by Gloria Cook
Ten
Kit ran his fingers along the expertly carved end scroll on a cabinet top. He was in the Chy-Henver workshop, a long stone building, whitewashed on the inside, the walls neatly displayed with a vast miscellany of tools. Workbenches ran on three sides of the walls, a square trestle for fitting jobs was in the middle of the floor, and the whole was lighted by long windows and by the double doors left open. Kit found the wood dust irritated his nose and made his eyes gritty. He wouldn’t be able to stand this atmosphere for long; far better the smoky confines of a gambling room. ‘This is exceedingly well done, Jowan. If I may say so, you are very young to have reached such excellence.’
‘Kivells are started off young on their given craft,’ Jowan replied, secretly pleased with the compliments he had received while showing his half-brother the premises. Charles Howarth seemed genuinely interested, asking about everything from wood lacquers to inlay designs, and the various specialist tools.
‘Are you allotted your craft or allowed to choose your own, Jowan?’ Kit wiped a speck of dust from his eye. He wished Jowan would call him Charles to show he was getting friendly, but the younger man was staying firmly aloof, as if he didn’t have a name at all. This hurt, for Kit all too often felt he had no real identity. He wished he had not presented himself to the Kivell family as the real Charles Howarth. He hated to be called Charles, each time it accused him as a liar and made him feel more than ever that he belonged nowhere at all. The real Charles Howarth was an understanding sort of fellow. Somehow getting wind of Kit’s probings into his family he had sought Kit out and had been delighted to meet him. He’d wanted to make a friend of Kit, to see him occasionally, but while remaining anxious that the truth of Kit’s identity should never be revealed. Kit loathed Charles for that. He shunned all idea of forming a friendship with him.
‘We tend to follow the work we show a natural feel for. Most boys and girls follow their parents’ skills. All of my Aunt Eula’s girls are quilters like her and the boys are metalworkers like Uncle Jack. Shall we go outside? You can take a look at the wood store.’ Jowan wasn’t oblivious to the other man’s discomfort.
‘Yes. I’d like to see the raw timber.’ Kit nodded goodbye to the cousin of Jowan’s, his cousin too, who worked and lived at Chy-Henver. Thad Kivell was quiet and serious for a Kivell, even rather shy. He nodded back with a smile and got on with sanding down a turned chair leg. Kit felt he had at least won Thad over. The other Kivell who worked there was out on a job.
Out in the chilled air, a high natural bank at the back of the workshop gave shelter and cut off the sharp wind. Kit offered Jowan a cigarette from a gold case. Jowan accepted and they lit up. ‘Our father was never a carpenter, though, was he?’
Jowan frowned. ‘He never did anything useful.’
‘You were not close to him?’
‘No.’ He gazed at Kit. ‘Were you hoping to hear good things about him, after this romantic affair he was said to have had with your mother?’
‘I didn’t know what to expect.’ Kit couldn’t help sounding grim.
‘Your mother was fortunate not to stay in Falmouth. Titus wouldn’t have stayed good to her for long. This must be hard for you to hear.’
‘Yes, very hard.’ Jowan couldn’t guess how hard. Kit was here not to gain Jowan’s acceptance but to seek the best way to get back at Tempest, yet he wanted Jowan to like him. The more he got to know the Kivells, took part in their lives – last evening he had been entertained to a musical evening at Burnt Oak, with regional instruments and fiddles being played, with raucous dancing and much drinking – he was wanting to be a part of it all. He met Jowan’s eyes. ‘You don’t trust me. You’re right not to. I’m a stranger and you want to protect your family, especially your grandmother. I hope that will change when you get to know me better.’
‘We’ll see.’
Jowan had said it softly and Kit hoped he had made some headway with him. He saw something peculiar out in the lane, low on the ground and inching slowly towards the cottage. ‘What on earth …?’
Jowan looked. ‘My God, it’s a girl. It’s Sarah!’ He threw the cigarette down and ran to her, appalled at the state of her, bloodied and clothes in shreds, meaning she could only have crawled and clawed her way along.
