“A bag of mine is gone,” said Jane. “ It contained a penknife, a bodkin and my seal. The servants must be whipped for ever permitting it.”
“The servants have more respect for the law than we have. They couldn’t interfere. What right had I to? Only the right of a sword.”
“And a temper,” said Jane. “One of these days it will lead you into trouble, brother-in-law.”
“There’ll be trouble now unless we move to prevent it.”
“How?” said John.
“Why should we move to prevent your trouble, brother-in-law?”
“Because it is yours too, sister-in-law. Don’t think I’m bearing the burden of this house further than I need. It’s John’s—and yours. So long as my father is in prison John is master of this house, and the privilege bears the responsibilities along with it. John—”
“Yes, Maugan, I know,” he said irritably. “But there’s little I can do beyond what you have done—”
“There’s something your wife can do.”
“Ah,” said Jane. “I thought brother-in-law might soon come to that.”
“It can’t be avoided. Examine the situation for yourself.”
John got up and sat on the edge of the table. Even so short a time of marriage had greatly matured him, but it had not given him resilience. “What do you want us to do?”
“Well, if we do nothing the creditors will come back. I shall be in the greatest trouble for putting them out the first time; but don’t consider that. Consider only that what is left in the house will be taken, our fields and barns stripped. Expect no quarter from any of them, for your father gave none when he had the whip hand. All will go, sister-in-law. You may be able to defend your own gowns and jewels, but I wouldn’t rely on it. We are fortunate to have been given this breathing space of a few days.”
“Well,” said Jane. “What do you want me to do?”
“It may not be too late to buy them off.”
“I doubt it.”
“Most creditors will withhold from snatching goods worth a tenth of their debt if they are offered cash of a value of a fifth, with some promise of later payment.”
“And what do you suppose this will cost?”
“Perhaps a thousand pounds.”
Jane watched me with narrowed, concentrated eyes. Then she laughed once, harshly, and got up to kick at a log. “You must be a fool, brother-in-law.”
“Well, that’s as you think. You might stave off the most importunate with eight hundred.”
“I haven’t eight hundred shillings.”
“Your father has. It’s yours in a year or two.”
“Damn the logs: why don’t they split ’em! We always have ’em split: it gives a face for the fire to eat at … My father will not waste my dowry on salvaging the debts of old men who should have known better.”
“I would not offer comment on that. Except to say, he must have had some notion of John Killigrew’s debts when he contracted the marriage. After all, he traded—did he not—an ancient name for a newer name with gold to it.”
“That is insolence, brother-in-law. Offensive insolence.”
“Well, express it how you will, that’s what it adds up to. However, the money we are considering now is not to salvage your father-in-law from prison. It is to keep your own home with some sticks of furniture in it and food and wine in the kitchen. If you begrudge that then you must let the creditors rampage, and learn to live in the loft over the barn.”
“Your voice spills as much contempt as fermenting beer in a cask.” She picked up her pipe from the table beside the fireplace and began to fill it from a linen bag. “I don’t know. I will have to consider the matter. After all …”
“After all what?” said John.
“These debtors have no rights over our personal property, yours and mine. And since the only property I have here is personal I should lose nothing. Bucklan and Skinner would stand guard and he would be a bold man who passed them.”
“My mother is likely to be stripped of everything.”
“And she is pregnant again,” I said.
A twitch of distaste went over Jane’s face; almost the first true emotion I had seen there this evening. She stared down at the pipe, her big fingers turning it round and round.
“And you expect my father to protect ten Killigrews for the sake of cushioning me? It’s a notion he is not likely to be delighted with.”
“It’s a notion I think you should put to him.”
She glanced at John. “And you, husband?”
He shrugged. “ You know that I would like it.”
I said: “To send a message to your father and back will take the better part of two weeks. We are unlikely to be undisturbed that long. Is there any money you have which would keep these men at bay until then?”
“D’you think I have a gold mine in my pocket? Or what do you think?”
“That a boat is being built for you in Penryn. That you may have resources we know nothing of.”
It was a remark made at random, without any pre knowledge, so I was surprised to see her look at me with a darting suspicion. “I’ve some small money of my own, fellow. Not enough to satisfy you or these creditors … Very well, I will write to my father.”
She turned the bole of the pipe over towards a candle flame and drew at the stem; she moved back as the pipe caught, inhaled, and let a column of smoke escape from pursed lips. “If I renew some of these miserable bills, it will be on condition that I have more to say in the ordering of this house.”
John said in a controlled voice: “This is not a market where bargains are struck. There have been too many such already.”
“Well, this is another, whether or no. First of all, I want a half of these mongrel curs destroyed. They breed and interbreed and stink out the house … Then I want a different system of feeding in the hall, so that we no longer have the servants slopping porridge into their own mouths while pretending to wait on us … And I want your grandmother out of her bedroom, which is the only one with space to live and windows looking two ways … And I want the children to dine at another hour so that one’s ears are not assaulted with the whine of babies and the chatter of others who should long ago have been taught silence … And I want Parson Merther’s endless prayers cut by the half … And I want …” She paused and looked at the bole of her pipe to see that it was. glowing. “But you see … they are but modest demands.”
