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Both of them adventurers too, she thought. Their eyes looking outward with challenge, seeking new worlds to conquer and fresh fortunes to be made.
Had Tamsin known what she was taking on that day in the cove? she wondered. Or had she ever sighed for a more settled existence?
She moved slightly closer. Tamsin hadn’t the expression of a lady who suffered from doubts. Her eyes and faint smile held the same proud certainty as that of her husband. One hand toyed with an elaborate feathered fan, while the other pointed beringed fingers at the dramatic chain of turquoises, set in gold, that surrounded her neck, its single pendant stone, encircled by pearls, nestling enticingly in the valley between her breasts.
‘It used to be kept in that display case over there on the table,’ Carrie had told her, as they’d stood gazing that first time. ‘But there were problems with insurance, so Uncle Ben decided it should live in the bank. Penvarnon brides always wear it on their wedding days, so I suppose we’ll have to wait for Diaz to get married before it comes out again.’ She’d darted across the room to the table in question. ‘But the fan’s still here, if you want to have a look.’
I should have stuck at looking, Rhianna recalled ruefully, but the temptation to take the lovely thing from its satin bed and hold it had been too strong.
And as she’d touched it something strange had happened to her, as if the simple action of unfurling a fan and waving it smoothly and languidly had transformed her into a different person—a grown woman, aware of the power of her own beauty. She’d moved slowly across the room, her walk a glide, glancing from left to right under her lashes, as if acknowledging the admiration she aroused.
She’d thought since that that was the moment when she’d known with absolute certainty she would become an actress. That she might be able to hide from her intrinsic loneliness by becoming other people.
At the time, she’d spun round on her toe, laughing almost shamefacedly at her own silly fantasies—only to look past Carrie and see Moira Seymour standing grim-faced in the doorway, with Diaz Penvarnon just behind her.
‘How dare you?’ The older woman’s voice had been molten with anger. ‘How dare you touch anything in this house, you little—?’
‘It’s not her fault,’ Carrie broke in staunchly. ‘I told her she could.’
‘Then you had no right, Caroline.’ Her mother turned on her furiously. ‘This is a Penvarnon family heirloom, not some cheap toy to be passed around and played with. In future, the case will be locked. And this girl should not be in the house, anyway. I gave strict instructions about that.’ She took a step forward, her hand outstretched, her eyes fixed inimically on Rhianna’s white face. ‘Now, give it back and get out. And believe me—you haven’t heard the last of this.’
‘I haven’t done anything to it.’ The words came out all wrong. They sounded sullen when she’d meant them to be apologetic and reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She glanced up at the portrait. ‘I just wanted to hold it because it was hers, and she’s so beautiful.’
Diaz Penvarnon said with quiet authority, ‘It’s all right, Aunt Moira. I’ll deal with this.’ He moved past Mrs Seymour and took the fan carefully from Rhianna’s numb fingers.
He said, ‘You might not mean to harm it, but it’s very old and consequently extremely fragile.’ He looked at Mrs Seymour. ‘And, as I said when I was last here, it properly belongs in a good costume museum. I shall see to that.’
There was a silence, then Moira Seymour said, openly reluctant, ‘Of course—if that is what you wish.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’ He replaced the fan gently in the case and closed the glass lid. ‘There,’ he added. ‘No real harm done. Now, off you go, both of you, and we’ll say no more about it.’
He’d been as good as his word, Rhianna thought. The expected tongue-lashing from Aunt Kezia had never materialised. And the glass case and its contents had been removed from the drawing room and taken away in a van a few days later.
‘Mummy’s in a fearful temper about it,’ Carrie had reported dolefully. ‘She used to like pointing it out to visitors—our genuine Elizabethan relic. And now she can’t. And she got even more cross when Daddy said the fan belonged to Diaz’s ancestors, not ours, and he was entitled to dispose of it as he saw fit.’
She paused, then looked more cheerful. ‘He also said that barring you from the house was the kind of stupid, unkind rule which was bound to be broken, and he was only surprised it hadn’t happened before. He said that Diaz thought so too. So we don’t have to worry about that any more.’
