Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  “You can,” said my mother, “and you will.” Her fine-boned old hand reached out and closed on mine. “You must face this, Jan-Yves, because you’ll never forgive yourself afterward if you run away. Running away won’t help, you see—it won’t make you feel less guilty and ashamed about what’s happened here; on the contrary it’ll make you feel more ashamed of yourself than ever. You must stay. I know it’s hard, but if you can overcome this, if you can accept what’s happened and begin again from the beginning—”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Well, you can start by ceasing to be in such a hurry! No, I’m serious! You’ve always been in such a hurry to do everything; you act as if you were engaged in some terrible race against time. You were in a hurry to get rich, a hurry to get married, a hurry to get Penmarric. Why do you have to hurry so? You’re always in such a hurry that you don’t even have time to be yourself—you’re forced to strike attitudes all the time, adopt poses. I’ve seen you as the Dutiful Son, the Rich Man-About-Town, the Dashing Young Husband, the Master of Penmarric—but how often have I seen you as yourself? Perhaps you enjoy always acting the part of someone else, but oh, Jan-Yves, you can’t know how terrible it is to be trapped in a part and know that your real self can never be allowed to show. Don’t get trapped in one of your parts, Jan-Yves. Take time to be yourself and stop rushing from part to part antagonizing everyone who gets in your way.”

  “But time’s so short.” I fumbled for my words. “I’m twenty-eight. If I’d had some luck … nothing ever goes right for me—sometimes it seems my life’s never had a chance to begin—”

  “Didn’t you realize that my life hardly began until I was thirty-one? Why, you’re young, Jan-Yves, young! You have all the time in the world!”

  I was silent, still gripping the steering wheel.

  “Do you know how I spent my twenties? Do you? Has anyone ever told you how I spent my twenties before I married my first husband?”

  “You were in service at Menherion Castle.”

  “Not in my twenties. I left the Castle when I was eighteen. I worked in shops. I worked in a hotel. I even worked as a barmaid. There! I’ve never told any of my children that before. I had a series of horrible degrading posts until I thought I’d sunk so low that there was no hope of me rising above such degradation again. I know how it is to feel that life’s unjust and unfair! I know how it feels to be frantic because one’s youth is slipping through one’s fingers! Don’t think I don’t understand. But within ten years of working in that tavern I was mistress of Penmarric, and if such a change of fortune can happen to me it can happen to you. No more double-dealing, though. No more deceit and fraud. You must be honest, reliable and loyal, because if you are I’m convinced you’ll reap your reward. Philip’s a generous man and if he thinks you deserve it there’s no reason why you shouldn’t ultimately benefit from his generosity. Besides, strange as it may seem, he really does need you. He knows so little of the estate that your experience and advice would be invaluable to him, and I can’t believe it would be so difficult for you—even after all this—to win his friendship and respect if you set about it in the right way.”

  She paused. There was a silence, and then when she next spoke there was a note in her voice that I had never heard before.

  “Don’t think no one believes in you any more after all this,” she said. “Don’t think no one has faith in you any longer. I believe in you. And I have faith. I don’t care how foolishly you’ve behaved. I still believe that if you pull yourself together and act in a sensible manner I can be prouder of you than of any of my other children. It was all so easy for the others, wasn’t it? But it was never easy for you.”

  I turned to face her. I looked at her for a long time until finally she kissed me and stroked the back of my head.

  “Don’t cry, Jan-Yves. Please. I meant what I said. I have the fullest confidence in you.”

  And it was then, with the tears wet on my cheeks and my defenses in ruins around me, that I forgave her at last for her past wrongs and felt all my hatred of her dissolve among the ashes of my pride.

  SIX

  Richard’s patronising forgiveness was the culminating humiliation for John. The “child,” as Richard called him, was 27 years old, but could show a record only of failure and dishonour… In his efforts to emulate [his brothers] he had shown only caricatures of their qualities: where the young Henry had been gay, he was frivolous, where Geoffrey had been cunning he was sly, where Richard was bold be was merely bombastic. The expedition to Ireland had been a fiasco; his assumption of authority in England during Richard’s absence had been a hollow mockery. He stood in 1194 as a traitor and a fool … but, in fact, the real John had not yet emerged.

