Edmund Kempthorne sat in his late uncle’s favourite armchair, slouched and content, before a roaring log fire in the parlour of Trevennor House. Wood smoke curled from the flames and filled his nostrils with a pleasant scent; he felt utterly satisfied with life.
He had removed the adjustable lectern on the chair’s worn leather arm, which Laurence had used for reading, and placed his own arm there in its stead, his hand holding a glass. Between sips of the excellent brandy, he triumphantly studied the finer aspects and ornamentation of the room. The furniture was all English, mostly walnut and made that century. The walls were covered with paintings and tapestries of Greek tragedies. On the mantelshelf and tables were several silver and bronze candlesticks and his aunt’s silver spoon collection. Edmund took in everything at his leisure. To the marble busts of his uncle and aunt on top of a bookcase he raised his glass and gloatingly drank to their ill health and its consequences. His gaze rested on the elaborate plaster overmantel of the fireplace, which looked as if it belonged in a much larger room.
The woven firescreen was put aside and lying behind it were two young bloodhounds. Not sharing the same contentment as the man who believed he was their new master, they glanced up at him often and nervously. Edmund had tried to put his feet on one of the dogs but it had moved out of his reach and the other dog had lain down fretfully beside it. Edmund had laughed heartily. He had had such good fortune today, no one, and especially not two humourless dogs, could upset him.
Daylight was shut out of the room by heavy black silk curtains, pulled across at every window to show the house was in mourning. Edmund had angered the servants by insisting myriads of candles be lit in the parlour so he could recline there; they believed he should be keeping a long vigil of prayer in the deathbed chamber at the side of his dead uncle. Edmund hated the dark, and he particularly hated death, but it was not for those reasons he felt no urge to mourn. He was delighted that Laurence Trevennor was dead.
Edmund’s sister came into the room and he held up his empty glass and grinned wickedly. ‘Get me a refill of the old man’s delectable untaxed brandy, sister dear,’ he said in his velvety voice, ‘and don’t look so miserable. I’m not grieving over our dear departed uncle, and with that silly flit of a girl from Truro being so conveniently killed on the same day, all of her fortune and,’ he opened his effeminate hands to encapsulate the house and its contents, ‘all of this is now ours. It couldn’t have worked out better if we had planned it ourselves. Our dreams have come true all on the same day. What more do you want, Deborah?’
‘Some civility from the servants in this house for a start, especially that Christopher woman!’ Deborah snapped, but it was sympathy she was looking for from Edmund, her chagrin was never directed at him. ‘They would do well to remember that they are our servants now and if they want to stay in our employment they should not speak to me like a lackey! It’s enough to bring on one of my headaches.’ She put the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead. Deborah thought mistakenly that such gestures gave her a delicate femininity.
‘Don’t worry, Debs, when everything is finally settled we’ll move to Truro,’ Edmund said brightly.
Deborah refilled Edmund’s glass, and helping herself to a small port wine she gave the bloodhounds a disapproving look as they scuttled away under a distant table. She sat down sedately in the chair opposite Edmund and rubbed her fingertips over her taut forehead. When no blinding pain threatened to materialize and spoil the afternoon, she smiled at her brother.
‘That’s better, Debs. Just think, no more freezing half to death in that garret of a cottage at St Ives. This is our life from now on.’ Edmund slipped even further down in the green upholstered chair with a look of sweet contentment on his deceptively handsome face.
Deborah looked at him fondly. At thirty-six she was four years his senior and from Edmund’s birth she had treated him as a doll-like creature to be played with and fussed over. Edmund had also been adored by their mother, the female servants and Laurence Trevennor’s wife, who could see no ill in him. Not unexpectedly he grew up taking it for granted he would be treated in the same way by every woman who crossed his path. With his soft brown hair, dark eyes, clean-cut features and ever-ready charming smile, he was rarely disappointed.
