Trevennor’s Will, page 15
‘Nick, don’t…’
‘It’ll be all right, Isabel.’
She did not like the new deepness in his voice; its raw intensity frightened her. There was nothing right any more about being in his arms. She felt sharp, almost angry movements as he pulled the cloak down to reveal the full length of her back. He slid his lips down, down over her spine and Isabel panicked and struggled.
‘Don’t Nick! Please stop!’
‘Why?’ he demanded harshly, letting her go. ‘Tell me why. What have I done wrong?’
She covered herself and scrambled away. Her face was livid red, her body trembling with a mixture of emotions. ‘I didn’t know you were…’ she gasped on the words. ‘I…, I didn’t know you wanted to…’
‘Then what the hell did you think I was doing?’ Nick got angrily to his feet. ‘Asking you for the next dance at a Truro ball? Damn you, woman. How dare you lead me on like that then change your mind!’ His face was as red as hers and Isabel stepped back.
‘It was not me who started it,’ Isabel angrily defended herself. ‘I thought—’
‘Just what did you think?’ His eyes shot bolts of fury at her.
‘That… that perhaps just a kiss—’
‘Oh, now I understand! I’m not good enough to lie with. Too rough for you, am I, Miss Isabel Hampton? Too common? You only give it to the gentry!’
His fury stung her. She was hurt and humiliated. What was he saying? Why was he so angry? What right had he to expect her to give herself to him then become so cruel when she refused? Perhaps it was something deeper than just damaged male pride at being spurned but it was a side of life she knew nothing of.
Holding up her head, she said coolly, ‘I have never lain with anyone. Why do you presume that I have?’
‘I know your sort,’ came the blistering reply, ‘going from one rich man’s bed to another’s to amuse yourself while you wait for a suitable marriage alliance to be made for you. Then taking as many lovers as you please afterwards. And then there’s the company you keep.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Isabel hissed, shocked at his words.
He leaned towards her. ‘Phoebe Antiss, she’ll do for a start. Remember how you and Laurence would go riding while she stayed at Trevennor House with a headache? Oh, she used to have headaches all right. The sort cured by an hour with a good man.’
Isabel was cut to the quick of her soul. She could not smash a hand across his face as she wanted to because she could not deny that Phoebe had been obliging where men were concerned. It was something she had put to the back of her mind, but Phoebe had been her friend.
‘Don’t you dare talk about Phoebe like that. Have you no respect for the dead?’
‘Well, it doesn’t mean that she’s suddenly turned into a saint.’
Isabel stared at him, her face now very pale. She had to know.
‘And presumably… you were one of those “good men”.’
‘Me and every willing stable boy and no-good gentleman, including your cousin, Kempthorne. He followed me one afternoon.’
You disgust me,’ Isabel said, fighting back tears of shame. ‘But all gentlemen are not like you and my immoral cousin. Uncle Laurence wasn’t and I’m thankful to be betrothed to Richard Grenville who is a true gentleman.’
‘Huh, I doubt if you love him or ever will.’
‘It’s none of your business!’
‘No, of course it isn’t. I mustn’t forget myself, must I, m’lady?’
She could no longer bear his spite and hatred and turned away, tears scalding her eyes.
‘Get your clothes on, the sooner I get you to Crantock and off my hands for a few days, the better.’ In misery she pulled on the clammy wet dress. She buried Nick’s jibe at Richard Grenville by thinking of the things she liked about him. She had met him only a year ago and seen him half a dozen times during a month’s shore leave. Her uncle had been staying with her at Truro at the time. He was favourably impressed with Richard and generally in favour of the proposal of marriage he’d issued with the support of his family. Isabel had thought Richard the best suitor she had had. She did not want to be smothered by a husband’s presence and liked the idea of having one who was mainly interested in his naval career. Richard also had good manners, a kindly smile, a good sense of humour. He would make a most suitable husband.
Isabel hoped that Crantock was not far away and she would soon be left there while Nick went about his own affairs. A sour thought besieged her. According to that dreadful man, Gyver Pengelly, there was a whore at Crantock who didn’t refuse Nick her favours and Isabel felt she could wager her life it was to her she was being taken.
