Pengarron Rivalry

by Pengarron Rivalry (retail) (epub)

  Seven

  Feeling it invasive to call out Rex’s name, holding her breath, Kelynen crept towards the stairs and mounted them on her toes so her heels would not tap out her trespass. Even so, her steps echoed like unwelcome strangers. She arrived on the next floor. The stair carried on, climbing the next wall. Here there was a narrow landing and an open door leading to the first-floor room.

  She peeped inside. It was as dark and gloomy as the room below. She heard a snuffling and gulping. Unnerved, Kelynen swung her head to each of the four walls. Everything was steeped in shadows but as her eyes grew used to the dimness she made out a small fireplace with a grate and ashes. She saw the source of the strange noises. Digory was up on a chair at a small square table, wolfing down the remains of a meal on a wooden tray. Josiah Tremayne’s breakfast? Digory had knocked over a goblet. There was an empty wine bottle and a single candlestick on the table, but no cloth. Then she located Rex. Sniffing, burrowing with his paws, he was attempting to get his snout under a heavy iron chest. Sensing his mistress near, he abandoned his exploration and padded over to her.

  ‘Get down!’ Kelynen hissed across at Digory. He had cleared the plate. He scrambled down and scampered out of the room and down the stairs.

  She knew she should leave. But her eyes stole up the next flight of steps. ‘Do you think he’s up there, Rex? Josiah Tremayne?’

  Rex whimpered. Kelynen put a hand on his collar, felt the hairs rise on his hackles.

  She should run away from this cloying, shadowy atmosphere. There seemed so little air it was hard to breathe. Or was that the result of her excitement and sense of fear? The tower smelled like a vault. It was cold, so very cold. Perhaps this was where some of Chenhalls’ ghosts roamed and lamented their fate. None were rumoured to be friendly. She swallowed down an irrational surge of panic. She had come this far, she might as well take a quick look about the room. ‘Come on, Rex.’

  She tiptoed towards the iron chest, interested to see if there was an inscription on it, a clue as to its owner. Rex growled low, warning. ‘Shush!’ She grabbed his collar. He obeyed, but every muscle of his body was poised to leap forward, to protect her if need be. Her heart thundering, she waited to find out the cause of Rex’s alarm. If all was well she would leave and Josiah Tremayne need never know she had been trespassing.

  He was coming down the stairs with slow, heavy steps. She prayed he would carry on downwards and leave the tower. If not, she would have to summon up the courage to brazen it out. Then she told herself not to be so silly. Why should she be afraid? After all, the nephew of the jovial and hospitable Sir Rafe Tremayne was unlikely to be hostile.

  The steps came towards the door. Kelynen sucked in her breath. A rumble started in Rex’s throat. He was stiffly alert, raring to lurch forward. ‘Shh.’

  There was a groan. Kelynen wished she had run out while she’d had the chance.

  A shadowy figure shuffled in. Kelynen stared, hardly daring to breathe. It was a very old man. He was panting, muttering and reaching out with one feeble hand for anything that would aid his laborious passage. He was thin to the point of emaciation, bent over and wearing a thick, fringed shawl over which spilled his extraordinarily long colourless hair. His breathing came raggedly. He was weak and stumbling. Who was he? A servant? Or some ancient insane Tremayne the family wanted to keep secret? Certainly not Josiah Tremayne, who had been playing such wonderful music minutes ago. This person looked too frail to pick up a violin bow, as if he would disintegrate in a puff of wind.

  Rex suddenly slipped away from her and hurtled towards the old man. ‘Rex, no!’ The old man seemed not to hear her shout.

  Rex nudged him on the leg and to Kelynen’s horror the old man fell, dropped like a stone, too shocked to cry out until he hit a chair and ended up sprawled in front of the fireplace.

  ‘Rex, get back!’ Mobilized by instinct to help and make recompense, Kelynen rushed to the old man, falling to her knees. Rex retreated unwillingly. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Don’t try to move. I’ll get help.’

  ‘No,’ the victim rasped. His fingers curled round her forearm with a strength that surprised her. For one gut-wrenching second she thought she had walked into a trap. ‘I don’t want any fuss. Please, just help me up.’

  ‘But you might have broken bones.’

