Pengarron Dynasty

by Pengarron Dynasty (retail) (epub)

  Before leaving the house Clem dashed off a note to Kerensa. He’d had very little chance for direct contact with her. They had managed to exchange a few rudimentary words and trade sympathetic glances, but always, it seemed, someone was watching them. Banking on a bustle of tea-making when he and Olivia arrived, he intended to slip the note inside Kerensa’s riding gauntlet.

  Fourteen

  On the first Sunday after he moved into Polgissey, Luke took his household to church.

  With Cordelia on his arm and Jack and Alicia following, he progressed down the narrow aisle, bringing all the talk, much of it inappropriate for the hallowed setting, and speculation as to what the new landlord looked like to a swift end. Luke kept a solemn countenance but nodded to anyone who sought his eye, which was almost everyone; the nosy, the eager, the aghast.

  Trotting importantly behind came the retained staff: the cook at the big house for the past twelve years, Mrs Amy Curnow, a somewhat fetching widow of youngish years and good deportment; the four housemaids, of varying ages, their looks ranging from plainly discreet to insolently common, for whom Luke had ordered material of dark blue and white linen for new female uniforms; at the rear was quiet, respectful, under-sized, Cal Barbary, the gardener; his pole-thin wife and seven, young, minuscule children behind him. Jack had quickly taken to Cal Barbary for he too was of the Methodist connection, and hitherto had been unwelcome in the church.

  The church smelled musty, the congregation smelled worse. Dirt littered the floor of cracked slate; mould and worm made free with the woodwork. For the most part the worshippers were equally unkempt, and scratching from flea bites. Luke eyed the high rafters and grimy rough stonework, all copiously occupied with cobwebs, and hoped they were sound. In the corner of one high window ledge was the remains of a small bird.

  Luke inspected the foremost pew. His pew. He felt a leaping sense of satisfaction. A threadbare runner, and the evidence suggesting its accumulation of dust had recently been shaken on to the floor, covered only half of the hard wood. He ushered Alicia and Jack and Cordelia into the pew then sat down at the end. He held his three-cornered hat, irritated about the state of the church, on his fingertips.

  The man who showed such disregard for the building he had charge over, the Reverend Simeon Thake, took his place. First adjusting his ragged white wig, secondly knocking a mummified insect off his frayed black sleeve, thirdly stamping on the heels of his dusty shoes, as if he was following some ancient ritual, he began the service of Holy Communion. Luke and Cordelia kept their prayer books in their hands, loathe to place them on the dirty ledge in front of them.

  Thake was the sort of over-humble curate, wont to lament his own woeful position and plead poverty, who Luke despised. Thin of body, beady of eye, lax of bodily hygiene, he had arrived at Polgissey the day after Luke had moved in, while he was busily lining his bookshelves with the volumes he had brought from Pengarron Manor.

  Luke had glared at the curate from the ladder in his library, with a case of instant dislike. ‘You’ll understand if I carry on with my task?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Pengarron. Indeed, indeed. It’s good fortune, if I may say, that Mr Cecil Doble left the house so adequately furnished. I came in all haste to welcome you, and… and… and Miss Drannock, isn’t it? To the parish of Porthcarne. I would be delighted if I was to see you and the good lady at St Colwynne’s next Sunday. Do you think there’s a possibility you will attend?’

  Luke put a copy of The Four Books of Andrea Palladio’s Architecture next to his horticultural books by mistake. ‘Perhaps, whatever the good Lord wills!’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, of course.’

  After allowing the curate a sip of port, but not a comfortable seat, Luke ordered Jack to show him the far side of his door.

  The service lasted unendurably, the Reverend Thake lapsing into his habit of repeating three times many a word in his sermon, which didn’t teach, preach or make any sense.

  Luke gave him only the briefest hand at the church door. ‘Did I spy a dead sparrow inside, Reverend Thake?’

  ‘Um, dead, Mr Pengarron? Sparrow?’ The curate squirmed.

  ‘Every little sparrow is numbered by God.’ Luke raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘Yet you have no notion that a bird has lain dead for some months inside the church and rotted away. Indeed, I’m wondering if anyone has put brush, cloth or polish to the building since its origins in 1162. Cromwell’s men couldn’t have done a better work at reducing the building. I don’t expect to see such a state of affairs next week! Good morning to you.’

