She looked as though she had seen a ghost.
She said a name, a man’s name, a name I knew, but before I could speak Philip was pushing past her, Philip was rushing up the stairs toward me, Philip was shouting, “You bastard, get out of here! Get out, get out, get out—”
I went downstairs. As she turned and stumbled away from me I called out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come. I’m sorry.”
She slammed the parlor door.
“You damned bastard!” Philip was still shouting. “If ever you show your face here again—”
Hugh was in the hall. His eyes were the same cool blue.
“It was he who suggested I come,” I said in a shaking voice to Philip. “He said it would be all right. He said—”
“Absolute lies,” said Hugh. “You insisted on coming. You followed me all the way to Chûn.” He turned to Philip. “I did my best to turn him out, but—”
“You liar!” I shouted. “You miserable rotten—”
Philip hit me on the jaw. I fell backward against the hall chest, picked myself up and moved to the front door. Philip was edging in to hit me again. I wrenched open the door, stumbled out into the porch and ran down the path to the lane. The air was sweet with the smell of herbs and the sun still shone serenely from that limpid southern sky. I looked back.
She was watching me from the parlor window, but before she stepped behind the curtain I had a glimpse of her face. It was white and crumpled as if she had been crying, and as I made my way blindly to the stables to get my horse I wondered if she was upset simply because I was her husband’s bastard or upset because she had thought for one long terrible moment that I was the ghost of my grandfather Laurence Castallack, come back from the dead to remind her of the past.
FIVE
The lady Alice was sent to the court of King Henry … it seemed all to the good that he was said to have taken a fancy to the child.
—The Devil’s Brood,
ALFRED DUGGAN
The heir of [Brittany’s] duke was a daughter named Constance … the Breton barons hated Norman domination.
—Oxford History of England:
From Domesday Book to Magna Carta,
A. L. POOLE
I RODE INTO ZILLAN village. I had stopped crying by the time I reached the rectory. I was completely composed. Alice was out buying milk and eggs from a neighboring farm, the cook told me, but the rector was in his study preparing his Sunday sermon.
I talked to him there for a long time.
“Am I like Laurence Castallack?” I said. “Am I?”
He smiled. “Yes,” he said, “there’s a likeness. I must confess that that was one of the reasons why you interested me so much from the first time I saw you. Laurence and I were old friends.”
I made an enormous effort. It cost me a great deal but I managed to say, “He was my grandfather. My guardian is my father, not a distant cousin.”
After that everything was easy and I did not want to cry any more. “Poor Mrs. Castallack,” said the rector later. “Yes, no doubt it did give her a severe shock to see you—and to see you in such an unexpected manner. What an unfortunate thing to happen! Hugh was very wrong to have tried to wash his hands of you but I expect he was more afraid of falling into his mother’s bad books than of incurring your anger. … You must make allowances, you know. Mrs. Castallack was not an attentive mother—she had too many troubles of her own—and as a result her children are perhaps overanxious to win her attention and favor.”
“I don’t know why they bother with her!” I said fiercely. “She was content to live without them for nearly seven years!”
“Ah, now you’re speaking too hastily.” And he began to talk about Mrs. Castallack in such a calm, dispassionate voice that soon I had forgotten that he was speaking of a woman I had resented so intensely for so long and was listening instead to the story of a woman who had suffered an orphaned poverty-stricken childhood, raised herself with great difficulty to the respectable level of a farmer’s wife and then jeopardized her happiness by an unwise marriage which had finally brought her nothing but the most bitter distress.
“Poor woman,” said the rector, “she was caught between forces which she could not master at all. I was seriously worried about her when the courts deprived her of the children. She had a difficult pregnancy which she had to endure without one single gesture of assistance from her husband. She was, believe me, greatly to be pitied.”
I was silent. I had not thought of Mrs. Castallack from a sympathetic viewpoint before and the experience was so novel that I found it hard to know what I wanted to say. In the end all I could say lamely was “If she’d given my father a divorce I don’t suppose he would have been so harsh to her about the children’s custody.” But even as I spoke my words seemed to condemn my father and exonerate Mrs. Castallack from blame.
