The Miser's Sister

by Carola Dunn

  “I expect the servants are all up on Brown Willy,” suggested Walter. “I suppose Lord Penderric is not likely to be there?”

  “No, not at all. We shall have to enter by the side door. I have never known it locked. Come this way.”

  Feeling nervously guilty, as though she were a housebreaker rather than a member of the family, Ruth led him into the dark, chilly corridor and along it to the entrance hall. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and there was a dank, musty odour she did not remember. The furniture was covered with dust and here and there on the floor small piles of dirt showed where someone had made a half-hearted, half-completed gesture toward sweeping.

  Ruth opened the door into the salon where she and Letty had spent most of their time. It had apparently been shut up since they left, and though the air was stale it was not as dirty as the hallway.

  “Should you mind waiting here, Walter?” she asked apologetically. “Godfrey is usually to be found in the library, and I shall seek him there, but I do not want to subject you to an interview with him.”

  Walter looked round the room distastefully.

  “I can scarce believe you used to live here,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Had I known earlier… ! Well, too late for vain regrets. I shall leave the door open, and you must call out if you need me.”

  “I shall not be long,” Ruth promised, and headed for the library.

  The door was open. As she stepped inside, she saw that all the shelves were still bare. Nothing had changed since she had last entered the room.

  Her brother sat at the desk, seeming a part of the furniture. Never a big man, he appeared to have shrunk in the months since she had seen him. He looked at her calmly.

  “So you have returned, Ruth.”

  His voice was so cool and matter-of-fact that she wondered if she had imagined that he was dangerous.

  “Only briefly, Godfrey. I shall not live here again.”

  “You are just in time,” he continued in a tone of remote rationality. “I could not have waited much longer. There is only one way out for me, but I am glad you are here to share it. It is all your fault, you know.”

  “My fault? What is my fault?”

  “This whole mess, of course. If it had not been for your fortune, I might have held out for years.”

  “I don’t understand you. To what mess do you refer, and how is my fortune to blame?”

  “Oh, I shall explain it all. Will you not be seated?” More than anything else, this request convinced her that he had the full use of his faculties. She sat gingerly on a rickety chair.

  “Pray go on,” she urged.

  “You should never have become betrothed to Walter Vane. That was the last straw.”

  “I am no longer engaged to Walter, nor have I been for months.”

  “Too late, too late. I had to assume that you would soon demand ten thousand pounds and, of course, I could not give it to you. Then the letter arrived, and the idea came to me.”

  “What letter, Godfrey? What idea? And why could you not give me my dowry?”

  “Still as impatient as ever, I see.” An expression of sly cunning flitted across his face. “All in good time. Come with me; I have something to show you.”

  Consumed with curiosity, Ruth followed him from the library, down the corridor, and out of the back door to the stables. She stood watching in silence as he harnessed the pony to the gig.

  “Get in!” he ordered roughly.

  She climbed up unaided, and he took his seat beside her.

  ‘Where are we going?” she asked at last.

  “You’ll see.”

  He whipped up the pony, drove around the house, and rattled down the track. Ruth heard the distant murmur of the crowds on Brown Willy.

  At St Teath they turned north. Godfrey drove in silence, whipping the pony whenever its headlong pace slackened. Ruth clutched the side of the gig, sure that they would be overturned at any moment and afraid to speak for fear of distracting his attention from the road.

  * * * *

  Walter was looking out of the grimy window when the gig went past the front of the house. He was surprised to see Ruth leaving without a word to him, then worried. He ran into the hall, wrenched open the front door, and stood a moment on the steps gazing after them.

  Whatever the reason for their departure, he decided, he was of no use to Ruth here. He jumped into the dogcart and followed, unnoticed by the pair in the gig.

  Gradually he fell behind. His pony was not as fresh, and nothing but the direst emergency could have persuaded him to whip little Dapple in the brutal way Lord Penderric was abusing his horse. He had no reason to suppose that it was a matter of urgency to catch up with the racing gig. Still, a feeling of uneasiness made him do his best to keep it in sight. It turned off the main road, along a narrow by-lane winding toward Boscastle. For a few minutes he lost it, then it came into view again, climbing the hillside to the left of the lane. He thought he recognised the rough track that led up to the Customs tower on the headland to the south of the harbour. What on earth could be their business up there? Anxiously he kept a sharp lookout for the turn off.

