Pengarron Dynasty
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
The Pengarron Sagas
The Harvey Family Sagas
Copyright
Pengarron Dynasty
Gloria Cook
To my brothers, Raymon and Ted, and my sisters, Sandria, Sylvia and Rosemarie, and their spouses
One
The house in St James’s Street, London, was well ablaze. Dense smoke and bright flames were curling out of all the downstairs windows and the screams of terror inside were competing with the noise of cracking and falling timbers and splintering glass as the windows exploded.
Rounding the corner from Jermyn Street, Luke Pengarron and his servant broke into a run.
‘God help us, Jack, Lord Longbourne’s house is on fire!’
They flew up the debris-strewn front steps and kicked and battered on the door. Anxious onlookers and ghoulish spectators were gathering, all too afraid to help.
When the door finally crashed open under their combined weight, the two men fought their way upstairs. There were signs that the house had been ransacked. Choking on the smoke and scorched by the terrible heat of the flames, they tore into the drawing room.
Luke gave a groan of anguish and pushed Jack back out of the room.
‘We can do nothing for Lord Longbourne. He’s dead.’ Stabbed through the heart, the particular mark of retribution of the Society. No knife protruded from the wound, and the flames, starting their deadly dance on the young peer’s feet, would burn away all evidence of the assassination. Two male servants who, no doubt, had gone to their master’s aid also lay dead.
‘Sophia! We must save her!’ Jack bawled above the din of the steadily collapsing house.
They heard screams coming from further along the corridor. Sophia Glanville was trapped in her room.
Without thought for their own safety Luke and Jack ran on through the inferno, leaping over the gaping holes left by burnt-away floorboards, thrusting aside anything in their way, even if it was on fire. When they got to Sophia’s room they found it had been barricaded. Heaving aside a heavy marble table, they burst in through the door.
Sophia and her maid, both coughing and choking, were huddled together on the far side of the room, next to an open window. Flames were eating away the centre of the floor and more tall, spiralling darts of orange-red were riding the bedposts and its flowing drapes.
‘Come to us!’ Jack yelled to them. ‘We’ll lead you to safety.’
‘Alex! Where’s Alex?’ Sophia cried, her fine face blackened by smoke and frozen with fear. ‘There were men, their faces were masked.’
‘Get her out, Jack. I’ll take the maid,’ Luke ordered, winding his neckcloth round his face so he might breathe better.
Jack skirted the flames and wrapped his scarf over Sophia’s mouth and nose. Freeing her from the clawing grasp of the maid, he began to lead her to the door. Suddenly a heavy bedpost was blasted ceiling high. On its descent it sheered sideways, striking Jack on the head and cutting him down. Sophia shrieked and knelt beside his unconscious form.
Luke acted quickly, dragging Jack and Sophia out to the corridor. He ran back to fetch the maid.
With her arms up to protect her face she was sidling past the treacherous hole in the floor, but on reaching the doorway and faced with the full violence of the conflagration, which, like some malevolent beast was greedily devouring the floors and walls, she stood petrified with fear and refused to shift.
‘If you don’t come now, I’ll not be able to come back for you!’ Luke bawled at her.
She blubbered hysterically as he tried to force her to move.
Then she lashed out at him in panic and terror, raking her nails down his face, ripping out the bow that tied back his black hair.
It was a losing battle. After a moment’s thought he lunged at Sophia where she crouched over Jack, covering his face with her skirts to fight off the suffocating effect of the smoke. Snatching the diamond necklace off her neck, Luke thrust it down the front of the maid’s bodice and left her to her fate.
The main staircase had completely burned away. Flames were leaping several feet up in the air. Yanking Jack up off the floor, Luke shouted at Sophia to hold on to his coat. Edging along the corridor, he made for the servants’ stairs.
There was a hideous scream; the maid was burning. Sophia shrieked her name.
