Penmarric (51 page)

Alice was the only one who did not seem to have enjoyed the wedding much.

“I’m not at my best at large gatherings,” she told me frankly. “I always feel shy and want to hide behind the nearest curtain.”

“You don’t, Alice!” I could not believe it.

“Indeed I do! Ask Mr. Castallack! He found me quivering behind a potted palm and came over especially to talk to me. How kind he is! I’m very fond of him.”

Papa evidently approved of Alice’s presence at Penmarric, for after the wedding he asked her to stay on permanently as his housekeeper and even, so William told me, raised her salary. This was hardly surprising, for she was excellent at her job. It was true that she was young for the position, but the Penmar name had a certain sentimental value for the servants, especially those such as Medlyn the butler, who could think of her fondly as “Young Mr. Harry’s daughter.” But whether her success was due to her name or to her natural efficiency in household affairs, the fact remained that Papa did not have to worry about domestic matters at Penmarric any more and could concentrate fully on his work.

It was in November, just after Mariana had returned from her honeymoon and written sketchily to us that “everything was divine,” that Papa had a book published on the career of Stephen Langton and his relationship with King John both during and after the Interdict. It was fascinating to read, and during the Christmas holidays Papa and Alice and myself had some most interesting conversations on the subject after dinner in his study. Alice enjoyed history almost as much as she enjoyed studying current affairs. Her grandfather had an extensive library at the rectory and she was surprisingly well read.

The new term began and soon it was spring and we were all home for the holidays. Marcus, down from Oxford for a few weeks, was at the townhouse for the beginning of the Season and presently wired Papa for “a little extra money.”

Alice commented shrewdly to William, “Marcus has probably met a rich fast crowd at Oxford.”

But William would not join in criticism of Marcus and merely said Marcus had a great many expenses to meet.

“Fiddlesticks,” said Alice. “He’s hopelessly extravagant.”

Afterward William remarked privately to me, “Alice is a very bossy sort of woman. She always thinks she’s right.”

“That’s because she usually is,” I said, springing at once to her defense.

“Even so she shouldn’t insist that she’s right in such a dogmatic manner,” said William. “It’s unfeminine and I don’t like it.”

But Alice seemed impervious to his disapproval and they continued to bicker at intervals, particularly over the political situation at home and abroad.

It was 1913. At home the House of Lords had thrown out the bill to extend the suffrage, just as I had foreseen, and the suffragettes had become even more militant in consequence.

“And I can’t say I really blame them,” said Alice, “although I do think the use of violence in those circumstances can’t really be justified.”

“They’ll never get the vote at this rate,” said William. “Just as well, if you ask me.”

“I don’t think I ever did ask you,” said Alice, “but surely isn’t it narrow-minded to judge all women by the activities of a group of extremists?”

The House of Lords had also thrown out a bill designed to ameliorate the perpetual troubles in Ireland.

“It’s a pity the Lords ever survived the constitutional crisis of 1911,” commented Alice tartly. “Now of course there’ll be civil war in Ireland.”

“It’s no more than the Irish deserve,” said William. “They’re always squabbling among themselves anyway. Of course they’re quite unfit for self-government.”

“Not quite as unfit as that collection of fossilized relics at Westminster,” said Alice.

Abroad the second Balkan war was stirring, but everyone was confident that Sir Edward Grey would keep Britain uninvolved and control the dispute through his usual skillful diplomacy.

“There’ll never be a war,” said William. “None of the European heads of state wants such a thing—that was made abundantly clear when that last Balkan crisis cropped up.”

“Yes, but how long can Sir Edward Grey keep up this neutrality policy?” said Alice. “There must surely be times when one simply can’t stay neutral.”

“Exactly!” I agreed. “Anyway, I think war can be noble if it’s waged in the name of justice and liberty.”

“I don’t know about it being noble,” said Alice, “but I can see times when it could be necessary—inevitable, in fact.”

“I can’t,” said William obstinately. “Why should we get involved in Russia’s endless squabbles with Turkey and all that Slavic bickering at the other end of Europe?’

