Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  “Yes, it was a pity they ever married. If I had known … But I didn’t know. And then one day I saw Philip just looking—looking—looking—I thought he was looking at Helena. I went into the parlor saying, ‘Oh, Philip, how nice of you to bring Helena to see me!’ But it wasn’t Helena at all. It was that surly, repulsive little man. I suppose you could never imagine how it feels for a mother to know what I knew then. For a moment I thought I would faint, which was silly of me because I never faint, I’m not one of these women who swoon at every slight jolt to their nerves. So I didn’t faint. I believe I was quite composed. I said good afternoon politely and asked them if they would take tea and told them to sit down and make themselves at home. I didn’t want Philip to know, you see. I don’t know why. I suppose I didn’t want him to feel ashamed—or obliged to make some sort of apology or worse still an, explanation. Anyway I didn’t want to interfere, and once I had lived with the knowledge for a while I found I could accept it and not mind. I tried so hard not to mind. You see, if it made Philip happy … You do understand, don’t you, Jan-Yves? I only wanted Philip to be happy.”

  “Yes, Mama,” my voice said. “I understand.”

  She went on looking at me, her eyes bewildered, her cheeks still wet with tears. “Then what went wrong?” she said. “I did all I could—no one wanted him to be happy more than I did, so why couldn’t I get what I wanted for him? Where did I go wrong?”

  But there was no answer I could give her. She looked at me for five silent seconds with those bewildered eyes full of grief, and then as if guessing the answer which I could never have voiced aloud, she put her hands over her face again and began to cry softly to herself in that cold, empty room.

  4

  I could not leave her. I remained with her till dusk and then suggested she come with me to St. Just and stay the night at my house.

  “I would like to see him,” she said, her hands twisting themselves together restlessly. “Will he be at Penmarric?”

  “By now, yes, I expect so. A group of his old mining friends went off to the shaft to bring him to the surface, and the ambulance was driving up as far as Ding Dong mine to take the body to Penmarric. But you can see him tomorrow, Mama. Come home with me now and rest. My housekeeper will make you comfortable.”

  “I can’t leave Annie,” she said, referring to her simple old servant. “She wouldn’t understand if I went away.”

  “Then I shall stay the night here with you, but first I must make some telephone calls. Where’s the nearest phone? At the rectory, I suppose.”

  “Or Polzillan House,” she said, but I had no wish to go calling on Simon Peter Roslyn.

  “Will you be all right if I leave you for about half an hour to make these telephone calls?”

  “Oh yes,” she said blankly. “Yes, of course. Whom are you going to telephone?”

  “William, to see what’s happening at Penmarric. He left Carnforth Hall as soon as he heard the news and went over to Penmarric to be with Helena and help her make the arrangements. I also want to try to speak to Donald in Penzance. The news was such a shock to Jeanne that it brought on a miscarriage. Donald was just about to take her to the hospital when I last spoke to him.”

  But she did not take it in. Her mind was filled with Philip’s loss and could not absorb news of a second tragedy in the family.

  “No doubt Jeanne will be all right,” I said uneasily, “but the baby will be two months early and might be in danger. I must phone Donald and find out what’s happening.”

  “Yes,” said my mother. “Yes, of course.”

  “When I see the rector shall I tell him to call?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Very well. I’ll try and be as quick as possible.” I stooped, kissed her and went outside into the twilight.

  Five minutes later I was halting my car outside the rectory and asking Forrest if I could use his telephone. I phoned Penmarric first. Medlyn, sounding very subdued, answered as usual and on hearing my voice said he would fetch William at once.

  “Jan?” said William a minute afterward. “Thank God you’ve phoned. I was just wondering if I should go over to your mother’s house to fetch you. Where are you now?”

  “Zillan rectory,” I said, feeling my scalp prickle at the tone of his voice. “Why? What’s happened? Surely, not—-there’s not more bad news, is there? Is Jeanne all right?”

  “She’s very gravely ill. Helena left half an hour ago to join Donald at the hospital in Penzance.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Born dead,” said William, “and I’m afraid I have to tell you that Jeanne’s not expected to live either.”

