Trevallion Read online

  Due to the Captain’s incapacitation, Trease had not been needed as chauffeur and mechanic but was employed as caretaker of the big house and gardener in place of Stanley Wright who had been killed. As well as returning to his job as groom, Joe was responsible for the two hundred and fifty-seven acres of woods and grounds. Mr Drayton had turned a blind eye to Loveday Wright continuing to stay in the cottage where she’d lived from the day of her wedding to Stanley, and where she’d given birth to the daughter Stanley had never seen. She paid the weekly rent of one shilling and ninepence by taking in sewing.

  Trease and Joe had coped with peacetime in different ways. Joe worked hard and relentlessly. Some days he worked until he nearly dropped, doing his own work and what he could with Rebecca to make up for Trease’s laziness. Rebecca wished her father behaved in the same way. From the very first day, Trease had failed to carry out his duties. The big house, its gardens and grounds now showed signs of serious neglect. Trease had returned home bitter. Bitter that Stanley Wright was dead, drowned in the mud at Passchendaele, bitter that Miles Trevallion, an intelligent young man, had sustained injuries that had left him legless and irreparably brain-damaged, bitter that soon after he had left Cornwall to fight for his country his wife had run off with another man, leaving Rebecca to live with Loveday and her baby, Tamsyn. Joe had understood Trease’s moods at first and had made allowances for them, but as the years passed there had been no improvement and Trease had turned to drink. Joe had become resentful, then angry and offended on Miles Trevallion’s part. Joe and Trease clashed often and this upset Rebecca greatly.

  At a place where the creek path broke, Rebecca climbed the short hill to Joe’s cottage. She took this path most mornings to help Joe exercise the four horses kept in the stables before leaving to work on Verrian Farm, which was tenanted from the estate. Rebecca waved a hand in front of her face. She was not usually bothered by insects, but she had just dabbed on violet scent from the tiny bottle hidden in her riding breeches, and the irritating little creatures were out in force in the warm midsummer air. The riding breeches were old and rough but she had topped them with a feminine blouse.

  She found Joe sawing logs for the winter round the back of his cottage. His muscles were straining against the cloth of his collarless shirt, which was soaked in sweat. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his well-developed arms and shoulders spoke of the hours of rowing he put in. He was rugged and deeply tanned, a man like a great dark oak, with a full head of thick black hair inclined to curl; dark pinpricks stood out on his face where his beard grew. Rebecca was attracted to his strong masculinity. Her hand automatically reached upwards to tidy her long hair, which flowed in waves down her back.

  ‘You’ll never tame it,’ Joe called out in his deep accent.

  ‘What? I mean pardon,’ Rebecca said, as she reached him.

  ‘Your hair.’ He motioned at her while his meaty hands paused in his work. ‘You smooth at it every time I see you but it just stays the same, wild and raven-black and beautiful.’

  Rebecca’s cheeks didn’t flame often so she turned so he couldn’t see her red face. That would only have amused him. Joe Carlyon was not many years younger than her father, who had recently gone on a drinking binge to celebrate his forty-first birthday, and it seemed that all Joe saw in Rebecca was his one-time friend’s little girl. Rebecca often wanted to tell Joe she was now a twenty-year-old woman who did most of her father’s work and ran her own household, albeit small, and it was time he noticed it.

  She sighed and said, ‘Dad had a letter a few days ago.’

  ‘I know, from Mr Drayton. Loveday told me. She’s been on tenterhooks ever since you showed it to her, wanting to know what’s in it, says she thinks it might be something really important this time.’

  Rebecca held on to the end of the log Joe was sawing off then put it on the woodpile. She stayed quiet, but Joe caught her feeling of excitement and he put the saw down.

  ‘Has there been some sort of news about the estate then?’

  ‘Yes, there has. It seems we have a new master after all. Mr Drayton had some trouble finding him owing to the three people named in Captain Miles’s will all having perished in the war. He’s a Major Alexander Fiennes from upcountry, a place called Berkshire, and he’s coming here with his family tomorrow.’

  The whoop of joy about to leave Joe’s throat changed into an exclamation. ‘What! Tomorrow?’

  Rebecca nodded soberly. ‘Dad wants you down at our cottage. I’ll go and fetch Loveday.’

