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‘How old?’ Rowan said baldly.
Antonia concentrated on her wedding ring. ‘Sixteen,’ she returned after a pause.
‘Sixteen?’ Rowan sank back on to her chair, her legs threatening to give way beneath her. ‘Antonia, you are unbelievable! You can’t do this to me.’
‘And you can’t do it to me,’ Antonia retorted sullenly. ‘They take everything from you when you’re bankrupt. There was talk of an investigation after your father died, but it was smoothed over. If Carne bankrupts me, the whole thing could start again. Do you want to see the Winslow name dragged through the financial mud?’
‘No,’ Rowan acknowledged. ‘But I don’t think it will come to that.’
‘Oh, yes, it will,’ Antonia said softly. ‘For one thing, Carne has never forgiven me for marrying Victor. When he offered to back me in the boutique, I thought it was an olive branch, but I realise now that he just wanted to have a hold over me. It was as if he knew the boutique was going to fail.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t have needed much business acumen to tell him that,’ Rowan said drily. ‘What is he? Something in the City? I thought I knew his face from somewhere.’
Antonia grimaced. ‘Well, it’s more likely to have been the gossip columns than the financial pages. You’ve heard of him, of course—I’m surprised his name didn’t ring a bell. He’s Carne Maitland.’
‘The painter?’ Rowan could hardly believe her ears. The most surprising element in the story was that Antonia should be even distantly related to one of the most famous portrait paiters in Britain and have failed to mention it.
‘The very same.’ Antonia smiled lazily, her tears forgotten. ‘Did you notice his tan? He’s been out in one of the oil states, painting a sheik. They’re about the only people in the world who can afford his prices these days. Of course, he doesn’t need the money. His parents each left him a fortune, and he still has the controlling voice in the family business. Painting was always his hobby when he was a child, but everyone was amazed when he went to art college and began to work at it seriously. Who says you need to starve in a garret to be a success?’
Certainly, Rowan thought, not the critics, whose laudatory remarks had greeted every new canvas in recent years. He had had some dazzling commissions of late, including the obligatory Royal portrait, and had fulfilled them brilliantly. And he was Antonia’s distant cousin, and a former lover, to judge by her words.
She got up and went over to the window, gazing down into the busy street outside with eyes that saw nothing.
‘So I can tell him it’s all right?’ From behind her, Antonia’s voice sounded anxious. ‘I can tell him to expect us both?’
Rowan moved her shoulders in a slight shrug. ‘Tell him what you like. That’s what you’ve done up to now, isn’t it? I’ll come with you, but for Daddy’s sake, Antonia, not yours.’
And not mine either, she thought, as she began the weary task of locating the missing inventory. Because the last thing she needed was to find herself in Carne Maitland’s orbit again. She could still feel the lingering scrutiny of those silver eyes, and the memory disturbed her more than she cared to acknowledge, even to herself.
Not that she had anything to worry about, she told herself ruefully, as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the long mirror. The beautiful, the rich and the elegant—those were the type of women with whom his name was most often linked, and she didn’t qualify under any of those headings. Quite apart from the fact that he regarded her as a child, she had no doubt at all that he found her looks and personality about as fascinating as a—stewed prune.
And that was meant to be a joke, so why was she finding it so hard to smile? Rowan sighed, thankful that the tenor of her thoughts was known only to herself.
This could prove to be the most difficult summer of her life. And she thought, ‘I’m going to have to be careful. Very careful.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ue164a0d0-f2ce-55e5-90fb-04f179f7b12d)
THE motorway was far behind them, and the towering fells had closed in as if they were entering some secret citadel. Antonia was driving and Rowan sat beside her, the map open on her knee, although they hadn’t needed it so far as everything was so well signposted.
Rowan had never been to the Lake District before, and she supposed she could hardly be seeing it for the first time under better conditions. The soft blue April day was warm and the sun sparkled everywhere—on the grey-blue slate that faced the houses, on the rippling water, on the last traces of snow in the sheltered hollows of the fells, and on the masses of daffodils blooming wherever the eye could see.
