Secrets of Nanreath Hall (5 page)

Three narrow iron bedsteads took up most of the space, two in various stages of tidiness and one stripped bare to the ticking. A locker and ladder-back chair stood sentinel beside each bed. Someone had managed a dressing table out of four fruit crates and a plank, prettying it up with a piece of frilly fabric in a sickly shade of mauve. A silver framed photo of a young man sat atop it beside a cut-glass bottle of expensive Après L'Ondée perfume and a jewelry case with a gold key in the lock. Thick flannel blackout curtains stretched across a single window. A mirror hung on the back of the door, photographs and magazine clippings haphazardly shoved into the frame.

“We'll get your kit sorted tomorrow. In the meantime, that one's mine.” Tilly pointed to the messier of the two made beds. “Get some sleep. I'll wake you when I come off duty.”

“Thank you,” Anna said, eyeing the thin mattress, army-issue sheets, and lumpy pillow with lust in her heart.

“My pleasure.” With a last friendly smile, Tilly dropped the bag, snapped off the light, and vanished back the way she'd come.

Anna sat on the bed with a tired stretch. Flopped backward onto the pillow with a whush of spent breath to stare up at the ceiling. She closed her eyes as every muscle slowly unkinked, but her thoughts ran in ever-tightening circles. She pulled the locket free of her blouse and snapped it open. As always she was met by Lady Katherine Trenowyth's serene and unchanging expression. “I've done it. I'm at Nanreath Hall, Mama. Now what?”

L
ight roused Anna from her nightmares. Not the soft, seeping light of a new dawn, but the glare of a handheld torch. A hand shook her by the shoulder. “It's all right. It's just a bad dream. You're safe now.”

Heart racing, Anna struggled up through a soupy fog to find a pert, oval face framed in dark chocolate curls hovering inches from her own.

“Better now?”

She sat up, running a hand over her face. “Yes, much. Thank you.”

The face and the torch withdrew. “You had me worried. I thought you might knock my teeth in the way you were thrashing about in the bed.”

Anna squinted to see the clock. Three
A.M.
She'd slept an hour at the most, and that had been a fitful, anxious rest leaving her drenched in a cold sweat, temples throbbing. “Sorry to be a bother. Miss Jones let me stay here. I'm to report to Matron in the morning. I'm Anna, the new VAD.”

“I'm Sophie Kinsale. How do you do? Always nice to meet a fellow worker bee.” She spoke in plummy Mayfair tones as she snapped on the overhead. “Are you quite certain you're feeling well? I've seen cadavers with more color.”

“Much better, thank you. Suppose I'm a little skittish about starting in a new place.”

“Seemed more than skittish nerves to me.”

Anna offered her best reassuring smile, an expression she'd perfected after weeks in hospital. “That's a . . . uh . . . lovely overcoat.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “It's a flea-bitten mess, but it belonged to my father and reminds me of home. Charles says it's like hugging a mammoth.”

She shrugged out of the ankle-length raccoon-skin coat. Skimming off her tunic and loosening the top button on her blouse, she stood in front of the mirror, lip chewed between her teeth as she tilted her head side to side in close examination.

“I think you're safe,” Anna offered finally.

Sophie stiffened, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your neck. It's fine.”

Sophie spun round, cheeks flaming red. “Please don't say anything. Matron would have my head.”

Anna leaned back on her pillows, her nightmares naught more than a vague unease now, though she knew if she closed her eyes they would return. They came every night without fail. Dark and insidious, dragging her back to the chaos of France when the world seemed on fire. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

Sophie's shoulders slumped in relief. “You must think me a horrid flirt or worse, but I'm really not a Sodom and Gomorrah type, I swear. Charles . . . that is . . . Lieutenant Douglas is shipping out. Tonight was our last night together. I suppose we got a bit carried away.” She undressed, neatly tidying away each article of clothing before donning a pair of silky pajamas straight out of a Hollywood picture.

“It's hard saying good-bye.”

Sophie dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her washrag. “I didn't realize how hard until I left him standing alone at the railway station. In that moment I would have happily thrown my reputation away for five more minutes.”

Anna felt a leaden weight choking off her breath. If only she'd opened up to Graham and Prue during that last visit. If only she'd shared her heartbreak and her fear. If only she'd told them she loved them one last time.

With quick, deft strokes, Sophie removed her makeup and began the arduous process of brushing out her hair then putting it up in curlers. “You're a real sport. Matron would rake me over the coals for breaking the rules.”

“What would she do to you?”

“I don't know, but she once caught a nurse and a young man in a broom cupboard. Sent the young woman packing.”

“What did she do to the young man?”

