Chapter Thirty-One

Present

Unsurprisingly, after the experience in Russell Square, they hadn’t felt much like continuing to Brunswick Square, or even turning around and heading to Hyde Park to enjoy the Winter Wonderland.

‘There’s a haunted mansion attraction,’ Ryan had said.

They looked at one another for a moment.

‘No way.’

‘Nope. Absolutely not.’

They spoke together. Tegan was pleased they were in agreement, even if Ryan had thrown her a little with his Glasgow news and Angelo had upset her a little with his flowery, apologetic message. So they decided, instead, to head back to Cornwall on an earlier train, had a couple of hours in the pub, and again Ryan spent the evening in his van before going back down to Wheal Mount the day after.

Neither one of them mentioned Glasgow or Angelo.

Ryan hadn’t parked up in the pub car park this time. He had made it as far as the grounds of Pencradoc, and, as Tegan closed her curtains that evening, she could see his shadow moving around inside the vehicle. She had leaned on the windowsill for a little while, peering down at him, before she decided that she felt a bit like a Peeping Tom and how would she like it if he, Ryan, spent some time staring up into her window? She wouldn’t like it at all.

But the idea that he was so close, yet technically so far away, kept her awake and tossing and turning most of the night. Coren had again offered Ryan a room in the house itself, but he had politely refused. Tegan sort of understood that as well. After the odd things that had happened in London, it was somehow as if the air might be charged and Laurie and Viola would spring out on them again, if they were in the same place, just yards apart.

He’d gone by the time she got up and it was business as usual at Pencradoc. The only good thing was that Laurie and Viola had, it seemed, decided to stay in London for a bit. The atmosphere just felt different and a bit empty; Tegan could only hope they stayed away for a little while longer. At least until she got the exhibition up and running.

And that, indeed, was what occupied her mind and took up the bulk of her time over the next couple of weeks.

Elsie’s dress arrived the next day, as promised, and one of the Christmas staff, Katy, gave her a hand setting it all up in the ballroom. Katy was lovely, just in her mid-to-late-twenties like Tegan, and part of her remit was to help out where she was needed, be it in the tearoom, the studios, the exhibition rooms or wherever Coren deemed it necessary. She was a dab hand at creative things, and, between them, she and Tegan had created a perfect Snow Queen room.

They’d used the ideas Tegan and Ryan had come up with so many weeks ago to base the exhibition on, and the morning room, which led onto the ballroom, had been filled with a tasteful blue, silver and white forest. From there you walked into the realm of the Snow Queen. Elsie’s dress was displayed beautifully on the mirrored tiles and Katy had piled up holly and evergreens around it to disguise the hard edges. “Tilly”, the tailor’s dummy that had been in the Pencradoc family for generations, had been brought out of Coren’s private quarters and the wedding dress was arranged on that. Mirrors and lanterns flickered around her and fairy lights were strung across the ceiling to make a crazy, sparkling crystal realm.

To make it even more special, the evergreen crown and bouquet perfectly matched Elsie’s, as far as Tegan could tell from the wedding photograph. The final touch was the bright- red sash. Tegan felt a weird little tingle when she carefully tied it, again making sure it matched the style of the sash in the photographs. She could almost imagine herself there, at the wedding, adjusting the sash, then following Elsie down the aisle, next to Laurie . . . For some reason, just after she thought that, she untied the bright-red sash and slackened it a little, and then it was perfect.

However, Tegan was sad she hadn’t managed to get a sleigh. She had, on the off chance, run that by Coren again, though, and he had just looked at her silently.

‘All right,’ she’d said, almost backing out of the room. ‘I’ll adapt.’

“Adapting” had been speaking to Cordelia and Matt, good friends of Kit and Merryn, and, as they both worked in a school — Cordelia teaching drama and Matt teaching art — they had managed to rustle up a cardboard cut-out, covered in glitter and tinsel and icicle lights. It was, sadly, just one side of a sleigh, but Matt had set his class to work on a background and behind the sleigh was a painted winter forest, with winding paths leading off between the snow-covered fir trees.

As Tegan admired it, she was reminded of the painted background in the old Halloween photographs. She wondered if the family had painted it, and was fairly certain they had done.

The wedding photographs had been put up on display in the morning room, along with anything else she and Ryan had come up with — from invitations, to letters, to a copy of Elsie’s sketch of the dress. Ryan had found a couple of invoices in the archives. One of them was from Lucile Ltd, a high-end designer of the time, for an eye-watering price covering Elsie’s dress and all the bridesmaids’ dresses. The yardage of fabric quoted was enough to thoroughly shock Tegan. The most she’d ever sewn was a handkerchief at school and a felt roll to keep her make-up brushes in. It was supposed to hold pens and pencils, but teenage Tegan preferred lipstick and mascara to essay writing. The other invoice was from Claridge’s where it seemed the wedding reception had been held.

