Witching Hour (21 page)

at what she held in utter disbelief. Of all things, it was, it had to be

the costume her grandmother had worn as Morgan le Fay. She

shook it out, gently, and held it up to get a better look. There was

no doubt about it, she thought, as her bemused eyes took in the low

embroidered neckline and the long pointed sleeves, lined in

contrasting silk. The colour had faded and was yellowing slightly

along the folds it had lain in for so many years, but all the same it

was in fantastically good condition. It was beautiful too, the dark

green of woodland glades, with the gold embroidery dappling it

like sunlight. There was a golden girdle too, which hung on the

hips and was knotted loosely below the waist so that the long

fringed ends trailed almost to the hem of the gown. There was a

filmy veil too, to wear over the hair, and a tiny green and gold

juliet cap to hold it in place.

She thought, 'This is one thing that's not going to any jumble sale

or theatrical company.'

Acting on a barely understood impulse, she stood up and took it

into her bedroom, holding it in front of herself, and studying

herself intently in the dressing table mirror.

Rob had reminded her more than once that they were supposed to

attend the Templetons' Hallowe'en party in some kind of

appropriate fancy dress, but she hadn't been able to muster a great

deal of interest in the idea. Not until now, she thought, seeing how

the green of the gown darkened her eyes to emerald. There was a

mounting excitement deep inside her. There would be a plethora of

witches at the party, she had no doubt, all with steeple hats and

dark cloaks and blackened teeth. But this would be incredibly

different.

Hastily she stripped off her jeans and sweater and eased the fragile

silk carefully over her head. It was a close fit. She was slim, but

her grandmother must have been a sylph, she decided ruefully,

turning sideways to view herself critically. But she could always

alter the position of a few salient hooks, although she could little

about the rounded curves of her breasts swelling above the deep

square of the neck. She was sure such conscious provocation

would have been unthinkable in her grandmother's day. Probably a

discreet frill of lace had been added then.

But the real Morgan le Fay wouldn't have bothered with such

concealment, she thought. According to the legends, she was lady

who relied on more than just magic for her enchantments.

She untied the ribbon that confined her hair at the nape of her neck

and shook it gently, allowing it to fall forward on to her shoulders.

A stranger seemed to look back at her, cool and dangerous with the

knowledge of her own feminine power. The dress clung to every

curve, accentuating her hips, and outlining the smooth line of her

thighs.

She thought, 'It's no wonder Grandfather couldn't resist her.'

She stared at' herself until the mirrored image blurred and swam

under the intensity of her gaze, then she said aloud and fiercely,

'Grandmother—Morgan le Fay— teach me your spell. Teach me

how to bewitch the man I love and bind him to me for ever.'

THE days leading up to Hallowe'en were busy ones. Paul Crosbie

left, and Steven Chisholm, the architect, took his place. Morgana

and her mother found themselves staring at an endless series of

drawings showing them what the new flat could or should be like,

and found themselves having to answer questions on their

preferences in bathroom fittings and kitchen units.

Yet Morgana found it hard to show a great deal of interest in the

project.

'You make the decisions,' she urged her mother. 'After all, it's

going to be your home.'

'Yours as well, darling,' Mrs Pentreath protested.

'Only, temporarily. I've agreed to stay a year—no more,' Morgana

said stubbornly. The agreement was now in writing. Contracts had

arrived, and been duly inspected by Mr Trevick and then

recommended for signature. Morgana had felt trapped while she

was doing so, but the terms had been more than clear, and if her

mother was to have security then she had little choice.

'You may not want to leave,' Mrs Pentreath said serenely.

'Oh, yes, I shall.' Morgana's voice was grim. 'I want to leave right

now.'

But was it really true? she asked herself as she tossed and turned at

night, trying to find the sleep which constantly eluded her. If Lyall

were to set her free from her promise tomorrow, would she really

want to go—to sacrifice any hope of seeing him again?'

Perhaps hope was the wrong word to use, she thought, because she

had little or nothing to look forward to from Lyall. Their

relationship had been fraught with trauma from their first

encounter, and nothing was likely to happen that would improve

matters, least of all if she were to surrender to his casual

lovemaking, to forfeit her self-respect for a few hours of sensual

pleasure.

Longing for him made her body burn as if she was consumed by a

fever. She was terrified by the strange pagan restlessness which

seemed to be flowing in her veins, making her feel at one with the

wind which howled round the Wishing Stone on the high moor, or

sent the stormy breakers crashing over the rocks at the foot of

Polzion cliffs.

She had changed her mind about the costume for the party. She

had hung the Morgan le Fay dress in her wardrobe, and tried to

ignore its presence there, telling herself it would be far more

sensible to make herself a black steeple hat, and search through the

outhouses for the old besom broom, kept for sweeping leaves from

the lawns.

Her grandmother's gown was dangerous, she told herself. It made

her desire impossible things, gave her the illusion that she had the

power to bring them about. The romantic aura which still clung to

it had too much influence, she thought wryly, but she was a fool if

she thought for one minute that the spell her grandmother had cast

would work for her.

One evening, she and her mother had looked through the

photograph album she had found in the bottom of the trunk,

smiling over the faded sepia prints with the careful captions

written below in copperplate handwriting.

