Lord of the Far Island

by Victoria Holt

  As I stood in the square looking at it, it seemed as though the house mocked me. I had had the fanciful notion that it had never wanted me and had warned me to keep away; and I had failed to heed that warning while, without doubt, being aware of it.

  I did not go out very much. The Carringtons avoided me. I supposed the very sight of me would be painful to them, and moreover, they were in mourning and did not entertain. When people came to the house Cousin Agatha, who was as completely indifferent to my feelings as she had ever been, suggested I keep out of the way. "We don't want all that gossip starting up again," she said with an unpleasant laugh. "It's most embarrassing."

  Frustrated and unhappy, I lived from day to day, but I knew that the state of affairs would not go on.

  I was right. Cousin Agatha summoned me to her sitting room.

  As I stood before her she looked at me with distaste. My brief glory was over and I had sunk back into the role of Poor Relation.

  "I suppose," she said, "it will take us a long time to live down this very unfortunate affair. Of course I never really believed that marriage would take place. I always thought something would happen to prevent it. If I had had my way . . ." She shook her head, implying that she would never have given her consent to the marriage; perhaps she would have forced Philip to take Esmeralda.

  She sighed. I had lost my spirit and made no comment. I no longer felt the irresistible desire to defy her.

  "However, every cloud has a silver lining, they say, and it seems that in your case this may be so." I looked at her in astonishment and she gave me a wintry smile. I might have known her pleasure would be my pain.

  "Mrs. Oman Lemming had decided to employ someone else but had not completed her search for the right person. Now that you are in need of a post she has decided in her kindness that she will ignore convention and give you a chance."

  "Oh no," I protested.

  "Yes. I know it is generous of her. All that fuss in the papers. Why, one might say you are a marked woman. However, she is of the opinion that in due course this will be forgotten and that it may have had a salutory effect upon you. I had to be honest with her and therefore considered it my duty to inform her that you could at times be pert and that your position in this family—and your connection with us—had given you certain ideas. Mr. Loring being absurdly tolerant—in fact, I have so often to restrain him—did not wish you to be made aware of your position. . . ."

  "So you disobeyed him," I could not resist saying.

  "I do not understand. I trust you are not being pert again, Ellen. One in your position should be especially contrite."

  "Why? What have I done?"

  "My dear Ellen," she said in a voice that showed I was far from dear to her, "when a man commits suicide rather than marry, people will always look askance at the woman who was to have been his wife."

  "It had nothing to do with our marriage. Philip was in love with me. He wanted our marriage more than anything. And he did not kill himself. I am sure of it. Only the day before he died. . ."

  "No hysterics, please. You must remember your place."

  "Are hysterics reserved then for rich relations only?"

  "I don't know what you are talking about. You are distraught and the best thing for you is to go to your new life as quickly as possible. There is nothing like work to help you over an unfortunate spell. Work, work, and then more work. So, as Mrs. Oman Lemming is prepared to take you, I have said that you will go to her at the end of the month."

  I felt as though I were drowning in my misery. Philip was gone and there was no one to help me now.

  I must prepare my trunk. I needed good serviceable clothes, said Cousin Agatha. I looked at my dateless black evening gown. There was a slight stain on it where the orchid had rested. I wished I had kept that orchid. It would always have reminded me of Philip on that night when he had astounded me and Cousin Agatha by asking me to marry him.

  What I did have was a wardrobe of beautiful garments which were to have been my trousseau. I was sure Cousin Agatha would have liked to confiscate them but she could scarcely do that. They wouldn't fit Esmeralda, as I was much taller and thinner than she was. But what comfort were clothes when one was lost in a cruel world! My little craft—once so jaunty, once sailing with full honors beside the Carrington galleon of plenty—was now soon to be wrecked on the rocks of misery presided over by the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming, compared with whom Cousin Agatha might be considered quite charming.

  There were times when I felt indifferent to my future. What was my misery compared with Philip's death? I had lost my champion and I felt even more sad because I had not appreciated him when he lived. It sometimes seemed of small moment that I was drifting towards the colorless existence of a governess in a household of which the servants spoke in distaste.

  I awoke the next morning to the feeling of depression which had overwhelmed me so often since Philip's death, to find that there was a letter waiting for me. I did not know the writing on the envelope. It was big and bold in thick black ink.

  The letter was headed Far Island, Polcrag, Cornwall.

  "Dear Miss Kellaway," it ran.

  When you read this letter you will be wondering why I have not written before. The truth is that I only recently discovered your whereabouts. You will see that I live in this remote spot which was your father's home. When he died, about a year ago, he appointed me your guardian until you should reach the age of twenty-one. I know that you have not yet reached that age but will do so on your next birthday. It would give me great pleasure if you would visit the Island. I believe you have been kept in ignorance of your father's family and I am sure would like to know more. Do please come and visit us here. It would give me great pleasure if you would.

  Jago Kellaway

  I read the letter through several times. The Far Island. No one had ever mentioned it to me. My father's home! What had I heard of my father? Only that my mother had left him when I was three years old, taking me with her. I found a map and turned up the appropriate page. The Island must be off the Cornish coast but Pol-crag was not marked on the map.