After their parents died, Deborah had pandered to his every need, but Edmund’s profligacy had quickly left them penniless. Deborah had not the face or disposition to secure even a second-rate marriage but she took up the offer made by an unwise middle-aged office clerk who believed he would further his position by marrying a kinswoman of the gentry. He would be the source of a regular, although small, income to the Kempthornes, and to the clerk’s horror, instead of him moving into their comfortable large house on the outskirts of the fishing village, they left it to be sold to cover some of their debts and moved into his cramped and austere cottage closer to the heart of St Ives.
Within a month of Deborah’s constant complaints of having to live at such close quarters to the hardworking fisherfolk, and realizing he would soon be bled dry of his humble savings, the lawyer’s clerk salvaged what he could and abandoned his wife, leaving her and her parasite brother destitute.
The couple spent the next ten years living on their wits and Edmund’s expertise at cheating at the card tables. The earnings of prostitutes contributed too; the women were happy to help keep him in fine wines, good food and fashionable clothes in return for introductions to wealthy clients. Deborah was fiercely jealous of any woman he was involved with but she found that if he was kept in reasonable luxury and did not have to lift a finger to work, she could manipulate the greater part of his life and keep him living with her.
She took pleasure at the sight of him now. Although they had barely kept their heads above water over the last few years she had always managed to pay Edmund’s tailor, a remarkably talented Jewish man who lived in a quiet street in Hayle. She liked to see Edmund well turned out. His natural elegance was evident even while he lounged in the chair. The silver-plate buttons of his full dress coat and waistcoat of indigo watered-tabby silk shone like stars in the candlelight. His linen shirt was graced by ruffles of needle lace, and the buckles on his shoes, won in a card game, were real silver.
Deborah had stinted herself and allowed the cottage to fall into a serious state of disrepair to enable Edmund to enjoy his excessive lifestyle. She attempted to look like a lady of fashion by having alterations made to cast-offs of wealthy gentlewomen, but nothing could soften her severe face or make her stout, big-boned body appealing to the eye. She wore a black saque-backed dress, altered so badly that the wide pleats falling from her broad shoulders at the back hung crookedly, giving her bulky form an off-balanced look. Her hair, muddy in colour and darker than Edmund’s with no glossy shine, was streaked with premature grey and piled high under a white lawn cap tied under her wide chin.
‘Yes, Edmund, we have been fortunate today,’ she said, allowing herself another rare smile. ‘We came here today to beg mean old Uncle Laurence to pay off one of your gambling debts and to lend us a few measly pounds, only to find that he had passed away peacefully just an hour before. Then we learn that the sole beneficiary under his will, Isabel Hampton, has also met her end in a tragic accident.’
‘You don’t look very tragic, Debs,’ Edmund observed, with a twinkle in his lazy eyes.
Deborah’s expression changed and her true nature showed itself in full venom. ‘Now things will be as they should have been years ago. The old man and that haughty miss treated us like dirt! Us! Their only relatives. Oh, St Ives was not good enough for the gracious Miss Isabel Hampton to visit us there. There was too much of a smell of fish for her high tastes. Well, she’s got what she deserved. Smashed on rocks and rotting in the sea! There won’t be any grand wedding next month for us to be overlooked at, to be paraded only as the poor relations. There will be no alliance with the Grenvilles of Falmouth for her to boast about while we slowly waste away unprovided and uncared for.’
‘She always seemed a delicate little thing to me,’ Edmund said thoughtfully. ‘A little taller than the average woman perhaps but I thought it added something to her proud bearing. I liked that about her, that and the way her body moulded its way deliciously in and out.’ He moved his free hand in a slow figure of eight, picturing it wandering over Isabel’s body.
‘Really, Edmund.’ Deborah had never liked his indelicate talk.
‘I planned to take her one day, hopefully while still a virgin. It would have been exquisite.’
‘I can’t see why. In my opinion she was most unattractive.’
‘No virgin, especially no young virgin, is unattractive, my dear. Besides, after I had seduced her I could have demanded a pretty sum of money to be kept from telling Richard Grenville that he had married soiled goods.’
‘And what if she had not fallen for your fatal charm, Edmund?’ Deborah said tartly, but again the sharpness was not aimed at him. ‘That little bitch was too mean to give anything away.’
