In retrospect, it hadn’t been such a good idea to visit the clayworks. Although many folk had recognized her, it was quickly obvious that Morwen wasn’t being viewed in the old familiar way. She was no longer one of them, and she didn’t belong here any more. She knew it in her heart, and she should have accepted it years ago.
The women workers that she didn’t know fell silent as she spoke to the others, and even they only answered when they were spoken to. She could have wept at their servile attitude, compared with the camaraderie of old. It wasn’t what she wanted or what she had expected.
But she knew she was being completely naïve in feeling that way. Her daddy was right, as always. You could never go back, and it was a foolish person who tried to recapture a past that was gone. Even the row of cottages where they had all lived, was different now. The slate roofs were repaired and moderately tidy, the windows had been replaced and had a reasonable shine on the glass, and some of the tiny yards had flowers struggling to survive in them.
It wasn’t all poverty then, Morwen thought, and the fierce pride of the clayworkers was obviously extending to their homes. She rode past the cottages, ignoring the sight of the one where her own family had once been crammed inside, and headed onwards to Penwithick Church.
She hadn’t intended going there, but something drew her to the place where she and Ben had been married, and where they had brought him for his final long sleep. Where too, her brother Sam and his wife, and her best friend Celia, were all buried. She was spooked by memories, and unable to rid herself of them.
She tied up her mare and went inside the ancient grey church. It was cold and musty and hushed, and she sat down gingerly on one of the wooden pews near the door. She closed her eyes and said a little prayer for all of them, asking for help in their fortunes, and a return to constant happiness for herself and her husband. But maybe that was too much to ask for. Constant happiness could be as much of a burden as constant misery…
‘Mrs Killigrew?’
She jumped at hearing herself addressed so, and all her nerves were on edge as she heard a man’s scratchy voice alongside her.
‘I beg your pardon, Ma’am,’ the voice continued. ‘I should say Mrs Wainwright. But it is you, isn’t it?’
Morwen kept her eyes closed a moment longer. The last thing she wanted was the company of some pauper asking for help… and she was immediately ashamed at the thought, for her own family had been near enough to being paupers at one stage of their lives, and she mentally wondered what coins she had in her purse…
Then she saw that it was the elderly preacher of Penwithick Church, more bent and crumpled than of old, but still the same man. And she felt her face flood with colour.
‘I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t be here at this hour of the day—’ she said, scrambling to her feet, but the old man put a restraining hand on her arm.
‘Where else should a troubled soul be, if not in God’s House?’ he said.
‘Oh, but I’m not—’ she stopped speaking as he looked at her sorrowfully.
‘’Tis a sadness that folk often forget to praise God when things be going well, and only show their faces in His House in times of trouble.’
It was a reproach, but it was said with resignation rather than malice, and Morwen knew guiltily that it was true enough. Not that her family was beholden to Penwithick Church, for they lived outside the parish now, but nor did they frequent any other.
‘My troubles aren’t worth mentioning, compared with many others,’ she said quietly, noting the patched jacket and trousers that the man wore, compared with her best quality wool riding costume.
He patted her hand.
‘God knows all about it,’ he said, with a comfortable vagueness, at which all Morwen’s finer feelings vanished, and she felt a great irritation towards the smugness of the man. She shook off his hand and got to her feet.
‘Well then, He’ll forgive me for not stopping any longer,’ she said. ‘My children will be watching out for me.’
He let her go without another word. He made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, as if she trespassed in a place where she had no right to be. But for once, she could find no comfort in a church, and she stepped out into the sunlight with a feeling of relief. The clumps of daffodils along the grassy churchyard paths nodded and danced their heads in the small breeze, and she swallowed hard, knowing that if she remained here it would be Celia she saw in their faces.
It was a bad omen, she thought, as she mounted the patiently waiting mare. All this clinging to the past, and the ghosts of those who were no longer with them… even coming here, where those she loved rested for all eternity… it was definitely a bad omen.
She dug her heels in the mare’s sides, and raced the animal down the steep hillside all the way to New World. But despite the exertion involved, she was chilled by her own fey thoughts, and they wouldn’t leave her. As if she stood and watched a play being enacted through a misty veil, she knew with certainty that death was hovering somewhere in the wings. And she couldn’t stop it.
Two days later, Ran came storming home from St Austell, and threw a newspaper down on the drawing room couch where Morwen was reading to Emma. She told the child quickly to go upstairs and wash her hands ready for her tea, and to tell her brothers to do the same.
