A Cornish Girl Page 19

  Michael pushed Joshua’s hand down. ‘I’ll listen to you but I’m not promising anything. It’s a dreadful thing to ask someone to do, don’t you realize that? Have you thought about how I am supposed to live with my conscience?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joshua replied flatly. ‘This is what I’ve worked out. I’m strong enough to go downstairs. I’ll play up on being really frail and stay close by the fireplace. Then, on a mild day, I’ll suggest you take me for a short walk. We’ll go to the pool—’

  ‘The pool? Don’t be stupid. It’s too far away for an invalid to walk.’

  ‘Well, you can push me in the bath chair, then. Anyway, at some point you will look away and I’ll drown in the pool. It wouldn’t be your fault. You can tell everyone that you did all you could to save me but couldn’t reach me in time. It will be a tragic accident. Quite apt, really, our elder brother Jeffrey, who should have been squire, drowned in the pool. Sorry that you’ll have to get wet, Michael.’

  ‘Get wet? I can’t do it. I’ll be consumed with mortification watching you kill yourself. How am I supposed to lie convincingly? God, Joshua, think again for pity’s sake.’

  ‘I won’t change my mind,’ Joshua whispered, his throat choked with tears. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, I really am, but if you refuse to help me to go ahead with this more honourable way out, I swear I will kill myself. I can’t, I won’t go on living a life of hell. You’d best think what you’re going to do about Laketon after I’m gone.’

  Now here he was with Joshua’s morbid proposition going through his mind, relentlessly pushing him ever further into a corner. Perhaps the best thing was for Joshua to die, he was going to cause a lot of trouble otherwise, and he didn’t want him to go on suffering. What to do about Laketon Kivell? That was the thorny question. The only way to be safe from him was if he was dead. Kivell’s death could be contrived. A bullet through the brain would do. It could be said he shot himself cleaning a gun. But who could he get to be the assassin?

  Shortly after leaving the footman, Kit made his way to the library. With luck he’d find Michael Nankervis there, he couldn’t resist some time there every day.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Michael growled at him, slamming shut the book in his hand then regretting it, fearful he had damaged the musty delicate pages. ‘How dare you come in here, Woodburne. I didn’t even hear you knock.’

  ‘Actually I did, but no matter. I’m sorry to disturb you, Nankervis, but we should talk. Allow me to speak. I think you will be very interested in what I have to say.’

  Seventeen

  It was unusually quiet in the village. Sarah peered up and down the High Street and the little lanes and byways. There were no small children running about or anyone out to the shops. Her steps echoed where there were cobbles and stamped on the frost-hardened ground. The more she went along the more conspicuous she felt in her tailor-made clothes and feminine boots. She was more a stranger here now and had the self-conscious expectation that at any moment someone would come out of their mean little cottage and order her to clear off.

  She had come to distribute the things she’d helped Tara put together to sustain the most vulnerable in Meryen through the harsh winter months. She’d been driven in a carriage, but had ordered the Poltraze groom to stop on the village outskirts, her intention being to go to the Greeps first to ask for their advice and a favour. The carriage was loaded with food, candles and lamp oil. There were also seed potatoes, enough for a row or two for every poor family, and other seedlings, the surplus left over from Poltraze’s abundance. All the preparations would have been enjoyable if not for the squire joining her and Tara for part of each day. He treated her presence in his home with faint politeness but he had brought the atmosphere down. In the end he had unexpectedly taken a brief interest in the charity doings and ordered two sheep to be slaughtered to provide mutton. Sarah wanted to glean from the Greeps which families were the most deserving and how best to get the gift to certain families to make sure no drunken fathers or neglectful mothers misused it.