  My first impulse was to find Cousin Agatha and ask her what she knew of my father, but I hesitated. She was so set on my becoming a governess in the household of the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming that she would be capable of doing anything to prevent my going away. I was beginning to feel excited. There was something fateful about receiving a letter so fortuitously. The Far Island sounded romantic; and my father had been dead only a year. How tragic that he should have been living and I had never known him!

  I said nothing about the letter, not even to Esmeralda, until by good luck I found an opportunity of speaking to Cousin William Loring. I showed him the letter and asked what he knew about it.

  "Why, yes," he said, "your mother did marry and go off to this island. Something went wrong with the marriage and she ran away, taking you with her. Your father made no provision for her, which is not surprising, since she left him. When she ran away she forfeited everything—for herself and for you—apparently."

  "Who is this Jago Kellaway?"

  "He must be some sort of relation." He looked at me quizzically and I saw the compassion in his eyes. "Unfortunately I can tell you very little, Ellen, but I do remember that was the name of the island where your father lived. And if he is now dead and these people are asking you to visit them, perhaps they will make amends for his not bothering with you all these years." He laid a hand on my arm. "It is not my wish that you should take this post, Ellen. As far as I am concerned, you are welcome. . . ."

  "I know. Thank you, Cousin William." I felt I wanted to stop his saying something disloyal about his wife which he might regret later. "What I wanted to be sure about," I went on, "is that this is truly my father's family. And you think I ought to go and see them?".

  He nodded and I could see that he thought it might be a fortunate way out of my present difficulties.

  That afternoon Mrs. Oman Lemming called. F
rom my window I saw her arrive. I hated the angle at which she wore her overflowered hat as much as I hated the arrogant manner in which she ignored her footman as he handed her out of her carriage.

  Soon I should be sent for and expected to go down and stand before them, eyes downcast, the Poor Relation to whom they were being so generous: Cousin Agatha, who had resented me all these years I had spent under her roof, and Mrs. Oman Lemming, who was so graciously forgetting the part they had decided I must have played in the recent tragedy and was giving me the unique opportunity to be bullied and humiliated under her roof!

  And so I sat down without further delay and wrote to Jago Kellaway, telling him that I should be delighted to come to the Far Island and must indeed join members of my family and bridge the gap of years.

  I had completed the letter when the summons came and the envelope lay sealed in front of me.

  It was Bessie, knocking faintly as though she were sorry to have to bring such an order.

  "Miss Ellen, the mistress wants you in her sitting room. That Mrs. Oman Lemming's there."

  Defiantly I went down, my old spirits briefly reviving. I was not going to Mrs. Oman Lemming to be humiliated and treated with disdain. I was going to visit my relations in the Far Island off the coast of Cornwall.

  PART TWO

  The Island

  A Glimpse of Hydrock Manor

  It was late afternoon when I arrived at Polcrag, for after leaving the main-line train I had had to make the six- or seven-mile journey on the small local one. There was a fly waiting at the station and I asked the driver to take me and my baggage to the Polcrag Inn. Jago Kellaway had suggested this procedure when he had written to say he was delighted that I was accepting his invitation.

  "For," he wrote, "the Island is three miles out to sea, on whose pleasure I am afraid we have to wait. It may well be, my dear, that the boats can't come in when you arrive, in which case it is better for you to be at the Polcrag Inn, the landlord of which I know well, and I shall tell them to take especial care of you there."

  My possessions—all I owned—filled three moderate-sized bags, and most of this was clothes which had been made for my trousseau so, ironically enough, now that I was leaving London society, I was better equipped for it than I had ever been in my life.

  Esmeralda had bidden me a tearful farewell and Cousin Agatha had made little attempt to hide her relief in being rid of me, while Cousin William had slipped a purse of sovereigns into my hand with a murmur: "I insist on your taking it, Ellen. You may need it."

  As we clopped along from the station to the inn, I took stock of the little town which clustered below and yet at the same time seemed to climb the surrounding cliffs. Some of the houses were approached by steep slopes, others by steps cut out of the cliffside. They were made of gray Cornish stone and many of them had glassed-in porches undoubtedly for the dual purpose of catching the sun and keeping out the wind, which I imagined would blow in from the sea. The Polcrag Inn, a building of three stories with an archway at the side, stood in the main street, and we drove under this arch to the stables. Just as I was about to alight a man who wore a leather apron about his waist, and whom I guessed rightly to be the host, came into the yard.

  "You'm Miss Kellaway," he said, "if I be not mistook."

  I said that I was indeed Miss Kellaway.

  " 'Tis a fine room I have for 'ee. I've been warned of your coming."

  "I thought I should cross to the Island today," I said.

  "Lord love you, no, Miss. The sea be proper treacherous today. Did you see the white horses out there, far out 'tis true but when you see them you know 'tis no time to take out the boat for the Island."

  "So then I must stay the night here?"

  " 'Tis the only thing, Miss Kellaway, and we'm prepared. Orders is you'm to be well looked after till the boat do come for 'ee."

