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between them, belonging as he did to one of those freakish political organisations with fanatical doctrines long out of date.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 ill with worry, and her cousin, Owen, was not much better. Owen had recently married, and his wife was expecting a baby. None of them had ever considered having to leave the valley, and the tenancy of the farm. had been passed down from father to son for generations.
A gust of wind sent a shower of raindrops from the overhanging trees on to the windscreen of the car, and Catherine automatically set the wipers in motion. She was almost there. She could see the ivy-hung walls of the manor house on the rise above her and she changed into a lower gear to negotiate the slope. Her knees felt distinctly wobbly as she thrust the lever forward, and she had to concentrate on what she was doing to rid herself of the feeling of impending disaster.
What was she doing here? she asked herself uneasily. Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded to speak to Mr Glyndower on her uncle’s behalf? What could she possibly say to deter him? And why should she imagine he would listen to her? She wasn’t involved, not directly anyway, and just because she had a little more experience in negotiation than either her uncle or her cousin, it did not mean she could conduct this interview with success. What had bargaining for materials to do with farming, or outfitting boutiques to do with mining for lead?
Her fingers were slippery against the wheel, despite the chilly autumn day outside. She was nervous—oh, how nervous she was!—and how she longed to turn the car and drive back to Pendower and put all thoughts of her uncle’s problems behind her.
She expelled her breath on a sigh. He would probably not even remember her. It was years since she had seen him, and then only from a distance. They had never been friends, not in the real sense of the word. They had known one another, shared a common interest in horses and riding, even played together, although he had been so much older, almost grown-up in Catherine’s eyes, but never really talked together. They had danced together once …
Her mind recoiled from that particular recollection. He would not remember that, but she did. After all, it was only—what? Eight years ago? The last year she had come to Penwyn for the summer. Her last year at school. That last holiday before she started work in one of the big stores in Oxford Street, and learned about clothes and the aptitude she had for designing them. There had been a country ball, she remembered, a village affair, with the squire’s son and his lady graciously attending the proceedings. A barn dance had been announced, she recalled, and the Glyndowers had been persuaded to join in. Her own partner, a boy of her cousin Owen’s age, had swung her into the line, and halfway through the dance she had halted before Rafe Glyndower.
Her lips quivered in remembrance. He had been totally unaware of her identity, and she had not attempted to enlighten him. They had danced a few bars of a waltz together, and then the music had changed again, and they had both moved on to other partners. It had been a perfectly innocent incident, he had been polite, but nothing more, yet Catherine remembered the feel of his hand at her waist, and the strength of his body, long after the ball was over.
She drew an uneven breath. She wondered if he remembered her name, if nothing else. It was unlikely, she supposed. After all, a lot could happen in sixteen years, and it must be that long since he had played with her at the farm. He was virtually the squire now. His father was senile, or so it was rumoured, feeble-minded after the stroke which had put him into the county hospital. Rafe had been married for quite a number of years; his wife was beautiful, and, by all accounts, could wrap him round her little finger; and they had a son called Thomas.
It was smattering with rain as she drove beneath the arch that gave on to the courtyard before the heavy oaken door. So this was Penwyth, she mused, trying to keep a sense of perspective. It was certainly imposing, yet apart from viewing the rooftops from a position higher up the valley, she had never been this close before. The tenants never came here, or very seldom anyway. They paid their rents to the estate’s agent, and had no reason to approach the Glyndowers themselves.
Parking the Renault, she quickly pulled down the sun visor above the passenger seat and gave her reflection a critical appraisal in the mirror that was attached. Her nose was not shining and her lipstick was not smudged, but her pupils were slightly dilated. Blinking, to remedy this revealing feature, she tucked the strands of honey-brown hair behind her ears, and wondered if she ought to have worn a skirt instead of slacks. It was too late now to alter this, however, and gathering up her handbag, she opened her door and climbed out.
Drawing the collar of her suede jacket about her ears, she hurried towards the porch, sheltering under the overhang as she rang the bell. It was quite a modern bell, of the press-button variety, but hanging beside it was the iron bell-rope which had once been pulled to gain admittance. Shades of Dickens, she thought ruefully, and then stiffened as the heavy door was opened.
The elderly man who faced her was vaguely familiar. She recognised him from occasions she had seen him about the village. She thought her aunt had told her his name was Morgan, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘Yes miss?’ he enquired now, sparse brows descending. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh—yes.’ Catherine glanced round at the downpour which had opened behind her. ‘I—er—I have an appointment with Mr Glyndower. My name is Tempest, Miss Tempest.’
‘Mr Rafe is expecting you, miss?’
‘I believe so.’
Catherine glanced round again, hoping he was not about to keep her waiting on the doorstep. It was cold, as well as wet, and she felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.
‘You’d better come in, then,’ the butler invited grudgingly, and, relieved, Catherine stepped into the warm mustiness of a hall that was panelled in a dark wood that gleamed with the patina of age. The floor reflected a similar lustre, but the wooden blocks were worn and strewn with rugs. As the door was closed behind her, Catherine heard the distinct chink of glass, and glancing upward, she caught her breath in admiration for the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead. She could imagine it illuminated on a cold winter’s evening, its warming glow reflected in the panelling, and casting shadows on the shallow treads of the staircase that curved along one wall.
‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if the master is in his study,’ declared the butler formally, and Catherine hid a smile at the use of the title. The master, she thought, shaking her head. One could get delusions of grandeur for less.
‘Miss Tempest?’
He had come upon her unawares, and she was annoyed. She had intended to control this interview from start to finish. Now, swinging to face him, she was immediately at a disadvantage, shaken by his sudden appearance, and by the immediate attraction she felt towards him. That hadn’t changed, even though she had convinced herself that it must, and she chided herself for allowing a girlish infatuation to effect her so strongly.
‘It is—Catherine Tempest, isn’t it?’ he was saying now, holding out his hand towards her, and despite her misgivings she was forced to take it, hoping he would not associate the dampness of hers with anything more than the weather.
He hadn’t changed. He was still the most disturbing man she had ever met, and as soon as it was possible she snatched her hand away, twisting her fingers together, forcing herself to appear composed. She had known she should not have agreed to