Witching Hour

WITCHING HOUR

Sara Craven

Morgana couldn't wish him away

Lyall Pentreath van Guisen was a new and unwanted factor in her

life. As the only male heir in the ancient but divided Pentreath

family, he had inherited their Cornish home.

Not only was he from the other branch of the family--he was also

ruthless, cunning and used to getting his own way.

His taking over their home was bad enough. But Lyall had made it

quite clear that he'd like to take her over, as well. Morgana was

afraid, but somehow secretly excited....

THE October afternoon was fading fast, and the drawing room at

Polzion House was filled with shadows, but in spite of the

encroaching dimness, none of the lamps had been lit, and the log

fire on the wide hearth had been allowed to burn away almost to

ash.

In her grey dress with its long sleeves and high collar, Morgana

seemed part of the shadows as she stood at the window, staring out

at the wind-tossed garden. She was motionless, only her hands

balled into fists at her sides giving any indication of the inner

tension which threatened to consume her.

Outside the wind was rising. She could hear it wailing among the

tall chimneys and along the eaves. Living on an exposed stretch of

Cornish coastline, she had always taken autumn gales for granted,

but today—the desolate sound of it made her shiver. On other,

happier October afternoons, she-would have drawn the curtains

and turned to make up the fire, dismissing with a shrug whatever

dark angel stood at her shoulder, but not now—perhaps not ever

again. Not in this room—this house.

Something inside her cringed away from the thought, but it had to

be faced. Her life at Polzion House, the only life she had ever

known, would soon be at an end, and she had no idea, not even the

slightest, what she could put in its place. It wasn't as if she was

really trained for anything. Since leaving school with perfectly

respectable examination results, she'd been here, helping her father

and mother run the hotel. Family help had always been essential,

as she'd always known, because Polzion House had never been,

successful or profitable enough to justify employing outside staff,

with the exception of Elsa, who cooked like an angel when the

fates decreed, and had been part of their lives for so long that she

seemed like one of the family.

It had always been a struggle, but Morgana was young and strong,

and she had always been optimistic about the future, until now. Or

until the day nearly a month ago when her whole world had fallen

apart.

She swallowed with the pain of remembering thick in her throat.

Her father hadn't been well for about a week, complaining almost

apologetically of indigestion, and it was true Elsa's cooking had

been more erratic than usual. So Morgana had not worried

particularly. Her father was young for his age. He swam regularly,

and played golf and squash. He was as fit as anyone could be, or

so they had always thought, so his collapse when it came was

doubly shocking.

She and her mother had lived in hope for about a week, visiting the

hospital where he was in intensive care, telling each other that

these days heart attacks were not serious— almost fashionable, in

fact—and that all sorts of things could be done. But in Martin

Pentreath's case, there was very little to be done. Years of strain

and financial worry had taken their toll, and very quietly, they took

him.

The funeral had been anguish. Everyone in the neighbourhood had

been there to pay their last respects. Martin Pentreath had not been

much of a hotelier, and even less of a business man, but everyone

had liked him. Morgana had listened to their condolences, and told

herself if she could get through this without breaking down, then

everything would be all right. Only it had not been all right.

For Elizabeth Pentreath and her daughter there were shocks and

more anguish when it came to the reading of the will, with Mr

Trevick's solemn face even more portentous than usual. And

Morgana, listening dazedly to words like 'entail' and 'surviving

male heir', realised for the first time that with her father's death the

life she had known and the future she expected had died too.

The door behind her opened suddenly, flooding the room with

light from the hall beyond, and her mother came in on a little

flurry of words. 'Too dreadful, darling. I've just been on the phone

to Marricks to order some more coke—the boiler isn't nearly as hot

as it should be, and Miss Meakins was complaining about the

bathwater again this morning—and some thoroughly unpleasant

person told me that unless something was paid on account, there

wouldn't be any more deliveries. What do you think of that?'

Morgana shrugged. 'It's not entirely unexpected. We were never a

good credit risk, and now that we've even lost the house . . .'

'Oh, Morgana,' Mrs Pentreath wailed, 'don't say such things!'

'But it's true.' Morgana's tone held a faint impatience. 'We can be

dispossessed at any time by the new owner. You know the terms of

the entail as well as I do. Mr Trevick made them more than clear.'

'But it's so unfair! And I'm sure it can't be legal—not in these days

when people are always making such a noise about sexual

discrimination.'

Morgana allowed herself a slight smile as she looked at her

mother. 'An interesting point,' she conceded drily. 'But if we can't

muster enough cash for the fuel bill, I doubt whether we could

afford a lengthy court action.' Her gaze went to the bureau in the

corner which she knew was stuffed with unpaid bills, and a

number of receipts, including her father's subscription to the local

golf club. When Martin Pentreath, big, bluff and genial, had been

alive his choice of priorities hadn't seemed quite so curious, and

his lack of responsibility about money matters had seemed almost

endearing. Now they had assumed the proportions of a nightmare.

