by Gloria Cook
Sol became aware he had an observer. It was the squire, in his gardening attire. Sol knew him fairly well, he’d drunk and played cards with him and Laketon on a few occasions, and he met his steady gaze without wavering or bowing his head. No one would make Sol humble himself. In the past he had not referred to him by a name or title, but now he had to be polite. ‘Pardon me, Mr Nankervis, I was just taking a look at the ruined wing.’
‘Sol, you are early for your appointment.’ Joshua sounded impressed. He was not displeased to come across this young man. He had always admired Sol’s splendid, well-sculpted body and strong, handsome face. Never had he seen a man more well put together. His jet-black hair fell in sultry tresses. His steely blue eyes were of the sort Joshua could drown in. The presence of the rebel in him, of being his own man, was utterly appealing. He had never thought to be attracted to anyone except Laketon but now he was burning to touch Sol. He offered his hand with a tingling in his flesh. ‘I have heard from my wife that you are keeping the Lewarne business on track. A worthy cause, if I may say so. I was involved in the Lewarne tragedy. Mrs Lewarne and her daughter are worthy ladies. All is well there, I hope?’
‘Indeed it is, thank you.’ The squire’s hand was nearly as rough as his own. Sol approved of a gentleman unafraid of good clean dirt.
‘Has there been word of the errant carpenter?’
‘None. I’ve asked around but he seems to have vanished off the earth.’
‘And you are left responsible for his family. I see little need for an informal interview with you, Sol. I’ve seen for myself the excellence of the work that Laketon has done at the newly named Wellspring House. I am sure every Kivell can produce work of equal quality.’ Joshua was eager to keep Sol talking, to remain alone with him. Laketon had been his first and only love, but with his jealous need to always keep close contact, he’d not had the chance to explore feelings for another. ‘As it happens I have a spare half-hour. I’ll show you over the burned-out wing myself.’
‘You are more than generous Mr Nankervis.’ Sol allowed a respectful incline of his head, then swept his eyes around the enchanting surroundings. ‘The grounds here are a sight worth seeing.’
‘Thank you. You must allow me to take you on a tour.’ Joshua took the longest route round the house to stay as long as possible with this gorgeous underling. ‘I’ve an idea. It’s my intention to drain and renew the pool, to extend it for more boating. The boathouse needs to be demolished and a grander one put up in its place. You could do that. I’ll take you there, and you can tell me if you have any ideas.’ All the while, as he set an ambling pace, he studied Sol. He saw Sol was genuinely engrossed; an intelligent, perceptive individual, who appreciated nature and all it could give. Joshua flung out his hands, indicating all that could be seen. ‘Everyone knows the gardens are something of an obsession with me. After the pool, I’ll show you the shrubberies and take you to the glasshouse, where I have many beautiful specimens of iris and orchid.’
Sol took him at his word, that he was merely proud for just about anyone to view and compliment him on his grands. With a commission secured here, to be able to look forward to Amy’s delight at the news, he was at ease as he strolled over the shaved lawns and admired the panoramic landscape. ‘I can see why Laketon is a devotee of exotic plants.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Joshua was thrilled to be holding his attention. ‘I allow Laketon the occasional freedom of the grounds. How could I do otherwise? It’s a pleasure to converse with someone as knowledgeable as I.’ There was a strong hint he would allow Sol the same concession. He knew Sol would never share the same desires as himself, but it would be an intense pleasure to gain his company alone again, just to look at him, to dream . . . They were passing the old bath house. A small construction with a steeply sloping slate roof and one small window. It had been stripped of its former use and he had furnished it as another suitable meeting place with Laketon. How wonderful it would be if he could get Sol alone inside and . . . he must say something quickly or he might betray himself. ‘May I ask, Sol, why you have chosen to work with wood?’
