He brought his hand close to his face to study it. The flesh on each finger was shredded, some of the rips on the palm needed a couple of stitches. But it didn’t matter, nothing did. Such a little thing. A few cuts, a little pain. Not with all his men dead.
All he’d got from the war was a few hours of unconsciousness and an excruciating headache, like the one that had precipitated the living nightmare, the act of masochism down on the bank of the little creek. The act Rebecca Allen had witnessed with her huge sympathetic eyes.
Alex picked up the bandage and bound his hand, round and round, in careless fashion. Now he wanted to sleep, to seek oblivion and be rid of one more wretched day. He reached for a whisky bottle, unscrewed the top with his teeth and spat it out. He drank steadily, feeling the spirit burn into his guts, warming his vitals, scourging his soul. When the bottle was empty, he climbed somehow onto his bed, stretched out and, with the room spinning, closed his eyes. Before the whisky did what he longed for, he thought Rebecca Allen had come into the room, sat on the bed beside him and was stroking his face, gently, soothingly. He put out his hand but felt nothing, it was only an illusion. Alex grinned, a silly sort of smile; he’d asked the girl not to say anything, at least he could trust her.
* * *
Much later, when she was going to bed, Rebecca knocked on Alex’s door and called softly to him. There was no answer but she did not expect one.
Abigail had made her sit and play cards all evening. She was still peeved over Alex’s bad temper in Trevallion House. ‘I can never get him to take cocktails with me, he finds them a crashing bore,’ she’d said, ‘but when he’s in one of his moods he shuts himself away and gets drunk. I hope he wakes up tomorrow with a terrible headache.’
‘Does he often get drunk?’ Rebecca asked, trying to sound casual.
Abigail raised her eyebrows and smirked. ‘Doesn’t every man?’
But Abigail had not seen her brother-in-law in the creek, off in a kind of trance, tearing his hand on the bushes.
When Abigail had retired, declaring the ‘sea air from the creek makes me so terribly, terribly sleepy’, Rebecca had fetched the spare set of keys from the kitchen and gone to Alex’s room. She unlocked the door and slipped quickly inside, closing it silently behind her.
She could just make out his figure, lying on the bed, breathing heavily in a drunken stupor. The room reeked of whisky and antiseptic. It was a sickly combination in the hot night and Rebecca opened the window. Then she went to the bed and looked down at the pitiful figure lying there.
Alex’s features were twisted in pain, emotional pain, and Rebecca felt a catch in her heart for him. Trease had got drunk often enough to drown his self-pity. With this man there was something more than that. One thing she was sure of was that Alex Fiennes had something very terrible on his mind.
She mustn’t wake him. That would be cruel, to leave him to endure the long night with whatever was hurting him so much. She touched his shoulder. It was hot and he was sweating profusely. She took a towel off the back of a chair and gently rubbed him down, his neck, back, shoulders and arms, patting gently near his bandaged hand. Then she felt his skin to make sure he was dry. He didn’t come round, but sensing someone was trying to bring him comfort he snuggled down and breathed more easily. Not wanting him to get chilled, Rebecca covered him with a spare blanket from the top of the wardrobe.
She took off his shoes, placing them where he wouldn’t stumble over them the next morning. It was then that she noticed the broken glass of the bowl, which would be even more dangerous to him. She carefully collected up all the pieces, placed them in the wastepaper basket with the empty whisky bottle and crept downstairs to dispose of them so no one would know about them.
She returned the wastepaper basket to the room and gazed down at Alex. He was sleeping more peacefully, his body rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She stroked his hair, damp and dark and curling at the nape of his neck. Then before leaving for her own room and locking the door behind her, she whispered goodnight to him.
Chapter 8
Stephen Fiennes got up early the following morning for his breakfast. He wolfed it down while complaining to Loveday that he hated his egg unless it was boiled for exactly three and half minutes, that the toast was burnt, the marmalade too sickly-sweet, the tea too weak, and he didn’t want to drink any beastly milk. Loveday was angry at first and resolved to speak to Mrs Fiennes about her son when she rose, probably a good two hours later, but when she saw the dejected slope of the boy’s shoulders and his hangdog expression as he climbed the stairs to play with the model railway she found herself following him to his room.
