thunder, and she had to put me down to take the note from Jem. It was written by Morgreth, he said, and meant for Sir Grover. My mother thanked him, and when he had gone she threw the note into the fire.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh yes. It must have been Morgreth’s desperate plea for help. She did try to keep the Penwyth’s sordid little secrets in the family . . . she had enough breeding for that.”
I put my hand up to my spinning head. “But this is ghastly--”
I thought of Morgreth out in Lyhalis cove, desperately struggling to save her child from her husband while the surf pounded her and the cold leached in.
“I don’t think Father ever forgave my mother when he learned what she had done in her jealousy, and my mother may have felt guilt when she realized the note she burned was not proposing a lover’s assignation. It was she who insisted we take Roger in. But I think Roger knew somehow, all through those years, that we had a hand in his parents’ death.”
“But how could he?”
Damon shrugged. “Oh, he always kept to himself, running off to the moors when the tutor came, or holing up on the cliffs where he would stare at the sea, scribbling on his sketchpad. As he grew older he began to favor Morgreth in looks, which my mother took as a personal affront. When someone inevitably blabbed about what Mama had done that night, Roger called her filthy names, so filthy that I was obliged to crack him across the mouth to keep more from coming out. He left soon after.”
“Where did he go?”
“Lyhalis. They were waiting for him, and he’s been there ever since.”
“Who was waiting for him?”
“The old servants, Pyder, and the nursemaid who found him on the rock that night.”
“This is a shocking tale,” I said slowly. “But it does not explain why Roger sends Lady Penwyth flowers.”
“Ah yes, the flowers. Morgreth was quite the botanist. She had a gift for growing anything anywhere, in the poorest dirt, in brutal weather. Her gardens were a showplace. Heron, when he still had his wits about him, built a magnificent conservatory for her and filled it with exotic specimens from all the world over. The flowers are Morgreth’s, you see. Roger reminds my mother that she killed his whenever possible. Once a month if he can.”
###
After Damon left, I fled upstairs with Roger’s conservatory treasure, and hoped that Lady Penwyth would not take offense or anger that I had kept the gift. The antipathy between Roger and her was of a kind not easily forgotten or forgiven.
I had heard two versions of Roger Penwyth’s sad history now, from Susannah and Damon, and I wondered which one came closest to the truth. Had Morgreth Penwyth been a killer, or a victim?
If Morgreth truly had been a witch--and I had no reason to doubt it after hearing Damon speak of her love of plants--she would be constrained by the witch’s arcane lore handed down from the One never to meddle or take life.
And yet, the alternative was to believe that Heron Penwyth was so unbalanced that he had wanted to drown his son.
Both versions of this story were unpleasant to contemplate. But they agreed on two counts: that Heron had tried to murder his infant son and that Sir Grover had been a frequent visitor to Lyhalis.
My mind moved to examine Sir Grover and his character. He seemed too controlled, too canny to let himself be overset by infatuation for his kinsman’s wife. Indeed I had difficulty believing it. But true or not, his visits to Lyhalis had been enough to send his own wife into transports of jealousy.
Sighing, I touched one of the purple fluted blossoms, feeling a ping of life on my fingertip. I was not a water-affinitied witch, and so the tangles of human emotion were too complicated for me to unravel. But one thing was clear.
There was a war between the Penwyths, and I had been placed in the middle of it.
CHAPTER TEN
Safely inside the Hermitage’s walled garden I sank with a sigh among the rain-sodden plants
“Oh no!”
“Oh yes. It must have been Morgreth’s desperate plea for help. She did try to keep the Penwyth’s sordid little secrets in the family . . . she had enough breeding for that.”
I put my hand up to my spinning head. “But this is ghastly--”
I thought of Morgreth out in Lyhalis cove, desperately struggling to save her child from her husband while the surf pounded her and the cold leached in.
“I don’t think Father ever forgave my mother when he learned what she had done in her jealousy, and my mother may have felt guilt when she realized the note she burned was not proposing a lover’s assignation. It was she who insisted we take Roger in. But I think Roger knew somehow, all through those years, that we had a hand in his parents’ death.”
“But how could he?”
Damon shrugged. “Oh, he always kept to himself, running off to the moors when the tutor came, or holing up on the cliffs where he would stare at the sea, scribbling on his sketchpad. As he grew older he began to favor Morgreth in looks, which my mother took as a personal affront. When someone inevitably blabbed about what Mama had done that night, Roger called her filthy names, so filthy that I was obliged to crack him across the mouth to keep more from coming out. He left soon after.”
“Where did he go?”
“Lyhalis. They were waiting for him, and he’s been there ever since.”
“Who was waiting for him?”
“The old servants, Pyder, and the nursemaid who found him on the rock that night.”
“This is a shocking tale,” I said slowly. “But it does not explain why Roger sends Lady Penwyth flowers.”
“Ah yes, the flowers. Morgreth was quite the botanist. She had a gift for growing anything anywhere, in the poorest dirt, in brutal weather. Her gardens were a showplace. Heron, when he still had his wits about him, built a magnificent conservatory for her and filled it with exotic specimens from all the world over. The flowers are Morgreth’s, you see. Roger reminds my mother that she killed his whenever possible. Once a month if he can.”
###
After Damon left, I fled upstairs with Roger’s conservatory treasure, and hoped that Lady Penwyth would not take offense or anger that I had kept the gift. The antipathy between Roger and her was of a kind not easily forgotten or forgiven.
I had heard two versions of Roger Penwyth’s sad history now, from Susannah and Damon, and I wondered which one came closest to the truth. Had Morgreth Penwyth been a killer, or a victim?
If Morgreth truly had been a witch--and I had no reason to doubt it after hearing Damon speak of her love of plants--she would be constrained by the witch’s arcane lore handed down from the One never to meddle or take life.
And yet, the alternative was to believe that Heron Penwyth was so unbalanced that he had wanted to drown his son.
Both versions of this story were unpleasant to contemplate. But they agreed on two counts: that Heron had tried to murder his infant son and that Sir Grover had been a frequent visitor to Lyhalis.
My mind moved to examine Sir Grover and his character. He seemed too controlled, too canny to let himself be overset by infatuation for his kinsman’s wife. Indeed I had difficulty believing it. But true or not, his visits to Lyhalis had been enough to send his own wife into transports of jealousy.
Sighing, I touched one of the purple fluted blossoms, feeling a ping of life on my fingertip. I was not a water-affinitied witch, and so the tangles of human emotion were too complicated for me to unravel. But one thing was clear.
There was a war between the Penwyths, and I had been placed in the middle of it.
CHAPTER TEN
Safely inside the Hermitage’s walled garden I sank with a sigh among the rain-sodden plants
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