Trevennor’s Will, page 8
Inside the church she spent the time thinking over how she was going to spend her double inheritance rather than asking the Almighty to have mercy on her relatives’ souls. With a scrap of black lace clamped to her face she allowed Charlotte Thomas to take her arm and lead her out into the cold misty air. Deborah spied a woman gazing down at a grave near the church door.
‘Would you be so kind as to leave me to have a few moments to myself, Mistress Thomas,’ Deborah said, sniffing into the handkerchief. ‘I would like to spend a little time at my dear aunt’s grave. I can make the walk back across the road by myself.’
‘Well, if you’re quite sure, Miss Kempthorne,’ Charlotte said, giving Deborah a little pat on the arm. ‘I don’t mind waiting outside the churchyard for you.’
‘No, please go on home. You have a young family to attend to. You have been very kind and have already given far too much of your time.’
‘I will call on you again this afternoon,’ Charlotte said, before going quietly upon her way.
Deborah scowled at the younger woman’s trim back. It had taken her only a short time to hate Charlotte Thomas. Hate for her slim figure despite the fact she had borne four children within the last five years, hate for her angular grace, her pretty face with its clear complexion and firmly rounded chin, her bright animated brown eyes. Hate for her being happily married and settled in a life that suited her, where she was loved and respected by those around her. Deborah decided to draw Edmund’s carnal attention to the physical attributes of the curate’s wife after all and made a wish that she would fall readily for her brother’s charms. Then she could try looking Deborah in the face with that hypocritical concern of hers!
Deborah moved her heavy body round the church to scowl down gloatingly at the grave Laurence Trevennor would share in a few days’ time. She was still feeling the sense of elation that had overwhelmed her when she had first learned of the two deaths of her wealthy relatives and that she and Edmund had come into their fortunes.
She had not slept a wink last night in her excitement. It had been with a great surge of triumph that she had climbed into the bed Isabel had used when staying at Trevennor House. A roaring fire had heated the room through and through and instead of rushing to get between cold sheets as she did in the freezing cottage at St Ives, she had made the unfortunate maid who had waited on her take her time preparing her for bed. When she had thrown the crying maid out of the room after threatening to dismiss her for pulling on a tangle in her hair, Deborah had settled back on plumped-up pillows and hummed happily to herself.
Edmund had not been able to sleep either. Deborah had heard him pacing the floor in the chamber next to hers. She knew he was just as excited as herself, but his main reason for pacing the floor was because he was missing Mary Ellen. In the morning, Deborah had gone to him and found him asleep across the bed with his soft dark hair splayed on the coverlet and about his face. After gently pushing the hair from his face, she’d kissed him tenderly and laid out his clothes. She wanted to do everything for Edmund herself and vowed over his sleeping form that Mary Ellen would never hold a claim on him; she would find a way to get rid of the whore and her child.
The air of death laying claim to Trevennor House was considerably lighter this morning with Sir Robert Antiss having removed Phoebe’s and their servants’ bodies last evening. Sir Robert had shown his contempt for the Kempthornes quite plainly and declared he would not leave his daughter’s body under the new owners’ roofs a minute longer. The baronet had left the parlour in tears and Deborah had had to nudge Edmund to prevent him from laughing out loud. Now they had only to get rid of their uncle’s dead bones.
Deborah had overheard the servants talking and she knew that Nick Nancarrow had been at her uncle’s deathbed. Mrs Christopher said he had been deeply grieved over Mr Trevennor’s death and although he had suddenly left Gwithian, he was sure to be back for the funeral. Deborah smiled like a cruel cat. She knew that despite her new-found wealth, few of the gentry would look in her direction. She had heard about the tall sandy-haired man and vaguely remembered him as an ungracious youth. He had been a trusted friend of Uncle Laurence’s, but was that loyalty or the hope of receiving a legacy one day? If Nick Nancarrow turned up for the funeral, she’d look him over and find out where his true heart lay.
‘My sympathies to ’ee, Miss Kem’thorne,’ a scratchy voice said at her side. ‘Mister Trevennor was a fine man.’
Deborah did not look up from under her black net veil, knowing full well that the woman who had been looking at the grave by the church door would move round to speak to her.
‘You did well, Nellie. Here is your payment. Take it and give it to your man. He will give you your share.’
