Pamela Sherwood (9 page)

Come, and I will lead the way

Where the pearly treasures be.”

Her voice rose, gratifyingly clear even in this vast space. A faint echo resounded from the walls and ceiling, but not strongly enough to distort the sound. Encouraged, she sang on:

“Come with me, and we will go

Where the rocks of coral grow.

Follow, follow, follow me!

Follow, follow, follow me!”

She lowered her voice just a fraction, let it become confiding, even enticing. Mermaids were sirens, after all, eager to lure unsuspecting mortals beneath the waves. Enchanting creatures, but dangerous too—she added a note of cajolery as she embarked on the next verse:

“Come, behold what treasures lie

Far below the rolling waves,

Riches, hid from human eye,

Dimly shine in ocean’s caves.

Ebbing tides bear no delay,

Stormy winds are far away.

Come with me, and we will go

Where the rocks of coral grow.

Follow, follow, follow me!

Follow, follow, follow me!”

She let her voice rise triumphantly on the last chorus and fell silent—only to find Mr. Pendarvis staring at her so intently that she began to feel self-conscious after all.

“Do you not care for the song, Mr. Pendarvis?” she ventured. “Or was I a trifle off-key?” She didn’t think she had been, but perhaps he had heard otherwise.

He shook his head almost absentmindedly, his gaze still upon her. “No, no—you were note-perfect, as far as I could tell. And the song was—quite pleasing. Fitting, actually.” A faint smile crooked his lips. “You look like a Nereid in that dress. My idea of one, anyway.”

Sophie felt herself flushing at the compliment. “Thank you,” she said, striving for a light tone. “I love that song; it’s been one of my favorites since I first heard it. Whenever I sing it, I try to pretend I
am
a mermaid. Haydn wrote so many charming songs, didn’t he?”

“Charming, indeed.” He continued to study her, a faint crease etching itself between his brows. “You should really do something with that voice of yours,” he said, almost abruptly. “If your family would just let you go and have some proper training in London—”

“It’s not as if they’re stopping me!” Sophie protested loyally. “And I
am
going to London next spring. Mama and Harry have even suggested that I study at a conservatory—someplace like the Royal College of Music.”

The crease smoothed out. “Have they indeed? Good. Because you’re wasted here, performing at musicales and evenings at home. As a professional singer, you could have the world at your feet, if you chose.”

“At my feet?” The thought seemed incredible.
She
, the daughter of a provincial Cornish baronet, singing on the stage? Holding audiences in the palm of her hand?

“I mean it.” His voice was gentle, but his gaze held an intensity that took her breath away. “Let’s have no false modesty, my dear. You have a rare talent, and a fair amount of stage presence as well. Cultivate both, and you could go far indeed—concerts, recitals, even the opera.
If
that’s what you want, of course.”

“I’m not sure what I want, exactly,” Sophie confessed, feeling suddenly very young and uncertain. “I dearly love music—singing and playing. I always have. But I’ve never considered making a career of it!”

“Understandable. Young ladies aren’t generally encouraged to seek careers, or any other outlet, save a good marriage. And perhaps I am taking great liberties even to suggest such a thing. Your family probably wouldn’t thank me for it,” he added with a rueful grimace. “But I’m afraid that I have a deep-seated aversion at seeing talents go to waste. Would you think me unforgivably impertinent if I ask you to consider what I’ve said?”

“Not at all. I’m flattered that you think my abilities worth the trouble,” Sophie replied. “And who knows? Perhaps someday I
will
be a famous singer and give a concert at the Royal Albert Hall.” For a moment, an image of herself—splendidly gowned and bejeweled—standing upon a stage rose in her mind. She forced it back at once, sternly telling herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “But we’re discussing
your
dreams today, Mr. Pendarvis. Namely, how you can turn the Hall into the best, most popular, most sought-after resort hotel in Cornwall!”

He relaxed, smiling. “Point taken, Miss Tresilian. Have you any further suggestions regarding this gargantuan ballroom of mine?”

