neck.
The Falmouth market run was a routine he’d enjoyed with his father for as long as he could remember, until his father was taken by illness three years ago. He was eighteen then, and suddenly overwhelmed with responsibilities many thought beyond his years. But he’d since proven his doubters wrong.
The farmer’s eyes settled on the track that wound away to his left, leading down to Helford Passage. She was late. He had been there nearly thirty minutes. Maybe the weather. He grew anxious, his heartbeat quickening. Then at last he saw her and a cool breath filled his lungs.
She moved as though gliding to some delicate score only she could hear. And although this humble farmer had not yet had the good fortune to see her anywhere other than by the river or on this often muddy track, he knew that her gift was enough to stop all conversation as she entered a room, drawing all eyes to her. And he knew that when she left again, that room was left a dull place and that every man’s heart therein suffered an unfulfilled longing. Lowenna... His Lowenna. She flowed towards him in her bright yellow silks, unprotected by the small matching parasol she was carrying. And although wet through and dishevelled, she seemed to care nothing for her state.
As she drew closer the farmer heard her cry his name. He rushed to meet her and knew that all was not well. Her jade eyes looked troubled. His excitement faltered, giving way to trepidation. This was not the Lowenna who had come to meet him on so many other happy occasions. His concern stopped him and Lowenna slowed as she approached. He could see her tears now and he reached for her, holding her to him.
Lowenna did not speak.
She pulled away but his strong hands held firm. Then she reached into a bag that had gone unnoticed over her slender arm and took out an ornate box. She pushed it towards him, and he took it without awareness, all the while looking into her eyes - eyes that spoke for her. He shook his head in denial of what those eyes were saying - what he already knew to be true. He thought she tried to smile through her tears, but only pain showed on her face. Then the space between them grew and their hands fell apart, leaving the farmer lost and numb as he watched Lowenna turn and run.
Chapter Sixteen
L ady Celia Fairborne was in the sun washed drawing room at Rosemullion Hall, failing to distract herself with a few fashion magazines. Behind the glossy images of ever diminishing models parading the latest designs, she was contemplating her recent phone call from Reverend Jolliffe and this American genealogist who was coming to see her. She slapped the magazine shut and threw it hard into the armrest at the far end of the settee. At any other time she would have been excited to talk to Mr Tayte - to learn more about the family; that had been her reaction when the Reverend had phoned earlier. But a timely call from her husband soon afterwards had changed all that in an instant.
Six double-height, leaded windows were alight with the blaze of a full afternoon sun. They looked out unhindered across a perfectly manicured lawn to the south that was randomly scattered with topiary chess pieces standing some five feet in height. The view led the eye down and through the estate gardens to a deep perimeter of dense shrubs and prickly gorse, delineating the fringe of the estate, to the coastal path and the sea that lived beyond Rosemullion Head. The room itself was half oak-panelled and decorated in soft neutral tones behind an array of family portraits.
Celia Fairborne was waiting for her son to join her for a much needed chat. She’d called for Warwick immediately after receiving her husband’s phone call, and she had not expected him to come promptly; Warwick seemed far too distracted of late.
Where is the boy?
She went to the window, taking in nothing of the
The Falmouth market run was a routine he’d enjoyed with his father for as long as he could remember, until his father was taken by illness three years ago. He was eighteen then, and suddenly overwhelmed with responsibilities many thought beyond his years. But he’d since proven his doubters wrong.
The farmer’s eyes settled on the track that wound away to his left, leading down to Helford Passage. She was late. He had been there nearly thirty minutes. Maybe the weather. He grew anxious, his heartbeat quickening. Then at last he saw her and a cool breath filled his lungs.
She moved as though gliding to some delicate score only she could hear. And although this humble farmer had not yet had the good fortune to see her anywhere other than by the river or on this often muddy track, he knew that her gift was enough to stop all conversation as she entered a room, drawing all eyes to her. And he knew that when she left again, that room was left a dull place and that every man’s heart therein suffered an unfulfilled longing. Lowenna... His Lowenna. She flowed towards him in her bright yellow silks, unprotected by the small matching parasol she was carrying. And although wet through and dishevelled, she seemed to care nothing for her state.
As she drew closer the farmer heard her cry his name. He rushed to meet her and knew that all was not well. Her jade eyes looked troubled. His excitement faltered, giving way to trepidation. This was not the Lowenna who had come to meet him on so many other happy occasions. His concern stopped him and Lowenna slowed as she approached. He could see her tears now and he reached for her, holding her to him.
Lowenna did not speak.
She pulled away but his strong hands held firm. Then she reached into a bag that had gone unnoticed over her slender arm and took out an ornate box. She pushed it towards him, and he took it without awareness, all the while looking into her eyes - eyes that spoke for her. He shook his head in denial of what those eyes were saying - what he already knew to be true. He thought she tried to smile through her tears, but only pain showed on her face. Then the space between them grew and their hands fell apart, leaving the farmer lost and numb as he watched Lowenna turn and run.
Chapter Sixteen
L ady Celia Fairborne was in the sun washed drawing room at Rosemullion Hall, failing to distract herself with a few fashion magazines. Behind the glossy images of ever diminishing models parading the latest designs, she was contemplating her recent phone call from Reverend Jolliffe and this American genealogist who was coming to see her. She slapped the magazine shut and threw it hard into the armrest at the far end of the settee. At any other time she would have been excited to talk to Mr Tayte - to learn more about the family; that had been her reaction when the Reverend had phoned earlier. But a timely call from her husband soon afterwards had changed all that in an instant.
Six double-height, leaded windows were alight with the blaze of a full afternoon sun. They looked out unhindered across a perfectly manicured lawn to the south that was randomly scattered with topiary chess pieces standing some five feet in height. The view led the eye down and through the estate gardens to a deep perimeter of dense shrubs and prickly gorse, delineating the fringe of the estate, to the coastal path and the sea that lived beyond Rosemullion Head. The room itself was half oak-panelled and decorated in soft neutral tones behind an array of family portraits.
Celia Fairborne was waiting for her son to join her for a much needed chat. She’d called for Warwick immediately after receiving her husband’s phone call, and she had not expected him to come promptly; Warwick seemed far too distracted of late.
Where is the boy?
She went to the window, taking in nothing of the
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