Dear God, she was defending herself now, but she was starting to feel more unsettled by the minute. Walter took hold of the mare’s reins, and walked with her.
‘I know that, but these are sensitive times, Mother, and after yesterday’s meeting—’
‘What exactly went on, Walter?’
‘Hasn’t your husband told you?’
Oh, but there was no doubting the friction between them now. She could hear it in his voice. She recalled a sweet, long ago moment when Ran had told her that her children had more sense than she did, when she was dithering about marrying him… the children had wanted her to marry him then, even the older ones, Walter and Albert and Primmy… but that eagerness had fizzled away over the years. Justin actively disliked his stepfather, and sometimes she sensed that Walter merely tolerated Ran Wainwright and his American ways.
‘I know there were a couple of incidents,’ she said flatly. ‘And the appearance of a certain woman.’
To her annoyance Walter began to laugh. His good humour was quickly restored, and he leaned forward and kissed her in full view of the curious clayworkers thereabouts.
‘Oh Mother, you’ve no need to be jealous of Harriet Pendragon! She and Ran were both in a battling mood, but I assure you he gave her as good as she gave him.’
Which was just the kind of remark that didn’t assure Ran’s wife one bit.
Chapter Six
In retrospect, it hadn’t been such a good idea to visit the clayworks. Although many folk had recognized her, it was quickly obvious that Morwen wasn’t being viewed in the old familiar way. She was no longer one of them, and she didn’t belong here any more. She knew it in her heart, and she should have accepted it years ago.
The women workers that she didn’t know fell silent as she spoke to the others, and even they only answered when they were spoken to. She could have wept at their servile attitude, compared with the camaraderie of old. It wasn’t what she wanted or what she had expected.
But she knew she was being completely naïve in feeling that way. Her daddy was right, as always. You could never go back, and it was a foolish person who tried to recapture a past that was gone. Even the row of cottages where they had all lived, was different now. The slate roofs were repaired and moderately tidy, the windows had been replaced and had a reasonable shine on the glass, and some of the tiny yards had flowers struggling to survive in them.
It wasn’t all poverty then, Morwen thought, and the fierce pride of the clayworkers was obviously extending to their homes. She rode past the cottages, ignoring the sight of the one where her own family had once been crammed inside, and headed onwards to Penwithick Church.
She hadn’t intended going there, but something drew her to the place where she and Ben had been married, and where they had brought him for his final long sleep. Where too, her brother Sam and his wife, and her best friend Celia, were all buried. She was spooked by memories, and unable to rid herself of them.
She tied up her mare and went inside the ancient grey church. It was cold and musty and hushed, and she sat down gingerly on one of the wooden pews near the door. She closed her eyes and said a little prayer for all of them, asking for help in their fortunes, and a return to constant happiness for herself and her husband. But maybe that was too much to ask for. Constant happiness could be as much of a burden as constant misery…
‘Mrs Killigrew?’
She jumped at hearing herself addressed so, and all her nerves were on edge as she heard a man’s scratchy voice alongside her.
‘I beg your pardon, Ma’am,’ the voice continued. ‘I should say Mrs Wainwright. But it is you, isn’t it?’
Morwen kept her eyes closed a moment longer. The last thing she wanted was the company of some pauper asking for help… and she was immediately ashamed at the thought, for her own family had been near enough to being paupers at one stage of their lives, and she mentally wondered what coins she had in her purse…
Then she saw that it was the elderly preacher of Penwithick Church, more bent and crumpled than of old, but still the same man. And she felt her face flood with colour.
‘I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t be here at this hour of the day—’ she said, scrambling to her feet, but the old man put a restraining hand on her arm.
‘Where else should a troubled soul be, if not in God’s House?’ he said.
‘Oh, but I’m not—’ she stopped speaking as he looked at her sorrowfully.
‘’Tis a sadness that folk often forget to praise God when things be going well, and only show their faces in His House in times of trouble.’