* * *
The sky was pale blue, the horizon a deeper blue. The waves were still wild and rebellious on the ocean. Except for small patches of short-stemmed primroses, the cliff was stark. The feathered remains of a small bird lay at the mouth of a rabbit hole where perhaps the predator had hoped for a larger victim. Smoke rose in a straight line from a solitary cottage sheltered in a distant nook. Before the shameful, humiliating incident in the tiny cove, Isabel had begun to take an interest in these things.
She tramped along tight-lipped at a good distance from Nick, hating every step that brought her damp dress to rub against her legs, hating the reminders of the reason for the dress’s condition and the remarks, which she now thought of as crass, that Nick had made about her legs. Her emotions had been exposed and felt as raw as the windswept cliffs. The pain of her uncle’s death overwhelmed her again, as did the deaths of the four people on the coach. The horrifying sounds of the shipwreck haunted her too, and so did the encounter with Gyver Pengelly.
She hardly noticed when they left the cliff and passed over the sands of Holywell Bay. Wearily she trudged up and down its sand dunes where marram grass caught at her ankles and stung her flesh. When they reached firm cliff again, she allowed Nick to move further ahead. They walked round the edge of a ploughed field and down into Polly Joke, a deep sandy cove where cattle from common ground, which led away from the beach, had come down to drink from the stream that flowed to the sea. Then up the cliff again, and round a headland where Nick stopped.
He watched the sea racing up to a long beach of golden sand with high dunes behind it. Behind the dunes was the village of Crantock and their journey was nearly at its end. A fresh wind tousled his unruly hair and the few tiny lines around his eyes creased as he took its force. He had looked at scenes like the one now before him innumerable times but he never ceased to be amazed by them.
Long steep banks of waves headed for the beach, spume flying off their tops as they rolled and broke, the water spraying backwards in white lacy flags, making Nick think of knights on chargers riding into battle. One wave rode on the back of another, racing to be first to bombard the black cliff on the far side of the beach, sending up mountains of cascading spray. The water then surged on, filling up the tidal river of the Gannel that snaked its way along the New Quay cliffs. Then the eye was drawn back to the indigo blue ocean to watch the assault begin over again. It was exhilarating and terrifying. A beautiful savagery.
Isabel was stunned by the sight, likening the spray to yards and yards of the most exquisite lace billowing in the wind. She stood beside Nick and they watched, eyes shining, mouths dry, hardly breathing.
A gigantic wave thundered in, crashing on the rocks below them, its spray reaching for the heavens, spreading out and showering them in a fine wet mist.
‘We’d better move back,’ Nick said. ‘The cliff has given way here with the winter rains.’ Mesmerized, Isabel did not hear him. ‘Isabel.’ Lightly he touched her arm.
She glanced up at him and a strange silent look passed between them and they knew they had shared another unique experience on this unwanted journey that fate had handed them.
It was not a simple cottage he took her to. It was not like Charlie Chiverton’s hovel or Mundy Cottle’s small square building. Situated behind the dunes and overlooking the River Gannel, it was a large whitewashed house with a thatched roof, a well-kept vegetable garden, flower verges, a granite rockery and trelliswork waiting for the summer’s rambling roses.
Nick led the way up the straight ash-strewn pathway to a freshly painted green door, either side of which were opened windows with shutters. He rapped once on the door, opened it wide, stooped to enter and called out ‘Kitty!’
‘Don’t look like she’s in,’ he informed Isabel after a moment and beckoned to her. ‘Come on in.’
‘Won’t she mind?’ Isabel asked, burning to know more about this place, who she was to stay with and what they were like.
‘Kitty won’t mind me inviting myself in.’
Isabel eyed Nick coldly. He was boasting again. ‘And will she mind me entering her house uninvited?’
Nick studied Isabel from the doorway. She had undergone a remarkable transformation in the past three days and two nights.
‘Kitty will like you,’ he said huskily.
