Three
Kelynen was in the great hall. The servants were lined up across from her on the vast oak-planked floor. They were waiting for Luke to come downstairs and perform the daily morning prayers.
‘Shouldn’t be long now, my ’andsome.’ Beatrice, the longest-serving member of staff, grinned lopsidedly at her. The former nursemaid was held in great affection by the Pengarrons and was now more a confidante to them than a servant. Peculiarly ugly, fat and piggy-eyed, she was the only one to be seated, in regard of her ninety-three years and frailties. She fell back into her habit of humming and hawing to herself, of sniffing and snorting noisily. She was waiting patiently, amused that Kelynen was not.
Next to Beatrice, neat and straight in contrast, and firm on all the proprieties, was the housekeeper, Polly O’Flynn. She bent in one swift movement to pick up Beatrice’s fallen handkerchief. Beatrice snatched it from her, coughing and spluttering without shielding her mouth before pushing the scrap of cloth down into her huge drooping bosom. Beatrice could never be persuaded to wipe away the constant drip from her nose, or to wash herself regularly, and Polly was poised at an angle to escape her overripe smells.
Kelynen allowed another three slow, awkward minutes to pass. Where was Luke? Why must he be so inconsiderate? The staff wanted to get on with their duties and she wanted… well, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do today, but it certainly wasn’t to be kept waiting by her ill-mannered brother. There was no excuse for his tardiness. Luke had breakfasted in his room after a night spent in Marazion, probably in some house of ill repute. The chief maid, Ruth King, had reported that Elgan, the valet, had passed out an empty tray from the bedchamber and informed her that his master was now getting dressed. That was an hour and a half ago. The valet was a hooked-nosed, distant-eyed, waspish individual, procured from a fine London house. Kelynen and the servants loathed him for his patronizing, sometimes mean ways. He had arrived for the prayers a full minute after everyone else and was standing aloof. So where, Kelynen fumed, was Luke?
‘Excuse me.’ After a look of apology she mounted the mighty stairs and presented herself in her brother’s room.
He was sitting at a leather-topped desk. He had ordered it lugged down from the storage attics to save him a foray into the library or study. The lazy so-and-so! He was scribbling away intently and did not hear her come in. She crept up behind him and stared down over his shoulder.
‘Luke! You’re working on a play. How dare you! You’re intolerable. While the rest of us are waiting like ninnies for you downstairs, you are, as usual, serving your own ends. Stir yourself at once!’
Shocked by her sudden arrival, Luke broke his nib, splashed ink on the paper and jarred his painful shoulder. ‘Hell and damnation, Kelynen, you’ve made me lose the thread of what my character was saying.’
‘Never mind your character, and mind your language. The King sisters have complained to me about how often you swear. Prayers, Luke. Now! And don’t you dare ring for Elgan. You’re perfectly capable of putting on your coat yourself.’
Kelynen expected Luke to bawl at her to get out of the room, but to her consternation he swivelled round, leaned back and laughed. ‘Why, baby sister, I believe you’re turning into a termagant. I shall make peace with Ruth and Esther. That’s the trouble with Father employing Methodists; too much prudery in the house. I refuse to have dissenters at Polgissey. What shall we do after I’ve sent the godly Matthias Renfree – yet another Methodist, and a lay preacher to boot – on his way today? Ride to Marazion and take tea with the mayor? I’d like to acquire the latest gossip in the Bay. He has a son. Don’t worry, he’s a gawky youth as I recall, too shy to bother you. I’ll find you a more fitting blade to pay you court. Dear, dear, how you do frown. I’ll make sure he will be a merry fellow.’
Kelynen’s irritation turned to fury. He would send Matthias Renfree, the steward, on his way! No mention of her taking part in today’s discussion on estate matters. And no matter what Luke did, people always forgave him, were always eager to dance attendance on him. Later in the day, when it suited him, he would dawdle into the kitchens, where Esther King would be cooking, and poke his nose round the door of the laundry room, where Ruth King would be supervising the younger staff, and after a minute or two of sweet cajoling he would have the plain-faced, middle-aged sisters fawning all over him, promising him his favourite pudding and special attention to his shirts.
