Presently, Vincent Pengally moved away towards the house, and in a minute had gone softly inside, unaware that he also had been secretly observed.
Under cover of darkness, John Blackwood had crept back to the barn from his nearby cottage, bringing with him a scoop of milk from the urn and the leg of a small chicken which, with a bit of help, the boy might chew on. He had hidden the lamp he carried, while waiting beside the shrubbery, until the blacksmith’s tall and formidable figure had exhausted its frenzied pacing.
Now, as he woke the boy with a warning to ‘be quiet, young ’un’, he wondered about Vincent Pengally’s sanity. Almost without being conscious of it, he spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘Is he a divil, or a man?’
‘He’s a devil!’ Silas had also heard the footsteps stamping across the yard, haunted footsteps which sent ripples of fear through him. John Blackwood had made no mention of what he had seen, nor whom the footsteps belonged to. But Silas knew. They had belonged to Vincent Pengally and, as John Blackwood had intimated, perhaps to the devil himself!
6
The pony moved like the wind across the moorland. Laughing, Scarlet spurred him on relentlessly, her face upturned to the cutting breeze and her raven-black hair flowing behind her. As the pony carried her dangerously close to the steep slippery face of North Hill, his instincts caused him to pull back. Still laughing, and breathless from the wild flight over the moors, Scarlet brought the pony to a halt and dismounted, a little shock rippling through her when she saw how close they had come to tumbling over the precipice.
‘Good boy… you’re a clever boy.’ She patted his thick muscular neck and nuzzled her face to his. ‘It’s a good job one of us is blessed with common sense,’ she murmured, looking into his large brown eyes and thinking how beautiful they were.
Having escaped the confines of Greystone House without her father’s knowledge, Scarlet treasured her forbidden freedom, when she need not be afraid that he would suddenly discover she was gone and track her down. Today was the last Friday in March and, as always on the last Friday of every month, Vincent Pengally would travel to the more remote hamlets hereabouts, attending to those animals who, for various reasons, could not be brought into the smithy; some were extremely valuable and were understandably cosseted; others might be old mares, or blue-blood stallions with fierce and dangerous tempers. Their owners knew that there was no finer blacksmith than Vincent Pengally. He handled these animals well, and was handsomely paid for his trouble.
Sinking into the long grass, while the pony contentedly grazed beside her, Scarlet gazed out towards the turbulent sea which stretched before her like a silvery sky speckled by sunbeams, and she thought there could be no lovelier place on God’s earth. Here, in this corner of Somerset, where the town of Minehead had nestled and grown since medieval times, all of nature’s elements had come together. Beyond the coastline lay the sea, and the land of Wales was clearly visible in the distance. Directly behind the town of Minehead, and all around, the green hills and valleys provided a natural protection from adverse weather conditions, and spreading away beyond the wooded areas where the vast lands of Exmoor, interspersed here and there with ancient little hamlets and isolated farmhouses. The moors were bleak and primitive, wild and terrifying. They had swallowed up many an unwary traveller who had innocently ventured into their uncharted territory, never to be seen or heard of again. Yet, though they were savage and merciless, the moors were also magnificent beyond description, glowing with life and splendid with colour, their beauty unsurpassed. They were vivid and alive, abundant with wild and exquisite creatures; they created the breath of life itself. Meandering brooks of pure shimmering waters ran through their very heart, nourishing and reviving the age-old landscape, ever tireless, always moving.
The moors sang and talked; they chuckled and moaned. They were never still or silent. To some they whispered a warning, but to others they beckoned. They beckoned now to Scarlet, just as they had always done and, if the light wasn’t already beginning to fade, she might have answered their call, for no one knew the moors as intimately as did Scarlet. And no one revered them with greater passion.
Reluctantly Scarlet got to her feet and, gathering the reins into her hands, she would have mounted. But, when the bracken split beneath the heavy tread of approaching footsteps, she glanced towards the spinney where the sound was made, and there, striding towards her, was the slim fair-haired figure of young Garrett Summers. Dressed in dark green cords and a thick roll-neck jumper, he might have been a fisherman’s son. But, on closer examination, the cords he wore were beautifully tailored, the jumper of finest lamb’s wool. His hands were slender and smooth, and his pale handsome face had the elegant chiselled structure of a gentleman. His father, a retired doctor, was one of the richest landowners in Somerset.
