A Cornish Girl

by Gloria Cook

  He was staring at her with a peculiar smile about his mouth, twisting his wide lips as if into a tangle.

  ‘Titus, you’ve got to help me!’

  ‘Help you, Sarah? I’ve got to help you?’

  He put his hands on his hips. His clothes turned black and all his hair was black and tangled. He threw back his magnificent head then thrust it forward, and his eyes were wild and crazed. His hair became painted through to white straggles and his skin was riddled with rotting flesh and burning coals were in his mouth. His eyes were monstrous crimson orbs inside a staring skull. It was all a sham! An evil deception, and just like before with Titus, she had fallen for it. On the day he’d died, after raging at her he’d seem to soften and had coaxed her into his arms, but then he’d held her down and boasted maliciously about how he was going to violate and then murder her. How could she ever have believed she had loved a man like that? How could she have remained a slave to his memory? She must flee.

  Using all her strength she tried to force her feet to turn around so she could race away. She fought against the colossal power that was taking her ever forward to Titus, but the malevolence was too great for her, it refused to let her go.

  She was nearly there, nearly to him. He only had to curve one huge decomposing hand and he could flay her head clean off her shoulders. She saw her next moments, her last. Her head being sent hurtling through the air to sink down into the squelchy hell’s mud and her body plunging down to this hell’s ground. But the force that was taking her to Titus refused to let her go. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Terror consumed her, she was no longer a being of flesh and blood but one of fear and panic and torment.

  Then she released a scream, a scream sharper and more terrible than a banshee’s. She was screaming and screaming.

  ‘I’ll help you, Sarah. Let me hold you, hold you.’ Titus’s voice was disjointed and saturated with hate and his contemptuous mocking echoed like iron clashing on iron all around her, and even inside the being she was being reduced to. ‘Then let me kill you, Sarah. There will be no peace for you even then. I’ll pursue you in hell for ever and ever.’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘What? You don’t want me now, Sarah? I thought you loved me. You mean you don’t love me any more?’ His dreadful uproarious laughter echoed through her.

  She had reached him. She screamed and pleaded to God to save her. Titus’s devilish hands pounced on her throat. He had a new plan to kill her. He pushed in with his thumbs making two indentations of burning agony in her neck. She couldn’t breathe. She was about to die. He had won. This monster, who had stolen her innocence, her reputation, her confidence, her family life; and had turned her into a shadow, was squeezing out her mortal life to torment her for all eternity.

  Suddenly she hated him as much as she had loved him, even more. The intensity of the hatred made her scream with rage in the depths of her soul. He would not take her soul. A new strength rose up in her and she fought against him, clawing his hands and trying to wrench them away. If she was to die she wouldn’t die passively. She’d fight him with every last drop of this new strength.

  ‘No! I won’t let you!’

  His grip round her neck weakened a little.

  ‘I hate you! I hate you! Do you hear me?’ She could barely breathe but somehow she could shout. Darkness was filling her head. And still she shouted and with each shout the beast’s terrible hold grew fainter.

  ‘Keep fighting, Sarah,’ a voice said from somewhere. ‘You can do it. You can win.’

  ‘Yes, I can do it.’ Somehow she found her full voice. ‘No, Titus Kivell, I won’t let you take my life.’ She pushed between his raised hands and grasped the talisman round her neck. ‘I hate you and you have no power over me. I hate you! I’ll hate you for ever! You have no power over me, no more power, no power …’

  His hands fell away from her. Exhausted by her terrible fight for life she fell in a heap on the scrubland and darkness took her.

  ‘You’ve won, Sarah,’ Tabbie whispered from where she was bent over beside her mattress. ‘The brew’s worked at last. The fever it gives finally brought out the right nightmare.’ While enduring the dreadful pain in her back and joints, Tabbie had held Sarah’s hands around the talisman while she’d tossed and writhed. She laid Sarah’s hands down at her sides. ‘Sleep well, dear one. You’ll need your strength for what’s ahead. I won’t be here much longer to look out for you.’

