A Cornish Stranger (8 page)

Jaunty looked out the window.

‘Right, so you offered your studio that you rarely let anyone into?'

‘I'm not using it.' Jaunty walked to her desk. ‘Now leave me be.'

Gabe watched her grandmother staring at the river. This was a side to her Gabe didn't know.

 

Jaunty's fingers bent around the small piece of charcoal and she sketched Fin. Although swiftly done, she had captured the confidence in the stance yet somehow had conveyed the vulner­ability. She'd seen it as he'd stood there, legs apart, ­staring out at the view, but it was only when she asked what he was going to do now that a few careless words revealed his pain.

Jaunty put the page aside and picked up her fountain pen. She could hear Gabriella talking to Fin. How could she have risked her life like that?

‘Jaunty, I'm heading into the village to get milk.' Gabriella popped her head through the doorway.

‘Fine.' Jaunty blocked Gabriella's view of the desk with her body.

‘Do you want anything?'

‘No.' Jaunty waved her away and listened to them leave together. She put the pen down and picked up the charcoal again. This time she drew Alex in profile, focusing on his neck. She rubbed the dark, sooty colour into the paper, almost feeling the tendons. A few quick strokes and his long eyelashes appeared. Oh, if it was only so simple to recreate him and to have him here with her . . . Her hands went limp and the charcoal dropped on to the paper. It was Fin's resemblance to Alex that was making it all so much harder. She swallowed and looked at the dark dust on her fingers, shades of grey. That still worked. It was the colour that was gone. The bright jewel hues and the subtle shifts in tone. Her joy, removed in an instant. She picked up the pen again.

I have always been an artist. I was never, even as a child, without pencil and paper. My many governesses knew that I would sit for hours in a museum sketching, even from the age of five. I sometimes wonder if those early works exist somewhere. Mother had kept them all. What has become of my parents' things? I know when she died, and father too. I researched it when I first came to Truro. Both of them had had obituaries in the
Telegraph
and
The Times
. Mother's coverage had been bigger. Both obituaries said her heart had been broken and her voice had lost its power because of the deaths of her daughter and her husband.

Jaunty closed her eyes. She had been the cause of so much pain, so much death.

So my early work may have been thrown out or more likely it could be in the attic in my nonna's house. That is, if it still exists, if it survived the war. There is so much that I don't know and now never will.

Then, of course, there was Polruan House. How I hated and loved that house at the same time. When my father was with me it was bliss, but when I was there without him it was dire. To my grandmother I was a disappointment because I was not the male heir she wanted for the Penroses. She did nothing but frown at me, then tell me how wonderful things would be when my mother bore a son. When the years passed and it was too late, she told me that it was my fault that my mother never had a son because she had given birth to me. I heard the whispered discussions about how sick my mother had been after my birth. I knew I must have been the cause.

Jaunty looked up. Jackdaws were complaining in the pines and the wind blew in from the east. The sky should clear but the river would remain disturbed.

 

Gabe felt for the keys in her pocket. Her muscles were so sore that the thought of taking the car to the shop appealed, but if she moved her legs the pain might lessen, and the sun was shining, showing no storm that had raged only hours before. In fact, the sky was so blue Gabe wasn't sure she had ever seen it so bright and clear. Were her senses heightened because she had damn near died? She glanced sideways at Fin. Although he was about a foot from her she could almost feel him. There was something about him that bothered her. Was it the way he looked so intently at her, almost seeing the pain locked away inside. Or was it his effect on Jaunty? More frightening, was it the thought of his hard, lean body? Part of her froze and the other . . . well, best not to think about it. But with him beside her that was proving difficult.

She went past the car. The walk would help. He moved silently beside her, like a shadow, as if by saving him he'd become attached to her by invisible strings. She shivered.

‘Still cold?' His deep voice rumbled over her goosebumps.

‘No, someone must have walked over my grave.' Damn! That was not what she meant to say – it was too close to the truth. Despite what Jaunty had said about him being homeless, he oozed power and confidence and that was what was making her uncomfortable. He was a powerful man.

