Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
On Monday morning, our French lesson is interrupted by Mr Pengower. He strides into the schoolroom and declares that he wants to take Robert to the chapel to give him a critical lesson on the importance of family and legacy. Robert jumps down from his chair. He delights in his father’s attention. I remember what Cordelia said about Felix always being left out and I feel sorry for him. ‘I would like you to accompany us, Miss Swift,’ Mr Pengower declares. ‘I dare say it will be of interest to you, too.’
I put on a bonnet and follow them outside to where the carriage awaits us in the sunshine. The hood is down and two black horses are standing patiently, nodding their heads to fend off the flies. It reminds me of our excursion to the travellers’ camp the day before and I hope that Robert doesn’t let his mother down by telling his father about it. Excitement is a dangerous thing when one has secrets to keep.
Mr Pengower offers me his hand and I climb in, taking the seat with its back to the horses. I don’t mind facing the wrong way, but I sense Mr Pengower would rather face the direction in which we are travelling. Robert sits beside his father. His eyes are dancing with happiness. A movement in one of the upstairs windows draws my attention. It’s Felix. He’s got his nose pressed against the glass and is watching us with a sad look on his face. I want to tell Mr Pengower to bring him too, but it’s not my place. I’m here to observe, not to interfere. But the more I’m drawn into this family’s dynamic, the more I want to influence it. I must remain detached.
The carriage drives through the grounds, up the track beneath the plane trees and over the stones and long shadows that are shortening gradually as the sun makes its slow climb up the sky. I sit quietly and take it all in. Robert is asking his father questions, much like those he asked his mother the day before, and I leave them to it and listen to the cheerful twittering of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves as the breeze slips through the branches. It’s another hot day and I cool myself with my fan, but it gives little relief. I feel the sweat forming beads on my nose and down my back, beneath the corset. How women can wear these things all day, every day, is unimaginable. They are tight and uncomfortable. I suppose, if I were a Victorian woman, I would get used to it. But I’m not and I won’t. I shift on my seat and try not to let the heat get to me. I’m wearing too many layers. If only I could take them all off and sit in my chemise and drawers!
Unlike his brother, Cavill, Mr Pengower does not include me in his conversation. Mr Pengower is a man who is keenly aware of status and of people’s places in the world. He doesn’t understand our shared humanity, as Cavill and Pascoe Bray do. To him I’m a lesser being because I’m a governess. The gypsies are beneath contempt. The miners are there simply to extract the tin and make him money. He sees not the soul, travelling through life, through many lives, growing and learning from the challenges thrown at it, expanding its inner light. One life a pauper, another a prince. Shakespeare knew: All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players , he wrote so wisely. He knew very well what life was about. But Mr Pengower is limited, narrow-minded, primitive and unenlightened. I wonder what blinkered views he’s going to impart to his son this morning. I won’t be able to contradict him for even if I wanted to, I don’t have time. I have five days left before I wake up from this dream. Robert will carry his father’s words in his heart and only life’s experience will have the power to wake him up to the truth.
When we arrive at the chapel, Mr Grantly jumps down from the box and comes and opens the carriage door. I take his hand and step lightly down. Robert remains close to his father, eager to hear what he has to say. This is a treat for him to spend the morning with his dear papa. But I fear it’s going to lead him in the wrong direction, and I won’t be around to put it right. I remind myself then that we are not responsible for another’s state of consciousness – we only have power over our own.
I follow them towards the gravestones and wonder what Mr Pengower makes of them. Cavill was inspired to seize the day. How will they inspire Mr Pengower?
‘Now listen to me, Robert,’ he says, stopping in front of his father’s six-foot Egyptian stone obelisk. I remember what Cavill said about his father. I wonder what Mr Pengower will say. ‘Beneath your feet is the grave of your grandfather, James Pengower. Do you know the one thing that the three of us have in common? James, myself and you, Robert?’
Robert frowns. He wants to give the right answer. I can see it on his face. ‘We are Pengowers?’ he replies uncertainly.
His father is elated. ‘Clever boy! We are all Pengowers. But more than that, we are firstborn Pengowers. D’you know what that means?’
‘I will inherit St Sidwell,’ Robert answers, more confidently now.