  Her knock on the Greeps’ back door was answered by an old woman. ‘Sarah Hichens, indeed, you’ve heard, then?’ she muttered grimly. Sarah thought she was unwelcome until she added, beckoning her inside, ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  ‘Heard what, Mrs Endean?’ Although pleased to feel she was still considered part of Meryen, Sarah, alarmed, asked the obvious question. ‘Has something bad happened?’ Frettie Endean, of stout build and frank manner, acted as the local midwife and was also the layer-out of dead bodies. The Greep infants were on the kitchen mat, the boy playing with a few clothes pegs, the baby on her back, gurgling while kicking out her legs. Sarah hoped Frettie Endean wasn’t here for her second occupation; perhaps Miriam had suffered a miscarriage, which wouldn’t be as bad as her death, but what accounted for the desertion of the village? Then she knew, she should have guessed. ‘There’s been an accident at the mine, hasn’t there?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Oh, my God! Are many dead or injured? Is Jeb among them? Is that why Miriam isn’t here?’ It wasn’t dramatic to take the worst for granted. Her own mother’s life had been destroyed in an accident on the mine surface. Death and maiming were all too common above and below grass. The last day she’d worked at the Carn Croft a miner had lost his arm in a dynamite explosion. Only the quick ascent to the surface with the help of another miner and the prompt attention of the mine surgeon had saved him from bleeding to death. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘About a couple of hours ago. All I know is that some men and boys are trapped underground from a rock fall. A scat was heard and then ’tis believed up to forty ton went crashing down. ’Tis thought the men below, Jeb included, I’ve prayed to God, are safe in an air pocket, but they can’t get up till the way’s cleared for ’em.’ Frettie shook her wise head, wiping away a tear with her starched white apron; the rest of her clothes were black, she had lost two husbands and a son to the mine. ‘We’re in for another long vigil, Sarah.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’ Sarah was bobbing on tenterhooks, wanting to dash off to the mine.

  ‘Can’t see you can do anything but pray, maid. The village is practically empty, though there’s some in the chapels down on their knees.’ Frettie pulled out a chair from the table. ‘Sit down. Reckon I can squeeze out a drop of tea from the pot. So, Sarah, what are you on upon coming here, then? What’s it like living up at the squire’s? I heard he’s back on his legs again. And the man who’s really called Mr Woodburne’s been spending time there. That was a turn up, eh, he being partly a Kivell? It must have been a very strange time for ’ee.’

  Sarah answered all the questions. ‘I’m wondering now what to do about the things I’ve brought. They’ll be needed more than ever. There’s likely to be a lot of grieving in Meryen. I’m sure Mrs Nankervis will do all she can to help.’

  ‘I can tell you what you need to know, if that’s a help. You can drop the things on back doorsteps.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Endean.’ Sarah sipped the bitter stewed tea. ‘What about yourself? Do you need anything?’

  ‘The lodgers I take in provide me with enough keep to get by. They’re all miners. Sadly, if any of ’em have perished others will come along to take their place soon as word gets round. Give the stuff out to the young families and the frail, my handsome.’ After she’d rattled off the names of the most deserving needy, little Job Greep tugged shyly on Frettie’s apron. ‘Aw, the dear of him wants something to eat. Let’s see what your mummy’s got in the larder, shall we?’ she cooed to the boy.

  ‘I’ll set about giving out the things from the carriage. Goodbye, Mrs Endean.’ Before she left Sarah took a lingering look at the children, sad for a second, as she was from time to time, that she would never be a mother.

  She got the groom to bring the carriage into the village, and trudged up and down the weedy or ash paths to rough back doors, each home telling a different story of near poverty, of much needing to be fixed.
The groom helped her to carry the goods, which she tailored to each family or individual. Hardly anyone locked their doors until bedtime, so if no one was at home they left the goods in the kitchens so they wouldn’t go astray. They wend their way through Meryen, travelling on foot along the very narrow byways, squeezing past the damp overgrowth of the hedges, getting their boots muddy and becoming none too tidy.

  ‘This seems to be the last, Miss Sarah,’ the groom said, as he pulled out the final bundle from the carriage. They were at a tiny lonely wayside place, a long distance past Chy-Henver; the mine buildings were in clear sight, and the only noise reaching across the short stretch of scrubland was the thump and boom from the engine house. ‘Was there enough to go around?’

