Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  “Oh yes,” said Alice. “We often discussed it. He was most anxious for me to take advantage of such a splendid opportunity, and he used to worry in case I spoiled my chances of becoming Lady Carnforth—spoiled them by delaying, I should say—but I weighed up the situation and decided Justin could wait for a while. And he did, bless him! Wasn’t that fortunate? But then I’m rather good at weighing up situations.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m sure you are, Alice.”

  “I was in love with you once, as you know, but in the end you forced me to see I was wasting my time. Well, that was all right. Every girl should fall violently in love once and chalk it up to experience. So I chalked it up. What else could I have done with a situation like that? Anyway, after a while I got over you and began to count my blessings. I was so privileged being able to keep house for your father. He had such a fine academic mind and I enjoyed his company so much. He worried because he thought people would talk if we dined alone together and so on—he worried especially during the war when everyone was away and we were often on our own at Penmarric—but I told him not to worry. I had the situation weighed up. People might talk, but so long as they couldn’t prove anything nothing they said would matter.” She stopped, then smiled at me. “And nobody ever proved anything,” she said, “and what’s more nobody ever will. I knew I had the situation weighed up correctly… Please excuse me if I leave you now, Philip, but I’m so busy at present and have so much to do. Oh, by the way, you will come to the wedding, won’t you? It’ll be some time in the spring, I expect.” And leaving me still speechless before the hearth, she sailed casually out of the room.

  I had seldom in all my life felt so foolish.

  5

  Jeanne was reluctant to try her hand at housekeeping, but after I had promised her that I intended to marry before long and that her position would be only temporary she agreed to give the idea a try. After that I spoke to William about reducing expenditure on estate matters, but on the whole I didn’t consider he was much help. His attitude seemed to be that he was already keeping expenditure to a minimum and to economize further would be a mistake. After making a mental note to investigate William’s efficiency further as soon as I could spare the time from the mine’s affairs, I abandoned William and turned my attention once more to Jan-Yves.

  “So what do you intend to do with yourself?” I asked him sardonically. “Sit around on your backside and hope I appoint you my heir?”

  I’ll say this for Jan-Yves: If he was pressed hard enough he could speak up well in his own defense. When I contrasted this unexpected courage with his panic on the day of my father’s death, I found him an even odder mixture than I had found him before. He was a mass of contradictions. Nothing he did seemed to make sense.

  “If you think I like being idle you’re wrong,” he said abruptly. “I don’t want to be a gentleman of leisure on your charity and I’m not afraid to work. If you’ll employ me I’ll work at the mine.”

  “In what capacity?” I inquired, never thinking for one moment that he was in earnest. “As an apprentice below ground?”

  “If you like,” he said without batting an eyelid. “When can I start?”

  We stared at each other. My God, I thought, he’s serious. He really would go down the mine. He’s got more guts than I gave him credit for.

  “I’ll start at the bottom,” said Jan-Yves doggedly, “and work my way up—to the count house. I think I could be useful to Walter Hubert, but I’ll see what goes on below, ground first, and if you don’t think I’m in earnest about it why don’t you at least try me to find out how much in earnest I am?”

  After a pause I said, “It’s all right—you don’t have to crucify yourself to get back in my good books.”

  “I’m not thinking of your good books, I’m thinking of my future! I want to live and work in this part of Cornwall. It’s my home. So why shouldn’t I want to find out all I can about mining, and then work in the family business? I don’t think my decision’s as extraordinary as you seem to think it is.”

  “Perhaps not.” I thought about it. I was still inclined to distrust Jan-Yves as much as I had distrusted Hugh, but I was impressed by his offer to begin work below ground and was willing to believe he meant to do an honest day’s work when he was given the opportunity. Besides, the situation at the count house had changed since Hugh had offered his services; Walter Hubert was getting old, and Slater the clerk hadn’t the ability to be more than a mere assistant. If Jan-Yves proved himself at the mine perhaps he could be trained to take over from Walter and become purser one day. “All right,” I said suddenly. “We’ll try it and see what happens. I’ll speak to Trevose about it tomorrow and ask him if he’ll show you the ropes. If he doesn’t object you can start next Monday.”