She had read Wordsworth’s poem, of course, but she had never expected to see it brought to life with quite such extravagance. She felt she wanted to laugh out loud with the sheer unexpected gaiety of it all, and the mood of depression which had been gripping her lately lifted perceptibly.
All she needed now was someone to share it with, but Antonia had already made it patently clear that the rugged beauty of their surroundings had not the slightest appeal as far as she was concerned. Nor was she suited with the narrowness of the road they were now travelling on, or the frequency of its bends. She had grumbled constantly since leaving the motorway, and Rowan felt wryly that her attitude augured ill for what lay ahead of them.
It had been a difficult few weeks. Rowan had informed the college principal that she would not be returning after the Easter break, and he had not been pleased at the news. He had tried hard to persuade her to stay on and complete her course, but she had merely said that her family circumstances made it impossible at the moment, and left him to draw his own conclusions.
Rowan had not seen Carne Maitland again, although she had no doubt that he had visited the flat in her absence. There was occasionally the faint aroma of cigar smoke in the air when she returned. From odd remarks that Antonia let fall, she guessed that he had been as good as his word in settling her debts at cards, yet her stepmother seemed to have very little notion of what was going to be demanded of her in return. When Rowan asked the size of the house they were going to, and if any local help was employed, Antonia appeared vague to the point of indifference.
‘But you must have some idea,’ Rowan said at last. ‘Do you know whether you’re expected to cook as well as organise the housework?’
Antonia shrugged. ‘I haven’t the least idea. I’ll worry about that when it happens.’
‘But you can’t cook,’ Rowan pointed out. ‘The whole thing is utterly ludicrous! Does your cousin realise this?’
‘I don’t know whether he does or not.’ Antonia sounded bored. ‘This was his idea, not mine, if you remember. Anyway, if dreary old Sybilla has managed all this time, I’m sure we can.’
‘We?’ Rowan raised her eyebrows. ‘Just leave me out of the reckoning, Antonia. I’m going to Ravensmere strictly under protest, to safeguard your income from the estate.’
Antonia smiled lazily and leaned across to pat her cheek. ‘I know, sweetie, but all the same, you wouldn’t leave me in the lurch. And you can hardly live under Carne’s roof without doing something to earn your bed and board. By the way—–’ she reached for her handbag and fumbled in it, ‘this is for you.’
It was a cheque, and when Rowan looked at the amount it was made out for and the uncompromising signature at the bottom, she felt her brain reel.
‘What’s this for?’ she demanded huskily.
‘To enable you to do some shopping,’ Antonia said calmly. ‘Carne will be doing quite a lot of entertaining, I imagine, and he won’t want you to be lurking round in corners looking as if you’ve been dressed by War on Want.’
Rowan’s face was burning. ‘I see.’
For a moment she looked as if she was going to crumple the cheque up in her hand, and Antonia, alarmed, reached forward and snatched it away.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said sharply. ‘Not even you can pretend it isn’t nice to have something to spend on yourself. You can’t spend the rest of your life in jeans and sweaters. Get your hair done. Find someone to do a rescue job on those nails.’
‘Look my age, you mean?’ Rowan enquired ironically, and Antonia had the grace to look embarrassed.
‘Not exactly,’ she said shortly. ‘But you could try and get away from this waif and stray image. For heaven’s sake, Rowan, there must be something you want to buy for yourself!’
And there was, of course, though Rowan doubted whether the sturdy portable typewriter in its carrying case was exactly what the donor of the cheque had intended. She had expected a further tussle with Antonia too, but her stepmother seemed to have retreated into some private world of discontent, and would hardly have noticed, Rowan thought, if she had shaved her head and painted her skin with woad.
Antonia offered no explanation for her glumness, but Rowan suspected the fact that they were travelling to Ravensmere without Carne Maitland’s personal escort might have something to do with it. The estate car they were travelling in was a new one, and had been bought for Antonia’s use, although she did not seem particularly impressed by the fact. Rowan guessed she would have preferred to travel in the sleek sports model she had glimpsed at the flat that first evening. She was thankful that they had been given something less powerful. Antonia was not a bad driver, but she was inclined to be reckless and impatient when conditions did not suit her, and Rowan grimaced inwardly as she contemplated what these latter stages of their journey could have been like.
