16. Theodora
16
THEODORA
CORNWALL
AQUAMARINE: Connects to ancient water kingdoms, clarifies perceptions, intuition
T he cottage in Penzance opens onto a trove of narrow lanes and a hive of activity; the view of the sea to the Isles of Scilly is breathtaking. It is here Amelia farewelled her mother, knowing they’d never meet again. It’s hard not to imagine the distress in their parting, and with a lump in my throat, I step outside into the fresh air to shake it free. Where will I go today?
I pass cafes advertising local fare such as Newlyn crab sandwiches, but beady-eyed pilchard heads staring out from the crusts of Stargazy pies are less appealing. I wander through eclectic antique and bric-a-brac shops that remind me of the quirky pre-loved stores in Smith Street or North Fitzroy .
My fingers itch and I can’t resist a look inside when I reach Nessa’s Crafts , a cosy workshop where quilting supplies are sold. I’ve been toying with the idea of a new quilt—the lifetime habit of spending evenings with needle and thread is hard to break, and any form of stitching technique improves my conservation skills. And keeps my mind from wandering.
‘ Hiya ! Be with you in a tick.’ A rosy-cheeked woman appears with a welcoming smile and a tape measure draped like a necklace. A length of mauve cotton lies across her arms, and a reel of thread is pinched between two fingers.
‘ Are you happy having a look around pet, or can I chew your ear off, crowing about my latest masterpiece?’ Her eyes crinkle into tiny slits and I warm to her and to the idea of a creation begun here in Cornwall .
‘ I’m thinking of a quilt with a white background?—’
‘ Cor —not for a kiddie’s room, I hope?’ She chuckles. ‘ I have some lovely bold shades….’
I shake my head. A vision of Luke flashes into my mind, and then another of a white quilt spread on my bed. My stomach flips. I must speak to him. His messages have been full of suggestions for business improvements, as though we’re planning a life together.
Despite its impracticality, I’m not deterred from white. Nessa bumbles about with a stepladder, then efficiently unhooks a bolt of milky-white lawn from the top shelf and slides it down. The fabric handle is soft— I immediately know it’s right.
‘ What contrast colours will you use, pet? You look like a blue person. There’s marine, aqua, turquoise, cerulean? Praps show me your design first.’
I pull out my phone. I have nine photos so far, from the motifs I drew at the V the salty smell of seawater is overpowering. My skin turns clammy. I’m gripped with visceral fear and stagger to my feet with a brackish taste in my mouth. Spools of thread and templates flutter to the floor in my haste to open a window.
I sit until my breathing settles into a steady pattern. But as I slip into the meditation, my curiosity about the Trevelyan legend creeps into my thoughts despite attempts to block it. These strange occurrences have become more frequent in Cornwall . Perhaps I need to seek out local knowledge. I smile at the thought of a rash but audacious move.
My stomach somersaults as I reach for the phone and a guitar riff plays in my head. I remember his hands on the curvaceous amber guitar frame, his face resting in contentment as he strummed. We’ve since messaged back and forth, and he’s suggested sights to explore. I hold my breath as the image retreats and wait for him to answer.
‘ Theodora .’ The deep resonance sends a tingle through my body—a delicious blend of thrill and warmth. Even the way he says my name sounds exotic. ‘ What a lovely surprise to hear from you.’
‘ I hope you don’t mind the interruption, but I wanted to ask your advice on a local tale.’
‘ Not at all. I’m delighted to help. I’ve been meaning to call to see how you’ve been getting on with your visit, but appointments here have kept me busy. I’m all yours.’
My face flushes with heat. Thank goodness he can’t see me. My body is reacting like a teenager with raging hormones. ‘ Have you seen the coat of arms, or do you know anything at all about the Trevelyan family?’
Throaty laughter rolls through the line. ‘ The Trevelyans ? Yes , I expect I know a thing or two?—’
‘ Fantastic ! Well , I’m keen to know more about a legend—it has something to do with the sea and a horse. Do you know it?’
‘ I do. Sounds like we might need to meet up to discuss this further. But tell me—how are your preparations going for the Opificio ?’
