Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  And as I threw her aside so violently that she stumbled upon the chaise longue, the door of the room opened, someone coughed from the threshold and the next moment the butler was announcing in a voice filled with respectful trepidation that the master of the house was waiting to receive me.

  7

  “What’s your name?” I demanded, abruptly of the butler as I followed him across the vast gloomy hall to the wide staircase. I was straightening my tie as I spoke and wiping the sweat of rage from my forehead. My hand was still trembling.

  “Medlyn, sir.” I could see that I had already proved conclusively to him that I was as wild in my ways as any Penmar, and as we ascended the staircase to the gallery he drew my attention to the portraits of my upstart ancestors that lined the walls. The first Penmar, the gambler called Baker who had won Penmarric from the Prince Regent, had elected to be painted with the notorious dice in his hands: his air was one of cynicism and worldliness, and despite the effete costume of the Brummel era he looked indisputably tough. Beyond him were the portraits of his three sons, the older two who had come to uncertain ends and the youngest, my grandfather Mark Penmar, who had made a fortune by profiteering in India before he had become master of Penmarric. I stared at the father my mother had loved so much. As she had often said, I was much like him to look at; I recognized the dark slanting eyes, the ugly nose and the wide mouth, but not the cold expression which I disliked, nor the craftiness about the eyes which I distrusted. Last came the portraits of my mother and her brother Arthur, who had drowned in a sailing accident to leave Penmarric without an heir; he was certainly the first Penmar who could be described as handsome, but he was also the first who looked a complete fool. I turned to the portrait of my mother, painted when she had been eighteen, and searched for some likeness to the hard, embittered, overbearing woman I knew, but there was none. Her dark eyes shone softly; her lips were slightly parted. She was radiant.

  Sadness gripped me suddenly. I turned aside and followed Medlyn away from the gallery into a long corridor which led to the bedroom of the master of the house, the famous Tower Room of Penmarric where my cousin was slowly dying in his bed which faced the sea.

  The stench of the sickroom met me as I crossed the threshold, but I tried not to flinch. His dark eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and his face was like a death mask as he greeted me and bade me sit down. The elderly nurse withdrew in silence. We were alone.

  “So you came back,” he said at last. “I wondered if you would.”

  “Yes, sir.” But I could no longer look at him. I was too much aware that I felt nothing, no chord of response, no intangible bond, no communication, understanding or love. He was merely a stranger whom I would never know.

  “But of course you had a strong reason for choosing to visit me,” he said dryly. “I’m not naïve,” When I did not speak he said abruptly, “You heard about Harry, of course. Well, don’t think it will mean you’ll now get all my money. You won’t. I’ve given you quite enough to satisfy my conscience. I’m adding Harry’s share to Clarissa’s dowry in the hope that some man will feel inclined to marry her for her money. Lord knows no man will feel inclined to marry her for her reputation.”

  I was embarrassed. I glanced around uneasily at the huge circular room with its windows facing the moors and the sea and remained silent.

  At last he said sardonically, “Well, you’d better tell me. How much do you want?”

  “If—if you could treat the sum as a portion, sir, and not as a gift—”

  “Naturally. How much?”

  I mentioned a figure.

  “Why do you need this money? Doesn’t your father give you an allowance?”

  We were already on dangerous ground. The numbness was leaving me and I was beginning to feel the pain, but when I spoke my voice was cooler than ever, cold and crisp and self-possessed. “Sir, I don’t like to ask him for such a sum since I can’t ask him to treat it as a portion. He intends to leave most of his money to my younger brother.”

  “Does he indeed! And why’s that, do you suppose?”

  The pain was drenching me, soaking through every nerve in my body as my face flamed beneath his stare. “It would be unfair, sir … since I am to inherit Penmarric …” I hardly knew what I said. “Nigel should have Gweekellis Manor … only fair and just …”

  “I can think of nothing more unjust than disinheriting an elder son in favor of a younger—unless, of course, Castallack believes he has only one son.”

  In the second after he spoke, I thought the pain was too great to tolerate a second, longer and rose to my feet to stumble from the room. But he stopped me. He mistook my misery for rage, and as I turned my back on him and groped for the door he called after me in a rapid, uneven voice, “Wait! I’ll give you the money! There’s no need to lose your temper. I apologize for speaking of such a painful subject, but ever since you came here with your mother I’ve been thinking about you and wondering if—however, that makes little difference now, I suppose. Now, go over to the secretaire and open the top drawer. … That’s right. There’s paper there and a pen. You’ll have to write at my dictation. I shall ask Trebarvah, my lawyer, to make the necessary arrangements at the bank to transfer the money to you.”

  By a great effort of will I steadied my shaking fingers, picked up the pen and did as I was told.