‘What do you want?’ he said crossly as she entered.
‘I was just wondering if you’re going down to the creek today, Master Stephen,’ she said, stepping over the railway track he had running all over the floor and beginning to make his bed.
‘No, I shouldn’t think so for a minute,’ Stephen replied in a superior tone.
‘That’s a pity, it’s going to be such a lovely day and the creek is just the sort of place for a boy to have adventures in.’
‘Do you think so?’ Stephen said. He was genuinely interested. It had been boring staying in the gatehouse yesterday. He wanted to explore more of the creek but was ashamed of hurting Tamsyn. He was still smarting at having his ears boxed and wanted revenge on Joe but didn’t want to face him so soon.
‘My husband lived all his life in the creek, before he went to war. He used to tell me about the games he used to play.’
‘What sort of games, Mrs Wright?’ the boy asked, suddenly finding his manners.
‘Oh, smugglers, pirates, boat races, that sort of thing. The sort of games you can only play if there’s water. I know you can swim, your mother told me you’ve won medals in school on sports days, so you shouldn’t come a cropper.’
Loveday turned down the thin summer coverlet and looked at him. His sturdy face was deep in thought.
‘That sounds like a lot of fun. It’s a pity there’s no boys to play with here.’
‘You could always play with my Tamsyn. She’s got her own little camp. I’m sure she’ll be glad to show it to you. I can’t get her away from the creek these days. She wants to spend every minute of the summer there.’
Stephen’s face took on its sulky look again.
‘What is it?’ Loveday asked kindly, almost putting her hand out to the unlikable boy. ‘Has something upset you?’
‘Hasn’t Tamsyn told you?’ he said, with a note of challenge in his voice.
‘Told me what? Has she done something to upset you?’
‘No,’ Stephen said abruptly, going back to the train set. ‘I upset her.’
‘Do you think that’s why she refuses to come to the gatehouse with me?’ Loveday asked.
‘Probably.’
‘Tell me what happened, Master Stephen,’ Loveday coaxed. ‘Tamsyn doesn’t tell tales. I’m sure you can make it up and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t both have fun down in the creek.’
Stephen got up and stood in front of Loveday. He wasn’t afraid to own up to what he had done. ‘I got stuck in the mud and Tamsyn laughed at me. I was furious, even though she told me how to get myself out. I was out of order and pushed her over, twice. I’m sorry. The second time she was hurt.’
Loveday breathed in heavily through her nose and held her lips in a tight line. She could easily imagine this boy being a bully, but at least he’d had the courage to admit it and he seemed sorry. She had to give him credit for that.
‘I see. Don’t you think you ought to tell Tamsyn you’re sorry?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Through the open doorway Stephen saw his mother, dressed in a floating negligée, tripping to the bathroom. A dark look passed across his face. He’d had an idea. Suddenly he grabbed Loveday’s hand and blurted out, ‘I want to say I’m sorry to Tamsyn, honestly I do, Mrs Wright. But I’m afraid to go down to the creek again.’
‘But why on
earth is that, Master Stephen?’ Loveday said, placing a hand on his broad shoulder.
He shocked Loveday by throwing himself in her arms. ‘Please don’t make me go down there, Mrs Wright. Ask Tamsyn to come here and I’ll apologise to her and let her play with the train set. If I go there he’ll get me!’ Stephen wailed.
‘Who will?’ Loveday was most alarmed.
‘That big man, the one who looks after the horses, the one called Joe. He saw me push Tamsyn over and he beat me. He shook me and thrashed me and he said if I hurt her again he’ll drown me in the creek and make it look like an accident! Oh, please don’t make me go down there while he’s there. He’ll hurt me, I know he will.’
Abigail came hurtling into the room. Loveday looked up from the clinging boy and was about to say she couldn’t believe Joe would do such a thing, but Abigail’s cold-blooded fury stopped her.