  ‘Please, no fuss I say.’ He could only raise his voice in a whisper and she had to bring her ear in close to him. ‘I assure you the worst I’ve suffered is bruises.’

  He lifted his head and Kelynen recoiled. The face looking directly at her appeared to have had the life hauled out of it, the eyes burned out. He was not an old man but his face was in ruins. She entreated herself to be calm. This phantom of a man frightened her a little. Feebly, he reached for the chair.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she said. Getting behind him, she hooked her arms in under his armpits, around his chest and eased him up high enough to drag him on to the chair. It took little effort. He was no more than an outline of a person.

  She had felt the bones of his ribs pressing against her arms. He smelled dusty. His hair had fallen across her face, giving her the horrible sensation of being covered in cobwebs. She wiped at her cheeks and brow. Altogether it had been a macabre experience.

  His head flopped down and he was wheezing. She moved to get a better view of him. She was almost afraid to look into his face again, but she could not help herself from wanting to.

  ‘Look up and let me see exactly what you are like.’

  Slowly, while she stared in gruesome fascination, he lifted his head. She saw that her first impression had been conjured up out of her fear-fuelled imaginings, perhaps even a longing to witness the supernatural. Here was a man of about Luke’s age who was deathly pale, ill and exhausted.

  His fathomless blue eyes, glassy and hollow, flickered and stared at her. ‘I thank you for your help. You are not one of the maids.’

  ‘I’m here at Chenhalls with my sister, Mrs Lanyon.’

  ‘Mrs Lanyon? I’m sorry, I have no idea who she is. May I know your name?’

  ‘I’m Kelynen Pengarron. My sister is presently painting Sir Rafe’s portrait.’

  His head fell to his chest. Kelynen looked about for water to revive him but there was no glass, no jug. He roused himself. ‘Pengarron? I heard that name long ago, when I lived here for a short time. My uncle has commissioned a woman? How odd.’

  She ignored his question, moved as close to him as she dared. ‘You are Josiah Tremayne?’ He was nothing like Livvy’s description, unless she had lied or been joking.

  ‘No. I’m Gabriel. Josiah is my younger half-brother.’

  Kelynen’s mind worked up an intrigue. Two brothers! Half-brothers. And one of them was starving to death in this old tower. Sir Rafe had warned her to keep away from the music-maker. Was Gabriel Tremayne being kept prisoner? ‘Do you live here?’ she asked.

  ‘I come here to compose and play, although in fact it’s many a day since I’ve ventured up to the house.’

  Kelynen was chiding herself for being melodramatic. He was hardly a prisoner if the door was left unlocked and open. But it was more likely he had not ventured up to the house for many weeks. Surely the generous and caring Sir Rafe would not allow his nephew to languish in this condition. Perhaps Gabriel Tremayne had some wasting disease. Perhaps he was in some way mentally ill.

  ‘Don’t you think you should go up there now? Forgive me for being forward, but you are very weak. In need of a nourishing meal.’

  ‘I eat well.’ Gabriel Tremayne sounded perplexed. ‘My plate is cleared every day.’

  Kelynen thought she saw the situation. Whatever the man’s condition he had lost all appetite. ‘Are you in this room when your meals are brought to you?’

  ‘Never. I am always too occupied with my music.’

  ‘Then, I fear, it is Sir Rafe’s dog that has been eating them. Do you drink any water?’

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘Then you are probably dehydra
ted. Forgive me again, but I think you are near to becoming dangerously ill. Please allow me to fetch someone to help you up to the house. You urgently need food, water and the attention of a physician.’

  His gaunt eyes rested on her for a long time before he spoke. ‘Miss Pengarron, I fear you are right and I thank you for your concern, and for not mentioning my other pressing need: a bath. Could I press you to go up to the house and ask a footman to attend me? Don’t disturb my uncle. My aunt will most likely be with him and she is much given to drama, displayed shrilly. I could not stand that.’

  Rex had waited, watching warily. Eager to get outside, he whined suddenly.

  ‘What was that?’ Gabriel Tremayne wasted some of his limited strength by looking about in alarm.

  ‘It was my dog. It was he who knocked you over. I apologize.’

  ‘Oh, I have fallen a lot lately. I did not realize I was knocked over, although the ghost is capable of such.’

  ‘The tower is haunted?’ Kelynen looked nervously behind her. One could imagine anything in this dark, oppressive, unhealthy environment.