He’s remembered. I absentmindedly twirl a finger through a curl.
‘ Just great, thank you. I’ve been researching the coperta’s provenance to determine the family who commissioned the quilt. Rosie’s looking into it too. There could be a third piece that’s never been recovered.’
I discuss how keen I am to investigate the design of the coperta frame by frame, to understand its origins. I can’t wait to see it. I mention the possibility of the underlying political themes.
‘ You have an impressive passion for your project. But it’s possible the family commissioned a pretentious account of their history. Don’t fall into the trap of reading more into the design. History records the battles, but it’s the victor who shapes the retelling. In any case, the battle is the most significant event.’
The battle? I clench my fists. I’m sure there’s more to it. Women have conveyed messages through various forms of stitches for centuries. He’s a privileged male who speaks with the arrogance of one with little knowledge of the sacrifices of women who record the past. It’s women who traditionally narrate a family’s history—who pass on the tales of trials and triumphs. Handcrafted textiles have always chronicled events.
He knows nothing about me, or what I’m capable of. What women endure. I take a deep breath. I think of Amelia and her complexities. How difficult her life was. Am I somehow absorbing and projecting the lack of agency she faced in her life?
‘ Theodora ? Are you there?’
‘ Yes , I’m here. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’ My voice sounds cool.
‘ Now , what did you want to know? I’m back in Cornwall as it happens, and happy to meet up with you?—’
My heart jumps a beat. But it’s information I’m after. Nothing more.
‘—but unfortunately, I’m in the middle of something. Perhaps we can get together a little later?’
I hesitate before answering, listening to the soft and soulful tune playing at his end. Suddenly a woman calls his name.
A sinking feeling hits me. ‘ No , not possible at the moment. I’m flat out.’ I look down at my grubby T -shirt and well-worn jeans, and the packet of mac and cheese by the microwave.
‘ Another time, then?’ The woman calls out again. ‘ Sorry , I have to go. But I’m happy to discuss this further—come for dinner tomorrow. I have some work to finish off, but let’s say—around seven? I’m leaving for London the next day…’
What if I have plans of my own? Surely a phone call will suffice? His presumption irritates me.
‘ Thanks , but I’m busy tomorrow?—’
‘ Of course.’
I frown at the inflection in his voice; it’s as clear as if I’m standing in front of him. His disappointment is like a cold hand slapped on my cheek. That was rude. Why did I deliberately provoke him? The truth is, I’ve been feeling topsy-turvy like this ever since I arrived in Penzance .
‘ In that case, I’ll call you later to fill you in on the Trevelyans and Lyonesse if it’s all you need…’
His goodbye is understandably dismissive: I get the impression he sees through my excuse.
I poke at my phone to end the call. But with the same need I had earlier, I search for information regarding the location of Lyonesse . There’s a group of rocks called Seven Stones — a small reef known to cause shipwrecks, close to Land’s End . But most sources suggest the lands were somewhere between St Michael’s Mount and the Isles of Scilly . Was that where Nessa meant? I’m so close to it here….
I’m about to turn the lights off when my phone glows with a text. Maybe I wasn’t as short with Tristan as I thought. I’ll apologise. But my enthusiasm fades with my smile. It’s Luke .
Theo — I’m arranging legal representation at the moment and planning a surprise for you. Should be fun.
What is he planning?
In the armchair by the window, I gaze into the night. It’s still outside, and the sea is calm, much calmer than my mood. I bite my lips, chewing at the loose skin, an undercurrent of pressure building.
I understand Luke needs to get his life on track. So do I . I have a flood of ideas for my own future, but he doesn’t fit into my plans. I can’t think about that now.
I close my eyes and hug my body. The mesmerising ebb and flow of the waves and the name Tristan rise in my thoughts like a chant. In my mind I see waves reaching the mysterious Isles of Scilly some twenty miles away and rolling gently before breaking on the shores in the darkness.
I anchor back to the present and stare through the diamond-pane glass into the void. How can I deal with Luke and his expectations when I’m thinking about another man?
