Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  “I’m not going,” I said. “We’re not wanted. They all hate us, even Mariana.”

  “Rubbish!” said William. He was becoming angry himself. “Hugh’s lying as usual, and you know it. He lost his temper and invented slander after slander. It’s simply not true.”

  “I don’t care what you say—I’m not going!”

  “Papa’ll be furious!”

  “Let him be,” I said flatly. “But I’m not going to London.”

  “Well, there’s no need to sound so angry with me!” said William, half amused, half exasperated. “I’m not the one who’s been causing all the trouble!”

  But of course I was angry with him too. I had long since suspected that his evening outings with Marcus to the neighborhood pubs were hardly made for the sole purpose of drinking beer in a convivial atmosphere, but I had yearned to give him the benefit of the doubt and now that I could no longer do so I felt that he had somehow failed me. It was as if I shared his weakness; I felt guilty and humiliated, and I resented him for demeaning himself in my eyes.

  “Look, old chap,” he was saying reasonably, “you needn’t stay long in London. If you came up for the wedding and then went home immediately afterward—”

  “I don’t care what you say,” I said violently. “You might just as well save your breath, because I’m not going to that wedding and neither you nor anyone else is going to persuade me to change my mind.”

  I kept my word. Everyone else went to London but I stayed behind at Penmarric. I did not even go over to Zillan to church because I was afraid Mr. Barnwell would be disappointed by my behavior, so I went to church at St. Just instead and spent most of my time in my room or out walking on the moors. It was then, when I was entirely alone, that I began to write. I tried prose first. I attempted a project Papa had mentioned once and began to write my autobiography, but I was too young still to see my youth in perspective, so I put the manuscript away in the drawer where it was to lie untouched for another twenty years. After that I tried poetry. I like this better. For long hours I would sit by the window and stare out to sea as I tried to arrange my thoughts into a stimulating but flawless verbal pattern.

  I had written six poems and had tentatively entitled them Pastoral Reflections of an Unhappy Youth when my solitary existence came abruptly to an end. Two days after the wedding Papa came home alone without warning from London and summoned me to his study.

  5

  “I hope you can explain your absence to me,” he said curtly, “because I certainly couldn’t explain it to Mariana. She was most upset.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, swallowing uncomfortably. “I didn’t think she would notice that I wasn’t there.”

  “Of course she noticed! I must say, I thought it was extraordinarily selfish of you not to come. I had told you on several occasions that I wanted it to be an especially happy day for Mariana and I certainly implied that it might be necessary for all of us to make one or two sacrifices to ensure that her day was as perfect as possible.” He took a cigar and began to fidget with it. “Well, of course it wasn’t an easy situation!” he said abruptly. “Of course it was difficult! Do you think I wouldn’t have preferred you and William to stay at the townhouse? I knew you wouldn’t like being boarded out with the Vincents, but it was the best I could do and I hoped you would be sensible enough to understand and forgive me—for Mariana’s sake, if for no one else’s. I knew it would be awkward and even distasteful for you at the reception to see my wife and myself together, but I hoped you would be generous enough to tolerate it—at least for an afternoon! But no—you made no effort. You did not even attempt to help me in any way. I confess I’m very disappointed in you.”

  I stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think it didn’t cost me an effort to have an amnesty with my wife for two weeks? Do you think it was easy for me?”

  “I—“

  “Well, it wasn’t.” He stared angrily at the cigar. “It was damned hard. If it hadn’t been for Mariana …” He stopped to light his cigar.

  “Papa, I’m very sorry. I realize how selfish I was. I was upset at the time—I didn’t think … I had heard gossip that Mariana didn’t want me at the wedding and that she was secretly embarrassed by the fact that William and I would be present—”

  “Whoever said such a thing?”

  I colored and shook my head. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Well, more fool you for believing it! I might add that Mariana is a great deal fonder of you and William than she is of Philip and Hugh. She was certainly a lot fonder of Rose than she ever was of my wife. Didn’t you realize that?”

  I hung my head and said nothing.

  “You heard one ridiculous piece of gossip and immediately felt you weren’t wanted! Adrian, you must learn not to be so sensitive! How many more times do I have to say that to you? You really must toughen your outlook or your vulnerability will completely overwhelm you. I’m especially disappointed because you seemed to have overcome your difficulties to a large extent during the past year. You’ve been happy here, haven’t you?”

  I swallowed again but still could not speak.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “Papa, when I go up to Oxford—couldn’t I spend the vacations at the townhouse? Or at Oxford itself? I—I really have no affinity with Cornwall. I would prefer—-”

  “We’ll talk about that when the time comes.” His voice was so abrupt that at first I thought he was angry, but then suddenly I realized he was hurt.

  “Oh, Papa, I didn’t mean—”

  “Look, Adrian.” His cigar had gone out. He mashed the burned stub into the tray and leaned forward toward me. “I merely want you to be happy. That’s all. Try to remember that everything I do, no matter how outrageous and unjust it seems, is done with that aim in mind. If you really don’t want to live at Penmarric after you go up to Oxford I won’t try to detain you, but you’re too young at present to live away from home during the holidays and anyway I don’t want you to feel lonely and unwanted any more than you yourself do. Try to understand.”

