Her Father's House: A Magnificent Novel of Love and Betrayal

By Emma Sinclair

Travellan...Her father's ancient Cornish home is the only constant in Jennie Veryan's young life, and Mark Curnow is her only love--though it seems she must lose them both. A proud and old family, the Veryans break up her romance with the land agent's son, for Jennie is the heiress to the estate.

Or so it seems. In 1950 an incredible rumour draws Jennie to Singapore, scene of her father's disappearance in the maelstrom of the Japanese occupation. And in her quest to discover the truth of her father's fate she uncovers a secret so shameful it threatens exile from Trevellan for ever.

With its richly evoked backgrounds, sweeping narrative and enduring romance HER FATHER'S HOUSE is the long-awaited successor to THE SEVENTH WAVE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781466883437

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

Florence Veryan gazed from the window of her chauffeur-driven Phantom III Rolls-Royce, seeing not the suburbs of Plymouth but the face of her son as he lay in the hospital bed. Anguished at the memory of his pain, she reminded herself how lucky she was to have him at all after the disaster; how lucky she was to have all three of them.

At sixty-one, Florence was still a good-looking woman, her fair complexion and blue eyes enhanced by discreetly applied make-up; her grey hair curled gently beneath a small-brimmed hat which matched her sensible cream linen suit. Tearing her thoughts away from her son, she turned her attention to her grandchild and daughter-in-law sitting so tense and still beside her. Yes, she had been very lucky. Understanding their trauma, she tried to make light conversation in a desperate effort to bring mother and child back to life once more.

It isn’t far to Portlyn. Thank goodness we had a tankful of petrol. After this the Rolls will stay in the garage. Our chauffeur has been called up anyway. Philip will get an allowance for the Riley, he’s a magistrate and in charge of local civil defence, but we can hardly use that for personal matters. She smiled and looked at Jennie who was seated beyond her mother at the far window. And so we’ve decided to bring out the trap from the old coach house. Would you like that, Jennie darling? Pony and trap should be much more fun than a boring old car.

The child’s large brown eyes flickered and a smile, the first smile in days, lifted the pale face into a radiance which tugged at Florence’s heart. We have a four-year-old pony called Kelly, a lovely little mare. Do you ride, Jennie? The head shook solemnly from side to side. No? Then I’ll teach you. Glancing at Monique, who had sat with vacant expression since leaving the hospital, Florence wished she would say something. They can do wonders these days. Charles will be in excellent hands.

Leaning back against soft upholstery, Jennie stared out at the tall Cornish hedgerows rushing past. She wished she could see over the top. Instead her gaze fell on the wild flowers and cow parsley that grew in abundant profusion along the verges. It had a hypnotising effect; her eyelids became heavy and soon she was drifting into half-sleep … the half-sleep which brought back the horror yet again: explosions, searing flame, her father bursting through the flames, his body ablaze. Papa … Papa…

Genevieve. The soft voice broke into the nightmare. "Wake up, ma chérie." Monique held her trembling daughter close and stroked her forehead gently.

Looking up into dark eyes set in a lovely pale face, Jennie reached out and touched her mother’s hair, thinking how lank and dull it looked when it had always been a shining hazel colour. It was the oil, of course, the terrible clinging oil which no amount of washing could remove. Her own hair was just the same. She could even smell it, but then that smell had been in her nostrils for days. How many days? The destroyer had plucked them from the lifeboat then later had transferred them to another large ship which was also crowded with survivors. Dodging the wolfpacks, this other ship had finally landed them at Plymouth where, suffering from shock and exposure, they had spent three days in hospital. It was there that they discovered how serious her father’s condition really was. He would need specialised treatment for a long time, the doctor had said.

Glancing at her grandmother, Jennie thought she was sleeping. Of this kind lady who smelt of scent she remembered very little. All she really did remember was the apartment in Paris where she had left her bedroom filled with old and much loved dolls, books, her paints and paint brushes, ballet shoes and the Japanese fan. Were German soldiers in the room now, destroying the things that were so precious to her? And what of her schoolfriends and the kind old concierge who had told her so many stories? Where were they? What would happen to them all?

For all that her eyes had closed, Florence was too worried to sleep. If only Monique would say something instead of sitting in that tense and silent manner. It was all such a contrast to the woman she and her husband Philip had encountered the minute word reached them. Then Monique had lain in a hospital bed, her words tumbling out quickly in a mixture of French and English as she tried to describe the horror. But for her account, they would have known nothing of the disaster since the press and the BBC had made no mention of the Lancastria. It seemed unbelievable that so many had perished just days after the miracle of Dunkirk, yet no word of it had reached the British people. Churchill’s hand was behind it, she knew that. In this grave hour, people needed to know about miracles, not tragedies. Just why her own family had been caught up in this one was still a mystery to her. As a diplomat, Charles could not leave France until the last minute, but his wife and child had had every opportunity to return weeks ago when she had written urging them to come home. Like all the French, however, Monique could be very stubborn at times. Charles should have put his foot down, but he would often bend to his wife’s strong will. This time the consequences of such weakness had been catastrophic.

