The Cornish Knot Read online

  The Cornish Knot

  ~~~

  Vicky Adin

  Can one woman’s secrets change the life of another a century later?

  (Set in New Zealand, Cornwall and Italy)

  Cornish knot –

  a motif for the circle of life.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Cornish Knot

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  BOOKS | by | VICKY ADIN

  Gwenna The Welsh Confectioner

  Brigid The Girl from County Clare | Winner of a IndieB.R.A.G medallion, a Chill with a Book Readers’ Award

  The Art of Secrets

  The Disenchanted Soldier

  From the author of Brigid The Girl from County Clare,

  whose writing has been compared with that of Catherine Cookson.

  The award-winning author,

  recipient of:

  Indie B.R.A.G medallion

  Chill with a Book Readers’ Award

  Gold Standard Quality Mark

  ~~~

  An engaging tale of grief, loss, love and family intrigue ... wonderful story, and a real page-turner, which leads the reader through all the twists and turns of a well-constructed plot. I loved the insightful descriptions of family relationships, the fully realised characters and the various locations in which the action takes place. Seldom have I read such a poignant and faithful account of the effects of bereavement. I can’t wait to read more.

  **** 4-star Amazon review

  Copyright 2014 Vicky Adin

  www.vickyadin.co.nz

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9922628-6-0

  Ebook edited and produced by Adrienne Charlton

  www.ampublishingnz.com

  Also available as print book on Amazon or

  visit www.vickyadin.co.nz – books

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as

  the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a book reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Other books by Vicky Adin (see end)

  Gwenna The Welsh Confectioner

  The Art of Secrets

  Brigid The Girl from County Clare

  The Disenchanted Soldier

  Children’s book by Vicky Adin

  Kazam!

  (If the family tree is not clear enough in the ebook you can see a pdf here.)

  Chapter 1

  The doorbell rang; its strident call shattered her dreamlike state. She didn’t want visitors. Not today. Her body tensed, her heart rate quickened; her mind screamed.

  The bell rang again, more insistently. Still she sat, unable or unwilling to move. Once before, a year ago, on an early spring morning when the sun shone and life was good, she had answered the door ... She couldn’t bear to think about it.

  On the anniversary of that heartbreaking day, sleepless and disconsolate, Megan had risen before dawn to sit in her favourite armchair and stare out the window into the invisible garden. Night slowly turned into day. Still in her dressing gown, with a half-empty cup of cold tea on the table beside her, she sat motionless – remembering.

  Even though a whole year had passed since the terrible day she had lost her Tony, the pain was still raw. He had been a young fifty-seven with no hint of any heart problems. She saw him off to work that day, little realising she would never see him again. His sudden death had tolled the end of life as she knew it.

  Spiralling deeper into the dark well of pointlessness as the months passed, she finally gave up the struggle and, in the depths of winter, had abruptly sold her vintage dress shop. She had walked away without a backward glance to retreat into her private world where only emptiness lived.

  Determined knocking pounded on the door. Her throat constricted; fear returned.

  Reluctantly, she rose and answered the door.

  “Mrs Marsh?” enquired the courier driver.

  She nodded and her body drooped with relief. History was not repeating itself.

  “Sign here.”

  She accepted the brown-paper package, turning it over to check the return address. It meant nothing.

  Back in the family room, she dropped the package on the table and stared at it: plain, ordinary, book-like, tied with string.

  Whatever it was, she didn’t want it.

  Anger welled inside her, like bile ready to disgorge.

  How dare they!

  Buried tensions erupted.

  How dare they intrude!

  Her carefully constructed shield cracked.

  What right do they have?

  Disbelief.

  Why? Why today? Of all days?

  Agony.

  What in hell’s name did some lawyer in Cornwall want with her?

  Chapter 2

  Until now, she had been afraid to cry – afraid to let go, in case she couldn’t stop, in case the pain didn’t go away and, once again, she lay exposed. Now torn from her rigid self-control, Megan buried her tears under a steaming shower. She slid down the wall to sit small, in a huddle, while the hot water rained down and washed away her torment.

  Finally spent, her eyes now empty of tears, she dragged her exhausted body upright.

  She chose a pair of well-cut dress jeans and a softly draped aqua tunic top that had been a favourite of Tony’s. She wanted to look good today, for his sake, even if she felt drained. For fifty-two, she thought she’d aged well overall as she slipped a simple black pearl pendant around her neck and put on the matching earrings.

  As a teen, she’d always felt average – average height, average weight, brown eyes, brown hair – and ordinary. These days she wore her hair cut softly around her ears with a flattering half fringe and thought the highlights certainly improved the colour. She’d also learnt to avoid wearing black, which washed the colour from her face, and wear colours.

