illusion that they were no more than any other lady and gentleman—polite acquaintances—taking the air together. Not thwarted lovers with years of carefully maintained distance between them.
Off to their right, the Serpentine rippled, its waters grey and sluggish beneath the overcast sky. If Sophie strained her ears, she could even hear the slow rush of the current.
Impossible not to remember other mornings, other rides. Meetings like these—only then she’d gone forth with eager anticipation, wanting only to see him again, whereas today… Her palms were damp inside her gloves and the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with what little breakfast she’d managed to choke down.
She stole a glance at Robin; his own face was somber to the point of stoniness. She knew that look of old, from Cornwall—the starkness in his eyes, the grim set of his mouth, closed tight against the secrets he’d guarded from all of them, even her. Perhaps especially her.
How hard she’d tried to breach his defenses, battering herself against them with the persistence of the sea dashing itself against solid rock! And how ridiculously, foolishly pleased she’d been by every morsel she’d managed to extract from him, how certain she’d been that someday there would be no secrets between them—only the trust and confidence that should exist between two people who loved each other as they did.
Seventeen could be an appallingly stupid age, she reflected mordantly. There were times when she could cheerfully have drowned her younger self and thus spared the world and posterity her adolescent folly.
Robin finally broke the silence. “You were splendid last night,” he said. “A credit to your training.”
“Thank you.” Her response was automatic, even mechanical, but she felt an eddy of warmth about her heart all the same.
“I was lucky to be in time to purchase a ticket,” he continued. “I understand your concert sold out quickly.”
She nodded. “My manager was pleased by that development. He thinks it’s because The Marriage of Figaro was such a success last year.”
“I wish I had seen you in Figaro . But I read your notices in the London papers—I am pleased that you enjoyed such a triumph.” He smiled again, more easily this time. “Cherubino is a delightful role. I am sure you would make an enchanting Susanna too someday.”
“Well, as to that—I’ve had the chance to play Susanna,” Sophie confessed.
His brows arched. “Did you indeed?”
“It was while we were touring in America—New York. The soprano playing Susanna caught the grippe and was off for three nights. I was her cover, so I took over.” She found herself smiling too, reliving the mingled delight and terror of her first evening in the role. “It was frightening, but thrilling too. There are so many wonderful parts for women in that opera.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll sing them all,” he suggested.
“Perhaps.” Sophie changed the subject. “But there’s nothing duller or more insufferable than someone who talks of nothing but her aspirations. How is the hotel?”
“Prospering,” he replied, with evident satisfaction. “Your brother is relieved—and James too, I might add. The last few seasons we’ve sold out all summer. And I’ve been able to modernize further—there’s electrical light in the Grand Salon now, and I had a telephone put in last year.”
“I am pleased to hear it. I know how hard you’ve worked to make it a success.” All those plans and dreams. She had tried hard not to think of Pendarvis Hall these last four years, not to remember the exciting days after he’d first hatched the scheme, the private tour he’d given her, the garden where they’d kissed for the first time… and never the last night she’d been there. The night everything had come crashing down around them.
Robin was still speaking. “I think the staff is finally reconciled to what the Hall has become. It
Off to their right, the Serpentine rippled, its waters grey and sluggish beneath the overcast sky. If Sophie strained her ears, she could even hear the slow rush of the current.
Impossible not to remember other mornings, other rides. Meetings like these—only then she’d gone forth with eager anticipation, wanting only to see him again, whereas today… Her palms were damp inside her gloves and the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with what little breakfast she’d managed to choke down.
She stole a glance at Robin; his own face was somber to the point of stoniness. She knew that look of old, from Cornwall—the starkness in his eyes, the grim set of his mouth, closed tight against the secrets he’d guarded from all of them, even her. Perhaps especially her.
How hard she’d tried to breach his defenses, battering herself against them with the persistence of the sea dashing itself against solid rock! And how ridiculously, foolishly pleased she’d been by every morsel she’d managed to extract from him, how certain she’d been that someday there would be no secrets between them—only the trust and confidence that should exist between two people who loved each other as they did.
Seventeen could be an appallingly stupid age, she reflected mordantly. There were times when she could cheerfully have drowned her younger self and thus spared the world and posterity her adolescent folly.
Robin finally broke the silence. “You were splendid last night,” he said. “A credit to your training.”
“Thank you.” Her response was automatic, even mechanical, but she felt an eddy of warmth about her heart all the same.
“I was lucky to be in time to purchase a ticket,” he continued. “I understand your concert sold out quickly.”
She nodded. “My manager was pleased by that development. He thinks it’s because The Marriage of Figaro was such a success last year.”
“I wish I had seen you in Figaro . But I read your notices in the London papers—I am pleased that you enjoyed such a triumph.” He smiled again, more easily this time. “Cherubino is a delightful role. I am sure you would make an enchanting Susanna too someday.”
“Well, as to that—I’ve had the chance to play Susanna,” Sophie confessed.
His brows arched. “Did you indeed?”
“It was while we were touring in America—New York. The soprano playing Susanna caught the grippe and was off for three nights. I was her cover, so I took over.” She found herself smiling too, reliving the mingled delight and terror of her first evening in the role. “It was frightening, but thrilling too. There are so many wonderful parts for women in that opera.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll sing them all,” he suggested.
“Perhaps.” Sophie changed the subject. “But there’s nothing duller or more insufferable than someone who talks of nothing but her aspirations. How is the hotel?”
“Prospering,” he replied, with evident satisfaction. “Your brother is relieved—and James too, I might add. The last few seasons we’ve sold out all summer. And I’ve been able to modernize further—there’s electrical light in the Grand Salon now, and I had a telephone put in last year.”
“I am pleased to hear it. I know how hard you’ve worked to make it a success.” All those plans and dreams. She had tried hard not to think of Pendarvis Hall these last four years, not to remember the exciting days after he’d first hatched the scheme, the private tour he’d given her, the garden where they’d kissed for the first time… and never the last night she’d been there. The night everything had come crashing down around them.
Robin was still speaking. “I think the staff is finally reconciled to what the Hall has become. It
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