The instant Kit was through the gate a company of barking lurchers raced up and formed themselves as an escort. No doubt all visitors received this dubious honour. He didn’t care for dogs. Apart from lapdogs and well-trained hunting hounds the creatures were invariably territorial, intrusive about one’s person, and some were vicious. He knew about vicious dogs. As a boy, he had been guarded by a pair of edgy, cantankerous mutts, guarded in the manner of being kept in on the small country property where he’d been raised, and to keep visitors out. He had never received visitors, it had been strictly disallowed.
The grey, wire-haired, sharp-nosed lurchers were well kept, and no doubt, trained to be suspicious and could easily turn nasty. He trotted on down the steep gradient of the valley, but after a cursory sniff close to the horse’s legs the lurchers did no more than keep close. The second steadfast iron gate, incorporated in the lichen-clad granite walls, was open wide and he went into the compound with the horse’s hooves crunching noisily on the circular gravelled court. It was an alien sound that burrowed deep inside his ears, as did all new sounds wherever he went, for he had never belonged anywhere, and here, where he had blood kin aplenty, it felt the most alien of all. A silent childhood cry of aching loneliness, the desperate plea of old for comfort and acceptance emerged from his hidden depths. He stamped it down with the ruthlessness he’d acquired to survive another wretched day of isolation. He must lock arms only with one companion, hatred, and the friend it brought along with it, revenge. They were his reason and purpose for being here. He’d come to see that Tempest Kivell paid for her crimes against him, the grandson she didn’t know had existed for all his miserable life.
He enjoyed the effect he had on the Kivell clan, open-mouthed stares and small gasps, until he realized he was being regarded not with the avid curiosity for a stranger of their breed suddenly coming among them. These people, who crowded out of their homes and workplaces and gathered on the stone-chipping courtyard, seemed to be expecting him. Despite keeping to the house at Gwennap his notable resemblance could not have gone unnoticed by the staff left there and likely it had been carried here, or perhaps even by the doxy brought to him. If that was the case, Kit could understand their suspicion. They would want to know why he’d taken so long to make himself known to them. But why the disquiet, hostility even, glittering from every frosty eye and every bold frame? Were they so easily offended? They were devil-may-care, supposedly. But family was everything to them and they must be offended that he had been keeping his distance. There were a great many children here, the Kivells being prolific breeders. These well-fed, well-dressed brats imitated their parents’ unreceptive stance. This was not a puritanical clan; they had small respect for God or the law. So if they’d heard of his drunken womanizing and resorting to opium it wouldn’t be that which was making them so unwelcoming. The dogs were still in watchful formation about him, and while he was still wary of them, these people did not scare him. Some of them might have a hidden firearm on their person; so did he.
Reining in, he swept friendly smiles to one and all, cloaking the supercilious jibes lurking beneath his surface. These people thought themselves individuals but here they were in distinctive muted shades of homespun cloth, fine stuff, but a uniform nonetheless. The women, most were comely, for poverty was not their enemy as with the labouring masses, more or less favoured the same hairstyle, a centre parting with looped braids about the ears, and white aprons edged with intricate lace. It was something like a secretive religious cult here but without the religion, and the women did not seem particularly subservient to the men. The men looked to the last one capable of repelling any invader or of readily desiring to storm another’s stronghold. The Kivells were known for their brawn, intelligence, wits and cunning. Tough stuff, Kivell blood, and he had it running through his veins, but he would be very careful how he conducted himself here.
‘Good morning,’ Kit shot brightly to the entire gathering. ‘Please forgive the liberty of my unannounced arrival.’
An ancient Kivell, poised slightly in front of his kinfolk, with a thick white spade beard and a blast of white hair to his hefty shoulders, scratched his leathery hook nose, making the point of delaying a return greeting. ‘Good morning to you. What might your business be here?’
His brogue was so heavy and rural that at first Kit failed to understand him and he thought he was getting a rebuff. He reached inside the top pocket of his riding coat and proffered a card to the elder. The details stated: Mr Charles Howarth, Howarth Shipping Line, Bristol. His half-brother’s identity. ‘Charles Howarth, sir. I am hoping to be received by Mrs Tempest Kivell.’