The invoices had gone in the display too.

So, all in all, the place was looking incredible. As Tegan stood there in the early morning before it opened, though, she had the feeling that she needed to add something else to it — just something to sit among the shards of crystal that spelled out “eternity” and the twinkling lights that set off the wedding dress.

Flowers , she thought. That’s what she needed.

She headed out into the gardens, not sure exactly what she would find, or what would be available at that time of year. Grubbing around, sending silent prayers up to avoid any lurking gardeners who might get cross with her, she collected a large bagful of different items, some of which she even recognised: cyclamens, Christmas roses and a green shrubby thing with little white trumpet flowers on it. She scattered them on the mirrored tiles and stood back, folding her arms.

There , she thought. Just perfect .

Proud of her handiwork, she whipped out her phone to take a photograph. It was, to be honest, massively Instagrammable anyway, and she fully intended to share it on her personal page and also the Pencradoc arts centre page.

While she was on her phone, she sent it to Angelo. He always appreciated beautiful things and she really wanted to show him what she’d been busy with as well.

Look! Isn’t this fabulous? she typed. It’s been such fun. She thought for a moment, then continued . It’s a shame you’ll miss it, but I’ll send some more photos soon.

It was a few moments before the message came back.

Bellissima! I hope you do something similar at Easter. I will look forward to seeing it! I hope to be with you at Easter, my love.

‘Easter?’ she said out loud. Hang on. She stared at the screen for a moment, then started to type.

Easter? What happened to February?

I have many gigs. Valentine’s Day and all that. They are baying for my blood! I cannot afford to miss the events — I am so sorry. I should have told you.

But Valentine’s Day . You won’t be here?

I am so sorry, my love.

She waited in case he expanded on that.

Fine.

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, she fired off: Shall I come to Sicily for Valentine’s then?

He responded a little too quickly for her liking. Ah, no. It isn’t worth it. I will be working. I have so very little time. Next year. Next year, we will do something fun. Like go on the beach again!

‘The beach.’ She looked at the phone, her heart thumping. There had been something niggling her since she’d seen that picture of his on Instagram — the one of the sandals and the guitar and the flip-flops. And now, with all the crystal clarity of the mirror that Elsie’s gown was displayed upon, she knew what it was.

The flip-flops.

She hadn’t worn flip-flops that day.

The toe bar on her flip-flops had broken and she’d worn white, strappy Roman sandals instead.

She felt the bile rise in her throat and carefully clicked through Angelo’s Instagram.

The flip-flop picture was still there, but, as she scrolled back in time, way back in time, she saw her beach photo — staged exactly the same as the recent flip-flop one. Only in her photo, a pair of white strappy Roman sandals were discarded to the side of the heart drawn in the sand.

‘ Really ?’ A dozen emotions churned up inside her at the same time. ‘ Seriously ?’

Wow.

Before she could second-guess herself, she took a screenshot of the flip-flop picture. She sent it to Angelo, with the comment, Whose flip-flops are they?

There was a brief pause, then he responded.

Yours. Of course .

I don’t think so . These were my shoes. The day we went to the beach and took that photo. Then she attached the Roman sandal one.

Then they must have belonged to someone else on the beach that day. I was missing you and wanted to remember our days in the summer.

It was plausible, she supposed. But . . .

But they are in a heart.

I didn’t realise they were in the shot.

She paused for a moment. She could take the comment at face value. Or she could take it further.

She did know there were other girls in his Instagram feed — but for the first time she wondered whether they were just friends of his. Or friends with benefits.

Or ex-girlfriends.

She went hot and cold all over, and it was nothing to do with whoever or whatever might have been lurking in Pencradoc that day.

She sat down, legs crossed, facing Elsie’s gown, and looked at her phone. Then she looked up at the figure in front of her.

What would Elsie do? What, in fact, would Viola do?

She knew without a doubt that they would fight for a love they believed in and set themselves free from a situation that did not make them one hundred per cent happy.

Life was too short.

As Tegan studied the gown, she went over some of the things Angelo had said and done over the few months they’d been apart. He was putting off seeing her. Every time she’d called him, he’d had another excuse as to why he’d been too busy to talk. He had, she realised, stopped making the first move and didn’t call or text her.

It was always her chasing him, grateful for whatever crumb he threw her way.