‘I don’t know where they are,’ Emma wailed. ‘I think Bradley was going to the beach to find shells—’
‘He’d better damn well not have gone there without telling anybody, nor taken Luke with him,’ Ran snapped, diverted briefly. ‘Anyway, Miss, you go and do what your mother tells you and see if the boys are in the house.’
He shooed her to the door, and closed it firmly behind her. Morwen didn’t yet know what had happened, but it was obviously not good, and she sighed again, seeing that Ran was in such a black mood. Her recent visit to Penwithick Church had eventually calmed her nerves to a certain extent, but she should have known it wouldn’t last.
‘What’s happened, dar?’ she said quietly now.
He picked up the newspaper as if it stung him, and flicked through the pages until he found what he was seeking. The headline was bold and black, and Morwen took in the gist of it in one glance:
WOMAN CLAY BOSS DISRUPTS CLAYWORKERS’ MEETING
The article beneath the headline was vicious and snide. It reported all the doings of the meeting in great detail, and it made hay of describing Harriet Pendragon’s appearance in similar terms to the way Ran had done. It took special glee in the clash between the male and female bosses, and left the reader in no doubt that the clay industry was once again in a state of chaos.
When Morwen had skimmed through the offending article, she looked at Ran. Her mouth was dry, for however vicious the reporting, there were too many grains of truth in it to be ignored. But how…?
‘You didn’t know there was anyone there from the newspaper?’ she said unnecessarily. Ran glowered at her.
‘You know as well as I do that it’s our rule to provide them with a statement on our affairs when we think fit, and not before. We don’t invite newspaper scum to our meetings, when things can get out of hand, and anything can be twisted to suit their scandalmongering.’
‘Then either somebody from The Informer got in illegally, or you’ve got a spy among you,’ Morwen said flatly.
‘I’d already come to that conclusion. Any one of the bastards could be willing to sell his grandmother for the sake of a few extra pennies.’
‘Is that fair?’ Morwen said, defensive at once. ‘They need more dues, Ran, and we all know it. The fact that we’re unable to pay them any more at present won’t put shoes on the children’s feet, or food in their bellies.’
‘What’s bloody fair about disloyalty? They’ve all got work, which is more than they’ll get if they go on strike again. This time, we won’t hold their jobs for them. Once they strike, they go.’
Morwen jumped up from the couch, staring down at her husband with tight-clenched hands.
‘Ran, you can’t do that! The Unions will be down on you faster than a flea on a dog’s back. It’s a man’s right to strike if he has a genuine grievance, and unless he commits a crime against his employer in doing so, his job should remain open to him.’
‘I wish you’d keep your bloody head out of business affairs, and stick to your homemaking,’ he snapped, but she knew he was retaliating now because he also knew she was right. She sank down beside him, taking his hand tightly in hers and looking pleadingly at him.
‘I know you’re hurt by this newspaper article, dar, but we just have to weather the present circumstances. Things have got to improve. The clay blocks are due for shifting to the port any day now, and once the money for them comes in, maybe we can pay the men a small bonus, even if it’s only a shilling a man. ’Tis very little for the work that they do. Believe me, I know.’
‘Your trust in human nature blinds you to hard facts, Morwen. What makes you think we’ll get payment on time once we shift the blocks? Nobody wants to pay up these days, and with other firms undercutting us—’
‘It’s the Pendragon woman, isn’t it?’ Morwen said. ‘It has to be her. I’m not so blind that I can’t see that, Ran.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, removing her hand and crushing the pages of the newspaper into an untidy mass.
Walter came to the house unannounced while they were still arguing. It was rare for him to leave the clayworks in the middle of the day, but one look at his face, and Morwen knew he’d seen the newspaper too.
‘Who did it, I’d like to know?’ he shouted at Ran. ‘What bastard sold us up for a miserable few pence?’
‘Walter, I’m sure it wasn’t one of our men—’ Morwen put in nervously, hating to see him so incensed.
‘I’m thinking the same,’ her son said, to her surprise. ‘In fact, I’ve been giving serious thought to it, Mother. But there was somebody else there who’d not be displeased at having our doings reported for all to see, wasn’t there?’
‘Harriet Pendragon,’ Morwen answered.
‘Aye, the same,’ Walter said grimly. ‘’Twould be to her advantage to let folk know there was such trouble among us all, wouldn’t it?’
‘What would be the point, since she’s a clay boss herself? And just what do you suppose was in it for her, apart from trying to wheedle her way into a man’s world?’ Ran said.
‘You obviously haven’t turned to the Letters Page. The phantom letter writer who declines to give his name seems to have a pretty fair knowledge of the lady’s intentions.’