‘I’m Genesis Kivell,’ the elder said, after reading the card. He gave a brisk nod towards the prime house. ‘She’s waiting for ’ee – Mr Howarth.’
Kit frowned. So he definitely had been seen in the area and his grandmother was expecting him, and not simply as someone who resembled her son but as someone she saw no reason to trust.
His horse was led off, and Genesis Kivell showed him to the threshold of Morn O’ May. He passed the card to a woman waiting on the doorstep. She glanced at it but showed no interest in the details. She looked Kit up and down and with each movement of her pretty hazel eyes her expression grew graver. In her late thirties, of large frame, and a good figure nourished by good cooking, he got the impression she was normally a kindly woman who’d not shy from Good Samaritan acts, but right now she was stiff and pursed-lipped.
Silently, she ushered him inside but did not offer to take his hat and gloves; he was not welcome to stay for long. All she said was, ‘This way,’ but Kit knew she was bursting to confront him, to warn and threaten him. He had the notion she had been cautioned to say very little.
She was not unattractive, and as he followed her into the hall he gazed up the stairs, which divided at the top onto an arced landing, and he pondered behind which of the many doors up there was her bed. Then he snapped off the thought, for if she was Eula Kivell, as he believed, then she was his aunt and such a musing was disgusting. More importantly his mind should be only on his reasons for being here.
It had been easy to gain an audience with his grandmother. Her so-called powers of witchery didn’t frighten him even though they had his villainous father – that scrap of information had greatly surprised him. Kit didn’t believe in all that supernatural tosh. He had seen spectres and visions himself, but only while in his cups or under the influence of opium. It came to him suddenly – disjointed thoughts were apt to rush into his mind – these people might believe he had come for money. He had money, a sizeable fortune left to him by his remote guardian and money of his own making, and he looked as if he was wealthy. He had made many lucrative investments and significant gains at the gaming tables. He wanted nothing from these people except to bring them down, starting with his damnable grandmother. Damn these upstart people, damn them all! They had a little land and through enterprise and deviousness were well placed but it didn’t qualify them as gentry, even though they thought themselves above the middle class. The people of Meryen consorted with them but only because they were the weaker element. The Kivells weren’t wanted in any society. They were misfits. So was he, and he hated his late father and Tempest Kivell because of it.
As if aware that he had dropped his pretence of cordiality, the woman glanced round at him. He avoided her stare – she would see the bitterness in him. She sighed, an angry sigh. He was as welcome here as the plague, but he was used to that from the other branch of his parentage. Her feet made a light tap along a stone-flagged passage spread with berry-coloured woven runners; his step was heavy and brooding, and she kept glancing behind her as if fearing he might rear up on her.
They passed rooms and each door was shut against him. He noted the paintings, carvings and ornaments as they went along. The Kivells were highly skilled craftsmen but some of their fine acquisitions must be from smuggling and theft. The massive tapestries caught his eye. One portrayed the Kivell origins, entailing the first owner of Burnt Oak falling off a horse during a race to secure either this land or the manor of Poltraze.
The woman stopped at the end of the passage at carved double doors and put a hand out to bid him wait. She entered the room. Kit put his ear to the solid wood and heard her talking to another female, his grandmother at last. He clenched a fist, felt dizzy and let out a deep breath of excruciating tension. He breathed in deeply, once, twice, three times, sighing out as he exhaled, as a former mistress of his had advised when he succumbed to light-headedness, brought on by his dark thoughts. Why did this have to happen now? He’d have a fainting fit like a woman if he wasn’t careful. He must clear his mind. Never had it been more important. Ignoring the racing of his heart he raised his shoulders. He had an awful habit of stooping, a legacy of the relentless put-downs he’d suffered as a boy. He’d hated being tall then, it had made his presence all too obvious.
In her most stylish day dress, a lilac affair with exquisite lace, it took all her strength but Tempest was on her feet to receive the visitor and she would receive him alone. She knew she was in for an ordeal but she had to present a strong front from the beginning because she sensed the stranger’s issues were mainly with her. She was about to be faced with a man who bore a close likeness to the son she had despised from his birth, whose only good deed on earth had been his children, the ones who hadn’t turned out bad, that was; Sol was her favourite. She missed Sol so much, and now she must be faced with Titus’s evil replica. She had been ill since her vision and the strain was killing her. She felt a stab of fear – killing her literally? She didn’t want to die soon. She wanted to see Sol and his family again before she left this earth.
