Secrets of Nanreath Hall (4 page)

I handed the pad back, my stomach tight, my fingers trembling.

There was no way to discern his thoughts from the strong line of his jaw or the flecked green gleam of his eyes. I could only grip the rough plank of my seat and wait.

“I stand corrected, Kitty Trenowyth,” he said quietly.

A slippery excitement curled up my spine, and I shivered.

“So if you aren't dreaming of jewels and a closet full of ball gowns, what
do
you want?” he asked.

Dare I speak? I felt his eyes on me, a little curious, a little admiring, and courage spread warm like honey along my stiff limbs. “I want to attend art school in London.”

I waited for his laughter. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully. “So why don't you?”

“You've met my parents. I'm destined for an advantageous marriage with a young man of good family and the proper political aspirations.”

“They can't force you to marry some dull clod with an upper-class lisp and the right school tie.”

I hugged myself against the chill as the day's heat was replaced by a cool storm breeze and stared out at the ocean, now sullen and white-capped. The air smelled of rain.

“Are you happy, Kitty?”

His question hung suspended in my mind. Three little words that I could not adequately answer. Was I happy? I had everything a girl could want: a family that loved me even if they didn't understand me; a beautiful home, fine clothes, freedoms other young ladies my age would kill for. So why was I so discontented? Why did I feel the need to escape at every opportunity? Why did the security of family and rank and wealth feel less like a net and more like a noose?

He leaned close, and before I understood what was happening, his lips touched mine. A soft brushing that sent my senses tumbling. I knew I should recoil with a slap to his cheek to put him firmly in his place, but I couldn't breathe for the glorious expectation of something . . . though I knew not what at the time, only that I ached for it with every cell in my body. His body was hard and muscular. I could feel his strength as he held me and smell his aftershave and hear his breath.

When it was over he smiled, not the impish grin or the cynical smirk but a smile of genuine warmth and respect. “Papa would definitely not approve.”

Cornwall

October 1940

A
nna stood on the station platform, bags at her feet, heavy coat slung over her trunk. By the light of a crescent moon, she strained to check her watch against the station's ancient clock. Eleven on the button. Six hours later than she'd been expected, but there had been no help for it. Her train had been sent to a siding twice to sit idle as endless cars of freight rolled by toward the coastal ports at Southampton and Portsmouth.

She wandered the platform, hoping to locate a telephone or a porter, but neither seemed available, and the doors were locked tight. A village lay in a shallow valley below. No welcoming lights, but the gray and silver outlines of rooftops and chimneys gleamed in the frosty moonlight, and Glenn Miller floated on the cool breeze ruffling her collar. Perhaps someone there could drive her to Nanreath Hall.

Leaving her trunk for collection in the morning, she hoisted
her duffel on her shoulder and set off down the road, praying some nutter with dimmed head lamps didn't come whizzing round a curve in the dark and smash her flat. As she clung to the verge, she listened for the telltale growl of a motor, but aside from the strains of distant music and the creak of tree branches, all was quiet.

At the crest of an old stone bridge, she paused to rest and catch her breath. What seemed a short walk from the top of the hill had become a long, tiring slog on narrow, winding lanes lined by high hedges and thick copses of trees. Wiping a sleeve across her forehead, she stretched and windmilled her bad shoulder before leaning against the baluster, watching the sliver moon shimmer and ripple among the mossy rocks below. The wind smelled sweet and loamy, but she tasted the brine of salt at the back of her throat along with the tartness of sea air.

Leaving her bag, she clambered down to the shore where she scooped up a handful of water and splashed it against her face and ran a damp hand over the back of her neck. She dipped her hand in again and impulsively put it to her lips. Icy, the water bit against her tongue and cramped her empty stomach.

The low drone of planes drowned out the faint notes of “Begin the Beguine.” Anna stiffened. Her hands trembled, and her throat closed around a sob. The muscles in her calves tightened as she crouched like a rabbit caught by the poacher's lamp, and she squeezed her eyes shut, whispering under her breath.

This was not France. The road was not clogged with panicked refugees, their hands outstretched and eyes pleading for help as the ambulances crawled ever west and north toward the beaches. These were slow, ponderous Junkers, not the deadly German Stukas. Her hands were not covered in Harriet's blood; her shoulder was not shattered and useless as she struggled to escape the sinking cruiser.

This was England . . . this was England . . . this was . . .

She took a deep breath, letting the past wash through her. She refused to fall to pieces, yet still she reached to massage her opposite shoulder as a ghost pain seared her right side.

The bombers continued eastward, the terrible drone of their engines fading beneath the normal country night sounds of creaking branches and nesting birds. She struggled to her feet. “You'll never get posted to a forward hospital that way, Anna old girl,” she chided herself.