It was kind of you to bring clothes for us, Monique said suddenly. Her English was flawless, her accent still strong.

Florence smiled, relieved that the dresses fitted after such a last-minute rush around. Yesterday at the hospital we were told that Charles was being transferred to Roehampton. I was very surprised to see him still in his bed this morning. Had he known, Philip would have come with me to say goodbye to him again. What happened?

Roehampton is full after Dunkirk and… Monique’s voice trailed off. On the rescue ship she had watched as a doctor had administered morphine and tried to tend the burns as best he could. The memory of what she had seen still horrified her. Now she recalled the anguish of kissing Charles goodbye that morning, of knowing his pain, of sitting by his bed holding his hand until it was time for them to part. Today he will go to a place called East Grinstead.

That’s in Sussex. Florence turned to Monique, patted her hand comfortingly and thought it small wonder that Charles had been bowled over by this art student at that fateful party on the Left Bank. She smiled to herself, recalling the shock-waves which had run through the family when Charles, the heir to a baronetcy and a Cornish estate, had informed them that he wanted to marry a French girl from St Cloud.

But who is she? What is her background? You know what’s at stake. Can she take it on?

Charles had been adamant that his beloved Monique could take on anything. She had no pedigree to speak of and hardly knew England but she was a natural lady, a woman of great charm, and would adapt quite easily to her future role as chatelaine of Trevellan. Nothing would stop him, nothing. He loved her and intended to marry her. After much heated argument, he had won the day.

In the event only Florence and her husband had travelled to Paris for the small wedding and, whatever her misgivings, she soon warmed to her new daughter-in-law. It was not so with Charles’s sister, however. On learning that Monique Gravier had been born to a restaurant owner, orphaned in childhood, raised by a maiden aunt, and, worst of all sins, educated in a Roman Catholic convent, Laura Veryan Willoughby marvelled that her parents could be so foolish as to admit a Catholic foreigner into an English Protestant family whose pedigree could be traced back to Domesday. In the twelve years since the marriage, Laura had never met Monique and never forgiven Charles for marrying her. But now that Laura was divorced and living at Trevellan once more, the two women would soon come face to face. Florence dreaded the moment.

At a turn in the road, Jennie had her first glimpse of the rugged Cornish coastline stretching away into the distance. Against a pale blue sky the sea glimmered in varying shades of turquoise, deepening to a dark blue horizon. The Rolls eased its way down through the steep and twisting lanes of Portlyn, before climbing on to the upper road once more. Looking over the stone guard-wall to the harbour below, Jennie’s eyes took in the rows of slate-roofed, whitewashed cottages. Fishing boats rested on mud; fishermen mended nets on the harbour wall, beyond which a blue trawler headed out to sea. There was a flash of pink from the thrift-covered cliffs on either side of the village then the sight was gone as they headed into a wooded valley. Jennie’s eyes softened. After the horror, such beauty, such peace. The car climbed uphill again and ran alongside a castellated stone wall until it turned through a large gateway. As the wheels of the Rolls crunched along a gravelled drive the girl leaned forward and gasped at the sight of the house that stood before her, the house where she had been born.

Built in 1569, Trevellan was an E-shaped Tudor manor house and had been the home of the Veryan family for nearly four hundred years. A Royalist stronghold during the Civil War, it and the Veryans had suffered greatly under Cromwell, but endured to become prosperous once more after the Restoration. Now, in the morning light, the mullioned windows of the East Front seemed like so many dark eyes against the sunwashed stone.

The Rolls came to a halt, the chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for Lady Veryan to alight. As Florence put her well-shod foot on to the path, two black labradors came racing from the house to bound around her in high excitement. She patted them fondly, saying, See now, here’s Jennie. You must both look after her. Tails still wagging, the bitches walked slowly towards the girl. Seeing Jennie’s hesitancy, Florence said, It’s all right. They’re very gentle. The larger one is Portia and the other is her daughter, Rosalind.

Jennie bent to Portia, smiling as the bitch nuzzled her hand then let it slide across the wide forehead and along the sleek back. Jealous of this attention, Rosalind pushed her mother aside to be fussed also. Jennie laughed with delight.

