Garth of Tregillis (12 page)

I strolled across the cove and as the tide was out was able to creep around the edge of the rocks into another and much larger bay. Here the pebbles were dark-coloured, mostly grey, black and brown, and it was impossible for me to imagine them as appearing anything other than they did at that moment, rounded by the action of the sea, but dull and uninteresting. I walked on the dry shingle just above the edge of the waves, then mounted a steep path that climbed the cliffs. Once on the cliff top I strolled along a narrow path in the short springing turf until the path turned in towards the land and dipped into a hollow in which was a small house surrounded by rather ramshackle outbuildings. As I approached I could hear a curious humming sound. It was a noise I had never heard before and held a strange insistent monotony. As I passed a shed from which this sound came I tried to peep in, but the door was shut fast and I walked on until I came to a low derelict building through the open door of which I could see piled fish-boxes and debris of all kinds and beyond it the figure of a girl sitting crouched over a bench near a dust-encrusted window.

I must have made some movement, for suddenly the engrossed figure swung around and I was gazing into Verity’s startled face.

As soon as she recognised me she broke into a wide smile.

‘How nice of you to call so soon! And how did you know where we lived? But I expect Paul told you,’ she rattled on.

And I was too shamefaced to admit that it had been purely by accident and my curiosity that I had discovered where she lived.

She beckoned me to step inside. ‘This is my workshop—such as it is.’ On the bench before her I could see an assortment of shining, polished stones of extraordinarily beautiful variations of colour, and she had evidently been engaged in inserting them into the bracelet that lay on a padded leather cushion. ‘I expect you didn’t imagine those wretched stones I was gathering would turn out to be such beauties,’ she said teasingly.

She pointed out the various stones. ‘That’s rose quartz,’ she said, indicating an exquisitely rosy-hued pendant. ‘This is cornelian and that golden yellow one is flint from Dorset. The green is jasper and probably some five hundred million years old.’

‘But they’re beautiful,’ I gasped. ‘How do you manage it?’

She cocked her head towards the droning sound that I had noticed. ‘That’s the tumbler: those pebbles that I collected on the beach are popped in there and turned continually for a week with coarse grit. For a second week they’re put in with grit of a finer quality and then I use a special polisher for the third week. That means that for three weeks that hideous noise keeps going. I’ve set up the sander as far away from the house as I could, but it’s impossible to escape it.’

She chatted on lightly and as I gazed around at the results of her handiwork I felt humbled. She was a true artist, I realized, appreciative of the things that escaped me, but her manner had that self-deprecating air that I had noticed when I had met her on the beach.

It became particularly apparent when she asked me into the house for tea. Somehow the conversation had reverted to Armanell. ‘She was so beautiful,’ Verity said, ‘like a fairy princess, and she and Garth made such a wonderfully handsome couple. I used often see them pass.’ Again her voice had that self-deprecating note that irritated me. Verity was an artist, a brilliant artist, yet she seemed to be eternally aware of the fact that she was a fisherman’s daughter. Apart from that, instinctively, I concluded that Armanell’s acknowledgement of Verity’s admiration had been condescending and anything but gracious.

Somehow or other Verity seemed to realize that I was not prepared to share her admiration of Armanell. ‘Oh, I know you think I’m a romantic, impractical sort of person, wrapped up in the tales of King Arthur and stories of noble deeds, but when it comes to keeping house I’m very much down to earth.’

I had to agree with her, because the small room in which we were sitting was sparkling with cleanliness. It was obvious that she devoted a great deal of her time to keeping house for Paul and his-father.

There was no sign, however, of either of them and Verity said by way of explanation, ‘Paul’s father is out fishing for pollock and Paul is probably down at one of the claypits—’

‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ a voice said from the doorway and, startled, we looked up to find Paul regarding us laughingly.

I saw a flush rise to Verity’s cheek at his unexpected appearance. ‘And what on earth has brought you back at this time of day?’ she demanded. Her tone was sharp, almost harsh, and I was not surprised to see the look of resentment that closed over Paul’s expression.

‘Simply that I’ve forgotten some vital statistics. I’ll fetch them now and won’t trouble you any longer.’ His manner was constrained and it was clear that he was not aware of the emotions that lay behind her attitude towards him.

‘And what is Miss Westall doing here, eating Cornish splits instead of being incarcerated in the Tregillis schoolroom?’ he inquired, turning towards me.

His manner was completely changed, his eyes warm as he surveyed me, and I could almost feel Verity shrink beside me as he excluded her.

‘Simply that the master of Tregillis has granted me a few days’

grace,’ I replied lightly.

‘I expect you’ll have lots of spare time, even after the lessons begin,’ he went on. ‘You must let me help you to get to know Cornwall. I’m quite a mine of information and I could take you to see some of our historic sights. I’m sure you’ve heard of St.

Michael’s Mount and of the castle of Tintagel?’

I nodded. ‘Isn’t that where King Arthur is said to have been born?’

‘Yes, a charming and romantic idea—except that he’s claimed by Brittany and Wales as well.’

While we had been talking, Verity had been clearing up the table. ‘How lucky you are to be a visitor, Judith! You’ll see all the places that I’ve never seen.’ Her voice was high and light, but the bitterness in it was unmistakable.

‘Goodness knows I’ve asked you often enough,’ Paul replied.

‘But it’s much less dreary going with someone you haven’t known all your life.’

There was a self-pitying tone in her voice that Paul didn’t miss.

He looked impatient and embarrassed. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Verity, must you be so impossible! You know you’ve refused time and time again when I suggested any sort of expedition and now you’re making a martyr of yourself just because I asked Judith.’

Looking both mulish and dejected, Verity carried a pile of dishes into the tiny kitchen and closed the door behind her with a small decisive crash.

