Witching Hour. Sara Craven

when they concerned the quarrel. He didn’t really want Giles’ name mentioned at all.’

      ‘I’m quite aware of that.’ Morgana remembered with a pang her father’s burst of temper whenever unwary references to the past had been made. From local gossip and what snippets she’d been able to piece together, she gathered that the quarrel had begun over a generation before when her grandfather and his cousin Mark had fallen out for reasons which had never been fully established, but with such bitterness that Mark had taken himself off from Polzion, never to be seen there again. Years later, his son Giles had returned in an attempt to heal the breach, but there had been more trouble and the re-opening, it seemed, of old wounds, and it had been Giles’ turn to storm off, shaking the metaphorical dust of Polzion from his shoes for ever.

      There had been generations of Pentreaths at Polzion. They had farmed the land, and mined for tin and copper, living well on the proceeds, and building this large rambling house to remind the world that in this corner of it they still ruled. But when the tin and copper petered out, so did the Pentreath fortunes, and now all the land, except an acre of overgrown garden round the house which enabled the hotel to advertise as ‘standing in its splendid grounds’, had been sold, even the Home Farm which Morgana’s grandfather had clung to almost desperately.

      It was only after his father’s death that Martin Pentreath had conceived the idea of turning the family home into a hotel—something he frankly admitted he would never have dared to do or even mention when his father was alive. The fact that Polzion was relatively isolated, and could boast none of the amenities of the usual tourist traps and beauty spots did not trouble him in the least.

      Morgana said, ‘How Grandfather would have hated to think of Mark’s grandson inheriting this house!’

      Her mother said hopefully, ‘Perhaps he won’t want it. Perhaps he’ll—renounce the entail—or whatever one can do.’

      ‘Whether he wants it or not, it belongs to him,’ said Morgana. ‘What a pity he wasn’t born a girl, or that I wasn’t a boy. It would have saved a lot of trouble and inconvenience all round. At least we wouldn’t be hanging around here like this, waiting to be turned out of our home by a complete stranger. And I still think it would be more dignified to have packed and gone, instead of waiting here for sentence to be carried out.’

      Her mother shuddered. ‘You make it sound revolting, darling! But how could we possibly have left? There are the guests to consider.’

      ‘Miss Meakins and Major Lawson,’ Morgana said drily. ‘Hardly a cast of thousands.’

      ‘Well, it is the off-season,’ Mrs Pentreath said defensively.

      Morgana sighed. ‘Even in the height of summer, Polzion House Hotel was never exactly an “ongoing situation”.’ She reproduced the jargon phrase with distaste. ‘People on holiday want hot baths and swimming pools, and meals which aren’t quite so dependent on the whim of the cook.’

      ‘Elsa’s a very good cook,’ Mrs Pentreath said reproachfully.

      ‘Oh, indeed she is, when the wind’s in the right quarter, or the tea-leaves have looked hopeful, or the cards aren’t presaging doom and disaster.’

      ‘Well, she has got the sight,’ Mrs Pentreath offered pacifically.

      ‘Then I wish she’d “seen” the big freeze last winter. We might have been spared some burst pipes.’ Morgana sounded defeated, and her mother said briskly,

      ‘No wonder you’re moping, darling. It’s so gloomy in this room, and cold too. Why on earth didn’t you make up the fire? It’s nearly out.’ She got up, bustling over to the hearth and stirring the reluctant embers with the long brass-handled poker.

      Morgana shrugged. ‘His electricity. His logs. Maybe we shouldn’t waste them.’

      ‘I cannot believe any Pentreath would deny his own kin anything as basic as a fire to warm themselves by,’ Mrs Pentreath protested.

      ‘He’s a stranger to us. We know nothing about him—except his name and the fact that he was too busy in America on some business deal to come to Daddy’s funeral.’ Morgana sounded suddenly raw. ‘And since then, not a word, except this curt communication from his lawyers that he would be arriving here today.’

      ‘I think that must be a mistake, don’t you?’ The fire revived to her satisfaction, Elizabeth Pentreath sat back on her heels and regarded her daughter. ‘It’s getting so late. It’s almost dark, and the letter did say he would be here this morning.’

      ‘Perhaps his car’s broken down. Or maybe someone’s been fiddling with the signpost again, and he’s taken the wrong turning and driven straight along the cliff path into the sea.’

      ‘Morgana!’ Mrs Pentreath’s hand clutched at her throat. ‘You mustn’t say—you mustn’t even think such things. Do you think we should telephone the farm—get a search party organised?’

      ‘No, I don’t.’ Morgana shook her head. ‘He’ll turn up. Bad pennies usually do.’

      ‘You sound as if you don’t care.’

      ‘Frankly, I don’t. Do you really expect me to?’ Morgana’s voice deepened passionately. ‘This—Lyall Pentreath—he’s an outsider, an intruder. He doesn’t give a damn about Polzion. He’s probably never been anywhere near Cornwall in his life. All he knows about us will be what he’s heard from his father and grandfather, and that will probably be lies. There’s never been any love lost between the two sides of the family. The only reason he’s coming here now is to take possession of his inheritance, such as it is, lock, stock and barrel. And our feelings in the matter won’t be of the slightest concern to him.’

      ‘You can’t really say that, darling. You don’t know him.’

      ‘Exactly the point I’m trying to make,’ Morgana argued. ‘I don’t—neither of us knows him. And he doesn’t know us. But don’t you think, in the circumstances, he might have made the effort?’

      ‘He’s in a difficult position,’ her mother began, and Morgana snorted impatiently.

      ‘And we’re not? After all, we’re the ones who stand to lose everything. And he’s the winner who takes all. Well, in my book, he should have made contact before this. Long before. And the fact that he hasn’t makes him a moral coward.’

      ‘You’re not being very logical.’ Mrs Pentreath sounded plaintive. ‘You’re blaming him for coming here at all in one breath, and now he’s on the way, or presumably so, you’re complaining that he wasn’t here days ago.’

      ‘Not days. Weeks, months, years—when Daddy was alive,’ Morgana said bitterly. ‘When it might have done some good. We could all have talked—made plans, perhaps. Mummy, have you really thought what we’re going to do? He may want us to leave immediately.’

      ‘I can’t believe that.’ Mrs Pentreath’s tone was depressed, and Morgana gave her a swift glance which mingled compassion with faint irritation.

      Elizabeth Pentreath had led a sheltered life, in spite of the fact that there had never been much money. She had always been cossetted by her husband, which was all to the good in some ways, her daughter thought drily, but not so hot when it came to attempting to make her face reality.

      Now, with an air of determination, Elizabeth rose and went round the room, switching on the lamps. There was a central pendant chandelier, but this was rarely used. For one thing, it used too much electricity, and for another in the lamps lower wattage bulbs could be used which helped to disguise how shabby the carpet and furnishings really were. As the hotel guests used this room for afternoon tea, and after dinner, this was a consideration, although Martin Pentreath had always worked on the lordly ‘What’s good enough for us is good enough for them’ principle. It was a point of view which Morgana had never shared. She felt the family should have used another room, so that the drawing room could become a hotel lounge proper, where the guests could say whatever they liked without