Chapter Nineteen

Present

Tegan decided not to stay in the office on her own any longer that day. She emailed Ryan the website link, then re-saved all the photos from the site, and then she was out of there.

Fortunately, time was getting on so she didn’t feel bad giving herself a reasonably early finish.

She went for a walk around the village, all the way to the church where Rose was buried, and stopped at a pub called the White Lady for dinner. She treated herself to a large glass of wine — she felt she deserved it after having shadowy figures loom up at her in the middle of the office. It was, however, a mistake to read the potted history of Pencradoc on the back of the pub menu.

“Pencradoc House and village are said to be haunted by the spirit of Rose, Duchess of Trecarrow, an unhappy woman who died under mysterious circumstances in 1884 . . .”

‘Bollocks to that,’ muttered Tegan, quickly putting the menu down and picking up her phone instead. She scrolled through her social media, answered a couple of emails and did a little online stalking of her friends and family to see what they were up to. Meg and Jo were back in America, Merryn was posting pictures of food, and Ryan was . . .

Well, Ryan wasn’t on her friends list. And, annoyingly, he had his accounts hiked up on the privacy settings.

‘Bollocks to that as well,’ said Tegan under her breath. She hovered over the “Add Friend” icon, and then, before she could overthink it, she clicked it.

She looked at her phone, almost willing the confirmation to her request to come back in — but it didn’t. Which was a little annoying, but also a bit of a relief, as she knew she would have then wasted ages scrolling through his posts and photos to piece together what had gone on in his life since they’d last met.

Perhaps she had misjudged him all those years ago, had never given him a chance. After all, she knew as well as anyone that you could put a front on and hide your real self from everyone, even from your closest friends and family. Heaven forbid anyone ever thought she was anything but confident and bubbly and knew exactly what she wanted out of life.

Oh, well.

She moved on to Angelo’s profile. He had posted a picture of the sunset, his sandals tossed to one side, a pair of flip-flops upended near them, a guitar lying in the sand and two sets of footprints leading up from the ocean. A huge heart drawn in the sand encompassed the guitar and the footwear. She smiled at it, remembering the day it had been taken, and scrolled back through the older photos — selfies of her and Angelo on the very same beach, her raising a cocktail to him over a plate of pasta, a picture of him posing in his sunglasses in front of Mount Etna. Further back, she knew, were pictures of him with other girls, friends of his, draped around him at beach barbeques or standing in silhouette against the sunrise, arms raised greeting the new day in skimpy shorts and a bikini top.

Even the odd photo of him kissing a stunning brunette was laughed over as two friends enjoying a party and too much red wine.

So she stopped scrolling before it got to that point in his feed and sighed.

Overcome with some sort of nostalgia for her life in Sicily — and a sudden longing for Angelo’s soft, melodious voice — she called him.

He answered straight away.

‘Tegan!’ His warm voice had a smile in it, even though he seemed a little distracted. ‘My love. How are you?’

‘Hey, Angelo.’ She smiled into the phone. ‘It’s so good to hear you. How’s things?’

‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Busy, though. So very busy!’

‘I can imagine.’ Tegan settled back in her seat. ‘Are you at a gig, then?’ There were clinking glasses and sounds of laughter in the background, as if he was using the phone in a busy bar or restaurant.

‘Gig!’ He laughed. He always laughed when she said “gig” because, he claimed, the word sounded so peculiar to him. ‘Yes, yes. A gig.’

‘Did you get my message before?’ she asked.

‘Your message?’ He sounded confused. ‘What message?’

‘The one about coming over here. To visit. Maybe for Christmas? Like I mentioned?’

‘About me coming to you?’ He still sounded baffled. ‘I — I do not recall that. I think I did not get that. My phone has been, how you say, flaky?’

‘Oh. Okay. Yeah — I was just asking basically if you might like to come here and see me? I’m not going to get a holiday soon, so I can’t come back for a while and wondered if . . .’

‘Ah!’ The penny must have dropped. The smile was back in his voice. ‘I would love to visit.’

‘Awesome.’

‘But . . .’ He sighed. ‘I cannot.’

‘Wait. What? You can’t come?’

‘No. I have too many commitments. I am so sorry.’ He sounded genuinely gutted. ‘I have a lot of — gigs — on. And I cannot afford to lose out on them. The money is good and I want to save up. I would like, you see, to come to you in the New Year.’

‘The New Year? But what about Christmas?’ It was her turn to be confused.