  “I do understand, Papa—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please forgive me.”

  “I’m only hurt when you get this absurd idea into your head that you’re not wanted here. By the way, who did tell you that piece of nonsense about Mariana not wanting you at the wedding? Did Philip say something after church one Sunday?”

  “No.”

  “But it was one of your brothers, wasn’t it?”

  I did not answer.

  “Well, Marcus is incapable of saying anything unpleasant, and if Philip said nothing on the subject the culprit must have been Hugh. What a tiresome child he is! He doesn’t say more than half a dozen words to me when we meet, he writes me one letter a term in which he says absolutely nothing, and now apparently he’s been stirring up trouble while my back was turned! If he’s indirectly responsible for your absence from the wedding I shall damned well summon him here to my study and tell him what I think of his talents as a trouble-maker!”

  “No, Papa, please … please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would prove—at least, he’d think it would prove—that he wasn’t your favorite, and I was.”

  “I have no favorites,” said Papa.

  “I told him that, but he didn’t believe it. He thinks you treat your legitimate sons unfairly.”

  “Absolute nonsense. I treat all my sons exactly the same. If Hugh wants me to take more interest in him he should stay at Penmarric more often instead of running over to Roslyn Farm every day after breakfast. No doubt his mother’s been fostering the idea that I don’t treat her sons as well as I treat you and William—I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she were to blame for the whole unhappy situation! She’s always tried to turn the children against me, and now I see she’s having more success than I anticipated. First Philip, now Hugh…
Philip hardly spoke to me while we were at the townhouse. If I thought it would make any difference to his attitude toward me I would go to court and try to prise him out of that farmhouse with the help of the judge and some form of the ‘ward of court’ legal machinery, but it’s too late for all that now, too much has happened, and it would only serve to make Philip’s estrangement from me deeper and more bitter than ever. Yet I keep worrying about him. It’s all wrong for him to be buried alive with his mother on a remote Cornish farm.” He began to crush his cigar to pulp. “She’s trying to win over Jan-Yves now,” he said wryly, “but she’s not succeeding. Poor little devil! He can sense that she’s not interested in him for himself, only for his usefulness to her in her private war with me. Poor little Jan-Yves. I should have had him at Allengate, I knew it was my duty to send for him, but there was Rose, looking after six of my wife’s children without complaint, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to look after a seventh, least of all such an unwelcome reminder of—”

  Brighton, I thought.

  “—well, never mind. It’s done now. For better or for worse it’s done. I shouldn’t be speaking to you of such things. The very last thing you want to hear is about my very bitter and very sordid estrangement from my wife.”

  “There’s no chance of—of a reconciliation? William and I were wondering—”

  “Good God, no,” he said. “Never.” He added again in a bleak, cold voice, “Never.” He pushed away the ashtray and the mangled cigar and stood up. “Let’s change the subject. You have two letters to write—you do realize that, don’t you? One to Mariana, to apologize for your absence, and one to Mr. and Mrs. Peter Vincent to apologize for any inconvenience caused them by your failure to arrive to stay at their house as arranged.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Then we’ll say no more about the matter. Your behavior was very unfortunate and greatly to be regretted, but there it is. It’s past now. Write the letters and we’ll consider the incident at an end.”

  “Yes, Papa. Thank you. I’m very sorry.”

  “I know you are. Never mind. I’m sorry too if you’ve been unhappy.” He smiled at me, and suddenly all my cares dissolved until I felt as happy as I had felt long ago in the days before I had ever heard of Brighton. When I smiled in return he said; “How like my father you look when you smile!” and we laughed and were at ease with each other and it did not occur to me until much later that amidst all Hugh’s lies there might have lurked a small unpalatable core of truth.

  6

  “It was a lovely wedding,” said Jeanne with a sigh. “Mariana looked like a princess. There were hundreds of people there and the traffic in Parliament Square was held up. All the ladies wore such beautiful dresses, but Mama wore the most beautiful dress of all—except for Mariana’s, of course. So many photographers wanted to take pictures of her afterward.”

  “Everyone said how beautiful my page’s costume was,” said Jan-Yves. “I was photographed afterward too. I had to spell my name to a newspaper reporter and he said he had never heard of such a name before. He thought Yves was spelt E-v-e.”

  “I liked the reception at Claridges best,” reflected Elizabeth. The wedding was boring really—all that standing around and listening to the clergyman—but Claridges was lovely. I had half a glass of champagne and three of the most delicious meringues. I tried caviar too, but I liked the meringues better.”

  Nobody could stop talking about it. They talked of the wretched wedding until I felt I wanted to shout “Stop!” and clap my hands over my ears.

  “It was good to see Mama and Papa together again,” said Marcus. “They got on splendidly together, I thought. I was nervous in case there was an awkward atmosphere, but I needn’t have worried at all. They behaved just like any other married couple at the reception, and afterward they went out to dinner together. Not alone, of course, but at least they couldn’t have objected to each other’s company too much or they would have made some excuse not to be together.”