‘I daresay I could have got round her for a tidy allowance every year. She probably wouldn’t have wanted to live in this house, not with a huge residence at Truro and the home Grenville would have provided for her. I’m sure she would have allowed us to live here.’
‘You are being too kind to our cousin’s memory, my dear,’ Deborah demurred. Your charm may not always get you what you want. Let’s not forget that it did not make much impression on Uncle Laurence. He was very cruel to you, disapproving of you having a game or two of cards. You were born a gentleman, what else did he expect you to do with your leisure hours? Most of the best of society play the tables. If he had had the goodness to settle a substantial sum of money on you and provide us with a respectable income, you would never have been tempted to keep on gambling to cover your debts.’
‘Mmmm, it is a pity I cannot play a false card occasionally in the grander clubs, but I could never get away with it like I can with the fools around St Ives. One has to be careful; the best of the professionals play in the grander places and some of them get very ugly if they don’t lose fairly.’
‘Quite so, but there is no reason Uncle Laurence should have disapproved of your owing money to an establishment such as Almack’s of London. Only the leading members of society are allowed in through its doors. Well, now we will be able to settle all our debts, rent out the cottage at St Ives for a good sum of money and live here in luxury, as two dignitaries of this little parish, until we can move up to Truro. That is where we belong, the place where the country’s fashionable people meet, an important coinage town and port. I can see us now, walking down its wide streets together. Let’s go there in a few days’ time, Edmund. We can see the shops, eat at the Red Lion Inn, mingle with those we are now equal to.’
Edmund coolly stared his sister in the face and wondered what she would say if she knew his debts amounted to several thousand pounds more than the estimated value of their uncle’s estate. It was a good thing Isabel Hampton was dead and her wealth was at his disposal. He found it amusing to think of the famous London gaming club’s debt collectors scouring for the nonexistent Cornish baronet, Sir Francis Rashleigh of Launceston, the pseudonym he had invented for himself along with a clever disguise to gain entry there. It was most useful, he reminded himself, to have acquaintances in the acting profession to teach you different voices and how to use powder and paint skilfully to change your appearance.
‘Mmmm, I’m comfortable here. No, let us stay here for a while,’ he said languidly, tapping a manicured fingertip on his straight white teeth.
‘Very well,’ Deborah said doubtfully, ‘as you please. But those wretched servants will dance to my tune or they’ll be out on the streets.’ Her small shrewish eyes fell on the two bloodhounds, another source of irritation to her. ‘Those creatures can go out in the stables. I won’t have them spreading their fleas and leaving their revolting smell in the house.’
Edmund looked at the dogs who both hung their heads and looked nervously away, sensing Deborah’s dislike of them. He pursed his smooth pink lips and stroked his cheek, a gesture that sometimes presaged a tantrum.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Deborah. They aren’t hurting in here. Dogs, particularly bloodhounds, are a part of Trevennor House.’
It was decided. The dogs would stay in the house.
‘Have you sent to St Ives for our things?’ Edmund asked.
‘Yes, my dear, but only for our clothes and personal effects. We’ll let the cottage furnished. I don’t want any of that cheap and gaudy stuff in here letting us down when people call on us.’
‘And Mary Ellen? Have you sent for her?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Edmund! I will never understand why you desire the company of that common little trollop and that bastard child of hers.’
‘That child is also my child,’ he answered coldly. ‘A pretty little girl of three years old and her name is Morenwyn.’ His features took on a cruel edge. ‘I’ll thank you, Deborah, not to refer to her by that label ever again.’
This was one thing that Deborah continually fought against and over which she was prepared to risk her brother’s wrath. ‘How can you be sure the brat is your child, Edmund? And even if she is, the girl knew what she was doing when she lay with you. No man can be held responsible for the consequences of that type of liaison.’
‘Oh, Morenwyn is mine, most definitely mine. She is the living image of me. I want her and Mary Ellen here with me. Besides,’ he added in a sultry voice, ‘Mary Ellen satisfies me in a way no other woman can. I like to see her often.’
