Dora stared at her, and sniffed.
‘Sam don’t allus think so when she wakes us up in the night to ’er squalling,’ she retorted.
‘You wouldn’t be without her though, would you?’
As though she thought some demon spirit of the moors was going to snatch Primmy away that very instant, Dora immediately took the baby out of Morwen’s arms.
‘’Course not. That’s a daft thing to say! Be ’ee visiting the works while you’m away from the big house?’
The words were pointed, reminding Morwen that she had been here long enough. It wasn’t her old home any longer. The furniture was different, the new family complete; Morwen’s bed-space behind the curtain not used as in the old days. She got to her feet, and quickly kissed the boys good-bye. They bleated noisily about her leaving, clearly loving this unexpected visit.
Til come and see you again,’ Morwen promised. She glanced at Dora. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘’Tis your brother’s cottage. That makes ’ee welcome.’
She didn’t add her own welcome, and once out in the fresh afternoon air, Morwen was glad to be rid of the stuffiness of the place. Nothing stayed the same, she thought sadly, and then she dug her heels into her mare’s flanks and raced him across the moors to try and dispel the burning emptiness inside her.
She was aware of a searing envy too… for while she had been at the cottage, she had felt a strange, fierce desire to keep those three children encircled in her arms for ever… she could love them as her own… and such longing was as futile as wishing for the moon. It was almost wicked too, for they were Dora’s children, not hers. Sam’s and Dora’s…
The mare was lathering with the gallop. Morwen reined her in and slid off her back. Her own breathing was heavy and fast, both from the wildness of the ride, and the inborn need for it. She leaned against the mare’s side, feeling her heave from exertion. And suddenly had to close her eyes against the brightness of the sun.
Her breathing gradually slowed down. Her hair had come loose from its combs and had tumbled down her back. She was on the crest of the moors, with Charles Killigrew’s sky-tips, the white hills of the clay works, far away to the right of her, glinting in the sunlight.
Somewhere beyond was the granite bulk of the Larnie Stone, and far below was the busy town of St Austell, its buildings no more than stone huddles from this distance. Out of sight in the afternoon haze were the beautiful long sandy beaches, and the dust-white port of Charlestown, made prosperous by the export of china clay.
This was her world. From these moors she had gazed down on St Austell a million times with her friend Celia. Two carefree bal maidens, envying the townsfolk, and never thinking that one day one of them would be married to a clay boss, and the other would lie drowned in the slurry of a clay pool.
‘Be ’ee lost, lady?’
The voice made Morwen jump. She knew its owner before she turned round. When she did, she saw the old crone’s bead-like eyes narrow, and the breeze catching the scanty wisps of grey hair around the wizened face gave the old woman a scarecrow look.
‘Don’t ’ee know me, Zillah?’ Morwen said huskily. ‘’Tis Morwen Killigrew who used to be Morwen Tremayne.’
‘I mind ’ee well,’ the woman nodded slowly. ‘I mind the day ’ee came to see old Zillah wi’ that pretty friend o’ yourn. Not so pretty after, were she?’
‘Don’t – ’tis cruel to speak so—’
The old crone cocked her head on one side like a little bird. She had no time for niceties.
‘What do ’ee want wi’ old Zillah today then, lady? I’m thinking ’tis more’n chance that brings ’ee near to my cot.’
Morwen glanced behind the old woman and realised she had galloped nearer to her destination than she had known. The old hovel where Zillah lived with her cats and her evil potions was only a short distance away.
She took a sharp breath, suddenly hating the thought of stepping inside it again. The memories of the last time, when she and Celia had begged this old hag for a potion to rid Celia of Jude Pascoe’s child were still too painful… it was ironic that Morwen should come here now for the very opposite.
‘How long have ’ee been wed, lady?’ Zillah asked suddenly, refusing to call her by name yet.
‘Four years—’
‘And no babbies yet?’ As if she truly had the second sight of which she boasted, Zillah spoke shrewdly, nodding as Morwen’s face reddened. ‘So ’ee thinks to ask old Zillah for summat to make your man more amorous, be that it?’