  5

  After a long moment I said blankly to William, “What shall I do?” My mind was blurred, sweating palms made the receiver slip in my hands; my head ached and I felt dizzy with fatigue. “Shall I go to the hospital?”

  “No, I think you should stay with your mother. Helena and Donald both realize you have to be with her—I discussed it with Helena before she left. But don’t tell your mother yet about Jeanne or the baby.”

  “No … no, of course not.”

  “I’ve spoken to Adrian on the phone and he’s coming down to Cornwall tomorrow. Lizzie telephoned for news of Jeanne, but that was before we knew anything definite, so there was nothing I could tell her.”

  “And Philip—the body … Is it—”

  “Yes, they brought him back here. That’s all been attended to. Esmond’s here with me and he and I are keeping each other company.”

  I guessed from his tone of voice that Esmond was nearby.

  “I’m glad you’re with him,” I said. “I’m glad he’s not all alone at Penmarric.”

  “Yes … Is there anything else I can do while I’m here? I assume you’ll be staying overnight at Roslyn Farm.”

  “Yes, I’ll be staying there tonight and tomorrow I shall be driving my mother over to Penmarric to see Philip. You’ll still be there then, won’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  “If there’s any definite news about Jeanne—”

  “I’ll drive over to the farm to tell you.”

  He arrived at two o’clock in the morning. I awoke with a start to find my mother stooping over me with a candle in her hand.

  “Jan …” She was shaking my shoulder tremulously. “Jan, someone’s knocking on the front door and there’s a car outside with it’s headlights on. Who can it be?”

  I was awake in an instant. I flung back the covers and scrambled out of bed. “I expect it’s William,” I said, pulling on my trousers. “He said he might call.”

  “But it’s two o’clock,” said my mother, a bent old woman huddling in her shawl. “It’s two o’clock, Jan.”

  “Yes, I know. Now you go back to bed, Mama. I’ll deal with this.”

  “I can’t sleep. Why is William calling?”

  “I think it might be about Jeanne.”

  “Jeanne?”

  “She lost the baby, Mama. The shock of Philip’s death—”

  “Yes, it was a shock, a terrible shock. Poor Philip. Poor Jeanne … she lost the baby, you say?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mama.” I slipped on my jacket “Now you go back to your room and after I’ve seen William I’ll make some tea and bring it to you.”

  “Jeanne’s too old to have a baby for the first time,” said my mother. “Thirty-six is too old. I was thirty-six when Philip was born, but he was my fourth child.”

  “I won’t be a minute, Mama. I’d go back to bed if I were you.”

  But she lingered in my room. I left her sitting on the bed and ran downstairs lightly, barefoot. When I opened the front door I found William waiting in the porch.

  “Is Jeanne—”

  “I’m afraid so. Helena has just arrived home from Penzance.”

  There was a long silence. The old house creaked and sighed as old houses do, and the wind moaned far away in the eaves.

  “Come in,” I said at last. “Mama always
keeps brandy in the store cupboard. Let’s have a drink.”

  “I’d better not come in.”

  “It’s all right. She’s upstairs.”

  He stepped reluctantly over the threshold and looked around him. He had not been to the farmhouse before.

  “This way,” I said abruptly and led him down the passage to the kitchens.

  When we were seated at the table with our brandy glasses before us he said, “Poor Helena looked as if she was walking in her sleep. I felt so sorry for her. Naturally I felt more than sorry for Donald too, poor fellow, but Helena’s lost her husband and her best friend all within the space of twenty-four hours and that’s too much to expect any person to bear, in my opinion. I don’t know how you manage to believe in God, Jan, when such appalling and unwarranted misfortunes fall upon as blameless a woman as Helena and as decent a fellow as Donald McCrae. Where’s the justice in that? There’s no justice in the world and no God, that’s all I can say.”

  “Say that to Adrian,” I said, drinking the brandy. “He’s the clergyman. I’m sure he knows all the answers.”

