next morning, Mrs Wincanton telephoned to say that lessons were cancelled, and the following day when she arrived at Carlyon, the place rang with nervous tension. Then the blow fell.
‘Daddy’s taking us to Scotland for the summer,’ Angie cried. ‘We’re to stay in a real castle.’
On further enquiry it turned out that the castle belonged to friends of the Wincantons, Lord and Lady Hamilton. Lady Hamilton – Aunt Alice – was an old schoolfriend of Oenone’s and was Angie’s godmother. They were to spend July and August up there. The staff at Carlyon were to be put onto board wages, though Mrs Pargeter had agreed to go to Mrs Wincanton’s aged parents a few miles away because they’d recently lost their cook. All these arrangements had been made, it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye, and Beatrice was dismayed to find that she was to spend the summer on her own.
Several weeks passed, the loneliest weeks Beatrice had ever experienced, for she’d grown used to companionship and now it was gone. After the first few days without Carlyon, without Angelina, the tenor of her parents’ routine became unbearable. Wherever she drifted in the house she was in someone’s way, and she took to going for long walks with Jinx over the cliffs or down to the beach. Cornwall was starting to get busy with summer visitors. Sometimes when the tide was low she’d take that forbidden passage to the less visited next cove, where she’d become absorbed in the rockpools there because it was quieter. But she’d no longer imagine mermaids and palaces. Instead, like a good student, she’d draw fish and birds in her sketchbook, or if it was warm in the sun, sit and read novels from the pile Miss Simpkins had lent her, then when the tide was coming in she’d urge Jinx up the narrow steps cut into the cliff and pass home along the fringes of Carlyon’s gardens.
Her mother had started to encourage her to play tennis at the club further up the hill, where she joined the fringes of a group of the sons and daughters of families Delphine met through charity work or her French conversation lessons. They were friendly, not as grand as the Wincantons’ friends; they invited her to picnics and birthday treats, but still she didn’t feel a part of it all. The Wincantons had spoilt her for that.
When the weather was bad she found herself holed up in her bedroom at home, reading, or arranging and labelling her nature collections. Sometimes she was summoned downstairs to amuse her father by playing chess or reading to him. In the evenings they all sat together listening to the news of the Japanese invasion of China, whilst Delphine sewed and Hugh Marlow played endless games of solitaire, and Beatrice seethed with frustration and loneliness. And every time the postman came she hoped there’d be something for her. Sometimes there would be: a letter or a postcard badly spelt but enthusiastically written by Angelina, with a picture of a stag on it from Hetty.
Beatrice felt empty, yearning. There was a space to fill.
And then Rafe came.
Late July brought more visitors to St Florian, though because it was tucked away, and the beaches were small, it didn’t attract the big crowds. Still, the town was busier than usual. Small children hunted crabs in the rockpools at low tide, the jolly sails of boats skimmed the sea and the Italian ice-cream man set up his barrow on the quay.
One afternoon of intense heat and stillness, Beatrice took Jinx for a walk on the beach, seeking coolness by the water. Delphine had gone to bed complaining of a headache. Hugh was playing bridge at Colonel Brooker’s, a new development that ‘at least gives him an interest,’ as his wife said. Beatrice imagined the middle-aged men sitting round the table talking of the days when they’d diced with death in the trenches rather than gambling away small sums at cards. Yesterday’s men, all of them. Another war was coming, but it wouldn’t be theirs.
She passed a group
‘Daddy’s taking us to Scotland for the summer,’ Angie cried. ‘We’re to stay in a real castle.’
On further enquiry it turned out that the castle belonged to friends of the Wincantons, Lord and Lady Hamilton. Lady Hamilton – Aunt Alice – was an old schoolfriend of Oenone’s and was Angie’s godmother. They were to spend July and August up there. The staff at Carlyon were to be put onto board wages, though Mrs Pargeter had agreed to go to Mrs Wincanton’s aged parents a few miles away because they’d recently lost their cook. All these arrangements had been made, it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye, and Beatrice was dismayed to find that she was to spend the summer on her own.
Several weeks passed, the loneliest weeks Beatrice had ever experienced, for she’d grown used to companionship and now it was gone. After the first few days without Carlyon, without Angelina, the tenor of her parents’ routine became unbearable. Wherever she drifted in the house she was in someone’s way, and she took to going for long walks with Jinx over the cliffs or down to the beach. Cornwall was starting to get busy with summer visitors. Sometimes when the tide was low she’d take that forbidden passage to the less visited next cove, where she’d become absorbed in the rockpools there because it was quieter. But she’d no longer imagine mermaids and palaces. Instead, like a good student, she’d draw fish and birds in her sketchbook, or if it was warm in the sun, sit and read novels from the pile Miss Simpkins had lent her, then when the tide was coming in she’d urge Jinx up the narrow steps cut into the cliff and pass home along the fringes of Carlyon’s gardens.
Her mother had started to encourage her to play tennis at the club further up the hill, where she joined the fringes of a group of the sons and daughters of families Delphine met through charity work or her French conversation lessons. They were friendly, not as grand as the Wincantons’ friends; they invited her to picnics and birthday treats, but still she didn’t feel a part of it all. The Wincantons had spoilt her for that.
When the weather was bad she found herself holed up in her bedroom at home, reading, or arranging and labelling her nature collections. Sometimes she was summoned downstairs to amuse her father by playing chess or reading to him. In the evenings they all sat together listening to the news of the Japanese invasion of China, whilst Delphine sewed and Hugh Marlow played endless games of solitaire, and Beatrice seethed with frustration and loneliness. And every time the postman came she hoped there’d be something for her. Sometimes there would be: a letter or a postcard badly spelt but enthusiastically written by Angelina, with a picture of a stag on it from Hetty.
Beatrice felt empty, yearning. There was a space to fill.
And then Rafe came.
Late July brought more visitors to St Florian, though because it was tucked away, and the beaches were small, it didn’t attract the big crowds. Still, the town was busier than usual. Small children hunted crabs in the rockpools at low tide, the jolly sails of boats skimmed the sea and the Italian ice-cream man set up his barrow on the quay.
One afternoon of intense heat and stillness, Beatrice took Jinx for a walk on the beach, seeking coolness by the water. Delphine had gone to bed complaining of a headache. Hugh was playing bridge at Colonel Brooker’s, a new development that ‘at least gives him an interest,’ as his wife said. Beatrice imagined the middle-aged men sitting round the table talking of the days when they’d diced with death in the trenches rather than gambling away small sums at cards. Yesterday’s men, all of them. Another war was coming, but it wouldn’t be theirs.
She passed a group
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