The rector said simply, “The marriage meant a great deal to Mrs. Castallack. Also she was convinced that even if she had divorced your father he would still have tried to deprive her of the children. You mustn’t judge her too harshly.”
“No,” I said with an effort. “I can see why you say she was to be pitied, but …” I stopped but the next moment I was saying, unable to help myself, “My mother was to be pitied too.”
“Yes indeed,” said the rector at once. “She must have had many appallingly difficult times.”
“Then my father was wrong to hurt them both so much,” I said, trying to sort it out. “It was my father who was at fault.”
“Not entirely,” said the rector. “In a way they were all at fault—your mother, your father and Mrs. Castallack; it would be unjust to blame your father alone. He did wrong, certainly, but he was far from being a wicked young man. He was lonely. He longed for affection from his father, but Laurence was—without meaning to be unkind—more inclined to show his deepest affections toward others. He expected no affection from his mother, who was a very difficult woman. He was a plain young man, not particularly attractive to the ladies, who was anxious to find companionship of a certain kind whenever he could. In many ways it was inevitable that he should have entangled himself in such an unhappy domestic situation.”
We talked for some time longer, and soon I began to feel infinitely better. When Alice returned presently from her shopping expedition I stayed to lunch and by the time I was on my way back to Penmarric that afternoon I had fully recovered from my visit to the farm.
On my arrival at Penmarric I discovered to my disgust that Hugh had planted himself in my room to wait for me.
“Adrian!” He sprang to his feet in concern as I came in. “God, I was getting worried about you! Look, old chap, I’m terribly sorry about that scene at the farm—”
I had had more than enough by that time of his talent for facing both ways and I told him so, but he was so full of apologies and winning smiles that I found it impossible to be furious with him for long.
“After all,” he pleaded, “how was I to know Philip and Mama would return early from Penzance? How was I to know that Mama would take the wrong handbag with her by mistake and that she and Philip would reach Market Jew Street to find they had only half a crown between them? It was just a piece of the most awful bad luck.”
“Well, all right,” I said reluctantly, not wanting to be uncharitable. “But if you turn against me again as you turned against me today at the farm, that’s the end of all friendship between us. I don’t believe in having a friend unless he can stand up for me when I’m in trouble.”
“I absolutely agree,” said Hugh. “So we’re friends again? Good! I’m so glad. Look, why don’t we ride into Penzance together one day next week? I went over there the other day with Philip and I discovered the most fascinating shop down by the harbor. Come to my room and I’ll show you one or two of the things I bought there.”
To my disgust I discovered that his purchases consisted only of three postcards, each a garish photograph of a scantily clad woman in an artificial pose.
/> “They’re called ‘semi-classical’ poses,” Hugh explained. “Classical means nude. I tried to get some completely classical cards but it was no good—the man refused to sell them to me. However, you’re tall and could easily pass for at least eighteen—if you came with me I’m sure the man wouldn’t refuse to sell them to you.”
“But why on earth do you want to buy them?”
“Why, to look at, of course!” He gave me a scandalized glance. “Don’t you do that sort of thing at school?”
“No, I’m too busy working or reading or trying to play cricket.”
“Girls are much more fun!” He sighed. “If only I wasn’t so short! If I were two, three, four inches taller I’m sure I could have any girl I wanted just by snapping my fingers.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in that position anyway,” I said flatly. “I expect I shall get married one day, but until then I don’t want to have anything to do with girls. I find the whole business of casual affairs repulsive.”
“Really?” said Hugh. “I find it utterly fascinating. I say, you’re not in love with a boy at school or anything, are you?”
“Do you have to be so absolutely revolting?”
“I take it that means no. In that case, why aren’t you interested in girls? I spend almost every day wondering what it’s like to … incidentally, I found out from that shop where I bought the postcards that there’s a woman who does it with boys our age. But she charges a guinea. Rather pricey, isn’t it! I don’t suppose by any chance—”
“You’re not seriously considering seeking out some common prostitute!”
