Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  “She of all people should approve of the fact that I’m marrying for love! She was angry enough with her father when he stopped her marrying Giles Penmar!”

  “She wished us well, Mark—”

  “Because she knew that if she did not I would not visit her again, and now that Cousin Robert’s dead she’s at last beginning to wish she was closer to her children. Her motives are entirely selfish and always have been. I despise her.”

  I did not answer. Despite all he had said I could not admit I was glad he was not more attached to her and glad I would not have to visit her frequently in the future. He remained silent also throughout the journey back to Park Lane, but at the house once more the uneasy atmosphere was quickly dispelled; on our arrival we found that a messenger had delivered our special license, and that very afternoon we set out for the Strand to make the final arrangements with the clergyman for our wedding.

  2

  We were married five days later on the morning of December the nineteenth. I wore a small but fashionable bonnet suitable for my widowed state, a blue silk gown but in superbly stark lines which enhanced my figure while remaining the epitome of good taste, and the most elegantly uncomfortable pair of shoes my feet had ever encountered. Two Oxonian friends of Mark’s were the only witnesses; it was a brief, informal affair, and afterward they joined us for a champagne breakfast at Claridges before leaving us free to return to Park Lane on our own. As soon as we reached the house Mark gave orders that we were on no account to be disturbed, and then we went to my room, locked the door and drew the curtains. I was so dizzy with the unaccustomed champagne and so elated that I was now Mrs. Mark Castallack that I went to bed without thought for any possible consequences, but later I was able to think carelessly: What if it was a risk? What does it matter now? And the sense of security was suddenly so immense that I was overcome with the miracle of my good fortune.

  We went to the theater that evening. We had a box as if we were royalty, and I wore my finest new evening gown, white silk and tulle offset with black lace, and all the gentlemen looked at me through their opera glasses when they should have been watching the stage.

  “Everyone’s wondering who you are,” said Mark, highly delighted. “You’re the mystery of the evening.”

  The next morning the notice of our quiet marriage appeared in The Times. It was then at last, as I stared at the facts set down in black and white, that I was fully able to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened. I believe if I had been allowed then to think upon it for any length of time I would quickly have been beset by all manner of fears, but I was given no time to sit and think. Just as I was beginning to grow accustomed to the strangeness of London life and the dizzy pinnacle of society on which I now found myself, Mark told me that the arrangements had been made for our honeymoon and the next day I was swept off across the Channel to France.

  3

  I must have been the only woman on earth who did not fall in love with Paris the moment she set foot in it. I thought it a cold, dreary city full of grand buildings that were supposed to be famous landmarks and rude self-centered women whose language I could not understand. The men were full of false smiles and embarrassing attentions and I refused absolutely to go anywhere unless Mark was by my side. I felt strange, confused and lost.

  “But since you’re half French you should feel quite at home here!” Mark protested.

  “My father was a Breton,” I said, “and Brittany is different from the rest of France, just as Cornwall is different from England.”

  Finally to my relief we left Paris and took a train south to Monte Carlo, and although I remained convinced that France was an abominable country I did like Monte Carlo better than I had anticipated. It was a town set by the sea, and the semitropical vegetation there reminded me of the new Morrab Gardens in Penzance which were filled with palm trees and exotic shrubs. The weather was pleasant, and I might almost have enjoyed our stay if I had been able to conquer my aversion to the richness of French food and the constant flow of French wine. However, as time passed and my queasiness settled into a pattern of appearing remorselessly each morning I realized that French food alone might not be to blame for my malaise. I refused to consult a French doctor, but as soon as we returned to London in February I visited a physician in Wimpole Street who confirmed that I was going to have a baby.

  I had not intended to spend the first year of my marriage battling the discomforts of pregnancy, but I had been careless since the wedding and was not altogether surprised by my condition. Finally I decided that since I did want children eventually it hardly mattered whether I began to have them that year or the next, so I resigned myself to the inevitable and even began to feel excited at the prospect of maternity.

