Trevennor’s Will, page 14
Charlotte had a good idea what was going on inside his head. She decided to retreat before she couldn’t stop herself from smacking his face. ‘Please give my regards to Miss Kempthorne. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to at home. Do enjoy your walk, Mr Kempthorne. May I suggest a walk along the cliffs? The cold fresh air will do you good.’
Edmund smiled and bowed to her and then watched her darkly as she walked sedately away from him. His mouth twisted as he thought about the morally upright woman. His observations would make good pillow talk with Mary Ellen later in the day.
From an upstairs bedroom window next door in Trevennor House, Deborah Kempthorne, too, had been watching her brother. Her face was coloured by hate. Edmund had not let her down and had made a good start with what she wanted for Charlotte Thomas, but she was unhappy about the smarmy little curate’s wife’s interest in Nellie. Nellie had to be got rid of before she talked in one of her feeble moments.
* * *
Nick and Isabel walked in silence for some twenty minutes. Then Isabel, slipping back into her natural voice now they were alone, asked solemnly, ‘How many perished on The Bountiful, Nick?’
‘Was that her name?’ he answered, sighing heavily. ‘About thirty or forty, I reckon.’
‘Those poor people,’ Isabel said, knowing it was an inadequate statement.
‘Aye, ’twas terrible to hear their screams…’ They were back on the coastline, tramping over patches of dead rust-coloured heather, the sea two hundred feet below. This was some of the wildest terrain Isabel had seen, with no way down to the virtually shoreless bottom of the cliff. There was always a headland, in front or behind them, stretching out fat fingers of land.
The clouds lifted and a determined sun shone down warmly and helped dry out Nick’s clothing. Isabel pushed back her hood and let the warmth, the fresh salty winds, and the secure feeling of being with Nick, sweep all worries and melancholy away. She was getting used to the sea – its vastness, its sounds and smells, its multitude of shifting colours, its many mysterious rocks rising out in various shapes from its depths.
‘Where are we going next?’ Isabel asked.
‘Perranporth – ’tisn’t far. We’re going round Cligga Head now.’ He stopped to study some driftwood and ship’s rigging bobbing pathetically in a narrow inlet of dark blue water at the bottom of the cliff. ‘That probably comes from another ship,’ he said, pointing it out to Isabel. ‘There hasn’t been time for wreckage from The Bountiful to get here yet.’ Gazing up at the sky, he smiled at the sun. ‘You know, I think after yesterday’s storm we’re in for a fine sunny day.’
The wreck of The Bountiful was put to the back of their minds. Isabel had no difficulty scrambling up and down the drops they met, except for one which was sheer and steep, covered in loose scree which shifted under her feet and trickled away in front of her. She froze.
‘Move down in sidesteps or run down and I’ll catch you,’ Nick called up to her.
In the end Nick good-humouredly climbed back up and carried her down. Near the bottom he slipped and they landed in a heap of hysterical laughter.
They entered the sand-driven tract of Perranporth from part of the cliff called Droskyn. They passed the pilchard seine boats pulled up there for safekeeping through the winter months and entered the hamlet itself down a steep winding road. Nick bought pasties, bread, cheese, ale and water from the shops and street hawkers. A young girl approached laden with a tray of food almost too heavy for her to carry and he bought two sweet-pigs. He gave one to Isabel as they strode along. She had never seen a sweet-pig before and studied the pig-shaped pastry case, its belly filled with plump currants, with a child’s delight before eating it.
Nick spoke to a chapman. He didn’t want to buy one of his pamphlets full of popular tales and scandals, but chapmen were a good source of gossip. He found out that the news of Laurence Trevennor’s death and Isabel’s assumed demise was fully abroad. Nick gave the man a farthing for his trouble.
From there he and Isabel trudged along under the foothills of Perranporth, on fine golden sands, two long miles of it. The cliffs here were dark, honeycombed with caverns. After Isabel stopped to shake the sand out of her shoes, they started climbing again.
‘I’ve never climbed up and down so many times in my life!’ she exclaimed.