  Sarah’s eyes went to the lofty Carn Marth rearing up away in the distance; today it seemed to provide a sorrowful fatherly watch. ‘Well, all the neediest have got something. It’s surprising how the littlest thing can be a great help when you’ve got virtually nothing. Thank you for helping me, Moyle.’

  ‘It’s my duty and my pleasure, miss. Here, let me carry that parcel for you too. The mistress won’t be happy with me if I bring you back wearied out.’ As he placed her parcel on top of the bundle, John Moyle glanced at her rather than keep a distant gaze somewhere above her head. Servants were to do the latter out of respect, but things were different with Miss Sarah. People elevated to a higher position often took on high and mighty ways but she had kept her ordinary manner and never put anyone to trouble. It was good to dwell on her lovely face at close quarters.

  Sarah led the way through an opening in a tumbledown stone wall to what amounted to a narrow muddy track. ‘A family called Kent lives here,’ she announced sadly. She had told John Moyle a little about each householder; he was not from Meryen and was curious about each inhabitant. ‘The old grandmother died last autumn. Her son Elias works under grass, and his young son David is a lappior, buddling on the surface. Elias’s wife died from typhus. If Elias perishes, poor David will have nobody and could end up in the workhouse.’

  ‘Hopefully someone will take him in.’ John shook his head grimly. ‘That’s where I come from. It’s a harsh life. If a child’s not careful he can grow as hard and cold as the winter ground. A farmer took me to work with the beasts and beat me nearly every day. Working with the horses came as natural as breathing to me. The head groom at Poltraze noticed and poached me to work for the squire. Sorry, miss, you don’t want to hear about my life.’

  Sarah looked into his apologetic eyes. ‘That’s all right. And now you’re the head groom.’ Most of the servants at Poltraze seemed as if they had been dropped exactly as they were out of the sky, moving, curtseying or bowing creatures living and breathing only to perform their utmost for their master or mistress, and then to complain in the servants’ hall about their lot. John Moyle was one of the human ones, more his own man. His eyes were a mellow fawn colour, which reflected resignation to his place yet retained a strong element of self-respect. He was quick to tip his hat but he did not grovel. More than a six-footer, he was mildly spoken, his voice holding an interesting range of tones. He had an inner smile. Sarah had seen him a few times and had noticed he sometimes smiled for no specific reason, and his thoughts seemed to drift off as if he was seeing something only he could see, a different future for himself perhaps. Life could take you anywhere, she mused, who’d have thought she would be handing out succour in this way to the needy of the village, with a groom in the distinct pale-blue and buff livery from the big house? Tabbie would be proud of her. ‘Let’s just pray all will work out well for Elias and David.’

  Leaving the cheerless Kent home, she said, ‘I’d like to go to the mine now. See what I can do to help.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Sarah, do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, meaning no disrespect, but although your intentions are of the highest order the folk there might not entirely welcome you. I’ve heard they like to keep to their own in times like this.’

  Recalling the occasions she had huddled at the mine face after an accident, although her aloofness had set her a little apart back then, she too would have resented anyone turning up in a grand carriage and finery, a stark contrast to the mining folk’s own shabbiness. The only outsider welcome there was the mine surgeon. Gentlefolk were considered to want only to stare and get in the way, and were a nuisance because they’d still insist to be waited upon. She wasn’t a lady and she wouldn’t expect any such thing, but she didn’t belong at the mine either. ‘I don’t want to just go as if all I care about is to hand out charity and leave the people to it.’

  ‘Well, there were some lonely housebound people, I’d noticed, who might be glad of some company.’

  Sarah gave him a grateful smile. ‘You’re right. They were so frightened. I’ll spend some time with each one. Thank you for the suggestion.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’ He had thanked her because normally if a servant made a personal remark he was severely chastised. His attention was taken to the downs. ‘There’s a rider coming, a gentleman. It’s Mr Woodburne.’

