Penmarric (48 page)

“Ah, good afternoon, Rebecca!” called the rector. “More cheese from Deveral Farm? How kind of your mother to remember us!”

“There was a chicken too,” said the girl, “and some bantams’ eggs. I’ve just given them all to Cook.” She spoke carefully, as if she were for some reason listening to herself, and as she spoke she glanced fleetingly in my direction. When the rector introduced us I could see at once that she remembered me.

“How do you do, Miss Roslyn,” I said, stammering a little.

“How do you do, Mr. Parrish.” She looked around as if she did not expect me to have come to the rectory alone, and presently she asked, “Where’s your friend?”

“You mean the boy I was with when we saw each other by Carn Kenidjack last Easter? That’s my cousin Hugh Castallack. He’s not with me today.”

“I see,” she said and seemed to lose interest. I was just feeling inexplicably disappointed when Jan-Yves and William reappeared after their walk, Alice brought out some lemonade and we all sat down on the lawn to enjoy the sunshine and the languid summer air.

William, I noted enviously, began a conversation with Rebecca without any difficulty at all. They talked of Morvah, where she lived, and then of Penzance.

“I’m at a small boarding school there,” said the girl, and I noticed again her trick of speaking too precisely as if she were in elocution class. “It’s horrid. Dad didn’t want me to go but Mama thought I should learn how to embroider tablecloths and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in French.”

The word “Dad” struck a jarring note in her carefully phrased speech and made me remember that her father was a farmer.

“Don’t you enjoy being with other girls of your own age?” said the rector kindly.

“Not particularly. Most of them are snobs and I don’t like them.”

“I don’t like girls either,” said Jan-Yves at once. “Whenever we go to the beach I kick down all the sand castles that belong to girls.”

“I must commission Elizabeth to knock down a few of yours one day,” said William and glanced at his watch. “Well, sir, I think we’d best be returning to Penmarric—”

“Oh, William, we must stay to tea!” exclaimed Alice. “Cookie’s made a special cake! Do let’s stay.”

In the end we all stayed and had a pleasant tea party on the lawn. It was the girl who moved first. She picked up her basket and scrambled to her feet.

“I must go,” she said. “Dad’ll be furious if I’m late for tea.”

“But you’ve just had tea!” protested Jan-Yves, and then added enviously, “But he doesn’t know that. I see. You’re going to get two teas instead of one just by keeping quiet.”

She laughed. “I meant high tea! Supper! Dinner—whatever you want to call it.” She turned to the rector. “Thanks very much for the tea, Mr. Barnwell. Thanks for the lemonade, Alice.”

“Look, I’ll tell you what, Miss Roslyn,” said William. “We’ll give you a lift home. There’s plenty of room in the car and we’ll be driving home via Morvah anyway.”

“No, please, don’t bother—”

“Good gracious, it’s no trouble at all. It’ll save you a long walk and make sure you’re not late for your evening meal.”

“It’s all right, Rebecca,” said Alice. “We can drop you at the end of the lane.”

“Could you? I wouldn’t want Dad to think—”

“I know,” said Alice and turned to say goodbye to her grandfather.

Presently we all climbed into the car. The hood was down; I sat on the back seat with Jan-Yves on my right and Rebecca on my left while Alice sat in the front with William. After Jan-Yves had elbowed himself enough room in which to bounce up and down behind William’s shoulders and yell encouragement into his ear I found myself sitting rather too close to Rebecca. She did not seem to mind. I was uneasily aware of her thigh, warm and firm, being pressed against my leg, and when I stole a glance at the rest of her body I could not help noticing certain aspects of her figure beneath the childish gingham dress. I began to feel too hot. In an effort to turn my thoughts elsewhere I tried to concentrate on the scenery and take an intelligent interest in the conversation.

“How are your Roslyn cousins, Rebecca?” Alice was inquiring. “How are all the girls?”

”They’re well, thank you. Patience is still walking out with Will Pryde. They’ve been walking out over two years now.”

“Walking out where?” said Jan-Yves.

“It’s a phrase meaning ‘partaking of each other’s company with a possible view to getting married,” said William. “Don’t interrupt.”

“Charity wants to go into service at Gurnards Grange but Uncle Jared won’t let her because young Mr. Peter Waymark’s reputation is supposed to be …” She stopped and I saw she and William were looking at each other in the driving mirror.

“Go on!” William laughed. “I won’t tell Peter!”