  Sarah woke to find Tabbie was up first for a change and had the oatmeal made ready for breakfast. ‘You should have called me,’ she yawned, in her calico nightdress, feeling as if she had been pummelled by a pair of fists all night, Titus’s fists. She was raw and angry and was prepared for a fight but kept it hidden, though perhaps not successfully, for Tabbie kept aiming knowing looks at her. It wouldn’t surprise her if Tabbie knew the harrowing details of her nightmare and its grim and victorious outcome, and that she was in no mood to be cruelly abused ever again. Every memory of Titus was now corrupted. How dare he treat her without respect for her freedom, her life and the very breath in her body? She was angry with herself for allowing herself to be maltreated for so long and then to cling to the memory of the degenerate beast. She should have realized all this long ago. Nothing that had happened to her was her fault. It was perfectly understandable, that she, living in crushing poverty, depressed and weighed down by responsibility, should have been won over by a wicked man’s ploys. Titus Kivell had cunningly used kindness, providing food, clothes and nice things, anonymously at first, for her and her family. After he’d gained her total trust, he had taken her virginity in a rough manner, under his mother’s roof. A ruthless manner, she saw it now. He had controlled her from the start. A man proud of his virility in producing children, he’d only married her when she’d believed she was pregnant. He had violently turned her out of Burnt Oak for her mistake. And she had foolishly allowed herself to go on suffering these last four years, but no more. Titus Kivell was justly in the torments of hell and she’d not waste another second revering his disgusting memory. She flopped down on her stool at the bench table. What was she doing here? Not in Tabbie’s home, but in Meryen? Why hadn’t she got away with Arthur and Tamsyn and old Aunt Molly when she’d had the chance?

  ‘Eat it all up, Sarah.’ Tabbie used her gravelly burr kindly, while ladling out bowls of oatmeal. ‘You had another bad night, twisted and turned throughout most of it. You need to be well set up to go back to work today. The rain’s moved off at last but ’tis mortally cold. Will be hardship in Meryen come Christmas. Loss of wages will mean a good deal of hungry bellies and the dangers of disease that go with it.’

  Sarah left for the seven o’clock start in the bucking shed at the Carn Croft Mine, carrying her work apron and gook – a double-thickness bonnet with long protective flaps – and wearing metal-tipped shoes, petticoats and a calf-length dress, the traditional length for a bal-maiden to allow for the dirty conditions. She had wound canvas bands round her legs for decency and protection from flying shards. Round her shoulders hung a long black woollen cloak that Tabbie had given her, then also the gift of a rabbit-fur wrap. With woollen gloves and stockings she had knitted herself she felt fortunate to be quite warm and better kitted out than many of the workers. Tucked inside a canvas bag was her croust for the morning break, a pasty for the midday meal and some pennyroyal herb for a mug of tea.

  Tabbie hobbled to the screen and looked down on Sarah’s mattress. Sarah had left it tidy, as were her few belongings. ‘Dear maid. It was good to see the lift in your chin and your new determination. May God give you all the strength you’ll need. But I’ve got more than one way to help you.’

  When a young woman, Tabbie had been taught to read and write by an indulgent gentleman she had been mistress to. She made the painful journey to a cupboard built by her own hand and took out a sheet of paper, a quill and ink pot; the stationery items stolen for she had been a successful sneak thief. Taking them to the table she
eased her hurting bones down to script a document.

  Sarah made the short journey from Tabbie’s shack on dry feet – Tabbie, and then she in later times, had wisely covered the ground with stones. It was two and a half miles from Meryen to the mine and Sarah was usually the last to arrive, hanging back so she could walk alone. She was soon on the outskirts of the village. She had timed it well. All was quiet. The main exodus of surface and ancillary workers tramping from their mean cottages, their boots and shoes ringing out a heavy tattoo on the cobbles and rough ground, was over. Sarah never went through the main street but slipped onto a well-trodden path that ran in a roughly straight line, parallel to a wide stream, at the back of the dwellings. Exposed stones offered a fairly dry but bumpy passage needing careful attention.

