HIGH TIDE AT MIDNIGHT

HIGH TIDE AT

MIDNIGHT

Sara Craven

Trevennon had a dark and tragic history.

As a child, Morwenna had listened to her mother's stories of Trevennon, her

old home. Morwenna had pictured a castle full of the magic of love, standing

high on the cliffs of Cornwall.

So when tragedy struck the eighteen-year-old Morwenna, she fled to

Trevennon. Contrary to her expectations, she found a house full of

unhappiness and hostility - Dominic Trevennon's hostility.

But strangely, Dominic capture Morwenna's heart as completely as her

mother's stories had captured her imagination. Only this time, the story

didn't seem to have a happy ending.

'WELL, I wish to make one thing perfectly clear at the outset. She cannot

remain here.'

The new Lady Kerslake's voice, almost strident in its vehemence; resounded

plainly through the closed drawing room door, freezing Morwenna where

she stood, her hand already raised to knock. A number of thoughts chased

wildly through her head as she assimilated Cousin Patricia's words—among

them that it would be far more honourable to turn and walk away, pretending

to herself that she had heard nothing, and that eavesdroppers never heard

anything good of themselves anyway, but at the same time she knew that

wild horses could not make her budge an inch. And it might be a relief to

find out what her cousin really thought, as opposed to the saccharine

sweetness she had been treated with up to now.

'Oh, Mother!' It was Vanessa speaking now, her voice slightly impatient.

'You can hardly turn her out on to the streets. She has no training and no

qualifications. You know as well as I do that she simply wasted her time at

school. What on earth's she going to do?'

'That is hardly our responsibility,' Lady Kerslake returned coldly, 'She chose

to neglect her opportunities. She can hardly complain now if they no longer

exist. And it was up to her father to make suitable financial provision while

he was alive. He knew quite well what the entail involved.'

'Perhaps, but he could hardly foresee that he and Martin would both be killed

in the same accident. Martin was the heir, after all, and he would have

looked after Morwenna.'

Standing motionless in the hall, Morwenna felt a fresh stab of pain inside her

at the casual words. But Vanessa was right in a way. No one could have

foreseen on that bright autumn day, only a few weeks before, that before

night came she would have been quite alone in the world, her father and

brother both dead, victims of a freak collision with a lorry whose brakes had

failed on the steep hill outside the village.

She had always known that the entail existed, of course. Had even laughed

ruefully with Martin over the male chauvinism in this era of Women's Lib of

the insistence that the baronetcy and the estate should still descend through

the male heirs only. The future hadn't filled her with a great deal of concern.

She was barely eighteen, after all, and more interested in having a good time

than considering her future prospects. And her father had encouraged her in

this. Always he and Martin had been there like bulwarks, and she had basked

secure in the certainty of their affection and spoiling. Until that day—when

the chill wind of reality had shown her how fragile her shelter had been.

The solicitors had been very kind, and had explained everything in great

detail, including the fact that there was not a great deal of money for Cousin

Geoffrey to inherit. Her father, she learned for the first time, had been

speculating on the stock market and suffered some considerable losses.

Given time, Mr Frenchard had said, he would have recouped these

losses—his business acumen was considerable. Only he had not been given

time.

During the weeks since the funeral Morwenna had felt that she was existing

in a kind of curious limbo, and this impression had been emphasised with

the advent of Cousin Geoffrey, whom she hardly knew, and his rather

domineering wife, whom she did.

Cousin Patricia, she knew, had expected to find herself a wealthy woman

and had been less than entranced with the true state of affairs, although

becoming Lady Kerslake and occupying the house, a gem from the reign of

Queen Anne, must, Morwenna surmised drily, have been some consolation

at least.

At first she had been inclined to gush over Morwenna, but as the days

passed, her manner had become more distant. Not that they had ever been

close, Morwenna thought. And she had never been on friendly terms with

Vanessa either, even though her father had insisted they attend the same

school and had paid both lots of fees to achieve this. She had wondered since

whether Vanessa had resented this, or whether her main source of grievance

had been simply that her younger cousin had the ability to skate lightly over

the academic waters where she had frankly floundered. Whatever the cause,

Vanessa's hostility had at times been almost tangible, and there had been

little softening of her attitude since her arrival at Carew Priory. On the

contrary, Morwenna felt at times that Vanessa was frankly gloating over the

reversal in their fortunes. She'd had to be very careful over everything she

did and said, making certain that Mrs Abbershaw the housekeeper went to

Cousin Patricia for her instructions, even remembering to knock before she

entered rooms where the family had gathered. Suddenly she was the outsider

in her own hjpme. Yet no longer her own home, as Lady Kerslake was

reiterating with some force.

'And I can't imagine why you should be so concerned, Vanessa,' she added

with asperity. 'You've never cared for her particularly.'

'I don't care for her now,' Vanessa retorted waspishly, 'but we have to

consider what people will say, and her | „ father and Martin were extremely

well liked locally. We don't want to start off on the wrong foot.'