“Well …”Rebecca was confused. “Since Charity is a little flighty … Do you know my cousin Charity Roslyn, Mr. Parrish?”

“No, but she sounds most interesting. Is she as pretty as you are?”

They looked at each other in the mirror again and the girl gave an exquisite blush.

“Do keep your eyes on the road William,” said Alice irritably. “I don’t want to end up in a field.”

“Simon Peter still suffers from asthma,” said Rebecca in a rush as if to draw a veil over William’s compliment, and I heard the Cornish lilt creep into her voice as she forgot her elocution lessons. She added, more to Jan-Yves than to me: “That’s my youngest Roslyn cousin. He’s nine, but you wouldn’t think it because he’s so small and sickly.”

“I shall be seven next month,” said Jan-Yves. “And I’m never ill.”

“Poor little Simon Peter,” said Alice, absently. “Such a shame. All those eight sisters of his are such healthy strapping girls too. Perhaps he’ll be stronger when he grows up.”

The car surmounted the ridge and ran slowly downhill into the parish of Morvah. The village lay half a mile below us, its tiny church basking in the late afternoon light, and beyond the village the fields stretched to the cliffs and the sea. It was a perfect summer day.

“This is fun!” said Rebecca suddenly. “I’ve never been in a motorcar before. It’s much more exciting than a pony-trap. I wish …” She stopped.

I looked at her. She was staring at the road ahead and her face was white.

Alice said abruptly, “Pull up here, William, and let Rebecca out.”

“No!” cried Rebecca and ducked down behind the seat so that the soft curving front of her body was pressed against my thighs. “Drive on to the village! Don’t stop! If he sees me get out of a motorcar—”

“He’s seen you,” said Alice. “You were too late. He’s waving his stick.”

I was so absorbed in the embarrassing physical sensations which Rebecca’s posture aroused in me that for a moment I was too dazed to realize what was happening. In confusion I glanced around to discover the cause of all the fuss. William had halted the car by this time, and I now saw that he had had no choice in the matter; ahead of us, parked firmly in the middle of the road, was a thin, wiry farmer in his forties with scanty graying hair and bright angry blue eyes. As the car engine idled uneasily he moved, striding toward us and waving his big stick.

“Who is it?” Jan-Yves was hissing. “What does he want? Who is he?”

“My uncle Joss,” said Alice grimly. “What bad luck, Rebecca! Is there anything we can say to explain—”

“No,” Rebecca was fumbling with the door handle, but William had already sprung out and was moving swiftly around the bonnet to open the door for her.

Alice leaned forward. “Good afternoon, Uncle Joss! We were just giving Rebecca a lift back from the rectory. Do you know Mr. William Parrish, the bailiff at Penmarric?”

The man turned on Rebecca. “What did I tell you?” he shouted at her. “Didn’t I tell you that if you ever so much as looked at any of them bloody Castallacks, I’d—”

“Please, Uncle Joss,” said Alice. “Let me take the blame. It was I who encouraged Rebecca to accept the lift. I—”

“You be quiet!” He swung around again on his daughter. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I?”

Rebecca said stiffly, “Mr. Parrish isn’t one of them, Dad. He’s just the bailiff.”

“Bailiff! You know well enough who he is, my girl, and don’t you go a-standing there and telling me you don’t know it as well as all Morvah, Zillan and St. Just knows it? He’s as much a Castallack as that ugly little brat in the back seat!”

“I don’t know what you mean, Dad.”

“Christ Almighty, girl, you’ve been born and bred on a farm—don’t give yourself such airs and graces! Don’t try and tell me you don’t know what I mean!”

“I’m sorry, Dad. Honest. I didn’t mean no harm.” She was trembling. I was just thinking I would jump out of the car myself to defend her from any more of this monstrous onslaught when William said politely, I’m sorry you should take such exception to your daughter’s conduct, Mr. Roslyn. May I confirm what Alice has said and repeat that the fault is ours and not Miss Roslyn’s? She did in fact decline the lift at first, but we persuaded her to accompany us against her wishes. Miss Roslyn, I apologize for causing you so much distress and embarrassment. Please forgive us. Good day, Mr. Roslyn.” And he turned his back on the man without another word and walked briskly around to the driving seat.

“Don’t you come near my girl again!” yelled the man after us as William released the brake. “You leave her alone!”

We drove on downhill into Morvah.

