Pamela Sherwood (7 page)

His smile widened into that engaging, boyish grin. “All in good time, my dear Miss Tresilian! And now we should be starting back,” he added, almost springing up from his rock. “Before your family starts to worry about you.”

Sophie stifled a sigh. He was right, of course—she had been gone far longer than she’d intended. But she could not regret a moment of this interval, or the strange intimacy she had sensed growing between them. The way he had opened up to her… she felt oddly privileged that he should have chosen her, of all people, with whom to share the story of his childhood. And a childhood more different from her own she could scarce imagine.

But he seemed to want another kind of life for himself now: a life with roots, and a definite purpose. And she was more than willing to help him achieve that—as his friend, of course, she amended hastily. The same simple, uncomplicated way that Harry was his friend.

Except that she had to admit, if only to herself, that the frisson that went through her as she took his hand to help her to her feet felt
nothing
like simple, uncomplicated friendship.

***

They were riding back toward Roswarne at a more sedate pace, talking of this and that, when Sophie heard someone call her name. Reining in her horse, she glanced toward the sound to see Sir Lucas Nankivell approaching on his showy chestnut hack.

“Good morning, Miss Sophie.” The baronet touched his hat to her.

“Good morning, Sir Lucas,” Sophie returned politely. In fact, it was nearly noon, but Sophie had heard the baronet was accustomed to town hours, so no doubt this
was
early for him.

“I see you’re up with the dawn, as usual,” he observed. “And might I add, looking every bit as lovely?”

“Thank you.” Sophie offered a small smile, not wholly certain of how to respond to the compliment. She suspected she might be more flattered if the baronet’s gallantry didn’t have such a… practiced quality about it. Well, that didn’t mean he
wasn’t
being sincere, in his own way, she reminded herself.

Sir Lucas’s gaze had flicked over to Sophie’s companion. “Pendarvis.”

“Nankivell.” Mr. Pendarvis inclined his head.

“I see that you’re abroad early as well.”

“Indeed.”

Sophie glanced from one to the other, reminded afresh of the strange antipathy between them, which had apparently abated not one jot since their first meeting. Sir Lucas’s eyes were slightly narrowed, his nostrils flared, and his expression indecipherable. Mr. Pendarvis’s face was likewise hard to read, but his mouth had set like stone and his posture, relaxed a few moments ago, was stiff, almost rigid.
Oh, dear
.

“Well, I really should be going, Sir Lucas,” she said brightly. “I’ve stayed out later than I intended to, and I mustn’t keep the family waiting too long for luncheon. Good day to you.”

For a moment, he looked as though he would detain her, then he inclined his head and moved his horse to one side so they could pass. “Good day, Miss Sophie. Pendarvis.”

“Nankivell.”

Just as chilly as before, Sophie noted ruefully as she urged Tregony forward. She darted a glance at Mr. Pendarvis, who had drawn level with her, but his face was still impassive. She avoided looking back at Sir Lucas, though she was conscious of a growing relief as the distance widened between them.

Not that she disliked Sir Lucas. He was one of their neighbors, after all, with whom they’d always been on fairly good terms. But she’d been taken aback when Harry had informed her that the baronet had recently approached him with a formal offer of marriage for her. While she supposed Sir Lucas was handsome enough and his home, Nankivell Park, was accounted both large and grand, the thought of him as a suitor inspired no great longing. She’d actually felt relieved rather than indignant on hearing that Harry had dismissed his suit on the grounds of her age and inexperience.

There was another, more private reason to be thankful as well.
Swans
and
Tresilians
mate
for
life
. No denying that the family motto had shaped Sophie’s perceptions of love. Call it foolish or fanciful, but she’d always believed that she’d know in an instant when she met the man she was meant to love for the rest of her life. If that was true in any way, then Sir Lucas Nankivell was certainly
not
that man.

She glanced at Mr. Pendarvis again, relieved to note that he no longer seemed as stiff or forbidding. His face had gone abstracted instead, the way it had on the beach. Mulling over that idea of his, she suspected—the one he was presently refusing to share. Still, she’d rather he was concentrating on that than on his ill feelings toward Sir Lucas. Though
why
the two men should dislike each other so… Well, it was none of her business. Some people were just oil and water, and that was all there was to that.

A little further on, they came to their earlier meeting place, a crossroads marked by a hawthorn tree, just beginning to put forth its white flowers.

