Witching Hour (2 page)

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