  I still could hardly believe he meant what he said. And when I spoke to Trevose about Jan-Yves’s progress a week later I could hardly believe Trevose meant what he said either.

  “Funny about that kid brother of yours,” he said to me as we drank a pint of beer together at the pub. “He’s a plucky little bastard. He doesn’t like that mine and he hates being under the sea and he’s scared stiff of dynamite but he’s game for anything. No airs and graces either. No talking high and mighty as if he was the cat’s bloody whiskers. I like him.”

  I was amazed. Trevose seldom admitted liking anybody and was always sparing with his praise. In fact I was so amazed I would have pondered on the miracle for much longer if by that time I hadn’t been so involved with the future finances of the mine. I went to see my bank manager in Penzance presently about the possibility of a loan, but his response was not as positive as it should have been—or so I thought.

  “My dear Mr. Castallack,” he said to me apologetically, “I don’t want to be unhelpful, but you do realize, of course, that these are extraordinarily difficult times. I’ll be absolutely delighted to give you half the sum under discussion. With great difficulty I might manage to give you two-thirds. But more than that—well, I’m afraid it’s not possible. And he began rambling about the estate being on trust and the depressed state of the mining industry until I was so exasperated that I left more abruptly than I should have done.

  Outside his office on Market Jew Street I decided to cool my anger by going for a walk through the town, through the winding back streets above the harbor and over the hill to the esplanade and Morrab Gardens. I could not believe that even with my inheritance behind me it would be so hard to lay my hands on some ready money. I walked on fuming. My thoughts began to run in a series of “if onlys.” If only I had capital I could draw on. If only I could sell Penmarric and put the proceeds into the mine. If only—but there were a hundred “if onlys” and none of them solved my problems.

  I needed money.

  I needed a son.

  I stopped and stared out to sea. If I could marry a rich woman both my problems would be solved.

  I swung around. Before me stood the Metropole Hotel, where I had dined five years earlier with a very rich woman indeed.

  Of course! smiled in delight The perfect solution. I would marry Helena Meredith.

  And feeling pleased with my inspired idea, I turned, left the sea and walked briskly back to the center of the town, where my chauffeur was waiting for me with the Penmarric car.

  EIGHT

  [Richard] used England as a bank on which to draw and overdraw in order to finance his ambitious exploits abroad… “I would sell London,” Richard is reported to have said, “if I could find a suitable purchaser.”

  —Oxford History of England:

  From Domesday Book to Magna Carta,

  A. L. POOLE

  Everything was sacrificed to raising money… Everything was for sale.

  —King John,

  W. L. WARREN

  OF COURSE I WASN’T such a fool as to imagine I was in love with her, but I was honest enough to admit to myself that I did not now expect to fall violently in love with anyone, and since this was the case I deci
ded I might as well make the best of the situation. I didn’t love Helena, but I liked her and respected her and saw no reason why we shouldn’t have a successful marriage. I might be marrying her primarily for her money, but I was prepared to try hard to make her happy and I did find her attractive. I couldn’t have tied myself to anyone I disliked, not even to save Sennen Garth.

  I had no idea whether she found me attractive or not, but Ĭ supposed I could be considered eligible enough now that I was master of Penmarric, and on the one occasion when I had taken her out to dinner we had found plenty to say to each other. But as soon as I thought of that evening nearly six years ago at the Metropole I began to feel worried. Perhaps she had resented the fact that I hadn’t asked her out a second time. Perhaps she had suspected my motive for dining with her and resented the fact that she had been used. Whatever her feelings on the subject it was essential that I transform our present prosaic friendship by injecting a shot of romance and behaving as if for some reason I had noticed her for the first time. It would certainly be no use trampling over the conventions like a bull in a china shop and saying in my usual blunt way, “Look, I’ve known you for six years and now I’ve suddenly realized I like you and your money would be more than useful to me. Why don’t we get married?”

  That wouldn’t do at all. I must be delicate, subtle, even crafty. For this particular role I had to act out of character.

