Invitation To A Cornish Christmas. Marguerite Kaye
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‘May I have the privilege of seeing some of your work?’
‘You are very welcome to call, though I think you will find that your time is not your own, once it becomes known that you have arrived. Everyone will want to meet you, and you will wish to make yourself familiar enough with your new domain to be able to decide whether or not to entrust it to Mr Bligh.’
‘True, but I think you in turn underestimate my determination to become better acquainted with you. Assuming, of course, that you have a similar wish?’
This time there was no mistaking the glow in his eyes. Emily’s cheeks heated. ‘I think I’ve made it plain that I do.’
They were back where they started on the sands. The tide had all but swallowed The Beasts. The surf was getting higher and the clouds lower. Treeve rescued his shoes and stockings from an incoming wave, and they headed up the beach to the foot of the cliff path, Treeve turning his back without being asked as Emily picked up her own shoes and stockings.
‘Why is it,’ she said when she had finished, ‘that damp sand on bare feet feels so delightful, yet damp sand in wet wool is so unpleasant?’
He laughed. ‘Perhaps every pleasure comes at a price.’
Now, what was one to make of that remark? He led the way up the path. She allowed herself to enjoy the view of him from behind, the athletic ease with which he negotiated the steep path, and the smile he gave her every time he turned around to check that he had not gone too far ahead.
When they reached the top, Emily was more breathless than she should be. ‘Are you headed to the village? There’s a path…’
‘I know,’ Treeve said.
‘Of course you do!’
‘Actually, I’m headed back to Karrek House. An appointment with my brother’s lawyer. Or I should say mine, now. I am not looking forward to it, but there’s no point in putting it off. The sooner I understand the extent of my obligations, the better. I’ve very much enjoyed our walk.’
‘As have I. I walk on the sands most mornings. If you feel like company. I mean, you don’t have to join me.’
‘I’d like that, Emily.’ He caught her hand, covering it with his own. ‘I would very much like to say that I’ll see you tomorrow, but I think you may be right, in the very short term at least. My time is not likely to be my own. Shall we say soon?’
‘Soon.’ Their fingers twined. ‘I should go.’
He nodded. He stepped towards her. She thought he was going to kiss her. He would taste of salt. His hands tightened around hers. Then he let her go.
‘Whatever happens with the rest of the day, it has begun very well. Until the next time, Emily.’
‘Until the next time.’
She headed along the path towards her cottage. She could sense him watching her, telling herself she was being silly, resisting the urge to turn around. And then she thought, why not, turning around. And he waved. And though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she was sure he smiled.
For the next three mornings, Karrek Sands was once again Emily’s exclusive domain. She was not surprised, but she was more disappointed than she cared to admit. Replaying her conversation with Treeve, she was astonished by her own frankness, not so much with facts but regarding her feelings. To admit, within such a tiny space of time, so much, seemed to her in retrospect utterly foolhardy. Yet she had done no more than he—had in fact followed his very frank lead. Had there really been the affinity that both of them had professed to feel? How could she be sure that he had not pretended, in order to gain her trust?
Opening the door of her cottage, Emily shook her head decidedly. Treeve was no dissembler, she simply knew it, in her bones. She had been nineteen when she met Andrew Macfarlane for the first time, a green girl with no experience of life. The second time, she had been grieving and vulnerable in a different way, and ripe for the plucking. Yes, she could admit that. But she was thirty-two now, an independent woman who knew her own mind, her strengths and more importantly her limitations.
She sat down at her workbench, pulled the bonbon dish she had been working on towards her and began to smooth the pierced silver with a wire brush. The light was good this morning. She ought to make the most of it, finish the decoration at the very least.
Treeve was drawn to her. She was drawn to him. Their attraction was one of the mind, but it was also physical. Yes, she could admit all of those things, and she could relish them too. Why not, when there was absolutely no risk of either of them becoming in any way embroiled. He was going back to sea at the end of the year. And she—well, her heart was well and truly locked away.
If it wasn’t, or if Treeve ultimately decided to stay, then that would be a very different matter. If he were to remain as lord of the manor, she would have to keep him at arm’s length, for she could not risk their feelings running deeper. She knew what heartbreak felt like. She would not inflict that on either of them.
Emily stared down at the bonbon dish in dismay. She had brushed so hard, she was in danger of wearing through the design. Was she still heartbroken? She must have loved Andrew, that other, gullible Emily. If she had not loved him, he would not have succeeded in his deception, and if she had not been so determined to turn a blind eye, he would not have continued to succeed. She most certainly didn’t love him now. His betrayal had been so callous and the extent of it so shocking that he had destroyed not just her faith in him, but in human nature. She was determined to recover from that, despite the fact that a separate part of her was broken irreparably. But she couldn’t blame Andrew for that. His only crime had been to inadvertently highlight an unpalatable but inescapable fact.
Casting her work in progress aside, Emily got to her feet. This morning’s paddle had not eased the restlessness she’d woken with. She was tired of being cooped up here, alone. Pulling her cloak back on, she hurried out once more into the fresh air.
The gatehouse had been built at a later date than Karrek House, though in a sympathetic style, with a sharp pointed roof and mullioned windows. It had lain empty since Emily’s arrival, but now the windows on the top floor were open, presumably to give the place an airing. Treeve’s doing perhaps, or possibly a signal that a new tenant was imminent.
There were two stone lions standing guard just beyond the gatehouse on the path leading up to Karrek House. The salty Cornish air had eaten away their features, leaving the pair with bizarrely broad smiles, no noses, and manes that had long lost their shagginess. The Penhaligon family home was beautiful, an Elizabethan manor built of Cornish granite with five distinctive Dutch-style gables. Three narrow protruding wings formed an ‘E’ shape. Was Treeve inside, going through his estate account books? Or was he outside, making a tour of his inheritance in Jago Bligh’s company, eager to be reassured, eager to get back to his ship, and the life he loved?
A seagull came to a squawking halt on one of the lions’ heads, making Emily jump. The last thing she wanted was to be caught gazing forlornly up at Treeve’s house. Emily turned on her heel and headed for the village.
Budoc Lane, the main street of Porth Karrek and the hub of village life was narrow, steep and cobblestoned, the whitewashed shops which lined both sides protecting those going about their business from the worst of the elements. The door to the butcher’s shop stood ajar, but there was no sign of Phincas Bosanko. Phin, as he was known, though Emily never dared address him as such, was a very fine specimen of a man, if you valued brawn—and a fair few of the local maids certainly seemed to. As far as Emily had been able to deduce, the butcher dispensed his favours evenly, treading a fine line between flirtation and commitment to cannily keep all his options open. It amused her on one level, but