Devil's Prize (10 page)

‘You drink that while ’tis hot,’ Maggie urged. ‘I’m going back with Treeve and pull out some of that there furniture in the barn. Mrs Rowse is boiling up a kettle of water so you can ’ave a nice wash. Mr Varcoe already opened up next door. He’ve left the key on top of the mantle. Me and Treeve’ll be back soon as we can. Be all right will you?’

Maggie’s anxiety pierced the fog of shock and grief clouding Jenefer’s brain. Straightening her back she drew in a deep breath and forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you, Maggie. I’ll be fine. As soon as I’m tidy I’ll go up to the parsonage and see Dr Trennack. You get along now.’ She turned to the woman whose home she had no memory of entering. ‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Rowse.’

Ernestine bobbed a brief curtsey as Maggie closed the door behind her. ‘That’s all right, miss. ’Tedn no trouble. I’m some sorry ‘bout your father and all.’ Using a thick folded cloth to protect her hand, she lifted the kettle from the triangular iron stand and poured steaming water into a large basin on the well-scrubbed table, then set the kettle down on the hearth. Taking a dish with a piece of soap in it from the windowsill she placed it beside the basin, then pulled two clean linen towels from the airing frame above the open fireplace.

‘I’m going up the shop, miss. I’ll be a bitty while so you take your time. Just pull the door when you go out.’

Half an hour later, strengthened by her breakfast and refreshed by a thorough wash, Jenefer buttoned a lavender coat-dress over a frilled while petticoat, tied the ribbons of a woven straw hat beneath her chin, and set off for the parsonage.

Surrounded by more books than Jenefer had ever seen in her life, Dr Trennack stood with his back to the fire, his hands clasped beneath the long tails of his dusty black frock coat. Tall and slightly stooped, he reminded her of a heron.

‘The day after tomorrow? Is that not perhaps a little hasty?’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Trennack. My sister and I are the only family. And considering the circumstances of my father’s death –’

‘Ah, yes, I see,’ the priest nodded. ‘I’ll send Mr Semple up to prepare the grave.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Er,’ he rubbed pale long-fingered hands. ‘You are quite sure that –’ he coughed, ‘that your father’s mortal remains will have been retrieved?’

Nausea rose at the back of Jenefer’s throat. She swallowed hard and gave a brief nod. Devlin Varcoe had promised.

‘In that case, let us discuss the details of the service.’

Afterwards she stopped at Jack Hammill’s workshop and chose a coffin she could ill afford. Then, her head throbbing from the clamour of things needing her attention, she hurried down the street and saw the cart, piled high with furniture, pull up at the entrance to the lane. Treeve jumped down and helped Maggie off.

Aware of villagers stopping to watch and murmur, Jenefer slipped quickly down the narrow passage onto the cobbled yard that fronted the row of four cottages. Maggie hurried in behind her carrying a china basin and matching jug.

‘There’s a table, two chairs, and a chest of drawers,’ she panted. ‘Treeve got to go back for the bedstead and a wardrobe. I couldn’t b’lieve all the stuff I found. I got a kettle, half a dinner service – some of it’s cracked but least you’ll have decent plates – and an old drawer with all sorts of knives and such. Oh, and an earthenware pot like we use for pickling pilchards, a couple of nice big stone jars, and a saucepan.’ She glanced round then whispered, ‘And a po.’ She set the basin and jug down, bustled across to the range and opened the fire door. ‘The whole lot do need a good wash. ’Tis all filthy dirty and covered in cobwebs. Now, first thing we –’

She was interrupted by a knock on the open door. ‘Oh, ’tis you, Lizzie.’

‘All right, Maggie? I seen you come back and I – Oh, beg pardon, miss.’ A plump, rosy-faced woman, wearing a frilled cap and a hessian wrapper over her brown wool petticoat, pressed a hand to the kerchief crossed over a patterned bodice faded from repeated laundering.

Jenefer smiled. ‘Mrs Clemmow, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, miss. I aren’t on the nose,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I just thought you’d be wanting a bit of kindling for the slab. Teasy to start they are.’

‘Lizzie, that’s ‘andsome.’ Maggie took the bundle of finely chopped wood.

‘Want a hand do ’ee?’

 ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Maggie beamed.

‘What shall I do?’ Jenefer enquired, adding as the two women exchanged a glance, ‘I’m not going to sit and watch while you work. So, shall I help Treeve unload the cart?’