‘Scarlet!’ His hazel eyes lit up as, slightly limping, he hurried to her side. ‘What are you doing so far from home?’ He was astonished, but then he remembered. ‘It’s the last Friday of the month… of course! Your father’s on his rounds.’ He bent over her, touched her arm boldly. ‘Don’t go, Scarlet. Stay a while.’ Her dark beauty took his breath away.
‘I must go,’ Scarlet protested, pleasantly surprised by the touch of his hand. ‘If my father returns before I do,’ her black eyes bored into his face and he felt her fear, ‘Mammy will be the one made to suffer… she begged me not to stray far from the house, and I disobeyed her.’
‘Well, then… let me walk a short way with you?’ The relief flooded his kind features when he saw her gentle nod, before she turned the pony and began leading him. ‘Why doesn’t your father make you go with him on his rounds, if he’s so concerned about you wandering the moors on your own?’ Like most people thereabouts, he was aware of Vincent Pengally’s obsession with keeping his daughter hidden from prying eyes. He did not judge that too harshly, believing that if he had a daughter as devastatingly beautiful as Scarlet, then he might behave in just the same way.
Scarlet laughed. ‘He wouldn’t do that, silly!’ she scorned him, ‘because then all the men might want to run away with me, and all the wives beat me black and blue out of spite.’ The laughter slipped from her face and her voice became more serious. ‘Besides… taking me with him would mean I might have to travel in the cart with Silas… and that would never do!’
‘I should hope not!’ exclaimed Garrett Summers, himself appalled at the idea. ‘What a morose and moody fellow he is… like as not he’d burn you up with those sultry eyes of his.’ He gave a small nervous laugh. ‘There’s something… frightening… about him.’
‘Nonsense!’ retorted Scarlet, amused by this conversation, ‘you’re just a coward at heart!’ When he fell silent and appeared to be deeply wounded by her thoughtless words, she brought herself and the pony to a halt. The young man stopped and turned to see her smiling up at him, a devious delightful little smile, and her dark eyes alive with mischief. Reaching up, she kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Don’t mind me, Garrett,’ she murmured, taking pleasure in the soft pink blush that began in his neck and swept slowly over his amiable features. ‘If you knew me better, you’d know how I love to tease.’ Scarlet’s generous kiss had compensated for the hurt she had inflicted on him with her callous remark. Inwardly she chided herself for such thoughtlessness, especially when she had only recently overheard John Blackwood describing to a fellow market-trader how ‘young Summers is home from the war… had his leg shot through. They do say as how he’s desperate to get back… keen to be thrust into the front line. Bloody young fool!’ Garrett Summers had returned from France some months ago, in December of 1916, and still he was not well enough to return. There were those, John Blackwood included, who predicted that he never would.
‘Was it really awful?’ Scarlet felt the need to know. ‘Were there other men falling dead all round you… like John described? Was it so bloody and terrifying? Tell me, Garrett… I want to pretend I was there. Oh, if I’d been born a man… what glorious adventures I’d have!�
� Her voice trembled with excitement. Gripping his arm with her long slender fingers, she urged him ‘Please Garrett… tell me about it!’
‘No, Scarlet.’ For a moment he hated her. He was repulsed by the excitement in her voice and horrified to see how vitally alive and glowing her black eyes were and how, in their hunger, they seemed to swallow him whole. ‘I won’t describe the terrible things I’ve seen, not to anyone… and certainly not to you, a girl of such tender years.’ The small spiral of disgust he had felt crumbled away beneath the contrite and loving smile she now bestowed on him. ‘Let’s walk on, Scarlet. Soon it will be dark.’
‘I’m forgiven, then?’