  —King John,

  W. L. WARREN

  THE NEXT FEW MONTHS were not pleasant but I survived them as best I could. My mother persuaded Philip to grant me a nominal lease of the house in St. Just which William had occupied before his dismissal from Penmarric, and I lived there on my own, apart from an old woman of sixty who agreed to keep house for me. During the day I worked with Walter Hubert on estate matters; everything I did had to be approved by him and I had no control over any money. Philip paid me an overgenerous wage through his bankers, and occasionally I bumped into him by chance, but since he could not be bothered to talk to me for more than five minutes at a time our relationship was hardly a close one. In the evenings I went to the pub or spent my time trying to find a new mistress, but my bank balance, burdened by the task of repaying the moneylenders, was too poor and my position at Penmarric too servile to allow me to approach a woman of my own class and I was finding the effort of having casual nights with any other type of woman too depressing to sustain for long. I saw Felicity occasionally and had a drink with William once a week, but otherwise I met few people. I was too ashamed of my loss of face to keep in touch with the friends who had flocked around me when I had lived as master of Penmarric, and the only person I saw often was my mother; every Wednesday I would dine at the farm, every Saturday I would escort her to Penzance for lunch and every Sunday I went with her to Zillan church for matins.

  Seeing that I was making an effort to mend my ways, Adrian did his best to be friendly and even invited me to lunch at the rectory to resume our weekly forum on theological topics, but none of the other people whom I had antagonized during my stay at Penmarric made any friendly moves in my direction. When I saw Simon Peter Roslyn by chance during one of his business visits to Penmarric I was surprised when he even bothered to say good morning to me; Michael still regarded me as a criminal and would never condescend to do more than nod his head in my direction if ever we had the misfortune to see each other.

  I had not forgiven Simon Peter for leading me to suppose that Philip was thinking of settling permanently in Canada. I didn’t suspect him of deliberately leading me astray, but my cordiality toward him had cooled since my humiliation and I took care to avoid him whenever possible. In fact I was so busy trying to avoid him that I didn’t at first notice that he was equally busy trying to avoid me.

  The thought first occurred to me when after that unexpected “good morning” tossed casually in my direction he tried to slip past me with a speed that could only be described as furtive.

  “It’s all right,” I said to him ironically. “You can relax. I didn’t tell Philip.”

  He stopped. His china-blue eyes stared at me blankly. After a moment he said, “Tell Philip what?”

  “That you encouraged me to assert myself at Penmarric.”

  “Pardon me,” said Simon Peter Roslyn, greatly shocked, “but I did nothing of the kind.”

  For a moment I was so startled that I merely gaped at him speechlessly, but then anger spurred me to a quick recovery. “You bloody well did!” I said. “You told me he wasn’t coming home!”

  “I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken,” said Simon Peter primly, a model of sharp-witted self-righteousness. “I told you no such thing.�
��

  “You said—”

  “You asked me if I thought Philip would stay in Canada and I said I could read between the lines of his letters. That’s all. I didn’t say what it was I could read. You just put the wrong interpretation on my statement. Certainly I never encouraged you to assert yourself at Penmarric! I merely acquiesced in your decision to live there. What else could I have done? I knew Philip wouldn’t take formal action to evict you, and I told you that. It was the truth. I never told you anything but the truth.”

  “Well, I’ll be …” It took me a moment to go on. I was thinking of how Philip was planning to send Jonas away to school in the autumn, how Philip wanted Jonas to spend weekends at Penmarric that summer, how he was more anxious than ever to treat the child as his heir. And suddenly I saw Simon Peter working stealthily for his young cousin’s advancement, making sure that I ruined myself in Philip’s eyes, doing all he could to foster Philip’s dislike of me and willingness to take an interest in Jonas.