‘No!’ Maggie yelped. ‘No, miss. That would’n’ do at all. Look, soon as we got the fire going and some water boiled –’

‘I’ll go down the pump while you light the slab,’ Lizzie said. ‘There’s an old keeve up the shed.’ She indicated with a jerk of her head. ‘He’ll do for a wash tub.’

Changing into an old gown, Jenefer rolled up her sleeves and with one of Lizzie’s hessian wrappers tied around her waist, washed dust and cobwebs off the furniture Treeve and Maggie unloaded from the cart and carried round to the cobbled area outside the cottage.

Her move to this cottage would be all round the village by now. So what if Devlin Varcoe owned it? She was a tenant just like any other. He had never lived here.

Living by herself would be strange. She couldn’t deny she felt apprehensive. But better to be alone than an object of pity or condescension in someone else’s house. She liked Mr Gillis, and had thanked him sincerely for his kind offer. She knew the invitation had not been his idea. Nor had she felt any regret in declining.

Betsy liked Tamara. But Betsy liked most people. Being the younger child, she had never borne the weight of responsibility or their parents’ expectations. Was that why she had been able to accept Jared as an equal, caring nothing that he was merely a fisherman with no education?

Was this, Jenefer wondered as she scrubbed and wiped, the reason – apart from her betrothal – she had tried to deny her attraction to Devlin Varcoe? The fact that when he wasn’t smuggling he was a fisherman? Yet there was a world of difference between him and the rest of his crew. For a start, he owned property, as well as his boat.

It suddenly occurred to Jenefer that there was little to choose between her own thinking and that of Morwenna Gillis, whom she considered an appalling snob.

Shame brought hot colour to her cheeks. If she were not already a topic of village gossip, she soon would be, just like Tamara. The difference was that while Tamara had chosen to be different, she had not.

At midday Jared arrived with three pasties cooked by Inez, a jug of ale for Treeve, and a twist of paper containing some tea leaves. Jenefer shared the brew with Maggie.

By 4.15 daylight was fading to dusk, and another kettle of water was boiling on the range. Treeve returned with the cart carrying several sacks of coal retrieved from the bunker at the back of the house.

‘Best I brung it up ‘ere to you, miss. If I’d ‘ave left’n overnight some thieving bugger would ‘ave been in and took it.’

‘That was thoughtful, Treeve. Thank you.’ Grateful for help already given, and only too aware of how she would depend on her neighbours in the coming days, Jenefer asked him to take a bag to each of them. It still left three for her.

The table, chairs ,and chest, now clean and dry, had been carried inside. When Treeve returned, Henry Tozer, who lived with his son Ben in number four, helped him manhandle the bedstead up the stairs. As they came down, the rain that had threatened all day finally started.

Maggie was rinsing out the cloths they had used to wash and dry the crockery and cutlery. Jenefer, aching from unaccustomed physical effort, rested in one of the chairs when a knock on the door made them both look up. Maggie opened it and Jenefer heard Lizzie Clemmow’s voice.

‘Here’s three eggs, a loaf, and a pat of butter.’

Light-headed with tiredness, Jenefer pushed herself to her feet. ‘Please come in.’

‘No, miss. Thanks all the same. I aren’t stopping. Tipping down it is.’ Lizzie wiped her palms down her apron. ‘’Tis just a bit of something for your tea. Sam said I shouldn’t come bothering you, but Maggie won’t have had no time for baking, and we’re some grateful for that there coal. Got a lovely fire going we have.’

‘You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you,’ Jenefer’s gratitude was heartfelt. The day had been difficult in so many ways. Yet it would have been even harder but for the generosity of people that previously she had only nodded to in passing.

A tide of crimson climbed Lizzie’s throat and flooded her face. ‘No such thing, miss. Nor I don’t want you thinking I’ll be on the doorstep every whit and stitch. But if’n you do need anything, well, you know where I’m to. Right, I’m gone.’

‘Good as gold she is,’ Maggie said. ‘You mind what she said, miss. She’ll help you best she can, and she isn’t no gossip neither.’

That night Maggie insisted on sleeping in the chair by the range while Treeve took the cob and cart back to the stable.

‘Better fit I’m up there, miss. Fire was almost burnt out this afternoon. With this ’ere rain damping’n down there’s bound to be someone on the prowl. Anyhow, can’t leave master up there all alone.’

Pressing her fingertips to her mouth Jenefer nodded, unable to speak.

‘You stay in the dry, mind,’ Maggie warned her husband. ‘I can’t be doing with you catching cold.’

‘Don’t fuss, woman,’ Treeve growled. But he stood still while Maggie fastened a piece of old sail canvas around his shoulders.

