Whenever Bess Tremayne was troubled, she resorted to her needle and thread, stabbing at the homely household linen repairs, even though there was no longer any need for her to take on such tasks. But she was more than troubled now.
She had never been as fey as Morwen, but she was a true Cornishwoman, and she didn’t dismiss signs and portents either. Even young Bradley had read out that spooky old tale and made them all shiver… though why she should remember that now, a month on…
But things were changing far too quickly for Bess’s peace of mind. Nothing stayed the same for ever, but she didn’t like the way her family seemed to be going in all different directions. Times were best when a family stayed together, and didn’t start moving about to foreign parts of the globe, so that you hardly knew who was where. To Bess’s mind, they should stay in the place where they belonged.
Now Freddie and Venetia had taken Bradley off to Ireland, a decision she thought was an outrage on Morwen’s part, and Jack and his family had gone up to London, which she privately thought of as a hotbed of sin. Primmy had gone to Europe with her American cousin and his mother, leaving Matt comfortably installed at Hocking Hall, and Justin had moved out of the family home as quick as lightning when he’d come into his inheritance.
Bess liked things to happen far more slowly. It was all too much for her, and none of it sat comfortably on her mind. And there was young Charlotte too, living the life of a lady in that Pollard mansion, and she could be heading for trouble by going all soft-eyed over the Pollard boy.
In the end, it probably wouldn’t come to anything, Bess thought, and she wasn’t at all keen that it should. The Pollards weren’t their kind. But then, she’d never thought the Killigrews were their kind either, and it hadn’t stopped her daughter from marrying one of them. Nothing stopped the young ones from doing whatever they pleased, and they took little notice of the wisdom of their elders these days…
Hal caught his wife sitting tight-lipped in their vast drawing room with her stitching. He was about to leave for the clayworks with Walter and Ran that morning, and knew at once that she wasn’t best pleased.
‘Now then, dar, what’s all this glum face about?’ he said. ‘I thought it was your day for seeing Morwen at the Tea Rooms, and you’re usually in a better-looking humour.’
‘Well, I’m not goin’ today and I sent Morwen a message to tell her so,’ Bess said tartly. ‘Me and the young folks seem to have too many different ideas from one another these days, and I’d as soon keep away as start an argument.’
Hal looked at her, frowning. ‘But you never miss the chance to gossip with our Morwen.’
Bess glared at him. ‘There’s enough gossip about us in the town, with all them newspaper accounts.’
He didn’t like this kind of talk, and he didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in it, neither. He pressed her shoulder as he stood beside her. He hadn’t left the house yet that day, but he still managed to smell of the outdoors. He was a simple man with simple tastes, not given to flowery speeches or gestures, but his voice was full of unease as he looked into her face.
‘What’s brought all this on, then? You ain’t still scratchy wi’ Morwen over this Primmy business, are you? It’s been over a week now since you last saw her.’
Bess gave an impatient sigh, wondering how it was that men could be so dense at times, and then put their finger on the itchiest spot just when you wanted to keep it to yourself. And she wasn’t one for putting thoughts into words easily, any more than Hal himself. But she was obliged to answer now, and she did so grudgingly.
‘Oh, well, I know they all have their own lives to lead, but I feel left out of it all nowadays. ’Tis as if I’m on a back shelf in the larder, and nobody thinks my opinion’s worth listening to any more.’
‘Well, that’s about the daftest thing I ever heard,’ Hal said forcefully.
‘No, it’s not,’ Bess snapped. ‘I knew you wouldn’t see it my way, but I can do without you standing there and patronizing me, Hal Tremayne. You’d best get off to the clayworks and see what’s to do, if you’re so all-fired up about these rumours about that woman clay boss.’
‘Aye, that I had.’
He moved back with some relief, glad of her lead, and never easy with what he called women’s tantrums. And Bess knew where his thoughts really lay. He’d been steeped in clay business for too many years to give more than lip service to domestic doings, when real troubles were looming.
And this new outrage that that bastard Askhew had blazoned across The Informer this week, had stirred up a hornets’ nest among the clayers. Some ferret of a reporter had got an interview with Harriet Pendragon, and she had confirmed that she had already bought up several small clayworks in the area to add to her grasping little empire.
