Witching Hour. Sara Craven

      Witching Hour

      Sara Craven

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

       COVER

       TITLE PAGE

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       ENDPAGE

       COPYRIGHT

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE October afternoon was fading fast, and the drawing room at Polzion House was filled with shadows, but in spite of the encroaching dimness, none of the lamps had been lit, and the log fire on the wide hearth had been allowed to burn away almost to ash.

      In her grey dress with its long sleeves and high collar, Morgana seemed part of the shadows as she stood at the window, staring out at the wind-tossed garden. She was motionless, only her hands balled into fists at her sides giving any indication of the inner tension which threatened to consume her.

      Outside the wind was rising. She could hear it wailing among the tall chimneys and along the eaves. Living on an exposed stretch of Cornish coastline, she had always taken autumn gales for granted, but today—the desolate sound of it made her shiver. On other, happier October afternoons, she would have drawn the curtains and turned to make up the fire, dismissing with a shrug whatever dark angel stood at her shoulder, but not now—perhaps not ever again. Not in this room—this house.

      Something inside her cringed away from the thought, but it had to be faced. Her life at Polzion House, the only life she had ever known, would soon be at an end, and she had no idea, not even the slightest, what she could put in its place. It wasn’t as if she was really trained for anything. Since leaving school with perfectly respectable examination results, she’d been here, helping her father and mother run the hotel. Family help had always been essential, as she’d always known, because Polzion House had never been successful or profitable enough to justify employing outside staff, with the exception of Elsa, who cooked like an angel when the fates decreed, and had been part of their lives for so long that she seemed like one of the family.

      It had always been a struggle, but Morgana was young and strong, and she had always been optimistic about the future, until now. Or until the day nearly a month ago when her whole world had fallen apart.

      She swallowed with the pain of remembering thick in her throat. Her father hadn’t been well for about a week, complaining almost apologetically of indigestion, and it was true Elsa’s cooking had been more erratic than usual. So Morgana had not worried particularly. Her father was young for his age. He swam regularly, and played golf and squash. He was as fit as anyone could be, or so they had always thought, so his collapse when it came was doubly shocking.

      She and her mother had lived in hope for about a week, visiting the hospital where he was in intensive care, telling each other that these days heart attacks were not serious—almost fashionable, in fact—and that all sorts of things could be done. But in Martin Pentreath’s case, there was very little to be done. Years of strain and financial worry had taken their toll, and very quietly, they took him.

      The funeral had been anguish. Everyone in the neighbourhood had been there to pay their last respects. Martin Pentreath had not been much of a hotelier, and even less of a business man, but everyone had liked him. Morgana had listened to their condolences, and told herself if she could get through this without breaking down, then everything would be all right. Only it had not been all right.

      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