by Vicky Adin
“Mr Boscowan can confirm I am able to prove my connection.”
Whispered conversations between neighbours filled the awkward silence. Megan waited for the mutterings to quieten down.
“What does this mean for the board, and us as governors?” demanded Mr Chegwin, the chair, in a haughty tone.
“I understand – and accept – I won’t have any control or influence over the Trevallyan Corporation or the Trevennick Hall Trust. Constance’s will was specific, as I’m sure you all know, so I can put your minds to rest on that score. I will not contest her estate in any way. But can I say how pleased I am to see her wishes being followed, even this far removed in time.”
The board chair remained silent and glared at her icily. A few nodded, some wrote on their notepads, others questioned James. Megan sat quietly, but she sensed relief in some quarters at her saying she would not challenge the status quo.
“Is there anything you wish to add?” asked Mr Chegwin.
“I do have two requests, if I may. Firstly, in her last letter to Mr Boscowan Senior, Constance requested her ashes be stored in his vault, and I quote: ‘until someone cares what happens to me’. I would like to lay Constance to rest and inter her ashes.”
This statement brought another series of angry snorts, confused looks and shifting positions. The board were definitely put out by her presence. They clearly hadn’t known about the ashes either.
Undeterred, Megan continued. “I think the time has come to give something back and show our appreciation for her generous gifts. Do you agree?”
They had politely listened while she spoke, but now the chair and a few of the members were openly hostile. Sharp questions were fired at James, who again quietly confirmed her account, which temporarily silenced them.
Now Megan had come this far, she’d decided to put all her cards on the table at once. She outlined her plan hoping they would consent. The fixed expressions remained on the faces of some of the older members, but she could also read agreement in the body language of others. Relieved that some of the board, at least, appeared on her side, she felt more comfortable with her second request.
“Secondly, I would like to purchase the small painting in the Isabel Room. In her journal Isabel described a painting of her and Constance when they were young and I believe it is the same one.”
Megan heard a disconcerted harrumph and a ‘we’ll see’ comment muttered under someone’s breath but waited for Mr Chegwin to speak.
“Unfortunate as it seems,” continued the chair in his same haughty tone, “since only you and James have knowledge of this letter, I believe the board is not in a position to deny you the right to do with Constance’s ashes as you choose. However, I for one wish to make further enquiries before any action takes place. In regard to your question about the painting, that will require deeper consideration.”
Megan considered his tone pompous and condescending, but held her tongue.
“Thank you for coming in, Mrs Marsh. We will discuss your request more fully and advise you accordingly in due course.”
She was dismissed.
Jessica rose to escort Megan from the room. “I’ll be able to get away from here in half an hour or so,” she whispered. “Can you meet me for coffee? Usual place?”
“Thanks, Jessica. Yes. See you there.”
Wrapping her scarf around her shoulders on top of her warm coat, Megan made her way into the slushy streets of Truro. The wind chill factor that bit through to the bone was a huge contrast to a few weeks earlier in Hawaii. Megan wondered why she’d chosen to come back here so soon. She could have gone to the south of France or Italy – just about any of the places Isabel and her Mrs B had gone chasing a milder winter – but she knew the answer. She had wanted to put on a celebration for all the staff at Trevennick Hall and tell them who she was. She probably wouldn’t return once she left Cornwall to follow Isabel’s travels. There would be no need. She had no responsibilities here – Constance had seen to that. Her task was to find and honour Isabel.
With her errands soon completed, she hurried down the narrow, historic street happy to get out of the cold to wait for Jessica. The ancient pub where they liked to meet had a snug with lounge chairs and the best barista in town. Eileen, was a smart trader and knew she would entice the ladies into the snug on a regular basis if she offered good coffee.
“Hi, Eileen,” called Megan as she went in. “Jessica’s on the way, so our usual coffees, please.”
“Righto. My, don’t you look smart today. Get yourself warm by the fire, and I’ll bring them through as soon as she comes in.”
Megan had barely removed her gloves and coat when Jessica arrived.
“That was quick. I’ve ordered coffee. Do you want anything to eat?”
“No, thanks.”
“So how did things go?” Megan was surprised by her jitters. The hostility and formality of the whole thing had been quite daunting. She hoped she’d carried it off.
“The place erupted after you left. Poor Dad. He really got it in the neck for not telling them. Mr Chegwin was awfully angry. But I agree with Dad. Her personal assets were hers to dispose of as she saw fit – including her ashes – and nothing to do with the corporation or the trust. Legally, he had no alternative. Dad could not reveal client confidentiality. Only you could do that.”
“What’s happening now?”
“The meeting split up. The Board of Governors is going to lunch and will reconvene to discuss the normal business of the day. One or two, led by Mr Chegwin, are asking for a second legal opinion, but Dad will sort that out. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re safe. Constance’s will was bombproof. They might not like it, but they have no option. Dad will win them over now he’s free to talk about it. The trust members are going back to Trevennick Hall.”
Eileen arrived with the coffee at that moment, so they changed the subject as they briefly chatted with her about the weather and other bits of gossip.
