by Gloria Cook
‘I’m sorry, Father.’ Joshua took an appreciative look out of the window and down below. He hated the gloomy house and had asked his father for the responsibility of the grounds. It had grown into a passion and he was pleased with himself for keeping its formal features, the terraces and balustrades and ornamental gardens, rather than denuding the front aspect as other great houses had done. It took the eye away from the unpleasing effect of the house itself, a sorry confusion of pre-Tudor origins and uninspiring later additions. The original building had been burned down in the thirteenth century, and there had been other such happenings. Joshua would like to see the eyesore razed to the ground and a temple-like construction put up in its place. Wealthy his family, or rather his father, might be, but there would never be money enough for that, and even he didn’t have the inclination for such a huge undertaking. ‘I came across the body of a boy in the woods. He fell out of a tree, apparently.’
‘Damned inconvenient. Have you done anything yet about securing a bride?’
Joshua sighed inwardly. ‘I’m casting my eye around.’
‘Liar. Take care that you don’t run out of time and my patience.’
A sensation of being chewed by worms niggled Joshua’s stomach. He had a bride of sorts, and hated the very thought of taking a real one. He hedged, ‘If only I could meet someone with the character of Amy Lewarne, daughter of the village carpenter.’ Strange, he should snatch at her name, when the love he already had was involved in carpentry.
Darius puffed a cloud of dark smoke over Joshua’s head. ‘You can take a wife of appropriate birth and still have fun with this village wench.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ It would be a good idea to let his father believe this. ‘Father, it was her brother’s body I discovered.’
‘He shouldn’t have been trespassing in my woods.’ Darius shrugged.
‘Don’t you care at all?’ The villagers weren’t of much importance to Joshua either but he always had difficulty with his father’s heartlessness. He moved on to someone else. ‘Father, did you know that Titus Kivell is back at Burnt Oak? While I was escorting Amy Lewarne home she told me she’d been there looking for the boy.’ He’d actually been told this before he’d met Amy, by a Kivell. Joshua recalled Amy’s distress.
Darius hunched up his shoulders as a predator does to look bigger and more threatening. ‘Of course, I know about Titus Kivell. I take pains to know of the circumstances of the man who tried to rescue Jeffrey. I sent him many a comfort in gaol. Now there’s a man who’s produced many fine children.’ In the most dominant place in the room, above the serpentine fireplace was a portrait of Jeffrey, painted a few months before his death in the pool. Jeffrey, fine and dark, energetic and remarkably intelligent. He would have been capable of taking up high office at Westminster.
‘Ahem.’ Joshua cleared his throat to remind his father he was there.
Darius stared at him from his heavily hooded eyes as if rudely interrupted. It was just as well that his second son didn’t aspire to the political field. He had inclinations towards radicalism; educating the masses, abolishing transportation of criminals, that sort of ludicrous thing. He was a bit soft, so soft he didn’t even bother to do more than voice his opinions about it.
Joshua stared down at his feet. He and Michael would never succeed in gaining their father’s approval, indeed he was often intent on crushing them. It was why Joshua rebelled in many ways against his own class and why Michael held no sights for a public life.
Joshua’s thoughts were now batting between how much he hated his father, the sudden appearance of his stepmother and her ward, and how he could use Amy Lewarne.
‘I don’t like this. Something’s going on.’ Michael sighed weightily.
‘What do you think, Joshua?’ Phoebe said.
Joshua reached for a candlestick to break the delay in lighting his cigar. ‘I’ve no idea, but I’m sure we’re not going to like it.’
Three
‘I don’t think I’ll ever forgive your father.’ Her words were raw and strangled, Sylvia Lewarne, tear-ravaged and weak, struggled to lift her head up from the pillows of her bed. ‘It’s his fault your brother’s dead.’
‘Mother, you know you don’t mean that,’ Amy replied, her own voice lacking strength. It seemed she and her mother had cried out a lifetime of grief. She had brought up a pitcher of hot water for Sylvia to freshen up.
