Penmarric (12 page)

Five minutes later, after a tousleheaded groom had taken my horse and a footman, anxious to please his future master, had ushered me speedily across the threshold, I was standing once more in the morning room with the threadbare Indian carpet and watching the cool mist blowing across the terrace from the sea.

I was just wondering in an agony of suspense how much longer I would have to wait for the master of the house to appear when the door opened and I saw not the dreaded spectacle of my cousin in his wheelchair but the far from unpleasant sight of his adopted daughter Clarissa.

“My dear Cousin Mark!” she said in a tone of voice designed to make my spine tingle with delight. “I come bearing the olive branch of peace at last!”

To give credit where credit is due, I must confess that my spine did tingle once or twice before I managed to recall my long-standing indifference to her looks. She was wearing a cream-colored gown shot with apple-green silk and it suited her very well. It was also too tight in some questionable places, and I fancied that if she had had a mother or an aunt or indeed any kind of female chaperone the dress would either have gone unworn or else would have been sent to the seamstress to be altered.

“Good morning, Cousin Clarissa,” I said guardedly. “I thank you for the olive branch and accept it with pleasure.”

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve decided to sue for peace,” she said, arranging herself cleverly on the chaise longue and motioning me to sit down beside her. “After all, we’ve been enemies for such a long time, have we not?”

“I’ve never wished to be enemies with anyone here at Penmarric, Clarissa,” I said, sitting down on one of the armchairs. The choice was yours, not mine.”

“Oh, but surely you can understand how we felt! Harry and I were always just the two little poor relations who weren’t really Penmars at all. Papa—my adopted Papa, I should say—cared only for Raymond, and once Raymond was gone he saw nothing odd about making his will in favor of a complete stranger. Surely you can understand how Harry and I felt.”

“Perhaps … But why should you feel any differently toward me now?”

“You can thank that sly little fortune hunter Miriam Barnwell! Oh, how Harry could have been deceived by that girl simply defies all explanation! Of course, this is the final straw. Papa will disinherit him now and I don’t suppose I shall see him again for years and years and … well, it’s very lonely here at Penmarric, Cousin Mark.” She gave me a long lonely look from her dark lonely eyes. They were beautiful eyes, large, brilliant and long-lashed. “It’s such a dreary, desolate house! I could not bear to think that with Harry gone I might be entombed here for weeks without anyone coming to see me.”

“My dear Clarissa,” I said pleasantly, “you’re far too modest. You know as well as I do that you have only to raise your little finger and my friend Vincent will come racing over the moors to keep you company.”

“Oh, I had forgotten dear Mr. Vincent was a friend of yours!” She smiled at me before adding carelessly, “But how could I have forgotten? It’s true I had decided not to see him so frequently, but last night he came to Penmarric on some errand or other and I took pity on him—we drank a glass of port together and he told me—oh!—so many fascinating things about you, Cousin Mark!”

I looked at her. She went on smiling. I can remember thinking to myself very precisely: If that fool Vincent has breathed one word to this girl about my predicament with Rose I’ll see he wishes he’d never set eyes on either me or Clarissa Penmar.

“He really seems to know an amazing amount about you. I hear you’re very popular with the ladies, Cousin Mark. In fact that was one of the reasons why I decided to present you with the olive branch. I’m always intrigued by gentlemen who have a romantic reputation.”

“Romantic?” said my voice, matching the languor of her measured drawl. “I fear Vincent has been too generous in his appraisal of my achievements in that field. As you see, I’m hardly sufficiently endowed with romantic looks to follow your brother Harry’s example.”

“Who cares about romantic looks once the curtains are drawn and the candle’s out?”

I rose to my feet as if I had been jerked upward by a violent hand. I think I even gasped. I had never heard such words from a girl of her age and background before.

She laughed. “Don’t look so shocked! I’ve been Harry’s confidante for years! I know what goes on in the world.” She too rose to her feet, and as she strolled gracefully across the room toward me I realized with an even deeper shock that every shred of the lascivious gossip about her was true. “Would you like me to give you a tour of the house?” she said lightly. “I could show you—”

“No thanks,” I said shortly.

