A Cornish Girl

by Gloria Cook

  ‘I’m Genesis Kivell,’ the elder said, after reading the card. He gave a brisk nod towards the prime house. ‘She’s waiting for ’ee – Mr Howarth.’

  Kit frowned. So he definitely had been seen in the area and his grandmother was expecting him, and not simply as someone who resembled her son but as someone she saw no reason to trust.

  His horse was led off, and Genesis Kivell showed him to the threshold of Morn O’ May. He passed the card to a woman waiting on the doorstep. She glanced at it but showed no interest in the details. She looked Kit up and down and with each movement of her pretty hazel eyes her expression grew graver. In her late thirties, of large frame, and a good figure nourished by good cooking, he got the impression she was normally a kindly woman who’d not shy from Good Samaritan acts, but right now she was stiff and pursed-lipped.

  Silently, she ushered him inside but did not offer to take his hat and gloves; he was not welcome to stay for long. All she said was, ‘This way,’ but Kit knew she was bursting to confront him, to warn and threaten him. He had the notion she had been cautioned to say very little.

  She was not unattractive, and as he followed her into the hall he gazed up the stairs, which divided at the top onto an arced landing, and he pondered behind which of the many doors up there was her bed. Then he snapped off the thought, for if she was Eula Kivell, as he believed, then she was his aunt and such a musing was disgusting. More importantly his mind should be only on his reasons for being here.

  It had been easy to gain an audience with his grandmother. Her so-called powers of witchery didn’t frighten him even though they had his villainous father – that scrap of information had greatly surprised him. Kit didn’t believe in all that supernatural tosh. He had seen spectres and visions himself, but only while in his cups or under the influence of opium. It came to him suddenly – disjointed thoughts were apt to rush into his mind – these people might believe he had come for money. He had money, a sizeable fortune left to him by his remote guardian and money of his own making, and he looked as if he was wealthy. He had made many lucrative investments and significant gains at the gaming tables. He wanted nothing from these people except to bring them down, starting with his damnable grandmother. Damn these upstart people, damn them all! They had a little land and through enterprise and deviousness were well placed but it didn’t qualify them as gentry, even though they thought themselves above the middle class. The people of Meryen consorted with them but only because they were the weaker element. The Kivells weren’t wanted in any society. They were misfits. So was he, and he hated his late father and Tempest Kivell because of it.

  As if aware that he had dropped his pretence of cordiality, the woman glanced round at him. He avoided her stare – she would see the bitterness in him. She sighed, an angry sigh. He was as welcome here as the plague, but he was used to that from the other branch of his parentage. Her feet made a light tap along a stone-flagged passage spread with berry-coloured woven runners; his step was heavy and brooding, and she kept glancing behind her as if fearing he might rear up on her.

  They passed rooms and each door was shut against him. He noted the paintings, carvings and ornaments as they went along. The Kivells were highly skilled craftsmen but some of their fine acquisitions must be from smuggling and theft. The massive tapestries caught his eye. One portrayed the Kivell origins, entailing the first owner of Burnt Oak falling off a horse during a race to secure either this land or the manor of Poltraze.

  The woman stopped at the end of the passage at carved double doors and put a hand out to bid him wait. She entered the room. Kit put his ear to the solid wood and heard her talking to another female, his grandmother at last. He clenched a fist, felt dizzy and let out a deep breath of excruciating tension. He breathed in deeply, once, twice, three times, sighing out as he exhaled, as a former mistress of his had advised when he succumbed to light-headedness, brought on by his dark thoughts. Why did this have to happen now? He’d have a fainting fit like a woman if he wasn’t careful. He must clear his mind. Never had it been more important. Ignoring the racing of his heart he raised his shoulders. He had an awful habit of stooping, a legacy of the relentless put-downs he’d suffered as a boy. He’d hated being tall then, it had made his presence all too obvious.

