Escape to Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Storm Castle - home of the Trevarwiths - on the wild Cornish coast. A bride and bridegroom driving up to the doors...a white-faced child peering from a turret window... the first dread meeting between the bride and her red-haired vixen of a step-mother... In later years, after the death of Celia Trevarwith's father, during the Second World War, Paul Manton comes to the district. A Free-French fisherman; he falls madly in love with Celia. She then embarks on a passionate struggle for her love and happiness with Paul, always up against her step-mother's opposition.

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 240

Sample

One evening early in September in the year 1934, a Daimler saloon driven by a chauffeur in blue uniform rounded a bend in the road that led from Helston to Ruthlyn Cove.

In the back of the car sat a man and a woman. The man was aged about forty, smartly dressed with a grey tweed coat and trilby hat and held an attaché case on his knee. He had a thin, rather austere face, with stern eyes and, in sudden contrast, a weakness of mouth and chin. He was gazing upon landscape familiar to him, for this was his home, and although for the last eleven years he had been living most of the year round in London, he was a Cornishman who had been born and bred here. For centuries back the Trevarwiths had been owners of the land across which the car was now moving, and of that tall grey Castle which had just come within view.

Francis Trevarwith leaned forward and looked with a slight flicker of interest at his ancestral home, then turned to the woman beside him.

‘There you are, my dear … Storm Castle!’ he announced with a touch of pride in his tired voice.

The woman, younger than him by ten years or more, and who had been married to him only three weeks ago, let down the window of the car and peered out.

‘Oh, how grand,’ she exclaimed.

She spoke with a touch of excitement. Her husband took one of her hands and pressed it. He was as much in love with Isobel as any man of his quiet and unimpassioned nature could be. She looked particularly handsome this evening, dressed becomingly in grey tweeds with silver-fox-ties and a pale grey chiffon scarf swathed around her turban hat and under her chin, concealing the burning red of her hair. She had a very white skin, darkly-lashed blue eyes and a red, narrow little mouth. Her figure was perfect. She had a strong attraction for most men, and Francis Trevarwith, who had imagined himself dead to all passions and who had forsworn the love of women after the death of his first wife eleven years ago, was desperately in love with her. From the moment of their first kiss she had stirred up long-buried and forgotten emotions in him. Apart from the physical attraction of her wonderful red hair, her camellia skin and beautiful body, she had a bright amusing tongue, and a certain coyness which appealed to a man of his age. He knew little about her beyond the fact that she used to do stand-in work at an Ealing film studio and that she came from simple ordinary stock … people who had no pretentions to the aristocratic breeding of the Trevarwiths. But when Francis had first met her (it had been at a race-meeting to which she had come with a man who knew him) she had appeared to him as a pathetic creature as lonely and unsatisfied as himself—hating her job and longing for a home of her own. He had gone away haunted by the memory of her very blue eyes and a trick which she had of looking through her lashes at him and saying:

‘I’d like Mr. Trevarwith’s opinion. I’m sure he knows …’

It was flattering to have a pretty woman, still a girl, take so much interest in a man of his age. He had seen to it that he met the lovely Isobel again. A couple of months later he had, to his own astonishment, asked her to marry him.

Now, after three weeks’ honeymoon in the south of France, they had come down to the Cornish home which Isobel had, so far, not visited. She was not really fond of the country—London was more her mark—and she had enjoyed herself to the full at Monte Carlo and Cannes, where it had amused Francis to let her gamble and spend a lot of money on clothes. But the Côte d’Azur bored Francis. He was a man who preferred living in his own country. In actual fact he preferred Cornwall to any other place in the world. But the tragedy which had befallen him here in this very place eleven years ago had driven him away from Ruthlyn all this while. Only now, when he had this new attractive, high-spirited wife, did he feel compelled to return and take up residence at the Castle again.

Isobel was looking with interested, slightly amused eyes at the Castle which they were now rapidly approaching. It seemed to her like something out of Hollywood, standing there inside high stone walls, on the very edge of the cliff. An historic-looking building with towers and battlements. Its old grey lichened walls looked as though they had withstood the buffeting of the storms throughout the centuries. The grounds were bare, well-kept lawns, walled-in gardens with formal flower-beds, fruit trees and flowering bushes. But there was an absence of trees which gave it a stark, unfriendly aspect.

