Penhaligon's Pride

Book 2: Penhaligon Saga

by Terri Nixon

Genres: Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

The stirring second installment in Terri Nixon's Penhaligon Saga series

1910. Anna Garvey and her daughter are still running the Tin Streamer's Arms in Caernoweth, Cornwall, and it finally seems like she has left her tumultuous history behind in Ireland. Meanwhile Freya Penhaligon has blossomed and is now the object of increasing affection of Hugh, the elder son of the wealthy Batten family.

After the dramatic events of the previous months, it feels like everything is finally getting back to normal. But when Anna inadvertently reveals something she shouldn't, she finds herself at the centre of a blackmail plot and it seems like the past she longed to escape is coming back to haunt her. To make matters worse, the tiny fishing hamlet is battered by a terrible storm and shifting relationships find themselves under more scrutiny than ever before.

With the Penhaligon family at breaking point it will take enormous strength and courage to bring them back together—but is it already too late?

Release date: December 7, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Anna Penhaligon: formerly Anna Garvey, she arrived in Caernoweth to take up the inheritance of the local pub. It emerged that she and her daughter had left Ireland in the wake of the death of a local banker’s son, killed accidentally by Mairead when he had attacked her on a deserted beach. To protect her daughter, Anna said it was she who’d killed him.

Matthew Penhaligon: a recovering alcoholic. A lifelong fisherman, now forced to take a job as a miner following the death of Roland Fry, his friend and skipper. Matthew and Anna have found peace and happiness together, though they have been unable to officially marry.

Freya Penhaligon: Matthew’s daughter. At the age of eight, and worried about her father’s safety at sea during a storm, she was washed off the breakwater and almost drowned. Her mother found herself unable to live with Matthew any longer, and took Freya to live in London and attend private school there. Freya returned to Caernoweth after several years to live with her father and grandfather, and works in the struggling family book shop, Penhaligon’s Attic. She also works at the Caernoweth hotel with her best friend Juliet Carne.

Mairead Casey: previously known as Mairead Garvey. Anna’s daughter, who suffers from mild epilepsy that takes the form of absence seizures. Clever and complicated, with a head for figures, she helped Freya turn the shop around and they soon became close. Freya is the person in whom Mairead confided the truth about the murder in Ireland.

James Fry: a former friend of Matthew’s, and the only son of popular fisherman Roland. He left Caernoweth at seventeen to train as an architect, and has returned to try and set up his own business in town. He still blames Matthew for an accident that almost killed his father and lost him half his business. Upon inheriting that business, James sacked Matthew in order to force him into a swap with Penhaligon’s Attic. This did not work, and while Matthew works in the mine, James is still the unwilling skipper of the Pride of Porthstennack.

David Donithorn: a troubled young man who had been a child working on the Pride when the near-fatal accident had happened. But while Matthew was eventually forgiven, and given a second chance, David lost his job and was refused any more work on the boats. Carrying a huge grudge against Matthew, he now works as a miner at Wheal Furzy, and is Matthew’s shift captain.

Isabel Webb: Freya’s mother, a Spanish stowaway who Matthew met in Plymouth, and who fell for the romantic notion of life with a handsome sailor. Sadly the reality of Matthew’s difficult existence did not measure up, and after the accident that almost claimed her daughter’s life she and Freya left Caernoweth. Isabel later married a politician and moved to America, allowing Freya to return to live with her father.

Juliet Carne: Freya’s friend, and fellow chambermaid at the hotel. She had been having an on-again off-again affair with married David Donithorn, and is now expecting his child. Having also slept with James Fry, who is single, she has told him the child is his. Matthew, Anna and Freya know this is untrue, but James is happy and ready to start building his own family.

Various townspeople, including:

Robert Penhaligon: Matthew’s father. He struggled for years with Matthew’s alcoholism, and their relationship suffered. Anna’s presence in the family home smoothed things over to a degree, and eventually Robert signed the shop over to Matthew. Their relationship is still fragile, but mending.

Joe and Esther Trevellick: the elderly couple who work for Anna at the Tin Streamer’s Arms.

