Miss Mary’s Daughter
Page 8
‘Six,’ he replied shortly.
‘That’s a lovely age,’ Sophie said. ‘Children of that age are so eager to learn, aren’t they? Does she do well at her books? What does her governess think?’
‘She’s still too young to have a governess,’ Charles said.
‘At six?’ Sophie was surprised. ‘Surely that’s just the right age to—’
‘You’re an expert on the education of children, are you?’ Charles asked coldly.
‘No, but—’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll thank you to mind your own business. I think I may be relied upon to know what is best for my child.’
‘Certainly,’ agreed Sophie, clinging to the rags of her temper, ‘but in fact I have taught children her age with great success.’
Charles looked at her coolly. ‘You were yourself a governess until you learned of your inheritance here, were you?’
‘No, I was not,’ Sophie flashed back. ‘But I did teach children to play the piano. And as for my inheritance, as you call it, as far as I know I have none. I am simply carrying out the dying wishes of my mother. I am paying a visit, and when it is over I shall return to my own home.’
‘This is your home now, Sophie,’ said her grandfather, who had been listening to their exchange.
Sophie turned at once. ‘No, Grandfather, it is not. I have come here to heal the breach between my mother and you, and when I have finished my visit, I shall return to my home, in London.’
Charles’s eyes flashed a look of appreciation when he heard her stand up to their grandfather, and seeing it, Sophie wondered if she had perhaps found an ally after all. He made no comment, but adroitly turned the conversation.
‘Do you ride, Cousin Sophie?’
‘Do you think we could drop the “Cousin”, Cousin Charles? We are not cousins, you know, and I’d much prefer you simply called me Sophie.’
‘As you wish. Do you ride, Sophie?’
Sophie smiled. ‘I used to,’ she answered. ‘My father had relatives in Suffolk, and we used to go and stay with them sometimes. I learned to ride there.’
‘I see. That’s a pity.’
‘What is?’ demanded Sophie.
‘Well, if you haven’t ridden since you were a child...’
‘I didn’t say that,’ retorted Sophie. ‘I learned in Suffolk at my Uncle Harold’s home, but when I grew older my father used to hire horses on occasion and we’d ride in the park. It was something special we did together.’
‘Hhrumph.’ Thomas looked annoyed. It was clear that he didn’t want to hear anything about Sophie’s father.
‘If you’d like to ride while you’re here, Sophie,’ Charles said, ‘we must find you a suitable horse. It’s the perfect way to see the countryside.’
‘Thank you, Charles, I’d love that,’ she said, smiling at him with genuine pleasure.
The meal progressed slowly. When Louisa rang the bell Edith appeared to clear the plates and Mrs Paxton brought in baked meats, and for dessert there was a syllabub. Sophie enjoyed the food. It was simple, well-cooked and tasty, but throughout the meal there were long and awkward silences. Sophie wished more than ever that Matty had stayed at least one night. Louisa contributed almost nothing to the conversation, and the two men spoke only occasionally, speaking of local affairs of which Sophie knew nothing. Her own efforts at conversation were answered shortly, and Sophie was soon wondering if all mealtimes at Trescadinnick would be as dull and as difficult as this.
If so, she thought, it certainly won’t be long before I go home.
Even so, it gave her a chance to observe her newfound family. Her grandfather, irascible, used to having his own way, tended to make statements, which no one questioned. Charles seemed dour and distant, as if his mind were elsewhere and interruption of his thoughts was a nuisance. Louisa also seemed withdrawn. Some years older than her sisters, her face was lined and tired. She seemed afraid of her father, shock and something akin to fear registering on her face when Sophie answered back to him. But at last it was over and Louisa led her from the table into the drawing room, where Mrs Paxton brought them tea.
‘Aunt Louisa,’ Sophie began, deciding it was time to make an effort with her taciturn aunt, ‘it’s very kind of you to have me here.’ It seemed a lame beginning, but she could think of nothing else.
