Pengarron Rivalry

by Pengarron Rivalry (retail) (epub)

  He let Livvy go and for once she was speechless, her red mouth working but empty of words.

  Timothy smoothed his straight earth-brown hair, gone wild in the altercation. He took a deep breath to clear his dizzy head and then swept up to the baby. Kelynen jumped back from the sofa. She couldn’t help feeling chastened too. She certainly did not wish to stay in this house a second longer.

  ‘Please accept my apologies over what you have just witnessed, Kelynen. The child is wrapped in fine material. It’s likely the mother is of high birth.’

  ‘Mama has formed a charity to find orphaned children new homes. I could get in touch with one of the ladies on the board, if you like,’ Kelynen offered.

  ‘That is kind of you, but I would like a little time to elapse before I consider what to do with this child.’

  ‘What will you do?’ She glanced anxiously at Livvy, who let out a furious huff.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Timothy glared at his wife. ‘I’ll order the trap to be brought round. I’ll take the child to your brother, Kane. He understands how it feels to be rejected, adopted himself as he was out of love by your parents. I’m confident he will gladly provide this ill-fated scrap of humanity with the succour it deserves until its future can be best decided. Hopefully its mother will find the means to return and reclaim it. Perhaps you’d be good enough to stay with your sister, Kelynen. She may benefit from your good sense and better character.’

  ‘You went too far, Livvy,’ Kelynen said when Timothy had stormed out of the house.

  Livvy was staring into space, her face pale and pinched, but her grey-green eyes were glittering with an unquiet passion. She said, one biting word at a time, ‘And so did he.’

  Four

  Late in the night, Livvy left her bedroom in her floating silk dressing gown and brocaded slippers and crept downstairs.

  She had guessed right – that Timothy had not retired and was enshrined in his little dark den. He often stayed up late writing his sermons, and since she had deserted the marriage bed she knew he sometimes did not go to bed at all. Tonight he was drinking claret, had consumed a large amount of it. A near-empty bottle was clutched in one hand and he was leaning against a bookcase, his coat and clerical collars off, his shirt open to the waist.

  His mouth twisted to the side as he coldly watched her approach. ‘You are intruding, madam.’

  She went close to him. ‘We’ve never quarrelled like this before, Timothy.’

  ‘I think you enjoyed it.’ He brought the bottle up to his lips, downed the last red drop. ‘Leave me in peace.’

  She fetched him the full bottle standing by, its cork already pulled. He snatched it from her.

  ‘It’s not your way to get intoxicated, Timothy. I really must have unsettled you.’

  ‘Turning to drink to escape the rigours of being wed to you is a tempting prospect, but I shall indulge in such for this night only.’ He looked her up and down with a kind of abhorrence that made Livvy shudder. Timothy had only looked at her before with desire, kindness, or a lame pleading or anger. ‘However, I might take to beating you. Now that does appeal to me.’

  ‘Why not throw me out of the house during the throes of a violent storm without a farthing in my purse?’

  ‘Bitch!’

  Livvy had made to mock him further, show him yet again that she was not afraid of him, that she held superiority over him, but his venom pulled her up sharp. ‘Kelynen was right. I did go too far today.’

  ‘Is she still here?’

  ‘Yes. Reluctantly so, I think. She probably thought one of us might have need of her.’

  ‘You, Livvy, Olivia Pengarron, have no need of anyone. And I no longer have need of you. Get out of my den.’

  ‘I’ll leave when I’m ready to.’ Livvy was determined to disguise how troubled he was making her. Determined also to talk him round concerning Chenhalls. ‘I’m curious about the abandoned child. Is it well? Is it male or female? Has there been any information about its parentage?’

  ‘I will not discuss the child with you. You are not interested in it anyway.’

  ‘I am,’ she lied, moving to a single breath’s distance from him. ‘You may bask, Timothy, in indignation and marital self-righteousness, but nevertheless you are nothing more than a mere man and you do have need of me. Don’t you?’ Keeping contact with his eyes, so grey and dark and menacing in the low candlelight, she undid the lavish cord of her dressing gown. ‘Come to me, Timothy. We’ll discuss our differences later.’