I saw her dark eyebrows raise themselves slightly at my tone of voice. Her smile faded. “Come, Mark, that’s hardly very civil, is it? I thought you’d accepted the olive branch.”

I turned away from her and moved toward the bell with the intention of reminding the footman that I was still waiting to see Giles. But before I could touch the bell she said coolly in that warm, flexible voice of hers, “I really think you would find me more entertaining than a doctor’s daughter. There’s something so. terribly dreary about the middle classes, don’t you think?”

I spun around but found myself unable to speak.”

She laughed at my expression. “You’re angry because I know about your miserable little doctor’s daughter!”

“Listen, Clarissa,” I said in an exceptionally polite voice, “if you say one word more in that tone about a woman who is a thousand times more a lady than you’ll ever be—”

“How boring to have a ladylike mistress!”

I struck her, I slapped her across the face with the palm of my hand and saw her eyes blaze as her hand flew to her cheek.

“You … bastard!” She spat at me as hard as she could, and the ugly word selected by her on an impulse without regard to its true meaning rang in my ears more viciously than any four-lettered obscenity from the gutter. “You … miserable … bastard …” She could hardly speak. She began to tremble with rage. “How dare you strike me like that?” she said in a rush at last. “Get out! Get out this minute or you’ll be sorry you ever came!”

I pulled out my handkerchief, wiped her spittle from my cheek and sat down deliberately on the chaise longue.

“Very well,” she said, still shaking with rage. “I’ll summon the footmen and have you thrown out.”

I had been on the verge of losing my temper for several minutes and now I lost it completely. Leaping to my feet, I grabbed her before she could ring the bell and shook her till she was speechless. “You little … running around like a …” My white-hot temper had been the bane of my childhood, and although I had now reached an age when I could control it even under extreme provocation, once it was lost it was lost and I cared not what I said. “Do you think I can’t guess why you’re so angry? Do you imagine I don’t realize that you can’t endure to think yourself resistible? You were being vicious and spiteful to pay me back for my lack of interest in you! You think you can treat me like you treat that fool Vincent, but by God you’ve come to the wrong person this time! No woman dictates to me or tries to push me into doing what she wants. Besides, why should I be interested in you? You’re not even beautiful with your brown cow’s, eyes and your thick-lipped mouth and your repulsive mass of black curls? Why, I wouldn’t even go to bed with you if you paid me!”

And as I threw her aside so violently that she stumbled upon the chaise longue, the door of the room opened, someone coughed from the threshold and the next moment the butler was announcing in a voice filled with respectful trepidation that the master of the house was waiting to receive me.

“What’s your name?” I demanded, abruptly of the butler as I followed him across the vast gloomy hall to the wide staircase. I was straightening my tie as I spoke and wiping the sweat of rage from my forehead. My hand was still trembling.

“Medlyn, sir.” I could see that I had already proved conclusively to him that I was as wild in my ways as any Penmar, and as we ascended the staircase to the gallery he drew my attention to the portraits of my upstart ancestors that lined the walls. The first Penmar, the gambler called Baker who had won Penmarric from the Prince Regent, had elected to be painted with the notorious dice in his hands: his air was one of cynicism and worldliness, and despite the effete costume of the Brummel era he looked indisputably tough. Beyond him were the portraits of his three sons, the older two who had come to uncertain ends and the youngest, my grandfather Mark Penmar, who had made a fortune by profiteering in India before he had become master of Penmarric. I stared at the father my mother had loved so much. As she had often said, I was much like him to look at; I recognized the dark slanting eyes, the ugly nose and the wide mouth, but not the cold expression which I disliked, nor the craftiness about the eyes which I distrusted. Last came the portraits of my mother and her brother Arthur, who had drowned in a sailing accident to leave Penmarric without an heir; he was certainly the first Penmar who could be described as handsome, but he was also the first who looked a complete fool. I turned to the portrait of my mother, painted when she had been eighteen, and searched for some likeness to the hard, embittered, overbearing woman I knew, but there was none. Her dark eyes shone softly; her lips were slightly parted. She was radiant.