Bitter smoke blotted out everything. Luke and Sophia stumbled their way down the narrow, twisting stairs as fast as they dared. A female servant lay dead, murdered, at the bottom. A sudden roaring whoosh of red-hot flame cut off the next flight down to the kitchens. They were on a tiny square of landing and Luke knew there was a window at one end which they could smash and climb through to the mews below where the carriage and horses were kept. It was their only hope.
Feeling along the wall until he reached the window he broke the glass, using the curtains to protect his hands. Putting his coat over the sill to lessen the danger from splinters, he pushed Jack over, feet first, then held him out at full length and let him drop the short distance to the cobbled ground. Grabbing Sophia round the waist, he thrust her out after Jack in one swinging movement, shouting, ‘Jump!’ Then he threw himself out after them.
Sophia was on her feet, rubbing a painful arm. Her voice was a rasp, ‘Are you hurt, Luke?’
He shook his head, coughing harshly. Allowing himself a second to gulp in much needed air, he swung Jack over his left shoulder. Sharp pains stabbed at his right shoulder and arm, the legacy of a childhood injury, now aggravated by the rescue.
Ignoring Sophia’s pleas to be told if Lord Longbourne was alive, he ran with his charges through the back alleys until a churchyard was reached. A vandalized tomb, recently stripped of its dead by body snatchers, would have to do as a hiding place.
It would soon be dark. Luke prayed, as he eased his tortured lungs, that Sophia would stay securely out of sight, with Jack in her care, until he fetched his and Jack’s things from their lodgings.
Then he must get them away to Cornwall.
Two
Can I come in, m’dear?’
‘Yes, of course, but I wish you wouldn’t climb up the stairs by yourself, Bea.’
‘Day I can’t manage a few stairs, I’ll let ’ee knaw!’
‘I was only thinking of your arthritis,’ said Kerensa, Lady Pengarron. The unconventional attitudes of Sir Oliver, Kerensa’s husband, allowed the old nursemaid many liberties.
‘Ahh! Thought I’d c
atch ’ee doin’ that,’ Beatrice rasped, staring cross-eyed at the miniature portrait Kerensa was holding. The painting was of Luke, heir to the Pengarron estate, who, twelve months ago, had left home in a temper and had only written twice of his whereabouts and circumstances, trusting all other communication to acquaintances who happened to be travelling from London to Cornwall. ‘’E’ll be all right, my ’an’some. Aint nothin’ you can do to bring un ’ome any quicker.’
‘I know. But he’ll come home for the baptism, won’t he? Luke wouldn’t miss such an important occasion for his brother’s child, the first of the next generation. I know he and Kane weren’t on good terms when last they met, but surely Luke’s still not bearing a grudge.’
With her iron-grey hair escaping her lace cap, her apron coming loose, Beatrice’s frailties, her weight and her fondness for the gin bottle gained mastery of her and she sank down on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed. Kerensa whipped back a supporting hand, for Beatrice might very well slap it hard.
Leaving Beatrice to reclaim her breath, Kerensa studied Luke’s likeness again. He favoured his father in looks. The same dark brooding features and the same restlessness Oliver had borne when Kerensa first knew him. Luke’s bearing was not as proud owing to his stiff right arm and shoulder, the result of an act of wilful disobedience. His eyes, deep-set and clear black, displayed the pain and frustration of sitting for Olivia, his elder sister, who had been forced to resort to an incredible array of inducements to get the portrait completed.
Luke’s frustration came as no surprise; Kerensa knew her son through and through. It arose from his disability and being confined to a desk instead of being out and about doing the more masculine pursuits enjoyed by his father and brother. But there was something else portrayed in Olivia’s clever brushstrokes: a soul-deep sadness. Guilt came to Kerensa, she had not noticed the sadness before.
The late afternoon sun beamed over where Beatrice slouched, banging a fist against her drooping bosom to loosen phlegm, intermittently humming and hawing to herself. A sharp goldenness strangely illuminated the peculiarly ugly slattern; a scene from myth and fable, incorporating dark suggestion, except Beatrice was on the side of goodness and happy endings.
