Killigrew Clay

by Killigrew Clay (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  The minute Ben entered Killigrew house, he heard the shrill voice of his Aunt Hannah, excitedly jabbering to his father in the drawing-room. There was no way he could avoid being seen, since the door was wide open, and nor could he miss hearing what Hannah Pascoe was saying.

  ‘I couldn’t believe my ears when Emily came rushing home with the tale going around the town, Charles. The story’s come from one of your maids, so don’t tell me it’s false! Your clayworkers have gone on strike, and that haughty young miss has left your employ. You’ll be needing a reliable housekeeper, so I’ve decided to swallow my pride and come back. And not before time by the look of the dust on the mantel—’

  Charles’s voice suddenly roared out into the room, and Ben guessed that he had been drawing breath all the while his sister had been talking.

  ‘You’ll wait until you’re asked, woman, and it’ll be a damn long wait, I promise you! And since you’ve pushed your way into my house, I might tell you that I’ve not seen hide nor hair of that useless son of yours since yesterday—’

  ‘I was coming to that. Jude came to see me this morning. He and that Tremayne fellow have taken a sea-going job. I thought you’d at least be glad to know he’s working.’ Hannah managed to sound affronted and condemning of the entire Tremayne family at the same time. Ben strode into the room.

  ‘Are you saying that Morwen’s gone, Aunt Hannah?’

  She looked sourly at her nephew, so well turned out, despite his dusty ride, compared with her scruffy son.

  ‘You always took too much interest in that girl, Ben. Good riddance to her, I say.’

  Ben ignored her, and looked directly at his father.

  ‘Is it true?’

  Charles handed him the short note Morwen had left. Ben scanned it quickly. Morwen was no scholar, but she wrote with dignity in a large childish hand:

  You must see that I can no longer stay here, Mr Killigrew. My place is with my family. I’m sorry, for you’ve been kind to me. Please take good care of yourself.

  It was signed simply ‘Morwen Tremayne’.

  There was no mention of Ben, nor presumably any note for him. Why should there be? he thought angrily. Yet, after all they had been to one another, to leave like this… or did she think it had merely been a diversion for him? She would think that, of course. Girls of her class always did… he cursed himself for the thought, for it was a long while since he had thought of Morwen as anything but his equal. Background didn’t matter. The feelings between a man and a woman did…

  ‘You see, Ben?’ Hannah said vindictively. ‘Girls like that have no loyalty to their employers. I could have told your father this would happen—’

  ‘Will you be quiet, woman?’ Charles shouted at her. ‘And get out of here before I throw you out. If you see your son, tell him he needn’t come back either. I’m glad to be rid of you both.’

  Hannah stared at him in disbelief. ‘What are you saying? You need me back, Charles! This house can’t run itself—’

  ‘Whether it can or cannot, I’ll not have you in it, woman! I’ll hire a dozen extra servants before I let you loose in here again. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind about the allowance I send you every month.’

  Hannah’s mouth fell open. She and her dear friend Emily had been scratchy with one another of late, and if her brother had not been so touchy, it would have been good to slip back to the family fold again. But if he wanted to be pig-headed, then she wouldn’t beg for favours. She swept towards the door, not wanting to betray how shaken and furious she felt.

  ‘I wish you luck, Charles. From the rumours circulating in the town, I think you’ll need it. They’re saying that Bultimore and Vine’s will be taking your men away from you, so the strike won’t do you an ounce of good. When you decide to settle it, you’ll have no workers left at all.’

  The door slammed behind her. Charles winced, but Ben cared nothing for his aunt’s temper. He’d heard it all before. She’d be more worried about her own allowance than any hardship to clayworkers, he thought drily. He was more concerned with Morwen’s departure, and by the white look around his father’s mouth that he noticed with sudden alarm.

  ‘You’d best sit down, Father,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll get you some brandy.’

  ‘I don’t need brandy,’ Charles brushed him aside. ‘The damn woman told me nothing I didn’t already know. The other owners will be quick to offer jobs to our best workers. They’ll be hanging round them like vultures in a few days.’

  ‘Then give them what they want, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I won’t. Not until I’m good and ready. Carrick agrees with me now—’

  ‘You mean you forced him to agree,’ Ben said bitterly. ‘You manipulate everyone, don’t you, Father?’

