Trevennor’s Will, page 2
For some reason it angered Nick and he would have slapped her out of her hysterics if there hadn’t been blood trickling from her nose and down over her chin; blood as red as the full painted lips that twisted and contorted and added greatly to her repulsiveness. Instead he gripped her shoulders and shook her violently until her teeth chattered and her screaming gave way to anguished whimpers.
‘Shut up, woman!’ he ordered, then added in a threatening tone. ‘Be absolutely quiet.’
Isabel lapsed into a stunned silence. Her body quaked, her eyes were panic-stricken as they stared back into his. ‘T-take anything you w-want b-but please don’t k-kill me,’ she pleaded. All courage and spirit had deserted her. Her once proud shoulders sagged, her refined voice had lost its fullness and could only beg.
Her whining tone struck at the end of Nick’s nerves. ‘I’m not a looter,’ he said harshly. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve just come from your uncle’s house.’ He pulled her unceremoniously to her feet, keeping a hand on her arm to hold her steady while he looked urgently all around. ‘We must get away from here in case the looter comes back.’
‘You have come from my uncle, Mr Laurence Trevennor? You are taking me to his house?’ she asked, recovering some of her composure and with it her natural haughtiness. Her firm cheeks tightened and her chin lifted noticeably as she looked at Nick. It did nothing to reduce his instinctive dislike of her.
‘No,’ he said bluntly. He tightened his grip on her arm and yanked her along a few steps with him.
Isabel clutched his jacket and stood her ground. There was fear in her eyes again but it was accompanied by hostility and suspicion. ‘Why not? I demand to know this instant! I refuse to go anywhere—’
A fierce look silenced her again. ‘You’re in no position to demand anything! Your uncle died this afternoon and just before he did he put you under my protection.’
‘Dead! Uncle Laurence? But… but… I was on my way to him.’ Tears were added to the powder, dust and blood streaking Isabel’s face. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’ll have no more argument, you’re coming with me now,’ Nick said unsympathetically. For some reason this lady with her shrill voice and ugly face brought out the worst in him. He dragged her along using long strides that made her stumble over her high-heeled shoes and caused more damage to her flesh and the hem of her petticoat from the merciless spines of the dead gorse.
‘What do you mean by saying that my uncle has put me under your protection?’ Isabel shouted at him, gathering her wits as she was hauled along. ‘What do I need to be protected from?’
Nick’s mouth was set in a tight stubborn line and realizing she was not going to get an answer, Isabel looked ahead. She saw they were heading for the cliff’s edge and let out a terrified scream.
‘What are you doing! Stop! Please! Please!’ She clawed at Nick’s body until he ceased walking ‘I’m not going to throw you over the cliff, Miss Hampton,’ he said impatiently. ‘Although if you don’t stop that bloody awful shrieking I shall be sorely tempted. What I’m going to do is make it look as though you wandered away from the scene of the wreck in a daze and fell over to your death.’
‘Why?’ Isabel screamed. ‘Why do you want me to appear to be dead?’
‘Because the coach going off the road was probably no accident,’ Nick replied. He was anxious for them to be on their way.
Isabel looked back at a trail made of snatches of yellow cloth her petticoat had left on the gorse clumps. Pressing taut fingertips to her forehead, she closed her eyes. She could hardly believe what she was experiencing on this most dreadful of days.
She had been breakfasting with Phoebe Antiss in Phoebe’s boudoir when she was told of her uncle’s illness and that he was asking for her. Phoebe’s father had arranged for the two young ladies, with Isabel’s maid, Ginny, to travel immediately to Gwithian. Sir Robert Antiss was to follow on later in the day to escort Phoebe back to an important ball at Truro’s High Cross assembly rooms and, if it was required of him, to help Isabel deal with her uncle’s funeral arrangements.
Despite the plushness of the coach’s pink satin lining and gold silk cushions the journey was most uncomfortable and Ginny had constantly fretted. Phoebe’s light-hearted chatter had been unable to break through Isabel’s morbid worries over her uncle’s health. He had had heart attacks before, from mild flutters to serious failings, but this time Isabel knew he was unlikely to survive. She was desperately worried about him.
