The Cornish Knot

by Vicky Adin

  Megan knew this already from what Mr Boscowan had told her earlier in the day. Even so, she hadn’t imagined the house would have remained almost untouched except for some period updates given it was a thriving commercial venture these days. The history buff in her was excited by this find. The more she looked around, the more she realised many of the furnishings were original and were now valuable antiques. There was much more to Constance Trevallyan than she’d thought.

  Megan closed the library door behind her and crossed the tiled reception area towards the lounge, her heels echoing through the empty space. A fire had been lit, giving the lounge a warming glow. Megan sat in one of the button-backed armchairs near the window looking up the driveway. As if on cue, a waiter appeared and asked if she would care for anything.

  Ordering a glass of red wine and some cashew nuts, she relaxed in the warmth of the room and admired the last of the light casting shadows across the garden. For the first time since meeting Mr Boscowan, she let herself think about all he had told her. She could barely conceive it, even though he’d provided paperwork confirming the details – Constance Trevallyan really had left her personal fortune to ‘the great-granddaughter of my sister Isabel, whom I forgive’.

  In short: to her – but with strings attached.

  How on earth am I going to meet the conditions in Constance’s will?

  Isabel’s Journal

  25 November 1910 – London

  Really! This is just too much. Mrs Baragwanath has only now told me off for being petulant. Just because I was bemoaning my situation and telling her my mother’s latest list of complaints. She said that now I had turned 18 it was time I behaved as ‘becoming of a lady’ and being ill-humoured was not attractive.

  Fortunately, there was no one to witness my humiliation or, I regret to admit, see my face redden in a most unflattering way. But I’m bored, bored, bored. I’m so tired of reading and playing whist with Mrs B and her acquaintances. I want something to happen to me for a change!

  With the death of the King in May, everything is so quiet. So many people are in mourning and wearing black, even at Ascot. It’s dull. The London season was virtually cancelled. It was only slightly possible I could have attended this year but it was something to look forward to. I will never be presented at court now.

  Paris had better be more fun or I will start to wish I’d stayed at home! Well, maybe not, now I think of it. That would have been really boring.

  Chapter 10

  “Mrs Marsh?” Jenna’s voice made her jump, halting any further consideration of her momentous news. “Sorry to startle you, but I was wondering if you would like to join us in the bar. We have a few locals in tonight.”

  “Thank you, Jenna, yes. How thoughtful of you.” Megan followed Jenna through the dining room to the replica Edwardian bar. The dining room had obviously been the ballroom at one time, with its intricately decorated ceiling and two sets of original French doors leading to the patio.

  Jenna introduced the couple sitting beside her – Tristan and Lowenna – and Jack, the middle-aged man from the far end of the bar, came along to say hello. An older couple walked in and sat at the round table by the corner settle on her left. Once the introductions were complete and drinks ordered, Jenna left them to talk.

  “Where you from then, girlie?’ asked the older man who’d been introduced as Hugh with his wife Mabel.

  “New Zealand,” she told them and was immediately plied with questions. Proudly, she told them about her country: the space, the bright colours of greens and blues, of the forests and farmland and the oceans and the skies. She tried to explain about the Kiwi outdoor lifestyle, barbecues, Maori culture and rugby, a popular subject with Tristan, who was well informed.

  After a while Jack announced, “I’m away home for my dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jenna.”

  Taking his departure as a cue, Tristan suggested they should eat too.

  “We could share a table. If you don’t mind, that is, Megan. I’m rather interested in hearing more.”

  “Thank you, Tristan. I’d be glad of the company.”

  Over dinner, the lively conversation continued with her telling them more about New Zealand and they explained about village life.

  Hugh suddenly said, “Every now and then you remind me of someone. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but there’s something. Do you have family from around these parts?”

  Megan stopped short, frantically searching for an answer that wouldn’t give the whole story away – not just yet. Many other questions needed answers first.