‘No!’ Morwen said indignantly. Ben gave her all the loving a woman could ever need… until just recently, she admitted, when he was too concerned with other matters, but that wasn’t something she cared to tell this evil old woman. Her Mammie had always been against consulting Zillah, and Morwen suddenly felt the need to be far away from here. Before she could move, the scrawny fingers gripped her wrist, fast as an eagle’s talons.
‘’Tis the only thing I can do for ’ee, Morwen Killigrew,’ Zillah said sternly, and then began to cackle in her unnerving manner. ‘A potion to put in your man’s drink to make him give ’ee more o’ the loving if ’ee ain’t getting enough. Even old Zillah can’t improve a man’s seed. Takes old Mother Earth to do that—’
Morwen twisted out of her grasp. ‘I’m not tampering with Ben’s drink,’ she stuttered. ‘And I don’t want any more of your evil advice. Celia died because of it—’
She scrambled on to the mare’s back and dug her heels in her again. She felt as young and vulnerable as on that bad day, imprinted in her memory for all time. Her hair streamed out in the wind as the mare whinnied in protest and then leapt to a gallop, but behind her she could still hear the old crone’s cawing, parting words.
‘The girl drowned herself, lady. ’Twas her own doing, not mine. ’Twas her destiny, same as ’tis yourn to be barren ’til the time be right—’
Sobs were tearing at Morwen’s chest. She hardly registered the last few jeers, only that one hateful word. Barren, barren… the loneliest word in the English language.
She wished she had never come here today, to visit Dora and the children… to make this useless journey to see Zillah. The glory of the moors was lost on her, and all she wanted was to go home… but Ben wouldn’t be there. He might not come home until tomorrow, and when he did, he still wouldn’t be close to her in spirit. He wouldn’t need her as she needed him.
She drove the mare on over the moors. The Larnie Stone, with its so-called mystical powers, seemed to rear up as she neared it. She barely glanced at it. It hadn’t helped Celia in her quest for a true and noble lover, and Morwen was unwilling to remember right now that it was there that she and Ben Killigrew had first tasted the delights of one another.
Without noticing where she was going, she realised she was galloping along the leafy lanes towards her parents’ home, and with the sobs still choking her, she finally slid off the animal’s back and burst through the door of the house like a whirlwind, finding solace as she had always done, in Bess’s arms.
* * *
‘There, my lamb, whatever’s wrong!’ Bess exclaimed at once. ‘Has summat hurt ’ee? You’m as flushed as a winter fire, yet your hands be cold as charity. Sit ’ee down and get your breath, and tell me what troubles ’ee.’
The urge to spill out everything was like a dam about to burst inside her. But it wasn’t fair to burden Bess with it all. What good would it do? And knowing that Morwen had visited Zillah would only antagonise her mother. Caution stopped her blurting out the words. Instead, she blamed her distress on missing Ben…
‘What a ninny you be, Morwen,’ Bess smiled gently with obvious relief that it was nothing worse. ‘So Ben might be staying away for one night! ’Tis good to know you two still be lovebirds and want each other’s company above all others. Be glad for the pain o’ missin’ him, love. ’Tis preferable to not caring if he’s near or far!’ Morwen forced a shaky smile to her lips. Did Ben care as much as she di
d? She wouldn’t think of such doubts.
‘I’m just being silly,’ she mumbled. ‘’Tis just that I miss un so, and it seems that I hardly see him these days.’ Bess gave her a quick hug. ‘It takes a parting to have a sweet reunion, my love. Remember that! And I’ve no doubt Ben will be missin’ ’ee too.’
Morwen tried not to sigh too audibly, and Bess spoke briskly, perhaps seeing more than her daughter imagined she did.
‘Will ’ee both come for Sunday tea, Morwen? Freddie’s school-teacher’s calling on us, bein’ the only time your Daddy feels free to see un, and neither of us be looking forward to it. If Ben’s here, he’ll mebbe help us on the decision about our Freddie going away to school.’
‘All right.’ Morwen relaxed. This was safer ground. ‘What about Jack? Will he be puttin’ his penn’orth in?’