Sadness gripped me suddenly. I turned aside and followed Medlyn away from the gallery into a long corridor which led to the bedroom of the master of the house, the famous Tower Room of Penmarric where my cousin was slowly dying in his bed which faced the sea.

The stench of the sickroom met me as I crossed the threshold, but I tried not to flinch. His dark eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and his face was like a death mask as he greeted me and bade me sit down. The elderly nurse withdrew in silence. We were alone.

“So you came back,” he said at last. “I wondered if you would.”

“Yes, sir.” But I could no longer look at him. I was too much aware that I felt nothing, no chord of response, no intangible bond, no communication, understanding or love. He was merely a stranger whom I would never know.

“But of course you had a strong reason for choosing to visit me,” he said dryly. “I’m not naïve,” When I did not speak he said abruptly, “You heard about Harry, of course. Well, don’t think it will mean you’ll now get all my money. You won’t. I’ve given you quite enough to satisfy my conscience. I’m adding Harry’s share to Clarissa’s dowry in the hope that some man will feel inclined to marry her for her money. Lord knows no man will feel inclined to marry her for her reputation.”

I was embarrassed. I glanced around uneasily at the huge circular room with its windows facing the moors and the sea and remained silent.

At last he said sardonically, “Well, you’d better tell me. How much do you want?”

“If—if you could treat the sum as a portion, sir, and not as a gift—”

“Naturally. How much?”

I mentioned a figure.

“Why do you need this money? Doesn’t your father give you an allowance?”

We were already on dangerous ground. The numbness was leaving me and I was beginning to feel the pain, but when I spoke my voice was cooler than ever, cold and crisp and self-possessed. “Sir, I don’t like to ask him for such a sum since I can’t ask him to treat it as a portion. He intends to leave most of his money to my younger brother.”

“Does he indeed! And why’s that, do you suppose?”

The pain was drenching me, soaking through every nerve in my body as my face flamed beneath his stare. “It would be unfair, sir … since I am to inherit Penmarric …” I hardly knew what I said. “Nigel should have Gweekellis Manor … only fair and just …”

“I can think of nothing more unjust than disinheriting an elder son in favor of a younger—unless, of course, Castallack believes he has only one son.”

In the second after he spoke, I thought the pain was too great to tolerate a second, longer and rose to my feet to stumble from the room. But he stopped me. He mistook my misery for rage, and as I turned my back on him and groped for the door he called after me in a rapid, uneven voice, “Wait! I’ll give you the money! There’s no need to lose your temper. I apologize for speaking of such a painful subject, but ever since you came here with your mother I’ve been thinking about you and wondering if—however, that makes little difference now, I suppose. Now, go over to the secretaire and open the top drawer. … That’s right. There’s paper there and a pen. You’ll have to write at my dictation. I shall ask Trebarvah, my lawyer, to make the necessary arrangements at the bank to transfer the money to you.”

By a great effort of will I steadied my shaking fingers, picked up the pen and did as I was told.

After the letter was signed I heard him advise me to spend the money profitably instead of frittering it away in typical Penmar fashion on cards, horses and women, but by this time I had a new grip on my self-control and anger was elbowing the pain aside. When I retorted, “My name is Castallack, sir, not Penmar,” my voice was as cold as the gray sea beyond the windows and as bleak as the moors beyond the grounds…

“Ah, yes,” he said, and as our glances met for one long moment I was aware of things I had no wish to be aware of—of a chord of response within me, a shaft of understanding, a shadow of compassion which I could not help but acknowledge. “Ah yes,” said Giles Penmar, and I saw the loneliness in his sick, gaunt face and somehow managed to forgive him. “Your name is Castallack.” His mouth curved in a small, polite sneer. “I beg your pardon.”

I left soon after that. I half walked, half ran down the dark passage to the gallery, and all the past Penmars seemed to mock me from their frames as I stumbled down the stairs to the hall. No house had ever seemed as oppressive to me as Penmarric seemed at that moment, and as I rode off down the drive at the gallop I wished in a fit of misery that my great-grandfather had lost his notorious game of dice with the Prince Regent and had remained a nobody called Baker for the remainder of his adventurer’s career.