  Loveday was hanging out washing, the pegs being passed to her by her daughter Tamsyn. She dropped the next item of clothing back in the basket and frowned. ‘What are you doing here at this time of day? You’ll be late for work by the time you’ve gone riding with Joe.’

  ‘Dad’s opened the letter at last. There’s news about who’s inherited the estate. Can you come to our cottage now? Dad wants to speak to you, Jossy and Joe about it.’

  Loveday smoothed at Tamsyn’s flyaway hair and without stopping to take off her wrap-around apron took the skimpy little girl’s hand and hurried with Rebecca to Allen Cottage.

  Despite being plyed with urgent questions, Trease insisted they first all drink a glass of sherry to the future, whatever that might be. Loveday refused to drink the sherry. ‘Certainly not at this time of day!’

  Trease winked at her, screwing up the raw puffy flesh under his eyes that told of his drinking habits. Loveday’s primness amused him. She always looked uncomfortable in the presence of men, as though she found something not quite nice about them. She had rather startled eyes and her tight pink lips pursed out over her chin, and the nose she could look down stood out from her pale complexion. It had surprised all the Kennickers when she’d married the cheerful Stanley Wright at the age of sixteen and come to live among them. They had only known her before as the very serious-minded friend of Jossy Jenkins’ granddaughters. She took a sip from Tamsyn’s glass of lemonade and gave a disapproving grunt when the two men lit cigarettes.

  Rebecca didn’t want any sherry but took a sip to placate her father; he was usually offended when someone refused to drink with him and she didn’t want to upset him today, of all days. She sat down and Tamsyn sat on her lap. The little girl, sired on Stanley’s last leave and now eight years old, glanced at her outraged mother then grinned down at the glass in her hand; she knew if Trease Allen had his way, she would be sipping sherry too. Her piercing green eyes possessed the same mischievous glint that Stanley’s had held. Jossy sat quietly with his cap pushed back, glass half-empty on his knee, waiting patiently.

  Trease read the letter out loud to the gathering. There were gasps of wonder, hope and anxiety by the time he’d finished. When he’d put his spectacles safely away in their case, he looked around at the others.

  ‘Goodness knows we’ll have our work cut out,’ said Joe, the first to offer a comment. ‘We’ll have to do something somehow though, to present a fine looking house to this Major Fiennes tomorrow. Trevallion’s so rundown he might take one look at it and decide to sell up, and that could mean disaster for us.’

  Trease’s face darkened and he looked at Joe in challenge. Since he’d come back to the creek he took every comment personally as a judgement or criticism.

  Loveday spoke up quickly before the men clashed. ‘If this major’s made up his mind to sell then nothing we can do will stop him.’ She was always of a pessimistic nature since Stanley’s death.

  ‘Joe’s right though. We’ve got to do something,’ Rebecca said, her chin resting lightly on Tamsyn’s head. ‘If we had several days we could have made quite a difference to the big house. Folk round here would have been glad to help out. But if we could at least tidy up the front of the house and do something to the gardens and if we explained to Major Fiennes that we didn’t know he was coming so soon, he might at least be impressed with our efforts.’

  ‘I agree with Becca,’ Joe said, flexing his powerful hands and looking as if he couldn’t wait
to get started. ‘I don’t like the idea of the estate being inherited by some upcountry Englishman who’ll probably think we’re just a quaint bunch of country yokels down here. He may be set on selling Trevallion, he may be coming down here to make up his mind. P’raps he’ll keep the place on to use for summer holidays. But if he were to decide to build up the estate and keep us on, it’ll bring us peace of mind and more work for the locals. Whatever we do, we can’t simply do nothing. What do you say, Trease? Have you got a campaign of action over this?’ This was said with sarcasm. To Rebecca’s shame it had become a standing joke among the Kennickers that since his army days Trease Allen always had a ‘campaign of action’ that he never put to use.

  Trease didn’t seem to notice the insult. His brain had been rapidly ticking over since Rebecca had gone to fetch the others and now he wanted to say what he had in mind. He looked at Jossy Jenkins. Jossy never pushed his views on others but was content to wait for his opinion to be sought, and it was usually acted upon.