Deborah dropped another handkerchief she had with her and the woman, a scruffy creature who had boasted a young pretty face only five years ago, picked it up, swiftly took out a pouch tied inside it and handed the handkerchief back. Deborah tucked it away and looked at the woman.
‘I went straight to un, jus’ like you said, Miss Kem’thorne, after I’d told ’ee about Mister Trevennor bein’ so ill an’ sendin’ fur Miss Isabel. ’E said ’e knew exactly what ’ee wanted ’im t’do.’
‘He did well too, Nellie. I’m very pleased with both of you. Now, listen closely,’ Deborah said harshly. ‘You are not to say a word to anyone about this and must not even discuss it with your man. Do you promise me?’
Nellie smiled proudly from behind her vacuous colourless eyes. She said eagerly, ‘Oh, yes, Miss Kem’thorne. I’d do anythin’fur you. Mister Pengelly, ’e do say you are a fine lady and ’ave bin some good to un.’
‘Off you go then. I daresay Mr Pengelly will treat you to a sweetmeat out of the pouch. Remember that you must not open it yourself.’
‘I promise upon my soul, Miss Kem’thorne.’ Deborah watched Nellie skip away through the graves. She had been an ordinary young girl living with her bedridden grandmother, hoping one day to meet and marry some young man, until the night five years ago when Gyver Pengelly had met her in a quiet lane. Nellie had been hurrying home with a jug of ale for her grandmother when Pengelly had assaulted her then beaten her so badly her mind had never been the same again. Soon afterwards her grandmother had died, somewhat mysteriously it was rumoured, and Nellie had emerged from her ordeal as a cheerful simple-minded girl who thought Gyver Pengelly was her friend and whose every whim she obeyed. She had borne him two children, offspring his own ill-treated wife could not bear him. People said it was a blessing that both babies had been stillborn. Nellie had thought they were nasty dolls who had given her belly a terrible pain and she was glad Mr Pengelly had taken them away and given them to some other little girl. Gyver Pengelly would do anything if the price was right and with Nelly’s limited intelligence they were useful to Deborah’s schemes.
Deborah made her way quickly to her new home. She saw Nellie stroking and talking to a large grey cat sitting on the parsonage wall next door. Nellie spoke to no person unless Gyver Pengelly told her she could, but what was she saying to the cat? Deborah was thoughtful as she entered Trevennor House’s dignified door.
* * *
Isabel sat close beside the cheerful fire at the Cottles’ hearth and held out her chilled feet to be warmed through. Looking around the kitchen, which she realised served as the only living room of the cottage, she marvelled that so many people could live in such cramped conditions and so tidily. The room was smaller than the dressing room of her mansion house at Truro. Being here reminded her of the gardener’s cottage in its grounds, which she had visited often as a child, when her life had been cosseted, unthreatened. Like the gardener’s cottage, Mundy Cottle’s home had an atmosphere of normality and security. Isabel wished she could stay here and be waited upon until her fiancé arrived back in Cornwall and put an end to her nightmare.
She willed herself to shut out all thoughts of her predicament while she had the cottage to herself. She closed her eyes, listening only to the gentle crackle and hiss as the flames burned up dried furze and driftwood, hoping no one would be back for hours. But she was given little time to drift away and pretend nothing was wrong. Mundy Cottle soon returned, but without the children.
‘Feeling better, my handsome?’ she asked kindly, putting her purchases on the table.
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Cottle,’ Isabel said, remembering to speak as Jenna Stevens and swallowing her disappointment at not being left alone for long.
‘You don’t seem the sort of maid to take up with Nick,’ Mundy said, taking off her shawl and bonnet. You’m too polite, for one thing.’
Yes, he can be very rude,’ Isabel agreed, alert for Mundy’s probings.
‘And you’re just an innocent.’ Mundy gave her a cheery smile and added bluntly, ‘If you haven’t let un bother you yet, don’t you let un. He might not be too pleased about it but Nick’s not the sort of man to force himself on a woman.’
Isabel felt Mundy could see straight through their deception. She wanted to confide in the dumpy little woman but knew Nick would be furious if she told her the truth. Unable to meet Mundy’s direct looks, she changed the subject. ‘It looks like it’s getting mistier outside.’