  “You dirty little bastard,” I said slowly at last “You crooked, double-dealing little lawyer.”

  “I played a fair game,” said Simon Peter, still scrupulously polite. “If I outmaneuvered you, you have only yourself to blame. Come, Jan! That’s all over now and I’ve no wish to quarrel with you. Let’s bury the hatchet since it’s likely we’ll be seeing a good bit of each other in future. Have you heard that I’m buying Polzillan House? I approached your sister Mrs. McCrae about it the other day and she says she’s willing to sell. I hope to move there in the autumn shortly before my marriage.”

  “Marriage?”

  “Didn’t you see the announcement in today’s Times? Rosemary Trehearne and I have just announced our engagement. You know Rosemary, of course. I believe she was at Roedean with your wife.”

  I was speechless again. He smiled at me. “Uncle Joss’s money came in useful after all,” he said. “I’m glad of the opportunity to buy Polzillan House and give my future wife the sort of home to which she’s accustomed.”

  My tongue began to recover from its paralysis. “Well, well,” I said, “congratulations. I hope you enjoy yourself acting the part of a country gentleman.”

  “Gentlemen are born, I believe, and not made. My father is the greatest gentleman I know and he’s a mere farmer who left school at the age of twelve. The type of man I would never call a gentleman is the aristocratic parasite who idles his way through Eton and gets sent down from Oxford for wasting his own time and his father’s money.”

  “What a charmingly sentimental theory! Unfortunately you know as well as I do that a phony BBC accent, a smattering of good manners, and money in the bank doesn’t transform anyone into a gentleman overnight. However, I admire your courage in thinking you can live among the upper-classes and be accepted by them on account of your well-bred wife and well-appointed country mansion. It’s too bad you only have to open your mouth and everyone instantly knows what strata of society you come from. I’ve always thought there was nothing so unfair as the English class system.”

  I had expected him to turn pale with anger. I had even thought he might tremble with rage. With each calculated insult I had hoped to see him flinch, but when at last I stopped speaking and waited in triumph for his reaction I found he did what I least expected—and outmaneuvered me yet again.

  He laughed.

  Now it was my turn to go pale with anger. I think I even began to tremble with rage, and the more I trembled the louder he laughed.

  “My dear Jan!” he said in mocking imitation of an Oxford drawl. “Haven’t you realized yet that your—your class, your way of life—are all an anachronism? The past was yours, all yours, but the future, belongs to me. Up till now you’ve been able to ignore that, but you see, you can’t ignore it any more. I won’t let you ignore it. I’m moving in your social circles, living in your kind of mansion—even proposing to and being accepted by your class of woman. Your class is crumbling away, Jan, caving in beneath your feet, and who knows? In twenty years’ time I may be dining with Jonas at Penmarric while you’re reduced to living on your only foreseeable inheritance—your mother’s paltry little farm at Zillan!”

  That finished it. I lost my temper. “Get out!” I yelled at him. “Get out before I have you thrown out! Get out of my house!”

  “It’s not your house,” said Simon Peter Roslyn, effortlessly courteous. “How sad! It’s a nice old place, isn’t it? Perhaps I might buy it off Jonas one day and live in it myself! You can be sure that if I do I’ll remember to invite you to dinner. I won’t forget you, Jan, I promise. You’d be much too difficult to forget.”

  “Go—yourself!”

  “Ah,” said Simon Peter, “the public-school patois, known to most of the population as the language of the gutter!

  What charming advice, Jan old chap! May I suggest you yourself go and attempt exactly the same thing?”

  And even before I had the chance to drive my fist into his prim little mouth he had turned his back on me and slithered smoothly from the room.

  2

  After that I found myself severely tempted to try to discredit Jonas in Philip’s eyes, but fortunately my mother made me see the foolishness of such a move and insisted that Philip would eventually become disenchanted with Jonas without any assistance from me. This was such obvious good advice that I would have been a fool to ignore it, so I waited, biding my time and making no attempt to interfere.

