Porthminster Hall: A captivating novel of family secrets

A stiff breeze, fresh from the sea, stirred the branches of the churchyard trees, and the first small flurry of dead leaves fluttered down to mottle the thick green grass between the graves with drifts of reddish brown.

The man scarcely saw them.

It tousled the dark curls that fell across his forehead in a thick fringe, hiding the tanned complexion and the deep lines that exposure to the wildest of the elements had carved into his face, but he was unaware of it.

He saw only the fresh gravestone and the words etched into it. And even they were blurred by the tears in his eyes.

Blurred, yet unmistakeable, so he could no longer deny the truth.

When he had come home after a long absence in France and they had told him she was dead, he had found it beyond belief. She had been twenty years old. Bright. Beautiful. More full of life than anyone he had ever known. And the manner of her passing had been as cruel as it was senseless. The years should have stretched out before her full of promise. She should have married and borne children and known happiness and fulfilment. Now all that was left of her was in a plot of cold earth, her only memorial a simple carved headstone.

She should not have died for many long years yet. Nor would she have, but for the Polmars of Porthminster.

Anger born of grief began to burn in him, slow at first, like the flicker of a taper, then gaining in intensity as it spread even faster through his veins until it burst into a fierce blaze that seemed to consume him. His fingers tightened their grip on the hat he held between his hands, his jaw clenched, his teeth bared.

And his dark eyes flared, reflecting the conflagration within, and the strength of determination that was ignited by it.

He would avenge her death, whatever the cost. He would see Polmar ruined and in his own grave. It would not bring her back, and as yet he did not know how he would achieve it, but it would ensure no other innocent young woman met the same fate as she had. And she would sleep more peacefully for it.

He bowed his head for a moment, making his silent vow to her.

Then he turned and strode away towards the lychgate.

The fallen leaves crumpled unnoticed beneath his feet.

One

I saw it first on a grey November day, and if I live to be a hundred, I will never forget that moment. I saw it, and felt as if a giant hand were squeezing my heart, and my lungs too, so that there was no breath left in them. I looked at the great house of greyish-black stone, silhouetted against a hazy backdrop of sea mist that curled around its towers and turrets, obscuring the sky and the ocean and the sweep of the moorland to left and to right, and the nervousness that had niggled like worms in my stomach was, for a moment, quite forgotten. I knew only a strange wild exhilaration. I forced breath into my taut, constricted lungs and tasted the salt in that cold clammy air, fresh and sweet and intoxicating, not contaminated with the stink of fish that I was accustomed to smelling from morning to night. And when my heart began to beat again, it pounded against my ribs as the waves pound on the rocks when a storm is raging.

Porthminster Hall. A whole morning’s carriage ride from St Ives, the fishing village where I had lived for almost all of the nineteen years of my life. A world away from the one-roomed hovel on the quay where old Tam had cared for me and raised me, and where, for all its lack of comforts, I had never known anything but love and security. And yet, if what Tam had told me was to be believed, it was my heritage. My home.

And believe it I did, now that I had seen it with my own eyes and felt the maelstrom of emotion pulsing through my veins. Unbelievable as the story Tam had told me had seemed to me when first I listened, bewildered, to her halting words, now my doubts vanished, and with them the hesitance I had tussled with ever since.

I looked at Porthminster Hall and knew that I had done the right thing in coming here. Whatever reception awaited me within those forbidding walls, whatever dark secrets from my hidden past I might have to confront, whatever opposition to my unexpected resurrection from the dead I might encounter, yet I knew I had done the right thing.

A birthright and a heritage cannot be denied. The Polmars were my family, for better or for worse.

And Porthminster Hall was my ancestral home.

Tam told me the terrible story – as much as she knew of it – on my eighteenth birthday.

I had always known, of course, that she was not my mother, nor even my kin, for she had never deceived me as to that. But she was strangely reluctant to discuss my origins. My mother, she told me when I was old enough to ask, had left me in her care, promising to return for me.

‘Why?’ I pressed her. ‘Why did she leave me?’

But Tam was unwilling to answer. ‘You’ll know when you’re older,’ was all that she would say.

‘What is she like?’ I persisted.

Tam’s eyes narrowed in her weather-beaten face.

‘What d’ye want to know that for?’

‘Because I do! Am I like her, Tam?’

Tam snorted. ‘Like enough – when you do bother to brush your hair and wash your face. You have her eyes right enough – green as the sea when a storm’s brewing. And your hair’s the same colour, black as a raven’s wing, though I never did see hers in a tangle like yours. You can have the look of an angel on that face of yours sometimes, even when you’re bad, just like she did at your age – not that she were ever bad. She didn’t have your temper, and that’s for sure. That’s not your mother at all. I don’t know where your temper came from, and I don’t know as I want to.’