I waited for John to speak. He had slid off the corner of the table and was picking at some grease which had fallen from a candle. “I cannot turn my grandmother out of her room.”
“Give her ours. That will be a sensible exchange.”
“She—she is near death. If we waited, it’s unlikely that we should have long to wait.”
“I understand she has been near death for five years. Surely her breathing will develop a worse turn if the debt collectors burst in and carry away her handsome rugs.” Jane smiled at me. “This is real tobacco, not wound-wort. Now that I am out of Papa’s hands I have money enough at least for that.”
“They were talking in London,” I said, “ of a man who smoked so much that after his death he was opened, and his lungs and veins were covered with soot like a chimney.”
John was walking up and down. “Jane, please consider, it would be the mortal insult you would offer to an old lady. She didn’t even give up that room to my mother. She must have used it for fifty years.”
“Well, have it as you please. I will not help without some satisfaction from the help. Really, John, you cannot expect me to.”
I said: “ She who pays the piper calls the tune.”
“Yes, brother-in-law. I’m happy you agree.”
“I did not say I agreed. I’m only thankful that there are some among us who do not have to dance.”
Often it was hard to tell whether little Jane Killigrew was smiling or whether she was baring her teeth.
On Friday the three distinguished visitors arrived with
an escort of servants: Sir Nicholas Parker, a handsome man in his forties; Sir Ferdinando Gorges, just turned 30, tall and full-coloured with a west-country voice reminiscent of Ralegh’s; Paul Ivey, spectacled, narrow shouldered. The first two men were distinguished soldiers, Sir Nicholas having been master of Ordnance for the forces in France, Sir Ferdinando captain and keeper of the castle and fort at Plymouth.
While we were supping I saw Jane eyeing Sir Nicholas Parker appreciatively. More than once when he spoke her metallic little laugh rang out, and before the end of the meal his deference to her was marked with a cynical regard. Henry Knyvett had come over from Rosemerryn, but he had already drunk much when he arrived; his long, loose-pointed, knock-kneed figure, the skull cap over the long grey hair, the increasing deafness, were no help to any party, and the task of entertaining the three guests fell on John and on me.
It was Gorges’s ship Maybird which had narrowly escaped capture when Peter of Anchusen was lost and he took a great interest in my stay in Spanish prisons, for at the age of 21 he had himself been captured by one of the ships of the first Armada and had spent a year in captivity before being ransomed. A relative of Ralegh’s and as passionately interested in the idea of founding settlements overseas, he differed as to method—being an advocate of a feudal type of rule in a colony, as against Ralegh’s belief in the equality of all men. Early on he had parted company from Sir Walter and chosen to follow Essex.
Before we left the table Sir Nicholas Parker fumbled in his cloak, which he had worn all through supper because of the draughts, and took out a sheet of parchment.
“This is something to your interest. It’s an order from the Privy Council which I’m commanded to deliver you.” He passed it to me.
The order appointed Sir Nicholas Parker governor and captain of Pendennis Castle in succession to J. Killigrew. Further, all J. Killigrew’s personal possessions and habiliment, if any, were to be removed from the castle and taken into his house of Arwenack, and thenceforward neither he nor his representatives were to have access to the castle or its defences.
When I had read it I passed it to John, who by right should have had it first. He read it slowly with Jane frowning over his shoulder and trying to spell but the words. When he had done he got up and handed the parchment back across the table.
“You come on no friendly mission, Sir Nicholas.”
“I come as a servant of the Crown. I obey orders, Mr Killigrew.”
“Then we must do the same.” He bowed but continued to stand. The other men one by one had to stand also, Sir Nicholas Parker the last, and the supper broke up icily.
The next morning John and I and Carminow and Foster went up to the castle to receive from the officer such possessions as Mr Killigrew had left and we could lay claim to. Paul Ivey was already at work, spectacled and earnest, taking measurements and levels. Soon teams of horses and gangs of men would be at work tearing up the rocks and the trees and putting into effect his designs for reconstruction. We walked back in silence, each one of us perhaps, reflecting on the end of an era—nearly sixty years of Killigrew governance. Sic transit …
I went in to Truro to collect a debt that my father had told me was owing from Chudleigh Michell’s brother. On the way, out of curiosity, I passed Katherine Footmarker’s cottage and was startled to see it no longer there, instead a black patch on the grass, the two trees burned half way up their gnarled trunks. John Michell said:
“She was drove out in September. She had an evil eye. She went west, towards Penryn. Then two weeks since she come back … When twas spread about, this news, there was a nasty feeling in the town. A score of men and women went for her wi’ sticks and stones. She was just away in time, black dog an’ all. She must have been hit but she outdistanced ’em. They set fire to the house, thinking twas the safest way of securing themselves against ill.”
