Sara Craven - High Tide At Midnight

During the weeks since the funeral Morwenna had felt that she was existing in a kind of curious limbo, and this impression had been emphasised with the advent of Cousin Geoffrey, whom she hardly knew, and his rather domineering wife, whom she did.

Cousin Patricia, she knew, had expected to find herself a wealthy woman and had been less than entranced with the true state of affairs, although becoming Lady Kerslake and occupying the house, a gem from the reign of Queen Anne, must, Morwenna surmised drily, have been some consolation at least.

At first she had been inclined to gush over Morwenna, but as the days passed, her manner had become more distant. Not that they had ever been close, Morwenna thought. And she had never been on friendly terms with Vanessa either, even though her father had insisted they attend the same school and had paid both lots of fees to achieve this. She had wondered since whether Vanessa had resented this, or whether her main source of grievance had been simply that her younger cousin had the ability to skate lightly over the academic waters where she had frankly floundered. Whatever the cause, Vanessa’s hostility had at times been almost tangible, and there had been little softening of her attitude since her arrival at Carew Priory. On the contrary, Morwenna felt at times that Vanessa was frankly gloating over the reversal in their fortunes. She’d had to be very careful over everything she did and said, making certain that Mrs Abbershaw the housekeeper went to Cousin Patricia for her instructions, even remembering to knock before she entered rooms where the family had gathered. Suddenly she was the outsider in her own home. Yet no longer her own home, as Lady Kerslake was reiterating with some force.

‘And I can’t imagine why you should be so concerned, Vanessa,’ she added with asperity. ‘You’ve never cared for her particularly.’

‘I don’t care for her now,’ Vanessa retorted waspishly, ‘but we have to consider what people will say, and her father and Martin were extremely well liked locally. We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.’

‘Indeed not.’ Lady Kerslake gave a deep sigh. ‘What a problem it all is! I had no idea the wretched child was simply going to hang around here aimlessly. Wasn’t there some talk of a painting school?’

‘There’s always talk of something where Morwenna’s concerned. But you’re right, she was supposed to be joining Lennox Christie’s class at Carcassonne this month. Whether he’ll be so keen to have her now that the fees are not forthcoming is a different matter. It’s a well-known fact that he fills up his class with rich dilettantes in order to pay for the pupils he really wants.’

Morwenna’s fingers, clenched deep in the pocket of the loose knitted jacket she was wearing, closed shakingly round the envelope she had thrust there not half an hour before. She had seen the postman coming up the drive from her bedroom window and some premonition had told her what he was bringing, and she had run down to intercept him. All the letters were taken as a matter of course to Cousin Patricia now before they were distributed to the appropriate recipients, and Morwenna knew that a letter with a French stamp would have attracted just the sort of attention that she least wanted.

And her sense of foreboding had been fulfilled. Vanessa might almost be a thought-reader, she told herself despairingly. Lennox Christie’s letter had been courteous but adamant. The work she had shown him at her initial interview in London, he wrote, did not justify him offering her a non-fee-paying place in his class as she had requested. However, he would be back in London in the spring, and she could always contact him then with any new work she had produced, so that he could review his decision. It was the final humiliation. The offer of a review in the spring was, she knew, put in as a salve to her damaged pride.

She had never had a lot of faith in her ability as an artist. She had inherited some of her dead mother’s talent, and had been the prize pupil at school, but she had had few illusions about how she would fare in the fiercely competitive art world if ever her livelihood depended on it. It hadn’t before, of course, and only a sense of utter desperation had prompted her appeal to Lennox Christie. She had sensed during their brief interview earlier that year that he had been unimpressed with the range of landscapes and still life she had shown him, but she knew at the same time that she was capable of better things, if not the touch of genius which had been stamped on so much of Laura Kerslake’s work. She had not mentioned her mother’s name to Lennox Christie. There seemed little point. Laura Kerslake had been dead for over ten years and she had painted little after her children were born. Besides, her work was no longer fashionable.

Cousin Patricia had said as much soon after she had arrived at Carew Priory. Morwenna had little doubt that those of her mother’s paintings which were hanging in the house would soon be relegated to an attic, and replacements sought for them in the trendy gallery in London which Lady Kerslake patronised. She had hoped very much that she would be long gone from the Priory before that happened.

She had never intended to stay there in any case. This was what made it so doubly hurtful to hear herself being discussed as if she was some parasite. She had always known that she would have to get a job of some kind. This was why she had been on her way to speak to Cousin Patricia, to ask, cap in hand, if there was any prospect of a job, however menial, at the trendy gallery. At least she had been spared that particular shame, she thought fiercely.

But that was all she was to be spared. Vanessa was speaking again. ‘And are you sure that she is just hanging around aimlessly? After all, she was seeing quite a lot of Guy a few months ago before all this happened. Perhaps she’s hoping to revive all that again and use him as a meal ticket for life.’

Guy’s mother gave an unfeeling laugh. ‘I can’t believe she’s that naïve,’ she exclaimed. ‘Guy may have paid her attention while Robert and Martin were alive, but the circumstances are different now, very different. Guy isn’t a fool by any means. She’s quite an attractive girl, I’ll grant you that, but if she’s hoping for anything more from him than just a casual affair, I’m afraid she’s going to be severely disappointed. Guy can do better for himself than a penniless cousin.’

Vanessa’s ‘Mother!’ was half laughing, half scandalised, but Morwenna waited to hear no more. She turned precipitately and fled back across the wide hall with its rich Turkey carpet and dark panelled walls, and up the gently curving stairs.

In the past few weeks, one room in particular had become her refuge—her mother’s small sitting room in the West Wing. This was one of the few places where Cousin Patricia and her ‘little changes’ had so far not penetrated. Morwenna slammed the door behind her, then flung herself down on the shabby brocaded sofa and gave way to a storm of tears. In a way, it was a catharsis she had been needing. She had hardly shed a tear at the funeral or afterwards, and had meekly accepted the tranquillisers that the doctor, worried by her pale face and shuttered eyes, had prescribed.

Now grief, humiliation and rage all had their way with her, as she lay, her face buried in the silken cushions. It was dreadful to contemplate how near, how very near she had come to falling in love with Guy. As children, they had been largely indifferent to each other on the few occasions they had met. Then, in the early summer, she had met him again at a party after a gap of several years. In fact they had hardly recognised each other, but the attraction had been, as she thought, instant and mutual. Now she had to face the fact that she had been the one who was attracted, and that Guy had only had an eye to the main chance. She pressed her knuckles against her teeth until they ached.