Trevennor’s Will, page 5
Edmund coolly stared his sister in the face and wondered what she would say if she knew his debts amounted to several thousand pounds more than the estimated value of their uncle’s estate. It was a good thing Isabel Hampton was dead and her wealth was at his disposal. He found it amusing to think of the famous London gaming club’s debt collectors scouring for the nonexistent Cornish baronet, Sir Francis Rashleigh of Launceston, the pseudonym he had invented for himself along with a clever disguise to gain entry there. It was most useful, he reminded himself, to have acquaintances in the acting profession to teach you different voices and how to use powder and paint skilfully to change your appearance.
‘Mmmm, I’m comfortable here. No, let us stay here for a while,’ he said languidly, tapping a manicured fingertip on his straight white teeth.
‘Very well,’ Deborah said doubtfully, ‘as you please. But those wretched servants will dance to my tune or they’ll be out on the streets.’ Her small shrewish eyes fell on the two bloodhounds, another source of irritation to her. ‘Those creatures can go out in the stables. I won’t have them spreading their fleas and leaving their revolting smell in the house.’
Edmund looked at the dogs who both hung their heads and looked nervously away, sensing Deborah’s dislike of them. He pursed his smooth pink lips and stroked his cheek, a gesture that sometimes presaged a tantrum.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Deborah. They aren’t hurting in here. Dogs, particularly bloodhounds, are a part of Trevennor House.’
It was decided. The dogs would stay in the house.
‘Have you sent to St Ives for our things?’ Edmund asked.
‘Yes, my dear, but only for our clothes and personal effects. We’ll let the cottage furnished. I don’t want any of that cheap and gaudy stuff in here letting us down when people call on us.’
‘And Mary Ellen? Have you sent for her?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Edmund! I will never understand why you desire the company of that common little trollop and that bastard child of hers.’
‘That child is also my child,’ he answered coldly. ‘A pretty little girl of three years old and her name is Morenwyn.’ His features took on a cruel edge. ‘I’ll thank you, Deborah, not to refer to her by that label ever again.’
This was one thing that Deborah continually fought against and over which she was prepared to risk her brother’s wrath. ‘How can you be sure the brat is your child, Edmund? And even if she is, the girl knew what she was doing when she lay with you. No man can be held responsible for the consequences of that type of liaison.’
‘Oh, Morenwyn is mine, most definitely mine. She is the living image of me. I want her and Mary Ellen here with me. Besides,’ he added in a sultry voice, ‘Mary Ellen satisfies me in a way no other woman can. I like to see her often.’
‘It’s only a few miles from here to St Ives, Edmund,’ Deborah argued, battling against what was coming next.
‘It would do no harm to have them here,’ he persisted.
Deborah leaned her ungainly body forward. ‘As servants or equals?’
‘I think somewhere in between.’
‘We would be talked about,’ Deborah warned.
‘I don’t care a jot about what any narrow-minded little nobody in this nondescript village might say about us. I’ll soon have them all weighed up – the men who are prepared to have a wager behind their wives’ backs, the women who are prepared to do… other things behind their husbands’ backs. Mind you, Debs,’ he went on seriously, ‘we were not popular in St Ives. The churchgoers spurned us and they are the ones who carry the weight in any place. So I suppose it would pay us to be nice to the local people of Gwithian. I want you to be able to entertain the ladies to tea, to be respected. It might be to our advantage to carry on some of Uncle Laurence’s charitable works.’
‘In that case we had better go upstairs and weep over the disgusting remains with the curate when he comes back. With the church just across the road and the curate’s house next to ours, we ought to try to make friends with him and that scrawny wife of his. And I suggest you leave that lady to favour only her husband. But if we are to be on good terms with the curate and his wife,’ Deborah added artfully, ‘don’t you think it would be unwise to install your mistress and her child in this house?’
‘Not if we are seen to be offering a respectable home with good Christian principles to an unfortunate homeless widow and her child,’ he answered back.