“Here’s where I must leave you, Mr. Pendarvis.” Sophie did her best to sound cheery. “But I hope you’ll call on us soon. I know Harry would be glad to see you.”

As would she, but it would be too forward for a proper young lady to say so.
And
what
a
sad
bore
being
a
proper
young
lady
was
at
times
, she reflected.

His demeanor thawed noticeably. “Thank you, Miss Tresilian. I hope to do so. And thank you for your company on the ride as well. I hope you can forgive my abstraction,” he added with a rueful smile. “I realize I’ve been poor company this last mile or so.”

Sophie couldn’t help but return his smile. “You are forgiven, Mr. Pendarvis. May I one day hope to learn the cause of such abstraction?”

“If this latest brainstorm turns out to have any merit, you’ll be among the first to know,” he promised.

“I mean to hold you to that, sir.” Bidding him farewell, Sophie turned Tregony down the left-hand path that led to Roswarne.

Sweeter than roses, or cool evening breeze

On a warm flowery shore, was the dear kiss,

First trembling made me freeze,

Then shot like fire all o’er.

—Henry Purcell,
Pausanius

Cornwall, May 1891

Putting down her violin and bow, Sophie frowned over her music. While she thought her performance of Vivaldi’s “Spring” had improved significantly, her rendition of “Winter” still seemed to lack the necessary speed or excitement. Perhaps the musical demands of that piece weren’t within her compass yet. Her own teacher had called her a proficient violinist, who’d improve further with practice, but no virtuoso, which was lowering but not untrue.

She looked up at a light cough from the doorway to find Parsons standing there.

“Forgive the interruption, Miss Sophie,” he began. “But Mr. Pendarvis has called, hoping to speak to you or Sir Harry. I’ve put him in the library.”

“Oh! Thank you, Parsons.” Sophie rose from her chair. “I’ll go in to him at once.”

“Very good, Miss Sophie.” The butler bowed and withdrew.

Sophie glanced at herself in the mirror above the mantel, hastily smoothing her hair and her skirts. She wore a day dress of sea green muslin today, which deepened the color of her eyes, and a pretty string of Italian glass beads about her throat. Not
too
young or girlish—she was eighteen next month, after all. Telling herself not to be flustered, she made for the library.

Mr. Pendarvis was standing by the desk, but he turned around at her entrance. Sophie hoped she was not imagining the welcoming light in his eyes—even if it signified nothing more than friendship.

She came forward, smiling. “Mr. Pendarvis, good morning. What brings you here today?”

He smiled as well. “Good morning, Miss Tresilian. I’d hoped I might find your brother at home, but your butler tells me he’s gone out?”

“I’m afraid so. Harry had business in Truro and probably won’t be back before dinner.”

“Serve me right for not sending word beforehand,” he said ruefully. “But I was so eager to discuss something with him that I didn’t think ahead.” He held up what looked like an artist’s portfolio. “Perhaps I could prevail upon you to have a look? As I recall, I promised you’d be among the first people I told.”

“Is this about that idea you had?” she asked eagerly. Over a week had passed since their conversation on the beach. “The one you said was either brilliant or completely mad?”

“The very same.” He laid the portfolio on the desk. “And I’m still trying to decide which, so I thought I’d ask your opinion—or Harry’s.”

Intrigued, Sophie watched as he opened the portfolio and took out two large drawings, which he laid out side by side upon the desk. One she recognized at once as a sketch of the exterior of Pendarvis Hall. The other…

“What is this exactly?” she ventured, stealing an uncertain glance at him.

He took a breath—composing himself, she realized. “This, with work, capital, and a good deal of luck, will be the Pendarvis Hotel in the not too distant future.”

“A hotel?” Astonished, she looked down at the second drawing again, belatedly recognizing it as a floor plan: a painstaking recreation of the Hall’s interior. Rooms, passages, stairwells—one could get lost trying to keep track of them all. “You mean, like an inn?”

“Yes—only on a grander scale. It was what you told me about your cousin, and how he earned enough to maintain his castle. Since I don’t wish to let or sell the Hall, I thought the best solution would be to make it pay its way, and convert it into a resort hotel.”

“Like the ones in Newquay?”

“Very similar. I understand that the resorts in Newquay did not begin as private residences, but I’m thinking that could be used to work in the Hall’s favor.” His mouth quirked in the faintest of smiles. “If guests are willing to pay to lodge in a Scottish castle, perhaps they’d be equally as willing to do so in a Cornish country estate. There’s certainly no lack of space—the Hall has three wings and more than twenty bedchambers!”