It was a reproach, but it was said with resignation rather than malice, and Morwen knew guiltily that it was true enough. Not that her family was beholden to Penwithick Church, for they lived outside the parish now, but nor did they frequent any other.
‘My troubles aren’t worth mentioning, compared with many others,’ she said quietly, noting the patched jacket and trousers that the man wore, compared with her best quality wool riding costume.
He patted her hand.
‘God knows all about it,’ he said, with a comfortable vagueness, at which all Morwen’s finer feelings vanished, and she felt a great irritation towards the smugness of the man. She shook off his hand and got to her feet.
‘Well then, He’ll forgive me for not stopping any longer,’ she said. ‘My children will be watching out for me.’
He let her go without another word. He made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, as if she trespassed in a place where she had no right to be. But for once, she could find no comfort in a church, and she stepped out into the sunlight with a feeling of relief. The clumps of daffodils along the grassy churchyard paths nodded and danced their heads in the small breeze, and she swallowed hard, knowing that if she remained here it would be Celia she saw in their faces.
It was a bad omen, she thought, as she mounted the patiently waiting mare. All this clinging to the past, and the ghosts of those who were no longer with them… even coming here, where those she loved rested for all eternity… it was definitely a bad omen.
She dug her heels in the mare’s sides, and raced the animal down the steep hillside all the way to New World. But despite the exertion involved, she was chilled by her own fey thoughts, and they wouldn’t leave her. As if she stood and watched a play being enacted through a misty veil, she knew with certainty that death was hovering somewhere in the wings. And she couldn’t stop it.
* * *
Two days later, Ran came storming home from St Austell, and threw a newspaper down on the drawing room couch where Morwen was reading to Emma. She told the child quickly to go upstairs and wash her hands ready for her tea, and to tell her brothers to do the same.
‘I don’t know where they are,’ Emma wailed. ‘I think Bradley was going to the beach to find shells—’
‘He’d better damn well not have gone there without telling anybody, nor taken Luke with him,’ Ran snapped, diverted briefly. ‘Anyway, Miss, you go and do what your mother tells you and see if the boys are in the house.’
He shooed her to the door, and closed it firmly behind her. Morwen didn’t yet know what had happened, but it was obviously not good, and she sighed again, seeing that Ran was in such a black mood. Her recent visit to Penwithick Church had eventually calmed her nerves to a certain extent, but she should have known it wouldn’t last.
‘What’s happened, dar?’ she said quietly now.
He picked up the newspaper as if it stung him, and flicked through the pages until he found what he was seeking. The headline was bold and black, and Morwen took in the gist of it in one glance:
WOMAN CLAY BOSS DISRUPTS CLAYWORKERS’ MEETING
The article beneath the headline was vicious and snide. It reported all the doings of the meeting in great detail, and it made hay of describing Harriet Pendragon’s appearance in similar terms to the way Ran had done. It took special glee in the clash between the male and female bosses, and left the reader in no doub
t that the clay industry was once again in a state of chaos.
When Morwen had skimmed through the offending article, she looked at Ran. Her mouth was dry, for however vicious the reporting, there were too many grains of truth in it to be ignored. But how…?
‘You didn’t know there was anyone there from the newspaper?’ she said unnecessarily. Ran glowered at her.
‘You know as well as I do that it’s our rule to provide them with a statement on our affairs when we think fit, and not before. We don’t invite newspaper scum to our meetings, when things can get out of hand, and anything can be twisted to suit their scandalmongering.’
‘Then either somebody from The Informer got in illegally, or you’ve got a spy among you,’ Morwen said flatly.
‘I’d already come to that conclusion. Any one of the bastards could be willing to sell his grandmother for the sake of a few extra pennies.’
‘Is that fair?’ Morwen said, defensive at once. ‘They need more dues, Ran, and we all know it. The fact that we’re unable to pay them any more at present won’t put shoes on the children’s feet, or food in their bellies.’
‘What’s bloody fair about disloyalty? They’ve all got work, which is more than they’ll get if they go on strike again. This time, we won’t hold their jobs for them. Once they strike, they go.’