  “I’d like to try and trace my great-grandmother while I’m here, if I can. I believe she may have come from Cornwall. But someone else intrigues me more right now. Can any of you tell me about Constance Trevallyan? I found her portrait hanging in the library. I got the impression from Kitto she was an important figure round here.”

  It was as though Megan had released a helium balloon. Hugh and Mabel, who had said very little up until now, were almost tripping over one other, each trying to give Megan every possible detail before the other.

  “It was after her sister, Miss Isabel, ran away,” said Mabel, “when it all started. She couldn’t have been more than a wee mite. Maybe nine or ten if she were a day.”

  Hugh interrupted. “Isabel were her father’s favourite, see. But Francis, the boy, he were the mother’s – by far. But he were nothing but a wastrel. I tell ye. If it weren’t for Constance Trevallyan this place would be done for.”

  As they both continued their story, Megan tried to work out the time frames. Hugh and Mabel would have known Constance in her later years, but not at the time they were talking about. Their tale must have been handed down – several times, Megan suspected.

  “Isabel was sent off to be companion to old Mrs Baragwanath,” continued Mabel. “Young Mrs Baragwanath that followed told me all about it many a time. It seems the old lady came back alone having left Miss Isabel in Florence. That’s in Italy, you know.”

  Megan nodded and smiled, thinking she knew a lot more about Florence than her entertaining storyteller ever would.

  “Well, so the story goes. Mrs Baragwanath was home only a few days before the squire bade her to call. ‘Where’s my daughter, madam?’ he asked. ‘And why are you here without her?’ Very haughty he could be when he wanted. But Mrs Baragwanath weren’t bothered by him at all. No, not at all. She told him in no uncertain words, so it be told. Isabel was very happy and settled in Florence, teaching music to the English children, and he should leave her alone.”

  “The squire was having none of that, never mind what anyone said,” Hugh butted in again. “As any father would.”

  Megan recognised parts of this story from Isabel’s writings, although her version was somewhat different.

  Mabel continued as if Hugh had not spoken. “And then the poor girl’s mother went off in a swoon, going on about how her daughter was ruined. Totally ruined, she said. What with her living in Italy unchaperoned ’n all. And how she’d brought shame on the family and saying she would never welcome ‘that chit of a girl’ back into the house ever again.”

  So Isabel was right, thought Megan. Her mother didn’t want her.

  Tristan refilled the glasses, and he and Lowenna sat back in their chairs, clearly happy to listen to the story as it unfolded. The glance Megan intercepted between them told her they’d heard it all before.

  “Anyway, the squire he sent for Miss Isabel and ordered her home. The postmistress at the time told all, she did. Isabel refused. Shortly after that, the old squire took ill. He was so bad he were laid up for many a week. Finally, the mother sent another missive to Isabel.”

  “That brought Miss Isabel home quick as a flash. She only just made it in time. The old squire passed away not long after. Miss Isabel, she were that heartbroken by all accounts, but that’s when all the troubles started. She were pregnant you see, with no husband in sight and hadn’t told no one. Well, once the funeral was over, Mrs Trevallyan
lost all sense and banished her daughter just like she said she would and ...”

  Hugh finished her sentence, “... and that Francis never said a word, despite him being the new squire ’n all, but then nobody ’ad any respect for him much anyways.”

  Lowenna added softly, “From what my mother and grandmother told me, I believe Isabel returned to Italy. No one knows what happened to her after that.”

  Except Constance, thought Megan, who definitely knew what happened to her sister. At least Isabel’s visit home could explain how the precious journal came to be left at Trevallyan House rather than remaining with her. Poor girl – young, pregnant and so alone.

  “Fascinating story, but it doesn’t tell me how Constance became the person she obviously was,” prompted Megan.

  “I think we’re confusing Megan. Let’s fast forward a bit, shall we?”

  Tristan’s modulated and modern manner of speaking was a pleasant contrast to the increasingly Cornish inflections of Hugh and Mabel. He continued telling the story while Megan listened carefully, matching what she had been told by James Boscowan with what Tristan was saying.

