The Carpenter's Daughter

by Gloria Cook

  ‘I’m Amy Lewarne. My father is Morton Lewarne, the carpenter. I’m sorry for intruding. I’m out looking for my brother Toby. He’s fourteen, small and thin. Have you seen him?’

  The man eyed her all over, taking his time. ‘I can see by your clothes you’re finer than a bal-maiden. Int’resting you should be Morton Lewarne’s girl. I need to have a word with he.’

  ‘Are you one of the Kivells?’ What did he want with her father? Was it about Toby?

  ‘Who else would I be living here?’ She blinked at his thunderous words, which he pitted with obscene language. ‘I’m Titus Kivell.’ With a sneer, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Lewarne.’

  Amy felt her terror grow. ‘Titus . . .?’

  ‘I see you’ve heard of me. I like that reaction to my name. Yes. I’m Titus Kivell. Newly out of gaol after five long months of hard labour.’

  Amy swallowed. Titus Kivell was the head, and the worst, of the ungovernable family. He had maimed a man in a fight but had somehow escaped a longer, more just, sentence or transportation to the colonies. No one knew he was free or it would have been the talk of the village. She tried to make herself shrink into the hard door she was pressed against. What would he do to her? ‘I’m sorry to be a trouble to you. Please, can I take my brother’s dog and go?’

  ‘I don’t take kindly to people walking all over my land just as they please.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I just wanted to get the dog.’ Amy ducked her head to dodge under his arm but he lowered it, keeping her prisoner. He brought his body so close she could smell the tobacco reeking in his clothes and the rum on his breath. With awe and trepidation, she noticed the scars on his unshaven chin. More were flicked across his dark brow and whittled into his cheeks. The result of much fighting and violence. Even so, and with all the weight of his hostility, it was a strange thing to observe he had strong, arresting looks. He had a multitude of children by the three different women he’d taken as wives, only one properly churched. ‘Please, I want to go home!’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want you to go yet.’ A ghastly smile spread across his swarthy features. A smile that chilled Amy to the marrow of her bones. She remembered she was clinging to the scarf she’d tied to Stumpy’s collar. Stumpy could protect her, but the dog, sensing a superior authority, was sitting quietly.

  Amy was terrified she was about to be subjected to the very worst of fates but suddenly she dredged up some fighting spirit. ‘No! Don’t you dare do anything to me. Get away!’

  ‘Father, what are you doing? Who’s she?’

  Titus glanced over his shoulder and to Amy’s relief he stepped back from her. ‘Sol. Come here, son. Take a good look at Miss Amy Lewarne. Isn’t she as fair as a wild lily? As innocent and lovely as the morning dew? Do you see the gold glinting in her sweet pretty hair?’

  Sol Kivell was much like his father, although leaner and less intimidating. His hair was pure black and he too wore it free and unruly. He was Titus’s eldest son, his only legitimate son. Amy had seen him at a distance, striding across the moors, a shotgun ‘broken’ and resting insolently on his shoulder, out hunting, or poaching. The Kivells had no need to poach but they were brazen enough to do so in daylight, proving the point that they thought themselves above any law. The local girls giggled that Sol Kivell would make a ‘good catch’ but every one of them was too scared to try to ‘catch’ him or any of his kinsmen who frequented the local inns, beer shops or kiddleys. It was with prayers of thanks that the women of the parish considered themselves safe from too much unwanted attention from the Kivells – they usually took up permanently with women further abroad.

  Amy remembered that Toby had mentioned Sol Kivell had helped him once, by pulling him out of a dangerous marsh on the moors. He was her only hope. ‘I’m here looking for my brother, Toby. I’m worried about him. Please, will you tell your father that this dog is Toby’s? See, he has only part of a tail. You can see he’s not one of your dogs.’

  On sauntering feet, clad in decorated leather boots, Sol Kivell drew in on her. ‘Little Toby’s sister, eh? I agree, Father, she is as fair as a lily. A little messed up, though. Morton’s going to be furious with her.’

  Amy had not missed that these men were talking as if they knew her father well.

  ‘Walk her back home,’ Titus barked, his gaze resting invasively on Amy. Then he stalked off, taking it for granted his order would be obeyed.

