Pengarron Rivalry
Page 24
‘I wish she needed me,’ Gabriel said, hurt and bewildered.
Dr Menheniott made no answer. The private involvements of his patients were none of his business, but he thought it a pity that the contentment he had previously witnessed in the young couple had just been disastrously destroyed.
Two days later Kelynen came out of her daze and found her father keeping vigil over her. As if not caring about anything at all, in dry, lifeless words, she insisted she would leave Chenhalls at once. To return home. Her mother and Hettie Hayes packed for her but she refused to take Hettie on the journey. On Oliver’s arm she walked downstairs, out of the house and past Gabriel without a word.
‘I’ll… I’ll give her a few days of solitude. I know what it feels like to need to be alone,’ Gabriel said forlornly to Kerensa. ‘Then I’ll call to see her. You’ll send for me at once if she needs me?’
‘I promise, Gabriel. Just give her time. I know how upset you are. You have grown fond of Kelynen. Her father and I had such high hopes for your marriage. Hopefully, when she’s had time to come to terms with the new situation she’ll be her old self again.’
‘I feel more for Kelynen than fondness.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say that. Kelynen has a fondness for you. She really does. You must cling to that.’
‘What I shall cling to,’ Gabriel told himself, after the Pengarron coach clattered away over the cobbles, ‘is that she has a love for Chenhalls.’
He went back inside the house – his house. He had hated the place, but Kelynen’s enthusiasm for it – and then the responsibilities he had lately undertaken for the estate and its people – had begun to captivate him too. In the music room he sat at the spinet but didn’t feel like playing. How could Kelynen have turned against him like that? Their months together, the times of loving they had shared, the plans they had made, meant nothing to her now. Only the belief that she was to bring up his uncle’s heir had kept her here. She had not even said goodbye to Aunt Portia. Chenhalls no longer meant anything to her. She would never come back.
An atmosphere of gloom, in which there seemed to be a sense of gloating, pressed all around him. He tried to ignore it but the brooding impression gained strength and felt like a living force all around him. He knew he would find it in every room – in the gardens, the courtyards, in the tower folly, and even the chapel.
He threw up his hands and yelled at the house itself. ‘All right, you win! No Tremayne will ever find lasting happiness under your roof. I hope all your walls fall down, stone after stone!’
Twenty-Eight
‘Take me with you?’ Sol Rumford’s fifteen-year-old daughter said, her quick, dark eyes on the trunks in the bedroom of Josiah Tremayne’s lodgings, packed for departure.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Josiah said, adding a foul oath. He had been drinking all day, had used the girl’s skinny little body out of habit rather than need and he wanted her to go.
Netta Rumford sat up in the bed. Mr Tremayne had complained of it being lumpy and bug-ridden, one reason she assumed he was so testy. To her, used to sleeping on sacks of straw, it was pure luxury, as was the room, which was the size of her father’s entire cottage and had more than half a dozen pieces of furniture in it. There was a high, carved mantel over the fireplace, which had baskets of seasoned logs on either side. The shiny brass lanterns contained fat beeswax candles and there were candlesticks made of bronze. The smells in here were heavenly, of expensive perfume, scented tobacco and brandy – and lots of food. She was hoping for a feast when they got up and dressed. Mr Tremayne had worked up a sweat, but it was not stale. She liked to sniff him. ‘I didn’t mean as your mistress, I wouldn’t expect that. I was hoping to go somewhere different, that’s all.’
‘Shut up, I’m trying to think.’
Netta’s father talked a lot about hope. He was a devout Methodist, strict yet kindly and encouraging. Although he said it was unlikely, he often said he hoped she’d marry someone who’d take her out of his hard way of life. Nice of him, but Netta was a realist. She reckoned she had to make her own good fortune. The most obvious route was through a wealthy man. She was as perceptive as she was hopeful and she moved away from her lover’s warm firm body, watching his expression vary from angry, to smirking, to panicky and cunning. One thing was sure: he wasn’t thinking about her request.