‘I haven’t chosen it specifically, although it seems at the moment I have arrived at a position where it has chosen me.’ He smiled at the picture of Amy happily employed in the Chy-Henver workshop. Life had been cruel to her and she did not smile often. When she did, and when he was the creator of a smile on her lovely face, she always captured something from him. He couldn’t picture her among all this grandeur, she was a moor girl, wonderfully simple and uncomplicated. The vision of her soulful anxious expression when he’d reached her out in the wild the day of baby Hope’s birth was burned into his mind. He’d wanted to take her in to his arms and tell her everything would be all right and he’d always ensure it would be. He should have done. She would have responded to his comfort. She had been open to sharing her feelings with him then, about to cling to him in delight that the baby and her mother had come safely through the labour, but because of his often off-hand ways with her, his well-publicized womanizing, she had held back. What would it be like to hold Amy? To hold her very close. He went on, ‘I like to do a great many things, to use my hands in many ways.’
‘Oh, really?’ Joshua felt he was about to turn to jelly. ‘Ah, we’ve come to the pool. It’s in a sorry state. I’m afraid we can’t get very close.’ The basin had some murky rainwater and was overgrown with reeds and weeds and flanked by undisciplined bushes and trees. The boathouse was tumbling down on the west bank. ‘My father wouldn’t allow anything to be done here after my brother Jeffrey perished in it, but now it can be reclaimed from the wild. I’ll get the foliage cleared, and the steps leading down to it.’ Joshua set his sight on Sol again.
Up on the high bank, with his hands behind his back, Sol pondered on how different things would be if his father had reached Jeffrey Nankervis in time. The young gentleman would be squire now. Or Darius Nankervis might have lived his life differently and would not now be dead. His grandmother’s oft repeated words echoed in his mind. ‘You can’t go against your fate.’ Fate had taken him to Chy-Henver, and now here today. He nodded. ‘I can see several possibilities. I’ll draw up some plans for you to consider.’
‘Excellent! I shall be so grateful.’
‘Sol! What are you doing here?’ a voice demanded gruffly.
Joshua leapt away from Sol, in guilt. It was Laketon. It must have been obvious to him that he had been drooling over Sol in this secluded spot. Laketon was jealous of the time he must inevitably spend with Tara, and questioned him after every night he slept in the house as to whether he had made love to Tara, not believing him when he’d stressed the marriage was not fully consummated. There were rough times ahead. ‘Um, Sol arrived to discuss work on the damaged wing. He mentioned your penchant for plants so I was just showing him around. He’s going to build a new boathouse for me.’
Sol looked from the squire to his second cousin, keeping his face straight over the strange interchange. The squire was under no obligation to explain himself to anyone, certainly not a humble craftsman. Then the force of the matter hit Sol like a violent gust of wind. Hell’s blood! They were deviants. They were lovers. He’d always despised Laketon. Setting aside his sexuality, it was a common consensus among all the Kivells that there was something innately rotten in him. He was quick to take offence and lash out, even against the children. If Titus gained this particular knowledge he’d not hesitate to slit Laketon’s throat as a disgrace to the family. It was not going to sit comfortably with Sol that he knew this about Laketon and the squire. He shuddered. He felt a fool for not realizing the squire’s ploy in bringing him somewhere so quiet, and he wanted to thump him for doing so. He would keep his distance from Joshua Nankervis while working here.
Many expressions were vying for supremacy on Laketon’s face. ‘I see.’
Sol saw the ugly jealousy.
‘Well, I must get on.’ Joshua pushed back his shoulders and attempted to sound that he was the better here
. ‘The architect has drawn up the plans for the repairs on the west wing. Details will be sent to you, Laketon. Sol, send your plans for the boathouse to the steward.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Sol said in a bland voice, moving back in retreat. ‘If I may be excused . . .’
‘Yes, you run along,’ Joshua said, on edge.
Sol hastened away. He almost felt sorry for Joshua Nankervis. It was obvious that Laketon was not going to easily excuse his lover.
Nineteen
Late in the morning, in a shanty not far from the Wayside Inn, Morton Lewarne awoke with a thundering headache. He yawned, expelling stale, beery breath, and scratched at the stubbly growth on his chin. Anyone from Meryen witnessing him would be shocked in the further decline of his appearance and appalled at the company he was in.