  “Adrian doesn’t see death as I see it. He believes in the Resurrection.”

  “So do I.”

  “Do you, Jan? Do you really? How can you? It’s beyond me. I’m afraid the older I get the more of an atheist I become.”

  “I’m too much of a coward to be an atheist,” I said. “I couldn’t bear not to believe in anything. I have to believe there’s God, but don’t ask me what Donald’s done to deserve Jeanne’s death and don’t ask me what Helena’s done to deserve a double bereavement, because I don’t know. I’m not God and I’m not a clergyman and I don’t have all the answers at my fingertips.”

  We were silent for a while. William helped himself to more brandy. “I suppose,” he said as he swirled the brandy in his glass. “I suppose Jeanne at least had a taste of a happy, normal married life. She did at least have some sort of reward for all those years when she nursed that poor devil Gerald Meredith at Polzillan House. Also I suppose all Philip’s dreams died with Sennen Garth and he had nothing much to look forward to. But I still don’t see why Donald and Helena—”

  The floorboards of the stairs creaked; from far away at the front of the house my mother called my name.

  “Coming!” I shouted and added to William, “Wait here.”

  “All right. Don’t tell her about—”

  “No, of course not.”

  I left the kitchen and hurried up the passage to find my mother waiting uncertainly in the hall.

  “Was it William?” she said.

  “Yes, it’s all right, Mama. I’m just giving him a drink in the kitchen. Shall I make you some tea?”

  “No,” she said. “No, I don’t want tea. Jan dear, I’m so worried about the funeral. I can’t sleep for worrying about it. I don’t want that new rector burying Philip. I don’t like him and he never knew Philip anyway. Do you suppose Adrian—but Adrian’s very important now, isn’t he? He’s at Exeter Cathedral. Do you think it would be right to ask him to bury Philip?”

  ”I’ll telephone Adrian tomorrow and talk to him about it,” I said. “You mustn’t worry about that now, Mama. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps he wouldn’t want to bury him,” she said. “His own brother. It would be too sad.”

  “Leave it all to me, Mama. I’ll talk to Adrian tomorrow, I promise you. Now let me help you back to bed.”

  “No, don’t bother to come upstairs. I can manage. But do you think Adrian would—”

  “Yes, Mama, yes, I expect so. Try not to worry about it any more.” In spite of her protests I helped her upstairs to her room and saw her safely into bed before I returned to the kitchen.

  “I’m sure Adrian will conduct the funeral service if your mother wishes it,” said William when I told him what had been said. “I don’t think it would be too much to ask at all. I’ve no doubt Adrian’s sorry that Philip’s dead, but they weren’t close friends and anyway Adrian isn’t so affected by death as I am and he’s accustomed to funeral services. I’m sure he would conduct the service if he was asked to do so.”

  “I’ll ask him when he arrives tomorrow. Good God, what’s going to happen about Jeanne? We can’t have a double ceremony! That would be too much for everyone. Perhaps Donald wants her to be buried at their church in Penzance anyway.”

  “Let’s hope so. Poor Jeanne, I’ll miss her very much. She was always very kind to Charity, you know, and used to call often at our cottage after she married Donald and came to live in Penzance.”

  “Hm.” I was trying not to think too deeply about Jeanne, trying to turn my thoughts instead to the organization of Philip’s funeral. “Lizzie will come down, of course,” I said carefully, “and perhaps her husband too as it’s the long vacation at present. God, how are we going to get in touch with Mariana? I’ve no idea whereabouts she’s living in Monte Carlo.”

  “Won’t Esmond know?”

  “He’s not allowed to communicate with her.”

  “Get in touch with her husband’s lawyers. They probably send her the maintenance allowance each quarter. They’ll know where she’s living.”

  “I don’t suppose she’ll come home anyway.”

  “Probably not.” He finished his brandy and stared for a moment at his empty glass. “Talking of lawyers,” he said slowly, “who has Philip’s will? Didn’t you tell me he went to another firm of solicitors when he decided to disinherit Jonas?”

