Sara Craven - Witching Hour

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 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.’