Florence felt her shoulders fall with relief. It seemed that two labradors could help her grand-daughter through the trauma of her terrible ordeal more than honeyed words, false jollity or expressions of sympathy. Rosalind’s the naughty one, I’m afraid, so keep your bedroom door shut or she’ll be in there nosing into everything. With that she turned, wondering why the large oak door was open yet her butler was not there to greet them.

The panelled entrance hall was dominated by a large medieval oak chest. There were rooms to right and left, but Florence walked on, out of the sixteenth century and into the eighteenth, to a much larger hall where a cantilevered staircase soared upwards in a light Georgian interior. This had once been the courtyard of the original building and was typical of the mixed styles introduced to Trevellan over the centuries. Here she paused, staring in disbelief at the flurry of activity all about her. The floor was covered in tea chests and crates. Two estate workers were carrying a gilt-framed painting across the hallway towards the cellar stairs; from below them came the sound of hammering. Somewhere, out of Florence’s vision, a man with a fine arts accent seemed to be supervising the proceedings. Eyes glinting with anger she retraced her steps, returned to the sixteenth century and entered what had once been the Great Hall of the house and was now the main dining room.

Following curiously, Jennie found herself in an oak-panelled room, with very large stone-mullioned windows. The great fireplace was littered with straw and old newspapers as an auburn-haired woman in a dark blue dress packed the family’s crested Sèvres dinner service which now covered a long rosewood dining table. Beside her hovered the butler, looking uncertain as the woman spoke in haughty tones.

I don’t care how they do it, Keynes, that painting has got to be removed to the cellar.

But, Madam, it is quite out of the question. The narrow passageway will simply not allow for it. It cannot be manoeuvred around the corners. It has stood on the staircase wall for many years. I fear its removal may cause the very damage you wish to avoid.

That’s absolutely correct, Keynes, Florence said in icy tones. Laura, I thought we had agreed to forget this nonsense?

Turning in surprise, Laura’s blue eyes widened and slowly she rose to her feet. Tall and very slim, with finely chiselled features and a porcelain complexion, she smiled weakly, faint lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes. Good heavens, you’re here already. I had no idea.

Walking towards Monique who had now entered the room, she extended a cold cheek without making contact. And so we meet at last. I am Laura. Glancing down at Jennie and thinking what a mess the girl looked in the yellow frilly dress Florence had purchased for her, Laura placed a finger under the small defiant chin and lifted it slightly. And you are Genevieve, only everyone calls you Jennie. What a shame. You favour your mother in looks, I see.

The remark was left hanging in the air as she turned to Florence and said, "I can’t understand it. They can tell us August Bank Holiday is cancelled but nothing of the Lancastria being sunk. She gazed about the dining room and sighed. Look at this mess. I have to apologise for the chaos, Monique, but now that we’re well and truly at war, we must expect these things, I suppose."

For one dumbfounded moment, Monique just stared at her, then said thinly, You do not yet know what chaos truly is.

Laura’s smooth brow puckered slightly but she did not shift her imperious gaze from Monique’s eyes. Now that France has so shamefully divided and fallen, leaving us to stand alone, I’ve no doubt we soon will. But we shall see it through. Have no fear.

The brown eyes glinted dangerously. It is said in France that England will be over-run within two weeks.

I suppose they would say that, said Laura with infuriating calm, but we British are made of stronger steel. Frankly, I’m more worried about the threat of schoolboys over-running us. And that is why I’m crating the paintings and storing them in the cellar.

Monique gave a harsh laugh. By crating them you only make it easier for the Germans to ship them home. They will be most grateful.

Appalled at the way this first meeting was going, Florence raised a calming hand. The French Army fought valiantly, Laura. What has happened is a great tragedy for France. After all that Monique and Jennie have been through, we must thank God they are safe and with us. It is surely a miracle that they are. Even as she spoke it dawned on her that Laura had achieved what the doctors could not – she had snapped Monique out of her trauma at last. The French woman was now fighting mad.

Laura sighed and waved a vague hand in the air. Yes, well, of course you’ve been through a terrible ordeal, but I simply don’t understand why you waited so long before leaving France in the first place. Her tone implied that Charles and Monique had brought it all upon themselves, for like her parents she knew nothing about the miscarriage.

In an effort to turn the conversation, Florence gazed about the room, saying, Why have you removed the paintings when I had made it clear that I was against it? Really, Laura, it ill becomes you to do such a thing when you knew I wouldn’t be here to stop you.

That was why, darling, said Laura. It had to be done. I wished to spare you distress, that’s all.

