Authors: Susan Howatch
John had at last married Isabel de Clare, heiress of the great Honour of Gloucester; though his nickname of Lackland stuck to him for life … he was now one of the greatest landholders in the west.
—The Devil’s Brood,
ALFRED DUGGAN
Richard tried a balancing act with possible rivals to the throne … John and his nephew Arthur—Geoffrey of Brittany’s son. The late 12th century had not made up its mind about rules of inheritance and both had a good claim… The trouble with balancing acts is that they only work if everyone in the act does his share of preserving the balance.
—King John,
W. L. WARREN
O
F COURSE EVERYONE FELT
so sorry for Philip.
Even I felt sorry for him. While all England and the journalists of the world lavished well-deserved sympathy on the widows and orphans of the disaster, everyone in the surrounding parishes thought also of Philip. The mine was the great cause for which he had fought all his life; every man who died could be counted as his friend, and among the men who had died was Alun Trevose.
Philip’s grief must have been unendurable. I myself was so appalled by the tragedy and so stunned by the loss of so many men who were well-known to me that I was moved to offer him as much sympathy as I could put into words.
But he didn’t want my sympathy. “There are others worse off than I am,” he said, not letting me finish, and immediately bent all his enormous reserves of energy toward fostering a national fund for the widows and orphans and calling on each bereaved family to make sure there was no needless want to aggravate their suffering.”
I saw him then in a new light. I had thought him selfish and utterly egocentric, but now I saw him care only for others; the bereaved turned to him in their grief and somehow he had the strength to comfort them. Previously I had thought him so hard and cold that I had doubted whether he could ever be emotionally affected by a tragedy; I had never seen him weep, never seen him betray the slightest distress at a funeral. Now I saw that he did indeed suffer, and his suffering was the harder for him because of this same superhuman self-control on which I’ve no doubt he prided himself so pitifully.
Felicity very decently offered to come with me to the memorial service, and although there was no need for her to be present I accepted her offer with relief. A shared ordeal is always less harrowing than an ordeal faced alone, but even with Felicity at my side it was still a harrowing occasion. The famous English stiff upper lip has never been a virtue of mine, and I find grief so infectious that my emotional response to it never fails to embarrass me.
After that it was several days before I saw Philip again; evidently he had found some solitary spot where he could lick his wounds like some dignified golden lion after a savage battle for survival. I was just wondering if I ought to call at Penmarric to see if either he or Helena needed my help when I received a telephone call from none other than Philip himself.
He sounded as abrupt and offhand as he usually did, but to my surprise asked me to have a drink with him at Penmarric the following evening. Helena, he told me, would be spending the evening at Polzillan House; Felicity wasn’t invited; we would be alone.
“There’s something I want to discuss with you,” he added curtly. “Come at six-thirty, will you?” And with a touch of characteristic arrogance he replaced the receiver before I could say a word in reply.
When I dutifully arrived at Penmarric at the appointed hour I was so nervous I nearly drove my car up the steps to the front door. Medlyn pursed his lips in disapproval as he watched from the threshold, but then gave his unctuous smile as he showed me into the library.
Philip was there waiting for me. He looked better. The lines of pain were still deeply etched about his mouth, but his eyes were less tired and his hands were steady. He was drinking orange juice.
“Sit down,” he said. “What will you drink? Whisky?”
My nerves stretched a fraction tighter as I sat down and pretended to relax. “Fine,” I said cheerfully, “Thanks.”
“Forgive me for not drinking with you but I feel I’ve consumed enough alcohol in the past few days to last a lifetime.”
We settled ourselves, facing each other across the hearth. There was a pause. By this time I was convinced that his brush with death had made him think about his will with the result that he had decided to discuss with me my position as his heir. However, despite my excitement and my nervous anticipation I assumed my most tranquil expression and forced myself to wait for him to begin.
He inhaled from his cigarette, shook out the match. He was in no hurry. He was master of Penmarric, master of the situation. He could do as he pleased.
I went on waiting, detesting him for keeping me in suspense, and at last he said idly as if the news were of no concern to me, “I’ve been making plans for the future.”
There was a pause. “Oh?” I said politely.
