by Jane Jackson
Tom turned. ‘Shall I see you back up to the top, ma’am?’
‘Yes. Please,’ Loveday said gratefully. ‘It’s so hot down here.’ She dabbed her face with a lace handkerchief. ‘How do you stand it?’
‘We’re used to it, ma’am. Besides, it make a nice change from weeks of rain.’ Behind him one of the men deliberately hawked and spat while others mimicked him in mincing tones. He ignored them. Five years from now they would still be eating pig swill and sweating their guts out for pennies. He’d be long gone by then. He offered his arm and, handing him her parasol – which provoked an explosion of mirth from the avidly watching gang – she took it, gathering her skirts with her free hand. She glanced over her shoulder.
‘Diana ?’
‘Oh, do go along, Loveday.’
‘I’m sure one of the other men would –’
‘Don’t be absurd.’ Her retort frosted the humid air.
As they reached the top, Loveday thanked Tom prettily. Then, retrieving her parasol, she hurried towards Lady Radclyff.
‘Chloe, you would not believe –’
Tom found himself facing James Santana.
‘Where –?’
He indicated the slope.
‘No trouble, I hope?’
Tom shrugged. ‘There might be.’
‘Oh? Why?
‘I told her I wasn’t interested.’
The engineer’s sharp look was followed by a brief nod. He understood. Navvies, with their powerful muscular bodies and unconventional lifestyle, had always attracted bored society women who liked to embroider the encounters and relate them as amusing dinner conversation. As the plumed and ribboned garnet hat appeared, Tom and James exchanged an expressionless glance. Then the engineer walked forward to offer assistance.
Glancing back at Lady Radclyff and her friend Loveday, Tom touched his cap then slithered back down to the stinking humidity and Nipper’s lascivious questions.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I know who I am, Mr Lumby.’ Agitation made Veryan’s heart thump and she could feel her cheeks burning. James Santana had warned her to expect scepticism, but the attorney’s arrogant disbelief was little short of insult. ‘Why else would I have come?’
Elbows on his massive desk, the tall attorney placed his finger tips together and looked down his great beak of a nose. ‘Why did you come?’
She glanced at James Santana for reassurance then back again. ‘Because the notice in the paper asked me to.’
‘Young woman, you would be astonished at the number of people claiming to be someone they’re not.’
‘But I’m not doing that.’
‘How can I be sure?’ The attorney radiated disapproval. ‘How do I know you are the person you say you are? Your appearance is not what one would expect of the person you claim to be.’
Veryan’s flush deepened and her chin rose. ‘I am aware of that. My circumstances –’
‘The law requires proof.’
‘And I have already explained that all my possessions were lost in the fire. Mr Santana will confirm –’
The attorney turned to James. ‘Mr Santana, did you have personal knowledge of these possessions?’
‘No.’ Veryan answered before he could answer. ‘He did not. What I meant was that he could confirm there was a fire, and that my hut was destroyed, along with everything in it.’
‘Leaving aside the question of how – having no prior knowledge of the contents he could offer such confirmation – the fact that a fire occurred is not sufficient reason for me to waive the need for evidence.’ The attorney shook his head, his smile cold and humourless. ‘That is not the way the law works.’
She swept him with a gaze. Superbly tailored in black morning coat, striped trousers and stiff white collar, he was immaculately groomed. His chin was closely shaved, his white hair parted on the side and curling in front of his ears, and he smelled faintly of cologne. Judging by his thick gold cuff links, his ornate fob watch and heavy signet ring with its single diamond he was a wealthy man. And his professional standing was the result of a first-class education.
She had been trembling with nerves when James escorted her into the lavishly appointed office. The attorney’s intimidating manner had threatened to overwhelm her. But her awe and uncertainty had been edged aside by indignation. He was just another bully. But she was used to men like him. How dare he assume she was an impostor?
‘So how does it work in a case like this, Mr Lumby? I have no documents to show you, and I’ve explained why. What do I do now?’