‘Ah.' He studied her, then turned away, looking out at the yellowed field, which sloped upwards towards the tall pines that marked its boundary at the top of the hill. Gabe had always loved this view. The trees, she thought, were like guardians of the river. How many times had she made this walk? Too many to count. Jaunty hated using the car so, no matter the weather, if they had needed more milk or bread then she had walked to the shop. The car remained parked except for a once-a-week trip to the shops and to Camborne for art supplies. Where possible everything had come by post. Gabe always suspected that the person who knew Jaunty best was the postmistress because her grandmother lived in a world of parcel deliveries and cheques and struggled so much with the new world of technology. In the end, many suppliers spoke to Gabe in order to resolve payment issues, and Gabe had managed her grandmother's bank account for the last few years – the gallery had insisted because Jaunty became muddled by the amounts being transferred into her account.

Gabe sighed. Jaunty was old and the world had moved forward. But because Jaunty had locked herself away in her studio, she hadn't seen it nor had she wanted to take part in it. It was too late now.

‘Do you want to take the quick route or the scenic one?' Gabe stopped on the cattle grid at the top of the track, wonder­ing what she herself felt like doing.

‘Scenic.' He shrugged, and Gabe watched the play of ­muscles under his shirt. She had seen them up close . . . Shaking her head mentally she strode out ahead of him down the lane towards Penarvon Cove, pushing the images away. Instead she filled her mind with the height of the trees above. It felt as if she was in a magic world where she became tinier the lower down the lane she went and the trees above closed into tunnel. She inhaled, filling her lungs, wanting to sing but releasing the breath in a slow sigh.

‘OK?' He turned to her.

‘Yes, a bit stiff, that's all. How are you?'

‘Same, but glad to be alive.'

They reached the beach and signs of the storm were strewn all over the pebbles. Among the seaweed were bits of wood and empty bottles which told an interesting tale in themselves. The wood was mixed, a few branches, some plywood and a turned table leg. The bottle selection consisted of a milk carton and an empty bottle of Château Latour. Gabe wondered if it had been consumed last night on one of the few visiting yachts still moored on the river.

They followed the narrow path above the cove and into Helford, passing the pub. Signs of damage were evident here too. A roof slate from a nearby cottage was lying smashed on the road and Gabe was glad she hadn't been walking back from the pub last night when that had come down. She looked out to the river. This morning there was no wind, but the water still displayed signs of the storm. Even from in front of the shop she could see the swell as a boat made its way out to the bay. She climbed the stairs and Fin followed.

‘Morning.' Gabe didn't recognise the woman behind the counter.

The woman smiled. ‘Quite the night, last night. Three boats broke anchor on the river.'

‘Really?' Gabe looked up from the bread selection.

‘Yes. Wild, it was.'

‘Do they know the owners of the boats?' Fin asked.

‘Not all – there was one they couldn't identify.'

‘That's probably mine.'

Gabe watched the woman study Fin over and could see the appreciation in her eyes. He certainly was handsome, Gabe gave him that, but wouldn't give him anything more. It was something about his cheekbones and smile. But she was still in shock that Jaunty had offered him a bed in her studio. She didn't understand why he needed it or, more importantly, why Jaunty had offered.

A woman walked in the shop. ‘Oh, how lovely to see you, Gabriella.'

‘Hello, Mrs Bates.'

‘Thank you for helping the choir, by the way.'

Gabe swallowed. ‘No problem.' She noticed Fin studying her.

‘I'm thrilled you're back with us. Jaunty will be better now that you are with her.' Mrs Bates eyed Fin up and down. ‘And who is this good-looking stranger?'

He smiled and extended a hand to Mrs Bates. ‘Hi, I'm Fin.'

‘Is this your boyfriend?' Mrs Bates positively glowed.

Gabe gagged. ‘No, I rescued him last night in the storm.'

‘A stranger from the sea? How poetic. Now, if only I could remember these things . . .' Mrs Bates put her basket down. ‘What was it they always said? Save a stranger from the sea—'

A man stuck his head through the shop door. ‘Mrs Bates, can you move your car? They're trying to get a trailer down to the pub.'