Deborah tightened her thin lips, tossed back her head and inwardly admitted defeat – but only for the time being. She was not going to share Edmund with anyone else for long.
‘We had better put on suitable mourning faces,’ she said. ‘That fat Antiss woman’s father will be here quite soon. He will pass the wrecked coach on his way here and I’m afraid it is your duty to inform him that his daughter is dead.’
Edmund shuddered and cursed his brandy glass for being empty. He had forgotten about the other corpse in the house, laid out in the bedchamber next to their uncle’s.
‘This house is full of death and the stables are no better. I shall be glad when Antiss has carted his daughter and servants back to Truro where they belong. Pity about Phoebe though.’
‘Oh?’ Deborah said sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’ Edmund smiled, very slowly, and his face slipped back into contentment. ‘She visited Gwithian with Isabel last year, and while our cousin was out riding with Uncle Laurence, I happened to pay a call here and found Phoebe alone. She entertained me exceedingly well.’
‘I do not wish to hear any more about your rapacious appetites, Edmund. Come,’ Deborah said, rising to her big flat feet. ‘We must prepare ourselves for our visitors. We will have a stream of people calling here to pay their respects to the old man.’ Edmund stood up, just an inch taller than his sister, and picking up his malacca cane he rubbed the brass top with his thumb. ‘Phoebe would have been a good catch if I had taken her to wife. I think she found me most agreeable and I found her humour very stimulating. I always found it rather odd that she befriended our more serious virgin cousin.’
‘They’re all the same, that sort,’ Deborah said spitefully. ‘If you’ve got enough money and property it matters not at all if you are as fat as a cow or as sharp-faced as a rat, you fit in. If you have no money or property, you’re shunned, as we have been all our lives. Anyway, Phoebe Antiss is dead and you don’t need to marry anyone for their money now.’
‘I suppose she really is dead.’ Edmund said, in a sudden moment of panic.
‘Well, if she isn’t who do you suppose the mangled heap lying upstairs is?’
‘No,’ Edmund said impatiently. ‘Not her, Isabel.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Deborah asked in alarm.
‘Well, it’s just a thought. I… I suppose her body will be washed up in a few days’ time.’
‘It was seen on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff,’ Deborah said. ‘The man who brought the news told Mrs Christopher so.’
Edmund looked comforted. Deborah knew he would not be able to bear their new life of wealth and comfort suddenly being snatched back from them. She clenched her fists and made a fierce silent vow that she would never, never be poor again. Then holding up her head proudly, she stalked out of the room and shouted fresh orders at the servants.
Chapter 4
Nick walked briskly, keeping alert for signs of anyone coming towards them or moving up behind them. Isabel lagged a long way behind, her constant complaints lost in the roar of the Atlantic Ocean that stretched three thousand miles from the foot of the cliffs.
They were travelling along a narrow, well-worn path, trodden smooth by generations of villagers from Gwithian and of Portreath, the tinners and copper miners, the bands of cautious but efficient smugglers. It was a fairly straight course over flat, stark cliff top, moving into the teeth of the wind. Isabel felt worn and buffeted and was constantly in fear of being blown off the cliff edge. Ominous dark clouds were building up on the sea’s horizon and inland to the south over the granite mass of Cam Brea which could be seen for miles with its castle perched on the top.
Clutching her shawl under her chin to protect her cold ears, Isabel tried unsuccessfully to keep up with Nick. Her high-heeled shoes were torturing her feet and making her steps clumsy and unsafe. The dress she was wearing was a poor fit and chafed the tender skin under her arms and she heartily wished the wind would blow away the offensive mouldy smell left on the clothes from Charlie Chiverton’s shack. To add to her misery, her pleas were being ignored.
‘Will you please slow down!’ she shouted at Nick’s hostile back. She saw his shoulders stiffen, but he kept up his striding pace.
Isabel ran a few steps and screamed across the divide he deliberately made, ‘Don’t keep ignoring me! I told you to slow down.’