How bare it’s all going to look, and all so unnecessary. Cornwall won’t be bombed and the school doesn’t move in until September. You’ll leave us the paintings in the drawing room, I hope, otherwise we’ll be staring at blank walls.

The Opies and the Lely? Don’t be silly, Mummy, of course not. They must all be stored out of harm’s way. The Reynolds has already been removed from the Green Drawing Room. Don’t worry, everything’s in good hands and being taken care of by an art dealer, who knows just what to do.

Florence sighed. Oh dear, all our ancestors relegated to the cellars. They’ll spin in their graves, poor old things. She turned to Monique. A boys’ school from Kent is to be billeted on us in September.

As she listened, Jennie stared up in amazement. Not so long ago she and her parents had been fighting for their lives in a burning sea. Yet now the talk was of paintings and schoolboys. She felt like Alice, having just stumbled on the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Suddenly her grandmother was looking down at her and saying, I’m afraid you may find it all rather lonely, my dear. Still, your cousin Clive will be home next month. He’s at Winchester College. I do hope you’ll be good friends.

Oh, Mummy, sighed Laura with growing impatience. Clive is fourteen, for goodness’ sake.

At this Florence gave up, and since her maid had vanished, turned on her heel and said, Come along, Monique and Jennie. I’ll show you your rooms. You must both be feeling very tired and will want to rest before luncheon. I can’t imagine where Rosa is. As she led the way up the elegant blue-carpeted stairway, she felt a growing sense of doom. This was not going to be the easiest of times. Laura would always be Laura, selfish and determined to have her own way. She had been especially difficult over the matter of bedrooms.

But you can’t possibly give Clive’s room to Jennie, Laura had stated when it was decided that being placed next-door to her parents would be better for the girl, who would probably have nightmares over her experience. He’ll be furious.

Florence however had put her foot down hard, banishing the unsuspecting Clive to the old nursery suite in the north wing, saying, He’ll be better off. After all, it includes a large bedroom, the school room and a small sitting room. Most boys of his age would jump at the chance of having their own suite.

He’ll hate it and feel insulted, Laura had snapped. It’s freezing up there too. Nanny always had to keep fires going even in the summer. Besides, it’s so far away from everything.

Exactly. Which is why it’s quite wrong for Jennie. She would be alone and frightened. There the matter had rested, and Laura had had been forced to accept defeat.

In her bedroom, Jennie’s eyes drifted dismally from the William Morris wallpaper to heavy green velvet curtains and antique furniture. Only the bed was modern, with a mahogany headboard and a green satin counterpane. Walking across to the window, she gazed out through small panes on to a bright sunlit lawn then lifted her eyes beyond the trees to make out a thin ribbon of blue. At that moment, Portia and Rosalind came bounding into sight, making soft growling sounds as they played and chased each other across the freshly mown grass.

Maman, may I go and play with the dogs?

Monique said that she might and watched as the child ran back down the stairs, dodging boxes and workmen before chasing out through the open door and on to the drive. She will not get lost?

Florence shook her head. What she needs now is to play in bright sunshine and forget.

*   *   *

The Ninth Baronet did not put in an appearance until just before luncheon when he greeted his daughter-in-law and grand-daughter with the same distant reserve he showed to all guests. Tall and thin, a man of sixty-four years, his grey and thinning hair, gaunt face and pale blue eyes, spoke of a once handsome and aesthetic-looking man, as Charles was now.

Forgive me for not being here to greet you, Monique. The RAF want to place some sort of transmitter on my land and surround it with Nissen huts. The army have already wired off paths and beaches. Lethic Sands is mined, Florence. Be sure the dogs don’t go near it. All nonsense, of course. All the Germans have to do is cross twenty-one miles of Channel from Calais to Dover.

They were in the large and elegant drawing room which, like the vast hall, was part of the later building. The furniture was mainly inlaid walnut or satinwood; a concert grand stood in the tall window bay; on the piano were silver-framed photographs of Veryans past and present, sprinkled liberally with a few royal visitors. The only thing now adorning the walls was a large gilt-framed mirror. Philip walked to the drinks table and poured himself a scotch and soda. Soldiers are guarding the harbour entrance, would you believe? Would anyone care for a drink while I’m about it?

Seated on a rose brocade sofa, Florence and Monique accepted dry sherry while Jennie was offered sparkling lemonade. She watched as the light from the window danced among the tiny bubbles, and thought how stern her grandfather was. Yesterday, at the hospital, he had looked awkward and lost, as though wishing himself elsewhere. Aunt Laura didn’t want them here, that much was obvious. Didn’t he want them either? Was that why he seemed so angry? And didn’t he care about her father? He knew he was all burned, yet hadn’t asked how he was.

