Authors: Rachel Hore
Pearl shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Who then? Who? You’ve got to tell me,’ said Jenna, ‘so I can help you. I’ll think about what to do. Listen, there are ways, you know, if you don’t want it.’ She stopped. ‘It wasn’t one o’ Boase’s men?’
‘No.’ Pearl formed Charles’s name in her mouth but couldn’t bring herself to utter it. It would make it real. But in the end she didn’t need to say it. She staggered upright and went to her chest of drawers, pulling open the top drawer and sliding out her sketchbook. She turned the pages until she came to the picture of Charles, asleep in the studio.
After a long moment, Jenna nodded slowly, recognition and anger dawning in her eyes. She dropped her hands from Pearl’s arms and said savagely, ‘So it’s him. Only painting, you said. That’s what you were up to all the time. You must of thought I was daft.’
‘It’s not what you think. I
have
been painting. This . . . it hasn’t been going on for long,’ Pearl cried. ‘And we were careful.’
‘You’re a fool, you know that? A fool. Look, I’ll think about what you can do. If it’s not that long, maybe it’ll go by itself. Sometimes they do, you know. But you mustn’t tell anybody. Anybody, you hear? Not yet, leastways.’
‘Cook,’ Pearl whispered in panic. What would happen if Aunt Dolly guessed? Would she go straight to the mistress? And what about Cecily? She might be too young to interpret the evidence, but she might have seen or heard something that, if she repeated it to anyone . . .
‘Cook don’t need to know yet, though she might guess, she don’t miss much. Listen, I’ll tell her it’s the guts ache. Have you been sick?’
‘No, but it feels bad all the time, like I’m going to.’
‘Stay up here for a bit then. I’ll tell her it’s your guts.’
An hour later, still dizzy but slightly less nauseous, Pearl had hidden her sketchbook away, this time in the wall cupboard she had found behind her bed, crept downstairs and gone back to her tasks. Mrs Roberts regarded her with a thoughtful look in her eye but, for the moment, seemed to accept Jenna’s explanation of a stomach-ache. ‘Keep away from the food or you’ll give it to the rest of us,’ was her only comment.
Pearl turned Jenna’s words over in her mind.
Do something about it
. That meant get rid of it. She had heard stories. Jenna had told her that her mother had deliberately miscarried a baby once before her father became so ill. Even then they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed.
But perhaps, just perhaps it would work out. She would go away with Charles after all . . .
‘I reckon I’m having a baby,’ she whispered to him now.
‘What?’ he said, the arm dropping from her shoulder. ‘
What?
’
‘I’m having a baby.’ It became more horribly real as she said it. Suddenly she saw it all clearly. She couldn’t stay. She would lose her position. What would happen to her then? She didn’t know for sure, but they’d likely send her away, take the baby from her and she would have to start again somewhere else. Whichever way she looked at it, she would have to leave Merryn, this place which had become home, where she was happy. How could she have thrown that happiness away?
‘Are you sure?’ he hissed. ‘How can you be? We tried . . .’
‘I know,’ she cried out. ‘But it didn’t work, did it? And now we’ll have to go away.’
Charles leaped to his feet, and she had to snatch at the coat to stop it falling. Then he sat down again and she heard him rake his nails across his bristly jaw in the darkness and sigh.
‘Pearl? Pearl! I’ll skin you. Where is the girl when I need her?’ Mrs Roberts’s voice carried out across the garden, half-snatched away by the wind.
‘I must go,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ His voice was dull.
She stood up, letting the coat fall, and turned to him, leaning her knees against his. His arms encircled her and he pulled her towards him, burying his face in her abdomen. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he breathed. ‘I’m sorry.’
She wrapped her arms around his head, rubbing her cheek against his silky hair, the part of him she loved most, his beautiful hair and his vulnerable mouth. She forced his head up towards her now and kissed that mouth, tasting salt and a faint, masculine hint of smoke. Her womb contracted with desire and she gasped as a tender pain rushed through her breasts.
‘Can I see you on Sunday?’ she said, releasing him. The stable studio was freezing cold now, but Charles had rigged up an oil heater there. They could only work until the daylight faded.
‘Pearl? Where in God’s name . . .?’ Jago’s voice now. Pearl felt her way back through the laurels up to the lawn, where the soft oil lights from the house picked out the path. By the Flower Garden, she stumbled. Suddenly a black shape loomed, a hand reached out, catching her. Jago? No.
