‘Were my mother’s eyes dark?’
‘Heavens, child!… I can’t remember that. In fact, I hardly knew your family, you understand… your father was not a church-going man, and I only spoke to your mother twice. Once when she came to the church and asked me to pray for you both. And once when I called at Greystone House.’
‘Why would she want you to pray for us both?’
‘She gave no reason. On that day, she brought you with her to the church.’ He paused, remembering. Hannah Pengally had struck him as being a very sad woman who could not bring herself to confide in him. One of his failures, he always remembered, to his shame. ‘You were very small,’ he said quietly, ‘and the loveliest child I had ever seen… I remember that.’
‘Was she lovely?… my mother?’
‘As I recall, she was a quiet, gentle woman.’
‘And my father?’
For a moment, Mr Lacy was quiet, his aged mind reaching back over the years. ‘I’m sorry, child… it was a long time ago… too long for an old man of my sixty-five years. I was only in Dunster for about eighteen months. Soon after, I was sent to Bournemouth, and I’ve been there ever since.’ He laughed. ‘Now, they’ve put me out to pasture. You know my dear… you have provided me with the opportunity to return to Dunster and look up old familiar haunts.’
‘Did you never see my father?’
‘Only on the occasion when I called at Greystone House. It seems I must have called at a bad moment, because, as I recall, he furiously ordered me off his property.’ He chuckled and slapped his hand against the steering wheel. ‘He was a big fellow, I can tell you that! I’m afraid that was the first and last time I met him.’ He then went on to outline the details he had already explained when the Reverend Mr Arnold had brought the two of them together. It was little enough. All he knew was that Scarlet Pengally was an only child; her father was the village blacksmith and the family resided at Greystone House, a monstrous place that had been in the Pengally family for many generations. Apparently, under previous ancestors it had seen far better days. There were certain facts which Mr Arnold thought wise to keep from this obviously troubled and unfortunate woman: such as the drowning of her mother and the altogether disagreeable character for which her father was known. There were other things also, disturbing things that came to his knowledge during his short time in Dunster. But they were only rumours that cast a dangerous slur on Vincent Pengally’s relationship with his daughter. As a man of the cloth, he was expected to love all God’s children, but he had not been sorry when the Pengally man had ostracised himself from all matters concerned with the Church. Sometimes, there was an evil so strong, so wanton that no amount of prayer could purge the soul of it. All the same, he had felt great compassion for the one called Hannah, and only wished that, somehow, he might have been more of a comfort to her; when the news reached him of her drowning, he had been greatly saddened. All of these things he kept from the anxious woman beside him. It saddened him also that Scarlet had suffered some accident or other, resulting in loss of memory. And that, having seemingly struck out on her own, she was now compelled to return to Dunster, to Greystone House. It was not a happy place, he recalled.
‘Is the journey much farther?’ Scarlet was not comfortable being cooped up in a motor vehicle. It was an unpleasant experience.
‘Be patient, my dear… we’ve covered some thirty miles, with the same distance still to go. Hopefully, we’ll arrive before dark. Close your eyes… see if you can sleep.’
Sleep was a comfort that Scarlet had never enjoyed. But she closed her eyes and relaxed into the soft leather, shivering as it struck cold against her neck. This long and tedious journey was like a trip into the unknown. She wondered with apprehension what awaited her at the end of it. Not her mother, for Hannah was dead. That much she knew. She thought of the name Vincent Pengally, and she desperately tried to give it an identity. None of the faces fitted. She felt more alone now than at any time she could remember. When Mr Lacey had first spoken of her father, she had searched her heart for a loving response. There had been none. But then, that was not surprising, she thought. Perhaps when she came face to face with him, perhaps then she would know. She smiled. Or perhaps even when she gazed on his features, he would still remain a stranger. Suddenly Scarlet felt herself trembling. Why had she chosen to put herself through such an ordeal? The answer came back. She had no choice. Fate moved in mysterious and unpredictable ways. Fate was guiding her now, urging her back to the roots from which she had strayed. Back to the past, the future. Her destiny.