  ‘I think you’ll agree with this, Jossy. I’d like you to round up your family and go round the creek and get as many folk as you can up at the big house as soon as possible. Tell ’em to bring dusters, rags, brooms, grass cutters, gardening tools, anything they can, depending on who you’re speaking to. Loveday, you go to Verrian Farm and tell Frank Kellow that Becca’s needed here today and ask him if he can send someone over to exercise Trevallion’s horses so Joe can get on with work up at the house. Round up as many workers as you can from the other farms too.

  ‘Me, Becca and Joe can go up to the big house now and make a start on cleaning windows and pulling up weeds and cutting grass. The better the appearance of the front of the house, the better the impression Major Fiennes and his wife will have from the start. I’ve got the keys to the house and have permission to let people in at my discretion. The women can clean the ground floor and the stairs and we men can tackle as much as possible outdoors. The gatehouse can be left to air out today and Becca and Loveday can prepare it before I leave to collect the Major from the railway station. Then the four of ’ee, and the little maid, can get all done up and stand on ceremony outside to receive ’em. Well,’ he finished proudly, ‘what do you say to that? Jossy?’

  The old man took his time looking for the place where he had put down his pipe. Then he said quietly, ‘Sounds fine to me, Trease.’

  Trease beamed and fetched a box of matches for him.

  For the first time in years, Loveday was looking at Trease in admiration. When he raised an inquiring eyebrow at her she said, ‘I say Amen.’

  Trease didn’t ask for Joe’s approval. He had Jossy’s and Loveday’s and that was enough. He rarely asked Rebecca if she approved of his ideas.

  Joe stretched his arms. Rebecca followed the movements, noting the bulging muscles on his bare forearms covered with dark hairs. He grinned at her, like an indulgent big brother, and she smiled back, half-resignedly, then got up to let Tamsyn slide off her lap.

  ‘Let’s get to work then, shall we, ladies?’ Joe said enthusiastically.

  Trease took one last drink from the sherry bottle and told his band of willing workers, ‘If Major Alexander Fiennes does decide to sell Trevallion, it won’t be because of the way he and his family see it tomorrow.’

  Chapter 2

  Rebecca’s arms were aching when she started on the last window inside the front of Trevallion House. She was in the hall, where the sash windows, installed a hundred years ago, were nearly as high as the ceiling. She climbed up a stepladder to wash the top panes while Mrs Kellow of Verrian Farm did the lower ones. Loveday had managed to round up all the women in the creek and she and Ira Jenkins came behind them polishing the panes to a sparkling gleam.

  Jenny Jenkins, Jossy’s wife and Ira’s ageing mother-in-law, was in the butler’s pantry cleaning the brass. Mary and Edith Jenkins, two more of Jenny’s daughters-in-law, had scrubbed the kitchen floor and tiles and were polishing the racks of copper saucepans and every utensil until they shone. Lilian Grubb, Jenny’s only daughter, was assigned to laying fresh kindling in the grates and beating the carpets.

  They had been hard at work for nearly three hours but were in good spirits. Jacky Jenkins, Jossy’s brother, although too frail to work, had brought along his fiddle and was sitting on the top step outside the front door playing for those labouring hard. Rebecca had left the door and all the windows open to air the building and the merry tunes were filtering in on the fresh summer breeze.

  Many of the workers were singing along with what breath they had to spare, but Rebecca was deep in thought. Would there be servants living again in the attic rooms upstairs? Or, if Major Fiennes wasn’t interested in the estate, would the house be sold as a hotel for the county’s growing holiday trade? The locals dreaded the thought but Mr Neville Faull, another trustee and solicitor in the same practice as Mr Drayton, was rumoured to be urging this course of action. These were times when many of the smaller estates in Cornwall were being sold off because the families could no longer afford to keep them going. Perhaps Major Fiennes was only coming to Trevallion so he could see for himself the best possible price he could get for it. It was a hopeful sign, though, that the Major was bringing his family down with him. If he stayed as master, what sort would he be? She’d only been a girl when she’d last seen Captain Miles but she knew Major Fiennes had a lot to live up to. But even if he kept Trevallion, she still had the worry that Trease would be dismissed.