Eula was urging her to sit down and to allow her to stay in the room. Tempest lifted her pince-nez and glanced again at the visiting card, then clearing the lump of dread in her throat she said, no higher than a whisper, ‘Send him in, Eula. Then go, do as I say. This is the right way.’
‘If you insist, Mama, but I’ll stay just beyond the door in case you need me.’ Eula gripped her mother’s hand, anxious at how fragile she was.
Tempest lifted her once-regal chin. What was she about to be faced with?
Eula opened both doors and motioned with her hand for Kit to go in. She wanted to glare at him, make it a warning, but she mustn’t interfere with whatever her mother was about to do. Her mother was at her weakest but she did have her powers, and Eula prayed they would not fail her.
Kit held himself as straight as a military man and, thankfully, he felt strangely calm, his mind quick and able to calculate.
At the other end of the thick carpet, Tempest pulled off a stately bearing, remembering to hold her hands together lightly and not too tightly. She must not for a second show how unnerved she was by his coming here. She moved her head to left and right. How much of Titus could she see in this man? He allowed her examination with accommodating passivity. Tempest was taken aback to find the Kivell he most favoured in appearance was Sol. Sol had been wild and arrogant in his youth, but without any of Titus’s malice. This stranger was summing her up in return and there appeared to be nothing particularly adverse about him, but he was no doubt being careful.
Kit found himself in a distinctly feminine room, a lavish room of glass display cabinets, tabernacle-framed mirrors, lush greenery on elaborate jardinières and opulent drapery. He found Tempest Kivell prepossessing and noble-featured, with high distinctive cheekbones and jewel-blue eyes. Her black hair was showing the first transition towards grey. She was not hale and strong as his intelligence had reported, but as pale as summer mist and clearly unwell. He had been ungallant towards Sarah Kivell only minutes ago, but it would not amuse him to be uncivil to this woman right now. She was regarding him steadily, an intelligent, shrewd woman, who had survived a brutal marriage, and he was stunned to actually feel some sneaking admiration towards her.
Each was curious about the other on a far deeper level than they had first imagined. Neither felt the need to draw battle lines for the time being.
‘You have my sincere thanks for receiving me, Mrs Kivell,’ Kit said in the polite voice he would have used in any genteel sitting room.
‘Your card gives you the name of Charles Howarth,’ Tempest replied, her honey tones scratchy. ‘But obviously you have connections with the Kivells. Who, sir, are you exactly?’
‘Ma’am, let us not make pretence this is an ordinary occasion. You are curious about me and I will gladly answer all your enquiries. I, in turn, am curious to learn why I am so unwelcome here among the people whom I not long ago became aware as being my kin. Mrs Kivell, I have very good reason to believe your late son, Titus, was my father.’ He watched her closely, there was no need, this wasn’t a revelation to her, but she was trembling. ‘May I be so bold as to suggest that you seat yourself? I am happy to remain standing, as I think you would prefer. Please accept my apologies for coming at an inopportune time. I would have understood if you had sent a message that you were indisposed.’
‘Yes, I will sit, Mr Howarth.’ Tempest made her feet perform their usual graceful task of conveying her to her tapestry cabriole chair at the window. ‘Sit, if you would like.’
To loom over her was what he’d prefer but to gain exactly what he wanted it might be worth a try at gaining her trust. He took the edge of a matching sofa where he was close to her. He wanted to see her face every moment.
Tempest was of the same mind. She felt compelled to gaze at him. ‘Would you have understood, Mr Howarth, if I had sent word to say I was indisposed? I think you are not here for the good of this family.’
Kit hated that remark and hated her for saying it. Was this all she had to say to someone so clearly connected to her own flesh and blood? ‘Have you ever heard of me, ma’am?’ he asked in a grim tone. ‘Do you know something about me that you do not approve of?’