Giving her scarf-covered curlers a final pat, Sophie snapped off the overhead and slid into bed. “Oh, he returned to his outfit and was shot down during the Norway campaign. Lost his leg.” She paused and drew a soft, sad sigh. “Now he drinks too much, smokes too much, and when he's not behaving outrageously, he putters about this rackety old place like a lost soul.”

Anna's hands curled around the edge of her blanket. “Are you talking about Lord Melcombe?” That explained his awkwardness around the wagon tonight, and why he wasn't in uniform now.

“So you've met him, then.” She gave a helpless sigh. “Hugh's always been a bit wild—he was a positive fiend in London before the war—but it's grown worse since he lost his leg. Charles says he needs to get away from Nanreath before his mother swallows him up. That this place will pull him apart bit by bit if he lets it.”

“He knows Lord Melcombe?”

“The two of them were at Eton and then Cambridge together.”

Of course they were. Sophie oozed wealth and breeding. She probably took tea at the Savoy, wintered in Biarritz, and played badminton with princesses, too. And now she served meals, scrubbed floors, and gave sponge baths. Just like Anna. War united them in common purpose. Bombs and bullets didn't discriminate. Rich and poor bled equally.

“Luckily, Charles is a third son so he doesn't have the weight of an earldom hanging round him like an anchor,” Sophie said, her voice already heavy with sleep. “Hugh has been carrying Nanreath Hall like a burden since he was four.”

“What happened to his father?”

“He was wounded and gassed in the last war. Never regained his health and died shortly after. The family never recovered. Scandal, debt, and now poor Hugh. It's enough to make you wonder if the Trenowyths are cursed or something.” Sophie's eyes closed, her breathing slowed. “Wake me at six, would you . . . uh . . . what did you say your name was again?”

Even as Sophie relaxed into slumber, Anna rolled over, her face to the wall. “It's Trenowyth.”

London

October 1913

M
r. Balázs's London art studio inhabited a narrow, redbrick creeper-covered building in the Grosvenor Road. The ground floor was taken up with sculleries, offices, and storage, from which seeped the acrid aromas of glazes and varnishes, paint, linseed oil, and turpentine. On my way up the stairs to the first floor where he lived and worked, I caught teasing glimpses of canvases stacked three deep, easels, and long sink counters cluttered with bottles and jars, brushes and old rags—an Aladdin's cave of artistic riches.

“Welcome to my abode, Lady Melcombe,” he said with a continental bow and a kiss for my mother's hand. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I've sent for some refreshments.”

My mother nodded graciously as she took a seat on a velvet-covered sofa, arranging her skirts in a pose of patient serenity. One I could never duplicate in a thousand years.

“And Lady Boxley? She is well?” he inquired politely.

“Much improved, now that we are assured of the child's survival.”

Perhaps if one's definition of
improved
included wild swings between sullen indifference and smothering attentiveness. I smothered my cynical snort in a bout of coughing until Mama shot me a stern look.

Hugh Xavier James Roland Mannering Trenowyth had been born far earlier than suggested by the specialist Papa had hired as an accoucheur. Barely bigger than a kitten, he hardly stirred in his cot or made a sound, and for some weeks, we hovered in a painful state of expectation and dread.

“Lord Boxley must be so proud,” Mr. Balász proclaimed. “A man's son is his guarantee of eternity.”

Besides a flicker behind her eyes, Mama's mask never wavered. “He is the most satisfied of fathers.”

More coughing. Mama handed me a peppermint and then studiously ignored me.

In fact, William had returned to Nanreath Hall only briefly after Hugh's birth. A whirlwind visit that left no one satisfied. He spoke little and nothing of consequence, though I pressed him more than once. He would laugh and turn aside all seriousness, as if he'd not a care in the world, though there were moments I caught him staring at the baby with a look of confused sorrow, as if facing a calamity that left him without hope.

“I expect Lady Katherine's final sittings won't take too long.” Mama's imperial command was couched as a polite request.

“No time at all, my lady.” Mama started to rise, but Mr. Balázs motioned for her to relax. “I do not like distractions as I work, you see. We will leave the door open, and she will be well looked after, I assure you.”

Mama subsided, and I followed him into a bright, airy room
lined with north-facing windows. A large easel took up one corner, the canvas hidden from my view. In the middle of the room, a simple straight-backed chair had been placed.

“I wore the same gown as you instructed,” I said as I removed my wrap and draped it over a convenient column to reveal the gaudy confection of sea-green silk. In the autumn chill of his airy studio, I felt goose bumps rise along my bare arms and up the back of my neck.

He moved quickly and efficiently, arranging palettes and brushes and small jars on his worktable. “Would you like to see what I have accomplished so far, Lady Katherine?”

