Trevennor’s Will, page 13
‘But what about you? The wreckers—’
‘I can look after myself. Get going!’ Nick pushed James Leddra roughly onwards and watched as Gyver Pengelly slipped and slid his bulk down towards the shore.
* * *
Isabel shrieked as the young seaman crashed through the cottage door minutes later. She grabbed the broom and brandished it defiantly in his face. She trembled as much as he did, her nerves set on edge by the sounds of the ship’s death throes.
‘Who are you?’ she challenged him in Jenna Stevens’ voice.
The sailor bent over and gripped his legs above the knees, panting painfully. ‘James Leddra’s my name… Your man sent me… said his name was Nick… said to tell you that… says I’m t’stay here till he gets back.’ He was shivering violently, his face flushed and bruised, his feet bare and clothes torn.
Isabel dropped the broom. ‘Is Nick all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Aye, he’s heading off the wreckers, to give me the chance to slip away unseen.’
‘How many wreckers are there?’ Isabel asked fearfully.
‘Not many yet as far as I could see but there’ll be hundreds when word gets around. Nick says no one will come near this place because it’s haunted.’
Isabel nodded but her relief was small. ‘I hope they don’t hurt him.’ She picked up the blanket. ‘Come and sit down. Put this around you. I’m afraid the fire’s gone out. How many more survivors are there to come?’
‘Don’t think there’s any,’ James said numbly. ‘Just me… and if it wasn’t for Nick… I hadn’t much strength left when he swam out to reach me.’ He sat hunched over with the blanket round him, water dripping from his loose dark hair onto the floor.
Isabel held out the water flask to him. ‘Have a drink of water. It will make you feel better.’
‘Thanks, a drop of rum would go down better but you don’t feel too choosy when you’ve just nearly lost your life.’
Isabel viewed the dejected figure with sympathy. Two days ago she would have seen him as only an underling, one of the common people. They died regularly in large numbers, from mining accidents, drownings at sea, fires sweeping through their tightly-built hovels, a variety of fevers and illnesses. It was expected of them. They were used to it. It had not really mattered. She shuddered at how she had grown up, prejudiced by such views. She saw things differently now, after knowing Nick, his ugly friend Charlie, Mundy Cottle and her brood of children. She held out a hand. It hovered, hesitated, then with resolve she placed it on the darkly tanned skin of the sailor’s shivering shoulder, exposed by his torn shirt.
‘I’m so very sorry. They call it the bounty of the sea. Some do even believe that God sends them the wrecks – people poor enough to be glad of anything.’
James Leddra nodded grimly. ‘Aye, you’re glad of it if you’re starving.’
He drank down the last of the water then looked at Isabel. Even in his distress he could see she was no ordinary working-class young woman.
‘We was caught out at sea in the storm. Thought we’d make a run for shore but then the wind dropped and we were at the mercy of the strong tide and sea. Cap’n couldn’t keep her off the rocks out there. We’d have stood a better chance if we could have beached at Trevaunance Cove. We was tossed around like a cork and I lost my little dog, saw her float away and there was nothing I could do. I was only saved because I know these parts and jumped off the ship. Took a chance on keeping my head and the tide washing me ashore. There’ll be good pickings of timber for the wreckers. Cap’n was a good’un… went never find one to sail under like he again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Isabel repeated, tears pricking her eyes. ‘What was the name of your ship?’
‘She was The Bountiful. I was the mate. She was my third ship since I ran away to sea about fourteen year ago.’ James wiped away fresh tears and braved a smile over chattering teeth. ‘’Tis awful cold in here. Can’t light a fire with the wreckers crawling about but would you happen to know if some dry clothes are to be found in here? I take it from the thick dust and your man saying ’tis s’posed to be haunted you don’t live here.’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’ Isabel felt disinclined to repeat the tragic story of the cottage’s previous occupant but she was worried about its curse as she rummaged through the room for Billy Noone’s spare clothing. In a cubbyhole beside the bed she found a well-worn darned serge shirt, a pair of rough black breeches and a holey pair of hose. It occurred to her that Nick would also be wet through and wondered whether she shouldn’t keep something back for him to change into. But another quick look at the clothes told her they would not fit him and she handed them over.
