Penmarric (14 page)

“Please,” he said. “Please, Mark.”

I went on crying.

“I think you had best tell me the whole story.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want you to know.”

“But I do know. You had an affair with a doctor’s daughter and she’s going to have your child.”

I could not endure to hear his voice. I tried to stop my ears and the tears fell upon the ivory chessmen and trickled onto the polished surface of the board.

“I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself.”

“I can’t explain.” How could I explain that I had wanted Rose because she reminded me of Janna and that I had wanted Janna because it was necessary for me to have such a woman and that such a woman was necessary to me because … But I did not know. I had never understood why it was so impossible for me to be celibate. I had never understood why I should long so frequently for a woman who would go through the motions of loving me even though I knew no love existed between us. All I knew was that the unhappier I was the more impossible it became for me to stay celibate and that my obsession with Janna had begun at a time when I had never felt so distressed and confused and alone.

But now was hardly the time to start thinking of my mother.

My father was speaking again. I had to struggle to listen to him and concentrate upon what he was saying.

“But who is this woman?” His voice was still grave and quiet but it was obvious he was becoming more upset. “How did you meet her?”

“It happened by chance in St. Ives. She was a nursemaid. She’s penniless and without relations.” My hand shook as I groped for a handkerchief. “We met every day for a week.”

“You mean she came to your hotel? A doctor’s daughter? A well-brought-up young woman?”

“No, I—I hired a bathing tent on the beach.”

“Where you conducted an affair with her.”

“Yes.”

“For a week.”

“Yes.”

“Did you deceive her by saying at the time you would marry her later?”

“No, I made no promises.”

“And now—have you offered to marry her?”

“No.”

“I see, So you used her for a few days, ruined her and then offered to buy her off your conscience with money borrowed from Giles Penmar. Did you tell Giles—”

“No.”

“But you went to Giles,” he said. “You didn’t come to me.”

“I couldn’t—I didn’t want to distress you.”

“You’ve distressed me even more by going to Giles. Of course you’ve behaved despicably and I’m ashamed of you and very deeply shocked, but no man is perfect; everyone has faults, makes mistakes … I don’t deny that I’m angry with you, but I am trying hard to understand and forgive. Yet what I find hardest to forgive is not so much your immorality—although that’s bad enough—but your duplicity. You deceived me, lied to me—”

“Only because—”

“—because you had not the courage to confess to such dishonorable behavior! However, I must try not to be too angry with you; the fault must not only be in you but in me as well. I’ve tried hard to be a good father to you and give you a decent upbringing and instill you with certain principles, but I see I’ve failed. I did my best, but obviously my best wasn’t good enough.”

“Don’t say that. Please.” I stood up, still holding Clarissa’s letter. My face was wet with tears. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“It’s true,” he said. “I’ve never been able to understand you. I never understood your mother and I don’t understand you. There’s nothing of me in you, nothing at all. I’ve searched and searched for some spark I could recognize, some likeness I would know, but there’s nothing—even your historical taste is a veneer cultivated by your desire to surpass Nigel in everything you undertake. You’re like your mother. You’re a Penmar. I suppose I’ve really known it in my heart ever since you were born.”

“No!” I shouted. Some terrible all-consuming emotion was making me so weak I could hardly stand. “No, no, no—”

“And you went to Giles,” he said. “You went to Giles. You didn’t come to me. You went to him.”

“Yes, I went to him!” I could hardly speak. I pushed my fists into my eyes like a child trying not to cry. “I went to him because you were the one who mattered and Giles didn’t matter at all—”

“Giles,” he said. “Giles Penmar. He was an unprincipled, dishonorable man. They all were, all those Penmars. They were a wicked, immoral, dissipated family.”

“But I’m not … like them …” I tried to catch the cuff of his jacket, but he turned aside as if he could not endure to look at me. “I’m like you,” I said. “I know it. I know I’m like you. You must believe it. Please say you believe it. Please. Please say it.”

“I’ve tried to believe it,” he said, “but all I know is that I’ve failed.”

