Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  “Drive me to Mr. Michael Vincent’s residence in Penzance,” I said to the coachman. By the time I arrived at the house Michael would be home from the office and Mark would be arriving from Carnforth Hall for dinner—or if they were both to dine at the Hall it would be an easy matter for me to drive there to find them.

  The carriage rolled down the drive toward the moors.

  It was half past six when I reached the pleasant residential district of Penzance where Michael had recently acquired a house. His housekeeper showed me into the drawing room and presently Michael himself emerged from the adjacent library.

  He looked at me in amazement. “Janna!” he exclaimed, as if I were an apparition. “What are you doing in Penzance?” Recovering himself quickly, he remembered his manners and added, “I’m sorry—do sit down.”

  He was a typical bachelor, serious, plain and shy with the opposite sex; certainly whatever virtues he possessed as Mark’s lawyer and friend he was no match for a woman who was as desperate and panic-stricken as I was that evening. It took me no more than five minutes to wring from him the fact that not only was he expecting to dine alone that evening but that, contrary to what I had been led to suppose, he had seen very little of Mark for some weeks. To make matters still worse I learned Mark could not be dining at Carnforth Hall that evening either since his contemporaries there, Mr. Justin and Miss Judith, were spending the week with the Trehearnes at Helston.

  At last I managed to say after a long terrible silence, “Then where is he?”

  And Michael did not answer.

  “Please,” I said, the panic rising within me in a huge silent tide, “if you know, please, please tell me! It’s so urgent—surely you can understand—”

  “Yes,” said Michael suddenly; “of course I understand. Listen, I think I know where I can find Mark. If you’d care to wait here—”

  “No,” said my voice. “Tell me where he is.”

  “He may not be there.”

  “Tell me anyway. I don’t want to waste time while I wait for you to go there and back to find out whether he’s there or not. Tell me where he is.”

  “Janna, forgive me, but what you ask is out of the question. I … Mark and I quarreled violently once because he considered—rightly—that I had abused his confidence. I could not possibly—a second time—”

  “Very well—tell me nothing! But once: you leave this house to fetch him you can’t stop me following you to see where you go! And you won’t stop me from telling Mark later that you betrayed his confidence anyway!”

  “But …” He was so horrified he could hardly speak. “But …”

  “Give me the address,” I said, “and I’ll tell Mark I followed you there without you knowing it and that you were not to blame.”

  “Janna, please—I beg of you, be reasonable—forgive me, but I simply cannot—”

  I lost my temper. All the strain and worry over Marcus merged with this new terrible shock that Mark had deceived me so that I lost my grip on my self-control. “No, I won’t forgive you!” I blazed. “If Marcus dies without either of his parents beside him just because you won’t tell me where Mark is—”

  “But—”

  “Oh, damn you!” I stormed at him. “Curse you for a stubborn oaf and a fool! What do I care if Mark’s amusing himself with some poor cheap woman down by the harbor? Give me her address, for the love of God, and let me go there and talk to him! This is an emergency, Michael—an emergency, can’t you understand? You have a moral duty to tell me where Mark is so that I can find him as quickly as possible!”

  “But it’s a confidential matter—you cannot expect me to—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! I’ll take full responsibility. I swear it—full, total, absolute responsibility—is that what you want to hear? I’ll see Mark doesn’t blame you for anything. But if you don’t tell me where he is I’ll—I’ll—”

  “Wait.” He went to his desk as if seizing any excuse he could find to postpone the moment of enlightening me and began to turn the pages of an address book with trembling fingers. As I watched he reached the letter P. “I think it’s possible he may be visiting an acquaintance of mine,” he said in a flat voice, “the—the widow of one of my clients… Her name is Mrs. Rose Parrish. She lives at number twelve, Landeryon Avenue, which is about half a mile from here, the second turning on the left off the main road to Land’s End.”

  “Thank you,” I said and left him.

