Cottage by the Sea (42 page)

   "Oh… this one's my favorite, Blythe," Richard complimented her, pointing to a particular rendering. "Will you dry some of the herbs, or just sell them fresh?"

   "Both," she told him promptly, smiling over his head to let Luke know that she was glad to see him as well.

   "Would you teach me how to dry them?" Richard inquired, his eyes alight.

   Before Blythe could answer, Luke said, "You'll be away at school, I'm afraid, when the herbs come up in the spring."

   A stricken look invaded the ten-year-old's eyes, and he turned to his father pleadingly.

   "Please… Daddy… couldn't I go to Mevagissey Day School—"

   "The matter's been settled, son," he said firmly. "Please don't go on about it. You'll ruin Blythe's breakfast."

   Blythe retreated toward the kitchen area and asked over her shoulder as she arranged their tea things on the tray, "When do you go back to school, Dicken?"

   "This Friday," he said miserably. Then he blurted out, "I hate it!"

   "Richard!" Luke said sternly.

   Blythe's heart went out to the boy, but she remained

silent. After they'd finished their tea and Blythe had nibbled on a scone for politeness' sake, she asked Luke to drive her to the village so she could attempt to fax Lisa Spector from the stationer's shop next to the post office.

   "So you still haven't made up your mind," Luke asked as the three of them headed down the Gorran Haven road.

   "Made your mind up about what?" Richard asked, sounding apprehensive.

   "Richard, don't be rude!" Luke said sharply. "This concerns adults, so you must refrain from being a pest."

   Richard leaned back and began rhythmically jamming the toe of his cowboy boot into the driver's seat in front of him.

   "Stop that!" Luke called over his shoulder irritably.

   Silence reigned, except for the hum of the car.

   In an attempt to lessen the tension crackling inside the Land Rover, Blythe said carefully, "I'm thinking of selling some property I own, Dicken." She declined to look at Luke when she added, "I've decided to ask for some advice from my lawyer… solicitor, I mean."

   "Oh," the boy said, sounding both relieved and chastened.

   In the tiny stationer's shop Blythe paid nearly ten pounds to fax the stack of documents that Christopher had given her. The last page transmitted electronically was a draft letter that detailed Christopher Stowe's promise to repay to Blythe half of the profits of the sale "at a date to be determined," guaranteed by some form of Chris's collateral, "the nature of which is also to be determined," she wrote Lisa, "since Herr Stowe has apparently pledged practically everything he owns to get his picture finished."

   In a "P.S." she requested that Lisa Spector call her to discuss the matter at the Barton Hall number at four or five o'clock that afternoon, Cornwall time, or at the latest, the following morning after eight.

   Luke and Richard both appeared to be in a subdued mood when Blythe rejoined them near the car.

   "I meant to ask you earlier," Blythe said with a nod in the direction of the tower of St. Goran's Church, silhouetted against an overcast sky. "Do you recall any member of your family named William?"

   "William who?" Luke asked, perplexed.

   "Well, that's just it," Blythe replied. She explained how she had found the words "For William" scrawled on the back of four of Ennis's seascapes.

   "I've never noticed that name on the chart," Luke said thoughtfully. "And I doubt those paintings have been taken down off the walls for a hundred years."

   "Since St. Goran's is just down the road, do you suppose I could have a tour of the Reverend Randolph Kent's former domain? And while we're at it," she added, "maybe we could also have a look to see if there's some William BartonTrevelyan-Teague in the family plot? Perhaps on one of the gravestones?" she suggested.

   "Well… all right," Luke said reluctantly, prompting Blythe to assume he wasn't pleased to encourage her in the realm he felt best left to his cousin Valerie.

   Luke, with Richard following closely by Blythe's side, first conducted her on a tour of the stone church. She felt her pulse begin to quicken as she surveyed the chapel's chilly interior, which had remained, over two hundred years, nearly identical to the St. Goran's she recalled from her observation of Kit and her namesake's marriage ceremony.