Next morning as dark full-bellied clouds slunk across the sky driven by a cold wind, Jenefer stared at the devastation and shivered inside her warm coat. The acrid smell of wet soot caught in her throat as she waited. She was glad Betsy wasn’t here.

‘She wanted to come,’ Jared said. ‘But mother said ’t would only give you more worry. She said to ask you ‘'bout the funeral.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Jenefer had had to clear her throat, unable to tear her gaze from the blackened ruins of what had once been her home. ‘Jared?’

‘Miss?’

‘You will look after her?’

‘Long as I’m breathing. Think the world of her I do.’ With a brief nod he had moved away to join Treeve, Jack Hammill and Devlin Varcoe inside the ruins where they were searching for whatever was left of her father.

She clasped her hands tightly as Devlin and Jared appeared, Jack and Treeve behind them, each carrying one corner of a piece of canvas on which lay a bundle wrapped in sacking. Jenefer started forward but Maggie caught her arm with surprising strength.

‘No, miss. There’s no helping him now, and ’t would do you no good.’

Lowering the canvas to the ground, the men gently lifted the bundle and laid it in the coffin on the back of the cart. Jack put the lid in place. Then all four men turned to Jenefer and briefly dipped their heads. 

Chapter Ten

As the parson spoke the words of committal by the graveside, Jenefer gazed at the freshly turned earth. She hadn’t expected to see so many people. Yet by funding cargoes of contraband that ranged from wheat flour and cognac to silk and tobacco her father had touched the lives of virtually everyone in Porthinnis.

Betsy held her hand tightly. Jared stood on the far side of Betsy’s chair, his parents behind him. Devlin and his crew, a pale and sombre Thomas Varcoe, and a crowd of villagers clustered at a respectful distance. John and Morwenna Gillis stood with Dr and Mrs Avers. But she didn’t see Tamara.

She tossed earth onto the coffin, trying not to think of what it contained. Then at last it was over. She saw Jared bend towards Betsy. Maggie took her arm and steered her gently away.

‘Come on, my bird. You can’t do nothing more.’

With no money to pay Maggie and Treeve their wages for the quarter, Jenefer decided to let them have the cob and cart.

‘You won’t arrive empty-handed and they’ll be useful on the farm,’ she said as Maggie clapped her hands to her cheeks and her eyes brimmed.

‘That’s brave kind, miss,’ Treeve twisted his hat between scarred hands. ‘Much obliged to ’ee.’

Next morning, when they reached Helston, Jenefer climbed down from the cart, trying hard not to notice or care about the stares of passers-by. She hated being an object of curiosity, yet it was inevitable when her mode of transport was so out of keeping with her blue coat-dress and feathered hat. ‘Thank you both for all you’ve done.’

‘You make sure you’re down by the farmer’s market for ha’past three, miss,’ Treeve reminded her. ‘Janner Laity will be watching for you. You can ride home with he.’

Jenefer nodded. ‘Have a safe journey.’

As he flicked the reins and clicked his tongue, Maggie looked back over her shoulder, her chin quivering. ‘Miss you awful, I will.’

Feeling her eyes prickle, Jenefer waved then turned away. Tightening her drip on the drawstring purse containing her jewellery, she set off up the street towards the offices of her father’s solicitor.

Seated behind a vast oak table on which lay three large leather-bound volumes bristling with page markers, a brass inkstand and several piles of folded documents tied with red ribbon, Mr Renfrew’s helpless gesture betrayed both embarrassment and irritation.

‘My dear Miss Trevanion, I wish it were not so. Indeed I do. I wrote several times to your father impressing upon him the importance of putting his affairs in order. But I fear he responded neither to advice nor entreaty.’

Rigidly upright, her hands clasped in her lap, Jenefer moistened her lips. ‘So there is nothing?’

Clad in black, his head covered by a grizzled wig with two rigid side curls and a short pigtail, the lawyer steepled soft plump fingers over his straining waistcoat and shook his head. ‘I believe you were already aware that the house and grounds are entailed and are now the property of your father’s cousin, Mr Charles Polgrain? I shall be writing to inform him shortly.’

‘You had better tell him that his inheritance is currently a burnt-out ruin,’ Jenefer said. ‘However, it is a very pleasant location. No doubt when he receives the insurance money he will rebuild.’ Hearing the bitterness in her tone she immediately felt guilty. It was not Mr Polgrain’s fault that the laws governing inheritance gave him a property he had never seen while leaving her and Betsy dependent on the kindness of strangers.

‘Ah.’ Something in Mr Renfrew’s tone tightened the knots of tension.