Walter snatched up the crumpled newspaper and tore through the pages until he found what he was seeking. He jabbed a finger at the heading above the first letter:
LADY BOSS WANTS COMPLETE CONTROL
The letter went on to say that the writer had it on good authority that a certain fair-haired lady with a penchant for vivid dressing, and unlimited assets to her name, intended to buy up all the china clay businesses in the area. And how would the likes of the Killigrew bosses take to that?
Morwen felt total shock at the bald statement, though she wasn’t prepared to take it seriously. Even so, there was something here that she didn’t like.
‘Why should the letter writer single us out?’ she said quickly. ‘What has the man got against us?’
‘If it is a man,’ Ran growled.
Walter scoffed at this. ‘I’d lay odds it’s a man all right. But I’d say he also had a pretty good sniff at the way the Pendragon woman was eyeing up somebody on the platform.’
Ran’s face darkened to a dull red.
‘Just what are you implying, Walter?’ he snapped.
‘I’m implying nothing. But if you’ve forgotten why a woman’s eyes sparkle in a certain way, then you’re older than I thought,’ he taunted.
‘You’re talking absolute rubbish, and I’d have thought there were more important things for you to think about than trying to make mischief between your mother and me.’
Morwen listened in tight-lipped silence. It was so unlike Walter to act this way. He might roar like a lion at the works, but he was a peaceable man at home, and he’d never willingly upset her. But he was doing so now.
‘There’s nothing we can do about this, except to keep our eyes and ears open,’ Ran went on. ‘It’s probably all down to an over-active imagination on some fool’s part, and I refuse to issue a statement on such wild conjectures. If we ignore it, it will die a natural death.’
‘I disagree—’ Walter began, but Ran broke in.
‘Well, God knows you rarely agree with anything I say, so that’s only to be expected.’
‘Ran, that’s not fair,’ Morwen said uneasily, hating to see these two at loggerheads. ‘Anyway, can we please leave it for now? I want to hear how Cathy is, Walter.’
‘Well enough,’ he muttered. ‘These last weeks are a trial for her, and the baby’s lying awkwardly. The doctor has warned us that it’s a big child, and the birth might be difficult, and of course her father blames me for that, as well as everything else to do with his daughter!’
The sheer frustration on his face at that moment was too much for Morwen. She put her arm around him and hugged him close. Big as he was, he was still her son, adopted or not, and still her best beloved.
‘Tom Askhew’s an idiot,’ she said steadily. ‘Everybody knows that, just as everyone knows that a big child has a better start to life than a puny one.’
Walter gave her a thin smile for the first time since coming into the house.
‘I knew I could trust you to put things in perspective, Mother,’ he said, but without much conviction.
Ran gave an impatient sigh. ‘Well, if you two have finished putting the domestic world to rights, I suggest that Walter and I consult with Hal over this newspaper rag. I don’t aim to do anything about it, but we need to consolidate on what to do if anything comes of this ridiculous suggestion regarding the Pendragon woman.’
‘Right,’ Walter said at once, and Morwen thought how little tact it took on Ran’s part to make her son feel worthy again. Since Cathy became pregnant, he’d shown a vulnerability she hadn’t suspected in him. It would be a good thing when the baby came, and he wasn’t constantly living on his nerves.
Ran gave her a perfunctory kiss goodbye, but she wouldn’t let him go like that. She wound her arms about his neck and held him to her for a longer moment than was necessary, seeing Walter turn quickly away. She spoke softly in Ran’s ear.
‘I love Killigrew Clay, dar, but I love you more, and I’d see it destroyed before I saw it destroy us.’
He breathed in sharply at such an unexpected avowal, and she was surprised at herself. She hadn’t intended saying any such thing, and nor had she known such a sentiment existed in her. But it did, and now it was said. Ran squeezed her waist hard and gave a small nod, before turning to leave for St Austell with Walter.
‘There’s somebody to see you, Ma’am,’ Mrs Enders said a while later, her voice high, and her face full of disapproval.
‘Who is it?’ Morwen said, taking the card from the silver salver as she spoke. Her heart leapt uncomfortably as she saw the name on the visiting card. The words Harriet Pendragon danced in front of her eyes. What did that woman want with her? And how dare she come here uninvited? Not that she would ever be invited to Morwen’s home…
‘Shall I tell her you’re not at home, Ma’am?’ Mrs Enders said, awaiting instructions.
It was so very tempting.
‘No. I can’t think what she wants with me, but I’ll hear what she has to say. You may show her in here, Mrs Enders, and tell her I can give her ten minutes and no more.’
