Trevennor’s Will, page 16
‘Aye, I heard about it a couple of days after it happened,’ Nick said.
‘Surprised you didn’t see something, Nick,’ Jimmy said, suddenly looking up from his meal. ‘You were walking that way when I saw you the day Miss Isabel and Mr Trevennor died. Thought you would have seen the coach either being wrecked or passed it on the road.’
All eyes were on Nick. ‘I didn’t go that way,’ he said, looking squarely at Jimmy.
‘’Tis Nick’s business where he went and why,’ Meena finished the discussion. ‘Now, Nick, where are you going to sleep tonight?’
* * *
Laurence Trevennor was laid to rest in Gwithian’s churchyard under a sulky grey sky with a tormenting sharp wind snapping at the mourners’ hats and scarves. Nick was one of the six bearers who solemnly carried Laurence’s mortal remains, in a much admired dark oak coffin, across the road from Trevennor House into the church. He and Jimmy Rowe walked in the middle, arms across shoulders under the coffin.
After a moving service, in which the Reverend Perran Thomas held up Laurence as the respected Christian gentleman he truly had been, they carried his coffin outside into the churchyard to share his wife’s grave beside an ancient granite Celtic cross. Nearly all three hundred and fifty inhabitants of the parish turned out to pay their last respects; many of them, including some of the men, wept openly.
Nick nodded at Charlie Chiverton who was standing at the back of the crowds and then put his own grief aside and turned his attention to the Kempthornes. They had followed importantly in the coffin’s wake, making a point of talking graciously and smiling grimly at the young curate and his wife and those of the county’s gentry who were in attendance. While Edmund managed a few brief exchanges with the village folk, his sister contemptuously ignored them.
Deborah noticed Nellie hanging about shyly at the edge of the crowd in her usual shabby state. She had spoken to Nellie the day before, asking her to tell Gyver Pengelly that she wanted to speak to him urgently. Deborah couldn’t help a little smile as the cortège passed the site of the paupers’ graves. If Gyver Pengelly did what she required of him, and she now had the funds to pay him well for his services, there would soon be one more added down there.
As the Reverend Perran Thomas said a final prayer for the soul of Isabel Hampton, asking the Lord to send up her body from the deep to be given a Christian burial as befitted her, Edmund, wearing a black armband and a black silk scarf three yards long, put his practised eye to use, unobtrusively perusing the younger females among the mourners.
Nick did not miss Edmund’s sexual reconnaissance and while he was thus occupied, Nick turned his attention to his ungainly sister. Deborah Kempthorne was standing on the other side of the grave to him, her face masked by a heavy black veil. When the last ‘Amen’ had been said, he walked swiftly round the grave to speak to her before she left the churchyard. She turned to him at once, and he could see the veil had done the mourners a kindness by concealing her waxen hard features.
‘I hope you will forgive my forwardness in speaking to you like this, Miss Kempthorne,’ he said, in a suitably quiet voice, ‘but I would like to express my deepest sympathy at the loss of your uncle. I do hope you have been able to bear up.’
Behind the security of her veil, Deborah had been studying Nick as Laurence Trevennor was being lowered into the wet earth to be reunited with his wife. He certainly lived up to his reputation as an attractive man, and in his smart suit of clothes, standing straight, head and shoulders above the other men, he was hardly recognizable as the rough and wild youth she remembered. Deborah could see he thought himself an equal to any other man mourning her late uncle. The unquenchable fire in his sapphire-blue eyes had brightened up the dreary day and the boredom of the occasion as he’d stood opposite her, grim-faced, lazily holding his three-cornered hat and tapping it slowly against his knee. It seemed he had something on his mind and she would have given anything to know what it was.
Why were men like him, granite-faced, of a moody disposition, who always ensured they stayed one step ahead of the marriage bond, so attractive to women?
‘Thank you,’ she said to him now in response to his condolences. ‘I… I fear it has been all too awful, Mr…?’
‘Nancarrow, Miss Kempthorne. Nicholas Nancarrow. I knew your late uncle well and respected and admired him. I was born and raised in Gwithian. My father was Mr Trevennor’s coachman.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I remember my dear late uncle talking of you, Mr Nancarrow. I believe he held an affection for you.’