‘Goodness sake, stop worritin’,’ Beatrice swiped foul-looking dribble off her many chins with the sleeve of her none too clean dress. She smelled none too sweet either, from the sweat of her exertions and her reluctance to use the washbowl.
‘Luke writ ’ee ’e was comin’ ’ome didn’t ’e? And bringing Jack along with un, and don’t start off about ’e too. We all know you miss un as well. Grown men, the both. Time you let ’em be so.’ Kerensa failed to hand Beatrice a handkerchief. ‘And don’t ’ee dare start yer fussin’ over me!’
The observation that some of the elderly regressed to a second childhood passed through Kerensa’s mind. ‘We only received a relayed message from Luke, as you very well know.’
‘Well, either they’ll come or they won’t. Still be a baptism. Kane’s boy’s a dear little soul, ed’n ’e?’
Kerensa parried Beatrice’s shrewd look. ‘You got vexed with me yesterday for talking too much about Harry.’
‘Well, if I can’t say nothin’ right for thee today, I’ll be off and git meself a blessed drink. Not ’nough time t’ yerself, that’s yourn trouble. Too bleddy young.’ Beatrice was off on one of her favourite themes. ‘You was too young when Oliver forced thee to be ’is bride, youm too young to ’ave so many children and far too young to be a gran’mothur! Youm still a little maid.’
‘I’ve been a wife and mother these past four and twenty years. I’m approaching my forty-second birthday. Not too young to have a first grandchild.’
‘And Luke and Jack and the rest of ’em —’ Beatrice wagged a gnarled finger – ‘baint too young to be leading their own lives.’
‘Are you saying I interfere in their lives? Kane, Luke, Olivia and Kelynen? Cordelia too? Do you think I smother my dear little Samuel?’ Kerensa was steeped in passion, dark colour creeping up her neck and flushing her finely sculptured face. No one but Beatrice would dare suggest she behaved in any way detrimental to her children or Oliver’s niece, Cordelia, who lived at the manor. Wasn’t a mother supposed to guide her offspring through the dangers and vagaries of life, keep the peace between them, make sacrifices on their behalf? Worry herself half to death on occasion?
‘Ais, I am. You brung Kane ’ome from the market as a tiny fiddle ill-treated infant.’ Beatrice counted on her worn-out fingers. ‘You bore three ’ealthy babies, then lost dear baby Joseph t’ the typhus, God rest un, then you brought forth young Samuel just two year ago, and you fuss and fret on ’em all day long! And yes, you fusses over that other fiddle maid too. G’ us some shade, m’dear, can’t see nothin’ in this brave sunlight.’
Kerensa usually had the curtains drawn at this time of day to preserve the ancient furniture, she drew them herself today.
‘You can’t expect me to surrender a close hold on Samuel yet.’ Kerensa flaunted her rights with flowing sweeps of her hands. ‘And you can’t really say I smother him, Cordelia lays claim on him every chance she gets. And if I do happen to run a maternal eye over Jack, it’s because he was just a twelve-year-old stable boy when I married Oliver. There was only you and Jack here when I first stepped over the threshold.’
Beatrice searched her mistress’s face. Seventeen-year-old, working class Kerensa Trelynne could still be detected in every angle of her exquisite face and well-honed body. Her auburn hair shone with vitality, as did her grey-green eyes. She was forever fresh and young, full of grace and wholesomely beautiful. She had a bold spirit which enriched, inspired and excited those in her company. Beatrice knew it was said in mock seriousness about herself that she should be dead and decently buried by now, but she reckoned she owed her nature-defying eighty-nine years to Kerensa’s liveliness and devoted care. Her love for Kerensa outreached her affections for Sir Oliver or any of their children.
‘All I can say tes a good job youm not with child again… yet.’ She grinned wickedly, indicating the huge four-poster bed, graced with sea-blue and jade coloured damask drapes. ‘Spend too much time in ’ere. Need t’ get abroad a lot more and do somethin’ for yerself. Time you ’ad a life of yer own.’