  Tony always said she looked beautiful.

  She had barely finished dressing and was still blow-drying her naturally wavy hair into shape when the phone rang.

  “Good morning, this is Megan.” Well trained, she spoke automatically, listlessly.

  “Hi, Mum.” Her daughter sounded falsely cheerful on the other end.

  Megan attempted a more upbeat tone. “Morning, Sarah. How are you?”

  “I’m okay. More to the point, how are you? Today especially.”

  Megan didn’t need reminding, nor did she want to remember. She would not commemorate this day, not now, not ever. That would make it too real. “I’m fine, Sarah,” she lied. “Just about to
make myself some coffee and sit in the sunshine. Maybe I’ll read for a while.”

  “I’ve got an hour spare before my next meeting. I could do with a coffee. Be round in a jiff.”

  Sarah hung up before Megan had a chance to respond.

  Her spirits lifted slightly as she thought of her family. Sarah had become Megan’s rock and one of her great joys in the darkness. Her granddaughter Isabella was another. In contrast, her son Jason had shut himself off completely and disappeared overseas again the day after the funeral, leaving her feeling forsaken.

  Jason was her baby, single, a pilot and living a life she couldn’t imagine. She regretted losing some of the closeness they once shared since he had moved to London a couple of years earlier. But ... it was more than that – she couldn’t quite communicate with him any more. Not like she did with Sarah. Jason was more – she couldn’t even put her finger on it – detached. No, that’s unfair. It’s just ... Something was missing.

  Tony would have understood. Tony always understood.

  Megan switched on the electric jug, put extra coffee into the plunger and reached for her daughter’s favourite mug. Sarah would be there in a matter of minutes.

  Taller, slimmer and fairer than her mother, Sarah worked as a graphic artist and often amazed Megan with her creative instincts. Where had she come from? Although grief-stricken, the girl had rallied more quickly after her father’s death, thanks to her architect husband Nick, her bouncy personality and positive outlook.

  As if on cue, the young woman burst in through the unlocked front door. “I’m here,” she announced needlessly.

  Dressed in fashion statement clothes with high heels and chunky jewellery, Megan applauded her daughter’s style. Sometimes she wished she could be brave enough to emulate Sarah but had learnt to stick with what suited her best – well-cut clothes that flattered her trim figure and understated jewellery.

  Megan filled the cups with the strong black liquid. “And here’s your coffee.”

  “Mum, you’re a wonder. Thank you.”

  Sarah kissed Megan on the cheek, eyeing her thoughtfully. She shrugged off her jacket and threw it over the back of the chair in one elegant move. Taking her coffee, she crossed the room to sit on the sofa under the window. The September sun streamed in, highlighting the unwrapped package on the table.

  “What’s this, Mum?”

  “Oh. That. I don’t know. It came this morning.”

  “Don’t you want to open it?” Sarah flicked her long, fair hair behind her ear as she picked it up and turned it over and saw the English return address.

  “Not right now.” Megan’s voice sounded deflated, even to her.

  A strange parcel arriving on the first anniversary of Tony’s death struck her as cruel. They would have opened it together, sharing in the excitement of discovery, eager to know what it meant. But now its presence simply served to heighten his absence – and her loss. For the best part of thirty-five years they had been the ideal couple – like a pair of comfortable shoes, perfect together but useless and unbalanced one without the other. No one had known her as long; no one knew her as well.

  Even though she felt drained and exhausted, the black cloud of emptiness that normally floated in the recesses of her mind was starting to fade to a paler shadow since her outburst. A sense of release hovered amid the hurt.

  Sipping her coffee, she sat in the chair beside Sarah.

  “You look very pale. And you’ve been crying.” Sarah reached out and placed her hand over her mother’s. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  Megan shook her head. “Not much.”

  “I’m worried about you. You’ve increasingly shut yourself off from everything you once enjoyed and spend far too much time on your own. It’s not good for you.”

  The last year had been the hardest year of their lives, and the impact had not yet worn off. Megan had not been able to visit the cemetery nor would she today. She didn’t want to remember Tony in a place like that. He belonged with her, here, in their home.

  “Don’t lecture me, please, darling. I appreciate your sentiments. But right now, I like my own company. Not that I don’t enjoy you coming round, of course,” she rushed on, feeling she needed to justify her comment. “And your brother when he’s in town,” hoping he would remember to phone her today. “Really, I do, but mostly I like being alone with my memories.”

  Some days her spirits were so low she struggled to find the right words. Much of the time she felt old, worthless. Days when her hair lay flat and the dark circles and crow’s feet around her eyes deepened.

  “Sorry, Mum. I don’t mean to lecture. I just want you happy again.” Sarah paused. “I miss him too.”