‘I have never heard of you before, Mr Howarth.’ Tempest realized how lame that sounded. The only basis she had for being the slightest offhand with him was a dream, and that would sound ludicrous and mad to those of no belief in matters spiritual. She had foreseen and dreaded this moment, it had made her ill, and although this young man actually existed and was here, even to her it seemed outlandish. He looked a lot like Titus but he was not Titus. On the other hand, dreams were for interpreting, and it seemed more than coincidence that although he could have found out at any time he was of Kivell blood and got in contact he had come now. Surely she must trust her psychic abilities and heed the terrible dread that had come upon her. Most of the family had wanted to warn off the stranger who had turned up on their boundary. But to Tempest, that was not the way. And surely he should at least be allowed a hearing? What would Sol have advised? He would have been interested to meet this man who was possibly his half-brother.
Kit frowned darkly. How he wanted to rail against this superior woman. She had never heard of him yet she and her wretched people had chosen to treat him like dirt. Then he was worried. During his drunken or drugged state he might have revealed the true purpose behind his presence in Cornwall to the doxy. She could have run to the Kivells with the information for payment. That must be it. Tempest Kivell had lied, she must have known he had not been far away for the last few days. He should have been rigidly circumspect. He would not make that mistake again.
Tempest saw the trouble darken over him. She sensed some inner torment, and because he reminded her more and more of Sol she was moved by the stirring of guilt. If he was Titus’s son, that made him her grandson. But she must not give way to sentimentality. On the other hand, need she fear him so? Her powers had always manifested to help her when she really needed them. She should take heart and explore the vision. Shadows hid good things as well as bad. The image of Titus might be a mocking from beyond the grave but to concentrate only on that might cause her to miss something it had wickedly endeavoured to disguise. This man might simply have come to look her up, his grandmother. People invariably longed to trace their roots to discover who they really were. There was a great sadness in him, more than that, and if he was genuine, her attitude and the fears she had cast upon the family were unjustifiably adding to it. She cleared her throat and found her voice had regained its strength. ‘It seems you may very well have a connection to my son, and therefore to the rest of us. How did you come by and how long have you had this knowledge, Mr Howarth?’
Kit raised his straight black brows at her honeyed tones. What was her ploy now? She was no longer trembling in the attempt to sit upright but rather was sagging like a sack of straw. She had relaxed. He fancied that in another minute she would be smiling and offering him tea. Hell’s teeth, she was a witch of sorts. He had the horrid sensation he had walked into a trap. He knew then that he did not have all the advantages, as he’d so arrogantly believed. He had set himself up against a witch and her coven. He’d been foolish to believe he could breeze into their lives and upset, even destroy, a centuries-old stronghold.
‘Altogether, for about three months. I happened upon a captain of a Falmouth packet in Bristol port, in a certain drinking establishment. He was shocked by the strong resemblance I bore to a man he had known from Cornwall, a man going by the name of Titus Kivell. I have known from a very young age that the man who gave me his name was not my real father.’ A lie, he’d thought he’d had no family at all. His real surname Woodburne had, apparently, been plucked out of the air. ‘Naturally, my curiosity was whetted. I paid an enquiry agent of good repute to investigate for me. It took a while for the story to be pieced together.’ This was how he had come by the truth of his maternal parentage. ‘I looked up old records and I tracked down some former servants to obtain details. My parents had never mentioned they had been to Falmouth, but it turned out that they had stayed there on shipping business in 1818, nine months prior to my birth. There was a brief affair.’ A lie, he had been sired by Titus in the same brutal manner as Titus had himself. ‘My mother, it seemed, was dazzled by Titus Kivell’s good looks and wild ways, and apparently by how he could turn on the charm.’
Tempest nodded, reminded of how her son had beguiled Sarah. ‘Did her husband discover the affair or did she confess it to him?’
‘My mother confessed the moment she knew she was with child. There had been no physical closeness between her and her husband, a much older man, for some time and she knew she must tell the truth. He had always adored her and he forgave her. He accepted me as his own. It pleased him to have an heir.’ Complete and utter lies, it cut into his soul to be saying them.
A similar set-up to the one at Poltraze, Tempest mused. ‘How did you discover the truth?’