Surprisingly, Scarlet slept. Not a deep and restful sleep, but shallow and fretful, quickened by inherent fears and gyrating images. Soon, she thought, soon she would belong. Strangely, the thought brought little solace to her trembling heart.
‘The road ends here, child.’
The words pressed into Scarlet’s mind. ‘The road ends here.’ Foreboding words that seemed to find an echo deep inside her. In the space of a single heartbeat his utterance had triggered in her a latent, instinctive terror. Yet if only Scarlet had known how fortuitous were the words spoken by Mr Lacey, her terror might have been tenfold.
‘Well, at least we made it in daylight.’ Mr Lacey sighed contentedly and climbed from the vehicle. Scarlet came to stand beside him, her dark brooding gaze drawn towards the lane ahead; her thoughts taking her far beyond. ‘The road narrows down to a path,’ he went on, pointing the way. ‘The footpath will take us past the thatched cottage and on to Packhorse Bridge.’ His face broke into a warm smile. ‘Your father’s house is on the other side of the river,’ he said reassuringly, ‘I don’t mind telling you, my dear… I’m looking forward to stretching my legs and perhaps warming myself before a cheery fire.’ He was not looking forward to meeting Vincent Pengally again, although, on contacting the local vicar with regard to Scarlet Pengally, he had been informed that the master of Greystone House had been bedridden these many years. ‘No doubt Miss Williams, the housekeeper, has been told of your imminent arrival.’ Scarlet wondered how this Miss Williams would greet her.
‘Would you mind if I went on alone?’ She was loath to ask such a thing when he had brought her so far. By the same token, she could not bear the thought of his being beside her when the door of Greystone House was opened. It was something she must do alone. She had prepared herself for it. It was not an experience to be shared.
‘Whatever you say, child.’ He sensed the loneliness in her; and the strength. She made him feel humble. ‘If you’re really sure?’ Scarlet’s dark eyes were bright with pain. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, ‘If you need me, I’ll be at the vicarage. I intend to make an early start in the morning, so… if I don’t hear from you, I will assume that all is well. God bless you, child.’ He cast an anxious glance to the greying skies. ‘But hurry. Soon it will be dark.’
Scarlet did not look back; not even when she heard the car engine splutter into life, then gradually die out as the vehicle drove away. She expected to feel lonely, cast out on a strange road that drew her even closer to her heart of darkness. But somehow she did not feel lonely. Only exhilarated. Every step she took made her tremble. How had she come to wander from this place? Soon she would know all there was to know.
At the bend in the path, Scarlet paused, her probing gaze travelling the landscape; a strange almost primeval landscape that was unknown to her and yet which filled her with a peculiar sense of belonging. There was magic in the air. An inexplicable and bewitching ambience that seemed to caress and bathe her troubled soul. At the same moment there was a delicate conflict created in her: all of her being craved to go on, yet there were other murmuring doubts, persuading her to leave. Leave now. Before it was too late.
Suddenly it was twilight. Scarlet pressed on, her eyes scanning the way ahead as she recalled what Mr Lacey had said. She must keep alert for the landmarks: a thatched cottage and a bridge. Beyond the river was Greystone House. And home! A sense of terror fluttered through her, and she chided hers
elf.
Intent on her destination and alienated by the increasing darkness, Scarlet gave a sigh of relief as she hurried past the thatched cottage. Inside, John Blackwood was drawing the curtains against the cold grey evening. Scarlet did not see him, but he saw her and was visibly shocked. Had his old eyes deceived him? Or was that slim dark figure the same tragic creature that had long ago fled these parts? He peered after her. He could not be sure; so much time had passed. Yet hadn’t Trent mentioned something only that very morning? Hadn’t there been rumours that Scarlet Pengally was on her way back? Dear God! He hoped not. Many a time he had given thanks that Scarlet had escaped the wickedness, the terrible evil in that house; evil that had spanned too many years and touched too many souls. And Scarlet’s most of all. Why would she want to return? Why? His heart grew cold.
