“It’s gone very wild, I’m afraid. We used to have a gardener with a team of men, but they’ve all gone off to war.”
“Where did all these plants come from?” I recognized the tree ferns and palms, but others were unknown to me.
“My family used to own a shipping agency in Falmouth. My ancestors commissioned ships’ captains to bring home seeds from all over the world.”
“What a wonderful idea—and how amazing that they can grow here.”
He nodded. “It’s unusually mild for England. The valley’s quite sheltered, but my great-great-grandfather planted trees to give the place even more protection from the southwesterlies we get here.” He pointed to a row of what looked like pine trees, their topmost branches piercing the sky. “They were planted the year Queen Victoria came to the throne. They’re Monterey pines, from California.”
As we climbed higher, I spotted a little church, half-hidden in the trees. Its walls were dotted with moss. As I glanced up at the metal cross on the roof, a swallow flew out of the porch. I didn’t need to ask if this was his church. The gravestones broadcast it loud and clear. I counted seven with the name “Trewella” within sight of the path. I would have liked to linger for a while. The stories graveyards tell have always fascinated me. But that would have to wait.
Through a gap in the branches of a scarlet rhododendron, I glimpsed another building, more substantial than the church, with ancient-looking walls of honey-colored stone and mullioned windows glinting in the sunlight.
“Is that your house?” I asked. It was much bigger than I’d imagined.
“That’s Penheligan.” He must have seen the expression on my face and guessed what I was thinking. “Like the valley, it’s seen better days,” he went on. “We only use part of it. The whole of the east wing is uninhabitable—the roof leaks and the floorboards have rotted.”
Now I understood why he’d said there was no room for me. The boathouse might smell of fish, but at least it had a sound roof and a solid floor.
The path leveled out, taking us through a phalanx of palm fronds, then out into the open, toward a pair of tall gates, each with a coat of arms of wrought iron. The shield bore an image I’d often seen in church buildings. It was a pelican pecking at its own breast, shedding drops of blood to feed the babies in its nest. It was a symbol of sacrifice—of a mother to her children and of Christ crucified. I shaded my eyes, trying to read the motto inscribed below.
Gever kyns dha honan. It wasn’t Latin or French.
“It’s Cornish,” Jack said when he saw my puzzled expression. “It means ‘Duty before thyself.’” He grunted. “Heck of a thing to live up to.”
Yes, I thought, insert the words to God, and you’d have something identical to one of the guiding principles of the order. It was a maxim I’d failed miserably to live up to.
Jack led me through the gates into a walled garden whose crumbling brickwork was dappled with sunlight. We passed through an avenue of trees—not as tall as the ones in the valley—some thick with blossom. I asked Jack what they were.
“These are pears, mostly. We have a few peach and cherry trees—and that one up against the wall is a fig,” he replied. “Those apples I brought you came from the orchard on the other side of the house. We had a bumper crop last autumn.”
I heard a low buzzing sound and spotted beehives in among the trees. Chickens and ducks were pecking about in the grass at the other end of the garden. Brock went over, sniffing at a cockerel with a ruff of iridescent feathers as green as a peacock. The bird pecked the dog’s nose, and he came scurrying back with his tail between his legs.
“Almost there now.” Jack opened a small wooden door in a wall that had several bricks missing at the top. The remaining ones stood out like broken teeth. “I just need to get something from the potting shed.” He disappeared inside a hut with a thatched roof, Brock at his heels. Through the open door came a smell of tobacco mixed with earth, onions, and turpentine. He came out with a length of rope slung over his shoulder.
“The cowshed’s just across the yard.” He gave me a sideways glance. “I’d better come in with you. You’ll have to make allowances, I’m afraid—they’re a rum lot.”
I tried not to gag at the stench of dung wafting out of the milking shed. Above the lowing of the animals I could hear a high-pitched cackle that could have come from a duck or a chicken. But as I followed Jack through the door, I saw a woman in a blue-striped turban holding her sides as she emerged from under a cow.