  Her mind was on the calculating brute she had married and Tabbie’s vision of him. Titus was dead and rotting in his grave in unhallowed ground and he couldn’t resurrect himself, so of course, Tabbie hadn’t literally meant Titus was coming back, but if anything of him in some shape or form did turn up, it would have no power over her. It couldn’t hurt her. And she would not give way to improbable fears. If Tabbie’s vision did come to pass soon she was ready for it.

  ‘Looking out for someone, Mrs Kivell?’ The reference to Sarah’s married status was a jibe.

  Deep in thought, Sarah had not noticed the latecomer, a girl of sixteen years, and the two women with her. She did not reply. The mocker, Dinah Greep, squat, with a sneering nose and blocked pores, never missed a chance to get at her. Dinah’s older brother, Jeb, a tribute miner, had pursued Sarah before her marriage and was one of those who made a point of speaking to her kindly. Dinah had warned Sarah to leave Jeb alone, as if believing she only had to show him a little interest and he’d forsake his wife and two infant children and run away with her. The whole thing was ludicrous. She had made it plain she would never seek love and marriage again. She stopped, stone-faced. The two women were hanging on out of nosiness but their expressions showed they were not happy with the mollusc-like Dinah’s spite. Sarah would let the harpy have her say then bring up the rear. She would not have insults aimed at her back.

  Dinah went on in a jeering sing-song voice, ending with a peal of laughter, ‘You’re done up like a dog’s dinner. Hoping to attract someone, are you? Got some new fancy lover? Someone old and corrupt like Titus? I bet old Titus was a beast in bed. You must have enjoyed it. You must miss him all through the nights, eh, Sarah?’

  The low opinions of others were unimportant to her and she had not bothered to defend herself before but this mocking was a torment. In the light of her new attitude Sarah felt sullied to have been intimate with Titus, she saw now that he would have raped her the first time had she not submitted to him.

  ‘You should cleanse your mouth out, Dinah Greep.’ One of the women, a drab young widow supporting her family, turned on her sharply. ‘What would your brother say? You’re a disgrace to him. And your poor father and mother would turn in their grave if they could hear the things you say.’ Her companion nodded in pious agreement.

  Rebellious, quick-tempered, Dinah snarled, ‘Mind your own business, Elizabeth Coad. We can’t all be good Bible Christians like you, and she there with you, and Jeb.’ Then her rubbery sour features narrowed and darkened on Sarah. ‘Don’t you try giving my brother the eye. Jeb don’t want you. He and every man left in the world are too good for you, the village trollop. Why don’t you get yourself another Kivell? There’s plenty of ’em in the village to choose from. Far too many, in fact. They breed like ruddy rabbits. They’re taking us over. Getting rich in their shops on our poor wages, that’s what they’re doing. Thought you’d like to be a part of that, Mrs Kivell. Why don’t you fix yourself up with another Titus?’

  A click went off inside Sarah’s mind, as if a tiny door in a forgotten corner had been opened, releasing all the emotions she had buried for so long. Her bland expression grew to fiery wrath, her beautiful dark eyes blazed. Striding up to Dinah, she glared and hissed, ‘I hate Titus Kivell! Don’t you ever dare mention him to me again, you vile little tyrant. The Kivells are loyal to their kinfolk, even those that disgrace them, so you be careful, Dinah Greep, that a Kivell doesn’t get you! Their revenge is quick, ruthless and long lasting. You’d deserve every second of it.’

  The unexpected onslaught made Dinah quail and gulp down a sob. She backed away, a typical bully, afraid when confronted by someone stronger. She and the others stared at Sarah, shocked by her admission about her late husband.

  ‘Good for you, maid,’ Elizabeth Coad said in a hearty manner. ‘The village will be glad to hear what you just said. Now you must forgive all that’s gone on before and you’ll find peace.’

  ‘Why don’t you walk on with us?’ offered the companion, a gawkish old spinster, and turned on Dinah. ‘It was time someone put you in your place, Dinah Greep. Your tongue’s full of poison. Mind it doesn’t bring you down.’

  Sarah met her opponent’s hostile gaze. No longer snivelling, Dinah was steeped in malice and adding up a score against her. She didn’t forgive anyone, least of all those who humiliated her. Sarah wasn’t afraid of the little shrew. ‘From this moment forward I renounce the name of Kivell. I’m returning to my maiden name, Hichens. Be sure that it’s the only one you use when addressing me in future.’

