Trevennor’s Will, page 3
‘You’ll ’ave one again, boy,’ Charlie commiserated. ‘’E’ll be missed,’ he went on sadly, referring to Laurence Trevennor. ‘Was a good man, did a lot fur the locals, speshly the young ’uns. He liked to walk the cliffs and he stopped many a time to ’ave a word with me when I was out tin-streamin’ round the mouth of the Red River. Treated the missus like a lady, ’e did. Not like most of they wealthy buggers who went give ’ee the time of the day and would rather drive ’ee under their coach wheels then give ’ee time to git out of the way. ’Twas Mr Trevennor who bought me new tools back-along to go down the mines when Gyver Pengelly stole ’em. ’E kept me workin’ on the copper when I wus fit enough to go down the shafts.’
‘Aye, he was one of the best,’ Nick agreed, pictures of bygone days of himself exploiting the pleasures of hide and seek in Trevennor House flashing through his mind. The parish won’t fare well under the fops who could inherit from him.’
‘She must be one of ’em.’ Charlie tossed his head backwards to indicate the woman lying on his bed.
‘Well, she’ll be the only one if I can keep her alive for the next few weeks.’
‘Aw, aye?’ Charlie raised a bushy eyebrow in his peculiarly ugly face. He always reminded Nick of one of Laurence’s favourite dogs, a stubby, old wrinkled bloodhound he had kept about the house many years ago. Charlie’s weatherbeaten looks suggested he was much older than his forty-two years.
‘She’s the main one to benefit under Laurence’s will. He cut out his other niece and nephew, Deborah and Edmund Kempthorne, and then he feared they would do her harm after he died. People have killed and maimed for less and Laurence said they were always pleading with him for money. Isabel Hampton’s got her own fortune as well and the Kempthornes are impoverished. They’re an unlikeable pair, could’ve been them who arranged the coach accident, but whether they’d go as far as that I don’t know. That’s something I’m going to have to find out.
‘Anyway, before he died, Laurence was worried enough over the Hampton woman that when he heard I was back round here he sent for me to protect her until her coming marriage. I was going to try to persuade her to return to Truro and let me keep a watch over her there, but after the events of this afternoon I plan to keep her out of sight. I’ve made it look like she fell over the cliff to her death. So, you haven’t seen me or her, right?’
‘Fair enough. ’Tes no one’s blamed business who I d’see comin’along ’ere. Don’t see many folk, of course, way back from the cliff path as I am. You’m the first in many a week. Can I git ’ee a piece of fish, boy?’
‘No thanks,’ Nick said, remembering the odious smell of the mackerel thrown to the gulls. Charlie kept rows of dried fish and meat inside the shack. They made his home stink and although he did not seem to mind or notice, Nick could never bring himself to eat any of it. He took a swig from the mug cradled in his hands and screwed up his face.
‘You could get the Frenchies to run a better tasting coffee than this, Charlie. No point in risking your neck running contraband that tastes like bilge water and is likely to poison you.’
‘’Tes the way I like it, ’tes the way my missus made it,’ Charlie said, giving a canine grin. ‘You prob’bly don’t know how to make it, you young bugger.’
‘Neither do you,’ Nick grinned back and received a playful punch on the arm.
‘We’ll ’ave a drop of summin’ stronger drekkly. A nice drop o’ rum. Weren’t too much of it in one tub I brung up the cliff, mind you. Damn Frenchies! Can’t trust none of ’em. Could’ve done with a strong pair of arms like yourn the other night. Brung up such a load up ’ere fur me customers, nigh on broke me ruddy back. Tell ’ee what, Nick, there’s a big run comin’ in the night after next, over St Agnes way. Gyver Pengelly’s runnin’ it from land so keep yer ’ead down, lessun thee don’t want to git it blown off. If I was you, I’d keep away from un. ’E’s a cruel man and gettin’ worse.’ Charlie choked up a ball of phlegm and spat it expertly to land and sizzle in the flames a short distance from their feet. ‘There, that’s what I d’think of ’e.’