“Constance was an odd one,” said Jessica, sipping her coffee. “I can never figure her out.”
“She said in one letter that she regretted some of her actions. Do you know what she meant by that?”
“The name Constance Trevallyan can conjure up stories of good deeds and bad. Families of the businesses she bought out cheaply loathe her, saying she destroyed their lives. The ones who worked for her and benefit from her largesse think she’s a paragon. People are very traditional around here and have long memories. If your grandfather was one of ‘her’ people, then so are you. The opposite also applies. She made sure people stuck by her by what she offered them. If not, different rules applied. Maybe she wished she hadn’t wrecked so many small family businesses.”
“Could be. She certainly tied people up in knots. She still has everyone jumping to her command,” laughed Megan, knowing she was one of them.
“Does she ever! She still controls how the Hall is run through rules in the deeds. Modern bathrooms and kitchens, yes. Changes to the library, furniture or artwork, no. But I think she was a lonely soul.”
“Hmm. I thought that too,” agreed Megan.
“By the way, Jenna asked if you would talk to her and Tristan when you get back.”
“Of course. I was going to anyway, but what about specifically? Did she say?”
“No. But I suspect it’s about how they tell the whole extended trust family.”
“I’ve got ideas about that.”
* * * * *
By the time Megan returned to Trevennick Hall, the afternoon light was fading and her mind was in yet another whirl. Her path was laid out before her and required little or no input from her, whether she liked it or not.
Jenna and Tristan almost ambushed her the moment she stepped into the foyer. They ushered her into the library and closed the door behind them. Tristan didn’t waste any time coming to the point.
“Firstly, let me say Jenna and I are on your side.”
After all this time, they were pleased to k
now Constance had family, even if well removed and far away, and were genuinely upset they hadn’t known about Constance’s ashes.
“We think your idea a fitting outcome, so don’t have any doubts or worries on that score. Some of the older board members will need further persuasion, but that is our problem not yours. I have to admit I did wonder why you were here. There had to more to it than just visiting.”
“Thanks, Tristan, Jenna. I really appreciate your support. I kept thinking it could go horribly wrong today in the meeting. Some of them weren’t all that friendly.”
“But now the whole board knows,” said Jenna, “it would be better to tell everyone else who might be involved who you are before the rumour mill gets out of hand and stories start spreading. If some of that crowd get a whiff of an outsider, resentment will set in before they know the full story. Then there’ll be no shifting them.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but I needed to get used to my new status and tell my family in New Zealand before I could face telling anyone here.”
“That’s all right, we understand, but I think it would be better coming from us to start with.”
They agreed Jenna would send a quick email around to the key people inviting them to a Cornish Cream Tea on the following Saturday afternoon where Megan could be introduced.
“You won’t stop them, nosy to the last, every one of them. They’ll all be here. After that, the news will soon get around. Mark my words.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. Now, I’d like to talk about how to deal with Constance’s ashes.”
Sitting in the wing-back chair under the image of Constance on the wall, she outlined her thoughts. It quickly became evident they really were on her side. They applauded her ideas and were prepared to persuade the rest of the community round to their way of thinking.
But first they needed a detailed plan.
“Let’s make it the tenth of February, Constance’s birthday. That’ll give us a little over three weeks to make the arrangements,” suggested Jenna. “Tristan can organise the gardeners and landscaping with Kitto. He’ll be absolutely delighted, won’t he, Tristan?”
“Totally. He’ll be over the moon, and nothing will stop him.”
Megan’s Diary
25 January 2011 – Portreath
I feel my journey here is coming to an end and my time to move on is near. Nearly all the people I’ve met have been so kind and helpful, but I’m a bit concerned about the reception I’ll get on Saturday. I’m not even sure who these people are that Jenna wants me to meet. I’m glad she and Tristan are taking charge. I suppose I should expect some resentment and dark mutterings from those who don’t know me, but it’s actually nothing to do with them.
I’m going way beyond Constance’s demand that I ‘lay her ghost to rest’. I only need to inter her ashes and not do any of the extras, but I feel I should. That way I will be more comfortable accepting Constance’s bequest. I will have left something behind for them to remember me – and remind them of everything Constance gave them. I’m sure the next three weeks will be a flurry of activity and excitement, but after ‘The Event’, I am determined to be on my way.
Constance’s story has certainly overshadowed my purpose in being here. It’s her character that is strong and lives in the hearts and minds of the locals. Isabel is but a faint memory.
Maybe I’ll find more of Isabel when I get to Italy.
I do hope so.
Chapter 18
Megan awoke the morning of Constance’s birthday glad the day had finally arrived. This day was for the ‘People of the Trust’ as she came to call them. She rushed downstairs to help Jenna since they were expecting a large crowd for the unveiling and dedication at the interment. Jenna had been right – word did get around and quickly. A smaller, select group had been invited to attend the evening event.
“Mornin’, Miss Megan,” said Kitto, entering from the garden.
“Good morning, Kitto. I’m glad I’ve seen you. I wanted to thank you for all the hard work you’ve put in to make this happen. And some of your ideas were brilliant. Thank you.”