Unbidden, thoughts of Ryan — bloody Ryan — wormed their way into her mind. Yes, their relationship was work-based, but they were getting there on a personal level, weren’t they? They had begun enjoying each other’s company — socialising, calling and messaging each other with little bits of daily nonsense.

Fate had a funny way of working, didn’t it? People came into your lives when you needed them. And if someone was meant to come back into your life, they would.

Tegan took a deep breath and her heart began to pound.

Okay , she typed to Angelo. Not to worry. I’m pleased I saw it actually, as there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.

There were a few moments of silence on the phone. Then:

Cool. But can we talk later? I’m busy.

‘I bet you bloody are!’ muttered Tegan.

Then she typed: What’s her name?

I do not know what you mean!

Yes. You do. Angelo — just tell me. It was fun while it lasted ( because it had been, she reasoned). But you can’t tell me that you honestly thought we had a whole lifetime ahead of us?

We will talk later. I have to go to my gig. I will call you.

Tegan shook her head. Of course he wouldn’t call her.

She bit her lip.

Angelo, please don’t call me. I suspect there’s nothing to say. Honestly. It’s fine. I wish you well. I just don’t see the point in fighting for this. You’re an amazing musician, your life is in Sicily. Mine is here. Peace out. Xxx

It was a corny phrase, but one he used a lot.

The phone told her he was “typing” and she waited.

If that’s what you want. Peace out, Babes. It was good. I wish you well too. If ever you are over here again, I will be happy to meet you xxx

And that was it. He, it seemed, didn’t want to fight for them either. Had it really been that easy ?

If anything, that proved her point. But . . .

‘Not gonna be a friend with benefits, mate,’ she said to the phone. But she couldn’t help smiling, just a little bit. God loves a trier!

She debated on “hearting” the message, just to acknowledge it and end the whole sorry conversation. Then she took a deep breath and decided against it. She would manage his expectations and not let him believe she was that sort of person. She had far too much respect for herself.

She was free. She could move on.

And she decided not to think about the fact she had possibly turned into a person who broke up with people via text!

* * *

Ryan had been kept very busy at Wheal Mount in the lead-up to Christmas. He hadn’t had the opportunity to travel up to Pencradoc to help out with the exhibition prep as such, but he did intend going up on opening day to support Tegan.

After their trip to London he’d kept in touch with Tegan much more than he thought he would ever do. And not just about work, either.

They’d had amusing conversations and normal conversations and friendly conversations. They’d sent each other silly little memes and gifs, and much more general things about what they were planning to buy their families and friends for Christmas. She’d even told him she’d broken things off with Angelo.

He wasn’t going to lie — Ryan was pleased she had done it. From what she’d said, the man wasn’t that interested once she’d left Sicily and had moved onto the next shiny object. She was better off without him, although he kept that thought private and tried not to dwell on why he was so happy she’d ended things . . .

However, it was nice to be so easy in her company now and he really wished they’d taken the time to get to know each other better all those years ago.

Tegan had even met him in Bodmin to help him prepare for his interview at Glasgow. A lady called Allison had agreed to interview him via video-call, as the travel times and prices to Glasgow from Cornwall were ridiculous. He had met Tegan on the Saturday before the interview, just for coffee, but they’d ended up going out for dinner. He’d taken her back to Pencradoc in his van and they’d finished up in the White Lady for a drink afterwards. He’d walked her back to Pencradoc and he’d camped in the car park again.

It had been a good evening; and he thought the interview had, in the end, gone really well. He had felt comfortable chatting to Allison, the work had sounded particularly interesting — she loved his idea of focusing on the Glasgow Girls for International Women’s Day as well — and he left the call feeling very positive.

Sybill had been the one going up to Pencradoc to see Coren for exhibition “business” as she’d said darkly, or Coren had been coming down to see her. Between them, they had transported and delivered all the things Ryan had discovered in the archives relating to the wedding. He was certain there would be more if he ever had the time to check everything, but they seemed happy with what he had located.

‘Isn’t it funny,’ Sybill had said, ‘how things happen?’ Her pregnancy was hugely obvious now and that day, she was wearing an oversized Christmas jumper, black leggings and boots. Tinsel was stuck around her computer screen and Christmas music played out of the speakers. ‘This time last year, none of us knew exactly how much we would have found out about Elsie and Louis, and how much we would find out about ourselves as well.’

An enlarged copy of Elsie and Louis’ wedding photo was currently propped up on her desk like a family photograph, next to a pen-holder in the shape of a reindeer. ‘If Tegan hadn’t gone to work at Pencradoc, who’s to say we would have had this much information about Viola or the wedding?’