  In her most stylish day dress, a lilac affair with exquisite lace, it took all her strength but Tempest was on her feet to receive the visitor and she would receive him alone. She knew she was in for an ordeal but she had to present a strong front from the beginning because she sensed the stranger’s issues were mainly with her. She was about to be faced with a man who bore a close likeness to the son she had despised from his birth, whose only good deed on earth had been his children, the ones who hadn’t turned out bad, that was; Sol was her favourite. She missed Sol so much, and now she must be faced with Titus’s evil replica. She had been ill since her vision and the strain was killing her. She felt a stab of fear – killing her literally? She didn’t want to die soon. She wanted to see Sol and his family again before she left this earth.

  Eula was urging her to sit down and to allow her to stay in the room. Tempest lifted her pince-nez and glanced again at the visiting card, then clearing the lump of dread in her throat she said, no higher than a whisper, ‘Send him in, Eula. Then go, do as I say. This is the right way.’

  ‘If you insist, Mama, but I’ll stay just beyond the door in case you need me.’ Eula gripped her mother’s hand, anxious at how fragile she was.

  Tempest lifted her once-regal chin. What was she about to be faced with?

  Eula opened both doors and motioned with her hand for Kit to go in. She wanted to glare at him, make it a warning, but she mustn’t interfere with whatever her mother was about to do. Her mother was at her weakest but she did have her powers, and Eula prayed they would not fail her.

  Kit held himself as straight as a military man and, thankfully, he felt strangely calm, his mind quick and able to calculate.

  At the other end of the thick carpet, Tempest pulled off a stately bearing, remembering to hold her hands together lightly and not too tightly. She must not for a second show how unnerved she was by his coming here. She moved her head to left and right. How much of Titus could she see in this man? He allowed her examination with accommodating passivity. Tempest was taken aback to find the Kivell he most favoured in appearance was Sol. Sol had been wild and arrogant in his youth, but without any of Titus’s malice. This stranger was summing her up in return and there appeared to be nothing particularly adverse about him, but he was no doubt being careful.

  Kit found himself in a distinctly feminine room, a lavish room of glass display cabinets, tabernacle-framed mirrors, lush greenery on elaborate jardinières and opulent drapery. He found Tempest Kivell prepossessing and noble-featured, with high distinctive cheekbones and jewel-blue eyes. Her black hair was showing the first transition towards grey. She was not hale and strong as his intelligence had reported, but as pale as summer mist and clearly unwell. He had been ungallant towards Sarah Kivell only minutes ago, but it would not amuse him to be uncivil to this woman right now. She was regarding him steadily, an intelligent, shrewd woman, who had survived a brutal marriage, and he was stunned to actually feel some sneaking admiration towards her.

  Each was curious about the other on a far deeper level than they had first imagined. Neither felt the need to draw battle lines for the time being.

  ‘You have my sincere thanks for receiving me, Mrs Kivell,’ Kit said in the polite voice he would have used in any genteel sitting room.

  ‘Your card gives you the name of Charles Howarth,’ Tempest replied, her honey tones scratchy. ‘But obviously you have connections with the Kivells. Who, sir, are you exactly?’

  ‘Ma’am, let us not make pretence this is an ordinary occasion. You are curious about me and I will gladly answer all your enquiries. I, in turn, am curious to learn why I am so unwelcome here among the people whom I not long ago became aware as being my kin. Mrs Kivell, I have ver
y good reason to believe your late son, Titus, was my father.’ He watched her closely, there was no need, this wasn’t a revelation to her, but she was trembling. ‘May I be so bold as to suggest that you seat yourself? I am happy to remain standing, as I think you would prefer. Please accept my apologies for coming at an inopportune time. I would have understood if you had sent a message that you were indisposed.’

  ‘Yes, I will sit, Mr Howarth.’ Tempest made her feet perform their usual graceful task of conveying her to her tapestry cabriole chair at the window. ‘Sit, if you would like.’

  To loom over her was what he’d prefer but to gain exactly what he wanted it might be worth a try at gaining her trust. He took the edge of a matching sofa where he was close to her. He wanted to see her face every moment.

  Tempest was of the same mind. She felt compelled to gaze at him. ‘Would you have understood, Mr Howarth, if I had sent word to say I was indisposed? I think you are not here for the good of this family.’