‘There were always whispers among the servants or so it seemed to me. A footman was dismissed for stealing and I came across him quarrelling with the butler while he was being shown the back door. The vengeful footman blurted out that he’d broadcast the fact that I was, forgive me saying this, a little bastard, and he’d drag the Howarth name through the dirt. He was eventually paid off, and my parents answered my earnest questions with the whole sorry truth. They had always been rather remote from me, now I knew why. My mother felt guilty, and Mr Howarth, as I came to think of him after that, chose to keep me in the background. My mother refused to divulge who my real father was and I did not press it. How could I? I was just a child. My nurse kept reminding me how fortunate I was that Mr Howarth had not had me cast off. Well, I could not really grumble, I was well clothed, fed and educated, with an inheritance to look forward to, but it was hard and I was always very lonely.’ More lies, except the remoteness and the loneliness. No one in the Howarth shipping line, except the real Charles Howarth, knew of his existence, and he was not desirous of publicly acknowledging Kit, full name Christopher.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tempest said. The sadness was on him again, it was a crushing melancholy, and part of her wanted to offer him more sympathy. ‘Well, Mr Howarth, you were fortunate, as your nurse said. I find no problem in accepting you to be my son’s son. What do you hope to achieve by your visit here?’
The worm of loathing that had gnawed in him for so many years caused his gut to constrict and his temper to rise. He had to bring it under control or he would have snarled, ‘To make you suffer! To see you go through a similar sort of hell to mine.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I had to come. I thought I would like to see Titus’s grave but now I’m here I’m not sure. I’m not sure what I feel. I’ll return to the house where I am temporarily residing. I suppose what happens next is up to you, Mrs Kivell.’ His shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a ruse. The deep, dark depression was pressing down on him again. He didn’t belong here or anywhere else on earth and his time here had reinforced it. He needed to get away, to be on his own, and to seek a way to forget for a while. As for Titus Kivell’s grave, if he saw it now he’d rip off its memorial stone and kick the ground apart.
Tempest thought about what she should say. He was giving her the chance to send him away for good. How could she do that? He was her flesh and blood. It was obvious he had led a life without the least affection, making him sorrowful and with the need to present a confident facade when he was in fact unsure of himself. He had known loss and rejection.
Kit got up and caught a glimpse of the well-kept garden beyond the window. Most of the plants were in winter slumber but all seemed healthy. Something struck him as strange, and then he had it; the blight that had hit Poltraze’s grounds had not done the same deadly job here. He couldn’t care less about it, but the destruction at the grander property had obviously been wilful.
‘You like gardens, Mr Howarth?’ Tempest wanted to know a little about him, actually, a lot about him.
Kit was confused by the question. ‘What? Oh, yours shows a splendid aspect, Mrs Kivell. I shall take my leave.’
To Tempest it seemed a shameful thing for a grandson of hers to come and go without the smallest offer of hospitality, but she mustn’t be soft, and Eula and the rest of the family would disapprove. She could at least give him a kind word. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. You must think me a very poor hostess …’
‘Not at all. I can see you are unwell.’
‘I’ll see you to the door. May I ask where you are staying?’
‘Trengrove, in Gwennap, fairly near to the church.’ He bowed, and allowed her to reach the door before him. It was a peculiar feeling to be this close to her, to look directly down on the lace cap on her upswept hair, to smell her light floral perfume. Her marble-toned skin had just a few feathery wrinkles. He had thought she would be hard and cold, as the rejection of Titus suggested, but after an initial frostiness, there seemed kindness and even concern in her. ‘Perhaps … perhaps I might call again? By proper arrangement, if that is agreeable, when you feel more able to receive visitors. I’ve thought to remain locally a while longer yet.’
‘Yes, I think you should.’ He had the right to be interested in his new family. ‘Perhaps you could come this time next week. Come for luncheon, Mr Howarth.’ She nearly went on to say, ‘And meet some of the family.’ But that was inappropriate. A week would give time for some enquiries to be made about the Howarth Shipping Line; if it was a real and successful enterprise there would be business connections at Falmouth. A few select members of the family round the dining table could make up their minds about him, and she would have time to consider if he really was a threat.
‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it.’
Tempest opened the door. ‘Eula, dear, Mr Howarth is ready to leave. Please see him to the door.’ She smiled at Eula and then at the man she knew as Charles Howarth, to show her daughter his visit had not worried her.
‘I can see you’re eager to see him again, Mama,’ Eula said minutes later, when she and Genesis and some others were gathered in Tempest’s sitting room. ‘But are you sure your judgement isn’t clouded because he reminds you of Sol?’
‘I admit I am confused about my thoughts concerning Charles, but if he’s genuine I have done him a terrible disservice by becoming hysterical after a simple dream.’
‘It was hardly that, Mama.’
‘But we don’t know all the mysteries. We should at least get to know him a little better.’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Genesis said gravely. ‘There was something about him. He looked at us as if we were a bad smell under his nose. Other times he was edgy, strange. And another strange thing – one of the boys was sure he saw Sarah talking to him by the gate just before he rode down. She hasn’t been near us since the day Titus died. What was that all about, then?’
Tempest shook her head. The shivering prickling of dread was creeping over her again. She ignored it. She found herself wanting Charles Howarth to be misunderstood and no threat at all. ‘I don’t know, but we should find out. I think someone should pay a call on Sarah.’
Tara was returning home from church, alone in the carriage except for Rosa Grace, and after being subjected to an afterservice sherry at the vicarage. The former vicar, a doddering old second cousin to Joshua, had died last year, and the new incumbent, the Reverend Oswald Hobden, quite young, dull and monotonous, was devoid of social wit. His childless wife was equally boring, with a tendency to retell the same stale anecdotes. Tara had only accepted the invitation today because there was an empty house waiting on her return, its morale at the lowest. Her request to Joshua to leave Poltraze with her daughter had been met with rage.
He had stormed into her boudoir, unforgivably scruffy, flinging out the hand holding her letter and sending a vase of silk roses crashing to the carpet. ‘What the hell is this all about?’ Quivering in agitation, his whole face gleaming ferociously, he had balled the paper in his palms and thrown it at her feet. His forehead and chin showed bruises clearly above the discoloration of his temper. ‘You dare to ask me for money so you can leave me? Have you no shame, woman?’
‘Shame?’ Tara’s shock had gone in a flash and she had leapt up off the couch to defend herself. ‘Leave you? You are the one given over to a life of shame and it was that shame that made me turn to your brother. And as for money, my marriage settlement brings in three thousand a year. I ask not for what is yours but what is morally mine for you have been no husband to me and never will be!’
‘I had no choice but to take you to wife any more than you had to marry me. My despicable father and your conniving bitch of an aunt saw to that. And what life did you have before my father recalled your greedy aunt out of exile to continue as his wife? She had left him and plunged you both into near poverty.’
‘I’d rather have that life than this except for—’
‘For your bastard spawn?’ Joshua hurled. ‘If you want to leave you can ask her father, my lazy brother, to provide you with the means. You’ll find he’ll give you nothing more than his seed, and you don’t even get that nowadays. He’s too busy bedding the gatekeeper’s wife, did you know? As it is, you will stay here and you can rot for all I care. If I must stay then so will you!’
Tara’s temper rose to a ferocity that threatened to bring the house down and shatter it to its uninspired foundations. In two smart steps she flung back her hand and slapped it across his cheek, adding another mark to the ugly bruises on his chin. ‘How dare you speak of my child in that vile manner? I will never forgive you for that. Rosa Grace’s existence has served you well, remember, masking your deviance. And you do not have to stay here. You have no desire to rebuild your gardens, so why not take your money and your corrupt and dangerous lover and go somewhere far away? Michael is more than capable of filling your shoes. He is lazy about the estate but he would find a way to rebuild something of it. I don’t care who Michael sees, our association is over and I’m glad. All I care about is Rosa Grace, and come what may I shall find a way to get her and myself away from this desolate place.’
Joshua had not listened to the end of her tirade. ‘What do you mean by Laketon being dangerous? Why do you say that?’ He was embarrassed and seemed afraid.