‘Your grandfather wanted to see you,’ Louisa replied, her voice devoid of expression.
‘But you didn’t?’ Sophie asked, softening her question with a smile. ‘I am your niece after all. Weren’t you curious?’
‘Mary left a long time ago,’ Louisa said. ‘She cut her ties with us. She chose not to belong here.’ Her eyes flashed at Sophie as she added, ‘You don’t either.’
In the face of such hostility Sophie felt at a loss, so she simply said, ‘As I said to my grandfather, I’m only here for a visit. My home is in London.’
An awkward silence fell and they drank their tea without further conversation. Sophie was relieved when Charles and her grandfather joined them and there was some desultory discussion about what everyone planned to do the next day.
Suddenly Thomas turned to Sophie and said, ‘You mentioned you played the piano, Sophie. There’s the piano.’ He waved a hand towards the corner of the room. ‘Play us something now.’
Sophie looked across at the piano that stood in an alcove and then back at Thomas. ‘Of course, Grandfather, if you want me to. But I haven’t any music with me, so I’ll have to play something from memory.’
‘Plenty of music in there,’ replied Thomas, gesturing to the piano stool.
‘Even so, I think I’ll play something I know.’ Sophie smiled, crossing to the piano and lifting its lid. ‘Perhaps you could bring the lamp over, Charles.’
He did as she asked and Sophie settled herself down on the stool and ran her fingers over the keys. ‘It’s a bit out of tune,’ she remarked. ‘When was it last played?’
‘It hasn’t been played for years,’ Louisa said. ‘Not since... since Anne died.’
Sophie turned to Charles, who had remained beside the piano. ‘I’m sorry. Did she play often?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly. ‘She was a good pianist.’
Sophie chose a Beethoven sonata that she knew well and then a folk song, which she sang in her clear soprano voice, shakily at first but steadying as she grew in confidence. Then she closed the piano and turned back to her grandfather. ‘I’ll practise something else for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’d love to look through the music here. If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘Play whenever you like,’ Thomas said. ‘Charles, arrange to have the piano tuned at once; it sounds terrible. Now I’m going to bed and I suggest you do the same.’
They all moved into the hall where candles were set out on a side table. ‘Do you know your way up to your room?’ Thomas enquired as Sophie picked up a candle and Charles lit it for her. ‘Louisa, take the child up to her room.’
‘It’s all right, really, Grandfather. I know my way and Hannah will be waiting up for me.’ She reached up to him and to the amazement of both Charles and Louisa, kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight, sir. I hope you sleep well.’ She turned back to see Louisa watching her coldly, and changed her mind about offering her a goodnight kiss. Instead she said, ‘Goodnight, Aunt. Goodnight, Charles. I would love to go riding some time if it’s possible.’
Then, with a smile that encompassed them all, she lifted her candle high and went upstairs to her room.
‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ she said to Hannah as she closed the door behind her. ‘What a dreary evening. Do you know, Hannah, none of them seems happy. They never smile. We’re not staying here longer than we have to, or I shall go mad.’
‘Now then, Miss Sophie, you’re just tired, that’s all. Things’ll look different in the morning, you mark my words. Come on now, it’s time you were in bed.’
Later, when Hannah had gone to her own room, Sophie lay in bed listening to the wind whining r
ound the house and rattling her window. The banked-up fire gave a faint glow, but as her eyes grew used to the dark, it was enough to make out the shapes of the furniture in the bedroom. How often had her mother lain here in the fire glow, listening to the wind before she fell asleep, Sophie wondered.
She thought back over her day; the journey, her arrival at Trescadinnick and the people she had met there, and decided the only one she really liked was Dr Nicholas Bryan.
7
When Sophie had gone up to bed, Thomas bade his daughter goodnight, but instead of following her upstairs he turned to his grandson and said, ‘Before you go up, Charles, a word.’ Without waiting for Charles to reply, he opened his library door and led the way inside.
