High Tide At Midnight. Sara Craven
sort of attention that she least wanted.
And her sense of foreboding had been fulfilled. Vanessa might almost be a thought-reader, she told herself despairingly. Lennox Christie’s letter had been courteous but adamant. The work she had shown him at her initial interview in London, he wrote, did not justify him offering her a non-fee-paying place in his class as she had requested. However, he would be back in London in the spring, and she could always contact him then with any new work she had produced, so that he could review his decision. It was the final humiliation. The offer of a review in the spring was, she knew, put in as a salve to her damaged pride.
She had never had a lot of faith in her ability as an artist. She had inherited some of her dead mother’s talent, and had been the prize pupil at school, but she had had few illusions about how she would fare in the fiercely competitive art world if ever her livelihood depended on it. It hadn’t before, of course, and only a sense of utter desperation had prompted her appeal to Lennox Christie. She had sensed during their brief interview earlier that year that he had been unimpressed with the range of landscapes and still life she had shown him, but she knew at the same time that she was capable of better things, if not the touch of genius which had been stamped on so much of Laura Kerslake’s work. She had not mentioned her mother’s name to Lennox Christie. There seemed little point. Laura Kerslake had been dead for over ten years and she had painted little after her children were born. Besides, her work was no longer fashionable.
Cousin Patricia had said as much soon after she had arrived at Carew Priory. Morwenna had little doubt that those of her mother’s paintings which were hanging in the house would soon be relegated to an attic, and replacements sought for them in the trendy gallery in London which Lady Kerslake patronised. She had hoped very much that she would be long gone from the Priory before that happened.
She had never intended to stay there in any case. This was what made it so doubly hurtful to hear herself being discussed as if she was some parasite. She had always known that she would have to get a job of some kind. This was why she had been on her way to speak to Cousin Patricia, to ask, cap in hand, if there was any prospect of a job, however menial, at the trendy gallery. At least she had been spared that particular shame, she thought fiercely.
But that was all she was to be spared. Vanessa was speaking again. ‘And are you sure that she is just hanging around aimlessly? After all, she was seeing quite a lot of Guy a few months ago before all this happened. Perhaps she’s hoping to revive all that again and use him as a meal ticket for life.’
Guy’s mother gave an unfeeling laugh. ‘I can’t believe she’s that naïve,’ she exclaimed. ‘Guy may have paid her attention while Robert and Martin were alive, but the circumstances are different now, very different. Guy isn’t a fool by any means. She’s quite an attractive girl, I’ll grant you that, but if she’s hoping for anything more from him than just a casual affair, I’m afraid she’s going to be severely disappointed. Guy can do better for himself than a penniless cousin.’
Vanessa’s ‘Mother!’ was half laughing, half scandalised, but Morwenna waited to hear no more. She turned precipitately and fled back across the wide hall with its rich Turkey carpet and dark panelled walls, and up the gently curving stairs.
In the past few weeks, one room in particular had become her refuge—her mother’s small sitting room in the West Wing. This was one of the few places where Cousin Patricia and her ‘little changes’ had so far not penetrated. Morwenna slammed the door behind her, then flung herself down on the shabby brocaded sofa and gave way to a storm of tears. In a way, it was a catharsis she had been needing. She had hardly shed a tear at the funeral or afterwards, and had meekly accepted the tranquillisers that the doctor, worried by her pale face and shuttered eyes, had prescribed.
Now grief, humiliation and rage all had their way with her, as she lay, her face buried in the silken cushions. It was dreadful to contemplate how near, how very near she had come to falling in love with Guy. As children, they had been largely indifferent to each other on the few occasions they had met. Then, in the early summer, she had met him again at a party after a gap of several years. In fact they had hardly recognised each other, but the attraction had been, as she thought, instant and mutual. Now she had to face the fact that she had been the one who was attracted, and that Guy had only had an eye to the main chance. She pressed her knuckles against her teeth until they ached.
So many things began to make sense now, particularly the fact that she had seen so little of Guy since the funeral. True, he had been working, and only came down to the Priory at weekends, but even then he had held aloof. She had been grateful then, telling herself that it was respect for her grief that held him in check, but now she knew differently. It was simply that Guy had nothing to gain now in prolonging their relationship. She could only be thankful that she had never yielded to the frank temptation to turn to his arms for comfort.
She had sometimes wondered in the past why it had always been Guy who had drawn back in their lovemaking. There had been several times when she had longed for his kisses and caresses to sweep her away on a tide of passion past the point of no return. Now she wondered if it had been self-control which restrained him, or simply a disinclination to get too closely involved with her. Whatever his motive, it had been enough to keep her eating out of his hand all through the summer, she thought unhappily. In fact, she had come close to quarrelling with Martin on the subject. Martin had been unimpressed with Guy’s blond good looks, and had disliked his sense of humour which tended to poke sly fun at everyone outside the charmed circle in which he moved.
Guy was one of the few subjects they had disagreed on, and now she had to acknowledge that Martin had not simply been playing the heavy brother. He had been wiser than she knew, and she understood his motives now in encouraging her to apply for a place on the painting course. Apart from wanting to get her out of Guy’s way, he had been concerned about her lack of purpose in life, her lighthearted assumption that there would always be someone around to look after her. She was quite aware, without conceit, of her own attractions and knew there were few men who would not be drawn by her pale silky hair, twisted up into a loose knot on top of her head, and her large grey eyes with their long fringe of dark lashes. She supposed now that this was why she had been so easily taken in by Guy. She was accustomed to men’s attentions and admiration, and it had never even occurred to her that her good-looking cousin could have an ulterior motive.
‘What a fool!’ she whispered aloud, pressing her knuckles childishly against her streaming eyes. ‘What an utter fool!’
At last she lay quietly, her eyes closed, capable only of an occasional aching sob. She felt physically and emotionally drained, and she was scared as well. One certain thing had emerged from the unpalatable comments she had heard downstairs—she was going to have to leave the Priory, and fast. But where was she to go? Even the potential refuge of the painting school had been taken from her, and the remnants of her pride forbade her to ask for any kind of help from Cousin Patricia.
She sat up unwillingly, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face, while her brooding gaze travelled round the room, resting with a kind of painful affection on the few pieces of antique furniture that she knew her mother had chosen for this room when she had first come to the Priory as a bride. The fact that the chair covers were faded and the curtains and carpet had also seen better days only added to their charm. Above the white marble fireplace hung Laura Kerslake’s only attempt at a self-portrait, painted only a few years before her death. Morwenna’s eyes lingered on it with peculiar intensity, as if that serene face with the humorous eyes and the wryly twisted mouth, suggesting that the artist knew only too well that portraiture was not her forte, could provide her with some clue what to do for the future. She gave a small weary sigh at her own fancifulness, and her eyes wandered on past the portrait to the small group of landscapes on the adjoining wall.
Here, Laura Kerslake had been thoroughly at home. These were what Morwenna had always thought of as the Trevennon group. They were scenes done from memory of the place where Laura had spent her girlhood. Although she had been born and lived in London during her early years, the outbreak of the Second World War had caused her parents to seek a safer home for her, and so Laura, on the brink of her teens, had made a long, solitary journey to Cornwall to stay with some distant relatives.