Trevennor’s Will, page 10
‘I’ll tell ’ee what I think ’bout this Westley!’ Pengelly roared. ‘I ’eaved a ruddy great rock at un at St Ives back-along, when ’e first begun all ’is preachin’ down this way. ’It un too, I did. Do ’ee think ’e forgave me?’
‘He surely did,’ the woman piped up unexpectedly, and then leapt off the end of the bench.
‘Then ’e’s a bloody fool!’ Pengelly bellowed. ‘I’ll kill any man who as much as gives me a black look.’
Andrew Fairweather rapidly joined his wife who was now sobbing at the foot of the steps. ‘Well, if you will excuse us, sir. My wife needs a rest before we go on our way.’
‘’Bout time too, yer was gettin’ on me bleddy nerves! I’m a man who likes t’eat in peace.’
The couple scuttled away and Pengelly laughed mockingly after them. The landlord brought him a large jug of ale and retrieved the platters from the table before Pengelly swiped them to the floor. Then he went after the retreating husband and wife to apologise profusely and offer them his best room, free of charge, for them to rest and recover in. Pengelly looked about for his next victim but couldn’t find one. There was only the solitary drinker in the taproom, a man who wasn’t afraid of him. It was Charlie Chiverton.
‘Af’noon, Charlie.’
‘Af’noon yerself, Gyver. ’Ow’s things with you then?’
‘Not so bad. ’Ad some good sport jus’ now.’
‘So I ’eard and saw. They’m a charmin’ couple, good as gold. Do anythin’ fur anyone, they would. They pass this way occasionally and don’t do no ’arm to no one,’ Charlie said, lighting his pipe with exaggerated care and looking Pengelly straight in the eye. ‘The man’s a fine preacher, believes in what ’e’s doin’ and what ’e says and lives up to it. You were out of order there, Gyver.’
‘Go to ’ell,’ Pengelly scowled and poured more ale. He was wary of picking a fight with Charlie Chiverton who was quick on his feet and skilful with the knife he kept hidden in his belt. Pengelly had seen Charlie despatch three Frenchmen, bigger and stronger, in the same dispute that had cost his brother his life.
‘Bloody weather’s put paid to me run tonight,’ Pengelly said moodily. No one ever spoke to him by choice and he liked a conversation if he had a captive audience or someone who was not afraid to stay put and listen to him. ‘’Ad a nice little lot comin’ in round Trevaunance Cove. Gotta keep me buyers ’appy. If ’ee can’t deliver reg’lur, they’ll go elsewhere. ’Ow ’bout thee comin’ along an’ ’elpin’ me t’bring in the goods when I’m in bizness again, Charlie?’ Pengelly talked quite openly about his smuggling runs. No one would ever dare to inform on him and the local Revenue men had learned to stay out of the inns if he was inside or risk a broken neck.
‘I’m ’appy with me own arrangements,’ Charlie answered. He hadn’t smuggled with Gyver Pengelly since the fight with the Frenchmen many years ago. It had been Pengelly’s attempt at a double-cross that had caused the bloodshed. ‘’Tes fair rough at sea today. Glad I’m not out on it. The Revenue men will reckon to ’ave a quiet night anyway.’
‘Well, if there’s no run, there might be other pickin’s,’ Pengelly said, rubbing his giant’s hands eagerly.
‘Aye, there might,’ Charlie said grimly. He had gone to the scene of the coach accident soon after Nick and Isabel Hampton had left him the day before and it had been picked cleaner than an old bone. The four dead had been left naked. He knew Gyver Pengelly must have come back soon after Nick had dragged Isabel Hampton away and he knew he would give a wrecked ship the same irreligious treatment.
Pengelly remembered something and grinned evilly. ‘’Ere, saw an ’quaintance of yourn this mornin’, up on the cliffs ’tween ’ere an’ Porthtowan.’
‘Aw aye. Who was that then?’
‘That Nancarrow swine!’
‘Nick Nancarrow, eh? I ’eard ’e was back in these parts.’
