Pamela Sherwood by A Song at Twilight Page A

helps, I think, that we are so much in demand and our clientele no less sought after. Even in the off-season we have guests. We were nearly full at Easter, and we held a ball on Easter Monday.”
    How strange this was, their exchanging these polite formalities: her career, his hotel. But what other subjects were safe?
    She manufactured a smile. “You see? I knew that ballroom would be ideal for such an occasion.”
    “So you said,” he acknowledged. “And we’ve held a few concerts there as well. Along with some smaller entertainments in the garden. The pavilion, to be exact.”
    Another suggestion she’d made. The memory set a dull ache just below her breastbone.
    She swallowed gamely, willing herself not to dwell on that halcyon afternoon five years ago. “Of course. I hope the weather did not turn inclement. You were always concerned about that, as I recall.”
    “So far, our luck has held in that regard. Though our garden concerts are held only in spring and summer.”
    “Very prudent.” Sophie’s hands twisted in her horse’s reins.
    They were talking about the weather now, of all things. More of these polite inanities and she would go stark, staring mad. She glanced ahead, seeing the crossroads that divided Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens, and further on, the spired Gothic canopy of the Albert Memorial. Nearly to the end of their path… and the end of things they could discuss safely.
    But it had to be said. There was no way to avoid the subject any longer.
    Bracing herself, Sophie prepared to tear off the emotional bandage she had worn for the last four years. “And how is Nathalie?” She felt obscurely pleased when her voice did not waver. “How is—your wife?”
    And saw by the way Robin’s eyes darkened and his mouth drew taut that the memory—of all they’d shared and all they’d lost—was burned as deeply into him as it was into her.

Five
    O, how this spring of love resembleth
    The uncertain glory of an April day;
    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
    And by and by a cloud takes all away.
    —William Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona
    Cornwall, April 1891
    Of all the seasons in Cornwall, Sophie thought she loved spring the most. Almost May now, and the weather was, as always, changeable, but the temperatures were warmer, the breeze mild and carrying the most delicious scents of green, growing things. Gorse bloomed in bright golden profusion on the moors and along the cliff tops, and Sophie thought she’d seen some heather starting to put forth white and purple blossoms. There were fewer primroses and daffodils than earlier in the season, but the bluebells were now out in the woods and on the hillsides, transforming the ground underfoot into a shimmering carpet of lavender blue.
    The gardens were also looking their best, in Sophie’s opinion. Her mother had always spent hours in the gardens at Roswarne, fussing over the flowers that prospered in Cornwall’s light, warm soil—lupines, hollyhocks, roses—and so far, they were generously repaying her attentions with a splendid show of color and bloom.
    Sophie herself was in the grip of spring fever, rising early in the morning so as not to waste a moment of precious sunlight and going out to ride immediately after breakfast, as she had today. Even her beloved violin could wait a few hours until she had the fidgets worked out of her horse’s legs, as well as her own.
    She patted Tregony’s dapple-grey neck as they rode along, wholly in accord with each other that such a morning should not be wasted indoors, whether in a stall or a parlor. Today would be perfect for a gallop or even a brisk canter along the beach, she mused. Intent on her plans, she didn’t notice the rider coming toward her along the lane, not until her horse tossed his head and whickered a greeting.
    Startled, she looked up. “Mr. Pendarvis. Good morning.”
    He reined in his horse—a fine-looking bay with black stockings—and touched his hat to her.