The roads had suffered severely during this winter of 1770. Hard frosts, deluges of rain and hail had made the ruts and potholes deeper and wider. Many times the coach had stopped and the guard had been required to make the roads passable. The hard lurch as they’d rounded the sharp bend had given no warning that Rickardson, the driver, was losing control of the coach and a disaster was to follow.
Since then this brutish common man had not ceased to abuse her. Her whole body ached, her legs felt weak, there were sharp pains in her shoulder. An overwhelming numbness assailed her and she saw for the first time blood on her glove and became aware of the warm sticky wetness trickling from her nose. With a trembling hand she produced a handkerchief from a tiny pocket inside the lining of her coat and dabbed at the tender spot.
‘C’mon, we’ve no time to waste,’ Nick said irritably.
‘But there is so much I do not understand,’ Isabel retorted, looking straight at him. She was a tall woman, nearly five feet ten inches, and held herself at her fullest height even though it hurt her back, but her tilted chin came only to the base of his throat and she felt at an acute disadvantage. For a moment he glared back at her. It was long enough for her to see he had eyes of the same deep sapphire blue as the gems of the necklace Phoebe Antiss wore at important social functions. Phoebe! She had been so preoccupied with her own predicament that she hadn’t asked how Phoebe and the others had fared.
‘My friend, Miss Antiss…?’ Isabel looked round at the wrecked coach and took a step back towards it.
‘She’s dead,’ Nick said unkindly and gripped her arm, forcing her onwards again.
Isabel was horrorstruck. ‘Wh-what about Ginny?’
‘If you mean the servant girl, she’s dead too.’
Isabel’s voice rose and sobbed, ‘And Rickardson?’
‘And him. The guard also.’
They were now inches away from the cliff edge which had an almost sheer drop. Isabel shuddered as a sudden blast of salty air stung her face and buffeted her wig. It was as cold as the shock of learning she was the only survivor from the accident. She reached up to straighten her extravagant coiffure and shrieked as Nick ripped a large piece off the back of her petticoat and tossed the silk over the cliff. She clapped a hand to her throat, swallowing hard as the fabric disappeared from sight, quite unable to look down at the barbarous rocks and the hissing sea that raged about them.
‘’Tis caught about a third of the way down,’ Nick said, satisfied. ‘Should do the trick.’
Isabel forgot about her predicament and bridled as the cold draught of air blew her shift onto the back of her legs. ‘You are no gentleman,’ she uttered angrily.
Nick glanced at the familiar landmarks of Knavocks Point with St Ives beyond it, and in the other direction at St Agnes Head and its namesake Beacon. Then he turned to face Isabel.
‘Well, that hardly matters, does it?’ He enjoyed the outrage on her sharp white features, which heightened considerably when he swept her up in his arms.
‘How dare you! Put me down at once! I may have minor injuries from the coach accident but I am quite able to walk!’
She fought against him as he walked off to the east, the opposite direction to which she had been travelling in the coach. He said gruffly, ‘I’m not in the least bit concerned about your injuries. I simply do not want you to leave another trail of yellow cloth as if the gorse was budding early.’
She was light in his arms and Nick did not mind having to carry her. Some of her class habitually over-perfumed themselves but Isabel Hampton smelled of a pleasant light rose fragrance. Nick liked it and kept his nose close to her neck. Isabel tried to keep her face away from his warm breath, but to keep herself steady as he strode along she was forced unwillingly to put an arm round his broad shoulders and over his long sandy hair.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, trying to hide her helplessness and humiliation in a superior tone.
‘To a friend’s home,’ he told her grudgingly.
‘Is it far from here?’
‘No, only to Reskajeage Downs.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ Isabel sniffed, implying the place must be insignificant as Nick was in her view. ‘I want to go back and collect my hat and find my purse.’
‘You can’t, they were taken by the looter. Anyway, you won’t be needing them or the rest of your fine clothes for much longer.’
