Bride of Pendorric

by Victoria Holt

  It looked a charming place, that quadrangle. There was a pond, in the center of which was a dark statue which I later discovered was of Hermes; and there were two magnificent palm trees growing down there so that it looked rather like an oasis in a desert. In between the paving stones clumps of flowering shrubs bloomed and there were several white seats with gilded decorations.

  Then I noticed all the windows which looked down on it and it occurred to me that it was a pity because one would never be able to sit there without a feeling of being overlooked.

  Roc explained to me that there were four doors all leading into it, one from each wing.

  We moved along the corridor through another door and Roc said that we were now in the south wing—our own. We went up a staircase and Morwenna went ahead of us, and when she threw open a door we entered a large room with enormous windows facing the sea. The deep-red velvet curtains had been drawn back and when I saw the seascape stretched out before me, I gave a cry of pleasure and at once went to the window. I stood there looking out across the bay; the cliffs looked stark and menacing in the twilight and I could just glimpse the rugged outline of the rocks. The smell and the gentle whispering of the sea seemed to fill the room.

  Roc was behind me. “It’s what everyone does,” he said. “They never glance at the room; they look at the view.”

  “The views are just as lovely from the east and west side,” said Morwenna, “and very much the same.”

  She turned a switch and the light from a large chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling made the room dazzlingly bright. I turned from the window and saw the four-poster bed, with the long stool at its foot, the tallboy, the cabinets—all belonging to an earlier generation, a generation of exquisite grace and charm.

  “But it’s lovely!” I said.

  “We flatter ourselves that we have the best of both worlds,” Morwenna told me. “We made an old powder closet into a bathroom.” She opened a door which led from the bedroom and disclosed a modern bathroom. I looked at it longingly and Roc laughed.

  “You have a bath,” he said. “I’ll go and see what Toms is doing about the baggage. Afterwards we’ll have something to eat and perhaps I’ll take you for a walk in the moonlight—if there’s any to be had.”

  I said I thought it was an excellent idea, and they left me.

  When I was alone I went once more to the windows to gaze out at that magnificent view. I stood for some minutes, my eyes on the horizon, as I watched the intermittent flashes of the lighthouse.

  Then I went into the bathroom, where bath salts and talcum powder had all been laid out for me—my sister-in-law’s thoughtfulness, I suspected. She was obviously anxious to make me welcome and I felt it had been a very pleasant home-coming.

  If only I could have thought of Father at work in his studio I could have been very happy. But I had to start a new life; I must stop fretting. I had to be gay. I owed that to Roc; and he was the type of man who would want his wife to be gay.

  I went into the bathroom, ran a bath, and spent about half an hour luxuriating in it. When I came out Roc had not returned but my bags had been put in the room. I unpacked a small one and changed from my suit to a silk dress; and I was doing my hair at the dressing table, which had a three-sided mirror, when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I called, and turning saw a young woman and a child. I thought at first that the child was Lowella and I smiled at her. She did not return the smile but regarded me gravely, while the young woman said: “Mrs. Pendorric, I am Rachel Bective, the children’s governess. Your husband asked me to show you the way down when you were ready.”

  “How do you do?” I said, and I was astonished by the change in Lowella.

  There was an air of efficiency about Rachel Bective, whom I guessed to be round about thirty, and I remembered what Roc had told me about a schoolmistress looking after the twins’ education. Her hair was a sandy color and her brows and lashes so fair that she looked surprised; her teeth were sharp and white. I did not warm towards her. She seemed to me to be obviously summing me up and her manner was calculating and critical.

  “This is Hyson,” she said; “I believe you met her sister.”

  “Oh, I see.” I smiled at the child. “I thought you were Lowella.”

  “I knew you did.” She was almost sullen.

  “You are so much like her.”

  “I only look like her.”

  “Are you ready to come down?” asked Rachel Bective. “There’s to be a light supper because I believe you had dinner on the train.”

  “Yes, we did, and I’m quite ready.”

  For the first time since I had come into the house I felt uncomfortable, and was glad when Rachel Bective led the way along the corridor and down the staircase.

  We came to a gallery and I did not realize that it was not the same one which I had seen from the north side until I noticed the picture there and I knew that I had never seen that before.

  It was the picture of a woman in a riding jacket. The habit was black and she was very fair; she wore a hard black hat and about it was a band of blue velvet which hung down forming a snood at the back. She was very beautiful, but her large blue eyes, which were the same color as the velvet band and snood, were full of brooding sadness. Moreover the picture had been painted so that it was impossible to escape those eyes. They followed you wherever you went and even in that first moment I thought they were trying to convey some message.

  “What a magnificent picture!” I cried.

  “It’s Barbarina,” said Hyson, and for a moment her face was filled with vitality and she looked exactly as Lowella had when she had welcomed us.

  “What an extraordinary name! And who was she?”

  “She was my grandmother,” Hyson told me proudly.

  “She died … tragically, I believe,” put in Rachel Bective.

  “How dreadful! And she looks so beautiful.”