‘Aye, got back jus’ in time to see ’is gen’leman friend, old Trevennor, give up the ghost yesterday.’ Pengelly laughed maliciously. ‘Course, you must know what ’appened to that po-faced kinswoman of Trevennor’s, the fancy piece from Truro. Her coach was turned over and smashed to bleddy pieces up near where you d’live. You must’ve ’ad good pickin’s from un. Must’ve thought ’twas Christmas and feast days rolled into one!’
Charlie got up and joined Pengelly, sitting on the opposite bench. ‘I managed to get a few pieces of wood out of un.’ Charlie’s bloodhound eyes watched Pengelly’s face closely, wondering if he had seen Isabel Hampton with Nick. ‘Looters got there first though, took all the best stuff, cushions, tools, even the wheels had gone by the time I got there.’
‘Pity I missed un,’ Pengelly said with mocking eyes. ‘I ’eard the bodies were a proper mess, all ’cept Trevennor’s niece who’s said to ’ave gone over the cliff. Bit of her dress was seen down un.’
‘Aye,’ Charlie shook his head. ‘A double tragedy.’
‘Yah,’ Pengelly scoffed, raising a greasy dismissive hand. He picked up a discarded toothpick from the floor and dug away at his rotten teeth. Looking shrewdly through the gloom of the afternoon, he pushed aside the candlestick, the only item gracing the bleak table, making the flame bend precariously. ‘Who’s the fancy piece of woman’ood with Nancarrow then, Charlie?’
‘How d’ya mean?’ Charlie said, giving nothing away but knowing he ought to show a keen interest.
‘The wench Nancarrow ’ad with ’im. Told me she wus ’is woman. ’Twas passin’ strange, I thought.’
‘Nick?’ Charlie feigned surprise. ‘With a woman? She went ’ang on to ’im fur long, ’e’s too fly-by-night fur that. Well then, what’s she like?’
Pengelly made a rude gesture. ‘A comely piece right ’nough. Bit on the thin side fur my tastes but rounded in the right places I d’reckon with ’er clo’es off. Tell ’e one thing, Chiverton, she’s got good blood in ’er, she’s no common trollop.’ He rubbed his thick black beard, making a rasping noise, and slobbered coloured moisture from the comers of his fat lips. ‘Reckon Nancarrow got in there first. Wouldn’t mind ’avin’ a piece of ’er meself when ’e’s taught ’er what’s what ’n’ passed ’er over.’ Pengelly pushed his ugly face forward. Thought you would ’ave seen ’er yerself by now. Calls on ’ee, don’t ’e?’
Charlie stared back, not intimidated by Pengelly’s direct look. ‘I’ll see un soon enough and knowing young Nick ’e’ll ’ave got rid of this woman by then.’
‘Well, if ’e ’as, tell un to send ’er along to me!’ Talking of the woman he’d seen with his old enemy made Pengelly wish he had time to go on to Gwithian and visit Nellie, but he had to see his smuggling cronies and make plans for another run. Nellie thought he was good to her. It was him who had gone for help when her grandmother had been taken suddenly ill – well, after he had fed her poisoned oysters and left it too late to save her. Nellie was good to him, she didn’t blab about their bedding together and if he hit her she took it as just punishment. Pengelly thought it a good idea to render all women simple-minded so they were inclined to do a man’s every wish without argument. Nellie would look after the money that Deborah Kempthorne should have given her today with her life and not spend a penny of it, and he would just have time to slip home to St Agnes and spend some time with his barren wife, another woman he had moulded to his ways.
Pengelly drank the last of the ale straight from the jug. Then he grunted at Charlie and burst his way out of the inn, slamming the door in a wood-splintering movement.
The serving maid poked her meek head nervously round the wall of the taproom and seeing the man she feared above all others had really gone, went about her duties once more.
Charlie sighed and stretched his feet out to the hearth. He had been to Gwithian that morning and he’d seen Mrs Christopher out in the village. Mrs Christopher had told him it had been Pengelly who had called at Trevennor House with the news, three hours after the event, of the coach accident, and said he’d watched Isabel Hampton’s broken body being washed away at the foot of the cliff. He’d obviously lied about seeing Isabel Hampton dead to be sure of being paid for ambushing the coach. It was a good job, Charlie thought as he put his splendid pipe carefully away in its carved box, that Gyver Pengelly was not as intelligent as he was brutal or he would have pondered a little bit more deeply on just who the woman was he had seen with Nick earlier in the day.