Josiah was keen to get away but he was furious to have to skulk off, humiliated and impoverished, thanks to his half-brother. At least Gabriel had been aptly rewarded, tying himself to the burden that was Chenhalls all for nothing. Uncle Rafe had apparently not left a child behind after all. Fear suddenly caught at Josiah’s gut. Uncle Rafe would have forgiven him his deceit eventually and there would have been a place for him to return to. He’d have to live on his wits from now on. He hoped he was clever enough to accomplish it.
In a couple of days he would take the post coach up to London. But now it appealed to him to go overseas. He fancied a hot country. Africa. Perhaps he’d see how he got on there. He’d had a beautiful black mistress once, in Florence, the closest experience he’d ever had to being in love. She’d told him all about her homeland and the Zulu tribe she’d belonged to. It had sounded fascinating. Perhaps he’d find someone to ease the chill from his bones out there. First he’d go to Chenhalls, but definitely not to say goodbye to anyone. Now that his sharp-natured sister-in-law was no longer there, and Olivia Lanyon had finished his aunt’s portrait, at last he might be able to get his hands on the horrid old mare’s priceless collection of jewellery.
Netta thought it was time to move in close to him again and make one more appeal. ‘Please take me with you, Mr Tremayne. I’d be no trouble, I swear.’
He found her hot moist breath on his face, the way she snuffled all over him, offensive. She touched him. He shoved her away violently. ‘Whore! Get out. You won’t get a shilling off me today.’
She leapt off the bed and pulled on her clothes, glaring in return at his vicious gaze. ‘Keep your rotten money. Bastard! No one’ll miss you. Everyone knows you’re bleddy useless now Sir Rafe’s gone.’
‘Bitch!’ He hated being reminded that he had no one to take care of his mistakes now. ‘Get out before I kill you!’ Josiah picked up the empty brandy glass on the bedside cabinet and hurled it at her. The glass hit her face, broke and cut her chin.
Howling in pain, Netta rushed out of the door. Once she was outside, tears of humiliation and fury got the better of her. There was nothing for it but to trudge home. She didn’t want her father to see blood on her so she pulled a scrap of cloth out of her apron pocket and mopped around the cut. She had found the ripped cloth while wandering about near the old disused mine shaft and had secretly washed it, hoping that one day she might wear clothes of similar quality. She’d wash it again before she got home, her precious piece of fine pink silk.
* * *
The tide was out on Perranbarvah’s beach, exposing parts that would be under water within the next few hours. It was an area Luke had never ventured to before. He crept up behind Livvy. Under the shade of a parasol, she was sitting on a stool before her easel, painting a group of grubby, ragged children scampering among the rock pools.
‘Should you not ask them to keep still?’
‘Oh, Luke! How good to see you. No. I prefer them to be natural. They are easy enough to place.’
He took a closer look at her work. ‘Such charm, such perfection you’ve captured, Sister, dear. You surpass yourself in this. It’s no wonder you are gaining much admiration now, and deservedly so. I hear you’ve been busy making illustrations to accompany the lessons at the school. Our parents are justly proud of you. Do carry on, I shall not disturb you.’
‘Timothy is greatly impressed with what I do now. I think I have found my forte at last. But when I next present my work to the art world, sadly, I must distinguish myself at first as a man. Only then do I hope to be taken seriously. What brings you here, Luke? How did you enjoy your stay at Truro?’
‘Oh?’ She mixed ochre and white, to highlight the effect of the sun gleaming on the sand. ‘Was Sophie not delighted? It’s quite the place to promenade and show off one’s latest gowns. Did you attend the assembly rooms? I’ve heard there was a very fine mayoral ball there.’
‘We went out every hour of the day and night. We went to the ball, and a splendid theatrical play, several musical events, and soirées by the dozen. We took tea, or dined, or danced in all the big houses, from Comprigney to Malpas to Killiow to Trelissick. Not one of the new stately homes we did not enter, even those built on the fortunes of those from the lower orders. My wife enjoyed every minute of our outings. She exclaimed over the quaint surrounding hills of the town and its numerous streams and leats. She found the necessary abundance of bridges a joy to walk over. All she wanted was to be noticed. She’s happy with the new friends she’s made and the many invitations she has received for future engagements. Indeed, she has invited many prominent people to Polgissey. She was very happy in Truro.’