‘How could you not be?’ He laughed aloud. ‘I can’t imagine anyone not forgiving you… whatever you did,’ he said. Certainly, he could never stay angry with her for long; she was too lovely, too alive, and too captivating. He adored her. When, as a young boy, he would go with his father to the blacksmith’s, he had first seen Scarlet as a toddler, carrying the dolly-pegs while her mammy hung out the washing. She couldn’t have been more than three years old, because he himself was only in his tenth year. But that first sighting of the little girl with the melting dark eyes and long black hair had haunted him ever after. He had seen her on only four occasions since: twice when he had gone with his father to the blacksmith’s shop, once at the market in Dunster, and once on the fringes of the moors, when he had been rabbiting and she was sitting on a grassy bank, with her bare legs dangling into a fast-flowing brook. That last occasion was over two years ago, just before he had gone to be a soldier. She was the same age then as he had been on that first wonderful day when he had seen her in the garden with her mammy. She had made no protest when he also took off his shoes and socks, to sit beside her and dip his feet into the cold running waters. Straight away she was warm and friendly, and it thrilled him to discover how she remembered every detail of their previous meetings, when he had always believed that she had not even noticed him! That meeting by the brook was the most precious of all, although she seemed nervous and afraid in case her father should come searching for her. He recalled how, being startled by a noise in the undergrowth, Scarlet had sent him to investigate. When he came back to assure her that the noise was no more than a roebuck foraging there, Scarlet was gone; taken flight with the same terror as the roebuck had done on sighting him! But he kept close the memory of her; took it to war with him, cherished it and fell even deeper in love with her. Time and again he reminded himself that, in spite of her mature ways, she was only a child. And he suffered all the more because of it.
‘Do you hate your father?’ Scarlet’s question broke into his quiet thoughts and split them asunder.
‘No. I love and respect him.’
‘How fortunate you are, then,’ she said in a quiet, smiling voice. But then it was tinged with bitterness when she told him, ‘I loathe my father… I’ll always loathe him.’ She viciously flicked the horse-whip against her leg, wincing when it lacerated the skin there.
Garrett’s gentle soul had been alarmed at her remark. He was mortified when he saw that she had cut herself. ‘We’re close to the river, Scarlet… let me wash the wound clean for you.’ He put the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, willing her to stay.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Scarlet shrugged away his touch and hurried her footsteps towards home. ‘It’s just a scratch,’ she laughed. ‘The dog will lick it clean when I get home, and nobody will be any the wiser.’ She laughed again and, not knowing whether to take her seriously, Garrett laughed also.
Some distance away, the old woman paused in her herb-gathering, disturbed by the sound of passing feet and the echo of laughter. Looking up, she saw the young people and waved to them. ‘Twilight’s coming,’ she called, ‘get yourself off home.’ The fair-haired young man returned her greeting, but the girl only looked, her black eyes raking the bent and shawled figure, and only the flicker of a smile on her bewitching face.
The old woman watched as they went on their way: he, the hopelessly smitten and gullible young man of nineteen tender years and she, not yet thirteen, but already aware of the power she had over him; not really wanting it, but not ready to relinquish it either. The sound of their gentle laughter lingered as they went on their way, too far off to hear the old woman’s warning. ‘Laughter doesn’t come free, y’know,’ she had called after the departing figures. ‘There’s always a price. It has to be paid for… with tears!’
At the top of the rise, Scarlet eased her mount to a halt, thankful that she had persuaded Garrett to leave her some long way back, he to his path, and she to hers. He was a nice enough young man, but not one whose company she would deliberately seek out. Besides which, the last remnants of daylight were rapidly fading, and she feared that her father would arrive home before her. From this peak she could just identify the narrow winding lane along which Vincent Pengally would travel back. Her dark eyes anxiously swept the snaking lane below, but there was no sign of any approaching cart. Scarlet breathed a sigh. ‘Oh, but… what if he’s already home?’ The thought was so terrifying that it voiced itself aloud. Straining her eyes, through the growing shadows, Scarlet peered towards Greystone House. It stood out in splendid isolation, a grey awesome spectacle, with its high gable and many chimneys reaching upwards against the sky and making a formidable silhouette. In spite of much disrepair, the house was proud and its character old. Owned by the Pengallys for successive generations, it had been to each Pengally a host of a different kind. Over the years it had taken on the role of gentleman’s residence, a farmer’s house, a magistrate’s quarters, a doctor’s abode and, for the past fifty years, for Vincent Pengally and his father before him, the outbuildings housed the tools of a blacksmith, and the grounds were given over to a smallholding. The four acres of garden produced a reasonable crop of fruit and vegetables to be sold in the Dunster Market.
