Ben’s heart lurched. Neville Peterson lounged on the bed, clad only in a Chinese silk kimono. Two others were similarly dressed, and the room smelled of a sickly perfume. It almost made Ben retch. Neville beckoned him forward into the pool of light thrown by a sputtering gas light.
‘Come and join us, country boy,’ he said softly. ‘This is to be your night of pleasure – and ours too, what?’
He heard the creaking of the bed-springs as they made room for him, and it was the sound that moved him into sudden action.
He gave a battle shriek loud enough to waken the dead, letting the belt snake out from his wrist like a whip. The ornate buckle struck Neville Peterson cruelly in the throat. He gave a strangled gurgling scream as blood spurted out from a vicious jagged cut.
The other two closed in on Ben from both sides, but he was ready for them. He remembered frantically the moves he had been taught that afternoon, the kicks, the punches, the painful pressure points whenever he was near enough to apply them. What he hadn’t learned that day, his own fury supplied.
Neville Peterson crouched on the bed. His throat bled over the expensive silk kimono, but he was less interested in that than in rocking over the excruciating pain in his crotch. One of the others moaned on the floor in similar position. The third screamed at the companion outside the door to come and help them with this madman.
Ben swivelled to meet him, leaping clear off the ground as the boy rushed in. His feet caught him in the belly, his fist following with an almighty crash on to the boy’s nose. Blood gushed out as he dropped to the floor with a howl of pain.
Ben heard the sound of running footsteps in the corridor, and there were bells ringing in his head. Or was the sound coming from other parts of the college? He couldn’t be sure… but the group of boys in the room were sure. They screamed in panic at him to get out, and never to come near them again.
He didn’t need telling twice. He turned and ran, sobs tearing at his chest. It would be appalling to be hauled up before the college professors in his first week. Even worse to be sent packing in disgrace. His father would be shamed, and so would Ben.
Somehow he reached his own room, uncaring what holocaust went on behind him. He lay beneath the bedcovers, awake for hours, expecting his door to be thrust open at any minute and for accusations to be poured on him. He knew bitterly that blame would be attached to him as well as the others. Dirt stuck, no matter how innocent he was. It was another lesson to be learned.
Incredibly, no-one came to his room. Nothing was said about any incident, and if four boys in the elite class went about with bruised and battered faces and careful footsteps for the next few weeks, no-one remarked on it.
It amazed and appalled him that such happenings could be covered up. But the longer he stayed at the college, the less he ceased to be amazed. His education widened his eyes to the rottenness of life as well as its advantages.
The one thing that gratified him was that from that night on, he was left strictly alone by Peterson’s gang. They had a healthy respect for his response, and he went his own way.
Ben wasn’t sorry when they left, being one class above him, and never expected to see any of them again.
And now that same Neville Peterson was installed in his own house, older, more handsome than ever, as gallant to Ben’s wife as any young officer could be.
Ben wondered suspiciously just how genuine it was. Did such people ever change? And if they did, then Ben wasn’t at all sure he wanted the man playing court to Morwen!
Whatever Neville’s present inclinations, he appeared to have forgotten that any antagonism ever existed between himself and Ben Killigrew. An incident that was imprinted so deeply on Ben’s mind was evidently just one of many in Peterson’s shady student past, and meant nothing more than a night’s excitement.
Whatever the case, Ben had felt that extraordinary urge to take Morwen in his arms that night, and express his full sexual power onto her.
And remembering just how perfect that expression of love had been earlier, with Morwen rising to meet him in every way, Ben finally slept.
* * *
‘Had you forgotten that Jane and Cathy are coming to visit one day this week?’ Morwen asked Ben, slightly annoyed that he was home so little during that first week of Captain Peterson’s arrival.
She had expected him to be taking his friend about, showing him the town, and certainly the clay works. But Ben seemed to have little interest in acting the gentleman host, and left much of the entertaining to Morwen, and to the unlikely assistance of his father from his sickbed.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Ben said briefly. ‘I daresay Jane will be especially interested to meet Neville, and question him about conditions in the Crimea. You might suggest that he tempers things down a little, in order not to disturb her too much. She worries enough on Tom’s account already.’
