Bride of Pendorric

by Victoria Holt

  “Morning, Mr. Roc,” she said.

  “Why hello, Dinah.”

  “Nice to see you back, Mr. Roc.”

  Roc waved a hand and at that moment a man came out to us.

  “Morning, Jim,” said Roc.

  He was a man in his fifties, an enormous man, just as one would have imagined a blacksmith should look; his sleeves were rolled up to display his brawny muscles. Roc went on: “I’ve brought my wife along to show her the old forge and get her acquainted with the village.”

  “I’m glad to see you, m’am,” said Jim. “Would ’ee care to come in and have a drop of our old cider?”

  I said I should be delighted and we got out of the car and went into the blacksmith’s shop, where a strawberry roan was actually being shod. The smell of burning hoof filled the air and the young man who was working at the forge said good morning to us. He seemed to be Jim too.

  I was told that he was young Jim, the son of old Jim, and that there had been Jim Bonds at the forge for as long as anyone could remember.

  “And us reckons there always will be,” said old Jim. “Though … times change.” He looked a little sad.

  “You never know when your luck will turn,” Roc told him.

  Old Jim went to a corner and came out with glasses on a tray. He filled the glasses from a great barrel with a tap at the side, which stood in a corner of the shop.

  “The Bonds have always been noted for their cider,” Roc explained.

  “Oh yes, m’dear,” said old Jim. “Me Granny used to keep a live toad in the barrel and ’twas said that hers was a cider as had to be tasted to be believed. Now don’t ‘ee look scared like. We don’t use the old toad now. ’Tis just the juice of good old Cornish apples and the way we Bonds have with ’em.”

  “It’s as potent as ever,” said Roc.

  “It’s very good,” I commented.

  “Sometimes a bit too much for the foreigners,” said old Jim, looking at me as though he hoped I was teetering on the verge of intoxication.

  The younger man went on stolidly with his work and hardly looked at us.

  Then a door opened and the woman who had looked from the window came in. Her black eyes were sparkling and she swayed her hips as she walked; she was wearing a short full skirt and her shapely legs were bare and brown; her feet, slightly grubby, were in scuffed sandals.

  I noticed that all three men were intensely aware of her the moment she came in. Old Jim scowled at her and didn’t seem very pleased to see her; young Jim couldn’t take his eyes from her; but it was Roc’s expression which was not easy to construe. I could see immediately the effect she had on the others, but not on Roc. It was my husband whom I could not understand.

  She herself studied me intently, taking in each detail of my appearance. I felt she was a little scornful of my clean linen dress, as she smoothed her hands over her hips and smiled at Roc. It was a familiar and, I thought, even intimate gaze. I was a little ashamed of myself then. Was I overjealous because I had a very attractive husband? I must stop myself wondering what his relationship had been with every young woman he had known before he met me. “This is Dinah, young Mrs. Bond,” Roc was explaining to me.

  “How do you do?” I said.

  She smiled. “I do very well,” she answered, “and I’m terrible glad to see Mr. Roc has brought a bride to Pendorric.”

  “Thank you,” said Roc. He drained his glass. “We have a lot to do this morning,” he added.

  “Can I fill up your car, sir?” asked old Mr. Bond.

  “We’re all right for a bit, Jim,” said Roc, and I had a feeling that he was anxious to get away.

  I felt a little dizzy—it was the cider, I told myself—and I was rather glad to get out into the fresh air.

  The old man and Dinah stood watching as we drove away. There was a slow smile on Dinah’s face.

  “Dinah rather broke up the happy party,” I said.

  “The old fellow hates her, I’m afraid. Life doesn’t go smoothly at the old forge since Dinah came to live there.”

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “That seems to be the majority opinion—including Dinah’s. I hope it works out, but I fancy young Jim doesn’t have too good a life between the old man and the young woman. Old Jim would have liked to see him marry one of the Pascoe girls from the cottages; they’d have had a little Jim by now. But young Jim—always a docile lad till he fell in love with Dinah—married her and that has not made for peace at the old forge. She’s half gypsy and used to live in a caravan in the woods about a mile away.”

  “Is she a good and faithful wife?”

  Roc laughed. “Did she give you the impression that she was?”

  “Far from it.”

  Roc nodded. “Dinah wouldn’t pretend to be what she isn’t.”

  He pulled up the car before a gate and a voice called to us: “Why, Mr. Pendorric, how nice to see you back.”

  A plump rosy-cheeked woman who had a basket full of roses on her arm and cutters in her hand came to the gate and leaned over.

  “This is Mrs. Dark,” said Roc. “Our vicar’s wife.”

  “So nice of you to call so quickly. We’ve been so eager to meet Mrs. Pendorric.”

  We got out of the car and Mrs. Dark opened the gate and took us into a garden which consisted of a lawn bounded by flower beds and enclosed by hedges of macrocarpus.

  “The vicar will be very pleased to see you. He’s in the study working on his sermon. I hope you’ll have some coffee.”

  We told her we had just had cider at the forge. “And,” added Roc, “I’d like to show my wife the old church. Please don’t disturb your husband.”