‘Flights will be expensive then. I will work, you see, on these gigs, to get money for New Year. For January. I will come then.’

‘January seems a long time away,’ she said.

‘It is. But you know, next Christmas, we will be together in Sicily again.’

It should have sounded comforting. It should have sounded blissful — Christmas in Sicily with Angelo. But it just — didn’t.

Not really.

Tegan liked Christmas at home, with her family.

‘Okay. Not to worry. We’ll sort something out nearer the time,’ she told him. What she would “sort”, she had no idea. But it wasn’t a discussion she wanted to have in a pub a couple of thousands of miles apart. ‘Anyway, you’re busy, so I’ll let you go. Go and gig and make some money. Oh — I love the photo on Instagram. The beach one you posted.’ She smiled. ‘With your guitar and the footsteps.’

‘The beach one . . . ? Oh! Yes. Yes. That one. From ages ago!’

‘Yes. Ages ago.’ She laughed. ‘Happy memories.’

‘Indeed. Happy memories. Goodbye then, talk soon! Oh! I must go — they are calling me onto stage . . .’

There was a rustle and a click, some muffled Italian words and then, just like that he was gone.

She stared at her phone for a moment. Then, for want of anyone else to chat to — and to not overthink the rushed goodbye and the no mention of the “love you” phrase — she decided to call her sister instead.

‘Merryn!’ she said in delight when Merryn answered. ‘How are you?’

‘Bloody fucking hell, Tegan, I think I’m in labour,’ Merryn said.

Oh, God. Bad call, Tegan, bad call!

‘Oh. Okay. You’d best — go then.’ Tegan held the phone at arm’s length, looking at it in horror, as if her sister would step through it, contractions and all.

‘No! Please distract me until Kit comes back. He’s on his way from work now. Argh!’

‘Shit, Merryn! What on earth can I say to . . . oh! Oh, yes. I know.’ Even as she closed her eyes and prepared to ask the question, Tegan knew that it was, on some level, a poor show. But you didn’t get anywhere in life without grabbing the bull by the horns sometimes. Carpe diem and all that. ‘What do you know about a girl called Viola?’

‘What? Viola ? Oh my God, oh my God . . . hang on . . .’ There were a few deep breaths from the other end of the phone and Tegan screwed up her face, making a mental note not to get pregnant any time soon. ‘Viola. Right. She was Pearl’s sister . . . ow, ow, ow. Sketch of her in ballroom. By Elsie. Owwwww ! She married . . . Hell, this hurts !’

Tegan yelped. ‘You need to go!’

‘Yeah, yeah. In a minute. She . . . Kit ! Thank fuck . . . Can we go now? Straight away ?’

‘Okay, Merryn — Merryn, can you hear me? Go. Go now and I’ll talk later.’

Merryn rarely swore so it was a bit of a shocker to hear her on the phone in that state.

‘Yes. Yes. Talk later . . .’ There was a clatter as Merryn apparently dropped the phone. Then it disconnected and Tegan was left looking at her mobile in horror.

She wished her sister well, she really did, but there was no way on this earth that she was wandering around Pencradoc that evening looking for random portraits. Viola or no Viola.

For one thing, she’d had enough of the creepiness of being alone in a room there today, and, for another, she had an awfully sick feeling that, once she found the portrait, the girl would look exactly like the woman who had appeared out of the shadows with a bouquet earlier on in her office.

* * *

Ryan was feeling similarly discombobulated at Wheal Mount. He needed to set some time aside to search for some things in his archives for the Snow Queen exhibit, but had made a point of reading the email Tegan had sent about the American Society magazine.

He ended up totally going down a rabbit hole with it, scrolling through the whole magazine, as well as the article he was supposed to read. He downloaded the pages and photos that Tegan had located. Of course, they weren’t fantastic quality, being over a century old, but there was enough information to show what Elsie’s dress would have looked like. As Tegan had said, there was a full-length picture of the bridal party, flanked by so many young men and women it made Ryan wonder at the cost of the ceremony and the clothes and everything that went with it. He was very much of the opinion that, if he ever got married, it would be a pretty quiet do. Nothing on this scale. In fact, did he even have that many brothers and/or good friends to have as ushers? He shook his head. No. The answer was no.

He closed the computer down for the evening, having decided to carry on after a good night’s sleep. And maybe he needed to have a word with Sybill as well.

He managed to catch her a few days later — she’d had a couple of days off — and he was quite relieved to see her.

‘Sybill, can I have a quick word?’ he asked, knocking on her office door.