Isobel was longing to see the interior. Three-quarters of the place was closed down and the family lived in one wing. Francis admitted that it was not very up to date, but Isobel had already made secret plans to modernise the whole place and fill it with young amusing people. She could twist Francis around her little finger and she was going to do it to her own advantage in the future.

The one fly in the ointment so far as she was concerned was the presence in that Castle of the little girl who was Francis Trevarwith’s daughter by his first wife. The child whose birth had caused the death of the first Mrs. Trevarwith. Isobel was not by nature at all maternal. She did not want children of her own, although she had secretly decided that it might be a feather in her cap if she could produce a son and heir for the Trevarwiths. She had no wish, certainly, to play the mother to somebody else’s child. The existence of Celia Trevarwith was definitely a bore. But at least she felt that she had no cause to be jealous, because Francis Trevarwith seemed to have no particular affection for his small daughter. Her existence was also a bore to him. He was a queer man. Isobel could not yet quite fathom him. But she had gathered from what he had told her that he had adored Angela, his first wife. She, too, had come from this part of the Cornish coast. They had known and loved each other for years before they married. Isobel had seen a photograph of Angela … a slender, wistful-eyed girl. What Isobel would call ‘mushy’.

Something had gone wrong when her baby had been born. Possibly a muddle-headed country practitioner who failed to understand the case. A specialist summoned from Truro was too late and the first Mrs. Trevarwith had breathed her last there in the great Castle and left Francis alone in the world except for his small daughter. Instead of him turning to the child and lavishing his devotion upon her, he had conceived what Isobel thought a rather curious bitterness against Celia. Isobel was herself a selfish grasping young woman, but she could not quite understand why a man should, in his grief, turn against his own child instead of to her. But that was what had happened. He seemed to blame the poor little creature for the death of his adored wife. He had handed Celia Angela Trevarwith over to the care of nurses, and later to a succession of governesses, who all found it lonely and dreary in the big Castle which had no mistress and which rarely saw its master these days.

Mr. Trevarwith had taken himself to London and thrown himself into his job as a stockbroker. He lived more or less the life of a recluse at his Club when he was not working. He carried out only his bare duty toward the unhappy little daughter, visiting her occasionally and making sure she was well cared for.

But she had grown into the living image of her mother and that stabbed him every time he looked at her face, so he curtailed his visits.

A strange, hard man. But Isobel had changed all that. He had become flesh and blood again with her and she had felt proud of her achievement. It was pretty good work on her part to find herself no longer a hard-working film ‘super’, but the wife of a wealthy man with a Castle for her home.

She gave an exclamation as they drew nearer yet to the place. It looked magnificent against the red of a sunset sky, and now she could see the exquisite blue of the sea, darkish green where the water lapped against the rocks. To the right, in the distance, the faint shadow of Land’s End. A rugged, beautiful coast—an artist’s paradise. But its wild desolation held little or no appeal for Isobel. Her thrill lay only in the size and splendour of the Castle itself.

‘Oh, Francis!’ she said, pressing her husband’s fingers, ‘what a place!’

‘It’s very fine,’ he admitted, ‘but I hope you won’t find it too lonely down here. If you do, we will move back to town.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Isobel gaily, ‘I’ve had enough of London, and as we own this place, I think we ought to live here. What marvellous parties we can have and what a set it would make for a scene in a film.’

He winced a little at that thought. The films did not interest him, but his young wife’s childish enthusiasm warmed his blood. He had lived alone far too long. He realised that now. His honeymoon with Isobel had been a revelation … altogether more glamorous and unrestrained than that quiet honeymoon with his dear departed Angela. In fact, Isobel had shocked him a little. But he liked being shocked. And he liked the idea of coming down here and chasing away the ghosts of the past with his red-haired charmer at his side.

‘Won’t your little girl be excited to see us!’ observed Isobel.