Beyond the eastern horizon, flashes of light burst across the sky accompanied by a string of earth-shaking thumps. She jumped, shoulders twitching toward her ears, heart leaping in her chest. So focused on the
whump-whump-whump
echo of falling bombs, she never heard the bang and rattle of a horse-drawn wagon heading toward the bridge until it was skittering on the road above her.

“What the devil?” Gravel spat as the wagon racketed to a halt. “Ho, boy. Easy now. Easy.”

Anna scrambled up the bank to the bridge to find a broad-backed gray horse stomping and tossing its head and mouthing at the bit.

“You there,” a man shouted from the wagon's bench seat. “Are you trying to cause an accident?”

“I'm sorry,” Anna began politely. “I only meant to—”

“Who leaves their bloody luggage in the middle of the road at night where anyone could blunder into it?” He set the brake and tied off the reins before clumsily lowering himself to the ground. “I nearly ran into the creek avoiding a collision with your unmentionables. Bloody fool woman.”

She hoisted her duffel to her shoulder. “You needn't be insulting. How was I to know you'd come charging down the road as if the hounds of hell were after you? This isn't Oxford Circus, after all.”

He soothed the horse with a murmur and a pat on its flank,
rubbed its nose until it butted at him, whuffling its contentment. “A good thing. God knows what sort of mayhem you and your luggage would create there.” As he approached, the moonlight shone on a thin, pale face, long, narrow cheekbones, and eyes of a luminous gray that narrowed as he studied her. “What are you doing wandering around out here in the middle of the night anyway?”

Anna adjusted her cap. Straightened her cuffs. Set her coat round her shoulders. “My train was delayed and I've missed my ride. I'm due at the convalescent hospital at Nanreath Hall.”

His gaze traveled from the top of her horrible navy-blue “egg cup” hat to the RAF gold eagles on her collar down to her sensible shoes. “You're a nurse?”

“Red Cross Voluntary Aid Detachment.”

“So you're here to do the muck work the proper sisters don't have time for.”

“I'll do whatever is needed for those who need it most.” She took in his disheveled state of dress, wrinkling her nose at the powerful scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and stale perfume, adding, “I'm very good at dispensing aspirin and making strong coffee.”

“I'll wager you are.” He snorted his disdain. “Come along. I'll take you. If I leave you to walk to Nanreath alone, you're liable to be shot as a spy by some overzealous farmer or wander onto the moors and be trampled by a sheep.”

“I wouldn't want to put you to any
more
trouble.”

He took her duffel and tossed it into the back of the wagon. “No trouble. I'm headed there anyway.”

“You work at the hospital?”

“That's one way of putting it. The name's Hugh, by the way.”

He didn't sound like a local farmer, but then what did she know of the inner workings of grand estates? Perhaps he was part of the medical staff or a governmental functionary.

“How do you do? I'm Miss—” She hesitated. If he'd been working at Nanreath Hall for any length of time perhaps he was acquainted with the Trenowyth family. Even if he was part of the temporary staff, he might have gossip about them to pass along, a hint of what she might be getting herself into with this ridiculous posting. “I'm Miss Handley.” She swallowed the lump in her throat along with the white lie. “Miss Anna Handley.”

“It's nice to meet you, Miss Anna Handley. Now that the social niceties have been dispensed with, can we be on our way? It's been a long night and my bed awaits. I might even manage a few hours' sleep before I'm routed out at dawn.”

He helped her onto the bench, where she smoothed her skirt over her knees and folded her hands in her lap. With another awkward clamber, he was beside her, taking up the reins.

“Is it far?” Anna asked.

“A few miles south of here. It won't take long unless we come across more of your lot tramping the Cornish hills.” He slanted her a skeptical glance. “An army of misplaced VADs wandering in circles?”

“Just me.”

“Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Well then, let's be off.”

A slap of the reins and the wagon jerked forward, nearly tossing her into his lap. Hugh steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. Anna moved away with a cool stare down her nose until he slid to the far side of the bench with a chuckle.

“You can't fault a lad for trying. It's a pretty night, you're a pretty girl, and I'm properly soused. But I'll not push where I'm not wanted. Don't worry.”

She couldn't help the smile twitching her lips. “Oh, I'm not worried. I grew up in the city. I know how to deal with rats.”

He laughed, his surliness easing into friendly sociability. “I like you, Miss Handley. You can leave your luggage scattered about in the road anytime.”

They set off, the village falling behind them until it was finally lost from sight behind a wrinkle of hills as the ground rose toward the western cliffs.

“It was very patriotic of Lord Melcombe to donate his house to the war effort, don't you think?” she ventured.

He gave a twitch of his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the road. “It was donate or have the government conscript it. Besides, the drafty old pile might as well be used for a worthwhile cause. The family only occupies a few rooms anymore.”

