Pengarron Land

by Pengarron Land (retail) (epub)

  The crone screwed up her hideous face. ‘Yourn never the new missus? Yourn so young! Why, tedn’t seemly, tedn’t seemly atall. ’Ee’ll be in ’is study, I d’believe. That door there, cheeil.’

  Kerensa mouthed the woman a silent ‘Thank you’, forced a grim smile and hurried off to the appointed door. Even Sir Oliver was preferable to the old crone. She took a deep breath and knocked twice.

  After a pause came the command: ‘Come in.’

  Oliver was sitting at his desk, clicking a quill pen between white even teeth. An old black retriever lay sleeping at his feet.

  ‘Ah. Three of the clock already, is it?’

  He looked tired and Kerensa could just make out the tiny lines beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. Devil’s eyes, Mrs Tregonning had called them. Kerensa didn’t know his exact age but thought him to be nearing thirty, although she supposed if he ever smiled he would look younger and make the difference in their ages seem less dramatic.

  ‘I… I think I am a bit early,’ she replied quietly, looking around the room rather than directly at him.

  ‘Come in and sit down,’ he said.

  From the corner of her eye Kerensa could see him pointing to a padded leather chair on the other side of his desk. Leaving the door open she self-consciously crossed the wooden floor, stepped on to the colourfully patterned carpet on which the chair rested and sat down.

  The study was a complete contrast to the hall; its floor and furniture, windows, glassware and ornaments, highly polished, the air fragrant instead of musty. Well, at least you like to sit and work in clean and comfortable surroundings, Kerensa thought, and couldn’t help wanting to look over and compare the rest of the Manor to the hall and his study.

  The old dog woke up and noisily spluttered as it limped its way round to see its master’s visitor and without invitation placed its head on her lap. Glad to be given this distraction Kerensa patted and stroked the dog’s rough neck. It seemed a friendly old thing – in stark contrast to its master. Oliver leaned back in his chair. ‘That is strange,’ he said, ‘Dunstan doesn’t usually care for strangers but he certainly seems to like you.’

  With Charity in mind, able to think of nothing else to say for the moment, Kerensa remarked, ‘There are a lot of these dogs about in the parish, aren’t there?’

  ‘Indeed there are. They have been bred on Ker-an-Mor, my home farm, for many years. Many are now mixed with the local mongrels.’

  ‘He’s very old… Dunstan.’

  ‘About the same age as you are. Well, Kerensa, what do you think of my house?’

  It was strange to hear this man use her Christian name in such a natural intimate way. So very different to Clem. His very presence dominated the room. Unable to relax or concentrate, she looked up at him and said the first thing that came into her mind.

  ‘The Manor house is different to what I expected.’

  He kept silent, waiting for her to go on.

  ‘Well, I thought there would be servants rushing all over the place, yet despite the state of the huge hall out there it doesn’t look cold or draughty or as if… as if…’ She searched her mind for the right expression. ‘As if the place is haunted.’

  ‘I have never seen a lost spirit or heard ghostly footsteps in the night,’ he said, a hint of amusement lighting up his eyes and chasing away their tiredness. ‘I’ve heard it said more than once that Lady Agnes Mortreath, my maternal great-great-grandmother, would not allow manifestations and other such silly things in the house. You will find no ghosts in Pengarron Manor, my dear.’

  Kerensa felt young and exceedingly stupid. She was greatly relieved when the old crone appeared again, saving her from having to reply. The old woman made noises like an enormous flatfish struggling out of water as she only just managed to hold upright a tray of tea things. Dropping the tray with a clatter on a table near to the roaring fire, she gave Oliver a hideous lopsided grin.

  ‘’Ere ’ee are, me ’an’some, ’ad un already in the makin’ fer ’ee. Ye’ll need warmin’ up on a cold day like this. So, this is yer little maid, is it? Gis on with ’ee, boy,’ she said, giving Oliver a flick of her hand across his shoulder, ‘’er’s nought but a little small cheeil, bless ’er ’eart. Pretty little thing too.’

  ‘Thank you, Beatrice,’ Oliver said, bluntly.

