Pengarron Land

by Pengarron Land (retail) (epub)

  He entered his study dressed in preparation for riding, his kid gloves held loosely in his hand.

  ‘I’m on my way to the miners’ cottages on Lancavel Downs to call on the Trembath family,’ he explained, after bidding Oliver a solemn good morning. ‘They are not regular worshippers in my flock now their interest lies in the Methodist prayer and Bible classes, but they may allow me to offer them some comfort.’

  ‘They might,’ Oliver agreed. ‘Matthias Renfree has been with them all the morning. They regard him as something of a preacher now, although like John Wesley himself, young Renfree encourages the likes of the Trembaths to attend church to make their communion.’

  The Reverend glanced at the other man with a shrewd look in his watery brown eyes. He was always amazed by the way Oliver knew everything that concerned, or occurred in, the local district.

  A little tap on the study door was followed by the arrival of Kerensa, with Mrs Tregonning fussing around her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said quietly to both men, her hands toying with a damp handkerchief. She was dressed in the better of her two dresses, the one she wore to church. It was simply styled in pale blue dimity with subtle lace trimming. Because she felt cold her shawl was draped over her shoulders and crossed over, the ends tied at her waist at the back.

  Oliver studied her face. Although her eyes were red from weeping it did nothing to detract from her loveliness. Her eyes seemed larger than he remembered and she looked lost and so very young.

  When he moved his gaze to Mrs Tregonning’s plump face his features noticeably hardened. The housekeeper made no attempt to leave the room so he switched his attention to the Reverend Ivey.

  ‘I don’t want the girl to see or speak to Clem Trenchard,’ he ordered. ‘If he calls here again you are to make it quite clear she cannot see him.’

  Before the Reverend could return an answer, Kerensa rounded angrily on Oliver. ‘I will see or talk to anyone I like, when I like.’

  ‘You most certainly will not!’ he snarled at her. ‘As my future wife, you will act accordingly. From now on you are not to associate with people such as Trenchard.’

  ‘But I come from people such as him!’ Kerensa snapped back. How dare this man aim an insult at Clem after the hurt he had caused him? She would not tolerate it. Her cheeks were highly flushed and she began to shake. Mrs Tregonning put a hand of caution on her arm.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I know that only too well,’ Oliver returned sarcastically, determined to have the last word, as he was wont to do.

  ‘You don’t have to marry me.’ At first Kerensa thought she had said the right thing. Now he could say, ‘No, you’re right, I don’t have to, do I? I’ve made a mistake, you may go home.’ But she had spoken angrily, returned his sarcasm, and he was furious. His presence dominated the room, she had felt it as she entered. Now he puffed up his chest and tilted his head even higher.

  ‘I will do whatever I want,’ he said, icily and evenly.

  Fearful of another angry interchange the Reverend Ivey coughed loudly. ‘I suggest you both calm yourselves before things get out of hand.’

  Kerensa was unnerved but glared at Oliver. For the second time within a few short minutes his dark eyes beheld another’s in mutual animosity, and as Clem had gone, Kerensa looked away first. She moved across the room and sat down near the window, folding her hands on her lap. Mrs Tregonning followed and stood protectively at her side.

  The Reverend breathed an audible sigh of relief. Oliver began to converse with him as though the two women were not in the room.

  ‘The two fishermen who were hurt last night will receive a few shillings a week from the estate until they are fit to return to work. I don’t want to be accused of allowing people to starve. It is a great pity they were among such a panicky lot of men last night.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ the Reverend said, non-committally.

  Mrs Tregonning snorted and received a withering look from Oliver.

  ‘The injured fishermen were John Roskilley and Ebenezer Laity, weren’t they?’ the Reverend said. ‘I understand the Trembath boy was the youngest child of the family and his mother’s favourite.’

  ‘That’s all correct,’ Oliver replied. ‘Will and Curly Trembath were on their core down the mine last night, but they’ve joined their brother, Ted, in the search for Old Tom Trelynne.’

  He looked pointedly at Kerensa as he mentioned her grandfather. She looked up sharply at him, a guilty flush on her face at Old Tom’s supposed involvement in the tragedy.