Now she had her sights set on the big boys, according to Tom Askhew’s paper, and was going round them all with tempting offers. She had already approached several in the area nearest to Killigrew Clay, and it didn’t need a genius to see that it was surely their turn next.
It had prompted a hasty meeting between himself and Walter and Ran, resulting in the three of them deciding to present a solid front at Killigrew Clay today, assuring the workers that they’d do what was right by them – providing the clayers were loyal in return.
‘It has to be a two-way commitment,’ Ran had said to him shortly. ‘They have to see that we’re always ready to listen to them if they do right by us.’
‘All that sounds fine and dandy, Ran, but I ain’t so damn sure of their loyalty. They’ll be full of good intentions, but I know these folk better’n you. All theym interested in is a guaranteed wage and food in their bellies, and if the Pendragon woman was to offer substantially more—’
As he remembered the arguments between himself and Ran, he heard Bess draw in her breath as the needle jabbed into her finger, and drew blood. She brushed aside his sympathy, saying it wasn’t the first time she’d seen blood and it wouldn’t be the last. And both of them were secretly hoping that the tartly said words wouldn’t prove to be prophetic.
But by the time he met up with his son-in-law and grandson, Hal had forgotten the small incident. There was more important work ahead of them than sympathizing over a pricked finger.
The three men travelled on horseback, despite the fact that Hal found the exertion of it uncomfortable, stiffening his joints and tightening his chest by the end of the ride. But not for worlds would he admit it to the others. He knew there was a psychological advantage in the three tall, well-setup bosses arriving on horseback to overlook their clayworks. It presented a far more powerful sight than arriving in a carriage, however grand. Hal wasn’t a particularly imaginative man, but even he could see that.
‘Something’s wrong,’ Walter said suddenly, long before they arrived at Clay One.
They reined in their horses and held them perfectly still. The moors were particularly abundant with gorse and heather now, and bursting into summer bloom. Ahead of them, the sky-tips sparkled in the sunlight as always, almost dazzling the eyes with their glittering whiteness.
But the sound of silence was what penetrated their minds most of all now. There was no rumbling of tracks, no throbbing of beam engines, no clatter of machinery…
‘The bitch has got here before us,’ Hal said harshly. ‘I’ll wager she’s rounded ’em all up now, and is wheedling her way into their confidence at this very minute.’
‘Then what the hell are we doing, wasting time talking?’ Ran said, digging his heels into his nag’s side so fiercely that the animal whinnied in protest.
Walter said nothing, but his jaw was set tight. He wanted no troubles to cloud his horizon right now, and certainly no clashes between himself and Tom Askhew. The Yorkshireman had long been his least favourite person, but he was Cathy’s father, and he felt obliged to allow the man a grudging smidgeon of respect on her account.
And he had no doubt that wherever Harriet Pendragon went, one or more of Tom Askhew’s minions would be sure to follow, with their usual muckraking. Newspapermen were like vultures, he thought scathingly. Bad news was always preferable to them than good, and they fed on other folk’s miseries.
‘The bastards got wind of it before we did, Grandad,’ Walter said, as they neared Clay One and the great dip in the ground towards the area around the clay pool. He swore beneath his breath as he saw Tom himself, together with a thin, ferrety-faced man he vaguely remembered seeing somewhere before. The man brandished a notepad as importantly as if it was a badge of office, and was clearly one of The Informer’s reporters.
The unusual silence among the men was broken by the sound of a woman’s voice. With one accord the three newcomers moved closer, reining in their horses at the back of the huge crowd assembled there. Pit captains, clayers, bal maidens, kiddley-boys skirmishing and being clouted by their elders to keep quiet, and the newspaper reporters busily worming their way to the front to hear better. But there was hardly any need. The woman’s voice carried clearly, and she commanded attention.
‘By God, but the bitch knows how to pull a crowd,’ Hal growled, trying not to betray the merest touch of admiration in his voice at the sight of Harriet Pendragon.