‘Well, here’s Ravensmere at last,’ Antonia commented petulantly. ‘What a dead and alive hole! How much farther now, for heaven’s sake?’
Rowan shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
She thought Ravensmere was an attractive village. It was very small—a few houses built of the inevitable slate, a pub with shuttered windows and creeper-hung walls, and a combined village store and post office—but it was clean and well kept and the cottage gardens burgeoned with spring flowers.
Rowan leaned forward and stared around her. ‘Is your cousin’s house actually in the village?’ She felt a twinge of nervousness assail her at the knowledge that they had nearly arrived at their destination. The palms of her hands felt damp and she wiped them surreptitiously on her denim-clad thighs. She wished very much that she was safely back in London, and that she had ignored all Antonia’s pleas and arguments. Oh, why had she ever agreed to come all this way to take part in what amounted to little more than a charade? And at the same moment it occurred to her that she knew exactly why and she felt a sudden warmth invade her body that had nothing to do with the spring sunlight. Fool, she castigated herself silently.
‘The house is called Raven’s Crag,’ Antonia was saying impatiently. ‘Wind your window down and ask someone. It’s getting late and I don’t want to be driving around in these mountains once the sun has gone down.’
There didn’t seem to be anyone about that they could ask, and eventually Antonia stopped outside the shop, and told Rowan brusquely to enquire there. ‘And get me some cigarettes while you’re about it,’ she added.
The shop was small, but its proprietor had clearly decided not to let that stand in his way. Rowan thought she had never seen such a wide range of goods or so many different brand names. Every surface, every nook and cranny carried its full complement, and even the grille over the Post Office counter in the corner was plastered with posters and notices.
There was a young girl wearing a white overall behind the counter, transferring toffee bars from a box on to a plastic display tray, and she smiled when she saw Rowan. ‘Yes, please?’
In spite of the range, they didn’t have the exact brand of cigarettes that Antonia wanted, so Rowan bought the next best thing, knowing that she would be faced with more complaints when she returned to the car. Then she asked where Raven’s Crag was.
There was open curiosity in the girl’s eyes as she studied Rowan. ‘You mean Mr Maitland’s house? You want to take the back road, and bear to the right. It’s a good climb, mind.’
The shop bell tinkled behind Rowan as she closed the door and walked back to the car. Something made her turn and look over her shoulder and she saw that the girl was peering through the crowded window watching her go, and that an older woman had joined her.
Rowan frowned slightly. It was true that Ravensmere was off the beaten tourist track, but surely the local inhabitants weren’t so unused to the sight of strangers? She had intended to mention it to Antonia as she got back into the car, but the fuss her stepmother kicked up over the cigarettes drove it out of her mind.
‘God, what a dump!’ Antonia stormed, putting the car in gear with a hideous screech. ‘It wouldn’t take much for me to turn right round and go back to London!’
‘Well, why don’t we?’ Rowan said quickly. ‘This is never going to work, Antonia, and you know it. You’ve never had to look after a house in your life. Someone else has always done it for you.’
Antonia swung the car on to the back road with a frank disregard for its tyres. ‘No, my dear simpleton, we’re staying. My clever Cousin Carne may have the upper hand at the moment, but that won’t last for ever.’ She gave a small provocative smile. ‘From housekeeper to lady of the house isn’t that great a step.’
‘You intend to marry him?’ Rowan asked dazedly.
Antonia shrugged. ‘I haven’t been able to work out yet whether he’s the marrying kind. But it makes very little difference these days. And there’s always been a—rapport between Carne and me. There are too many other distractions in London, but up here in the back of beyond he shouldn’t be too difficult to manipulate.’
‘I see,’ Rowan managed.
Antonia shot her a sideways glance. ‘I hope you do, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll know when and how to be diplomatic, and I’m relying on you to keep Sybilla out of the way too.’
The gradient was increasing sharply all the time, and there were frequent bends, so Antonia had to concentrate all her attention on her driving while Rowan sat silently beside her. So much, she told herself wryly, for being tempted into the realms of fantasy. From now on she would reserve her romantic dreams for her stories where they belonged.