And in stating her terms, Morwen underlined her position here. She sat up very straight, smoothing down her pale green afternoon gown, and priding herself on the tasteful ambience of the drawing room. Someone who had gone to a men’s meeting dressed in scarlet satin should be effectively intimidated by the quiet grandeur of New World and the self-assurance of its mistress.
The next moment, Morwen had a job not to let her mouth drop open with shock. She had expected a vulgar, buxom streetwoman, newly rich with her elderly dead husband’s money. What she saw was a woman in gaudy enough garb, the deep purple satin gown and bonnet shrieking with bad taste; yet it complemented the silver-blonde hair and the startlingly light eyes in a way no other colour could have done. And she wasn’t old, or fat, or ugly…
Morwen rose stiffly, completely knocked off-balance by the aplomb of the woman walking gracefully towards her now, a half-smile on her rouged lips, her slender, gloved hand outstretched to greet her as if they were old friends.
‘Mrs Wainwright, I do hope you’ll forgive the informality of this visit, but since I was in the area, I wanted so much to meet you.’
There was a trace of a Cockney accent in the voice. Morwen remembered hearing at the time that old Pendragon had met his wife while on a short outing to London, and had married her within weeks. Looking at the woman, it would seem likely. Those hard, silvery, calculating eyes were taking in everything about the room now, and Morwen wondered if she was mentally pricing it all up in her mind. She declined to take the proffered hand, and Harriet Pendragon withdrew it with an amused smile.
‘I can only give you ten minutes,’ she reminded her. ‘I have other appointments today, so please say what you’ve come here to say.’
She knew she was being ungracious, but she didn’t care.
She was filled with a deep mistrust of this woman. There was an aura surrounding her that was as dark as the colour she wore. It was as crystal clear to Morwen as if she had painted it there herself. It was a devil’s colour. She shook her head as if to clear her mind, and asked Harriet Pendragon abruptly to sit down. Not for the world was she going to offer her tea and turn this into a tête-à-tête, but she could hardly leave a visitor standing. Besides which, the dark aura was very strong, and while the woman was on her feet, it threatened to overpower Morwen.
Harriet sat down with a ripple of satin fabric, sitting with her hands folded perfectly in her lap. Morwen knew instinctively that she hadn’t been born a lady, but she had learned and practised the etiquette of good manners. Morwen hadn’t been born a lady either, but knowing it did nothing to endear her to this one.
‘You’ll have seen the current issue of the Truro newspaper, I daresay,’ Harriet said, with no attempt at the niceties of conversation.
‘I don’t believe there was anything in it of great importance to me,’ Morwen said coldly.
‘Do you not? From all that I’ve heard about you, I wouldn’t have taken you for a fool, Mrs Wainwright, and I thought that as two women clay bosses, we might have been able to reach a common goal.’
Morwen could hardly believe her cheek. Coming into her house and implying that she was a fool, and then suggesting that they might work together, was more than outrageous. It was obscene. She got slowly to her feet.
‘I don’t think we have anything more to say, Mrs Pendragon. My position is totally different from yours, and I wouldn’t dream of putting the two of us in the same category. Moreover, I don’t deal with Killigrew Clay’s business affairs. I leave all of that to the men, the way it has always been.’
‘That’s where you have the advantage over me then, since I no longer have a man at the helm of my ship,’ Harriet said coolly. ‘But I can’t believe you’re of the opinion that a woman doesn’t have a brain?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Morwen said, irritated at how the woman seemed to be getting the upperhand. ‘Of course a woman has a brain, and can think for herself.’
‘Then why don’t you?’ Harriet said, with a sudden show of passion. ‘Why don’t you tell these damn-fool male bosses that the only way to gain the clayworkers’ confidence is to guarantee their wages for the year ahead?’
‘How can anyone guarantee that with things the way they are?’ Morwen said hotly. ‘Unless you have unlimited funds at your disposal, it would be madness to do so.’
She paused, seeing the triumphant look in the woman’s eyes. Harriet Pendragon seemed to be saying all too clearly that she had those funds, and would stop at nothing to be the most powerful businesswoman in Cornwall.
Morwen turned away from that voluptuous face, and looked deliberately at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘I believe your ten minutes is up,’ she said. ‘You’ve accomplished nothing in coming here, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t come here again.’
Harriet stood up. She was taller than Morwen, and her stance was so intimidating that Morwen felt as if she mentally stepped back a pace. It infuriated her to know that she was so affected by the woman, but she couldn’t deny the feeling that there was an inexplicable sense of ill-will coming from her. Such instinctive feelings were rarely wrong.