  ‘What?’ Amy gulped. Her father, who likely was aware by now that she had absconded, would be outraged to have her escorted home by a Kivell, especially in her state of disarray. People would talk. It would bring disgrace to his door. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Please, I really do have to go. My mother’s unwell. I need to get back to her.’

  ‘What about Toby?’ Sol reached out and pulled the yellow and red scarf out of her hand. Stumpy leapt to his feet, anxious to please this new master.

  ‘Well, it’s likely he’s home by now.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ He was untying the scarf from Stumpy’s collar. ‘Don’t! He might run off again.’

  ‘Well, if he does, he’ll go straight to Toby.’ Sol let the knots loose then flapped the cloth at Stumpy. He laughed when the lurcher shot off and scrambled away through the bars of the gate. ‘Find your master, boy.’

  Tossing Sol a reproachful look, Amy stalked off to the gate. Stumpy was tearing up through the valley. At last it seemed he was on the way home. Sol ambled along beside her. She held out her hand for her scarf.

  He wound the pretty yellow and red cloth round his big dark hand. ‘I’ll keep this.’

  ‘You can’t!’ She reached for it. ‘It was a present from my mother. It’s special to me.’

  He held it up high. ‘You’ll get it back. When it pleases me.’

  ‘Oh!’ Red spots of anger burned on her cheeks. She had been frightened by his father and although it wasn’t wise to confront the son she couldn’t hold her temper.

  As if he hadn’t noticed or cared, he drawled, ‘Let me open the gate for you. Be a pity to spoil your petticoat any more.’

  She passed through the gateway and sighed gratefully when he closed the gate after her. She was going to be spared the humiliation of him accompanying her home. Now she must get there as quickly as she could and face her father’s wrath.

  When she reached the lane, Stumpy was there, sniffing the ground, agitated and whining. She tried to grasp his collar, hoping to pull him along with her, but he whipped out of her reach. ‘Stumpy, no! We must go home.’

  With a loud whine, he shot off in the opposite direction, up Oak Hill. ‘No! Stumpy!’ She’d not go after him again and she marched off for the village, but the sound of Stumpy’s whines went with her every step. Unease prickled a cold clammy path inside her. She had to see what was unsettling Stumpy so much. Toby might have had an accident. He might be lying not far away hurt, the reason why he hadn’t come home. She had to see. She pursued Stumpy once more, able to keep up with him this time because he was stopping every so often to investigate the ground. He was on to something. All the while her apprehension grew.

  They were closing in on the ancient bridle path of the woods. The woods preceded the parkland of Poltraze and were dark and creepy and rumoured to be haunted. Except for the bravest children playing dares and determined courting couples, locals avoided the place. The Kivells were said to steal about the region, seemingly unafraid of any ghosts – there was supposed to be the remains of a burned oak tree somewhere on their land, used two centuries ago for burning witches. Amy had seen no such ancient monument a short while ago. Had Toby come here for a dare, or, as many a youth did, to spend time alone to prove himself a man, to stop his father making him feel inferior? It was beginning to seem a likely explanation.

  Stumpy entered the bridle path, heavy with summer growth, and was soon out of sight. She was hoping he wouldn’t go far in. She heard a long sharp whistle
and leapt in fright.

  Praying it wasn’t Poltraze’s gamekeeper about to set his dogs and then his gun on Stumpy, she drew cautiously near the trees. Just up ahead there was a man and the dog. For a moment she was gripped with fear for Stumpy, then relieved to see he had been brought safely under control by Mr Joshua Nankervis, the elder son of Poltraze. From Tara Julyan’s account of him, Joshua Nankervis was the only family member with a pleasant disposition. He was crouching, laughing and making a fuss of Stumpy.

  He rose as Amy came forward. ‘Hello. I heard you shouting to him.’ His voice was deep and educated, with an inflection as if he cared to linger over his words. Then he became aware of Amy’s disarray. ‘Oh, my goodness! What’s happened to you? Are you in trouble? Miss . . . where are you from?’

  ‘I’m Amy Lewarne, sir. From the village.’ She dropped a curtsey and explained the reason for her shameful state. ‘Pardon me, Mr Nankervis, would you have seen my brother?’

