by Jane Jackson
‘Don’t be angry,’ he whispered.
‘Angry? Why should I be – well maybe I am, just a little bit. But only because of the terrible risk you took. Davy, nothing – nothing is more important than you.’ Tilting his chin the words dried in her mouth as she saw the dried blood caking his split lip and the red and purple bruising on the left side of his small tear-stained face.
‘I’m s-s-sorry.’ His chest heaved.
‘It’s all right.’ She pressed his head very gently against her shoulder and rocked some more, clenching her teeth as surging fury made her tremble.
‘Did the gypsy do that to you?’ He stiffened momentarily, then burrowed closer.
‘What happened?’ she asked softly.
‘H-he tore them up. I t-tried to stop him. H-he said it was my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed with you. He said you had to p-pay.’
‘But how would he have known you stayed …?’ Suddenly she realized; it wasn’t the gypsy who had hit him.
‘It was your father, wasn’t it?’
He sniffed and shuddered. ‘I’m s-sorry.’ He hid his face against her arm.
‘Davy, listen to me.’ Veryan smoothed his hair. ‘You did your very best. Do you remember how in the stories the heroes do brave things? Like Nathaniel rescuing the colonel’s daughters? Well, you’re a hero.’ She went on talking quietly and felt his small body growing limp and heavy as relief and exhaustion overtook him.
‘Poor little mite.’ Queenie stood, hands on massive hips, shaking her head. ‘But it’s like I told ’er Ladyship, no good comes of all this book-reading and such. You’re only making it worse for him.’
Still holding Davy close, Veryan struggled to her feet, wincing at the sharp protest from her strained muscles. Carrying him to the empty bunk that had been Gypsy Ned’s she laid him down gently, untied her shawl and spread it over him.
Queenie watched. ‘He’s not yours.’
‘I know.’
‘Where you going now? It’ll soon be time to start their tea.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Look, I don’t want no more trouble –’
Veryan swung round. ‘Trouble? Everything I own has just been destroyed, and that child’ – she pointed a shaking finger – ‘was beaten just because he’s fond of me. What am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t happen?’ Storming out, she almost collided with Tom Reskilly who nodded towards the smoking ruins of her hut.
‘Accident?’
‘What do you think?’ She strode past him towards the Thomas’s shanty. Davy’s father and another man emerged, half-drunk and laughing from the shack next door.
William Thomas blinked like an owl then sniggered. ‘Whose bed will you be in tonight, then? Looks like yours will be a bit too hot. All your books gone too, shame.’
Taking a step forward, Veryan slapped his face with all her strength. The shock travelled the length of her arm, jarring her bruised shoulder. ‘Never mind the books. That’s for hitting Davy.’ Her hand stung fiercely and she tucked it under her arm.
‘Bitch.’ William spat. ‘Better if he’d died under the wagon. You too.’ Lashing out with snake-like speed his fist caught the side of her head and sent her sprawling in the mud.
Through the ringing in her ears she heard Tom’s roar of anger and realized he must have followed her. It took her several sick, shaky seconds to stagger to her feet. Upright, if unsteady, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned ready to face the bully again. But someone else had got there first.
Fights were part of everyday life in the village. Fuelled by drink, they were usually noisy, erratic and, apart from the odd broken nose, did little lasting damage. This was different. William cringed and grunted as, with cold efficiency, Tom Reskilly beat him senseless. It didn’t take long.
Granite-faced, Tom came towards her absently rubbing his knuckles. Grateful to him for doing what she lacked the physical strength to do herself, she was about to thank him. He didn’t give her the chance.
‘You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t do it for you.’ His voice was rough. ‘It was for the kid, and for myself.’ He licked the blood from his grazed knuckles. ‘I had a child once, a boy. He –’ Abruptly he spun round and headed for the shanty.
Veryan watched him go. She couldn’t afford to ask. Knowing more would only make it harder. She mustn’t weaken. Not now. Reluctant, but with chores waiting and nowhere else to go, she followed him.
