Penmarric (11 page)

I was silenced. I did not know what to do. I had not considered this possibility at all.

“I won’t ask you for help after he’s born,” she said. “I’ll manage somehow. But I won’t give him away.”

“But, Rose, I don’t see how I can support—”

“I’ve said I won’t ask you for help.”

“But of course I must help you!” I felt trapped and angry. “But don’t you think you’re being selfish? Don’t you think well-to-do foster-parents would give him more of a start in life than—”

“No,” she said, “I’m his own mother and I shall love him and no child can have a better start in life than love. You’re the one who’s being selfish.”

I stood up abruptly. “I’m merely trying to be practical and constructive and do what’s best for us both! Da—” I checked the profanity just in time—“dash it, Rose, if you keep the child you may never get married! At least as an unattached woman you would have more chance to—”

“If I can’t marry you I don’t want to marry anyone.”

I was silenced again. “But I …” Words failed me. At last I managed to stammer, “But I can’t marry you, Rose! I can’t!”

“Yes, you explained,” she said. “You have no money.” She hesitated before adding rapidly, not looking at me, “But if you have expectations … perhaps later …”

“It’s not just the question of money.” Guilt made me confess a truth which I had always intended to keep from her. “You see, there’s this other woman …”

She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear.”

“But …”

She let her hands fall. “If there was someone else, why did you pay attention to me that week when you came to St. Ives?

“It was wrong of me—”

“So you never cared. Not even then.”

“Yes, I did—I did in a way … I am fond of you, Rose, but—”

“Are you and she—as we were in the bathing tent?”

“No.”

She looked wretched. As I stared at her in misery she tried to speak but the words would not come. At last she managed to say unevenly, “I shouldn’t have consented … in the bathing tent … but I loved you so much I scarcely knew what was happening until—oh, how foolish you must think me, how foolish and ignorant and contemptible!”

“It wasn’t your fault, Rose. Of course any decent well-brought-up girl should be ignorant of such things. That goes without saying. The fault was mine, and why you should even want to marry me after I’ve treated you so shamefully—”

“I love you,” she said simply.

“You can’t possibly!”

“I do, I can’t help it.” Her eyes were bright with tears again. “I’ve never met anyone like you before. You’re so different, Mark, from the young men I used to know in Devon. You’re so clever, so full of energy and—and purpose … even to be with you is exciting and novel. You cannot conceive how much those few days we spent together meant to me. They were the most wonderful days of my whole life.”

I was scarlet with embarrassment, speechless with remorse.

“Don’t be angry with me, Mark. Please.”

“I’m not angry with you, Rose,” I said. “I’m not.” I felt so consumed with shame that I could hardly bear to stay in the same room with her. “But I’m plain!” I said angrily, wanting her to hate me, wanting her contempt, wanting anything that would take the edge from my enormous sense of guilt. “I’m ugly! I’m too stout! I’m not even attractive! How can I seem exciting to you?”

She stared, her cheeks wet with tears, her lips trembling, but in spite of her grief I saw a faint smile hover at the corner of her mouth. “Oh?” she said. “I never noticed. I always thought your looks were so striking. I never thought you were plain.”

I opened the window and leaned out over the sill. The fresh air cooled my face. Gulls wheeled over the harbor far below and soared effortlessly into the sky above the narrow alleys of the town.

Her hand touched my arm. “Mark, I should go before Mrs. Treen discovers I’m missing. Oh, Mark, forgive me for being sad and cross. I am so very grateful to you for coming to help me like this.”

And after that there was nothing else I could do but say that I was sorry too if I had spoken harshly or been unkind.

When I had escorted her back to the Treens’ house I stopped at the gates of the drive to kiss her good night. “Remember that there’s no need for you to worry,” I said for the last time that evening. “I promise I’ll look after you. You mustn’t worry any more.”

She smiled as well as she could. Her face was by this time pinched with exhaustion, but even as I opened my mouth to express my concern she turned away from me without another word and walked on alone up the drive to the house.