Sophie pursed her lips. “Well… I did hear a bit of an echo while I was singing, but a carpet and perhaps some heavier curtains should take care of that, I think. And the advantage of a salon this size is that you needn’t limit the number of performers here. You could invite a whole choir or even an orchestra!”

Mr. Pendarvis looked slightly daunted at the prospect, but to his credit, he nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind, although I think it may be prudent to start small. A few singers, perhaps a string quartet.”

“Or an elocutionist…”

They spoke a while longer, suggesting various acts and possible alterations to the room to make it more comfortable for performers, then, by mutual consent, they strayed out through the French windows and onto the terrace.

Leaning against the marble balustrade, Sophie breathed in the fragrance of countless flowers, borne toward them on the mild spring breeze. “It’s coming alive, all around us. Your dream—can’t you feel it?”

He rested his folded arms on the stone coping. “If it is, then I know entirely whom to thank for it, Miss Sophie.”

His compliment pleased her, but she shook her head. “
You’re
the visionary, Mr. Pendarvis. I’m just adding a few embellishments.”

“Without embellishments, this vision would still be bare bones. Whereas now”—he glanced toward the house rising tall and stately behind him—“it has some
allure
to it.”

Sophie gazed out at what she could see of the gardens, a softly undulating sea of flowers, shrubs, and blossoming trees. “I take it you have plans for the grounds as well?”

“That is the easiest part, by far. The grounds and gardens need little alteration to appeal to guests. They can wander wherever they like. There’s a rose garden, an herb garden—not to be confused with the kitchen garden—a formal garden, boxwood hedges, and a fountain.”

“A fountain?” Sophie echoed, charmed. She was fond of fountains and rather regretted that Roswarne did not have one. The sight of water leaping into the air, the dancing droplets sparkling in the sun, lifted her spirits in the same way that watching the tide come in did.

“And a reflecting pool—too shallow to drown in, fortunately,” he added. “And a small maze that’s simple enough to avoid getting lost in.”

“Children would enjoy that,” Sophie said with conviction. “And they’ll need to be entertained too, if their families come here. Have you a tennis court?”

“Yes, actually. And lawns for croquet or bowling,” he added, much struck by the thought.

“What about sport? Is there a trout stream on the estate? James has one at Pentreath.”

“There’s a lake. Great-Uncle used to keep it stocked with trout and perch, but he lost interest in fishing during his last years. I could start things up again there.”

“Shooting?”

He shook his head. “Great-Aunt Martha didn’t care for it, and I must confess I don’t either. Besides, I’d be worried for my guests’ safety with all those guns about. I don’t know that we even have much in the way of game birds on the property anymore. But whatever there are may continue to thrive unmolested. Same for foxes—I’m not about to have the Four Burrow Hunt riding hell for leather through the grounds either.”

“I’ve heard the best hunting is south of here, in any case.”

“Good—I don’t wish to ruffle too many feathers among my new neighbors.” He paused, his gaze turning reminiscent. “I don’t know if Great-Uncle ever rode to hounds, but some Pendarvis ancestors might have. There’s a hunting lodge across the park—a good ten minutes away on horseback. It hasn’t been used in years and is probably in poor repair. I may have it razed and build something else. Perhaps a holiday cottage for guests who want more privacy.”

Sophie glanced over in the direction of the gardens again, frowned as something caught her eye. “What’s that over there? It looks like—a cupola?”

Mr. Pendarvis followed the direction of her gaze. “There’s a pavilion, just beyond the rose garden. Not large, but rather pretty nonetheless. It’s not too far. Should you like to see it?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

Together they descended the short flight of stairs leading from the terrace to the gardens.

***

Enclosed by boxwood hedges, the rose garden was an oasis of color and fragrance. The flowers were just beginning their first exuberant bloom: a riot of rich reds, soft pinks, and creamy whites all unfurling in the spring sunshine. Sophie inhaled deeply—the rose garden at Roswarne was her mother’s pride and joy, but this one appeared no less lovely. At any other time she would have been pleased to stop and explore further, but at the moment, her attention was fixed on the structure just visible beyond the last hedge.