  ‘He must have heard about the disaster and gone to the mine.’ Sarah waited beside John. Her insides were in knots. What would be the news from Carn Croft? She hoped Jeb Greep wasn’t among any killed. If he and the others were safe in an air pocket she prayed they would be reached before the oxygen ran out.

  ‘Sarah, what are you doing out here?’ Kit said, reining in but not dismounting. He had something vitally important to get on with.

  She explained.

  ‘That’s very worthy of you.’ Kit was thinking fast, he could use this situation for something he had planned today; this would provide a better way. ‘Moyle can take you to where you want to go next. He must return to Poltraze now. He’ll have duties to attend to. What time would you like him to return? Make it before dark or you’ll have Mrs Nankervis worrying about you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Kit was right, although she couldn’t grasp his emphasis on John Moyle’s duties. ‘What news from the mine? Has anyone been brought up? Are there any more casualties? You know Jeb Greep, is there any news of him?’

  ‘There’s nothing yet about Greep or the men on the same level. Two men who were crushed to death have been brought up, their names Wearn and Kent.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Sarah pressed her fists together. ‘Poor David. Do you know what he’s doing now?’

  ‘He’s with Miriam Greep, he’s to stay with her. Sarah, I’m going to ride on to Poltraze to inform Mrs Nankervis. I’m sure she’ll want to know about this. I’ll tell her you’ll be fetched back later.’

  Numb and cold, Sarah watched for a moment as Kit rode off at a canter. More than ever she experienced the difference of being on the other side of the tragedy.

  ‘Where would you like to go, Miss Sarah?’ John asked softly.

  ‘Oh, I’ll go back to the Greeps’ place and tell Mrs Endean what’s happened. We’ll take the things we’ve left here. Miriam Greep will take care of David for the time being.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the village and sorry for you, miss.’

  ‘Thank you, John.’

  Kit was drinking tea with Tara and the Nankervis brothers in the winter parlour.

  ‘Sarah will know the best way for the estate to help all those poor people.’ Tara sighed over the tragedy at the mine. ‘Last week a miner died of lung congestion; a family man of only five and thirty years. The sexton will have a busy time digging more graves.’

  Joshua turned to Michael. Talk of something worthy might help settle his nerves – if the next few hours went wrong, God help him and the others here too. ‘Yes, we should do something for these poor unfortunates, don’t you agree, brother?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Michael pounced on the suggestion, glad for a moment for the distraction. ‘I’ll set something up.’

  ‘A disaster fund is what is needed, for now and future occasions,’ Tara said quickly, taking advantage of
Joshua’s generosity. He had changed considerably since his pneumonia, as if his near death had given him a different perspective on life. He valued people more than plants now. He was still frail, reed-thin and pale like dust on alabaster. Hopefully when he was stronger he’d take charge of his land and properties and not leave everything to Michael. He was in a very peculiar mood today, fidgeting impatiently one moment, still and contemplative the next, all the while glancing at the clock as if wishing the time away. Michael was acting strangely too. He had grown pompous of late but today he was vague and edgy, pulling at his hair, his collar and cuffs. ‘It will help people to rebuild their lives. Thank you, Joshua, and you too, Michael.’

  Kit was tense and he was studying the brothers, but it did not stop him running his eyes over Tara. At every brief eye contact with her he had been rewarded with a smile. She was more than warming to him, he was sure. He knew a woman’s body language, the meaning behind her looks. He wished this day was over and he was alone with her, not in mere lustful anticipation – that would be totally out of the question after what was about to happen. He just wanted to be with Tara, to gaze at her without end, it would be a gift most wonderful.

  He addressed Joshua. ‘You’re looking quite well today, if I may say so, Mr Nankervis.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Woodburne, but I don’t see how you can say that,’ Tara said.

  ‘I am feeling a little better every day, Mr Woodburne.’ Joshua frowned at Tara and turned wide smiles on Kit. He had taken to Kit from the first, and he was the one who had come up with the best plan to put an end to his misery.

  ‘But you do seem rather on edge, brother,’ Michael put in. ‘Are you sure nothing is troubling you?’