  Mark was anxious to stay in London so that I might have the best care and attention, but I could not wait to get back to Cornwall. I longed for a glimpse of the Cornish sea, the sweep of the moors, the stone engine houses of the mines. I wanted to breathe Cornish air again and tread on Cornish soil and sleep beneath a Cornish roof. I could hardly endure to remain a day longer in London, but at last, after an interval that seemed interminable, we boarded the train one mild morning in early March and began our long journey home to Cornwall, Morvah and Deveral Farm.

  4

  The farmhouse which I had glimpsed from a distance but had never entered was a plain unattractive building, very different from my own beloved Roslyn Farm, but it was spacious and the rooms were pleasantly furnished, so I felt I would be able to settle there well enough for the time being. The new plumbing which had been installed in our absence was a great luxury, and I was able to have a bath every morning whenever I decided to get up after breakfast. Mark had wanted me to consult a Penzance doctor who numbered the Carnforths of Carnforth Hall among his patients, but Dr. Logan was old and snobbish, so I decided instead to see the new young doctor in St. Just, Dr. Salter, who had attended my first husband once or twice during my years at Roslyn Farm. Dr. Salter, when consulted, advised me to take a little exercise after lunch if I felt well but otherwise to rest as much as possible, and although I was secretly amused at the notion of myself spending my months of waiting languishing on a chaise longue I decided to follow his advice and do as I was told.

  Our stay in Monte Carlo had enabled us to escape much of the worst of winter, but we did not escape the Great March Blizzard, which raged for twenty-four hours, wrecking ships in Penzance harbor and blocking the railway lines at Redruth. This was a most unusual weather phenomenon and people spoke of it for years afterward. However, soon it was spring and before long spring was melting into summer. I continued to do very little. Sarah Mannack appeared to be an adequate housekeeper and was kind to poor Annie, who at first had trouble settling in her new home. Griselda, cantankerous as ever, had had “words” with Mrs. Mannack on more than one occasion, but since she was now comfortably established in her own little cottage nearby the situation in the kitchens was not as awkward as it might have been.

  We received a few calls but did not entertain much on account of my condition. On the whole the people we saw most often were the Barnwells, for we still crossed the parish boundaries to worship at Zillan and occasionally we would lunch at the rectory after matins. Their daughter Miriam, who had disgraced herself the previous year by running off with young Harry Penmar, was like myself in “a delicate condition”—or so that tiresome woman Mrs. Barnwell confided to me cozily over tea one afternoon. Harry Penmar had married Miriam, so she was at least an honest woman, but he was up to his ears in debt as usual and I had a suspicion that Miriam might have begun to regret her impulsive elopement.

  Time passed; Mark was busy working on some historical thesis which was much too learned for me to understand and seemed not to mind the quiet life we were leading. I was content enough at Morvah, but sometimes I longed to visit Roslyn Farm, and only the knowledge that I would have an unpleasant reception if I tried to go there enabled me to suppress the longing and stay away from that q
uarter of Zillan parish. I had leased the house to Jared but to appease my conscience had charged him only a nominal rent; there was no reason why I should have felt guilty where he was concerned, but he had had bad luck and I had always treated him coldly. His bad luck continued, however, for that summer two of his children, including his only son Abel, died of a sickness and his wife, who was one of those meek, faded women constantly on the brink of maternity, began a long period of miscarriages. I felt sorry for him, but he did not want my sympathy. He became more religious, I heard, and never missed chapel on Sunday. He had begun to attend the Wesleyan chapel at Morvah instead of the parish church at Zillan soon after I had married his father—in a gesture of defiance, no doubt, for he knew my husband did not hold with Methodists—but even after his father’s death he continued to go there to worship with his family and Joss. In addition to this unexpected surge of religious zeal he became an active man in the community that summer and began to hobnob with the miners. Presently he organized a working-mens’ club in Zillan and used to make speeches there saying the miners should strike for better conditions and that they had as much right as the aristocracy to lead decent, comfortable lives.