‘It’s only a few miles from here to St Ives, Edmund,’ Deborah argued, battling against what was coming next.
‘It would do no harm to have them here,’ he persisted.
Deborah leaned her ungainly body forward. ‘As servants or equals?’
‘I think somewhere in between.’
‘We would be talked about,’ Deborah warned.
‘I don’t care a jot about what any narrow-minded little nobody in this nondescript village might say about us. I’ll soon have them all weighed up – the men who are prepared to have a wager behind their wives’ backs, the women who are prepared to do… other things behind their husbands’ backs. Mind you, Debs,’ he went on seriously, ‘we were not popular in St Ives. The churchgoers spurned us and they are the ones who carry the weight in any place. So I suppose it would pay us to be nice to the local people of Gwithian. I want you to be able to entertain the ladies to tea, to be respected. It might be to our advantage to carry on some of Uncle Laurence’s charitable works.’
‘In that case we had better go upstairs and weep over the disgusting remains with the curate when he comes back. With the church just across the road and the curate’s house next to ours, we ought to try to make friends with him and that scrawny wife of his. And I suggest you leave that lady to favour only her husband. But if we are to be on good terms with the curate and his wife,’ Deborah added artfully, ‘don’t you think it would be unwise to install your mistress and her child in this house?’
‘Not if we are seen to be offering a respectable home with good Christian principles to an unfortunate homeless widow and her child,’ he answered back.
Deborah tightened her thin lips, tossed back her head and inwardly admitted defeat – but only for the time being. She was not going to share Edmund with anyone else for long.
‘We had better put on suitable mourning faces,’ she said. ‘That fat Antiss woman’s father will be here quite soon. He will pass the wrecked coach on his way here and I’m afraid it is your duty to inform him that his daughter is dead.’
Edmund shuddered and cursed his brandy glass for being empty. He had forgotten about the other corpse in the house, laid out in the bedchamber next to their uncle’s.
‘This house is full of death and the stables are no better. I shall be glad when Antiss has carted his daughter and servants back to Truro where they belong. Pity about Phoebe though.’
‘Oh?’ Deborah said sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’ Edmund smiled, very slowly, and his face slipped back into contentment. ‘She visited Gwithian with Isabel last year, and while our cousin was out riding with Uncle Laurence, I happened to pay a call here and found Phoebe alone. She entertained me exceedingly well.’
‘I do not wish to hear any more about your rapacious appetites, Edmund. Come,’ Deborah said, rising to her big flat feet. ‘We must prepare ourselves for our visitors. We will have a stream of people calling here to pay their respects to the old man.’ Edmund stood up, just an inch taller than his sister, and picking up his malacca cane he rubbed the brass top with his thumb. ‘Phoebe would have been a good catch if I had taken her to wife. I think she found me most agreeable and I found her humour very stimulating. I always found it rather odd that she befriended our more serious virgin cousin.’
‘They’re all the same, that sort,’ Deborah said spitefully. ‘If you’ve got enough money and property it matters not at all if you are as fat as a cow or as sharp-faced as a rat, you fit in. If you have no money or property, you’re shunned, as we have been all our lives. Anyway, Phoebe Antiss is dead and you don’t need to marry anyone for their money now.’
‘I suppose she really is dead.’ Edmund said, in a sudden moment of panic.
‘Well, if she isn’t who do you suppose the mangled heap lying upstairs is?’
‘No,’ Edmund said impatiently. ‘Not her, Isabel.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Deborah asked in alarm.
‘Well, it’s just a thought. I… I suppose her body will be washed up in a few days’ time.’
‘It was seen on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff,’ Deborah said. ‘The man who brought the news told Mrs Christopher so.’
Edmund looked comforted. Deborah knew he would not be able to bear their new life of wealth and comfort suddenly being snatched back from them. She clenched her fists and made a fierce silent vow that she would never, never be poor again. Then holding up her head proudly, she stalked out of the room and shouted fresh orders at the servants.