  “He’d be so sorry if he missed you.” She turned to me. “We’re so pleased to have you with us, Mrs. Pendorric, and we do hope you’re going to enjoy living here and will be with us quite a lot. It’s always so pleasant when the big house takes an interest in village things.”

  “Favel is already enormously interested in Pendorric affairs,” said Roc. “She’s looking forward to seeing the church.”

  “I’ll go and tell Peter you’re here.”

  We walked through the garden with her and, passing through a hedge, were on the lawn that sloped down to the vicarage. Opposite the house was the church and we went towards it while Mrs. Dark hurried across the lawn to the house.

  “We don’t seem to be able to escape people this morning,” said Roc, taking my arm. “They’re all determined to have a look at you. I wanted to show you the church on my own, but Peter Dark will be on our trail soon.”

  I was conscious of the quietness about us as we passed the yews, which had grown cumbersome with age, and crossed a part of the old graveyard and went into the church.

  I immediately felt that I had stepped back in time. There was a thirteenth-century church looking little different, I imagined, from what it had in the days when it had been built. The light filtered through the stained-glass windows onto the altar with its beautiful embroidered cloth and exquisite carving. On the wall, carved in stone, were the names of the vicars from the year 1280.

  “They were all local people,” Roc explained, “until the Darks came. They come from the Midlands somewhere and they seem to know far more about the place than any of us. Dark is an expert on old Cornish customs. He’s collecting them and writing a book on them.”

  His voice sounded hollow and, as I looked up at him, I was not thinking of the Darks nor the church, but of the expression I had seen in Rachel Bective’s eyes that morning and later in those of Dinah Bond.

  He was extremely attractive; I had known that the moment I set eyes on him. I had fallen deeply in love with him when I knew little about him. I knew little more now and I was more deeply in love than ever. I was so happy with him except when the doubts came. I was wondering now whether I had married a philanderer who was a perfect lover because he was so experienced; and it was not turning out to be such a happy morning as I had imagined it would.

  �
�Anything wrong?” asked Roc.

  “Should there be?”

  He took me by the shoulders and held me against him so that I couldn’t see his eyes. “I’ve got you … here in Pendorric. How could anything be wrong with that?”

  I was startled by the sound of a footstep and breaking away I saw that a man in clerical clothes had come into the church.

  “Hello, Vicar,” said Roc easily.

  “Susan told me you were here.” He advanced towards us, a pleasant-mannered man with a happy alert expression which suggested he found his life one of absorbing interest. He took my hand. “Welcome to Pendorric, Mrs. Pendorric. We’re so pleased to have you with us. What do you think of the church? Isn’t it fascinating?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “I’m having a wonderful time going through the records. It’s always been an ambition of mine to have a living in Cornwall. It’s the most intriguing of all the counties … don’t you think, Mrs. Pendorric?”

  “I can well believe it might be.”

  “So individual. I always say to Susan that as soon as you cross the Tamar you notice the difference. It’s like entering a different world … far away from prosaic England. Here in Cornwall one feels anything might happen. It’s a fey country. It’s due to the old superstitions and customs. There are still people here who really do leave bread and milk on their doorsteps for the Little People. And they swear it’s disappeared by morning.”

  “I warned you,” said Roc, “that our vicar is enthusiastic about the customs of the place.”

  “I’m afraid I am. Mrs. Pendorric, are you interested?”

  “I hadn’t thought much about it. But I believe I could be.”

  “Good. We must have a talk some time.” We started to walk around the church and he went on: “These are the Pendorric pews. Set apart from the rest, you see … at the side of the pulpit I believe in the old days they used to be filled by the family and the retainers. Things have changed considerably.”

  He pointed to one of the most beautiful of the stained-glass windows. “That was put in in 1792 in memory of Lowella Pendorric. I think the coloring of the glass is the most exquisite I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’ve seen her picture in the north hall,” Roc reminded me.

  “Oh yes … didn’t she die young?”

  “Yes,” said the vicar, “in childbirth with her first child. She was only eighteen. They call her the First Bride …”

  “The first! But there must have been other brides. I understood there had been Pendorrics for centuries.”

  The vicar stared blankly at the window. “The sayings become attached and the origins are often steeped in legend. This is a memorial to another Pendorric. A great hero. A friend and supporter of Jonathan Trelawny who is himself buried at Pelynt, not so very far from here. The Trelawny, you know, who defied James II and of whom we sing:

  “And shall Trelawny die?

  Here’s twenty thousand Cornishmen will know the reason why.”

  He went on to point out other features of the church and, after renewing his wife’s invitation to coffee, he left us, but not before saying that he looked forward to meeting me soon and that if I wanted any information about ancient Cornwall he would be pleased to give it to me.

  I thought his kind face was a little anxious as he laid his hand on my arm and said: “It doesn’t do to take much notice of these old stories, Mrs. Pendorric. They’re interesting just as curiosities, that’s all.”

  He left us outside the church and Roc gave a little sigh. “He can become rather trying when he gets onto his favorite hobby. I began to think we were in for one of his longer lectures and we’d never get rid of him.” He looked at his watch. “Now we’ll have to hurry. But just a quick look round the old graveyard. Some of the inscriptions are amusing.”