Twenty
bedchambers! Sophie shook her head, more than slightly dazed by the thought. The Tresilians had done well for themselves over the years, but their prosperity didn’t extend to a house built on the scale of Pendarvis Hall. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she couldn’t begin to fathom how this place could ever be converted into a hotel, but a glance at Mr. Pendarvis silenced her. He looked as she’d never seen him before: his eyes alight, his spare frame almost vibrating with barely contained energy. Was this how he’d looked in Rouen, dreaming of Norman cathedrals? Intense, inspired, even fanatical… in the way that artists or visionaries could be. The transformation in him was at once disconcerting and, she had to confess, undeniably attractive. He had a passion for this work, as keen as hers for music. Well, far be it from her to play the wet blanket, especially before hearing the whole of his scheme.

“It’s certainly an ambitious plan, Mr. Pendarvis,” she ventured. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about how you’d go about it?”

***

Some twenty minutes later, Sophie looked up from the floor plan, excitement kindling within her like a stoked fire. “And you truly believe this could work?”

“I do, yes.” His voice rang with complete conviction.

She studied him with the same attention she’d given his plans. During their discussion, he’d removed his coat and flung it over a nearby chair; his waistcoat was now undone, his shirtsleeves pushed back to the elbows, and his dark hair tousled from running his fingers through it. But that was as nothing compared to the other changes she saw in him. The slight diffidence and hesitance from their earliest meetings was gone. In its place was a crackling confidence, an authority that informed his every word and motion as he explained just what was involved in constructing the Pendarvis Hotel and how he meant to accomplish it. The way his eyes sharpened, the way his hands gestured, trying to conjure up the image so vivid in his own mind.

Sophie had followed along as best she could, asking questions whenever she felt lost or uncertain. For the most part, she had understood the gist of his plans: the bedchambers would be refurbished, freshly painted, or repapered, and private
en
suite
bathrooms would be added to most of the rooms not already furnished with one.

“But what about—?” Sophie had started to ask, then paused, blushing a little and wondering how to broach a possibly indelicate subject.

“I plan to install more water closets,” Mr. Pendarvis had replied, with no trace of embarrassment. “The very latest kind, of course. And there will be central heating too. Great-Aunt Martha already had it put into the main wing—one of her last improvements before she died. I’ll make sure the rest of the Hall has it as well.”

That would solve two major difficulties with country houses right there, Sophie mused: inadequate plumbing and insufficient heat. She spared a moment to be thankful that her family had always kept Roswarne up-to-date in that regard, then asked, “And gaslights?”

“Also already installed, even before the central heating.” He paused, then added, accurately gauging the drift of her thoughts, “I am under no illusion that I can recreate a place like Claridge’s or the Savoy in the heart of Cornwall. There certainly won’t be a pneumatic lift, or electrical lighting—yet—but I can promise guests the basic amenities at the very least, and I hope some luxuries as well.”

“How does your staff feel about this plan?” Sophie asked. “It would be quite an adjustment for them to make, to go from serving a family in a private home to waiting on guests in a hotel. Have you discussed it with them yet?”

“Not just yet,” he admitted. “I’m still working out all the details. But I hope to make a good argument for the hotel, when the time comes. And their positions at the Hall wouldn’t really change—they’d be doing much the same work as they are now. And I could hire other people as needed, not just more domestics, but porters and waiters too.”

“Not all of them will see things as you do,” she warned. “Or be willing to accept such a big change. Some might even give notice.”

“That would be their choice,” he conceded. “Although I’d hope to convince everyone to stay on. It’s not as if the Hall has ceased to become a country home. It’s merely that the unused parts of it could be put to better purpose than standing empty all year round.”

“Would you still live there yourself?”

“I shall be the innkeeper, so I could hardly live elsewhere. I thought I might reserve one wing for my personal apartments. This one, perhaps.” He touched the west wing on the floor plan. “More than adequate for a bachelor establishment. Great-Uncle Simon was living mainly in a solitary suite toward the end of his life.”

“But would that be enough for you? What if—” She broke off, just in time, before she could ask what he’d do if he did decide to marry and have a family, after all. But he’d been so adamant the last time the subject had arisen that it seemed foolish to persist. “What if you find you need more room?” she amended.

