Pengarron Land

by Pengarron Land (retail) (epub)

  He had always hated the thought of former Pengarron property being in the hands of such a scoundrel. He would not rest until he got it back. Of course to allow Old Tom to sell it to anyone else was unthinkable. But to get it back by agreeing to marry his granddaughter? Oliver’s father would simply have taken her and the old man up to the top of the cliff and thrown them off. He’d have few qualms himself about taking Old Tom up there this very minute and wiping the smirk off his hideous face for ever. But the girl…

  Strange, though, the old man bringing up the subject of marriage. After negotiating the return of his property, Oliver’s next plan was to take a wife. He had stayed a bachelor far longer than most of his contemporaries, one reason being the habit of many ladies of genteel birth of systematically bleeding their husbands dry of their wealth, pride and prestige. He was not going to allow that to happen to him, but the time had come to put up with the inconvenience of a wife if there was to be an heir to the Pengarron estate. It was a matter of some irritation that there were no suitable ladies of his own class apparent. They were either married already, exceedingly unattractive, or not of childbearing age. Not even a half-decent widow was to be had.

  Of late he had considered looking outside his own circle, but a penniless girl of the lower orders, half his age, the granddaughter of a common criminal…

  Oliver watched the last red sail of the fishing luggers disappear behind the outline of Mother Clarry’s Rock, a smooth-shaped spur which jutted out to form the seat of the mythical witch, reputed to have sat on it on nights bearing a full moon in order to gloat over her evil misdeeds. No one knew the exact origins of the legend, lost a long time ago in the hazy mists of antiquity.

  Kerensa Trelynne’s sweet face came to mind. She was comely enough; indeed from the moment she had opened that door Oliver’s baser instincts had been stirred. He had seen enough of her to realise she had many pleasing attributes, and looked as though she would readily bear healthy babies. If he didn’t produce an heir, the estate would one day pass to one of his disapproving distant cousins at Zennor. An amused smile touched the corners of his mouth at the thought of their outrage if he did marry and produce an heir by a girl of Kerensa Trelynne’s pedigree. It would be worth marrying the girl just to see their faces, and those of the rest of the County’s gentry – not that he had ever cared a damn what anybody thought of him. He wanted Trelynne Cove, and one way or another he wanted the girl in the cottage. If he agreed to Old Tom Trelynne’s ludicrous proposition he wouldn’t come out too badly, and anyway he could always find a way out of the marriage at a later date. But for now he was furious at not having the upper hand.

  He turned coldly on Old Tom.

  ‘Very well, Trelynne, I agree. Collect your money tonight from Painted Bessie’s alehouse. But after I’ve fulfilled my part of this agreement you had better not take one single step on to Pengarron land ever again. If you do, I will be sorely tempted to kill you myself with my bare hands!’ He threw the alarmed old man backwards on to the sand. Before Old Tom could regain his feet a wave rolled up the shingle and soaked him.

  * * *

  Kerensa gasped in alarm to see her grandfather unceremoniously hauled off his feet and dumped into the bitterly cold sea. She flew out of the cottage, passing Sir Oliver as he strode away from Old Tom without attempting further hurt. She helped her grandfather coughing and spluttering all the way back to the cottage, and ushered him inside the cosy warmth. He drank down a mug of hot tea in two noisy gulps, then wiped his stubbly chin with the back of his hand before he told her the reason behind, and the outcome of, Sir Oliver’s visit to him.

  ‘Marry him? Sir Oliver!’ Kerensa screamed. ‘Are you mad, Grandfather?’

  ‘That’s what ’e said,’ replied Old Tom, massaging the angry red marks appearing on his throat. ‘It’s fer yer own good, Kerensa.’

  ‘What do you mean, for my own good? Just what kind of nonsense are you up to this time, Grandfather? I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me everything that went on between you and… and that man out there.’

  She waved her hand angrily towards the window where she could see Sir Oliver, his arms folded, waiting impatiently by his horse. ‘For a start, you can tell me what he’s doing just standing there.’

  Old Tom knew by the set of her jaw and the flash of her eyes that Kerensa meant exactly what she said. ‘’Ee’s waitin’ to ’ave a word with ’ee, m’dear,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘Why? To discuss the wedding arrangements?’