“Oh yes, please,” I said, my discomfort forgotten.

The portrait set me in Nanreath's rose garden on a white metal bench. Even unfinished, one could sense the drowsy peace and muted late-summer colors in the meticulous strokes of his brush. But I saw nothing of myself in the roughed-in charcoal sketch of the girl almost glaring out at the artist, her hands twisted in her lap as her hair lay twisted against her head, chin hard, lips thin. Did I really look like this? So . . . unhappy?

“You don't like it?” he asked mildly.

“I suppose it's always a little surprising to discover how the world views us, isn't it?”

“And it is perception as much as observation. So much of what we believe is hidden is actually visible if one has the eyes to see.”

I thought of Mrs. Vinter's comment on my picture of William; she had spoken of my ability to capture emotion with my pencil, the spirit rather than the facade.

“If I'm not mistaken, you understand when I speak of these connections between the soul and the mask,” Balázs said quietly.

“I understand. I only hope my father does, as well, or you'll be minus your commission. No offense intended, but he's not likely
to hang me among the family's elite looking as if I've been sucking lemons all day.”

Balázs continued watching me for another long, penetrating moment then laughed, his mustache wobbling in amusement. “Perhaps you're right. And I certainly wouldn't want to deny you your place among Melcombe's generations. We shall bend honesty a bit and in the doing make Lord Melcombe pleased as a pig in mud.”

A clatter from the outer sitting room followed by the murmur of conversation caught my attention.

“I'm just back, sir.” Simon Halliday, windblown, paint spattered, and incredibly handsome, poked his head round the door, carrying a paper parcel. His face stiffened when he saw me. “Good afternoon, Lady Katherine.”

I remembered those lips touching mine, the cautious exploration that left me breathless and yearning before sense reasserted itself. The way his heart beat under my hand, the pulse in his throat and my own swaying of limbs.

“Mr. Halliday, how nice to see you again.”

“You're late,” Mr. Balázs snapped. “I sent you over an hour ago. See to Lady Melcombe and then get about your business. The day is half over and you've barely begun.”

“Of course, sir.” With a quick smile and a roll of his eyes, he was gone, but that heady, bubbly feeling I'd once felt in his presence returned, and I shivered.

“Please, my lady. Be very still!”

I subsided, and for the next hour and a half I sat unmoving, until just when I thought I must scratch my nose or die, he laid down his brush and wiped his forehead with a large spotted handkerchief. “We are finished for today.”

As if on cue, Simon reappeared with a restorative cup of tea. “Helps get the blood flowing after sitting still for so long.”

I rose stiffly, my foot asleep, a crick in my neck. The tea was hot and thick with milk and sugar, just as I liked it. “Thank you.”

I barely noticed when Mr. Balázs departed to speak to my mother. Instead, I sipped at my tea, nibbled on a biscuit, and tried desperately to think of something—anything—to break the stilted silence between us. What was it about this man that emptied my brain and tied my tongue like no other person I had ever met? “I hope you've been well.”

Simon handed me my wrap. “Very well, thank you.”

“Mr. Balázs sounds like he's keeping you very busy.”

“I don't mind. Hard work helps me forget for a little while.”

I started to question him about what he wanted to forget when he suddenly moved away and to the painting. “I sometimes think I've mastered my craft and then I see a portrait he's done and I'm struck all over again by how much I have yet to learn.”

I joined him, stomach tight, hands clenched. Reluctant to be faced once more with Balázs's unflattering version of my discontent.

Instead, the braced shoulders had been softened so that I looked at ease as I bent toward the sun that filtered green and gold through the leaves to gild the bench and the pearled comb in my hair. Subtle shading and layering of color had transformed the pinched, sour expression into one alive with an almost iridescent radiance. A smile barely touched my lips but shone clearly through my wide, clear eyes.

“He's captured you perfectly,” Simon said quietly.

We stood shoulder to shoulder, and though the room remained chilly and clouds cast a gray, cheerless pall over the room, warmth dampened my skin and heat burned in my cheeks, for I recognized immediately what Balázs had perceived in those minutes while I sat, body immobilized, mind flying free.

M
y journal became my confessional as I spent the following days recounting every look that passed between us and each word we'd exchanged, plumbing them for hidden meaning and import. When facts failed me, I daydreamed our next meeting, our next conversation . . . our next kiss. Daydreams seemed all I was liable to have. I'd no idea how we might ever meet again. Papa had visited Mr. Balázs and deemed the portrait a success. It had been wrapped, crated, and sent on to Nanreath Hall. My time with Simon had run out before it even began.

Or so I thought.