Suddenly he was shivering, though the fire blazed cheerily in the hearth and a moment ago he had felt cosy and warm. Agitated, he closed the curtains and shuffled to his armchair. ‘You were free, Scarlet Pengally,’ he muttered, huddling nearer to the fire’s glow, ‘now… he’ll never let you go!’ He was afraid. Just as he had been afraid all these years; afraid to look across at the house; afraid to glance towards the ridge on a grey, ominous evening such as this. Afraid to remember. But when you grow old and your darling has gone forever, memories are all that remain. You kept them close, cherished them, always loath to let them go. He and his Ada had spent all of their married life in this cottage. Man and boy, he had toiled on the land of Greystone House and had been a living part of all that had transpired within its walls. He had seen things that would haunt him to his grave; wicked things, cruel and sinister things. Things that he had never told anyone! He could not separate the good memories from the bad. They were forever intermingled. If he must keep some, then he must keep them all. He thought again of the woman who had passed by his cottage. If he was anything of a man he would go after Scarlet Pengally and beg her to stay away, warn her of the inhuman monster who had awaited her return all these years; and he would terrify her with the things he had seen. Things that no man should see. But then, he was no longer a man. He was old and decrepit, wizened by his grief and paralysed by things he did not dare to understand. Frantic, he bent forward, losing his churning thoughts in the leaping flames. ‘Come home, Trent,’ he muttered, beginning to rock back and forth and occasionally glancing furtively towards the door. ‘Hurry home, son. Don’t leave me alone too long!’
As she crossed Packhorse Bridge, Scarlet was gripped by the strangest sensation: the path she was now following seemed familiar to her! She had been over this bridge many times before. Relief flooded her heart. In a moment she was standing on the far bank, her searching gaze reaching out to the house which was only a few steps away. She crushed down the insane desire to turn from it; to go back the way she had come. ‘Don’t be foolish, Scarlet Pengally!’ she told herself in a frightened whisper. ‘This is your home… here, your father awaits to embrace you.’ She took a step forward, but could not go on. Something about the house made her feel uncertain, fearful. She was shocked by its appearance. Somehow she had not expected the house to look so forbidding, so grim and oppressive against a skyline that was too incredibly beautiful. The moors rose and fell almost like a beating heart, stretching away as far as the eye could see. Above the ridge, day and night fought for supremacy over the skies, splitting the light into weird and wonderful patterns. Slowly the skies darkened, causing strange shadows over the land. Somewhere in the depths of the wild heathland a night bird cried. The sound was like the call of a kindred spirit, striking a cord in Scarlet’s trembling heart. She was familiar with the sound; she was part of the moors. The moors called her. The house cried out to her. Softly, she went forward, through the rampant untended garden where rapacious plants had smothered all that was gentle and yielding.
At the door, Shelagh waited: a small homely figure in a dark skirt and startlingly white blouse; her brown hair unkempt, like the garden. Scarlet knew her face: that kindly face which had haunted her dreams, the wise brown eyes the very same that gazed at her now with compassion. She remembered. And she was not afraid. ‘My father?… is he here?’ There was so much she must know.
‘Soon… you will see him. First enjoy the meal I’ve provided for you, Scarlet… we’ll talk a while.’ She touched Scarlet on the arm. ‘He’ll be so delighted that you’re home again. Oh, Scarlet… you’ve been gone so long. Too long. You must never go away again.’ She took the suitcase from Scarlet’s hand. The sound of the door closing caused Scarlet to look around, a feeling of panic rising in her. As they went deeper into the house, the panic subsided. Outside the night was cold and hostile; the wind moaned gently, like a tortured soul. In here it was warm and welcoming. Even the house itself seemed to enfold her. She followed the one called Shelagh; a friend. At last she was home!
She was astonished to find herself wondering whether the man named Silas would be here. The prospect filled her with inexplicable longing.
