‘Mr Charles has been asking for you, Ma’am,’ Mrs Tilley said as an afterthought. ‘I fear this fine weather hasn’t improved his temper at all. He wants to go into the garden, but Doctor Pender has forbidden it until April’s out.’
She spoke with the candour of one who had been in the same family’s service for some years, and Morwen nodded sympathetically.
‘I’ll go and sit with him awhile. He’ll have seen me come home and will be impatient to hear my family news.’
Charles Killigrew was practically bedridden now, having cruelly suffered a second stroke a year after the first one. He’d seemed to improve dramatically, then was struck down again, and this time there had been no visible improvement for three years. They all knew it was unlikely that it would happen now.
Ben had done everything to make his father’s life as comfortable as possible. A nurse was a permanent resident at Killigrew House. Her presence took much of the weight from Morwen’s slender shoulders, but Charles still infinitely preferred his daughter-in-law’s calming influence in his bedroom.
It was Morwen’s hand he sought in his despairing moments, and for Morwen’s step on the stairs that he listened. Ben had arranged large mirrors at either side of Charles’s long bedroom window, so that he could see the world outside his room.
Ben had done all he could, but it was a poor substitute to a man who had been used to lording it in the town and at his clay works, and whose voice had been heard bellowing like a bull when he was roused. That voice was no more than a pathetic whine at best now, and a dribbling gurgle at worst.
Morwen quickened her step as she went into Charles’s room. She smiled at the angular nurse, who went away discreetly at Morwen’s approach, no doubt glad of a much-needed rest. Charles was scowling, his face lopsided and twisted. He had grown much thinner of late and bore little resemblance to the lion he had always felt himself to be. He was still large-framed, but for all that he was a frail old man now.
‘How are you, Father?’ Morwen asked brightly. ‘You’re looking much better—’
‘Nonsense!’ Charles spoke with painful slowness, but at least his speech wasn’t totally impaired, even if it sounded as though he held a plum in his mouth when he formed the words.
‘All right, then. You don’t look much better.’ Morwen shrugged, knowing it was best to agree with him rather than bully him with false cheerfulness as the nurse did.
‘Would you like me to read to you, or do you want to hear about what I did today?’
‘About you first. Then read.’ He leaned back against the pillow exhausted. From the tidy look of his bed, Morwen guessed that Nurse had been fussing him again. Why didn’t she just leave him, instead of having this obsessive need to straighten and smooth as though he were a little boy?
‘I saw your sister today. She’s well, and she says that her – her son is working in New York.’ That should please Charles, who had never had a good word for his lazy nephew; and yet, for all that he had turned Hannah Pascoe out of his house, he still paid her an allowance so that she could be independent. Family duty was inherent in the Killigrews.
Charles gave an apology for a snort. ‘And your brother?’
‘Mrs Pascoe says he’s gone to California to work in some gold mining. I don’t know how true it is. I hope our Matt will find his feet at last. I want him to be a success.’
Her voice was wistful, but suddenly she didn’t want to talk about her family any more. ‘There’s nothing else to tell you, except a lot of womens’ gossip between Mammie and me, and you won’t want to hear all that. I’ll read to you for a while and then you can have your sleep before dinner.’
She picked up the current book they were sharing, and Charles’s eyes never left her face as her soft voice took him into yet another world. As she read to him of pirates on the high seas, Morwen was filled with a rush of pity for the man lying so still and listening so intently. If her days were tedious, then how much more were his!
She read quietly, until at last she glanced up and saw that Charles was already sleeping, lulled by the music of the words. Morwen looked down at him, touched his twisted cheek with her lips, and tip-toed out.
There were voices coming from the drawing-room, and her step quickened at once as she heard Ben speaking with Mrs Tilley. Her heart beat a little faster, and she marvelled that after four years of marriage the mere sound of his voice still had the power to stir her. Without Ben she was only half alive.