  ‘It’s a great pity that all the Trembaths were not on their shift last night,’ the Reverend said, drawing their attention, his face full of concern. ‘I do hope there will be no violence.’

  No similar hope could be detected on Pengarron’s stern face.

  ‘I will, of course, cover the funeral expenses if the boy’s body is ever recovered.’

  ‘That is very good of you, Sir Oliver, and no less than I’ve come to expect from you. There’s many a gentleman who cares nothing for the ordinary folk.’ The Reverend Ivey seemed anxious for his remarks to reach Kerensa’s ears.

  But if the parson was hoping that Kerensa would see Sir Oliver in a better light, it didn’t work. She looked at the baronet with cynicism on her face. As far as she was concerned he saw the working class as nothing more than dirt beneath his feet which he felt free to treat in any way he chose, and any sympathetic gesture he made towards those who had suffered on the smuggling party was performed merely to please folk like the Reverend.

  ‘Yes… well.’ Oliver cleared his throat and shifted his stance. ‘I came here today to arrange for her,’ he indicated Kerensa briefly with a movement of his head, ‘to ride over to the Manor house and see what is to become her new home. I daresay you will escort her over, Reverend?’

  ‘I’ll be glad to,’ the parson answered.

  ‘With your lordship’s pardon, there’s something I would like to say,’ put in Mrs Tregonning, much to Oliver’s annoyance. ‘The Manor house is not fit and proper to be lived in, what with the way it’s been allowed to become run down these past years. If Miss Trelynne, here, is to live as a lady up there, it will need a thorough cleaning right through for a start, and she will need staff to help her run it as well.’

  Oliver knew of the woman’s strong disapproval of him and his manner of living. He disliked her, too, particularly for her outspoken tongue. Her tone reminded him of a verse from the Reverend’s sermon, taken from St James’ Epistle on the previous Sunday morning service: ‘But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison…’

  He said, abruptly, ‘I am not interested in any opinion of yours, woman.’

  Then he turned to Kerensa, ‘Come up to the Manor at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You will find me in my study.’ He looked hard at her for a moment. She had been staring at him curiously since the Reverend Ivey’s rejoinder to his remark about paying for Davey Trembath’s funeral. Despite himself, Oliver found her appealingly innocent and fragile.

  He gave Mrs Tregonning, who was hanging over Kerensa’s shoulder, an icy stare before continuing, ‘There will be no need for a chaperon. Beatrice will be there.’

  ‘I’ll see Miss Trelynne arrives safely at the appointed time,’ the Reverend said, smiling lightly.

  ‘Good. A good morning to you, Reverend.’ And with nothing more than a quick nod in the direction of the two females, Oliver took his leave.

  * * *

  Later in the day Oliver found Ashley Hinton in his dreary lodgings over candlemaker Edward Hill’s workshop in Marazion. He reluctantly shook the moist podgy hand offered to him by the elderly Customs Riding Officer, who looked as though he was part of the cluttered furnishings in his makeshift office. The two men sat down to a discussion over a glass of strong clear gin, drawn from a tub of one of Hinton’s pay-offs.

  ‘Good to see you, Sir Oliver, good to see you. Yes indeed, good to see you,’ Hinton said, in his irritating hissing voice, wh
ile smiling much wider than was necessary.

  It was always difficult to hold an intelligent conversation with the grossly overweight, cross-eyed man, of whom the locals would remark, ‘’ee be one stick short of a bundle.’

  Oliver fixed him with a cold stare. ‘Do you know why I’m here, Hinton?’

  ‘Um, yes. Last night. Shame about the boy, yes indeed.’ Ashley Hinton gulped a large mouthful of gin, taking no care to prevent a further stain adding to those already soiling his unkempt shirt and jacket.

  ‘Yes, it is a shame, Hinton,’ Oliver agreed, tapping his riding crop on the leg of the table that lay between them, ‘and a great pity also that you inclined your ear to Old Tom Trelynne. I take it it was he who informed you of last night’s landing in the cove?’

