Morwennan House

by Morwennan House (retail) (epub)

  How had he got away with it for so long? These days revenue vessels patrolled the seas and there were far more excise and preventive-men than there had used to be, for the government were trying their best to crack down on smuggling. Even in the sheltered inland town of Penwyn I had heard of running battles when shots were fired. But from the number of men involved in last night’s operation it seemed likely that much of the community hereabouts was involved. Perhaps even those employed to wipe out the free trade were in Francis’s pay and the local magistrate was in his pocket.

  Another even less welcome thought struck me and I wondered why it had taken so long to occur to me.

  Tom.

  Tom had been here discussing ‘business’ with Francis on the day I had arrived. He had turned up again yesterday for further discussion. And that could mean only one thing.

  Tom was involved in the smuggling ring. Heavily involved, since he had direct contact with Francis.

  I bit my lip. I did not want Tom to be a criminal. Honesty was important to me; I could not contemplate becoming involved with someone who cared nothing for the laws of the land and made their living from crime.

  Then I pulled myself up with a jolt. Good heavens, I had only just met Tom – we had been for one walk together – how could I even think for a moment that I might become involved with him, whatever his profession! It was utter madness and I would do well to put it right out of my mind.

  As for Francis, how he made his money was really none of my business. I had enough on my mind without worrying about that. Establishing a rapport with Charlotte, for one thing. And discovering the truth about myself for another.

  I pressed my fingertips to my aching head, thinking again about the quarrel I had overheard between Francis and Selena on my first night here. They had spoken, both of them, as though it was an accepted fact that I was the daughter of Francis’s dead wife, Julia, but there had been not a single word to indicate why she might have abandoned me.

  The one thing that had come out, referred to more than once, if I was not mistaken, was Francis’s deep love for Julia. More than that. Obsession, Selena had called it. And said that Francis had no control over himself where Julia was concerned, or something of the sort. It seemed a strange attitude, to pour scorn on him for loving his wife – something I would have thought should be considered a virtue!

  Would I ever know the truth? I wondered. Would I ever know for certain whether I was Julia’s child? Perhaps, if I was lucky. But as to the rest… her life, her relationship with Francis, her death… All that, I felt, was some jealously guarded secret.

  Little did I know then how right I was. Little did I know then that it was Francis’s obsession that was behind the whole sad story. Little did I know then that one day I would indeed discover all I so longed to know… and things that I would wish had remained hidden from me…

  Seven

  Julia

  From the very first moment he set eyes on Julia Stacey, Francis Trevelyan’s mind was made up. He had to have her.

  It was a sweet day in early spring and Francis was driving the gig across his father’s land on his way back to his house at Morwennan when he saw a great grey horse heading at full gallop across the open ground. His first reaction was one of annoyance; this rider was trespassing, and Francis determined to tell him so.

  As he drew closer, however, he realised with a sense of shock that the rider was not a man, but a woman. She wore a scarlet riding habit but no hat. Her hair, rich copper, had come loose from its pins; it tumbled in tangles and curls about her shoulders, and her face was flecked with speckles of mud. But what a face! Heart-shaped, with a tip-tilted nose, flawless skin flushed rosy by the wind, grey-green eyes sparkling behind a dark fringe of lashes.

  All the angry words died in Francis’s throat. For a moment he was, for the first – and perhaps the last – time in his life, literally dumbstruck.

  The girl reined in her horse, raised one hand and brushed a long copper curl behind her ear.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘You must be Francis Trevelyan.’

  * * *

  At the age of just twenty-five Francis ran one of the most successful smuggling rings in Cornwall with the help and connivance of his sister Selena. The proceeds had netted him all the benefits that would never be his by inheritance – all his father’s estate would pass to his elder brother, Adam – but thanks to the illicit trade he had a fine house of his own and more than enough income to keep him and Selena in comfort, not to say luxury.

  Now, however, he found himself reacting to this beautiful woman like a callow youth. To his eternal annoyance, he could only stutter: ‘How do you know who I am?’

  ‘This is Trevelyan land, isn’t it? I expect I’m trespassing. I tend to get a bit carried away when I let Rascal have his head. Anyway, I know you’re not Adam Trevelyan, and you’re too young to be Samuel, so you must be Francis.’

  She smiled at him, giving no indication of the fact that she knew all about him and did not much like what she knew. Breath constricted in his chest.

  ‘I’m Julia Stacey,’ she said. ‘My father farms Porthcreer. I’ve always lived in Falmouth with my aunt – my mother died when I was just a little girl – but now I’ve come to live here with my father.’

  ‘Why?’ Francis heard himself ask; again he cursed himself for his stupidity.

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘I wanted to get away from Falmouth for personal reasons.’ Then, as if determined not to think about them – whatever they were – she forced another smile. ‘In any case, Papa needs a woman to look after him. He behaves very badly left to his own devices.’

  Francis returned her smile. Certainly Harry Stacey’s reputation in the locality bore that out. He was known as a hard drinker and a gambler who would place a wager on anything that moved, or risk everything he possessed on the turn of a card.