‘Where – ?’ she began, looking round and seeing no sign of Davy.
‘Bessie come for him,’ Queenie replied. ‘It’s all right, she haven’t been drinking. Well, not much. Anyhow you just leave them be. She’s his mother, not you.’
Veryan didn’t respond. What could she say that any of them would understand?
Standing at the table, peeling potatoes, carrots and turnips, she was very aware of Tom. He had gone directly to his bunk and seemed to be moving things around. Curiosity needled, but she refused to look.
‘I suppose you’ll have to come in with me tonight,’ Queenie grudged. Passing the table she waddled across to the ragged armchair and flopped down.
Picturing the filthy, smelly, cluttered little lean-to backing onto the wash-house and reached through a door in the corner behind the dresser, Veryan felt her stomach heave. But what choice did she have?
‘A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss,’ Queenie snapped. ‘I had arrangements. Now they’ll have to be changed.’
Four years of living in the shanty had given Veryan a very clear idea of what Queenie’s arrangements entailed. They occurred far less frequently now and Queenie often complained about missing the extra money.
‘’Tis only out of the goodness of my heart –’
‘It’s all right, Queenie,’ Tom said, emerging from between the bunks. ‘You don’t have to change nothing.’
Veryan’s head flew up.
‘How’s that?’ Queenie demanded.
‘It shouldn’t take me no more than a day to build her a new hut.’
‘When are you going to do that then?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘You’ll lose a day’s pay.’
‘Don’t you fret.’ Irony edged Tom’s tone. ‘I got enough to pay you.’
‘What you going to build it with? Nothing but cinders and charcoal left out there.’
‘I’ve seen plenty of wood and stuff down the end. Anyhow, seeing she’s only got to find somewhere for tonight she can have my bunk.’ Though he was talking to Queenie, Tom’s gaze was fixed on Veryan. ‘I’ll move on top to Nipper’s and he can shift across into the gypsy’s. See? No need for you to disturb yourself.’
He walked out. ‘Well,’ Queenie huffed. ‘That man do certainly take a lot on hisself.’
Speechless, her thoughts buzzing like angry wasps, Veryan turned to the fire and picked up a big pan containing meat and onions. It had been stewing slowly over the fire since the morning. Tipping in the vegetables she replaced the pan on the iron trivet. As she picked up the bowl containing the peelings, Tom returned carrying a strip of tarpaulin. Beckoning her, he went to the bunk he had just vacated. Reluctantly, still clasping the enamel basin, she followed.
‘You already got a wall on two sides. Now if I tack this on here’ – he held the tarpaulin against the long wooden base of the upper bunk – ‘you’ll be private.’ He glanced over his shoulder, adding softly, ‘I’ll see you don’t have no trouble.’
Biting her lip she nodded briefly, and hurried out. She was used to taunts and teasing, used to being ignored; kindness was something new. Especially from a navvy. She didn’t know how to handle it.
Chapter Eight
Chloe gazed at the spoonful of creamy scrambled egg in the centre of her plate and picked up her fork. Her throat closed. She must eat. Compared to the alternatives: kippers, devilled kidneys, crisp bacon, and thick oatmeal porridge, eggs would lie easier on a stomach tension had made tight and painfully sore.
‘Is anything wrong
, my dear?’
Startled, Chloe dropped the fork, wincing as it clattered on the plate. ‘No, not at all. I’m – I’m just not hungry.’
Sir Gerald folded his newspaper and set it beside his own plate on which traces of his hearty breakfast were congealing. ‘This is not like you. In fact, it seems to me you have not been yourself for several days.’
Dismayed that her husband should so easily have seen through her heroic efforts to pretend – to herself as much as to him – that everything was normal, Chloe forced a smile. ‘It’s nothing, really.’ But as he continued to study her, she looked down at her plate. Her heartbeat quickened and tears pricked her eyelids. She must stop this foolishness. She owed Gerald so much.
‘Chloe, it’s obvious something is troubling you. Come now, what is it?’