“Good afternoon, Lady Katherine. Are you enjoying the exhibition?” he asked, appearing as if by magic as I wandered the National Gallery, catalog in hand. Soon we were discussing the merits of Maris and Pissaro, the hours passing in a blur of heated conversation and congenial argument.

“How wonderful to see you tonight, my lady. Looking forward to the performance?” This time we met by the stairs to Covent Garden's upper balcony during the interlude. He bought me an ice and we laughed over the horrid dialogue and the plodding plot until the bell sounded us back to our seats.

“Let me take those packages before you topple,” he offered, accepting my latest Selfridges purchases as I tried to summon a cab. In company, we meandered down Bond Street, stopped at a tearoom for late-afternoon sustenance, and ended in Hyde Park feeding the ducks from the crumbs.

Each arranged accident was more exhilarating than the last. Each hour spent in each other's company cemented the notion more firmly in my mind that Simon Halliday was a man who would be very easy to love.

Taken up with their own comings and goings, neither Mama nor Papa paid close enough attention to note the increasing number of
wild coincidences, and my maid, whose job it was to act as duenna, was easily persuaded by Simon's charming, careless manner to allow us more than the usual privacy as we visited galleries and exhibits, attended concerts and musical revues at Bechstein Hall and the Palladium, and window-shopped along Bond Street.

October slid into November. Days stretched golden and warm beneath blue, cloudless skies, the entertainments were endless, and when women cast sidelong glances at Simon, as they always did, I would smile in secret delight that someone so polished and handsome cared for me.

I should have known it wouldn't last and that when the storm broke, it would break in spectacular fashion.

The day didn't start out dark and brooding. Rather, the afternoon clouds bunched like cotton across a deep blue November sky, and the temperature had warmed enough to make me perspire beneath the jaunty poplin jacket I sported as Mama and I made the short walk from Reville's in Hanover Square to the family town house in South Audley Street after a long session of dress shopping.

“Kitty, slow down. We're not running a foot race.” Mama paused to dab at her brow. “And I'm not as spry as I once was.”

“Sorry, Mama. I can't help it. Everywhere I turn, there's always so much going on. I suppose I feel that if I dawdle, I might miss something.”

“That's no excuse for scurrying as if you were eluding a constable.”

“No, Mama.” I slowed to her pace as we continued onto Bond Street.

“I want to find something nice for Cynthia. It's been a difficult time for her these last few months. Pearls, I think. Or perhaps sapphires. They would look perfect with her golden hair.”

“Isn't this something William should be doing? I mean it's
his
wife and
his
son.”

“What goes on between your brother and his wife is none of your concern.”

“But doesn't it seem odd to you that he's only been to Nanreath once since Hugh was born? I would think he'd be over the moon, or at the least mildly excited,” I pressed.

The corners of Mama's mouth turned down, her hand upon her bag tightening. “Marriage is a complicated matter, Katherine.”

“What's complicated about love?”

It was my turn to hurry after Mama, who plowed ahead, leaving my questions behind.

We turned off the busy thoroughfare and into a side street, letting the current rush past us. Here the way was narrower, the buildings and shops closer together. Held to Mama's pace, I had the time to study the passersby—two nursemaids pushing prams, a maid flirting with a footman in a doorway, a workman with a barrow of building supplies.

“Dearest heavens! What on earth?” Mama's voice faltered as did her stride. “Katherine Trenowyth, what have you done?”

I joined her before a cluttered bow window displaying a series of framed paintings on easels; a few pastoral landscapes or dour still-life interiors, but high in a corner framed in a light golden wood was a small portrait of a young woman.

I couldn't breathe, and I glanced around in helpless desperation, as if I might wake to find this moment a horrible nightmare. “It can't be.”

But it was.

The artist had caught me as if I'd just turned, a smile of joy upon my sun-browned, freckled cheeks and dancing in my blue eyes. My tangled red hair spilled free of its pins to curl around my ears and
over my bare shoulders. I reposed upon a couch, sheets tangled over my hips and artistically draped to insinuate without completely revealing.

“Shameful.” Mama's voice had gone icy and remote, her eyes hard as agates. “You look as if you just rose from . . . well . . . I shall say no more.”

She was right. This was the pose of a woman in love; a woman made for love, body ripe, lips kiss swollen, a gaze both knowing and coy. Shocked, I couldn't turn away. Is this what I looked like? Surely not. This woman possessed a dashing confidence I would never have in a million years. She exuded lust and satisfaction and wisdom born from experience.

“It's not me.” Shame washed over my back in a cold sweat, leaving my knees trembling. “It can't be.”

“Who could possibly have created such an abomination?” Mama asked, the merest thread of panic entering her voice.