‘Having money isn’t everything in the world, of course, but life can be wretched without it and it does take away a lot of worries. And how, when, did this happen? If I’m allowed to ask.’

‘Of course you may ask. I want you to know the whole story. ’Tis only right and proper, after your kindness and generosity to us, that outside the family you should be the first to know.’

Laughing with utter delight, Kerensa said, ‘And I was so afraid you’d come today with bad news and now I feel I’m bursting with energy. Why don’t you tell me all about your good fortune while we look over the house.’ She held out her hands and he jumped up to help her to her feet.

As they climbed the principal staircase, Bartholomew took in each Pengarron face that stared back at him from the portraits high up on the ascending walls. Their clothes changed with each generation and century, but it was their eyes that claimed his attention. Even in the females they spoke of their highborn place, their assurance and dignity of belonging to an old aristocratic Cornish family. Bartholomew felt that he knew them.

In the long gallery that overlooked the stairs and great hall they stood in front of the portrait of Oliver. First impression showed a contented man, but closer observation revealed a light in his eyes that betrayed a restless spirit. Beside it was a radiant portrait of Kerensa.

‘There is a more recent one of us all together in the library,’ Kerensa said. ‘It was painted out in the gardens, the only place Luke promised to keep still enough for the sittings.’

Bartholomew studied the ones in front of him. ‘You look beautiful and serene but Sir Oliver looks restless, happy enough I suppose, but as though he wanted to be on his way.’

Kerensa was not surprised at the accuracy with which Bartholomew had summed up Oliver’s mood at the time. Her heart ached at how things had changed. Oliver had always been over-energetic and inclined to impatience but the contentment on his face had been replaced with hurt and resentment. He had been away for three months now and she couldn’t bear to think of how she missed and needed him.

Moving quickly on and passing by the portrait of Sir Daniel, Bartholomew’s grandfather, she said, ‘Tell me how you’ve come by this inheritance of yours, Bartholomew.’