It was him she was not altogether happy with. He had not been fooled by Sophie’s responses to him at night in the port and coinage town’s principal hotel. He had previously enjoyed love-making in the same bedchamber, facing the wide Boscawen Street, with willing and generous partners. Faced with the secret flirting of one of his old amours, he’d missed all the fun and the passion. Sophie had declared Lady Ariadne Truscott an aging scarlet woman. Damnable jealousy. Ariadne was only thirty-three and just as discreet in public as she was ardent in private. She had not received an invitation to Polgissey, but had whispered she would write to him. Luke was beginning to hope that she would; just to talk about old times would be good.
A picture formed in front his eyes, of a letter. Not one from Ariadne but one written by himself, suggesting a quiet meeting with her. That meant only one thing. He blinked hard to dismiss the vision. Surely he could not possibly be contemplating being unfaithful to Sophie – not this early in their marriage. He loved her too much, or had thought he did. But it wasn’t easy to keep an unlimited supply of love at its highest point when you were continually rejected where it mattered most.
‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it more, Luke,’ Livvy said. She washed her brush in the little jug of water. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking – is everything all right between you and Sophie? She can be rather… Well, what I mean to say is, she hasn’t fitted in easily with the family.’
Luke was still thinking about the lack of an exciting, loving bedroom life. Whatever the reason for Sophie’s excuses, he knew she would never allow him to talk to her about it. She’d cut him off at the first word, insisting all was well. And anyway, Sophie didn’t love him and was unlikely ever to do so. Wintriness reigned in a heart that could never be warmed up. Luke sighed. He saw things clearly. Sophie hated him anywhere near her and was unlikely to make the effort to change. He felt as if his insides had been struck with a tremendous blow. But he didn’t know despair, just a terrible disappointment. Yet Sophie, with her beauty and grace, was a good wife, and she’d probably make a better one out of gratitude if he sought her bed only once a week. She was always more amiable when he made it plain he wasn’t about to make an intimate approach. And there was one good thing about her frigidity: she would never seek a lover. Thoughts of nights away from home, of raucous fun with his former set, and wild and satisfying liaisons, made him smile.
‘We are happy enough,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We mustn’t expect too much from her. Dear Sophie has been through hard times. Now then, what I really came to talk about was Kelynen. What can we do to lift our poor sister out of her melancholy? I called at Chenhalls before coming here. Gabriel is beside himself. His manservant told me he does nothing but pine and he’s worried he may shut himself up again in the tower. Gabriel is so miserable. He goes loosely about his business. He has not the heart for it. He hasn’t even turned to his music, so he must feel even more wretched than he did over the death of the Austrian dancer. He mentioned to me that if Josiah wasn’t a blackguard he’d sign Chenhalls over to him.’
Livvy was puzzled by what she saw as his shift in moods, but she was glad to see him light-hearted about his own concerns. ‘He’s said as much to Lady Portia. She’s so anxious. If only it was Rafe’s baby Kelynen was bearing. Poor girl. Poor Gabriel.’
‘Kelynen has us, her family. Gabriel’s got no one. He might sell up and return to Vienna. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.’
Livvy was so worried she jumped up from the stool. ‘But what would happen to Kelynen? Her marriage would be over and she’d be left with a baby she has no wish for. This is too awful, Luke. I agree, something must be done, but in Kelynen’s case, talking is of no avail. She listens to no one, not even Papa. If Gabriel did sell up, would you consider buying Chenhalls, Luke?’
‘Not I,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’ve no wish to acquire a cursed property.’
Twenty-Nine
Panting, gasping, struggling, yet determined, Beatrice lumbered into the study at Pengarron Manor. She snorted in dissatisfaction and regret at what she saw there.
In former days she would have expected to find Kelynen seated behind the desk, head bent over reams of documents, quill scratching in rapid neat script, enthusiastic, concentrating, reluctant to be disturbed. Today she was curled up tight on a dark reddish-brown leather sofa with Rex, shoes off, feet tucked up, staring into space, unaware that she had company. Dark shadows spread a sorry story under her eyes, which were red-rimmed from constant crying. Her cheeks were pale and sunken, hair dull as straw, dress crumpled. She wore no jewellery save her wedding ring.