‘It wasn’t renewed?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Brief sympathy for her father’s heir was lost beneath a wave of anger. For months she had been trying to talk to her father about their finances. Every attempt had met with ill-tempered rebuff. Now he was dead and she was alone and penniless. Fighting the urge to scream and stamp her feet at the unfairness of it all, she stretched her mouth into a polite smile.

‘Mr Renfrew, may I trouble you for the loan of a pen and some paper? As I explained, my sister and I escaped with nothing but our clothes and there is someone I need to inform of all that has happened.’

Twenty minutes later, leaving her letter to Martin with Mr Renfrew, who assured her his clerk would take it to the post office with the rest of the day’s mail, she shook hands with the lawyer and walked out onto the street.

While in his office it had occurred to her to ask him to recommend a jeweller. Further reflection had kept her silent. Though Mr Renfrew hadn’t mentioned it, perhaps because her bereavement was so recent and the circumstances so horrible, her father probably owed him money. If he knew she had assets, no matter how small, he would expect her to settle at least part of the account.

But she still owed Mr Hammill for her father’s coffin, as well as tradesmen in the village. A lawyer of Mr Renfrew’s standing was far better able to absorb the loss.

It shocked her that she could reason in such a manner. But moral behaviour was far easier when you were cushioned by the comfort and security provided by money. When you had little or nothing such decisions became far more complicated.

After walking up one side of the main street and halfway down the other without seeing a single jeweller’s shop, realisation left a hollow in her stomach. She was in the wrong place. People who could afford to buy jewellery, or have pieces specially made, would not come here. They would travel to the wealthy cosmopolitan towns of Truro or Penzance.

Panic fluttered beneath her ribs. It would soon be time to meet Mr Laity for her ride back to the village. She peered desperately up a side road. She must have seen the sign earlier, but it hadn’t registered then.

The window was grimy; the broad shelf inside crowded with oddments. She glimpsed boots, an inlaid needlework box, an ivory-headed walking cane, decorated vases, and a small circular table on which lay several dusty ostrich plumes and a rainbow-hued pile of ribbons.

Crushing her misgivings, she opened the door. Her plan had been to sell her jewellery. But perhaps this was better because she would be able to get it back. Martin would know what to do. When he received her letter he would come home at once. Then she would no longer have to cope all by herself.

The man behind the counter was over-polite and she hated the sly look in his eyes. He offered her far less than the pieces were worth. They both knew she would accept; that she would not be there unless she needed the money. With burning cheeks she put the gold and silver coins into her purse and pulled the strings tight.

She hurried outside, her heart thudding as relief battled with guilt, and retraced her steps to the main street breathing deeply to rid her lungs of the shop’s pervasive smell of mustiness and despair.

She shopped carefully for necessities she could not buy in the village. Then, recalling the hours Betsy had spent embroidering new seat covers for the dining room chairs, all lost in the fire, she bought canvas and skeins of coloured wool. She arrived down at the market on time, out of breath, and laden with parcels.

Sitting beside Janner Laity, grateful that his taciturnity meant she was not obliged to talk, Jenefer’s brief euphoria was swamped by renewed anxiety. Yes, she had money now. But how much would be left after she had paid Devlin Varcoe a quarter’s rent and settled accounts with the village tradesmen? She had nothing else to sell or pawn. She would have to find work of some kind. But what? What could she actually do?

Tamara pushed her silk-stockinged feet into cream kid slippers and picked up her gloves. As she drew them on, tugging the soft kid up to her elbows, she turned and caught sight of herself in the long glass.

She had chosen a round gown of apple green figured muslin with short puffed sleeves and a wide neckline trimmed with lace and matching ribbon. It was her own design based on the new fashion for high waists shown in the ladies’ magazine for which her mother paid a yearly subscription of three guineas. The colour suited her and it was important that she looked her best. Held back from her face by a broad bandeau of the same green ribbon, her hair tumbled in loose curls down her back.

This past week she had felt more than usually tired. But as she was not sleeping well that was hardly surprising. At least her appetite had returned. In fact her rides or long walks made her ravenously hungry, though strangely she could no longer bear the smell of coffee.

She thought little of it. She was rarely ill and whatever had ailed her had passed. Which was fortunate, because this evening she would need all the strength she could summon.

The Christmastide dance was being held in the long room at the Five Mackerel. The entire village would be there. Even those who followed Wesley and abhorred spirits would set aside their scruples tonight. She had to attend. If she cried off, her mother would want to know why. And what could she say?

She would never believe that he had felt nothing, that it had meant nothing. Yes, he was hard and ruthless. But during that magical hour he she had glimpsed a vulnerability few would ever suspect.