The other two said nothing, but Ran too was mightily struck by the picture the woman made. She knew damn well the effect her appearance would have on these folk, he thought angrily. She too, had arrived on horseback, elegantly side-saddled, her gleaming sapphire satin gown draped in glowing folds over her figure, as if it had been moulded there. She held the reins with long satin gloves that caressed her slender arms, and her bonnet was of the same colour as the rest of her ensemble.
It was an outrageous outfit to wear among these simple folk, in their tattered working clobber, and streaked with clay dust. As if the gown itself wasn’t enough, her horse was a contrasting light grey. It was obviously a purebred, and no doubt chosen to complement her silvery-grey eyes and that extraordinary silvery hair. She was bloody magnificent, Ran thought furiously, and hated himself for acknowledging it.
He pressed his knees into his horse’s flanks and urged it forward, scattering the outer groups of clayers and ignoring their howls of protest. Hal and Walter followed through the path he had made until they were almost level with Harriet Pendragon. Ran’s voice was short and sharp.
‘You’re trespassing, Ma’am, and if you don’t leave this place immediately, I shall have you forcibly removed.’
The clayers had begun muttering at their bosses’ approach, but now they had fallen silent again, and all eyes turned towards the Pendragon woman to see her reaction. She was completely unimpressed, and gave an amused laugh.
‘And who’s going to remove me, Mr Wainwright? Not any of these fine folk, who know a good thing when they hear it.’
Ran didn’t miss the rumbles of assent among the workers, and knew that Hal had a shrewder knowledge of these people than he did. But he didn’t give up easily. Dammit, he thought, he wasn’t giving up at all!
‘Then I shall remove you myself,’ he said contemptuously. ‘But I hardly think you’d care for the indignity of it, Ma’am.’
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the reporter busily scribbling down, word for word, all that was said.
‘Oh, but perhaps I would!’ Harriet Pendragon said, and to his fury, he realized she was teasing him, her eyes provocative and gleaming as if she was enjoying the chase. ‘Why don’t you come and try it, Mr Wainwright, because I surely don’t intend leaving by myself.’
‘Leave it, Ran. I’ll deal with this,’ Hal said angrily, seeing his fury.
‘No. It’s me she wants,’ Ran said, brushing his restraining hand aside. ‘It’s me she wants to bring down, for some Goddamn reason of her own.’
‘Why don’t our fine Works Manager have summat to say about it all, or is he too afeared of what his father-in-law might say about un in his newspaper?’
The catcalls began from the middle of the crowd, but were quickly taken up by the rest. They were like bloody sheep, Walter thought, his face reddening as the jeering was directed towards him. He knew that few of them would attack Hal. He’d been one of them for too long, and was too well-respected.
But Ran was a foreigner, which was even more damning than being a ‘grockle’ from upcountry. And to many of those who’d had the clay in their blood for generations, Walter was still wet behind the ears, despite his fine status at Killigrew Clay. It made no difference that Walter had clay in his blood too, he thought angrily, and that concern for the prosperity of them all was in his soul.
But he was too much of a man to let the jibes go by unheeded, especially regarding himself and Tom Askhew.
‘You all know me, you scum,’ he yelled out above the din, in language they would understand. ‘I worked here when I was young, same as the likes of your own, and there’s nothing we’d like more than to give you all a handsome bonus. But when times are bad, you can’t squeeze money out of a stone, so you’ve got to be patient, same as the rest of us—’
‘Oh ah, we know all about you and your family bein’ patient in your fine houses, while the rest on us scratch a living—’
‘Shut up a minute, you shit-bags,’ Hal bellowed out. ‘If Walter has a decent house to live in, it’s because he’s bloody-well worked for it—’
‘And because he’s got a wife wi’ money,’ somebody jeered out.
‘I don’t live on my wife’s money,’ Walter snapped coldly. ‘And neither does anyone else in my family.’
Ran shifted in his saddle, knowing that the situation was getting out of hand. It was dwelling too much on personalities, instead of on the state of the business as a whole. And Harriet Pendragon was content to sit on that damn great horse of hers and let the wrangling go on. It angered him to know that she was witnessing it, and he was doubly angry at allowing himself to be humiliated by the woman.