Jan-Yves kept saying, “Who was he? Why was he so horrible? What did he mean? Why doesn’t he like us?”

”I’m terribly sorry, William,” Alice said as we turned west toward St. Just. “I do apologize.”

“My dear Alice, what on earth for? It wasn’t your fault.”

“But he was so abominably rude—”

“Good gracious me!” said William blandly. “I’m not going to get upset about some nonsense which an ill-tempered Cornish farmer yelled at me on a nice peaceful July afternoon! I couldn’t care less. What does it matter anyway? We all know he’s an unpleasant man with a fanatical grudge against the Castallacks. I’m sorry for Rebecca, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll give the poor girl a terrible time.”

“William,” said Jan-Yves. “William, I don’t understand. What did he mean when he said—”

“He was just being rude, Jan-Yves. He has a grudge against us. The best thing to do is to forget the whole scene ever happened.”

“But what did he mean when he said—William, are you a Castallack? Isn’t your name Parrish after all?”

“For goodness’ sake!” I burst out, maddened by his persistence. “Can’t you stop asking questions?”

“But he said—”

“Yes, he did,” said William. “No, my name’s not Castallack, Jan-Yves, but since you ask you might as well know the truth. I don’t believe in hiding things from children. I’m not your cousin. I’m your brother, your half-brother. We had the same father but different mothers.”

“William!” I shouted at him. I could not bear Alice to hear. The whole scene was suddenly a nightmare. “Shut up, William, shut up—”

“It’s all right,” said William. “Alice hears gossip just as everyone else does. I’m sure she knows anyway.”

“But …” I could not go on. I sat back in the seat in misery and screwed my eyes tight shut so that I could not see Alice’s face.

But I still heard her voice. She said, “Please, Adrian, don’t be upset. It doesn’t matter to me in the least.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jan-Yves with intelligent precision. “This is very peculiar. Wasn’t Papa married to your mother?”

“No. That’s why our name isn’t Castallack.”

“I see,” said Jan-Yves, satisfied. “Like Bella the kitchen maid and Davey the stable boy. How nice! I
am
glad! I knew you were too good to be just a cousin.”

And he sat back comfortably in the seat and began to pester William with questions about Joss Roslyn.

As soon as we arrived back at Penmarric I went to my room and locked myself in. I felt exhausted and miserable. First there had been the ordeal of seeing Mrs. Castallack in church, and then, as if that were not enough for one day, I had had to endure that humiliating scene with Joss Roslyn. As I slumped on my bed in weariness my only thought was: How could Papa ever think that illegitimacy isn’t a handicap? And I began to long hopelessly for Allengate and for my mother.

I tried to visualize the future. Perhaps when I went up to Oxford Papa would allow me to spend my vacations either at my rooms there or at the townhouse in London, but the beginning of my first term at Oxford was still more than two years away. Until October 1914 there was nothing I could do but tolerate as best as I could the interested stares, the gossiping whispers and all the miseries inflicted on me by my being obliged to live at Penmarric. But in 1914 I would be free; in 1914 I could begin again with a clean slate in new surroundings. Impatience overwhelmed me. Seizing pencil and paper, I drew up an enormous calendar, just as Philip had done long ago at Allengate, and hung it on the wall so that I could cross off the days.

They agreed upon a marriage between Henry’s eldest daughter, Matilda, and Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria… As the King’s eldest daughter she was provided with a magnificent outfit.

—Henry II,

JOHN T. APPLEBY

Geoffrey was the favourite bastard of the Old King… Though his life was passed in quarrels he was personally devout and even chaste, a virtue very rare in a Plantagenet.

—The Devil’s Brood,

ALFRED DUGGAN

I
T WAS THE AUGUST
of 1912. Far away at the other end of Europe trouble was brewing in the Balkans, but not even Alice could summon much interest in the squabbles of such remote and barbaric peoples. At home the endless succession of labor strikes seemed to have subsided at last; Ireland had become troubled again, but since Ireland was perpetually troubled this was hardly a novel item of news, and although there was a bill afoot to broaden the franchise (much to Alice’s satisfaction) I privately thought it had no hope of being passed by the ultraconservative House of Lords even if it did manage to survive a vote in the Commons. In short it seemed an unexciting time of the year, and unable to divert myself from my private problems by studying a series of absorbing issues at home and abroad, I was reluctantly obliged to confront the approaching spectacle of Mariana’s elaborate society wedding.