“No,” said Hugh, “just toying with the idea.”
“Honestly, Hugh!”
“Well, why not? Everyone else goes to bed with women, so why shouldn’t I? Id go and see that barmaid Tilly at Zillan, but Marcus goes to her and I don’t want her telling Marcus when he comes home from the Continent that I’ve been taking his place during his absence. He’s quite silly enough to let the news slip out to Papa, although why Papa should object I don’t know since he spent seven years at Allengate going to bed with … sorry, old chap! I didn’t mean to say that, I just wasn’t thinking. No offense meant… . Actually the girl I’d really like to go to bed with is right here at Penmarric. You know Hannah the tweeny? I must say, I rather fancy her. Have you noticed her mouth? She has very full lips. I think it might be fun to kiss her. And she’s got the most marvelous bosom… Hey, where are you going? What’s the matter?”
But I shook my head blindly without replying. I felt sickened by his conversation and wanted to be alone.
“Wait!” He followed me and caught my arm. I’m sorry—look, let’s forget about girls for a while—I was only joking half the time anyway! Let’s go for a walk along the cliffs—it’s a fine afternoon and it seems a pity to waste it indoors.”
I tried to get rid of him, but when he refused to take no for an answer we went outside together and strolled along the cliff path past the deserted engine houses of the Sennen Garth and King Walloe mines. Soon St. Just was on our right while the sea lay to our left. Passing Cape Cornwall, we skirted the mighty workings of the Levant mine and walked on along the scarred cliffs to Botallack before turning inland to Carn Kenidjack and wandering up onto the moors. Finally after several minutes of stiff climbing we sank down in the heather to rest. I lay on my back, my hands behind my head, and tried to think of Hugh’s postcards and his obsession with the ’tween maid’s anatomy, but presently Hugh propped himself up on his elbow and disturbed me.
“There’s a girl coming,” he said, his eyes narrowed against the bright light. “A girl on horseback.”
“Semi-classical?” I inquired with suitable sarcasm.
He did not answer. I went on looking up at the sky and displaying a pointed lack of interest.
“How odd,” said Hugh. “I don’t recognize her. Yet she must be someone of consequence if she’s riding her own horse. Perhaps she’s a friend of Peter Waymark’s sisters and spending a holiday at Gurnards Grange. But why is she out riding alone?”
Curiosity conquered me. I levered myself into a sitting position.
The girl was close to us now but it was difficult to tell if she had noticed our existence. Certainly if she had she gave no indication of it. She was young, younger than us, and she had long straight black hair which she wore brushed back from her face. A small hat, perched on top of her head, kept her hair in place and prevented it from blowing across her eyes. Her riding habit was elegant but old-fashioned, as if it had been handed down to her from someone else.
“She’s very pretty,” said Hugh.
I thought she was too. We watched her approach and at last she looked at us and tilted her chin up haughtily in rejection.
We both rose to our feet as if we were puppets governed by the same strings.
“Good afternoon!” called Hugh.
She stared at him. Her eyes were dark and proud. “Good afternoon,” she said with a faint air of disdain and prepared to ride past us.
“It’s a beautiful afternoon too!” persisted Hugh with a reckless determination I could not help but admire. “Beautiful weather for a holiday!”
The girl raised her slim, dark eyebrows; a faint smile curled the corners of her wide mouth.
“I live here,” she said coolly and spurred her horse to the gallop.
We watched her race away from us across the moors toward Morvah.
“Who is she?” Hugh was saying. “Who is she? Who is she?”
“How should I know? You’re the native of this part of the world, not I!”
“But damn it, who can she be! Unless …” He stopped.
“Yes?”
“She might be a Roslyn.”
“Of course,” I said at once. “That must be it. She must be the daughter of Alice’s Aunt Clarissa. That would explain why she had such a ladylike appearance.”
