Cottage by the Sea (10 page)

   Blythe seemed almost to recoil at his words.

   "This is crazy!" she replied, refusing to look at him. "I… just now, I…" she stammered. However, instead of jumping to her feet, she slumped against his chest once again and gazed with a bewildered look at the ornate family tree framed on the wall to their right.

   Involuntarily Luke's arms tightened around her. His senses were being dangerously stimulated by the delicate texture of the thin batiste nightdress cloaking Blythe's fragrant skin. Mrs. Q had sensibly provided it to this unexpected houseguest, but the sheer sensation of the fabric against the palms of his hands brought Lindsay's image softly into focus.

   Oddly he felt no guilt that this stranger nestled against his chest was wearing such an intimate item of apparel that had once been owned by his deceased wife. Their marriage had been a comfortable, altogether suitable match. In the course of it he had gained a deepening respect for Lindsay Wingate as he watched her grapple valiantly with the more horrifying aspects of her illness. The sweet, accommodating young debutante he had married had been transformed by the onslaught of breast cancer into a courageous, dignified woman as she quietly met her fate. He, on the other hand, had felt the underpinnings of his life give way as he witnessed her die by inches. The process was a punishing one in which he grew to love and value her more each day while she agonizingly slipped away.

   Blythe hadn't moved a muscle and lay quietly against his shoulder, as if she were an empty vessel.

   "I'm sorry," she whispered against his neck. "You and Mrs. Quiller have been incredibly nice to me the whole time I've been here and…"

   Her voice trailed off, and he realized, with a jolt of surprise and compassion, that here was a woman who wasn't accustomed to many people being kind. He absently stroked her wonderfully lustrous, springy hair and was unnerved to discover himself becoming aroused by her nearness.

   Was it only this, the long absence of normal sexuality in his life, he mused, or was this emotionally fragile young American the first human in recent memory who had summoned any kind of response in him since Lindsay had died? His late wife had been a pretty, kindhearted girl. Blythe Barton, he had concluded after this short acquaintance, was all woman—and a complicated, wounded one at that.

   "You're not crazy," Luke consoled her. Inhaling Blythe's warm, soap-scrubbed scent, he felt a stirring in his groin. "I expect that each of us is perfectly normal," he added wryly.

   Oblivious to his double meaning, Blythe pointed in the direction of the framed record of their shared ancestry. Slowly she rose to her feet and gestured toward the names inscribed on the central section of the genealogy chart.

   "Did you realize…" she began, pausing to take a deep breath, "that a woman named Blythe Barton married a man named Christopher Trevelyan and—"

   "Ah… on the genealogy chart," he interrupted. "Christopher and Blythe… yes, of course… Seeing those names up there gave you a turn, did it?"

   She was still in love with her husband, he realized with regret, or at least the bastard continued to have tremendous power to hurt her. He pointed at the elaborate listing of his ancestors.

   "The coincidence of that pair up there struck me right away as well, when your travel agent first contacted me and gave me your full name," he continued, trying to reassure her. "She mentioned that you'd told her your family might have emigrated from these parts. There must be thousands of Christophers in England, but Blythe is a fairly unusual Christian name. Presumably you Yankee Bartons could have descended from that eighteenth-century Cornish hellcat of mine." He smiled, hoping to take her mind off her troubles with diverting stories about his—and perhaps her—obstreperous ancestors. "The gene pool hatched by that Barton heiress probably rendered members of her line reckless enough to make the treacherous journey across the sea."

   "The name Blythe was always given to the eldest daughter in my family," Blythe explained, her dark-brown eyes widening. "Lucinda Barton—-the grandmother I was telling you about? She had married into the family, of course, and was very proud of her husband's claim to being a descendant of 'English landed gentry,' as she termed it."

   "And quite right, too!" Luke chuckled, encouraged to see that this ill-used young woman seemed much calmer as she spoke of her family residing in America.

   "Grandma Barton made a huge fuss with my mother and father until they gave in and named me Blythe as well," she continued softly. "My mother worried that with a handle like that, I was destined to become some silly dink—Noel Coward's play
Blithe Spirit
and all that. As it turned out, the role of dink was assigned to my sister."