Ellen Scoble: the first person to approach Anna as a friend. A widow with a young son, she is struggling to make ends meet, and works as a bal maiden at Wheal Furzy.

Doctor Andrew Bartholomew: initially disapproving of Anna, but was so taken by the way she turned the town around and created a sense of community that he suggested he produce a false death certificate for her, to send to the authorities in Ireland.

Susan Gale: his housekeeper. An inquisitive woman, and grandmother to three unruly youngsters.

Brian Cornish: a friend of James’s father, Roland, he took James under his wing when Roland died. He also championed Anna during her difficult first weeks in Caernoweth. A kindly fisherman, and a regular in the Tinner’s Arms.

The Battens: Pencarrack House overlooks the town and is the home of Charles, who owns several of the town’s properties and businesses; his son Hugh, who has formed an attachment to Freya Penhaligon; his two daughters, Dorothy and Lucy, and Dorothy’s illegitimate and adventuresome ten-year-old son, Harry.

Arric: The pub’s cat. Found as a kitten by Joe Trevellick by the side of the road, he terrorises the hens and takes every opportunity to show Anna who really owns the Tinner’s Arms.

The sun threw the last of the day’s light across the calm sea in a defiant golden burst, then, sinking out of sight, finally allowed evening to brush the world with chilly fingers. The sounds that accompanied this new aspect of the diminishing day should have been soothing to the two figures, side by side on the beach; the guttural call of cormorants at their nests in the cliffs, the rush of water over shingle, and the hiss and fizz of the retreating tide. Even, if you listened carefully, the little popping sounds of bubbles settling into the gaps in the pebbles.

But underlying it all, there was that hollow boom, peculiar to the coast, where the sea made contact within the body of the land by way of deep, dark caves, and you could almost feel the ground shaking beneath your feet… A sound like thunder. A terrible weight. A tightness in the chest. A burning in the lungs that could only be eased by opening your mouth, but you mustn’t…

Freya Penhaligon felt a steadying hand on her arm, and opened her eyes. It took a moment to adjust her vision to the darkening day, and the sound of the air rushing into her mouth and down her throat held a high, helpless note of panic as she looked at the waves, dragging at the shore as they had once dragged at her clothes.

‘You’re doing well,’ Anna said. ‘But I’d say that’s enough for today, wouldn’t you?’

‘No. I can go a little bit closer.’ But she didn’t sound convinced, even to her own ears.

Anna’s grip remained firm. ‘Not now, sweetheart. This fear has been a long time settling in, you can’t expect to banish it in a few days.’

Freya nodded. Knowing she was safe was one thing, but she couldn’t deny the uneasiness she felt as she saw the waves come rushing up the beach, as if any attempt to run away would be thwarted by the shingle shifting beneath her boots. The sea still sounded like gnashing teeth when it hit the rocks, angry with the eight-year-old child she’d been for escaping its hungry embrace. It probably always would.

They wound back through Porthstennack the long way, coming off the beach at the far end of Smugglers’ Way and walking slowly through the lanes. There were still plenty of people about; the daylight might be fading but there was still enough of it left to finish chores and outdoor jobs, before full darkness forced everyone indoors. Leaving the hamlet and starting up to Caernoweth, to their left lay Priddy Farm, which took up all the land between the school at Priddy Lane and the back end of Porthstennack. They could hear the farmer shouting to the casual workers who were helping with the silage while the days still stretched long and warm, and Freya began to feel the tension melting away under the familiar sounds.

She looked ahead, to the house where she’d lived until the age of eight: Hawthorn Cottage. It lay in its own little yard halfway up the hill, and as they drew level she stared at the lighted window at the front of the house. Did the kitchen still look and smell the same? Did the floorboards still creak by the window in the sitting room? Did the mangle in the outhouse still work, and did they still have to wedge the door open with a rock to let the daylight in? Did Tory, the little girl who lived there now, sit there in the half-dark, dreaming her days away and ignoring her chores, just as Freya had at her age?

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Anna said.

Freya shrugged. ‘I was only thinking how strange it is, that we’re always looking ahead, and wanting to grow up, but still want things to stay the same.’

‘Ah, but nothing ever does. Not really. Is that a bad thing though?’