  Without breaking his sight from her he took a deep draught out of the bottle.

  She gave a feline smile. Ran her fingertips along the curve of her chin and down over the central column of her throat, carrying on down until she reached the soft stuff of her nightgown, which she slowly edged off her shoulders. She moved over to Timothy, placing a thigh against his leg. ‘I’m sorry about today, beloved. I know I can be difficult, but isn’t it part of what you love about me? Come to my room. Or we can stay here. Whatever you choose.’

  ‘What I want, Olivia…’ He drank some more wine.

  ‘Yes, dearest?’ She put her hands on his waist, began a slow journey inside his shirt, up over his skin until she was stroking his neck behind his ears, where he liked to be touched. Timothy had kept his body slim and well toned, while the few other clerics she had deigned to meet all seemed to be portly, with unsightly paunches. She wasn’t a willing bed partner nowadays, but suddenly this haughty change in him – this hint of cruelty, even – was sensually appealing. Her woman’s regions were on fire and she was hungry for him. She tilted her head, making her long, glossy auburn hair sway provocatively over her shoulders, before reaching up with her lips for his.

  ‘What I want, Olivia —’ he brought his face to within a fraction of hers – ‘is for you to get the hell out of my den and to never bother me again. Your cheap ploy at offering me sex to get your own way doesn’t appeal to me at all.’ It took a moment for Livvy to comprehend the full meaning behind his harsh words. She whipped her hands down from him and backed away.

  ‘In fact, dear wife, I no longer care about you at all. Go tomorrow to Chenhalls, or anywhere else you desire. Henceforth, all I shall require of you is that you attend church every Sunday and make a convincing pretence of acting as a parson’s wife on two days of the week. If you do not, I shall order Mrs Bevan to forbid you entrance to the nursery and I shall carry out my threat to destroy your studio.’

  With an effort, Livvy found her voice. ‘You unspeakable swine! My father gave you the living of this parish and he can just as easily take it away. He will not allow you to treat me in such a manner.’

  ‘Sir Oliver will never learn the circumstances of our marriage, will he? I’m sure you’ll not take your disgrace to his or your mama’s ears. Because that is what your attitude towards me is, a disgrace. Now be gone. The very sight of you makes me sick and I find you utterly boring.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that! I’ll make you suffer—’

  ‘What! More than you already have? That, Mrs Lanyon, is impossible. But you know the old saying, he who has the last laugh…’

  Livvy felt she was shrinking; she felt abused. But Timothy was not finished with her yet. ‘Face up to it, woman, your skills with a paintbrush don’t measure up. The experts said so. Your work is good and always will be, but nothing more. You have sacrificed me for a stupid dream.’

  Five

  ‘Are you sure you’ll cope with this, Livvy? Perhaps you’d be better off at home.’ Taking one hand off the reins of the parsonage trap, Kelynen wrapped Livvy’s cape more closely round her tense shoulders.

  The early-morning chilly grey mist still had its grip on the coast road and little could be seen ahead, but it wasn’t the weather that was making Livvy shiver at alarming intervals.

  ‘You mean to continue with the portrait at Chenhalls? Of course I’ll cope. Sir Rafe’s diverting company is just what I need right now.’

  Kelynen knew her sister’
s good spirits were false. After the quarrel in the den, of which Kelynen, in the room overhead, had heard the rumblings, Livvy had run up to her own room and cried all night; a child’s crying, lonely and distraught. Kelynen had waited an agonizing hour before going in to her, not wanting to get in the way if, as she had prayed, Timothy did so. ‘Livvy, Timothy will come round, won’t he?’

  ‘I care not if he doesn’t! At last I’m free, as free as a man, to come and go as I please.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Kelynen pointed out. ‘Timothy has put restrictions on you.’