She marched on without complaint and Nick silently admired her long-legged strides. She could now recognize rabbit burrows, molehills and badger setts. She chatted about St Piran, the county’s patron saint, of how his eighth-century oratory, the first cell he built after crossing over from Ireland on a millstone, was about half a mile inland, buried somewhere in the sand towans they had just left behind. Uncle Laurence had told her about it when she had become interested in a similar oratory on a site at Gwithian. Nick said he knew about that, of course, and she asked him if he also knew that a whole town was buried under Gwithian’s sand towans and a village was buried under Perranporth’s – bones were continually coming to light. Nick replied that he thought he had heard about it somewhere and teased her that she wasn’t as soft-brained as he thought.
They talked easily as they walked, sharing their knowledge of local history and legend. Everywhere they looked they saw only a marvellous beauty, awesome in its loneliness. The sense of mystery, myth and legend touched the roots of their Cornish blood.
Nick pointed to a long rugged headland out in front of them. ‘That’s Penhale Point with the Gull Rocks out at sea. Just before that there’s a little sandy cove. No matter what the weather’s like, ’tis sheltered from the wind unless it’s blowing in from the sea, which it isn’t today. If you want to freshen up you can do what I’m going to do, swim in the sea. Can you swim, Isabel?’
‘No, I cannot,’ she answered, frowning, wishing she could.
‘Well, you can splash about on the shore.’
‘But surely it’s too dangerous to swim in the sea so soon after a storm.’
‘You’re right,’ he grinned. ‘Worried about me, are you? I won’t swim but I do intend to strip off and roll about in the water.’ He waited for her to blush but she only raised an eyebrow and smiled a little. He touched his cut cheek. ‘Got a few cuts and bruises to clean up.’
It was a tricky climb down to the cove. The path sloped sharply, zigzagging back and forth on itself and was but a foot wide and covered with tough foliage which they had to take care not to stumble over. At the bottom they jumped the last three feet down onto soft sand warmed by the sun. The cove swept round in a typical semi-circle. It was about five hundred yards long and stretched to about the same when the tide was out. The tide was out now.
‘This is surely a smuggler’s cove,’ Isabel said enthusiastically.
‘Aye, a bit obvious and rarely used for that now.’
‘It’s like being in another world.’
Nick tossed aside his bag and jacket and pulled off his boots. Isabel laid her cloak out carefully and sat on it. She took off her shoes and stockings and discarded the bandages. As she rubbed her feet and looked for fresh blisters she said, ‘Oh, for a hot strong dish of tea.’
She looked up to see Nick running towards the sea and clapped her hands over her face. His strong muscular body was completely naked. Moments later she peeped between her fingers and watched him leap into the waves then lie down near the shoreline to allow the gentler waves to lap over him. She put her hands down. He was too far away for her to see anything improper.
Laying aside her shawl and tucker, she pulled the rough material of her borrowed dress down over her shoulders to let the sun warm her exposed skin. She gathered up Nick’s clothes which he’d discarded in a line leading to the sea and left them in a heap so he could dress at a more discreet distance. Even so, she thought she ought to move further away. Picking up the cord with which he tied back his hair, she walked slowly to the other end of the little beach, enjoying the feel of warm sand massaging her feet.
She used the cord to tie up her own hair and stopped to pick up pretty spiralling shells, the like of which she had never seen before her flight. Eagerly she took in the fascinating habitat of the seashore, the small narrow world that lived between land and water. The seashore, the most dangerous of environments, was pounded daily by waves, scoured and damaged by sand and stones, harsh cold winds, and fresh water from rain and streams. Despite the harshness of the tidal zone, all its little creatures had adapted themselves to withstand its natural hazards. After what she had been through, Isabel felt at that moment she could adapt to whatever the future held. Brought up as she was, she had never known adventure, had never owned an adventurous spirit. With Nick, and because of Nick, she had experienced so many new things. It had been terrible and frightening at first. But the incident with the rat and a night in Nick’s arms, the heady knowledge that he desired her and she herself could flame that desire so quickly, gave her a strong sense of her own unique femininity. She knew now that she was more than just a passive mate required to do her duty in an unexciting marriage bed. Here in the little cove she felt carefree for the first time in her life. And she wished she could spend one more night like the last up on the cliffs with Nick Nancarrow.