  ‘Yes. With much hostility and bitterness, it is said. I shouldn’t have flaunted my presence here for so long. Miss Pengarron, please go up to the house and get help. I am anxious to leave here.’

  Eight

  Kelynen suffered a night of fitful sleep in which she dreamed of being imprisoned forever in a dark dungeon at Chenhalls, and then being hurled off the top of the tower folly by an unseen hand.

  After this, and the bleak atmosphere at the parsonage, it was reassuringly light, airy and calm the next day inside Sophie Carew’s humble, pleasant home, looking over the port and castle atop St Michael’s Mount, half a mile directly across the waters from the ancient market town of Marazion. The parlour walls were charmingly decorated in block- printed, olive-green wallpaper. Miniature enamels of Wilmot Carew were framed with black ribbon. Kelynen admired the exquisite needlepoint that Sophie was working on, of a bird of paradise on white lace.

  ‘I thought I’d put it on the stomacher of a day dress,’ Sophie said. ‘It will make a pleasing change from the usual bows or ruching.’

  The friends had exchanged a formal embrace on Kelynen’s arrival, and, as always, Kelynen had felt a slight stiffness in Sophie, who was not given to displays of affection.

  ‘Why not an evening robe? It would make many a lady envious of you.’

  ‘I’ve no particular wish to resume a social life yet.’ Sophie rang for refreshments. ‘Now, no more apologies over your journey to Chenhalls. Of course you had to put yourself at your sister’s disposal. Tell me, how did you find my late husband’s business associate? Sir Rafe speculates in many tin and copper mines on the cost-book system, where many take up shares, but Mr Carew was the only other shareholder in the Wheal Lowen.’ There was a tart edge to her voice.

  ‘I found Sir Rafe the most charismatic of men. If he were twenty years younger I think I could easily be drawn to him. But do allow me to say it’s kind of you not to mind that I went there. Did you favour Beatrice with a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘I passed an agreeable hour taking tea with her. I met your brother Luke. Beatrice favours him well. She pressed his good character upon me.’

  ‘Oh, I was afraid he would be there. No doubt he was amiable towards you. He can turn on the charm to the ladies.’

  ‘I only saw him for a moment,’ Sophie replied dismissively. ‘Now, about the Tremaynes, they cheated Wilmot, you know.’

  ‘They did? Are you sure?’ Kelynen was disappointed to hear this. ‘I didn’t meet Josiah Tremayne but I did meet his half-brother. Did you know of Gabriel Tremayne’s existence? My sister, Olivia, had no idea he was living there too.’

  ‘I know that Sir Rafe’s brother, Reynold, died young, shortly after the death of his second wife. Sir Rafe also married twice to produce an heir, tragically not to be. I do recollect mention of another nephew. Sir Rafe is said to have doted on both his nephews and was saddened when one was taken away as a boy from the estate.’

  ‘And now they are both under his roof,’ Kelynen said, absorbing the information. She wanted to learn all she could about the Tremaynes. ‘Sadly, Gabriel is very ill. It appears that Josiah may inherit Chenhalls. Sophie, do you have any evidence that the Tremaynes cheated Mr Carew?’

  ‘I can see the family have you somewhat spellbound, Kelynen. I grant you Sir Rafe is thoroughly charming, but he could never insinuate himself into my good books. He was among those who encouraged Wilmot to gamble when he could ill afford to lose. He is something of a restless fellow. He allows Josiah Tremayne almost total sway in his mining affairs. I am convinced Josiah was cheating Wilmot. There were so many things left unexplained after Wilmot’s death. After Wilmot’s debts were paid, my greedy stepson sold off the few remaining assets to the Tremaynes, but he got only a quarter of what Wilmot had me believe his interests were worth. The jewellery that was supposed to have come to me had disappeared. My stepson showed me documentation to the effect that Wilmot had taken it out of the bank in the weeks prior to his death, doubtless in a desperate effort to redeem himself, but I fear he gambled it all away too. Sometimes I think I should like to go to Chenhalls myself to take issue with the Tremaynes.’

  Kelynen listened closely. She had known Sophie, a native of Helston, for nine months, from the time of her marriage, and she had never before spoken of her husband’s business matters or the reasons behind his suicide. ‘Did your stepson challenge any of this?’

