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.
“You would,” he said, almost as if he was humouring her. “You were a very diligent young woman with a pencil, I remember. Only unfortunately you didn’t make much sense! ” They returned to the ground floor of the house, and she had the feeling that he was clearing the decks for action, as it were, and getting down to the real reason why he had happened to visit Cornwall at the same time as herself.
He started to prowl restlessly up and down the hall, which was now flooded with sunshine because the front door was standing wide open to all the brilliance of the morning. He had a habit of taking long strides, and his footfalls rang firmly on the floorboards. The long shafts of sunlight played over him and his erect figure. Charlotte was, in spite of herself, fascinated by the shimmer of his sleek dark hair and the faint ripple of a wave that there was in it. She experienced a fancy that one of his forebears on the wall appeared to be looking down at him with benevolence.
“Well now,” he said, stopping short in his pacing and swinging round to confront her, “I might as well tell you why I’ve taken up so much of your time this morning. It wasn’t solely because I wanted to renew my association with Tremarth.”
“No?” She looked up at him in a very level and direct way, while almost absent-mindedly one of her hands played with Waterloo’s ears.
“No,” The light friendliness had gone, and his expression was purely businesslike. “I won’t beat about the bush, because no doubt your time is valuable as well as my own. I want to buy Tremarth – and I want to get the details settled up as quickly as possible.” “What!”
She looked as if she was not entirely certain she had heard him right.
He repeated:
