The Cornish Knot

by Vicky Adin

  Her thoughts kept drifting back to her diary and the words she had written during the night.

  Megan’s Diary

  14 November 2010 – Clovelly

  My stomach is churning and my nerves are on edge. I’m so frightened. I hate to admit it, but I am. Oh, Tony. What am I going to do? I came here to say goodbye. I thought I’d reached the point where I could carry on without thinking of you every moment, without wanting to talk to you about every decision and action, but ... I can’t.

  I’ve read my great-grandmother’s journal over and over again. I think I know it, and her as a young woman, as well as anyone can from such a distance of time, but the twists and turns I keep coming across are confusing me. The lawyers in Truro are waiting for me to call as soon as I arrive, and I expect they will have new information, with more surprises for me to digest.

  I thought, maybe, if I could get you out of my head, if I could stop relying on you, I could cope with this better. But now I’m here, I know I’m wrong. It’s not your memory that’s clouding my thinking. It’s what I’ve discovered. What I’ve learnt from the records office, and what the lawyer said, that is breaking my heart anew. I think the lawyers are about to tell me things I’m not sure I want to know and I’m scared. I’m really scared everything is about to change. So guess what, my darling? You get to stay. You get to help me through this. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

  When I started on this journey, I never for one moment thought I’d get so caught up in the past. I was going on a journey of renewal, but it seems there are people from the past who want their story told first.

  Chapter 9

  “Welcome, Mrs Marsh.” James Boscowan the Third extended his hand in greeting.

  Megan shook hands with the lawyer who had written to her two months ago and instigated her journey. A man, she estimated, in his early sixties with English public school and wealth written all over him.

  “Where are you staying? At the Hall? Are you comfortable?”

  “I’m at a B&B in Redruth until I get my bearings,” Megan told him, misunderstanding his reference to the Hall.

  “Oh!” He looked momentarily startled. “Righto. Good. Good. Now to business. Where shall we start?”

  Megan surveyed the room while the lawyer fussed around resorting papers clearly already sorted. She felt sure he knew exactly where to start. Expecting a typical Victorian set of offices for a law practice purported to have been established one hundred and fifty years ago, and in the same family ever since, these rooms came as a total surprise. Boscowan and Sons were doing very well. The ultramodern office building, and in particular his office on the third floor, boasting floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the cathedral and river, was quite stunning. She could tell no expense had been spared on the furniture, although it wasn’t to her taste. He was obviously a man with a vision for the future.

  “Mr Boscowan, if it’s all the same to you, I think we’d better start with why I’m here.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Why you’re here? Yes, a good place to start.”

  Megan refrained from rolling her eyes, thinking this was going to be a difficult interview. Maybe she was wrong; maybe he was stuck in the past after all.

  “I think you will recall, when I wrote to you, that I needed you to confirm your identity to establish whether you had any connection to my client and her family.”

  Megan nodded, but she needn’t have bothered – he was talking to the papers with his head down.

  “And I can see, from the notarised documents you provided, you have successfully done that.”

  “Yes,” confirmed Megan again, wondering where he was going.

  Raising his head, he took off his glasses and leaned into the high-backed executive chair as if summing her up. Megan met his gaze without flinching or fidgeting.

  “I’m pleased to meet you at last.” He paused again. “Before I tell you the final part to the story, I think you need to have some background to put things in context. You have certificates giving evidence of your maternity, but there are many nuances you have yet to understand.”

  Wondering when, or if, he was ever going to get to the point, Megan tried not to show her impatience as he waffled on about the history of mining in the area. How the family fitted into the scene as mine owners and employers. He then explained how his father, and his father before him, had handled all the affairs of the estate belonging to her great-great-grandfather, Gerald Trevallyan and how large the estate had been with its tenant farms.

  “And so we come to the specifics. I presume you have read the journal I sent you?”

  “Yes, many times. Thank you.”

  “Good. Good. I am only vaguely aware of its contents. Our client gave strict instructions it was only for your eyes. She left a brief outline and directions that once I was satisfied with your validity, I was to advise you it belonged to your great-grandmother, Isabel, who had travelled extensively.”

  “Yes, I eventually found out her name when I was in London. But please, why the scepticism? If you already knew I existed and where to find me, why do I need to be so thorough in proving who I am? Why send me the journal at all, if it might not be mine? If, as you earlier intimated, I might not be who I say I am?”

  Megan hadn’t meant to be quite so confrontational, but all the secrecy was putting her on edge.

  However, this man could not be hurried.

  “I’ll come to that.” His tone was markedly cooler and even more condescending. He obviously didn’t like her.

  He looked intently at her again and then, as if accepting the inevitable, suddenly announced, “You are about to become a very wealthy woman, Mrs Marsh. However, there are conditions.”

  Her frustration vanished and shock began to set in as the tragedies and successes of the Trevallyan story slowly unfolded. How could she possibly believe what he was telling her? After several more minutes of one-way conversation, she cut short his narrative.