I licked my lips. “ Which way did she go this time?”
“She was seen in St Erme, heading east. I reckon she’ve left for good, and that’s as it should be. I haven’t the strong feelings Chudleigh has for such as she, but there’s much palsy and scrofula about, and who knows where it d’ come from.”
Before I left Truro I called on another old woman whom Footmarker had named as a friend. The woman could tell me little, except that Footmarker had often spoken of a niece in Bristol. No doubt she was now making for Bristol. But it was a bad time of year.
The river at Truro is so forked that except by a great detour there is no way to Tolverne except by crossing the ferry …
Sue was with Lady Arundell when I arrived. It took me half an hour to get her alone. Then wisely I did not try to take her in my arms but sat talking quietly, telling her of what had passed since we last met.
I could feel her restraint going. In another ten minutes we were just as close as we had ever been. I told her about Katherine Footmarker; for there was a sense of guilt and disarray in my emotions now. What seemed a justifiable act in expelling her from the house had become magnified and out of shape.
Presently a long silence fell. It would have been restful for me if I had not felt something still tense in her manner.
“Maugan, I have some news for you.”
“Tell me.”
“You know I have been invited to go and stay with Philip’s sister near London. I’ve decided to accept.”
“You mentioned it. It will be a good experience. But will you be away long?”
“It rather depends on you.”
“Then let it be as short as possible.”
“But I thought you might come to London in January too … We could—if we wanted—be married there.”
“Oh, my dear, gladly! If that’s your news … We seem to have been separated for a lifetime—”
“No, that’s not my news. But perhaps I need not ever tell it you. Maugan, what I plan is that I shall stay with Amelia Reskymer. I could have the banns called in that parish. If you—if you felt you could take the position Henry Howard offers you I could advance you sufficient money to set up in some small house, and we could be married in middle February. It might be necessary later in the year to return here to settle up Philip’s estate, but we could look on London as our permanent home.”
It was queer that one came to her full of determination to sweep away all petty divisions. But the nature of our love seemed to emphasise it, as the sun will a chasm.
“Darling Sue, I know how you feel. But let me put another suggestion. Have you enough money to maintain us for six months?”
“Without your earning? Perhaps.”
“Lady Godolphin told me that Philip had left you very substantial property.”
She fingered back her black fringe. “I’ve told you. Almost all was entailed.”
“Lady Godolphin said Mr Mark Reskymer was complaining that it was not.”
“Mark would always complain, even if one cottage went out of the family. But do you prefer to believe Lady Godolphin’s word to mine?”
I met a gaze suddenly glinting. “Of course not. In any case whatever you have is yours to do with as you will. My suggestion is that if you could support us for six months without consuming all the money you have, it would give me an opportunity to look about before committing myself.”
She smiled. “ You would have committed yourself in February by marrying me.”
“I commit myself only to marrying the woman I love. Not to serving a man I despise.”
“Would not one compensate you for the other?”
“To marry you I’d scavenge in the waste bins of Bedlam. And be happy to do it. I only ask that our first months of marriage should not be—be tainted by a feeling that I have had to—to compromise, to counterfeit … It’s a feeling of buying what is most precious with what is debased.”
I got up, angry again, part with her, part with myself. In the middle of speaking I had been seized with the realisation of all the submissions I had made in Spain merely to stay alive. Now I was straining at this less importa
nt one. Fundamentally, what had I got against Lord Henry Howard? What was the objection except sheer obstinacy? He was intelligent, able, subtle, artistic. Was it my repugnance which was, really counterfeit?
Yet the earlier compromises I had made in Spain, instead of making this more easy, got in the way of it, hurting and tormenting and pushing me towards a defensive anger. And was this one less important? Before I had been prepared to bargain with the enemy. It was much harder to bargain with the girl I loved.
She had stood up too.
I said: “ What was the news you had for me?”
“You’ll not like it, Maugan. Thomas has asked me to marry him.”
This window looked over the back of the house, and in the yard outside a servant was splitting logs with a beetle and a wedge. It was a monotonous but irregular sound and hollow, like a spade on a coffin.
“And you said?”
“I said I would give him my answer in January.”
“You said—you told him nothing about us?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It seemed better. There was no hurry.”
“Better? Better for whom? … Sue, this confounds me, I—I …”
“I’m sorry.”
The room had become short of air. “Thomas … the man you have always—avoided, disliked. This doesn’t make sense. He’s almost committed to Bridget Mohun.”
“He’ll betroth her next month if I refuse him.”
“If you refuse him? God in Heaven! Sue, look at me: what are you saying? What are you doing to me?”
But she kept her head averted. “ I thought first I should not tell you. But then …”
“Sue, do you love me?”
“You know I do.”
“But this—you must mean something else by love than I do … Do you mean you haven’t yet decided anything? That all this talk of …”
The Grove of Eagles Page 62