Freya thought for a moment. ‘I’m glad enough to have had that time in London, but part of me still wishes I’d never had to leave here.’

Anna put an arm around her. ‘Well, we five are going to be making new memories together now. Isn’t that worth the odd nostalgic pang?’

‘I wish we could all live together though.’

Papá and Anna had gone away for a week, after Anna Casey’s “death” had been widely reported and, although the townspeople believed a marriage in Bodmin had necessarily been conducted in secret, only Freya, Grandpa and Mairead knew no such ceremony had taken place; sometimes it was hard to keep the many layers of secrets in order, and now and again Freya found herself hoping for something to happen, to expose everything and everyone, so they could begin afresh. Then she’d close her eyes and pray it never would, because that would bring an end to everything.

Anna squeezed Freya’s arm. ‘One day I hope. But in the meantime, we’re still a family, and at least Mairead and I are safe here.’

‘As long as you don’t get noticed by Constable Couch,’ Freya pointed out. ‘So don’t go robbing any banks.’

Anna laughed. ‘You spoil all the fun. Although,’ she added, ‘a lazier constable I’ve yet to meet, thank goodness. Sure, doesn’t he deserve his name!’

They drew level with the memorial at the bottom of town, and both stopped and stared up at it through the lowering shadows. Malcolm Penworthy’s stone eyes gazed up through the rows of houses and shops, as if mesmerised and humbled by the way his little town had grown.

‘I’m still more than halfway certain he’s why people have accepted us,’ Anna mused. ‘I know you and Matthew have both said it’s more to do with the pub and all, but…’ She gestured at the imperious figure looming over them. ‘For most people the important thing is still that I’m descended from the war hero who built the town.’

‘For some, perhaps,’ Freya conceded. ‘I suppose it’s natural though, since we’ve celebrated him for so long. You’ve heard of the Penworthy Festival?’

‘No. But it sounds fun.’

‘It’s every fifteenth of August, and nearly the whole town takes the day off work to celebrate. Shops close too, but they stay open longer the days before and after, to make up for it. Grandpa says the owners of the Tinner’s have all been treated like royalty themselves.’

‘Well I haven’t seen any sign of that so far,’ Anna said with a wry smile. ‘But we all know why, don’t we? I can hardly blame them.’

‘At least now everyone knows why you had to be so secretive,’ Freya said. ‘Or they think they do.’

‘Hush!’ Anna glanced around, but there was no one within hearing. Nevertheless she lowered her voice. ‘I still can’t believe Mairead told you everything.’

‘She had to tell someone, and better me than anyone else.’

‘That’s true enough. Away home now, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Mairead’ll be up to the shop before you go to work.’ She dropped a quick kiss on Freya’s cheek, and the natural, unconscious gesture brought a smile to Freya’s face.

At home, and still in the grip of nostalgia, she left off the electric light, and instead lit a candle. Its light was reflected in the mirror of her dressing table and threw a warming glow across the room as she peeled off her dress and chemise, then took down her hair. She’d only recently begun wearing it up, and it still felt like a very new, adult thing, to sit at her dressing table and loosen all the pins, putting them carefully on the table one by one.

She picked up Granny Grace’s hairbrush and began to draw it through her tangled hair, wincing as the bristles caught and tugged. The tallow candle threw a yellow colour onto the strands that the brush pulled on, but as they sprang back against her head they turned once more into the rich, dark luxuriant curls so like Mama’s. Everyone said she was more her mother’s child than her father’s, but apart from the colouring she could see none of Mama’s exotic Spanish allure in the face that stared back at her now, only her father’s short, straight nose, and his particular way of raising one eyebrow.

Hugh Batten, the heir apparent to Pencarrack House, made no secret of his interest in her. Of course he was as far removed from Freya’s world as she was from the piskies, and the knockers in the mines. But it didn’t matter; Hugh was a nice-looking young man, and she had daydreamed about him often enough, but whenever she let her thoughts roam ahead, to falling in love with someone deeply enough to share her life with him, the face was blank so she knew it could not be Hugh.