‘She’s certainly found some interesting things out,’ said Ryan. Funnily enough, it didn’t gall him to praise her now, and Sybill must have noticed as she smiled at the comment and raised her eyebrows.

‘You’ve managed to work together pretty well,’ she said. ‘I think it’s safe to say that Coren and I are happy with how it’s worked out. We’re really impressed with the winter wedding wonderland display — you’ll be amazed when you see the finished article, I promise. But it’s so much easier to say Snow Queen, isn’t it?’ She grinned. ‘How did you find it anyway? Working so closely with Tegan in the run up to this, I mean.’ She steepled her fingers and leaned her chin on them, studying Ryan. It made him feel a little uncomfortable.

‘We called a truce,’ he said, pathetically.

‘Good.’ Sybill smiled. ‘Anything else? Anything else at all happened to you both in the last few months to help that truce?’

Ryan clamped his lips shut, determined not to spill about the Laurie/Viola connection they seemed to have adopted. But Sybill’s gimlet eyes and steely silence worked, and he opened his mouth and it all spilled out anyway.

‘Um. We found out — a lot — about Laurie and Viola.’

‘I thought you might.’ Again she was silent and he rushed to fill in gap, cringing at himself for speaking.

‘We — think that we look a bit like them and I suppose it’s only natural that we’ve become interested in them.’

‘You look a lot like them. I could see it, as soon as I saw that group wedding photo. Even more so when I saw the blown-up Halloween photos. I thought at the time “interesting choice”. When you had all the family to choose from.’

‘It was to link into Laurie going into the army. Merryn wanted the World War thing, remember? I think Tegan felt she owed her one.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Yes.’ This time Ryan was silent. ‘We enlarged the picture of Fabian as well,’ he eventually said defensively.

‘You did.’

‘And we didn’t see anything of him, floating around in the shadows . . .’

Shit. And there it was, it was out.

Sybill nodded thoughtfully. ‘Curious. Let’s backtrack.’ She waved her hand in a reversing sort of motion. ‘You said that you’d become interested in them. Would it be fair to say that they’d become interested in you?’ She was guileless and Ryan felt his cheeks heating up.

‘I . . . guess.’ It was impossible to lie to Sybill. Ryan remembered again that she was named after a witch and at times it seemed she had powers to match.

Did witches celebrate Christmas?

Stupid question. Of course they didn’t.

Unless they were Sybill, of course . . .

‘Thought as much,’ she said.

‘Sybill . . .’ He took a deep breath and gave up the charade. ‘Do you think Wheal Mount is haunted?’

Sybill frowned. ‘That’s a good question. I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s as haunted as Pencradoc, if that’s what you mean. I believe that the Pencradoc spirits find you if they need to let you know something. They pop up and let you know if you’re being a bit — unreasonable about something. Stubborn. That kind of thing.’ She nodded, as if her words had satisfied her. ‘Maybe we’ve just had nobody at Wheal Mount who needs to be told something. Everything seems to happen up there.’ She sat back in her seat, waved her hand in the direction of Pencradoc and folded her arms across her huge bump. ‘Anyway — what are you up to for Christmas?’

‘Going to my parents,’ Ryan answered, relieved that the interrogation seemed to be over. ‘What about you?’

‘Pencradoc.’ Sybill smiled. ‘We’ve got the whole family this year. Merryn and Kit are coming with Rosie, and Coren’s mum and dad are coming too. And Tegan will be there, of course. You should go up there and see the exhibition before it comes down. You’ve been part of it and I know you’ve got photos, but it’s not the same as the real thing. Is it?’

Ryan flushed again, wondering if that comment had a double meaning. In the same way that Sybill had a photo of Louis and Elsie, he had kept a copy of the group wedding shot, tucked inside a notebook. He looked at it occasionally, but he didn’t think Sybill had noticed.

But this was Sybill and perhaps she had.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Photos aren’t the same at all. Actually . . .’ He thought for a minute. ‘Can I ask you something about that? I think I’d like to do something with a picture I’ve got.’

Sybill sat forward again, her eyes bright and her expression eager. ‘Ask away.’

‘It’s just about making old photos colourised. I’ve seen some and they are so lifelike . . .’ He shook his head, wondering how he could explain what he meant.

‘Oh! Yes.’ Sybill nodded. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Is that something you want to look into? And I also know just the person who can help. Let me get the info. I’ll email it straight over.’

‘Thanks.’ He grinned and headed back to his desk, looking forward to getting it sorted. He sat down and opened his emails, a smile still on his face.

Then he saw an email from the Glasgow gallery. From Allison, who had interviewed him.

He read the email. Then he read it again.

Congratulations , it said. We would like to offer you the job . . .