‘Jack’s goin’ over to Truro on Sunday. Seems he’s met up with some folk who be more interesting than we clay folk. And Sam and Dora think ’twill be too much of a houseful wi’ the babbies, so they be stayin’ away too.’
Her voice was still crisp, and Morwen knew better than to question her further. But she meant to question Jack at the first opportunity. If he was drifting away from the family, it would break her Mammie’s heart all over again, the way Matt had broken it when he’d gone off to America with Jude Pascoe.
‘I’d best go, Mammie. I’ve been visiting Dora and the children, and Ben’s father will be watching out for my return.’
‘How is the poor man?’ Now Bess was certain why Morwen had looked so distraught. Seeing Dora with her happy little brood must make the girl ache to hold a babby of her own.
Morwen shrugged. ‘No better, no worse. Doctor Pender says he’ll go on the way he is until his heart finally gives out.’
‘’Tis a poor prospect for a fine man,’ Bess said sadly. ‘But ’tis a blessing he has Ben to take on the burden of the clayworks. No man could ask for a better son, love.’
And what of the future if Ben had no son for the clay inheritance? The thought was constantly in Morwen’s head, coupled with the undoubted fact that if he had married Jane Carrick, there would surely have been sons by now. Jane had proved her fertility by producing a daughter for Tom Askhew, and would probably have as large a brood as Sam and Dora in time.
‘We’ll see you on Sunday, Mammie,’ Morwen promised quickly, and left the cosy little house feeling somewhat like Charles Killigrew. No better, no worse than before.
Chapter Six
Spring was already merging into summer. For once it wasn’t a prospect that pleased Ben Killigrew. With every week that passed, the need to get his railway pronounced safe became more urgent. It was a matter of personal pride and integrity, as well as business sense.
He scarcely noticed the bursting forth of blossom and greenery as he rode to Truro to call on Richard Carrick on that fine May morning. His thoughts were still fraught over the unproductive meeting on the previous day.
There had been three others and himself poring over old maps and land proofs in the surveyors’ offices at Bodmin. That there had been old tin-mine workings in the area where Killigrew and other clay works now flourished was undenied.
What concerned Ben was whether the underground working constituted a danger to the twice-yearly despatch of clay to Charlestown port, and for his railway to be carrying passengers at other times. He had little patience to listen to anything else. He wanted his questions answered, and these old fools seemed just as intent on dodging the issue.
‘Mr Killigrew!’ The surveyor, bewhiskered and pompous and constantly twirling his watch chain in his bulbous fingers, glowered at Ben in exasperation. ‘We’ve told ’ee a hundred times. We dare not make a move on this until we hear from Chief Engineer Trent. ’Tis more’n we dare do, my dear sir.’
‘Please don’t patronise me, Mr Newton,’ Ben snapped. ‘I fail to see why you can’t declare the area safe. There’s been no trouble in the three years and more that the railway’s been operating, and you can see for yourself that no tin mine workings exist beneath my tracks. I had the area checked before any navvying began. Good God, man, d’you take me for an idiot?’
‘Please, Mr Killigrew,’ one of the others, a red-faced site engineer, spoke nervously as Ben’s voice rose. ‘No-one’s disputing your diligence, but you must have heard of rogue shafts. ’Tis they that we must investigate as far as possible—’
‘No, I have not heard of rogue shafts.’ Ben glared at the man. ‘Are you trying to tell me there may be shafts that are uncharted and unregistered?’
‘That’s exactly it, Mr Killigrew,’ the surveyor said triumphantly, as Ben himself put the problem into words. ‘’Twas illegal, o’ course, but who was to know if a band o’ miners found a tin stream underground leading off from the main shaft, and shored it up for themselves for the profits to line their own pockets? ’Twouldn’t be the first time—’
‘And there would be no evidence of it, see? Now that there’s been a formal complaint, we daren’t take a chance on it, until Engineer Trent comes back and deals wi’ the problem—’
The smug tones of the third man made Ben fume with frustration. He rounded on the man, banging his fist on the table where the old maps and documents were spread about.
‘Then where is this bloody engineer? Has no-one found out his whereabouts yet?’