‘Sure!’ She smiled at him. ‘Are you over the shock of Tegan at Pencradoc now?’

‘Not sure about that, to be honest.’ He half smiled. ‘But I think we’ll work around our differences — I don’t think we’re going to spoil the relationship between the two arts centres just yet. Actually, that was kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.’ It wasn’t — not at all. But he felt a bit stupid asking her what he really wanted to find out.

‘Oh? Come in, take a seat.’ She gestured to a chair. Ryan sat down almost reluctantly. It did feel as if he had gone to see the headteacher at school.

‘I was just wondering,’ he said, ‘if you were happy for me to dig around for Halloween things in the archive, as well as the Christmas thing? It wouldn’t be much, you know? Just displaying the letter from Pearl and other bits and bobs in the ballroom at Pencradoc.’

‘That sounds great. But,’ she looked at him and smiled, ‘you don’t need to run that by me — we’d agreed you could do it. Just remember the focus is on the Christmas wedding — so something that can be easily dismantled is ideal.’

‘It would definitely be temporary,’ Ryan added hurriedly. He felt his cheeks flush.

‘I’m sure. Now. What did you really want to ask me?’ She leaned on her elbows and put her chin in her hands. ‘No references required for jobs elsewhere? No “actually, if I’m honest, Sybill, I can’t work with Tegan, so I have to leave Wheal Mount” conversations.’

‘Ah.’ He looked down at his own hands. The woman was definitely a witch, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing about that application — not at all . . .

He pushed the thought out of his head. Perhaps he should just come semi-clean about the stories he’d found. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing, actually, if any of the family were writers?’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. For — for — World Book Day. In March.’

‘Hmm. Really, Ryan?’

‘No. Not really.’ He sighed. ‘Okay. I found some papers that looked as if someone had been writing a story about Viola. Elsie’s bridesmaid, you remember?’ He hoped she wouldn’t ask him where he’d found it and luckily the gods were with him as she didn’t query that at all.

‘Interesting. Well, we know a family friend, Noel — Holly’s husband — was an author, but he was successful for his children’s books. I doubt he would have written anything about Viola, unless it was a skit or something they were having fun over.’

‘It doesn’t seem as if it was a skit. From what I understand, the papers were originally well hidden. So unless he fancied Viola and was creating some sort of fantasy world . . .’

‘Absolutely not.’ Sybill was vehement. ‘That wouldn’t have happened. I think I can probably shed some light on it for you. Were the papers found at Pencradoc by any chance?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t volunteer any further information and she didn’t ask for it.

‘So, we know Viola actually married into the Teague family just before World War One. Can you guess the link? Who she might have married?’ Sybill was smiling now.

Ryan thought for a moment. ‘Before the War. I suspect, possibly, Elsie’s brother — the one that went off to fight?’

‘Exactly right. Laurie Teague. He was the only one of the children who didn’t paint, he apparently preferred to write. When he was invalided out of the frontline, so the family stories go, he worked for the War Office and put all those skills to use with his reports and things. Does that help?’

‘It does. Thanks. I knew he’d gone to work for the War Office, so that makes sense.’ Ryan was thoughtful. He probably needed to pass that extra information on to Tegan. But perhaps she knew about the story anyway. Which reminded him. ‘Tegan found a magazine online with some American social stuff in it. We think we’ve got the style of Elsie’s wedding dress now.’

‘That’s fantastic! Well done. See, we knew you two could do it.’

‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who can make the dress up for us, do you? I’m happy looking for things upstairs — mirrors, lamps, lanterns — that kind of thing to reflect the dress, but we need a dress to reflect, I guess.’

‘You guess correctly. Yes. Here you go — try Ianthe Shelley.’ Sybill rummaged in her desk and brought out a business card. ‘The girl is a marvel. Based in Covent Garden.’ She looked at Ryan impishly. ‘You and Tegan could take a business trip there.’

‘Or perhaps not,’ said Ryan firmly. Things were better with Tegan, he thought, but not business-trip good.

‘Or perhaps yes,’ said Sybill, quite smugly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got shedloads to do, so if you can send me that link and the photos, that would be amazing.’

‘Yes. No problem. I’ll get searching upstairs for stuff too.’

‘Excellent. Let me know how you get on.’

‘Will do.’

‘And if you need me to book tickets for London.’

‘Won’t do.’

‘Sure.’ Sybill grinned. ‘Sure, Ryan. Sure .’

Ryan thought it best at that point to exit stage left — so he did.