“Austria is interested in ‘all that Slavic bickering,’ ” said Alice promptly, “and who’s hand in glove with Austria, I’d like to know?”

“The Kaiser’ll never bother us,” declared William. “So long as he can dress up in splendid uniforms and parade his soldiers as if he were a child playing with toys, he’ll be absolutely harmless. He won’t make any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” said Alice. “Grown men who play with real soldiers under the mistaken idea that they’re mere toys are a menace to the civilized world.”

“What a gloomy Cassandra you are, Alice!” said William, but his good-humored comment could not quite hide the note of irritation in his voice. “But I’m afraid I still think there won’t be a war.”

“Churchill thinks there will be!”

“Churchill’s an irresponsible warmonger!”

“I don’t think there’ll be a war—for a while anyway,” I interposed as the conversation threatened to become too acrimonious. “But if war did break out I’m sure it would only be because someone flouted all the principles of civilized behavior so outrageously that we would have no choice except to intervene. After all, when there’s an open conflict between good and evil—when one’s very principles are at stake—one simply must defend what one believes to be right. There’s no better reason for fighting, in my opinion.”

At least they both agreed with me about that. I sighed in relief. I did not like to listen to them arguing since I always felt trapped in the middle; I usually agreed with Alice, but I did not want to support her too enthusiastically for fear of being disloyal to William.

Summer came. The second Balkan war was maneuvered delicately into peaceful waters by the statesmen of Europe and Sir Edward Grey rose to new heights of popularity.

“I told you so,” said William to Alice.

“Well, I never said there’d be a war this year, did I?” said Alice, but I could see she was annoyed that William had been right and she had been wrong.

Mariana and her husband arrived for a visit at the end of July, but Cornwall was clearly too provincial for them and they did not stay long. Papa spent some time in Oxford after they had gone, and while he was away Penmarric reverberated with Jan-Yves’s tantrums as he declared he would not go to boarding school in September. When Papa returned from Oxford I thought he would find this rebelliousness very tiresome, but he took a lenient attitude toward the child’s stormy scenes and soothed Jan-Yves by promising to visit the school at half-term with William.

Christmas arrived at last. I was eighteen years old now, very tall and still much too thin, but my skin was clearing and I no longer felt so ungainly whenever I entered a room. I decided life was improving, and as winter melted into spring I began to think with pleasurable anticipation of the prospect of going up to Oxford in the autumn. When my final term at Winchester ended in July I felt sad to think my school days were closed at last, but I did not feel depressed for long and soon I was back at Penmarric and resuming my discussions of current events with Alice.

However, the news at that time was enough to revive my depression. There had been more trouble in the Balkans, but no one was taking that very seriously since we all knew from past experience that trouble there could be controlled by diplomacy. The real troubles were at home. The suffragettes were setting buildings on fire, firing shots at trains and even bombing churches. Civil war was breaking out in Ireland. And then, slowly it began to dawn on everyone that even the grave disunity at home could be eclipsed by the waning power of diplomacy abroad. From the beginning of that summer and even after the assassinations at Sarajevo I think we had assumed that the neutralist policy would keep us all out of trouble and that if we kept calm the crises abroad would blow over in their usual fashion. Now, suddenly it began to dawn on the general public that Europe was divided into armed camps, diplomacy was grinding to an impasse and the third Balkan war, far from blowing over, was in fact billowing into a massive conflict.

Yet still there was talk of peace. I was just reading a report in
The Times
of a speech made by Lloyd George in which he had said that the international situation had been much worse in 1913, when Papa said to me unexpectedly, “Would you come into my study for a moment? There’s something I want to show you.”

Thinking that perhaps he had made an additional amendment to his current manuscript (an article on that intriguing character William Marshal), I followed him willingly to his study. I always felt flattered when he chose to discuss his work with me and was continually eager to show my interest in his writings.

However, this time I was mistaken about the purpose of his invitation. When we were in the study he turned not to the papers on his desk but to a gold watch lying on a side table.

