Trevallion Read online

  His kindness and despair were worse than his anger and she sobbed in his arms. A gasp behind them made them unfurl and turn round. Loveday was staring at the house, her fingers clamped to her lips as if she was afraid she would scream and never stop.

  Rebecca explained that her father had got drunk and was responsible and it was then she had realised he was incapable of meeting Major and Mrs Fiennes. ‘What are we going to do?’ she murmured feebly, all the hopes and expectations of yesterday completely drained out of her. ‘What Will the Major say? He might even get the police on Father.’

  ‘Try to clear it up, I suppose,’ Joe said glumly. ‘Hope this new owner is an understanding sort of bloke.’

  ‘Why did he do it? What got into Trease?’ Loveday asked in a stunned whisper, putting her arm round Rebecca’s waist in a supportive gesture.

  Joe wanted to let off more steam but Loveday gave him a warning look. Fresh tears were scalding Rebecca’s eyes and her shoulders were shaking as she tried to hold the sobs back.

  ‘Well, never mind that now,’ Loveday said briskly. ‘We’d be better planning on what we’re going to do to clear up this mess than standing around like this. We’ll have to get help. I’ll send Tamsyn to get the Jenkins.’

  They adjourned to Loveday’s cottage where it was decided she and Tamsyn, who was a capable child, would clean the gatehouse and prepare a lunch for the Fiennes, while Rebecca and Joe began the awesome task of trying to make the front of Trevallion in some small way presentable.

  None of the men could be spared from the heavy work involved in clearing up to meet their new employer at the railway station, so Rebecca had been charged with this duty.

  Now she was here on the station platform, she was overcome with an attack of nerves. She was late. On the way she had pictured herself standing about, walking up and down, rehearsing a suitable welcome, but she had not accounted for meeting Farmer Bocock in his big haycart in the lane and having to follow him slowly for over a mile. He was a stubborn old so-and-so and had flatly refused to move over to the side to let her pass. Now she was flustered, her mind blank one moment, a jumble of thoughts and words and explanations the next. What would she say about Trevallion anyway? If they asked questions about the big house, what on earth would she say?

  A smartly dressed woman asked her if she had the time and with horror Rebecca realised how she was dressed in comparison, what she must look like. She had stayed helping Joe for so long that she had left the creek without changing into her best clothes. The leather of her old black boots was cracked and dusty, her clothes were shabby with a tear in her cardigan and the hem of her skirt was coming down. She was breathless and red in the face. She was about to meet a new mistress and she wasn’t even wearing a hat. She pointed to the station clock and the woman thanked her, then Rebecca dug about in her pockets in a vain effort to find something to tie back her unruly hair with.

  She looked anxiously at the two neat women serving at the stationery booth and decided they were too busy to be asked by an unkempt stranger if they happened to have a piece of ribbon she could use. She saw a discarded rubber band lying on the ground and pounced on it. She put the band between her teeth and had both her hands gripping her hair at the back of her neck when she became aware of some people watching her, and instantly, with flame-red cheeks and sinking heart, she knew who they were.

  The lady, with a friendly smile on full red lips and brilliant blue eyes under her cloche hat, said, ‘The station master informed us that you are from Trevallion.’

  Rebecca thrust her hands down and fumbled the rubber band into her cardigan pocket. She didn’t know what to say, whether to keep quiet or drop a curtsy. They were all looking at her: the stunningly elegant lady in a silk-chenille suit, casually holding a clutch bag, the gentleman in a wide hat and dark colours standing in a disinterested fashion slightly behind his wife, the boy, who had pushed his head round his father’s side to see what was holding them up.

  ‘Y-yes, yes, I have… I am. I’m here to collect you… th-that is if you are M-Major and Mrs Fiennes… My father couldn’t come, he’s unwell… he…’ Rebecca wanted the station platform to open up and swallow her. She had never felt so embarrassed, so foolish, so unsure of herself. The boy was looking at her in utter contempt, and no wonder.

  Mrs Fiennes extended a long, slim, gloved hand. ‘So pleased to meet you,’ she said in a silky voice that simply purred along with her graceful movements. ‘And what a shame about your father. I do hope it is nothing serious. And you are?’

