Family Ties

by Family Ties (retail) (epub)

  ‘I’d say luck shines quite often on ’ee, Ran. What do you say?’ Jack said lazily, sprawling by his own fireside with all the complacency of a man well-pleased with life.

  ‘What an odd thing to say, Jack,’ Annie exclaimed.

  ‘Why should it be odd? Here’s a man come from across the sea, and in a very short time he finds himself a ready-made family, a business, and now a fine new house. Wouldn’t you call that luck? There’s many a man who spends a lifetime looking for those things, and never finds ’em.’

  ‘Jack, you’re not being very tactful!’ Morwen said.

  Her brother looked honestly surprised. ‘What’s tactless about that? I’m all for a man who bends his luck to suit himself, that’s all, and if a body’s got more’n his fair share of it, good luck to him—’

  He and Ran began laughing at the same time as the words tripped over themselves.

  ‘You ladies don’t need to take offence on my account,’ he said easily. ‘I know just what Jack means, and he’s right. A man still needs to make use of his luck, though, or it’s wasted.’

  ‘Do you mean to stay in Cornwall forever then, Ran?’ Annie enquired, the interested hostess.

  ‘I’m not sure I believe in forever,’ he said with a smile. ‘Today is more important than some shadowy future that can be taken away in a minute if the fates are against you.’

  Morwen listened with something like panic. He echoed so much of her own thinking it was uncanny. If she let her control weaken, she might admit that the hard-headed American businessman and the fey Cornish girl were kindred spirits after all.

  She kept quiet, drinking in the night sounds of the little household. Jack and Annie were so suited, still so much in love, talking and listening politely to their guests. And she and Ran… they were part of the family, but they could almost be just another married couple on a visit, while all the children slept upstairs… her thoughts veered away at once.

  After an hour or so, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the pleasant conversation, she gave a stifled yawn. She was suddenly very tired, not only from the Fair, but from the emotional time afterwards.

  ‘Morwen, do you want to go to bed? I think we should all have an early night,’ Annie said, to which Jack agreed at once. Morwen didn’t blame them, and nor did she miss the glances between them. They were sweetly familiar to her, the kind of glances she and Ben used to exchange. The salt tears pricked at her eyes, because such moments were increasingly rare between them, and she was infinitely sad that something so beautiful could disappear without anyone realizing it or being able to hold it back.

  She went upstairs to the bedroom she was to share with her two sleeping daughters, and it was the first time she had been obliged to listen to someone else’s breathing besides her own or Ben’s in the darkness. Since she and Ben had been using separate rooms, Morwen hadn’t realized how another person’s snuffling little noises could disturb her. It was difficult to sleep, and evidently the girls found it difficult too, from their constant tossings and turnings, probably due to over-excitement and the strangeness of a different atmosphere.

  And in the settling sounds of the night, Morwen found herself drifting into dreams. Not the somnolent kind that had their excuse in unconsciousness, but waking dreams that were far more disturbing, because her brain was alert, her mind active, and the dreams were all of Ran Wainwright. She tried desperately to subdue them.

  It was the house Ran had taken her to see, she told herself in a kind of panic. No more than the house, and the intriguing thought of helping Ran plan and furnish what went into it. It was like a new beginning, and she had always been excited at the thought of something new, a legacy from the far-off days when her life had been no more than a dull pattern of days spent scraping and stacking the clay with no prospect of anything ever changing it.

  But her life had changed beyond measure. Marriage to the man she loved so fiercely had been the culmination of an impossible dream, and to have all the children around her was the final fulfilment. And yet… and yet…

  ‘Oh Ben,’ she found herself whispering the words, her hand stretching out to the empty pillow beside her, aware that there was dampness on her cheeks. ‘Why have we drifted so far apart, and why can I never reach you in spirit any more?’

  She tried to conjure up his face, but it remained tantalizingly out of range, like a water-colour painting that was indistinct. As if it didn’t want to be recognized, the face was shapeless and distorted, and with a little sob, Morwen closed her eyes tightly against the vision, as if it was some kind of omen.