Nick stopped, turned and scowled. ‘Were you asking me something?’
‘I want you to slow down and I did say please the first time,’ she snarled back, furious and exasperated, walking as fast as she could to close the gap between them.
Nick gave an offensive grunt and carried on, slowing his steps only very slightly. Isabel sighed heavily to stop herself from shouting abuse, the results of which she knew would use up valuable energy and impede her progress.
Reskajeage Downs was soon left behind and a short time later Isabel slumped to the ground, her breath laboured and her head reeling. The ground was hard and freezing cold and there was nothing to shelter her from the biting wind that chilled her to the bone.
Nick had gone round the outward curve of a small headland and waited impatiently for Isabel to come into sight. He had spent most of the time since leaving Charlie’s shack mulling over where they would spend the night. There was half an hour of daylight left and at the rate Isabel was holding them up they would not make Portreath, which was only two and a half miles away, before dark. It would be possible to walk safely by the aid of the lantern he had with him but a light bobbing its way down off the high platform of cliff into Portreath would arouse unwanted interest. Folk would be curious about any woman in his company, and him a man well known for the wanderlust in his soul, who fought shy of human responsibilities. And if they heard Isabel Hampton speaking in her irritating cultured voice they would be the talk of the North Cliffs for weeks. If Edmund and Deborah Kempthorne got to hear of it, they might well come to the correct conclusions.
A short distance before Portreath there was a cave halfway down the cliff. Better to spend the night there and move on to Portreath in the early morning. It did not matter if it took a day or two to reach Crantock; all that was important was to keep the woman out of sight as much as possible.
Where is that damned woman?’ Nick muttered under his breath, craning his strong neck for sight of her. ‘Probably fallen down a rabbit hole.’
He marched back and came upon Isabel slumped on the ground. He ordered her crossly to get up.
‘I cannot go any further,’ she said, her face lowered and voice muffled in the shawl. The coach accident had taken more out of her than she had realised and she was disappointed with herself. As a fit horsewoman she had thought she would cope rather better on this enforced trek.
‘We have less than thirty minutes of daylight left to walk a couple of miles and climb down a hundred feet of cliff. Now get up and let’s get on, unless you want to spend the night out in the open.’
Isabel’s head jerked up and Nick’s impatience was not lessened by the anguish on her face.
‘But I cannot possibly climb down a cliff, not in these shoes. My feet are hurting terribly as it is. Surely we can go on and spend the night at the nearest inn or even go back to that dirty little man’s shack.’
‘Have you no brains at all, woman? Must I explain everything to you over and over again?’ Yanking Isabel to her feet, he dragged her along. Her shawl fell from her head and the wind whipped her hair across her face. ‘You are supposed to be dead!’ he shouted in her ear. Your life is believed to be in danger and we can’t afford to attract attention to ourselves, which we surely will if we’re seen coming down off the cliff at night. Folk will take us for smugglers for one thing and for another we are not going to go back to my friend’s home and put him at possible risk. Do you understand?’
Isabel fought him off as she was hauled along and he let her go. ‘How dare you! I will not be spoken to in such an outrageous manner and don’t you dare touch me again!’ Her highly pitched voice grated on Nick’s nerves.
‘You’ve got no ruddy choice if we want to get on.’ He prodded her onwards as she stopped to pull up the shawl and Isabel turned sharply, bringing her hand up to slap his face. Nick caught her wrist and twisted it until she cried out in pain. ‘You’re far too free with your slaps and orders, woman. I’m trying to save your life, for God’s sake!’
