ashes, or—”

“Sophie,” Aurelia broke in gently, her eyes brimming with amused affection. “Darling, no one who knows you could possibly think you’d do any such thing!”

Sophie exhaled shakily. “I’ve never had to face the prospect of bringing up someone else’s child. It terrifies me,” she admitted.

“It would terrify anyone.” Aurelia squeezed her hand. “But Sara herself isn’t the least bit terrifying. She’s serious and sweet, and very grown-up for her age. Granted, a meeting between you
should
be handled carefully—and discreetly.” She tapped a forefinger against her chin as she thought. “Perhaps you could come to tea at Pentreath some afternoon.
After
the funeral, I think—Sara needs more time to come to terms with losing her mother. I’m not sure it’s completely sunk in for her yet.”

“Of course,” Sophie said quickly. “Whenever you
and
Robin feel she’s ready. The last thing I want to do is force myself upon her.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. Personally, I think you and Sara will get along famously, once you get to know each other.”

“You sound so certain of that.”

“I am.” Aurelia smiled at her. “Mainly because I happen to know that Sara is
passionately
fond of music.”

…machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves.

—William Shakespeare,
King
Lear

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The words of the burial service rang in Sophie’s ears as she stood with her family about the new grave in the churchyard. So deep a hole, to house so small a casket, scarcely larger than a child’s. But then, Nathalie had been tiny—
mignonne
, as Robin had once said.

Thankful for the veil that covered her face, she stole a glance at him, standing remote, black-clad, and impassive on the other side of the grave. One gloved hand grasped the brim of his hat, while the other rested on the shoulder of his daughter.

Sophie’s gaze went to the child: seven years old—soon to be eight, according to Aurelia—and much taller than she’d been when Sophie had last seen her clinging to Nathalie’s skirts in the ballroom. Sara was so like her father, the same dark brown hair, the same intense blue eyes. Her complexion—emphasized by her mourning frock—was fairer, and the shape of her face softer and more feminine, but beyond that, Sophie saw little of the girl’s mother in her.

Not that that made a difference, she reminded herself hastily. Even if Sara had been Nathalie’s spitting image, she was a part of Robin, and that made her important to Sophie too. And
any
child who’d lost her mother and her brother just months apart needed sympathy, attention, and care. She was getting all of that from her father and from the Trevenans, but Sophie hoped she might have the chance to offer those things to the girl as well. She too knew what it was like to lose a parent at a young age, though her father hadn’t died under such terrible circumstances as Nathalie.

Her thoughts turned to the inquest, held mere days ago. While she had not been summoned as a witness, both Harry and James who’d arrived on the scene soon after Nathalie’s body was discovered had been called to testify, as had Robin. It hadn’t taken long for the coroner’s jury to return a verdict of murder, at the hands of persons unknown, and the search for those persons unknown was continuing under Inspector Taunton. Though barely thirty and new to the county, he was apparently as “keen as mustard” to find the murderer. According to Harry, at least; Robin had said almost nothing about him. Robin was saying next to nothing about
anything
these days, and certainly not to Sophie.

She tried to be patient, which wasn’t easy, especially when she saw so little of him. And it was all too easy to remember what had happened the last time a crisis had arisen in his life. Logically, she knew that the obstacles that had kept them apart four years ago were gone. Emotionally… was a different matter altogether.

Fortunately, she had Aurelia to confide in, and her cousin-in-law was, as always, a sympathetic and discreet listener. Sophie’s family seemed reluctant to initiate any sort of discussion about the nature of her current relationship with Robin, although she sometimes caught her mother eyeing her speculatively. But even Harry appeared to have backed off for now. Sophie didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry about that.

“Amen.”

Jolted back to the present, Sophie quickly murmured “Amen” along with the other mourners to mark the end of the service. She just managed not to flinch as the first handful of dirt struck the coffin—always so final, that sound. How often Robin must have heard it himself, and at so many burials: his brother, his parents, his son, and now his wife. A few more clods of earth followed, then Sara took a tentative step forward and threw a tiny nosegay of white flowers into the grave as well, before retreating into the protective circle of her father’s arm.

As the vicar withdrew, the crowd began to disperse, many of the mourners now approaching Robin and Sara to offer further condolences. Sophie suspected that most of those in attendance had come because of Robin. Indeed, she’d heard that some of his relations on his mother’s side had traveled from Yorkshire for the funeral. She was glad that however they might have felt about his ill-starred marriage, they were here to support him today.

James and Aurelia were speaking to Robin now, their voices almost inaudible at this distance. But Sophie noticed the way James laid his hand upon Robin’s shoulder and the warm sympathy in Aurelia’s gaze as she stooped down to Sara’s height. Setting her hand in Aurelia’s, the girl looked up at her father, who gave her a quick kiss and embrace. One more exchange with Robin, and the Trevenans left the churchyard with Sara, heading toward their waiting carriage.

More people came, spoke to him, departed, and then the crowd thinned out, and Sophie, along with the other Tresilians, came face to face with the widower.

She hung back discreetly, letting Harry take the lead when it came to offering formal condolences on behalf of the family.

“Mama, I would like a private word with Robin,” she told Lady Tresilian in a low voice.

Her mother hesitated only a moment, appearing to grasp that Sophie was not asking for permission. “Very well, my dear. We will be waiting for you in the carriage.”

Sophie watched with gratitude as Lady Tresilian guided her sons before her, even Harry who might otherwise have balked. Despite his restraint, her eldest brother was still a little uneasy about how matters stood between her and Robin.

