The Island Legacy

by Ruth Saberton

  Annie Luckett called it a crime and her opinion wasn’t unique. There were tensions in St Pirran as locals found themselves priced out of a town that had been home to their families for generations. Fishermen struggling to make a living or townsfolk doing seasonal work for minimum wage in the pubs and cafés couldn’t afford to pay London prices for the privilege of living in their home town. Gradually they found themselves relocated to the top of St Pirran in new-build accommodation. In the winter the cottages and houses where generations of their families had once lived were empty as second-homers went skiing or in search of sunnier climes. It was only Armand’s tenacity and stubborn refusal to sell up and move to the mainland that had saved Pirran Castle from a similar fate. Towards the end, hardly a week had gone by without a letter arriving from a developer or some other would-be purchaser.

  “Kindling,” Armand would say, screwing these letters up and lobbing them into a basket – but once he’d left the room Lucy would smooth each one out and read it, her forehead crinkling like the paper. The vultures were circling. What would happen when her uncle wasn’t there any longer? What would happen when her brother inherited the place?

  As her feet slithered down the steps to the causeway Lucy wondered if it was a coincidence that Max Reynard and Jamie seemed so pally lately. She didn’t think so and, as it turned out, neither had Armand thought so. Thank God the old man had always been ten steps ahead of his nephew.

  If he hadn’t been, seeing Jamie’s black Range Rover lumbering over the causeway would probably have made Lucy feel even worse than it already did.

  She gritted her teeth and picked up her pace. It was time to face her brother.

  Chapter 4

  Fern watched the black Range Rover cross the causeway as she sat on the jetty and dabbled her toes into the cool water below. She’d rolled up her flowing gypsy skirt, tucking it into the waistband, and the wood was warm and crumbly beneath the bare brown skin of her thighs. It might have been a while since anyone had moored a boat here but it was one of her favourite spots on St Pirran.

  She’d actually be hard-pushed to pick just one favourite spot, Fern thought, because there were so many to choose from. Sometimes it might be the highest point on the old ramparts; the masonry was loose there, but if you made the climb there was nothing better than being as high as the gulls and buzzards. On other days Fern loved to sit in the stillness of the ruined chapel to let the peace of ages quieten the chatter of her mind. Then there was the walled garden, where in the summer she’d tended the vegetables and cut swathes of nodding sweet peas from the canes, burying her face in the blooms and feeling almost drunk with their scent. Or there was Merryn’s secluded bay, with its deep rock pools and slice of silvery sand. How could anybody choose just one place when every corner you turned on this magical island revealed somewhere more beautiful than the last?

  Not that Jamie Penwellyn appreciated any of this. Fern knew he wouldn’t see the beauty of this place unless it could be measured in pounds. Money was everything to men like him and they were so much the poorer for it. Armand hadn’t even been dead an hour and his nephew had been on the phone to the family’s solicitor, demanding that the will should be found and read immediately. Poor Lucy had been in pieces but her brother had remained dry-eyed. In fact, he’d looked as though he’d won the lottery rather than lost his uncle. It hadn’t even been supper time before he’d been closeted in his office, talking to Max Reynard and making plans. He’d been so sure everything was in the bag, even more revoltingly arrogant than usual if such a thing was possible, bossing his tearful sister about, nosing through all Armand’s private papers and striding through the passageways as though he already owned the place.

  Served him right when he got a big shock, Fern thought with satisfaction. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been listening behind closed doors, but in fairness his howl of rage could probably have been heard in the town anyway. He’d stormed out of the library (sending Fern and her duster flying) and minutes later had been in his car tearing over the causeway – and that had been the last they’d seen of him. Until now.

  As the big car drew closer, Fern’s pretty face creased into a scowl. She always tried hard to live in harmony and balance with the universe and send out good vibes to everyone, but there was something about Jamie Penwellyn that set her teeth on edge.