‘Oh, but I do.’ Sylvia was vehement as Amy helped her sit up on the edge of the bed. ‘You and I think alike, Amy, and I know you share the same thoughts.’ Amy did not argue with this ‘He, and he alone, is responsible for Toby being taken from us. My poor dear son must have gone into the woods to prove himself and ended up with a broken neck. He must have been terrified when he fell. Oh, Amy, I don’t think I can bear it!’
Sylvia’s hand was shaking and Amy squeezed it gently. ‘Mother, please don’t cry again. You’ll make yourself ill.’ She was anxious the tragedy wouldn’t take her mother’s life too. If her labour started now she’d have little energy to see the ordeal through and it would be two months too early. She was unlikely to bear the loss of another child.
‘I’m sorry, Amy.’ Sylvia’s eyes were burned by scalding tears. ‘I have to say it. I have to get it all out of my head or I’ll go mad. Your father was a brute to Toby, he never gave him a minute’s peace. Not once did he offer him a word of encouragement. And what was his first thought when you and Mr Nankervis turned up with the dreadful news? That heartless wretch who’s not shed a single tear over the loss of his son? He demanded that Stumpy be killed! He was going to ask Godley Greep to take Stumpy away and throw him down an old mineshaft or drown him in the stream. He planned to ask someone else to do it because he didn’t have the courage to do it himself! He’s always been a coward and a miserable so-and-so. I found that out early on in our marriage. I dared to quarrel with your father for the very first time yesterday and go against his will. I told him if he dared harm the dog, the only thing I’ve got left of Toby, I’d never speak a word to him again. I meant it, Amy. Of course, he didn’t like that. After all,’ she stressed bitterly, ‘what would people say if they thought his wife was against him? He couldn’t hold his head up so high then.’ Sylvia’s voice grew low and forlorn, and tore at Amy’s heart. ‘Where’s Stumpy now? It’s raining outside. The wind’s sharp. Toby would hate it if Stumpy was getting wet and cold.’
Amy was fighting not to cry. The dog was bewildered; he must have been sniffing about when Toby climbed the tree and had then run off to search when he couldn’t find him. Now he didn’t understand his absence from home. ‘He’s in the back kitchen . . . lying beside Toby’s work boots. Father’s brought his basket in from the shed.’
‘Mmmm.’ It was all Sylvia said. Morton had begged her last night to let him make things up to her. He never could, but at least it meant life would be better for the poor dog. Stumpy had been another victim of her husband’s harshness, never before had he been allowed inside the house and Morton had begrudged him every scrap of food. It had taken the death of her son to strike her just how callous her husband was.
When Sylvia had washed and was in a clean white nightgown, a black lace tasselled shawl and a black beribboned cap covering her hair, she sat up against the pillows, a dignified and composed older version of Amy. Ready to face the ordeal of the expected stream of sympathizers. Sylvia was seized with worry. ‘What are we going to do about cake? People will be calling to pay their respects when the coroner lets us have Toby back. And what if Mr Nankervis calls? He was so kind and concerned yesterday. Amy, have we got plenty of tea in the larder?’
‘Oh, Mother.’ Amy leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘Even in your grief you’re thinking about others. Don’t worry. Mrs Greep has already popped in with some yeast cake. We may not have any family to rally round us but our friends and neighbours won’t let us down. When I go downstairs, I will make a start on some scones.’
‘Yes, you do that, my love. Doing something as
simple as some baking will help see you through.’
‘I’ll keep slipping up to make sure you’re all right. Now, you get some rest.’
It was the custom to keep the curtains closed until after the funeral and Amy had lit candles on the landing and down in the passage below. At first, in the dim light, she didn’t see there was someone at the foot of the stairs. ‘Oh!’ The bowl and pitcher she was carrying shook in her hands and chinked together. Water sloshed over the rim of the bowl and wetted her skirt.
‘Didn’t mean to alarm you,’ came a firm burr.
‘What are you doing here?’ Amy hissed, keeping her voice low so her mother wouldn’t hear. In his high boots and a long dark overcoat, a round-brimmed hat in his hand, Sol Kivell was filling the short passage. He was like someone from a past age, from no particular age. He gave the word intruder an even more ominous meaning. Amy stayed put, reluctant to go near him.