Isabel’s face burned. She gulped and stared at the bare scenery of the cliff and the field of ploughed earth that now separated them from the road.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded suddenly.
Nick had a good mind not to tell her but decided not to risk a fresh outburst of hysterics. ‘My name is Nancarrow.’
‘Nancarrow? That’s familiar to me… I have it, Uncle Laurence’s coachman was called Nancarrow.’
‘My father,’ Nick said shortly, in a tone that forbade further questions.
Isabel made an indignant noise. How ill-mannered this wretched man was. She hated being in such close contact with him, this common creature who treated her so disrespectfully. Why couldn’t he tell her exactly what his intentions were? And what had taken place between himself and her uncle? Was Uncle Laurence really dead? She remembered him talking fondly of Nancarrow the coachman’s son – this man, evidently – and could not understand why he had liked and trusted him.
She stole a quick look at Nick’s stern face, noting its strong planes and angles, straight proud nose, square jaw and perfectly proportioned cheekbones. She found his ruggedness and overt masculinity somewhat overwhelming, but she knew he would have appealed to the amorous appetites of Phoebe Antiss. Poor dear Phoebe. Her mother would grieve for the rest of her life for her only child. If Uncle Laurence truly was dead and she herself had died in the accident, who would grieve for her? She shook off the morbid thoughts and stabbed again at Nick.
‘Tell me, why does my uncle believe I need protecting and why did he ask you to take charge of me? I have cousins at St Ives and friends at Truro. Why did he not ask them?’
Nick sighed heavily. ‘Did you know you are the main beneficiary under your uncle’s will?’
‘Yes, he mentioned it to me,’ Isabel answered cagily. ‘What has that got to do with you?’ She could not deny that if her uncle had related the details of his will to this man, Nancarrow, he must truly have trusted him. But could she, should she, trust him?
‘’Tis your cousins, the Kempthornes, that Laurence was worried about. He firmly believed they mean you a mischief, that they will do away with you to get their greedy hands on your inheritance.’
‘Edmund and Deborah? Do me harm?’ Isabel snorted. It made her nose bleed again and she dabbed gingerly around it to stem the droplets. We have never been close, it’s even true to say we don’t like one another, but they are all the family I have left now. I cannot believe they would wish me harm. I demand that you take me to Trevennor House immediately!’ She tried to wriggle down onto her feet, but Nick retaliated by squeezing her until her ribs felt they would break. She angrily submitted and became still.
‘Laurence believed you could be in danger and he asked me to keep you safe until you are married and under your husband’s protection. I promised him I would and although I do not relish the prospect I intend to do precisely that.’
‘Then you do so against my wishes!’
‘I don’t give a damn for your wishes, woman!’ Nick snarled. ‘Only Laurence’s. And it seems he might have been right in what he feared. ’Twas no accident that the coach overturned. A pile of rocks was deliberately put on the bend in the road. Your cousins could well be responsible. Laurence was worried enough to ask me for my help and you’ll come with me now and do exactly what I say even if I have to beat you into it!’
‘You vulgar-mouthed man! How dare you speak to me like that!’ Isabel shouted back, her voice so highly pitched it competed with a few excited gulls circling overhead. ‘And it’s Mr Trevennor to you, not Laurence. You have no right to be so familiar.’ Abruptly Nick dropped her to her feet, making no move to steady her as she staggered. He stuffed his fist into his breeches pocket, took out the ring and held it before her glaring eyes. He was absolutely furious.
‘Laurence was my friend,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He gave me this ring to show to you, so that you might know you can trust me. He said you were a sweet child, kind and caring. Fate certainly went wrong somewhere while you were growing up into this ugly distasteful woman I have before me. Laurence couldn’t have seen the creature you really are, Isabel Hampton, an ungrateful little rich girl who’s not worth protecting for any reason. If I had my way I’d give your rotten cousins all of Laurence’s money on a silver platter!’
Isabel fainted.