Without hesitation, I tap out a text, an act as reckless as the landscape. What is it about Cornwall that has me relaxed and secure in one moment, then wilful and rash in the next?
Tristan . My plans have changed. Can we meet for dinner tomorrow?
Instantly I receive a response. I look forward to it. See you at 7 .
Tristan prepares our meal with his back to me while I talk to him from a stool in the kitchen. He looks at ease, barefoot on the wooden floor in a casual T -shirt and faded jeans, the ends of his hair still wet from surfing. He prepares the vegetables with care, taking time to separate herbs from their stalks, chopping in a slow and steady rhythm. Every so often he smiles over his shoulder to include me in his preparations.
‘ I’m almost finished—we can take our wine out to the terrace. So , fire away with your questions.’
It’s impossible not to admire the apartment, refurbished within an old castle in an impressive position. It sits majestically on cliff tops with views across the sea and the sheltered inlet known as Prussia Cove . I settle into a bench seat facing the water, watching the rosy glow of the sun lowering on the horizon.
‘ This place is beautiful.’
‘ Yes , it’s like stepping into another world, isn’t it? One of the past tenants from the early nineteen hundreds was employed in the mines but dabbled in the study of seaweed.’
‘ What was his interest in seaweed?’
‘ I suppose you’d describe him as an amateur marine biologist. He was ahead of his time in terms of understanding its healing properties. It might sound strange, but I sense him here. We share a love of the sea.’
‘ There’s something to be said for a connection with the natural environment. And I can attest to the appeal of the location.’
‘ I agree.’ His smile warms me. ‘ The castle was originally a private residence. Then the local gentry housed their managers and overseers here. That’s how I came to know of it.’
‘ By gentry, do you mean the Trevelyans ?’
‘ Yes , the very same.’ Tristan smiles and leans back, resting one leg across the other with a bare foot bouncing on his knee. ‘ Now , the legend you asked about dates back to the time of William I and the Norman Conquest . It’s recorded that one man rode out from the sea on a great white horse when the waters rose over the lost cities of Lyonesse .’
He speaks of the lands submerged beneath the water, and the loss of one hundred and forty churches.
‘ The only survivor was the knight, Trevelyan —that’s why the coat of arms bears a half-submerged horse stepping from the waves. It seems both the northern and southern branches of the Trevelyan family are related to him, so in turn, to Lyonesse . I guess you know all about how the tale of Tristan and Isolde relates to Lyonesse ?’
‘ Yes , I do…’ I drift off mid-sentence, ‘and you’re named after him?’
‘ Yes . It’s a common enough name here. What about yours?’
‘ My parents had quite grand ideas too—my sisters and I were named after queens and literary heroines— Theodora , Beatrice and Esther .’ I hold back the sudden sting of tears and take a gulp of wine.
‘ Do you want to tell me about them?’ His voice is soft and soothing.
I haven’t spoken about my sisters for ages, but they’ve been prominent in my thoughts—it feels right to remember them now. ‘ A boating tragedy, the newspapers called it.’ I suck in a breath. ‘ The coroner’s verdict was that my family died through misadventure.’
The insensitive legal term proved nothing and feels highly dismissive.
‘ And were you with them?’
‘ I don’t remember anything about it. It’s all a blur.’ My voice is barely a whisper. ‘ I still can’t understand how I managed to survive. I escaped with barely a scratch.’
Tristan moves around the table to sit beside me. Draping an arm across my shoulders. he pulls me closer and squeezes my shoulder. I feel safe. ‘ I can’t imagine what you must have gone through.’
‘ I don’t know what I would have done without Gran . She was amazing. She lost her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughters in one fell swoop—but she was brave and soldiered on, for me, I guess. Now I know she came from hardy Cornish stock.’ I flick hair from my face and sit up. His arm drops, and I immediately miss its warmth.
‘ We are well known for our resilience.’
‘ Now I’ve seen this landscape, I understand why.’ I reach for my glass. ‘ My ancestors must have possessed a certain determination to withstand the harsh elements—and the mining and the pirates!’
Tristan of Lyonesse found and then relinquished the woman he loved. Isolde showed resilience too, giving up her lover out of loyalty to her king.