  “Could I have a glass of water, please?”

  He shot her a blank look – as if he’d forgotten she was there and was seemingly disconcerted at being prevented from continuing his chronicle uninterrupted – but good manners demanded he meet her request. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded as she gulped down the water, still feeling rather bewildered.

  “I’ll continue then, shall I?”

  Again, Megan nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “... And that sums up the contents of the will,” he finally concluded, another ten minutes later.

  Taking a deep breath, she let a few moments of silence settle on them as she assembled her thoughts. “Before I ask any questions, can you please explain why it has taken the best part of thirty years to reach me?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, yes. I really must apologise. It was an error for which Boscowan and Sons must take full responsibility. I offer no excuses, only the facts.”

  James explained how his grandfather – the first James Boscowan, grandson of the founder of the firm – had lived a very long and active life keeping a few private clients well after his retirement, including the Trevallyans. He died sitting at his desk at the age of eighty-three, only a matter of weeks after his client, Constance Trevallyan. Only he knew all the details, so when his office was being cleared out, the closed files were sent to storage, the Trevallyan file among them, even though its business was not quite finalised.

  “The files were left undisturbed until three years ago when my father died, and I decided to move to new premises. Once I discovered the error, I immediately undertook the task myself. It’s taken me until recently to sort out the details and to trace you. Again, I offer my sincere apologies.”

  “I see. Thank you for your honesty. As a matter of interest, is there a James Boscowan the Fourth?”

  For the first time, a small smile creased his face. “No, there isn’t. But there is a Jessica Boscowan, who is urging me to change the name to Boscowan and Daughter. I am certain some of our ol
der clients would not approve, but this is the twenty-first century so I will concede.” The thin smile deepened. “In my own good time.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Megan rose to take her leave. “I need to think about this information you have given me before I comment further. Thank you.”

  She extended her hand.

  “Before you go, Mrs Marsh, there is one other thing. Miss Trevallyan’s ashes have been kept in the vault since her death. Could you please advise me what you would like done with them?”

  Megan withdrew her hand and sank back into her chair. She needed a few more minutes to gather her wits.

  * * * * *

  Several hours later, having pulled herself together, Megan recalled one of the things Mr Boscowan told her: the original Trevallyan Manor was now called Trevennick Hall, hence his reference to the Hall, and it and the surrounding estate had been put into a perpetual trust to come into effect after Constance’s death. Today it operated as a thriving farm and hotel.

  No wonder he looked surprised to find me at a B&B.

  She had a lot to learn about this unusual Great Aunt Constance – a tough businesswoman, a loyal master and a capricious young woman all rolled into one.

  Megan had smothered her laughter as best she could when James Boscowan explained Constance had changed the name of the manor house, shortly after her mother’s death in 1937, to Trevennick Hall because she’d liked the character in Edith Wharton’s novel, The Buccaneers.

  It seemed almost farcical, but Megan had far more important mysteries to unravel.

  Grateful Sarah had insisted she buy a new laptop, Megan quickly found the renamed Trevennick Hall on the Internet and made a booking. Saying thank you to the B&B and getting directions, she headed off to Portreath.

  The view, as she approached down the winding driveway, took her breath away. The long, whitewashed, two-storeyed stone house facing her gleamed, in spite of the November cloud. A set of gracious double doors sat at the top of a short flight of curved stone steps, exactly as Isabel had described in her journal. With five bays and a wing on either side, the house was simple and elegant. Megan loved it at first sight.

  The turning circle in front of the house led her through the walled archway into a parking area that once would have been the stables. Following the sign, she entered the door from the courtyard and, weaving her way along a wood-panelled corridor, wound up in the spacious reception area. A round, Chippendale-style table adorned with an impressive vase of flowers with trailing greenery dominated the central area.

  Megan approached the reception desk just as the grandfather clock standing between two gracious doorways tolled the hour. Introducing herself to the woman behind the counter, she signed the visitors’ book and received an old-fashioned door key in return.

  “I haven’t seen one of these for years,” commented Megan. “How delightful. I love it. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “I’m Jenna. Jenna Pawley. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Marsh.” The woman smiled. Megan estimated she would be in her early forties. Elegantly but severely dressed in black, with dark hair pulled back into a tight chignon and impeccable make up, she looked the essence of an old-style housekeeper.

  “Thank you, Jenna. I might end up staying a while, if that is all right.”

  “Certainly. Stay as long as you like. It’s off-season, so it’s quiet at present. Let me know if you need anything. Your room is up the stairs to the right at the front. I’ve given you one of the best rooms with great views across the park. Are you wanting to eat in tonight?”

  “Yes, please. If it’s no trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. The restaurant operates all year since it brings in the locals. I’ll call Kitto to help you with your bags. No lifts around here, I’m afraid.” Jenna smiled again, belying her appearance.

  Expecting a man of similar age to her hostess, Megan was somewhat surprised to see a very elderly, slightly bent man waddle in from an entrance near the staircase. Smiling inwardly, she could put no other word to it – he definitely waddled from side to side.

