High Tide at Midnight
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
‘WELL, I wish to make one thing perfectly clear at the outset. She cannot remain here.’
The new Lady Kerslake’s voice, almost strident in its vehemence, resounded plainly through the closed drawing room door, freezing Morwenna where she stood, her hand already raised to knock. A number of thoughts chased wildly through her head as she assimilated Cousin Patricia’s words—among them that it would be far more honourable to turn and walk away, pretending to herself that she had heard nothing, and that eavesdroppers never heard anything good of themselves anyway, but at the same time she knew that wild horses could not make her budge an inch. And it might be a relief to find out what her cousin really thought, as opposed to the saccharine sweetness she had been treated with up to now.
‘Oh, Mother!’ It was Vanessa speaking now, her voice slightly impatient. ‘You can hardly turn her out on to the streets. She has no training and no qualifications. You know as well as I do that she simply wasted her time at school. What on earth’s she going to do?’
‘That is hardly our responsibility,’ Lady Kerslake returned coldly. ‘She chose to neglect her opportunities. She can hardly complain now if they no longer exist. And it was up to her father to make suitable financial provision while he was alive. He knew quite well what the entail involved.’
‘Perhaps, but he could hardly foresee that he and Martin would both be killed in the same accident. Martin was the heir, after all, and he would have looked after Morwenna.’
Standing motionless in the hall, Morwenna felt a fresh stab of pain inside her at the casual words. But Vanessa was right in a way. No one could have foreseen on that bright autumn day, only a few weeks before, that before night came she would have been quite alone in the world, her father and brother both dead, victims of a freak collision with a lorry whose brakes had failed on the steep hill outside the village.
She had always known that the entail existed, of course. Had even laughed ruefully with Martin over the male chauvinism in this era of Women’s Lib of the insistence that the baronetcy and the estate should still descend through the male heirs only. The future hadn’t filled her with a great deal of concern. She was barely eighteen, after all, and more interested in having a good time than considering her future prospects. And her father had encouraged her in this. Always he and Martin had been there like bulwarks, and she had basked secure in the certainty of their affection and spoiling. Until that day—when the chill wind of reality had shown her how fragile her shelter had been.
The solicitors had been very kind, and had explained everything in great detail, including the fact that there was not a great deal of money for Cousin Geoffrey to inherit. Her father, she learned for the first time, had been speculating on the stock market and suffered some considerable losses. Given time, Mr Frenchard had said, he would have recouped these losses—his business acumen was considerable. Only he had not been given time.
During the weeks since the funeral Morwenna had felt that she was existing in a kind of curious limbo, and this impression had been emphasised with the advent of Cousin Geoffrey, whom she hardly knew, and his rather domineering wife, whom she did.
Cousin Patricia, she knew, had expected to find herself a wealthy woman and had been less than entranced with the true state of affairs, although becoming Lady Kerslake and occupying the house, a gem from the reign of Queen Anne, must, Morwenna surmised drily, have been some consolation at least.
At first she had been inclined to gush over Morwenna, but as the days passed, her manner had become more distant. Not that they had ever been close, Morwenna thought. And she had never been on friendly terms with Vanessa either, even though her father had insisted they attend the same school and had paid both lots of fees to achieve this. She had wondered since whether Vanessa had resented this, or whether her main source of grievance had been simply that her younger cousin had the ability to skate lightly over the academic waters where she had frankly floundered. Whatever the cause, Vanessa’s hostility had at times been almost tangible, and there had been little softening of her attitude since her arrival at Carew Priory. On the contrary, Morwenna felt at times that Vanessa was frankly gloating over the reversal in their fortunes. She’d had to be very careful over everything she did and said, making certain that Mrs Abbershaw the housekeeper went to Cousin Patricia for her instructions, even remembering to knock before she entered rooms where the family had gathered. Suddenly she was the outsider in her own home. Yet no longer her own home, as Lady Kerslake was reiterating with some force.
‘And I can’t imagine why you should be so concerned, Vanessa,’ she added with asperity. ‘You’ve never cared for her particularly.’
‘I don’t care for her now,’ Vanessa retorted waspishly, ‘but we have to consider what people will say, and her father and Martin were extremely well liked locally. We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.’
‘Indeed not.’ Lady Kerslake gave a deep sigh. ‘What a problem it all is! I had no idea the wretched child was simply going to hang around here aimlessly. Wasn’t there some talk of a painting school?’
‘There’s always talk of something where Morwenna’s concerned. But you’re right, she was supposed to be joining Lennox Christie’s class at Carcassonne this month. Whether he’ll be so keen to have her now that the fees are not forthcoming is a different matter. It’s a well-known fact that he fills up his class with rich dilettantes in order to pay for the pupils he really wants.’
Morwenna’s fingers, clenched deep in the pocket of the loose knitted jacket she was wearing, closed shakingly round the envelope she had thrust there not half an hour before. She had seen the postman coming up the drive from her bedroom window and some premonition had told her what he was bringing, and she had run down to intercept him. All the letters were taken as a matter of course to Cousin Patricia now before they were distributed to the appropriate recipients,