As she entered the room he turned at once, a tall masculine figure whose looks had matured with the responsibility of ownership since taking over the clay works from his father. He was still only twenty-five years old, but maturity suited Ben Killigrew, and there was many a young bal maiden at the works who sighed after him. They wasted their dreams for Ben was too much in love with his beautiful wife to look at anyone else, even for dalliance.
Morwen ran straight into his arms. He held her captive there, his hands spanning her small waist and curving her towards him. His mouth sought hers and she could taste the freshness of outdoors on his lips. The tang of the moorland was on his skin. Her fingers dug into the dark hair at his nape and she could feel the hard maleness of him against her soft pliant body.
‘I missed you, Ben,’ she murmured against his mouth when he released her a little. ‘I didn’t know you were going out this afternoon.’
‘Did you expect me to be waiting here like an obliging pet while my wife goes out for a gossip in the town?’ he teased.
‘I never gossip!’ She took the bait at once, and then laughed, for it was exactly what she and Bess had been doing – and enjoying it. Her blue eyes glowed into his at his teasing, as she ran her hands down the length of his arms. And then she became instantly aware of the tension there.
He had held her and kissed her because it was natural to them, and every reunion was another avowal of love, however briefly they had been apart. But she knew him too well. She knew the heart and soul of him, and something was wrong. Something that had taken him unexpectedly to the clay works that day.
Even as the intuitive thoughts sped through her mind and she looked sharply into Ben’s face, she saw his expression change from teasing to frowning. A flicker of fear ran over her. There had been peace and harmony at Killigrew Clay for four years now, the same length of time as their marriage had existed. If one should begin to crumble, then so could the other…
Morwen wished the thought away. There was no reason for it, but the Cornish didn’t always look for reasons. Feelings were often enough, and the feeling she was experiencing now was enough to churn her stomach. Making her want to cling to Ben, and add her strength to his, if strength were needed. Her fingers curled around his arms and he looked into her delicately-featured face, unable to hide his unease.
‘Ben, what’s wrong?’ Morwen said quietly. She was almost afraid to ask, but more afraid not to know.
Chapter Two
Ben released her from his embrace, and the small action made the chill run through Morwen again. She knew it was ridiculous, but for a moment she still wanted him to hold her, to feel that closeness, that shared empathy…
‘You’d think we were ill-wished at times,’ Ben said abruptly. ‘Just when things are going smoothly, trouble rears its head again. And all because of some nervous matron who swears she felt the earth shudder beneath the rail tracks on this morning’s excursion trip from the town to the works. The first trip of the season, and now we have to put people’s minds at rest. If the rail tracks are safe enough to transport the heavy clay, there can hardly be any risk to a load of passengers—’
‘Ben, stop!’ Morwen clutched at his arm as his voice rose angrily and his handsome face darkened. ‘This is Morwen, remember? I’m on your side! You don’t have to explain your safety precautions to me! How did all this come about?’
His eyes softened as he looked down at her, though he was still too wrapped up in the altercations of the afternoon to relax immediately. There had been bitter wor
ds and demands for a public declaration of safety… and the presence of the legal representative of the Honourable Mrs Stanforth and the county officials had alarmed many of the clayworkers.
‘The driver stopped the train when it neared Clay One works as usual, to give the engine and passengers a breather from the steep climb, and to point out the various pits. Apparently it was then that the Honourable Mrs Stanforth was sure she could feel the earth move a little, and hear a cracking sound. It was enough to cause a near-panic among the other passengers, and they wanted no more tours of the clay works but to get back to St Austell and safety as quickly as possible!’
‘Ben, that’s terrible!’ Morwen’s eyes were saucer-round at hearing this. It was a new innovation, to carry the paying townsfolk from St Austell high on to the moors for a round trip during late spring and summer, to view the clay works from the safety of the little rail carriages, scrubbed clean after the twice-yearly despatch of the clay blocks to Charlestown port.