He shrugged. “I can’t imagine needing much more space than an entire wing. But I suppose I could move to another part of the Hall—or redesign the wing to suit my needs. I’d be a poor architect indeed if I couldn’t manage that.”

“Of course. But are you sure you wouldn’t mind having strangers occupying your house, at all hours, in every season?”

He considered her question, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Perhaps if I’d grown up at the Hall and had a deeper sentimental attachment to it, I’d feel differently. Or if I had a title to uphold, like your cousin, and was expected to keep the estate intact to every last brick for whoever succeeded me. As it is… well, I’d rather have a guest in every chamber than rattle about like a pebble in a shoe in a house that’s too large for me alone. And I’d still have to pay to maintain the Hall, whether there was one person or twenty living there.”

“That’s a good point,” Sophie acknowledged.

“So, do you think my plan has any merit?”

His tone was casual, but Sophie could sense how important the answer was to him. And so he deserved an honest response.

“I think your plan has considerable potential, Mr. Pendarvis,” she said at last. “You’ve obviously thought the matter through, and I don’t doubt that you’ve a good grasp of what’s involved here, as an architect. But it’s a risky venture, all the same. It
could
succeed, especially if you can persuade others in the county to invest.” She glanced down at the floor plan. “I wish I could picture this as clearly as you do. I can’t quite visualize it from just a drawing.”

“Would it help if you saw the place for yourself?”

Sophie looked up, startled, but Mr. Pendarvis appeared to be in earnest. “It might. At least, it would do no harm to see it.”

“Well, then, Miss Tresilian, would you care to visit the Hall?” he inquired. “If your family doesn’t object to my stealing you for a few hours, that is.”

“There’s no one here to object. Harry’s in Truro, John’s at the mine, and Mama’s in the village helping to organize a flower show. So I’m completely at liberty to accept your invitation,” she concluded, smiling at him. “Just give me a few minutes to change into my habit.”

“No need for that—we can drive over in my gig. And besides”—he paused, studying her with those intense blue eyes—“I find that dress far too becoming to wish you to change it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sophie said lightly, though she could feel herself flushing with pleasure at the compliment. “Then just let me get my hat and coat, and we’ll be on our way.”

***

Fortunately, it wasn’t considered
too
improper for a lady to drive in the country with a friend, Sophie told herself. And Mr. Pendarvis had become a friend to Harry, and thus to the whole family, these last few months. All the same, she experienced a faint tingle of excitement when he handed her into the gig, and then climbed in beside her and took the reins.

Sitting in such close quarters, she could feel the warmth of his near thigh through her skirt, and even breathe in his scent, a pleasant mingling of clean linen and shaving soap. Bay rum—her father had favored that scent as well. As a child, she’d come to associate it with the comfort and security she always felt in her father’s company, but it had a rather different effect on her when she smelled it on Mr. Pendarvis.

She glanced covertly at him as he drove—adroitly, though with understandable caution, as he was still getting used to the roads in Cornwall. It helped that the horse was such a placid, unexcitable beast, trotting along at an easy pace and obeying its driver’s lightest command.

“I heard a violin playing when Parsons showed me in,” Mr. Pendarvis remarked, once they were underway. “Was that you practicing?”

“Yes—I hope it didn’t sound too terrible. I haven’t got the knack of that concerto yet.”

“I’m no expert, but it sounded fine to me,” he asserted. “Indeed, I should like to hear it again sometime, once you’re satisfied with your progress.”

“Perhaps the next time you dine with us at Roswarne we can have music afterward,” she suggested. “I don’t know if I’ll have mastered Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ by then, but I can give you a decent rendering of his ‘Spring.’”

“Your favorite season.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Just so,” Sophie acknowledged, smiling back.

They chatted lightly of music and seasons for a good quarter hour, then Mr. Pendarvis turned a corner, passed through a gate—and there, at the end of a curving drive, stood the Hall.

Despite having visited the estate before, Sophie still caught her breath when she looked up at the great facade. Was this how Elizabeth Bennet had felt, looking at Pemberley the first time? She’d heard that the Hall had begun life as a medieval manor house of modest proportions. While various changes had been made to it over the centuries, it had been extensively rebuilt during Queen Anne’s reign on a far grander scale. The owner of that time had commissioned an Inigo Jones–like Palladian front, and the landscape was said to be Capability Brown, and carefully preserved over generations.