She finished brushing her hair and blew out the candle, wrinkling her nose at the pungent, smoky smell. Perhaps some things belonged in the past for a reason – electric light might make you blink and wince at the brightness for a moment, but at least it didn’t cling to your clothes and your hair, and make you smell like a dirty outhouse.

She closed her eyes and let herself sink into sleep. As always when she’d tested her fears at the beach, she dreamed of being eaten alive by hungry waves, but when she cried out for help this time, a reaching hand found hers and pulled her onto the shore. She opened her eyes into the darkness of her room, still breathing hard, and struggling, without success, to remember who that hand had belonged to. All she knew was that she could still feel it, and that when she fell back into sleep again she was smiling.

 

The following morning she was surprised, and momentarily disturbed, by a visit from Doctor Bartholomew. Seeing him approach from the street she glanced worriedly at the ceiling, wondering if Grandpa Robert was ill again, and Papá had sent for the doctor before he’d gone to work. But when Bartholomew came in she saw he was carrying a fairly heavy-looking lidded box, rather than his usual black bag.

‘Good morning, Miss Penhaligon.’

‘Morning, Doctor Bartholomew.’ It was still a source of amazement to many to see how this formerly irascible man had mellowed in the past few months, largely thanks to Anna’s steady, calm and firm influence, and her refusal to be cowed by his abrupt manner. Freya had her suspicions that he was drawn to her in other ways too; but the reason for his visit today turned out to have nothing to do with Anna.

He put the box on the counter, and flexed his fingers to ease the stiffness of carrying it up from the bottom of town. ‘I’ve decided to take in a lodger,’ he said, ‘now that I’m not taking the rents from the Tinner’s. So I’ve been clearing out my attic.’ He lifted the lid. ‘I’d forgotten all about these old books, but some of them are probably worth a penny or two to the right buyer.’

He unfolded the cloth, and Freya peered into the box. There were about ten or twelve books, of varying sizes, but the one thing they all had in common was a beautiful, well-preserved finish; dark greens with gilt edging, dark reds, and some blues, and the pages were yellowed but didn’t appear loose or torn.

‘They’ve been wrapped in goat skins,’ Bartholomew said. ‘Carried from house to house ever since my father died, but I’ve had little time for leisure reading I’m afraid, so they’ve stayed put away. I have the wrappings here if you want them.’

‘Are they novels?’ Freya was reluctant to pick one of them up in front of him, in case she damaged it in some way.

‘I don’t believe so. I haven’t looked at all of them, but they seem to be local history and that sort of thing. Just up your street, I would think.’

‘They’re beautiful,’ Freya admitted, ‘but we don’t have the money to buy just at the moment, I’m afraid.’

‘Buy?’ Bartholomew’s eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, girl! No, these are a gift. They’re doing no good to anyone in my attic, might as well put them in yours!’ He smiled at his own little joke. ‘Are you interested?’

‘Yes!’ Freya breathed, before remembering her manners. ‘I mean, thank you, yes we’d be thrilled.’

‘Well that’s that, then. If I find any more I’ll pop them along, shall I?’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Splendid. I’ll be off, then.’ He raised his hat.

‘Goodbye, and thank you again. I hope you find a good lodger.’

‘I’m sure I shall.’ He nodded, and then he was gone.

Freya picked up the first of the books and opened it gingerly, sensing great age in the heft of it, and her gaze fell on the date inscribed inside: 1723. It was a beautifully illustrated history of an area not too far from Caernoweth, covering half of the south coast of Cornwall.

The next book was older still, and was filled with drawings of a place on Bodmin Moor called Lynher Mill – a burned-out mill graced the frontispiece, its tower stunted and darkened by fire, its roof gone. Freya put the book aside to read later, and pulled out another. They were so well cared for, they must surely be worth a fortune to someone. She was so engrossed she didn’t hear the door open, until Mairead’s voice cut across the shop.

‘It’s a good thing I’m not a thief.’

‘Hmm?’ Freya looked up at last. ‘Oh, yes. I was distracted.’

‘So I see. What’s that?’

Freya told her about Bartholomew’s visit. ‘I’m dying to look at them properly, but I should go to work; Mrs Bone will take my extra hours away if I’m late even once.’

Mairead grimaced. ‘She’s a harridan. Go on, I’ll catalogue the books.’