Francis Trevarwith frowned. The memory of Celia generally evoked a frown. He was a little sorry that she must be here this evening. He would have preferred to be alone with Isobel. It would be so embarrassing to see a replica of Angela about the place. Besides, the child was intensely shy, and—in his opinion—difficult, although those who looked after her always said she was ‘as good as gold’.

Totally lacking in interest in her, having no sense of sympathy or compassion, he was anxious only to please his bride. He said:

‘If Celia irritates you at all, we can send her to boarding school, my dear.’

‘Oh,’ said Isobel loftily, ‘I’ll manage her. I can make her like me. She’ll do what I tell her.’

‘I’m sure she will,’ said Francis Trevarwith, and then, slipping an arm about his wife’s supple waist, added: ‘I always do what you tell me, don’t I, my darling?’

She raised her brightly-rouged mouth for his kiss and then, with one of her pretty coy movements wiped his mouth with her handkerchief.

‘Can’t have Mr. Trevarwith entering the ancestral home with Isobel’s lipstick all over his face,’ she said merrily.

He clasped her closer, more in love with her this evening than he had ever been. As the car turned through the gates and up the gravel drive which led to the door of Storm Castle, he was haunted just a trifle by the memory of that other bride whom he had driven down this same road in a less up-to-date car and with more financial worries than he had to-day.

He had had a struggle, after the death of his parents, to maintain Storm Castle and the estates. But Angela had a wealthy father, owner of one of the tin mines which were now disused. Francis had married her for love, but it was fortunate for him that she had also brought grist to the mill. With her father’s help things had brightened considerably. Later she had come into the whole fortune and Francis had been able to improve his own business as well as give Angela everything that she had wanted.

This evening, just the faint memory of Angela and the honeymoon which they had spent here on the coast which they loved so well disturbed Francis Trevarwith. How sweet and gentle she had been! What a child she had looked when he unpinned her hair and it fell into two pale gold plaits across her breast. … Like a Rossetti maiden, his Angela … old-fashioned and sweet. But too fragile: He remembered how he had raved and cursed when they had told him that she Was dead … cursed himself for having allowed her to bear a child, and recoiled in horror and loathing from the innocent cause of her death.

He drew away from the warm vital body of Isobel, and, taking out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead.

‘It’s warm, isn’t it,’ he murmured. ‘We get lovely Septembers here, as you will see.’

‘I’m going to adore it,’ exclaimed Isobel.

But Francis Trevarwith wished that there was no Celia waiting inside those Castle walls. Unwittingly she had been the cause of all his agony and desolation in the past, and somehow he had a strange premonition that she might be the cause of trouble in the future—trouble between himself and Isobel.

Upstairs in the west wing of the castle in the big room which had at one time been Angela Trevarwith’s boudoir, and which was now the schoolroom, Celia Trevarwith waited for the arrival of her father and his new wife.

It was half-past six and she was eating her supper, carefully spreading a piece of bread and butter with honey. Opposite her sat Miss Ellis, the last of a long line of governesses who could not stand the complete isolation which went with this job. Miss Ellis was more likely to stay than the rest … for she was old and really past the age when she should be the constant companion for a quick-minded child of eleven. And she was a settled spinster who did not require much amusement. So, as she had told Celia herself one morning, she intended to remain here until Celia went to school … a fact which had caused the child a pang because she found Miss Ellis very dull, also very set in her ideas, and out of date. She wanted to bring Celia up to be a prim and proper young lady. So often she reiterated that word ‘lady’ that Celia hated the sound of it. She was first and foremost a child of Nature. She loved to run barefoot on the grass or down on the beach with her hair streaming in the wind and her face wet from the salt of the sea, or the rain. She longed to be given the little shirts and shorts which she saw advertised in magazines for modern children. She longed to have other children to play with, to have gay exciting things to do. But she had nothing.

Miss Ellis disapproved of shorts—thought they were shocking for a young lady. She bought nice useful dresses for Celia and solid shoes. Only when it was very warm was Celia allowed to remove shoes and stockings on the beach, and then she was made to put on canvas rope-soled shoes in case she ran a rusty nail into her foot and got blood poisoning. And there were no other children of her age anywhere near for her to play with, so she must spend most of her time alone or with Miss Ellis.