‘Bless you,’ James Leddra said when she laid them on the table. ‘You a local maid?’
‘No, I’m from the north of the county.’ She did not want to be questioned and tried to appear busy.
‘I’m a St Ives man myself.’
‘Really?’
‘Haven’t set foot in it these last seven or eight years. I’ve got a sister there, Mary Ellen. I heard she’s got a young’un, a cheeil by the name of Morenwyn. Know ’em, by any chance?’
‘No,’ Isabel said blandly but she was feeling uncomfortable. It was unlikely that this man knew anything about her real identity but her cousins, the Kempthornes, had a notorious reputation in St Ives and she hoped the sailor would not mention them. If he went home and heard they had moved on to better things and got talking about them and his shipwreck and the man who had rescued him and the woman waiting in this haunted cottage…
She went to the window and looked out anxiously for signs of Nick. She kept her back to James Leddra as she heard him tugging off his wet clothes. She could not blame him for wanting to change straightaway, he risked pneumonia if he didn’t, but she couldn’t help feeling it was improper of him not to wait for Nick to come back.
‘You Mrs Nancarrow then?’ he said to her stubborn back.
‘No.’
He kicked his wet clothes away and sat down again, still shivering but much more comfortable. He discarded the blanket too which his clothes had soaked. You can turn round now.’ He was watching Isabel curiously. You aren’t Nick’s sister, are you.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘No,’ she replied without turning round, ashamed of what her answer would imply. ‘My name is Jenna Stevens.’
* * *
Nick’s intention was for the wreckers to see him and not James Leddra running away inland. He was not afraid he would be mistaken for a survivor; by his clothes he was not a seafarer and he knew many of the wreckers. As they scrambled into the coombe, the majority of them ignored him and raced off to be first at the scene of the wreck, whooping and cheering each other on. Some hailed him by name as they rushed past him. Their leader had stopped in his tracks. Gyver Pengelly stood with coils of thick rope over massive shoulders, a hatchet and crowbars in his hands.
‘Got here first, I see,’ he shouted at Nick. ‘By the look of’ee you’ve ’ad a dip in the sea. Been fur a nice little swim, ’ave ’ee, Nancarrow? Didn’t ’ee realise ’tes a mite too dangerous fur that today?’
Nick clenched his fists. ‘I thought I’d see if anyone could be saved.’
Pengelly gave a sly sideways grin. ‘All dead, are they?’
‘Aye, Pengelly,’ Nick said savagely. ‘But she won’t be easy to salvage.’
Pengelly was sweating, his bleary eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from looking all night into the wind, his large lips were purple-blue. ‘Not after the pickin’s yerself?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No, got better things to do.’
Pengelly would have stayed to badger Nick but was eager to be in charge of the wrecking. ‘That maid of yourn must be good in the sack!’ he bellowed, leering, then ran on.
Nick turned his back on the big man and walked quickly to the cottage. He found Isabel and James Leddra talking quietly.
Isabel ran to him, taking in his wet and torn clothes and the trickle of blood from his cut cheek. ‘Are you all right, Nick?’
‘I’m fine, Jenna,’ he said, glad she had remembered to use her new character. ‘Get packed up,’ he added in a serious voice. ‘I want to be on our way before that crowd spreads out over the cliffs.’
‘But you’re soaked through and hurt.’
He pressed his fingers to his stinging cheek and glanced at the blood on their tips. ‘I’ll see to it later and I’ll soon dry out.’ He turned to James Leddra. ‘You’ll be all right as long as you stay in here till dark and head inland.’
‘I thank you again, Nick Nancarrow,’ James said humbly. ‘I won’t forget what you’ve done for me this day.’
‘I’d be grateful if you don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me or her,’ Nick said, picking up his canvas bag.
James glanced at Isabel who gave him a brief smile. He nodded. ‘My lips are sealed, you have my word on it.’