  * * *

  Daylight came as a relief. Morwen felt as though she had hardly closed her eyes all night, but the girls were awake and chattering as soon as the people of Truro went about their business, and begged their mother to let them go along the waterfront to see the tall ships at anchor.

  ‘Perhaps Uncle Matt will come home on one of them one day,’ Primmy said eagerly. ‘Uncle Ran says he might. What will he look like, Mama?’

  Morwen felt her eyes soften.

  ‘He’ll be tall and dark and as handsome as your Uncle Jack and Uncle Freddie.’ She smiled, glad to talk of something so familiar and ignoring a small pang that she couldn’t include her brother Sam in the description.

  Sam, who was Primmy’s real father, and about whom the children should be told someday. A feeling of unease filled Morwen whenever she thought about the telling, wondering what the reaction would be. She was reasonably sure that the middle boy, Albert, would take it all calmly enough. The eldest, Walter, might be belligerent at not knowing the truth earlier. While Primmy… Morwen eyed her wilful adopted daughter. Sam’s daughter, yet more like the fiery young Morwen Tremayne than anyone might have expected. Primmy’s reaction was unpredictable, and the time for telling must be carefully judged.

  ‘Your eyes have gone all faraway, Mama,’ she heard Primmy say curiously. ‘Do you still miss Uncle Matt?’

  Morwen gave her a quick hug. ‘When you lose somebody dear to you, darling, time makes no difference to how much you miss them.’

  Morwen knew that she was referring not only to Matt, but to Sam, and to Celia, her dearest friend…

  ‘Did Uncle Matt look like our other uncles, Mama?’ Charlotte jumped up and down, clearly enchanted by the thought of someone across the sea resembling any of them.

  Morwen laughed, her voice a mite husky as she urged the girls to refresh themselves at the wash-basin and get dressed quickly for breakfast.

  ‘He was even more handsome, but don’t you dare tell the others I said so,’ she said lightly. ‘He had blue eyes like all the Tremaynes, and I pray that one day you’ll all get the chance to see him. It will be the happiest day in Grandma Bess’s life.’

  ‘Will she be happier than seeing us?’ Charlotte pouted.

  Morwen teased her.

  ‘Well, my lamb, she can see you any day, can’t she? So it will be a bit more special when your Uncle Matt comes home.’

  ‘I don’t think I shall like him,’ Primmy announced imperiously.

  Morwen lost the patience that seemed to be always teetering dangerously of late. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Primmy. And don’t put ideas into Charlotte’s head. Everyone loved Matt—’

  ‘Did you love him better than Daddy?’ Charlotte said in her curiously perceptive childish way. Morwen’s heart lurched.

  ‘We love people in different ways, Charlotte. Matt is my brother, so I feel specially close to him, but it’s different to my love for your Daddy—’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep in the same room any more then?’ Primmy suddenly asked. ‘You always used to share things but you don’t seem to do that any more. Daddy’s always cross, and you don’t even talk to each other very much.’

  Morwen turned slowly from her attentions to Charlotte’s neck with the wash-cloth. She met Primmy’s too-knowing eyes, and the glib words died on her lips. Primmy was growing up too fast to be fobbed off. The boys might never notice such things, but a daughter
was different. She left Charlotte’s side and went swiftly to the older girl, standing tense and taut as Morwen put her arms around her.

  ‘Darling, people don’t always have to be saying sweet things to know that they care for each other,’ she chose her words carefully. ‘Sleeping in separate rooms is something that lots of married people do after a while—’

  She was fobbing her off, Morwen thought helplessly, not knowing what else to say. Primmy wriggled out of her embrace and looked at her accusingly.

  ‘Grandpa Hal and Grandma Bess don’t!’

  ‘Oh Primmy, just don’t question things you don’t understand,’ Morwen said softly, kissing the top of her shining black hair. Primmy glared at her.

  ‘Daddy says you never find out anything unless you ask,’ she said rudely. ‘But when I ask, I never get any proper answers. You’re all the same.’

  ‘Don’t shout at Mama,’ Charlotte said, suddenly frightened. Morwen turned to her quickly.