The attorney stiffened. His lips thinned, and the area around his aquiline nostrils turned white. Clearly unused to challenge, especially from a woman, and particularly one as young as she, he was speechless.
‘We thought,’ James suggested quietly, ‘perhaps a sworn statement?’ He had discussed with her the difficulty of proving her identity before they entered the building housing the attorney’s office.
After walking from the shanty village to the line she had hitched a ride to Penryn on one of the flat-bed wagons then walked to Falmouth. Her route had taken her past Turnpike creek to Penwerris, along Greenbank, down High Street to the noisy junction and quay at Market Strand.
The sight of James waiting on the wide steps of the Royal Hotel had banished the discomfort of her rubbed, aching feet. Acutely aware of the mud and stains around the hem of her dress, of ill fitting underwear that clung, damp with perspiration, and of her untidy hair, she had blushed as she self-consciously tucked back loose tendrils from her neck and temples.
The attorney blew down his nose. ‘Without corroborating evidence I cannot see any –’
‘If Miss Polmear were to give information about her parents which could only be known by close family,’ James suggested, ‘surely that would establish her identity beyond question?’
Edward Lumby drummed his fingertips on the leather-framed blotter. ‘It might help,’ he conceded ungraciously. He picked up a small silver bell from one corner of his desk and gave it a brief imperious shake. The door opened to reveal a short, round, balding clerk. So quick was the response Veryan wondered if the clerk had been standing waiting for the summons.
But in that case, it meant the attorney had intended, even before they arrived, that she should make a sworn statement. So why had he been so obstructive?
The clerk peered over pince-nez that sat slightly askew on his pug nose. Anxiety had scored deep grooves between his sparse brows and around a mouth that wanted to smile but wasn’t sure if it should. Knowing what that was like, she felt a twinge of sympathy.
‘Bellis, this young woman wishes to swear an affidavit in support of a claim on the Hatfield estate.’ He eyed Veryan sternly. ‘Mr Bellis is a notary. He will take a statement from you, which you will then sign under oath. This will be passed on to the family for examination.’
The family. ‘Would it not be simpler for me to meet them myself?’ Veryan suggested. ‘Then all this –’
‘Certainly not! The very idea.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t argue with me, young woman.’
Chagrin made Veryan’s skin prickle as she flushed.
‘As executors charged with administering the estate of the late Mrs Hatfield, all matters pertaining thereto are the responsibility of this firm. The family made it quite clear that they have no wish for any contact with legatees of whom they have no personal knowledge. Veryan Polmear is one such legatee. Now kindly go with Mr Bellis. Your statement will be passed on to the family. If – ’ he weighted the word with doubt – ‘they consider it worthy of further investigation you will receive a letter to that effect. As Mr Santana has taken it upon himself to support your claim, no doubt he will find time to read it to you.’ ‘
‘Miss Polmear,’ James stated firmly, ‘is quite capable of reading any correspondence for herself.’
‘Indeed.’ It sounded noncommittal but Veryan knew he believed James was bluffing. ‘Where should it be sent?�
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She tensed. There was no mail delivery to the shanty village.
‘To the Royal Hotel,’ James said smoothly. ‘Care of myself. With your permission, Miss Polmear?’
Relief and gratitude brought quick tears to her eyes. She swallowed. ‘Thank you, Mr Santana. You are very kind.’
‘If you will excuse me.’ Edward Lumby stood up. ‘I have pressing matters to attend to.’ From his tone and manner it was plain he considered their visit an irritating waste of time.
Taking her cue from James, Veryan rose and started towards the door and the waiting clerk. Then she turned back. ‘May I ask one question, Mr Lumby?’
‘Well?’ He frowned impatiently.
‘What exactly has my grandmother left me?’ She was more curious than expectant. A small piece of jewellery perhaps? Some token of her mother’s childhood? She watched his mouth purse and feared he was going to refuse to tell her. Then the words fell, terse and disapproving, into the silence.