  Hinton moved about uncomfortably on his squeaky chair. ‘Yes, I believe it was. Well, the thing is… was, you see… I thought a couple of men having a quick look round would show those higher up that we do try to detain smugglers and seize uncustomed goods. Smuggling is… um… rife all along Mount’s Bay, from Land’s End to the Lizard.’

  ‘And so what if it is?’ Oliver said, in challenging tones.

  ‘I was threatened… if I didn’t… there weren’t meant to be no trouble. The men weren’t meant to be taken along the cliff so far.’

  ‘What!’ Oliver banged his fist down hard on the table, making Ashley Hinton jump in fright and spill more of his drink. ‘Are you telling me that the old man took your men all the way to Trelynne Cove, Hinton?’

  ‘Um, yes, Sir Oliver. I believe he did.’

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Oliver very carefully wiped the inside and outside of his glass before drinking from it.

  ‘But it puzzles me,’ he said a moment later. ‘With me about to marry his granddaughter, why would Old Tom want to make trouble for me? I can hardly marry the girl if I’m sent to prison for smuggling.’

  Ashley Hinton squirmed about and scratched his bulbous stomach. He looked about his office with blinking eyes, and with puffing and hissing noises coming from his throat like an enormous kettle about to boil.

  ‘Um… with the greatest respect, Sir Oliver, in your position you would be most unlikely to be apprehended, let alone brought before the court. And certainly not convicted.’

  ‘Yes, Hinton.’ Oliver nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll grant you that is true. So what is the reasoning behind Trelynne’s betrayal? He had no need of money, so it could not have been for any reward.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, the old man… um… I wasn’t really sure who he was at the time, you understand… well, I got the feeling the old man didn’t want anyone hanging about the little cove.’

  Oliver’s face relaxed and a glimmer of understanding shone through his eyes. ‘Now I’m beginning to see what last night was all about,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Oh, do you, Sir Oliver?’ Hinton laughed in an embarrassed fashion. ‘Oh, that is good, excellent in fact. That is good. I’m so glad to have been of some help.’

  Hinton reddened from his neck upwards, watching in nervous fascination as, with the tip of his riding crop, Oliver lifted papers and documents on the table.

  The Riding Officer was told, ‘You did not have to act upon Trelynne’s information, Hinton, or allow him to guide your men to the cove.’

  Hinton licked his fat lips, his eyelids blinking rapidly as papers and other articles amid the clutter were tipped on to the dusty floor.

  ‘Why didn’t you just ignore him?’

  Gulping like a fish out of water, Hinton looked helplessly around the room.

  ‘Well! Speak up, man!’ Oliver snapped.

  It helped the Riding Officer to find his tongue.

  ‘I… well, the old man threatened to inform my superiors of our little arrangement… if I didn’t.’

  Oliver stood up abruptly and drained his glass. ‘Be very sure that nothing like this ever happens again, Hinton. Instead, have the good sense to come and see me at once. Good day to you.’

  Ashley Hinton had got clumsily to his feet. He bowed over and over again. ‘Good day to you, Sir Oliver. Yes, indeed, good day. It was a pleasure to have your company…’ But he was talking to thin air.

  Chapter 4

  Pengarron Manor had stood in its sheltered valley for over two centuries. Planned and built by Sir Arthur Pengarron, it had replaced the more modest dwelling of his ancestor, William Garres, the illegitimate son of Sir Ralph Garres, a French aristocrat who had crossed the English Channel with William I.

  Built three storeys high, of local granite, the building made Kerensa feel small and insignificant as she stood before its massive oak door. The Reverend Ivey had escorted her along the two miles of narrow winding lanes and cart tracks from Perranbarvah and up the long gravelled carriageway that led to the front of the imposing Manor house. Now she regretted her insistence that the Reverend leave before announcing her arrival, he being urgently required back in the village to assist in the journey of the soul of one of his flock into the next world.