Morwen resented the fact that he was giving her orders as hostess. He should be here, showing Neville around himself. She resented the fact that she must act as an intermediary between Jane Askhew and their guest, when it was Ben’s job to do so.
In fact, since that one glorious night after Captain Peterson’s arrival, Morwen realised that Ben had become very edgy, and she had no idea of the reason. Unless it was because he disliked the way Neville paid her little compliments, and clearly enjoyed her company. Unless Ben were jealous of his old friend!
He had absolutely no reason to be, but Morwen couldn’t help a feeling of pleasure if it were so. It didn’t hurt for Ben to think another man found her attractive and feminine. It didn’t hurt at all.
She completely misunderstood his scowling face whenever Neville smiled winningly across the dinner table at her, or took the liberty of picking her a late summer rose from the garden and telling her its perfection was only surpassed by her own. It was like balm to her senses to hear such gallantries.
Neville complimented her on her piano-playing, and told David Glass he considered Morwen to be an ideal pupil, quick and eager to learn. David was gratified that at least one person in the Killigrew household was genteel enough to appreciate his patience in teaching a stormy young lady, and managed to convey the fact discreetly.
‘Would you care to see the Killigrew clay works, Captain Peterson – Neville?’ Morwen asked one morning, when Ben had ridden from the house early for a meeting with the accountants about the bonuses paid to the clayworkers.
Neville hid a sigh. Clay works weren’t of the least interest to him, but he was tired of the dribbling old man upstairs, and Ben as a country squire was becoming a bore. At least the wife was pretty to look at, and country air would be better than idling indoors yet again.
‘It would be a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Ben kept his business a mystery in our college days, dear lady. We all wondered what on earth happened down here among the hay stacks. Does your own family live near to Killigrew House?’
Morwen smiled at his snobbery. Intentional or not, she was very aware of it, and she was surprised to know it didn’t trouble her. Nor was she ashamed of her background, and was ready to let Captain Peterson know it.
‘My family all worked for Killigrew Clay in very humble capacities,’ she said with quiet dignity. ‘I was a bal maiden and so was my mother. At one time my father was pit captain of Clay One, the biggest of the Killigrew Clay Works, and my brothers were all clayworkers. My father is manager now, and my eldest brother is pit captain in his place. The rest of us have different roles in life,’ she finished with a slight smile.
‘Gracious me,’ Neville stared at her. ‘I must say, you don’t have any reticence in telling the facts, dear lady.’
‘Should I?’ Her blue eyes were as candid as ever. ‘We are what we are, Captain Peterson.’
His hand closed over hers and squeezed it for a second. She wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a gesture of understanding, but the touch of his hand was clammy, and she had the strangest urge to fling it away from hers.
‘That’s so profound,
Morwen.’
‘Is it? I thought it was perfectly obvious!’
He began to learn the logic of her thinking, as Ben and his father had done long ago. She had no patience with devious minds, and her reasoning was as clear as the cloudless blue sky. She recognised his sudden embarrassment, and sought to put him at ease, since he was a guest in the house.
‘My youngest brother Freddie is hoping to go away to college in London if he passes the entrance examination. He’s thirteen now, and doesn’t want to spend his life working with the clay. He’s a bright boy, and Ben wants him to have his chance. We can call at my parents’ house on our way to the clay works if you wish, and you can meet Freddie and my mother. I know they’ll be thrilled to meet an army officer.’
Neville smiled his most charming smile.
‘It sounds delightful, Morwen. And if your brother does get his place at college, I’ll be sure to give him my London address. I have a very nice mews house with plenty of space for overnight visitors. It would be my pleasure to entertain him occasionally as a break from his studies, and to show him something of our capital city.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Sir!’ Morwen exclaimed. ‘Freddie will be feeling lost in London, I’m sure. It will be good to know he has one friend.’
Neville smiled again, patting her hand as they walked out into the sunshine to the stables, where he handed her up into the Killigrew trap.