  ‘I’m as free as a married woman can be; that makes me content. If it wasn’t for the children I’d leave him.’ Kelynen paid close attention to the dirt road, fearing a pothole or unseen obstruction might be their undoing. They had travelled through half a dozen hamlets and villages since leaving Perranbarvah and were now passing, from a comfortable distance, the shadowy cottages and shanties of Trewarras. The squat, bleak homes, on scrubby moorland that barely supported a potato patch, of the miners from the Wheal Lowen copper mine. Kelynen knew without a close view that there would be roofs that needed mending, ditches needing to be dug or cleared. Many of the children would be weak and marked by disease. The mongrels could be heard barking, emaciated and ferocious. Although all were skilled in their trade, their wages more than farm workers, these people were the underlings of society. Some were fiercely religious, some were fierce drinkers, all were fiercely proud, a breed apart and somewhat feared.

  ‘I’m sorry things are so bad for you, Livvy.’

  ‘Let’s not talk of it again. The sun should burn off this mist very soon and I should complete an excellent day’s painting – no matter what my miserable husband thinks of my ability. And you’ll be able to walk Rex through the beautiful gardens.’ Rex was jogging along, protectively close to the trap.

  Kelynen was pleased to see Livvy brightening.

  On the road now were miners trudging home after their eight-hour core, lugging excavating tools, usually three or four of them on their sturdy but weary shoulders. They stared at the trap from under their wide-brimmed hard hats, nodding in respect, for their burdens prevented the touching of forelocks. Kelynen fancied one or two scowled at her; jealous, impatient or angry, perhaps, that others should be well bred and better off. They had dirt-streaked faces, worn- out eyes, most were short in stature and all seemed bent over. It was a long walk home after a hard night’s graft in hazardous conditions. Long after they had passed the last man, the ominous, hazy outlines of the mine workings itself could be seen near the cliff edge, the mist and distance thankfully muffling the demonic clankings, booms and creakings of the machinery. Sir Rafe Tremayne owned this mine, the largest in the area.

  After another mile they were approaching Trewarras Head, a wide finger of land protruding out into the sea. They had half a mile left to go. Chenhalls was sheltered between the headland and the next one, Mearnon Point. Minutes later, Rex scurried on ahead. The mist was thinning, shapes were beginning to show normal and clear, and Kelynen felt the first warmth of a promising sun shining through.

  ‘Tell me more about Sir Rafe.’ From what she had already heard, the baronet was firmly in her mind as a man of independent spirit, apt to suddenly dart from Chenhalls to his various homes in Truro or London, or to sail overseas. In his youth, he had captained a privateer ship for the benefit of the Realm. He was a flagrant freetrader – a smuggler of untaxed goods. Livvy had mentioned he was good-looking. So was their father: fourteen years older than Sir Rafe, he was still turning the heads of women of every age. Kelynen smiled to herself. Perhaps she should look over the widower as a likely husband for herself. What would her family think of that?

  The next instant she was bringing the trap to a halt. ‘Oh, my goodness!’

  ‘What is it? Have you seen something on the road?’ Livvy craned her neck to see over the horse’s head.

  Taking away the hand that had flown to her face, Kelynen broke into a strange little smile. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it now but I should be at home today. I’d invited Sophie Carew to call on me.’

  * * *

  Polly O’Flynn knocked on the door of the library at the manor and entered on her sure, quiet step. ‘Mr Pengarron?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Luke glanced up from the rambling table spread with open books and his steadily growing manuscript. When his brain and imagination were in tune he could finish a play in three months. He was researching some obscure African mythology. He favoured to create fantasy plays, with all manner of strange animals that could talk, and with gods, fairies, giants and the like. ‘Surely we’ve not long had breakfast? Throw another log on the fire will you, please, Mrs O’Flynn? The chill from the mist entered my bones and has stayed stubbornly with me.’

  ‘It’s because you will sit around, sir. You need to get up and send the blood circulating.’ Polly could speak like this to her young master. She had come to the manor long before his birth – had married the Pengarrons’ Irish gamekeeper and head forester – and Luke held an affectionate respect for the older servants.

  ‘I’ll take a long ride later.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem,’ Polly said, throwing a log on the embers of the fire and raking with the poker to bring about a crackling blaze. It produced a peachy-rosy glow to the dark oak panelling. ‘A lady has arrived to take tea with Miss Kelynen.’