‘You knew her when she was a little girl like me?’ I asked, wonderingly.

‘I did that. Nursed her, I did, and watched her grow. An angel, she was. An angel, and a real lady, even then. My princess, I used to call her, and so she was, not one that oughta have been born a boy, like you. Not running the streets when she oughta be in bed. Not plaguing the life out of old Tam. A proper lady.’

My heart swelled with excitement and pride. A proper lady! A princess! An angel! And beautiful, too, I felt sure, not wrinkled and shrunken and smelling of fish as Tam did, but scented and powdered and gracious and loving. I could scarcely contain my impatience to see her.

‘When is she coming back for me?’ I asked.

But Tam’s face had gone shut-in again, the animation that had lit it whilst she had been talking of my mother as a child was gone as if it had never been there at all.

‘I can’t say, child.’

‘But why?’

‘Well, because I don’t know, o’ course! An’ if I don’t know, I can’t say, now can I? It’s been a long time, that’s all I do know. Too long. Too long!’ She sighed.

An icy hand of fear gripped my heart.

‘But she will come, won’t she?’ I whispered urgently.

‘I don’t know, I tell ’ee!’ Tam snapped. ‘I don’t know if she’s alive or dead, and that’s the truth. But I wouldn’t hold out too many hopes. I reckon you’ll only be disappointed if you do.’

I burst into tears. And suddenly Tam was all concern, pulling me to her, pressing my face into her thin chest, the only haven I had ever known, and stroking my tumbled hair that, as she had rightly said, scarce ever saw the brush.

‘Don’t, child, don’t! It’s no good upsetting yourself. You’ve got me. I ain’t going anywhere and I’ll take good care of ’ee. Now, we’ll go out and see the boats come in, shall we? You like that, don’t you? You like to see the boats come in, and the fish all slippery and shining…’

I managed to nod wordlessly.

‘Come now, then, hush your crying and dry your eyes, or the men’ll wonder what ails you. Forget about yer mammy, there’s a good girl, or you’ll have me crying too.’

I raised my head, looking at her in wonder. I had never seen Tam cry, nor any grown person. I dried my face on the rough fabric of my skirts as she had bid me and we went out to see the fisher boats coming into harbour as she had promised.

But I did not forget about my mother. How could I? Scarcely a day went by when I did not think about her, the little princess who had grown up to be a beautiful lady, and who would one day return for me and take me away from the hovel that stank of fish, back to her fairytale castle.

I dreamed and I watched and I waited. But my mother never came.

Over the years, when my curiosity became too much to bear, I tried again and again to learn the truth of how, if I were indeed the daughter of a fine lady, I had come to be raised in a hovel by a woman old enough to be my grandmama, and who gutted fish for her living. But Tam would never tell me more. She could be remarkably stubborn when the fancy took her. Once, when I asked about my father, she replied shortly that he was dead, and the sharpness of her tone made me wonder if perhaps I had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, for by then I was old enough to know about such things. Had Tam’s princess – her angel – become a fallen woman? Had the fine lady disgraced herself and brought dishonour on her family? Had she been disowned by them, forced to give up her baby or be left destitute? Was that the reason Tam refused to tell me the truth – that she wanted to spare me the shame and heartache of knowing I was not only illegitimate but unwanted, unloved?

I could not bear to think of it.

Or was it perhaps that Tam was hurt that, after all she had done for me, the love she had shown me, I was not satisfied with my lot? Was that what made her tongue so sharp whenever I pestered her to try to discover who I really was and the reason I had come into her care?

The very last thing I wanted was to cause Tam pain. So in the end I stopped asking questions.

And then, on the day of my eighteenth birthday, she told me. Of her own volition, with no prompting from me at all. And I knew why she had kept her secret.

And why my mother had never come for me.

She sat me down beside her on the rickety wooden settle and the September sunshine made a wedge of brightness on the rough stone floor, shining in through the door that was left open to let in fresh air and light. She took my hand between her skinny, work-worn fingers, and her face was grave and anxious.

‘You’re a grown woman now, Ella,’ she said. ‘It’s time I told you the truth.’

Apprehension made my lungs tighten so that I could scarcely breathe. For so long I had wanted to know the truth; now, suddenly, I was very afraid. What was it that was so bad that Tam had waited all these years to tell me? The dreams I had dreamed, the romantic illusions I had created for myself, were about to be shattered for ever, I knew. I had to face something that only now she felt I was ready for.

I was not! I was not ready at all! Suddenly I wanted to tear my hand from hers and run out of the hovel, into the sunshine. I wanted to run and run to a place where my dreams could survive the harsh light of day. I wished I could soar with the seagulls, follow the fishing boats far out to sea, with nothing on my mind but the chance of a tasty morsel. And to stay there for ever, riding the wind, careless and free.