  Ruth was also puzzled by their route. The exhausted pony was slipping and staggering up the long slope, and Godfrey had the common sense to stop whipping it and let it pick its own way, only urging it on when it threatened to stop altogether.

  “Where are we going?” Ruth asked again.

  “You wanted an explanation. Now you shall have it.” His voice was calm.

  “About my dowry?”

  “Yes. I could not give it to you because I had not so much money in the world. Then the letter came from Uncle Hadrick, announcing the arrival in Cornwall of his rich young friend. My idea was to use him to dispose of your claims upon me.”

  “You meant to take money from Mr Pardoe to give to me?”

  “Nothing so childishly simple. No, I developed an extraordinarily clever plot that could lead no suspicions to me. Will found me a master criminal. In exchange for his cooperation, I gave him information about Pardoe’s wealth and movements. He was to have both of you kidnapped by men who would believe he meant to extract ransom for both. I, of course, would not pay, and so he would have you dispatched, thus ridding me of your demands.”

  “Godfrey, how can you speak of it so tranquilly? Do you know what they were going to do to me? They were going to—”

  “The details are of no conceivable interest to me. Thanks to Pardoe’s interference, my brilliant plan came to naught. I cannot think why he bothered to escape. His father would not have missed the money. And the consequences have been appalling. Captain Cleeve was excessively angry when he did not receive any ransom. He has been bleeding me dry ever since.” At last some emotion entered Godfrey’s voice. He sounded mildly disturbed.

  “You mean he has been blackmailing you?” asked Ruth. In the face of his unperturbed demeanour, she found it impossible to arouse herself to indignation, still less anger. He seemed to hypnotise her, as a stoat does a rabbit.

  “Yes, that is why he returned to Cornwall. Just before you left was the first time: I met him at the Nag’s Head that evening and gave him the money, then the next day you came in demanding more.”

  “The day you cut my hand.”

  “That’s right. But this time I outwitted him. I laid information against him, and he was arrested.”

  Ruth thought back over the things Oliver, Sir John, and Mr Trevelyan had said and not said.

  “Has he not accused you then, Godfrey? It seems to me that he must have implicated you.”

  “He did. Otherwise I should not be telling you this. Only one course is open to me, but I do not care a whit for that since you are come.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Godfrey started muttering to himself and did not answer. The crazed light in his eyes was apparent now, unmistakable.

  At last Ruth had to admit to herself that her brother was insane. Oliver must have known, she thought. He must have heard Captai
n Cleeve’s story. No wonder he had wanted to keep her in ignorance as long as possible. Why, oh why had he now deserted her? Nothing ever seemed quite so terrible in his presence.

  What did Godfrey want to show her? She was beginning to think that she must be as mad as her brother to venture up here on the hillside alone with him. The gig was moving slowly now, as the slope steepened. The only sensible thing was to jump out and run down to the road for help.

  Before she could carry out her resolve, they reached the top of the slope. The pony halted, with heaving sides, on the level turf that stretched before them for a hundred yards, then ended abruptly. Nothing but sky was visible beyond. To their right, on the highest point, stood a white-painted tower.

  Godfrey turned to her and seized her wrist in a grip of iron. He had never been physically strong, but now the strength of a madman was his, and try as she might, she could not free herself.

  “Listen!” he hissed. “You’ve always thought yourself so superior, because you’re the eldest and because mama loved you best. Yes, she did. Father told me, so you can’t deny it. But Father told me something else, too.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Godfrey. Whatever it is, keep it to yourself and let us go home now.” Ruth tried to speak soothingly, but her voice trembled. From the corner of her eye, she saw that three men in uniform had come out of the tower and were standing watching. Should she shout for help?