Chapter 8
Isabel was astonished at what she saw inside the one-roomed cottage. She stood and stared by the door as the rain pounded down outside. Nick moved into the room and banged his head on a rafter. He cursed it soundly. He turned on Isabel to challenge her to remonstrate with him but she seemed not to have heard. She seemed frozen for a few moments, then she moved inside, scrutinizing everything closely. She was in a fully furnished room with ornaments on the mantelshelf, kindling wood laid in the hearth, cheap cloth for curtains pulled back at the two shuttered windows and bedding rolled up on a wide bench that served as a bed. The small square table was laid ready for two people.
The cottage had obviously been empty for years. Everything in it was shrouded in layers of dust and cobwebs. It seemed sacrilege to disturb anything. In every crack and crevice of the walls, rags were stuffed to keep out the draughts. The thick walls kept out the worst of the cold and muffled the sound of the wind which was now howling like a demented wild animal.
‘How long has it been empty like this?’ she asked, many more questions poised on her lips.
‘Three or four years.’
‘I would have thought the common people would have taken everything out of here long ago,’ Isabel stated wonderingly, gingerly pulling a dish towel from the string washing line tied across the hearth. It brought down a confusion of dust and made her cough. When the dust had settled, she used the towel to wipe thick dust off a stool and sat down on it. ‘Some of the furniture looks well made and there seem to be some other nice pieces in the room.’ She looked up at Nick and her heart froze. There was a tempest forming outside and from the expression on his face there was one raging inside him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Clear up the rest of this mess,’ he growled. ‘You’re a woman so there ought to be some sort of house cleaning instinct in you. I’ll light a fire and we’ll eat.’
‘Won’t people be curious to see smoke coming out of the chimney?’
‘Not many folk come past this way and if someone does I’m counting on them being too scared of the ghosts to investigate. They won’t come in without knocking and you earn hide behind the door while I send them on their way. Now get on with some work!’
Isabel shot him a look of sheer loathing. His rudeness appalled her. She got up and rubbed her icy hands together to get her circulation flowing and tried to recall what her housemaids did while cleaning a room. Deciding they would probably first ensure there was a usable table, she denied herself the warmth of her cloak to work more efficiently and began wiping the table down. She cast uncertain glances at Nick as he used terse movements and swore in even worse language until he got a small blaze under way. He stood up and bumped his head again which resulted in him angrily kicking a tin jug out of his way. Its clattering jarred on Isabel’s nerves.
‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ she snapped.
Nick grabbed a broom and thrust it at her. ‘Sweep the floor,’ was his moody reply.
‘Nick.’ Her tone was softer, coaxing, as she left the table and accepted the broom. She was suddenly weary and did not want to quarrel with him. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’
‘Said,’ he rapped back.
‘Said? Then pray tell me what it was I said.’ She tried a small friendly smile but he wasn’t interested.
‘If you want to eat, woman, get this place clean, and quit jawing on me.’
Isabel flinched under the icy sting of his words. Shaking her head she set about sweeping the floor. The dust rose and made her choke and she could feel Nick sniggering. It took a real effort to ignore him. She went back over every word she had spoken since they’d plunged through the cottage door. She had not said much before he’d become silent and angry, only a remark about the ordinary people not taking things from the cottage. But she had not used the word ordinary, it had been common. Was that what had upset him? She had not meant to sound patronizing, or superior, or to make a reference to their different stations that was offensive. He was such a prickly man. How was one to take him?
When the room was a little less dusty he suddenly pushed the canvas bag into her arms. ‘Mundy put some food in there, put it on the table,’ he ordered her.
Isabel gritted her teeth. She dearly wanted to put the broom about his back or strangle him with the neckerchief Mundy had bought for him.
When they were sitting, she on the stool, he on the only chair, warmed by the crackling furze fire, eating pilchard pies off the wrappings Mundy had put the food in, Isabel broke the stony silence.
‘I did not mean to cause offence when I made the remark about the “common people” to you, if that is the reason why you are angry with me again.’