   As the trio emerged into the crisp September sunshine, Luke pointed to a row of weathered headstones in the burial ground. However, hard as they searched among the older grave markers, there was no sign of any eighteenth-century William having been buried in the family plot in St. Goran's churchyard.

   However, an enormous headstone whose carvings were encrusted with moss-green lichen attracted Blythe's attention.

   "Collis Trevelyan…" she murmured. "Right where he belongs, the old skunk!" Luke looked at her strangely. "Valerie told me some wonderful tales about his smuggling activities," she added quickly. "Is it true that he stored contraband that couldn't be hidden at Barton Hall or Trevelyan House right here in this graveyard?"

   Luke nodded but didn't elaborate on the story.

   "Daddy?" Richard said in a small voice. "Can we show Blythe where Mummy's buried?"

   "I don't think that's how we should entertain our guests," Luke said, his voice suddenly sounding tight. "Come, son… I think we all should go home,"

   "If you'd like to show it to me," Blythe said softly, "I'd very much like to see your mother's grave, Dicken."

   The boy slipped his small hand into hers. He led her to a section of newer headstones, where he gazed at a marker made of pink marble. Freshly carved dates chronicling his mother's birth and death were etched deeply into the stone.

   Sensing the child's pent-up grief, Blythe knelt beside him and put her arms around his small frame. His slender shoulders began to quake, and then he turned to her shoulder, no longer able to hold back sobs that wrenched her own heart.

   "I know, Dicken," she whispered into his hair. "You miss her so much. It's all right, sweetheart… it's all right to cry."

   At the sound of his son's weeping, Luke abruptly turned and stalked out of the churchyard. Fortunately Richard wasn't aware of his father's angry departure. He continued to cry the deep, cleansing tears of a child long denied his own sadness.

   Luke was sitting stonily behind the wheel when Blythe and Richard climbed back into the Land Rover. For his part, Richard looked a bit pale, but he immediately began to chatter about his plan to help Mr. Quiller and the workmen measure the lengths of plastic that would soon enclose the remaining hothouses.

   "But first, how about some lunch?" Blythe suggested, displaying a cheerfulness she certainly didn't feel. Luke had not uttered a word to either of them since he strode out of St. Goran's churchyard.

   Within minutes the car rolled to a stop behind the old pony stable. Also parked next to its high stone wall was Chloe Acton-Scott's dark-blue Jaguar.

   "Hello, darlings?" she called, slamming the door to the driver's side. Richard's godmother was clad in a subversively simple suit and silk blouse the color of ripe peaches. A waistlength double strand of pearls nestled provocatively between her fulsome breasts. Considering that the rest of them were all wearing trousers, one might say the woman was a tad overdressed for the country. Or one might say she looked absolutely stunning.

   "Chloe… what a surprise…" Luke said with less than his usual grace.

   "You haven't looked in your diary," she chided him with a frosty smile in Blythe's direction. "I'm to take Richard for his final fitting of his school uniform today, so he'll have it ready before he leaves for Shelby Hall on Friday."

   Blythe darted a glance at Luke's son and was dismayed to see fresh tears rimming the lad's eyes.

   "Oh… right you are," Luke acknowledged sheepishly. "I had forgot about the bloody uniform. Won't you join us for lunch?"

   "No time, I'm afraid," she replied crisply. "Can you have Mrs. Q pack you a quick sandwich, Richard, and come back here straightaway?" Without waiting for her godson to respond, she graced Luke with a coquettish smile and added, "We should be back around teatime. My parents are longing to see us both. Would you be free for dinner tonight in St. Austell?"

   There was a momentary pause, and then Luke replied, "How very kind. That would be lovely."

   He really
was
angry at her! Blythe realized with some surprise. She suspected that his irritation centered on her lack of resolve regarding the presumptuous demands of her ex-husband. Or was he upset by what had just transpired in the St. Goran's churchyard with his son? Either way, it appeared that he would seize Chloe's invitation as a means of punishing her for her sins.