‘Can I join ’ee, m’dear?’
Silence.
‘Kelynen. Please. Me ol’ legs won’t hold me up much longer.’
As if something clicked inside her head, Kelynen blinked. ‘Oh, Bea, come and sit down.’ She eased Rex’s head off her lap, and he watched, mournful and anxious, while she plodded wearily over to the old nursemaid. Kelynen gripped Beatrice’s elbow and helped her shuffle to the nearest easy chair. Beatrice fell down into it with a wallop, threatening its stuffing, its back and legs. Her nose dripped, but Kelynen didn’t bother to search for the old woman’s hanky in her grubby stretched sleeves, as once she would have done. Beatrice lifted her grubby tartan shawl and thoroughly rubbed her fat bright-red nose, leaving behind on the wool the appearance of a snail’s trail.
Kelynen went back to the sofa, sat with her feet dangling, white and bare. She clutched a plump cushion to her chest, let her head drop down on it as if she found it too heavy to hold upright. With unconscious fingers she tugged on the untidy length of her hair.
‘Did ’ee have summut to eat midday, my handsome? Kelynen, can ’ee pay mind to me. ’Tis like talking to a deaf ol’ horse who don’t want to take ’ee to market.’
‘Pardon?’ Kelynen drifted out of her trance.
‘Do ’ee reckon Sur Gabrall will come today?’
‘I suppose he might.’
‘He comes reg’lar, every other day to see thee. Good of him.’ Beatrice sniffed noisily as the dripping started its habitual journey downwards again. ‘He’s a pleasant young man. Cares so much for ’ee. That’s a comfort, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You’re not so angry with him now then?’
‘Am I angry with Gabriel?’ Kelynen looked as if she didn’t know or care.
‘Seems to me you was proper mazed with him when you first come back to stay. Refused to see him for days.’
‘That was unkind of me,’ Kelynen said without emotion.
‘It was a mite unkind. He understood though. He’s a good man. I like him. A lot.’
Kelynen raised her head very slowly. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Bea. But I want to stay like this. Feeling nothing. Otherwise I couldn’t stand the pain.’
&nb
sp; ‘But ’ee can’t stay like this. Not forever. You’ll go off your head! I’ve seen it afore. You don’t want that, surely? Kelynen, my little bud, you’re not a coward.’
‘I don’t want to be anything, not now, not ever.’ Kelynen let her chin press down harder on the cushion.
Beatrice’s worries for her turned into anxiety. Kelynen hadn’t even sighed in irritation. ‘Think this is what Sir Rafe would’ve wanted for ’ee?’
‘Don’t bring up that line of argument.’ Kelynen’s voice rose at last but only to scoff. ‘Others have tried it. Rafe is dead. I loved him. I adored him. I could only face life without him when I thought I was having his baby.’
‘And now you’re having Gabrall’s.’
‘Don’t remind me!’
Beatrice wagged a fat knuckly finger at her. ‘Well, someone’s got to! If thee don’t start looking after yourself it’ll be born sickly and you’re risking your life. That’s not the Kelynen I’ve always known. She used to care for everyone.’
‘Well, I’m not that person any more.’
‘No. You’re not, and you should be ashamed to admit it. You were a clever, pleasant, duty-conscious, pretty young maid. It’s what made Sir Rafe fall in love with you. Enough to want to marry you.’
Lifting her head up sharply, Kelynen was now paying full attention.
‘Sir Rafe doted on his nephews, so I’m told of it, even the one’s that’s a rogue. It might not be Sir Rafe’s baby your carrying, but ’tis his nephew’s and he wouldn’t want no harm done to it. And that’s what you’re doing to it, delib’rately so. Sir Rafe’d never wish any harm on thee, would he? Eh? He’d turn round in his grave twice a day and thrice on Sundays if he knew what you’ve become over his death. Be more ’n’ a mite disappointed in thee, I shouldn’t wonder.’