His voice brings me back to earth. ‘ Cornwall is a mysterious place. Some believe people are drawn here because of the ley lines. Have you heard of them?’
‘ Not really, no.’
‘ Ley lines are called different things in various cultures—your own First Nations people have a similar connection to their land and ancestors via songlines. They are powerful pathways known to tie us by a magnetic force to place and time—and to memories. The belief is that the earth holds a series of these lines that draw us to points of significance or sacred sites. They connect us to our ancestral roots and to lands which hold a strong spiritual, energetic vibration. It’s believed the ley lines passing through Cornwall link certain stone circles and megalithic sites?—’
‘ That might explain the energy I’ve felt since I’ve been here.’ I laugh. It does seem a bit far-fetched….
‘ Apparently , there’s a strong geometric force in Sicily too.’
‘ Sicily ?’ It’s come up again. ‘ Studies indicate the coperta was made there.’
‘ How fascinating. Well , it’s believed the entire island is of spiritual and sacred importance. Especially the Valley of the Temples in Agrigento .’
He smiles and I’m flattered he’s made such a connection to my role. I’m excited about my work on the coperta, and its place in history. It’s an honour to take part in its preservation.
‘ This quilt might open up a whole new world of discovery for you.’
‘ I was just thinking the same.’ I laugh and take a sip of my drink.
‘ Sicily suffered numerous invasions and changes of rulers over the centuries—the Greeks , Romans , Normans and the Spanish . Such a fantastic combination of cultures as you can well imagine. The art and architecture are magnificent.’
‘ Do you believe in it though—these mystical ley lines?’
‘ I do—even birds migrate along magnetic meridians. Our St Michael’s Mount near the Isles of Scilly , as well as Stonehenge , fall on the ley lines. The Celts have always had a deep understanding of ancient wisdom. They have a strong belief in superstitions concerning the other realms too, fairy folk and piskies and knockers, that sort of thing. Past life connection too….’
‘ I really don’t know,’ I say. ‘ Gran used to say people made too much fuss of the old superstitions. But she still threw salt over her left shoulder.’
‘ I like to remain open-minded myself,’ Tristan replies, watching me. A look of sadness crosses his face. ‘ Some things can’t be answered with science or reason. Sometimes you just know….’
For a few minutes, crickets chirp in the background as we sit stargazing, and a celestial display lights the sky and meets the sea. Tristan is pensive, staring in the direction of the Isles . Slightly visible, they float in the landscape with a haunting prehistoric presence. We could have been sitting here centuries ago and seen the same markers on the horizon. The same stars in the sky.
‘ Are you all right, Tristan ?’
His face is guarded, like he has raised a protective shield. What’s he afraid of? ‘ I was thinking of what I must do when I’m back in London . I always find it hard to leave here. It’s the pull of the sea, I guess. I love it.’
I nod and think of my own relationship with the sea. While drawn to its beauty, I find the sea less of an object of admiration and more of an unknown phenomenon.
The night is peaceful, and I’m at ease in Tristan’s company.
‘ Let’s get this dinner out, shall we?’
After we eat, he agrees to my request and plays his guitar. It’s a perfect way to enjoy the tranquillity and his stirring ballads fill the air. I close my eyes and lay my head back on the cushions. It’s easy to imagine I’m an Arthurian maiden in the court of love, wooed and entertained by a chivalrous troubadour.
All too soon the night is over.
‘ Thank you for a lovely evening—and for the information about the Trevelyan horse.’ I’m nervous as he walks me to my hire car. I don’t want it to end.
‘ It was my pleasure. It’s always enjoyable to dust off the family name and give it a polish.’
I look up at him, noticing the smirk in the corner of his perfectly shaped lips. ‘ What do you mean?’
‘ I’m related several generations back on my grandmother’s side. A couple of centuries at least….’
My face lights with heat—a combination of the wine and the company. ‘ So , all this time when I’ve talked of gentry and local legends you’ve been toying with me….’
‘ Of course not, I’m a gentleman, through and through,’ he teases.