Charles followed his grandfather into the room, wondering what he wanted to discuss at this time of night. Of course Thomas was not actually his grandfather, though Charles had always thought of him as such and even addressed him as Grandpapa as a small boy. That was the trouble. Charles had always known that Thomas Penvarrow was disappointed that he had no living son or grandson to inherit Trescadinnick, but Charles always assumed that when the time came the estate would pass to him, the step-grandson. Thomas had never said so, but until a few weeks ago there had been no one else. Now there was this Sophie girl, daughter of the erring Mary. Charles knew very little about either of them. He had only the vaguest recollection of Mary, from when they had been living together at Trescadinnick. He had been four years old when she left to marry John Ross, and he’d been told nothing about why she had gone. He was considered far too young to understand such matters, and the memory of another aunt, so like his Aunt Mary who had gone away, soon mingled with the reality of the aunt who was still there, so he had given her little further thought. Certainly, no one had actually mentioned her name for years. No one had dared. Now though, she had died and left an orphan daughter, a grandchild for Thomas, and Matty had been dispatched to fetch her.
Charles had not been party to much of the heart-searching that had gone on before Matty had left to find Sophia. When told of Mary’s letter he felt a mild curiosity about her daughter, and agreed with the decision already taken that it was right for Matty to visit her, but he was surprised at his stepmother’s reaction to the idea.
‘Why did you encourage them?’ she asked tersely. ‘Why did you agree that they should ask the girl here?’
Charles shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I? Clearly my grandfather wants to see her. What difference does that make to me?’
‘You really aren’t very bright sometimes, Charles,’ Louisa said, exasperated. ‘Don’t you see that she stands between you and your rightful inheritance? It doesn’t seem to matter to my father how hard you work on his behalf; you are not his own flesh and blood. He will make her his heir and everything you’ve worked for will become hers.’
Charles looked at her and said simply, ‘If that’s the case, Mama, there is very little I can do about it.’
‘You could talk to him. Before she comes, you could talk to him and tell him how you feel. You and AliceAnne belong here far more than she does. She may be Mary’s daughter, but Mary chose to leave this family and so her daughter has no place here. You’ve been brought up here and Trescadinnick is your home. You deserve to inherit when your grandfather dies. It’s your right. You must demand your right.’
‘I can’t start demanding rights before I even know what my grandfather intends, Mama,’ Charles pointed out. ‘I think you’re worrying unnecessarily. He’s not an unjust man, and you can’t blame him for wanting to see this girl.’
‘If that’s all he wants,’ said Louisa darkly.
‘As to that, we shall have to wait and see,’ Charles replied. ‘It’ll do more harm than good if I start making demands.’ But Louisa’s angry comments had started him thinking.
‘Well, I can demand for you,’ Louisa stated. ‘I’m not prepared to stand by and watch while he sets you aside for some slip of a girl we don’t even know. I shall speak to him if you’re too afraid.’
That stung Charles and he retorted angrily, ‘I’m not afraid of him, Mama. I simply do not see the necessity for creating problems before they occur. Nor,’ he added with a grim smile, ‘do I want to put ideas into his head. I hope you won’t say anything yet, because there may be nothing to worry about. We’d be much better to hold our fire for the time being and just wait upon events.’