  Right now her skin prickled with anticipation of the storms ahead. The island was usually such a peaceful spot and Fern loved it with all her heart. It was a healing place and serenity wrapped itself around her like a hug as she fell asleep every night, lulled by the waves and the whisper of the wind through the grass. She cherished the hours she spent working in the garden with Fred, her hands buried in the rich red soil. Sometimes she would pause to contemplate the miraculous potential of a seed held between her fingers, before she planted it deep and sent it blessings for the months ahead. She enjoyed helping Lucy in the tea room too, and chatting to the visitors as they tucked into her cakes and pasties. She even loved cleaning the place, although it always felt like a losing battle: the grime was centuries old and there was hardly enough money to heat the water, never mind buy silver polish or beeswax. Come to that, there was barely enough money to pay her – not that Fern was worried about being paid. She’d have worked for free if necessary, because Pirran Island was her home now. The Penwellyns and the island had saved her and Fern would do anything for them. Anything.

  “Maybe draw the line at listening to private conversations, though? You’ll crack your chi!” Merryn had teased when Fern had attempted to tell him what she’d overheard. Merryn had put his hands over his ears and refused to listen, which meant she’d had nobody to confide in apart from Fred the gardener or the seagulls. Fred didn’t count because he was as deaf as the proverbial post and hadn’t heard a word she’d said anyway, and the seagulls had been too busy nesting to care what Fern thought. Consequently, she’d been stewing for weeks and was fit to pop.

  Merryn could be as self-righteous as he liked, Fern decided. If listening at doors was what it took to be two jumps ahead of Jamie Penwellyn and Max Reynard, then a few cracks in her chi were a small price to pay.

  But luckily for Fern, and for the island, the old man had been even further ahead…

  Shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, Fern watched the Range Rover advance across the cobbles. She shivered. With every inch the tyres crept closer, the atmosphere seemed to swell slightly more with tension. The breeze seemed to hold its breath, the waves broke with just a little less certainty and even the gulls muted their shrieking. Everyone and everything was on edge whenever Jamie arrived. If you believed in soul energy, which Fern did with all her heart, then Lucy’s brother possessed more than his fair share of the negative variety.

  A small figure was poised at the furthest end of the causeway and Fern could just make out the wicker basket tucked over one arm and the dancing spaniel at the person’s feet. From these clues she realised it was Lucy – a fact confirmed by the way the person was almost running across the slippery path in her haste. Lucy always raced about when Jamie was in residence. It broke Fern’s heart to see how nervous she became in her brother’s presence; Lucy’s usually sunny disposition and easy laugh vanished completely in the onslaught of his critical comments and sly put-downs.

  Arse, thought Fern. Jamie Penwellyn deserved everything that was coming to him. As far as she was concerned, whoever it was that the old man had decided to leave the castle to couldn’t be worse than him. Jamie might have been shocked to discover that some mysterious female cousin had inherited the lot, but Fern hadn’t been at all surprised. Armand had had the measure of his nephew. Fern would have wagered all she owned (a daisy headband and some tarot cards being about the sum of it) that he’d also known that if he’d left his estate to the far more deserving Lucy it would only have been a matter of time before Jamie bullied it out of her hands. Armand had no choice.

  Fern shuddered. She hated bullies. It was one of the reasons she was he
re.

  She scrambled to her feet, her skirt still tucked up into her waistband, and sprinted from the jetty to clamber up the steep bank, where parts of the wall had long since fallen down. Her bare feet easily finding footholds in the worn stones, she heaved herself up to the halfway point where it was possible to press her spine against the granite and watch proceedings through a veil of ivy. Merryn would probably disapprove of this and accuse her of spying, but as far as Fern was concerned this was a case of know your enemy.