Chapter 2
Charlie Chiverton handed Nick a battered tin mug containing a dark earthy coloured liquid and sat down beside him on the steps of his home, a small one-roomed shack. Dark grey clouds were ominously building up out over the churning sea; soon they would obliterate the glowing slash of orange-pink that proved there was a sun about somewhere in the lowering sky. Charlie sniffed the air.
‘Went be no rain tonight though, I d’reckon,’ he said conversationally.
It made Nick grin over the dubious contents of his mug. Charlie had not mentioned a single word about his sudden arrival with Isabel Hampton who was lying on Charlie’s lumpy rag-stuffed mattress after fainting a bare two feet from the shack. It was as though it was no unusual occurrence for him to appear suddenly with a painted Jezebel of genteel birth dressed in splendid but tattered clothes and spattered with blood.
‘Wind’s pickin’ up though,’ Charlie added. ‘’Twill be ruddy cold tonight.’ He threw a piece of foul-smelling mackerel to some gulls who were hopping about at a short distance, sending them into a frenzy to reach it first.
‘She didn’t even notice your shack,’ Nick said incredulously, slowly shaking his head. ‘Nor you putting wood on the fire there.’ He pointed a finger at the blaze crackling under the tripod, hook and kettle from which Charlie had obtained the hot water for the drinks. ‘She was too mad at me for calling her uncle by his Christian name.’
‘What uncle’s that then?’ Charlie asked, finally curious, wiping his damp fishy fingers on his greasy stained neckerchief, then gulping from his own mug.
‘Laurence Trevennor. He died this afternoon, about an hour ago,’ Nick replied sadly. ‘I rescued her from a coaching accident a short while after. There’s quite a carnage on the road back-along above Deadman’s Cove.’
‘Oh? Accident or highwaymen? Tedn’t unknown in these ’ere parts.’
‘I disturbed a looter picking the area clean, and ’twas obvious by his build who he was – Gyver Pengelly. You can make a safe bet that he was responsible for putting that pile of rocks on the bend in the road. I reckon the driver saw the rocks and pulled the wrong rein as he took the bend. The roads and tracks are a lot worse this winter with the heavy frosts we’ve had, even on the coast. There’s bodies and wreckage scattered everywhere. The roof was yards away in one direction, the box and steps in the other. The coach took a terrible tumble, probably travelling too fast. She in there,’ Nick thumbed at the shack behind them, ‘was the only survivor.’
Charlie noisily sucked in his breath at the enormity of the accident. ‘I know who she is now you say Mr Trevennor was ’er uncle – Miss Isabel. He was very fond of’er, you know, always spoke ’ighly of ’er, ’e did. She’m a strange sort of woman if you ask me, never knew ’ow to take ’er meself when I saw her about the village. Still, after all that’s ’appened, poor maid.’
Nick grunted his disagreement. He did not care about Isabel Hampton. ‘Just before Laurence died he asked me to look out for her until her fiancé gets back from sea – he’s a naval officer.’
Charlie tossed a stick of driftwood onto the fire. ‘What about taking ’er to the Bassets? They respected Mr Trevennor and would be glad to ’elp and keep ’er safe till this strange business is all sorted out.’ Many years ago Charlie had set up his shack here on land owned by the Bassets, one of Cornwall’s foremost noble families. They had allowed him to stay here on the condition that he informed them straightaway of any shipwreck along the North Cliffs, to which they had the right of plunder.
Nick shook his head. ‘Laurence asked me to take care of her and it wouldn’t be right to ask the Bassets with them in mourning. I got a job over there at Tehidy actually, ’tis why I’m back in these parts.’
‘Went be much left of that coach when word gets around,’ Charlie said, knowing it was no use to pursue the subject of what was to be done with Miss Isabel Hampton.
‘They’re decorative enough, some of these gentry coaches, but they aren’t made of much,’ Nick said. ‘Not well-crafted and strong like the wagon I once had. The Antiss coach was all right for Truro’s streets, the meeting place of the county’s fashionable people,’ he added scathingly, ‘but not for narrow country tracks and rough coastal roads. My wagon stood up to everything.’