There was a radio in the Castle, but it was turned on mainly for the time, weather and news, and an occasional concert. There were servants who had been here in the days of Celia’s mother … Edith, the cook, and Elspeth, the little hunch-backed maid—both of whom loved Celia and would have liked to have taken her out and made life more amusing for her. But Miss Ellis watched over her like a tiger. Miss Ellis did not allow familiarity from the staff. There again ‘Miss Celia’ must remember that she was ‘a little lady’.

Miss Ellis was very fond of lecturing. Meekly Celia had to listen to what was said. And for the last three weeks she had had to listen to Miss Ellis’s discourse on her father’s marriage and how Celia must behave toward her new stepmother.

Celia waited for the arrival of her father and his wife without a trace of excitement, which Miss Ellis thought unnatural. Celia ought to be full of love for her father and ambition to welcome the new Mrs. Trevarwith. Miss Ellis could not understand why Celia seemed quieter than usual—even sad.

Inwardly, the child was a bundle of nerves and repressed emotions, but Miss Ellis did not guess that. Children, in her estimation, could have no feeling which they did not betray. She took it for granted that Celia was a cold, queer little thing.

But Celia was not cold. And if she was ‘queer’ it was only because she had never had any natural outlet for her emotions nor had she ever had anybody whom she could really love. Deep down within her, she was highly sensitive and emotional being. And she was a romanticist. She devoured as many books as she was allowed to read. Her favourite book was a famous collection of fairy tales which had belonged to her own mother. Into these tales she wound her own thoughts and feelings. Love existed. Love such as Celia had never seen. But she knew that it was there. There were princes and princesses who loved and lived happily ever after. There were mothers who loved their children—and fathers too.

Celia could not be fond of her own father who had so little interest in her and who came so rarely to see her. When he did come, she was nervous and ill at ease with him. They seemed to have nothing in common. She never looked forward to his coming. But the memory of her own mother she worshipped. In the gallery which ran around the great hall there was an oil painting of Angela Trevarwith in the dress in which she had been presented at Court. Celia worshipped the picture of the delicate golden-haired girl in her white satin gown, and spent many hours looking at it, talking to it. Everybody in Ruthlyn told her that her mother had been sweet and good, and the lonely child grieved for her.

Now she had been told that she was to have a stepmother. But that did not excite or interest her to any degree. She was afraid of her father. How could she ever love his wife? And why should somebody be put in her darling mother’s shoes? It seemed wrong to Celia that there should be a new Mrs. Trevarwith.

This morning old Elspeth had called her downstairs to see the transformation in her mother’s bedroom, which had been locked up for years. New covers and new curtains had been put up at Mr. Trevarwith’s request. Everything had been swept and garnished and—what upset Celia most—her mother’s own silver and enamel toilet set had been polished and laid out on the dressing-table ready for the second Mrs. Trevarwith.

‘She oughtn’t to be given my mother’s things,’ Celia had said indignantly.

Old Elspeth had chided her and answered:

‘You’m not to be a nasty, little girl. You’m lucky to have a nice stepmother. A mistress is what this place has wanted these long years.’

But Celia had run back to her schoolroom in tears. For her mother’s bedroom had always been to her like a shrine and it was being desecrated. She knew in that moment that she would hate her stepmother.

She finished her supper in silence, folded her napkin and said her grace under Miss Ellis’s watchful eye.

‘Now please may I go to bed?’ she asked.

‘Certainly not, Celia. You are to go and put on that blue dress that is on your bed and your black slippers, and run down to the hall to wait for your father—and his—er—and Mrs. Trevarwith.’

‘Must I?’ said Celia.

Miss Ellis looked at her over the rim of her glasses. The good stupid woman could not understand this reluctance on the child’s part to greet the two who were coming. Why this agony of voice and expression? She thought it naughty of Celia. Miss Ellis knew that the child was suffering from lack of proper playmates and congenial surroundings. The Castle was a big grim place. Miss Ellis had to admit that, but surely this was Celia’s opportunity of finding the love and companionship she needed. She must be nice to her stepmother.