The doctor eventually decided that she was pregnant. Moving ahead at once with the plans I had made earlier, I paved the way for Rose’s withdrawal from St. Ives by forging the necessary letter from my mother and sent it to Rose with a suitably bland note to say that she might wish to show the letter to Mrs. Treen. After that I turned my attentions away from St. Ives and rode into Penzance to confide my troubles to Michael Vincent.

He looked pale, as if he had spent long hours working at some unrewarding task. His gray eyes were bloodshot, and I noticed for the first time that his hair was already thinning at the temples.

“How are you?” I said perfunctorily. “I haven’t seen you for a long time. How’s Clarissa?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t been at Penmarric lately.”

So that was it. Clarissa had become bored with toying with the affections of an impecunious provincial lawyer and had turned her attentions elsewhere. I felt sorry for him. After making arrangements to lunch with him. I left him to his business and did not see him again until we met two hours later at the tavern we frequented.

Once we were seated I embarked on the difficult task of seeking his advice after providing him with the minimum of explanation. Knowing he was well acquainted with Penzance, I asked if he could advise me where to look to find respectable but reasonably priced rooms for Rose, and as I had anticipated he was able to make several helpful suggestions. However, his curiosity was finally aroused and I felt obliged to tell him that I required the rooms for a friend of mine who had had the misfortune to succumb to a certain feminine condition.

He stared at me round-eyed. “Good God,” he muttered at last, “you Penmars are a fast crowd, I must say. We had to pay off one of Harry’s mistresses the other day. She had heard of his engagement to Judith Carnforth and was trying to make trouble.”

“My name is not Penmar,” I said, much too sharply. “It’s Castallack. And Harry isn’t related to me by blood at all. He’s the adopted son of Giles, his nephew by marriage.”

“Yes, I know. I—”

“And frankly, Vincent, if you’ll forgive me saying so, you had no business to tell me that story about paying off one of Harry’s mistresses. I thought lawyers were supposed to hold that sort of thing in confidence.”

“Yes—yes, I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right.” He looked haggard. “I’m afraid I’m rather embittered about the Penmars at the moment. You mustn’t listen to me. But, Castallack, what kind of woman is this—this friend of yours? How did it happen? What the devil are you going to do if your father finds out?”

“He won’t find but because you’re the only person I intend to tell.” The very thought that my father might discover my affair with Rose was enough to make me feel stiff with fright. I told Vincent as little as possible, but he was still shocked to the core. It was clear he thought I should marry Rose to put matters right and disapproved of the fact that I took the practical and not the gentlemanly point of view.

After lunch I walked back to his office with him. It was a gray day at the end of September and the smell of boats and fish floated up toward us from the harbor. Close at hand the clock of the church on the hill was pointing its hands to two o’clock, and I was just about to bid Vincent goodbye when there was a stormy clatter of horse’s hoofs behind us, and, swinging around, we saw Justin Carnforth rein to a halt as he shouted a greeting in our direction.

“Castallack! Vincent! Wait a moment!”

We tried not to groan. Conversations with Carnforth had an annoying habit of being one-sided and interminable, and the odds were that this one would be no exception.

“How are you, Carnforth?” called Vincent politely, and then, seeing his expression, added at once, “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong! By God!” His race was dark with rage. “Haven’t you heard the news? I’m so angry I can scarcely contain myself! That blackguard Harry Penmar! By Jove, if I ever get my hands on him I’ll—”

“What’s he done?” I interrupted, suddenly becoming interested. “What’s happened?”

Carnforth was spluttering with emotion. “My sister—Judith—his own wife-to-be—”

“He eloped with her?” said Vincent, amazed.

“No!” roared Carnforth. “No, damn it, sir, he jilted her! He’s eloped with the rector of Zillan’s daughter! He’s eloped with little Miriam Barnwell! A clergyman’s daughter, by heavens! When I think of my poor sister, humiliated, shamed—”

“Good God,” said Vincent “What a terrible shock for the rector!”

“Mrs. Barnwell will be pleased anyway,” I said, amused. “Her daughter will be marrying into county circles even if the marriage is conducted in a rather unorthodox fashion.”