‘Move,’ he mumbled, pushing against the naked weight of Marcie Dunn, scrunched up on his arm. Her long greasy hair was spread across his shoulder and for one hungover, befuddled moment, he thought it was Floss, Amy’s cat, that had sneaked into his old bedroom, his marital bedroom, at Chy-Henver. He became unbearably aware of his horribly reduced circumstances. That it wasn’t Sylvia, his dear, honest to goodness, lovely wife at his side. That he didn’t live in a nice, well-furnished house any more, and have a business – a once thriving business – and a bright, good-natured daughter, the child, if only he had realized it before, he should be proud of. Instead he was existing on uneasy terms with a foul-mouthed, corrupt trollop, in a filthy hovel crawling with lice and cockroaches. Where three mongrel dogs lacking in house training had polluted his boots and used his shirt for a tug of war.
He shook his groggy head, bringing himself painfully on full terms with the daylight stealing in through the murky windows, and he maliciously shoved on Marcie’s heavy slumbering weight until she was no longer touching him in the narrow contraption of wood and straw-stuffed ticking that served as a bed. His flesh and her flesh were corrupt. They smelled as rotten as a midden. He would have died of shame, if he wasn’t past that. Edging past Marcie he got up and dressed in the remnants and rags that were his clothes.
He peered through pain-lashed eyes for sustenance. ‘Damn it! Lazy bitch!’ If there was any food the mongrels would have wolfed it down. They were whining at the door and he let them out, tossing a dirty mat after them to discourage them from coming back. He threw an empty battered pewter mug across the single living room, the only room of the shack. There was no ale left, and not even a drop of water to be found. From a veritable little palace, all spick and span and smelling of beeswax polish and wholesome food, he was starving in a fetid fleapit. When he’d got up of a morning at Chy-Henver, Sylvia or Amy would put oatmeal, topped with milk or cream, and bacon, or ham and eggs, in front of him. There was always a fresh pot of tea to be had. Here, there wasn’t even a drop of clean water. His womenfolk had served him without question, moving about quietly and with grace. Now he was lucky if this trollop gave him a crumb to eat, and if he asked for a meal – and it was usually only tea kettle broth – he received abuse from the lazy slut.
‘I ain’t taken you in to wait on you hand ’n’ foot,’ she’d shriek, putting rouge on in layers, or smoking her dirty clay pipe, or picking at her toenails. ‘You said you can get hold of lots of money. ‘Tis the only reason I’m putting up with you.’ She went on about the money day and night, when she wasn’t about her trade at the inn. Trade for her was good, she had enormous expertise at whoring. Thank goodness. At least she wasn’t stingy at allowing him the same benefits as when he’d been a generously paying customer.
Marcie stirred, licked her full blotchy lips, stretched her chubby white arms, and rubbed furiously at a flea bite. Her hazy sight cleared and she saw Morton staring down at her, with impatience and disgust. ‘Here! Where are you off to?’ she trilled, getting ready to make a grab at him, if need be. ‘Trying to run out on me? You owe me, Morton Lewarne, and don’t you ever forget it. You’re a kept man. If you don’t do right by me, as you’ve promised, I’ll set my friends on you. And ’tis time you paid up, got hold of this money you’re always on about. Or don’t it exist?’
Marcie was greedy, grasping and suspicious. And heartless. He’d be thrown out and completely destitute if he didn’t make an attempt to pay up soon. ‘The money exists, God’s honour.’
‘What’s He got to do with it? Pray it into my hand, can you?’ Sarcasm was another of Marcie’s skills. She sat up on the wonky bed, which received much noisy battering when she was about her trade, and struggled into her chemise and reached for her corset. ‘Well? Tell me where it is, or you’re out on your ear today!’
‘I’ve told you, I’ve had to lie low for a while. Make people believe I’ve disappeared for good. When they’re confident of that I can slip back and get the money I’ve secreted away. It adds up to a tidy sum, honest, Marcie. Two hundred pounds. A hundred each. Enough for us to go our separate ways, to keep me going until I can move far away and employ a lawyer to sell my property for me. Then I’ll start up something new.’