  “Over time Francis lost the family fortune through his dissolute and self-indulgent ways. Always up and down to London and living the high life. Gambling was his final downfall. Francis was killed in 1926 while riding to hounds somewhere with some of the rich set. ‘Accidental death’ said the official report, but everyone knew he’d been too drunk to hold his seat. Meanwhile, Constance set about creating her own fortune.”

  Gerald Trevallyan had bestowed a small annual sum on both his daughters in their own names for their sole use. After his death, no one had thought to stop those payments. They continued, providing the girls with a private income until Francis’s death when Constance took over the estate. By that time, Constance had become a shareholder in many of the new growth industries, investing in a variety of companies while sitting on governing boards and accumulating her own wealth.

  “No one really understood how she did it,” said Hugh. “My father, God rest his soul, often wondered how a slip of a girl like that knew anything about money.”

  “Don’t be old-fashioned, Hugh.” Mabel patted his arm. “Women today are very capable. She being university educated ’n all.”

  Megan looked at her watch, surprised at the late hour. She decided to wind the conversation up so she could email Sarah and write up her diary. There was much to put down. “It’s been a pleasure. Thank you for your company and interesting conversation. I really mustn’t keep you talking all night, but I’m curious. How do you know so much about the Trevallyan family?”

  They looked at each other first and then at her before Hugh, somewhat bewildered, said, “Everyone knows everyone here. Why wouldn’t we? It’s our village.”

  Tristan, again, came to her rescue. “We were all born here and descend from the original families at the time the squire died. Family, in the broader sense, you understand. At the time Constance took over, Hugh’s ancestor was the farm factor; Mabel’s family were housekeepers; Jenna’s great-grandfather was the mine manager; and Lowenna is related to the nurse hired to care for Eleanor. Jack’s relative was the governess.

  “And you’ve already met my father, the one and only Christopher Pendarvis.”

  Megan looked confused.

  “Kitto,” he laughed. “We all go back a very long way. Loyalty was important to Constance.”

  Megan’s Diary

  25 November 2010

  I haven’t done very well keeping up with my diary even after Sarah’s prodding. Time has utterly disappeared in the whirl of surprises and new discoveries I can hardly comprehend. My original plans have disappeared out the door, and I’m left trying to work out some realities. For a start, I didn’t intend to stay in Cornwall so long. In my mind, I was coming here to sign some papers with the lawyers and be on my way. I didn’t expect to be caught up in Constance’s wishes the way I have. My goodness, she was and still is a control freak.

  The people here are very nice, but I wonder what their reaction will be when they find out my connection. Isabel is hardly remembered and never talked about. It’s all about Constance.

  If I’d been true to Isabel’s journal, I should be heading towards the south of France by now, having already visited Paris and a few other places along the way. Instead, it looks like I’ll be here for some weeks to come, although I didn’t come prepared for it. I’ll need more clothes, but if I have to spend winter in England, Cornwall is the best part to be, I suppose.

  I’ve engaged Jessica Boscowan to act for me and help me sort out all the legalities and finalise all the paperwork. She and I seem to get on really well and I think she could prove invaluable. It’s all so much bigger than I could ever have thought possible. I feel quite bewildered. My next task is to confirm a few details so I can follow up on my search into Isabel’s life. I just need to work out how I’m going to meet Constance’s demands. Maybe after that I’ll be able to start following Isabel.

  I’ve talked to Jenna about staying longer. That will get me through to late December. I’ve got some ideas for what I’d like to do over Christmas and the New Year since I obviously won’t be where Isabel spent her Christmas. Hopefully, they will work. I’ll talk to Sarah soon.

  Chapter 11

  “Hello. Gordon.” Megan had eventually reached a first name relationship with her Keeper of the Records from London, as she had nicknamed him. “I need you to do me another favour, please.”

  Reading from her notebook, Megan reeled off a list of records she wanted.