  Charles glowered at him. ‘You said that to me once before, if I remember rightly. You disappoint me, Ben. I thought when you came home from college, you’d be an asset in the business, not a bloody obstacle! I thought we’d see the partnership of Killigrew Clay made doubly solid when you and Jane Carrick were wed—’

  ‘And I thought I’d made it clear that I’m my own man, Father, and not one that you can use as your puppet. I’ll marry whom I please, when I please, and it won’t be to further the business. That’s a promise! Now – do you want me to go and see Morwen and tell her to stop this silly nonsense and come back?’

  ‘I do not. I admire the girl for standing firm, and so will you. The strike will be over in days. Clayworkers don’t like standing idle. They’ll come to their senses soon enough, and we’ll not go near them for a week. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I think my brain’s working adequately enough,’ Ben said sarcastically.

  ‘Ask Mrs Horn to come in here,’ Charles said next. ‘She knows a good woman who’ll stand in as housekeeper while we get all this sorted out. Morwen will be back here soon enough.’

  It would never be soon enough, Ben thought, as he strode out to the kitchen to find the cook. Morwen had been here such a short time, and yet the house was empty without her. She had become a part of his life, and he wanted her back. He was tempted to ignore his father’s wishes, and go to the Tremayne cottage immediately, but he knew that would be hot headed. It may also antagonise the Tremaynes from their fellow clayworkers.

  Ben cursed the class differences that drove a wedge between him and Morwen, but he was forced to admit that they existed. Right now, Hal Tremayne wouldn’t thank Ben Killigrew for coming to his cottage and persuading his daughter to leave her family. If Morwen had to choose again, Hal would lose face with his men… Ben raged inside at the frustration of it all.

  He wondered if he had been so wise to approach Tom Askhew about the article in the Informer, and was grudgingly grateful now that he had two weeks’ grace until it appeared. By then, the strike might be over. If not, then it would be surely time for more action. He pushed the unease out of his mind, and thought instead of the odd remark his aunt had made.

  His cousin and Matt Tremayne were off on a sea-going job, were they? He hoped it was as innocent as it sounded, but knowing Jude he doubted it.

  * * *

  He would have been even more alarmed if he’d been able to see the two of them a week later. The trawling ship that had taken them to Falmouth had put to sea again, and Jude and Matt had money in their pockets and were looking about for more excitements. They knew nothing of any clayworkers’ strike back in St Austell, and Falmouth was a hundred times livelier than Charlestown port. There were rogues and pickpockets, the scum of any waterfront, and there were colourful characters too, boasting of voyages across the Atlantic and coming home to England richer than they ever dreamed…

  ‘There’s a ship looking for hands, mateys,’ they were told. ‘If you’re not afraid o’ hard work, with a pot of gold at the end of it—’

  ‘What d’you think, Matt? Do we cut our losses and go?’

  Matt wasn’t so sure. There were thousands of miles of ocean between h
ere and America, and the tug of home was still there. Besides, how could he just go, without leaving word for his family? And there was none here, in this ill-assorted company, that he’d trust with a message to them.

  ‘I’ll need time to think on it,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m no seaman, Jude. I’m a pit worker—’

  ‘There’s plenty o’ jobs for experienced pit-hands,’ the sea-salt put in. ‘What’s your trade, boy? Tin or copper?’

  ‘Clay. Tell me there’s clay-pits, and I might think about it,’ Matt grinned, sure that the man knew as much about America as he did, and that was nothing at all.

  ‘There’s everything in America,’ another added his tuppence. ‘They say the country’s so big ’tis like bein’ in another world. Ain’t you seen the posters in town asking for pit-workers to apply for passage with a view to settling?’

  ‘We ain’t been here long enough yet,’ Jude said. ‘Where are these posters?’

  ‘Along the waterfront. You can’t miss ’em if you’re goin’ to Miss Lottie Flynn’s, and that’s where most young buckos make their way when they’ve got money jingling in their pockets!’ He made a gesture they couldn’t misunderstand.