Sol gazed up at her. Amy got the feeling her unease and offence were unimportant to him. ‘Staying there all day?’
‘You’ve got a nerve! How dare you come in here like this? How dare you come here at all. Don’t you know what’s happened?’
‘I do. On behalf of my family I’ve come to offer our sympathy. The women have been busy for you. I’ve left it on the kitchen table.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Amy was furious. Forgetting her disquiet she descended the rest of the stairs and pushed past him. She was brought to a halt in the kitchen. Food, including two hunks of ham, and an assortment of wine bottles and ale flagons were heaped on the table. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Sol Kivell came into the room and headed for the back door. ‘What – I mean, why? Why has your family done this?’ He turned round. ‘For Toby. He used to come to Burnt Oak as often as he could.’
Amy couldn’t take in this new information. She put the bowl and pitcher down. ‘I . . .’
‘Find it hard to believe?’ Sol was grim and distant. He had a way of holding himself as a superior. ‘Don’t know as much about your brother as you’d thought, do you? The family were fond of him. He deserved better. We’ll be offended if you refuse our offering.’ This was said in distinct challenge.
What was she do? Her father would order Sol Kivell to take away the things he had brought, declaring he’d want nothing from a heathen tribe. Her mother would decline the generosity too, although civilly. As for herself, she wanted to learn why Toby had befriended the Kivells and why they had reciprocated. ‘I’m surprised. I thought Toby had never kept any secrets from me.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about him.’
And never would, she thought, meeting his accusing stare, if she didn’t at least accept his family’s gifts. She had lied many times for Toby’s sake, a lie after his death wouldn’t really matter. Her mother was having to keep to her bed, so she wouldn’t be placed in the position of revealing where all this food had come from. Hopefully, her father wouldn’t come in from the workshop, where he was about the dreadful task of fashioning Toby’s coffin, and she could put the food away in the larder. No one need know that Sol Kivell had been here. He had come by way of the moors, riding, with the addition of a packhorse, along the rough track that ran parallel to the stream, which in turn ran along the back of Chy-Henver – she could see the mounts through the window, waiting across from the stepping stones. Thank goodness the doors of the workshop faced away from the house or her father would have seen Kivell’s arrival.
Brought to a humiliating humbleness, she said, ‘Please pass on my thanks to your family, Mr Kivell. Um, I hope you won’t be offended if I ask you to take back the wine and ale. We’re Methodists. We don’t drink, you see.’
He put sharp eyes on her, eyes of startling blue. Amy got the impression he wanted to say something hard, perhaps insulting. He nodded. Took his time putting on his hat. Gathered up the alcohol in his broad grasp. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He left.
Rooted to the spot, Amy listened as he said a few soothing words to Stumpy. The room seemed strangely, horribly empty without Sol Kivell’s presence. It was like losing Toby again. For Sol Kivell to have come here, to have brought all this food, reinforced the torment that Toby was actually dead. As did the evidence of her surreptitious hunt at Burnt Oak yesterday by the scrap of her yellow and red scarf she had glimpsed at the last moment peeping out of his coat pocket.
Why should he hold on to it? It was vital to have her scarf back, otherwise she couldn’t even try to forget the harrowing events of her search for Toby, of seeing his broken body. Finding her feet, she ran after him, out into the rain. ‘Wait!’
He stopped, rainwater dripping off his hat. He was holding his load securely, confidently. He looked at her without a trace of enquiry and she could see he was about to move on. She blurted out, ‘I want my scarf.’
He shook his head. Went on his way.
Becoming soaked, she cried, ‘Please! You’ve no right to keep it!’
Without glancing back, he drawled, ‘You know where to come for it.’
Four
Tara Julyan pattered down the creaky oak stairs of the Dower House and positioned herself at the edge of the parlour doors. ‘Good morning, Aunt. I think the sun will soon grace us with an appearance today. I thought I’d slip out for a little while.’
Whichever room Estelle Nankervis happened to be in she always faced the door; it was part of her nature to be prying and suspicious, and she held a need to be in control. ‘Do you indeed? It’s very early. Why are you skulking, Tara? Come into the room.’