  Ignoring the dismissal she turned to Kerensa. ‘Let me take yer cloak for ’ee, maid, or ’ee went feel the benefit of un when ’ee goes outside again.’

  Instinctively Kerensa wanted to pull her cloak tighter, feeling that by relinquishing it she would be made even more vulnerable. But Beatrice was leaning forward to take it from her so reluctantly Kerensa eased Dunstan’s head off her lap and stood up, untied the bow with trembling fingers and passed the wrap to the old woman. She quickly sat down again, to be out of range of the old woman’s wide variety of nauseating smells.

  ‘’Ee’s a good boy really, me ’an’some,’ Beatrice told her, ‘fer all ’is temper ’n’ tantrums. Born yellin’ as lusty as the best of ’em, ’e wus, an’ ’twas me who delivered ’im an’ all ’is dead brothers ’n sisters. Ais, underneath it all, ’e’s a good boy. Don’t ’ee ferget now.’ She prodded Kerensa painfully on the collar bone and Dunstan growled a warning at her.

  ‘Thank you, Beatrice!’ Oliver had raised his voice but his expression was tolerant.

  With a cough and a loud grunt she turned heavily around and waddled out of the room with Kerensa’s cloak over her arm, puffing and blowing at every step.

  Oliver looked as if his amusement had grown while he watched Kerensa’s expression throughout Beatrice’s glowing appraisal of him. She had stared at Beatrice as if seeing her worst nightmare appear before her eyes, and when she had handed over her cloak she had made awkward movements as if to wrap her arms about herself, as though she were improperly dressed. Her chair was close to a window and the sun broke through the grey sky to bathe her for a moment in a beam of bright light. She was wearing the deep green silk dress which he had had sent over to her. It complemented the colour of her eyes and she needed only a wreath of flowers in her auburn hair to give her the appearance of a woodnymph.

  ‘Did you find Beatrice rather overwhelming, my dear?’ he asked, with a short laugh.

  Kerensa was taken aback by the way the laugh gave his stern features a tranquil benevolence she had not thought possible before.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like her before,’ she answered, but the memory of Beatrice’s eccentricity was fading as she forced herself to concentrate on the one thing she had been wanting to say since her arrival. The knots in her stomach that had formed early in the morning in anticipation of this moment tightened painfully. ‘Sir Oliver, I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Oh, do you? And what is that?’

  His face rapidly returned to its former expression, his body instantly alert and his bearing more upright. Kerensa could almost feel the attitude he had adopted; that of a predator ready to strike at its helpless prey.

  Clenching her hands so tightly together her nails dug into her flesh, she blurted out, ‘Please will you reconsider this marriage? I could never be a suitable wife for you… and I want to marry someone else. I’m sure that you can find—’

  ‘You can pour out the tea now,’ he cut her off in cold tones.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, you can pour out the tea.’

  ‘But, but, I was saying—’

  Oliver leaned forward. He said very slowly, ‘Mark well my words, Kerensa: the matter is not open to discussion.’

  She had cherished one faint hope for Clem and herself, that she might succeed in a direct appeal to the man, but deep down inside she had believed he would scatter it away into nothing. Kerensa now determined she would not plead with him or even show any anger. The old dog grumbled as for the second time she gently removed his head from her lap to stand up. With a dignity beyond her years she moved to the table where Beatrice had put the tea tray, but her hands shook as
she poured from a silver teapot. The extravagant heat of the fire did nothing to dispel the numbing chill spreading throughout her slight body. She had failed and her feeble attempt had been over so very quickly.

  Thinking it a small wonder it was tea and not spirits he was drinking what with his reputation, Kerensa placed a cup and saucer very carefully on the desk in front of Oliver, who accepted it with a brisk thank you.

  She held her own cup and saucer with extreme care; never before had she drunk tea from wafer thin, bone china. She was dubious about drinking anything prepared by the dirty-looking old woman, but the hot strong tea helped to soothe her. Not wanting to prolong the uncomfortable silence, or to give Sir Oliver the satisfaction of knowing how much hurt he had caused her, Kerensa decided it would be she who spoke first.

  As naturally as she could, she asked, ‘Is Beatrice your only servant?’

