Nick walked briskly, keeping alert for signs of anyone coming towards them or moving up behind them. Isabel lagged a long way behind, her constant complaints lost in the roar of the Atlantic Ocean that stretched three thousand miles from the foot of the cliffs.
They were travelling along a narrow, well-worn path, trodden smooth by generations of villagers from Gwithian and of Portreath, the tinners and copper miners, the bands of cautious but efficient smugglers. It was a fairly straight course over flat, stark cliff top, moving into the teeth of the wind. Isabel felt worn and buffeted and was constantly in fear of being blown off the cliff edge. Ominous dark clouds were building up on the sea’s horizon and inland to the south over the granite mass of Cam Brea which could be seen for miles with its castle perched on the top.
Clutching her shawl under her chin to protect her cold ears, Isabel tried unsuccessfully to keep up with Nick. Her high-heeled shoes were torturing her feet and making her steps clumsy and unsafe. The dress she was wearing was a poor fit and chafed the tender skin under her arms and she heartily wished the wind would blow away the offensive mouldy smell left on the clothes from Charlie Chiverton’s shack. To add to her misery, her pleas were being ignored.
‘Will you please slow down!’ she shouted at Nick’s hostile back. She saw his shoulders stiffen, but he kept up his striding pace.
Isabel ran a few steps and screamed across the divide he deliberately made, ‘Don’t keep ignoring me! I told you to slow down.’
Nick stopped, turned and scowled. ‘Were you asking me something?’
‘I want you to slow down and I did say please the first time,’ she snarled back, furious and exasperated, walking as fast as she could to close the gap between them.
Nick gave an offensive grunt and carried on, slowing his steps only very slightly. Isabel sighed heavily to stop herself from shouting abuse, the results of which she knew would use up valuable energy and impede her progress.
Reskajeage Downs was soon left behind and a short time later Isabel slumped to the ground, her breath laboured and her head reeling. The ground was hard and freezing cold and there was nothing to shelter her from the biting wind that chilled her to the bone.
Nick had gone round the outward curve of a small headland and waited impatiently for Isabel to come into sight. He had spent most of the time since leaving Charlie’s shack mulling over where they would spend the night. There was half an hour of daylight left and at the rate Isabel was holding them up they would not make Portreath, which was only two and a half miles away, before dark. It would be possible to walk safely by the aid of the lantern he had with him but a light bobbing its way down off the high platform of cliff into Portreath would arouse unwanted interest. Folk would be curious about any woman in his company, and him a man well known for the wanderlust in his soul, who fought shy of human responsibilities. And if they heard Isabel Hampton speaking in her irritating cultured voice they would be the talk of the North Cliffs for weeks. If Edmund and Deborah Kempthorne got to hear of it, they might well come to the correct conclusions.
A short distance before Portreath there was a cave halfway down the cliff. Better to spend the night there and move on to Portreath in the early morning. It did not matter if it took a day or two to reach Crantock; all that was important was to keep the woman out of sight as much as possible.
Where is that damned woman?’ Nick muttered under his breath, craning his strong neck for sight of her. ‘Probably fallen down a rabbit hole.’
He marched back and came upon Isabel slumped on the ground. He ordered her crossly to get up.
‘I cannot go any further,’ she said, her face lowered and voice muffled in the shawl. The coach accident had taken more out of her than she had realised and she was disappointed with herself. As a fit horsewoman she had thought she would cope rather better on this enforced trek.
‘We have less than thirty minutes of daylight left to walk a couple of miles and climb down a hundred feet of cliff. Now get up and let’s get on, unless you want to spend the night out in the open.’
Isabel’s head jerked up and Nick’s impatience was not lessened by the anguish on her face.
‘But I cannot possibly climb down a cliff, not in these shoes. My feet are hurting terribly as it is. Surely we can go on and spend the night at the nearest inn or even go back to that dirty little man’s shack.’
‘Have you no brains at all, woman? Must I explain everything to you over and over again?’ Yanking Isabel to her feet, he dragged her along. Her shawl fell from her head and the wind whipped her hair across her face. ‘You are supposed to be dead!’ he shouted in her ear. Your life is believed to be in danger and we can’t afford to attract attention to ourselves, which we surely will if we’re seen coming down off the cliff at night. Folk will take us for smugglers for one thing and for another we are not going to go back to my friend’s home and put him at possible risk. Do you understand?’