'I suppose we can add this to the family records,' Mrs Pentreath

said when they reached the end of the album. 'Some of them are

fascinating, but it's a pity there are so many gaps.'

'Yes,' said Morgana, frowning a little. 'Did you notice that nearly

all the gaps are photographs where Mark Pentreath was in the

group?'

'No, I didn't,' said Mrs Pentreath, 'but then it's hardly surprising. I

expect that your grandfather had them removed after the big row.'

'And the portrait sent up to the attic,' said Morgana, and sighed.

'My grandfather was a very unforgiving man.'

'Yes, he was, but there's always been a ruthless streak in the

Pentreath men which emerges every generation or so. I was always

thankful that your father seemed to have escaped it.' She looked

wistful for a moment. 'Although I suppose for the sake of the

business, it might have been better if he hadn't.'

'Well, for our sakes, I'm glad of it,' Morgana told her, and gave her

mother's slightly dropping shoulders a swift hug. 'By the way -' she

hesitated, 'there was a leather case among Grandmother's things

which I've kept as well as the photo album. But the trouble is it's

locked and I haven't found any trace of a key. When you were

sorting out the keys of the house for Lyall, did you come across

any spare ones that didn't have a lock to belong to?'

'Only one, but that was absolutely enormous. It wouldn't have

fitted a small case.' Mrs Pentreath pursed her lips. 'I can't imagine

why such a thing should have been kept.'

'Unless it contains something precious,' Morgana said slowly. 'It's

heavy enough.'

'I can't think what that could be,' her mother shrugged. 'It certainly

isn't your grandmother's jewellery. Every piece of that was sold.'

'Oh dear!' Morgana spread her hands in mock dismay. 'Does that

mean no secret cache of diamonds? And there was I thinking we'd

be able to buy back Polzion and tell Lyall to go to hell.'

'An attractive thought,' her mother said drily. 'But what makes you

think he would sell? It's his home, after all. He has Pentreath

blood.'

'And so much family feeling that he couldn't even be bothered to

retain the name,' Morgana said too fiercely.

'There's an explanation for that,' Mrs Pentreath twisted her

wedding ring pensively. 'From the time he was a small boy. I think

he was imbued with Stories of the Pentreath feud, and how his

father and grandfather had been wronged. Giles, certainly, had an

obsession about the house, and the fact that they'd been pushed out

into the cold to make their way as best they could. Not that he did

badly, at all,' she added, wrinkling her forehead. 'Lyall's mother

was a rich heiress, but not even the knowledge of that could pacify

him, and eventually there was a separation. It's hardly to be

wondered at that Lyall grew to prefer to use his stepfather's name,

instead of Pentreath which he associated with quarrelling and

bitterness.'

'I suppose not,' Morgana said reluctantly. Her own childhood had

been a relatively happy one. It disturbed her to think of Lyall

coming from a broken home, no matter how luxurious.

Before she went to bed that night, she took the leather case from

her dressing table drawer and studied it. She supposed if she

wanted to know what it contained, then she would have to break

the lock, and it was certainly far too heavy to be empty. She slid it

back in the drawer and closed it decisively. She had too much to

do and to think about to spend her time worrying about old

mysteries and feuds.

And she would get rid of that dress, too, she thought. Every time

she opened her wardrobe, the green silk seemed to glow out at her

from the other rather sparse contents.

She walked across the room and took it out of the cupboard,

tossing it carelessly over the back of her chair, regretting the

impulse which had made her separate it from the rest of the things

in the trunk. It was a dress that spoke of dreams and fantasies, and

not the kind of reality she had to come to terms with.

Hallowe'en itself dawned with clear skies and a slight frost. The

fierce wind had dropped overnight, and a crisp day held the

promise of winter.

Morgana had just finished serving lunch and was on her way back

to the kitchen for her own meal when the telephone rang. She was

surprised to hear Elaine's voice asking abruptly for Lyall.

'He isn't here,' she said, rather taken aback. Although Lyall hadn't

been in touch with them, she had supposed he would have

maintained contact with Elaine, especially as they had a date for

the party that very evening.

'Then where is he?' Elaine demanded. 'He can't still be in Sweden.

He was due back two days ago.'

'I really don't know anything about his plans,' Morgana returned

wearily.

'Is that a fact?' Elaine's tone was frankly sceptical. 'You're not

being exactly helpful for a van Guisen-Lyall employee, you know.

I hope you're not nurturing secret hopes of your own in Lyall's

direction, because, I can tell you now, sweetie, they're doomed to

disappointment.'

Morgana was stung, both by the vulgarity of Elaine's remark, and

its uncanny accuracy. Before she could stop herself, she said

sharply, 'Because of your own hopes, I presume?'

'If you like to put it like that,' Elaine returned smugly. 'Stay in your

own league, my pet. Rob seems reasonably besotted with you.

Capitalise on that.'

'Thanks for the good advice.' Morgana's voice shook a little, and

the knuckles on the hand holding the receiver were white with the

strain of trying not to slam it back on the rest.

'You're welcome,' Elaine said negligently. 'Ask Lyall to call me

when he does arrive, will you?'

'I'll be sure and make a note of it,' Morgana said ironically. 'Is there

anything else?'

'Not at the moment.' She could hear the smile in Elaine's voice.

'But if there is, I'll let you know.'

Morgana replaced her receiver with deliberate gentleness and sat