She let out a choked sob and followed him, miserably keeping her eyes firmly on the path for safety while trying to keep up with his impatient strides. It was getting dark and she was very frightened at the prospect of having to climb down a cliff. And always, always there was the rush and boom and thump of the sea. She wanted to put both hands over her ears and shut out the awesome noise but it would mean denying herself the warmth of the shawl. The sea was a brute! She wanted to scream at it to stop, that she could no longer bear it. She wanted to run away from the hostile cliff and the mighty rocks out in the sea standing there like sentries, holding her prisoner on the cliff above them. The rocks all had names and a story behind them, which would have made them seem friendlier had Isabel known this, but she did not and only wanted to run away and never take sight of them again. She wanted to escape from the chilling wind and the vast expanse all around her under a foreboding sky, but her legs were stiff and wooden, her feet blistered and growing more painful by the moment.
Most of all she could not bear to be with this terrible man who had so unfeelingly told her the news of her dear uncle’s death and that her cousins could be plotting her murder. Nick Nancarrow was a bigger brute than the sea.
Isabel wanted to be with Edmund and Deborah Kempthorne in Trevennor House sitting before a roaring fire, wearing sedate and comfortable clothes, grieving with them over their uncle’s death, and having them smile softly at her and put comforting arms about her and tell her their uncle’s suspicions were utterly groundless. It was a cosy picture, and an unattainable one, not least because she knew the Kempthornes despised her.
Nick had stopped. When she reached him she saw they were on the top of a promontory and were looking down a long steep drop with a fast-moving stream at its bottom running seawards down into a little rocky cove. On the other side of the stream the cliff rose sharply again.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, looking down anxiously.
‘This place is called Carvannel Downs. Go down the drop sideways,’ he advised brusquely and abruptly set off.
Isabel watched numbly until he was halfway down. She felt dizzy, the wind was making her eyes water and suddenly her vision blurred. She wiped her eyes dry, determined not to call him back to help her. She took the first uncertain step downwards, heeding his advice to keep her foot sideways. The ground was not firm and she was nervous. Each step jarred her whole body, making her grind her teeth and once painfully biting her tongue.
At the moment she felt a little more confident, she fell. She did not scream, her mouth was clamped shut as she bumped and rolled over and over, passing Nick and stopping only against the raised bank of the stream with a hefty thud. One arm flopped into the icy water.
Nick bounded down the rest of the way to reach her. He knelt and swiftly pulled her arm out of the water. Then he moved his hands up and down her limbs and over her ribs, worried that he would find broken bones.
‘Can you speak?’ he asked.
Isabel blinked and moaned, then coughed. ‘I… I…’
‘All right, don’t try to talk. You don’t seem to have broken anything. Can you move your head?’
She was almost too afraid to try but made small movements to each side and lifted her chin up and down. Nick would never know how relieved she had been to feel the firm searching pressure of his hands over her body. It proved that she was not paralysed. Her father had died paralysed from a stroke and she had a horror of not being able to move freely.
Then suddenly she was furious with Nick. If he insisted on taking responsibility for her safety, he should have made sure she did not fall. She pummelled his broad chest with clenched fists as he leaned over her but she did not have the strength to bawl the recriminations she wanted to at him. Nick grasped her flailing arms as gently as he could, forcing them to the damp ground above her head. She became still, her chest heaving for breath. She closed her eyes tightly as a wave of nausea overwhelmed her.
Nick gathered her up in his arms; he would carry her the rest of the way. He had chosen to ignore the fact that she had been hurt in the coach accident and felt a small measure of guilt at forcing her to walk so far. He had been asked, and he had promised, to keep her safe, but if she kept having accidents there would be small chance of that. He hoped there would be no lasting effects from the fall. Isabel lay quietly against him, dazed.
He carried her across the stream, over the length of ship’s planking put there by Charlie years ago so his wife would not have to leap over and to give himself safer passage home after a night’s drinking at the Basset’s Cove Inn at Portreath. Wild garlic grew on either bank of the stream and the wind blew the strong smell over them. It caused Isabel to stir and as Nick skilfully made his way up the other side, she gazed over his shoulder at the green water of the stream that ended in a sheer waterfall and cascaded onto the rocks and beach far below. There was just enough light to see the spray that leapt upwards in a fine mist.