  ‘She’s my old nurse actually, and no, she is not my only servant, although she is the only one I have in the house now. She is supposed to clean the few rooms still in use, but as you noted in the hall, she’s something of a lazy slut. This room looks like this today only in honour of your intended presence. I spend little of my time here and have been happy to leave things as they are over the last few years. I do have three excellent gardeners, and staff in the stables at the back of the house.’

  ‘What happened to the other house servants?’

  ‘They left over the years, for various reasons, but mainly because they couldn’t get along with Beatrice.’

  Or more’n likely you, Kerensa thought, in a moment of spite.

  ‘There’s no need for you to be afraid of Beatrice, she obviously took to you. And like Dunstan, Beatrice doesn’t take to many.’

  Kerensa was pleased Dunstan liked her but of Beatrice she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Since agreeing with your grandfather to take you as my wife, I’ve given a lot of thought to the Manor house,’ Oliver continued. ‘I want to see it returned to a degree of its former glory – although I have no interest in entertaining on a grand scale, balls, dinner parties and the like.’

  Kerensa was relieved to hear this. It would be difficult enough adjusting to a new way of life as this man’s wife. To have to take on the duties of running a huge house where even the ceilings were three or four times higher than those she was used to was awe inspiring. The mere thought of socialising with the members of the gentry whom Oliver Pengarron associated with filled her with trepidation.

  ‘Therefore,’ he was saying, ‘I shall be employing more staff. Three will be sufficient to begin with, I should think. A good cook, a kitchen skivvy, and a maid for you.’

  ‘A maid?’ Kerensa leaned forward in surprise and carefully placed her cup and saucer on the desk. She wondered what Clem would think of her having a maid. It would hurt him all the more, this new way of life she was being cast into, him realising that he could never have provided these things for her.

  ‘Do I have to remind you,’ he said impatiently, ‘that as my wife you will become Lady Pengarron? Of course you’ll have a maid. Beatrice can potter about as she likes, she will always have a place here. I will ask the Reverend Ivey to make the necessary inquiries for the servants, unless you know of three suitable women yourself. It is you who will have to deal with them.’

  Kerensa brightened at his last remark. From the time Mrs Tregonning had broached the subject of taking on staff at the Manor, she had had many daunting thoughts as to what these servants would be like. She had not expected for a moment to be offered the chance of choosing them herself.

  ‘I know of some very nice women who might do,’ she said, then frowning deeply she added doubtfully, ‘they go to the prayer and Bible classes on Lancavel Downs.’

  ‘I have no objections to people of a Methodist mind. All I require is that they are honest, reliable and hard-working. The Reverend Ivey and Nathan O’Flynn will be too busy to escort you everywhere you may wish to go in order to recruit the staff, so I’ll send Jack my stable boy over to the Parsonage. He’s young but totally trustworthy. As soon as you’ve engaged someone you can start them off by cleaning through the house. I’m sure the Reverend’s inquisitive housekeeper will be pleased to offer you advice if you need it. All other arrangements I will give to the Reverend himself. I shall be away a lot of the time so it will afford you a good opportunity to get things into some sort of order. Now, is there anything else you would like to know?’

  Kerensa looked up at Oliver from under long curling lashes.

  ‘Yes. Do you know, or have any idea, where my grandfather is?’

  ‘No, I do not. For all I care Old Tom Trelynne is in Hell!’

  Kerensa flinched at this sudden outburst, but kept her composure. Surely it was a reasonable question to ask. Oliver Pengarron had seen her grandfather at Painted Bessie’s the night he had left the cove; Old Tom might have said something. And from what she had gathered yesterday, Oliver Pengarron was making enquiries into her grandfather’s whereabouts; he might have learned something. Why did he hate Old Tom so much? Could there be something more than straightforward anger at not getting his own way entirely in the business agreement over Trelynne Cove, and Old Tom’s supposed betrayal of the smuggling party that irritated him so?

  You ought to be feeling guilty over Davey Trembath’s death, Kerensa thought resentfully, staring at Oliver, while stroking his dog. If you hadn’t made that bargain with Grandfather you wouldn’t have been smuggling in the cove, and nor would poor Davey.