“Good God!” said Hugh. He was still staring after her. “Little Rebecca Roslyn! Last time I saw her she was six years old, wearing a pinafore and talking with a Cornish accent!” He could not get over it. He kept referring to the incident all the way back to Penmarric. Finally he said in disgust, “But I can’t even call at her house to invite her to come riding with me! That bastard Joss Roslyn would chase me off his land with a pitchfork.”
“If she has such an unpleasant father,” I said, trying to console him, “maybe she’s not particularly nice either.”
“What does being nice have to do with it?” said Hugh, very fractiously, I thought, and retired without even so much as an apology to the solitude of his room.
2
I was to see Rebecca Roslyn again before the year was out but meanwhile I was soon preoccupied with her cousin Alice Penmar once again. At Penmarric Jan-Yves had hounded the housekeeper into giving notice, and when discussing this item of news with Alice during a visit to the rectory I was suddenly smitten with the brilliant idea that Alice might like to be the new housekeeper. She had often mentioned the fact that if she did not keep house for her grandfather she would be obliged to earn her living by keeping house for someone else, and Mr. Barnwell had once privately regretted to me that Alice met so few people at Zillan rectory and wished matters could be otherwise. Much excited, I decided that my idea would suit everyone to perfection and I became determined to pursue it.
“William,” I said with unintended overtones of David Copperfield, “tell Papa that Alice is willing.”
“Very well,” said William agreeably, “but why don’t you tell him yourself? You were at the rectory when the subject was discussed and I wasn’t.” In my enthusiasm I had already mentioned my idea to Alice, who, after protesting that she could not leave her grandfather even if she were offered such a post, had allowed the rector to convince her that he had no wish to confine her to Zillan rectory for the rest of her life.
“No, you tell Papa, William” I said. “You’re the bailiff and he’ll listen to you on business matters.”
For I
was shy about Alice. I did not want anyone to know how much I liked the idea of her coming to Penmarric to keep house for us all, and I did not want anyone to know how pleasant I thought it would be to discuss current events with her after dinner in the evenings and perhaps walk in the grounds with her after lunch whenever she had a few minutes to spare.
Papa first of all said Alice was too young to be considered for such an important post, but when he invited Alice to lunch to discuss the matter he soon changed his mind. Afterward he said, sounding surprised, “She seemed a capable, self-assured girl. I liked her. We agreed that she should accept the position on a six months’ trial basis—that at least will take us until after Mariana’s wedding. Then if either of us find the arrangement unsatisfactory we can terminate it without any hard feelings on either side.” And to Jan-Yves he added, “If you once play on Alice the kind of practical jokes you played on Mrs. Hollingdale you’ll get a good caning—is that understood? I’ve had enough of your pranks at the servants’ expense and my patience is exhausted.”
“Pooh!” said the child rudely, but Papa let the rudeness pass. In spite of his threats he always seemed curiously reluctant to discipline Jan-Yves.
I went back to school for the summer term soon after that, and for twelve weeks I heard about family affairs only through the letters I received from Papa and William. Mariana had paid a fleeting visit to Penmarric to discuss the wedding arrangements, and much to her fury Papa had said that since Jeanne and Elizabeth were to be bridesmaids it was only fair that Jan-Yves should be granted his burning wish to be a page.
“Papa bends over backward to be nice to the little beggar,” wrote William, “but I don’t believe it makes any difference whatsoever to Jan-Yves’s ingrained dislike of him. Incidentally—and this’ll surprise you!—Jan-Yves is now meeting his mother once a week and saying good morning to her. This came about because Alice likes to attend matins at her grandfather’s church and now that I’ve got the hang of the new car I drive her over to Zillan each week. Naturally Jan-Yves couldn’t bear to be left out of an expedition that included a motorcar—” And you, I thought dryly “—so he comes with us, but only on condition that he greets his mother afterward. Papa is very firm about that. I find I don’t mind seeing Mrs. Castallack at all—of course we always keep our distance from each other—and if she minds seeing me that’s her concern, not mine. But she can’t mind so very much or she’d go to evensong.”
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