Now, she studied the man she loved, noting his pallor and the shadows beneath his eyes. He looked thinner too—no doubt he was missing meals, along with sleep. Most worrying of all was the sense that he carried some other burden, some new sorrow, beyond those he’d already shouldered—and which, she thought with an inward sigh, he was not yet willing to share with her. “My dear, I am so sorry,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”

Because there was so much she could
not
do at this moment, such as kiss or embrace him, though she longed to do both. But the world was still watching them, even here, among the quiet gravestones. There might even be some mourners—other than Sophie’s own family—who remembered the budding romance between them four years ago.

Best not to give the gossips any morsel to chew on, Sophie conceded with an inner sigh. But she could offer Robin her hand, and take some comfort from the way his closed around it, warm and firm even through the black gloves they both wore. And from the way his eyes and the set of his mouth softened when he looked at her. Life was still present, in spite of everything.

“Thank you, Miss Tresilian,” he replied formally, then added in an undertone, “Just stay as you are—that is all I ask.”

Another squeeze of hands, imparting all they wanted to say but could not—here. And for a moment, they allowed their hands to remain linked, while Sophie envisioned her own strength and energy flowing into him, sustaining him for the difficult days ahead.

Robin released his grip first and took a step back. “I am glad that you came,” he said, again in that formal tone. “You and your family. Shall I be seeing you back at the hotel?”

Sophie smiled, hearing the faint entreaty in those words. They were getting better at listening to each other, she thought—at discerning the faint signals and subtle cues that every couple in love develops. “Yes, we’re heading there now. Do you need a ride back yourself?”

He shook his head. “My own carriage is waiting. But I thought I’d take a few more minutes here—Cyril is buried in this churchyard too.”

“By all means,” she said at once. “Take all the time you need. I know Harry can see to things in your absence.”

His smile, though faint and weary, was real enough. “I will come presently.”

Sophie murmured a last good-bye and turned away, setting her feet on the winding path that led out of the churchyard. She could not help but glance back, however, to where Robin still stood beside his wife’s grave.

And then, frowning, she looked again, focusing not on Robin but on a headstone just a few feet away from him—and the man standing behind it, watching. He looked up and for a moment Sophie was staring directly into his face, then he lowered his head, pulled down the brim of his hat, and moved off, losing himself among the sea of stones and crosses.

Sophie gazed after him in shock, wondering if her eyes were deceiving her.

Had Sir Lucas Nankivell truly had the effrontery to attend Nathalie’s funeral?

“Sophie!” Her mother’s voice reached her from the carriage lane. “We must be going!”

Sophie shook her head and hurried on.

***

The summer sun lay across Robin’s back like a heavy hand. Sighing, he loosened his collar, undid the first few buttons of his shirt, and closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of grass and newly turned earth. If it weren’t for the almost preternatural silence, he could forget he was standing in a graveyard, having just seen his wife’s coffin lowered into the ground.

The funeral itself had passed in a blur for him. There had been flowers, he knew: tuberoses and lilies, their scent heavy, almost oppressive in the air. And he recalled snatches of the vicar’s eulogy, which seemed to have been written for a very different woman than the one he’d married. And the coffin, barely larger than Cyril’s, that housed her elfin frame.

Barely six months ago he’d buried the child he’d come to love as a son; today he had buried the boy’s mother. His estranged wife, whom he’d loved when he was a callow stripling, grieved and raged over when she’d betrayed and abandoned him, and for whom he’d felt mainly indifference these last four years.

Had any part of what they’d shared been real? Before boredom and resentment had set in for her, disenchantment and impatience for him? But something good had come from this ill-starred match: Sara. He thought of her now, heading back to Pentreath in James and Aurelia’s care. Best for her to be there rather than at the hotel, where Taunton’s ongoing investigation still had everyone on edge.

And to think he’d worried about the upheaval connected with a divorce suit! That would have been
nothing
compared to this, the doubt and uncertainty surrounding Nathalie’s murder.

Robin opened his eyes and stared bleakly down at the grave. He did not think there were many here who had mourned Nathalie’s passing. She’d remained an outsider until the day she’d died, as bored by provincial Cornwall as she’d been by provincial France.

But had anyone here actually hated her enough to kill her?

He rubbed his forehead, recalling willy-nilly the details of the inquest—and all the questions that had remained unaddressed. But then, an inquiry was only meant to establish the cause of death. The exact circumstances surrounding the death would only be explored during a trial… if there was one. If a killer was even found.

So far, the evidence seemed to support the theory that her murder had been merely the unfortunate consequence of a robbery, most likely committed by an intruder who’d broken into the separate wing of the hotel, made off with Nathalie’s jewels, and was now long gone from the area. Who could be anywhere in England—or Europe at this moment.

But if it had been robbery, if Nathalie had surprised a vicious thief at his work, why hadn’t she screamed the place down? Or had she been the one surprised, moving about the chamber, preparing for bed, unaware of an intruder’s presence until it was far too late?

And the method of the killing—wouldn’t a blow to the head have been swifter? Or a knife, under the ribs or across the throat, quick and soundless?

But there was something oddly personal about a strangling. As if the murderer had derived an obscene satisfaction from watching his victim struggle for breath. He remembered the livid mark about Nathalie’s throat, how tightly the garrote must have been wound.

What if she’d opened the door to the killer? What if she’d known him?

And what if the killer had known or at least suspected… something about her? The very same thing that Robin now knew, courtesy of the coroner’s postmortem. Something that might be allowed to remain concealed during an inquest, but which must surely emerge in the event of an arrest and a trial. Something he’d been unable to share, even with Sophie.

Nathalie had taken one last secret to her grave.

At the time of her death she’d been three months pregnant.