‘Aye, ’tis as wet as rain. Could last for hours. The weather’s getting worse. If you ask me, there’s a storm brewing up for later on. I just hope there’s no sailing vessels out at sea round here, this coast is a proper ship’s graveyard. I know folk are grateful for the pickings, been glad to have a thing or two myself over the years. But all they souls lost! Don’t bear thinking about if they’re not heading for the Lord.’ Mundy unwrapped her purchases. ‘Come here and look what I’ve got for ’ee m’dear.’
On the table was a pair of black leather shoes, scuffed across the toes but sturdy and with plenty of wear left in them. Next to them was a pair of woollen stockings, a blue spotted neckerchief and some food. Picking up the shoes, Isabel thanked Mundy and took them to the fireside, then crossing one leg over the other she began to unwind Nick’s old kerchief from one foot.
‘I’ll get ’ee a drop of warm water to bathe them afore you put on your new stockings,’ Mundy said, watching sympathetically. ‘I’ll put in a bit of salt to help heal the sores and blisters. My man picked up a barrel of salt two year ago on the beach down there and it’s lasted we all that time.’
‘Thank you,’ Isabel said, wincing as the bloodstained neckerchief and stockings pulled at her tender flesh.
‘Give they to me,’ Mundy said. ‘Might as well burn them, went be no use for nothing else. Some funny business, if you ask me, dragging a maid across the cliffs, all quiet like. But I’ll say no more about it. ‘Tis none of my affair. You must have been so cold last night.’ Mundy looked up from the blaze the bloodied rags had caused.
‘I’m used to it,’ Isabel lied, as she gingerly slipped her feet into the bowl of warm salty water provided for her.
‘Are you now?’ The other woman sounded unconvinced. ‘I’ve got a cloak in my bedroom. Belonged to one of my daughters. She died about five years ago of the malignant sore throat. You can have it if you like, she were quite tall like you, it’ll help to keep ’ee warm.’
‘But what about your other children?’ Isabel protested. ‘Wouldn’t one of them be glad of it?’
‘Margie was rather special to us all. Born simple-minded, she was, and always like a littl’un. I’d rather not see any of my others wearing it. Memories, you understand. You’re welcome to it, m’dear.’
Isabel was touched by Mundy’s gesture and thought it was a pity that Nick Nancarrow couldn’t be as kind and pleasant as his friends were. ‘I would be grateful for the extra warmth but won’t it be painful to part with it?’
‘Well, better to let it be put to good use. You’ve got nothing in the world but what you stand up in, have you? And Nick.’ Mundy moved to her bedroom door and then turned and said quietly, ‘Jenna, whatever you’re running away from, don’t forget there’s always One up above who’s watching over ’ee.’
A short time later, wrapped in Margie Cottle’s long brown cloak, the deep hood pulled over her face, Isabel left the warmth and security of Mundy Cottle’s cottage with Nick. He held her arm and guided her down a narrow sloping pathway into the cove of Portreath itself. He pulled her away from a line of pack mules loaded down with copper ore making for the harbour, built by the Basset family who gave the local inn its aristocratic name. A ship was moored up waiting to take the ore to South Wales, but it would not set sail until the weather cleared. A strong wind blew sand at them as they passed the length of sandy beach and soon they were climbing again, leaving behind Portreath with its ruddy copper-stained river that ran into the ocean.
The ground was not hard and dry as the day before but wet and slippery. The climb was heavy going for Isabel but when the cliff levelled out, the stiffness in her legs had eased and she felt fit and able to cope with the next stage of the journey. There was nothing, no trees, vegetation or rocks to give shelter and the mist swirled around them, driven by the wind. Nick let go of her arm and told her to stay close in case she became lost or fell down a disused mine shaft.
‘’Tis a shame you can’t see the splendid scenery today,’ he said. ‘From now on the coast is broken up into many interesting uninhabited coves. We’re making next for a large one that has lots of people living there. Porthtowan, a copper mining community.’ Nick was not bounding along today and Isabel could comfortably match his steps.
‘Will we stop there?’
‘No, we’ll go straight on to St Agnes.’
Isabel was pleased Nick seemed to want to hold a conversation. It helped to make the walk go along faster and keep her mind off her worries. With the unlikelihood of anyone being about, she used her own voice. ‘I think Mrs Cottle is suspicious about me.’
