‘I see. I take it you’ve never counted up the hours I’ve done the same thing.’
Ben’s face darkened. ‘That’s entirely different. You’re his daughter-in-law. He cares for you, and I thought it was mutual. Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all. You seem too concerned for yourself to think of anyone else. How long is it since you’ve asked after my battles for the rail tracks, or when the engineer will return, or if I’m taking it to court to see if I can get the excursions started again? You haven’t even bothered to go to Truro to see your own brother, when you were so all-fired concerned about him.’
‘That’s unfair! You know I want to see our Jack. The next time you have to go to Truro, I’ll come too—’
And if you dare to say it’s because I think you’ll be visiting Jane Askhew, I shall hit you, she thought furiously…
‘Good. Be ready tomorrow morning. We’ll take luncheon in a tea room, and I’ll take you to the boatyard. I’m sure Jane will be delighted to see you in the afternoon for some tea, and I’ll collect you from there.’
He pecked her on the cheek before she could think of a good excuse. It was just as if it was all planned beforehand, Morwen thought furiously. But she did want to see Jack. She wanted to be sure he was happy. It would be nice to think one of the Tremayne family was happy…
Although, if she thought about it, perhaps she was the only one who wasn’t. And she had no right to be miserable, when she had her heart’s desire. But that desire had just walked away from her with about as much passion in his kiss as if he’d caressed a maiden aunt, and it wasn’t much comfort to know it.
* * *
The events of that night took all thoughts of a visit to Truro from both their minds. They were awoken in the early hours of the morning by a rapid hammering on the door of Killigrew House. Ben swore angrily as he threw on a dressing-robe and went downstairs to see what the commotion was all about.
Not more trouble at the clay works, Morwen thought fearfully. They had had enough already…
Mrs Tilley came hurrying to the foot of the stairs, her face ashen. Morwen, behind Ben, heard her stammering words.
‘Oh, Sir, there’s a man here says there’s been a terrible accident in the town on the seaward side. A house has burned down and there’s nobody saved in it, and the constable sent un out here to alarm ’ee of the news—’
‘What house? Why should it be of any interest to me, save for feeling sorry for those that perished—’ Ben snapped as the woman seemed to lose control of her voice.
‘Oh, Sir, oh, Sir—’
Morwen smothered the surge of fear in her stomach.
Her thoughts leapt ahead. Not the Tremayne house… that was outside the town, below the hill between St Austell and the clay works. Yet she had a strange presentiment that seemed to seep into her very bones. If not her family, then whose…?
Almost before the townsman pushed past Mrs Tilley, cap twisting in his hand at facing these fine folk in their posh house, Morwen knew.
She listened in a kind of guilty fascination as the tale unfolded. Part of her was glad… glad… She knew how wicked she was to feel so, but she couldn’t help it…
‘Mr Killigrew, Sir,’ the man stuttered, ‘I’m sent to tell ’ee as how ’tis your aunt that’s dead and burned. Her and that Miss Ford who lived in the house on Trehidy Street. The house went up like a tinder-box, and there was no savin’ ’em. Burnt to a crisp, by all accounts, beggin’ your pardon, lady.’
He added the words apologetically as he became aware of Morwen behind Ben. He needn’t have bothered, she thought hysterically. If she dared to say so, she’d have screamed out that she was glad Hannah Pascoe was dead! That it was probably her drunkenness that had sent her lurching about, overturning an oil-lamp and setting the small house ablaze.
Or perhaps there had been a pact between them. The dying Miss Ford and the outcast Mrs Pascoe… or maybe it was nothing like that at all. Simply a terrible accident…
‘Morwen, put your head between your knees,’ she heard Ben’s instruction. ‘Mrs Tilley, fetch some brandy, please. Some for this fellow too. He looks shaken enough.’
Why did she need brandy? She wasn’t ill. She wasn’t sad! Morwen suddenly heard the sound of laughing, shrill and wild, and realised with horror that it came from her own lips. She was truly hysterical, and the realisation stopped the awful sounds at once. She was bitterly ashamed of herself, especially with the poor man who’d brought the message looking hunted, and no doubt wishing himself anywhere but here.