  Disappointed as I was not to reach the Island that day, I was comforted by the fact that my new-found kinsman had shown such concern for my well-being.

  "Jim here will take your bags up and maybe tomorrow they wicked old white horses will go to stable."

  I followed him across the courtyard to a door through which he led me. We were in a hall dominated by an oak chest on which stood a large pewter plate.

  "Where be to, me dear," called the innkeeper, and a woman came into the hall.

  "This be Miss Kellaway," said the innkeeper.

  The woman's eyes opened wide as she looked at me wonderingly. "Be it so then?" she said, and dropped a curtsy. "I'd best be taking her to her room," she went on.

  "I'd like to wash, please," I told her, "and change my blouse."

  "So 'ee shall," said the innkeeper's wife. "If you will follow me, Miss Kellaway."

  The innkeeper watched me as I ascended the stairs.

  "This be the room, Miss Kellaway," said his wife, throwing open a door. " Tis the best in the inn. 'Twas to be kept for 'ee case you should have to stay a while. I'll have hot water sent up to 'ee."

  "Thank you."

  "Oh, 'tis a pleasure, Miss Kellaway. 'Twouldn't do to give you aught but the best. We'll have your bags sent up in a trice."

  She hesitated. She had scarcely taken her eyes from me since she had seen me. I looked at her inquiringly, for I had the impression that she wanted to tell me something.

  She did. After a second or so's hesitation she burst out: "I knew your mother. You'm like her."

  "You knew my mother! How interesting."

  She nodded. "I were maid to her before I married Tom Pengelly. I were with her . . . until she left."

  "I'm so glad to meet someone who knew her. I was five when she died and one doesn't remember very much at that age."

  She nodded. "Well, so you'm here. Little Miss Ellen! My word, you've changed."

  I smiled. "I suppose I have since you last saw me. I could only have been about three years old then."

  "Time passes," she mused. "It seems only yesterday, though much have happened since, I reckon. My boy's over there." She nodded towards the window. "He works for Mr. Jago. You look out for Augustus—though he be known as Slack."

  "I will," I promised.

  "I were married soon after your mother went off and Pengelly and I had Augustus. There be nothing wrong with him. 'Twere just that he were born too soon. He'm a good boy."

  There was a knock on the door and a maid appeared with hot water followed by a boy with my bags.

  "There be roast pig cooking in the oven," said Mrs. Pengelly as she went out.

  I crossed to the window and looked at a magnificent view of the sea. I strained my eyes for a glimpse of the Island but all I could see were ominous dark clouds which were being scurried across a gray sky by that wind which was whipping up the white horses whose presence was holding me on the mainland.

  There was a tap on the door and a girl with towels entered.

  "Can you ever see the Far Island from here?" I asked her.

  "If it be clear enough, Miss."

  As I washed and changed my blouse I was becoming more and more excited, for now I should learn something about my parents. All I knew was that they had been unhappy together because my mother had left my father. I had often wondered about him and pictured him as a sort of ogre. I believed then that this adventure was going to prove exactly what I needed to take me away from a past in which I could only grieve for Philip's death and suffer a certain remorse because I had not appreciated him enough when he was alive.

  I did not unpack very much since I hoped I should be leaving the next day when the white horses had "gone to stable." I wondered whether Jago Kellaway would come to meet me and what he would be like. There had been a very warm welcome in his letter and I was growing very eager to meet him.

  As I descended the stairs the savory smell of roasting pork made me feel hungry for the first time since Philip's death. There were no other guests in the dining room and, seeing that I had noticed this, Mrs. Pengelly explained that it was early yet. "We thought you'd be r
eady for it after traveling," she added.

  I assured her that I was and I was sure that she was glad, as I was, that we were the only people in the dining room because that gave us an opportunity to talk.

  "You must have known my mother very well," I began, determined to make the most of that opportunity.

  "Oh yes, Miss Kellaway. You too, when you was a little 'un. You was a lively one, you was. 'Twas one body's work keeping you out of mischief."

  "Why did my mother leave the Island?"

  Mrs. Pengelly looked taken aback. "Well, my dear, that were for reasons best known to herself. Reckon her and your father didn't get along so well."

  The innkeeper came into the room saying that he wanted to know how I was enjoying the meal and when I told him it was excellent, he rubbed his hands together and looked pleased; but I did intercept a look he gave his wife and I wondered whether he had come not only to assure himself of my satisfaction but to warn her against talking too much.

  "If there's anything else you'm wanting," he began.

  I told him there was nothing and his wife asked if I would like coffee and, when I said I would, she replied that it would be served in the inn parlor.

  "I'll bring it to 'ee," she added, with, I thought, a promise to continue our conversation, but when she brought it and I tried to ask her more about my parents, she clamped her lips together as though she was not going to let them say what they would obviously have liked to, and I guessed her husband had warned her against indiscreet talk.

  Was there something mysterious about the Island and its inhabitants? I wondered.

  I finished my coffee and went up to my room, where I sat by the window looking out over the sea. It was a beautiful sight, for the moon had arisen and was throwing a pathway of silver light across the dark water. I fancied the sea was calmer than it had been on my arrival and that the wind was less persistently strong.