  Rebecca’s horrors were not yet over. She couldn’t remember if in her haste she had washed her hands but she could hardly look down to see. She rubbed her hand furtively on her skirt and shook Mrs Fiennes’ hand shyly, careful not to exert too much pressure.

  ‘I’m Rebecca Allen, Mrs Fiennes. My father, Trease Allen, is the chauffeur, he’s, um…’ and she went even redder, ‘got a liver complaint, left over from the war.’

  ‘Oh dear, isn’t that a shame, Alex?’ Mrs Fiennes said.

  He merely nodded. All Rebecca could see of Major Alexander Fiennes was the shadow of a dark face under his pulled-down hat, but she suddenly knew he was staring at her. He touched the hat to her, keeping his face unseen. ‘Shall we go?’ he said quietly.

  Rebecca thought he’d addressed his wife but then realised he was talking to her.

  ‘Yes, let’s get on. I’m getting really fed up standing around in this horrid little place,’ the boy snapped.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Rebecca said rapidly. ‘I’ll get a porter to—’

  ‘All seen to,’ Abigail Fiennes said breezily. ‘Our luggage should be outside the station by now and waiting to be loaded into the motorcar. You lead the way, Rebecca.’

  Rebecca gulped and said, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and led the way as bidden. The boy pushed past her rudely and she followed him through the station building and out to the other side scowling at his back. He had inherited his mother’s aquiline features and was tall, but unlike the Major, who was rather spare and rangy, he was broad in the body. Too much cosseting, thought Rebecca spitefully.

  He stopped abruptly and Rebecca bumped into him. He turned on her and shouted, ‘Can’t you look where you’re going!’

  ‘Now, don’t be rude, Stephen,’ Abigail Fiennes called to him. Rebecca gritted her teeth; she had enough to worry about right now and didn’t need nasty boys of about twelve years old adding to her problems. The brat was old enough to have acquired some manners by now.

  Two porters were standing to attention behind two trolleys loaded with luggage, waiting for instructions.

  ‘Where’s the motorcar?’ asked Stephen Fiennes, stabbing a finger at Rebecca as if he was accusing her of driving it to the station and stealing it.

  As Major Fiennes didn’t seem to be in charge, Rebecca looked appealingly at his wife. ‘I can’t drive a motorcar, Mrs Fiennes, and anyway Captain Trevallion wouldn’t let any woman near his motorcars. I’ve brought a trap with me.’

  The family and porters looked towards the trap and two patient ponies she indicated. The trap was a large square vehicle with four huge wheels and two tiers of seats, painted in blue and red with the Trevallion crest on it.

  ‘I’m not travelling on that!’ exclaimed Stephen Fiennes, stamping his feet and holding his arms up under his chin. Rebecca saw that along with his persistent scowl he had a row of tiny chickenpox scars over his left eyebrow. ‘I’d feel really stupid.’

  ‘The Captain designed it and made it himself,’ Rebecca said hastily. Surely that ought to impress this young horror.

  ‘It’s perfectly charming,’ Mrs Fiennes said, motioning to the porters to load all the luggage onto a horse-drawn taxicab. ‘You can follow us to Trevallion,’ she told its driver.

  ‘Mother,’ Stephen protested. ‘We might be seen by someone we know, even down here.’

  ‘Now don’t be difficult, darling,’ Mrs Fiennes returned, quite unperturbed. Rebecca could see this lady was completely
in charge of all, she undertook. ‘Get up in the front seat beside Rebecca. It’s a beautiful day and we’ll have a wonderful view of the countryside as we ride along.’

  ‘I’m not sitting beside her,’ Stephen shouted, tightening his stubborn lips and growing even redder in the face than Rebecca had been earlier.

  ‘Well, sit beside me then.’ Abigail included Rebecca and Major Fiennes in her next sentence. ‘I’m sure the Major won’t mind sitting up at the front, will you, Alex?’

  The Major murmured in the affirmative. There was a gentle swish of silk skirt and the air was filled with a strong musky perfume as he helped his wife into the second row of black leather padded seats beside their truculent son, who sat forward with his elbows on his knees and his face held in the palms of his hands.

  ‘W-would you like to drive, Major Fiennes?’ Rebecca asked hesitantly, thinking that perhaps she ought to offer. Captain Trevallion had insisted on driving everywhere himself. He’d employed Trease to convey his guests.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Major Fiennes replied quietly, and he offered his hand to help her up, which Rebecca self-consciously accepted.

