Authors: Sara Craven
satisfaction, Elizabeth Pentreath sat back on her heels and regarded
her daughter. 'It's getting so late. It's almost dark, and the letter did
say he would be here this morning.'
'Perhaps his car's broken down. Or maybe someone's been fiddling
with the signpost again, and he's taken the wrong turning and
driven straight along the cliff path into the sea.'
'Morgana!' Mrs Pentreath's hand clutched at her throat. 'You
mustn't say—you mustn't even think such things. Do you think we
should telephone the farm—get a search party organised?'
'No, I don't.' Morgana shook her head. 'He'll turn up. Bad pennies
usually do.'
'You sound as if you don't care.'
'Frankly, I don't. Do you really expect me to?' Morgana's voice
deepened passionately. 'This—Lyall Pentreath—he's an outsider,
an intruder. He doesn't give a damn about Polzion. He's probably
never been anywhere near Cornwall in his life. All he knows about
us will be what he's heard from his father and grandfather, and that
will probably be lies. There's never been any love lost between the
two sides of the family. The only reason he's coming here now is
to take possession of his inheritance, such as it is, lock, stock and
barrel. And our feelings in the matter won't be of the slightest
concern to him.'
'You can't really say that, darling. You don't know him.'
'Exactly the point I'm trying to make,' Morgana argued. 'I don't—
neither of us knows him. And he doesn't know us. But don't you
think, in the circumstances, he might have made the effort?'
'He's in a difficult position,' her mother began, and Morgana
snorted impatiently.
'And we're not? After all, we're the ones who stand to lose
everything. And he's the winner who takes all. Well, in my book,
he should have made contact before this. Long before. And the fact
that he hasn't makes him a moral coward.'
'You're not being very logical.' Mrs Pentreath sounded plaintive.
'You're blaming him for coming here at all in one breath, and now
he's on the way, or presumably so, you're complaining that he
wasn't here days ago.'
'Not days. Weeks, months, years—when Daddy was alive,'
Morgana said bitterly. 'When it might have done some good. We
could all have talked—made plans, perhaps. Mummy, have you
really thought what we're going to do? He may want us to leave
immediately.'
'I can't believe that.' Mrs Pentreath's tone was depressed, and
Morgana gave her a swift glance which mingled compassion with
faint irritation.
Elizabeth Pentreath had led a sheltered life, in spite of the fact that
there had never been much money. She had always been cossetted
by her husband, which was all to the good in some ways, her
daughter thought drily, but not so hot when it came to attempting
to make her face reality.
Now, with an air of determination, Elizabeth rose and went round
the room, switching on the lamps. There was a central pendant
chandelier, but this was rarely used. For one thing, it used too
much electricity, and for another in the lamps lower wattage bulbs
could be used which helped to disguise how shabby the carpet and
furnishings really were. As the hotel guests used this room for
afternoon tea, and after dinner, this was a consideration, although
Martin Pentreath had always worked on the lordly 'What's good
enough for us is good enough for them' principle. It was a point of
view which Morgana had never shared. She felt the family should
have used another room, so that the drawing room could become a
hotel lounge proper, where the guests could say whatever they
liked without being inhibited by the presence of the proprietor and
his family.
Miss Meakins might allow her eyes to fill with sentimental tears
now that Martin was no longer leading the after-dinner
conversation, but she had become increasingly voluble about faults
in the service at Polzion House in the last two weeks, Morgana had
noted drily. Not that most of the complaints weren't fully justified.
She and Major Lawson might have been attracted to Polzion
because the winter rates were more competitive than similar
establishments in Eastbourne or Torquay, but they still expected
the usual amenities of hotel life.
And in the past few weeks, life at Polzion had become increasingly
difficult. Probate for Martin Pentreath's will had been applied for,
but Mr Trevick had warned dourly that there would be little money
left when outstanding debts were settled, though there were a
couple of small insurance policies from which Elizabeth would
benefit. Martin had made no large-scale provision for his widow
and daughter, but then, as Morgana was forced to admit, he had
always seemed so indestructible, like the Cornish granite his house
was built on. Remembering her father, she thought it likely he had
meant to leave them provided for—one day, when it could no
longer be avoided, in much the same spirit as he'd stuffed unpaid
bills in the bureau.
Morgana groaned inwardly as she thought of them, and she
suspected her mother's reception at the coal-merchant's could well
be the first in a long line of similar refusals. No coke meant that
the ancient boiler would eventually go out altogether, and she
doubted that even a further reduction in their 'competitive terms'
would reconcile their guests to cold water, so she and her mother
stood to lose their small remaining amount of direct income.
But that, she reminded herself, would be lost anyway as soon as
the unknown Lyall Pentreath arrived. She imagined he would have
already learned that his inheritance was being run as a small
country hotel, and she found herself wondering what his reaction
had been.
Contempt? Probably. Anger? Almost certainly. Perhaps Miss
Meakins and the Major would also find themselves dumped bag
and baggage into the damp chill of an October evening.
Except, as her mother said, that the new owner would hardly be
coming now. He would be here in the morning to look over his
new possession in daylight. Until now, they had counted each day
at Polzion as a reprieve. Now, it seemed, they were reduced to
hours.
Suddenly restless, she rose to, her feet. 'I'd better go and see about
tea. It's past the time already.'