He cracked his whip in the air, in an effort to call for silence. The cat calls dwindled away as his horse reared protestingly at the sudden noise, and he swiftly brought it under control.
‘We all seem to have forgotten why we’re here, and I’ve yet to hear exactly what Mrs Pendragon is doing here. Please explain yourself in a few sentences, Ma’am, which is all I will allow you before I see you off this land.’
‘Really?’ Harriet said, still with that infuriating amusement in her voice, so that Ran began to wonder if anything ever really irked her. Or was the power she’d inherited from her husband’s death enough to give her this vast confidence that overcame all else?
‘Your time is running out, Ma’am,’ he said coldly, as the crowd waited expectantly for her to speak.
‘Answer the man, Mrs Pendragon, and let’s all get back to our business,’ Tom Askhew called out now in his sharp nasal tones, clearly getting tired of all this fencing. ‘If you want my reporter to give a good account of what’s to do here today, you’d best get on with it.’
At his words, Walter remembered where he’d seen the ferrety-faced man. He’d been at the men’s meeting in the St Austell meeting house, when Harriet Pendragon had first swept into their midst. Walter had dismissed the man as of no account then, and he’d like to dismiss him and his master now.
But he was too well aware of Askhew’s contempt for the clayworkers, and of himself in particular. Tom had never forgiven him for marrying Cathy, and baby Theo was half Tremayne, which was condemnation enough. His brother and sister had taken the Killigrew name, but Walter never had. He was a Tremayne, and would always be a Tremayne…
He blinked, realizing he’d let his attention wander, and that the Pendragon woman had slid down from her horse with all the grace of a queen. He watched as the clayworkers moved aside like the parting of the Red Sea as she approached the bosses with her sensuous walk, and he scowled again, wishing these damnable attributes didn’t keep coming into his mind.
He wondered briefly how the others were assessing her. His Grandad Hal wouldn’t be moved by a woman’s teasing and taunting, but Ran… he wasn’t so sure about Ran. Harriet Pendragon presented a powerful attraction for any man, but more especially one of similar dynamic power, and for the first time in his life he felt an anxiety on Morwen’s behalf.
He tried to shrug off the feeling as the woman came right up to the three of them, tipping back her head and looking up at Ran as he remained mounted on his horse. With any other woman, it might have looked subordinate. With her, it merely looked provocative. She bloody well knew it too, Walter thought savagely, and so did Ran.
‘Well, Ma’am?’ he snapped. ‘We don’t have all day to waste, so get to the point.’
‘Very well, Mr Wainwright,’ she said in her clear, carrying voice. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve told these clayworkers. I’m willing to offer sixpence an hour more for them to work for me at any of the small pits I’ve recently acquired. Unless, of course, you’re willing to sell out to me. I admit that I’ve a hankering to own Killigrew Clay, and rid it of a name that lost any meaning when Ben Killigrew died. When that day comes, the workers will get a handsome bonus into the bargain.’
There was uproar as she finished speaking, and the bosses didn’t miss the cheers from many of the listeners.
‘By God, but she’s a clever bitch,’ Hal said under his breath. ‘She’ll turn ’em her way, Ran, and God knows what we can do about it.’
‘Shut up and listen to me, all of you.’ Ran ignored him, and bellowed out into the crowd. They fell silent as his horse reared up in protest, and Harriet Pendragon stepped back hastily from the flailing hooves.
‘You’ve heard Mrs Pendragon’s terms,’ he said loudly. ‘She’s offering a bonus if we sell out, which I can assure you we don’t aim to do now, nor at any time in the future—’ he was obliged to pause as the uproar began again, and he cracked his whip for the second time, ‘and she’s also offering you sixpence an hour more if you leave Killigrew Clay. But stop and listen for a minute before you go hot-headed into thinking this is such a good deal. This is a woman who’s ruthless enough to try to undermine the good name of an established firm, and to cold-bloodedly steal away loyal workers. Is this the boss you’d choose to work for, instead of those who have always treated you fairly, and shared the good times with the bad?’