He ushered her through a hall into a big clean kitchen where a kettle simmered on a hook above a hearty fire. ‘She’s not far away,’ he said. ‘Kitty never stays away from the house for long. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Your walking days are over. If Kitty agrees, and I’m sure she will, you can stay here for a few days while I go back to Gwithian to see if your cousins really mean you harm. You’ll be practically living the life of a lady again.’
‘Where are the servants?’ Isabel asked, taking in the fully-equipped and well-furnished room. Everything was of the finest quality. ‘I assume this Kitty has at least one or two.’
‘Actually, she has none. Kitty comes from humble stock and hates the idea of other people skivvying for her. She does her own cleaning though she sends out things like laundry and dressmaking.’
‘But why should she allow me to stay here? And why did you choose to bring me here?’
There was a marked twinkle in his eye as he answered. ‘Kitty is my friend. She’s always ready to help me out and she’ll take good care of you and if necessary protect you. She’s as strong as an ox and has an evil temper when riled. She also enjoys a challenge. We can tell her the truth about you, but don’t forget that from now on, apart from when we’re with Kitty, you’re Jenna Stevens.’
Isabel sat down beside the hearth in a chair with plush embroidered cushions. It was obvious Kitty lived alone and had furnished and decorated the hall and kitchen in a decidedly feminine and tasteful. There were no bad smells to offend her and Isabel could not detect what her Uncle Laurence would have termed ‘a definite unfriendly feeling about the place’. Would he have approved of this house and its owner? She supposed he would, knowing the way he’d trusted Nick. Anyway, she hoped that whoever this Kitty was, she would indeed allow her to stay.
There was a sound in the hall and Nick went to investigate. Isabel heard every word of the hearty exchange between him and the female who had entered the house.
‘Nick Nancarrow! So the wind’s blown you this way again, has it! About time too, I should say.’
There was a long silence and a bolt of cold steel shot through Isabel’s heart; she knew they were kissing. Did this other woman, a common trollop by the sound of her voice, have her arms about Nick’s neck? The rustle of her dress said she did. Were her lips moving under his, as only a short time ago she had hoped hers would?
Feeling an intruder, she stood up to face the woman who was to be asked to be her keeper for at least the next few days. Barely able to cope with the ache in her heart, Isabel raised her chin and looked squarely at the open doorway.
She heard Nick say, ‘I’ve got someone with me, Kitty.’
‘I know, there are two tracks leading to my door, one a lot smaller than yours,’ Kitty replied. ‘Well then, I suppose I’d better meet her.’
Chapter 12
When Nick returned to Gwithian he made straight for the snug rough-walled cottage of Jimmy Rowe and his extended family. Apart from his pregnant wife, Marion, and two small children, there were his father, crippled and unable to work from a miner’s lung disease, and his mother who was a tiny energetic woman with the sharpest of tongues. It was evening and Jimmy was outside working on his garden patch.
‘What are you going to put in that bit of dirt?’ Nick called out teasingly as he leaned on the gate.
Jimmy threw down his spade and ran to the gate and pumped Nick’s hand. ‘A few potatoes. Where the heck have you been these last few days?’ he demanded, opening the gate and pulling Nick through the wide opening. ‘Mother and Marion have been baking each and every day and there’s been no one with an appetite like yours to devour it. Mother’s pretty mazed with you, Nick. You’ll hear all about it, I can tell ’ee.’ Before Nick could reply, Jimmy shouted, ‘Mother! Marion! He’s here at last! Get the kettle on the boil.’
A moment later a small darting figure of bird-like movements was out of the house and standing in front of the two men. Jimmy Rowe’s mother, looking like a magpie in a black dress and long white apron, glared at Nick reproachfully.
‘And where have you been? Keeping a body waiting with a cupboard full of good food baked and waiting all ready for ’ee? Didn’t think you’d have the gall to stay away from your friends for so long. Well, speak up, Nick Nancarrow, or I’ll have ’ee straight back out that there gate.’