‘I’m sorry. I’m all right,’ she gasped, her lips white.
‘You’re anything but all right.’ Ben pushed the cold glass to her mouth and instructed her to drink. The spirit burned like fire as it trickled down her throat. Fire and burning… was this how Hannah Pascoe had felt when the flames caressed her skin and began to shrivel it?
Stop it, she told herself!
She forced her limbs to stop trembling with a great effort. The poor messenger shifted from foot to foot, clearly wondering how to get away from this house with the madwoman in it. There would be a tale to tell in the town. Of how poor young Mrs Killigrew had gone to pieces on hearing of the fate of her husband’s aunt. Perhaps a real affection existed between the two of them after all, despite the rumours…
‘I’ll take my wife upstairs, and be with you in five minutes,’ Ben told the townsman. ‘Wait for me here.’
Morwen was propelled back to the bedroom. Should she offer to go with Ben? She knew it was more than she could do. The last time they had been involved in a terrible accident it had been so different.
Then it had been the clay waggon hurtling through poor old Nott’s bakery, and the men killed had been her friends. She couldn’t be hypocritical in pretending to be sorry Hannah Pascoe was dead, although she wouldn’t wish such a horrible fate on anyone. Except perhaps one person.
Even as she thought it, Morwen’s mind cleared. It was as though she had been exorcised in some way. Hadn’t she been thinking only recently that if the odious Hannah Pascoe came back to Killigrew House, then it would open the doors for her son Jude to come back too? And now one of them was gone, and there was no reason for the other to enter their lives again.
She couldn’t tell Ben of the certainty. Not yet. Hannah had been his aunt, and family feeling still meant something. She pushed her own feelings aside, and held on to his arm as he gently tucked her back into bed.
‘Ben, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll have a bad time ahead of you.’
He leaned down and kissed her. She saw that he was pale, but his face was set and controlled. He was strong, as strong as Charles Killigrew had ever been. As if thoughts of Ben’s father entered both their minds at the same instant, he spoke rapidly.
‘Morwen, there’s something you can do too. I see no reason why Father should know what’s happened. It will set him back months, and he’s already losing his grip on reality.’
It had become evident in recent weeks. There were days when it seemed as if Charles no longer knew where or who he was. They had never thought such a happening might be a blessing, but listening to Ben now, she saw the sense in his words.
‘Rest for a while, darling. The servants will need to know, but you can instruct them that on no account is my father to learn of his sister’s death. He has few visitors outside the household, and can no longer read for himself, so any account in the newspaper can be kept from him. It’s little enough we can do, Morwen, but I’m sure the doctor will agree.’
‘You’re right, Ben,’ she said slowly. ‘And we can’t even inform your cousin, since we don’t know where he is. What of Miss Ford’s relatives?’
‘I remember my aunt saying there are none. The two of them only had each other.’
Morwen clung to him for a moment, the sadness of it all washing over her, temporarily clouding the guilty relief that the Pascoe woman was no longer a thorn in her flesh. Her generous heart could still feel sorrow at such an end, and to
have no-one in the world to mourn was surely the saddest thing of all.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Ben said, throwing on some clothes. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do by the sound of it, but someone will need to officially identify what’s left, I suppose, and make the formal arrangements.’
Morwen shuddered, her imagination filling in the details. Ben seemed to be talking almost to himself now.
‘There was no love lost between us, but I can’t let my aunt have a pauper’s funeral. It will be as small as possible, and you and I will be the only mourners, Morwen. It’s the last thing we can do for them both.’
Morwen nodded. It would be a farce, but it had to be done. She would do it for Ben, for the family honour. The whole town would know of the accident, all except Charles Killigrew, Hannah’s brother. That was bizarre enough, and it was even more ironic that she should predecease him. She had seemed wiry enough to live for ever.