  I went out to the carriage. “Twelve, Landeryon Avenue, Crowlas,” I said to the coachman. “The second turning on the left off the main road to Land’s End.”

  “Yes, m’m.” He helped me into the carriage and closed the door.

  I was alone.

  I could not think clearly. I was dimly aware of pain but most of all of a searing conviction that life had again treated me unfairly. I had not intended to become pregnant with Philip; I had not intended to give Mark a rebuff. My pregnancy had been an accident, as much Mark’s fault as mine, yet afterward he had used it as an excuse for infidelity with some wretched, common, miserable woman. I could visualize her all too plainly. Mrs. Rose Parrish, an ex-actress perhaps, with a little money, enough to afford a house in some drab lower-class neighborhood. She would be about forty, blowsily attractive with a witty tongue; Mark always preferred women older than himself.

  The pain of discovery had vanished, drowned in the rising tide of my anger. I was still furiously planning what I would say when I saw him when the carriage stopped and the coachman called out, “Number twelve, m’m,” as he scrambled down to help me dismount.

  I glanced around feverishly. I was in a quiet middle-class neighborhood, not unlike the road where Michael lived. The house marked twelve was medium-sized and stood in a pretty garden of about one acre with bushes, shrubs, lawns and wide flowerbeds.

  Mrs. Parrish obviously had enough money for a gardener.

  I wasted no time staring, but walked up the path to the front door and rang the bell.

  A light in the hall was turned higher. I felt a void below my heart, a tightness in my throat, but it was a maid who opened the door, a, young girl neatly dressed in uniform, her cap and apron immaculately starched.

  I did not give my name but merely told her in my most imperious manner that I must see Mrs. Parrish at once. The parlor-maid did not argue with me; I was shown through a small hall into a simply but tastefully furbished reception room, and as she lit the gas I saw there were flowers everywhere, bowls of delicately scented blooms on the window sill and the mantelshelf and the two side tables, while throughout the room was an air of elegance and refinement.

  As soon as the maid had gone I walked to the bookcase and looked at the books. There were three volumes on the history of art, a picture book of the works of the Italian masters, an informative, manual on water-color painting and a companion on sketching. There was another book called Art Treasures of the National Gallery and beside it a volume called A Guide to Opera. On the shelf below stood a biography of Mozart and a twin volume on Beethoven. I took one of the books out of the case and opened it. The pages were cut. I put it; back again and as I turned away all I could think was: I should have let Michael come. I should have stayed at his house and waited.

  And the panic, the dread and worst of all the fear overwhelmed me so that I could hardly stand for the dizziness before my eyes.

  The door opened.

  I turned slowly and looked at her.

  She was young. At first I could not see her clearly, but I knew at once that she was young. She had good skin, a little pallid, and soft, fine hair, awkwardly styled and somewhat wispy at the sides. She had pale blue eyes and light brown lashes which she should have darkened to make her more striking. I thought her looks anemic and her manner gauche before she smiled, and then—oh!—how pretty she was with her sweet young face and her naïve, enchanting, expression, how radiant she looked! Her air of fulfillment was ravishing, and as I stared, unable to look away, she stepped forward, the folds
of her evening gown moved slightly, and I saw that she was going to have a child.

  I tried to speak, but no words came. I tried to summon the anger I had experienced in the carriage, but there was no anger any more, only the most dreadful pain. I prayed for the pain to cease, but there was no relief and the ache of shock throbbed through my brain till I thought I would faint.

  But I did not faint. I stood motionless, my breathing uneven, and presently the girl said shyly, “I’m so sorry—I’m not quite sure—have we met before? Please forgive me if I—”

  She was a lady.

  I felt so crushed, so utterly overwhelmed that I had to sit down. I said, mumbling a little, not looking at her, “My husband … is Mark here? My little boy is ill … I wanted Mark … the doctor said …” I could not go on.

  I stared at the pretty carpet beneath my feet and then the pattern blurred until it was all a mere red mist before my eyes.