  ‘Well, Miss Stacey,’ he said, managing to sound a little more like his usual self, ‘if you are living at Porthcreer perhaps we shall see something of one another.’

  ‘Perhaps we shall,’ she said, but there was nothing of the coquette in her tone, nothing to give him hope. Simply the open friendliness that seemed to come as naturally to her as breathing.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Trevelyan,’ she said, touching her horse’s flanks with her booted feet. ‘I’ll try not to stray on to your land again. But I can’t make any promises.’

  And: ‘As far as I am concerned you can ride on our land whenever you like,’ Francis heard himself say.

  He watched as she galloped away. He had forgotten all the business matters that had been occupying his mind; all the resentment that always filled him when he rode across his father’s land and knew it would never be his; all about his sister Selena’s dominating ways, which had also been irking him.

  Long after she had disappeared behind a patch of woodland and on to Stacey land he was seeing copper hair streaming in the wind and grey-green eyes and a face that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  * * *

  For her part, Julia forgot all about Francis Trevelyan the moment she bid him good day.

  She rode Rascal hard until they were both exhausted but when she slowed him to a walk the shadow Francis had seen when she had mentioned her life in Falmouth was back on her face and the weight was still there on her heart. A good gallop helped for a little while, but when it was over, the grief was always there, waiting.

  ‘Oh, John,’ Julia whispered and his name echoed through her like the wind in the gorse on a stormy winter night. ‘Oh John, my love. Where are you? Why did you have to leave me when I love you so?’

  As ever, there was no answer to that question, only the certain knowledge that he must be dead, drowned in some foreign ocean. If he were not, he would have come home to her long ago.

  She thought of the last time she had seen him, standing on the quay at Falmouth and watching his boat, the Silver Star, sail out for the long voyage to the New World with its cargo of cop
per. John had promised her that when he returned they would be wed but his words were of no comfort to her that day. There had been a heaviness in her heart that was a thousand times worse than any other farewell had ever been, and the tears had blinded her. It was as if she had somehow known that it was not to be; that she would never stand beside him and take her marriage vows.

  The foreboding had remained with her throughout the long months, growing more overpowering as the time approached when he should have returned. And then the fear for the future had become the present reality. Day after day, week after week, she had waited, hope fading.

  Aunt Prudence, with whom she lived, had tried to keep her cheerful.

  ‘Just because he hasn’t come home does not mean he is lost,’ she had said, brisk as ever. ‘Why, there could be many reasons why he has been delayed.’

  But Julia could see in Aunt Prudence’s eyes that she did not even believe the words of comfort herself. Too many men sailed away never to return. Too many ships were lost on the perilous oceans, and much nearer to home than the New World with all its unknown dangers.

  Day by day Julia’s despair grew, day by day something within herself died. The thought of never again holding John in her arms, never again feeling his lips on hers or looking into his laughing eyes was a pain too sharp to bear. And all the places where they had loved and laughed and planned for their future together were a constant reminder of her loss.

  On a visit to her father at Porthcreer Julia realised that he too was no longer the man he had once been. The drinking and gambling that he had indulged himself in since her mother’s death had begun to take their toll. Once, Julia had blamed him for the way of life he had fallen into. Now, however, she found she could understand the pain that had driven him to seek solace in the bottle. If Papa had suffered one quarter as much over Mama’s death as she was suffering over John’s then he deserved only sympathy – and all the loving care she could offer him. She made up her mind to leave Falmouth with all its memories and come home.

  Except of course that the memories came with her. And the longing. And the grief. When they became unbearable she would take Rascal and ride out, galloping wildly as if she could somehow leave it all behind her. Not that she wanted to leave John behind. She wanted to carry him in her heart to the day she died, her only love. But the pain. Yes, she wanted to leave the pain. And for a little while the wind in her hair and the pounding of Rascal’s hooves and the rhythmic movement of his muscles beneath her did help. But not for long. Never for long.

  Julia made her way back to Porthcreer more sedately and the weight of her loss went with her.

  * * *

  Francis could not get Julia out of his mind. He thought about her constantly, so much so that it affected every area of his life.

  He began calling at Porthcreer. To his dismay he found that although she was pleasant enough, as she had been on that first day, she was also just as distant. For all his efforts he could make no progress with her.

  Harry, her father, however, was quite a different matter. He was flattered by the attention of a gentleman of Francis’s standing in the community whose father was, after all, squire of a fine estate and a magistrate into the bargain – and Francis, who liked to gamble and drink himself, found it a simple enough matter to cultivate him. It wasn’t what he wanted of course but at least it was a start. He often stayed at the farm late into the evening, and though his heart always sank when Julia retired to bed he gained a curious pleasure from knowing that under the same roof she was undressed and in her nightgown with only the creaky floor of her bedroom separating them.

  For her part, Julia became increasingly uncomfortable with Francis’s frequent visits. She was under no illusion as to his motives and she realised that he was quite prepared to form a friendship with her father in order to get close to her. A friendship – what was more – which was far from good for Harry.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t encourage him, Papa,’ she chided Harry when Francis had spent another long evening in their parlour. ‘He’s a very bad influence on you.’