She was also furious at his poking fun at her. ‘I hate you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He stretched up carefully and grinned. ‘You adore me like everyone else does. I know life’s not fair to women, dearheart. You must learn to manipulate it so you’re happy, like Mama does. Is she not on equal terms with Father in everything?’ It was their mother’s Methodist origins that accounted for the faith of a good number of the servants.
‘That is because Father loves her so much. That sort of love is uncommon.’
‘Well, from the letter we received from them yesterday, they seem quite settled at the house Father is renting in the Royal Crescent. Now, what you need, my dear, is to go out more often, make new friends. You’ve sulked for a week, returning sadly, after starting a keen exploration of new and fresh ideas, into your little self-made shell again.’
Rising, Luke slipped on a well-cut coat, finished without a cuff but with a band of buttons in the new style, over his short, quilted waistcoat. His shirt frills were small and he pulled them down to protrude fetchingly over his wrists. He made an arresting, rugged sight, despite his overindulgence of food, drink and late nights. He looked at his sister ponderously. ‘Now, what else can I suggest for you?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Luke,’ Kelynen said as quietly as if speaking in church. Suddenly she had endured enough of him. ‘I don’t think anyone you could introduce me to would be of the slightest benefit to me. I shall not neglect my responsibilities to the estate, but I think I’ll stay at Livvy’s for a few days.’
* * *
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Kelynen. You can come with me tomorrow to Chenhalls.’
‘Does Timothy approve of you going there so often, Livvy?’
Kelynen was up in her sister’s attic painting studio, in the parish parsonage at Perranbarvah, two miles from home. She was gazing down on the little fishing village below. The sun was bright and a sparkle of green-blue and white marked the water’s edge. The fleet of rented luggers, all dramatically red-sailed, were safely ashore, and tiny figures in rough clothes were busy with tar brushes or repairing tackle. Small, ragged children with a couple of scraggy mongrels were playing among the rocks, their older siblings working with their fathers or with their mothers in the salting cellars. She knew all the fisherfolk and every child in the district who attended the charity school built under Pengarron benefaction, where sometimes she taught the lessons. A stroll down the steep hill later, a word or two with a fishwife or an old net-maker was an appealing idea. Luke would not bother to enquire personally how they were faring.
‘No, but I don’t see why,’ Livvy Lanyon snapped, her quick temper rising. She was occupied with packing oils, powders and brushes. ‘He’s been a particular friend of the Tremaynes for many years, long before he came to this parish. He made no objection at first when Sir Rafe suggested he commission me to paint his portrait. Timothy is being unreasonable, as usual. He’ll be back soon from saying the morning prayers in church and he’ll get difficult if you don’t agree to come with me. His attitude is unfair. He was supportive about my painting for a while, even suggesting that Luke take my work up to London to be viewed by the critics, but now if he had his way I’d only venture out once or twice a week. You must say you’ve been looking forward to a visit to Chenhalls for some time. After all, Father does business with them, and you are involved in that, so it’s time you met the Tremaynes. Also, tell him you’re interested in the nephew who resides there. Yes, that will help my cause. Josiah Tremayne is eminently eligible. Timothy will be pleased if he thinks you�
��re paying regard to matrimony. It’s all he thinks a woman should ever concern herself with.’
Kelynen was silent for a while, reflecting sadly that the London art critics had considered Livvy’s works underdeveloped – certainly not up to the standard required to grace the most discerning of walls or public galleries.
‘You want me to say it’s already arranged for me to accompany you to Chenhalls? Livvy, you are such a liar. I’ll not allow you to make me one too. Timothy is within his rights to take issue with you. You are the unreasonable one, don’t you think? You spend many a day, all of the day, out at your portraits and not enough time with the children or applying yourself to parish duties. Anyway, I thought you would have finished Sir Rafe’s portrait by now.’
‘Well, I haven’t. He wants his favourite cats in it with him. Lady Portia wants me to portray her next.’
‘Just paint in some cats and tell the sister she must wait. I can hardly take Rex where there are a lot of cats, and it wouldn’t be fair on Mrs Wills to leave him here in her care for a whole day.’