“Damn the Barnwells!” spluttered Carnforth. “What about my sister? Jilted, by God! Now listen, Vincent—you’re often at Penmarric nowadays, aren’t you? When you next see Clarissa you tell her to tell her brother that if he ever sets foot in Penzance again, I’ll—”

“Yes, yes,” said Vincent hastily, a little white around the lips at this mention of Clarissa but anxious to quieten Carnforth as quickly as possible. His loud-voiced histrionics had already attracted the attention of the passers-by. “I’ll tell her.”

“And if you’re ever at Penmarric, Castallack—”

“I never am,” I said politely, and as soon as I had spoken I remembered my intention to go there the very next day in order to beg the money I needed from Giles Penmar.

“What a disgraceful situation,” said my father to me at dinner. “To think that Miriam Barnwell, a clergyman’s daughter, a well-brought-up, gentle young girl, should suddenly abandon all the moral principles instilled in her and run off with a rake like that! I can’t understand it. It’s always distressing when a girl of her background behaves in an unprincipled fashion, and this time it’s doubly distressing because I feel so sorry for her parents. Poor Barnwell will be dreadfully upset”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hesitate to say this, but I fear part of the blame must be put upon Mrs. Barnwell. She was always much too anxious for her daughter to marry well. I’m sure she engineered and encouraged Miriam’s flirtation with young Raymond last summer before Giles sent him abroad, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she had turned a blind eye to this latest business with Harry. Heavens, surely she must have known the two of them were having secret meetings somewhere even after Harry became engaged to Judith Carnforth! How could she have let such a thing happen right under her nose? I suppose Harry decided to marry Judith in order to please Giles and his creditors and then backed out at the last minute to run away with a girl be found more attractive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How any young man could behave so despicably I can’t imagine. It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t even marry poor little Miriam, and then what will happen to her? She’ll be completely ruined. Much as I blame her for her deplorable moral lapse, I feel I must blame Harry more. I really think that any young man who uses a well-brought-up, respectable young girl for his own selfish and wanton purposes must be exceptionally wicked.”

“Yes.”

He looked at me closely. “I think you’re as shocked by the news as I am,” he observed. “You’re very quiet tonight. Are you feeling well?”

“I’m a little tired,” I said. “I think, if you’ll excuse me, sir …”

“Yes, certainly. I hope you sleep well and have a good rest.” He smiled at me, his eyes so blue and honest, and of course it never even occurred to him as he bade me good night that I might have behaved as despicably as Harry Penmar.

It was the following morning that I rode to Penmarric to see Giles.

After I had received Rose’s letter begging my assistance and realized that I would soon need to borrow a large sum of money, I had wracked my brains for some time to decide whom I should approach. For a while I almost thought I might overcome my pride and attempt to borrow from my mother, but I was too afraid she might write to my father and—believing herself to be acting in my best interests—demand to know why he gave me such a meager allowance that I was obliged to approach her for financial support. No, I thought, better not to involve my mother in a situation that was already disastrous. But who else was there? Cousin Robert Yorke was wealthy and fond enough of me, I knew, to give me the sum I needed, but he was my mother’s puppet and could not be expected to keep the secret from her. To approach my father, of course, was out of the question.

That left Giles Penmar. But as soon as I had decided that he would be likely to help me I pushed all thought of him from my mind. Thinking of Giles was a dangerous pastime, a habit which I knew must be instantly suppressed. After the first onslaught of shock that had followed my mother’s wild revelations some weeks ago I built a wall around the memory to protect myself from it, and the wall had effectively repelled all speculation that might have caused me to lose control over my emotions and initiate scenes that could only end in disaster. So I refused to think of Giles, refused to think of those revelations that I would not and could not believe. I remembered only that I was his heir and that he would probably grant me a portion of the money he intended to leave me in his will, and then the door to my mind slammed shut and I did not think of him again until I realized I could no longer postpone the ordeal of a further interview at Penmarric.

When I arrived at the house that morning, I found it lonely and deserted, its somber walls wreathed in an oppressive Cornish mist. For one long moment I stared at the place, not knowing why I loved it when it was so ugly, but aware that it was waiting for me to infuse it with life. I smiled, amused by my sentimentality, but the sentiment stayed, lodged irrevocably in my mind. It was my house, my land; and one day I would take possession.