Morwennan House

by Morwennan House (retail) (epub)

  It was she who suggested smuggling as a means of making a fortune of his own, it was she, the stronger and the cleverer, who plotted and planned while he did her bidding. When, with the proceeds of his illicit dealings and a loan from his father, he built Morwennan House she moved into it with him. A mere woman in a man’s world Selena might be, but the power she wielded was enormous.

  Just as in childhood, Francis was the puppet and Selena pulled the strings. In every aspect of their lives he danced to her tune.

  Now, for the first time, a situation had arisen over which Selena had no control. Francis had become obsessed with Julia Stacey and day by day Selena felt her power over him slipping away.

  She did not like it one little bit, but for the moment it seemed she was powerless to do anything about it.

  * * *

  In the weeks that followed, as Francis’s visits to the farm continued, Julia found herself hopelessly torn between what she thought of as two evils. If she stayed downstairs in the long evenings she had to endure Francis’s company and his clumsy attempts at courting her; if she retired to her room she knew the two men were likely to embark upon some game of chance.

  On balance, she decided, less harm was likely if she stayed. Unwelcome as Francis’s attention was it was preferable to her father gambling – and in all likelihood losing – what they could ill afford.

  One evening, however, Francis was even more unbearable than usual. Julia found it impossible to avoid his gaze; even when she was not looking at him she could feel his eyes on her, devouring her. She bent over her needlework, her skin prickling with irritation, yet still his eyes bored into her, magnetising her, until she felt compelled to look up. Then he would smile, that rather soft, slow smile that she was beginning to find distinctly repellent.

  Worse was to come. When her father left the room, Francis rose and crossed to her chair. He stood for a moment gazing down at her embroidery admiringly.

  ‘You are a very talented needlewoman, my dear.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Julia disagreed. ‘I make an awful botch of it most of the time.’

  ‘You do yourself a disservice.’ His voice was silky. ‘Your talents are limitless. I never met a woman like you before, Julia.’

  His hand was on her shoulder, just a light touch at first, so light that she told herself she was imagining it. Then, growing bolder, he slid his fingers up to stroke her neck. She twisted her head away; he caught a ringlet and held it fast.

  ‘Oh, Julia – Julia!’ he moaned.

  For a moment she was pinioned like a butterfly, then, as he raised his head, she brought her hand up hard, striking him full in the face. He released her, his fingers flying to his stinging cheek, the look of a whipped dog, hurt and puzzled, in his eyes.

  ‘You forget yourself, sir!’ she blazed.

  A half-smile lifted one corner of his fleshy mouth.

  ‘Oh, I like a woman with spirit! And you have that in abundance, Julia. What a pair we would make, you and I…’

  Julia drew herself up. ‘I think it is only fair to tell you I have no feelings for you at all and I find your constant attention wearing, to say the least of it. I am sorry if I am being harsh and cruel, inconsiderate of your feelings, but it’s better to be honest about these things than to allow you to nurture false hopes.’

  There was a curious light in his eyes; later Julia would learn to recognise it as a stubborn streak which rose to the fore whenever the route to getting his own way was obscured. The self-indulgent side of his nature could not bear to be thwarted.

  ‘We shall see,’ he said. ‘I don’t give up so easily, my dear.’

  Julia felt a twinge of misgiving. The light in Francis’s eyes was the light of obsession.

  ‘Then I can say no more,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best you don’t come here again.’ Gathering her skirts and what was left of her dignity she pushed past him and out of the room. Behind her, she heard her father return.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  And Francis’s forced laugh. ‘Women! What delightfully unpredictable creatures they are! Well, since it seems Julia is not going to grace us with her company this evening, shall we play a game of loo?’

  Julia’s hands tightened into fists but she continued climbing the stairs. Tonight her father would have to take care of himself. Nothing on earth would induce her to return to the parlour and play nursemaid to save him from the despicable Francis Trevelyan.