  After the letter was signed I heard him advise me to spend the money profitably instead of frittering it away in typical Penmar fashion on cards, horses and women, but by this time I had a new grip on my self-control and anger was elbowing the pain aside. When I retorted, “My name is Castallack, sir, not Penmar,” my voice was as cold as the gray sea beyond the windows and as bleak as the moors beyond the grounds…

  “Ah, yes,” he said, and as our glances met for one long moment I was aware of things I had no wish to be aware of—of a chord of response within me, a shaft of understanding, a shadow of compassion which I could not help but acknowledge. “Ah yes,” said Giles Penmar, and I saw the loneliness in his sick, gaunt face and somehow managed to forgive him. “Your name is Castallack.” His mouth curved in a small, polite sneer. “I beg your pardon.”

  I left soon after that. I half walked, half ran down the dark passage to the gallery, and all the past Penmars seemed to mock me from their frames as I stumbled down the stairs to the hall. No house had ever seemed as oppressive to me as Penmarric seemed at that moment, and as I rode off down the drive at the gallop I wished in a fit of misery that my great-grandfather had lost his notorious game of dice with the Prince Regent and had remained a nobody called Baker for the remainder of his adventurer’s career.

  FIVE

  In despair he sent messengers to King Stephen to beg him as his kinsmen to help him … [Stephen] immediately sent the boy who had tried to usurp his crown all the money he needed.

  Geoffrey complained of not feeling well… The Count developed a high fever and made his preparations for death.

  —Henry II,

  JOHN T. APPLEBY

  MUCH TO MY ANNOYANCE I lay awake for some time that night and thought of Clarissa Penmar. No doubt if I had not thought of Clarissa I would have lain awake thinking of the interview with Giles, but I was making a great effort not to dwell upon that scene in the Tower Room, and in the attempt to suppress all thought of it from my mind it was a relief instead to turn to Clarissa and recall my quarrel with her word for word.

  In the past I had met my share of disreputable women, but at least they had made no pretense to be better than they were, and it was easy to blame their lack of respectability on the lot of the lower classes and sundry other social circumstances. To have money and an aristocratic background and still choose to behave in an unprincipled fashion was a phenomenon I had not encountered before. Discreet immorality, yes; I knew as well as anyone what went on in London circles, but flagrant promiscuity by an unmarried girl was rare; most—I had thought all—girls of my class were virgins until they married no matter what might happen to t
heir sense of values in later life. Often this virginity might not have been due to chaste principles at all but more to lack of opportunity, for even when they made their debut in London society they would always be chaperoned. Even Clarissa must have had her chaperone when she had taken part in the London Season, but evidently her chaperone had been very far from omnipresent.

  I could not help wondering how many men Clarissa had seduced, and much to my disgust I found myself remembering her with an unwilling but prurient interest. I had told her in the height of my rage that she did not attract me and that was true, but most men have a sneaking interest in a woman they know to be promiscuous and it seemed to my annoyance that I was no exception.

  In an effort to turn my mind to other matters I began to think of Michael Vincent. I was so angry with him for betraying my confidence that I found it difficult to think rationally on the subject, but finally when morning came I rode into Penzance to see him.

  “Castallack!” he exclaimed as the clerk showed me into his office. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  “I think not,” I said abruptly and waited for the clerk to close the door. Then: “Damn you,” I said. My voice was trembling with anger although I had myself tightly in control. “Damn you. If we were not in your office where people would hear any noise we made I’d knock you down and, with luck, break your bloody nose.”

  “Castallack …” He was ashen. “I don’t—”

  “No, don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about! You damned fool! How dare you tell your mistress about my private life!”

  “Mistress!” He looked as if he were about to faint.

  “Mistress!” I yelled at him. “Mistress! You told that whore at Penmarric about Rose Parrish!”

  “Clarissa’s not my mistress,” he said. “She’s not.”

  “You think you can convince me of that?” I could feel my temper slipping away from me again. I tried to grab hold of it before it slipped out of my control. “Why, she’d give herself to any man who offered his services! Good God, she even offered herself to me! So don’t attempt to tell me—”

  He stood up. He was shaking in every limb. “You—you …” He could not speak. “You mean you and she—”

  “God Almighty, Vincent, don’t be such a bloody fool! Do you think I would have the inclination to fornicate on a threadbare Indian carpet in the morning room at Penmarric after I knew that you’d told her—”

  “Oh, God,” he said and sat down again very suddenly. “Oh God.” And he covered his face with his hands.

  I stared at him. “Very well,” I said bitterly at last. “Very well. She’s not your mistress. Maybe she’s sleeping with the head groom instead. But if she’s not even your mistress you have even less excuse than I imagined for telling her about Rose Parrish! I told you about Rose in the strictest confidence—I relied on your ethical standards as a lawyer and as a gentleman, but you betrayed that confidence and you betrayed those standards—”

  “Don’t talk to me about ethical standards,” he said. “You don’t possess any. If you’d behaved like a gentleman you would never have had to tell me about Rose Parrish in the first place.”

  “God damn it!” I shouted. “Don’t you preach to me!”

  “Then don’t preach to me either!”