Kit ran with him. Jowan pushed him aside to ensure he was the one who picked Sarah up. He was very careful, her leg had been viciously attacked and her left shoulder was dislocated. He was sure some of her ribs were broken. She was limp and slight in his arms, her eyelids flickering, barely conscious. He surmised she must have come here by impulse, probably thinking to get to Amy, her friend. He was shocked and sickened by her injuries, she seemed near to death. ‘It’s all right, Sarah, you’re safe now. Charles, fetch Rachel from the house and tell Thad to run at once for the doctor.’
Sarah had no idea where she was. Her eyelids opened a shade, but desperate not to wake up she allowed her weakness and pain to pull her back into deep, deep sleep. Now she was wide awake, lying on a soft bed in a large darkened room, looking up at a white ceiling. From time to time in her muddled state she thought she’d heard voices, male and female, and noises, but she had no notion what they were. She heard something now, a gentle swish. Then something soft and warm was touching her hand where it lay on the bedcover. She turned her head, a stiff and painful movement, and waiting for her vision to clear she saw a figure, a young woman sitting close beside the bed. ‘Amy …’ Her voice came in a dry cracked whisper.
‘No, Sarah, it’s Tara Nankervis. It reached my ears that you had been hurt and I’ve been here most days to see you.’ Tara stroked Sarah’s bruised and battered brow. Most of her face was florid with marks and scratches but the rest of her skin was deathly white. Tara had cried when she’d first seen Sarah. She had been savaged as if by a madman.
‘Where … am I?’
‘You’re at Chy-Henver. Only God knows how you managed to get here. You’d crawled all the way on your hands and knees.’
Sarah found the effort of keeping her head turned too much and she gazed up at the ceiling and then closed her eyes to try to remember why she had made such a painful journey. ‘Amy’s not here, is she?’
‘No, she’s abroad with her family, in California, America. Jowan Kivell lives here now and some of his family.’
‘Jowan? Jowan?’ It was exhausting just to think. ‘Yes, I had to see him. Tabbie’s Shack … oh no!’ The horror of her home being cleared and wrecked, of the violent beating she’d received made her gulp in torment.
‘It’s all right, Sarah. You’re safe now. Jowan knows what happened. I’m so sorry about your little home and what’s happened to you, but you’re going to be looked after from now on. Try not to upset yourself.’ Tara spoke soothingly while caressing Sarah’s hand and face, hoping the contact was comforting.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Tara called softly.
Jowan came in slowly. ‘I heard talking. Is Sarah awake?’
‘Yes. She’s remembered what happened. She’s very tired, we must go gently,’ Tara cautioned.
‘Of course,’ Jowan tiptoed to the bedside. ‘Hello, Sarah. It’s good to see you awake after all this time.’
Sarah did not understand. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘For just over two weeks. You’ve been very poorly.’ That was an understatement. The doctor had reset her shoulder, strapped up her ribs and stitched a long gash in her leg, but he had expected Sarah to die within forty-eight hours from brain or internal injuries. He had announced it was a miracle she had survived. Despite all her past sufferings, her depression and hopelessness, and having her new future so maliciously cheated from her, somewhere inside had been a spark of strength to bring her through. Thank God. She had come to him, she had needed him, and he would have hated to lose her. ‘Sarah, don’t distress yourself, have you any idea who did this to you?’
Sarah put her mind back in Tabbie’s Shack. She squeezed on Tara’s hand. ‘
I came home from the mine … all Tabbie’s things were gone.’ She creased her forehead and put her free hand there. ‘The money Tabbie left me was still there. Then I heard something. She was there.’
‘Who was there, Sarah?’ Tara prompted as Sarah fell into a tormented silence.
The vision of the figure in Tabbie’s clothes coming at her filled her with revulsion. ‘It was …’ Just who had been waiting for her? Someone who’d hated her and wanted her dead. In her mind she saw Tabbie’s bonnet being tossed away by the terrifying figure. ‘It was Dinah Greep! She was like a mad woman. She wanted to kill me.’