  “Very radical,” I said distastefully to Mark, but Mark himself had a strange outlook for a young man of his class and responded to my comment with all kinds of intellectual reasons in favor of Jared’s point of view.

  August came. I had a month of waiting still before me, but by this time I was so bored with my uncomfortable shape and Dr. Salter’s fussy insistence that I should rest as much as possible that I could hardly wait for the baby to arrive. By the end of the month I was just sighing for the hundredth time and wishing it were all over so that I could wear my beautiful London gowns again when the baby, as if responding to my impatience, decided to enter the world early and I was suddenly brought face to face with the ordeal of childbirth.

  I had not imagined I would have any difficulty. I had always been a healthy person, and I think perhaps too at the back of my mind was the thought that as I had successfully survived my terminated pregnancy years earlier I would successfully survive this normal one. The one fact that I had failed to consider was that any woman who has her first baby when she is over thirty years old is begging for trouble.

  My boredom changed to discomfort; my discomfort gave way to active pain; my pain gave way to fright, fear and nightmare. I cried out incessantly for Griselda. I shouted and screamed for Griselda, but there was only the midwife murmuring platitudes and later young Dr. Salter saying with useless kindness, “You must be brave, Mrs. Castallack. It will soon be over.”

  I cursed at him, saw his mouth gape at my language, and then at last Griselda was there, pushing her way to my side, her old face wrinkled with rage that she should have been kept from me.

  I fainted. Afterward I thought: Never again. Never, never, never again as long as I live.

  But then my son was placed in my arms, my poor ill-fated little son whom I was to love so much, and I forgot everything save the joy that I had given him life.

  5

  The happiness and pride that engulfed me after the birth were far greater than I had ever anticipated during the months of waiting, and with the happiness and pride came another emotion harder to define, a sense of exquisite security, as if God himself had solemnly promised that I would never be alone or unloved again. For the baby was so small, so helpless, so dependent on me, and I thrived on his dependence because it made me feel needed and loved and satisfied. It was then that I realized how empty my life had been without children. How could I ever have tolerated a childless future during my years at Roslyn Farm? I found it hard to remember how indifferent I had been to maternity then, for now I was so dazed with my new happiness, so dizzy with my unexpected bliss, that ecstasy was hardly the word to describe such overpowering euphoria.

  We called the baby Stephen, which was Mark’s second name and one which we both liked, and spent long hours hovering over his cradle as if neither of us could believe he was real. Naturally he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. I could hardly wait to leave my bed and display him to the world in his perambulator.

  “I suppose he must take after you,” said Mark. “He’s certainly not like me.”

  For Stephen was fair. His blue eyes showed no signs of darkening and on top of his head was a hint of golden hair to come.

  “Oh, it’s much too early to say,” I said at once, fearing a discussion of family likenesses in case the conversation should wander toward the forbidden subject of Laurence. “Stephen’s eyes may yet turn darker and his hair grow black. At the moment he doesn’t look like anyone. He’s just himself.”

  This was perfectly true. I was about to begin a discussion of christening arrangements when Mark said suddenly, “Do you think he might be a little like my father?” and I was so surprised both by his uncertain tone of voice and by his reference to the forbidden subject that I could think of no easy reply.

  At last I said, again repeating the truth, “It’s much too early to perceive any family likenesses, Mark. Everyone knows newborn babies seldom resemble anyone, and Stephen’s no exception.”

  He nodded, shrugged as if the subject were of no importance and turned aside.

  “Mark …” I suddenly had an urge to confront this shadowy barrier between us and tear it aside. “Mark, about Laurence …”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” he said fiercely at once.