  I worried about the problem for some time, but eventually hit on the idea of having a small dinner party at Penmarric for about eight or ten of my contemporaries in order to attract Helena’s attention and put our relationship on a new footing. Jeanne and I would be the host and hostess, and in addition to Helena and her brother I decided to invite William, Jan-Yves and possibly my sister-in-law Rebecca, whom I had seen little of for some months on account of her estrangement from my mother. I had no grudge against Rebecca; my quarrel had been with Hugh, not with her, and even the bitterness I had felt toward Hugh had ebbed since his death. In addition to Rebecca I still needed another female guest to make up the numbers, and since I thought I should flaunt my county background in front of Helena I decided the last guest would have to be Felicity Carnforth, Sir Justin’s only surviving child. Felicity, a horsey, hearty girl in her mid-twenties, was something of a joke, but I couldn’t think of anyone else to invite. Peter Waymark’s sisters were married now and the St. Enedoc girls were away in London; even Lizzie, who would have been a convenient solution, was spending Christmas with friends in Cambridge.

  The dinner party was held on Christmas Eve and much to my amazement went far better than I had expected it would. I began by being absurdly nervous, but I soon recovered myself and after dinner I managed to sit next to Helena in the drawing room and pay her a compliment or two. That wasn’t difficult: She wore pale green and had her hair piled on top of her head and was without doubt the prettiest woman in the room.

  Presently I said casually to her, “I hope well be able to see more of each other now that I lead a more conventional existence.”

  “Conventional?”

  “I was hardly conventional when I lived at the farm and worked at the mine. When I move to Penmarric in the new year things will be different.”

  “Not too different, I hope,” she said with a smile. “You mustn’t change radically now that you’re master of Penmarric.”

  “If I do,” I said, “it’ll be for the better, I promise you.”

  And we smiled at each other.

  I invited her to lunch at Penmarric the following week and took to calling regularly at Polzillan House. Every move I made met with nothing but success; no scheme could ever have gone so meticulously according to plan. By February I considered it was time for a visit to the Metropole again since I had now maneuvered myself into a position where I could explain away our previous visit there, and after traveling to Penzance in the Penmarric car we ate a first-class dinner in the Metropole’s grandiose dining room. I was hesitant about mentioning the previous visit, but presently when Helena herself referred to it without embarrassment I saw at once that she bore me no grudge and that there was no need for any awkward explanations. So relieved was I to discover this that I even suggested we leave the table for a dance, but I think she knew I disliked dancing, for she suggested a stroll outside on the esplanade instead. Unlike that other night when we had walked together along the esplanade, the sky was overcast and there was no moonlight. In Morrab Gardens the palm trees were shivering, their fronds sighing longingly for their native tropics. The sea thudded amiably on the beach and a cold breeze blew into our faces from the southwest.

  I thought quickly. I had seen her now with great regularity for six weeks. We knew each other well by this time. The one awkward obstacle between us, the abortive dinner of six years ago, had been painlessly overcome. So far I had treated her with a more than friendly interest and had conducted a keen but decorous pursuit; unless she was stupid (which she wasn’t) she must have realized by this time that I wasn’t pursuing her without purpose, and matters had now reached the stage when a more concentrated interest was required unless I were to risk her becoming bored. I remembered that there was a new doctor, a young man called Donald McCrae, who visited her brother several times a week; I knew nothing about him, but his presence, however innocent, in her life was sufficient to remind me that she could attract other suitors besides myself. If I hesitated too long or failed to live up to her expectations of how a man should conduct a romance I might wake up one morning to find she was engaged to someone else.

  “I must have been blind six years ago,” I said lightly. “Imagine dining with you once and then never dining with you again!” And as she turned to smile up at me I took her in my arms and stooped to kiss her.

  I was surprised how warm her lips were. I had somehow always imagined women’s lips to be flabby and cold. But hers weren’t. They were warm and firm, pleasantly moist.

  “Mmmmm!” I said, startled.

  She sighed, closed her eyes for a moment, and when at last she opened them again I saw without a doubt that she loved me.