Tara glanced at Jowan. He said, ‘That makes sense, Sarah. Dinah Greep disappeared on the same day, after she’d done a terrible thing at home. She tried to hurt the Greep children but thankfully Miriam got to them just in time. The girl must have gone insane. I’m afraid she must have taken your money. There was none in the shack.’
‘She’s taken everything from me,’ Sarah croaked, tears of despair melting down her face. ‘Tabbie left her things to me to give me a new life and it was all for nothing.’
‘You will have a new life, Sarah. You mustn’t worry about a thing. You’re among friends,’ Jowan said, reaching down to gently touch her arm.
‘We’re all rallying round you,’ Tara said, drying Sarah’s eyes. ‘All you need to do is rest and get well again.’
Sarah closed her eyes. All she wanted was to sleep for a very long time. A name popped into her mind and she snapped her eyelids open. ‘Jowan, she told me it was Abner Jago who stole my things.’
A dark look passed over Jowan’s strong features but he was quick to smile down on Sarah. ‘I’ve already asked about but drew a blank. I’ll get on to it, straightaway. With luck I might be able to get something back for you, Sarah.’ He wouldn’t rest until he did.
‘Thank you. I’d be … so … grateful …’ Her voice faded away and she sank into a deep sleep.
Tara and Jowan decided to leave her in peace.
‘Well, we know the full story now, Mr Kivell,’ Tara said at the foot of the stairs. ‘Poor dear Sarah. Could we not get in touch with her family? It would help her greatly to recover if she saw them. Do you know where they live?’
‘No, but my grandmother does. I’ll go to see them.’
‘Perhaps you’d allow me to do that while you concentrate on retrieving something of Sarah’s property. I’d so like to help her.’
The agreement made, Jowan escorted Tara to her pony in the stables. Kit had just dismounted and tethered his mount. ‘Mrs Nankervis, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’ It was more than a pleasure to view her in her dark-blue riding habit and veiled hat, gliding with the grace of a gazelle. He’d been disappointed not to have been invited to Poltraze after his call there but he had been compensated by seeing her here twice.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Howarth.’ Tara wasn’t sure about this man, but she took a second look at his mix of refinement and ruggedness. How could a man have such magnetic eyes? They were as beautiful as crystals and strangely mysterious. They were somehow forbidding, yet when he looked at her he tempered them until they showed a smooth richness. She knew there was predatory sexual desire in the manner in which he turned on the charm and easy smiles but also that he genuinely admired her. She reminded herself she would be a fool to allow herself to be flattered by him. He shouldn’t be trusted. He was on his guard every second. He invited no one to his rented house at Gwennap. She had observed Jowan Kivell’s reserve with him and he seemed a sensible young man.
‘Hello, Jowan, is there any change in Sarah’s condition?’ Kit resented Jowan’s stony face, which showed he disapproved of him being familiar about what he saw only as family matters. He had been civil to Jowan without being ingratiating, and he had been polite and interested without being nosy. What did he have to do to get his half-brother to drop his surliness?
Jowan told him the news.
‘I’m so pleased. I’ve just come from Burnt Oak. Grandmama Tempest was wondering whether when this happy day arrived, Sarah would agree to receive her.’
‘It will be a long time before she’s well enough for any visitors other than Mrs Nankervis.’
‘Well, she will be delighted to hear of the progress in Sarah’s recovery. I shall return presently to tell her about it.’ As soon as he had said the words he regretted them. He needed time to himself, to unravel the torrent of confused emotions after a recent occurrence at Burnt Oak.
His grandmother had as usual been delighted to see him. She had been charming over morning coffee and the midday meal, full of energy while telling him more about the proud aspects of the Kivell history. It was a mild day and she had shown him over her garden. It was a miniature of any garden that would grace a great house. There was a rose arbour, a fish pond, shaped hedges, herbaceous borders, giant ferns, camellias and azaleas. A glasshouse was hidden away behind a box hedge. It was utterly peaceful, and Kit could imagine the wonderful spectacle there would be in subsequent seasons.