  “Why, you—”

  “Very well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told her! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to tell her, it was simply that we were talking of you and she was making some remark about—about you not sharing your cousin Raymond’s good looks, and I said—without thinking—that other women found you good-looking enough—”

  “You weak, spineless—”

  “I didn’t mean to tell her, I swear it! But I loved her, Castallack, I still love her—when I’m with her I forget everything, I’m clay in her hands—”

  “Clay!” I stared at him in contempt. “Why, you poor devil, she’ll break you. She’ll snap you in two! You’re wasting your time because she’ll never love you. The most you can hope for is a few hours in her bedroom at Penmarric before she turns to someone else.”

  He hit me so quickly that I did not react fast enough to duck away from his fist. One moment he was slumped apathetically in his chair and the next he was on his feet, leaning forward and punching me across the room. I crashed into three deed boxes, knocked a sheaf of papers off a stool and collided with a wooden cupboard. The cupboard door flew open. Pens, nibs and blotting paper cascaded onto the floor.

  “Castallack—are you all right?” He was so completely the gentleman that, he even tried to help me to my feet after he had knocked me down.

  I picked myself up; unaided and turned my back on him.

  “Castallack, I’m sorry. Look, I don’t want to quarrel with you. Please forgive me and let’s continue to be friends. I know I behaved abominably in betraying your confidence and I apologize from the bottom of my heart, but—”

  “I’ll never trust you again,” I said between my teeth and walked out of the room.

  The door slammed as I jerked the handle. In the outer office the three old clerks looked up at me curiously over the tops of their spectacles, but I did not stop. Hardly aware of where I was going, I strode out into the street and then, still speechless with rage, blazed downhill to the esplanade and the soothing serenity of the Metropole Hotel.

  It was a long time before I returned to that office to make my peace with Michael Vincent; we were to remain estranged for many months to come.

  2

  That afternoon I found a suite of rooms for Rose which overlooked the sea and engaged the landlady’s daughter, a pleasant, efficient woman, to look after Rose by doing the cooking, shopping and other household business.

  “My cousin Mrs. Parrish is in a delicate state of health,” I said to both the landlady and her daughter after the arrangements; were completed. “Her husband died very tragically only a month ago in France.”

  They sighed in sympathy.

  “Poor soul,” said the landlady. “Poor young lady.”

  “He was experimenting there with a horseless carriage,” I said. “The engine blew up and it went out of control. It was a great tragedy.”

  They were round-eyed. They had heard that such things went on in France but this was their first, acquaintance with someone who was directly connected with this latest contribution to modern science.

  “All those newfangled inventions” was the landlady’s disapproving comment.

  “No good will come of them,” said her daughter. “No good at all.”

  They nodded in unison. I left them still pondering on the fate of the mythical Mr. Parrish and visited the writing room of the Metropole to draft a note to Rose. I told her I had taken the rooms and engaged a maid and promised to send a hired carriage over to St. Ives to fetch her the very next Monday.

  “You can tell the Treens the carriage is taking you to the station to catch the train to London,” I wrote. “If they want to come with you to see you off, tell them that the strain of a station parting would be too much for you. I’ll try to be at your rooms when you arrive, but if I’m not there Mrs. Polgear and her daughter will be expecting you, so there is no need to worry. I’m leaving twenty pounds for you with the Manager of the Great Western Bank, 16, Market Jew Street, and if ever you are in great need and cannot communicate with me at once you can always go for help to Mr. Michael Vincent, a lawyer in the firm of Holmes, Holmes, Trebarvah and Holmes at 3, Bolitho Alley, off Market Jew Street near the statue of Sir Humphrey Davey. I will of course be in touch with you every week …”

  I thought that there was no harm in giving her Vincent’s name. No matter what our current relationship happened to be he would always help a lady in distress if the need arose.

  I sealed the letter, posted it, returned to my horse. It was early evening by that time and I knew I would have to hurry in order to be home in time for dinner. Accordingly, feeling satisfied that the arrangements for Rose were completed yet still bitter about my quarrel wit
h Vincent, I left Penzance and rode up into the hills through Zillan to my father’s house at Morvah.

  3

  I did not see my father when I arrived home. I presumed he was working in his study, and after I had rubbed down my horse and left him in the care of Mannack in the stables I went to my room and began to change for dinner. Presently Mrs. Mannack brought me hot water.

  “Mr. Castallack says he would like to see you, sir,” she said, setting down the ewer on the stand. “At your convenience.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Mannack.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She withdrew.

  I washed and changed quickly; when I was ready I went downstairs and knocked on the door of my father’s study.

  “Come in,” I heard him call.

  I entered the room. He was standing by the window and watching the evening light cast long shadows over the moors. I was halfway across the floor toward him before I saw he had a letter in his hand.

  I stopped. He turned. His eyes were shadowed and unhappy. He held out the letter.

  “Please read this,” he said. He did not say anything else, just “Please read this,” so I took the letter and looked at it and there at the top of the page was the familiar Penmar crest and at the foot of the page the signature “Clarissa Penmar.”