  ‘No, I’m very sorry, I can’t help you, Miss Lewarne.’ He glanced about rapidly in all directions. ‘I doubt very much if he’s in the woods.’

  Amy was grateful he didn’t mind her being here. He seemed kind but she eyed him warily. He was a puzzling individual. Apparently, he wasn’t above spending time carousing with the Kivells, particularly a somewhat milder cousin of Titus’s, Laketon. His clothes were often more like those of an ordinary working man. Presently, his white shirt was collarless and unfastened at the neck and cuffs, and over this was a well-worn dark green waistcoat. He had no hat on his dark hair and his boots were caked with fresh mud. ‘I think I really need to get back, sir.’

  ‘I think that’s probably the best idea.’ He consulted his silver pocket watch, as if he, too, really should be on his way. ‘I’ll see you safely to the village.’

  How could she refuse his offer without seeming impolite? To be seen in the company of this fine gentleman would invoke as much gossip as if Sol Kivell had been her escort. There would be whispers that Mr Joshua Nankervis should remember his higher standing, or perhaps that he’d been ‘rewarded’ for his consideration. Amy wondered why he wasn’t on horseback.

  Stumpy got up and strained towards the direction he’d been running in. He started up an insistent whining. ‘The dog wants to get off again. I think I have a piece of string about me. I’ll lead him, make sure that you get him home and safely tied up.’ Joshua Nankervis produced a long, thick piece of string. A strange item for a gentleman to have on his person, Amy thought, as he secured it to Stumpy’s collar. ‘I’m a keen horticulturist, Miss Lewarne. That’s why I have such a thing,’ he said. It also explained his dishevelled state.

  Stumpy started to bark and pulled so hard on his makeshift lead that not even the danger of choking stopped him. Feelings of disquiet crept up Amy’s back. She tried to see what was alarming the dog. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘I can’t think what.’

  ‘Perhaps if he was let off . . .’ Amy said. She was fearful for Toby again. She had to know if he was close by, if he was all right.

  ‘I’m not sure about that. Oh!’ With a determined leap forward Stumpy pulled himself free from Joshua Nankervis and shot off as if fired from a cannon.

  ‘Stumpy! What is it?’ Amy called out. The dog disappeared along the bridle path. She began to give chase. Joshua Nankervis put himself in her way. ‘No. I insist you stay here. There might be some shady character about.’

  She had to obey the gentleman here on his father’s land, but even so she edged forward anxiously. She had not covered many yards when she saw Joshua Nankervis standing motionless, looking down. Stumpy was visible through a clump of hazel bushes, whining loudly and sniffing something on the mossy ground beneath a beech tree.

  ‘What is it?’ she called, suddenly afraid of the answer. Amy felt as if a heavy curtain of darkness was falling on her, cloaking her in warning, preparing her for despair. She saw something down the steep slope towards the stream. ‘There! It looks like a cap. Oh dear God, it’s Toby’s! It’s why Stumpy was so upset. What have you seen? Tell me!’

  Joshua turned round, his face drained of colour. ‘Stay where you are, Miss Lewarne. I’m very sorry. There’s nothing we can do. It’s a boy. It must be your brother. He’s dead.’

  Two

  ‘We have a new queen, a slip of a girl called Victoria, on the throne, and the country is entering a new era. It’s prompted me, as in a fortnight’s time I’m to celebrate my sixty-fifth birthday, into the decision that this family needs new life breathed into it. For a start, I’ve ordered the staff to plan a ball to mark my age. Here. At Poltraze.’ Darius Nankervis’s speech, delivered in his domineering, throaty voice, was brief and blunt. With a satisfaction born out of autocracy, that he had stunned his two sons and his daughter-in-law into silence round his grand dining table, he rose, a fat cigar on its way up to his wide, harsh mouth, and he strode away to his study.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that,’ Michael Nankervis gasped, moving his neck about inside his high stiff collar. ‘When he said he had something to tell us, from his serious expression I thought the price of copper had dropped through the floor devaluing the land leases, or one of the plantations had been overrun by rebels. He’s not talked about anything except business or politics for years. There’s not been an important occasion held here since before Jeffrey’s death.’