Tara viewed him dispassionately. He was a man brought down, and until his terrible insult about Rosa Grace, she would have been sympathetic, for he had once been kind and thoughtful, someone who did not readily seek to hurt another. Laketon Kivell’s obsessive jealousy and controlling ways, and then the devastation of his plants, had just about destroyed him. ‘Is he not dangerous, then?’ It was her turn to curl her lip.
‘I asked you why you said the word dangerous.’ Joshua’s attempt at authority was betrayed by the jitters in his once-confident frame, the nervous licking of his dry pale lips.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Impatience was on her now. ‘Only an imbecile would not notice how frightened you are of him. I’m frightened of him and so are Michael and the servants. It can’t always be a coincidence that bad things happen to anyone who crosses him. There was the woodcutter whose axehead flew off and cut into his body after he’d ignored Kivell. And the well water of the tenant farmer fouled by a dead fox after he’d been rude to Kivell, after Kivell had complained about his sheep delaying him in the lane? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t poison your precious plants. It’s inexplicable why some of them died suddenly and why some of the same species have remained untouched. He did not allow you to call in experts to discover the cause. It’s obvious he beats you, and now he’s not even bothering to keep the evidence of his brutality unseen. Wake up, Joshua, the man is dangerous. Rid yourself of him before he’s the end of you.’
It was as if she had watched her husband fragment one tiny piece at a time. None of her words had rung hollow to him. With his head bowed to his chest he turned as disjointedly as a puppet. ‘How am I to do that?’ he whispered to himself.
‘We could work together.’ Tara did not want to be his ally but she grasped at a way out for her and Rosa Grace to start afresh.
Joshua turned back and raised his head and stared at her as if she was mad. Then he shuffled around again and shuffled out of the room.
Tara had informed the Reverend Hobden that the squire was indisposed to explain his lack of attendance at church for the first week of Advent. Where Michael was only he knew, and his girls and their governess had travelled to the church and back in the trap. It was probably true that Joshua was ill, suffering from a hangover somewhere, or he was lying abed, more or less a prisoner in Kivell’s cottage – ironically the beast had renamed it Paradise Cottage.
She had another problem concerning Joshua. His valet had suffered a stroke through the night and was no longer fit for service. Would Joshua want a replacement? It was hardly necessary. He spent so little time at the house and even then had rarely sought the valet’s services. If he did require a new valet he would do nothing about engaging one himself. Why should she care? But Joshua growling about the house like an angry bear if one of the footmen wasn’t up to the task was not a prospect she wanted to entertain. She’d ask Fawcett to procure a suitable valet. He was good at that sort of thing.
The carriage was jerking over the lesser byway of Bell Lane. A fallen tree had blocked the main route to Poltraze. ‘I like this way better, Mama,’ Rosa Grace said, her sweetheart face pressed to the window, while clinging to the door strap.
‘I certainly don’t. There’s too much jostling. Sit back properly beside me, darling, before you are thrown over.’ Because she’d had a rigidly restrained childhood, Tara indulged her daughter. Her love and affection, her careful protection, meant Rosa Grace was a bright, unharried child.
‘We’ll be passing that strange place again soon. Do you really think it’s true Burnt Oak got its name long ago from witches being burnt at a tree?’
‘I suppose so. But it’s not a pleasant topic, Rosa. Oh!’ There was a shuddering lurch and Tara reached out just in time to prevent her daughter being hurled to the floor. ‘Sit beside me, young lady, and stay still.’
Rosa Grace giggled, but she was not wilful and she obliged. The carriage came to a sudden stop, which threw the pair forward and then slapped their backs against the buttoned back rest. ‘Goodness,’ Tara cried. ‘We must have a loose wheel.’
The coachman, thickset, a nasal breather, with watery eyes in a foxy visage, and in need of a shave, pulled open the door. ‘Sorry about that, ma’am. There’s a village woman lying in the road. The ponies nearly ran her over. The boy’s gone to see if she’s ’live or dead.’
‘Poor creature,’ Tara said, vexed he should be so blunt in front of Rosa Grace. ‘Report back to me, Sampson.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He closed the door with a clumsy bang. Since Joshua’s plunge into depression some of the servants showed less care and respect.