Isabel fought him off as she was hauled along and he let her go. ‘How dare you! I will not be spoken to in such an outrageous manner and don’t you dare touch me again!’ Her highly pitched voice grated on Nick’s nerves.
‘You’ve got no ruddy choice if we want to get on.’ He prodded her onwards as she stopped to pull up the shawl and Isabel turned sharply, bringing her hand up to slap his face. Nick caught her wrist and twisted it until she cried out in pain. ‘You’re far too free with your slaps and orders, woman. I’m trying to save your life, for God’s sake!’
She let out a choked sob and followed him, miserably keeping her eyes firmly on the path for safety while trying to keep up with his impatient strides. It was getting dark and she was very frightened at the prospect of having to climb down a cliff. And always, always there was the rush and boom and thump of the sea. She wanted to put both hands over her ears and shut out the awesome noise but it would mean denying herself the warmth of the shawl. The sea was a brute! She wanted to scream at it to stop, that she could no longer bear it. She wanted to run away from the hostile cliff and the mighty rocks out in the sea standing there like sentries, holding her prisoner on the cliff above them. The rocks all had names and a story behind them, which would have made them seem friendlier had Isabel known this, but she did not and only wanted to run away and never take sight of them again. She wanted to escape from the chilling wind and the vast expanse all around her under a foreboding sky, but her legs were stiff and wooden, her feet blistered and growing more painful by the moment.
Most of all she could not bear to be with this terrible man who had so unfeelingly told her the news of her dear uncle’s death and that her cousins could be plotting her murder. Nick Nancarrow was a bigger brute than the sea.
Isabel wanted to be with Edmund and Deborah Kempthorne in Trevennor House sitting before a roaring fire, wearing sedate and comfortable clothes, grieving with them over their uncle’s death, and having them smile softly at her and put comforting arms about her and tell her their uncle’s suspicions were utterly groundless. It was a cosy picture, and an unattainable one, not least because she knew the Kempthornes despised her.
Nick had stopped. When she reached him she saw they were on the top of a promontory and were looking down a long steep drop with a fast-moving stream at its bottom running seawards down into a little rocky cove. On the other side of the stream the cliff rose sharply again.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, looking down anxiously.
‘This place is called Carvannel Downs. Go down the drop sideways,’ he advised brusquely and abruptly set off.
Isabel watched numbly until he was halfway down. She felt dizzy, the wind was making her eyes water and suddenly her vision blurred. She wiped her eyes dry, determined not to call him back to help her. She took the first uncertain step downwards, heeding his advice to keep her foot sideways. The ground was not firm and she was nervous. Each step jarred her whole body, making her grind her teeth and once painfully biting her tongue.
At the moment she felt a little more confident, she fell. She did not scream, her mouth was clamped shut as she bumped and rolled over and over, passing Nick and stopping only against the raised bank of the stream with a hefty thud. One arm flopped into the icy water.
Nick bounded down the rest of the way to reach her. He knelt and swiftly pulled her arm out of the water. Then he moved his hands up and down her limbs and over her ribs, worried that he would find broken bones.
‘Can you speak?’ he asked.
Isabel blinked and moaned, then coughed. ‘I… I…’
‘All right, don’t try to talk. You don’t seem to have broken anything. Can you move your head?’
She was almost too afraid to try but made small movements to each side and lifted her chin up and down. Nick would never know how relieved she had been to feel the firm searching pressure of his hands over her body. It proved that she was not paralysed. Her father had died paralysed from a stroke and she had a horror of not being able to move freely.
Then suddenly she was furious with Nick. If he insisted on taking responsibility for her safety, he should have made sure she did not fall. She pummelled his broad chest with clenched fists as he leaned over her but she did not have the strength to bawl the recriminations she wanted to at him. Nick grasped her flailing arms as gently as he could, forcing them to the damp ground above her head. She became still, her chest heaving for breath. She closed her eyes tightly as a wave of nausea overwhelmed her.
Nick gathered her up in his arms; he would carry her the rest of the way. He had chosen to ignore the fact that she had been hurt in the coach accident and felt a small measure of guilt at forcing her to walk so far. He had been asked, and he had promised, to keep her safe, but if she kept having accidents there would be small chance of that. He hoped there would be no lasting effects from the fall. Isabel lay quietly against him, dazed.