  An hour or so later, however, when she opened her bedroom door and saw the chink of light still spilling out from the parlour, her temper had cooled sufficiently to give way to concern once more. So – they were still down there playing. Well, enough was enough. It had to be stopped.

  Julia pulled on her wrap and started down the stairs ready to fly at her father as well as at Mr Francis Trevelyan. She pushed the parlour door wide.

  ‘Papa…’ She broke off, horrified at the scene before her.

  The two men were, as she had expected, still seated at the table. But it was the pile of chips at Francis’s elbow that shocked her so – that and the look on her father’s face. She had seen that look before – the look of a man losing heavily, far more heavily than he can afford, and it chilled her to the marrow.

  ‘Papa!’ she said sharply. ‘What are you doing?’

  He glanced up, guilt making him snappy.

  ‘Oh, be quiet, Julia. It has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘How much have you lost, Papa?’ she demanded.

  He could not answer her; it was Francis who spoke.

  ‘Rather a lot, I’m afraid. Shall we play one last game, Harry? Come on, I’ll give you another chance to recoup your losses.’ He glanced at the pool of chips. ‘Double or quits. What do you say?’

  ‘No!’ Julia flashed. ‘You must not! I won’t let you, Papa!’

  He looked at her like a naughty child. ‘I have to, Julia. I cannot afford not to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, frightened.

  ‘I can’t afford to pay him out…’

  ‘Oh, Papa – you fool!’ she cried. ‘How could you play for money we don’t have?’

  ‘But I was winning…’

  ‘That’s what you always say, Papa. Haven’t you learned yet that you always end up losing? I can’t believe you could do this…’

  ‘But he has, I’m afraid,’ Francis said in mock sympathy, but there was no disguising the look of triumph in his eyes.

  ‘And you!’ she cried. ‘How could you lead him on so? You know we’re not rich like you. We can’t afford to lose fortunes on the turn of a card. Why, you’ll cost us the roof over our heads!’

  Francis smiled thinly. ‘Which is why your father cannot refuse my offer to play double or quits. I can’t say fairer, can I?’

  ‘He’s right, Julia. Don’t you see?’ Harry’s voice was a little slurred; Julia realised he had not only been gambling with what they did not have but drinking too, encouraged, no doubt, by Francis Trevelyan. ‘Double or quits and we might yet be saved.’

  ‘And if you lose – what then?’ she demanded.

  ‘I won’t. It’s time my luck turned once more.’

  ‘If you lose,’ she repeated, ‘how are you to pay your debts? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘I can’t pay them now…’

  ‘If he wins,’ Francis said smoothly, ‘all will be well and there’ll be enough to buy you a wardrobe of new gowns. If he loses…’ His lip curled slightly.

  ‘Yes?’ Julia grated at him. ‘If he loses – what then?’

  ‘Then I will decide how my dues should be paid.’

  ‘I have no choice but to try, Julia,’ Harry said. And to Francis: ‘Double or quits it is.’

  Julia wrapped her arms around herself in despair. But if her father had already lost more than he could afford to pay she could see he had little choice. Perhaps this time fortune would smile on him. Loo was a game of chance, depending entirely on the hand dealt, but it was also a game of judgement where
the decision as to whether or not to throw a hand in or play could be vital. In his state of high anxiety Julia doubted whether Harry’s judgement could be relied upon and the liquor he had consumed would make things worse. Julia closed her eyes briefly and prayed.

  Francis shuffled and dealt the cards – three each to Harry, himself, and three into the extra hand – the ‘miss’. There was a slight smile on his face but his eyes were hard and shrewd. He was playing to win, she knew, and felt a rush of dislike. How could he do this to them?

  The card was turned for trumps – hearts – and as the two men examined their hands Julia examined their faces. Francis’s was inscrutable but she fancied she sensed his smug satisfaction and her stomach lurched. As for her father… Indecision was written all over his face. Without seeing the cards, Julia could guess that what he had been dealt was not a good hand, but not a bad one either. The very worst sort, for the decision now had to be made – play with the cards he held or throw them away and take the ‘miss’. She saw his hand hover, withdraw, hover again. The ‘miss’ could contain three unbeatable cards – or three useless ones. There was no way of knowing. But once taken that would be the hand with which Harry would be left, the hand he would have to play.