‘She is, but not for what you might fear. The news is out about Laurence’s death and all, but Mundy doesn’t think for a moment that you’re his niece. She had a right old go at me when I met up with her in the cove. She reckons you’re the daughter of some rich man I’ve slocked off to turn into a loose woman. She said, “A fine parcel of trouble you’re making for she!” ’Tis a good story to put about if someone seems to be on to us. Mundy reckons you’d be quite at home in the company of the Bassets over at Tehidy.’
Isabel was pleased that her breeding had shown through. She looked hard at Nick to try to see what he might be thinking but his face was unreadable.
‘Do you think Mundy will say anything about us?’
‘No, Mundy is a deeply religious woman. She never gossips and refuses to listen to any.’
‘I feel a lot warmer now, thanks to this cloak Mundy very kindly gave me, and these shoes she got for me are quite comfortable. You seem to have some very pleasant friends.’
Nick did not respond. He seemed to have exhausted his inclination to talk and their conversation died. Isabel felt hurt. Why was he so hostile? She fell out of step with him and followed a little way behind.
As she trudged along, she kept her eyes on the marks his boots left on the muddy track. After a while it occurred to her his boots were made of very high-quality leather, far too expensive for the means of a working-class man. Further study and she realized they were somehow familiar to her. Then she remembered. On one of her last visits to Uncle Laurence he had been polishing the very same pair of boots with great care and attention. She had remarked that they looked at least two sizes too big for him and he had told her they were to be a gift for a special friend. So Nick Nancarrow had been that special friend.
She was so deep in thought that when Nick stopped suddenly and turned to her she ploughed straight into him. Isabel blushed to the roots of her hair.
‘I was going to tell you to keep close because the mist is thickening but I can see I don’t need to,’ Nick said. Isabel raised her chin. He found the movement unexpectedly appealing and pulled in his lower lip with his teeth before going on, ‘We have two more steep drops to climb up and down like the one you fell down yesterday. I’ll help you up and down but if you’d rather I carry you, you only have to say so. How do you feel at the moment?’
Isabel was surprised at his concern, which for him had been expressed kindly.
‘I have a few bruises left from yesterday but I’m quite used to this walking now,’ she replied.
He nodded and grinned, showing his teeth, and she was suspicious of him again.
The slippery ground made it difficult to keep a firm footing as they descended and scaled the two valleys. Nick held Isabel’s hand firmly to stop her from descending too fast and hauled her up beside him as they climbed. He was panting himself when they reached the top of the second slope. He gave Isabel the flask of water. She missed the warm roughness of his big hand.
‘’Tis fairly straight walking from now on till we climb down into Porthtowan,’ he said.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Isabel said, trying to regain her breath. ‘Then we go on to St Agnes and presumably Crantock after that.’
‘In a manner of speaking. We have to go through Perranporth and Holywell Bay as well as some other small coves and coombes before we reach Crantock.’ Isabel looked around but her vision was limited to about two feet by the grey-whiteness of the mist as it billowed about them wetly. It muffled the sound of the rolling surf two hundred and fifty feet below. The stillness of the morning made it seem far away. ‘I hope we can rest along the way.’
‘I’d be there by now if I didn’t have you holding me up,’ he said stonily.
‘I have no wish to be in your company either,’ Isabel said crossly, turning sharply away from him.
Nick walked on and she waited a moment before following and found his big frame was already eaten up by the mist. The ground was stony and his boot tracks hard to make out but she had no intention of calling to him as though she was lost or frightened.
A figure appeared and she assumed it was Nick coming back for her. But this man’s outline was broader and when he suddenly stood barring her path it made her scream in terror. He was shorter than Nick, about thirty years older, with a huge girth of swollen stomach instead of a waist and a thick neck that grew out of his chest. His eyes were close set either side of a broken nose, below which grew a full black beard that was as curly as his wild corkscrew hair. His clothes, including a ragged knee-length waistcoat with all its buttons missing, were filthy and from several inches away Isabel could smell stale ale and sweat. He looked like one of the old-time privateers who had once haunted this part of the lonely coast. Isabel had heard stories of their heinous crimes, of the terrible degrading things they did to the women they captured. He took a step towards her with an evil leer on his face and she screamed again.