Morwen jumped up from the couch, staring down at her husband with tight-clenched hands.
‘Ran, you can’t do that! The Unions will be down on you faster than a flea on a dog’s back. It’s a man’s right to strike if he has a genuine grievance, and unless he commits a crime against his employer in doing so, his job should remain open to him.’
‘I wish you’d keep your bloody head out of business affairs, and stick to your homemaking,’ he snapped, but she knew he was retaliating now because he also knew she was right. She sank down beside him, taking his hand tightly in hers and looking pleadingly at him.
‘I know you’re hurt by this newspaper article, dar, but we just have to weather the present circumstances. Things have got to improve. The clay blocks are due for shifting to the port any day now, and once the money for them comes in, maybe we can pay the men a small bonus, even if it’s only a shilling a man. ’Tis very little for the work that they do. Believe me, I know.’
‘Your trust in human nature blinds you to hard facts, Morwen. What makes you think we’ll get payment on time once we shift the blocks? Nobody wants to pay up these days, and with other firms undercutting us—’
‘It’s the Pendragon woman, isn’t it?’ Morwen said. ‘It has to be her. I’m not so blind that I can’t see that, Ran.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, removing her hand and crushing the pages of the newspaper into an untidy mass.
* * *
Walter came to the house unannounced while they were still arguing. It was rare for him to leave the clayworks in the middle of the day, but one look at his face, and Morwen knew he’d seen the newspaper too.
‘Who did it, I’d like to know?’ he shouted at Ran. ‘What bastard sold us up for a miserable few pence?’
‘Walter, I’m sure it wasn’t one of our men—’ Morwen put in nervously, hating to see him so incensed.
‘I’m thinking the same,’ her son said, to her surprise. ‘In fact, I’ve been giving serious thought to it, Mother. But there was somebody else there who’d not be displeased at having our doings reported for all to see, wasn’t there?’
‘Harriet Pendragon,’ Morwen answered.
‘Aye, the same,’ Walter said grimly. ‘’Twould be to her advantage to let folk know there was such trouble among us all, wouldn’t it?’
‘What would be the point, since she’s a clay boss herself? And just what do you suppose was in it for her, apart from trying to wheedle her way into a man’s world?’ Ran said.
‘You obviously haven’t turned to the Letters Page. The phantom letter writer who declines to give his name seems to have a pretty fair knowledge of the lady’s intentions.’
Walter snatched up the crumpled newspaper and tore through the pages until he found what he was seeking. He jabbed a finger at the heading above the first letter:
LADY BOSS WANTS COMPLETE CONTROL
The letter went on to say that the writer had it on good authority that a certain fair-haired lady with a penchant for vivid dressing, and unlimited assets to her name, intended to buy up all the china clay businesses in the area. And how would the likes of the Killigrew bosses take to that?
Morwen felt total shock at the bald statement, though she wasn’t prepared to take it seriously. Even so, there was something here that she didn’t like.
‘Why should the letter writer single us out?’ she said quickly. ‘What has the man got against us?’
‘If it is a man,’ Ran growled.
Walter scoffed at this. ‘I’d lay odds it’s a man all right. But I’d say he also had a pretty good sniff at the way the Pendragon woman was eyeing up somebody on the platform.’
Ran’s face darkened to a dull red.
‘Just what are you implying, Walter?’ he snapped.
‘I’m implying nothing. But if you’ve forgotten why a woman’s eyes sparkle in a certain way, then you’re older than I thought,’ he taunted.
‘You’re talking absolute rubbish, and I’d have thought there were more important things for you to think about than trying to make mischief between your mother and me.’
Morwen listened in tight-lipped silence. It was so unlike Walter to act this way. He might roar like a lion at the works, but he was a peaceable man at home, and he’d never willingly upset her. But he was doing so now.
‘There’s nothing we can do about this, except to keep our eyes and ears open,’ Ran went on. ‘It’s probably all down to an over-active imagination on some fool’s part, and I refuse to issue a statement on such wild conjectures. If we ignore it, it will die a natural death.’