Taking up his favourite stance before the Adam fireplace, Philip’s face was heavy with anxiety but because of his repressed nature he still could not bring himself to speak about the son he loved so deeply, hiding instead behind lighter problems. Hope to God Laura knows what she’s doing. He drained his glass and only Florence could tell, by the quickness of his drinking and the strain in his voice, what he was really going through. I take it that this school understands they’re only having the north and part of the east wings?

Florence turned to Monique. The Allendale School had already evacuated but it didn’t work out so they’re re-locating to the Headland Hotel. Of course the hotel couldn’t possibly accommodate all five hundred boys and staff, so we’re having the fifth and sixth-form pupils, just to sleep. Lessons and meals will be taken at the hotel. At least, that’s the plan. I hope it works out all right. She relaxed back against the sofa and placed a hand to her brow in a vain effort to rub away the headache which had started earlier that day. Philip dear, shouldn’t we invite this art dealer to luncheon?

As though awakening from deep thought, he started slightly. What? Oh … no … no. Laura’s arranged something. Apparently he wants to catch the late-afternoon train to London and has no time to spare. Suddenly he turned to Monique and said, Have you heard anything from Roehampton yet?

Monique met the bright, piercing eyes steadily. She had always found her father-in-law intimidating and knew that he wished his son had married an Englishwoman from his own background. Better still, an Englishwoman who could give his son an heir. Could this really be Charles’s father? The man she had married was the perfect gentleman, kind and considerate of others, passionate too beneath that correct manner of his. People soon fell under the spell of his good looks and easy charm, she foremost among them. But now, staring into those piercing, almost accusing eyes, she asked herself if Philip’s attitude was so unexpected? With the leaders of her country in disarray and, in her opinion, letting down the whole French nation which, in turn, had let down the British which, in turn, had been forced to abandon France, was it any wonder that this proud man was looking at her in such a manner? He was waiting for an answer.

Charles was still in Plymouth when we left. He is going to East Grinstead today, not Roehampton. He will have skin grafting operations down his right side and along the arm and wrist.

Skin grafts! Philip looked away and lapsed into silence. Was it really true that his son, his dear golden son, graced with good looks and a fine mind, was now so horribly mutilated that his body must be rebuilt? The anguish was made more poignant by knowing he had missed a last chance of visiting Charles. Instead, the precious moments had been spent with military personnel. God, it made him want to strike someone.

Monique was clenching and unclenching her fists without being aware of the fact. I am told that wonders can be done these days… How could burned flesh ever be made whole again? She looked at Philip’s expression and her thoughts jumped to the young soldier who had insisted on giving her his life jacket. The English were a strange people, a Puritan people, and yet this ordinary soldier with a rough London accent had behaved with age-old chivalry to a foreign woman he had never met before. Had that chivalry cost him his life? The thought haunted her and would for the rest of her days.

Since the dining room was out of the question, luncheon was served in the small breakfast room where sunlight streamed through the windows, stabbing off knives and forks set on white damask linen. There the family sat down to fresh crab salad, with new potatoes from the kitchen garden, strawberries from their fields and cream from the dairy at Home Farm, followed by coffee, cheese and biscuits.

Enjoy the cream while you can, said Laura, There won’t be much of it about from now on. She paused then smiled. Ironic isn’t it that the war will actually be good for this estate. I shall miss my coffee and cigarettes though. Have you seen the rations, Mummy? Goodness knows how town dwellers will cope.

Florence tensed at her daughter’s seemingly heartless remarks in the wake of all that had happened. Worse was to come, however.

What I still don’t understand is why you waited so long before leaving Paris? said Philip, glaring across the table at Monique.

In no mood to discuss the loss of her baby with anyone, much less this arrogant man, Monique murmured something about staying with Charles because he needed her.

Laura smiled thinly and gave her sister-in-law a strange, almost pitying, look. Goodness, such loyalty. Are men worth it? I know a good many who wouldn’t think twice about cheating on their wives. But you’d never dream it to look at them.

An awkward silence followed these bitter words. Everyone knew that John Willoughby had left Laura, who was not an heiress, for a woman who was.

But why St Nazaire? Philip was asking. It’s miles from Paris.

Florence sighed with exasperation. They had no other choice, dear. It was hardly a Cook’s Tour. Now enough. Poor Monique has been through a great deal and doesn’t need to be questioned in this manner.

Philip grunted and pushed away his plate. Nevertheless, you damned well should have got out when you had the chance instead of leaving everything to the last minute. If you had then Charles might have made very different arrangements for himself and would not now be lying in hospital with agonising burns.

Philip! exclaimed Florence in horror.