  Old Tom hung his head at the stinging remark.

  Kerensa was used to her grandfather’s involvement in dubious schemes and his having to extricate himself hastily from all manner of troubles. From the time she had been old enough to cook, clean and look after the cottage for both of them, she had chided him like a naughty child on such occasions. But this latest scheme of his was beyond her comprehension. He knew how much she loved Clem and was looking forward to marrying him. How could he so cruelly upset their plans, ruin their future, break their hearts, by striking a bargain that was totally unnecessary, and one to which she would never have agreed had she been consulted at its outset?

  ‘Pour me another cup of tay, cheeil, an’ I’ll tell ’ee everything.’ Old Tom looked appealingly at her from the chair on which he’d sunk down.

  Kerensa poured his tea and pushed it towards him, the hot liquid spilling on to the well-scrubbed table.

  ‘Come on, me ’an’some, sit down a minute, won’t ’ee? It won’t sound ’alf so bad when I tell it to ’ee prop’ly.’

  In between gulps of tea Old Tom told Kerensa every detail of his conversation with the black-haired baronet waiting outside. Kerensa sat with her hands clasped together on the table as she listened. When her grandfather had finished his tale, her face was drained of all colour.

  ‘And what about Clem? Where does he fit into this arrangement of yours?’

  She spoke so softly Old Tom had to strain to hear her voice. Ashamed, he looked away and shrugged his shoulders. It was a habit of his, not wanting to accept responsibility for his actions.

  ‘Ye’ll just ’ave to ferget young Trenchard. Honestly, Kerensa, I did it fer the best fer ’ee. Just think of yerself as Lady Pengarron, up there livin’ in the Manor ’ouse. I know Sir Oliver ’asn’t done it up like the rest of the estate and tes in a bit of a state now, I’ll grant ’ee, but ye’ll soon get the place all done up nice in no time. The cove’ll still belong to ’ee in a way, an’ twill be better ’n’ bein’ a farm labourer’s wife, scratchin’ fer a livin’. Besides, m’dear, I need that money quickly. My life went be worth a mite if a knife finds its way into my back one night…’

  ‘Why do you need that money? More gambling debts?’ Kerensa asked harshly.

  ‘Ais, I’ve ’ad a run of bad luck,’ Old Tom answered, without looking at her.

  ‘I see. But you didn’t have to involve me in your foolish schemes.’

  Old Tom looked worriedly out of the window. ‘Be a good little maid, eh, an’ go out an’ ’ave a word with ’im? ’Ee’s waitin’ fer ’ee.’

  ‘We’ll see about that!’ Kerensa wrapped a warm woollen shawl around her shoulders and stood at her grandfather’s side, looking down at his slouched figure. He met her eyes for only a moment before gazing sightlessly into the empty tin mug cradled in his hands. He wriggled about on his chair, made more uncomfortable by her accusing face than by his clinging wet clothes.

  ‘You really think that what you have just done is for my good,’ she said, bitterly, ‘but you have sold me to that man in just the same way as you have sold the cove and our home. It will be hard to forgive you for this, Grandfather.’

  As she closed the door behind her the old man slumped forward, placing his forehead in the palms of his dirty hands. Old Tom had never had any time for his long-suffering wife whom he’d often beaten, even up to her early death some twenty years ago. He’d been just as cruel to Robert, their only child; surly and indifferent to his quiet mouse
y daughter-in-law. With Kerensa, though, things had always been different. He had first seen her at a few months old, following a prison sentence for poaching, and for some inexplicable reason she had struck the only chord of love and kindness in the otherwise heartless man.

  ‘I did it fer the best fer ’ee, Kerensa,’ he said to her empty chair. ‘Ye’ll see. One day ye’ll see…’

  Oliver watched her intently as Kerensa walked gracefully towards him. He was holding Conomor’s bridle as he stroked the horse’s velvety neck. He stared at her for some time before speaking, taking in every detail of the girl he had agreed to take as his wife. Pain and anger had clouded the brightness of her large eyes.

  Kerensa held her head high and met his bold stare. The harsh look on his face emphasised the few lines on his forehead and the tightness at the corners of his wide cruel mouth.