  I remembered then that I had seen a picture of another beautiful woman in the north hall when I had arrived and had heard that she, too, had died young.

  Hyson said in a voice which seemed to hold a note of hysteria: “She was one of the Brides of Pendorric.”

  “Well, I suppose she was,” I said, “since she married your grandfather.”

  This Hyson was a strange child; she had seemed so lifeless a moment ago; now she was vital and excited.

  “She died twenty-five years ago when my mother and Uncle Roc were five years old.”

  “How very sad!”

  “You’ll have to have your picture painted, Mrs. Pendorric,” said Rachel Bective.

  “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Pendorric will want it done.”

  “He hasn’t said anything about it.”

  “It’s early days yet. Well, I think we should go. They’ll be waiting.”

  We went along the gallery and through a door and were walking round the corridor facing the quadrangle again. I noticed that Hyson kept taking covert glances at me. I thought she seemed rather a neurotic child, and there was a quality about the governess which I found distinctly disturbing.

  I woke up in the night and for a few seconds wondered where I was. Then I saw the enormous windows, heard the murmuring of the sea, and it sounded like the echo of voices I had heard in my dream.

  I could smell the tang of seaweed and the freshness of the ocean. The rhythm of the waves seemed to keep time with Roc’s breathing.

  I raised myself and, leaning on my elbow, looked at him. There was enough moonlight to show me the contours of his face, which looked as though it had been cut out of stone. He appeared different in repose and, realizing how rarely I saw him thus, again I had that feeling that I was married to a stranger.

  I shook off my fancies. I reminded myself that I had sustained a great shock. My thoughts were so often with my father and I wondered again and again what he must have experienced in that dreadful moment when the cramp had overtaken him and he
realized that he could not reach land and there was no one at hand to help him. He had come face to face with death and that must have been a moment of intense horror; and what seemed so terrible was that at that moment Roc and I were laughing together in the kitchen of the studio.

  If Roc had only stayed with him …

  I wished I could stop thinking of my father, sitting in the lonely studio in the darkness, of the anxiety I had seen on his face when I had come upon him and Roc together.

  I must have been dreaming about the island and my father for what was disturbing me was the memory of relief I had fancied I saw in Roc’s face at the time of the tragedy. It was almost as though he had believed it was the best possible thing that could have happened.

  Surely I must have imagined that. But when had I started to imagine it? Was it the hangover from some dream?

  I lay down quietly so as not to disturb him, and after a while I slept. But again I was troubled by dreams. I could hear a murmur like background music and it might have been the movement of the waves or Roc’s breathing beside me; then I heard the shrill laughter of Lowella, or it might have been Hyson, as she cried out: “Two Brides of Pendorric died young … Now you are a Bride of Pendorric.”

  I remembered that dream next morning, and what had seemed full of significance in my sleep now seemed the natural result of a day crammed with new experiences.

  The next day the sun was shining brilliantly. I stood at a window watching the light on the water, and it was as though some giant had thrown down a handful of diamonds.

  Roc came and stood behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders.

  “I can see you are coming under the spell of that Pendorric as well as this one.”

  I turned and smiled at him. He looked so contented that I threw my arms about his neck. He waltzed round the room with me and said: “It is good to have you here at Pendorric. This morning I’m going to take you for a drive and show you off to the locals. You’re going to find them very inquisitive. This afternoon I’ll have to go into things with old Charles. I’ve been away a long time—longer than I planned for—and there’ll be a little catching up to do. You can go off and explore on your own then, or perhaps Lowella will join you.”

  I said: “The other child is quite different, isn’t she?”

  “Hyson?”

  “And yet they’re so alike I couldn’t tell which was which.”

  “You get to know the slight difference after a while. Perhaps it’s in the voices. I’m not sure, but we can usually tell. It’s strange, but with identicals you sometimes get two entirely different temperaments. It’s as though characteristics have been divided into two neat little piles—one for one, one for the other. However, Rachel takes good care of them.”

  “Oh … the governess.”

  “That makes her sound rather Victorian, and there’s nothing Victorian about Rachel. Actually she’s more a friend of the family. She was an old schoolfellow of Morwenna’s. Ready?”

  We went out of the room and I followed where Roc led, realizing that I must expect to be a little vague as yet about the geography of the house.

  We were on the third floor and it seemed that there were linking doors to all wings on all floors. I looked down at the quadrangle as we passed the windows. It was true that it was quite charming in sunlight. I imagined myself sitting under one of the palm trees with a book. It would be the utmost peace. Then I looked up at the windows.

  “A pity …” I murmured.

  “What?” asked Roc.

  “That you’d always have the feeling of not being alone down there.”

  “Oh … you mean the windows. They’re all corridor windows, not the sort for sitting at.”

  “I suppose that does make a difference.”

  I had not noticed that we had come round to the north wing until Roc paused at a door, knocked, and went in.

  The twins were sitting at a table, exercise books before them; and with them sat Rachel Bective. She smiled rather lazily when she saw me, reminding me of a tortoise-shell cat who was sleeping pleasantly and is suddenly disturbed.

  “Hello, Favel!” cried Lowella leaping up. “And Uncle Roc!”