  The mortified curate crept away, ignoring the remainder of his flock – an unusual number of worshippers today.

  Luke escorted Cordelia to the gates of the weed-infested churchyard. Jack took Alicia after them, muttering how disgraceful the curate was, and she agreed.

  Luke suddenly turned round to address the villagers, sure he would find some following in their wake, like gulls after a fishing boat. Nearly all of them were close up behind Jack and Alicia and they froze on the spot. He smiled, it reminded him of a childhood game, ‘What’s the time Mr Wolf?’ He hastened to assure these people that he wasn’t a wolf, about to shout out ‘dinner time!’

  The people, except for a group of black-haired men, one of giant proportions, all in uncommonly fine apparel, at the back of the gathering, were sadly undernourished. Among these men, women and children he would find more workers for his house, his garden, his stables, his fields and properties.

  ‘Good morning to you all. I’m sure you are aware of who I am and who these people with me are. Mr Rosevear is my steward, and you may contact him with any concerns you have on the estate. I hope in due course to call on every home and get to know you.’

  While Cecil Doble had kept high standards in his house, he had sorely neglected his land, tenants, and Porthcarne, which nestled where the land fell away in a deep hollow cove off the eastern reach of Polgissey. Leaving Jack to answer any immediate enquiries, Luke strode out through the rusty iron lychgate and peered over the assembly of huts and cottages. Singly and in haphazard rows, on either side of a wide rough thoroughfare, the dwellings included an alehouse and other makeshift businesses, the last solitary hut standing in foolish defiance near the edge of the beach, brazen to the elements.

  Luke knew the minds of these sort of people. They hoped that he, as their new landlord would do something, anything, to better their lot. But if he did not, they would simply accept it was their fate in life to be in want and need of even the basic necessities, and they would settle down to exist as best they could. Well, he was here now and he would do his best for them, show his father that he too was of a charitable heart.

  He took a second look. Here and there the thatch or slate or cob had been attended to on the buildings. Ashes, rubble or pebbles filled in some of the potholes on the road. He was gratified. It was easier to help those who helped themselves. Days of settling in, attending to his duties and ascertaining what were his responsibilities, had meant little spare time for writing his play.

  Luke ventured down into the village next day. He and Jack, accompanied by Cal Barbary for advice on who was trustworthy, signed up workers to start immediately. Cordelia was there too, taking every opportunity to be at Luke’s side, but also genuinely curious about the inhabitants.

  Infants fretting half-naked in the dirt were cheered by the biscuits, cake and sweetmeats Cordelia doled out to them. Triggy-toffee, fuggan and sugared almonds soon disappeared down ravenous little throats, grubby hands reached out for second helpings.

  ‘Very kind of ’ee, miss. Young uns do never get t’have a treat.’

  Cordelia looked about for the owner of the humorous, mature voice. It was a tiny elderly woman, wrapped in a faded tartan shawl, with a frilled cap too big for her head. She was sitting on a stack of ragged cushions on a three-legged stool, outside the last of a straggle of cottages, where the sun reached her kindly, crumpled face. A small whiskery dog lay snoozing nearby. Her minute hands leaned on
the knob of a walking stick, and Cordelia noticed she had only one foot. She had seen her outside the church yesterday, supported by two women, like a withered root between two upright trees.

  ‘Would you like something?’

  ‘Bless ’ee, miss, give it t’ the babes. Begging your pardon, miss, I don’t stand up easy, lost this to blood poisoning many a year backalong.’ She indicated where her black hose ended. ‘My name’s Minnie Drew. I’m ninety-three, outlived my man and five children and I’m the oldest living here.’

  ‘You must know everything there is to know about Porthcarne, Mrs Drew. My cousin, Mr Pengarron, is eager to put the village into good repair.’

  ‘That’ll be sumthin’ to behold afore I go up yonder, never seen it afore from the big house. Couldn’t get a meaner spirit than Cecil Doble where we down here was concerned, unless you went by the name of Kinver.’