  The four-by-four, having made the crossing, now swung to the left, turning under what remained of the gatehouse arch and crunching across weed-smothered cobbles until it drew up alongside the entrance. Nobody actually used the original entry to the castle. Lucy said she couldn’t ever recall seeing the door open, and a previous investigation had shown that the hinges had long since seized up. Nevertheless, even if it wasn’t functional it was pretty. It was woven through with ivy, and in the summer it had been heavy with nodding dog roses. Nest-making swifts had darted in and out of the gaps above, like arrows fired by long-ago archers. On days when the island was open to tourists they loved to take pictures of the castle entrance, and it featured on many local calendars and postcards. To park across and obscure it was just typical of Jamie. Never mind that his uncle had faithfully parked his Morris Minor around the back or that Lucy’s ancient 2CV was relegated to the old coach house; Jamie Penwellyn was going to park right outside the front door of his castle.

  Except that it wasn’t his castle, was it? Pirran Island belonged to somebody else now, somebody who would be arriving very soon. Fern could hardly wait. That even from beyond the grave Armand could put his nephew in his place was very satisfying. She just hoped that the mysterious Nessa Penwellyn was up to the task of keeping him there.

  From her vantage point Fern saw Jamie swing his stocky frame out of the car. He looked out of place for Cornwall in his city suit, shiny shoes and designer sunglasses. People in St Pirran didn’t tend to bother with expensive tailoring; they were too busy battling with the elements and paying the bills. Admittedly some out-of-towners liked their vintage flowery fabrics, shabby chic macs and pretty shoes, but that kind of look was hardly practical for day-to-day life here. Everyone else dressed like Lucy in jeans and boots, ready to face a gale or a downpour. Fern knew she stuck out in her sequinned skirts, biker boots and flowing scarves, but even she had a raincoat and some wellies tucked away.

  Jamie was leaning against the car with his phone clamped against his ear, deep in conversation.

  “It’s absolutely fine, Max. There’s nothing to do now but wait,” he was saying, his voice just holding back its usual note of impatience. While the person on the other end of the line was speaking, Jamie pushed his glasses onto the top of his neatly cut hair and squinted critically up at the walls. Spotting Fern, who gave him a jaunty wave, he scowled.

  Fern wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. She knew Jamie thought she was a “scavenger”, a “freeloader”, a “street rat” – and those were some of the nicer things she’d overheard him say about her – so she didn’t expect him to be thrilled to see her. Unfortunately for him, his uncle’s will stated that her future on the island was entirely at the discretion of his beneficiary. So as much as Jamie might love to be able to kick her off, he was stuck with her – just as he was stuck with Merryn and Fred. Well, for now anyway. Who knew? This Nessa Penwellyn could be even worse than him. Unlikely, Fern thought, but since they shared some of the same genes it was a possibility.

  “Arriving tomorrow, apparently,” Jamie said, turning his back on Fern and pulling a sleek Louis Vuitton holdall from the front seat. “Some cousin apparently. Yes, I know I promised – but look, there’s no need to be concerned, Max. The deal’s still on. We just need to go about it slightly differently. Fine. Tomorrow.”

  Having ended the call, he pushed the phone into his jacket pocket, swung the bag onto his shoulder and flipped the remote control to lock the car with a sharp horn blast that sent the nearby seagulls soaring and screeching.

  Fern raised her eyes to heaven. What a knob! Who did he think was going to steal his car here? Her? The castle cat? Or maybe old Fred might fancy a joyride before quiz night in The Castle?

  Jamie was plotting something and with Max Reynard too. It was hardly a surprise; the developer had been eyeing up the castle for months, and if rumour was to be believed he’d made Armand several eye-watering offers in the past. Of course, he’d be looking to add the island to his portfolio.

  Making her way down from the wall, Fern concluded that Nessa Penwellyn couldn’t arrive soon enough.

  Chapter 5

  Max Reynard ended the call and leaned back in his chair. Narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare, he stared thoughtfully out across the bay and watched the little tripping boats slicing white lines through the shimmering water as they raced to reach St Pirran before the tide caught them out.