His voice was so gentle, his smile so kind. Just for an instant she was tempted – No. She dared not tell him the truth. Doing so might ease her guilt at feeling drawn to a man she barely knew, but such a confession could do irreparable damage to James Santana’s reputation and position. He had done nothing deserving of censure. Nor did she have the right to shift responsibility for her feelings onto him. She tried to swallow the obstruction in her throat. ‘I – you’re right, Gerald. I have not been quite myself, and for that I apologize.’
‘If you would apologize, my dear, then let it be for not taking me into your confidence. Now, tell me what’s wrong.’
‘It’s nothing of importance. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘Your committees do appear to have demanded a great deal of your time recently.’
Though she could not detect any nuance or hidden meaning in his remark, one could never be entirely sure with Gerald. ‘Please don’t think I’m complaining about the amount of work. It was my choice to become actively involved, and I haven’t regretted it for a moment. It’s just – the need is so great, and what we do seems so inadequate. I didn’t know how bad – I hadn’t ever seen such –’ Unable to sit still she pushed back her chair and crossed to the deep window, looking out over the park towards the line.
‘My dear, poverty is a fact of life. There will always be those who prefer idleness and drink to hard work and thrift. You cannot – and never will – change that.’
‘Perhaps not. But when I look around – all this –’ Her sweeping gaze encompassed the rich hangings, the polished furniture, the row of silver chafing dishes on the sideboard containing enough hot food to feed an entire family.
We have so much and they have so little –’
‘Were we to give everything away, do you think it would make the slightest difference in the long term?’
She faced him, clasping her elbows across her middle as if the pressure might ease an aching void that had little to do with lack of food. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘Exactly. Chloe, your nature inclines you always to think the best of people. It is an admirable trait in many ways, but one that puts you in danger.’
‘Danger?’ Her voice sounded husky.
‘Indeed. Of being deceived. Remember, my dear, people are not always truthful. They will say and do whatever helps them achieve their desires. You must be on your guard. Do bear in mind that charity, if it is to be effective, demands objectivity. Now come here.’
As she took his extended hand, a faint chilling shiver of unease feathered over her skin.
Head at an angle, he studied her. ‘You are decidedly pale considering all the fresh air you’ve had lately.’ His smile was warm and caring but didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you saw Dr Treloar.’
‘I’m not ill, Gerald. Really, I don’t need –’
‘No arguments.’ He smiled again, but it was nonetheless an order. ‘Your health and wellbeing are of the utmost concern to me. How can I concentrate on important matters of business if I am worried?’ He stood up. ‘Go this afternoon, there’s a good girl. Tell him I sent you. I want to see the bloom back in your cheeks.’
‘Yes, Gerald.’ If only it were that simple.
Despite an overcast sky, she could not face the confines of the carriage and, accompanied only by Polly, set off for Falmouth on horseback. She rode in silence. There was too much going on in her head. No longer able to discriminate between the real and imagined she longed for someone to talk to. Describing the turmoil might help her understand and make sense of it all. But whom could she tell? Who could she trust? Not just about James. Was she being deceived? But how? He had behaved impeccably und asked nothing of her. Undoubtedly James was the catalyst: but what about all the rest?
Pressured by gratitude into acceptance of a situation she sensed wasn ’t normal, she had coped by constantly reminding herself of her husband’s kindness and generosity. He had insisted that, in spite of her youth, and the manner of her father’s death, Cornish society accepted her, and accorded her the courtesy due a baronet’s wife.
She had tried hard to match his expectations: tried also to forget the past. He had never actually shown impatience or disapproval, but she sensed he did not like her to speak of her childhood. It was pointless, he ’d said, to hark back. The past could not be recalled or changed. What mattered was now, and the future: their future here at Trewan. So when he’d asked her not to visit the house, she had given her word. It would only upset her, he’d said. He could not bear her to be unhappy.
She had kept her pro mise. Yet she knew that revisiting her childhood home would not have disturbed her, quite the contrary. For despite an upbringing that reflected her father’s erratic changes of fortune, she recalled more laughter than gloom.