  ‘Who?’ Luke employed his quill in rapid strokes, having gained a lot of inspirational meat from the account of a fire-breathing, multi-winged, half-human, half-bird immortal. He should get through two thousand words by nightfall.

  ‘It’s Mrs Sophie Carew, sir. She’s the widow of Mr Wilmot Carew, the… um…’

  ‘Old fool who married again late and shot himself dead over gambling debts,’ Luke finished unsympathetically. ‘Send her away.’

  ‘I can hardly do that, sir.’ This went against Polly’s sense of right and order.

  Luke swore under his breath. He hated being disturbed from his writing. He had worked out that he would complete the second act today, and tomorrow he would show his face about the estate while mulling over what he had written. Then, after a night spent with a certain married lady in Marazion, he would edit and resume writing. ‘Why didn’t Miss Kelynen come home for this?’

  ‘She sent word, remember, that she’s off to Chenhalls with Mrs Lanyon.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll see the wretched woman if I must, for a minute. And think of some excuse to save my sister’s face.’

  ‘Shall I show her into Lady Pengarron’s sitting room? It’s where the ladies usually take tea.’

  ‘Yes, yes, damn it! I shan’t take long in getting rid of her.’

  ‘Sir…’ Polly intimated his casual attire.

  ‘What? Oh, arrange for Elgan to bring me something more fitting.’

  Polly dropped a perfect curtsey and hurried away. Luke stopped her before she closed the high double doors. ‘Polly, what’s this woman like?’

  ‘Mrs Carew, sir? The word I’d use to sum her up is surprising.’

  Luke was intrigued by this description as he allowed the pompous Elgan to change his frock coat, brush him down, polish him up and re-tie his neckcloth and the bow at the back his long black hair. What could be surprising about Wilmot Carew’s widow? She was young, apparently, but she had to be dull. None of Kelynen’s friends were particularly appealing.

  ‘If I can’t get away quickly, Elgan, I’ll ring for you,’ Luke said grimly. ‘Come at once with an excuse to rid me of the lady’s company.’

  ‘Promptly, sir.’ Elgan always kept his pale eyes dull and disinterested, but Luke had come to recognize the modicum of gleam in them that anticipated a relish. Elgan was a misogynist. Well, Luke was not. He liked women. He liked to have women of all ages dote on him, witty women to amuse him, beautiful, young, creative women in his bed. Perhaps this one was a sweet, quaint soul he wouldn’t mind giving a few minutes of his time to.

  Luke strode into the great hall, which
linked most of the ground floor rooms, then down the long passage to his mother’s private room. Polly was waiting outside the door. Luke hurried in. The sooner he got this over with the sooner he could return to the library. Hopefully the widow would not make a fuss and would shortly take herself off.

  Anticipating Polly’s introductions, Luke passed through the door saying, ‘My humble apologies—’ He was brought to stand stock still, his mouth curved around a half formed word.

  Sophie Carew was surprising. More so! She was startling, a sensation. And she was a riot of contradictions. She was the essence of finely bred female fragility, yet he knew she owned a will every bit as strong and as powerful as his own. She was fully a woman, yet although having been married, retained an enticing innocence. Her clothes of gunmetal grey – she was half out of mourning – detracted none of her vibrant energy. No woman had ever had such a shocking effect on him before. She stirred him, excited him, thrilled him – but for all that, she inexplicably chilled him and this fascinated him even more. The look in her eyes spoke of her right to be here and said that she would stay for as long it pleased her to.

  ‘You were saying, Mr Pengarron? I take it you are Luke Pengarron? Brother of Miss Kelynen?’ Her voice was rich with melody.

  Like a lovesick blundering youth Luke stared and stared and saw more of her beauty. Eyes of ice blue, finely honed features, skin that glittered with opalescent whiteness and hair of an unusual fairness, as if shot through with crushed pearls.

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Carew,’ he faltered, struggling to recall the excuse he had thought up on Kelynen’s behalf. ‘Please let me explain. My sister… um… she had to rush off, my other sister had sudden need of her. She asked me to extend her apologies to you. I’m afraid I’m a poor substitute for her, but would you care to stay and take tea with me?’