  Harry widened his eyes into a look of childlike innocence.

  ‘A bad influence? Whatever can you mean?’

  ‘You know very well, Papa,’ Julia told him. ‘Don’t think I don’t know that you were rolling dice with him after I went to bed the other night. I heard you. And you would do well to remember Francis Trevelyan can afford to lose a great deal more than you can.’

  A guilty flush spread up Harry’s neck. When Julia took that tone she reminded him very much of Catherine, her dead mother. Catherine had not approved of him gambling either. But a man had to have some pleasure in life…

  ‘Where’s the harm in a game of dice?’ he pleaded.

  ‘None – if you know where to stop,’ Julia said tartly. ‘I’m not sure you do know, Papa.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a child, Julia,’ he complained. ‘In any case, don’t you know it’s not me Francis comes to see. He has his eye on you, if I’m not much mistaken.’

  ‘I know it,’ Julia said tersely. ‘It’s another reason I don’t want him here.’

  Harry frowned. ‘You shouldn’t dismiss him so readily. A Trevelyan would be quite a catch, even if he is the younger son. He’s done well for himself. That’s a fine house he has over at Morwennan – solid as the cliffs it’s built on, and furnished like a palace so they say.’

  ‘Papa!’ Julia closed her eyes briefly. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone. Especially not Francis Trevelyan.’

  Harry shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, my little one. You can’t grieve for ever. The last thing I want is to see you a sad old spinster. And I’ve nothing to leave you. This house will go to your cousin William when I’m gone, as well you know. You’d have a fine home at Morwennan – and someone to keep you warm in bed at night. It’s no good to be so choosy…’

  ‘I don’t want anyone but John – and certainly not Francis Trevelyan,’ Julia said firmly. ‘I don’t like him and I don’t like what he does. You know as well as I do how he has made his money. It’s no secret in these parts. He’s a smuggler.’

  ‘What if he is?’ Harry raised his eyebrows in exasperation. ‘Half Cornwall is involved in smuggling one way and another. If it’s making him rich where’s the harm?’

  ‘It’s easy to say that,’ Julia argued. ‘But I wouldn’t want to live in a house built on the proceeds of running contraband, even if I liked Francis, which I most certainly do not. It’s one thing sinking a few casks of spirits in the bay and bringing them in with the lobster pots, but smuggling on the scale Francis Trevelyan does it is something else entirely. If the authorities catch up with him he’ll end up in gaol and his fine house and everything in it will be confiscated.’

  ‘With his father a magistrate? I doubt it!’ Harry scoffed. ‘Their sort always look after their own. A blind eye will be turned, mark my words. No, if Francis has done so well already, he’ll do even better with experience. You could look forward to a life of luxury if you were his wife.’

  ‘Well I won’t be!’ Julia returned sharply. ‘I have no intention of marrying anyone, least of all Francis Trevelyan. So will you please listen to what I say and tell him he is not welcome here?’

  Harry sighed. And from the mulish look on his face, Julia knew he would do nothing of the kind.

  * * *

  Julia was not the only one who was displeased at the attention Francis Trevelyan was showering on her. His sister Selena was equally annoyed, though for quite different reasons.

  For as long as she could remember, Selena had dominated Francis. As a small child she had bullied him mercilessly, taking full advantage of her two years’ seniority. Then, as he grew to be as big as she, she changed to more subtle tactics.

  As the second son with no hope of inheriting as long as his elder brother Adam lived, Francis suffered from severe feelings of inferiority. Whilst Adam was constantly at their father’s side, being groomed for his future role, Francis was left
alone in the nursery with Selena.

  She took full advantage of the chance to mould his will to hers. On the one hand she showered him with praise, bolstering his fragile ego and making him feel vastly important. On the other she would withdraw her approval on a whim, leaving him floundering wretchedly, a small boy with no real future to look forward to and no place in the family hierarchy. The approach was seductive; Francis grew to depend on Selena without even realising that she was equally dependent on him.

  Selena was, in her own way, even more resentful of the laws of inheritance than Francis. As a woman she had no hope of ever owning anything in her own right. Whilst Francis would become heir should Adam break his neck riding or fall victim to the pox, both Adam and Francis could die and she would still be the loser, for the estate would pass to the next male in line. The unfairness of it ate into her like a cancer and she assuaged the pain of it by asserting her power over her younger brother. It was like a drug to her, that power, to have him do her bidding or to see his eyes follow her, hungry as a starving puppy, for a crumb of praise.

  In adolescence Selena had become aware of yet another avenue of power: her sexuality. As her body developed the curves of womanhood she noticed Francis’s interest and took a dark delight in displaying herself, tempting him with first a glimpse of her breasts or her long shapely legs, then a forbidden touch. She led him on whilst always remaining in control, quick to slap him down and then tempt again until she could bend him ever more readily to her will by promises of delights to come.

  By the time they were fifteen they were lovers in the fullest sense and Selena’s power over her brother was almost complete.