It was too much. These past days Monique had been stonily unmoved but now she began to tremble. Her mind filled with the sights and sounds of families being machine-gunned, of screaming men trapped in burning holds, of drowning men, of men dying in many different ways, and one who had given away his life jacket, probably dying also. She thought of her baby son dying before he had known life, scrambled to her feet and fled the room, to be followed by a deeply concerned Florence.

Jennie rushed after them, pausing only to look back at her grandfather and shout: Maman came out of hospital the day before we left. She’s been very ill. Leaving two shocked people sitting at the table, she ran out into the hall. Halfway up the stairs she found her mother hunched over, weeping, and being comforted by her grandmother.

Florence bent and stroked the smeared head, murmuring, I’m so sorry, my dear. You must forgive Philip. He’s been in such a state these past few days that I don’t think he really knows what he’s doing or saying any more. Come on. A good long sleep is what you need. Gently she raised up her daughter-in-law then turned to see Jennie staring at them with large frightened eyes. Don’t worry, darling. Mummy is very tired, that’s all. I’m sure you are too. So now you’re both going to have a nice long rest and, later, I’ll take you to the cove.

Feeling Monique’s trembling body against her own, Florence led her to the large bedroom which was always kept for Charles and his wife, drew the heavy curtains then took the young woman’s hands into her own, saying, Really, I could kill the silly man. Now rest, and leave Jennie to me. With that, she closed the door, took Jennie to her room then walked back down the stairs to deal with her husband.

*   *   *

Monique lay back on the four poster bed, and looked up at the ornately worked canopy. It was a miracle surely that all three of them had survived when thousands had not. How many thousands? The ship had been so full. She thought of Charles, her wonderful, darling Charles, who was now scarred for life. It was her fault. She should have gone with Jennie in March when she had been well, leaving him free to manoeuvre without the encumbrance of a wife and child. Philip was quite right and had merely said out loud what everyone was thinking. She would never forgive herself.

Poor darling Charles! Her mind journeyed back to that small apartment on the Left Bank where Maddie Veryan had thrown one of her many parties. The room had been packed with fellow students from the Ecole des Beaux Arts, when in had walked this tall, attractive Englishman with charm, eloquence and perfect manners. In Paris for a short holiday and persuaded by his cousin, Maddie, to attend her party, he had stood, a fish out of water, in correct grey suit and sober tie while Monique had quietly fallen in love with him. Her senior by four years and a junior diplomat from Whitehall, he offered the sophistication, security, protection and warmth which she had craved and never found. After their marriage, she made the transition from gauche student to young diplomat’s wife with comparative ease and, blissfully happy, came to understand and accept the strange ways of the English, save for their cuisine.

Insisting that his son and heir be born at Trevellan, in accordance with family tradition, Charles had shown nothing of the disappointment he must have felt when, in this very bed, she had given birth to a girl. She’s adorable, he had said, rocking his daughter in his arms. Like a perfect rosebud. And there will be plenty of time for sons to come along.

But in the years that followed, when they had moved between Belgium, Holland, London and Paris, Monique had suffered five miscarriages. This had taken its toll both physically and emotionally, leaving her grieving, tired and unable to stand for long hours at diplomatic receptions. In the end, she became the invisible wife, staying at home when she should have stood by Charles. She had failed him in that and failed him also by being incapable of doing what all other Veryan women had done: produce a male heir. Was she to be the only failure? Idiot! It only took one to end a dynasty. That was another thing no one would say to her face, that the Veryans felt they were paying dearly for Charles’s insistence on marrying a French girl from no background when he should have married an upper-class English brood mare.

Now there was war and she would have to live with this family day in and day out. One day she would be chatelaine here. No wonder her sister-in-law disliked her so much. It was hard on Laura, first born but unable to inherit. One could almost feel sorry for the woman, but Monique did not. Turning on her side, she felt exhaustion sweeping over her once more. What did Laura or the Veryans matter? The Germans were coming and with them horrors that the English could not know about. Perhaps it was God’s will that the son she had carried was no more. This was not the time to bring another child into the world.

*   *   *

Jennie opened her window; the smell of grass and sea filled her nostrils. If only she could go to the cove right now with her grandmother. The sunshine beckoned and she longed to be out in it. Maman had cried, and that was alarming, as alarming as the day they had carried her into an ambulance and rushed her off to hospital. No one had yet explained what made Maman ill. Jennie wanted her to be well again, to be calm and comforting as she used to be. Feeling lost and a little frightened, Jennie walked across to a large bookcase, selected a book by Richmal Crompton and lay on her bed reading about William Brown.

Later, when Florence looked in, she found her grand-daughter sleeping soundly, her face stained with tears.