  Julia’s nails bit into her palms. Oh, let him make the right choice, whatever that might be! For seemingly endless minutes Harry deliberated, then, with a sharp, almost desperate flick of the wrist he threw his hand down on to the table and reached for the ‘miss’.

  She knew at once that he had made the wrong choice. It was written all over his face and he seemed to slump in his chair.

  ‘Are you ready to play?’ Francis asked. By contrast he looked eager, buoyed up by anticipation.

  Harry led – an eight of clubs. Francis topped it with a jack. The first trick was his. Harry laid a five of diamonds. Francis, smiling, placed a king with great deliberation on the table. The game was now virtually over, but Harry had one last chance to win at least a third of the pool and so remain in the game. White-faced he played his best card – the ten of clubs. Francis had already played the jack and Julia found herself praying it had been the highest he had – and that he had no trumps. But a moment later hope died as Francis nonchalantly tossed the queen of hearts on to the table-top.

  ‘I win, I think,’ he drawled.

  Julia bowed her head. Anger with her father had now given way to despair; she could not bear to look at his defeat.

  Slowly Harry pulled himself upright; he even attempted a small mirthless laugh.

  ‘Well, Trevelyan, I won this place on the turn of a card – it’s fitting, I dare say, that I should lose it the same way. Though what Julia and I will do now – where we will go – I have not the first idea.’

  Francis lounged easily in his chair, every inch the winner. He was a man in control now – and he knew it.

  ‘I don’t want your property, Stacey. I’ve no interest in farming a few paltry acres that sit on the rump of my father’s land like a fly on a cow in calf. And I wouldn’t take the roof from over your head. I am not that much of a bastard.’

  Harry’s brow furrowed. ‘But you said…’

  ‘I said if I won I would decide how my dues should be paid.’ His glance slid to Julia. The curious light was there again in his eyes and he passed the tip of his tongue over his fleshy lips.

  A chill hand seemed to grip Julia’s stomach. But Harry still looked puzzled and anxious.

  ‘What then, man? What is it you want? The horse – the grey? You admire him, I know…’

  Francis chuckled. ‘Oh, a little more than just the horse, I think – though now you come to mention it, I’ll ask you to throw Rascal in for good measure. And Julia loves to ride him, I know, so perhaps it will keep her happily occupied whilst I am occupied with making enough money to keep us both in luxury.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Harry demanded.

  Francis’s lip curled. He was playing with them now and enjoying every moment of it.

  ‘I think you know very well what I want, my friend. And if you don’t, Julia certainly does. I can see it in her face – and if she is not overjoyed at the present time, I sincerely hope I can change her feelings before long. She will come to realise, I’m sure, that I am not such a bad bargain. And I shall certainly do everything in my power to make her happy.’

  Realisation began to dawn on Harry, yet he shook his head, unable to believe that he was reading Francis’s intentions aright.

  ‘I don’t follow…’

  ‘Oh, come!’ Francis laughed softly. ‘You know how I feel about your daughter. Surely you can’t think I ride over here night after night for the sake of your company alone? Dear me no!’ He paused, then said in an almost throwaway tone: ‘You can pay your dues to me, Harry, by giving me the hand of your daughter in marriage. Now that’s not such a bad deal, is it?’

  * * *

  She was icy cold, shivering from head to toe. Oh the ignominy of it! To be taken as the prize in a game of loo! To have the whole of her future determined on the turn of a card! To be put into this impossible position by her father’s reckless folly!

  ‘I won’t do it!’ She pressed her balled fists into her breasts, her arms forming a barrier between her and the two men. ‘You can’t make me wed where I don’t want to, either of you! I won’t do it, I tell you!’

