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The rest of the occupants of that big grey stone house on the headland might not relish her presence, but there was no one who could really hurt her any more, she thought, her mouth tightening. No one to look down on her or treat her like an intruder. That section of her life was in the past, and she would make sure it stayed that way.
Because she was no longer the housekeeper’s unwanted niece, the skinny waif that the daughter of the house, Caroline Seymour, had inexplicably and unsuitably decided to befriend and had stubbornly refused to give up in the face of concerted family opposition.
She was Rhianna Carlow, television actress and current star of the award winning drama series Castle Pride. An independent woman, with her own life and her own flat, who didn’t have to dress in clothing from charity shops and jumble sales any more, or say thank you to anyone but herself.
She was a success—a face that people recognised. A few hours ago she’d seen some of the other passengers in this first-class carriage nudging each other and whispering as she’d taken her seat at Paddington.
She knew from past experience that it would only be a matter of time before someone asked her for an autograph, or permission to take a picture of her with a mobile phone, because that was generally what happened. And she would smile and acquiesce, so that the person asking the favour would go away saying how lovely she was—how charming.
And another brief performance would have been given.
But that was the easy part of being Rhianna Carlow. Because she knew it would take every scrap of acting ability she possessed to stand in silence the day after tomorrow and watch Carrie become Simon’s wife. To hear him say, ‘Forsaking all others…’ when he knew that she, Rhianna, would be in the congregation, listening to him, angry, hurt—and above all, anxious for Carrie.
When every nerve in her body would be urging her to cry out, No, this can’t happen. I won’t let it. It has to stop right here—right now. For everyone’s sake.
And weren’t you supposed to be cruel in order to be kind? she asked herself restlessly. Wasn’t that one of the relentless clichés that people trotted out, usually to justify some piece of deliberate malice?
But could she stand up and tell the truth and see the light slowly die from Carrie’s bright face when she realised just how fundamentally Simon had betrayed her?
It would be like, she thought dispassionately, watching an eclipse of the sun, knowing that this time it would be permanent and there would be no returning radiance.
Carrie had always been a sunshine girl, lit from within, fair-haired and merry-faced, drawing Rhianna, the outsider, the dark moon, into her orbit.
Compensating over and over again for her aunt Kezia’s unrelenting coldness, and the aloofness bordering on hostility displayed by the rest of the family at Penvarnon House.
From the first day that was how it had been, she thought. When she’d stood, an unhappy twelve-year-old, shivering in the brisk wind, at the top of the flight of steps that led down to the lawns, knowing guiltily that already she’d broken her aunt’s first rule that she should never—ever—stray into the environs of the house and its grounds.
Knowing that her home was now a chillingly neat flat, converted from the former stable block, and that if she wished to play she should do so only in the stable yard outside.
‘Allowing you here is a great concession by Mrs Seymour, and you must always be grateful for that,’ Aunt Kezia had told her repressively. ‘But it’s on condition that you confine your activities to our own quarters and not go beyond them. Do you understand?’
No, Rhianna had thought with a kind of desolate rebellion, I don’t understand. I don’t know why Mummy had to die, or why I couldn’t stay in London with Mr and Mrs Jessop, because they offered to have me. I don’t know why you came and brought me away to a place where no one wants me—least of all you. A place with the sea all round it, cutting me off from everything I know. Somewhere that I don’t want to be.
She hadn’t meant to be disobedient, but the minimal attractions of the stable yard, with its cobbles and long-unused row of loose boxes, had palled within minutes, and a half-open gate had beckoned to her in a way it had been impossible to resist. Just a quick look, she’d promised herself, at the place where she’d be spending the next few years of her life, then she would come back, and close the gate, and no-one would be any the wiser.
So, she’d followed the gravel walk round the side of the looming bulk that was Penvarnon House and found herself at its rear, confronted by lawns that stretched to the very edge of the headland. And racing across the grass towards her had been two children.
