Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  I thought: I’ll get her back. Within a week she’ll be begging me to visit the farm again. She always makes these reckless scenes and then regrets them later. She’ll come back.

  But I felt wretchedly depressed.

  FOUR

  At the point we have now reached the young king of France entered upon his life-work—the break-up of the Angevin empire and its incorporation in the royal domain. Philip, known to history by the surname “Augustus” [was] possessed of great political sagacity … though not a great soldier he was a shrewd and unscrupulous diplomat.

  —Oxford History of England:

  From Domesday Book to Magna Carta

  A. L. POOLE

  The selfishness of Philip’s intentions should have been obvious but John was ready to take a gambler’s chance… It was a critical situation. Richard alone remained undisturbed: “My brother John,” he said, “is not a man to win land for himself by force if there is anyone to put up a mere show of assistance.”

  —King John,

  W. L. WARREN

  I HEARD NOTHING FROM Rebecca during the remainder of Lizzie’s visit and was too occupied in entertaining my guests to dwell much on her silence, but after Lizzie and her husband had returned to Cambridge I became acutely aware of our estrangement. Finally I wrote her a letter in which I apologized for the scene with Jonas and offered to take her out to dinner.

  She did not reply.

  After that I pulled myself together, determined not to spend time mooning over a difficult woman who was bent on ignoring me, and flung myself heart and soul into enjoying my extended stay at Penmarric. I rode on the estate every day, went for long walks, wrote a little when I felt like it, and began to read my way through my father’s extensive library. However, when all his historical and biographical volumes had exhausted my intellectual stamina I imported some books of my own and spent happy hours enjoying the exploits of Lord Peter Wimsey, Hercule Poirot and Bulldog Drummond.

  I also tried, with varying degrees of success, to read some less frivolous modern works—Huxley’s Brave New World, which had just been published, the turgid anguishings of D.H. Lawrence and the more readable stories of J.B. Priestley. But on the whole I thought the earlier works of Wells, Galsworthy and Walpole were more entertaining than the latest crop of literary masterpieces.

  Apart from reading I also developed a new fondness for listening; there was a wireless set at Penmarric, but it was old-fashioned and presently I bought a new one, which gave me a better reception and enabled me to enjoy listening to the test matches with the maximum of comfort. Soon I had smuggled in my gramophone from Carnforth Hall as well as a selection of my favorite records. Contemporary serious music, such as the compositions of Vaughan Williams and Delius, bored me, but I played Rachmaninoff so much that even today I can’t hear that second piano concerto without thinking at regular intervals, “That’s where I turn over/change the record.” I bought the best of the popular music too—which for me meant Noel Coward—but jazz became my first love and soon the strains of Rachmaninoff faded to be replaced by the trumpet of Louis Armstrong. At first it seemed odd to hear such music at Penmarric; Medlyn, I know, was enormously shocked and used to bring my whisky and soda to the library with a cold-eyed distaste, but presently we both became accustomed to my father’s former sanctuary being violated by such undignified American sounds and accepted the change in tradition without further thought.

  I was certainly content enough on my own in many ways, but presently as my estrangement from Rebecca persisted I began to feel too solitary for comfort; in the end I invited Felicity to join me, but she had had an invitation to stay somewhere in the Midlands and soon she departed from Cornwall for several weeks.

  I continued to visit my mother regularly and often brought her over to Penmarric for lunch and tea.

  “How long are you going to stay at Penmarric?” she asked at the end of October. “You’ve been on your own here for some time now and I know Michael doesn’t approve.”

  “I can’t think why not,” I said. “I’m not interfering in any way with Walter Hubert’s administration and never even show my face in his office. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay here. Till Felicity comes back to Carnforth Hall, perhaps.”

  But Felicity returned two weeks later and I made no effort to join her. Instead I renewed my invitation to her to come to Penmarric, but she was reluctant to leave her horses and we agreed amicably to live apart for a while.

  “Michael’s very annoyed,” said my mother. “Perhaps you shouldn’t stay here much longer, Jan-Yves.”