  After a long while I heard the girl say in an anxious, concerned voice, “How worrying for you! I hope it’s nothing serious. I’ll fetch Mark at once.”

  Light footsteps pattered behind her; a child’s voice said, “Mama, let me stay up a little longer! I don’t want to go to bed yet!”

  “Hush, William.” I looked up, saw her stoop over a little boy who was perhaps four years old. He had pale golden hair so that at first I thought he resembled his mother, but when he turned his head to look at me I saw Mark’s slanting eyes in his small bright face.

  “Who’s that, Mama?”

  “Shhh, William …” She led him out into the hall and closed the door behind her so that I was alone.

  I sat there emptily. I thought: He has known her a long time. Certainly for as long as we’ve been married.

  I thought of my other pregnancies then, not merely of my time carrying Philip. I thought of my unquestioned assumption that I was the only woman in Mark’s life. The knowledge had given me self-assurance, confidence, the ability to cope with my new social position. I had felt secure and loved, yet all the time here in Penzance he had been visiting this young girl, keeping her in that respectable neighborhood, giving her books on painting and the opera, discussing his work with her, thinking, of course, what a mistake he had made by not asking her to be his wife.

  I sat there, dry-eyed now, too appalled even to weep. Time passed. I went on sitting there, and when at last I heard his footsteps crossing the hall I only thought, in detachment: I must pull myself together; behave as he would expect a lady to behave. No scenes. No shouting. No vulgarity.

  As he opened the door I stood up and we looked at each other. His face showed nothing. His dark eyes were expressionless, his mouth hard. Presently he closed the door behind him and waited but when I said nothing it was he who spoke first …

  “You say Marcus is ill?”

  This made speech easier for me. I thought of Marcus lying in his cot in the nursery, his cheeks flushed, his eyes too bright, his forehead burning.

  “Yes,” I said unsteadily. “The doctor says it’s measles but not a serious case. I shouldn’t have been so frightened, I know, but poor Marcus was so fevered and distressed. I—it was foolish of me not to wait until you returned home—I shouldn’t have come to Penzance, but—I—I started to remember Stephen—”

  “Quite,” he said. “I understand. Did Michael tell you I was here?”

  “Yes. I … I forced him to give me the address. He said she was an acquaintance of his. He did not admit … acknowledge …”

  “Yes. Did he offer to fetch me?”

  “I …” Words stuck in my throat. With a great effort I managed to say, “I’m afraid I behaved very foolishly and I shall have to apologize to Michael. He can’t possibly be held responsible for this. The fault was all mine and he was in no way to blame.”

  “I see.” He turned to the door again. “I suggest we leave at once. You have the carriage, of course?”

  “Yes.”

  “My horse is at the inn. I’ll send someone over later to collect him.” He held the door open for me and we went into the hall. I supposed he had already taken his leave of Mrs. Parrish, for there was no sign of her and he did not pause to say goodbye. He led the way out to the carriage, helped me inside and then climbed in beside me as the coachman held open the door.

  “Home, Crowlas, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We set off on our journey to St. Just.

  As we left Penzance he said, “I’m sorry this had to happen.”

  I could not answer. Tears were stabbing behind my eyes again and I was too afraid of breaking down and weeping and then not being able to compose myself sufficiently when we reached home. It would never do to show the servants that I was distressed. I could not endure the thought of them all gossiping about me behind my back.

  As if he guessed my thoughts he said, “We’ll discuss this further when we have more privacy.” And after that the silence remained unbroken between us throughout the long journey over the moors to the north coast.

  We arrived home. One of the footmen took Mark’s hat and coat and told me the vicar of St. Just had called. We went upstairs, I not even able to look at him, and finally entered the nursery.

  Nanny came to meet us. “Good evening, sir—good evening, madam … yes, he’s asleep now, poor little lamb, but he’s still very feverish. Once the rash breaks out all over him he’ll be better. He asked for you when you were gone, Mrs. Castallack, and I told him you’d gone to fetch his papa.”