Though he had little patience with the law, he possessed a strong sense of justice. She had been true to her feelings and honest with him. Why then had he behaved so cruelly?

With no answer and no comfort she told herself the loss was his. She would not hide from him. As for the grievous wound his rejection had dealt her, it would heal, eventually. Meanwhile she would say nothing, even to Roz. Roz never gossiped. But Roz had problems of her own. Better to remain silent and carry on as normal. No one but she would know the effort it cost.

Devlin prowled the room behind people clapping and laughing as the small orchestra at one end perspired and played for all they were worth and dancers whirled, skipped, linked and parted. The long room was crowded. Thirst had driven some to the taproom. Others sought escape from the crush and noise in the saloon and dining parlour.

The heat generated by sweating bodies and the ovens in which sufficient roast beef and plum pudding had been cooked to feed the entire community had forced a few outside to catch their breath in the chilly night.

Devlin had eaten, drunk and laughed with his crew and their womenfolk. Usually he enjoyed Feast Days. This one held no pleasure for him. Nor, it appeared, for Jared. Devlin had heard him telling Sam and Lizzie Clemmow that being in mourning and unable to come, Betsy and Miss Trevanion were keeping company for the evening.

A head taller than those in front of him, Devlin watched the dancers. A smile touched his lips as he caught sight of Arf and Inez breathless and laughing as they circled. But it faded as his gaze moved on, seeking, finding, instantly shifting away but inevitably drawn back.

Knowing Jared would leave soon, Devlin toyed with the idea of going with him. He could offer to escort Miss Trevanion back to the cottage. With the streets crowded and noisy with drunken revellers, no well-bred girl should be out alone. Instantly he recalled a rain-filled night, another girl, and events best not remembered but impossible to forget.

He had spent most of this evening as far from her as possible. All his life he’d been aware of an emptiness in his heart, something missing. When he was younger he had tried drinking to escape from it. But the effect was too brief and its aftermath both painful and unpleasant. Risk and danger filled the void.

His reputation had grown out of his daring, his fearlessness. Only he knew how hard it was sometimes to resist the lure of death, the promise of escape from a loneliness no amount of company could assuage.

Sexually experienced, he had never loved. But in Tamara Gillis’s arms, for the first time in his life he had belonged. For an all-too-brief moment he had known peace. He craved more and hated her for that. He relied on no one but himself. Even Jared, once closer than a brother, was drawing away. Once he got married to Betsy Trevanion things would never be the same.

Standing apart he watched Tamara laugh and flirt. He saw wives and mothers whisper together and click their tongues; heard husbands scold them, arguing she was just a pretty maid enjoying herself and doing no harm.

He heard murmurs of sympathy for Morwenna Gillis at the impossibility of controlling such a flighty piece, and others criticising her for not trying harder. Most agreed it was a wonder Tamara hadn’t got herself into the kind of trouble no pert smile or flashing eyes would get her out of.

He listened to it all as he stalked up and down the room, outwardly relaxed, pausing now and then to exchange word or laugh at a joke, and told himself he’d been right to back away. So what if he couldn’t sleep, jumped at unexpected sounds and his guts felt as if he’d swallowed fishhooks. He’d get over it. If he wanted company tonight he’d be spoiled for choice. That’s what he should do. But he knew he wouldn’t.

He watched her banter and flash teasing smiles. How dared she? Those women were right. She had the morals of an alley cat. She had come to him a virgin. What then of his morals? It was different for men. She had been innocent yet without coyness or pretence. She had met him as an equal: passionate, tender, wild and gentle. He had never felt, never imagined – He shook his head to stop the incessant argument and shut off the memory. Instantly another took its place: her face, wounded, defiant, valiant.

She didn’t know him. For if she did, how could she talk of love? As he watched his anger flared again. She was a mother’s nightmare. Morwenna Gillis was a foolish woman but Tamara would try the patience of a saint. With her passion for life and impatience with society’s restrictions, she was a danger to herself and others. Yet while her mother clung to rules and standards set by others, Tamara followed her own path. He knew better than most what courage that required.

A brief hiatus opposite caught his attention. His brother, resplendent in evening dress, his shirt points so stiff with starch he could barely move his head, made an elegant bow to Morwenna Gillis who fluttered her fan and greeted him with smiles and simpers.

Oblivious to the throng milling around him, Devlin’s gaze was riveted on Tamara as Thomas bowed to her and gestured towards the floor where people were lining up for the next dance. Tamara hesitated. Her mother urged her forward.