  You had to act swiftly to stay ahead in business too, Max reckoned. He prided himself on his ability to spot an opportunity and cut a deal before anyone else had even thought of it, the ink barely dry on the contracts before he was moving forward to the next challenge. From turning dilapidated Georgian seafronts into smart flats, to snapping up mouldering stately piles and converting them into luxury apartments, to completing niche developments like St Pirran’s Church, Max Reynard had an uncanny ability to see potential and exploit it. Like his namesake, the fox, once he had something in his sights he pursued it and pounced on it. In his thirties and with a multimillion-pound property development business to his name, Max was now in a position to acquire a magnificent addition to the Reynard portfolio. St Pirran’s Island would be his best catch yet.

  Or so he’d thought. Suddenly things were looking rather different and Max didn’t like this turn of events one bit. He hadn’t made all those plans or put things in motion this far – or even lent that little weasel Jamie Penwellyn all that money – only to be cheated of his prize at the eleventh hour.

  Max’s dark brows drew together. Above him the gulls were circling, as keen to scavenge leftovers as he had been to pick up the remains of his greedy school friend’s inheritance. The problem was that Jamie had been a little too hasty in assuming that his uncle would bequeath the estate to him. It was understandable that Jamie had dismissed his sister’s chances of inheriting it. Max had met Lucy Penwellyn on several occasions and could see why Armand wouldn’t have left the place to her: she’d have given the lot away to her waifs and strays by teatime. But to leave Pirran Island to a completely unknown entity? Jamie certainly hadn’t seen that coming.

  Part of Max (the part that wasn’t infuriated by the delay in proceedings) was secretly pleased that the old man had seen through his nephew. All Jamie’s visits and toadying to his uncle had been fruitless – and bearing in mind how he’d loathed every minute he’d had to spend with his elderly relative, it served him right.

  Max took a sip of his drink and gazed across at the island again. The tide was out now, leaving the wet sand glistening in the early afternoon sunshine. The beach was freckled with holidaymakers, all determined to make the most of the weather. Beyond it, the causeway was visible now above the waves and people were making the mile-long walk across to visit what was left of the chapel, gawp at the ruins and eat scones in that shabby excuse for a tea room. That would all stop once he owned the place. The clientele who could afford the exclusive apartments Reynard Developments would be offering wouldn’t want their privacy compromised. There would be some legal wrangling, of course; that was inevitable when you purchased an old property. But Max’s lawyers never had any difficulties getting around these things – it was why he paid them so much money. Money, Max had learned very early on, greased a lot of wheels and almost always persuaded people to share your point of view.

  He’d no reason to think this unknown Penwellyn cousin would be any different. Jamie hadn’t said much about her, mainly because when Max had seen him last Jamie had been too apoplect
ic to string so much as a sentence together. What little Max had managed to glean had come not from his old school chum but from his contact at the solicitor’s office in St Pirran. After dinner and a few drinks in The Castle, Cally the PA – with her ample curves, soft mouth and brain like an Aero – had been only too happy to tell him all she knew. It certainly took the phrase “pumping someone for information” to a whole new level, Max reflected now, although in fairness Cally hadn’t needed much encouragement. Women never did, in his experience.

  They were there for the picking, like ripe fruit, and if he’d wanted to gorge then it would have been exceedingly easy to do so. This town was full of bored wives and pretty girls in shorts and bikinis. They were always thrilled to cruise around the lanes in his convertible Aston, and they tumbled so easily into his bed too. If he wanted he could have enjoyed a different date every night of the week. Nobody would have blamed him and there wasn’t one man in St Pirran who didn’t secretly envy him. After all, he was rich, good-looking and single. Max Reynard had it all.

  Self-indulgence wasn’t Max’s style though. Yes, he enjoyed more than his fair share of no-strings encounters, but he was choosy and more than aware than it wasn’t just his lean muscular body, stormy grey eyes, sharp cheekbones or handsome face they were attracted to. The houses, cars and luxurious lifestyle were equally, if not even more, alluring. Would those same women find him quite as appealing if he was still living in a council house and working on-site with his father? And if the designer clothes were exchanged for overalls? Or if he still had his old wooden boat rather than the shiny Sunseeker yacht moored in St Pirran’s marina?