He carried her across the stream, over the length of ship’s planking put there by Charlie years ago so his wife would not have to leap over and to give himself safer passage home after a night’s drinking at the Basset’s Cove Inn at Portreath. Wild garlic grew on either bank of the stream and the wind blew the strong smell over them. It caused Isabel to stir and as Nick skilfully made his way up the other side, she gazed over his shoulder at the green water of the stream that ended in a sheer waterfall and cascaded onto the rocks and beach far below. There was just enough light to see the spray that leapt upwards in a fine mist.
Isabel longed to sleep but fought her fatigue to stay alert. She did not want her wits dulled. Nick was taking long fast strides and she was jolted continually against his chest. She wondered if he found her heavy, but if he did she did not care. It was his fault she had fallen and he had no right to take her on such an arduous journey in the first place. There must be an easier, more comfortable way of giving her his protection and keeping her out of sight of other people.
Ten minutes had passed when he stopped walking and put her carefully down on her feet, holding her until he was sure she was steady. They were very close to the edge of the cliff. Far, far below, Isabel saw a small sandy beach where two massive slaty rocks stood side by side like the walls of a semi-demolished house. A channel of raging sea surged in and out between them. One rock was attached to the main cliff wall, the other was topped with a jagged edge. Isabel had a fearful image of a luckless person plunging down and being impaled there.
‘Is it down there?’ she gulped nervously. ‘Where you want us to climb down?’
‘About halfway down, but ’tis a brave drop,’ Nick replied, for the first time making a point of looking at her when he spoke to her.
‘I’m frightened,’ she admitted in a small voice.
‘There’s no need to be. ’Tis risky but not dangerous if you know what you’re doing.’
‘But I don’t know what I’m doing and it’s nearly dark,’ she said desperately. ‘Oh, please, please, can we go somewhere else?’
Nick took her arm and guided her several feet away from the cliff edge. He heard her long deep sigh of relief.
‘See there?’ He pointed to a deep depression in the scrubby ground. ‘If you don’t know the cliffs as we locals do you would plunge to your death walking over that. The gorse and rough grass have grown over the shaft of a disused copper mine. That’s how we’re going down to the cave.’
‘You mean we don’t have to climb down the cliff? We can arrive at this cave by climbing down a disused mine shaft?’
‘Aye, it’ll give us shelter for the night.’
‘But isn’t it just as dangerous?’ Isabel felt the jitters bite at her insides again.
‘’Tis easy as hell,’ Nick assured her grimly. ‘We’re going to climb down inside the cliff to the cave. The cave has always been there, the miners tunnelled out from the shaft to meet it to provide ventilation. It’s been used as a smugglers’ hide ever since, even when the mine was a working concern. The goods are landed by rowing boats that meet a ship out in deeper waters. Then they’re unloaded on the beach and hauled up on ropes into the cave, which is roughly halfway down the cliff. The goods remain dry, hidden and safe until they can be brought up the shaft.’
‘That’s incredible,’ Isabel said, impressed. She knew about smuggling – it was every other Cornishman’s second occupation – but she had no idea it was so well organized.
‘’Tis a welcome place for us to sleep in tonight,’ Nick said.
A sudden thought seized Isabel. ‘You don’t mean to keep me down there until Richard arrives back in Cornwall, do you?’
‘Who’s Richard?’ Nick asked, without real interest, as he crouched himself down to light the lantern he had taken out of the canvas bag.
‘Captain Richard Grenville, my fiancé.’
‘No,’ Nick answered. ‘The cave will be used long before that happens, there’s a good deal of free trading going on along this stretch of the coast. And how you do forget. I’m taking you to Crantock, remember?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She hated the way she appeared to be so foolish before this uncompromising man.
With the lantern lit, Nick pulled aside a huge mat of gorse to reveal a gaping black hole. Just visible below its rim were the top rungs of the first of many wooden ladders that went down and down.
‘I’ll go first and light the way. You’ll be quite safe if you hold on tightly. The ladders are kept in good repair. Take each step slowly and don’t look down.’
Another fear beset Isabel and she clutched Nick’s shoulder. ‘What if there are smugglers down there now? What if someone wants to smuggle something in tonight? I’ve heard they do not like to be disturbed or recognized.’
Nick pushed her hand away. ‘’Tis not likely. Charlie knew of no run coming in tonight and even if there is, they’ll know me.’
He turned and lowered himself into the hole until his feet located a rung. He climbed down until only his head and shoulders were visible. Then he called for Isabel to follow him.