She stood on the firm wet sand and gingerly let the water lick at her feet. It was foam-topped, icy cold. She shivered, but slowly she walked a little further into the sea, and a little more, lifting up her dress in stages until the water was up to her knees and the dress up to her thighs. Far, far out a long strip of turquoise green caught her eye, such a beautiful colour, as though the sun had illuminated it with a long beam of extraterrestrial light. Isabel waded, then ran, in and out of the waves becoming giddy with exhilaration and abandoned delight.
Then she noticed that Nick was watching her.
Chapter 11
Isabel became still and turned her head very slowly. Nick was a few feet behind her, clad now in his breeches, and he was staring at her legs, his expression full of appreciation. Isabel’s heart quickened. She lowered her skirt a few protective inches. A breeze swirled about her, pushing the material to mould round her legs and show off their perfect shape.
He raised his eyes and looked right into her. His body glistened, his hair hung wetly at the nape of his neck. He looked like a legendary god, utterly desirable. Isabel caught her breath and wondered what it would be like to feel his strong bare arms round her, to be pressed against his broad chest without the barrier of his shirt. She did not want the spell to be broken, but the strength of feeling he was sending across the short stretch of water separating them forced her to speak.
‘You’ll get cold like that.’
He grinned mischievously. ‘No, I won’t. It feels wonderful.’ He bent to scoop up handfuls of water. ‘Try it.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ she laughed.
Cold water lightly stung her face as he splashed it over her. She shrieked and ran from him, dropping her skirt which immediately became soaked to the top of her legs, screaming and laughing as he chased her and sprayed her over and over again. She tried dodging him but it was impossible; she had her back to the sea and he held her captive.
Isabel stopped, turned and fought back, batting water at him, until playfully she begged him for mercy. He stopped splashing and stayed still, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he would come after her and dump her fully into the waves. With a grin he turned and waded back to the shore.
Isabel followed him and when her feet were on the sand he chased her back across the beach. Laughing until she thought her lungs would burst, she stopped at the edge of her cloak and held up her hands in submission.
‘You’re a beast, Nick Nancarrow!’ She held out her wet dress. ‘Look what you’ve done to me.’
‘Well, take it off and lay it over the rocks. There’s plenty of strength in the sun, it’ll dry in no time.’
‘How can I?’ she pouted. ‘I have nothing else to wear.’
‘You have your cloak.’ She hesitated and he winked saucily. ‘Don’t worry, Isabel, I won’t watch. I’ll get the rest of my own clothes.’
Isabel knew the wet dress would be too uncomfortable to insist on wearing. When his back was turned, she hastily struggled out of the wet dress and snatching up the cloak wrapped it tightly round herself. She stretched the dress out over the rocks to dry as Nick came back with his own clothing.
‘Here,’ he said gallantly, laying his jacket on the sand. ‘You can sit on this.’ He dropped the rest of his clothes in a pile beside his jacket and flopped down on the sand. He gulped down a bottle of ale and handed Isabel the water flask.
‘Is it time to eat?’ she asked. ‘I am ravenously hungry.’
‘That’s sea air for you. We’ll have the pasties but I doubt if they’re as good as Mundy Cottle’s.’
‘It’s like being a child again,’ Isabel said as she ate. ‘Running about on the sand and splashing in the sea, eating out of doors. What a pity we put so many restrictions on ourselves when we grow up.’
Nick looked her up and down, wrapped in the cloak from neck to toes. ‘Your legs aren’t like a child’s.’
‘Uncle Laurence used to take me to play on the beach at Gwithian.’
‘I like a good pair of legs on a woman.’
‘Once we walked across the beach very nearly into Hayle.’
‘And you’ve got the best pair I’ve ever seen.’