‘Your sort never miss a chance to show how much better you are than us more ordinary mortals. Better houses, better clothes, better manners,’ Nick snarled, breaking off a crust of pastry and pointedly ramming it into his mouth.
‘You are very touchy about the subject.’ Isabel looked at him squarely. ‘Are you ashamed of your station in life? Perhaps you secretly hold the desire to be rich or a gentleman yourself.’
Nick remained completely unruffled which put Isabel on the defensive. ‘No, you just remind me of all that’s bad about your class.’
‘Oh? And what is that?’
‘Let’s begin with injustice. Not paying a labourer or servant his worth. Enclosing the common pasture land so folk can no longer rightfully graze their livestock. Sending a child to prison for taking a rabbit to save his family from starving—’
‘We’re not all like that I’ll have you know,’ Isabel broke in.
Nick guffawed and his scathing expression told her he singled her out particularly in his accusations.
‘It would help if people didn’t spend so much of their earnings on liquor,’ she said quietly, trying not to show how upset he was making her.
‘It would help more if some of the landowners who grumble about that didn’t insist on paying part of a labourer’s wages with cider.’
‘It would help if the public-house keepers did not allow men to become credited with an ale account they cannot afford to pay.’
‘It would help more if those who are better off really cared about the working folk having a better standard of living and provided more educational places where they could learn how to better their lot.’
‘You’re impossible,’ she countered, resisting the impulse to hurl the pilchard pie wrappings at him. ‘You try my patience, Nick Nancarrow. You know as well as I do that the Bassets have provided scholastic facilities.’ Then her tone softened, ‘I don’t have to bother with you but if I have to endure your company I would rather it was on congenial terms.’
Nick was staring at her lips and she couldn’t contain the colour that was creeping up her face. She found it disconcerting, his habit of only briefly holding eye contact while they conversed then dropping his dazzling eyes to her lips. Why did he do it? Because he wanted her to stop talking or – and this was what was causing the blush – because he wanted to kiss her?
‘I… what I had meant to say was that with so many ordinary people being so poor and in need, I was surprised they had not taken some of the things left in the cottage. They need them so badly. A wrecked sailing ship is rapidly stripped of its assets so why not an abandoned cottage? I wasn’t criticizing the people.’ She waited hopefully for a positive reaction from Nick.
He opened a bottle of ale he had bought at the Basset’s Cove Inn and took a mouthful, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it’s the truth… Why don’t you like me?’ she asked, looking at her food then at him.
‘Why should I?’ he asked levelly.
Isabel shrugged her graceful shoulders. You liked my uncle…’
‘Why should that mean I should like you?’
‘It doesn’t!’
It was nearly dark in the cottage, with only the firelight illuminating Isabel’s face. She had turned angrily from him. The flames gave the side of her taut face a creamy-golden sheen to add to the roses put there by their recent exertions. Nick couldn’t believe now that he had once thought her sharp-faced. She had a delicately shaped but proud chin which combined with her straight nose and smooth brow to give her a fine aristocratic profile. She turned to pick up the water flask.
Nick watched her lips as she drank demurely. He wondered how many men had pressed their lips to hers, had felt their softness. Something inside him stirred and caught him unawares. He had kept control of his baser instincts in this young woman’s company, telling himself he could never desire such a creature, but he was suddenly caught with his guard down. Damn the firelight! He was not a romantic man. No woman had had that effect on him before. Certainly not a haughty madam like this one. She was angry with him. He had upset her. It made her grey eyes darker, almost black in the shadows of her face. Nick got up and moved away from her.
Isabel finished her food and stood up to shake the crumbs from her lap. She pushed the stubborn ones down off her dress and Nick, whose eye had caught her movements, was reminded that all there was beneath it was a pair of gloriously long legs. He winced and finished off his ale. Damn the woman! Didn’t he have enough to put up with without her arousing his carnal feelings?
‘I see Mundy has put some muffins in the bag. Do you want some?’ she asked him, keeping her voice mild.
‘No, thank you,’ he replied shortly. ‘That long black fork standing in the hearth is the toasting fork,’ he informed her, a trifle grudgingly.
‘I know how to toast muffins,’ she said, piercing a muffin and holding it out to the hot embers. ‘The king and the queen toast muffins in their own chamber.’