And after that there was a silence because there was nothing else to say, I backed away from him, too full of grief even to cry, and blundered out of the room into the hall. Opening the front door, I stumbled outside. It was twilight and a strong wind was blowing a massive formation of black clouds toward the land from the sea.

I began to run. I ran away from the house, across the fields, over the stone walls to the moors, and the wind howled around me as I reached the crest of the ridge. It was dark. The heather scratched my shoes and clawed my trousers, but I went on, my breath coming in sobbing gasps, and all at once, rising eerily into the darkness from the ancient ground, were the stone walls of Chûn Castle.

I stopped for breath. Pushing back my hair, I wiped my face for tears long since dried, and then, straightening my tie, I stumbled downhill into the valley, to the lighted windows of Roslyn Farm.

Lightning flared. The blast of thunder muffled the noise of my fist as I hammered on the back door. Lightning flared again and far away on the skyline to the east I saw the engine house of Ding Dong mine silhouetted for one ghostly moment against that stormy sky.

“Is anyone at home?” I shouted, and as I spoke the door opened an inch and the old crone Griselda poked her nose through the slit to see who I was.

“What do ’ee want?” She regarded me with profound suspicion. “What do ’ee want ’ere with us?”

“Let me in.” I would have pushed her aside but the door was on a chain. “Where’s your mistress?”

Somewhere far away in the lighted room beyond I heard her voice call softly. “Who is it, Griselda?”

The old witch turned her head. “Young Mr. Mark,” she said. I can still hear her say that. She did not say “Mr. Castallack” or even “young Mr. Castallack.” It was “young Mr. Mark.”

“Well, let him in!” said Janna Roslyn, a hint of impatience in her smooth, even voice. “Really, Griselda, need we be so inhospitable?”

The old crone unhooked the chain grumpily and opened the door a few inches wider. I pushed past her into the room.

She was standing by the table. I had not seen her for some time and her poise and beauty struck me so forcibly that it was as if I had not seen her before. As always, she wore black, and at her throat was an old brooch, a cameo set in semi-precious stones. I remember being surprised to see that she was carrying a copy of the Penzance
Tidings
and that I had evidently interrupted her as she perused it. It seemed strange to see even a local newspaper in the possession of the female owner of a remote country farm.

“Good evening, Mr. Castallack,” she said. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Roslyn,” I heard myself say.

It was beginning to rain. Lightning streaked across the landscape outside again and a second later the thunder crashed overhead.

“Griselda,” said Janna, “are the upstairs windows all shut? Now, Annie—” the poor little simpleton of a servant girl was shivering like a dog—“there’s no need to be frightened. The thunder can’t hurt you.” She turned to me. “We’ve just made some tea. Would you care for some?”

“Yes … please. If I may.”

She went to the cupboard, took out an extra cup and saucer and set them on the table. Ink-black tea trickled from the spout of the teapot. “Milk?”

“Yes. A little.”

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

She placed my cup and her own on a tray and took it over to the door. “Would you care to come to the parlor?”

I followed her down the passage to the front room. I felt less numb suddenly, less drained of all strength and energy.

“Please sit down.” She drew the curtains. “Are you chilled? Would you like a fire?”

“No, thank you.”

We sat down, facing each other across the little table. Outside the thunder rolled around the valley again and the rain hurled itself against the window.

“You look very tired, Mr. Castallack,” she said. “Do you feel quite well?”

“Yes, I’m well.”

She looked at me closely as if she half suspected I was drunk, but evidently I satisfied her scrutiny and was judged sober.

“May I ask why you have come to visit me at this hour?”

“Yes,” I said. “You can ask. But I have no answer. I don’t know why I came. Perhaps it was because I had nowhere else to go.”

She sipped her tea. She asked no questions. She merely waited for me to explain myself, but there were no explanations I could offer her, so after a moment I merely asked for lack of anything else to say, “Why do you read the
Tidings
?”

There was a pause. She looked surprised. “Perhaps,” she said at last, “because I am able to.”

I knew then why the paper had looked so odd in her hands. Despite the social legislation of the Seventies most women of her class were still illiterate.

“You went to school?” I said awkwardly at last.

“No.”

“Yet you read.”