‘We took a picnic basket and although we had a long rest, the walk back seemed much longer.’
‘Tis a welcome sight to see something like that under a woman’s skirts.’ Nick handed her a piece of cheese.
‘Uncle Laurence picked me up and carried me most of the way home on his shoulders.’
‘They’re your best feature, you should be proud of them. Long smooth legs, shapely ankles, graceful feet and straight pert toes.’
‘Nick.’
‘Yes?’
‘Eat your cheese.’
He chuckled and pushed a lump of cheese into his mouth. ‘I like the colour of your hair too, reminds me of summer.’
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said, glancing at him then looking away hastily.
No man had given her compliments like this, so very personal and said so sincerely. She had been told many times that she looked beautiful when attending balls and other social functions, and once even enchanting. But what lady didn’t look her best clothed in Paris silks, her hair dressed by highly trained maids? Her fiancé, Richard Grenville, had paid her the expected compliments the few times they had met since their marriage had been arranged, the words rolling easily off his tongue. She doubted if he or the other gentlemen she mixed with would give her more than cursory attention in her present state, wearing clothes borrowed from poor people, with no powder or jewels.
She gazed at the sky, the rushing sea, the lazy golden sand indented with their footprints, tilting her head back to look at the overhanging cliff behind them. ‘I wish we could stay here for ever,’ she sighed softly.
Nick moved, edging himself in close behind her with his knees raised. ‘Lean back against me and relax. We don’t have to hurry away, doesn’t matter as long as we reach Crantock by evening.’
Isabel leaned back, but hardly touched him. He seemed not only behind her but all around her. ‘It’s like a summer’s day today. I didn’t realize it could be so warm in February.’
Isabel picked up another of the tiny conical shells and looked at it intently. She traced its orange-red spiral pattern, such a delicate fragile thing in a brutal world; its survival in its complete and beautiful form gave her a feeling of security and hope. It had once been a cosy home for a small creature; it helped her to believe she would find such a place again. But for now she wanted only to stay here.
‘It looks even more beautiful under water,’ Nick said quietly, close to her ear. He hoped his words would not break her contemplative mood. He felt as she did. That the real world was miles and ages away. That they did not belong to it and it could not break in on them here and hurt them. It was as if they had snatched a precious moment of eternity, a gift that belonged only to them.
‘I’ve seen so many beautiful things, so many wonderful sights and views in the past two days.’
‘I always have to come back to it,’ Nick said, his voice huskier than usual.
They slipped into a natural quietness. She felt him move closer and she allowed herself to lean back against him without restraint. It was what she wanted. To be as close to him as she could.
Time passed slowly. Waves ate away eternally at the rocks, pounding and caressing them. The sun gained in strength and moved its position in the sky. A gull scrutinized them from the rim of a rock pool but finding them uninteresting took wing in a white flash and soared up against the slanting blue sky.
Nick pulled at Isabel’s cloak but she held it tightly at the neck. ‘Let the sun warm your skin,’ he said, very softly.
She allowed the cloak to fall back from her shoulders but it was not the sun but his breath that warmed her flesh.
‘Your bruises are healing,’ he said.
‘I had forgotten all about them.’ Isabel reached up and felt the tender places.
Nick kissed her fingers and moved them away to kiss each shoulder. Isabel shivered in delight. It was improper for a lady to display her shoulders in public and the kisses were as intimate as if he had placed them on her lips. She wished he would. She wanted him to hold her in his bare arms and kiss her softly on the lips, gently, understandingly. She wanted to feel the rough stubble of his chin on her skin and his mouth behind her ears. His mouth, wide, moody, sensuous, would be hers. When would he kiss her fully? Should she turn to him, or wait?
He tugged at the cloak again, trying to pull it down further and reveal more of her back. ‘Isabel, let go,’ he murmured into her hair. He lifted the cloak up over her legs. She didn’t like this and fought to hold it down, to keep her dignity. Her body tightened and a thrill of fear ignited inside her, replacing her elation.