  “Thanks, Kitto. Could you take Mrs Marsh’s bags up to the Isabel Room please?”

  Megan heeded the name, but bit her tongue and didn’t ask any questions. There would be a better time later.

  Jenna turned her attention back to Megan. “When you are settled and want to come downstairs again, the library is there to your right and the lounge and dining room over here through those doors. Make yourself at home.”

  Megan thanked Jenna before leading Kitto to her car to gather her belongings. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable as she followed him upstairs to her room, she said, “I’m quite sure I can manage these myself.”

  Kitto thought otherwise.

  “I’ve been gardener, handyman, porter and general factotum around ’ere since I were a boy, like me father afore me, and a little bag like this ain’t goin’ to stop us now. Takes pride in what I do. Miss Constance, God rest her soul, wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Miss Constance? Constance Trevallyan?” queried Megan.

  “Yep. Who else?” He eyed her up and down, but whatever more he was going to say never left his lips. He tipped his hat and was gone, leaving Megan to appraise the room.

  It looked just as she imagined it would have a hundred years ago. Decorated in cream regency wallpaper, the heavy matching drapes framing the two sash windows were held by tasselled tiebacks and topped with frilled pelmets. The bed, taking up one wall, had a large ivory and brass bedstead, and two pale green velvet high-back armchairs sat either side of the second window. An occasional table set with some magazines and a small sign saying ‘free Wi-Fi available’ made her feel very much at home – even if modern broadband seemed incongruous in such an old building.

  Megan started to unpack. She put some of her things into the Edwardian mahogany dressing table and hung her jackets and trousers in the matching wardrobe. Setting her books on the bedside table, she stopped to admire the vintage white embroidered bed linen and cover.

  A small painting hanging above the bed caught her eye – an Edwardian girl in a garden, wearing a large hat, with a younger child in the background. Immediately, she thought of something she’d read in Isabel’s journal. Could it be? Picking it up she flicked through some of the early entries until she found the page she sought.

  Isabel’s Journal

  1 November 1910

  Mama was so mean not letting me take my painting to show off to people in Florence. It is mine, not hers. It was so much fun that summer with Wil and Jane. How Papa persuaded them to stay I have no idea, but Wil always had a paintbrush in his hand and Jane was so fashionable I envied her clothes. Jane liked to paint too and she did some wonderful work, but Wil chose to paint me – in the garden under the shade of the tree. Constance wouldn’t sit still so she looks like a blob of white playing on the lawn, but there is no mistaking me in my favourite hat. But would Mama let me have the painting? No, she would not. She wanted it to remind her of me, she said. Remind her, what tosh! She couldn’t wait to be rid of me. She just hates me. I know it.

  Megan hardly believed it possible, but she’d had every other sense of the ridiculous and impossible presented to her, so why not? If her instinct was right, then here in front of her eyes was the image of Isabel and her younger sister Constance. The soft palette and shady positioning screamed Edwardian.

  Small though it was, the older girl’s face was quite detailed, with the flush of youth and clear warm eyes with similar colouring as herself. Her face was fine-boned with a soft prettiness Megan found appealing. The set of her shoulders showed poise and calm. The younger girl dressed in white was less distinct, playing in the background exactly as described.

  Megan was disturbed that a girl could think her mother hated her, but if she felt that strongly about it, the mother must have done something to make her feel so unloved.

  With a quick check of her watch, she decided it was still too early to phone home and talk to Sara
h, so she quickly changed into a skirt and top with low heels, suitable for dinner. There was time for some exploring first.

  The uneven and sloping polished wooden floors of the wide corridor were partly covered by an ancient carpet runner and smelt faintly of furniture polish and musty carpets. Paintings hung on the walls and an antique chest, table or chair sat beside each door. Megan wandered along the creaking floorboards to look more closely at the names on the doors. She briefly wondered if she would find a Constance Room somewhere. All the other rooms were named after a family member, a colour or an era, so the possibility remained high. Retracing her footsteps, she made her way down the staircase.

  Following Jenna’s instructions, she looked into the library. Megan thought she’d walked into another era. Dark wood shelves lined the room almost floor to ceiling, bulging with books seemingly untouched for generations. A strip of highly polished, rich chestnut panelling ran around the room at waist height, where, hidden in the decoration, Megan discovered two wide drawers, with elaborate handles and three pull-out shelves where books could rest.

  She studied the portrait hanging above the magnificent fireplace of a young woman dressed in an elaborately beaded 1920s outfit. The shape of the girl’s face and her fair colouring reminded her distinctly of Sarah. The small brass plaque read:

  Miss Constance Trevallyan aged 21 (1923)

  Constance Trevallyan was the youngest daughter of Gerald and Eleanor Trevallyan who owned this house when tin mining in Cornwall was at its height in the mid-19th century. Through a series of tragedies, Constance Trevallyan inherited the estate in 1926 on the death of her brother, Francis Trevallyan.