  ‘No. It was a matter of urgency for him to slip away; he was afraid other creditors of his father’s might materialize. I, of course, have no right to question anyone about these matters. I care not about the jewellery. I’m content to abide here quietly. Thankfully Wilmot gave me this house as a prenuptial gift and no one can oust me from it.’

  Sophie was sitting with her graceful white hands folded in her lap. Kelynen was struck by the dignity she retained in her reduced circumstances. One reason for her contentment, which she had confided to Kelynen, one of the few people she had declared she could trust, was that her position before her marriage had been even more tenuous. The besotted, cumbersome oaf, the kindly bumbling soul that was Wilmot Carew had saved her from homelessness, of having to become a seamstress or a governess. It was inevitable that people had judged her an opportunist, and now certain gentlemen, impressed by her beauty and good breeding, had ventured since her widowhood to make unseemly propositions to her. Two untrustworthy sorts had offered her marriage. She had rebuffed them all, forcefully, unapologetically.

  A maid, young and awkward in appearance, entered the parlour carrying a silver calling-card tray. She dropped a clumsy curtsey. ‘Brought this for ’ee, ma’am.’

  ‘Has someone sent me a message?’ Suddenly Sophie was animated and alert and already reaching out towards the tray.

  ‘No, ’tis a visitor, ma’am.’

  Following her friend’s eagerness, Kelynen was now curious about her disappointment. Sophie seemed to deflate before her eyes. She read the card with her face set hard. ‘Straighten your cap and apron, Mary, then show Mr Pengarron in.’

  ‘Luke! He’s here?’ Kelynen spun her head towards the door.

  Mary scuttled away, shortly to reappear, tidier but flustered, in front of the unexpected caller. She was given no time to make an announcement. Luke strode into the room, looking, to Kelynen’s annoyance – and she noticed, also to Sophie’s – as if he was lord and master here. He was dressed in manly, crisp blues, with his body erect and head up, smiling broadly and confidently.

  He bowed low. ‘Your most humble and obedient servant, Mrs Carew, please do forgive the intrusion. I thought my sister would be here to offer you her apologies. I thought to enquire about our sister, Mrs Lanyon, if that is not too much of an impertinence on my part.’

  He looked eager to impress. His eyes danced all the way up to Sophie, and Kelynen saw his self-assurance was in fact a little shaky, but buoyed up by a purpose, an emotion she had n
ot thought to see in her brother for some years, perhaps never. Love. Heavens above! It was as obvious as daylight. In the short time he had spoken to Sophie yesterday, he had fallen utterly in love with her. Kelynen had never seen him looking so boyish and enthusiastic. It was an effort for him to keep his impatience, his hopes, in check.

  ‘Livvy is quite well, Luke.’

  ‘Excellent. I thought not to call at the parsonage in case she was indisposed,’ he said. Then he fell into an uncertain hush. What happened next was up to Sophie.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Pengarron.’ Expressionless, Sophie used polite hostess tones. ‘Mary, ask Mrs Jago to prepare a tray of coffee, please.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Mary bobbed and hurried away.

  Normally, if Luke had noticed the little maid at all he would have glared after her or sighed with irritation. ‘She is new to your household, Mrs Carew? Learning the craft?’

  ‘You are correct, Mr Pengarron. I was just asking Miss Kelynen about her excursion to Chenhalls.’

  ‘Chenhalls, Kelynen?’ Luke feigned surprise. ‘You went there?’

  ‘You know I did. I sent you a note.’ Taken back twenty-four hours, Kelynen dropped her scoffing tone. ‘Chenhalls is fascinating. The front aspect is peaceful and sheltered while the back of the property looks upon the cliffs and sea. The gardens are glorious. Sir Rafe and Lady Portia are open and friendly, and although she is fast succumbing to senility, the banter between them is amusing. The food Livvy and I were offered was sumptuous, Sir Rafe employs a man as head of his kitchens and this fellow produced all manner of delicious things from the many and diverse countries Sir Rafe has visited.’ She babbled on about côtelettes d’agneau, a hot spicy sauce from the Caribbean, a new recipe for beef broth brought back from Scotland. She was unwilling to speak of the dark tower and Gabriel Tremayne. For some reason she felt protective towards him and did not want the others to think him peculiar.