‘Whoa, girl.’ Mr Boase then, steadying her as he might a frightened pony. A basket bumped against her hip; she inhaled the rich smells of earth and vegetable and her gorge rose.
‘Here, take these with you,’ he said. ‘You came to ask me, remember?’
‘What?’
‘Tell them you were waiting for these,’ he said.
She grasped his meaning and took the basket, calmer now. ‘Oh. Yes. Thank you,’ moved past him and hurried across to the Hall.
‘Where you been, girl?’ said Jago roughly from the scullery doorway, then his lamplight fell on the basket of potatoes.
‘Who asked you to get them?’ said Cook from the stove, as they walked into the steam-filled kitchen. ‘Though come to think, a few more will be useful.’
‘We can go away. I can’t stay, can I?’ Her voice rose, shaky.
‘Pearl, listen to me. We cannot go away together. Don’t you see? We have no money to go gallivanting off abroad.’
‘But what do I do?’ Pearl, trembling, tearful, stared into the dusty chaos of paper and cloth and canvas on the floor of the studio as though seeing her own future.
And the mermaid. Where has the mermaid gone?
Someone had searched her possessions – not Jenna, it couldn’t have been Jenna. Jenna was her friend.
Charles stood at the heater, his back turned to Pearl. ‘Can’t you get rid of it?’ he said.
She stared at him, startled. ‘I’ve tried,’ she muttered. ‘Nothing’s worked yet.’
On Wednesday, Jenna had escaped home and collected a brew of herbs under her mother’s instructions. She had given the infusion to Pearl late that night, but all that had happened was that Pearl had been very sick.
‘There are other ways,’ Jenna said the next morning as she mopped her friend’s sweating brow, ‘but we couldn’t do them without Cook or someone else noticing. Shall we wait and see what happens – or tell her?’
‘Wait,’ moaned Pearl, shivering violently as she tried to pull on her dress . ‘Thank God she’s going off to market this morning.’
‘Isn’t there some doctor who could do something?’ Charles said now, desperation in his voice.
‘What?’
‘To get rid of it.’
‘Is that all you and Jenna can think of, getting rid of it?’ she said, suddenly stubborn. ‘It’s a baby. Our baby.’
‘It isn’t, it can’t be – don’t you see, Pearl?’ He almost spat the words at her.
‘See what? We could go away . You could get a job, couldn’t you?’ We could marry , get a home together, she wanted to say, but hadn’t the strength to spell it out.
‘Pearl, I can’t. The Careys, they’d throw me out. And who would give me a decent job if . . .’ He didn’t need to say the words. If he were with her, married to her. A black rage engulfed her.
‘So it’s come to that, has it? ’ She staggered to her feet now, proud, confronting him. ‘All your talk about being equal, all those things your friend Kernow says – I’ve heard you. It means nothing, does it? Nothing. I’m not good enough for you, is what it comes down to.’
‘Pearl . . .’
‘So why have you given me so much hope, taught me to do this? ’ She snatched up a sketch from the rolls on the floor and ripped it across. “You can be a painter, Pearl. We can do it together”, you said. “My friends will help”, you said. But they haven’t, have they? I don’t think you’ve even asked them.’
‘I have ,’ Charles said. ‘But what can they do, really? You’re . . .’
He broke off and turned away.
‘Just a servant!’ she shouted. ‘Go on, say it, just a servant. Well, I am just a servant. But I thought I counted with you, that you were different. That you . . . well, that you loved me.’
‘I do love you,’ said Charles , clutching at her and imprisoning her with one desperate movement. She shoved him away. ‘But it isn’t a big enough love. It is not a love that conquers all things, like it says in the Bible. You won’t sacrifice anything for me, will you? Nothing at all. So damn all your big ideas about changing the world. You’re the same as all the others. No, you’re worse than them . You’ve made me hope. And now you’re throwing it all back at me.’
‘I’ll give you money, Pearl. I don’t have much, but I’ll give you what I’ve got. Look.’ He delved into the inside pocket of his jacket and held out some notes. ‘Take this now and there’ll be more. I’ll get it from somewhere. Don’t say anything to anybody yet, please. I’ll think . . .’
I curse your money, she opened her mouth to say, but something in her head said,
Take it – what else will you have?
The voice sounded remarkably like her stepmother’s.
She snatched the notes, eyes blazing, and it gave her some slight satisfaction to see him flinch.