‘That sort of talk don’t put food in the babbies’ bellies, Mr Wainwright,’ the pit captain, George Dodds, spoke up, ‘and you ain’t never guaranteed that we won’t have to face a cut in wages if the autumn orders be no better than the spring’s.’
‘Then I’ll guarantee it now,’ Ran said swiftly. ‘And we’ll match the extra sixpence an hour that Mrs Pendragon has offered. In fact, I’ll do more. There are promises of new orders coming in, so to show our good faith in you, I’ll guarantee a bonus payment next Christmas for every man, woman and child who remains loyal to Killigrew Clay and its rightful owners until that day.’
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’m playing at, Ran?’ Hal muttered angrily beneath his breath. ‘We’ve never risked putting such forward guarantees into their heads—’
‘Then maybe it’s time we did,’ Ran said, through the burst of noise as the clayworkers digested this new move.
‘Ran’s right, Grandad,’ Walter said quickly. ‘We’ve got to offer ’em something definite, or we’ll have lost ’em for good. The woman’s offers are too tempting for us to be wishy-washy now.’
The woman in question was eyeing up these three now, and wondering just which of them was worth her while tempting in other directions. She dismissed the old man at once, and the young one was too besotted with his wife and new child – besides, there was a newspaper tie there, and that was an apple-cart she wouldn’t care to upset. But the other one… the handsome American with the wife who was once a bal maiden here, and had then married the boss… she turned her startling silvery-grey eyes towards Ran Wainwright, and gave him a beatific smile.
‘All right. You’ve had your say, and your workers seem to approve of it. I’m tired of all this arguing, so for the moment we’ll call a truce, Ran Wainwright,’ she said, her voice softer than the strident tones she normally used in business dealings with men. ‘I’ll concede that you’ve played a trump card, though you’ll have to be seen to carry it through. And you and I haven’t done with one another yet.’
She turned swiftly, and was helped onto her horse with willing hands. She dug her heels into its sides and cantered away from Clay One with her back straight and her head held high. Even in defeat, she still looked magnificent, Ran thought grudgingly. She was as ruthless as any man, and twice as deadly, because it was obvious that half the earthy men here lusted after her, however unattainable she would be to the likes of them.
But not to the likes of himself. The thought was in his head before he could push it away, and his face darkened with the unwanted idea. He’d as soon bed a rat as the Pendragon woman… and again, his own thoughts conjured up a subconscious imagery that was abhorrent to him. He turned his attention to the crowds of clayers, still gabbling in groups about this new turn of events.
‘Well, now that all the excitement’s over, how about you shit-bagging buggers getting back to work?’ he bellowed into the crowd of gabbling clayers, in words that would have done justice to Hal in his heyday. ‘If you think we’re going to pay you dung beetles extra dues for standing about like spare parts at a wedding, then you can think again. Get to it, all of you!’
The horses of the three riders stamped restlessly at the angry tones, and the clayers began to move back to their appointed tasks. George Dodds lingered a moment, his gnarled hand on Ran’s reins. Ran would have flicked him off as impatiently as if he swotted a fly, but the man had something to say and wouldn’t be put off.
‘This new rate of sixpence an hour extra comes into force right away, I take it, Sir,’ he said, unconsciously putting an insult into the final word. ‘It ’ouldn’t do for ’em to have to wait now, ’specially wi’ the lady sniffing at their heels so prettily.’
‘Are you threatening me, George Dodds?’ Ran said coldly, hating the man more with every second.
‘No, Sir. I’m only speakin’ up for the rest on ’em, as they’d want me to do. Ain’t that the right way for a pit captain to act, Mr Tremayne?’ He ignored Walter altogether and looked directly at Hal.
‘It’s right, and you know it, but you’d best keep a civil tongue in your head. Pit captains can be replaced, and you know that too,’ Hal said, and twisted away from the leering man to ride away from the pit.
He needed fresh air. He’d done with all this wrangling and sniping a long time ago, and he wanted no more of it. He shouldn’t have come up here today. His chest was tight, and he felt ill. He should do as Bess wanted and lead a more leisurely life, reaping in the profits from his stake in Killigrew Clay when they were due, and learning to be a gentleman. Hal scowled, knowing it was something he could never be, not in the way that society dictated.