It was worth the walk, she decided as she and Mr. Pendarvis emerged from the rose garden, and the pavilion came into view. She’d pictured a marble rotunda, solid and perhaps a little squat, but this was more graceful, even dainty. Slender, white-painted columns upheld the tiered roof, the pinnacle of which was formed by the tiny cupola she’d first spied, and delicate latticework framed the arching windows and ornamented the walls, which rose no higher than one’s waist. Honeysuckle twined about the pillars and festooned the roof, their creamy trumpets giving off a perfume that was enticing now and would be downright seductive by evening.

“It’s lovely,” Sophie declared without reserve, and her host smiled.

“This is a new part of the Hall,” he told her. “Well, new as in within the last twenty years or so. Great-Aunt Martha wanted a gazebo where she could take tea alone or with friends. Mama liked it too, and I remember coming here a few times, when I felt I needed a bit of privacy. The grounds-keeper maintains it well—it’s needed only a few repairs over the years. Shall we?” He gestured for her to precede him up the steps into the pavilion itself.

The teak floor felt reassuringly solid beneath Sophie’s feet. She drifted from archway to archway—eight of them, making the building an octagon—and admired the view from each one. Smooth green lawn stretched away on all sides, ideal for picnics or suppers
al
fresco
, she pointed out to Mr. Pendarvis, who stood leaning against the archway closest to the steps.

“A possibility,” he acknowledged. “Or afternoon tea on the lawn.”

“And the pavilion isn’t too tiny,” Sophie mused aloud. “I was thinking—a string quartet could fit in here comfortably enough. And with those open walls, you could place rows of chairs on almost all sides of the pavilion, except behind the performers, of course.”

“You’re proposing outdoor concerts as well?”

“Why not? Doesn’t London hold concerts in the park on occasion? You could do something similar here.”

“Wouldn’t that be tempting fate? I know how often it rains here.”

“True,” she conceded. “But one could say that about nearly every place in England. And we do have fairly mild springs and summers. You could put up an awning over the seats for cooler afternoons and evenings, or move things indoors if rain
should
come on.” She looked up at the underside of the roof. “And this would be a lovely place to perform. Less formal than the ballroom, and romantic too, especially in the evenings. Can’t you imagine it? A summer evening, with all the stars out and perhaps a full moon, and the honeysuckle in bloom…”

“As long as no one complains of the ague afterward.”

Sophie shook her head. “Men! You haven’t an atom of true romance in you!”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m content to leave the romance to women, my dear. But forgive me—I don’t mean to be a spoilsport. And the idea has its charms… summer concerts at the hotel. Perhaps you’ll become a great singer one day and perform here as a guest artist. All the best people will come flocking down to Cornwall just to hear you.”

“Now who’s being a romantic?” Sophie scoffed lightly. “But, I admit, I should be delighted to sing here someday.” She drifted to the center of the pavilion floor and gazed out across the lawn, imagining it all: a balmy summer evening, graced by a silvery crescent moon, the air fragrant with honeysuckle and roses, the lilt of violins, and a sea of faces gazing expectantly up at the stage.

Holding the picture in her mind, she began to sing, her voice lower and more intimate than in the ballroom: “
Once
in
the
dear
dead
days
beyond
recall, / When on the world the mists began to fall
—”

She broke off at the expression on Mr. Pendarvis’s face; the canted brow gave him a wry, quizzical look. “What?”

“What do you know of
days
beyond
recall
? You’re seventeen.”

He sounded bemused rather than condescending, but Sophie flushed defensively. “Eighteen, nearly. And perhaps I understand more than you think.”

She glanced up at the roof above her and continued with the chorus, still singing at half pitch but with a springwater clarity that filled the whole pavilion:

“Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low

And the flickering shadows softly come and go,

Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long,

Yet still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,

Comes Love’s old sweet song…”

As the last notes faded into silence, Sophie stole a glance at Mr. Pendarvis to find him staring at her, his face unguarded in a way she had never seen it. The firm line of his mouth was relaxed, almost soft, and his eyes…

She caught her breath as the air flashed electric between them. Then, in the next instant, he shouldered away from the pavilion entrance and closed the distance between them in two strides.