  It had now been definitely arranged that Jonas should go to Philip’s old prep school in Surrey that autumn, and Rebecca had also consented to Jonas spending the summer weekends at Penmarric so that he could become accustomed to such surroundings; he would arrive on Saturday mornings, stay Saturday night, go to church with Philip and Helena on Sunday morning and return home to Morvah after Sunday lunch. Yet from the beginning there were difficulties. First of all he seemed to prefer Helena’s company to Philip’s; he liked to play croquet with her on the lawn and would trail after her when she cut-flowers in the conservatory or walked with the dogs through the grounds. Second, despite Philip’s efforts to interest him in more masculine occupations, he refused to ride and had an aversion unusual in a child to swimming in the sea or even walking along the beach.

  “That’s his mother’s fault in my opinion,” said Helena to me as we met one day in the grounds. “She refused to let either of those children bathe in the sea and kept reminding them of how their father died.”

  In the end it was Jonas’s aversion to the sea that brought matters to a head. It was July by that time, and, having spent eight weekends at Penmarric, he had apparently allowed himself to be convinced that it was safe for him to go for a walk with his uncle along the cliffs and down to the shore at Cape Cornwall.

  But on the beach he panicked and ran away.

  Exasperated and baffled by such irrational behavior, Philip returned to Penmarric expecting to find the child hiding behind Helena’s skirts and discovered that Jonas had vanished into thin air. It was at this point that I became involved in the dilemma; Philip came to my office asked me if I had seen Jonas, and, on learning that I hadn’t, told me the whole story.

  “He’s probably bolted for home,” I suggested practically.

  “But it’s Saturday!” Philip stared at me angrily. “Damn it, he’s used to staying Saturday night with us by now! Why should he run off home? Did he think I was going to beat him? Silly little bastard! I’ve never laid a finger on him and I don’t intend to, although God knows my fingers have itched for a riding crop on more than one occasion—”

  “You’d better make sure he’s not at home before you do anything further.” A glow of comfort was welling inside me as I thought of Jonas’s stupidity, and I thought what a pleasant evening it was with the sunlight streaming across the herbaceous border beyond the window.

  “All right, but could you come with me to Morvah? If there’s any trouble with Rebecca I want someone who knows her as well as you do to stop her having hysterics; She might think I’d forced
him to go down to the cove against his will or something equally absurd.”

  My pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Rebecca. I wondered if Jonas would provide me with the excuse I needed to enter the farmhouse kitchen again and watch her brewing a pot of tea.

  He certainly provided me with the excuse to confront her. When we arrived at the farm Philip left me in the car and went around the side, of the house to the back door, but although I prepared myself for a wait of several minutes only thirty seconds elapsed before he rejoined me with a baffled, angry expression in his eyes.

  “He’s there,” he said curtly, “but Rebecca called me a monster and slammed the door in my face. What the devil she meant by that I’ve no idea. Could you try and convince her that I’ve never harmed one hair of her silly child’s head? Monster seems a strange word to me when I’ve always done my best to be kind to the boy.”

  “Let me talk to her,” I said with alacrity and hurried to the back door before he could realize how excited I was at the prospect of seeing Rebecca again.

  The door was locked, so I knocked on the panels and rattled the handle. “Rebecca?” I called. “Can I come in? It’s Jan.”

  The door flew open. Before I could say another word Rebecca had flung her arms around me and was sobbing violently against my chest.

  I was so overcome with delight by this abrupt end to our estrangement that I flung my arms around her too and kissed her so hard on the mouth that she was unable to speak; it was some seconds before she managed to twist her mouth away and start gasping my name.

  “Oh, Jan, Jan—”

  “There, there,” I said soothingly, stroking her hair, “It’s all right, I’m here. What’s happened? Is Jonas hurt?”

  She started sobbing again. I couldn’t get a word of sense out of her. “Where is the child?” I said at last. “He’s here, isn’t he?”