If Joshua or Michael were here, uncaring of the locals, they would have ordered the poor unfortunate, no matter what her condition, to be dragged to the verge and for someone to be fetched to remove her.
‘If she’s hurt, Mama, we should help her. Like the Good Samaritan in this morning’s sermon?’ Rosa Grace said seriously, crossing the carriage and peering out of the glass.
‘Of course we shall,’ Tara replied, glad her daughter had not inherited her ‘father’s’ or her real father’s uncaring trait.
Sampson returned. ‘’Tis a young woman, ma’am. She’s up already. Said she was running and plunged down but not really hurt. She’s standing back. Boy’s back up top. We can go on now, ma’am.’
‘Bid her come to the door, Sampson.’
An insolent irritation crisscrossed Sampson’s sharp hide. He paused before sighing, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He made to bang the carriage door before plodding off.
‘Leave it open!’ The underling was eager to get back to the stables and his pipe. He’d order the stable boy to unhitch the ponies and brush them down and oil the carriage and stow it away. ‘And Sampson, do not present yourself for your duties in such an ill-kept manner again.’ Afraid in her anger she would display a red face, Tara alighted to the uncivil ground. The coachman might have no heart but she did. She would hold them up all day if it pleased her. ‘Rosa Grace, stay inside.’ Her strident tone ensured her daughter obeyed. She strode the few yards to the woman in a shabby cloak waiting, with her head bowed, for the carriage to pass by.
Tara recognized the muddied person at once. ‘Sarah! It was you. What happened? Are you hurt?’
Sarah wanted only to get home to Tabbie and tell her about the encounter with Titus’s younger lookalike. The fall to the ground from running too fast had knocked all the breath out of her. Conveyances along this road were rare, indeed only Kivells and the odd tenant farmer used it, and she had taken a moment to get up. That decision had nearly proved to be her last, so the foul mouth of the fuming coachman had told her. ‘Miss Tara… .’ She dipped a hurting knee in a curtsey. ‘I mean Mrs Nankervis. I apologized to the coachman.’
‘There was no need for that,’ Tara said softly, looking her over, noting the blood on her palms, a graze on her nose and chin and a rip in her skirt. Sarah had retained her haunting Arthurian beauty, and Tara expected to find her remote and dejected. It was a surprise she should be shot through with some kind of uneasy energy, and a surprise that she should be in the vicinity of Burnt Oak. Seeing the girl who had been as close to Amy as she had been made Tara miss her friend once more. She had no one to turn to and she had reached a time when her life couldn’t get much worse. If she had made a friend of Sarah too, perhaps they could have been some sort of comfort to each other. ‘Sarah, are you sure nothing is wrong? If you ever need help … Would you like to get into the carriage and come to Poltraze with me to have those grazes tended to?’
‘You’re very kind to offer but I have to get home.’ Sarah saw Tara’s sad-eyed eagerness. Amy’s genteel friend must be very lonely to make a gesture that her husband would hate and her servants think totally wrong.
‘Yes, of course. Sarah, if I can ever help you please don’t hesitate to come to Poltraze.’
Tabbie woke from a nap. The fire was burning nicely, she was warm and content. Sarah had been a different girl for the past thirty-six hours, full of spirit, a determined bounce in her step. She talked about the mine and why people were speaking to her now, and even sharing their croust with her. She had even taken to singing cheerful folk songs and hymns; she had a sweet singing voice.
Sarah had mentioned she did not expect the vision of doom to materialize. Tabbie wasn’t so sure about it now either. The vision might have solely been one of those things where the bad had worked for good, like it said happened in the Good Book. Sarah had been purged of her hero-worship of the evil Titus Kivell, she had resumed her maiden name and she was at last planning a life for herself. Tabbie was sure she would tell her about her plans by and by. She could die a happy woman now.
Suddenly dread slammed into her, consuming her every last particle. She saw Sarah as if she was actually standing in the room, surrounded by blackness, with her clothes torn off, her beautiful hair ripped out of her head and blood on her face. Someone was trying to strike the life out of her, someone not unknown to her. The vision had been right after all.
Tabbie reached out towards this new vision. ‘Sarah …’ Her cry was no more than a gasp. Her heart stopped beating and her body slumped down in the chair.