  She went on with the two women, allowing them to chat to her as if she was a lifelong friend, replying with the odd word or two. She didn’t need their friendship. She didn’t need anything from anyone in these parts. Not long ago she had passed Chy-Henver on the opposite side of the stream, the carpentry business owned by her old friend Amy, willed to her by her father. Her husband, Sol, had bought into it, leaving it to another Kivell to run; an investment for them to come back to. She had looked forward to seeing Amy again when her travels were over, now she might never do that. She was not sure how but she would leave here soon, go far enough away to shed every bad memory for ever.

  Four

  So this had been his father’s home? The once anarchic community he had lived in and governed, under his mother’s matriarchal influence, until his death at the age of forty-six. Heart failure had claimed Titus Kivell’s life, and according to the information, he, Kit Woodburne, had gleaned, Titus’s heart had been corrupted by drink, bitterness and hatred. Kit understood how a heart of such darkness could betray and kill a relatively young man; his half-brother, Charles Howarth, who had only recently come to know of his existence, had warned him that he was in peril of succumbing to the very same thing. He cared not about that.

  Burnt Oak was set off Bell Lane in a large plunging valley, with the land behind supporting a farm. Sitting astride a mount from the property he was renting in the nearby prosperous copper-mining parish of Gwennap, Kit was spying on the Kivell holdings. Through the hawthorn bushes on top of the rambling hedgerow, he watched the activity below of the quiet, industrious sort as men, women and children went about their enterprise in the several workshops, the forge and the farmyard: people content in the knowledge they belonged to generations of a strong and formidable family; cosy scenes which even the bleak frosty weather did nothing to dispel. No doubt down there were fathers teaching their sons their given craft or trade. Kit made a pained expression.

  The property was flung amid the far-reaching estate of Poltraze, and no doubt was an open wound to the Nankervises. There was an ancient reason why the ten-acre Kivell land was bracketed within the squire’s territory. In the time of the Norman Conquest a Nankervis and a Kivell knight had ridden for the prize of the manor. The Kivell had lost, taking a fall from his horse, and had grudgingly had to make do with the smaller lot. He had gone on to form a remote clan that had married into undesirables, becoming troublesome, until a few years ago when it suited them to break out into the expanding world of business. Kit was here to cause trouble for the clan, more than that, pandemonium, if he could, and for one Kivell in particular.

  A few nights ago, thinking how different things
would have been if the original Kivell had won that race – for one thing Kit would probably never have been born – he had been led to spy out the squire’s despoiled grounds rather than coming here as he’d first intended. The wits and cunning he’d developed during his appalling childhood had enabled him to slip among the blackened hulks that had once been prestigious camellia shrubs and the like, but he had not gone unseen. The lovely young woman – who had to be the squire’s sadly neglected wife – peering out of a bedroom window made him chance a closer look at her. The lamplight had given her an aura of enchantment. He could have stared up at her for hours. He would engineer the pleasure of gazing at her in close quarters. A woman like Mrs Joshua Nankervis should not be allowed to be neglected by male company. A little earlier he had followed the squire’s departure, finding him soon to be met by another man – a Kivell, indeed – who had taken him into an intimate embrace. The squire being of that sexual persuasion was interesting. Finally he had returned to his secluded house. His manservant, the only person he had ever trusted, had seen to it he was provided with diverting and experienced female company, and opium. A prolonged drugged daze had delayed his visit here to Burnt Oak.

  Half a dozen large and attractive dwellings, thatched or slate-roofed, were also part of Burnt Oak and all were protectively encased inside a fortress square of granite walls. It was both something of a tribal arrangement and a medieval court, with, Kit’s good sight made out, dashes of ostentation in the new Victorian manner. There was the added sheltering of a few proud oaks. All in all, it was a marvel and an outlandish curiosity, with the strangeness of a graveyard at its far end. For generations Kivells had been buried in the grounds and somewhere down in that unsanctified sod were his father’s remains.