Mr Pengower glances at me and smiles, as if I’m somehow responsible for his son’s fine mind. ‘Very good. Very good,’ he exclaims proudly and pats his son’s back. Robert puffs out his chest and beams. ‘You will inherit St Sidwell, as I did and my father, your grandfather, did before me. St Sidwell was built by a Pengower, and it will remain in the hands of trusty Pengowers for generations to come. But that depends on you, my boy. Being a Pengower comes with great privilege but also great responsibility. It is an important house, and we are an important family, but money is easy to squander, to flit away, to lose by carelessness and stupidity. You must marry a sensible woman like your mother and have sensible sons to ensure it passes into good hands. You must bring your children up wisely as we are bringing you up. St Sidwell must not pass into the hands of strangers. Do you understand that, Robert? Do you understand how very important that is?’ I understand that when he speaks of St Sidwell, he does not mean the town, but the house. There is something grandiose about that too.
Robert nods at his father, but how can a child of eight comprehend such a notion? He’s but a boy. However, Mr Pengower continues regardless. He’s on a roll now and enjoying the sound of his voice and his captive audience. He assumes, quite wrongly, that I’m as riveted as his son. ‘One day I will be in the ground like my father. One day, you too will be in the ground, Robert. What will we have left behind? How will people remember us? What will they say? What do we want them to say? I will tell you. They will remember us as being competent caretakers of St Sidwell. That is our legacy. That is our purpose here on this earth. This house and this land and the fact that we have improved it, preserved it, nurtured it and kept it intact so that it may pass down the line, to another Pengower. On into the future. That is our legacy, yours and mine, dear boy. That is our responsibility and our duty. The Pengowers who built St Sidwell were an eminent family, blessed by God, favoured by the Queen, and envied by many. They watch us from up there.’ He raises his eyes to the sky and points with his index finger. His son raises his eyes too. ‘They watch to make sure that we are honouring their legacy and ensuring that it continues for many generations to come.’ Again, he pats his son on the back. ‘There, that is your lesson in family and legacy.’
What a lot of rubbish, I think to myself, and I’m distracted momentarily by a beautiful seabird. It makes me think of Cavill and I wish that he were here. He would dare to put his brother right. He’s the only one who can. But I fear Ivan Pengower will listen to no one but the voice of his own ego.
Mr Pengower looks at me and nods approvingly. He believes that I’ve swallowed his nonsense, but I haven’t. He’s got it all wrong, every bit of it. We’re not here for material gain and social status. However much one cherishes matter, everything in the world dies eventually, even our structures that appear so indestructible. We’re here to recognise the eternal, divine part of ourselves, and to grow in love, but Mr Pengower has no interest in something that people can’t see and admire. He’s only interested in himself and his ego, which is the very thing that keeps him from finding true fulfilment. I look at him, this arrogant man in his fine clothes with his air of entitlement and superiority, and I pity him. I pity him for what is to come. I wonder, after losing his wife and son, whether he’ll continue to put all his energy into cherishing his name and his house, or whether he’ll come to realise the value of love.
We ride back to the house in the carriage and my mind wanders. I think of Cavill. How very different he is to his older brother. Where Ivan Pengower is unyielding, narrow-minded, weighed down by the enormous responsibility he’s placed upon his shoulders, and materialistic, Cavill is compassionate and deep-thinking. Beneath his cheerful, carefree exterior lies a man who has suffered and grown wise from his suffering. How did it become thus? I long to see Cavill. I hope that we’ll ride out together this afternoon and that he’ll teach me more about the birds he’s so passionate about. I crave his lightness after the heaviness of his brother’s company.
I turn my eyes to the horizon and sense ever more keenly the rapid expiring of time and with it, the diminishing window of opportunities available to us. My mind tries to find a way around it, like water in a bucket searches for the smallest crack, but our fate is immutable. It can’t be changed. The only thing we can do is accept that it’s so and make the best with what little time we have.
The carriage draws up in front of the great door and Mr Grantly helps me down. Symons is on the step looking more solemn than usual. ‘Mr Bray is waiting to see you in the library, sir,’ he says to Mr Pengower. Mr Pengower nods and strides past him into the house. Robert is still in the carriage, disappointed that his outing with his father is over. He gazes at the grand fa?ade of his home, and I wonder whether he’s seeing it now in a different light, giving it more importance than it should have.
‘Come now, Master Robert,’ I call. ‘It is almost luncheon.’
Robert jumps down. ‘Papa won’t be happy to see Mr Bray,’ he says.