My sister is an artist
. Boase’s words rang in Mel’s head as she steered the car back down the unmade lane and joined the narrow road that wound its way across the desolate countryside to Lamorna. The more she thought about the revelation, the more she was gripped by a sense of rightness. Pearl herself had not managed to fulfil her ambition, but the granddaughter she never met somehow had. And, even better, Ann Boase – she used her maiden name – had more of her grandmother’s pictures. Suddenly Pearl’s whole story was opening up. Mel must organise a trip to London as soon as she could.
London. Another thought arose unbidden. Here she was at the end of July, the start of term only – what – seven, eight, weeks away?
Too far away to think about
. But it wasn’t really. She and Patrick would have to talk about it sometime. She would make him.
The holiday traffic on the main road slowed her down and by the time she arrived back at the Gardener’s Cottage it was late afternoon. Making herself a mug of tea, she took it outside to sit in the sunshine. Because the air was thrumming with the distant sound of holiday traffic, she didn’t pick out the well-mannered engine of a Mercedes purring up the front drive of Merryn Hall.
A man’s voice – deep, confident – called, ‘Hello?’ and she watched him come round the side of the cottage, one hand shading his eyes against the sun.
She stood up, wondering who he was. He was well-dressed in an expensive-looking jacket and trousers, polished brown brogues. Fiftyish, she guessed, noting the greying dark hair well receded from his handsome forehead. Someone Patrick knew, she supposed.
‘Can I help?’ she said.
‘Sorry to trespass, but just thought I’d check. I was looking for Mr Winterton, and I didn’t get any answer from the house.’
‘He should be back from the office any minute.’
The man looked slightly bemused. ‘The office?’ he said. ‘I imagined he was retired, somehow.’
‘No . . .’ she said uncertainly. ‘Look, are you sure I can’t help? My name is Melanie Pentreath.’
‘The name’s Weldon. Greg Weldon.’ He put out his hand. A faint bell began to ring in Mel’s head. Was he a friend of Patrick’s? Had Patrick mentioned him? His forehead was glistening with perspiration. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face.
‘Have you come far?’
‘London. Started early this morning.’
‘Look, I’ll get you a drink while you wait. Patrick shouldn’t be long. I’m a friend of his, by the way.’
He opted for ginger beer and sat with her in the garden.
‘I hadn’t thought of Mr Winterton still working. He had been described to me as elderly.’
‘Oh,’ said Mel, with a flash of understanding. ‘The old man. Were you looking for Val Winterton?’
‘Is that his name, Val? You said Patrick just now.’
‘Yes, Patrick lives here now. He inherited the house from Val. Didn’t you know? Val died last year.’
‘Ah.’ The man looked anxious.
‘I’m sorry if it’s a shock,’ Mel said, wondering who on earth this man was and why he didn’t know about Val. ‘Did you know him well?’ He couldn’t have done if he didn’t even know Val’s first name.
‘Er, no, not at all. In fact, it’s not really a Winterton I was looking for. It’s my wife.’
‘Your
wife
?’ Suddenly she remembered where she had heard the name Greg recently. Irina.
‘And my daughter. Are they still here? Irina and Lana?’
Mel’s hand went to the pendant at her neck. Her face must have betrayed her unease, because he said in a low, urgent voice, ‘You do know them, don’t you?’
‘I – er.’ What should she say? ‘I – yes.’ The truth would be simplest.
‘Where are they? Do they still live here? Please tell me.’
‘How do you know they came here?’ she blurted out, playing for time.
Greg Weldon regarded her as though assessing how much she knew. He seemed to decide to play it safe. ‘Oh, she has written to me. She might have told you, we are . . . separated. But I have to talk to her. It’s three years since I’ve seen my child. Do they still live here?’
‘No,’ admitted Mel. At least that part of the truth didn’t endanger Irina. ‘But – well, I do know her slightly. I’m not sure that she wants to see you.’ Her mind was working quickly. How had Greg discovered Irina was in Lamorna when Irina had only written with a Post Office box number?
His demeanour changed then, for a second nakedly vulnerable, then hard. He drained his glass and, standing up, handed it to her.
‘Thank you, that was most welcome. Well, Ms Pentreath, it seems you have already decided about me.’
Mel stood up too and faced him. Suddenly she saw exactly what Irina had meant. He was a man you should not cross lightly – powerful, used to getting his own way.
He faced her, arms folded. ‘Irina has kept my daughter from me without cause for several years now. And I will search for them until I find them. Do they still live close by? I think they must do, from the letter.’