She glanced around the cliff scenery. The sky was dark blue with only a strip of light on the horizon over the sea. She felt as if she was about to volunteer her early presence to her tomb. Taking a deep, deep breath, she turned as Nick had done, lowered herself onto her knees and, clutching at the harsh grass, fearfully let a foot down inside the shaft. When it made contact with a rung, Nick called to her that she was doing well and to try the next foot. Although her heart seemed to be in her mouth, she knew there was no room for argument, nowhere else to go. She obeyed and shakily made a few steps down until her hands were gripping the top rung of the ladder. Nick had not moved and she felt a little safer to be cocooned by his body and have the lantern level with her face.
In this way they climbed down and down and down, stopping often to rest so Isabel could keep a firm grip on the ladder and not tire out. Exertion and fear of falling brought her out in a cold sweat. Nick was impressed by her courage and made every effort to make the long descent easier and less frightening for her. He had assumed he would have to bully her down; in fact, having seen men run away in pure fear of the terrible depths and the blackness of the underground, he had thought he might even have to knock her out and carry her down unconscious.
After what seemed like an eternity consisting of thousands of rungs, Nick stopped and spoke quietly so as not to startle her into a precarious movement. ‘Look over to your left and you’ll see a wooden platform jutting out from the rock. It leads straight to the cave. I want you to move your body across and step onto it. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you so you won’t fall backwards. First, put both your hands on the side of the ladder. Can you do that?’
Isabel nodded. By now she was so fatigued, her head so light she felt as though she was in a weird dream. Instinct alone took over and told her if she obeyed this strong male voice behind her head she would soon be on firm ground again, safe and able to sleep. How she longed for precious, dark, silent sleep. Very slowly she edged her taut hands across the rung she was gripping and transferred them to the side of the ladder.
‘Good, good,’ Nick encouraged her. ‘There’s a hook just here which I’m going to hang the lantern on and I’m going to put my arm round your waist. I want you to reach out with your left foot and step onto the platform then move your other foot beside it. I’ll hold you tightly while you swing across and you’ll only have to walk forward and be perfectly safe. You have nothing to fear. I won’t let you fall.’ In any other circumstances but these Isabel would have been petrified or become hysterical. But she trusted the husky voice and did as Nick told her. An instant later she was walking into the cave after passing through a few feet of low tunnel, with Nick behind her lighting the way. The cave’s mouth was a roughly circular hole about five feet in diameter through which a bitterly cold draught poured and chilled her to the marrow. Isabel was disappointed that the wide expanse of the cave’s belly was empty; she had expected to see tubs of rum and brandy and bales of silk, and hopefully warm blankets to wrap herself up in for the sleep she wanted so desperately. The roof of the cave was a bare inch above Nick’s head.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘there’s a turn to the right along here where we can get out of the cold wind.’ He held the lantern high and led the way.
‘Do you know this cave well?’ Isabel asked, her eyes rooted to the uneven ground lest she trip. ‘Do you take part in this smuggling business?’
‘Nothing that I’d admit to,’ he answered gruffly. The turning led to an area that showed signs of use: coils of thick rope so high and wide they could be sat on, tarred torches set high in nooks and crannies of the walls, empty wooden crates, a discarded broken clay pipe and a piece of a man’s scarf. Isabel sat down wearily on one of the crates and rearranged the shawl so the cold wet part that had fallen into the stream was not touching her arm. The muscles at the top of her legs ached and twitched wildly. On her face she felt a welcome heat and a prickly tingling feeling from the barrage of the wind. Her heart thumped in her chest and pounded in her ears.
Nick, too, was relieved the climb down the ladders was over. He had lied about it being easy. It was a long way down and certain death if you fell; he had seen more than one man plunge to his doom, left at the bottom of the shaft to rot, during the occupation of a smuggling run. Now they were safely in the cave he realised it would have been foolhardy to have attempted to carry Isabel down if she had refused to cooperate. He wiped the sweat from his face and put his bag and the lantern on the crate next to Isabel. He lit two of the torches and blew the lantern out.
‘You hungry?’ he said, over Isabel’s bowed head.
She looked up and thought he was actually smiling at her. She blinked and his face was as stern as ever. His question made her realize she was very hungry.
‘Yes, I am,’ she replied softly.