Nick hurried Isabel to the door. She looked back uncertainly at James Leddra sitting in Billy Noone’s clothes. ‘Don’t take anything else from the cottage. It’s supposed to be unlucky.’
Nick led Isabel at a fast rate further inland, following the stream along a rocky path to avoid the cliff area. A few lazy twists and turns and the silhouette of a mine workings came into view. The sound of the sea was gone, the thump, thump of the engine house taking its place. Isabel saw distant figures of bal-maidens, mine boys and the older men dressing the ore on the surface for the stamping machines. The sound of their shovels and hammers knocking out the tin from the rock carried clearly on the chilly morning air.
‘The folk of this mining community live way back behind the works. They haven’t got word of the wreck yet or they’d be swarming this way,’ Nick said grimly, taking Isabel’s arm and heading back to the cliffs.
Chapter 10
Edmund Kempthorne was out walking that morning. He sauntered through Gwithian village dressed in elegant black clothes, his velvet eyes looking out jauntily from under his tricorn hat for any suitable female with whom to pass a pleasant hour or so. The village seemed deserted, the windows of every cottage and house draped in black in mourning for Laurence Trevennor. Edmund was disappointed. He had spent a less troublesome night knowing that Mary Ellen was arriving at Trevennor House later in the day, but that was not until the afternoon, and it seemed a long time away.
Deborah wasn’t at all pleased with the arrangement. She’d pleaded with Edmund to wait until after their uncle’s funeral. But Edmund had thrown a violent tantrum and insisted Mary Ellen and their daughter Morenwyn, come today – his needs were more important than risking the disapproval of any narrow-minded villagers. If they didn’t believe the story that Mary Ellen was a poor unfortunate widow about to be evicted from her home, whom he and his sister had taken under their wing, he didn’t care! He intended to move into Isabel’s residence at Truro as soon as possible anyway, when all the legal arrangements were completed.
Edmund saw no one but the landlord of the local inn, the Leg of Mutton, putting his empty ale barrels outside in his yard. Edmund accepted the landlord’s offer of refreshment and listened patiently to his regrets about ‘dear brave, Mr Trevennor’s death, God rest his soul,’ until he realised there were no serving girls about who might be willing to oblige him. He drank up, thanked the landlord and left to saunter back down the village on the other side of the road.
He made a quick perusal of the churchyard but there was only the sexton tidying up the graves and grass verges to make sure it looked its best for Laurence Trevennor’s funeral in three days’ time. The sexton nodded his head in respect and Edmund walked on. He smiled and his features relaxed at what he saw next. A woman was coming towards him. She was quite alone and although she had a somewhat ragged appearance she looked young and reasonably comely from a distance.
Edmund increased his pace so he could meet the woman away from the houses. Drifts of sand lay across the road and at the grassy banks, blown there by yesterday’s storm. The woman didn’t seem to notice his approach and gave a cry when he presented himself in her path.
‘Good morning,’ he said with a friendly smile, lifting his hat. He was disappointed she was not as pretty or as young as she’d first looked but he thought she was better than nothing. She would whet his appetite before Mary Ellen provided him with a feast.
The woman backed away, but when his good quality clothes and refined voice had coursed their way through her usual mental fog, she curtseyed awkwardly and looked vacantly at him.
‘G’mornin’ sur.’ She made to skirt round him but Edmund moved in the same direction. He was even more pleased she was dim-witted.
‘Do you live in the village?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Ais,’ then she frowned and thought about it. ‘But not really. Back-along there, along a little path, a little way after the bridge.’ She turned and pointed the way she had come and Edmund moved in closer to her. She was startled to see him looming over her.
‘Do you live there with your family, my dear?’
‘Um, n-no sur. There wus me granny but she died.’ Edmund licked his lips. This was getting better and better.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked softly.
‘No, sur…’The woman thought hard. ‘Yes, sur… I think p’raps you’m Mister Kem’thorne, brother to Miss Kem’thorne in the Big House. Mister Trevennor was yer uncle, ’e wus some nice gen’leman.’