Nick threw down his bag and lifted Meena Rowe up to his face and kissed both her shiny apple-red cheeks heartily. Jimmy was bent over laughing and other chuckles came with the slower arrival of the heavily pregnant Marion and her weakened father-in-law as they leaned on each other for support. Meena Rowe struggled against Nick with all her might and when he put her down the tiny woman looked as if she was about to burst.
‘I should have remembered ye’ve got some mighty strange habits, Nick Nancarrow!’ she shouted, pointing an agitated finger at him. ‘Picking up a little frail old woman and making jest with her!’
‘There’s nothing frail about you, Meena,’ Nick said, bending down and putting his hands on his knees as if he was talking to a child. ‘You’re beautiful. Beautiful! If I’d been around in your maiden days you’d be called Meena Nancarrow by now.’
Meena gazed back at Nick with her lips pursed. ‘Mmmm, we’d have seen.’
‘Don’t I get a kiss back?’
‘No, I’m not in the mood to give you one – at the moment.’
‘Well, in that case lead me to this mountain of food you’ve prepared for me.’
‘No manners!’ Meena marched off, head down and tail up. She took her husband with her, and although he was much bigger and taller than herself, without lifting her head she patted him vigorously on his back. He had succumbed to a bout of coughing. ‘See what you’ve done to Father,’ she accused Nick over her tiny bony shoulder as she headed back indoors. ‘Don’t know what your mother would have said, she never brought you up to be such a sinner.’
Nick kissed and hugged Marion Rowe. ‘What have I done?’ he said innocently, nodding after Meena.
‘You know you can’t do anything wrong in Mother’s eyes,’ Marion said, giggling and leading him after her parents-in-law.
Jimmy picked up Nick’s bag, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know how you do get away with it. If I said just one thing like that to she…’
Inside the talk changed to the sad and serious subject of Laurence Trevennor’s funeral.
‘Course when I was asked to be a pallbearer I put your name down at once. Said Mr Trevennor wouldn’t rest easy if you weren’t one of they chosen to bear him to his grave,’ Jimmy told Nick as Meena laid the kitchen table for supper.
‘Aye, I would have had something to say in this village if you’d been left out,’ Denny Rowe contributed to the conversation from his high-backed chair at the hearth.
‘As if they’d listen to you,’ Meena snorted, ladling out steaming chicken broth. ‘Here, Father, you can eat at the table tonight.’
Denny obeyed at once, getting up so Meena could lift his chair to the table’s head. He received an affectionate tug on his once proud shoulders from her when he was settled again.
‘Aw, I don’t know, Mother,’ he said, always slow to answer, picking up his spoon. ‘There’s been a time when even you did listen to me.’
Meena responded with a loud ‘Huh!’ and beckoned to Marion. ‘You sit down next, m’dear then we’ll see what room we have left round the table.’
Nick bowed his head while Denny asked for the food to be blessed. He was happy to be back at this table again, in the company of good-natured Jimmy and his gentle Marion, who was devoted to her husband, enjoying the banter of Meena and Denny that was pitted with sarcasm that was never meant.
‘If you’d come half an hour ago you’d have seen Boy Jimmy and little Mary before Mother put them to bed,’ Jimmy said.
‘I’ll see them and, by the look of it, the next one before I’m off on my travels again,’ Nick said, smiling at Marion as he broke a slice of bread in two. ‘I’m back this way because I’ve got a job at Tehidy.’
A disapproving grunt was heard from Meena’s direction. Not because Nick had said he had a job at Tehidy but because Meena thought it unseemly to refer to a woman’s ‘delicate condition’. Marion bent her head, her face warm and pink, over her bowl. Meena had had only the one child and Marion felt her mother-in-law didn’t quite approve of her being on her third so soon after the birth of the last one. Nick wasn’t embarrassed. ‘You’ll soon have a large happy family like the parson and his wife.’
Jimmy puffed up with pride.
‘That’d be nice,’ Denny said, pushing his bowl forward for a second helping.
Meena did the serving, sat down again and gave Marion a brittle smile.
To change the subject Marion said, ‘’Twas a terrible tragedy about Miss Isabel.’