I make a play of slapping his chest and rest my hand there. The thump of his heart beats beneath my palm. Flirting . What has come over me? ‘ You sir, are no gentleman.’
He takes a step closer and crowds my space. ‘ No madam, I am not,’ he growls, thick and low. His eyes darken with an intensity I’m too nervous to read.
I shiver with anticipation, and I resist the urge to touch his face.
When his head lowers and his lips hover over mine, it’s as though we’re locked in time. I close my eyes and wait, holding my breath, hoping…wishing….
Light as a feather our lips touch, tender at first; he’s seeking the permission I eagerly offer. When his arms envelop me, and he takes my mouth with hunger, I respond and meet the ardour of his kiss with a passion that scares me. The undercurrent between us is undeniable. Fire licks through my body, and I take his face in my hands and tangle my fingers in his hair, drawing him closer. Our tongues entwine in a heated dance, and a strange mixture of longing and loss rises inside me.
Suddenly , a picture appears in my mind and I’m lost in the scent of ripe figs and honey. A raven-haired woman clings to a handsome man, and a linen wimple falls from her face. Dressed in a fine tunic embroidered in gold thread, the man shakes his head and draws her to him; tears drop onto her upturned face, and the taste of salt is on her lips….
I step back and hold my hands between us.
Tristan’s eyes narrow. ‘ I didn’t mean for that to happen. I apologise, Theodora . I’m not sure what’s come over me. ‘
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘ I must let you go. There’s a dark moon tonight. Please be careful navigating the narrow roads, won’t you?’
‘ Yes … I w-will,’ I stammer, awkward after such an intimate encounter.
He leans down and flicks open the car door. ‘ I’ve enjoyed your company very much. If I don’t see you before, good luck in Florence .’
I drive away and a carpet of evening stars spans the breadth of my windscreen. My body aches as though stung by a swarm of bees; I’m exhausted by the gamut of emotions. What a strange man he is. One minute we’re hot and heavy, and the next, he’s aloof.
Seriously . This is the last thing I need. Though conflicted, I’m juggling enough hats what with grief and emotional turmoil. My focus now must be on my work in Florence .
And I still have Luke to deal with.
I drift to sleep easily, but the dreaded nightmares return, coursing fear through every inch of my body. Images set against the dull light of day halt in frames like a newsreel. Wind whistles in a high-pitched scream; seagulls squawk and squeal, flapping wings in vain against a rising storm. The sea is a fury and the level rises; murky charcoal waves darken and tumble and churn.
Waves threaten, higher, deeper, and rush to the shore; church bells toll from the towers in the cities warning of danger, urging people to move to higher ground. Suddenly , thunder claps in the sky and one enormous wave peaks to the height of a mountain and curls ominously on its approach to the shore.
A white horse appears from the depths of the sea and races the tide. He pushes his great body through the crest of the waves; the man clinging to the steed’s back like a limpet on a rock, holding reins in a white-knuckled fist. The horse pounds to the shore, shaking his head as the growling sea claws at his hooves. With nostrils flared, the muscular body fights the rolling swell and gallops across the shifting sands.
The deafening crash of the sea upon the rocks is as explosive as thunder. Then , to the muffled sound of church bells and whirling winds, the force of the huge wave swallows the land’s end, flooding cottages and church spires and all sign of civilisation.
One man escapes.
I struggle to gain control over my racing pulse as the salty burn of seawater scratches the back of my throat. Something heavy holds me down; the weight drags at my chest, preventing me from breathing. Everything is black and dark, but I fear for the man and beast nearby. I cover my ears to block the screeching wind as sea squall rises above the terrified cries. Screams for help fade away, and waves roll and break with monotonous rhythm. I can’t. I can’t see them.
The images shift, and I’m shivering in the shadow of the moon, gripping a rock in icy water. A bright beam of light shines above me, but I close my eyes and blink it away. I’m alone in the dark again.
When I wake, the fear is palpable and my stomach churns. With the acrid taste of bile filling my mouth I rush to the bathroom. Then , before it can hurt me, I retch and spew out the glimpse into my childhood that I’m so desperately afraid to face.