  True to his word, within a few days Gordon posted what he’d found to Trevennick Hall.

  At the lawyers’ office, she’d begged a few minutes with Mr Boscowan. “I need confirmation on some information I’ve been given. Can you find these details for me, please?” she asked, handing him another list of questions.

  Megan quickly her said goodbyes and headed off in search of some general history about the area: the mines, farms, fishing fleets and the growth industries of the time. Industries that had attracted Constance and from which she’d made her fortune.

  Likewise, James Boscowan answered her questions within a few days. Somewhat taken aback, she learnt there were two camps in the village: those who loved Constance and those who didn’t.

  The next two weeks passed quickly as she occupied herself with seeking more facts, and she still hadn’t found the right moment to tell anyone her place in their story. Somehow she didn’t feel comfortable about it all. She was a little surprised no hint had come from Mr Boscowan’s office so far, knowing everything would have to come out soon anyway. Her estimation of him and Jessica had gone up.

  After a couple of false starts, she managed to get Sarah on Skype by resorting to email to set up a time and day. Megan began the conversation with general chitchat about life at home, until Sarah finally interrupted.

  “What’s the matter, Mum? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, honey. Nothing at all.”

  “Okay, so if nothing’s wrong, what’s bothering you? You were determined to call, so you must want to talk about more than the weather at home and what Bella did at day care.”

  Megan sighed, wondering how to approach what she wanted to say. Deciding to take the bull by the horns she announced, “I couldn’t stand the thought of spending Christmas with strangers. I want my family around me, and I need to talk to you and Jason about what I’ve found here.”

  “Are you coming home?” Sarah sounded excited about the prospect.

  “No. I’m not. I want you to book flights to Honolulu for all of you. I’ve already booked the accommodation.”

  After discussing the details, Megan won the argument over who should pay, with an intimation of a small bequest, without letting on about the full inheritance.

  Sarah responded instantly. “We’ll be there. I’ll change whatever plans I have to and reorganise things. Nothing will stop me.”

  Megan ended the call, satisfied. A w
arm feeling spread over her and she couldn’t stop laughing, cheered by the girl’s exuberance.

  The phone call with Jason was not nearly as rewarding. Jason, full of ums and ahs and constantly giving excuses about how difficult it would be, simply made her cross.

  “Jason.” Megan was firm when interrupting his flow of words. “It’s less than a month away, are your shifts for those dates confirmed?”

  As he started jabbering on again, Megan forced an answer. “Yes or no?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” he agreed, reluctantly.

  “So, if I heard you correctly you have four free days over that time. I’ll settle for that, if you really can’t stay any longer, but I will not accept anything less.” Megan softened her tone. “We’d like to see more of you. Sarah, Nick and Bella are coming for ten days – do try.”

  Hearing another ‘but’ she jumped in. “No, Jason. No more buts. For once, you will do as I ask.”

  She disconnected without waiting for his response and wished she had been using an old-style cradle phone so she could physically slam the receiver down. Instead, she threw her mobile onto the bed.

  The feeling of euphoria disappeared faster than water down a plughole. With a deep sigh, her anger dissolved to be replaced by despondency. She was so disappointed in her son’s reaction. What was wrong with Jason? Since Tony had gone, she’d hardly seen anything of him. Now he obviously didn’t want to share family time either.

  Megan’s Diary

  10 December 2010 – Portreath

  I’m a bit in limbo while I wait for legal papers to be finalised. I think I will have to wait until next year now before I can tell anyone anything formally. I’m spending more and more time with Jessica while we sort everything out. She’s a nice girl, and I like her. I enjoy talking with her about life in Cornwall in general. Meanwhile, I’m filling in time sightseeing.

  Cornwall has such a fascinating history and is famous for its shipwrecks, smuggling and pirates. Mining was the source of the family’s wealth, until it slipped into serious decline in the late nineteenth century and ceased any significant dealings by the early twentieth century. That forced the Trevallyans to find other sources of income, even before Constance took control.