‘I won’t forget the sight of Pengelly running away from the coach, he’s like a great shambling tree trunk. If he had found the Hampton woman alive, he’d have used her cruelly and probably bashed her head in. I’m not afraid of him,’ Nick said dismissively. ‘He may have beaten me by cheating with his knee in my groin in our last wrestling match at Redruth,’ Nick’s face took on a sudden harshness, ‘but he won’t do it again and one day I’ll have my revenge.’
‘Aye, ’tes rare to ’ave a stickler umpiring a match worse the wear on cheap gin or else Pengelly wouldn’t ’ave got away with it. You’ll ’ave un one day, never fear. The tide don’t go out lessun it comes back in again. But if they Kempthornes put Pengelly up to making that coach go off the road then you’ll be in some danger from ’e.’
‘One thing’s for sure. If Pengelly is innocent of what happened to the coach, he would have stayed around to challenge me and carried on looting. He didn’t stay because he was hoping he wouldn’t be recognised.’
Charlie carefully opened a long, narrow, hand-carved wooden box he had on his lap and took out a white clay pipe. It was the only thing he bothered to keep clean. Before lighting it he looked at Nick.
‘I know you want to keep she inside out of sight, but what exactly are you doing along here, young Nick? You aren’t takin’ she along the cliffs fur the fresh salt air.’
‘I’ve worked out a plan, Charlie. I’m hoping folk will be fooled and believe Isabel Hampton is dead. I’ll root around when I go back to Gwithian for Laurence Trevennor’s funeral. Hopefully I should get more of an idea whether she’s really in danger or not then. I need your help to carry it off.’
* * *
Isabel lay on Charlie’s lumpy and foul-smelling mattress staring up at the dull grey spots of sky visible through a number of holes in the flat roof. The shack was made entirely of ship’s planking and other plunder from the maritime graveyard along the shores and coves at the foot of the treacherous cliffs. Charlie had obtained most of it in his younger days, climbing down parts of the granite few other men would have attempted. The shack boasted other items that he had secreted from the mines he had worked down. The dog-faced old miner was proud of his home but to Isabel it was just a lot of old rubbish and smelled horrible.
She had no idea where she was nor how long she had lain here. She could hardly bear to think back over the events that had brought her here, a place not fit for animals to live in.
Isabel closed her eyes and tried to ignore the revolting unwashed smell of Charlie Chiverton’s bed and relax her aching body, but Nick Nancarrow’s face came to haunt her. She could see the cruel edges of his wide mouth as he had told her that her uncle had died. Even without the accident she would have been too late to be there at the end of his life and Nick Nancarrow had seemed pleased by the fact. How could her uncle possibly have liked and respected such a wretched man? If he really was a friend of her uncle’s, how could he justify the way he was treating her, the niece Laurence had adored and left his worldly possessions to? Uncle Laurence would not have approved of Nancarrow’s rough behaviour, he would have been terribly upset and she meant to point this out to that smug individual.
She could hear him talking outside with another man, someone older whose Cornish accent was so much broader she hardly understood a word he said. Were they talking about her? Was this other man part of a plot to abduct her? But she couldn’t ignore the fact that Uncle Laurence had thought very highly of Nick Nancarrow, and Mrs Christopher, Trevennor’s housekeeper, felt the same way; so too did all the villagers of Gwithian, to her knowledge. It was most unlikely he wished to harm her. He had shown her her aunt’s ring as proof of her uncle’s trust in him. She must cling to that; how else was she going to survive this ordeal?
Isabel sat up stiffly. She rubbed at her aches and pains and looked at her hand. Her ring was still on the blood-stained glove, it had not been stolen – at least not yet. She pulled it off and then removed the glove. She studied her hand and wrist; they were badly bruised and bore the prints of Nick Nancarrow’s fingers.
The sound of someone climbing the steps outside made her scramble nervously to her feet. The door of the shack was pushed open to let in the afternoon light and the welcome smell of fresh salty air. Isabel yelped at the sight of Charlie Chiverton, unkempt and ugly as he was, but she swallowed her fears and held herself upright and proud when Nick gently pushed him aside and faced her. His expression showed distaste and hostility.
She said, at her haughtiest, ‘I don’t believe for one moment that my cousins wish to do me any harm. I demand that you take me away from here at once and straight to Trevennor House where, if my uncle really has died, I can mourn for him.’