‘Oh, but you haven’t seen or heard the last of me, Morwen Wainwright,’ Harriet said softly. ‘I aim to get what I want, and nothing stands in my way. I’ve tried one approach, and if that fails, there’s always another.’
Her eyes strayed to the portrait of Ran that stood on the piano, and Morwen caught her breath. There was a sexual threat in Harriet Pendragon’s voice now that was almost tangible. But before Morwen could think of another word to say, there was a swish of purple satin, and she was alone.
She was still standing motionless with clenched hands when Mrs Enders came back into the room.
‘What’s happened, my dear?’ she exclaimed at once. ‘Did that one upset you? I knew she was bad news, the minute I laid eyes on her. For all her airs and graces, she was more fitted to bein’ with the sluts on the waterfront than in a decent woman’s drawing room. Sit yourself down, my lamb, and I’ll bring ’ee in a nice hot drink of tea.’
Morwen let her prattle on, without taking any of it in, and then she spoke sharply, needing to bring everything back to a homely, familiar level.
‘Has Bradley appeared yet? If so, I’ll join the children in the nursery for tea, Mrs Enders.’
The houskeeper looked at her uneasily.
‘The two little uns are up there, Ma’am, but young Bradley’s not returned yet. Gillings has gone to look for un, since we know Mr Wainwright don’t like him bein’ at the beach so late in the day, and he’s been gone a fair time.’
Dear God, this was all they needed, for Bradley to commit one of his misdemeanours today. Her nerves were scratchy enough now, without trying to act the peacemaker between her son and her husband. But if Gillings had gone to look for Bradley, there was nothing more she could do about it.
‘Then I’ll take tea with the other two,’ she said, praying that the normality of it would help to ease her mind and settle the growing fear that there were bad days ahead.
Morwen and the younger children were reading together in the nursery by the time her errant son came home, hauled up the stairs none too gently by Mrs Enders, and thrust into the nursery to present himself.
‘Look at the state of un, Mrs Wainwright! He looks more like a ragamuffin than the son of a gentleman, wi’ his clothes all torn and filthy, and wi’ no explanation to say where ’e’s been.’
As she paused for breath, Bradley tore himself out of her clutching hands. He bawled at her furiously.
‘Leave me be, you old witch! I don’t have to answer to a servant, and there’s some that don’t consider damn Yankees to be gentlemen, anyway—’
He was stopped in mid-flow by a stinging slap across his cheek from his mother, sending him reeling backwards so fast that he staggered and fell. Emma screamed, and Mrs Enders went to her at once. She held the child close, muttering that she wasn’t to fret, but her own face was as red as a turkey cock’s with mortification at Bradley’s onslaught.
Morwen hauled the boy to his feet and slapped him again. She rarely hit her children, but this one was becoming impossibly arrogant.
‘How dare you speak to Mrs Enders like that!’ she raged. ‘You will apologize to her at once, and then you will go and bathe and take yourself off to bed.’
‘I haven’t had any tea!’ Bradley howled.
She shook him violently. ‘You’ll get nothing to eat in this house until you can learn to behave like a civilized human being. And your first lesson is to make a proper apology to Mrs Enders. Now, Bradley!’ she added, as he stood with his jaw sticking out mutinously.
‘I won’t,’ he scowled.
‘What?’ she said, her eyes flashing dangerously. The two younger children had fallen silent and scared at this outright defiance.
‘Perhaps you should leave it for now, Ma’am, until he’s had time to consider it,’ Mrs Enders said nervously.
‘I will not leave it, and neither will he. He’s becoming uncontrollable, and I won’t have it. None of the other boys gave me this much trouble, and I won’t be ruled by one of my own chicks. Bradley, you will do as I say, and you will do it now!’
For a minute longer he glared at her, their identical blue eyes matching in fury, and then he dropped his gaze and stared sullenly at the floor.
‘I’m sorry for calling you a witch, Mrs Enders. But I’m not sorry for the other thing. There’s plenty of folk who say my father’s nothing but a damn Yankee, and I don’t care to be called a damn Yankee’s son, so there!’
He twisted away from his mother and hurtled out of the nursery, slamming the door behind him. Morwen took a step to follow him, and then resisted the temptation. In any case, her duty now was to calm the little ones, instead of continuing this verbal abuse with her obnoxious young sprat.
What was the use, anyway? She’d only hear more of the same, and she could well do without any more accusations against her husband. But she had a horrible suspicion that when Ran got his dander up with folk, Bradley’s words were more cannily true than false. It took more than years of living in the community to become a Cornishman.