“Yes, I don’t intend to go on living here exactly as if nothing’s happened. I’ve decided to go away. I’m leaving Penmarric.”
“Leaving!”
“Yes, I’ve decided to go to the tin mines of the Rockies and work in Canada for a while.”
“Canada!” I began to wonder if my hearing were in some way afflicted. I could hardly believe I had heard him correctly.
“Well, what do you expect me to do with myself each day if I stay in Cornwall? Walk along the cliffs past the dead mines of the Cornish Tin Coast? Go to the pub in St. Just in the evenings when I know none of my friends will be there to meet me? Later, perhaps, when my mind has fully accepted the disaster, but not now. Now all I want is to get away.”
This time I was too dumfounded to speak. My fingers wound themselves tightly around my glass and interlocked with one another.
“I’ll come back, of course,” he said casually. “I’m going to give myself three years. If I dislike the life there I may come home before then, but three years is the target I set for myself.”
“But my God, Philip!” I exclaimed, suddenly finding my tongue. “What the devil are you going to say to Mama? How on earth are you going to break the news to her?”
He raised his eyebrows. “My dear Jan-Yves,” he said with an ironic, drawl that reminded me instantly of our father, “if you think Mama is the type of woman to have hysterics simply because I intend to go abroad for three years, then it’s obvious you don’t know Mama. I shall break the news to her tonight and I’ve no doubt that when she understands why I’m going she’ll make no attempt to stop me.” And before I could think of anything to say in reply he added abruptly, “While we’re on the subject of Mama, let me say that I shall be relying on you to call on her at least once a week while I’m away. Will you promise me you’ll call every week and look after her properly?”
“Yes, of course—good heavens, Philip, I think you might at least trust me to look after my own mother! I’m sorry I haven’t been calling on her lately, but I’ve been occupied with other matters.”
“Yes,” he said coldly. “I’ve noticed the time you spend at Morvah with our sister-in-law.”
“There’s one other point that bothers me in regard to Mama and that’s this business of Adrian replacing old Barnwell as rector of Zillan. Have you heard about that yet? I had a letter from Adrian this morning and assumed he wrote to William by the same post but perhaps you haven’t spoken to William today. Apparently the appointment’s still only tentative, but Adrian’s angling for a transfer from his Oxford parish more for Barnwell’s sake than for his own. Barnwell’s so old now and anxious to retire, but he doesn’t want to leave the rectory where he’s lived for the last fifty years or the neighborhood where he’s spent most of his life. Rather than share the house with a stranger he fancied the idea of sharing it with Adrian. He always did have a soft spot for Adrian, if you remember.”
“Did Adrian agree to this? Won’t it interfere with his career?”
“Adrian didn’t agree to it. He suggested it himself as soon as he heard of Barnwell’s predicament and wouldn’t take no for an answer, when Barnwell said he’d be better off at Oxford. You know how noble and high-minded Adrian is. He can never resist the opportunity to do a good deed, and besides I don’t suppose he’ll be at Zillan for long; Barnwell can’t last forever, and he must be nearly ninety by now.”
I was silent, thinking of my younger half-brother. I had always been somewhat jealous of him because he had such large place in William’s affections, but I admired his intellect and liked him for his human weaknesses if not for his inhuman virtues. Since the war he had started to smoke too much and had developed a passion for cars. Whenever he came to Cornwall for a visit he always had to have a joy ride in my Hispano, and part of the legacy my father had left him had been spent on a decorous little Ford. He pretended he needed a car on account of a leg wound suffered during the war, but I, knew better. I knew a fellow car fiend when I met one. He was unmarried and quite inhuman enough not only to preach chastity but practice it also; however, I suspected he might have had a fling or two up at Oxford before he had decided to become a clergyman, for I could still remember him blushing on the rectory lawn when the two of us had first met Rebecca, and I knew that unlike Philip he did find women attractive.
“He wrote to me because he was worried about Mama being one of his future parishioners,” Philip was saying idly. “He asked me if I would broach the subject with her and said he would understand if she didn’t want him to call and chose to go to church at St. Just after his appointment. I must say I thought it was good of him to consider her feelings.”
