‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ remarked Rafe flatly. ‘If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll go and speak to our son.’
‘He’s going back tomorrow!’ said Lucy shrilly.
‘I haven’t denied it, have I?’
‘Well, don’t come looking for me after you’ve let him walk all over you. I shall eat dinner in my room, and I don’t want to see you again until the morning.’
‘Point taken.’
Rafe reached for the door handle, but Lucy wasn’t quite finished.
‘By the way,’ she muttered reluctantly, ‘someone’s coming to see you in the morning—some female. I don’t know who she is. Says her name is Tempest, or something.’
‘Tempest?’ Rafe’s dark brows descended. ‘Who is she? Some friend of yours?’
‘Mine?’ Lucy sounded amused. ‘You must be joking! Her uncle lives in the valley, apparently. She said you would know who she was.’
Rafe stared at his wife broodingly for a moment. Then, recognition dawned. ‘Catherine Tempest?’
‘I think that was what she called herself. Why? Do you know her? Who is she?’
‘Only Mervyn Powys’s niece!’ Rafe’s jaw tightened. ‘I wonder what she wants. Didn’t she say anything?’
‘Only that she wanted an appointment to see you.’ Lucy’s lips twisted mockingly. ‘Some admirer of yours, is she? One of these “people” you keep talking about?’
‘No!’ Rafe expelled his breath impatiently. ‘As a matter of fact, she was born and brought up near London. Her mother was Powys’s sister, but she left the valley twenty-five—maybe thirty years ago.’
‘Then how do you know this girl?’ demanded Lucy shortly. ‘How does she know you?’
Rafe’s expression softened slightly. ‘She used to spend her summer holidays at the farm. When I was a boy I used to spend time down there, too.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Lucy was scathing. ‘A boy-and-girl relationship.’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Rafe was tight-lipped. ‘My God, she was only a kid! Nine, ten at most.’
‘And you were?’
‘Fifteen, sixteen—I don’t know.’
Lucy looked amused. ‘Hero-worship, then.’ She shook her head. ‘No wonder Thomas is such an undisciplined little devil! I don’t suppose your father approved of you being so familiar with the tenants.’
‘My father always cared for their welfare.’
‘How feudal!’
‘It was why you married me, remember?’ retorted Rafe, stung into uncharacteristic bitterness. He had never referred to the reasons why Lucy, the daughter of a self-made millionaire, should have succumbed so eagerly to his amateurish attempts at seduction. Twenty-one, and fresh out of university, his experiences with girls had been limited to minor successes with waitresses, and office workers. Lucy Redvers, a year his senior, and already socially sophisticated, had seemed much too experienced to find him attractive. It was months before he understood, months before he realised the fact that as heir to his father, Lord Penwyth, he was infinitely more desirable in Lucy’s eyes than any wealthy businessman might have been. But by then, of course, it had been too late. They were married, and any doubts he might have had he stifled.
Now Lucy’s lips quivered, and had he not known better, he might have been disarmed by the break in her voice. ‘I married you because I loved you, Rafe,’ she declared tearfully, pulling out a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know why you say such cruel things to me. Just because I’m trying to help us both, to help all of us. You’re so bigoted. You won’t accept Daddy’s help—–’
‘His charity, you mean? No.’ Rafe was adamant, but there was a note of frustration in his tones. ‘Oh, Lucy, why do you do this? Do you never try to put yourself in my position? Why do you persistently ignore the human problem here?’
‘I have problems, too, and I’m human,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘You—you’re impossible! You know you’ll have to give in, sooner or later.’
Bitterness turned to bile in the back of Rafe’s throat. The trouble was, he knew she was speaking the truth. In spite of himself, he was going to have to grant that permission; that, or have it taken out of his hands. How much longer could Penwyth survive without an influx of capital? One year? Two, at most. And then what? Bankruptcy? Penury? An unpalatable prospect for himself, an impossible one for Lucy, and for Tom. And his father …
‘Yes,’ he said now, the word torn from him. ‘Yes, I expect you’re right. But that doesn’t—–’
The sentence was never finished. Lucy was grasping his arm, gazing up at him with eyes avid with excitement. ‘You mean—you mean—–’
‘I mean—I’m going to speak to my son,’ said Rafe flatly, pulling his arm from her grasp, leaving the room and mounting the stairs on leaden feet.
CATHERINE Tempest swung her small Renault on to the private road that led to Penwyth manor house with some misgivings. The road was a gravel track, loosely made up and moist after the rain, and the tyres protested as they slid across its surface, but Catherine scarcely noticed. She was intent on the interview ahead of her, and in no way convinced that she was doing the right thing. It was strange really. If she had not taken it into her head to open a boutique in Pendower, she might never have become involved in her uncle’s affairs, and this business about drilling for lead in the valley would not have concerned her.
But she had always loved the valley. She remembered those holidays as a child, spent on the slopes above Penwyn. She even remembered the horse she used to ride, a disreputable old gelding, with a temper to match its uncertain colouring. Perhaps it was her maternal ancestry which had instilled such a sense of belonging inside her. Certainly she had never felt a stranger here, and although she had lived in London for more than twenty-five years, she had seldom experienced the happiness there that she had enjoyed in the valley.
Of course, in latter years her visits to Penwyn had necessarily decreased, both in frequency and dimension. Since leaving school eight years ago, she had had neither the time nor the funds to spend eight weeks every year running free across these hills, and since opening the boutique in Hammersmith, she had been too absorbed with business affairs to pay more than an occasional weekend’s visit to Penwyn.
The fact that the Hammersmith boutique had been so successful had enabled her to look farther afield, however, and despite her mother’s opposition, she had decided to open a second branch in Pendower, the small country town only ten miles from her uncle’s farm.
Mrs Tempest, widowed these ten years, had recently remarried, so Catherine felt no sense of belonging with her. Her stepfather was all right, but there was obviously friction between them, belonging as he did to one of those freakish political organisations with fanatical doctrines long out of date. Catherine had already moved into a flat of her own in London, in spite of all the empty rooms in the house her father had bought for them, and it was only a small upheaval to transplant herself temporarily into a small cottage in Pendower.
It was a whim really, a foolish ideal of recapturing the dreams of her childhood, and she had told herself she could afford one mistake. The fact that the shop had prospered seemed more good luck than anything, and it was ironic when her affairs were going so well that her uncle’s should be going so badly.
Lately, she had spent more and more time at the farm, and the reasons were here, at Penwyth. Her uncle was making himself