Anna ran a finger along her locket's chain. “Are they nice?”

He shot her a sidelong look, his mouth a thin, stern line. “About what you'd expect from an old aristocratic family clinging to its privileges with every ounce of influence it still possesses.”

“You don't sound as if you like them very much.”

He shrugged again, his face turned away from her and lost in darkness. “I don't.”

Anna subsided into silence, letting the rocking wagon ease her into a half doze, letting the pain in her heart bloom and spread. Her face hurt, and her throat closed around a lump the size of a football, but she couldn't cry. Not even for Graham and Prue. She'd tried in the weeks since she'd departed London, but her tears had dried up. She had none left to shed. Only a dull ache that pressed against what was left of her heart.

The wagon turned onto a narrow avenue overhung by sheltering lime trees. The growl of the ocean was louder now and the wind snapped at her curls and stung her cheeks. Across a wide meadow, chimney pots and a slice of crenellated roof appeared and disappeared between the curtain of trees.

“Is that the house?” She turned to see Hugh slumped at the reins, his cap pulled low over his face, as he snored lightly. “Here now, are you mad?” She shook his shoulder. “Wake up!”

He thrashed, eyes wide and staring, body vibrating with rage and fear. “Shit all! Scotty, look to your tail! Jerries at—” Slowly his unfocused gaze settled on her face with visible relief. “You,” he said gruffly. “You're determined to stop my heart one way or another, aren't you?”

“You could have put us in a ditch—or worse.”

Hugh wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “Napoleon knows the way home better than I do. Why do you think I take him when I want to go into the village? He's far less bother than a driver, and he never breathes a word of what I've been up to, no matter how Mother might snoop.”

Anna's stomach began a slow sink into her shoes. “Mother?”

“The chatelaine of the lordly manor, Lady Boxley.”

“Oh dear. So you're . . .”

“Host and chauffeur, the Earl of Melcombe.” He tipped his hat. “At your service.”

H
ere now, shut that door. You'll have the ward sister on us for violating blackout rules.” The young woman hurrying down the stairs toward Anna was dressed in the familiar VAD ward uniform of blue dress, white apron, and veil.

“It's my fault, Tilly.” Hugh—her very own cousin Hugh—slid in behind Anna. “I thought I'd bring her in the back way so she might snatch a bite to eat and maybe a doze before she faced the onslaught.”

The change in the woman's demeanor was immediate. She put a hand to her veil with a coquettish smile, her brisk scurry slowing to a hip-swaying saunter. “Lord Melcombe, I should have known you
were up to your tricks again.” She wrinkled her pert little nose as she came closer. “Phew! You smell like a distillery. Your mother will be fit to be tied if she catches you in such a state.”

“The second reason we came in through the sculleries, my dear. I can slip up to my rooms and none will know the extent of my inebriation.”

Hugh—should Anna call him Lord Melcombe? No, he had introduced himself as Hugh. He was smelly, drunk, and dissolute, a far cry from what she had imagined a peer of the realm should look like. But he was her cousin. And he had a mother, presumably making her Anna's aunt. She'd gained two relatives in the space of thirty seconds.

Tilly gave Hugh a kittenish pout. “You just leave everything to me, my lord.”

“I always do.” He gave her a quick buss on the cheek before swinging his attention to Anna. “This is where I take my leave of you, Miss Handley.”

Heat crept into Anna's cheeks at the reminder of her lie. She thought about confessing, noted his bloodshot eyes and drunken posture and chose to keep silent. He'd probably not even remember her in the morning, much less her last name.

“Nurse Jones will see you settled and pointed in the right direction. She's a whiz at avoiding Matron when she needs to.” He winked.

“But I don't want to avoid her,” Anna replied, feeling slightly besieged.

“It's nearly one in the morning, you're a wrinkled mess from a long day on the train, and you're swaying on your feet. None will expect you to report until morning. In the meantime, Tilly can find you a billet, and when you present yourself tomorrow you'll be spruced up and in fine fettle for the old dragon.”

“I shouldn't . . .”

But Tilly had already grabbed the duffel from Anna's hands and was making for the stairs. “His lordship's right. Matron's gone to bed and the sisters on duty are busy on the ward. Best to come along with me, but be quick. If Sister Murphy catches us, we'll be scrubbing until our hands fall off.”

Anna followed as they climbed the narrow stairwell up to the slope-roofed attics.

“Keep your voice down and step lightly. The floors creak something terrible.”

An uncarpeted corridor stretched for about fifty feet before branching, a lamp set on a table giving off a stark, ugly light. Tilly hurried Anna down and around the corner, finally stopping in front of the last door before another broader stairwell. “Home sweet home.” She dragged Anna into the small room and flipped on the light.