Richard Tremarth had been quite right about the moment when the moon would rise, for it was already lifting itself above the rooftops and shedding a light across the placidly heaving sea. From where she stood at her window she could see a semi-circle of glistening white beach, and some dark cliffs looming above it. She could also see a tall figure striding out across the sand, making for the line of cliffs and looking very purposeful, and not in the least as if his sole purpose was to enjoy himself.
A faint frown drew her slim eyebrows together. Since they were such old friends, why hadn’t he asked her to accompany him? After all, as he had reminded her, he had once given her piggy-back rides round the orchard at Tremarth.
Try as she would, she couldn’t imagine him giving her anything but a few formal minutes of his time after this lapse of so many years.
CHAPTER II
SHE was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace when he drove up in his car the following day. It was a silver-grey Italian car, and one that was built for speed. When Tremarth alighted from it, also wearing a rather pale shade of grey, there seemed to the watching eyes of Charlotte something lean and almost greyhound-like about him.
He ascended the worn steps of the terrace in a single bound, and stood beside her in the sunshine. He smiled at her in the faintly onesided way that he had smiled at her the evening before.
“I saw you leave,” he said. “I hope you didn’t feel as if I was trailing you.”
She glanced up at him in some surprise.
“Good gracious, no…why should I?” She didn’t know why but with his eyes regarding her somewhat critically – or so she thought
– she felt nervous and a trifle awkward. For no reason at all, she had dressed herself with particular care, and the morning itself was not any fairer than she was, with her warm creamy skin that went with her red-gold hair overlaid with just the faintest tinge of pink.
There was no doubt about it, she felt on the defensive, and there was a crispness in her speech that made her voice sound rather hard and waspish. She was wearing a slim dress of light blue silk, and her small feet were encased in neat white shoes with a medium heel. She had decided against the sort of beach-kit she had brought with her, and which she had intended to wear on such a delightful June day, because somehow she had suspected that Richard was looking upon this visit as a formal affair. And as the new mistress of Tremarth she wanted to be formal, too.
“Will you come this way,” she said. She led the way through open French windows into the drawing-room. It was the loveliest room in the house, and he must have remembered it. She saw his eyes rove round it appreciatively, and his head went back restlessly. The room was in shadow, for that side of the house did not get the full blaze of the sun until the afternoon, but dimness suited this room, for it was a kind of oasis of tranquillity, with white-panelled walls and a quiet grey carpet covering every inch of the floor space.
There were chairs and couches upholstered in silvery-grey damask and brocade, a waterfall of silver-grey damask at each of the windows, and some delightful side tables and charming pictures on the walls… There were- cabinets full of china and the kind of bric-a-brac a house accumulates over the years, a chessboard with carved ivory pieces set out on one of the tables, and a baby grand piano.
Tremarth walked up to it and tried the notes, with a smile of appreciation curving his lips.
“I remember this,” he said. “I remember strumming on it on several occasions when your aunt was out of the room.”
Charlotte did not answer.
“The room is very much as it always was,” was all she said.
Then she turned and led the way into the dining-room, which adjoined at right angles the drawing-room. It, too, was very much as it had always been – except that some of the more valuable pictures had been sold in recent years. There was a magnificent long dining-table of highly polished mahogany, a side-board that should have gleamed with Georgian silver only most of it was badly tarnished and awaiting the ministrations of someone who loved silver, and a very handsome fireplace with a portrait above it.
Richard Tremarth glanced up at the portrait, and then stood rather rigidly in front of it for several seconds. Charlotte glanced at him almost apprehensively, for she knew that the portrait above the mantelpiece represented a Tremarth – one of Richard’s direct ancestors.
He was a portly gentleman in an eighteenth-century wig, and from the uniform he wore he must have been an admiral. Richard appeared transfixed by him and his florid complexion and light grey eyes – actually not at all unlike Richard’s own, save that they held rather more of a nautical twinkle. Charlotte could picture him inhaling snuff and being very gallant to the ladies. Richard Tremarth had his back to her, and so far he seemed scarcely aware of her presence.
“I think my Great-Aunt Jane must have bought Tremarth complete with contents when she took it over,” she observed. “A lot of the things here she added to it, of course, but much of the furniture went with the house.”
Tremarth nodded – a little grimly, she thought.
“That is correct,” he-said. “Miss Woodford took the place over lock, stock and barrel. My Great-Uncle Joseph was in financial difficulties, and he had to part with the place.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and then it occurred to her that really she was not sorry.
Waterloo accompanied them from room to room as they made their inspection of the house. Charlotte was very devoted to her dog, whom she had rescued from rather an unhappy way of life, and she had felt her spine stiffen with resentment when Tremarth had at first ignored her favourite companion. But after padding behind them up the stairs on their way to the first floor, Waterloo managed to insinuate himself alongside the tall, aloof figure in immaculate grey, and when they looked into the magnificent master suite which Aunt Jane herself had occupied before she went into the nursing home, the dog’s cold nose accidentally brushed against Tremarth’s hand, and he looked down in surprise that resulted in his whole face becoming illuminated by a smile.
“Hullo, old chap,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Waterloo,” Charlotte answered for him.
Richard’s eyes gleamed, and his white teeth flashed engagingly in contrast with his deeply- tanned skin.
“An unusual name for a dog,” he remarked, “but highly suitable for an occupant of this house.”
And Charlotte knew he was thinking of the admiral downstairs, and of the various military gentlemen whose portraits adorned the walls, and perhaps of one or two of the very elegant Regency ladies who must have tripped up and down the stairs – such a splendid curving staircase. She went ahead of Tremarth into the nursery wing, and showed him the room in which she herself had once slept. There was an old rocking-chair leaning a little decrepitly in front of the nursery fireguard, and on the bookshelves there were still dogeared copies of the books she had thumbed years ago while searching eagerly for the colourful prints they contained.
Richard, in very much the same manner that he had tried the keys of the piano, selected one of the books and opened it at random. It was a very early copy of Through The Looking Glass, and Charlotte felt ashamed when she recognised her own handiwork with a crayon. Almost defiantly – because she felt sure he would be critical – she told him:
“I did that! ”
Very much to her surprise he looked up at her and smiled – and it was the nicest smile she had yet seen on his face.