It was impossible for Morwen to sleep after Ben had left the house. How could she sleep? A thousand memories crowded her head. Where Hannah Pascoe was concerned, none of them was good. Where her son Jude was concerned, none of them was even tolerable. She blotted them out of her mind, and inevitably her thoughts turned to her friend, Celia.
The carefree days of laughter and shared childhood seemed an eternity ago. Bal maidens together for Killigrew Clay, running wild and free across the summer moors and flirting with the young clayworkers who all had an eye for the two prettiest girls at Clay One pit, making girlish plans for the future that could never come true…
Yet for one of them, the impossible dream had come true. Morwen had married the boss of Killigrew Clay and begun her life of happy-ever-after… and Celia had drowned in the slurry of a clay pit because of the evil Jude Pascoe, Ben’s cousin…
A sob was wrenched from Morwen’s throat. No, however much she tried, she couldn’t regret Hannah Pascoe’s death! The woman had been as wicked as her son.
* * *
‘Can’t ’ee spare the woman even a morsel of pity, Morwen?’ Bess said sadly, when Morwen had taken the news to the Tremayne house that morning. ‘I know she were never your favourite, but ’tis a terrible sad way to end—’
‘I’m sorry for her friend, Mammie. Isn’t that pity enough?’
Bess sighed, eyeing her daughter and the proud set of her head. She shook her head slightly.
‘You’ve become hard, my lamb, and I’m sorry to see it. But no doubt you and Ben have your reasons for keeping the send-off small, and not wanting to invite folk. What does Mr Killigrew say to it all? Is he sore upset?’
Her face dropped when Morwen told her tersely of Ben’s orders. These ways were new-fangled to Bess, who firmly believed that a man or woman’s send-off was the last dignity on this earth, and to be deprived of that was near to blasphemy.
‘It’s Ben’s wish, Mammie,’ Morwen rushed on, seeing the look on her mother’s face. ‘We don’t want to distress his father, nor do we want to turn the funeral into a peep-show. It’s to be private and there’s an end to it.’
‘All right! Don’t go on so!’ Bess said in a huff. ‘I just hope that when ’tis my turn, and your Daddy’s, that you won’t be hustling us off behind closed doors as if we’m a shame to ’ee.’
Morwen ran to hug her mother, her eyes damp.
‘How can ’ee think that way? ’Tis not like that at all. If I could only tell ’ee my own reasons for not opposing it, you’d understand. But I can’t! ’Tis too private. But don’t be talking about you and Daddy in that way! I can’t bear it!’
Bess was shaken by the passion in her voice, and the hinting at secrets too deep and painful to be shared. What they were, Bess couldn’t begin to guess, but she respected another’s wish for privacy, and she folded her daughter in her comforting arms, and hushed her tears the way she had always done.
* * *
It was a harrowing week for Ben. The doctor entirely agreed that there was no useful purpose in telling Charles Killigrew of his sister’s death. The old man lived in a world of his own for much of the time, and all about him were anxious to keep him as serene as possible, for their own sakes as much as his own. When he became agitated Charles was a trial to them all.
The inquest on the two women was brief, with a verdict of misadventure. There was nothing else to be said, considering the lack of evidence to the cause of the fire. The house was charred to a cinder, the debris already disposed of. The sad little funeral service was attended only by Ben Killigrew and his wife, and the family doctor. No formal notice of the date was given in order to deter the curious.
A brief account was published in The Informer newspaper, and Lew Tregian, the chief reporter and editor, came to Killigrew House personally, to interview Ben on the story.
‘I can tell you very little,’ Ben said frankly. ‘Two elderly ladies died tragically in a house fire, and there were no suspicious circumstances. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more drama for your paper, Tregian.’
Ever hungry for news, the reporter saw no reason why he shouldn’t capitalise on this meeting.
‘And what of your own progress with the subsidence beneath the Killigrew rail tracks?’