But, of course, I did not run. I turned my eyes to Tam’s anxious, careworn face and forced the breath into my tight lungs.

‘Whatever it is, Tam, please tell me,’ I said.

Eighteen long years had passed, yet Tam would never forget the night when her beloved Louise had come knocking on the door of the one-roomed hovel in St Ives. It remained as fresh in her memory as if it had been just yesterday.

A gale had been blowing all day, rattling the ill-fitting door and window frames and driving scuds of rain at the panes so that it sounded like a hail of fine pebbles. Now that darkness had fallen, the night was black as Hades, with no moon or stars. The candle had long since guttered out in the fitful draughts, and the room was lit only by a single oil lamp. Tam huddled in her rickety chair, her shawl drawn tightly around her bony shoulders, and thought that, if she could summon the energy to move, she would be better off in bed. And she could stay there as long as she pleased in the morning. The sea was too rough for the fishing boats to venture out; there would be no work for her tomorrow, no fish to gut.

Tam sighed, closed her eyes, and dozed a little.

The knock, when it came, was almost drowned by the roaring of the wind and the rattle of the door and window frame. Half-asleep, Tam thought it was something being blown against the panels, an empty fish creel, perhaps. Then it came again, an urgent, unmistakeable rapping.

Puzzled and a little anxious, Tam eased herself up from her chair and went to answer it. Who would be out and about on a night such as this? Her first thought was that a ship had foundered, and her heart sank. There would be little hope of rescue for the poor sailors tonight!

She lifted the latch and at once the door flew open. With her hip propped against it to keep it from banging against the rough stone wall, she peered into the darkness, struggling to identify her visitors. In the dim light thrown by the oil lamp, she made out the figure of a woman with a baby in her arms, half-covered by her cloak, and a small child clutching at her skirts, but the woman’s face was in shadow and Tam could not see who it was.

And then the woman spoke.

‘Tam? Oh, Tam!’

Tam knew the voice at once, though it was some years now since she had last heard it.

‘Louise?’ she said wonderingly. ‘Be that you?’ Without waiting for an answer she stood aside, still hanging on grimly to the door against the buffeting of the wind. ‘Come on in, for goodness’ sake, girl, or we’ll all be blown to Kingdom Come!’

Louise needed no second bidding. With the baby cradled in one arm and the other about the child’s shoulders, ushering him inside, she went into the mean little room. By the light of the lamp, Tam could see the child was a little boy, perhaps two or three years old; he stared up at her, wide-eyed and apprehensive. His coat, and Louise’s cloak and bonnet, were wet, but not as wet as if they had walked far in the driving rain. They must have a carriage close by, Tam thought, though in the blackness of the night she had not seen it.

‘Whatever are you doing here, my angel?’ she asked, the term of endearment she had always reserved for Louise coming naturally to her lips, though it was years since she had had occasion to use it.

For a moment Louise said nothing. She simply stood there, looking at Tam with wide tragic eyes that were also dark with fear, and her lips were pursed tightly together as if she was trying not to cry.

An icy hand clutched at Tam’s heart.

‘What is it, my angel?’ she asked. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

Louise reached for her hand, squeezing it so tightly Tam thought her fingers would snap with the pressure.

‘Oh Tam – I need your help! I didn’t know who else to turn to. You will help me, won’t you? Please!’

And without hesitation, without asking a single further question, Tam replied: ‘You know I will, my angel!’

For this was her beloved Louise. A Louise who was clearly terrified and desperate. Whatever was asked of her, Tam would refuse her nothing.

Louise Tremayne had been just six weeks old when Tam had first held her in her arms. Her mother, Jeanne, a Frenchwoman, had died of a puerperal fever; Tam, who had recently lost her own child, had been engaged as a wet nurse.

Louise’s father, Josh Tremayne, was a farmer and landowner in a modest way, not a wealthy man, but better off than most who were tenants of the large estates. Always uncommunicative and a little morose, he took Jeanne’s death hard. She had been his first and only love, the only woman with whom he had felt totally at ease, and irrationally he found himself resenting the child he could not help feeling was responsible for the loss of his beloved wife. For a long while he could scarcely bear to look at her, let alone show her affection, and as she grew she became an ever more painful reminder of her dead mother.

Not unnaturally, a close bond had formed between baby and nurse. Louise was motherless, Tam had lost her own little daughter, and in each other they found a replacement. When Louise was weaned, Tam remained at Three Points Farm. She had come to look upon the child as her own, and Josh was more than happy to leave her in Tam’s care.

With love and pride, Tam watched her grow into a lovely young woman. And then, when Louise was fourteen years old, Josh Tremayne married again.