“I found this the other day,” he said, picking up both the watch and its chain. “I have a perfectly good watch myself which my father gave me when I was twenty-one, so I hardly need another. I want you to have it. I almost decided to wait until you were twenty-one, but then I thought I would give it to you now in token of your successful career at Winchester and to wish you well for your coming years at Oxford.”

He held it out to me. I was so overcome with surprise and pleasure that I found myself unable to speak. However, after I was about to exclaim, “How beautiful it is!” when I saw accepting the watch and holding it in my palm for a moment the inscription on the back and fell silent.

There was a pause.

“It was my father’s watch, as you can see,” said Papa. “It was a twenty-first birthday present from his own father but in spite of its age it still keeps excellent time—probably because it’s had no wear and tear for a quarter of a century. I had it overhauled in Penzance last week. It’s in perfect working order.”

I stared at the engraving.
LAURENCE CASTALLACK
, said the inscription. 22
ND MARCH
, 1864. I stared at it for five silent seconds before saying slowly, “This shouldn’t come to me.”

“Why not?” said Papa. “You’re the one boy who’s most like him. He would have wanted you to have it. It would have pleased him more than you could ever imagine to know that I had a son who resembled him.”

“But … what will the others say?”

“I should hope they won’t be so childish as to make any adverse comments! I shall give my personal belongings to exactly whom I please. If I gave the watch to Marcus he would probably pawn it and spend the money sending roses to the latest woman to catch his fancy. If I gave it to Philip he would refuse to accept it and if I gave it to Hugh—but damn it, why should I give it to him? I want to give it to you! Take it and wear it and enjoy it, and if anyone feels mortally insulted tell him to complain to me and I’ll answer his complaints in person.”

I made no farther protest. I was too thrilled with the watch. I thanked him as adequately as possible, but as I went outside to find William I still could not help wondering with a pang of uneasiness what my half-brothers would think when they heard of Papa’s unexpected generosity.

The King [gave a] ring, set with a sapphire of great price, to Geoffrey …

—Henry II,

JOHN
T.
APPLEBY

It was not absurd to suppose that … he, the favourite bastard, might have a chance to seize the English crown.

—The Devil’s Brood,

ALFRED DUGGAN

The boys—for they were still only boys—had their grievances and were filled with eagerness to rebel against their fond but masterful parent.

—Oxford History of England:

From Domesday Book to Magna Carta,

A. L. POOLE

T
O MY SURPRISE THE
reaction to Papa’s present was indulgent to the point of indifference.

“What an awful old relic of Victoriana!” drawled Marcus when I boldly wore the watch that evening. “My dear chap, you’re more than welcome to it!”

“Does it work?” inquired Hugh politely and, on hearing that it did, commented, “It’ll probably break down before long. Those old watches usually do.”

Jeanne, who at fourteen was all breathless enthusiasm, exclaimed, “Oh, but it’s beautiful! Even if it does break down you could always wear it simply for show, Adrian!”

“Certainly he could!” said Marcus genially. “It’s really an intriguing period piece, if you like that sort of thing.”

On the whole I thought they took the news fairly well.

It was a full two days afterward that Marcus said to me at breakfast, “Are you doing anything this morning? You wouldn’t like to come riding with me, would you? It’s a beautiful morning and I’m bored with riding alone.”

I was surprised, for Marcus had never made such an invitation before, but I saw no reason to be suspicious. He probably was bored with riding on his own. William was too busy with the estate these days to ride for pleasure during the working week, and Hugh was always either at the farm or away on private expeditions of his own.

“Very well,” I said after my moment of hesitation. “Yes, it’s a perfect morning for a ride. Where do you want to go?”

“Oh … why don’t we ride up on to the moors around Carn Kenidjack?”

“Fine. I’ll go and change. See you in the stables in about ten minutes.”

We rode down the drive and along the road into St. Just. It was a clear morning with a cool breeze gusting in from the sea. Beyond St. Just we followed the road toward Botallack, Pendeen and Morvah, and eventually branched away onto the bridlepath that led across the moors.