‘It will be my pleasure, dear lady.’
He climbed into the trap beside her and took the reins in his beautifully manicured hands, and as he turned his head Morwen suddenly noticed the scar across his throat, the jagged line of it caught by the sunlight. She wondered fleetingly if it was the result of a battle skirmish in the awful Crimea.
How little the Captain made of his war experiences, she thought suddenly. And what surprisingly little interest Ben showed in it. She was suddenly indignant on her husband’s behalf, and determined to show the Captain every consideration and feeling of welcome.
Chapter Twelve
Freddie was excited at the thought of visiting Captain Peterson in London. He asked endless questions about college life, about the Crimean war, about the wound in Captain Peterson’s leg, until Bess was obliged to stop him.
She was already flustered at Morwen bringing the gentleman to the Tremayne house unannounced, and had hastily whisked away her sewing and rushed to offer cool drinks and bring out some scones and jam, even though it was only mid-morning.
‘Stop bothering the gentleman, Freddie,’ Bess hissed in his ear. ‘He’ll be tired o’ your questioning, and regret that he ever asked ’ee to call on un.’
Neville smiled in kindly fashion. ‘Nonsense. It’s good to find a boy with a keen mind, Mrs Tremayne. We should never stop the young from enquiring. It’s the only way they discover things.’
‘Did ’ee get that throat-cut in a battle, Captain Sir?’ Freddie said eagerly, echoing Morwen’s own thoughts, and ignoring his mother’s glare for his rudeness at being so personal.
Neville touched the scar absently. He’d long forgotten the true circumstances of the wound. It was in some college brawl, but such things had been commonplace. He had plenty of battle-scars apart from those inflicted by a foreign enemy. But there was no harm in embellishing it for the boy.
‘I did, Freddie. A fellow twisted a knife in me and left me for dead. But I was tougher than he thought—’
‘Oh, please, Captain Peterson, don’t fill our Freddie’s head with such tales. He has enough taste for the gory already,’ Bess said feelingly.
Neville apologised at once, winking at Freddie behind his mother’s back as if to promise that such tales would continue when the opportunity arose. Morwen could see that her mother wasn’t altogether happy at this interruption in her day, and suggested that the visit should be a short one, since they were on their way to inspect the clay works.
‘Can I come with ’ee, our Morwen?’ Freddie said at once.
‘No, you can’t,’ she said crossly. ‘There’s only room in the trap for two—’
‘I can ride the horse. Ben don’t mind it—’
‘Oh, do let him come.’ Neville’s voice was lazily persuasive. ‘Unless his mother needs him at home, of course?’
‘Not at all,’ Bess said smartly. ‘The less he’s under my feet, the better!’
‘That’s settled then.’ He took Bess’s hand in his, and touched it to his lips. ‘I hope we’ll meet again, dear lady.’
Bess watched them go, faintly unsettled at such exaggerated charm. She and Hal didn’t go in for such finesse, and not even Ben put on such fancy airs and graces. If this fine gent was the kind Ben had associated with in his college days, then Bess was thankful that not too much of it had rubbed off on her down-to-earth son-in-law.
Freddie leapt on to the back of the horse with ease. He was growing tall, Morwen thought suddenly. He sat astride the horse with a gangling grace. Captain Peterson evidently thought so, from the approving look he gave to Freddie’s confident seat.
They rode up the winding track leading to the moors above St Austell town, to where Charles Killigrew’s sky-tips glistened in the sunlight. Morwen pointed them out as they appeared on the sky-line.
‘The townsfolk call them the white hills,’ she commented. ‘’Tis a fancy name for the clay waste, that’s all. I take it you’ve never seen clay works before, Neville?’
He shook his head. Morwen briefly described the scenes that had once been part of her everyday life, trying to make them interesting to a city gentleman. The words came out in a rush at the sudden thought that it could all be of no possible interest to him anyway!