  She headed the ponies back up the hill and on to the Falmouth road. After a short distance they turned off down a winding country lane between tall hedgerows. In the little hamlet of Porthoc some children out playing waved to them and were delighted when both Rebecca and Mrs Fiennes waved back. They went on past a tiny roadside Methodist chapel and were now deep in the countryside. Mrs Fiennes exclaimed at the wild flowers and rolling fields she could see up ahead and through the wide gateways. Stephen refused to look and the Major said nothing, only very occasionally turning his head.

  Rebecca felt silly sitting beside him. He sat rigidly with his fists on his thighs, his long legs bent uncomfortably high at the knee. She stole a quick look at him. He was dressed very casually for a gentleman. He wasn’t wearing a suit but a loose herringbone tweed jacket and a pair of trousers that were shiny at the knees. The top button of his white shirt was open and he wore no tie or gloves. His brown leather shoes were slightly scuffed and in need of a good polish. Rebecca had only been a little girl when Miles Trevallion went to war but she remembered enough of him to know he would never have arrived anywhere turned out like this.

  The Major’s hat was the most noticeable feature about him. It was wide and black and pulled down over his face, deliberately so, cutting himself off from everybody.

  When she had seen what her father had done to Trevallion this morning, Rebecca had made up her mind to try to talk to Major Fiennes, to plead with him to keep the estate on and build it up again, even if he felt he must dismiss Trease and order them out of Allen Cottage. But if he never spoke, it was going to be very difficult.

  ‘You handle the ponies very well, Rebecca,’ Mrs Fiennes said.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been around horses all my life. These two are called Ophelia and Hamlet. Captain Trevallion called all his horses after characters from Shakespeare’s plays.’

  ‘Did he really? How charming. There you are, Stephen, you’ll be able to ride every day, and play in the creek. I’m sure you’ll love the river, and there’s bound to be someone there who can teach you how to row.’

  Stephen was unimpressed and snorted, turning his head sharply away.

  ‘What do you do on the estate, Rebecca?’ she asked next. ‘I understand your father is the caretaker of the big house. Do you help him?’

  ‘No, Mrs Fiennes,’ Rebecca replied uneasily. ‘There’s not enough work for both of us, I work on one of the estate farms, Verrian Farm, helping out the Kellow family.’

  Rebecca suddenly sensed that Major Fiennes was looking at her. It made her feel extremely uncomfortable. This man would probably blow his top when he found out about Trease’s crime. The trap jolted as a back wheel was lifted over a turnip that had fallen off Farmer Bocock’s wagon earlier and her hair streamed over her shoulder in front of her. She glanced his way as she swept it back. Yes, he was looking at her. He had lifted his chin and she could see more of his face. Dark blank eyes and a gaunt face, made rather long and thin by lack of flesh, high cheekbones that stuck out a little, a substantial jaw in need of a shave. A little energy filtered into his eyes and he seemed to stare. It was unnerving and Rebecca turned quickly to watch the road. An instant later he looked away.

  A few more bends, stopping and pulling in to the side to let a baker’s van pass them, and then two tall granite pillars up ahead announced the turning into the Trevallion estate. Mrs Fiennes said, ‘How thrilling.’ Her son grunted and fixed his blatant blue eyes stonily on the floor of the trap. The Major said nothing and didn’t move a muscle.

  The ponies trotted elegantly down the short distance to the gatehouse. Joe, Loveday, Jossy and many other Kennickers were standing to attention in a straight line outside the front door. Tamsyn was fidgeting about and Loveday caught her by the shoulders and held her still.

  When Mrs Fiennes saw the little girl, she declared, ‘Look, Stephen, someone for you to play with.’

  ‘I’m not going to play with a stupid small girl!’ he snarled back and jumped down.

  ‘Now don’t be difficult, darling,’ she called after him.

  Rebecca was sure she would hear that lighthearted appeal often in the future – if she had a future on the estate.

  Joe came forward and helped Mrs Fiennes down. The Major was already on the ground behind Joe when he turned. He stood smartly to attention and saluted.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Major Fiennes. I’m Joe Carlyon, the groom and groundsman of Trevallion, and I had the honour of fighting under the command of the late Captain Trevallion in the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry during the war.’