Silas Newton’s eyes glinted angrily at this show of temper. He began rolling up the documents one by one, precisely and methodically.
‘Engineer Trent is on an extended trip abroad for his health,’ he said sharply. ‘His house is closed up, and I daresay only his doctor knows his exact movements—’
‘Give me the doctor’s name,’ Ben said savagely. ‘Have none of you heard of the electric telegraph? The man must have a forwarding address, and I mean to find it.’
The three looked at one another, then grudgingly gave Ben the name of a Bodmin doctor. He called on him immediately, to be told that Engineer Trent was in Europe suffering with consumption, and was not expected back in Cornwall for three months. The doctor refused to give Ben the address of the Swiss clinic, saying only that his patient had been very ill at the time of departure, and his wife had given strict instructions that he was not to be upset by news from home.
Ben only half believed the story. As he’d half hinted to Morwen, the man was probably swinging the lead and acting the hero, and had got himself caught up in the bloody Crimean war…
There must be some way to overrule the decisions of the Bodmin men. By now there were prominent notices all over the railway route, prohibiting the use of it while safety investigations went on.
Ben cursed the Honourable Mrs Stanforth a hundred times a day for creating unnecessary panic, and hoped to God that Richard Carrick’s keen legal mind would help him find a solution.
* * *
By the time he reached Truro his temper was beginning to boil again. He knew he had treated Morwen badly, and that didn’t help him. She had been so eager to show him her progress on the piano, and he had brushed her aside like a troublesome insect. He hated the world, and himself most of all.
Riding through the crowded streets of Truro, he felt an almost reckless urge to visit another house in the town where he’d been only once before. Where he had staked the fortunes of Killigrew Clay on the turn of a dice and won a fortune, enough to buy his father and his partner out, and assume control in the dark days of the clay strike.
If he had the nerve to gamble today, in his present frame of mind he would surely lose the lot. Right now, that didn’t seem such a bad idea…
He told himself angrily not to be such a fool. It wasn’t in his nature to admit defeat, and hopefully Carrick would give him solid guidance. Even if he had to take the damn surveyors to court to allow him to continue running his own railway, he would win in the end. He was determined on that.
He reached the Carrick house, hoping the lawyer would be there. He didn’t normally go to his chambers until the afternoon. The door ope
ned, and a maid bobbed politely on seeing him. She was new enough to show no surprise at this unexpected visitor.
The last time he had been here there had been a grudging admiration from the lawyer for the way in which young Ben had informed him of his intentions of winning control of the clay works. There had also been angry words between Ben and Mary, Carrick’s haughty wife. He hoped he wouldn’t have to encounter her right away…
‘Would you please inform Mr Carrick that Ben Killigrew is here to see him?’ he said shortly, and then a sudden rustle of skirts and a delighted exclamation made him temporarily forget why he had come.
For a moment it was as though a vision was moving towards him with arms outstretched. She was as bright as the sun, from her honey-gold hair to the delicate peach-coloured dress and slippers, and her pleasure at seeing him was like balm.
‘Ben, how marvellous! We were only speaking about you last evening, and here you are! It’s so good to see you again.’
He felt as though he smiled properly for the first time in weeks as Jane ran straight into his arms, and they kissed as old friends.
‘Am I seeing things? How well you look, Jane! Marriage certainly suits you. I saw the piece about Tom in The Informer recently, but it said nothing about you coming home!’
She smiled up into his face and he saw how mature she had become in the four years since she ran off to marry Tom Askhew. How astonishingly pretty… she had always been that, but she was more so now.
And old friends they might be, but Ben was suddenly embarrassed to be holding her in his arms and gazing into her sparkling face like an adolescent boy. They were both adult now, and on Jane the word sat as beautifully as a summer morning on a sunlit beach. He released her with an awkward laugh.
‘And I thought you had got wind of it, and come especially to see me,’ she pretended to pout. ‘I’ve been here several weeks now, and oh, Ben, I can’t tell you how good it is to talk to you! Mama is driving me to distraction as usual, and she fusses over my poor Cathy until the child feels more like a little pet than a baby!’
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