  “I’m not doing any harm,” I said truthfully, but I saw her purse her lips disapprovingly even though she made no adverse comment on my behavior.

  The very next day I had a visit from Simon Peter Roslyn on behalf of Holmes, Holmes, Trebarvah and Holmes.

  He was a slim man, not tall but neatly made and well-proportioned. Manual labor might have given him a wiry toughness, but books and study had instead bestowed on him an air of wan asceticism. He was supposed to have been delicate as a child. Even now he hardly looked robust, but I hadn’t heard of him missing a day’s work from ill health, so I supposed his constitution had improved with age. He had limpid eyes, a soft handshake and a clever, calculating mouth.

  “Good morning, Jan,” he said pleasantly. He was always very pleasant to clients, but I disliked his casual manner and did not think the coincidence that had made us contemporaries at Oxford gave him the right to call me by my Christian name. “I’ve brought you a letter from Mr. Vincent. He asked me to give it to you, then wait for your reply.”

  Of course Michael had been unable to resist committing to paper his disapproval of my behavior and reminding me stuffily of my “gentleman’s agreement” with my brother.

  “How kind of him to be so concerned about Penmarric!” I said cheerfully, stuffing the letter back into its envelope. “Tell him I’m equally concerned and that’s why I’ve decided to stay here.”

  “I see.” Simon Peter looked at me blandly before allowing himself a smile. “Well, I can’t blame you,” he said to my astonishment. “I dare say I’d do the same if I were in your shoes. Confidentially Jan-Yves—” he lowered his voice—“confidentially I think Philip’s given you a raw deal over this business. You’d be a lot more useful to him than old Mr. Hubert, and if you managed the estate you could keep everyone happy, including yourself. Mr. Hubert still speaks highly of your administrative abilities, and if you offered him a helping hand now I’m sure he’d be the last person to refuse it. Certainly if you stay on at Penmarric no one’s going to evict you by force. Too much scandal, too much difficulty and too much trouble. Besides, Philip may well decide to settle permanently in Canada, and if he does I think the best solution would be for you to take care of the estate in his absence—or at least till Jonas comes of age.”

  I was suspicious of his attitude, of course, but his words echoed my sentiments so exactly that I couldn’t help saying, “That would certainly be more sensible than this present arrangement … Do you think Philip may settle out there? Does he ever hint as much in his letters to Michael?”

  “I think I can read between the lines now and then.” He smiled at me again. “He seems to like it in Canada.”

  “Yes, doesn’t he?” I was unable to resist a smile of delight. “It’s nice that things have worked out well for him there. However—” suspicion still lurked at the back of my mind “—isn’t this advice rather … unethical? Wouldn’t Michael disapprove if he could hear you?”

  “There’s no witness to our conversation,” said Simon Peter, very tranquil, “and I always like to help an old friend. Besides, who knows? Jonas is a tiresome little brat, don’t you think, and Philip could easily change his mind about the will. Frankly I hope he does. Jonas is spoiled enough already without being the recipient of a large unearned income, and anyway I disapprove of the principle of inherited wealth. I haven’t touched a penny of the money my uncle left me except to pay for my a
rticles with Holmes, Holmes, but since I’ve been earning I’ve been able to repay every farthing of that sum back into the bank. … Well, I must be on my way. I hope we can continue to be friends in the future, Jan, despite your current difficulties with Mr. Vincent and Philip.”

  “I’m sure we can, Sim!” I heard myself say heartily, for by this time I could not help but believe him to be sincere. Everything he said made sense; Jonas was spoiled and tiresome, and Simon Peter’s remarks about inherited wealth rang true enough when I recalled his fanatical devotion to socialism at Oxford. Bearing this in mind it was not unreasonable that he should be willing to be on my side and offer support now in return for my friendship in the years to come when I might well be master of Penmarric. Watching him go, I even began to think that I had judged him unfairly in the past, and as I shook my head in regret it never once occurred to me that I was dealing with a man who was just as anxious as I was to carve himself a slice of justice from life and who wished above all else to raise the Roslyns of Morvah to the level of the upper classes he despised.