‘I'll be back.' She waved and disappeared, leaving her basket on the counter. Gabe took the opportunity to pay, then set off out of the shop at a pace that hurt her aching legs, wondering how Mrs Bates could take two and two and come up with six.

As they reached to the pub, Fin touched her arm and Gabe jumped.

‘Sorry.' He tilted his head to the side. ‘Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?'

Gabe turned and smiled. ‘Sounds wonderful, but, um, do you have your wallet?'

‘Oh, damn, I forgot about that.' He tapped his forehead with his right hand.

She laughed. ‘Lost your memory along with your boat?'

‘Must have.'

‘Well, I think stopping for a drink is a wonderful idea, and I'll pay,' Gabe said, heading into the pub.

Once they had their drinks, they sat down on the lower terrace. The sun was so warm that Gabe shed her jumper. September was the perfect month, she thought, with its blue skies, warm sun and few tourists, just enough to keep the local businesses happy but the roads reasonably clear.

‘Do you know everyone here?' Fin held his pint.

‘Sort of . . .' She paused. ‘I spent much of my childhood here.'

‘Perfect.' He glanced out towards Falmouth Bay.

‘Yes.' Gabe thought of the early years when her father was still around. ‘Where did you grow up?'

‘Here and there.'

Gabe frowned.

‘My father was a diplomat.' He traced a finger through the condensation on the side of his glass. His fingers were long, but they weren't a musician's hands. ‘I did spend many summers in Fowey, though, with family.'

‘Lovely.'

‘It was, yes.'

‘I don't mean to intrude . . .' Gabe pursed her lips, trying think of how to ask this.

‘But you will.' He raised and eyebrow and Gabe noted the hints of green in the deep-set blue eyes.

‘Why are you staying with us if you have family in Fowey?'

‘Fair question.' He sipped his beer. ‘They sold the house this spring when my grandmother died and the family couldn't agree on who should have the house.'

‘Oh.' Gabe continued to study him, hoping he'd reveal more. When he didn't volunteer anything further, she asked, ‘And you normally live . . . ?'

He rolled the pint between his hands. ‘You see, that's the problem. I don't
have
a normal at the moment.'

Gabe tilted her head to one side, waiting for him to continue.

‘Normal disappeared when my wife left me for her best friend.'

‘Oh!'

‘Oh, really doesn't cover it.' He gave a dry laugh. ‘I was so
shocked I wanted nothing to do with my old life because it was a lie.'

‘I see.'

‘I wish
I
had,' he said, shaking his head. ‘But enough about me.' He grinned, revealing slight dimples. ‘You live with your grandmother?'

Gabe nodded, thinking that didn't sound very good, a thirty-year-old woman living with her grandmother.

‘And she's the famous artist Jaunty Blythe.'

Gabe sucked in a mouthful of air, wondering how he knew. There were no photographs of Jaunty in any magazines or papers, no interviews . . And then she remembered that Jaunty had taken him to the studio.

 

Jean
. Gabriella must understand that Jean is the key.

After my first year studying in Paris my style was improving but Jean's – Jean's was special. It was based on hard work and sound skills but somehow, despite the technical ability underlining it, her work was innocent, even slightly primitive. Under each painting was a flawlessly executed sketch but once she used paint it altered. I wish I knew how she achieved it.

She hated that she was broke, so I suggested she send her paintings to a gallery owned by a friend of my father's. They liked her work and took her on.

Jaunty stood and closed the window. Champagne. When had she last had champagne? All this thinking of the past was opening memories so long put away . . .

‘I am drunk.' I look out of the window to the courtyard far below.

‘Me too.' Jean raises the bottle of champagne and brings it close to her face. ‘We may need another bottle.'

‘We do.' I turn and smile.

‘It's all thanks to you.'

I laugh. ‘Nonsense. The paintings wouldn't have sold if they weren't wonderful.'

‘Really?' Jean's face brightens. It is the first time I have seen self-doubt in her.