  Kit hated that remark and hated her for saying it. Was this all she had to say to someone so clearly connected to her own flesh and blood? ‘Have you ever heard of me, ma’am?’ he asked in a grim tone. ‘Do you know something about me that you do not approve of?’

  ‘I have never heard of you before, Mr Howarth.’ Tempest realized how lame that sounded. The only basis she had for being the slightest offhand with him was a dream, and that would sound ludicrous and mad to those of no belief in matters spiritual. She had foreseen and dreaded this moment, it had made her ill, and although this young man actually existed and was here, even to her it seemed outlandish. He looked a lot like Titus but he was not Titus. On the other hand, dreams were for interpreting, and it seemed more than coincidence that although he could have found out at any time he was of Kivell blood and got in contact he had come now. Surely she must trust her psychic abilities and heed the terrible dread that had come upon her. Most of the family had wanted to warn off the stranger who had turned up on their boundary. But to Tempest, that was not the way. And surely he should at least be allowed a hearing? What would Sol have advised? He would have been interested to meet this man who was possibly his half-brother.

  Kit frowned darkly. How he wanted to rail against this superior woman. She had never heard of him yet she and her wretched people had chosen to treat him like dirt. Then he was worried. During his drunken or drugged state he might have revealed the true purpose behind his presence in Cornwall to the doxy. She could have run to the Kivells with the information for payment. That must be it. Tempest Kivell had lied, she must have known he had not been far away for the last few days. He should have been rigidly circumspect. He would not make that mistake again.

  Tempest saw the trouble darken over him. She sensed some inner torment, and because he reminded her more and more of Sol she was moved by the stirring of guilt. If he was Titus’s son, that made him her grandson. But she must not give way to sentimentality. On the other hand, need she fear him so? Her powers had always manifested to help her when she really needed them. She should take heart and explore the vision. Shadows hid good things as well as bad. The image of Titus might be a mocking from beyond the grave but to concentrate only on that might cause her to miss something it had wickedly endeavoured to disguise. This man might simply have come to look her up, his grandmother. People invariably longed to trace their roots to discover who they really were. There was a great sadness in him, more than that, and if he was genuine, her attitude and the fears she had cast upon the family were unjustifiably adding to it. She cleared her throat and found her voice had regained its strength. ‘It seems you may very well have a connection to my son, and therefore to the rest of us. How did you come by and how long have you had this knowledge, Mr Howarth?’

  Kit raised his straight black brows at her honeyed tones. What was her ploy now? She was no longer trembling in the attempt to sit upright but rather was sagging like a sack of straw. She had relaxed. He fancied that in another minute she would be smiling and offering him tea. Hell’s teeth, she was a witch of sorts. He had the horrid sensation he had walked into a trap. He knew then that he did not have all the advantages, as he’d so arrogantly believed. He had set himself up against a witch and her coven. He’d been foolish to believe he could breeze into their lives and upset, even destroy, a centuries-old stronghold.

  ‘Altogether, for about three months. I happened upon a captain of a Falmouth packet in Bristol port, in a certain drinking establishment. He was shocked by the strong resemblance I bore to a man he had known from Cornwall, a man going by the name of Titus Kivell. I have known from a very young age that the man who gave me his name was not my real father.’ A lie, he’d thought he’d had no family at all. His real surname Woodburne had, apparently, been plucked out of the air. ‘Naturally, my curiosity was whetted. I paid an enquiry agent of good repute to investigate for me. It took a while for the story to be pieced together.’ This was how he had come by the truth of his maternal parentage. ‘I looked up old records and I tracked down some former servants to obtain details. My parents had never mentioned they had been to Falmouth, but it turned out that they had stayed there on shipping business in 1818, nine months prior to my birth. There was a brief affair.’ A lie, he had been sired by Titus in the same brutal manner as Titus had himself. ‘My mother, it seemed, was dazzled by Titus Kivell’s good looks and wild ways, and apparently by how he could turn on the charm.’

  Tempest nodded, reminded of how her son had beguiled Sarah. ‘Did her husband discover the affair or did she confess it to him?’