  2

  I wasn’t in the least surprised when soon after my interview with Simon Peter I received a steady stream of visitors all anxious to jog my moral conscience. Michael came, of course, and after him my father-in-law, no doubt egged on by Alice, puffed over the hills from Carnforth Hall to tell me I was creating a scandal by living apart from my wife. A week later my mother arrived unexpectedly for tea. Finally even Adrian roared up the drive in his tinny little Ford to ask me in suitably clerical language just what the hell I thought I was doing. I succeeded in infuriating all four of them, and shameful though it is to admit such a thing I have to confess that I enjoyed every minute of it. In fact I was enjoying myself so much that I didn’t give a damn when Sir Justin said he would advise Felicity to divorce me and would take care that I never got a penny of his money after his death. I even laughed when Adrian told me not to call at Zillan rectory for theological discussions while I was coveting my brother’s possessions, living apart from my wife and committing adultery whenever the fancy took me. Michael’s impotent rage amused me as much as my mother’s icily ladylike disapproval. I continued to regard them with amused indifference—until the letter came from Canada, and then suddenly I was angrier than all four of my adversaries put together.

  “My dear Michael,” Philip had written in response to Michael’s letter of complaint. “What a devil of a fuss everyone seems to be making on my behalf! I’m grateful to know that my interests at home are in the hands of honest men and I appreciate your attempts to kick Jan-Yves out as he deserves, but please don’t worry unduly. My little brother is hardly the man to steal an inheritance if he meets with any form of resistance, and if he wants to continue to play houses like any child barely out of the nursery, I think we should humor him and not worry ourselves too much about his infantile behavior. If he wants to help Walter with minor matters relating to the estate, let him give what little assistance he can so that he can feel he’s not entirely useless. I’m sure Walter would soon notice any attempt he might make to be dishonest, and since he has no power of attorney he must be fairly harmless anyway. So let him be. He’s not worth bothering about. I’m still enjoying life here very much, thanks, and hope to have a few days’ holiday in Vancouver soon. Yours, etc., Philip.”

  It was a crippling disparagement. I wasted too much time seething with fury, but at last I pulled myself together and considered the letter more sensibly. At least I had secured Philip’s permission to help Walter on estate matters, and at least I was still allowed to live at Penmarric. Wasn’t that exactly what I had wanted? It was foolish to get upset about Philip’s insults when I now had the chance to prove to him—and to everyone else—how ably I could step into his shoes.

  The new year, 1933, came. In spite of myself I was lonely. I missed Rebecca, missed my weekly lunches with Adrian, missed even seeing my mother as often as I used to. I still saw her occasionally, but she would not visit me at Penmarric, and although we were outwardly civil to each other we were privately estranged. I hoped Lizzie would come down for another visit in the spring, but when I invited her she wrote back to say she was pregnant and had no wish to make the tiring journey to Cornwall. To stave off my loneliness I immersed myself in my work and toiled long hours in the estate office so that, much to Michael’s annoyance, my tasks were completed in the most irreproachable manner possible.

  Meanwhile Philip seemed more settled than ever in Canada. Every letter he wrote to my mother mentioned his friends and his work and how happy he was. He was a paying guest now in the home of a widow, and in the spring of 1933 when he bought a camera and sent my mother photographs of himself with the woman and her small son, we saw that he looked fit and handsome, a very different man from the hollow-eyed, grief-stricken miner who had left Penmarric more than two years before. The boy had a small but astonishing resemblance to Esmond if one overlooked the long trousers and the unparted hair, and the woman was young, not more than thirty, and most decidedly attractive.

  “Do you think I dare ask him more about her?” said my mother, beside herself with curiosity. “I don’t want to pry, though. I suppose if he were at all interested in her he would have mentioned her more often in his letters.”