The governess shook her head at the little girl.

‘Now don’t be foolish, my dear. What would your father think if he arrived and found you in bed? You aren’t ill, are you? You don’t feel sick or anything?’

‘No,’ said Celia dejectedly, and then wondered if she could possibly make herself sick so that she could stay up in her bedroom and not have to meet Mrs. Trevarwith. Indeed, she felt rather sick with sheer nerves at the thought of having to tackle her stern, unloving father and his new wife.

‘Run along then, and get dressed,’ said Miss Ellis, and then added in a kinder voice: ‘And cheer up, my dear. You’ll probably like your stepmother very much and she’ll take your own mother’s place in your heart.’

A wave of red spread across the little girl’s thin face, which was brown from the sun but delicate-looking in spite of its tan.

‘No, never, never!” she said in a passionate voice and turned and ran out of the room.

Upstairs in the turret room which she had occupied ever since she could remember, Celia stood trembling a little, trying to fight her fears. She dared not cry. She knew it would anger her father if she went down with red-rimmed eyes. She looked almost with despair at the blue silk dress which Miss Ellis had laid out for her. She thought of what Miss Ellis had said about the new Mrs. Trevarwith taking her mother’s place in her heart. Never! She never would!

‘Oh, if she could only go to bed and not see those two when they came. She ran across the room and looked out of the window. The autumn sky was wild and red. The Cornish coast was inexpressibly beautiful with that touch of melancholy which seemed to find an echo in the child’s starved heart.

Down below she could see the Cove, the little harbour with its worn grey quay and the fishing boats moored there. If only she could get into one of those boats and sail out to sea, into the setting sun, until she came to one of those fairy-tale lands which she had read about, where she would find her own gentle mother and a prince who would make her his princess when she was grown up, and love her for ever.

She turned back and looked at her row of books on the mantel-piece, then at the shabby doll which leaned against her pillow. Miss Ellis disapproved of that doll because it was old and worn. It encouraged germs, she said, but Edith, the cook, had given it to her three years ago and Celia loved it and called it ‘Gretel’ after the little girl in Hansel and Gretel. She spent hours dressing and undressing it, giving it the time and affection she had never received from a human being.

Celia picked up the shabby Gretel and pressed it against her breast.

‘I shall love you all the more now that father has come home with a new wife,’ she whispered to the smiling painted face, ‘and you will hate my stepmother, too, won’t you?’

Miss Ellis’s voice sounded outside the door:

‘Are you hurrying up, Celia? I think I’d better come and help you dress.’

Celia hurriedly replaced Gretel in her position against the pillow and began to take off her cotton frock. She did not want Miss Ellis to help her dress. Miss Ellis’s bony hands were always cold and made her shudder. The child had a curious aversion to being touched by her or anybody. Once a butcher’s boy whom she had encountered at the kitchen door had teasingly laid a hand on her arm and squeezed it. She had run screaming upstairs and they had not been able to quieten her for hours. It was another of what Miss Ellis called her ‘peculiarities’.

Half an hour later she was dressed and on her way downstairs to the big hall where a log-fire had been lighted in the huge open fire-place. Big yellow and red chrysanthemums mixed with autumn leaves nodded from great stone jars. Celia, herself, had in fact superintended these decorations because she loved to arrange flowers. Her father had sent money and the flowers had been brought from a near-by nursery. But neither the fire nor the flowers could make the place look really bright. The curtains and covers were of sombre hue, expensive but shabby. A great deal of the furniture was marquetry, handsome in a fashion but overpowering. It had been collected by the Trevarwiths for years. Everything was on a big scale, but the place was ill-lighted and draughty despite the huge red damask curtains across the windows, and one or two heavy Spanish leather screens.

At the precise moment that Celia walked solemnly and nervously down the wide staircase, the front door opened and Francis Trevarwith ushered his bride into the Castle.

On the bottom step Celia stood rooted, her small thin hands clasped nervously behind. . .