A Cornish Stranger by Liz Fenwick

colour that was gone. The bright jewel hues and the subtle shifts in tone. Her joy, removed in an instant. She picked up the pen again.
    I have always been an artist. I was never, even as a child, without pencil and paper. My many governesses knew that I would sit for hours in a museum sketching, even from the age of five. I sometimes wonder if those early works exist somewhere. Mother had kept them all. What has become of my parents’ things? I know when she died, and father too. I researched it when I first came to Truro. Both of them had had obituaries in the Telegraph and The Times . Mother’s coverage had been bigger. Both obituaries said her heart had been broken and her voice had lost its power because of the deaths of her daughter and her husband.
    Jaunty closed her eyes. She had been the cause of so much pain, so much death.
    So my early work may have been thrown out or more likely it could be in the attic in my nonna’s house. That is, if it still exists, if it survived the war. There is so much that I don’t know and now never will.
    Then, of course, there was Polruan House. How I hated and loved that house at the same time. When my father was with me it was bliss, but when I was there without him it was dire. To my grandmother I was a disappointment because I was not the male heir she wanted for the Penroses. She did nothing but frown at me, then tell me how wonderful things would be when my mother bore a son. When the years passed and it was too late, she told me that it was my fault that my mother never had a son because she had given birth to me. I heard the whispered discussions about how sick my mother had been after my birth. I knew I must have been the cause.
    Jaunty looked up. Jackdaws were complaining in the pines and the wind blew in from the east. The sky should clear but the river would remain disturbed.
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    Gabe felt for the keys in her pocket. Her muscles were so sore that the thought of taking the car to the shop appealed, but if she moved her legs the pain might lessen, and the sun was shining, showing no storm that had raged only hours before. In fact, the sky was so blue Gabe wasn’t sure she had ever seen it so bright and clear. Were her senses heightened because she had damn near died? She glanced sideways at Fin. Although he was about a foot from her she could almost feel him. There was something about him that bothered her. Was it the way he looked so intently at her, almost seeing the pain locked away inside. Or was it his effect on Jaunty? More frightening, was it the thought of his hard, lean body? Part of her froze and the other . . . well, best not to think about it. But with him beside her that was proving difficult.
    She went past the car. The walk would help. He moved silently beside her, like a shadow, as if by saving him he’d become attached to her by invisible strings. She shivered.
    â€˜Still cold?’ His deep voice rumbled over her goosebumps.
    â€˜No, someone must have walked over my grave.’ Damn! That was not what she meant to say – it was too close to the truth. Despite what Jaunty had said about him being homeless, he oozed power and confidence and that was what was making her uncomfortable. He was a powerful man.
    â€˜Ah.’ He studied her, then turned away, looking out at the yellowed field, which sloped upwards towards the tall pines that marked its boundary at the top of the hill. Gabe had always loved this view. The trees, she thought, were like guardians of the river. How many times had she made this walk? Too many to count. Jaunty hated using the car so, no matter the weather, if they had needed more milk or bread then she had walked to the shop. The car remained parked except for a once-a-week trip to the shops and to Camborne for art supplies. Where possible everything had come by post. Gabe always suspected that the person who knew Jaunty best was the postmistress because her grandmother lived in a world of parcel