  It was then—for the first time since the news of Philip’s death had reached me more than twelve hours before—that I allowed the knowledge of my future to rise out of my subconscious and stare me full in the face.

  I was master of Penmarric. All I had to do now was to go to Pomeroy and Pomeroy in St. Ives for Philip’s last will and testament and show the world that at long last against long odds Penmarric had fallen into the hands of the one person who loved it better than any other place on earth.

  Justice, twisted and bizarre but still recognizable, raised a bloody and battered head to stare me starkly in the eye.

  6

  To my surprise I found that Philip had left specific instructions about his funeral in his will. He wanted to be buried at Zillan by his father’s side, or, if there was no room, at his father’s feet. Considering that Philip and my father had spent their lives quarreling with each other I couldn’t help but think this stipulation exceedingly odd, but it was stated in black and white and he had put his signature to the document, so there was certainly no ambiguity relating to the request. The rest of his will was simple. By the power of appointment granted to him under the terms of our father’s will he had left his money and property to me; all his personal possessions, items outside the power of appointment, he bequeathed to Esmond.

  “So he made another will,” said old Michael Vincent, sitting in his office like a tired old spider clinging to his thick-woven web. “I thought perhaps he had. I knew it was awkward that Simon Peter and Jonas were cousins, although I drew up the previous will and Simon Peter had no hand in it… Poor little Jonas. This will be a great blow to Rebecca. I’m sure she still believed Jonas was Philip’s heir.”

  But I did not want to think of Rebecca. I knew she would fly into a rage as soon as she realized that I had ousted Jonas from his inheritance, and I had enough on my hands at that time without worrying about my future relationship with her.

  “I’ve decided to consult Pomeroy and Pomeroy on all legal matters in the future,” I said politely to Michael. “Perhaps you could arrange for transfer of all the relevant papers to them? I hesitate to dispense with your services when you’ve served my family for so long—” I saw him flush as I addressed him as if he were my social inferior—“but you’ve never trusted me and I certainly don’t trust Simon Peter, so I hardly feel we can continue to do business together. I must thank you for all you’ve done for Penmarric in the past and assure you that I’m extremely grateful to you and your firm …”

 
It seemed a fair enough revenge for all the years he had disliked me and tried to stand in my way.

  I left his office and returned to Penmarric. Lizzie and her husband were expected that same evening and Adrian was to board their train when it stopped at Exeter. There was so much to do, so many arrangements to be made. My preoccupation with Philip’s funeral left me little time to think of Jeanne, but that afternoon I managed to call on Donald and express a few words, however useless, of sympathy. Jeanne’s funeral was to be in Penzance the day after Philip’s funeral at Zillan. I offered to do what I could to help, but he said he realized I had enough to handle already and added that Jeanne’s many friends were all being even kinder than he had anticipated.

  On returning to Penmarric I found the car at the door and Helena dressed to go out. She wore black, of course, and the mourning clothes were unbecoming so that she seemed elderly and plain. Her fair skin had a transparent look which hinted at her extreme exhaustion, but she was completely composed. All through those appalling days I never saw Helena look other than faultlessly self-possessed.

  “I was just going over to the farm to see your mother,” she said. “I intend to tell her the news about Jeanne. I let you carry the burden of telling her about Philip, but I shall tell her about Jeanne. I don’t think it will be too much for her. In fact she may well not grasp what I’m saying. There’s a limit to everyone’s grief, after all.”

  I knew she was referring to herself, trying to explain why her manner seemed so cold and unnatural. In an effort to sympathize I said awkwardly, “You needn’t visit my mother yet, Helena. You’ve got more than enough to endure as it is. I’ll tell her about Jeanne.”

  After a moment I said, “When all this is over—”

  “Oh yes,” she said flatly. “I shall go abroad again, just as I did after Gerry died. It does help to go away. After I come back I think I shall go home to Warwickshire. I was happy there, and I still have several friends in and around the village where I used to live. I don’t want to stay in Cornwall any more. Cornwall brought me little except unhappiness and tragedy. I shall go back to Henley-in-Arden and start all over again from the beginning.”