'I expect Elsa has been waiting, dear, for your cousin to arrive.'
'My cousin.' Morgana repeated the words almost incredulously. It
was the first time her mother or anyone else for that matter had
used them in relation to Lyall Pentreath. It seemed alien and
uncomfortable to think that this stranger was actually of her blood,
even though the relationship between them was a remote one.
Because of the quarrels and the separation between the two sides
of the family, the other Pentreaths might as well not have existed
as far as she was concerned.
'I wish they hadn't,' she thought fiercely, digging her nails into the
palms of her hands as she left the room. 'I wish none of them had
ever been born.'
The passage leading to what in happier days had been known as
the servants' quarters was draughty, and Morgana shivered a little
as she made her way down it. But the kitchen was warm, thanks to
the big old-fashioned range—which also burned coke, she
remembered dismally—on which Elsa produced delectable meals
when she was in the mood.
What her mood was like today was anybody's guess. Breakfast and
lunch had been passable, but there were no noticeable preparations
for dinner, Morgana noted sinkingly. Instead, Elsa was sitting at
the kitchen table staring down at a worn pack of cards spread
there.
'Come in, maid, and shut the door,' she said absently without
looking up.
'We were wondering about tea,' said Morgana, unable to resist a
curious glance down at the cards as she passed the table.
' 'Tes all ready, and the kettle's on the boil.' Elsa was built on
generous lines, and her dark hair, liberally streaked with grey, was
pinned back from her face with an incongruous selection of plastic
hairslides in various colours and designs. Green butterflies and
pink poodles were in favour that particular day, forming an
unusual contrast to her bright blue overall, safety-pinned across
her massive bosom. 'And I've made a batch of scones along with
the cake,' she added sombrely.
'They look lovely.'
Elsa snorted. 'Can't go by looks. They'm sad, same as this 'ouse is
sad. Same as these cards.' She gestured at them. 'Grief and misery,
pain and woe, my lover—that's what's in store. And a fair man,'
she added as something of an afterthought.
'Well, that's something,' said Morgana. 'At least it won't be Cousin
Lyall. Pentreath men are always dark.'
'That's as mebbe,' Elsa said with dignity. 'But there b'ain't no dark
man coming into your life, maid, not so far as I can see.'
'Then perhaps he really has driven over the cliff,' Morgana said
cheerfully. 'Make the tea, Elsa darling, while I put the food on the
tray.'
Whatever secret sorrow the scones might be nursing, they looked
almost sprightly to her, she thought, as she picked up the plate, and
the saffron cake which was one of Elsa's specialities was golden-
brown and mouth-watering.
'About dinner -' she began tentatively.
'Funny ol' bit of meat the butcher sent;' Elsa was at the range, busy
with teapot and kettle. 'Calls it beef, but I dunno. Looks tough as
ol' boots to me.'
'Oh dear!' Morgana wondered privately whether the butcher was
taking some kind of subtle revenge for an unpaid bill she hadn't
discovered yet. 'Do you suppose pot-roasting would make it more
tender?'
'I daresay.' Elsa set the teapot on the tray with an uncompromising
thud. 'But I don't need any young maid to teach me my business in
my own kitchen.'
'Of course not, Elsa darling.' Morgana's smile held its first real hint
of mischief for some time.
'That's better,' Elsa said with rare approval. 'Now go and change
out of that damned ol' frock before that young man gets here.'
'I'll do nothing of the sort.' Morgana lifted her chin and her green
eyes flashed. 'It's perfectly suitable. This is' the dress I got for
Daddy's funeral.'
'Looks like the next funeral it goes to should be its own,' Elsa
sniffed. 'But please yourself, though I can't see no sense going
round looking like something the cat dragged in. You'm not a bad-
looking maid when you try.'
'I'd better go before you turn my head completely,' Morgana said
lightly as she picked up the tray.
'No danger of that, I reckon.' Elsa's fierce gaze softened • as they
swept over the girl's slim figure. 'You don't fancy yourself like
some I could mention.'
Morgana hid a smile as she carried the tray out of the kitchen. Elsa
was not usually so forbearing, and Morgana could only attribute
her unusual delicacy this time to the fact that up to the time of the
funeral she herself had been seeing a great deal of Robert
Donleven, and might react with hostility to any overt criticism of
his sister—because she was well aware that Elaine Donleven was
the subject of Elsa's veiled remark.
Yet if she was honest, she had to admit that Elaine Wasn't one of
her favourite people either, though she would have been hard put
to it to say why. Ever since Elaine had come to live at Home Farm
and help Robert run the riding stables there, relations between the
two girls had been perfectly civil, but no more.
Perhaps it was inevitable it should be so, she thought as she went
along the passage. After all, the Donlevens had bought the Home
Farm, as Robert's mother had made smilingly clear on more than
one occasion, as an interest for her husband when he retired from
being 'something' in the City of London. In the meantime it was
run by an efficient manager, and Robert and his sister had started
the riding stables there, again as a hobby rather than a living.
Morgana felt sometimes that Elaine mentioned this rather more
than was strictly necessary, as if to emphasise the gulf between
those who had to work, and those for whom the world was a
playground.
Apart from exchange trips to France and Germany when she was
at school, Morgana's holidays had been spent in and around