“Nothin’ to it, Miss. Glad to help, just like I always ’ave. Any friend of Miss Constance is a friend o’ mine. I came to check what time everythin’ needed to be laid out.”
As Megan and Kitto finished discussing the timetable, she expressed her concerns about the weather.
“Won’t rain today,” he reassured her. “With the fog this low this morning it’ll take a while to clear, but it won’t rain.” Kitto put his cap back on. “The sun’ll shine this afternoon, mark my words,” he muttered over his shoulder as he waddled back to his domain.
Relieved by that piece of news, Megan went in search of Jenna and found her in the kitchen. Over coffee they compared notes, ticked off what they could from the To Do List hanging on the wall and added a couple of reminders to the bottom. The rest of the morning was spent answering phone calls, receiving deliveries, directing people to where they needed to go and double-checking every last detail.
By lunchtime, everything was in place. Adam, the chef, happy to experiment with new flavours and steadfastly refusing to let anyone else in his kitchen, had excelled himself. The hired help, colleagues and coerced ‘slaves’, who reclined wherever they could find a chair, rested before the next onslaught. Jenna and Megan went through the checklist again making sure everyone knew their role and place.
“How you bulldozed so many people into helping today is beyond me, Jenna, but I’m grateful. I really wanted to make sure the key people and the families would be able to take part in the celebrations without having to do all the work. You’ve performed miracles.”
Jenna smiled. “It’s definitely who you know,” she said with a laugh. “But thanks for agreeing to hire so many extras. It’s made all the difference. I’ve done my dash now, for today at least, as I want to be one of those people celebrating. It’s time we got changed.”
Linking her arm in Megan’s, she guided them through the ballroom, which was beautifully decorated with drapery and Lowenna’s amazing cream and white floral displays perched on stands, just like in Edwardian times. They stepped into the reception area where there were more flowers, colourful and natural, collected from various local gardens. They took a quick peek in the library where the photographer was set up and checked the front lounge was ready to receive guests, before escaping to their rooms to get ready.
Dressed for the outdoors, Megan joined those representing the original families one hundred years ago on the front steps at two-thirty on the dot. As Kitto had predicted, the grey skies had lifted shortly after lunch, and the occasional glimpse of blue could now be seen.
It looked like the whole village had turned out. Everyone who had heard of this long-lost relative from Down Under wanted to see what she was like, just as Jenna had said. The large crowd stood in a semicircle on the far side of the circular driveway. Positioned between them in place of an old garden sat the new addition to Trevennick Hall hidden by a tarpaulin. Kitto and his helpers stood ready.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began James. “It is my pleasure to welcome you here today for the unveiling of a very important bequest to commemorate the life of Constance Trevallyan. I would like to introduce you all to Mrs Megan Marsh from New Zealand, who has a few words to say.”
Megan stepped up to the microphone. “Thank you, Mr Boscowan. And thank you all for coming, despite the cold. I believe it is important to hold this ceremony today since it is Constance Trevallyan’s birthday. We are here to pay our respects and lay her ashes to rest ...”
“Bitch,” a voice called out.
An egg flew through the air and landed on the shoulder of James Boscowan who was standing beside Megan. Murmurs of consternation rippled through the crowd.
“I hope she burns in hell,” yelled the man wearing a tweed long coat and houndstooth cap. “She were no friend of ours.”
“Leave it out, John,” shouted another voice.
Ja
mes Boscowan removed his egg-covered coat and quickly took the microphone as Tristan and a couple of the groundsmen moved towards the man who threw the egg.
“This is not the time or place to air your grievances, Nankivill. Please leave if you can’t be respectful.”
“Like as hell, I will. I ’ave as much right to be ’ere as the next. She ruined us, she did. My Granda and Da died ’cos of ’er.”
The increasingly agitated crowd had turned to watch what would happen next.
“We know your story, and you’ve had your say more than once. Stay and be quiet or go. The choice is yours.”
Shaken by the turn of events, Megan stood to one side and watched as the two groundsmen tried to push the heckler away but he was having none of it. She couldn’t hear what Tristan said, but the man attempted to punch one of them. Luckily, his arm swung wide. By this time, some of the other village men had joined the group, and whatever they said seemed to make the difference, because the man started to walk away.
Waving his cap in the air, he shouted, “Don’t believe ’em. All brainwashed, they is. They’re just as bad as she were. You’ve not heard the last of me, I tell ye. Not by a long way.” He carried on down the driveway occasionally slapping his cap against his leg, as he went as if talking to himself.
Tristan returned to the steps and apologised to Megan for the disturbance.
“Who was that man?” she asked, feeling distinctly unsettled. “Why was he so upset?”
“His grandfather was one of the small business holders Constance bought out. According to the family, they lost everything, including their cottage. He’s carried on the long-running feud ever since his father died a few years back.”
“Shouldn’t someone do something for him?”
“We’ve tried. Their cottage was on estate land and the rules forbid anyone who doesn’t work for the trust to live in one. But Nankivill won’t accept any of the compromises we’ve offered. The village is split over who is in the right. Don’t worry. We’re all friends here.”