Walter caught up with him.
‘Are you all right, Grandad? You looked quite sickly a while back, and I was afraid—’
‘There’s nothing wrong wi’ me, boy, that can’t be cured by fresh air and a quiet life,’ he grunted.
And Walter knew at once that there was definitely something wrong with a man who’d once exalted in the cut and thrust of dealing with these scumbags, and who suddenly seemed too weary to care any more. But he pushed down the fear he felt on Hal’s behalf, and thought instead that it was more likely that he was just growing old. It was high time Hal had a going-over from the doctor, though Walter knew how he’d hate the suggestion. In his own mind, Hal was still as strong as he ever was, and didn’t give in to old age gracefully.
‘I’m staying on here now, Grandad, to see that production is going ahead. Ran’s in discussion with Tom Askhew and his reporter fellow at present, to see that they don’t distort our side of it, so will you wait for him?’ Walter said, keeping his face poker-straight as he mentioned the men from The Informer.
‘I might, and then again I might not,’ Hal said, as contrary as ever. ‘If I’ve a mind to get on home, I’ll do so, and if not, he’ll soon catch up wi’ me. You go on back to Clay One, boy, and be the fine Works Manager I know you to be.’
It was rare for Hal to pay such a compliment, and Walter found himself blinking. Impulsively, he reached out and pressed the old man’s arm in a rough gesture of affection.
‘Those words mean a lot to me, Grandad,’ he said. ‘I’ll go back then, and don’t worry. Ran will handle things.’
Ran had got them out of trouble once before. So had Matt. So, unknowingly to many, had Hal himself, offering all his dividends from his share of Killigrew Clay that were carefully salted away in a Bodmin bank, since such accumulated wealth was unnecessary in the life of a simple man.
Families such as theirs were all the richer for the way they helped and supported one another, Walter thought, as he turned to retrace his way to the clayworks he loved. And it would take more than the likes of a woman with silvery eyes and hair to fracture that closeness.
Hal rode slowly down over the hillside, wanting to put all the noise of the clayworks behind him. He’d loved it, once.
He had been its throb and its heartbeat, like the young uns were now, especially Walter, but it was a part of his life that was gone. The past could never come again, and he was gradually realizing that he was more than ready to let his life wind down, like the winding down of an old clock that had seen its day, and was contentedly ticking slower and slower.
The sun was warm on his back, and his nag was content to meander slowly, taking its time, as if to savour this lovely day to the fullest. Hal glanced back for a moment, to where the sky-tips looked so magnificent now, like moon mountains in their glinting whiteness.
He looked beyond the clayworks, where he could just see the roof-tops of the old cottages, and remembered how one particular cottage had been so filled with love. He remembered how his daughter Morwen had come bursting into the cottage on her seventeenth birthday to find that they’d been invited to old Charles Killigrew’s house that evening. And he’d known, even before she knew it herself, that his girl had fallen in love with the boss’s son.
Hal turned and gazed ahead of him, down towards St Austell and the shimmering sea. Alongside where he paused were Ben Killigrew’s rail tracks, that were such an important part of the business now, taking the clayblocks to the port and the waiting ships. But his heart tugged as always at the sight of them, for it was here that the subsidence had occurred. Ben’s little train had been taking the cheerful crowd of clayers and their children on a joy ride to the sea. And the terrible accident had plunged the carriage into the depths of a disused tin mine, killing his first-born. Killing his strong young son, Sam, whom he would never see again…
Hal’s eyes blurred, and he dashed away the unmanly rush of emotion. And then he turned his head sharply as a whispering voice seemed to fill his head to bursting.
‘Daddy, don’t be afraid. ’Tis me, come to guide you. Take my hand, for we’re to travel the road together.’
Hal was awestruck as Sam’s voice suddenly filled his head and his heart, and Sam’s image was beautiful and ageless in his vision. Gladly, so gladly and confidently, he reached out his hand to take the one that invited him on the journey, and felt its grasp, as warm as summer.