‘There’s a milky-green clay pool surrounded by the sky-tips, and a kiln and a murderously hot fire-hole, and little trucks trundling up and down all day long with clayworkers tipping the waste, and bal maidens in white bonnets laying the clay blocks out to dry before they’re transported to Charlestown port. There’s the engine-house and the pumping equipment, o’ course, and everyone gets covered in white claydust and look more like ghosts by the end of their shifts—’
‘I think I begin to know what to expect!’ Neville was laughing at her, and she stopped her chattering abruptly.
‘Our Morwen used to be a bal maiden,’ Freddie threw back at them. ‘They said she were the prettiest at Clay One—’
‘I can imagine that,’ Neville said approvingly.
‘Don’t be so silly, our Freddie,’ Morwen snapped. ‘You can’t even remember me working there. It was a long time ago.’
So long ago… a wave of nostalgia swept over her for the old days, that always seemed sunny in retrospect. For days that were warm and carefree, when she and Freddie ran barefoot over the moors with the soft summer turf beneath their feet. Days before any Tremayne had ambitions to be away from the clay. When the little house that now belonged to Sam and Dora had bulged happily at the seams with Hal and Bess’s family, and Morwen and her friend Celia Penry had gaily whispered their secrets in the seclusion of the sky-tips, and never looked for anything more than the admiration of a lusty young clayworker…
‘We’m here, Morwen.’ Freddie gave up resenting his sister’s irritation and scrambled down from the horse’s back, and she saw with a start that they had reached Clay One. Hal had seen them coming from his manager’s hut, and came out to greet them curiously. Morwen introduced the two men.
‘’Tis an honour to meet you, Captain Peterson,’ Hal said. ‘If you’d care for a guided tour, I’d be happy to take you around myself. I know ’tis what Ben would wish.’
Morwen doubted that, but she said quickly that if her Daddy would do the honours, she would call on Dora and the children for half an hour, knowing guiltily that she had neglected them again. Freddie had no interest in babies, and said he’d go with the men.
Neville put an arm loosely around Freddie’s shoulders, and promised that they would be at the gate whenever Morwen wanted to meet them.
‘No more than half an hour th
en. That will be enough for me,’ she answered.
She enjoyed the children, but Dora would probably be as prickly as ever. She climbed back into the trap as the three of them walked off, with her Daddy pointing out the boundaries of the works with as much pride as if he owned it himself.
She was slightly ruffled by the time she returned. Dora had been in a bad mood and Primmy was teething, and the little boys had whined the whole time Morwen was there. Was this the domestic life Morwen wanted for herself and Ben? But despite the trauma of the visit to the cottage, she knew that it was…
‘How about a ride over the moors?’ Neville asked. ‘Do we have time before luncheon?’
Morwen grinned. ‘Did Daddy blind you with clay talk?’
‘Not at all,’ Neville smiled back. ‘It was all very interesting.’
They both knew he was lying.
‘Let’s take un to see old Zillah’s cottage, Morwen,’ Freddie said. ‘And the Larnie Stone.’
Morwen’s heart jumped. Why did he have to remind her? Why lump the two places together so that she would always connect them in her mind with Celia?
‘It sounds intriguing. Tell me more,’ Neville prompted.
‘Some say old Zillah’s a witch.’ Freddie was puffed up with importance now. ‘Morwen’s been to see her plenty times, though Mammie don’t really allow it—’
‘Shut up, Freddie—’
‘And what’s this Larnie Stone?’
‘’Tis a big standing stone wi’ a hole in the middle, and you can see the sea through it. ’Tis supposed to have magical powers, and old Zillah can tell ’ee more on it—’
‘Well, nobody’s going to talk with old Zillah!’ Morwen snapped. ‘We’ll ride over the moors if we must, but we’ll keep our distance, or we won’t be back in time for our midday meal, and Mrs Horn will be cross.’
‘I thought you was meant to be the mistress in that posh house, our Morwen,’ Freddie jeered.
‘You know nothing about the way folk in big houses live, so mind your business,’ she retorted, knowing she was showing herself in a bad light to Captain Peterson, and furious with her brother for making her act so. But Neville seemed quite unconcerned, and smoothed things down with practised ease.
Clay Country Page 15