What had she been hoping for anyway? A scene like something from an old Hollywood film where Carne would have seen behind the façade of the skinny sixteen-year-old and murmured, ‘My God, but you’re beautiful?’ And even if he had done, what then? She might be three years older than he had been led to believe, but even so she was a lifetime behind him in experience and sophistication. When he wanted a woman, it was obvious that his choice would be someone like Antonia, voluptuous and more than capable of catering to all of a man’s needs. Well, not quite all. Rowan’s sense of the ridiculous came to her rescue. Antonia couldn’t keep house or cook, but what would that matter in the light of her other eminently desirable attributes? She had called herself a fool, but she was worse than a fool, she was pitiful. And here she was in a situation where she was going to be hurt—a situation entirely of her own making. She could have stood out against Antonia. After all, if her stepmother’s plans came to fruition she would be in no need of the allowance from the Winslow estate. And Rowan herself could have found a grant to support her through her degree course. Other students survived; she could have been one of them. And now she had burned her boats behind her, it seemed. Once this strange summer was over she would have to pick up the threads of her life and Start over again. It was a bleak prospect, and it was no comfort to realise that she had brought it all upon herself.
‘What a road!’ Antonia’s derisive comment focussed her attention on the immediate present. ‘It’s more like a track. And do you see that notice?’
Rowan did indeed. It informed travellers quite unequivocally that the road was unsuitable for traffic in winter conditions.
Antonia shuddered. ‘Thank God I intend to be well away from here before the winter!’
‘But you said …’
‘None of my plans include settling down in this backwater,’ Antonia said dismissively. ‘Why, Carne doesn’t even spend that much time here himself.’ She changed down again. ‘Where the devil is this house?’
‘It’s right ahead of us,’ Rowan said almost laconically. No other house, she supposed, would have six-foot stone gateposts each surmounted by a carved stone raven.
Antonia turned the car cautiously into the gateway and up a steep gravelled drive, bordered on each side by a rocky wall supporting a mass of rhododendron bushes just coming into bud.
They seemed to be literally on the side of the mountain and still climbing, and as they turned the last curving bend, it was obvious why. Raven’s Crag seemed to have been built as an extension of the rock itself. It was starkly modern in concept and yet seemed to blend in better with its surroundings than a more traditional design might have done.
Above them, a large stone platform jutted out, supporting a covered terrace with glass roof and walls, with a view, Rowan realised, of the whole valley beneath. Beside this, a flight of stone steps led upwards to an entrance at present hidden from view at the side of the house. Below the terrace, and facing them, a row of wide workmanlike doors concealed garages and stores.
‘What a marvellous place!’ Rowan got out and stood drinking in her surroundings.
‘For mountain goats,’ Antonia said sourly as she joined her. ‘I hope there’s someone to carry our cases up those steps.’
Rowan looked about her. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone about at all,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Shall I go up and ring?’
Antonia leaned back against the car and lit one of the despised cigarettes.
‘What a splendid idea,’ she approved rather mockingly. ‘I can see you’re going to be a tower of strength, my dear.’
Rowan went up the steps two at a time, glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs after the hours of travelling. At the top, a massive door confronted her. There didn’t seem to be a bell, but there was a massive wrought iron door-knocker in the shape of a raven’s beaked head and Rowan used it without hesitation. The noise seemed to echo and re-echo through the house, and was followed by a long and deep silence.
It seemed an eternity before Rowan heard a shuffling footstep approaching. The door swung open and she was confronted by a small slender woman with very white hair. Her face was lined and she leaned heavily on a stick, but her eyes were blue and clear.
‘The door,’ she said in a quiet precise voice, ‘was not locked. You were expected.’ She looked Rowan up and down, missing nothing from the brown hair parted in the middle today and tied into two bunches to the denim-clad legs. ‘You must be the child Rowan,’ she commented. ‘Where is Antonia? Why is she not with you?’
‘She’s down by the garages. We were wondering whether there was anyone to help with the luggage,’ Rowan said rather helplessly.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘There’s myself.’