“I learned.”

“You must be most gifted if you learned to read without proper instruction.”

“I had some instruction. But not in a school.”

“Oh … and did you receive instruction in other subjects too?”

“Yes, Mr. Castallack,” she said. “I suppose you could put it in that fashion. Reading was only one of the many things I learned when I was younger.”

“In St. Ives?”

“In St. Ives.”

I tasted the tea. It was strong, like a drug. I took another sip. “Why don’t you like St. Ives, Mrs. Roslyn?”

. “Why?” she said. Her eyes were clear, faintly disdainful, faintly amused. “There’s no special reason. I simply became tired of the smell of fish.”

“I see.” Outside the thunder sounded farther away but the rain still beat against the windows. “Yet it’s pleasant to live by the sea,” I said at last. “One day I shall live by the sea, at Penmarric. Did you know that?”

“I … had heard rumors.”

“It’s a big estate. I’m fortunate to have such—how shall I say?—such—”

“Great expectations,” she said, smiling.

“Precisely.” I looked her straight in the eyes. ”I’m glad you know the facts; I wanted to make sure you were fully aware of my position.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because I wanted to ask you if you would marry me, Mrs. Roslyn.”

She stared at me. Her clear eyes were filled with amazement. “Marry you, Mr. Castallack?”

“Marry me, Mrs. Roslyn. Will you?”

She pulled herself together abruptly. I saw her glance at the cup of tea on the table before her as she tried to remember another appropriate literary phrase glimpsed long ago in St. Ives. “Well, Mr. Castallack,” she said carefully, choosing each word with extreme caution, “I am, of course, fully sensible of the honor you have bestowed upon me …”

I tried to remember whether that phrase was from Dickens too. It sounded more like Jane Austen.

“… but unfortunately I fear I must decline your proposal. I’m most grateful but regret that I cannot become your wife.” She smiled at me uneasily. Her eyes were wary.

At last I said, “Wouldn’t you like time to think the matter over? You’ve hardly had time to consider the decision.”

“I’m afraid I need no further time to make up my mind on this particular issue, Mr. Castallack. But thank you nonetheless.”

“May I ask if you have any special reason for reaching your decision?”

“I do not wish to marry again at present. It’s too soon after my husband’s death.”

“Then may I approach you again when—”

“No, Mr. Castallack. Thank you.”

“Is it because I’m too young?”

She hesitated. “Perhaps.”

“Then when I’m older—”

“No, Mr. Castallack. I’m sorry. There can be no question of marriage.”

I stared at her. My hands clasped themselves tightly and were still. I had no thought in my mind except that I wanted to spend the night in bed with her yet could not.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. But it can’t be. I’m sorry.”

“It can be,” I said, “
and it shall be
.” I stood up. “I apologize for intruding on your time in this fashion, Mrs. Roslyn. I must ask you to excuse me.” I moved toward the door.

She was startled. “You’re going?”

“Yes. I’ve already outstayed my welcome.”

“But it’s still raining! Won’t you at least stay until the storm has passed?”

“No, I must leave. At once. Excuse me.” I moved blindly out into the hall and fumbled with the fastenings on the front door.”

“Good night, Mr. Castallack.” She sounded ill-at-ease still. “Thank you for calling.”

“Good night, Mrs. Roslyn,” I said, unable to look at her, and stepped out into the wind and rain and darkness outside.

The door closed.

I stood still, breathing quickly, the useless tears pricking my eyelids again, and as another flash of lightning illuminated the valley I saw the engine house once more on the skyline, the stone tower of Ding Dong mine. Thunder vibrated far away toward Penzance and Marazion. Rain slewed across my face like the lashes of a puny whip. Turning at last, I stumbled through the darkness to the back of the house and began my hard climb up the hillside to the windswept walls of Chûn.

When I arrived home my father was gone and there was no sign of him.

“He saddled his horse,” said Mrs. Mannack, “and went off looking for you. Terrible worried he were. I told him there was a storm coming up but he took no notice. ‘Never mind the storm,’ he says. He looked in a terrible worried state.”

I was stricken with horror and remorse. “But which way did he go?”