  Megan saw tears fill her daughter’s eyes and felt guilty for her self-absorption. “I know you do, sweetheart. You always were your dad’s girl.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Suddenly Sarah stood up and busied herself washing the coffee mugs, forcing back tears. “I’ll cancel my meeting and we’ll go shopping. Come on, Mum. Please? Come with me. Anywhere. How about a walk? I’ve got a change of shoes. Or lunch? Anything, but let’s get out of here.”

  Megan, hearing the desperation in her daughter’s voice, conceded. “Okay, but just a walk along the beach. I can’t stand the noise of the mall.”

  Growing up as an only child, she’d been a solitary person at the best of times, but in the last few months she’d become positively antisocial. “Sorry, love. I just don’t want to be around other people these days.”

  As they wandered along Milford Beach, the sea alive with light where the sun shimmered on the ever-moving waves, Megan let her mind drift. Sarah chatted away about plans for her future.

  “I’d really like to get involved directly with clients rather than designing in the backroom, and Nick wants his own practice one day too, but they are just dreams at this stage.”

  Sarah’s idea for a walk had been a good one after all. Megan was finding the beach, where she had spent so much time with Tony, soothing. Sometimes she sensed him still beside her.

  Sarah’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “Promise me, Mum?”

  “Sorry, darling. Promise you what? I wasn’t listening.”

  “I know!” Sarah laughed. “What I was saying, Mother dearest, is, I want to help you find some hope in the future. You are still young. You’re smart and you look gorgeous, I’d like to see you young at heart again. I’d like you to do something special for your birthday. I’ll organise it. A party maybe? Or a trip somewhere? You need to get out, make some new friends. You’ve got six months to decide. Just think about it. Promise me?”

  “Oh. I don’t ...”

  “Stop. Don’t say ‘I don’t want anything’ just yet. Think about it first, please. What would Dad have done?”

  The spectre of Tony’s smiling face suddenly filled the frame, and Megan knew Sarah was right – again – he would have done something special. He always did. He would want her to find new life and new hope.

  “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “And one more thing. Let’s open that parcel from England as soon as we get back. I’d like to find out what it’s all about, even if you don’t.”

  * * * * *

  My dear girl,

  I am not sure I even remember your name, if I ever knew it. If you are reading this, then I have gone to my Maker and you have in your possession the indiscreet writings of someone who should have known better.

  My elder sister had too many silly and romantic notions, which got her into more trouble than she knew how to handle. After she left our father’s house in disgrace, never to return, I found this diary of hers and have kept it hidden for too many decades.

  Nearly fifty years later, shortly before her death, she wrote to me telling me she had become a great-grandmother – you were that child. She was happy with the news but it was tinged with sadness: she knew she was dying. She asked me to take up her role, albeit from a distance. I agreed.

 
I am sorry to say I did not fulfil that promise. You don’t need to know why, simply accept that as I prepare for my imminent demise I have regrets for many errors of judgment in my life.

  I am now an old woman who is attempting to rectify some of those lapses. As you have now passed the age of majority, I believe you should finally have the diary.

  I apologise for having withheld it for so long. I cannot undo the past, but these writings may help you to understand.

  Your great aunt,

  Constance Trevallyan

  October 1983

  Chapter 3

  Hours after Sarah had left, Megan still pondered over the contents of the package from the solicitor in Cornwall, struggling to comprehend.

  The first envelope contained a letter from the lawyer asking Megan to verify her identity. He believed he held pertinent information about the family. The second envelope had contained a note, handwritten in ink and all but faded on paper discoloured with age, from an unknown great aunt, dated nearly thirty years earlier. It had proved even more bewildering and had taken Megan and Sarah quite some time to decipher the spidery script.

  Never mind how many times Megan read the letters, she couldn’t quite fit everything together. Constance Trevallyan, a great aunt she never knew she had, or rather a great-great aunt to give her correct title, had left her some papers. Megan could only describe her history as sketchy. Fleeting images flicked through her memory.

  Megan knew very little about her grandmother, who had died when she was seventeen. Grandma Julia Blackwood had raised her from a young age after her parents died in a car accident. If she remembered correctly, her parents had been on their way to a funeral in the Bay of Plenty leaving her, as a baby, in Auckland with her grandmother. She didn’t recall ever knowing the details of the accident – exactly where it happened, who else was in the car or even who was driving. Grandma Julia never spoke about it. For that matter she couldn’t remember when her grandfather, Jeremy Blackwood, had died either. There’d always been just the two of them. But this letter from the lawyer had nothing to do with the Blackwoods or even New Zealand. The letters from Cornwall were about the maternal side of the family: the Trevallyans.