The clayworkers themselves were divided about the idea, some saying they felt on display to these fine folk who had dubbed the clay spoil heaps the white hills, and said it in a quaint, patronising tone. Others didn’t care, as long as it helped Killigrew Clay to prosper, for the more shillings in Ben Killigrew’s coffers, the more pennies in their own wage-packets.
Ben had other plans in mind too. The rail tracks were idle for much of the year, which seemed a total waste to him. So as well as the townsfolk visiting the clay works on the moors, this year he also planned free excursions to the sea for the clayworkers’ children, and to make the railway line available for Sunday-school outings during the summer months.
The scheme had been welcomed, and Ben Killigrew’s generosity had received a favourable mention in the Truro newspaper, The Informer, but now this…
‘I received a note from Mr Princeton, the Stanforth lawyer, just after you went out,’ Ben went on in a clipped voice. ‘The Honourable lady had wasted no time, and Mr Princeton requested me to meet him with the county engineers and surveyors at Clay One works this afternoon.’
‘What happened?’ Morwen could imagine how Ben would hate this high-handed treatment. He was proud, the son of a self-made man, and very much in control of his kingdom. She sat down heavily on one of the damask-covered sofas, while Ben continued to prowl about the room, his dark eyes steely.
‘We went over every inch of the track system,’ he told her. ‘There was no sign of subsidence, nor anything to make people think there was any danger. The hillside is as solid as the granite beneath it – except for one little item, of course.’
Morwen felt a cold trickle of apprehension wash over her. The casual way Ben said the words alerted her that it was far more serious than calling it one little item…
‘And what is that?’ Her voice was scratchy, waiting…
‘Long before the china clay was discovered in such abundance around St Austell, the area was mined for tin,’ Ben said shortly. ‘The history of Cornish tin goes back centuries, Morwen, but there’s no recorded evidence of shafts or tunnels on these particular moors. Tin was played out here long before the clayworkers moved in, even though there’s many a tin-miner from other parts who scorns going a’claying, as they call it, thinking our industry so much less important than theirs—’
‘Ben, what happened?’ She realised suddenly that he was putting off the moment of telling her. Her heart seemed to beat in sickening bursts.
He shrugged, standing in front of the great fireplace now, hands tightly held behind his back, feet apart, chin jutting out aggressively, in the stance of old Charles Killigrew.
Morwen could see Charles in his son all over again at that moment. The same fierce pride in his clay works; the resentment at the accusation that he hadn’t looked to the safety of all in his charge; the will to survive and be lord of his sky-tips, his white hills…
‘I don’t need to tell you of the clayworkers’ reaction, do I? The news spread like a forest fire. I visited each pit in turn where the clay captains had called a noisy meeting of all the workers to explain what was happening. You’ll know how hot-headed they are when a panic begins. So meanwhile all movement on the railway is halted until we get the say-so from the engineers and surveyors. I was obliged to agree to that, and I’ve no doubt the reporter from The Informer will be sniffing around pretty soon. But a detailed investigation with special instruments will start tomorrow. I insisted that I wasn’t prepared to delay things while they are on their backsides in their offices and talked endlessly. If there’s work to be done then I want action. I’ve no intention of seeing all my plans thwarted by some stupid woman’s scare-mongering!’
He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. Morwen went swiftly to his side. Even though the day was warm and a fire burned brightly in the hearth behind him, they were both chilled and dismayed by today’s happening.
And into Morwen’s head came a blurred snippet of memory, like a little ghost from the past. Years ago, old Zillah, the wise woman on the moors, had intimated in that mysterious way of hers that one day an earthquake could come… at the time Morwen had assumed that the earthquake prophesy had been fulfilled by the clay waggon crashing through old Nott’s bakery.