“What’s Mama’s reaction?”
“I don’t know yet. I wasn’t able to go over to the farm today to discuss it with her. But if she wants to go to St. Just to church in the future I hope you’ll take it upon yourself to drive her over in the car every Sunday.”
“I’ll certainly make some arrangements for her transportation,” I said evasively. If Adrian was going to be rector of Zillan I wanted to hear his sermons and see how he conducted a service. I enjoyed my weekly visits to church. I had a fondness for the ritual and tradition, of a service apart from my intellectual curiosity relating to religion, and in my youth I believe I might have made a good convert to Roman Catholicism; however, no one had tried to convert me in my youth, and once I was past adolescence I found I had an ungodly aversion to confessing my sins to a celibate priest.
“It’s tiresome about Adrian coming to Zillan,” Philip was saying, “but it can’t be helped. Of course Mama won’t want him to call. If there’s any awkwardness I trust you’ll step in and act as mediator… Now let me tell you about the other arrangements I’ve been making for the future. First of all, I’ve made up my mind that none of my family—except Mama—is to have any part in running Penmarric while I’m away. It’s much safer and much easier for all concerned, and avoids all risks of unpleasantness in the event of anything going wrong. I’d already made up my mind anyway to fire William, so—”
“Fire William! But—”
“Yes, I’ve thought for some time that he doesn’t run the estate efficiently enough, and I was hoping that perhaps your father-in-ļaw might employ him at Carnforth Hall—I remember you told me that the bailiff there is so old he can hardly mount his horse. As for Penmarric, I’m putting it in the hands of a trained professional—you know Smithson, who’s been bailiff at Menherion Castle? Well, now that Francis St. Enedoc’s selling the castle to that hotel company Smithson will be out of a job, so I thought I’d offer him the position here. Francis says he’s loyal, hardworking, honest, efficient and all the rest of it, so I think that should turn out to be the best solution. Now, I—”
“Just a minute,” I said. The shock that William was to be fired was bad enough; the news that Smithson was to replace him was even worse. “I know Smithson. He’s a drab little man with a face like a weasel and a north-country accent you could cut with a knife. I can’t imagine anyone less likely to be popular with a bunch of Cornish tenant farmers. Look, Philip, if you want someone to run the estate for you I’m sure I could do a more than efficient job—”
“I dare say you could,” said Philip, very bland, “but as I’ve just told you, I don’t want any of my family at Penmarric while I’m away. I think it much safer for all concerned to leave the estate in the hands of a hired professional.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m not even to set foot in Penmarric while you’re away?”
“It’s for your own protection. Then if anything goes wrong I can’t possibly blame you.”
“But surely someone should call to see that Smithson isn’t stepping out of line—someone should inspect the accounts! You surely can’t expect Helena to cope with that!”
“Helena’s returning to Polzillan House,” said Philip coolly, “since if I go off to Canada alone we can hardly pretend our marriage is anything but a failure. However, I’m retaining the housekeeper and a skeleton staff, and Mama and Michael Vincent will have a power of attorney and keep an eye on all the accounts. I’ve asked Michael to send Simon Peter Roslyn over once a month to look into estate matters.”
“Simon Peter Roslyn!” I was stupefied.
“Yes, he said he knew you at Oxford. I didn’t realize he was a friend of yours.”
“Hardly a friend,” I said. “I saw him once or twice and had a drink with him, but he was one of those hard-working grammar-school boys up on scholarships—all work and no play. Besides, he’s older than I am. He was in his third year when I was a freshman.” Simon Peter Roslyn was Rebecca’s first cousin, the only son of her father’s brother Jared. He was a pale, intense young man, very boring, who had an immense capacity for hard work, a fanatical devotion to left-wing politics and no interest in the more lighthearted pursuits of the majority of undergraduates. “He got a good degree in law, I believe,” I said, “but of course only the grammar-school boys go up to Oxford with the idea that all one does there is to study
ad infinitum.
However, I believe he did well.”
“He’s doing well in Michael’s firm,” said Philip casually. “I believe Michael might make him a partner one day. He’s been an assistant solicitor for two years now and has made quite a name for himself.”