  “Oh, if only you could see the truth and not be so consumed with jealousy whenever his name is mentioned! We had an affair. I was romantically attached to him and he, I think, was fond of me. We were two lonely people longing for a release from loneliness. He died. It finished. Now the entire episode is past history. You’re my husband and I love you and you’re the only man in my life and that’s all there is to say.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said harshly. I was just thinking that he did not intend to say anything further on the subject when he burst out in despair, “You don’t understand how I felt when I heard you were his mistress! You don’t understand how much I hated you—and him—and his insufferable hypocrisy …” He stopped. And then suddenly he said in a small voice, “I felt so very much alone. If Mr. Barnwell hadn’t been so kind to me I don’t know what I might have done.”

  I was distressed. The flash of tears in his eyes reminded me how young he was and my newly kindled maternal instinct was roused. “Oh Mark …” I began, but he would not let me finish.

  “But that’s all over now,” he said abruptly. “Mr. Barnwell showed me how pointless hatred was, and besides I couldn’t go on hating you when I realized …” He stopped again.

  “Realized?”

  “… that I had to have you no matter how much I hated you because I loved you more than anything else in the world.” He turned aside but I stopped him and raised my lips to his. I could feel the passion begin to shudder through his body, but as we lingered in each other’s arms the baby awoke across the room and cried plaintively for attention in his high, lost little voice.

  6

  We had just completed the arrangements for the christening when Mr. and Mrs. Barnwell received news of a bereavement and we offered to postpone the ceremony for a few days in sympathy for them. Their daughter Miriam had died after giving birth to a girl, and since her husband died soon afterward of a liver infection caused, so the gossips said, by a prolonged surfeit of alcoholic spirits, the baby was brought to Zillan rectory to live with her grandparents. They called her Alice, a name which I did not like, and occasionally I went to the rectory to see her, but I thought her a puny, ugly baby not nearly as fine as Stephen, who was large and strong and (to my mind) quite perfect. He had a serene, contented face, beautiful little features and on top of his head there was now a smooth fair down which I liked to stroke with one finger. We engaged a nanny to look after him and so my maternal instinct was never strained too far by being obliged to tend him in the night when he cried or to change his linen
when the occasion demanded it. Whenever I saw him he was at his best, and so I have no sullied memories of him, no recollection of any difficulties.

  Spring came. Stephen grew. Mark was working on further historical researches again, but roused himself to take me in the ponytrap to Penzance once a week with Stephen and Nanny. We kept a perambulator at the Metropole, and on our arrival we would collect it and wheel Stephen up and down the esplanade or beneath the palm trees of Morrab Gardens before we all retired to the hotel for tea. I bought him toys, a white woolly dog, blocks of bricks, moving beads on a stick; he loved them all. Whenever he did something exceptionally clever with them I would take him in my arms and hug him and say to Mark how advanced and intelligent Stephen was, and Mark would laugh and share my delight and I was happy.

  Those were the best times, when we could laugh and be at ease with each other, but in recent months such times had become infrequent and I was often aware of a constraint between us. It was not that we were unhappy; far from it. After Stephen’s birth we had resumed our relationship in the bedroom without any trouble whatsoever, but marriage, as everyone knows, consists of more than a successful sharing of a double bed. I had not realized before my marriage that Mark was such a dedicated scholar, and my belated discovery of his passionate addiction to history was not altogether welcome to me. For hours and hours he would be closeted in his study, both in the morning and in the evening, and in the afternoons he would usually choose to go out for a walk by himself to “think.” Once a fortnight he would go into Penzance on his own to lunch with his friend Michael Vincent, the young solicitor of Holmes, Holmes, Trebarvah and Holmes, and afterward he would call at Carnforth Hall, where the other young gentry of his own age congregated, but naturally I was never allowed to go with him on these occasions. I did not mind him seeing his friends, for all men like their own company from time to time, but I did mind being left alone for long hours with neither occupation nor conversation to divert me. Sarah Mannack ran the house so smoothly that there was little for me to do, and although I passed the hours planning redecorations to the house and engaging in the certain church charity work that was expected from the wife of a gentleman of means, I was often lonely and restless.