‘Oh, really! If you’d seen Sir Rafe’s cats you would know they are of particular exotic breeds, each with its own traits and personality. And why should I ask Lady Portia to wait? She is at least two-score years older than Sir Rafe. Time is not with her. She looks more in the next world than this one. I need the commission. I’d hardly have a decent gown to wear if I had to rely on Timothy’s stipend alone. There are dogs too at Chenhalls. You can take Rex. Come with me, do, Kelynen. Please! It will give you something to do. It’s got to be better than moping about. I thought you were going to treat yourself to new experiences, find a new purpose. Chenhalls might give you both. You’ve allowed Luke to unsettle you. He should never have said what he did to you. Father will ensure you have a good future whether you marry or not. And you’re sure to marry eventually – only look more carefully at what you desire in a husband than I did.’
‘Livvy! You are unjust to Timothy. And you’ve omitted that you have your own money, which he refuses to touch. As for me, I’m more duty-conscious than you are.’
‘Oh, tush! Forget duty, it can be horrendously suffocating. Even if Luke had not moved back home, Matthias Renfree could easily run the estate alone. And I am not unjust to Timothy. I’d never have married him if I’d known he would become so predictable and tiresome.’
‘Livvy, what a thing to say! Timothy is a fine man, honest and kind and non-judgemental. He’s thoroughly likeable.’ Livvy’s views saddened Kelynen. The Reverend Timothy Lanyon was a sympathetic parson, excellent with the anxious and bereaved. His sermons were long and detailed, but delivered with such fervour that his goodly numbered congregation usually went away each week satisfied or inspired.
‘You think him fine? You wouldn’t consider my comments so awful if you had to endure my life. Timothy used to be outrageously informal and boisterous, remember? He liked to shock people, especially women. Now he’s just like any other mature man, content with the mundane. He’s dull and dry, like someone all used up.’
Kelynen might have remarked that perhaps the change in her brother-in-law’s attitude had something to do with the constant war he was engaged in to stop Livvy disgracing him by living more as a single than a married lady. But that would enrage her sister. It was Livvy who shocked people now, by her neglect of many a wife’s duties, by sometimes being rude to those who called at the parsonage on parish concerns. There was speculation outside the parsonage walls that she had deserted the marriage bed. In fact she had, declaring that she had no intention of adding to the two small children already in the nursery.
‘Timothy has a son and a daughter; if he wants anything more out of me then he’ll be disappointed.’ Livvy came to her side, linking her arm entreatingly through hers, inveigling to get her own way. She had inherited the lovely dark-red hair and oval-faced beauty of their mother, but while Lady Pengarron’s looks were always gentle, Livvy’s were often hard. ‘Anyway it’s time you met some people who are more entertaining than your usual circle. Sir Rafe is amiable and delightful and fascinating. He’s well travelled and has filled Chenhalls with all manner of intriguing effects. He’s a most attractive man, his age about forty-seven, I should think. He’s sympathetic towards my aims and says he prefers my raw interpretations to anything Hogarth-style or any other of the great masters. You know already that he’s outlived his two wives and sadly all his children. Women adore coming under his attention and wit. Come with me, Kelynen. We’ll have fun, I promise you. You’ll find Chenhalls captivating. The gardens are divine. And…’ Livvy smiled to beguile. ‘Josiah Tremayne has a particularly appealing face, a splendid physique and a pleasant disposition.’
‘Think him more interesting than the mayor’s son, do you?’ Kelynen asked in a sudden drift of dry humour.
‘What?’ Livvy’s puzzled frown metamorphosed into a triumphant smile. ‘A thousand times more! Good, so you’ll come?’
‘I suppose, as you’ve said, it’s something to do,’ Kelynen replied doubtfully, adding quickly and sternly, ‘But I’ll only go if Timothy agrees that you may.’
Livvy squeezed her arm and kissed her cheek. ‘I knew I’d talk you round. We’ll have to rise early. I need plenty of time to paint in good light. Now the weather is kinder, Sir Rafe is posing in the gardens, where the painting is actually set. I’ll slip downstairs and tell Mrs Wills our plans.’
‘After that shall we take Hugh and Julia out in the gardens? The air is fresh and sweet. It’s a lovely early-spring day.’
‘No. It will only disturb their routine.’ A second later Livvy was pattering down the attic stairs.