Looking embarrassed and ill at ease at Verity’s show of petulance, Paul collected the documents he wanted and departed.

When he had gone, Verity returned to the sitting-room.

I knew that she resented his obvious interest in me and yet it was impossible for me to explain to her without offence that I hadn’t the smallest interest in him. His flattery was too obvious, his charm too easily assumed for me to be the smallest bit deceived by his attentions. This was the way he would treat any girl newly introduced into the small close society. To him she would be automatically a challenge; someone upon whom he would exercise his undoubted abilities to charm.

Then, to my horror, I realized that Verity was crying: the slow tears were coursing down her cheeks.

She laughed tremulously as she saw my look of horror. ‘Oh, don’t take any notice of me. There’s no use in my trying to hide the fact that I’m crazy about Paul.’

‘You’re in love with him?’ I asked, surprised.

She nodded and laughed wryly. ‘Ever since we were at school together! Somehow it was assumed that we were to marry when we were grown up. I don’t quite know when the parting of the ways took place. It may have been when Paul went to agricultural college and set his sights higher than the local village. Or when
this
happened to me!’

With a convulsive movement she tore down the thick stocking that covered her leg and I drew back with horror as I saw the leg scarred and distorted, purpled and repulsive.

She laughed bitterly. ‘Do you think this is the sort of thing that would hold a man who had his sights set on higher things?’

‘How did it happen?’ I whispered.

‘It was an accident with a kettle of boiling water—on a picnic of all things.’ She was forcing herself to take a lighter note. ‘I must have been fated for domestic things, even from a girl, for it was I who insisted on building a fire in a little hearth I had contrived of stones. However, I mustn’t have arranged them very well, because when the kettle was boiling furiously, my hearth subsided and the contents poured over my leg. It was one of the distant coves along the coast—one we had especially chosen because we knew no trippers would be likely to know of it. But it made things doubly difficult when it came to getting in touch with a doctor. And when I recovered I was left with a limp.’

‘But it’s not obvious—truly,’ I protested quickly. ‘Why, the first day we met, I didn’t notice it at all when you walked along the beach and I was watching you for quite some time before you saw me.’

‘Perhaps it’s not too bad,’ she agreed, ‘but it’s made all the difference in the world to Paul. The kind of wife he would want would be charming and elegant. I’d be only a liability to him. You see, although I love Paul, I’m not blind to his weaknesses. You saw how he made up to you as soon as he met you, because you’re pretty and attractive.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said quickly. ‘Paul isn’t really the smallest bit interested in me. He was only exercising his charm. I’d say he falls into that routine with every girl he meets. He’s rather boyish and obvious and there’s nothing really serious about his approach.

And as for Paul losing interest in you, are you sure that you’re not the one who’s to blame?’

‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

‘I mean that because of the accident you’re a bit defensive, aren’t you?’ I suggested. ‘You want him to see that you’re not hanging on. You’re assuming that he no longer cares for you, but perhaps the injury doesn’t mean as much to him as you imagine.’

As I saw the bitter twist to Verity’s lips I gave up and turned the conversation. When we parted she was once more in good humour. She asked me to call again soon and I promised on my walks to look out for any small stones that I thought might be useful in her jewellery work. Now that my interest had been aroused I felt that I would be better able to guess at the beauty hidden in the dull pebbles beneath my feet.

When I re-entered the hall at Tregillis I found that the house seemed to be humming with activity. I was amazed to see that a light scaffolding had been erected and that the giant brass lamps were being removed from their fittings. The panelling was being polished and there seemed to be a scuttling of maids with dusters and buckets and mops.

I paused for a moment at the foot of the flight of stairs and as I did so, Melinda’s voice called out, ‘Have you heard the news?’

I looked up to see her fair hair appearing over the top of the banisters. She rushed forward, threw herself face forward on the broad balustrade and swished down backwards, narrowly missing striking with her foot a maid who was kneeling, meticulously dusting the corners of the treads.

‘Careful, Melinda!’ I called out sharply, but she paid no attention to me. Her eyes were bright as she sprang to her feet, all eagerness to be the first to impart the news. ‘Emile’s mother is coming to stay—but only for a holiday—and she’s going to take Emile away with her when she goes home again. But we’re going to have a wonderful ball while she’s here. See—’

She caught me by the hand and led me along a broad corridor at the end of which ornate gilt doors were thrown wide and I could see a scene of activity similar to that in the hall. The ballroom was in the shape of a vast oval with walls festooned with deep blue watered silk. A team of what were obviously professional cleaners were applying an expert polish to the floor and touching up the gilt around the long mirrors which alternated with the silken panels.

‘I shall have a pink dress with blue trimming and I shall dance with Uncle Garth and I’ll be the belle of the ball. Everyone will ask, “Who is the fascinating girl dancing with Garth Seaton?”’

Melinda’s face was once more grubby, but her light eyes sparkled with almost feverish excitement.

Immediately she fell foul of Mrs. Kinnefer who joined us in the doorway with Emile. ‘No one, least of all your uncle, will want to dance with you if you’ve a dirty face. Why can’t you be like Emile here? He’s always neat and clean.’

That’s how you know he’s a midget.’ Melinda darted a basilisk glance at Emile out of the corner of her eyes. ‘All real little boys are dirty, everyone knows that, and never wash behind the ears.’

‘I’m not a midget,’ Emile protested. ‘I’m Emile Lelant and I’m eight years old and I live at the Chateau de Chalandon, and—’

‘You’re not eight years old. You’re forty-eight if you’re a day,’

Melinda taunted, ‘and you wash behind the ears because you’re really a grown-up person and—’

‘Run along, Melinda,’ I put in quickly, seeing that Emile was near to tears. ‘And change your dress while you’re at it. The front of it’s all grubby where you slid down the banisters.’