  I began to wonder. I knew more about Philip’s sexual inclinations than she did, but I knew too that it was not impossible for a homosexual to have a normal relationship with a woman. If he were to get a divorce from Helena, remarry, have a son … It was just as well he was so happy in Canada and had no desire to return home to interest himself in his inheritance. As matters stood now I guessed he had no pressing desire to provide an heir for the estate and so had no inclination to arrange a divorce and remarry. If the woman was willing and he was able I felt sure he would be content merely to live with her without complicating the affair with divorce and marriage.

  I had met a young widow myself by this time, a presentable woman of about thirty-five who had recently moved to one of the best residential districts of Penzance. At first she was wary of having an affair although willing to act as hostess for me when I entertained my county neighbors at Penmarric. For the first time since my quarrel with Rebecca I found myself enjoying a woman’s company outside the four walls of a bedroom, but naturally I wanted her company there as well, and finally in the spring I was rewarded for my patience when she allowed me to take her to London for a week. After our return I began to entertain more lavishly than ever; there was a stream of visitors to Penmarric and with them wafted an atmosphere of gaiety and fun. I began to run a little short of money, but I controlled enough of the estate business by this time to tell Walter I needed a few extra pounds, and since Philip had granted him a power of attorney over a limited fund established for estate-management purposes after Smithson’s departure, he was able to give me some extra money without resorting either to Michael or to my mother for approval.

  In the summer, a year after Gerald Meredith’s death, Jeanne announced her engagement to Dr. Donald McCrae, and three months later in September they were married by Adrian at Zillan church. We were all pleased for Jeanne. Nobody deserved happiness and an able-bodied husband more than she did, and no one was better suited to make her happy than Donald McCrae. She had no wish for the reception to be held at Polzillan House, where she had lived with Gerald, so I held the reception for her at Penmarric and launched her as lavishly as possible along the road of her second marriage. She and Donald became near neighbors of my new mistress in Penzance, and since Helena was also planning to buy a small house in the same neighborhood there was talk of putting Polzillan House up for sale.

  I enjoy weddings. I like the church ceremony and I like the party afterward and I like the excuse to get tight on vintage champagne. I found Jeanne’s wedding thoroughly enjoyable even though I was still deprived of a visit from Lizzie and even though Rebecca had invented some excuse not to be present. Lizzie had just given birth to a daughter and was confined to Cambridge, but she sent an amu
sing telegram and later I telephoned her to give her an eyewitness account of the wedding. As for Rebecca it was clear her purpose in absenting herself from the celebrations was to snub me. I told myself her snubs didn’t matter, particularly now that I had a new mistress, but the next day as I nursed my hangover I became very maudlin thinking of happy times gone beyond recall.

  The sensation of the wedding had without doubt been my sister Mariana. She was nearly forty now and beginning to look it; her figure was still good but she wore too much make up and I suspected she dyed her hair to keep the white hairs at bay. She came unescorted but soon gathered a crowd of men around her and kept them entertained by her sophisticated conversation. I noticed that she smoked continuously and drank champagne as fast as if it were lemonade, two little traits that caused a stir among the conservative wedding guests unaccustomed to such London modernity.

  “Rather vulgar,” said my mother. “She doesn’t look at all respectable.”

  Which was my mother’s way of saying what was patently obvious: that Mariana looked like the most expensive whore in town.

  After the wedding I cast around for another excuse to entertain and toyed with the idea of a moonlight picnic in the cove with a few carefully selected guests, but as my new mistress said she would leave me instantly if I held anything resembling an orgy I decided to give an orthodox cocktail party instead. I liked Lucy well enough and didn’t want to lose her just then. I kept telling myself how fortunate I was. I was young, only twenty-eight, and able to do exactly as I pleased. I no longer had cause to complain about life’s unfairness; there were plenty of men who would have envied my position in the world. Why, then, did I have to keep repeating to myself how fortunate I was?

  My uncertainty didn’t make sense.

  “I wish you’d take more interest in this cocktail party,” grumbled Lucy. “You’re leaving me to do all the work.”