‘You can demand all you want,’ Nick retorted, ‘but I made a promise to Laurence and I intend to see it through to the bitter end.’
He was blocking out the light and the relief from the shack’s horrible smells. He was overbearing and despite her outrage Isabel was intimidated.
‘I… I won’t be—’
‘That’s right,’ Nick shut her off. ‘You won’t be anything.’ He ignored a prick of guilt. He knew he had treated her abominably since discovering she was alive. Laurence would have been mortified and disappointed in him that he could not show his beloved niece even the smallest respect due her station in life. He could sense Charlie looking curiously at him. ‘I’m taking you to a friend’s house at Crantock,’ he told Isabel moodily. ‘We’ll need to travel without arousing too much interest so you’ll have to change out of those clothes.’
‘And if I refuse?’ Isabel said, incensed at the very suggestion and clutching protective hands to her coat front.
‘You only have Hobson’s choice in the matter, woman, and you know what that means,’ Nick snapped, finding that he was enjoying the mirth Charlie was taking no pains to disguise at the turn of conversation. ‘My friend here will lend you something to wear.’
Isabel stared at Charlie Chiverton, aghast. ‘I am not going to wear anything of his!’ She shuddered as Charlie winked at her.
‘Not mine, ma’am,’ he said, surprising and galling Nick by giving Isabel a perfectly executed bow. ‘Yer too tall fur my things to pass fur a boy. I got a few things ’ere which belonged to my missus.’
Isabel found she could follow most of what Charlie said now she was face to face with him. She acknowledged his salute with a curt movement of her head and hoped she had found someone of a kinder spirit.
‘What did you do that for?’ Nick hissed at Charlie while nudging him with an elbow.
‘Nothin’ wrong with a few manners, boy,’ Charlie chuckled. ‘Mistress Trevennor was a fine lady and I always belonged to be respectful to ’er, and ’er niece shall git the same. Now git yerself back outside and I’ll find the young lady ’ere some clo’es to wear ’n’ leave ’er to change in peace.’
Nick frowned heavily at Charlie and turned to Isabel. ‘Make sure you take off all that finery, and I mean everything, your shift, stays, everything. I don’t want anything left on you that could give us away. Make haste, I want to get on. And wash all that muck off your face.’ He left the shack.
With her face a bright red under its mask of white powder, Isabel pounced on Charlie. ‘Please help me. That man, Nancarrow, hates me, I fear—’
Charlie broke off her anguished plea by shuffling her aside to rummage in a small chest at the head of the bed.
‘There’s nothin’ I can do fur ’ee, Miss Hampton, but you got no call to be in fear of Nick. He’s a good man, a damned good man, went find none better in my reckonin’. Yer uncle thought so too, don’t ’ee forget now. Nick’ll see ’ee all right. ’E promised Mr Trevennor afore ’e died an’ Nick’d die ’imself afore ’e’d break a promise. You’ll be all right just as long as thee do what ’e says.’
Isabel wrung her hands in desperation. ‘But he is such a beastly man. He hates me.’
Charlie looked up from the chest from which he was tossing items of shabby female clothing onto the low bed. There was a cheeky sort of grin on his weathered face and Isabel got the impression she was looking into the face of an impish child.
‘Nick hates all the gentry, the only one he could abide was your uncle.’
‘It seems I have no choice but to obey him and go along with this ridiculous scheme,’ she said mournfully.
‘Aye, ’twould be wise, lessun ’e comes back in and strips thee naked,’ he nodded at the clothing, ‘puts some of they on ’ee and drags thee along by yer ’air. ’E’s a straightforward man and don’t take to bein’ messed about.’
The thought of the big powerful man outside doing such intimate and outrageous things to her caused Isabel to clap her hands over her mouth to stifle a squeal of horror. It would not have been so bad for Phoebe Antiss. She would probably have seen the whole terrible situation as an opportunity for an adventure. If only she had survived the coach accident. They would have been in this together. Oh, why think of Phoebe now? She could not help her and was beyond help herself. Isabel knew she ought to be grateful to be alive but she wished she had some of Phoebe’s extrovert personality. Thoughts of Phoebe brought on tears which she choked back.
‘Are those the clothes?’ she asked Charlie, putting her hands to her cheeks to hide their redness.