   Typical Englishman! she seethed. Don't say what's bothering you! Just behave like a bloody jerk!

   By now Blythe's stomach was definitely in turmoil. She wondered vaguely if she was actually coming down with the flu.

   "If you all will excuse me," she said in a tight voice, "I'm actually not feeling up to par. I think, if you don't mind, Luke, I'll take the afternoon off."

   "I'll drive you home," he offered quickly. He turned to his son. "You run along with your godmother, Richard, and I'll catch up with you before Aunt Chloe and I leave for dinner."

   A sullen, stubborn look had replaced Richard's tears as he turned and headed for the back door of Barton Hall.

   "Actually," Blythe said, feeling both angrier and increasingly ill by the minute, "I'd rather walk."

   And before either Luke or Chloe could respond, she strode toward the public pathway where the sign's arrow pointed toward Painter's Cottage.

   
Bugger all!
she seethed, mentally adopting Christopher Stowe's most vulgar epithet, reserved for occasions of unbearable frustration. Luke was hopeless when it came to understanding children! What was it with these Brits? Some sort of cultural barrier to the simple act of giving their kids a hug when they were unhappy?

   Ten minutes later Blythe emerged from the shaded path. She had just caught sight of the slate roof of her rented abode when she heard Luke's car grinding its way around a curve in the road that separated the estate from the coastal properties.

   He rolled to a stop just as she secured the gate to her own field.

   "Blythe! Wait!" he called through the car window. "Are you sure you're all right?"

   "No! I'm not!" she retorted angrily, and kept walking.

   Luke jumped out of the Land Rover and caught up with her by the time she reached her front door. The tide was out, and now dark cumulus clouds had gathered on the horizon like a big black cat, ready to pounce.

   "Blythe, please!" Luke began tersely, grabbing hold of her arm to force her to look at him. She stared at him without expression. "Believe me, I don't look forward to dinner with Chloe and her parents. It's just that I didn't appreciate you stirring up unpleasant memories where Richard is concerned, and I stupidly—"

   "Unpleasant! We're not talking 'memories' here," she said, with biting sarcasm. "We're talking
wounds,
for God's sake! You can't expect him to deal with his grief as you have! You can't ask him to stifle such unpleasant little emotions like losing his
mother
!" Blythe felt tears filling her eyes. "He's only a small boy… and after two years coping with this gigantic loss—utterly on his own, Luke—he's still bleeding from every pore! As far as I can see," she cried in a ragged voice, "you and Chloe are a pair of matched bookends!"

   And with that she ran into the cottage and slammed the door. Blindly she made her way to the bathroom in the nick of time and was profoundly sick to her stomach.

B
y the time the sound of Luke's retreating Land Rover was heard no more, Blythe wandered out of the bathroom in a daze. She stumbled across the cottage floor and sank into the chair that faced the window overlooking the Channel. Mercifully her nausea had ceased. In fact, she now felt perfectly well, except for a slight sensation of light-headedness.

   With stunning clarity she knew that her health problem had nothing to do with an incipient ulcer. Nor did she have the flu. Not even the unexpected appearance of her ex-husband had caused this stomach distress.

   Luke's scrupulous attention to modern birth-control methods the previous six weeks could not mitigate the consequences of twenty-four hours of abandoned lovemaking the day they discovered the letters in Ennis Trevelyan's trunk.

   Blythe's hands trembled as she flipped through the pages of her daybook. Her period was fifteen days past due.

   
Gawd Almighty, Blythe, you're up to your hips in it now!

   Her grandmother had always said, "About half your troubles come from wantin' your own way, young lady. The other half come from gettin' it."

   Blythe rested her hands on her belly as tears suddenly filled her eyes for the second time that day. This was Luke's baby as well as hers. In St. Goran's churchyard an hour earlier she had witnessed a graphic demonstration of the man's aversion to the emotional needs of his own flesh and blood. She couldn't bear it if he welcomed this baby—if, indeed, there was a baby—with the same lack of enthusiasm that he had exhibited toward Dicken most of the summer.