Scarlet continued to rake her eyes over the scene below, scouring the yard for any sign that her father had returned. If Vincent Pengally had already made his way home, the cart would be standing by the barn, and, like as not, the lamp in the smithy would be lit. Her father was always particular to put away his tools and to leave his workplace meticulously tidy. Scarlet could see no sign of the cart, and the smithy was in darkness. She was greatly relieved that her escapade would go undetected. ‘Come on, boy… let’s put Mammy’s mind at rest.’ She patted the pony’s neck and coaxed him to lower ground, where they followed the narrow fern-strewed trail which led towards Packhorse Bridge and the approach to Greystone House.
As she neared the valley, Scarlet could see her mammy’s small nervous figure walking up and down in the yard, and occasionally glancing towards the rising hills, a look of anxiety pinching her tired face. On seeing Scarlet approaching, she plucked up the hem of her skirt and ran forward, the relief sweeping her pretty blue eyes. ‘Thank God you’re back before he is!’ she cried, catching at the pony’s reins and gripping them tight in her fist. ‘Where have you been all this time, child?’ she demanded. ‘Have you no thought for your poor mother? You know what he’s like… and still you defy me!’ She fumbled in her hasty steps but never once took her eyes off her daughter.
‘It’s alright, Mammy.’ Scarlet stopped the pony and dismounted. She had no wish to see her mammy so distraught and it touched her conscience. ‘I’m back now, and he’ll never know I was even gone.’ She slipped her hand into that of the woman, and together they hurried towards the barn. ‘I’m sorry… really,’ Scarlet affectionately rubbed Hannah’s frail hand against her face, ‘but I had to go. I can’t stand being cooped up… it drives me mad!’
‘Alright, child,’ Hannah could see the genuine remorse in her daughter’s dark eyes and she cursed the monster who kept them both prisoners. ‘You go on, quickly, and see to the pony… groom him well, just in case your father takes it into his mind to examine him. Don’t leave any traces of the moors on him… or on yourself. D’you hear me?’ The fear had returned to her voice.
‘Don’t worry.’ Scarlet swung open the big barn door and led the pony inside. ‘He won’t catch me out,’ she promised.
‘Let’s hope not!’ The thought was too much for Hannah to dwell on. ‘Just be quick, child. Be quick as you can.’ She went towards the house on hurried footsteps, now and then furtively glancing towards Packhorse Bridge and the direction from which she knew he would come. When she neither saw nor heard any evidence of his approach, her frantic heart became quieter. ‘Oh Scarlet… Scarlet Pengally,’ she muttered, raising her eyes to the darkening sky. ‘Whatever will become of you, child?’ Hannah’s fear was never for herself. It was for Scarlet, the girl who was almost a woman, rebellious, unpredictable, often cruel in her treatment of others; yet at the same time Scarlet was gentle and passionately forgiving, generous and tolerant. And who could blame the girl if she was sometimes strange and secretive, Hannah thought, for she had never been allowed a normal childhood, never been taught how to think like a child. Hannah shivered as she thought on Scarlet’s starved upbringing, and she was ashamed of the part she had played in it, even though it had been a passive part. She was not unaware of how Scarlet crept from her bedroom in the depth of night, to sneak away onto the moors, yet her fear had kept her silent. The child would not be guided by her mother, nor would she be willingly imprisoned by her father. Yet, she was a prisoner in many ways, ways that even Scarlet was still unaware of. And, even more dangerous, she was enslaved by her own beauty. ‘Lord help us all!’ Hannah murmured as she disappeared into the kitchen.
When Vincent Pengally returned home, the darkness was thickening, and the house already lit from within. Some time after their arrival, when the work was done, the boy and the man parted company: one to his straw bed in the barn, and the other to his house.
Scarlet Page 6