‘I am honoured that you think so, Miss Kempthorne. I shall miss him greatly.’ Nick felt uncomfortable to be commiserating with this gawky insincere woman, under the curiosity of the villagers who must be thinking he would be more aptly employed talking to them. They were his friends, some had been his parents’ neighbours, and none was taken in by the Kempthornes’ false show of grief. Nick knew that with Laurence dead and Isabel presumed dead, they would be greatly concerned for the village with the Kempthornes residing there as influential gentry and its main employers. But Nick’s first concern was to find out if Isabel really was in danger from the despised Kempthornes.
‘May I escort you back to Trevennor House, Miss Kempthorne?’ he said, keeping the power in his husky voice as he scanned the sky. ‘The clouds are building up again and I fear we’ll soon have rain. And you to the parsonage, Mistress Thomas, if you’ll allow me,’ he added gallantly as Charlotte joined them. He liked the Thomases, they had been good for the village since Perran had taken over the curacy five years ago when they’d been newly married; and they were only very minor gentry.
‘Well I…’ Deborah looked down doubtfully at the posy of rosemary she was holding, then at Charlotte as if to seek advice. Deborah had hoped to make an ally, for her own ends, of Charlotte Thomas, but despite Charlotte’s kindly words and regular calls at Trevennor House after Laurence’s death, Deborah was sure it was all pretence and felt she was being watched very carefully. Charlotte had made it quite clear she had little time for Edmund. Deborah wished she could tell the other woman to walk with her husband.
‘Actually, Nick,’ Charlotte said, with her habitual warm smile, ‘the Reverend Thomas and I have been invited to Trevennor House for refreshment with the representatives of the other great houses and I hope to give Miss Kempthorne succour at this most grievous time. As my husband is presently occupied in a discussion with Mr Kempthorne, it would indeed be beneficial if you could kindly escort us to the house and out of the cold air. I am anxious for Miss Kempthorne not to succumb to a chill and we must remember the bereaved are most vulnerable to all ills. I have known Nick, Mr Nancarrow, for a number of years,’ she ended by way of explanation to Deborah, in case the older woman thought her overfamiliar.
Nick thought Charlotte had spoken much of what she’d said as if she had a sour plum in her mouth. It was quite plain she didn’t like Deborah Kempthorne. Nick gave her a little understanding nod. He did not want to escort Deborah Kempthorne anywhere but out of Trevennor House, but it would be the first helpful step in finding out the truth about the Kempthornes’ true intentions towards Isabel and if indeed they had been responsible for causing the coach crash. He put on his hat and crooked each arm to bear the two black-swathed ladies out of the churchyard.
When they were on the doorstep of Trevennor House, Deborah could tell he was thinking again. She hoped it was about her, but thought it unlikely. She was the first to admit her own unattractiveness and she was several years older than he was. How could she keep his company without it seeming obvious or improper? She smiled artfully under her veil.
‘As you were such a close acquaintance of my dear late uncle, Mr Nancarrow, perhaps you would care to come inside and take refreshment with the other mourners,’ she said graciously. ‘I feel Uncle Laurence would have wanted it.’
Nick accepted with a smile. He was gratified; he had not thought it would be so easy to gain entry into the house with the Kempthornes in residence. He had thought he would have to do it via the kitchens and Mrs Christopher, the housekeeper. He wanted to put back the ring Laurence had given him to show Isabel.
Nick was seated in the parlour amid the few dignitaries, who by their collective expressions were present purely out of respect for Laurence’s memory, when Edmund arrived with Perran Thomas. Nick was engaged in a conversation with John Trevarthen, the steward and representative of the Bassets of Tehidy, about training a new pair of coach horses. Edmund raised his classic eyebrows to see Nick there but wasn’t much interested in him. He made straight for Charlotte Thomas.
‘A sad day for the village, Mistress Thomas,’ he drawled.
‘Yes, Mr Kempthorne,’ Charlotte replied, returning his amused gaze with a stern look. ‘In many ways.’
‘Oh, I agree.’