  ‘I reckon that’s where we were heading, then,’ Jude said. He gave Matt a sidelong glance. ‘Well, Matt? Caught your fancy, has it?’

  ‘Why not?’ But Matt couldn’t have said if it was the delights of Miss Lottie Flynn’s establishment or the lure of the posters advertising for pit-workers across the sea that attracted him most at that moment. He’d never considered it before, but he was considering it now, just as long as he didn’t have to make an immediate decision. He was still enjoying his freedom, and this town with the wide expanse of harbour and the vast array of ships in it looked a good base for a week or two. America may be another world, but so was Falmouth to Matthew Tremayne, and he wanted to enjoy this one before moving on.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Morwen pulled the shawl more tightly around her body. October had begun with an unexpectedly cold spell. The wind was bitter on the moors, where the mist had lingered all morning, but the atmosphere in the Tremayne cottage was so tense and uncomfortable that she was glad to be out of it. She and young Freddie were searching for sticks for the fire, and he was grumbling all the way. Finally Morwen stopped walking and shook his shoulders.

  ‘It’s no use going on at me for summat that can’t be helped,’ she snapped. ‘I didn’t start this strike, but we’ve all got to do what we can, and our job today is finding wood, so stop your snivelling and help me!’

  ‘We’m gettin’ close to old Zillah’s cot, and you know what Mammie would say about that. You wanted to come here, I’ll bet!’

  Morwen sighed. All Freddie’s teasing seemed to have deserted him lately, and she couldn’t blame the child. Everyone was on edge, wondering what the outcome of this strike was going to be. They’d seen nothing of the bosses, and that was making the men who gathered at the pit each morning angrier than ever. They were taunted too by clayworkers from other pits, with money to spend and more so-called sense than to strike at this time of year.

  ‘I don’t want to see old Zillah—’

  ‘Why not? Mebbe she can tell us when we’ll be getting proper days again,’ Freddie retorted, contrary as ever.

  Truth was, Morwen hadn’t set eyes on the old crone since Celia’s death, and nor did she want to be reminded of that dreadful time. There would be too many things to remember, painful and beautiful, and she had closed her mind to all of it. Leaving Killigrew House had meant leaving her dreams…

  ‘Hellfire! There she is!’ Freddie nudged her hard. It was as though old Zillah’s cottage had suddenly appeared like a mirage in the mist, and the old woman peered out at them from the doorway. Morwen licked her dry lips, too startled to rail at Freddie for his language.

  ‘Come you inside, my pretties. ’Tis a bad day for wandering abroad, and old Zillah’s glad of a bit o’ company.’

  ‘Don’t go inside, Morwen,’ Freddie whispered at once. ‘’Tis said she cavorts with the devil in there—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, and don’t be such a baby. I’ve been in there before, and no harm’s come to me.’

  Morwen stopped abruptly, unsure of her own words. She was too truly Cornish to disbelieve in magic, and whatever the outcome at the Larnie Stone, she couldn’t deny it had been Ben Killigrew’s face she had seen, and it had been the face she’d wanted to see…

  Her footsteps seemed to move towards the cottage in spite of herself, and Freddie stuck close to her skirts, muttering all the way. He didn’t want to admit to his sister that he was scared stiff of old Zillah, but he was.

  ‘You’ve had a sad time, missie,’ Zillah croaked as soon as they went inside, and the familiar cloying smells filled her nostrils. Freddie screwed up his nose, unable to hide his reaction to the place. He looked round fearfully, jumping as one of Zillah’s cats curled itself around his legs.

  Morwen jumped, hoping Zillah wouldn’t refer to Celia in front of Freddie. The boy’s ears were too long already, listening to things he shouldn’t hear. But Zillah was too canny for such indiscretions.

  ‘And now I suppose you’m wanting to know how long you’m to be scratching for firewood like old Zillah, instead of living the lady’s life, is that it?’

  ‘Let’s go, Morwen,’ Freddie said fearfully. Zillah looked at him, perched on the edge of her hard bench.

  ‘Be ’ee afeared o’ me, young un? There’s no need. Old Zillah means ’ee no harm. Warm yourself by my fire and I’ll give ’ee a bundle o’ sticks to take home with ’ee. Your face is fair pinched with the cold.’