  Nodding in the direction of the cottage, Sir Oliver said icily, ‘Has that cunning old swine in there told you everything?’

  She nodded, ignoring the insult. ‘You must want the cove very much to agree to such a thing,’ she said, keeping her anger in check.

  An east wind suddenly whipped up about them, wrapping the plain grey skirt of her dress about her legs. She shivered violently and pulled her shawl in tighter round her slender shoulders.

  Reaching for Conomor’s reins Oliver slapped them a few times in the palm of his hand. ‘I’ll send someone over to collect you on the morrow,’ he said.

  ‘Sir Oliver, I will not go through with this marriage.’

  ‘You have no choice!’ His face clouded over, his voice was like thunder.

  ‘Please listen to me. My grandfather is old, I’m sure he didn’t mean…’

  Oliver paid her no attention but glared at her as she spoke. If she’d thought to change his mind, it was out of the question now. He wanted to lay hold of her fragility, rob her of innocence. A few weeks under his domination and her spirit would be broken. She would never challenge him again. And was he not doing this girl an honour by consenting to marry her? How dare she baulk, argue, defy him? Abruptly he swung up into the saddle and with no more than a curt nod started back up the rocky path.

  Kerensa watched him disappear into the distance with cold fury building up inside her. She ran down to the beach and thrashed at the pebbles with her feet. How could this have happened without her knowledge and consent? How would Clem react with their future together threatened like this? It was hardly believable, ridiculous. It would be almost laughable – if Sir Oliver wasn’t so frightening.

  She stalked up to a tall outcrop of rocks, climbed to the highest point, and thought of Clem. Old Tom had kept her mainly in the seclusion of the cove and it had been at the Methodist Bible classes, in tin miner Jeb Bray’s cottage on Lancavel Downs, they had first met. They had quickly formed a shy friendship which soon changed into an easygoing companionship. Old Tom hadn’t seemed to hold any objections to the boy, later the young man, who regularly walked her home after services in Perranbarvah’s parish church as well as after the Bible classes.

  True, the old man hardly spoke a word to Clem, being inclined only to scowl if they met face to face. But, Kerensa had been overjoyed when he didn’t refuse their plea to get married.

  Clem’s father was a tenant farmer on the Pengarron estate and Clem was building a lean-to on to Trecath-en Farm for them to live in when they were married. The lean-to was almost completed, with only the roof to be put on, and Clem worked on it every moment of his spare time. Granite, readily attained from the fields, made up the walls, while Nathan O’Flynn, as the Pengarron Estate’s head forester, had helped with a supply of timber scraps for a sturdy oak door, the window frames and furniture. Kerensa too had spent many happy hours working towards their joint future, sewing bedding and curtains (some from material Old Tom had given her, probably smuggled in or even stolen).

  The sea no longer seemed so gentle but ran high to match her mood. Kerensa scrambled down from the rock and ran back to the cottage to give her grandfather a piece of her mind. He had no right to sell the cove, her inheritance, her dowry to Clem. He had no right to try to deny her of living and loving with her chosen husband.

  * * *

  Oliver usually galloped Conomor along the clifftop for several miles of a morning. Today was different. He turned off after a mile and headed inland, taking the shortest route back to Pengarron Manor. The damp air grew heavier as they progressed and when they headed landwards, misty rain driven forcefully by the east wind met horse and rider full on. They quickly left the stunted, skeletal bushes of the clifftop behind and reached the boundary dividing Ker-an-Mor, his home farm, and Trecath-en Farm, their hedgerows littered with untidy dead foliage. Rose Farm soon took over from the strip of Trecath-en Farm and when they reached the end of the narrow rutted cart track Conomor’s hooves were pounding over the grounds of Pengarron Manor. As the commanding building of the Manor house came into sight the sky overhead was as darkly grey as Oliver’s mood.

  Entering the quiet stableyard, he hurriedly dismounted, throwing the reins over Conomor’s proud head.

  ‘Jack! Jack! Where are you?’ he shouted.

  A cheerful-looking skinny boy aged about twelve years came running across the wet cobbles and doffed his cap to his master. ‘Yes, m’lord?’

  ‘See to Conomor then take Meryn and ride over to the Reverend Ivey. I want to see him at once. Tell him it’s urgent and I’m not to be kept waiting. I’ll be in my study.’