  We picked our way between the gravestones; some were so old that the words which had been engraved upon them were obliterated altogether; others leaned at grotesque angles.

  We stopped before one which must have been more sheltered from the winds and weather than most, for although the date on it was 1779 the words were clearly visible.

  Roc began to read them aloud:

  “When you, my friends, behold

  Where now I lie,

  Remember ’tis appointed

  For all men once to die.

  For I myself in prime of life

  The Lord took me away.

  And none that’s on the Earth can tell

  How long they in’t may stay.”

  He turned to me, smiling: “Cheerful!” he said. “Your turn. When Morwenna and I were children we used to come here and read them to each other, taking turns.”

  I paused before another stone, slightly less ancient, the date being 1842.

  “Though some of you perhaps may think

  From dangers to be free.

  Yet in a moment may be sent

  Into the grave like me.”

  I stopped and said: “The theme is similar.”

  “What do you expect here among the dead? It’s appropriate enough.”

  “I’d rather find one that didn’t harp so much on death.”

  “Not so easy,” said Roc. “But follow me.” He led the way through the long grass and eventually stopped and began to read:

  “Tho I was both deaf and dumb

  Much pleasure did I take

  With my finger and my thumb

  All my wants to relate.”

  We smiled. “That’s more cheerful,” I agreed. “I’m so glad he was able to find pleasure through his misfortune.”

  I turned to look at a stone nearby and as I did so I tripped over the edge of a curb which was hidden in the long grass and I went sprawling headlong over a grave.

  Roc picked me up. “All right, darling? Not hurt?”

  “I’m all right, thanks.” I looked ruefully at my stocking. “A run. That seems to be all the damage.”

  “Sure?” The anxiety in his eyes made me feel very happy and I forgot my earlier vague misgivings. I assured him that I was all right and he said: “Now some of our neighbors would say that was an omen.”

  “What sort of an omen?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. But falling over a grave! I’m sure they’d see something very significant in that. And on your first visit to the churchyard, too.”

  “Life must be very difficult for some people,” I mused. “If they’re continually seeing omens it doesn’t give them much chance of exercising their own free will.”

  “And you believe in being the master of your fate and captain of your soul, and the fault not being in your stars and so on.”

  “Yes, I think I do. And you, Roc?”

  He took my hand suddenly and kissed it. “As usual you and I are in unison.” He looked about him and said: “And that’s the family vault over there.”

  “I must see that.”

  I made my way to it, more cautiously this time, Roc following. It was an ornate mausoleum of iron and gilt, with three steps leading down to the door.

  “Locked away there are numerous dead Pendorrics,” said Roc.

  I turned away. “I’ve thought enough about death for one bright summer’s morning,” I told him.

  He put his arms round me and kissed me. Then he released me and went down the three steps to examine the door. I stood back, where he had left me, and saw that on one of the gilded spikes of the railings a wreath of laurels had been put.

  I went towards it and looked at it more closely. There was a card attached to it and on it was written:

  FOR BARBARINA.

  I did not mention the wreath to Roc when he came up to me. He did not seem to have noticed it.

  I felt a strong desire to get away from this place of death; away to the sun and the sea.

  Lunch was a pleasant meal served in one of the small rooms leading off the north hall. I felt that during it I became better acquainted with Morwenna and Charles. The twins and Rachel Bective ate with us. Lowella was
garrulous; Hyson said scarcely a word; and Rachel behaved as though she were indeed a friend of the family. She reproved Lowella for overexuberance, and seemed determined to be friendly with me. I wondered whether I had made a hasty judgment when I had decided I did not like her.

  After lunch Roc and Charles went off together and I went to my room to get a book. I had decided that I would do what I had wanted to ever since I had seen it—sit under one of the palm trees in the quadrangle.

  I took my book and found my way out. It was delightfully cool under the tree and, as I sat gloating on the beauty of the place, it occurred to me there was a look of a Spanish patio about it. The hydrangeas were pink, blue, and white, and multicolored masses of delightful blooms; the lavender scented the air about the water over which bronze Hermes was poised; I saw the flash of gold as the fish swam to and fro.

  I tried to read but I found it difficult to concentrate because of those windows which would not allow me to feel alone. I looked up at them. Who would want to peer out at me? I asked myself. And if someone did what would it matter? I knew I was being absurd.

  I went back to my book and, as I sat reading there, I heard a movement close behind me, and I was startled when a pair of hands was placed over my eyes and quite unable to repress a gasp as I said rather more sharply than I intended: “Who is it?”

  As I touched the hands, which were not very large, I heard a low chuckle and a voice said: “You have to guess.”

  “Lowella.”

  The child danced before me. “I can stand on my head,” she announced. “I bet you can’t.”

  She proved her words, her long thin legs in navy-blue shorts waving perilously near the pond.

  “All right,” I told her, “you’ve proved it.”

  She turned a somersault and landed on her feet, then stood smiling at me, her face pink with the effort.