Elizabeth Pentreath sank down upon the elderly sofa. 'But it is

unfair,' she repeated. 'Why, that awful Giles hadn't the slightest

interest in Polzion. I'm sure he only kept the quarrel going with

your grandfather so that he could keep away from the place, and

use that as an excuse. After all, he went off swearing that he'd

never set foot in the place again.'

'Well, he's kept his word,' said Morgana, her mouth twisting a

little. 'Unless he comes back to haunt the house—and the new

heir.' She moved away from the window and sat down beside her

mother. 'Did Daddy never mention the entail to you?'

'Oh, years ago, when we first married, but he didn't want to discuss

it, and I could never find out any details. And when you were born,

he talked of it again—spoke of trying to get it legally removed, but

again I think it was a matter of cost which prevented him. And you

know yourself, darling, how difficult it was to get him to talk

about serious matters—especially when they concerned the

quarrel. He didn't really want Giles' name mentioned at all.'

'I'm quite aware of that.' Morgana remembered with a pang her

father's burst of temper whenever unwary references to the past

had been made. From local gossip and what snippets she'd been

able to piece together, she gathered that the quarrel had begun over

a generation before when her grandfather and his cousin Mark had

fallen out for reasons which had never been fully established, but

with such bitterness that Mark had taken himself off from Polzion,

never to be seen there again. Years later, his son Giles had

returned in an attempt to heal the breach, but there had been more

trouble and the re-opening, it seemed, of old wounds, and it had

been Giles' turn to storm off, shaking the metaphorical dust of

Polzion from his shoes for ever.

There had been generations of Pentreaths at Polzion. They had

farmed the land, and mined for tin and copper, living well on the

proceeds, and building this large rambling house to remind the

world that in this corner of it they still ruled. But when the tin and

copper petered out, so did the Pentreath fortunes, and now all the

land, except an acre of overgrown garden round the house which

enabled the hotel to advertise as 'standing in its splendid grounds',

had been sold, even the Home Farm which Morgana's grandfather

had clung to almost desperately.

It was only after his father's death that Martin Pentreath had

conceived the idea of turning the family home into a hotel—

something he frankly admitted he would never have dared to do or

even mention when his father was alive. The fact that Polzion was

relatively isolated, and could boast none of the amenities of the

usual tourist traps and beauty spots did not trouble him in the least.

Morgana said, 'How Grandfather would have hated to think of

Mark's grandson inheriting this house!'

Her mother said hopefully, 'Perhaps he won't want it. Perhaps

he'll—renounce the entail—or whatever one can do.'

'Whether he wants it or not, it belongs to him,' said Morgana.

'What a pity he wasn't born a girl, or that I wasn't a boy. It would

have saved a lot of trouble and inconvenience all round. At least

we wouldn't be hanging around here like this, waiting to be turned

out of our home by a complete stranger. And I still think it would

be more dignified to have packed and gone, instead of waiting here

for sentence to be carried out.'

Her mother shuddered. 'You make it sound revolting, darling! But

how could we possibly have left? There are the guests to consider.'

'Miss Meakins and Major Lawson,' Morgana said drily. 'Hardly a

cast of thousands.'

'Well, it is the off-season,' Mrs Pentreath said defensively.

Morgana sighed. 'Even in the height of summer, Polzion House

Hotel was never exactly an "ongoing situation".' She reproduced

the jargon phrase with distaste. 'People on holiday want hot baths

and swimming pools, and meals which aren't quite so dependent

on the whim of the cook.'

'Elsa's a very good cook,' Mrs Pentreath said reproachfully.

'Oh, indeed she is, when the wind's in the right quarter, or the tea-

leaves have looked hopeful, or the cards aren't presaging doom and

disaster.'

'Well, she has got the sight,' Mrs Pentreath offered pacifically.

'Then I wish she'd "seen" the big freeze last winter. We might

have, been spared some burst pipes.' Morgana sounded defeated,

and her mother said briskly,

'No wonder you're moping, darling. It's so gloomy in this room,

and cold too. Why on earth didn't you make up the fire? It's nearly

out.' She got up, bustling over to the hearth and stirring the

reluctant embers with the long brass-handled poker.

Morgana shrugged. 'His electricity. His logs. Maybe we shouldn't

waste them.'

'I cannot believe any Pentreath would deny his own kin anything

as basic as a fire to warm themselves by,' Mrs Pentreath protested.

'He's a stranger to us. We know nothing about him— except his

name and the fact that he was too busy in America on some

business deal to come to Daddy's funeral.' Morgana sounded

suddenly raw. 'And since then, not a word, except this curt

communication from his lawyers that he would be arriving here

today.'

'I think that must be a mistake, don't you?' The fire revived to her