But during the past twelve months her pride in her role of Lady Radclyff had begun to crumble: eroded by an increasing number of sidelong glances she didn ’t understand and whispered conversations that stopped when she appeared. She would have shrugged this off, ascribing it to envy or something similar, except for one thing: the expression in their eyes. Man or woman, it made no difference. All observed her with the same mixture of pity, disdain, and curiosity.
She hadn ’t mentioned it to her husband. She wasn’t sure why, only that it was in some way a test of her loyalty. Strangely, it strengthened the bond between them. He had given her his name, his protection, and status in society. In return, she took immense care, both in public and private, to maintain the facade of serenely contented wife.
But alone in the darkness with no audience but her inner self cracks had begun to appear . Now – since meeting James Santana – head and heart felt as though they might burst from the pressure of doubts and confusion.
They reached Cyrus Best ’s stables.
‘Why don’t you go and visit your mother for an hour?’ Chloe suggested.
‘Oh, ma’am, can I really?’ Then duty clouded Polly’s eagerness. ‘Better not. Master said –’
‘The master,’ Chloe interrupted lightly, ‘would not expect you to sit about idle while I am with the doctor. We will walk together to the consulting-rooms, and you can meet me there again in an hour.’
Their horses ’ hooves clattered over the flagstones as they walked into the yard to the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil, and dismounted. There was a loud hiss and a cloud of steam billowed from an open doorway as red-hot iron was dipped in a barrel of water. The sweet-sharp smell of burning hoof hung on the air. Taking a shilling from her purse Chloe handed money and reins to a fair-haired boy wearing a leather apron that reached to his ankles.
‘Check her off-fore will you? I think the shoe might be loose.’
‘M’lady.’ The boy sketched a rough salute, and led both animals away.
As they passed the rope-walk which ran alongside Arwenack Avenue, Chloe inhaled the dry, fibrous, coconut smell of manila hemp. At the bottom of Swanpool Street they turned right towards Grove Place. A cold breeze funnelled up from the Town quay. Chloe looked down the slip past the white-painted Customs House and the King’s Pipe where contraband tobacco was burned, to the inner harbour. Frills of w
hite foam streaked water the colour of beaten pewter. A row of small boats bounced unevenly on the choppy waves. Further out, between the quay and the docks, barquentines, brigs and schooners tugged restlessly against anchor chains and mooring ropes as thick as a man’s forearm. Gulls rode a gusting wind that shredded their harsh cries as they soared and hovered.
‘You sure it’s all right, ma’am?’ Polly looked anxiously from the imposing entrance back to Chloe.
‘Polly, when did you last see your mother?’
‘Must be almost a month now.’
‘How is her health?’
‘Not good, ma’am. It’s her hip. She got a job to walk a lot of the time.’
‘So an unexpected visit from you is sure to cheer her up. And you will feel easier in your mind once you’ve seen how she is.’ Chloe opened the gate. ‘Off you go. Remember to give her my kind regards.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Polly beamed. ‘It’s some good of you.’
Ch loe waved her away with a smile then turned and walked up the path.
‘Lady Radclyff, this is an unexpected pleasure.’ White-haired, clean-shaven, and wearing a braid-edged frock coat, matching black waistcoat and dark-grey pinstriped trousers, the doctor led her into his office and bowed her to a button-back armchair, his welcome and his manners as polished as the glossy oxblood leather.
Chloe had no idea why she didn ’t like him. He had always treated her with perfect civility, treading the fine line between condescension and sycophancy. There was just something very slightly reptilian about his eyes. As she sat, folding her gloved hands in her lap, he took his own seat. She’d heard that some doctors sat behind their desk, employing it as a both physical and metaphorical barrier. Dr Treloar did not. His desk was set against the wall. He half-turned his chair so that he faced her.
‘How is Sir Gerald? Well, I hope?’
‘He’s very well, thank you.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. So, how may I help you?’