  ‘My mother confessed the moment she knew she was with child. There had been no physical closeness between her and her husband, a much older man, for some time and she knew she must tell the truth. He had always adored her and he forgave her. He accepted me as his own. It pleased him to have an heir.’ Complete and utter lies, it cut into his soul to be saying them.

  A similar set-up to the one at Poltraze, Tempest mused. ‘How did you discover the truth?’

  ‘There were always whispers among the servants or so it seemed to me. A footman was dismissed for stealing and I came across him quarrelling with the butler while he was being shown the back door. The vengeful footman blurted out that he’d broadcast the fact that I was, forgive me saying this, a little bastard, and he’d drag the Howarth name through the dirt. He was eventually paid off, and my parents answered my earnest questions with the whole sorry truth. They had always been rather remote from me, now I knew why. My mother felt guilty, and Mr Howarth, as I came to think of him after that, chose to keep me in the background. My mother refused to divulge who my real father was and I did not press it. How could I? I was just a child. My nurse kept reminding me how fortunate I was that Mr Howarth had not had me cast off. Well, I could not really grumble, I was well clothed, fed and educated, with an inheritance to look forward to, but it was hard and I was always very lonely.’ More lies, except the remoteness and the loneliness. No one in the Howarth shipping line, except the real Charles Howarth, knew of his existence, and he was not desirous of publicly acknowledging Kit, full name Christopher.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tempest said. The sadness was on him again, it was a crushing melancholy, and part of her wanted to offer him more sympathy. ‘Well, Mr Howarth, you were fortunate, as your nurse said. I find no problem in accepting you to be my son’s son. What do you hope to achieve by your visit here?’

  The worm of loathing that had gnawed in him for so many years caused his gut to constrict and his temper to rise. He had to bring it under control or he would have snarled, ‘To make you suffer! To see you go through a similar sort of hell to mine.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I had to come. I thought I would like to see Titus’s grave but now I’m here I’m not sure. I’m not sure what I feel. I’ll return to the house where I am temporarily residing. I suppose what happens next is up to you, Mrs Kivell.’ His shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a ruse. The deep, dark depression was pressing down on him again. He didn’t belong here or a
nywhere else on earth and his time here had reinforced it. He needed to get away, to be on his own, and to seek a way to forget for a while. As for Titus Kivell’s grave, if he saw it now he’d rip off its memorial stone and kick the ground apart.

  Tempest thought about what she should say. He was giving her the chance to send him away for good. How could she do that? He was her flesh and blood. It was obvious he had led a life without the least affection, making him sorrowful and with the need to present a confident facade when he was in fact unsure of himself. He had known loss and rejection.

  Kit got up and caught a glimpse of the well-kept garden beyond the window. Most of the plants were in winter slumber but all seemed healthy. Something struck him as strange, and then he had it; the blight that had hit Poltraze’s grounds had not done the same deadly job here. He couldn’t care less about it, but the destruction at the grander property had obviously been wilful.

  ‘You like gardens, Mr Howarth?’ Tempest wanted to know a little about him, actually, a lot about him.

  Kit was confused by the question. ‘What? Oh, yours shows a splendid aspect, Mrs Kivell. I shall take my leave.’

  To Tempest it seemed a shameful thing for a grandson of hers to come and go without the smallest offer of hospitality, but she mustn’t be soft, and Eula and the rest of the family would disapprove. She could at least give him a kind word. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. You must think me a very poor hostess …’

  ‘Not at all. I can see you are unwell.’

  ‘I’ll see you to the door. May I ask where you are staying?’

  ‘Trengrove, in Gwennap, fairly near to the church.’ He bowed, and allowed her to reach the door before him. It was a peculiar feeling to be this close to her, to look directly down on the lace cap on her upswept hair, to smell her light floral perfume. Her marble-toned skin had just a few feathery wrinkles. He had thought she would be hard and cold, as the rejection of Titus suggested, but after an initial frostiness, there seemed kindness and even concern in her. ‘Perhaps … perhaps I might call again? By proper arrangement, if that is agreeable, when you feel more able to receive visitors. I’ve thought to remain locally a while longer yet.’