  Kerensa had ridden over on Meryn, the pony Nathan O’Flynn had brought with him to the cove, now to be kept temporarily in the Reverend’s stable. She was a little more used to riding, having gone out to Trelynne Cove in Nathan’s charge to secure the remainder of her possessions bottom drawer and all. Even so, she was relieved now to be on firm ground. When a skinny boy in tattered clothes had appeared, and with a cheery smile had taken Meryn away, Kerensa had smiled back, wishing she could think of something to say to detain the boy a little longer.

  Left alone in the circular courtyard, with a statue of a cherub in a fountain at its centre, she’d twisted the bow at the neck of her cloak and wondered if anyone was watching her from behind the heavy drapes of the innumerable windows. At the door she stopped short and peered at its curiously shaped brass knocker. It held the likeness of a wolf’s head, giving her an even greater feeling of apprehension. She was not looking forward to seeing Sir Oliver again and had been steeling herself to appeal to him, even challenge him, to agree to an alternative arrangement for securing Trelynne Cove back into Pengarron ownership. As she left the Parsonage, Mrs Tregonning had urged her to be careful in what she said to him, saying ominously that she did not have to make a journey into Hell to meet the Devil. Kerensa prayed her courage would not fail her at the vital moment.

  She had no idea what to expect once inside the building and very much wanted to turn and run away. Gingerly she reached out to use the door knocker, only to realise the door was slightly ajar. She was uncertain what to do and this added to her discomfiture. Should she knock and wait to be admitted within or had the door purposely been left open for her to enter unannounced? She decided on the latter and pushed the door just wide enough for her to slip through.

  She stepped into the great hall, which like the rest of the house was panelled in dark oak from the plantation that sheltered the building, the valley and parklands in an almost perfect arc.

  Portraits of Pengarron forebears looked down on her from their lofty positions ascending the wide stairway. Some looked benevolent, while others held that same air of disdain in their dark eyes as the present-day baronet and Lord of the Manor. Some had fought for their monarchs, like Arthur Pengarron who received the first baronetcy from King Henry VII, and Sir Edward who helped repel the parliamentarians on St Michael’s Mount. Others had built up the family fortune by farming the land.

  Kerensa knew nothing of this as she looked about her. Everything was layered in dust, from solid-looking oak chests, perhaps holding bygone secrets, and tall cabinets with smeared glass, to semi-circular tables and the swords and shields that hung from the walls. Hangings and draperies, once richly embroidered, were faded where the sun had leached their colours. The over abundance of spider’s webs was so pronounced, it seemed to Kerensa they might bring down the splendidly decorated ceiling at any moment. The floor beneath her feet had seen no polish for many months, if not years, and she’d have felt no surprise if an army of
mice had materialised to march across it.

  As Mrs Tregonning had said, it would take a lot of work to make the huge house habitable, if the remainder of it was in the same condition. Kerensa frowned and wondered what sort and how many staff Sir Oliver retained. She glanced at the portraits of past Pengarrons and thought by the look of them they would not approve of the condition their home had been allowed to lapse into. Apparently the decline had begun in Sir Daniel’s day, but why hadn’t his arrogant son stopped and reversed it? He was meticulous about everything else it seemed. Kerensa had observed that he kept himself and his clothes clean. Had it something to do with his Devil-may-care attitude? Unfortunately, she surmised, she would only know the answers to these questions when she got to know him better – and the time had come to face him on his own ground.

  There were many roads leading off to the left and right of the hall. Kerensa bit her lip as she tried to decide which one led into Sir Oliver’s study.

  A woman padded into sight, breathing like a bronchitic and grunting to herself like an old sow. An old woman, appallingly dirty, with many chins over which there was a constant dribble of something unpleasant and discoloured. Added to this was a fat, bright red nose, squinting eyes, and a huge rounded bosom that hung down over her waist. Many years before a person such as this might have been burned at the stake as a witch on the grounds of her appearance alone, and Kerensa watched her approach with a growing sense of horror.

  When the woman saw the girl standing so still just inside the door she stopped and peered at her through short-sighted eyes.

  ‘What do ’ee want, cheeil?’ she rasped, breaking off to cough in each and every direction.

  Kerensa swallowed hard, her throat dry. ‘Sir Oliver is expecting me.’