  “I’m going to tell you, whatever you say,” Godfrey gloated. “He told me that your dearly beloved mother was a whore, and you were conceived before he married her out of pity. You are a bastard, so you can wipe the smug superiority off your face and—”

  “It’s not true! Mama was the best person in the world and nothing, nothing you can say will change that.”

  “It’s true. Do you want to know your father’s name? He was some seedy sailor—”

  “You’re mad. You’re making it up. Don’t say any more or I shall... I shall kill you!” Not for a moment could Ruth allow herself to believe him. Tears poured down her face, but she did not heed them. She was filled with overwhelming anger that he should desecrate the memory of her mother.

  Now he laughed a wild, insane laugh.

  “You’re too late. That’s one threat that means nothing to me now!” he cried, let go her wrist and whipped up the pony. It started at a staggering run for the cliffs edge.

  Ruth was numb with shock, paralysed by the endless series of blows that was to culminate, it seemed, in death. She was not even aware of the Excisemen racing toward the careening gig.

  “Stop! Stop!” they shouted uselessly.

  Walter Vane reached the top of the hill. For a moment he was incredulous, then he filled his lungs with air and bellowed in a voice he did not know he possessed.

  “Jump, Ruth, jump!”

  At that moment the pony stumbled and slowed momentarily. Walter’s cry cut through the fog in Ruth’s mind, and she threw herself headlong from the seat.

  The gig picked up speed and disappeared over the cliff.

  Walter fainted.

  None of the Preventives seemed in the least interested in the fate of either the curate or the Earl of Penderric. They all reached Ruth within a few seconds of her fall.

  She was dazed but conscious. The tired pony had not been moving fast, the grass was thick and soft, tufted with pink thrift, and her only injury was a bruised shoulder.

  “Be ye a’right, missie?” queried a grizzled veteran kindly, as he helped her sit up. “Jackie, go see to the ge’mun, and Evan, look ower cliff now.” His men dispatched, he turned back to Ruth. “I be Sarjeant Miller, ma’am. We three be witnesses o’ this yere goings-on, so per’aps I yought to knaw what ‘tis all about. I’ll not tell the lads owt they needna knaw.”

  Ruth was shivering, though the noonday sun shone bright. The sergeant struggled out of his moderately clean uniform jacket and draped it about her shoulders.

  “That was my brother,” she told him, head bowed. “Lord Penderric. I am Lady Ruth Penderric. We... he... I can’t...” She looked at him pleadingly.

  “Well, now, my lady, so happens as I’ve heerd a mite o’ gossip about the yearl. I think ye needna say more. Come now, I’ll help ye rise if ye feel fit.”

  “Thank you, sergeant. You are very kind.”

  Walter and young Jackie were approaching from one side, Evan from the other. Ruth went to meet Walter, who put his arm round her comfortingly, as the Welshman reported.

  “Nary a whisker to be seen, sergeant,” he told his superior. “The tide is high, look you, there’s just a few rocks above water. The wreckage’ll likely wash up at Padstow in a few days.”

  It was impossible for Ruth to feel sorrow at her brother’s untimely death. From a spiteful boy he had turned into a vicious man, and his demise freed her from a grievous burden. The certainty of his madness was a poison that worked in her veins, but now she was calm and composed and able to decide what must be done.

  “Walter, will you take me back to the castle?” she requested. “I must set everything in order there. Sergeant Miller, I suppose this must be reported to the justice of the peace. I hope you can send one of your men?”

  “Surely, my lady.”

  “Then if you have paper and pen, I should like to write a note to Mr Trevelyan.”

  Seated at a rickety table in the tower, with a scratchy pen and ink that flowed by fits and starts, Ruth wondered what to say. In the end she wrote a concise account of the earl’s end, told Mr Trevelyan she was returning to Penderric Castle, and said she would inform him of her further movements. Signed and sealed, the letter was given to Jackie to deliver, “him having the youngest legs.”

  Ruth and Walter found Dapple happily cropping the grass. The pony seemed quite recovered from his recent exertions, so they set off down the hill.