‘My late wife’s. They’re all I’ve got left of ’er.’
‘I will do my best to look after them and as soon as I possibly can I will have them returned and my own clothes collected.’
‘She never ’ad much in the way of clo’es,’ Charlie said quietly, smoothing his grubby palms over a brown calico dress, ‘but take what you want. Wrap yerself up warm, miss. ’Twill be ruddy cold tonight.’
Isabel shivered and suddenly realized she was very cold; her predicament seemed only to escalate. With all that had happened, she was now to be forced to disrobe completely in this cold squalid building and put on some rags belonging to a dead woman who had probably cared nothing at all about personal hygiene. She shuddered violently. If the clothes were anything like the bed, they might be crawling with lice.
Charlie went outside and she heard him talking to Nick. She crossed the few feet of planking to peep out through a crack in the door to see which way the two men were facing. She could see their backs and gulped with relief that neither were peeking in at her. She must hurry. Nick Nancarrow was as impatient as he was horrid and might walk in on her at any moment.
There were no bows, ruffles or lace on the two dresses Charlie had put on the bed. The other one was a dull blue and looked as if it was made of sailcloth. A black knitted shawl was unexpectedly soft and warm to the touch. All the clothes, including an off-white muslin tucker and a pair of rolled-up thick stockings, smelled of the same unpleasant odour that filled the shack. There were no shifts or petticoats and Isabel did not relish the thought of having the coarse material of either dress against her skin.
She found it difficult taking off her own clothes. All her life she’d had a maid to attend her and her long tapering fingers were cold and agitated. She was fearful that one or both men would come in before she was reclothed. She reluctantly laid her coat and dress on the dirty bed. They had been worn only once before and she hated to see them ravaged by the accident and the gorse. Taking off her stays, she pulled her shift down over her shoulders and arms then held it up across her breasts while rapidly inspecting the numerous abrasions and bruises she had received.
She picked up the brown dress because it looked less worn and put it on. It was not as rough on her skin as she’d feared; it had been given a warm soft lining, presumably to keep out the cold. Pushing her shift down over her feet, Isabel wore nothing now but the late Mrs Chiverton’s dress. She felt particularly vulnerable, as though she had left her familiar cosseted life behind her for ever and been plunged into a hostile new world that promised nothing but hardship and possible danger. When she’d put on the rest of the shabby clothes, she carefully folded her own. Not wanting Charlie to touch them, she placed them with her wig in the chest.
There was just her face left to wash. Looking about the dingy room, its walls blackened by tallow candles and pipe smoke, she located a chipped bowl half filled with water. It looked clean and she hoped it was. A precautionary sniff, then she washed her face thoroughly with her hands, shivering at the icy contact but finding it soothing to her grazed lip and tender nose. Returning to the chest, she gently dried her face on her petticoat then ran stiff fingers through her hair, now hanging long and free.
She would have liked a mirror to see how she looked and with a sinking feeling she realized that however she looked now, the first time Nick Nancarrow saw her she must have looked even worse. Then she was angry with herself. Why should she care what that vulgar man thought of her?
‘You ’aven’t got much daylight left,’ Charlie was saying as she stepped outside.
Both men turned and stared at Isabel. Apart from the obvious fact that she had changed her clothes, she looked quite different. Her hair was a dark honey-brown; thick and shining, it fell in soft waves to below her shoulders. With the powder, paint and blood washed off, her skin, though pale, glowed clear and smooth, making her eyes appear a bright deeper grey. Her features seemed to have lost their sharpness. Her nose was small and pert, her eyebrows curved like a true aristocrat’s, and although she could not be said to be beautiful, her face was enhanced by full red lips; slightly pouting and sulky, they tilted gently upwards, and looked to Nick to be baby-soft.
Devoid of her hooped clothes, she stood tall and straight on the top step of the shack, hands held firmly together, head up to reveal a slender white throat under an arrogant well-practised expression.
‘Is this satisfactory?’ she asked sarcastically while looking directly at Nick.
He ignored her.
‘We’ll ’ave to do summin’ ’bout they shoes,’ Charlie murmured, tweeking his ear. Isabel’s painted kid shoes were clearly visible under his wife’s dress. ‘I got none left from the missus.’