  ‘Julia – the wager was made!’ Harry protested. ‘My honour…’

  ‘And what about my honour?’ she cried passionately. ‘And my happiness? My whole life? You know I swore—’

  ‘I will make you happy,’ Francis interrupted. ‘You will have a good life. You will have fine clothes and want for nothing, that I promise you…’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Think of the alternative,’ Francis said. His eyes were glittering. Though his patience was wearing a little thin, Julia’s fury had excited him still more. The prospect of mastering all that spirit was causing his groin to harden and his palms to grow damp. ‘Do you really want to see your father thrown out of his home and you along with him? Living on the parish is no joke, I assure you. If he is unable to settle his debt in the way I choose then I shall be forced to take the alternative.’

  His tone was silky but there was no mistaking the ruthless determination beneath it.

  Julia felt tears of helpless despair pricking at her eyes; furiously she blinked them away. She may have to capitulate to this monster, but he would not see her cry.

  ‘In that case, sir,’ she said with all the dignity she could muster, ‘I dare say I have no choice.’

  Francis relaxed; his smile became one of triumph.

  ‘I am very glad, my dear, that you have come to your senses. I shall make arrangements for the marriage to take place as soon as possible.’

  * * *

  But it was Selena who took charge of the arrangements for the marriage. Shocked as she was by the news she quickly realised there was nothing she could do to stop it. Moreover, Julia had no mother to help her choose a wedding gown, her father had neither the wherewithal nor the breeding to play host at what would certainly be an important wedding in Cornish society, and his farm was not a suitable setting for the wedding breakfast.

  When Julia walked down the aisle on the arm of her father, pale yet still beautiful in a gown of ivory watered silk made by Selena’s dressmaker, Selena herself followed as her self-appointed attendant. During the wedding breakfast, held at Morwennan House, she was the perfect hostess, hiding her seething rage behind a tight smile that curved her lips downward. But when the newly wed couple left for a month’s wedding tour in France, which she had helped to arrange, the bitter jealousy was so intense Selena thought she would faint with it.

  When at last she was alone she went to her darkened room, threw herself down on her bed, and, for the first time in years, cried until she had no tears left.

  * * *

  ‘So, my dear, alone at last!’

  As the carriage pulled away from Morwennan House and began the steep ascen
t beneath the overhanging trees Francis reached for Julia’s hand, placing it on his plump, silk-covered thigh.

  A nerve jumped in her throat and she wanted nothing more than to pull her hand away and move to the farthest corner of the carriage so that no part of her was touching him. But she knew to do so would be useless. She was his wife now and trapped as surely as her small hand was beneath his. He could do with her as he would; the only thing left to her was her dignity and that, Julia vowed, she would cling to as she had clung to it throughout this long, nightmarish day.

  She closed her eyes briefly, reliving again against her will the long walk up the aisle on her father’s arm to where Francis stood before the altar. He had turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed with desire, his lips moist with anticipation. Her breath had been constricted in her chest but she met his gaze full on, head held high, glaring at him proudly. A slight satisfied smile twisted his mouth and the trapped feeling swelled in her until she thought she would choke with it. Then he turned back to face the minister and the marriage service had begun.

  The familiar words had sounded to her a long way off, the priest intoning with suitable solemnity, Francis making his vows in firm clear tones which echoed to the rafters, her own voice seeming not to belong to her as she repeated the phrases the priest fed to her. And then the ring was on her finger, the priest pronounced them man and wife and the last of her futile hope was gone.

  She could feel the ring now, biting into her flesh as Francis pressed her hand against his thigh, a symbol of the servitude she must endure for the rest of her life. Tears pricked suddenly at her eyes; she jerked her head round sharply, staring out of the carriage window so that he should not see and blinking furiously.

  ‘Julia?’ There was concern in Francis’s voice. He released her hand, slipping his arm instead about her waist, pulling her closer to him. He bent his head towards her; even with her face turned away she could smell the powder in his wig and the cigar smoke and whisky on his breath. ‘Don’t turn away from me, my dear. You are my wife now.’