‘Charlie put some food in my bag for us. Don’t know what it’s like though; his wife was a good cook and always insisted on filling my pockets with hunks of bread and hevva cake. He doesn’t do any baking but has kept up his wife’s habit of giving me food when I call on him. I’ll get us something else in Portreath tomorrow.’
‘Anything would be welcome at this moment,’ Isabel said truthfully.
‘You may not say that when you see what it is,’ Nick said, remembering the piece of stinking mackerel Charlie had offered him. He unstrapped the bag and put his hand inside and pulled out a large packet wrapped in a red handkerchief. ‘Hope this is clean,’ he said doubtfully, unwrapping the cloth, then, ‘Bloody hell!’
‘What is it?’ Isabel asked, half afraid to be told and frowning at his bad language.
‘A pasty. ’Tis a beauty too, nearly a foot long. Well, I’ll be damned. Charlie must have gone into Portreath himself earlier today. This is one of Mundy Cottle’s I’d reckon and her baking is legendary.’
‘It was very kind of your friend to give us his food. He must be so terribly poor, living as he does in such squalid conditions. I hope he won’t be going hungry for our sakes.’
Nick eyed Isabel with deep suspicion. Except for Laurence Trevennor, all the wealthy people he had come across cared little or nothing at all for the poor, but Isabel’s expression seemed sincere.
‘The pasty smells good,’ she said, wetting her dry lips in anticipation.
Nick held the pasty under her face so she could see it. There’s no need to be concerned about Charlie. Like me, he lives the way he chooses, but when I get the chance I’ll repay him for his help.’ Isabel was staring longingly at the pasty. ‘I’ll break it in half,’ he said.
‘No you have a bigger part of it,’ she said, looking up and meeting his eyes.
He raised his brows. ‘Why? Why on earth should I do that?’
‘Because men need to eat more than women do. Mrs Sweet, who cooks for Uncle Laurence, always says so.’
It struck Nick as a child-like thing to say. ‘Well, Wenna Sweet is entitled to her views as the best cook in Gwithian, but tonight we’ll have equal shares.’ He broke the pasty in half, gave Isabel hers in the kerchief and sat down on the next crate. She thanked him and ate a mouthful, chewing it slowly, then gazed at it solemnly.
‘Mr Nancarrow?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Is… is my Uncle Laurence really dead?’
Nick swallowed what he was chewing and answered softly, ‘Yes. Apart from his concern for you, his last moments were painless and peaceful.’
With her body hunched over and the pasty gripped in both hands, Isabel cried quietly.
Nick glanced at her then looked away. She seemed so small. ‘Eat up, you’ll feel better.’
Isabel ate in painful gulps then folded the cloth which Nick put back in the bag. A great weariness overtook her and she longed for sleep, to shut out the muted noise of the ocean and escape her tortured thoughts, her aches and pains and troubled future. The slats of the crates were too widely spaced to sleep on; she moved stiffly from the crate and sat on the cold hard ground that was to be her bed for the night. Pulling the shawl over her head she leaned back against the crate and closed her eyes. Nick watched her and came to kneel in front of her.
Tour feet are swollen and bleeding,’ he said. ‘You’d better take your shoes off.’
Isabel was too tired to care and made no protest when he did it for her but she gasped to see the pebble-sized blisters and the skin rubbed raw from the edges of her shoes. Nick pulled off his neckerchief. Tearing it in two he carefully bound each foot in turn.
‘That should help,’ he said, glancing at her under his long fair lashes as though he required her approval.
Isabel was cheered that his mood had finally softened but when he raised his head and looked at her fully, his handsome face held all of its usual harshness.
‘It does, thank you,’ she replied, looking at her feet bandaged in plain blue cloth, then closing her eyes again.
‘The best way to keep warm for the night is to huddle together.’ He thought this would provoke a barrage of protests. But Isabel was too worn out to feel any sense of impropriety and in her wretchedness she welcomed the prospect of being close to another person, even this dreadful man who it would seem hated her for no good reason. At present he was the only source of warmth and security in her nightmare world. Thoughts of right and wrong could be left until tomorrow when she would feel fresh and have regained her strength and full senses.
Nick sat close beside her and drew her towards him so she was resting comfortably against his chest. Instinctively she nestled in closer, the sound of his heart beating drowning out the sound of the sea, his warm unique smell taking the place of the odour of the clothes she wore. She was deeply asleep before she could feel the strong capable arms he put round her.