‘Go back, you say?’ She clawed her way across the grimy mattress and reared up to the level of his chest, like some fearsome lioness. ‘It’s hidden in your workshop?’
Morton flinched, afraid she was going to hit him or snatch at his collar. There was a terrible difference between the lashes she gave when she was angry and vindictive and when she was working. ‘Y–yes,’ he lied. He wasn’t about to tell this hell-cat exactly where his nest egg was stashed, the coins he’d put away in case he’d ever needed to make a hasty retreat. He’d also lied about the amount. There was over double what he’d told her. Now, he asked himself, why hadn’t he used it to pay off some of his creditors and get himself back on course. If only he had worked up the courage to demand the dues he’d been owned, then he wouldn’t have got into such a mess. If only he wasn’t so weak and a thorough-going coward. ‘I’ll make my way over there today. Sneak about and see if the coast is clear. Hopefully, Sol Kivell won’t be on the lookout for me any more. If he happens to go out, I’ll slip in and get the money.’
‘You’re shaking like the last leaf on a branch in a gale. Scared, are you?’ Marcie jeered. ‘Being scared of Sol Kivell is understandable. But I bet you’re scared of your wife and daughter too.’
‘I’m not! I wouldn’t like for them to see me like this, of course.’
‘Perhaps I should spy on the place first. I wouldn’t mind seeing Sol Kivell for myself.’ She fiddled with the curling ends of her hair. ‘If he’s anything like his father . . .’
‘Yes, you do that, Marcie. Get the lie of the land, so to speak.’ Morton was terrified of what Sol would do to him if he was spotted. The dogs would be there and likely they’d sniff him out. The brazen hussy could quickly talk her way out of bother if she was seen. ‘Find out what’s going on there.’
‘I’ll do that. It’s a lot of money to lose if things go wrong. I hope I don’t find the Kivells have taken over the place. That you’ve lost it for good. Even the law would have a hard time getting them out.’ Marcie looked at him from harsh eyes. Morton quailed, knowing something spiteful was coming. ‘Want me to find out how your daughter is? Alice, isn’t it? And your pious, don’t-do-much-in-bed wife?’
‘It’s Amy! And don’t speak about my wife like that,’ Morton exploded. He may have cheated on his family, let them down in the worst possible way, and beaten Sylvia that last day, but in vile surroundings like these they were sacrosanct to him.
Kneeling on the edge of the bed, putting her hands on her hips, Marcie leered, her pouting mouth twisted and ugly. ‘Ah – ah. Hit a tender spot there, did I? So you care about your precious, God-bothering family? Well, that’s news to me! You said your daughter was an uppity cow. And you told me your wife was cold in bed, that she was never affectionate. That must be all bleddy lies, you wouldn’t care what I thought about them otherwise. Miss Amy and Mrs Sylvia Lewarne will be worth looking at. And your baby. I’ll find out when the christening’s going to be. You
could go in disguise and watch the brat being dunked in holy water.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. You’re not to go near my family, do you hear?’ Morton bawled ferociously, donning a manly bearing for the first time in his life.
‘Oh, giving orders now, are we? Found a bit of backbone, Morton? Well, it’s too damned late for that!’ Once Marcie was roused in anger and malice she was unstoppable. ‘I’ll finish getting dressed and go over there straight away. You’d better be right about this money, or I’ll tell Titus where you are. He’s been looking for you. He’d be very interested to learn the truth.’
‘No!’ Morton struck her. One blow across the head. One blow that hurtled Marcie sideways off the bed and propelled her towards the crumbling stones of the makeshift hearth. She didn’t make a sound. She didn’t get up. ‘That’ll teach you. Get up, and if you start again you’ll get another of the same.’ Another first for him, to feel empowered.
He waited. She didn’t move. She was playing games. He didn’t care. She couldn’t intimidate him now. He prodded her with his boot. Then he saw something fanning out on the rough slabbed floor in the region of her head. Something red. Blood! She was bleeding. Hurt. Her head had hit the ragged edge of the hearth. The courage left him as suddenly as it had come. ‘Oh God! Marcie! Get up.’