‘I heard it all, Mrs Wright. It’s a pity the Major went out early to visit one of the tenant farms or I’m sure he’d thrash Joe Carlyon and march him off the estate. No one treats my son the way he did and gets away with it. Look at him,’ she pulled Stephen to her own bosom, ‘he’s terrified out of his mind. I’ll see Carlyon at once. Find me something to wear, will you? Rebecca’s not here, she’s been allowed to exercise one of the horses this morning. I’ll have my breakfast when I come back.’
Abigail put on her make-up, a smart light skirt and blouse, a low-heeled pair of shoes suitable for walking and a small hat and tied a silk scarf round her throat. Alex must have ridden to the farm because the Mercedes was outside, but Abigail knew she wasn’t in a fit state to drive in her rage. She half strode, half ran down the road to the creek, giving a curt good morning to Ira Jenkins who stared after her. Following Loveday’s instructions, she found Joe Carlyon’s cottage. It was still early in the morning and Loveday had reckoned Joe would be home for his breakfast round about now.
Abigail marched up to the door, which was wide open, and went straight in. Joe was in the little kitchen sitting at the table, pouring tea from a large brown teapot into a mug. He jumped up in surprise, the teapot still in his hand.
‘Mrs Fiennes. Is anything wrong?’
‘That, you great clodding ox, you may well ask!’ she hurled at him.
Joe put the teapot down and blinked at the lady who was shaking with rage.
‘How dare you, Joe Carlyon! How dare you touch my son? I’ll have you dismissed for what you did to Stephen. Beating him, thrashing him and threatening to drown him in the river. You big brute! You wretched beast! How dare you touch a child like that. Well? Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?’
Joe looked at Abigail calmly. He was prepared to face her and the Major over his punishment of Stephen and wasn’t surprised at the inaccuracy of the boy’s account. He said, ‘Only that your son is a liar as well as a boy who likes to push little maids and hurt them, Mrs Fiennes.’
‘What? I…’ Abigail’s face was as red as her lipstick.
‘You owe me an apology,’ Joe said. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say? I only boxed the boy’s ear, and not as hard as I would a boy from the creek. Tamsyn is very special to me. I saw her father fall and drown in mud because he missed his footing on the duck-walk in the trenches. When I got home and realised he had a daughter, I vowed I would look after that child, with my life if needs be.’
Joe had succeeded in taking the wind completely out of Abigail’s sails. Like a ship foundering out of its depth, she sought a harbour, finding it by sinking down on the nearest chair.
‘You would agree your son is capable of lying, wouldn’t you, Mrs Fiennes?’
‘Yes,’ Abigail admitted numbly. She didn’t have to think too long and hard about it. Stephen had always been a spoiled, difficult child, but he had grown much worse since his father’s death. He had turned to his uncle for male companionship, as someone to look up to, but Alex had not been able to respond to the boy’s hero worship. Hurt at the rejection, Stephen now despised him.
‘I’ll deal with Stephen when I get back to the gatehouse. Please accept my apology, Carlyon.’ Despite having been put so firmly in her place, Abigail rose gracefully. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with your breakfast.’
‘I accept your apology, Mrs Fiennes. I’m sure your son will learn to play fair and square, given the right sort of encouragement. Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
Abigail was suddenly struck by the physical attributes of this big muscular man. He was a handsome brute, all muscle and sinew and male sexuality. She accepted his offer immediately. After all, she didn’t want to be on bad terms with any of the creek people. If they liked her, it would impress Alex and might help him to decide on Trevallion’s fate in her favour.
She sat down again, elegantly crossing her legs and perkily turning up her toes. Joe excused himself and disappeared briefly into the only other downstairs room. He brought back a cup and saucer.
‘See that?’ he said proudly. ‘Know what that’s made from? Real Spode-Copeland ware, made locally. Captain Trevallion gave that to my mother on her fiftieth birthday, for all the work she’d put in at the big house over the years.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Abigail purred, tracing a red-varnished fingernail round the cup’s rim. ‘Floral-patterned, my favourite. Your mother must be very proud of it. Where is your mother?’
‘Oh, she passed on years ago, just before the war ended, and Father went just after. There’s just me here now. I’m the last Carylon hereabouts.’