*   *   *

The walk to the cove was by way of a path which led through the old kitchen gardens until it reached fern-carpeted woods beyond. As it descended into the valley, the path became enclosed by verdant banks topped by trees bent inland from winter gales. Then the banks flattened, the way broadened and the cove lay ahead. Jennie could hear the sea long before she and her grandmother came upon it in the clear light of late-afternoon. The tide was well out, and the unthreatening ribbon of blue laced with white surf. Fat herring gulls waded in small rivulets which carved gulleys in the sand and seaweed-covered barnacles clung to exposed rocks. Furze-covered cliffs rose either side of the cove but only one was accessible, its track climbing from the beach up and over the hill.

Making her way down five wooden steps, Florence stood on the beach, lifted her face to the sun and listened to the cries of gulls, thankful that this dangerous rocky place remained free of wartime protection. Flinging a cashmere cardigan around her shoulders, she walked slowly along the damp, pebbly sand, watching as Jennie ran ahead with Portia and Rosalind. The bitches bounded about the girl then turned their attention to chasing seagulls before finding a piece of driftwood, gripping it with their teeth as they tugged it from each other in play.

A small crab moved away from Jennie’s shadow as she reached into a rock pool to touch a pink urchin. The urchin closed lightly over her fingers. She laughed with delight, all memories of recent horrors suddenly replaced by a vague recollection of being in this place before. Thoughtfully she ran back to her grandmother. What happened to the boat? I remember a boat.

Florence looked surprised. Two years was a lifetime when one was only ten. "Fancy you remembering that. You went sailing in The Rose with your father and grandfather that last summer when you were here. I’ll take you home the other way then you can see it. Tomorrow, I think we’ll start those riding lessons."

At that moment Jennie’s attention was drawn to a kestrel hovering above the cliff. Fascinated, she watched it swerve across the cove then circle higher and higher, the sunlight filtering through its outstretched wings. Like a thing suspended by unseen wires, it just hung there in the sky. Her eyes darted back to the cliffs as a dark figure appeared against the light. Whoever it was held out an arm. She heard the sound of tiny bells and saw something trailing from the kestrel’s legs as it swooped down towards the outstretched hand. Then it and the dark figure moved away and out of her sight.

Florence was tired. It had been quite a day and the telephone had rung constantly as worried friends wished to be reassured that Charles and his family were out of France. She had left Monique talking to Maddie who had spent most of the afternoon trying to get through from London. Maddie would be here tomorrow, and Florence thanked God for it. Monique needed her old friend right now. Time we were leaving, my dear. Halfway up the cliff path she paused and, a shade breathless, turned to her grand-daughter. You must never come to the cove alone, Jennie. It can be very dangerous. People have been trapped and swept away. Never ever come here alone.

Furze along the cliff edge gave a false sense of security, but where the undergrowth thinned out to rocky ground, the sheer drop was alarming and always made Florence feel a little dizzy. Then they were over the top with views of the beautiful coast outlined clearly for miles. In the distance, a bank of cloud darkened the sea and a ribbon of gold shimmered on the rain-threatened horizon. At last they were gazing down on Portlyn, nestling in a valley. Evening sun slanted across the embankment on the far side of the village, lifting shrubs that clung there to a bright clear green; it washed over the white and grey cottages and bathed the scene in a soft amber light. Gulls screamed from chimney tops, lobster pots covered the harbour wall, and a black saloon car snaked up through twisting narrow lanes until it reached the upper road. Jennie watched until it moved out of sight then followed her grandmother down to an inlet where a small stone quay formed a private mooring.

Surveying the thirty-foot gaff-rigged yacht, now covered in tarpaulin, Florence said sadly, "There she is, The Rose. I’m afraid she’ll spend the war in Watson’s Boatyard. The boathouse only holds a dinghy."

The boathouse itself was built into the cliff. Above it, standing proud of the rock, was a stone wall with a bow window which overhung the quay. Climbing a steep flight of steps, Florence reached above the lintel for the key, unlocked the door and urged Jennie into a small room which smelt dank and musty. Dried flowers cheered the stone hearth and shabby leather armchairs stood either side of it. Dominating the centre of the room was a round table covered with a baize cloth. On the stone floor were two brightly coloured rugs. Drawn at once to the view, Jennie sank on to the window seat and gazed out at the sea. I like this house.

Florence smiled. So do I. I can make tea in the kitchenette without ringing for Keynes or Rosa, I can read and watch the sea, just enjoy my own company. But that’s our special secret, Jennie.

Jennie stared up at her curiously. Are you frightened in the big house then?

Frowning, Florence shook her head. No, darling. Why? Are you?