‘That isn’t exactly what I meant,’ Rowan said uncomfortably.
‘Then I’m afraid you must manage as best you can,’ the other one said with finality. ‘There’s no one else. Now you must forgive me if I don’t await your return, but I find it difficult to stand for any length of time. I shall be in the drawing room—the door on the right. Perhaps you and Antonia would care to join me for tea.’ She gave Rowan a cool rather remote smile and limped away.
Rowan returned back down the steps rather more slowly. Antonia looked up as she approached and threw away her half-smoked cigarette with an impatient gesture.
‘You’ve taken your time,’ she said. ‘Where is everyone?’
Rowan lifted one shoulder. ‘There’s no one—except for an elderly woman who I gather is Sybilla.’
‘No one at all?’ Antonia’s lips parted disbelievingly. ‘But where’s Carne? He must be around somewhere.’
Rowan turned towards the boot of the car.’ Apparently not,’ she said shortly. ‘If you’ll give me the keys I’ll start getting the stuff out. There’s some tea waiting for us.’
‘Tea?’ Antonia gave a strident laugh. ‘I’ll need something stronger than tea after a day like this!’
She picked the smallest case and started up the steps with it, leaving Rowan to follow with the rest of the luggage as best she could. Rowan was panting by the time she reached the top again. The front door was standing open and she walked through and dumped the cases and the typewriter down on the gleaming honey-coloured parquet floor with a feeling of relief.
She straightened herself, moving her shoulders ruefully, and took stock of her surroundings. It was a large square hall, and very light. When she looked up, Rowan realised that she could see right up to the roof of the house, which at this point seemed to consist of a massive skylight. The upper floors were reached by a wrought iron spiral staircase. A table stood against one wall, its antique surface glimmering with polish and reflecting back the lines and colours of the great pottery bowl filled with spring flowers that it bore. This and an old oak settle standing beside the stone fireplace which, though empty now, was obviously used to complement the central heating, was the only furniture.
The door on the right that the elderly woman had referred to was standing ajar, and feeling rather selfconscious, Rowan walked across and pushed it open. Again, her most immediate impression was one of space and light. One entire wall of the drawing room was glass—enormous sliding doors giving way to the terrace. The floor was covered by a magnificent Persian rug, and seating was provided by three luxuriously padded tweed-covered sofas in shades of cream and oatmeal and placed to form a large square with the fireplace. A small table had been set in front of one of them and a tray with a teapot and delicate-looking cups and saucers had been placed on it. Antonia was lounging on one of the adjoining sofas, her face set in discontented lines.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she said ungraciously. ‘I hope you want some of this tea. I’m already in Sybilla’s black books because I asked for a gin and tonic instead.’
‘She walks very badly.’ Rowan came forward and sat down wearily. ‘Couldn’t you have fetched it yourself?’
Antonia gave her a surprised look as she lit another cigarette. ‘Yes—if I knew where dear Cousin Carne kept his booze. I did enquire, as a matter of fact, but it appears to be a closely guarded secret. One of a number as far as I can gather.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rowan lifted the teapot and poured herself some of the fragrant brew, adding a slice of lemon.
Antonia gave a slight shrug. ‘Sybilla’s being very odd—although heaven knows I should have expected that. But when I asked her about staff—because no one will ever convince me that she’s solely responsible for all this spit and polish—she became extremely cagey and pretended that she didn’t know what I meant.’ She leaned forward and irritably tapped a breath of ash from her cigarette into the enormous carved stone ashtray on the table. ‘I only hope she means to be co-operative. This whole business is quite hellish enough without having to battle with her all the time.’
‘Oh, do hush!’ Rowan felt most uncomfortable. ‘She’ll hear you.’
‘Probably. But I can assure you that nothing I’ve said will come as any great surprise to her. We never got on, not even when I was a child.’ Antonia gave a faintly satisfied smile. ‘Frankly, she’s never approved of me wholly.’
The sound of Sybilla’s stick tapping on the parquet was clearly heard and Antonia relapsed into silence. Rowan jumped up as the older woman entered.