‘Send the list to Teddy Kempton first,’ Freya reminded her. ‘He’s still collecting them for Mr MacKenzie.’

‘I’ll send it on this afternoon’s post.’ Mairead held the door open for Freya, who was checking her hair in her reflection in the window. ‘Go on, no one’s looking at you, it doesn’t matter if you’ve a hair out of place!’

Such bluntness had long since ceased to cause surprise or hurt feelings. Instead Freya grinned and tweaked Mairead’s own hair loose from its coil.

‘I’ll be back late again, I should think,’ she said. ‘Tell Grandpa there’s a sheep’s head in the pot.’

‘I will.’

‘Have some yourself if you want.’

The look of distaste on Mairead’s face was nothing short of priceless. The formerly wealthy Garvey women might have settled into life among the lower classes, but there were some things that would never come naturally. A boiled sheep’s head for dinner was one of them.

The decision was both the easiest and the hardest James Fry had ever had to make, but his pen hovered over the paper, having scratched the words: ‘Dear Mr Trubshaw,’ and he took a deep breath and lowered it to the table top again. His hand was steady, his mind clear, and yet… He picked up the letter awaiting his reply, and read it once more.

 

Dear Mr Fry.

I have taken the liberty of writing to you, having found your forwarding details listed with your former employer in Dorset. When we met in Truro a few weeks ago your determination struck me, despite the brief nature of our meeting, and I am contacting you with news of an opportunity for which I feel you might be suited. I set the details below, and urge you to reply to me at this address without delay.

An associate of mine, Mr Gerald Simpson, is in need of a junior partner for his new company, based in Sheffield. I gave him your name and he is most keen to meet. I confess I do not know your circumstances, but you appeared well presented, and this post would suit a man of the trade who has a modest capital sum to invest. As you are no doubt aware, the district of Levenshulme was just last year assimilated into Manchester itself, and is expanding still. Mr Simpson is fast becoming a name in the architecture business, but such business moves faster still, and he will need a reply soonest; he has had a good deal of interest as you might imagine, but thanks to our long-standing acquaintance I have persuaded him to delay making an appointment until I have your response, which I have assured him will be within the week.

Yours faithfully

Charles Trubshaw

 

James picked up the pen again, and watched the words appear beneath the salutation as if written by someone else:

 

I thank you most sincerely for your kind thought of introducing me to Mr Simpson. However, since our meeting – on that very day, in fact – I have discovered I am looking forward to impending fatherhood, and so you will understand am unable to sell my property to fund any investment. I must, therefore, regretfully decline your invitation, and hope this letter reaches you in good time.

 

Before he could change his mind he blotted the ink, and thrust the folded paper into an envelope. Such an opportunity was one he’d dreamed of ever since he’d taken up his apprenticeship with Richard Shaw at Bryanston House. Long years of learning the craft, first as a stone mason and then through studying architecture, had all been leading up to this very moment. He pictured Mr Trubshaw’s narrow, bespectacled face as he read this letter, and in his mind’s eye he saw that face close down, and knew his bridges would be burned from the moment he put the letter in the post.

But he had a family to consider now. Soon he and Juliet would marry, and their child would have a good, safe home. He looked around at the tiny kitchen and sighed; at least it would be safe, once some basic repairs were carried out… His family deserved better. He pulled the stack of paper towards him again.

‘Plaster,’ he wrote. Then tapped his chin with the pen and closed his eyes briefly, before bending to his paper again.

 

Paint. Wood. Borrow tools from Brian. November (5 months.) Cradle. Make? (ask Brian.) V. Imp – check roof structure.

 

Gradually the urge to rewrite the letter to Trubshaw faded, and James realised he was actually smiling as he wrote. After a few minutes he laid down his pen and went upstairs, into the bedroom that had been his father’s. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to move into it, despite its superior size, but perhaps it was time to change all that. He ducked back through the low doorway and stepped across the landing to his own bedroom.

Half the size of Roland’s, with a small window and a sloping roof, this room was the warmest during winter, being the one with the chimney breast running up through it. The child would be born in November, and would sleep in with himself and Juliet at first, but during winter the chimney bricks would warm the room, and once the roof was properly fixed it would be perfect.