Charlotte had moved away from the body of the mourners to pour a cup of tea for her husband. She didn’t like being isolated with the table behind her and this predatory man in front of her. She knew precisely what kind of hunt he was engaged in. There wouldn’t be a girl or woman safe in the village with him on the prowl. Her face showed her distaste.
Edmund found this added to the excitement of the chase. He was quite determined he would not leave Gwithian before she had succumbed to his charms. Before many weeks were out, he would turn her look of distaste to one of pleasure and anticipation for when she would next see him.
A movement outside the window caught Edmund’s eye. Nellie had wandered into the garden after a cat and she was crouching down talking to it as she stroked its back.
‘Mmmm…’
‘What is it?’ Charlotte demanded as he gazed out above her shoulder.
‘Only that unfortunate creature you have so kindly taken under your wing,’ he said innocently. ‘I’ll have some food sent out for her. Perhaps Mrs Christopher could find work for her in our kitchens.’
Charlotte’s head whirled round and when she saw it was Nellie, she knew he was challenging her to keep the girl from him. ‘Nellie has had sufficient food for today, Mr Kempthorne,’ she said coldly. ‘I saw to that myself. And she has enough work to keep her well occupied, I can assure you.’
‘I was only trying to help, Mistress Thomas,’ Edmund said. He sounded hurt but his eyes were twinkling.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Kempthorne, I was about to get my husband a dish of tea.’
‘Do forgive me,’ he murmured, withdrawing. ‘Your husband is a most fortunate man to have such a dutiful caring wife. I think I’ll have a little brandy for myself.’
Charlotte was furious. Edmund Kempthorne had amused himself at her expense. Did he really think his good looks and sickening charm would get the better of her?
Deborah had lifted her veil and was sipping her tea as daintily as she could. When she could, she swept her eyes over Nick who was still talking to John Trevarthen. Nick was utterly relaxed and Deborah could see he wasn’t in the least daunted by the company he was in.
Edmund saw the furtive looks Deborah was giving Nick. He was more than amused to think his plain-faced sister had designs on the good-looking cuckoo in their midst, and he was pleased. It meant she might transfer some of the obsession she had with him and how he ran his life.
After thirty minutes and little depletion of a table heavy with food and several bottles of wine, the brother and sister, the curate and his wife and Nick Nancarrow were the only ones left in the room. It was no reflection on Mrs Christopher and the servants’ efforts to lay a good spread in memory of their late employer that the mourners left early but to show their disapproval of the couple who had inherited his property.
Deborah was pleased that although the room had almost emptied, Nick was still there. She listened attentively as he told Perran Thomas that he had no definite plans for the next few days but was soon to start training a pair of coach horses at Tehidy. She recalled the feel of Nick’s coat sleeve as she’d held his arm when they’d walked to the house. In spite of her glove, she’d felt the material was rougher than the clothes her brother wore, but all the more masculine for that. She thought about what his skin would feel like. It set delicious feelings coursing through her vitals — and he was looking at her yet again.
‘We’ll see you in church on Sunday then, Nick?’ Perran Thomas asked, picking up crumbs from his plate. He was the only one who had eaten a reasonable quantity of food.
‘Of course,’ Nick replied, as Deborah rooted her eyes on him and Edmund made a bad-mannered bored sound. ‘I shall be back in my usual pew.’
‘All the girls try to crowd into your pew when you’re away, Nick.’ Charlotte added. ‘I expect they would like to sit beside you when you’re here.’
‘Oh?’ Deborah said sharply.
‘As a boy I carved my name on one of the pews,’ Nick explained to her. ‘The previous curate caught me red-handed and he was none too pleased. I received a thrashing from my father and from then on as a penance I was made to sit with my name in front of me, to remind me of how one should not behave in a holy place, and I’ve kept up the practice since.’ Nick thought it was a feeble story but it made the Kempthorne woman take an interest in him.
Deborah gave a silly titter.
‘I understand you visited my uncle every time you came back to the village, Nancarrow,’ Edmund drawled. ‘I hope we won’t find your mark anywhere in our house.’
Nick thought the remark unworthy of an answer and gave a wry smile.
Edmund had been regularly sweeping his eyes over Charlotte and she had had enough. She and Perran had stayed to make up for the early departure of other mourners but she was determined on leaving now.