That was upheaval enough… but now, suddenly, the half-remembered words took on a new and more sinister meaning. But she refused to think of them. Instead she wanted to comfort Ben, to replace the look of anxiety on his face with the special look of love he reserved for her alone. She leaned on tip-toe and kissed the hard line of his mouth, her arms around him like a protective mantle.
‘Ben, there’s nothing more you can do about it. It’s happened, and we must have faith that everything will be all right. The rail tracks have been so beneficial for the town and the clayworkers. I refuse to believe that something that’s brought so much good can turn bad.’
He breathed in the fragrant scent of her hair and tasted her soft lips, and some of his turbulent thoughts left him. She had a uniquely calming effect when he needed it most, and right now the simple logic of a clayworker’s daughter eased his more educated mind better than all the ancient mining maps he and the county officials had studied over the moors and in the pit captain’s hut that day. There was no real evidence yet of any ancient tin-mining activity beneath these moors… but not all of them may have been documented, and even the smallest doubt as to the safety of the Killigrew Clay rail tracks must be overcome.
Ben pushed it from his mind. Morwen was right. Tonight he could do no more than he had already done. His arms closed around her. His adored wife had the power to calm him and arouse him in equal measure when the need arose. Her kiss, begun so gently, suddenly deepened as though she melted into him. He felt the peaks of her breasts against his chest, and knew that for them both, passion was never far below the surface.
If all else perished, they had this… they were like two halves of the same coin, perfectly matched. Physically they were exquisitely in tune and, to Morwen’s ever-receptive mind, the joy experienced in each other almost mystical. She felt the tightening of Ben’s arms, and knew that supper could wait…
The tap on the drawing-room door was an intrusion into the sweetness of the moment, and Ben released her from his arms with a smothered oath as Mrs Tilley came apologetically into the room, though her eyes were alive with interest at her message.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ben, but there’s a person come to see you from Truro. He asked me to give you his calling-card, so perhaps you’ll tell me if you’m at home or not.’
Ben looked at the card, headed with the words The Informer, the hard-hitting Truro newspaper. Beneath it was the name of the caller, Lew Tregian, chief reporter and editor. Ben glanced at Morwen, who moved away from him as he told Mrs Tilley coldly to show the gentleman in. Already it had begun.
* * *
In the small snug Tremayne house Hal was relating the day’s events to Bess, interrupted every minute or so by Freddie’s excited questions, and by Jack’s more sombre acc
ount. Jack had been on the main day shift, and was as ready to add his bits of news to his father’s. Since Hal’s rise in status to Works Manager of Killigrew Clay, Freddie had been attending the St Austell town school instead of working the clay like his brothers, and received more than the sketchy education of the rest of his family, but he was as eager as his mother to know of today’s unexpected events. It was clear to all that Hal was deeply troubled by it all.
‘Gil Dark at Clay Two works was up in arms at once,’ Hal said. ‘He never did think much to the townsfolk spying on the rest on us, dar—’
‘Gil Dark was allus too stubborn a man for a pit captain,’ Bess remarked. ‘But what was Ben’s feeling about these folk tramping over the works and the moors? He wouldn’t take too kindly to it!’
‘No, he didn’t, Mammie,’ Jack growled. ‘Anybody could see that by the scowl on his face, though he didn’t have much time for talking to we. And our Sam weren’t saying a lot, neither. Keen to keep his job until he sees which way the land lies, I reckon—’
‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, our Jack,’ Hal snapped. He didn’t anger easily, but he hated to see the frequent quarrels between his two sons, when they had always been such close companions until lately. ‘There’s no sense in any of us getting our dander up until the folk that know about surveying and engineering see what’s to do. If there’s subsidence beneath the rail tracks as ’tis suggested, then ’twill cause a big enough outcry, but there’s no sense in guessing until we know for certain sure. It may be no more than a scare. There’s been no talk of any tin-mining around here in my recollection.’
‘We’ve been learning about the tin-mining at school!’ Freddie said importantly.
Clay Country Page 2