‘How so?’ I ask, following him into the dark interior of the house. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, for the summer light outside is so bright. It’s pleasantly cool in the hall and I want to linger there and recover from the heat. I glide past Symons, who gives me a warning look, as if telling me to mind my own business. I lift my chin and sail on. What business is it of his what I discuss with my charge?
We’re in the hall. The grand fireplace is empty, like the black mouth of a calcified beast. Even though the lilies on the table fill the air with their sweet perfume, there’s a strange atmosphere. It’s as if that dark tentacle has not only slipped beneath the door but has begun to make its way up the stairs. I can feel it. I can feel it sliding over the rug. It brings with it a chill, and I have felt that chill before.
Robert turns to me. ‘Listen,’ he says, narrowing his eyes.
I cock my ear. I can hear raised voices coming from the library. Mr Pengower and Mr Bray are having an argument. I can’t make out the words and, as Symons is loitering close by, I’m unable to move closer. Mr Pengower’s voice is more dominant and I sense that, whatever they’re arguing about, Mr Pengower will win. I assume he always wins.
‘Come, Master Robert,’ I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
We set off up the stairs. ‘Mr Bray and Papa are always arguing,’ says Robert.
I want to ask what they argue about, but I must take care. I must not appear to be seeking gossip. ‘They are in business together; there are bound to be things upon which they do not agree,’ I reply diplomatically.
‘Mr Bray says there is going to be another riot.’
‘How do you know that?’ I ask.
‘Mr Snathe told me.’
‘John Snathe? Why does John think there is going to be another riot? When was the last one?’
He shrugs. ‘Mr Snathe told me that Papa doesn’t treat the miners well and that they are poor and can barely feed their families and that they are going to rise up against Papa.’ He looks at me with wide eyes. ‘They defiled the gate with paint.’
‘Which gate?’
‘The front gate.’
‘I haven’t seen it. What did they write?’
‘An eye for an eye.’
I feel cold suddenly. ‘An eye for an eye …?’ Will they take Felix because Ivan Pengower caused the death of one of theirs?
Robert looks frightened suddenly. His eyes widen. He looks like a small boy, not the haughty young man in his father’s image. ‘Do you think they’ll come and riot here ?’
‘At the house? No. You don’t need to worry about that. I’m sure Mr Snathe is exaggerating, and, besides, he shouldn’t be gossiping with you. It’s inappropriate.’
Robert walks on down the corridor. ‘Papa will show them. They must know their place,’ he says, confident suddenly, and another chill passes over me. It’s his father’s voice again. The voice of foolishness.
‘They are people, Master Robert,’ I reply firmly. ‘No one should be treated badly, and everyone deserves to be appreciated for the work they do.’
‘Papa says they are lucky to have work to do. Many people do not.’
I put a hand on his shoulder to deter him. ‘Look at me, Master Robert.’
The boy sighs impatiently but does as I say. ‘What?’ he asks bolshily. The very fact that he’s bolshy exposes his unease. Deep down inside he knows that he’s wrong. But how can one expect an eight-year-old child to question his father?
‘My dear Master Robert,’ I say, crouching down and holding him gently by his upper arms. ‘Life is unfair. We are all born into different circumstances. Some are born into great wealth, some into abject poverty. Some are born to parents who love them, others to parents who care not whether they live or die. Each has their own path to tread. You cannot change those things. They are out of your control. It is pointless to dream to change the world. But you, you , Robert, can take care of your own small world, right here, right now. You can be kind to those around you. You can smile at people, whoever they are, wherever they come from. Like the sun you can shine indiscriminately upon everyone, as God does. Do you know what will happen then?’
He frowns, trying to take in what I’m telling him. ‘What?’
‘People will smile back at you.’
He scrunches up his nose. He doesn’t care for that.
‘You spread kindness around you and kindness will come back to you. Whatever you send out into your little world, will come back to you. Do you understand?’ He nods, but he’s still frowning. His father’s words resonate louder than mine. ‘If you spread unhappiness by treating people badly, that will come back to you. It’s your choice, every moment of the day, to be either kind or cruel. Whatever you choose to be will come back to you, make no mistake, so choose wisely.’
He looks at me, narrows his eyes and I feel, finally, that I’ve got through to him. ‘I’m hungry,’ he says, pulling away. ‘Shall we have lunch?’