‘Veryan Polmear, if she is found, is to receive the sum of five hundred pounds.’
Veryan felt James take her arm and, head swimming, she was led out to another much smaller office.
An hour later, her statement duly signed and witnessed, she walked out, still dazed, into the brightness and noise of Church Street. Standing on the wide pavement as carts and carriages clopped past, and people hurried by intent on their own business, she was still struggling to believe it. Five hundred pounds.
‘Let me be the first to congratulate you on your good fortune.’ The warmth in James Santana’s voice made her heart swell. She swung round to face him.
‘All thanks to you. If you hadn’t seen the notice, then gone to the trouble of telling me … Many would not have bothered. Then arranging the appointment.’ She knew she was babbling but couldn’t stop. Too much had happened too quickly. ‘That awful man! You’d have thought it was his money. How dare he try to browbeat me?’
‘He didn’t succeed though.’ James grinned.
Pressing one hand hard against her ribs as if to soothe the upheaval beneath, she rubbed it with the other. ‘How can I thank you? Ever since that day on the path, d’you remember? You’ve shown me such … warmth.’
He lifted one shoulder, seeming slightly uncomfortable. ‘I just happened to be – Really, such thanks are unnecessary.’
‘No, don’t,’ she begged. ‘Don’t say it was nothing. There isn’t much kindness around a navvy village, especially for someone who doesn’t fit in.’ Tom Reskilly’s face appeared in her mind. No. She felt perspiration break out on her skin. Her heart began to race. ‘I am so grateful I can hardly believe all the trouble you’ve gone to on my behalf.’
Frowning, visibly disconcerted, he seemed about to speak then stopped and looked away. He was too modest, Veryan decided, too self-effacing. She felt a rush of … what? She was so jumpy, her emotions so tangled, she didn’t know what she felt.
His mouth widened in a hearty smile. ‘Why not? It was obvious to me, and to Lady Radclyff, that you were – are – different from the other women. If the little I have done has been helpful to you, that is reward enough.’ She would have spoken, but he gave her no chance. ‘I have no doubt within a very short time your good fortune will be confirmed. Then you will be free to leave the line and go where you will. I only wish that – ‘ He shook his head and turned aside, gazing first at the pavement, then down the street. He seemed, indeed she sensed, he was waiting, wanting her to ask.
‘What?’ She could hardly breathe, and every nerve was tight with anticipation. ‘What do you wish?’
He looked at her now. But instead of the warm intimacy she had so hoped for, his gaze held diffidence and compassion. Apprehension clutched at her with icy fingers.
‘I wish my own future held as much promise. Still, as the demands of my job appear to be increasing each day, I shall have little time to feel sorry for myself.’
Staring at him she felt hope drain away like melting snow. ‘I don’t understand.’ She forced the words out. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have lost my heart,’ he confided, ‘to someone not free to return my affection,’ Despite the churning shock and disappointment, and the drenching scarlet heat of embarrassment, she found his small, helpless shrug unexpectedly moving. Her painful laugh never reached her lips. She touched his arm. ‘I –’ I know how you feel. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Now it’s you who are kind.’ He inhaled deeply then smiled, and his relief provoked a tiny stab of hurt. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to get back to work.’
‘Of course,’ she said quickly. ‘I really am grateful.’
He raised a hand, softening the gesture with a smile. ‘You’ve thanked me enough.’ He paused. ‘Will you treat what I told you as a confidence? For myself it does not matter, but –’
‘Of course.’ Who did he think she would tell? In any case it was a bitter-sweet secret she didn’t want to share with anyone.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest –’
‘I know. It’s all right. Really.’
‘As soon as I receive the letter –’
‘Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.’ With a final bright smile and she turned away.
‘Wait! How are you getting back?’
She shrugged. ‘The same way I came. I’ll walk.’
He took a coin from his pocket and pressed it into her palm. ‘Take a cab to Penryn station. You might be in time to get a lift on one of the extra ballast wagons.’