He knocked at the window ledge, listening with a practised ear as the dull thump changed its note under his knuckles; there was rot in there, which would weaken the frame if left too long. Roland had tried to take care of the place, but there was only so much you could do with a shattered knee, and James was an architect, and a stone mason; if anyone could put the house to rights it was him.

‘Doctor, heal thyself,’ he said aloud, with a little smile. He had largely ignored the state of the house since his return, believing he would be long gone to his new premises before extensive – and possibly expensive – repairs were necessary, but things were different now. The letter would go in the post tomorrow, and by the time Trubshaw received it this room would be on the way to becoming the haven for James Fry’s own child that it had once been to James himself.

The party was lively enough, but to her own surprise Lucy Batten had been fighting boredom from the moment she’d arrived. She’d been excited to get the invitation to what promised to be the party of the year, and relieved that her older sister had pleaded too much work to do; Lucy would have free rein, and not have to put up with sniffy looks every time she laughed too loudly or with the ‘wrong’ person. With the year at its warmest, the hotel gardens would be full of people, the ballroom would be cooler for their absence, and, best of all, there would be dancing.

But now she was here she was unsettled to find herself becoming unusually impatient and restless although there was no reason tonight should be different… Or perhaps that was exactly it: the same faces laughed over, and into, their wine glasses; the same voices cut through everyone else’s, as if what they had to say was so much more important; the same conversations travelled around and around, becoming more embellished and, conversely, more boring as they went. Lucy quickly went from admiration for the Brownsworths’ ostentation to being discomfited by their taking over an entire hotel for a whole weekend. It was actually embarrassing, and it wasn’t even an important birthday.

It would have been bearable if only her brother had come too, at least Hugh would have pulled her out of this gloom by passing his own jaded but amusing opinions, sotto voce of course. But since neither he nor her sister were here Lucy felt pinned beneath the spotlight of expectation; a Batten ambassador, and obliged to act accordingly.

Even the dancing, to which she’d so looked forward, wouldn’t be the right kind. Far too sedate, ordered, everyone doing the same thing, with only varying degrees of ability to separate them. Nothing like the kind of dance she performed in her room, to the lonely audience of her own reflection. To listen to dear old Disapproving Dorothy, anyone would suppose Lucy intended to follow in the Paris footsteps of Mata Hari. Or that actress at the Moulin Rouge a few years ago, who’d appeared wearing nothing but a few well-placed shells. Even Lucy had been shocked at that, but the shock had quickly given way to a dark kind of delight, and even envy. The freedom! It must have been —

‘Lucy! How wonderful.’ Clara Brownsworth, twenty-three years old as of today, and acting older than her mother, kissed the air on either side of Lucy’s cheeks. ‘Amanda’s here, and Heather. You must meet Heather’s new beau, he’s got the most divine accent you’ve ever heard. American, you know. So exciting to meet a real one.’

Lucy gave an inward sigh, but her interest was piqued when she learned that Peter Boden, Heather’s latest, was apparently involved in theatre in New York. He was engaging, if a little earnest, pleasantly spoken, and happy to talk, but being so much in demand as a novelty he was whisked away after a few minutes by Clara. His swift departure left Lucy, Heather and Amanda by the French windows overlooking the garden, and Lucy struggled against a yawn. Hugh would have stood behind Amanda and pulled faces over the top of her head in an effort to make Lucy laugh, obliging her then to explain herself. Perhaps he was there in spirit, because the very thought of it brought a twitch to Lucy’s lips, which earned a downward turn from Amanda’s.

‘It’s not funny.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘I was just saying how Clara will glue herself to Peter’s side all night, and poor Heather here will be lucky to see him again before breakfast.’

‘Yes.’ It did seem unfair, but despite feeling mildly sorry for Heather, Lucy soon drifted off again. She’d even have welcomed her older sister’s company just at the moment; Dorothy could be a bit of a tartar, there could be nothing worse than a reformed gadabout, but at least she made interesting conversation, and would more than likely have given Clara short shrift about monopolising someone else’s beau. But Dorothy was at home with little Harry and Father, an. . .