  ‘Kinver?’ Cordelia was surrounded by every child for miles around now word had got round about her gift basket. She passed out the contents, listening avidly to Little Min, as she was to learn was the old woman’s affectionately given title.

  She could impress Luke with the details she learned about his property. While his desire to emulate his father as an approachable and benevolent landlord and master was genuine, she knew he was desperate to find a whole day to settle down to his play. Class distinction was to Luke a fact of life. There was only a certain amount of affiliation with these ordinary folk he could stand. Coming from the same degree of background of these villagers, Cordelia felt a sympathy for them that overruled her natural shyness.

  ‘You must have seed ’em after church yes’day. Half a dozen squires with hair as dark as a dog’s guts, one with the build of ole Blarney’s ox! Mr Doble sired the lot. Found a welcome, he did, most nights in young Becky Kinver. Pretty as a dove she was, had hair as black as night and skin like silk. All the men wanted her, but she wanted finer things. Got ’em too. Mr Doble built her a fine house, gived it her outright.’

  ‘The first house you come to when you reach the village? It’s up high, with a goodly piece of land to it and must have a fine view of the sea. My cousin was surprised when Cal Barbary told him he didn’t own it, and that it wasn’t the Reverend Thake’s. I noticed those men were well dressed.’

  ‘Mr Doble didn’t leave Becky no money – she’m long dead – but those boys of hers’ll turn their hand to anything. Grows crops and keeps goats and goes crabbing. Fine craftsmen too. ’Spec’ the young master will be glad of ’em for a thing or two. Born half quality they be, and they’m always busy reproducing the same kind. Some here would’ve starved but for they. One of ’em mended my leaky roof t’other day. Put a hand’s turn for anybody, they do.’ Little Min curled up her face in a shrewd smile. ‘Reckon tes going t’ be Porthcarne’s year.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Seven’s a lucky number. If you can’t be lucky in 1777, when can ’ee be?’

  The tiny dog woke up and Cordelia broke off a piece of spiced biscuit for it. Her basket was now empty and she promised the disappointed, sticky-faced children to come again with a newly laden one soon.

  Polgissey House was half the size of Pengarron Manor, the acreage of land a quarter of the estate, but Luke intended to make his property as progressive as his father’s. He had set men and boys to constructing proper roads. The more skilled were charged with erecting a conservatory and a summerhouse for the ladies, others in building high dry-stone walls, a Cornish expertize, to protect the fields.

  Oliver arrived while a train of mules and ponies were delivering supplies of wood and stone to the back of the house.

  ‘What goes on here, Jack?’ he enquired, while Jack reached for Gereint’s reins. ‘Most of these labourers appear to come from one family.’

  After giving his former master a brief outline of Luke’s plans, Jack repeated the details Miss Cordelia had learned about the six men unloading the building materials.

  ‘Cecil Doble never married, I’ve heard tale of his litter. All sounds well thought out. The house is a noteworthy prospect.’ Oliver looked inland. ‘You can see St Agnes Beacon, Cam Brea and Carn Marth.’ He pointed up the coast, ‘That’s Trevose Head.’ Then down coast, ‘And that’s Navax Point. Hidden beyond it is St Ives.’

  ‘Where they catch great big fish?’ Jack’s eyes widened at his education. Before his great adventure with Luke he had lived in a radius no bigger than two or three miles. St Ives had once sounded like the other end of the world.

  ‘As big as houses.’ Oliver grinned. ‘Are you enjoying living here, Jack?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack deemed it disloyal to say he had, at first, missed his own little cottage and duties on the Pengarron estate. ‘My wife’s not so sure. A cottage along the cliff top burnt down last week. No one was hurt and Luke’s promised the tenant he’ll have another, better one built, but she sees it as a bad omen. Won’t walk that way, no matter what.’

  ‘Otherwise she is well? And all else?’

  ‘Yes, sir…’ Jack was smarting over strong words he had exchanged with Luke over his and Cal Barbary’s request to build a Methodist meeting house. ‘I’ll not have dissenting rabble on my land!’ Luke had snarled. ‘Forget that nonsense and see that the weasel of a curate puts right our proper place of worship.’