  Rebecca jumped down from the trap and held the ponies still, watching her new employer to see if he was more forthcoming with another man.

  ‘Thank you for being here, Carlyon,’ the Major replied quietly.

  Joe took it upon himself to make the introductions and then Loveday showed the family into the gatehouse. The Kennickers wandered away back to their homes, speculating on their future and the length of Mrs Fiennes’ hemline – a good four inches above her ankles!

  Joe helped the taxi-cab driver unload the luggage. ‘Wonder what’s in all these,’ he grinned at Rebecca.

  ‘Joe!’ she hissed. ‘I’ve got to slip down to the creek and change my clothes. I can’t help Loveday serve lunch dressed like this.’

  Joe looked her over and offered a typical male statement. ‘You look all right to me.’

  ‘I’m like a ragbag. They must think I’m a heathen or something.’

  ‘Well, you’d better slip off now before you’re needed again.’

  She looked at the big man anxiously. ‘Did you manage to do much clearing up?’

  ‘Only the worst of it. It’s still pretty bad. I’ll do some more later.’

  ‘Has my father showed his face yet?’

  ‘No, thankfully,’ Joe said tightly. ‘The Major wants the trap left here until after lunch. I’ll take it out of the way.’

  Rebecca started quickly off down to the creek but Loveday ran after her. ‘Becca! I’ve just shown Mrs Fiennes to her room. She wants to see you at once. She says there’s a problem.’

  Chapter 4

  Neville Faull stood patiently on the red-paved doorstep of a large house in Melvill Road, one of the oldest thorough-fares in Falmouth. The house itself, standing back from a tree-lined pavement, was one of the oldest in the town, its outstanding features being several curious tall chimneys. Neville straightened his green silk tie, smoothed his short fair hair and knocked confidently on the green-painted door.

  A maid, daintily built and clad in pale green except for a snowy white apron and lacy headband, answered the door. Her hand flew to her rounded cheek in surprise but she ushered him respectfully into the hall. She had not been surprised at Mr Neville Faull calling on her mistress; he was expected. She was simply surprised at how handsome he was and it made he
r blush and fidget with her headband. She had expected the solicitor to be middle-aged and plain-faced, quite unlike this man. He was in his late twenties, with a chiselled jaw, clear blue eyes, a thin neat moustache running along the top of a wide mouth which smiled often to show good teeth. Mr Neville Faull was a tall, elegant man with a muscular build under his perfectly tailored suit.

  Neville appreciated the maid’s flustered response to him.

  ‘Madam said I was to show you straightaway into her sitting room, sir, if you’d be so kind as to step this way,’ she said, blushing furiously under her long lashes.

  He watched her quick agile walk with a smooth lazy grin on his face and allowed his thoughts to meander to what a thrill it would be for this sweet young thing if he was ever to stay overnight in this house.

  The maid opened the double doors of the sitting room, curtsied low to her mistress inside and, after announcing Neville, quickly disappeared.

  Neville walked to the middle of the room. He wore a well-rehearsed smile now because he had been warned that when he met this lady, who had written to his office and summoned him here, it would be hard to hide his revulsion of her. He succeeded but made a mental note to tell his latest love interest that he’d found it easier facing the Hun during the war.

  ‘It was a pleasure to receive your letter, Miss Bosanko,’ he said airily, kissing the lady’s hand. He forced himself to press his lips to her flesh, taking care not to scratch himself on her sharp yellowed nails, then stood back a little and studied Susannah Bosanko with the same eye he’d used on her maid. He’d taken the trouble to find out all he could about Miss Bosanko and knew she would appreciate it.

  Susannah Bosanko stared back at him through lashless slitted green eyes. She was in her ninetieth year but could easily pass for two hundred! Neville had never seen anyone so hideous yet peculiarly magnificent. Her appearance was one of emaciation; her face was a mesh of deep wrinkles with large drooping bags under her eyes and above them pencilled-in slanting brows. Her fallen throat was pulled back by an emerald choker. Her body was small and shrivelled. She had made an attempt to disguise her strange ugliness. Rouge was painted carefully on her hollow cheeks and a red wig swept up in Edwardian style sat on her head, looking decidedly top-heavy. Neville reckoned she was completely bald beneath the wig.