  We went into Marcus’ room to look at him. He seemed very little and defenseless, lying there so quietly with his small head resting on the pillow, and suddenly I was remembering Stephen again, remembering his tiny body laid out in his cradle and the silent emptiness of that deserted nursery. Stephen would have been four years old if he had lived, the same age as Mrs. Parrish’s son. My mind began to blur with pain. As the picture of Mrs. Parrish’s son flashed unwanted before my eyes all I could think was: Her child lived. Mine died.

  “Where is Mariana?” Mark was saying to Nanny. “I trust she and Philip are being kept in a separate room.”

  Tears welled inside me. I knew I was going to cry and could not possibly hold back my tears a moment longer. I managed to say, “Excuse me … I’m a little faint …” and then I was out of the nursery and stumbling blindly down those dark clammy corridors to my room in the west tower. The sobs were almost suffocating me. When I reached my room I slammed the door, lay on my bed and cried until I was too exhausted to cry any longer.

  After a long while I struck a match and lit the lamp. The great room, the famous Tower Room, yawned at me emptily. I walked up and down, my fingers trailing over the polished furniture, my mind a mass of confused painful thoughts, but at last I caught sight of myself in the looking-glass and halted abruptly to stare at my reflection. By some trick of the light my hair seemed so fair that it was almost silver. I lit a candle and walked slowly toward my reflection. Shadows cast odd lines about my mouth and eyes, grief made me bowed and somehow, mysteriously, smaller. I stood looking at myself for along time, too mesmerized to look away, for this was my Tomorrow, this was the future which I had known to be lying in wait for me, but now my Tomorrow wasn’t tomorrow any more.

  It was today. My shoulders began to tremble again with sobs. I was just pressing my hands against my cheeks in a desperate attempt to control myself when behind me the door opened quietly and I knew at once that Mark had entered the room.

  4

  “Janna … dearest—”

  “No, please … please don’t. Please leave. I can’t talk now. Please go.”

  “But I wanted to explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear.” I sat down, my hands over my ears, my eyes tightly closed to try to stop my tears from escaping. “I want to be alone. I can’t talk. Please.”

  “Darling—”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “I simply wanted to tell you—”

  “No—no, I don’t want to listen!”


  “—that you’re my wife and I love you.”

  “Oh …” I cried. I cried for a long time. He sat beside me and held my hand, and after a while when there was not a dry inch left on my handkerchief he gave me his own handkerchief and bore with me without complaint as I blew my nose and tried to pull myself together. Finally when I was calmer he began to talk in a low voice about the past. He had had an affair with the girl before we had become husband and wife—even before we had become lovers—but after that initial incident he had been faithful to me until the months immediately before Philip’s birth. He offered no excuses for himself, merely saying that it had been wrong of him and he was sorry. It had, he realized now, been wrong of him even to keep in touch with her, but he had treated her so badly in the beginning during the time he had spent with her in St. Ives that his conscience had obliged him to do all he could to make amends; he had borrowed money from Giles Penmar to support her during her pregnancy and later when his mother’s cousin Robert Yorke had died he had had the means to buy her a house in Penzance so that she could live respectably in the manner to which she was accustomed. He had visited her occasionally as a friend and she had instructions only to communicate with him through Michael; their new relationship had proceeded along these correct and formal lines without difficulty until one day he had visited her in Penzance and—

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, pressing my hands over my ears, but once I was faced with his silence I immediately had an overpowering desire to make him speak. Before I could stop myself I was saying in a rush, “How could you have let her become pregnant again?” and my voice sounded high and unnatural in that quiet room. “How could you? I know most women of her—her class are ignorant of such matters and I would not expect her to know all the old wives’ tales Griselda passed on to me, but could you not at least have—”

  “Yes, of course I advised her.”

  “That was all you did? Advise her?”

  He reddened but to my surprise held onto his temper. Perhaps he was too guilty to feel angry. “No, I did more than that.”