‘I’m not skulking, Aunt Estelle.’ Tara had no choice but to obey and she went into the dark, shadowy room with slow reluctant steps.
Estelle took her in with one swift glance. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing, Aunt.’ Tara’s attempt at appearing innocent was inevitably ruined by a guilty flush. It was impossible to keep anything from her aunt. She believed everyone in the world owned an element of her husband, to be conniving and faithless.
‘Then why are you dressed for riding? I take it you’re intending to wear a hat? That you were not about to risk spoiling your complexion?’ Estelle was passionate about preserving Tara’s genteel looks as well as her own. She had married young, and having not yet reached thirty, did not look much older than Tara. She had a deceptive soft grace and a much desired classical exquisiteness.
‘Atkins is bringing my hat down. I fancied a little more exercise than a stroll round the grounds. Please, may I go?’
‘The grounds!’ Estelle screeched, something she did with alarming alacrity when angry. ‘You could not do so even if you desired it. The few strips of garden outside can never lay claim to the description of grounds, any more than this festering hulk can be known as a house fit for refined company. It’s an insult that we have been given this place as accommodation. It was built over a hundred years ago to lock up an ageing Mrs Nankervis who was dangerously in the throes of senility. Every window is heavily barred or locked. It’s surrounded by brick walls and tall firs. It’s like a prison.’ She sighed with irritation. Like her screeching it was something she only did in front of servants and Tara, otherwise she wouldn’t dream of being so unladylike. ‘Oh, have a little fresh air if you must. Goodness knows we’ve been cooped up in this mausoleum for the past forty-eight hours. Atkins must not let you out of her sight. Do not go far. Remember that neither you nor Atkins are very familiar with the area. Keep away from the mining parts. Do not enter any properties or speak to the villagers. Return within two hours.’
‘I will, Aunt Estelle, I promise. What will you do?’
‘There is nothing I can do but wait for my husband to condescend to arrive and reveal why he has summoned us here. Enjoy your ride, my dear.’ Estelle looked away. She was unreachable now, had shut herself off into her thoughts and broodings.
‘Thank you, Aunt.’
A shedlike building housed the sturdy ponies that had pulled the trap. They were not smart mounts but would do for Tara’s purpo
se. She held no concern as her aunt did if things weren’t up to top mark. The grey-stone dower house was positioned at some distance, out of sight of the big house. The wooden gates had long ago rotted on rusty hinges and now lay as a pair of forlorn rejects against the inside of the wall. The surrounding garden, laid out in precise measurement each side of the house, had become a wilderness. When Tara had arrived here two days ago she had wanted to jump off the trap and run away. She felt she was meeting more than a lack of hospitality. There was a sense of despair here.
‘I’m glad to be leaving the place even for a short while, Miss Tara,’ Atkins declared doughtily. Tall and stiff-limbed, she required an undignified amount of help from the stable boy to get up on the side saddle.
Freedom. Away from all restraints and gloomy confines, Tara was tempted to raise her face, lift the lace veil on her hat and take a kiss from the late August sun. Not wanting a reprimand, she contented herself with taking a deep breath. The sense of release didn’t last. What did the frightening Darius Nankervis want with her aunt? Aunt Estelle wouldn’t have come here if not compelled to. It had taken a lot of courage for her to leave Poltraze knowing she could only look forward to a future of being shunned. A wife had no rights except to be dutiful to her husband, to see to his needs, to strive to never let him down. Tara would never forget the last fierce quarrel, when her uncle had returned unexpectedly and discovered Atkins was packing for them. He had made a lot of threats. True, he had not subsequently demanded her aunt return to him as a wife, nor troubled her in the small property of his on the seafront at Penzance, but it was plain to Tara that he retained a terrible hold over his wife. For months Tara had feared every approach and letter to the house, expecting that they would surely be turned out, with nowhere to go. Her aunt had intended their stay at Penzance to be temporary. Something had gone wrong with her plans, something she refused to discuss, although she had stressed that the situation would one day greatly improve, that patience only was needed. Had that day come? Tara thought not, her aunt was much perturbed by her husband’s summons.