  ‘It’s all right, love. Nobody’s shouting, and if we don’t go down to breakfast soon, we shan’t have time to see the tall ships before Uncle Ran takes us back home.’

  ‘When we get home, Daddy will be there, won’t he?’ Charlotte cheered up at once. How little it took when you were only six years old, Morwen thought enviously.

  ‘He’ll be back later tonight,’ she promised.

  It seemed a long time off. It seemed an eternity since she had seen Ben, and it scared her to know how little she had thought of him since he had been away. Once, his absence would have devastated her. Once, it would have seemed that her whole life came to an end until he returned. She forced herself to think of Ben, where once she would have been totally unable to keep him out of her mind.

  Tonight, Ben would be home again, and she knew guiltily that he must be missing her by his side in London. She owed it to him, and to all of them, to put any other madness out of her mind, and to restore happiness to Killigrew House. For the sake of the children, and for their marriage, Morwen knew that she must move back into their old bedroom that night before it was too late.

  Chapter Eight

  The ceremony at Ormsby College was over, and Ben Killigrew had been installed as Honorary Governor, to the applause of pupils past and present, and the comment by one of his old acquaintances that the college never did things by half. Ben laughed agreeably, feeling expansive and mellow at the surprisingly formal proceedings. Celebrations had gone on far longer than he had expected too, and it was already dark before anyone began to leave the splendid main hall of the college.

  ‘You’re right, Desmond. I thought it would be some private and dreary meeting in the Dean’s study and it would all be over in minutes.’

  ‘Instead of which, you’re the hero of the hour, old boy,’ Desmond Hartley-Hogg grinned. His rotund, bewhiskered face beamed at his old friend. ‘Tell me, what d’you do now in that heathen corner of England?’

  ‘You mean Cornwall,’ Ben corrected. ‘Never refer to a true Cornishman’s land as England, Piggy! They bristle at once.’

  ‘All right, then, Cornwall,’ Hogg said lazily. ‘So what’s to do there apart from fishing and staving off these murderous wreckers one occasionally reads about in the newspapers?’

  Ben laughed. ‘You townies are all the same,’ he commented. ‘Once out of London you think we’re all barbarians and have no social graces.’

  ‘I must say, I can’t say that for you, Killigrew,’ Hogg conceded. ‘Besides, I travel up and down from town, and have my share of country life as well.’

  ‘Oh yes – a gentleman farmer, aren’t you?’ Ben grinned. ‘Living off the fat of the land while your labourers do the work, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s the point of being rich if you don’t make use of it?’ Hogg said airily. ‘Whatever game you’re in, you do the same, I’ll wager.’

  ‘True enough. I produce china-clay, and some of it probably reaches your table in fine chinaware.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Hartley-Hogg was already losing interest as an idea struck him. ‘I say, why not make a night of it, Killigrew? You can stay at my town-house tonight, and I know a very interesting little establishment. You were a deft hand with cards and dice in the old days.’

  ‘I haven’t gambled in years,’ Ben said shortly.

  Hartley-Hogg guffawed and dug him in the ribs. ‘I don’t believe it. Once a gambler always a gambler. Or did the little woman rumble you and put the blocks on it? Is that it? Got your bollocks nipped, have you?’

  Ben felt his skin bristle at the unconsciously patronizing tone. He had never been over-keen on the boisterous Desmond Hartley-Hogg, though he was definitely preferable to Neville Peterson.

  To his relief, Peterson had kept noticeably absent in the personal congratulations to the new Governor, though his Captain’s uniform was prominent among his old cronies. Ben thought sourly that a man who corrupted boys, as Peterson had done when he threatened Freddie, was a disgrace to any uniform.

  Ben pushed away these thoughts, and rose instead to Hartley-Hogg’s challenge.

  ‘All right. Why not? The club where I’ve booked rooms is as dreary as hell. Why not make a night of it?’ Hogg clapped him on the back. ‘Now you sound more like the old Killigrew. Let’s get out of here.’

  It was only as Ben finally reached the door that he turned and saw the calculating eyes of Neville Peterson watching him, surrounded by his old cronies. He muttered beneath his breath as he followed Hartley-Hogg out to his waiting carriage and climbed in beside him in the cold night air.