  He stretched out a tentative hand to the blazing fire in the hearth, relaxing a little. Morwen was reluctant to ask any questions of the old crone, but since she had brought it up, she couldn’t resist it.

  ‘You know all about the Killigrew strike, then, Zillah. What are your thoughts on it?’ she asked cagily.

  Zillah cackled, thrusting a mug of dark hot chocolate into each of their hands, whether they wanted it or not.

  ‘My thoughts are that men are fools. ’Tis women who should rule the world, then folk would get things in their proper order, like putting food in their childrens’ bellies and letting them sleep warm at night. Stubborn men need the shaking of an earthquake afore they come to their senses.’

  ‘We don’t have earthquakes in Cornwall, thank goodness,’ Morwen said quickly, as Freddie sat agog and fearful.

  ‘There’s more than nature that can move the earth,’ Zillah said in her droning visionary voice. ‘’Twill take summat o’ that importance to make yon Killigrew right his wrongs.’

  ‘You agree that he’s done wrong then in not paying the men their dues?’ Morwen didn’t really care whether old Zillah thought so or not, but she wanted to bring the talk about more ordinary matters for Freddie’s sake.

  ‘That’s for him and his to discuss. Now, if you’m both warmed, I’ll fetch ’ee those sticks, and I daresay your mother will be wanting ’ee back home soon. Seems like we’m in for a storm, and you’d both be best indoors out on it.’

  Morwen looked out of the window. The mist had all gone now, blown by a strong wind from the sea that moaned through the bare bracken. She shivered, and thanked Zillah quickly for the bundle of sticks. Home was the best place to be when a storm got up.

  It was much colder when they stepped outside the hovel. They raced back across the moors, Morwen’s skirts flapping against her legs, and before they reached the Tremayne cottage, too anxious for talking, the first great spots of rain were lashing down. Bess looked up with relief, all her brood safely indoors now… all except Matthew, and she could only hope he was somewhere safe as well, and not on the boiling sea around the Cornish coast.

  ‘We’ve been to see old Zillah,’ Freddie said importantly, once he could get his breath. Morwen glared at him, knowing Bess’s thoughts on it, but now that the fear was gone, Freddie was busy preening himself on the adventure.

  �
��I’ve asked you not to go there, Morwen,’ her mother said angrily. ‘I know she’s reputed to be harmless, but I don’t want Freddie to get involved with her nonsense—’

  ‘She said there’s to be an earthquake—’

  ‘No, she didn’t—’

  Morwen’s defensive voice was drowned in the guffaws of laughter from Hal and her other brothers. Freddie’s face was scarlet as he tried to protest that old Zillah had definitely said the earth was going to move…

  ‘And we’re all going to be millionaires by Christmas!’ Hal ruffled his youngest son’s hair and refused to take any of it seriously. The boy was fairying to make a good tale, and mocking him was the best way to take the heat out of Bess’s reaction to visiting the old crone. ‘What say we have a game of charades to pass the time—?’

  ‘You boys can if you wish,’ Bess said tartly. ‘Morwen and me have work to do in the kitchen, and then we’ll get to the sewing. There’s pennies to be made and it seems we two are the only ones to make them at present.’

  Hal’s face darkened, but he’d vowed to do his utmost to keep the house harmonious, and didn’t rise to the bait as his wife and daughter went to the tiny kitchen and left him and his sons to themselves.

  ‘Well?’ Bess said at once. ‘Did the old woman give any indication to the length of this strike?’

  Morwen stared. ‘You do believe in her powers, Mammie!’

  ‘I never said I didn’t,’ Bess retorted. ‘Just that I didn’t want any of you visiting her. Was there any hint of an end to it? I know she talks in riddles—’

  Morwen shook her head. ‘Nothing sensible. Only some talk of an earthquake, and different ways of making the earth move than through nature. I didn’t understand it. She referred to Mr Killigrew as a stubborn man—’

  ‘Well, it didn’t take a soothsayer to tell us that!’ Bess looked at her daughter, her voice softening. ‘Do you miss the life there, my lamb? You took to it so sweetly—’

  Morwen turned away, fighting the sudden tears and the tightening in her throat. It wasn’t the house she missed…