  ‘Indeed, we were not allowed to celebrate the two occasions we presented him with granddaughters, and our dear baby son’s funeral was more or less overlooked.’ An angry snort marred the cool, milk-white features of his wife, Phoebe. ‘This is typical of your father’s inconsideration. It would take a hard push for me to organize a dinner party in two weeks let alone a ball! And I can only pray to God that his guests don’t see how poorly he maintains his house.’

  ‘Hopefully, it won’t be a big affair. People won’t be free at such short notice. I hope Father changes his mind about it.’ Pulling a long face, Michael gulped down the last of his red wine and held up the glass for the butler to refill.

  ‘I’d no doubt you’d say that,’ Phoebe snapped at him. ‘Biding quietly on Home Farm or dawdling among boring old documents in the library is all you care about. Not a thought do you give to the tedium I suffer every day in this gloomy house. Have you asked your father if we can accompany him up to London after the summer recess? I’d like to socialize again with a few politicians’ wives and other ladies of quality.’

  ‘No.’ Michael kept his head down. Phoebe had perfected bickering and baiting him to a fine art. He wasn’t afraid of her, he merely made every attempt to ignore her. He had no wish to go up to town and witness his high and mighty father’s particular approach to socializing, which always included other men’s wives.

  ‘You should leave us, Phoebe, and speak to Mrs Benney about the arrangements for the ball.’ This was an order from Joshua rather than a suggestion. He was comparing her to Amy Lewarne, the girl he’d met in tragic circumstances this afternoon. A girl uncomplicated and honest, and devoted to her now grieving family. There was not a woman like her in his own circle, more was the pity. His father had ordered him to take a wife, something he didn’t want ever, but now he had reached his thirty-fourth year, it was required of him to produce the next heir. The bonny daughters of Michael’s were as unimportant to their grandfather as the servants.

  Offended at Michael’s disregard for her and Joshua’s dismissal, Phoebe’s pale eyes were like ice. She loathed the men of this house. While Darius was like a deadly tiger, and the damnable Joshua an untroubled, occasionally riotous stag, Michael was an offhand, underachieving sloth. She was wasting her life with him and loathed him for it. If she had means of her own she would find the courage of her estranged stepmother-in-law and leave, and make it much further away than the twenty miles to Penzance. Making a pretence of smoothing her lace-encrusted dinner dress, she almost swallowed her bow-shaped lips as she sought to keep her tension at bay. Nonetheless, she shot Joshua a look of loathing. Of th
e three men, it was always he who most made her feel a fool. She’d stay at the table a few seconds longer, even though she should dutifully withdraw and leave the men to their smoking and the port – it irritated her husband that she didn’t slavishly live to please him, and she certainly wasn’t going to meekly obey his brother.

  Joshua threw two neat cigars into the middle of the snowy-white damask tablecloth before leaning back in his chair. ‘The only thing we should be concerned about is why the old man suddenly wants this party here. He rarely entertained at Poltraze when Mother was alive. What’s on his mind? Why has he sent for Estelle and Tara?’

  ‘He’s what?’ Michael’s fingers paused midair above a cigar. His seemingly lackadaisical brother, who appeared to care for little beyond botany and his unsavoury nocturnal life, kept ahead of him in all events. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I saw them, on their way to the Dower House. Even Mrs Benney was in the dark about it. I sent her to ask them how long they were staying. She reported back that they didn’t know. It sent the staff into a whirl making the place suitable for them. Our stepmother’s very unhappy, of course, the house was in much need of airing. I’m surprised she hasn’t taken off again immediately.’

  ‘Estelle is here?’ Phoebe gasped. ‘I don’t understand. Your father announced that he would never allow her to set foot in Poltraze again.’

  ‘I’d say that for some reason Father wants her and Tara at this ball.’ Joshua was concerned what this sudden quirk in his father’s habits might mean for him. While he’d been changing for dinner, his father’s valet had appeared to inform him that the master demanded an immediate audience with him. Joshua had thrown on his dinner coat and hastened along the oak-planked corridor to the west wing, where his father had his suite of rooms.

  His father had been in his bedchamber, gazing out over the fine view of the oak, beech and birch trees at the front of the house, sucking in a lungful of cigar smoke. ‘Why were you late coming in?’ He’d curled his lip, glancing round.