‘My nephew Laketon designed all this,’ Tempest said, venerable in dark green, a lace-trimmed bonnet, a fur-trimmed mantlet and carrying a fur muff. ‘He went into carpentry but then developed a love for new species of flowers and plants. He’s a thoroughly dislikeable individual, and I never cared to ask where he procured many of the plants. It’s my belief there are some grander gardens in the county that are bereft of their rightful enhancement.’
‘It’s certainly very pleasant here.’ Kit was at ease. It was the first place he felt he could linger in for some time. He stepped away to look up at a robin singing lustily to advertise its territory. His heart lurched strangely as Tempest surprised him by easing her arm through his. ‘I call the robin Bobby. He’s been my little friend for many a year now.’
Part of Kit froze and the rest of him squirmed. She had offered her hand on each of his arrivals and departures, but she had never touched him like this before. Manners dictated he should offer to escort her properly around the garden but he was not able to bring himself to. He did not want to get close to her. She did not deserve any more consideration than was necessary for politeness. He must never get to like her. He must remember he hated her.
After a while she said in a careful tone, ‘Charles, would you like to see your father’s grave?’
It was the worst time she could have asked him. He tried to fend it off but it was no use. The debilitating dark mood that invaded him so often gripped him in its chilled fingers. The anger, frustration and emptiness would come next and he would need to lash out, to break something or hurt himself to release his unbearable pain. There had been times when he had ripped apart things he’d valued, feeling a little release each time the broken pieces got smaller and smaller and more irreparable. He had banged his head against walls and doors and bedposts until he’d made his head bleed; there were scars hidden beneath his wealth of black hair. Then to get oblivion before he went totally out of his mind he had drowned himself in alcohol or smoked opium. Sometimes he wondered if these Kivell people detected he was muggy-headed or edgy. There were times he was sure whispers had been passed about him.
‘Charles.’ Tempest patted his hand, and Kit realized it was trembling. ‘I’m sorry. I should have allowed you to come to that decision in your own time. It will be hard for you.’
Hard – it would almost be impossible not to desecrate the grave of the diabolical Titus Kivell. It was not the remains of his mother’s wonderful lover down there in the ground but her evil rapist, a beast, and the originator of his misery. He couldn’t do it and he swung away from Tempest.
‘Ohh!’
Next instant he’d cried out, ‘Grandmama!’ He had moved so roughly Tempest had been toppled towards the ground. Instinctively he’d reached out and caught her and held her steady. ‘I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.’
Why did he say that? It was the very thing he had come to do, to punish her for her cold-heartedness. But from what he had seen she had only been cold to
wards her husband and Titus. No one could be blamed for hating the man who had kidnapped and raped her, forcing her into marriage when just a girl and then isolating her from her own family. It must follow that a child born after a rape would be hated too. His own mother hated him; the whole experience had reduced her to madness. He was right to hate himself, for he had no worth at all, but was he right to hate his mother? She had been unable to love him, she had wanted nothing to do with him, but she had ordered he be brought up as a gentleman, with an excellent education, while she could have had him abandoned to an orphanage or the workhouse. He had needed to blame someone for the lack of love and the subsequent desolation in his life, but was it fair to hate the grandmother who had known nothing about his existence until a few weeks ago and, who, after some initial fright and misgivings, had seemed to take to him from the very first day? She doted on him now, he couldn’t deny that. As soon as she had realized his taste in food and drink she’d made sure he had been given it at meals. She had shown him over Morn O’ May, and played his favourite tunes on the piano. Every time their eyes met she smiled at him, she listened attentively to whatever he said, and she encouraged all the others at Burnt Oak to accept him as one of their own. If he had been brought up here he would almost certainly have been nurtured in the same close manner as all the Kivells. Ironically, even his father, so fond of siring children, would have been proud to have known of his existence.
His grandmother had stayed in his arms as he’d supported her, then it was she who was embracing him. She had sensed his melancholy, and he had felt her joyful emotion at his cry of acknowledgement that she was his grandmother. Kit had succumbed to the moment, the sudden affection, and had rested his face on her shoulder and for the first time in his life he had experienced the sort of inner reaction that was a positive release. He had nearly been responsible for causing Tempest physical harm but his immediate response had been to save her, to protect her. He would never have believed he’d welcome her arms around him.