  ‘Right away, m’lord.’

  Jack grinned to himself as his master stamped across the stableyard and entered the Manor through a kitchen door. He led the elegant black stallion away to its stall. ‘Goin’ to be one of they days, is it, boy?’ Jack said to the horse in his sharp as yet unbroken voice.

  There were not many horses kept now in the rambling stables at the back of the Manor. Apart from Conomor, there was Meryn, a small grey pony, Nessa, an old black mare, and Derowen, the chestnut mare used by Nathan O’Flynn, the estate’s gamekeeper and head forester. Jack was the only stableboy, and with the groom Barney Taylor more often than not laid up with rheumatics, he was skilled enough in his job for Sir Oliver to trust him to attend to his mount.

  Whistling cheerfully as he rubbed Conomor down with fistfuls of straw, Jack jumped as a heavy hand clamped down on his skinny shoulder.

  ‘Oh, tes you, Nat,’ he said, the relief on his narrow face giving way to its broadest grin. ‘I thought ’twas his lordship coming back.’

  ‘From the way you jumped then, lad, he wouldn’t have been all that welcome. Something amiss, is there?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, Nat. I got to ride and fetch the Reverend Ivey for his lordship. He says tes urgent and he’s not to be kept waitin’. Anyway, he’s in a proper bad mood about something. I’ll be off the moment I’ve done with Conomor here.’

  Nathan O’Flynn, a thickset Irishman in his early thirties, pulled a wry face and took off his cap to run a large flat hand through his mop of bushy dark hair. ‘I’ve got a few minutes to spare, lad, so I’ll finish Conomor for you if you want to go now.’

  Jack hesitated. He didn’t want Sir Oliver to think he couldn’t be bothered to finish his allotted tasks, but the sooner he set off to the parsonage at Perranbarvah two miles away, the more likely he would see the Reverend Ivey before he left his home on parish business elsewhere.

  ‘I’ll be off right now then. Thanks, Nat.’ And with another grin he slapped a handful of straw into Nat’s hand. Ducking under Conomor’s belly he made his way further along the stable to Meryn’s stall. It was only a short time before the pony’s hooves were heard clattering out of the stableyard.

  Conomor whinnied to Nathan O’Flynn as if in complaint of Meryn’s outing whilst he had not received his usual long early morning gallop. ‘There, there, my beauty.’ Nat’s voice was mellow, soothing. ‘I don’t know what’s up either, but if it’s trouble ahead, we’ll hear of it soon enough, so we will.’

  * * *

&nb
sp; As was his custom, at half of the hour past noon, Clem Trenchard stopped work to eat his crib. He had spent the past few hours hard at work combing the ground of a sloping three-acre field with a plough pulled by a quietly natured ageing but strong horse. Wiping sweat from his brow Clem looked critically back over his work. He nodded with satisfaction at the straight lines he had made in the shallow earth, cut despite the huge granite boulders that stubbornly protruded above the ground or wickedly lurked below it, ready to snare the plough of an unwary farmer.

  Clem liked to be outside, and alone, while he worked. He was glad his father, Morley, had stayed behind on the farm to assist with the calving of their roan dairy cow. A sudden outburst of barking from his black retriever bitch, Charity, brought a smile to Clem’s clearly defined, fair features. This was the companion he did not object to, and she followed him faithfully and determinedly everywhere he went.

  Knowing it was crib-time, Charity came bounding across the wet earth, her coat glistening from the heavy drizzle that had persisted all morning. Man and dog, used to all weathers, plodded over to the shelter offered by a stretch of low natural hedge, leaving the horse to drink from a small trough in the corner of the field. They dropped down comfortably to eat, Clem on a boulder, Charity lying across his mud-laden boots.

  Clem pulled a canvas bag out from under the shelter of the boulder. From it he took out a tin box containing an enormous pasty. Charity watched and fidgeted as he broke off a corner of the largely potato and turnip pasty with its scant addition of meat. ‘Here you are, girl,’ he said, ruffling the retriever’s damp straggly ears. Bolting down the corner of pasty Charity sat alert, a begging paw on Clem’s knee, her long pink tongue hanging loosely as she resumed her hopeful watch.