Alice Porter, the spinster he took as a wife, was not a bad woman. But after years of living in her father’s house, pitied and downtrodden, she was determined to make the most of her new situation and run her home in her own way. Tam had been left in charge of the day-to-day management of the household too long to accept the changes graciously, and was unable to come to terms with her sudden demotion to little more than a drudge. She was surly and resentful and sometimes downright disrespectful. Before long there was a serious falling-out between the two women, and Alice demanded that Tam should be dismissed.

Josh protested mildly but in the end Alice had her way. Tam was forced to pack her bags and return to St Ives, from whence she had come, with little to show for her years of faithful service but a small allowance which Josh paid her monthly. But much worse than the loss of security was the separation from her beloved Louise. ‘It’s as if someone cut off me right arm!’ she was given to saying, and she felt sure Louise must be missing her too. She fretted constantly to think of her alone at Three Points with only her father and ‘that woman’ for company – and a father, at that, who had never had time for his daughter, and was now in thrall to his new wife. Sometimes, when they were in St Ives, Louise would come to visit Tam. But Tam had never again set foot in Three Points.

Then, when she was eighteen years old, Louise had become betrothed to Philip Polmar, the elder son of Giles Polmar of Porthminster Hall.

Tam had learned of it whilst she was at work on the quay, gutting fish. Louise had driven into St Ives especially to tell her, and though her face was shining with happiness, Tam had felt a frisson of foreboding.

‘A Polmar, eh!’ she said warily, looking up at the beautiful young woman she had once suckled. ‘You’ve done well for yerself, my angel.’

But her heart had sunk a little all the same. The Polmars might be well-to-do landowners. They might live in a great house that could have accommodated half the village and still had ample space to cavort about in. But they were also known as a family of adventurers. Giles’s grandfather, it was said, had won the house and the estate, together with two profitable tin mines, in a game of dice – loaded dice, according to the story that had been handed down by way of local gossip – and their fortune had been more likely made by foul means than by fair.

Giles, it was true, had done his best to redress the balance and was well liked by his tenants, and though he had been known to have a wild streak in his youth, Tam had not lately heard anything to Philip’s detriment.

His younger half-brother, Lionel, however, seemed to be carrying on the family tradition. He was known as a hard drinker and gambler, who was far too fond of the ladies, and villagers who worked on the estate said he was arrogant and heartless too. Tam had heard the story, much repeated, how he had had a man dismissed for what he considered his ‘lack of respect’, and when the man objected, Lionel had laid about him with his riding whip. Tam muttered a silent prayer of thanks that it was Philip to whom Louise was betrothed, and not Lionel. But whichever, there was bad blood in the Polmar family, and she would rather her beloved Louise had not got herself mixed up with any of them.

Now, looking at the frightened and clearly desperately unhappy girl who stood in her kitchen, wet and shivering, she knew that her worst fears had been justified. Something terrible had occurred to bring Louise to her door with her two children on such a wild night, and Tam had no doubt as to who was responsible for the look of terror on Louise’s lovely, stricken face.

‘It’s them Polmars, ain’t it?’ she said. ‘I always knew they were no good! Here, let me take the babe while you take off your wet cloak and see to the little one. Then I’ll get you something warming to drink.’

Louise gave an agitated shake of her head. ‘No, there’s no time.’ Her voice trembled with urgency. ‘I’ve a carriage waiting. I have to get Patrick away from here. His life depends on it.’

Tam frowned, squinting down at the small boy, half-hidden in his mother’s skirts.

‘Be this Patrick?’

Louise nodded, stroking his hair distractedly.

‘Patrick – my son. He’s in terrible danger, Tam. I have to get him to France, to my mother’s family. He’ll be safe with them. I’m on my way to Falmouth, where I hope to arrange a passage. I’ve enough money to pay a sea captain well for his trouble and I’m sure I can find someone willing to help me.’

Tam snorted. ‘You can’t go tonight! No captain’ll put to sea in weather like this! One who did would be a madman, with a mind to be food for the fishes!’

‘Oh I know it! Oh, why did the gales have to come today of all days?’ Louise’s lovely face was tortured. ‘But if I’m in Falmouth, we can set sail as soon as the wind dies down. I must be ready to leave at the first opportunity.’

‘But why?’ Tam pressed her. ‘Whatever is a goin’ on?’

‘It’s a long story, Tam, and there isn’t time to tell it. Please – just trust me when I say it is vital I get Patrick away from here, and to a place of safety. Every hour we remain in Cornwall increases the danger he is in.’

‘Then why did ’ee come here?’ Tam demanded. ‘Why didn’t ’ee go straight to Falmouth?’

‘Because…’ Louise looked down at the baby, sleeping in her arms, and eased back the folds of her cloak to reveal a sweet rosy face and a cap of jet-black hair. ‘Because I dare not take Mariella