Kerensa looked at the bed and was gloriously transported back to a few hours ago, when she had felt the passion and heat of Oliver’s body, his perfect touch, his worship. Always his presence dominated every part of the manor house. She had come to love, deeply and passionately, the man who had arrogantly forced her into marriage over a parcel of land, as he had come to love her. Not yet had they reached a stage of comfortable companionship, of taking each other for granted.
‘I’ve more than enough to keep me happy, Beatrice.’
‘What? Visitin’ yer children or folk like that thar dressed-up mare, Lady Rachael Besweth’rick, or charity work. When are ’ee goin’ t’ do somethin’ fer yourself?’ In her vehemence Beatrice was spitting in all directions.
‘There’s nothing more I want out of life, Beatrice,’ Kerensa said firmly. ‘Now, my dear, before you settle and drop off to sleep I’d be grateful if you’d slip away somewhere else. Be careful of the stairs. I must see to the arrangements for the reception. Oliver’s so pleased Kane’s agreed to have it here instead of Vellanoweth.’
Beatrice was obliged to accept Kerensa’s aid in the struggle to get to her feet. ‘Ais, tes only right an’ proper every Pengarron be brought back ’ere after the church. Course,’ she added meaningfully, ‘it’ll mean Oliver ’aving one or two people under ’is roof ’e won’t wish ’ere at all.’
‘No one will be looking for trouble, certainly not Clem.’ Beatrice let out a snorting chuckle.
* * *
Kerensa closed the door and went to her dressing table. From a china trinket jar she produced a tiny ornate key. Listening first to be certain no one else was about to disturb her, she opened the bottom drawer where she kept the things she
treasured. She pulled out a plain wooden box. Unlocking the lid she carefully took the contents into her hands.
Wild flowers of every season lay carefully preserved within the pages of a small book of bitter-sweet poetry. A folded kerchief, once belonging to a young farm labourer, and a lock of his blond hair delicately tied with blue ribbon. She brought these things to her nose. Could she still detect the essence of youth, hope and cherished dreams, when she had walked and talked on moor, cliff and seashore, and planned a different, perfect future with another man? Loved another man?
These were the love tokens Clem Trenchard, the son of an estate tenant farmer, had given her many years ago, when she had lived in Trelynne Cove. Oliver’s selfish scheme to own the cove and make it part of Pengarron land and the cunning of Kerensa’s criminal grandfather had destroyed their plans. Clem had since married twice, produced issue from both wives and moved far away in the county.
Beatrice was right; Oliver did not want Clem in his house. In fact he had already complained about it, but Clem was baby Harry’s other grandfather; Kane was married to Jessica Trenchard, Clem’s daughter. Clem had every right to attend the baptism and the reception. It was more than two years since Kerensa had last seen him, when they had said their private goodbyes in Trelynne Cove and he had moved to the parish of St Cleer, on the Bodmin Moor, with his then pregnant wife Catherine, to a farm of their own. Their twins, John and Flora had been born three weeks ahead of Samuel. Clem and Catherine were due to arrive today at the parsonage. Indeed, Harry’s baptism was to be quite a family occasion. Catherine’s brother, the Reverend Timothy Lanyon was to perform the ceremony, and he was married to Olivia, Kerensa’s eldest daughter.
Kerensa gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Why had she kept these things Clem had given her for such a long time? Had she not placed him in a compartment in her heart labelled affection, a love lost and secretly treasured? It was time to let Clem’s things go, not to throw them away, that was too final, a sort of betrayal. She would take them to Trelynne Cove, place the book of dried flowers and the kerchief in the sea to float away – give them to nature. The lock of blond hair? It would be hard to let this most intimate of gifts go. Was Clem’s hair still as silky and fair? She would find a particular spot in the sand and bury it down deep, feel it was still close to her.
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