Louisa was not convinced. She still wanted to tackle her father while she had the courage. She had always been afraid of him and his explosive temper, but when it came to fighting for what she considered the rights of her son, she was determined to face up to him, and win. Why should some young girl arrive on the scene and charm her way into the old man’s heart, taking away the chance of Charles inheriting Trescadinnick? Thomas had recently been coming round to the realization that Charles had earned the right to Trescadinnick. Indeed, he’d sent for his solicitor, Mr Staunton, and Louisa had got the idea that he’d been told to draw up Thomas’s will. If so, it could only be in Charles’s favour. It was, after all, Charles who was putting the estate back on its feet; Charles who had looked into new methods of farming to obtain a higher yield from the land; Charles who had invested some of his own meagre inheritance from his father in a seine net and two fishing boats, paying local fishermen to crew them when the vast shoals of pilchards followed the warm currents into Cornish waters, in the late summer and early autumn, to provide a new source of income. He knew only too well that the days of the tin mines were over, the tin worked out and the price at rock bottom. The mines had been the foundation of the Penvarrow family fortunes, and it had taken Thomas time to accept that now they were worthless; though the family was not penniless, certain retrenchment had been necessary. They no longer employed all the servants they had when Louisa was a girl: the cook, the housemaid and parlour maid, the valet and the groom, two gardeners and a boy. Now they ran the house with the help of the Paxtons, Edith, the maid-of-all-work and a kitchen skivvy; Davies, the gardener, and Ned, the stable lad, worked outside. Louisa left Mrs Paxton in charge of the kitchen, but she supervised the housekeeping, was her own dairymaid and also saw to the few hours’ schooling AliceAnne needed. There was no governess for her as there had been for Louisa and her sisters. Most of the time Louisa did not mind the life she led. She was used to it now, and at least the running of the household was left to her and she was her own mistress. She had been sure that in the end her father would see the rightness of leaving everything to Charles, but now that was all put in jeopardy by the appearance of Mary’s daughter. However, Charles had asked her not to approach her father on the subject of inheritance and for the moment she had, against her better judgement, acquiesced.
‘But if we discover that he plans to cut you out, Charles, I will speak to him,’ she declared. ‘He has no right to do so.’
Of course, they both knew that he had every legal right, but Louisa was adamant that he had no moral right, and if necessary she would take her courage in her hands and tell him so.
As Charles wondered now what his grandfather was going to say, he could only hope that his mother had held her peace.
‘Put another log on the fire, Charles,’ Thomas said as he settled himself in his chair. When Charles had done so, and poured two glasses of brandy, also at Thomas’s bidding, he sat down opposite him and waited.
‘Well, she’s come,’ Thomas began. ‘My only grandchild, Charles. Pretty girl, eh? Looks like her grandmother, don’t you think?’ He glanced up at the portrait of his wife that hung over the fireplace and with a sigh said, ‘You’ll think I’m getting sentimental in my old age.’
Sentimentality was the last accusation Charles would have levelled at his grandfather. He could see the likeness between the woman who smiled down from the painting and the girl who had sat next to him at the dinner table, but he made no comment, simply waited for Thomas to go on.
‘Well,’ snapped the old man. ‘What do you think of her? Pretty enough for you?’
‘We will, soon enough,’ answered Thomas. ‘She won’t be going back to some hovel in London. I shan’t allow it.’
‘She said she was only here for a short visit,’ Charles reminded him.
‘She’ll change her mind,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll tell you straight, Charles, I intend to make her my heir.’
‘I see.’ Charles managed to keep his voice level, despite the abruptness of this announcement.
‘And that being the case,’ Thomas went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, ‘I’ve decided you’d better marry her.’
‘Marry her!’ ejaculated Charles, this time unable to control his reaction.
‘Certainly marry her,’ said the old man testily. ‘Why ever not? That’ll make everything right and tight. I know you’ve worked hard for this place, specially over these last few years.’ He spoke gruffly, finding it difficult as always to express his thanks to anyone. ‘You marry the girl and you’ll get the reward you’ve earned.’
Charles was dumbfounded. He stared at Thomas for a moment before repeating incredulously, ‘Marry her? Marry her! I only met the girl this evening. I don’t know her and more to the point, nor do you.’
Thomas was unrepentant. ‘What does knowing her matter? She’s family. You need a wife. That daughter of yours needs a mother. It seems to me to be the perfect solution to all your problems.’
Charles felt the anger rising up in him and did his best not to let it overwhelm him. ‘I wasn’t aware, sir, that I had any particular problems,’ he said tightly. ‘And if I had, I would find my own solutions. If, and I repeat if, I felt in need of a wife I am perfectly capable of choosing one for myself. I certainly wouldn’t marry some young girl scarcely out of the schoolroom just to ensure I inherit this estate.’