I find Gwen in the nursery with Felix. She’s been crying. Her eyes are pink and her cheeks blotchy. I wonder if it is to do with John Snathe. Felix is sitting at the table, drawing. He’s so absorbed in his project that he doesn’t even notice me leaning over his shoulder and admiring his picture. It’s of a mole. ‘That’s very good, Felix. I think you might make a fine artist one day.’ I stop myself, remembering that ‘one day’ will never come. The dark tentacle is already making its way up the stairs. Felix’s destiny is tracking him down and he can’t evade it.
I join them at the table for lunch. Robert sits on the chair beside Felix. I tell Gwen about our trip to the chapel and how lovely it was for Robert to spend time with his father. Felix pauses his sketching. ‘I wanted to go,’ he says.
‘You did not miss anything,’ I say to reassure him.
‘Robert always goes. I am always left behind. It’s not fair,’ he complains.
Gwen puts a finger on the paper where his mole is slowly emerging. ‘Why don’t you give him a pair of spectacles?’ she suggests. ‘How is he to see without spectacles?’
Felix grins and bends over the paper again. ‘Because moles can see in the dark, silly. Like me. I don’t need spectacles either.’
Shortly, lunch is brought up to the nursery and we tuck into roast chicken and vegetables. Robert is inspired by his visit to the chapel and can’t stop talking about it.
‘I will inherit this house one day,’ he announces.
‘My dear, please wait until you have finished your mouthful before you speak,’ I tell him. ‘It is not very attractive to see your food being churned about like that.’
‘When I am master of this house, no one will tell me what to do.’ He looks at me and there’s a defiant glint in his eye.
I laugh, not unkindly. ‘But while you are a boy, you will be told what to do, because you need to learn how to use your power wisely. If you use it unwisely, you will only end up being very unhappy, and making those around you unhappy too.’
He carries on chewing, and I’m not sure if he’s even heard me. I turn to Gwen. ‘Are you all right?’
She nods and sniffs. ‘It’s only a summer cold.’ But it doesn’t look like a summer cold to me.
After lunch and before I go riding with Robert, Gwen and I have a moment of peace together. Felix is in his bed, having his afternoon sleep, while Robert is having some time to himself, looking through a book of the world.
‘You have been crying,’ I say, and I reach out and touch her hand. ‘You know you have a friend in me, if you need one.’
Gwen takes her hand away and rubs them together in agitation. She pushes out her chair and goes to stand by the window. I wonder whether she’s searching for John for the view is of the stable block and I’ve often watched him loitering there, smoking a cigarette. I join her and can’t help but search for Cavill, for I’m certain he’ll wait for me to come down with Robert for his riding lesson. How ironic it is that we both have secret flirtations and are looking out for them in the same place.
‘Are you crying over a man, Gwen?’ I ask quietly.
She turns to me, startled. ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know, but I recognise an aching heart when I see one.’
She sighs heavily, as if she’s carrying an unbearable weight. She puts a hand on her breast. ‘I am, miss …’
‘Is he worth it, this man?’
She turns her face back to the window. ‘Oh, he is, miss. He’s worth it, all right.’
At that moment, John saunters out beneath the arch. Gwen catches her breath. He goes and sits on the mounting block and takes out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his waistcoat. We both watch as he puts the cigarette between his lips and strikes a match to light it. A few puffs and he’s smoking pensively. I wonder if he’s thinking of Gwen. ‘Is it John Snathe?’ I ask.
She thinks about my question a moment, weighing up whether or not to trust me. She decides not to answer directly. ‘He’s doing well for himself,’ she says. ‘He’ll be promoted one day. He started as a gardener and now he’s a groom. Mr Grantly says he’ll take over from him when he retires. Shouldn’t be too long to wait …’ Her voice trails off and she frowns. ‘Mr Grantly can’t go on for ever, can he?’
‘No one goes on for ever,’ I reply.
She nods. ‘Waiting is a woman’s lot.’ She pulls away from the window.
I continue to watch John. He’s making smoke rings with his mouth. I wonder whether he’s putting off marrying Gwen by telling her that he can’t commit until he’s promoted. I imagine he’s having his way with her and making promises he never intends to keep. He has an air of deceitfulness and cunning about him, like a rat. I wouldn’t trust him to tell me his own name. But there’s no point in disclosing my thoughts to Gwen. My opinion means nothing to her, nor should it. Perhaps I’m wrong. I hope that I am.