‘If you will excuse us, Miss Kempthorne, Mr Kempthorne, the Reverend Thomas and I will have to take our leave to oversee our children’s evening meal. They will be waiting for us.’
‘Of course, Mistress Thomas,’ Deborah said, rising to ring for their cloaks. ‘You have been a great comfort to us but we can’t have your little ones being neglected.’
Edmund hoped Nick would go too. Mary Ellen was in a back bedroom and should be quite ready by now to make him forget the funeral and the horrors of death. He wondered whether he should leave Deborah alone with Nick. He would have no real objection to the man being here occasionally before he slipped off on his travels again, if it meant that Deborah was less bothersome for a while. He had Nick marked down as a candidate to be parted from some money at the card table since he obviously could afford good clothes and the finest quality boots. But it would not do to leave the unlikely couple alone now. The servants were not fooled by the story of Mary Ellen’s ‘widowhood’. They might tolerate a gentleman’s needs and indeed they seemed rather to like Mary Ellen who was friendly and kept out of their way. But they hated Deborah, who was cruel to them, and disapproval and gossip might spoil any chance of being popular in the village and accepted in society at Truro.
Edmund wanted to see Mary Ellen now! He fidgeted and tried to think of something other than his voluptuous young mistress.
Soon after the Thomases left, Nick suddenly asked if he might prevail further on their hospitality and use their water closet. Deborah lowered her eyelashes demurely and Edmund gave his permission, jumping at the opportunity to guide Nick to the room in question and out of the house.
‘I’ll show you the way, Nancarrow.’
‘Please, do not trouble yourself, Mr Kempthorne,’ Nick said pleasantly, but in a tone he hoped would not be argued with. ‘I know the way.’
‘Of course he does, Edmund, don’t fuss.’ Deborah did not want Nick to go yet.
There was no need for Nick to answer a call of nature and after a quick glance outside the parlour door to make sure none of the servants were about, he dashed up the elegant stairway and made straight for Laurence’s bedchamber. He entered with a sense of reverence and gazed poignantly at the bed, now neatly made up, where his friend had died. The room felt horribly empty. Nick dug about in his coat pocket, took out the gold ring and put it back quickly in its original drawer.
He stood back to look at the battle scene of a bold painting over the fireplace. Instead of war-ravaged artillery and slain red-coated soldiers he saw the smashed coach and the bodies of Phoebe Antiss, Ginny, Rickardson and the guard. But he did not see Isabel as he first had, bewigged, an ugly white face painted and blooded, twisted in terror. His mind moved further along the cliff, to Reskajeage Downs, and Isabel standing defiantly on the steps of Charlie’s shack, her features hinting at their true loveliness and crowned with flowing honey-brown hair.
He saw the expressions and emotions she had portrayed on their lonely journey. Indignation that he had even touched her. Anger at his blistering verbal attacks. Shock and hurt as she’d plunged down the promontory towards the stream. Fear at the thought of climbing down the cliff. Grief over Laurence. The child-like quality of her face as she’d slept in his arms. Then, as they had grown to tolerate each other, sheer terror at meeting Gyver Pengelly, courage and triumph at killing the rat in Billy Noone’s cottage, sorrow at the shipwreck and comfort for James Leddra.
He had not wanted to leave her at Crantock, but there was nothing else he could do until he was certain of her position regarding her safety.
There was a child’s toy on Laurence’s bed, a wooden doll dressed as a lady in an evening gown. An old toy of Isabel’s? Put there in memory of her by a grieving Mrs Christopher? Certainly not by that hard-faced woman queening it in the parlour. He would have to go down to her now, and he hated the thought. He left the bedchamber hoping Isabel did not hate the thought of seeing him again.
He was thinking of her reasserting herself as a well-born lady in Kitty’s house as he walked down the stairs and did not see a small child at the bottom until she spoke to him.
‘You bin to the funeral?’
Nick was startled. ‘Oh… um… yes.’
‘My fathur said the old man should’ve died a lot sooner,’ the little girl went on, matter-of-factly, her chubby hands held together and twisted in front of her swaying body.