‘Th–’ She stopped as he wagged a finger.
‘Go on.’
She went, clutching the coin. So, James Santana loved a lady who wasn ’t free. No prizes for guessing who. The stab of jealousy was sharp. Then she realized; though she admired and liked the engineer, it wasn’t him she had yearned for, it was what he represented – escape. But now she would be independent. That money was her ticket out of the village and into a new life.
Back at the shanty Queenie’s incessant questions rasped her nerves until they were raw and quivering. Queenie was determined to find out where she had been and why. But Veryan was equally determined not to tell her.
The interrogation shifted between cajolery, demand, and threat; a battle of wills suspended only when the men arrived back from the line. Veryan knew it wasn’t over. The coercion and browbeating would resume at the first opportunity. But this time, no matter what the cost, she had to remain silent.
She wanted to be far away before news of her legacy finally leaked out. It wasn’t just that Queenie would immediately demand a share of the money. What really terrified her was Queenie’s threat that if she ever tried to leave, to make public her part in the gypsy’s death. There would be plenty of people willing to listen, willing to believe she had killed him deliberately. How could she prove otherwise?
With so much on her mind she prepared the meal and did her chores like an automaton, hardly aware of the men except for a brief moment of gratitude when she realized that whatever they were talking about had caught Queenie’s interest and diverted her attention.
Tom spoke to her and she started, trying to focus. He wasn’t exactly frowning, but seemed slightly anxious. He seemed to be the butt of envious taunts, but before she had gathered her scattered wits he bellowed at the men to shut up. In the uproar of laughter and jeering that followed she thought he asked if she was all right. So she nodded, and continued dishing up the meal.
She had done without so many things and worked so hard to save up the few pounds she had in the Savings Bank. While she waited for the family to confirm the legitimacy of her claim, she could use that money to buy herself a new dress or some underclothes: things no one else had worn.
And wear them here in the village? It didn’t require a lot of imagination to picture the response of the other women. But where else was there? She could go into Falmouth, and browse in the shops like a lady of leisure. She could visit a tea-shop and sit at a table by herself: a table covered by a glistening damask cloth.
There would be fine china with a delicate pattern and maybe a tiny vase of fresh flowers. There would be dainty sandwiches, rich crumbly scones, and a choice of feather-light cakes and pastries. A waitress would ask her what she would like, then bring it to her on a tray.
She didn’t expect to be idle. Five hundred pounds sounded like a fortune, but she would have to find somewhere to live as well as feed and clothe herself while she looked for work. What she would really like to do was teach. But without references what chance did she have? Her background was far too complicated to explain. Anyway, who would entrust their children to an ex-navvy woman?
Despair lapped about her like a rising tide. She had craved escape from the line. But now it was within her grasp, she was afraid. Despite wanting desperately to get away from the shanty, and Queenie, and the men’s drinking and fighting, and the sheer drudgery, the prospect of going out into the world alone was far more daunting than she had anticipated.
A little while later, exhausted and footsore, she lay under the blankets and stared into the darkness, her thoughts roiling and churning.
She had got what she had wanted for so long. At last she could leave the line. And go where? It didn’t matter. She could even leave Cornwall if she wished. The family didn’t want to know her. Well, what of it? She couldn’t remember them either. She had been alone for a long time. She was used to it. She liked it that way. She didn’t have to consult anybody else about where to go or what she should do.
She was in a fast-flowing river. Her fears were jagged rocks jutting out of the water lying in wait to catch her, trap her, drown her. The current had her in its grip, sweeping her closer and closer to a black stump of rock, sharp as a broken tooth. Suddenly she saw the gypsy’s face. It grew huge, filling her vision. The leering, laughing mouth became a black tunnel and the river was carrying her into it. She was screaming and screaming but not making any sound. She flailed desperately with arms and legs but the current was too strong and swept her onward into the darkness. The black rocks became people. She shrieked for help, but they turned away and the river plunged over a precipice and she was falling …