‘I disagree—’ Walter began, but Ran broke in.
‘Well, God knows you rarely agree with anything I say, so that’s only to be expected.’
‘Ran, that’s not fair,’ Morwen said uneasily, hating to see these two at loggerheads. ‘Anyway, can we please leave it for now? I want to hear how Cathy is, Walter.’
‘Well enough,’ he muttered. ‘These last weeks are a trial for her, and the baby’s lying awkwardly. The doctor has warned us that it’s a big child, and the birth might be difficult, and of course her father blames me for that, as well as everything else to do with his daughter!’
The sheer frustration on his face at that moment was too much for Morwen. She put her arm around him and hugged him close. Big as he was, he was still her son, adopted or not, and still her best beloved.
‘Tom Askhew’s an idiot,’ she said steadily. ‘Everybody knows that, just as everyone knows that a big child has a better start to life than a puny one.’
Walter gave her a thin smile for the first time since coming into the house.
‘I knew I could trust you to put things in perspective, Mother,’ he said, but without much conviction.
Ran gave an impatient sigh. ‘Well, if you two have finished putting the domestic world to rights, I suggest that Walter and I consult with Hal over this newspaper rag. I don’t aim to do anything about it, but we need to consolidate on what to do if anything comes of this ridiculous suggestion regarding the Pendragon woman.’
‘Right,’ Walter said at once, and Morwen thought how little tact it took on Ran’s part to make her son feel worthy again. Since Cathy became pregnant, he’d shown a vulnerability she hadn’t suspected in him. It would be a good thing when the baby came, and he wasn’t constantly living on his nerves.
Ran gave her a perfunctory kiss goodbye, but she wouldn’t let him go like that. She wound her arms about his neck and held him to her for a longer moment than was necessary, seeing Walter turn quickly away. She spoke softly in Ran’s ear.
‘I love Killigrew Clay, dar, but I love you more, and I’d see it destroyed before I sa
w it destroy us.’
He breathed in sharply at such an unexpected avowal, and she was surprised at herself. She hadn’t intended saying any such thing, and nor had she known such a sentiment existed in her. But it did, and now it was said. Ran squeezed her waist hard and gave a small nod, before turning to leave for St Austell with Walter.
* * *
‘There’s somebody to see you, Ma’am,’ Mrs Enders said a while later, her voice high, and her face full of disapproval.
‘Who is it?’ Morwen said, taking the card from the silver salver as she spoke. Her heart leapt uncomfortably as she saw the name on the visiting card. The words Harriet Pendragon danced in front of her eyes. What did that woman want with her? And how dare she come here uninvited? Not that she would ever be invited to Morwen’s home…
‘Shall I tell her you’re not at home, Ma’am?’ Mrs Enders said, awaiting instructions.
It was so very tempting.
‘No. I can’t think what she wants with me, but I’ll hear what she has to say. You may show her in here, Mrs Enders, and tell her I can give her ten minutes and no more.’
And in stating her terms, Morwen underlined her position here. She sat up very straight, smoothing down her pale green afternoon gown, and priding herself on the tasteful ambience of the drawing room. Someone who had gone to a men’s meeting dressed in scarlet satin should be effectively intimidated by the quiet grandeur of New World and the self-assurance of its mistress.
The next moment, Morwen had a job not to let her mouth drop open with shock. She had expected a vulgar, buxom streetwoman, newly rich with her elderly dead husband’s money. What she saw was a woman in gaudy enough garb, the deep purple satin gown and bonnet shrieking with bad taste; yet it complemented the silver-blonde hair and the startlingly light eyes in a way no other colour could have done. And she wasn’t old, or fat, or ugly…
Morwen rose stiffly, completely knocked off-balance by the aplomb of the woman walking gracefully towards her now, a half-smile on her rouged lips, her slender, gloved hand outstretched to greet her as if they were old friends.
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