On the peak of the ridge, where the spinney was steeped in darkness, Silas stepped from the shadows. The bitter January air bit into him, numbing his face and causing him to shiver. But he did not feel the cold, only the chilling sensation that Scarlet’s appearance had wrought in him. He had waited so long. Now, at last, the waiting was finally over. This woman, who was as much a part of him as was his own soul, had brought with her a new lease of life for him. From the vantage point where he had hidden himself some two hours earlier, the view down the valley was unrestricted. When at last he had seen the shadowy figure moving towards Greystone House, he knew instinctively that it was Scarlet. As she drew closer to the lighted window of Greystone House, his lonely heart had skipped a beat. There was no mistaking her slim loveliness, the long black hair that was loose about her shoulders, and that special ethereal way she had of moving. He imagined her dark lustrous eyes, ablaze with passion as they had been on the night when Scarlet had made glorious love. He had never forgotten; he never could. He wanted her again in that way. In every way! His elation was cruelly pierced, as he wondered whether she might not feel the same towards him. But she must! Surely to God, she would not spurn him again. Not now. Not ever. He recalled their last meeting, when she had been so cruelly hostile. He smiled secretly. But then, hadn’t she always fought against the fierce and magnificent love that bound them together? In his heart he knew that Scarlet had never loved any other. Right from when they were children, it had been decreed that they belonged together. Their souls were one. They had grown irrevocably entwined, played in the shadows, laughed and cried in each other’s arms, and always found a way to belong, even though it was forbidden and dangerous. Scarlet was his. Nothing mattered but her. Destiny had parted them. Destiny had drawn them together again. The years between had been too long and unbearable. Now he would claim her, take her far away from all that reminded her of the past. Together they would build a new life, create a family. Love each other in the way it was always intended. Now, at last, they were both free.
Quickly, Silas began his descent into the valley. He must hurry! For even at this moment, Vincent Pengally might be weaving the same malevolent spell that had kept her under his influence for too long!
‘So now, Scarlet… you know as much as I can tell you. Don’t worry if you can remember little of it. I’m sure it will all come back to you. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of you.’ She laughed softly. To Scarlet it was a disturbing sound. ‘After all, Scarlet, we must never forget… you are a Pengally.’ The quick smile returned. ‘But then you were gone so long that I almost did forget. That was unforgivable. Your father has every right to scold you.’
‘From what you tell me, you’ve had all your time taken up with caring for my father.’ In spite of Shelagh’s reassurances, Scarlet could not still the uneasiness inside her.
‘I can’t deny it. Your father has been a trial.’ Her voice fell to a whisper.
‘There were times when I feared it would never end.’ Suddenly her plain,
worn features broke into a surprisingly bright smile. ‘But of course, now that you’re home where you belong… we can all sleep soundly.’
‘I would like to go to him.’ Scarlet was impatient. In spite of the sketchy details outlined by Shelagh, she had learned no more than what Mr Lacy had told her. There were still many questions she must ask. What was the truth about her marriage to Garrett Summers? And the ‘tragedy’ that had taken both her husband and son? Why were Shelagh and the vicar so loath to elaborate on the details, except to assure her that ‘you must not blame yourself’? And why in God’s name would she allow the Thorntons to take away her only remaining child? What had led to her leaving the area? How had she come to be found so many miles away, apparently in a state of shock and devoid of all memories regarding her past? No one had the answers. Maybe her father was the only one who could help now.
‘I can understand your anxiety.’ Shelagh put the bowl of broth on the table. ‘It’s only to be expected, after all you’ve been through.’ She put the spoon in Scarlet’s hand. ‘You’ll need your strength for the ordeal ahead. Your father has waited for you these many years. He can wait a while longer.’ Her gentle smile bathed Scarlet’s black, troubled eyes. ‘You’re unhappy. Please… don’t be. Not now.’ Her smile deepened when she saw how hungry Scarlet seemed. ‘Good!’ she exclaimed, seating herself opposite and watching every mouthful disappear. ‘You see… I don’t suppose you realised just how hungry you were?’
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