   "'Handle'? 'Dink'?" Luke repeated with an amused smile, ignoring her disparaging reference to Eleanor Barton. "You Americans do make a hash of our mother tongue."

   Blythe grimaced apologetically.

   "'Handle,' you probably know is a person's name… and 'dink' is Wyoming for a shirker… a ditz. My husband was forever telling me I fractured the King's English." Blythe shrugged. Apparently in better command of her emotions now, she asked him earnestly, "What do you know about my namesake? The woman you described as such a hellion?"

   Luke rose from his chair and stood beside his paying guest in front of the wide expanse of the gilt-edged genealogy chart. Their shoulders were just inches apart. He suddenly had the absurd desire to turn and kiss the generous mouth that posed such odd questions at this late hour.

   "I don't know an awful lot of the story, really," he admitted, grateful for the opportunity to divert his lecherous thoughts by relating bits and pieces of Barton-TrevelyanTeague family lore. "I do know from what's noted in the family Bible that at age seventeen, the first Blythe Barton had been betrothed for purely dynastic reasons to the eldest Trevelyan son… Christopher—known as Kit."

   "And?" Blythe pressed.

   "Everyone in both families was perfectly aware that the poor girl had been infatuated since childhood with the younger Trevelyan brother, Ennis here," he continued, tracing his finger above the line linking the two brothers.

   "Don't touch the glass!" Blythe blurted, grabbing his arm. Her face had grown even paler. "It might make a smudge," she amended sheepishly.

   "Well… right…" Luke replied, assuming her skittishness was part and parcel of her recent emotional upset. "Kit's younger brother, Ennis Trevelyan, was a dashing bloke, consumed by a passion for art. By all accounts, your eighteenth-century namesake was quite vocal in her opposition to forced marriage to the eldest brother, heir to the Trevelyan lands."

   He pointed to a framed modern ordnance survey that hung on the wall next to the genealogy chart.

   "Here's the cause of poor Blythe Barton's thwarted passion," he explained.

   The highly magnified version of a map of the Dodman Point region of Cornwall showed in minute detail every farmstead, caravan and camping site, ancient burial mound, and sewage works in the area. A hand-drawn line etched in bright-red ink outlined the boundaries of his family's threethousand-acre estate.

   "See this bit?" he continued. "These were the original Barton holdings that abutted the Trevelyan lands and shared the coastline hereabouts where smugglers made a tidy fortune bringing ashore French brandy… silk… lace… all sorts of luxuries that the Royal Revenue Men wanted to get their hands on in order to collect the necessary taxes due. It's no secret that the Bartons and Trevelyans, like virtually everyone else in Cornwall in those days, added to their profits on sheep and grain with a little contraband trade from time to time."

   "And your Blythe Barton?"

   "She was an heiress—no males ahead of her to inherit the land." Lucas shrugged. "Probably some male chauvinists in both families thought, 'What a good idea if the Barton heiress married the Trevelyans' eldest son! Then the lands could be joined and the smugglers could carry on at this secluded cove,' here," he continued, pointing to an area on the map named Hemmick Beach, a stretch of land immediately adjacent to Painter's Cottage and shaded a beige color to indicate sand. "Situated in the middle of the contiguous properties and honeycombed with natural caves, it was an ideal spot for smugglers to land their goods away from the prying eyes of the king's men." Impulsively Luke gripped Blythe's cold hand in his. "Here… let me show you something else."

   Blythe allowed him to lead her out of the library and into the reception hall, where he gestured in the direction of several portraits.

   "These were painted in the early 1790s by young Ennis Trevelyan, my ancestor, who also produced those seascapes you've seen on the walls in your cottage," he explained.

   Before Luke could individually identify any of the longdead players in the drama they had been discussing, Blythe pointed to the framed oil closest to her.

   "That's Christopher Trevelyan, isn't it?" she confirmed in a low voice. "Kit. Only his skin is unscarred."

   Luke was amazed that his American houseguest could so easily identify Ennis's rendering of his older brother, Kit, the first and only Trevelyan laird of Barton Hall.