No. Better to lie than to appear babyish. In truth, though, Jennie dreaded the night to come.

Florence sank down beside her on the window seat and felt a deep sense of relief. This little outing had been more than successful. The tense, frightened child of the morning had now changed beyond all belief.

Before returning home they took a last look at the yacht Sir Philip had bought in 1927. The Rose had been his pride and joy. Now Florence found herself wondering if he and Charles would ever sail it again. The thought of England being swallowed up in the dark and terrible shadow now sweeping all Europe, sent a cold dread through her which knotted her stomach muscles and filled her mouth with a bitter taste.

*   *   *

Maddie descended on them the following day, a Junoesque woman with the Veryan auburn hair, her strange flowing garments covering an unwieldy figure, her moon face crumpling into tears as she and Monique embraced warmly. Monique lapsed into French as she explained all that had happened and neither could believe that German soldiers now dominated Paris where once they had spent such happy times together. But never one to dwell on woe, Maddie produced a case filled with sketch pads, watercolour paper and tubes of paints and declared they would go out the next day and paint the glorious seascapes.

Later, the family sat in the drawing room listening to the Veryan who had broken out of the gentry mould. Maddie, they thought, was positively Bohemian and leading a life of which they disapproved. Rumours abounded of her dubious relationship with a young artist called Bruce Aston, to whom she had given patronage. He lived at her Chelsea home and used her attic studio for his work. What else went on Florence hardly wished to think about, but Maddie was the daughter of Philip’s dead brother and Monique’s closest friend. So they must all put on a good face, forget her morals and treat her with kindness.

Dreadful journey, she was saying. Filthy train, crowded out with soldiers and sailors. Everyone smoking and standing in the corridors. Couldn’t get to the lavatories. It was forty minutes late, so I missed the Portlyn bus and had to wait another hour.

Florence looked concerned. Yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t pick you up but…

Oh, don’t be. I understand about the petrol rationing. Living in London, of course, it doesn’t really matter but down here it’s going to make an awful difference to you. Country bus services are impossible. Look, do you think I can take some dairy produce back with me? Rations are simply awful and going to get worse, I shouldn’t wonder.

Laura crossed her long shapely legs and placed a cigarette in its tortoise-shell holder which she then put between her lips. As she lit the cigarette with a silver lighter and inhaled deeply, her eyes never left the ungainly woman flopping on the sofa opposite. It was as well, she thought, that because Monique had nothing to wear they had temporarily dropped the tradition of dressing for dinner, otherwise who could say what horror would adorn Maddie? And yet she seemed to attract men. Extraordinary. Or was it simply that men who had artistic ambitions just used her? As for Jennie, the child should have dined at six o’clock and been tucked up in bed by now. Monique wouldn’t hear of it, of course, insisting she ate with the family, and saying she was frightened upstairs all alone. Typically French, keeping children up all hours. Monique had a lot to learn.

And how is the gallery doing, Maddie? asked Philip in an effort to be affable after his drumming from Florence yesterday.

Maddie leaned forward, frowning slightly as she twirled a sherry glass between her fingers. It had been doing very well, but you can hardly expect people to fork out for paintings at a time like this. In any case, I’ve taken the precaution of placing my stock in the cellars, bringing up only a few each day for display purposes. Better to be safe than sorry. She gazed around at the bare walls gloomily. I was really looking forward to seeing your collection again. Was it absolutely necessary to pack them all away?

Deeming this remark an insult to her forward thinking, Laura snapped back at once: What a question! Of course it was necessary.

Florence jumped in quickly. Maddie, I do hope you’ll come to us if bombing starts? I wouldn’t rest if I thought you were in danger.

Thank you, Aunt Florence, that’s very kind, said Maddie. But if it does start I shall be driving ambulances. Seeing the surprise on their faces, she smiled. Oh, yes, I’m an auxilliary. You should see me in my government issue and tin hat.

Shuddering at the thought, Laura prayed she never would.

In any case, I couldn’t leave the gallery, Maddie went on. Thinking this sounded rather ungrateful, she added, But if things get too awful, then I’ll take you up on your kind offer. She would, of course, do no such thing. The very idea of being buried alive in Cornwall when all the excitement was in London was not to be contemplated. Lovely in summer, she told herself, but the long, boring and damp winters with nothing to do would soon drive her to the mad house. It would do the same for Monique and what she needed now was was plenty of distraction. If things remained quiet she would entice her to London and get her to help with the gallery, or induce her to start painting again. Monique was a very good landscape painter and earlier this year had sold three paintings. Last year she had sold four. It would be criminal if she just stopped and ended up doing charity work with Florence and