'Indeed not.' Lady Kerslake gave a deep sigh. 'What a problem it all is! I had

no idea the wretched child was simply going to hang around here aimlessly.

Wasn't there some talk of a painting school?'

'There's always talk of something where Morwenna's concerned. But you're

right, she was supposed to be joining Lennox Christie's class at Carcassonne

this month. Whether he'll be so keen to have her now that the fees are not

forthcoming is a different matter. It's a well-known fact that he fills up his

class with rich dilettantes in order to pay for the pupils he really wants.'

Morwenna's fingers, clenched deep in the pocket of the loose knitted, jacket

she was wearing, closed shakingly round the envelope she had thrust there

not half an hour before. She had seen the postman coming up the drive from

her bedroom window and some premonition had told her what he was

bringing, and she had run down to intercept him. All the letters were taken as

a matter of course to Cousin Patricia now before they were distributed to the

appropriate recipients, and Morwenna knew that a letter with a French stamp

would have attracted just the sort of attention that she least wanted.

And her sense of foreboding had been fulfilled. Vanessa might almost be a

thought-reader, she told herself despairingly. Lennox Christie's letter had

been courteous but adamant. The work she had shown him at her initial

interview in London, he wrote, did not justify him offering her a

non-fee-paying place in his class as she had requested. However, he would

be back in London in the spring, and she could always contact him then with

any new work she had produced, so that he could review his decision. It was

the final humiliation. The offer of a review in the spring was, she knew, put

in as a salve to her damaged pride.

She had never had a lot of faith in her ability as an artist. She had inherited

some of her dead mother's talent, and had been the prize pupil at school, but

she had had few illusions about how she would fare in the fiercely

competitive art world if ever her livelihood depended on it. It hadn't before,

of course, and only a sense of utter desperation had prompted her appeal to

Lennox Christie. She had sensed during their brief interview earlier that year

that he had been unimpressed with the range of landscapes and still life she

had shown him, but she knew at the same time that she was capable of better

things, if not the touch of genius which had been stamped on so much of

Laura Kerslake's work. She had not mentioned her mother's name to Lennox

Christie. There seemed little point. Laura Kerslake had been dead for over

ten years and she had painted little after her children were born. Besides, her

work was no longer fashionable.

Cousin Patricia had said as much soon after she had arrived at Carew Priory.

Morwenna had little doubt that those of her mother's paintings which were

hanging in the house would soon be relegated to an attic,- and replacements

sought for them in the trendy gallery in London which Lady Kerslake

patronised. She had hoped very much that she would be long gone from the

Priory before that happened.

She had never intended to stay there in any case. This was what made it so

doubly hurtful to hear herself being discussed as if she was some parasite.

She had always known that she would have to get a job of some kind. This

was why she had been on her way to speak to Cousin Patricia, to ask, cap in

hand, if there was any prospect of a job, however menial, at the trendy

gallery. At least she had been spared that particular shame, she thought

fiercely.

But that was all she was to be spared. Vanessa was speaking again. 'And are

you sure that she is just hanging around aimlessly? After all, she was seeing

quite a lot of Guy a few months ago before all this happened. Perhaps she's

hoping to revive all that again and use him as a meal ticket for life.'

Guy's mother gave an unfeeling laugh. 'I can't believe she's that naive,' she

exclaimed. 'Guy may have paid her attention while Robert and Martin were

alive, but the circumstances are different now, very different. Guy isn't a

fool by any means. She's quite an attractive girl, I'll grant you that, but if

she's hoping for anything more from him than just a casual affair, I'm afraid

she's going to be severely disappointed. Guy can do better for himself than a

penniless cousin.'

Vanessa's 'Mother!* was half laughing, half scandalised, but Morwenna

waited to hear no more. She turned precipitately and fled back across the

wide hall with its rich Turkey carpet and dark panelled walls, and up the

gently curving stairs.

In the past few weeks, one room in particular had become her refuge—her

mother's small sitting room in the West Wing. This was one of the few

places where Cousin Patricia and her 'little changes' had so far not

penetrated. Morwenna slammed the door behind her, then flung herself

down on the shabby brocaded sofa and gave way to a storm of tears. In a

way, it was a catharsis she had been needing. She had hardly shed a tear at

the funeral or afterwards, and had meekly accepted the tranquillisers that the

doctor, worried by her pale face and shuttered eyes, had prescribed.

Now grief, humiliation and rage all had their way with her, as she lay, her

face buried in the silken cushions. It was dreadful to contemplate how near,

how very near she had come to falling in love with Guy. As children, they

had been largely indifferent to each other on the few occasions they had met.

Then, in the early summer, she had met him again at a party after a gap of

several years. In fact they had hardly recognised each other, but the

attraction had been, as she thought, instant and mutual. Now she had to face

the fact that she had been the one who was attracted, and that Guy had only