  ‘You want to confide in me, Jack?’ Oliver eyed him closely.

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Mister Luke’s out writing today. First chance he’s got since we’ve been here. Only going to write indoors when the weather’s bad, he says. I’ll go fetch him for ’ee.’

  ‘No, Jack. Let him be. I’ll wander about on my own.’

  A short time later, standing alone on the cliff, gazing down solemnly on his son’s dishevelled village, Oliver reflected grimly that Kerensa and he should be here together to view this.

  Fifteen

  Luke was sitting on a carpet of springy grass, so close to the cliff edge that his feet were suspended in air. He looked up from his writing, at the only thing which could hold his attention from the world he was creating in his head and on paper: the Atlantic Ocean, stretching away to the horizon.

  The setting sun was laying down a shimmering silvery-gold path of magic over the busy waves. Where they neared the shore, gigantic rollers were forming and exploding, then sweeping in on the pale-golden beach of the tiny cove, a hundred feet below. As the water hit the sheltering rocks, flurrying white spray was sent up high, then it retreated to rejoin the glorious assault. This was the grandeur, the magnificence of the coast opposite to that on which his father had his estate: the dark and dangerous North Cliffs. The sea was rarely completely calm here, and was more outrageous in its beauty. Up the coast, not far out in the waters, off St Agnes Head, he could see a huge rock and a smaller one at its side. They were named Man and His Man. Like he and Jack.

  His cliff, his beach, his village, his people. His play. It all felt good. So good.

  He began writing again, furiously adding to his tale of bitter-sweet love in a realm of fantasy. Act II, Scene i, he wrote. Lia moves centre stage. She’s lost, nervous but enthralled, looks all around. Sasken, hiding behind the enchanted trees, moves forward. His expression shows his deep, unbearable love for her.

  Luke was unaware that someone was watching him. Speaking to him. He did not feel the arms that came about his neck from behind.

  ‘Luke, you’ve been here all day. It’s time to come home. Uncle Oliver is here.’

  He thought the voice had come from his mind, part of his play he had yet to write down, or to retrace and include in an earlier page.

  ‘What?’ he asked his inner voice, pen hovering over the paper.

  The quill was pulled out of his hand. ‘Luke, wake up, time to come back to reality.’

  His head followed the direction of the pen, and he was surprised to see Cordelia’s small face an inch from his. She was smiling, ‘Home, my dear. You haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast nor touched the wine you’ve brought with you.’

  ‘W
hat?’ Her face was in shadow, it would soon be dark. ‘Have I been away so long? It seems but a minute.’

  ‘Be careful how you get up. You’re too near the edge and you’ll be stiff all over.’

  Luke worked his hand, it was stiff and cramped from writing for the best part of the day. ‘Ow! My shoulder hurts. Everything hurts.’

  ‘You were wise to keep your hat and shirt on, or you’d be burnt badly by the sun,’ Cordelia said.

  They walked back to their new home, hand in hand, climbing up the fern-fringed cliff, following the somewhat precarious path he had flattened out that morning through the gorse, heather and bramble. Using protruding rocks as steps, they took care where sudden dips and rabbit holes might cause a stumble or twisted ankle.

  ‘How long has my father been here?’

  ‘Hours. He said not to disturb you. All’s going well then?’ She was carrying his leather folder of writing implements. ‘You’ll finish the whole play by the end of the week at this rate.’

  ‘Not so, sweeting. Better ideas come into my mind all the time and there will be restructuring and amending to do, but I’m satisfied today’s work will do mainly as it is.’

  ‘Have you based your main characters on anyone?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve led no romantic life to have formed such creatures. They love too deep, too ardently.’

  ‘May I read what you’ve written today?’

  ‘No, I’ll read it out to you some time. Saints be, I’m famished. What are we eating? I trust not a menu you and the fair Alicia have concocted between you, especially with Father here.’

  ‘No, we’ll let Mrs Curnow have sway with the kitchen from now on.’ Cordelia’s heart dropped like a rock, Luke never called her ‘fair’.

  ‘Don’t be disappointed, Corrie, you were both brave to try, nearly as brave as my Lia, who faces all manner of heartbreak and danger.’