Abigail held up her hand to the cup and saucer. ‘This must be very special to you, Joe. I wouldn’t dream of using it, it wouldn’t be right. Please use another cup.’
Joe smiled and took the cup and saucer back to its special place on a built-in shelf beside the fireplace in the sitting room. He put another mug on the table and filled it with strong tea and milk from a tall blue and white jug. Abigail helped herself to sugar.
‘Are all the cottages in the creek like yours?’ Abigail asked as Joe sat down and ate his cold eggs and bacon.
She looked around, at the low-beamed ceiling, the built-in cupboards either side of the hearth, the little Cornish range inside the black fireplace which was topped with a high, wide mantelshelf The windows were made up of small square panes, the walls were thick and uneven. One shelf held a green glass fishing-net weight. A Bakelite ashtray sat in the middle of the table. Joe had been a bugler in the army and his dented bugle was hanging on the wall.
‘Aye,’ Joe replied, gulping down tea. ‘More or less, some are smaller, some bigger.’
‘What is Rebecca’s like?’
‘A bit bigger than mine. She keeps it nice.’
‘I can’t imagine her keeping it any other way. She’s a rather quiet girl, seems sad most of the time. I suppose she hasn’t had much of a life with that drunken father of hers. I saw him briefly; I must say Rebecca doesn’t favour him in looks at all.’
‘She’s like Nancy Ann, her mother. She was a real beauty, but needing her freedom. She walked out on Rebecca when she was a little girl, left her with Loveday and never came back.’
‘How awful, the poor girl. I know I don’t see much of Stephen, he’s away at boarding school most of the time.’ She thought about her reputation. ‘But whatever I may be criticised for, I would never desert him.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Joe said. ‘Perhaps a few weeks round the creek will sort him out a bit.’
‘I hope so. I don’t want to foster bad feelings among the people here.’
Joe rose and put the dishes in the sink where they would stay until his work was finished now that Rebecca wasn’t available to come and wash up for him. A glance round the kitchen showed how untidy the room was getting. ‘I suppose we all get to rely on Rebecca. Nothing but work for her, hardly fair.’
‘Well, I’ll have to do something to cheer her up. Take her on a shopping trip into Truro.’
‘Aye, I reckon she’d like that.’
‘Thanks for the tea, Joe,’ Abigail sai
d softly, gazing directly into his eyes, ‘and the chat. I must find little Tamsyn now and arrange for Stephen to tell her he’s sorry for what he did. I’ll see you around the estate, I expect.’
Abigail also wanted to see the woman she had greeted so curtly a short time ago. She must have appeared very rude to whoever she was, and that wouldn’t do. She didn’t want the Kennickers to think she was stuck up. If she could get them to like her, things would be easier with Alex.
She found Ira Jenkins sitting outside her cottage on the wide doorstep singing hymns as she shelled peas from a huge enamelled bowl. Tamsyn was helping her. She jumped up and dropped a curtsy, looking as if she was about to hare off. Ira struggled to shift her bulk.
‘Oh, please,’ Abigail said in the friendliest of tones, ‘don’t trouble yourself on my account, Mrs… Hello, Tamsyn, dear. I’ve come to talk to you.’
Tamsyn set her small chin high, tightened her features as much as she could and clenched her fists at her sides. She looked as though she wanted to charge Abigail and knock her off her feet. Abigail was very sure of herself where other adults were concerned, men especially, but she had very little experience of children. Tamsyn’s stance and attitude were most disconcerting.
She looked uncertainly at Ira Jenkins for a moment then said to the recalcitrant little girl, ‘I have come to say sorry about Stephen, about his bad behaviour towards you. He’s very sorry and he wants to tell you so himself.’
She expected, hoped, Tamsyn would say something in return but she just kept up her penetrating stare.
Ira Jenkins’ eyes were fully on Abigail, amused at her discomfiture. She was ready to come to Tamsyn’s defence should the lady take on a temper like her son.
Abigail swallowed and tried again to break through Tamsyn’s obstinacy. ‘Will you come with me now, Tamsyn? To the gatehouse and see Stephen? I’m sure you can make friends and play happily together. I think your mother would like you both to be friends.’
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