‘I’m so pleased to hear you liked him,’ Edmund drawled, and assuming every man’s disposition was the same as his, he wondered just how nice Uncle Laurence had been to her. ‘I adored him, of course,’ he went on, rooting the woman, who looked most uncomfortable and was fidgeting to be on her way, to the spot. ‘I shall miss him dreadfully. I will make sure to be just as kind to the villagers as my dear late uncle was. Tell me, my dear, what is your name?’
‘Nellie, sur.’ And Nellie blinked and tried to clear her blank mind and remember where she had been going before this handsome gentleman had stopped to speak to her.
‘Now, Nellie,’ Edmund purred, keeping his eyes glued to hers, ‘I’m sure you’re a very good girl and would have done anything to please Mr Trevennor. I want to make friends with the villagers, and Mr Trevennor, I’m sure, would have wanted you to help me. I would like to see your home and the conditions you live in. If I find them wanting I will arrange to have the necessary work done on them. And for your help I will give you a shiny new shilling.’
Edmund Kempthorne had not met Nellie far enough down the road to be unobserved. From an upstairs window in the parsonage, Charlotte Thomas had seen him walk past and the moment she had seen why he had quickened his pace she had flung herself out of the room and down the stairs. She had nearly knocked her husband, who had just left his study, off his feet. The papers he’d been carrying were strewn all around them.
What is it, Charlotte, my dear? Has one of the children—’
‘Nothing is wrong with the children, Perran,’ she said hastily, stooping down and thrusting a piece of paper at him. ‘I’m sorry about that. I have to go out for a little while, dearest. There is something I must attend to and it cannot wait.’
It couldn’t even wait long enough for the Reverend Perran Thomas to be given his customary kiss. His wife rushed out of the door without even tying the ribbons of her hat and cloak.
Charlotte attended to her ribbons as she marched down the road towards Edmund Kempthorne and Nellie and she was absolutely fuming. She had had just about enough of the way men like the abominable Gyver Pengelly and this lecherous, smooth-talking dishonest gentleman used Nellie. The poor soul possessed a child’s mind because of Pengelly’s brutal ways. She could not tell the difference between right and wrong and was quite unable to protect herself. It was time to do something about it!
‘Good morning, Mr Kempthorne, Nellie,’ Charlotte said loudly as she approached them.
They both swung round. Edmund looked angry but lifted his hat politely. Nellie looked guilty and confused. Charlotte had heard her say in a panicky voice, ‘But Mr Pengelly wouldn’t like it!’
‘Run along to the parsonage kitchen, Nellie,’ Charlotte said. ‘There’s some work for you there and Cook has a nice big breakfast waiting for you. Tell her I sent you.’
‘Th-thank ’ee, Mistress Thomas,’ Nellie blurted out. Gyver Pengelly allowed her to speak to Perran and Charlotte Thomas, but only lest they object to her silence and try interfering in her life. She took to her heels and ran all the way to safety.
‘Are you taking the morning air, Mr Kempthorne?’ Charlotte said coldly to him.
‘Indeed, I am, Mistress Thomas,’ he said, employing his voice softly. ‘That strange young woman stopped me and said she was sorry about my uncle’s death. She said it over and over again. I couldn’t get away from her.’
‘I’m glad you could see that poor Nellie has only limited mental faculties. I like to keep a keen eye on her. I’m afraid of people taking advantage of her, you see.’
‘That would be most wicked!’ Edmund exclaimed, feigning indignation.
He had swept his eyes over Charlotte Thomas and found her most attractive. She was about twenty-eight, and he had to agree with his sister’s unusually glowing accolade of her yesterday. Looking at her, he knew why Deborah had spoken in that way: she wanted him to seduce and disgrace the curate’s wife because she hated Charlotte Thomas for having all the things that Nature had denied her. Charlotte’s skin was clear, her thick dark hair tumbled down about her slender shoulders owing to her haste, her brown eyes shone and her cheeks glowed. Edmund thought she was a woman who could be aroused to many passions. How fortunate for the curate, he mused. She obviously didn’t deny him since she had presented him with so many squalling brats. It would be a pleasure to find out what the young parson was receiving in their private moments…