Kelynen wandered about the well-lit room, made up mostly on the south wall of glass. She looked over the assortment of Livvy’s work: still life, land and seascapes, but mostly portraits. She liked Livvy’s carefree application. Livvy came alive with purpose and creativity when she painted. She sparkled, oozed energy. Such a pity she could not find a similar passion for Timothy.
Kelynen hoped to alight on a stranger in the portraits who might be Sir Rafe Tremayne. But, of course, his portrait would be at Chenhalls awaiting completion, and there it would remain. She was suddenly curious about Chenhalls, an ancient secluded estate, several miles up the coast in Mount’s Bay. Chenhalls had always evoked gossip and rumour. Ghosts were said to haunt it. Disappearances and other mysteries were said to abound there. Insanity was supposed to have knocked on many a Tremayne head.
Kneeling down to Rex, she hugged his comforting neck. ‘It will pass away some time for us, my old love.’
She slipped away quietly to the nursery to enquire if she might view her two-year-old nephew and niece of fourteen weeks, but before she could speak to the wet nurse, she heard furious shouting from the floor below. Livvy and Timothy were involved in a quarrel, not an unusual occurrence, but it sounded so bitter that Kelynen thought she had better go down to them.
Her sister and brother-in-law halted their fierce words as she entered the spacious, well-furnished parlour. Both were shaking in anger. Kelynen appealed to Timothy’s red blustering face. ‘If this is about the visit to Chenhalls, then of course I withdraw my desire to go there.’
‘It’s not that, it’s about this!’ Livvy stabbed a forefinger towards a bundle of pale pink silk on one of the sofas.
‘One of the maids left it there?’ Kelynen asked disbelievingly. It seemed a trifling matter to row so violently over.
‘Look closer,’ Livvy said in a low dangerous tone.
The Reverend Timothy Lanyon threw up his hands in exasperation.
Kelynen shot him a sympathetic glance. She went to the sofa, peered down at the bundle of silk and wrinkled her nose at the strong fetid smell coming off it. ‘Good heavens, it’s a baby, quite newly born by appearance. Where did it come from?’
‘I found it abandoned on the church steps.’ Timothy glared at his tight-lipped wife with meaningful intent. ‘Poor little mite.’
‘Where do you think it comes
from?’
‘Some unwed trollop,’ Livvy replied with distaste. ‘And because of her stinking brat, he—’ she glared at Timothy – ‘has forbidden me to go to Chenhalls.’
‘The poor unfortunate child wasn’t consigned, as so many others are, to a rubbish heap, the depths of a mine shaft or the bottom of the sea, but has been entrusted into my care. Our care, for everything that concerns me should concern you too. Why won’t you see that?’ Timothy was not far off exploding. Kelynen had never seen him so agitated. ‘Of course you can’t go gadding off at a time like this.’
Kelynen watched in horror as Livvy strode up to Timothy and smashed a hand across his face. His head spun round at a right angle. A scar in the middle of his chin, caused many years ago during a wrestling match, was noticeably whiter than the rest of his reddened skin. ‘How dare you suggest we actually adopt the disgusting creature! How dare you even think of putting it with my children in the nursery!’
Timothy threw out an arm and grasped Livvy by the wrist. ‘What I actually said is that we must show the child Christian charity. You panicked, wife, because you saw it as some sentiment, some ruse on my part to tie you to the house. I should not waste my breath! I have long given up hope that you will pay heed to your rightful course. It is not I who needs to get my priorities right. You have that dubious honour. You wilfully neglect your own children. You were out of the house about your art before barely a fortnight was up after being in childbed with Julia. Hugh doesn’t even know who you are. Think this makes you a good mother, a credible lady in the neighbourhood? Well, I’ve had enough of your cold disregard. On no account will I allow you to go to Chenhalls or anywhere else to paint for several months. Do you take note? Disobey me and I shall dismantle your studio and make a bonfire of your things. You may write to your father and urge him home to take me to task, but I shall no more mind if I had Old Nick despatched to my doorstep. In fact I’m sorely tempted to build a bonfire this minute and put you, Olivia—’ he used her proper given name in a menacing tone – ‘upon it!’
Pengarron Rivalry Page 2