  Lowella flung her arms about Roc’s neck, lifted her feet from the ground, and was swung round and round.

  Rachel Bective looked faintly amused; Hyson’s face was expressionless.

  “Help!” cried Roc. “Come along, Favel … Rachel … rescue me.

  “Any excuse to stop lessons,” murmured Rachel.

  Lowella released her uncle. “If I want to find excuses I always can,” she said gravely. “That was meant to say how glad I was to see him and the Bride.”

  “I want you to entertain her this afternoon,” said Roc, “while I’ll be working. Will you?”

  “Of course.” Lowella smiled at me. “I’ve such lots to tell you.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing.” I included Hyson in my smile but she quickly looked away.

  “Now you’re here,” said Roc, “you must have a look at the old schoolroom. It’s a real relic from the past. Generations of Pendorrics sat at that table. My grandfather carved his initials on it and was sternly punished by his governess.”

  “How was he punished?” Lowella wanted to know.

  “Probably with a big stick … or made to fast on bread and water and learn pages of Paradise Lost.”

  “I’d rather the stick,” said Lowella.

  “You wouldn’t. You’d hate that,” put in Hyson surprisingly.

  “No, I’d love it, because I’d take the stick and start beating whoever was beating me.” Lowella’s eyes shone at the prospect.

  “There you are, Rachel, that’s a warning,” said Roc.

  He had gone to the cupboard and showed me books which must have been there for years; some were exercise books filled with the unformed writing of children; there were several slates and pencil boxes.

  “You’ll have to have a good look when it’s not lesson time, Favel. I believe Rachel’s getting a little impatient with us.”

  He flashed a smile at Rachel, and because I thought I saw intimacy in it I felt a pang of jealousy. Until now it had not occurred to me that the easy manner in which my friendship with Roc had progressed was due to his easygoing friendly nature. Now it occurred to me that he was very friendly with Rachel—and she with him, for if his smile for her was warm, hers was a good deal warmer. I began to wonder then how deep a friendship it was.

  I was glad to leave the schoolroom, the exuberant Lowella, the silent Hyson, and Rachel, who was too friendly—towards Roc. There were lots of questions I wanted to ask him about Rachel Bective but I felt that I might betray my jealousy if I did, so I decided to shelve the subject for the time being.

  When I was sitting in the car with Roc I felt happy again. He was right when he had suggested that an entirely new life would help me to put the past behind me. So many new impressions were being superimposed on those old ones that they now seemed to belong to another life.

  Roc put his hand over mine and I would have said he was a very contented man that morning.

  “I can see you’ve taken to Pendorric like a duck to water.”

  “It’s all so intriguing, so beautiful … and the family is interesting.”

  He grimaced. “We’re flattered. I’m going to drive you past the Folly; then you can see what a sham it is.”

  We drove down the steep road and up again and then we were on a level with Polhorgan. At first glance it appeared to be as old as Pendorric.

  “They’ve deliberately tried to make the stone look old. The gargoyles over the front porch are crumbling artistically.”

  “There’s no sign of life.”

  “There never is from this side. The master of the house has his apartments on the south side, facing the sea. He owns the beach below and he has magnificent flower gardens laid out on the cliffs. Much grander than ours. He bought the land from my grandfather.”

  “He has a wonderful view.”r />
  “That’s as well because he spends most of the time in his room. His heart won’t allow him to do otherwise.”

  We had passed the house and Roc went on: “I’m taking this road which will carry us back to Pendorric because I want you to see our little village. I know you’re going to love it.”

  We had turned back and were going steeply down again to the coast road which led past Pendorric. I gazed at the house in a happy proprietorial way as we passed. In a short time we were roaring up the steep hill to the main road and I could see the sea on our left.

  “It’s the twists of our coast that make you lose your sense of direction,” Roc explained. “This was once an area of terrific volcanic upheaval, which means that the land was flung in all directions. We’ve been rounding a sort of promontory and we’re now coming into the village of Pendorric.”

  We swooped down again and there it lay—the most enchanting little village I had ever seen. There was the church, its ancient tower about which the ivy clung, clearly of Norman architecture, and it was set in the midst of the graveyard. On one side the stones were dark with age and on the other they were white and new-looking. There was the vicarage, a gray house set in a hollow with its lawn and gardens on an incline. Beyond the church was the row of cottages which Morwenna had mentioned; they had thatched roofs and tiny windows and were all joined together—the whole six of them. I imagined they were of the same period as the church.

  Not far from the cottages was a garage with living quarters above it. “It was once the blacksmith’s forge,” Roc explained. “The Bonds, who lived there, have been blacksmiths for generations. It broke old Jim Bond’s heart when there were no longer enough horses in the district to make the smithy worthwhile, but they have compromised. The old forge is still in existence and I often pull up here to have the horses shod.”

  He slowed down and called: “Jim! Hi, Jim!”

  A window above was thrown open and a handsome woman appeared there. Her black hair fell loosely about her shoulders and her scarlet blouse seemed too tight for her. She had the look of a gypsy.