  She was deeply perplexed at the conflicting faces of the man across the desk from her. Some folk inferred he was a depraved monster, yet the Reverend Ivey liked something about him and seemed anxious for her to see it too. Sir Oliver’s filthy servant, Beatrice, doted on him, and while he apparently did not suffer fools gladly, he tolerated her slovenliness and even showed affection for her.

  As the Lord of the Manor, a titled gentleman, Sir Oliver Pengarron held his superiority over her own class with an impatient, scathing manner, showing no care for Clem’s hurt feelings. But then he had made that generous gesture to see to Davey Trembath’s funeral if the body was found.

  This was only the third time she had spoken to the man at close quarters, and she had seen more moods in him than she had in her grandfather during all the years he had brought her up.

  What would living with him be like? For certain, nothing like it would have been with Clem. She had felt a little nervous at the new responsibilities she would have taken on as Clem’s wife, and she knew him through and through. He was always kind and gentle, never given to ‘tempers ’n’ tantrums’; he would have treated her like a delicate rose petal.

  Kerensa sighed, her heart sinking lower than she could ever imagine. It was going to be overwhelming living with Oliver Pengarron. But as she sat opposite him, staring into his unreadable dark eyes, she made a pact with herself to never show him her fears.

  She said, very quietly, ‘May I go now?’

  ‘You may do as you please,’ he answered, pulling across a sheet of vellum to write on and dipping his quill into a silver-trimmed inkwell.

  He had made this final remark sound more as if he was ordering rather than giving her any choice in the matter. She was dismissed.

  Kerensa left the huge house to wait outside for the Reverend Ivey’s return. She sat on the top step outside the gigantic main doors, under a window from which she could not be seen. She remonstrated with herself for playing into Oliver Pengarron’s hands by showing an interest in the future servants of his house. That had been tantamount to admitting defeat. She would not readily co-operate with him again… even if it seemed that God’s help was needed for anyone who dared not to.

  * * *

  Clem trudged his way past the poorly built mining cottages on the edge of Lancavel Downs, a vast stretch of bleak but starkly beautiful moorland. Despite a howling wind, toddling children clothed in tattered hand-me-downs were playing fretfully outside their damp homes.

  A group of har
dy miners, soon to go on their core at the Wheal Ember mine, were languidly hanging about smoking pipes, their rough calloused hands stuffed into coat pockets. Their voices dropped to whispers when they saw Clem approach. Not one of them could think of anything worthwhile to say to the bereft young man, and after brief nods in his direction, they all adopted a deeply thoughtful expression as he passed them by.

  The gloom that had descended on the mining community since Davey Trembath’s death was still painfully apparent. Death was no stranger on the Downs, whether in a mining accident or through illness caused by the poor living conditions. The death of Davey Trembath was a different matter altogether. His was a death caused by betrayal, an unforgivable occurrence even to those whose consciences forbade them to take part in the illicit smuggling, and, before two nights past, unheard of in the area.

  No one spoke openly about what had happened though there were those who knew the truth. According to the tale being circulated, Davey had slipped and fallen over the cliff edge while not taking due care as he waited for his two brothers to come off their core at the mine. No one had denied or questioned it, not even from an official source; which was of course the reason for the story.

  The sky was dark and cheerless as Clem headed for Jeb Bray’s cottage, set a little apart on the edge of the mining community. He had to leap out of the way of the snarling teeth of Beelzebub, a vicious one-eared mongrel belonging to the equally malignant miner, Colly Pearce, who bawled out a foul oath at the barking dog from inside his cottage as Clem passed.

  He looked about for Charity but she’d had more sense than him. Having skirted around the back of the cottage she was waiting for him up ahead. Reaching the dog’s side, Clem patted her head as she sat outside the home of the Trembath family. He bowed his head in respect, quickly passing by the bleak cottage where strips of frayed sacking were strung up at the window.

  He was glad at last to reach Jeb Bray’s cottage, which like Hunk Hunken’s was somewhat superior in style and construction: Hunk’s on the strength of his Captaincy at the mine, while Jeb’s, a devoutly religious man, was according to him thanks to his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Clem was greeted at the door by Faith Bray, Jeb’s wife, a kindly woman with an ever ready maternal instinct.