  2

  It was all easier than I had imagined it would be. After the evening in Penzance I saw her several more times during February and by early March decided that I ran no risk in proposing earlier than I had anticipated. Accordingly on one of those mild springlike March mornings when the air was enticingly warm, I took her for a walk over the moors and after a suitably romantic scene among the walls of Chûn I asked her if she would marry me.

  I had my arm around her. I felt her shudder and thought for an aghast moment that she was going to burst into tears, but she didn’t. Jeanne would have done perhaps, or a thousand other women, but not Helena. Of all her many admirable qualities there wasn’t one I respected more than her indestructible self-possession.

  She turned to look at me. Her eyes seemed to burn with joy. Her lips, slightly parted, were upturned to mine. After we had kissed I said, teasing her, “Does that mean yes?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Her intensity made me uneasy, but I was flattered all the same. I was conscious of a warm glow of satisfaction at the thought of a difficult task successfully accomplished. It was a pleasant feeling.

  The news of our engagement was received with varying degrees of excitement and surprise, ranging from my mother’s predictable ecstasy to Jan-Yves’s stupefaction. Why he was so surprised I had no idea, although I suspected he had made up his mind I would remain a bachelor and had become so accustomed to regarding himself as my heir that the prospect of my providing him with a usurping nephew was too distasteful to accept readily. William was pleasant, Gerald Meredith affable enough to call for champagne and Jeanne was almost as thrilled as my mother. Even Young Medlyn swelled with feudal approval on behalf of the Penmarric servants.

  “That’s very good news, sir,” he purred. “Very good news indeed. I’m sure we all wish to congratulate you, sir, and offer you and Miss Meredith our very best wishes.”

&
nbsp; My friends at the mine received the news with a roar of approval and everyone except Trevose pressed around to shake my hand and clap me on the back. Trevose sulked. I had expected this, but privately I thought he was being unreasonable. There was no harm in being a misogynist but it was a mistake to expect everyone else to give women as wide a berth as he did.

  Fortunately by evening he had pulled himself together and was in the pub with the others to drink my health. He made no effort to apologize for his surliness—I knew him better than to expect an apology—but he was friendly enough, so I pushed the incident with relief to the back of my mind and forgot about it. I had too many other matters on my mind at that time to bother myself with trivialities.

  We had decided to get married on the first Saturday in July, and while Helena began to make the preliminary arrangements I tackled the problem of what should be done about the members of my family who were then living at Penmarric. I knew William would be willing to move out once I moved in, for he had already told me as much after my father’s death and had suggested that it might be easier for us both if we kept our relationship on a friendly but businesslike footing. After consulting him about his preferences I granted him a nominal lease of an old stone house on the outskirts of St. Just; the previous tenant, a retired seaman, had died a month ago and the house had been vacant since his death. The house was larger than any of the village cottages, had an acre of garden and was structurally sound. William was pleased with the arrangement, and I was pleased too to think he was comfortably settled away from Penmarric; when he moved into his new home I wrote him a check to help him with his expenses, but he considered I had done enough for him and I saw later from a glance at my bank statement that he had never presented my check for payment.

  However, he did accept a check from me shortly afterward in lieu of a wedding present; at long last Charity had bullied him into marrying her and had dragged him along to the nearest registry office. Nobody went to the wedding except Jan-Yves, and William never once referred to it afterward although Charity took care to wear the largest wedding ring she could lay her hands on and had a great time displaying herself to St. Just as Mrs. Parrish. Why William bothered to marry her I have no idea. It was true Charity had blackmailed him by refusing to keep house for him in his new home unless he married her, but William could have had another working-class woman on the terms be wanted—or, for that matter, he could have had a woman of his own class if he had reconciled himself to the idea of marriage. But William had a horror of marriage. He was eccentric on the subject, and I had always been surprised that someone so conventional should not only preach free love but practice it as well. However, if he had decided to abandon his unorthodox views, that was his business, not mine, and all I could do was wish him well while I wondered skeptically how long the marriage would last. I had a feeling both of them would soon find fidelity more trouble than it was worth.