‘That has yet to be proven,’ Ben snapped. ‘Such a statement could be called libellous—’
‘My dear Sir, I mean no disrespect! But it’s some while since we’ve had any word on the findings, and I wondered if you’d care to give me a statement while I’m here.’
‘Since the findings amount to nothing as yet, there’s little to tell,’ Ben retorted. ‘However, I agree with you that a further statement might be of interest.’
He recalled Richard Carrick’s comment that an assurance to the town that Killigrew Clay was doing everything possible to ensure future safety for the works and the rail excursions could only stand Ben in good stead.
He had done nothing about it. But he had thought long and hard, debating on whether or not to call in an independent surveyor and engineer, or to wait for Engineer Trent’s return. The decision had been half-formed and he acted on it now.
‘The summer excursions will be suspended for the time being. Engineer Trent is due back from Europe in a month or so, and will make a full inspection of the site, though preliminary investigations have shown nothing untoward. I am convinced there’s no danger, but in respect of town feeling, I’m willing to show my goodwill in the matter. In order not to disappoint the clayworker’s children over the annual train excursion to the sea at the end of the summer, I sincerely hope that all will be resolved by then.’
He looked at the reporter, head bent as he rapidly scribbled down Ben’s words.
‘Will that suffice, Tregian?’
‘Excellent, Mr Killigrew,’ the reporter beamed. ‘If I may say so, it will be a welcome piece of news to offset the tragedy of the other, though naturally you have my condolences on the demise of your aunt.’
Ben nodded, wanting now to be rid of the man. The statement had been dictated on the spur of the moment, but he felt it had been the only one possible, and he knew he had been stubbornly putting off the moment of giving it.
Now that it was done, he wanted to tell Morwen of it, knowing that she would be relieved, and so would her family. So, too, would the clayworkers, he guessed, despite the small losses in their wage packets from the excursion money. He could afford to make them up with an occasional bonus payment, he thought quickly. Better that than disgruntled employees.
A boss’s indecision was no good for anyone, and even if the action was an unwelcome one, a firm hand on the tiller was better than a restless one. It had been one of Charles Killigrew’s sayings, and Ben began to realise the truth of it.
The reporter left the house, and Ben found Morwen in the drawing-room, frowning over one of the London newspapers he had sent down every week. Her brow was puckered at the unfamiliar names of places far away, the little sketch maps of the Crimea still making it seem as distant as the moon to her.
But she did try to
follow some of it. It pleased Ben to know that she did so, and she wouldn’t want folk to think his wife an ignoramus. She did try…
She felt his arms around her waist, and turned quickly, her face colouring. She hadn’t heard him come in, and thought he was still with that funny little man from the Truro newspaper who’d taken over from Tom Askhew, telling him the details of Hannah Pascoe’s terrible end, for the avid readers of such things…
‘Has he gone?’ she asked quickly.
‘He has, and it’s all over, darling. I gave him an extra bit of news for his rag too. Something that will please you, and give us all a breathing-space. I think we all deserve it.’
‘What are you talking about, Ben?’
She didn’t understand yet, but she knew it was something good. She could tell by the way he seemed more relaxed, his eyes clearer than they’d been in weeks, as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He looked somehow different…
She twisted into his arms, fitting against his body as smooth as silk. She could feel his heart against hers. She saw his head dip slowly towards hers, and tasted his mouth as it claimed hers in a long, lingering kiss.
There was good news to be told, and after this past terrible week, she felt they were due for good news. For happiness, for time for themselves. She didn’t know yet what Ben had to tell her, but the moment of telling could wait. This was more important, this unspoken renewal of love between them, as deep and enduring as the ocean.
Chapter Ten
So for the time being, there were to be no more blistering tempers. No more frustrating meetings with surveyors and land agents. There was a temporary respite, and Morwen breathed a huge sigh of relief when Ben finally told her of the statement he had given to Lew Tregian.
She knew Ben was being generous in allowing the clayworkers the small bonus too. They would appreciate that. The world was becoming a sunnier place in every respect.
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