  ‘What’s that, Killigrew?’ Hogg said in amusement. ‘You never used to curse so readily!’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I know a bastard when I see one,’ Ben said tersely.

  ‘You mean Peterson, I suppose? He always boasted he had a score to settle with you someday.’ He guffawed again, coarse as ever, and Ben wished he’d never mentioned the man.

  He was thankful when the carriage eventually stopped at a London pavement, where a flight of steps led down to a discreet doorway. Hartley-Hogg gave a coded knock on the door, which opened and admitted them at once. The door closed behind them swiftly, and the seductive fighting in one part of the place told its own story, while the bright fights above the gambling tables told another.

  ‘Whatever your pleasure, you can find it here, Killigrew,’ Hogg’s voice was lecherous. ‘If you’d rather keep pure for that little gel of yours back in darkest Cornwall, that’s your affair, but I mean to start off with one of the delectable French mamselles they’ve imported from gay Paree!’

  Ben’s immediate reaction was to snap at Hogg that he’d be happy enough with an hour’s gambling, and would probably return to his club after all. His second reaction came suddenly, as the high-class prostitutes began circulating round the room at the appearance of new clients, wafting expensive French perfume in their wake.

  He might have known that Hartley-Hogg wouldn’t bring him to some low-class whore-house, but to a place where the clientele moved in high places in the city from the looks of them…

  And why not indulge himself for once, for God’s sake? The thought came to him savagely. His wife didn’t want him. She had made that plain enough lately. She cared nothing for the way a man needed his woman, for the unbearable ache in his loins and the resentment he felt that she could demean him so in his own house, where all the servants must be aware that they no longer slept together. If he enjoyed a prostitute tonight, then it was Morwen’s own fault. If she had been here with him, he would never have been tempted…

  ‘Can I do anything for you, Sir?’

  He heard a soft voice beside him, and looked down into the smoky-black eyes of a velvet-skinned Malaysian girl. Her mouth was painted into exaggerated curves, and her teeth were very white against her lips. She wore a white floating gown with feathers at the neck and hem, and the effect of the white fabric against the dark skin was sensually arousing. At her inviting smile, Ben felt himself rise in a way that was acutely pleasurable, a feeling he ha
dn’t known in many weeks, and saw the girl run her tongue slowly over her glossy top lip in expectation of his reply.

  ‘I do believe you can,’ Ben said thickly, and allowed her to lead him away to the seclusion of a rose-coloured room where nothing mattered but the touch of his flesh on a woman’s, soft lips exploring his skin, gentle fingers searching and finding, and the blotting out of everything but sensation and sensuality.

  And then the urgency of a primitive need to forge his body into the one beneath him, thrusting with reckless abandonment, until the final exquisite moments when his seed spewed out from him, and he lay spent against the girl’s glistening body.

  ‘I think you were badly in need of that, Sir, and I believe I recognize your accent. It is from Cornwall, I think. A Comishman visited me once who spoke the way you do. If you are ever this way again, may I remind you to ask for Darianna.’

  The girl’s oddly cultured voice, and her first attempt at conversation, seemed to reach him through a cloud. He hardly knew where he was any more. He had fornicated with a prostitute, and, Ben thought guiltily, it hadn’t been distasteful at all. It had been glorious, defying description, and if he died in her arms, he would die happy. Indeed, it might be better if he did die now, a tiny sane part of his brain told him, because very soon he was going to be riddled with remorse…

  ‘You will pay Madame,’ Darianna went on coolly. ‘Just give her my name and my fee, and she will then direct you to the gambling tables. My gentlemen usually finish off their evenings there, and may I wish you good luck.’

  Ben leaned up on his elbows, looking down at her. She still lay imprisoned beneath him, her breasts small, smooth copper-coloured globes. Her belly was taut, the black mass of pubic hair tangled and damp. The musky sexuality of her body was without question, but it was the remoteness of her eyes that arrested Ben now. When he looked into her face, it was mask-like. All the required passion, real or simulated, was gone, and just as quickly he was sickened and revolted.