   "Harelips, pockmarks, scars… you rarely see them on family portraits like these, no matter who the artist is," Luke explained. "It wouldn't do for a painter to offend his patron by rendering him warts and all, now, would it?" He shifted his gaze from the painting to Blythe's face, which had drained of its color. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked. Blythe had an odd, haunted look about her.

   "I think so," she replied.

   "Positive? You seem so—"

   He couldn't quite describe the peculiar aura of sadness and regret that surrounded his night-prowling guest.

   "It's just… seeing my own name linked on that chart with another Christopher was… unsettling," she explained.

   "I can certainly understand how it would be," he replied. "As I said before, I was struck by the coincidence myself."

   Luke sensed there was more to her muted distress than that she'd spotted her name coupled with that of another Christopher. However she was obviously reluctant to disclose intimate details of the emotional roller coaster she'd been on since her arrival from California—if Mrs. Quiller's anxious description of their guest's tormented state of mind was any guide.

   Blythe pointed to another spot on the wall.

   "There's no portrait of Ennis?"

   "There was one… a self-portrait. It's up in the attic or out in the stable loft somewhere. The picture's got a terrible lot of gashes in it. I've been meaning to have it restored, but the cost, you know—"

   "
What?
" she interrupted. "H-how was it damaged?"

   Luke gestured at the elder Trevelyan's portrait.

   "Family lore has it that old Kit here was rather displeased with his brother, for some reason or other. One night he apparently drew a ceremonial sword off the wall and slashed the canvas to ribbons. In his cups, probably."

   "And is she my namesake?" Blythe inquired, nodding in the direction of the woman's portrait positioned next to that of Christopher Trevelyan.

   Like some spectator at Wimbledon, Luke shifted his gaze several times between the flesh-and-blood Blythe Barton Stowe and his distant forebear, Blythe Barton Trevelyan. Then he emitted a low whistle.

   "I haven't really had a good look at her since your arrival," he said, impressed by the apparent similarities between the two. "Your bone structure is like hers, don't you think? You don't have those almond-shaped eyes, and your hair's auburn, of course—hers is brunette—but I see the resemblance, don't you?"

   "What eventually happened?" Blythe asked, ignoring his question. "Did Blythe Barton ever make her peace with her family's prohibition on marrying Ennis… the b-brother she loved?" she stammered.

   "No one knows, exactly," Luke replied, escorting her back into his study and reaching for a decanter of brandy. "At some point during this family drama, Blythe Barton disappeared, died, or ran off. At least we know she's not buried in the family plot at St. Goran's churchyard. A grandfather of mine said that his grandfather declared that Kit's wife was a harridan and utterly to blame for the lack of legitimate Trevelyan heirs."

   "Typical!" Blythe interjected shortly. "Blame the woman, of course."

   Lucas allowed her predictably American response to pass without comment.

   "Even my late father referred to Blythe Barton's apparently scandalous behavior toward her lawful husband in hushed tones, but I'm not sure he even knew exactly what our ancestress had done to earn such a shameful reputation." He pointed once again at the genealogy chart and indicated the line that extended from Kit's name several inches to the right. "See… here's where we Teague cousins came into the picture when the Trevelyan-Barton line petered out. Ennis also died without heirs, and so next in line was my many-times-greatgrandfather, Garrett Teague, the Trevelyan brothers' first cousin. Garrett's mother and the mother of the Trevelyan boys were sisters with the unfortunate surname of Swink."

   Blythe was looking at him oddly as she asked, "Did this Garrett Teague figure into the story in any way? Is there a portrait of him?"

   "Yes." Luke nodded. "It's at the other end of the reception hall. It looks a bit like me, I'm told…at least my straight nose and my coloring I guess you could say. All I know is that Garrett and his family were booksellers," Luke disclosed, pointing at the book-lined shelves running along the wall beneath the portraits and filled with moldering two-hundredyear-old leather volumes, their bindings sorely in need of restoration. "Garrett's father, Donald Teague, and the former Mistress Swink lived above their shop in Gorran Haven, in the next village. Poor as a church mouse, Garrett was, when the estate came to him."