  As soon as they were alone, Walter began to present his condolences.

  “Pray do not, Walter,” Ruth interrupted him. “I can feel no grief, only horror, and I am too tired to think about it at all. Thank you for following me. It was your voice that saved me, you know.”

  Walter flushed, both at the idea of himself as a rescuer, and at the memory of his unheroic swoon.

  “I am glad that I was there,” he said with unwonted brevity, and they continued in silence.

  Ruth was indeed exhausted. She leaned back drowsily and caught herself dozing off several times before they reached the castle once more. The place was as dingy and decrepit as it had been that morning, but the sense of brooding menace was gone. The front door was open, as Walter had left it in his haste.

  They went down the passage to the library. If anything of value remained, it would be there. As they entered, a man started up from where he had been kneeling by a hole in the floorboards. It was the servant, Will.

  He scowled at them and made as if to conceal the hole, then decided it was hopeless.

  “Di’n’t know anyone were coming back,” he growled sulkily.

  “Where are the Tremaines?” asked Ruth, sinking into a chair.

  “Runned off a week since, wi’ everything they c’d lay hands on. Di’n’t know ‘bout this lot.” He hooked his thumb toward the hole.

  “What have you there?” Walter queried sharply.

  “All ‘at’s left o’ her fortin.” This time the grimy thumb indicated Ruth. “An’ all ‘at’s left o’ Penderric’s hoard. I’m owed near a year’s wage.”

  Walter looked into the space beneath the floor. It held three small leather sacks, which he pulled out and set on the desk by Ruth.

  “I’m owed f'r a year,” reminded the sullen servant.

  “It’s probably true,” said Ruth. “Give him twenty pounds, Walter, please, if there is that much here.” She was too tired to argue.

  “But he was going to steal the whole, I’ll be bound,” Walter objected.

  Ruth could have added that it was Will who had arranged for Godfrey and Captain Cleeve to meet, and so precipitated the whole course of even
ts. It did not seem worth the effort. She just shook her head.

  Walter carefully tipped the contents of one sack onto the desk. A hundred gold sovereigns, bright as the day they were minted, glittered in a ray of sun which had somehow found its way through the filthy window. He picked out twenty and handed them to the servant.

  “Get out,” he ordered, “and you need not return!”

  Will left, grumbling.

  The other two sacks each held the same amount. Ruth sat blindly staring at the pile of coins that was Letty’s and her sole remaining wealth. She needed to think, to make decisions, but her mind would not work.

  Suddenly she became aware that Walter was on his knees before her, had taken her hand.

  “Ruth,” he begged, “I wish you will reconsider! I am sincerely attached to you, and the unpropitious circumstances need not stand in our way. We may live as cheerfully in a cottage as in a castle, and I shall certainly soon receive a benefice. Marry me, my dear, and forget this grim, dilapidated mansion and the horrendous deeds it has been witness to. Let me take your hand and lead you to a life of Christian simplicity and charity, to contented matrimony and blessed motherhood. We shall—”

  “No, Walter,” Ruth broke in gently, realising that he was carried away by his own eloquence. “I cannot marry. I am honoured and grateful that you should ask me again, but it will not do.”

  Walter rose and dusted his knees with a sigh.

  “I am sorry you think so,” he said with dignity. “I believe we should have dealt admirably together. I shall not press you, however.”

  “You are so very good to me. Now I must consider what is best for me to do. You will not be offended if I ask you to wait in the salon?”

  “Not at all, my dear. I am sure you are in need of solitude. You will call me if you need me.”

  Ruth watched him leave. She was deeply touched by his renewed proposal. It was not his fault that she found him slightly ridiculous now that she was better acquainted with the world, and Oliver made most men seem inadequate.

  But Oliver was literally gone on the wind. Even had he not abandoned her, she could not have married him now. She had no dowry, and worse, she bore the stigma of a father and brother who had both committed suicide. Insanity was in her blood, a lurking monster waiting to pounce on her innocent children. How could she ever inflict herself on any man, let alone the man she loved? Could she ever face anyone she knew? What was left to her?