  “There’s no question of a reconciliation,” I said to William privately. I had by this time sufficiently recovered from the shock of Hugh’s revelations to feel ashamed of my anger toward William earlier; I saw now that Hugh had wanted me to be shocked and I was angry with myself when I realized how ably I had obliged him. It still upset me to think that William’s standards fell short of my own, but I had firmly resolved to face up to this unwelcome fact and not turn my back on him and try to pretend that neither he nor his weakness existed. Such an attitude, as Mr. Barnwell had already convinced me, solved nothing, and besides … it was impossible for me to remain estranged from William for long. Now as I reassured him about the impossibility of a reconciliation between Papa and Mrs. Castallack I was glad I was able to set his mind as fully at rest as my own mind was. “Papa said a reconciliation would never happen,” I explained to him. “He said it was out of the question.”

  “Did he say that? What a relief! The more I saw them together the more convinced I became that she would be coming back to Penmarric. You know, in all fairness to her I have to admit that no one at the reception would ever have guessed she had once been a farmer’s wife. I almost found myself admiring her a little despite the fact that I was worried stiff about a possible reconciliation.”

  Alice was the only one who did not seem to have enjoyed the wedding much.

  “I’m not at my best at large gatherings,” she told me frankly. “I always feel shy and want to hide behind the nearest curtain.”

  “You don’t, Alice!” I could not believe it.

  “Indeed I do! Ask Mr. Castallack! He found me quivering behind a potted palm and came over especially to talk to me. How kind he is! I’m very fond of him.”

  Papa evidently approved of Alice’s presence at Penmarric, for after the wedding he asked her to stay on permanently as his housekeeper and even, so William told me, raised her salary. This was hardly surprising, for she was excellent at her job. It was true that she was young for the position, but the Penmar name had a certain sentimental value for the servants, especially those such as Medlyn the butler, who could think of her fondly as “Young Mr. Harry’s daughter.” But whether her success was due to her name or to her natural efficiency in household affairs, the fact remained that Papa did not have to worry about domestic matters at Penmarric any more and could concentrate fully on his work.

  It was in November, just after Mariana had returned from her honeymoon and written sketchily to us that “everything was divine,” that Papa had a book published on the career of Stephen Langton and his relationship with King John both during and after the Interdict. It was fascinating to read, and during the Christmas holidays Papa and Alice and myself had some most interesting conversations on the subject after dinner in his study. Alice enjoyed history almost as much as she enjoyed studying current affairs. Her grandfather had an extensive library at the rectory and she was surprisingly well read.

  The new term began and soon it was spring and we were all home for the holidays. Marcus, down from Oxford for a few weeks, was at the townhouse for the beginning of the Season and presently wired Papa for “a little extra money.”

  Alice commented shrewdly to William, “Marcus has probably met a rich fast crowd at Oxford.”

  But William would not join in criticism of Marcus and merely said Marcus had a great many expenses to meet.

  “Fiddlesticks,” said Alice. “He’s hopelessly extravagant.”

  Afterward William remarked privately to me, “Alice is a very bossy sort of woman. She always thinks she’s right.”

  “That’s because she usually is,” I said, springing at once to her defense.

  “Even so she shouldn’t insist that she’s right in such a dogmatic manner,” said William. “It’s unfeminine and I don’t like it.”

  But Alice seemed impervious to his disapproval and they continued to bicker at intervals, particularly over the political situation at home and abroad.

  It was 1913. At home the House
of Lords had thrown out the bill to extend the suffrage, just as I had foreseen, and the suffragettes had become even more militant in consequence.

  “And I can’t say I really blame them,” said Alice, “although I do think the use of violence in those circumstances can’t really be justified.”

  “They’ll never get the vote at this rate,” said William. “Just as well, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t think I ever did ask you,” said Alice, “but surely isn’t it narrow-minded to judge all women by the activities of a group of extremists?”

  The House of Lords had also thrown out a bill designed to ameliorate the perpetual troubles in Ireland.

  “It’s a pity the Lords ever survived the constitutional crisis of 1911,” commented Alice tartly. “Now of course there’ll be civil war in Ireland.”

  “It’s no more than the Irish deserve,” said William. “They’re always squabbling among themselves anyway. Of course they’re quite unfit for self-government.”

  “Not quite as unfit as that collection of fossilized relics at Westminster,” said Alice.

  Abroad the second Balkan war was stirring, but everyone was confident that Sir Edward Grey would keep Britain uninvolved and control the dispute through his usual skillful diplomacy.

  “There’ll never be a war,” said William. “None of the European heads of state wants such a thing—that was made abundantly clear when that last Balkan crisis cropped up.”

  “Yes, but how long can Sir Edward Grey keep up this neutrality policy?” said Alice. “There must surely be times when one simply can’t stay neutral.”

  “Exactly!” I agreed. “Anyway, I think war can be noble if it’s waged in the name of justice and liberty.”

  “I don’t know about it being noble,” said Alice, “but I can see times when it could be necessary—inevitable, in fact.”

  “I can’t,” said William obstinately. “Why should we get involved in Russia’s endless squabbles with Turkey and all that Slavic bickering at the other end of Europe?’