  Rebecca frowned. She could have done a lot more on the upkeep of the house but it would have angered her father. She stopped work to tie back her troublesome hair; it kept working loose from the scarf she wore.

  Mrs Kellow pulled a pair of nail scissors and a ball of string out of her apron pocket and cut off a long length. ‘Come here, maid. I’ll tie it back for ’ee. I’ve never seen hair so long and thick. ’Tis lovely, you should make the most of it, use it to catch yourself a husband instead of slaving away for that lazy father of yours. Ira’s daughter Gwen soon snapped up my Leslie, and he had her expecting in no time. Gwen would have liked to have come today but ’tis a bit too near her time. I’ll have to get on here, can’t leave her without a woman around for too long.’

  Before Rebecca could thank Mrs Kellow for her contribution to the cleaning and speak up in her father’s defence, Loveday said crossly, ‘Rebecca is fine as she is, there’s more to life than chasing men!’

  ‘Hark at she,’ Mrs Kellow laughed and motioned to Ira Jenkins. ‘Do she good to find herself another husband. What do you think, Tamsyn?’ she asked the little girl, who was sitting quietly on the bottom step of the stairs.

  Tamsyn grinned cheekily but didn’t get the chance to say anything.

  ‘Well, really! What a way to speak to a child,’ Loveday snapped. ‘One more word like that and I’ll go help Lilian outside with the carpets.’

  ‘I think they’re only teasing us, Loveday,’ Rebecca said hastily. The last thing she wanted was a quarrel among the women; she heard cross words between Trease and Joe from outside.

  * * *

  As the men and women who had turned out saw the improvements they were making to Trevallion House, its grounds and gardens, their hopes that life would return within its walls grew. The house had been built in the late eighteenth century on a fortune made from tin and copper mining and the East India trade. The Trevallions had owned many properties but they were not good businessmen. With each succeeding heir, their fortune had dwindled, until a hundred years later, in the time of Roland Trevallion, Miles’s grandfather, the small estate was all that was left. The house had not been spoiled in the Victorian era by bright colours and over-furnishing but retained a quiet solid charm. It was plain on the outside, with no pillars or Roman arches, but was strongly built and imposing. It was not as grand as Trelissick House, a short distance further along the Fal, but boasted a huge hall, twelve bedrooms, a balcony on the second floor which overlooked the river, two bathrooms, a long elegant drawing room, dining ro
om, a big kitchen, conservatory, office and study, and a smoking and games room with a huge billiard table. The games room housed Captain Miles’s trophies for rowing, cricket, rugby and motor racing, and there were many photographs of him about his physical pursuits. Mr Drayton had locked the trophies away in tall cupboards.

  In the hall stood a long oak table which had borne, among others, Roland and Miles Trevallion’s coffins. High up on the wall was a heraldic banner, painted on silk, depicting the arms of a more important branch of the Trevallion family which had died out long ago; with the death of Miles, all the Trevallions were gone and now the estate was owned by a stranger. Although it was old and faded, Rebecca found the banner more engaging than the many paintings that had been crammed on the walls, which she had seen in her childhood. Now there were blank spaces where Mr Drayton had removed the valuable ones, some of them Opie portraits, for safekeeping.

  Rebecca hoped Major Fiennes wouldn’t notice the flakes of paint and plaster dropping off the walls, ceilings and wainscot. At least Trease had managed to stop up the leaks, and Rebecca was pleased there were no tell-tale dark stains on the wooden and tiled floors or spoiling the moulded ceilings. There was plenty of dust to get rid of, however, and the women coughed in their long aprons or frock overalls, their hair protected under scarves, as one by one each downstairs room had its dust covers removed and was made fragrant with lavender and beeswax polish.

  When the windows were finished, Rebecca helped Lilian Grubb clean the wooden steps and long curving banister of the stairway, then she joined Loveday in Captain Trevallion’s favourite room, the study. They hoped Major Fiennes might find this room appealing, a room to sit and work in, with its typically masculine dark and solid furniture. They sang to Jacky Jenkins’ fiddle as they worked around Tamsyn who, with nothing to distract her since she had not been allowed to bring her huge mongrel dog along, was sitting at the desk pretending to write a letter to the King and Queen.