Trevennor’s Will Read online

  Trevennor’s Will

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Copyright

  Trevennor’s Will

  Gloria Cook

  To my mother-in-law, Phyllis

  Chapter 1

  ‘Oh, do stop whimpering, Ginny!’

  ‘But we’re going too fast, Miss Isabel.’

  ‘You’ve been fussing since we set out,’ Isabel Hampton told her maid crossly.

  ‘Slap her face,’ the other person in the coach said spitefully.

  ‘That won’t help, Phoebe,’ Isabel replied, frowning as she was forced to hold on to the seat. She looked out of the window, and saw the countryside rushing by. ‘Ginny has a point, we are travelling too fast.’

  ‘It was you who gave the order to get us there as quickly as possible,’ Phoebe replied, raising her voice above the creakings of the vehicle and glaring at Ginny on the opposite seat.

  The coach hit a rut and Ginny shrieked. She pressed her fists to her chest and screwed her eyes up tightly. The next moment her head rolled to the side. Isabel rummaged in her purse and produced smelling salts. Phoebe banged on the coach roof and shouted, ‘Rickardson, slow down!’

  Ginny came to with a panicky sob as Isabel leant forward and administered the smelling salts, having difficulty keeping her balance as the coach took a bend.

  There came a sudden shout from the guard.

  ‘There’s rocks on the road!’

  The coach jolted alarmingly and slewed to one side and Isabel was thrown against the door. She screamed as the door gave way and she was thrown out. She hit the ground, tumbling over and over, aware of the coach overturning, hearing it splintering and grinding, the horses whinnying in fear and their thundering hooves as they broke free, and the terrible screaming that seemed to go on and on. Isabel came to a halt in a bed of prickly gorse. She wanted to help the others but could not move. She tried to cry out but no sound would come. She lay still and listened and the noises grew fainter until suddenly they stopped.

  Almost at once she heard a different noise, a thud of heavy feet and a gleeful mocking laugh. It was a looter. Isabel held her breath. The man was picking among the debris of the coach; she prayed she had been thrown far enough away not to be noticed, but moments later she heard him coming towards her. She tried to get up and run but overcome by shock and fear she blacked out.

  * * *

  Nick Nancarrow viewed the carnage and shook his head at the irony of what he saw. He had just come from Laurence Trevennor’s deathbed, but he would not be able to carry out the urgent promise he had given to the old gentleman a few minutes before he’d died.

  He had been drinking in the Basset’s Cove Inn at Portreath when a groom from Trevennor House had brought him a message that his company was requested there at his earliest convenience. Nick had left the inn at once and was grieved to find that Laurence had not only taken to his bed, but he was apparently dying. The ageing gentleman’s heart, weakened by a bout of rheumatic fever, was rapidly failing him.

  Laurence Trevennor owned a large amount of Gwithian’s 2,600 acreage, and surrounding land. He also had financial interests in a lucrative foundry works at nearby Hayle, supplying machinery for Cornwall’s tin and copper mines.

  Nick’s father had been the Trevennors’ head groom and coachman, and Laurence had taken a particular interest in Nick, who, as a robust, precocious, wild-haired child had been allowed to run the length and breadth of Trevennor House and its grounds. Laurence and Nick became close and trusted friends.

  At Trevennor House, Nick was met with the unaccustomed sight of Laurence in a woollen nightshirt, cap and shawl. His sharp features were more pronounced, and his chest heaved as he fought for breath through his opened mouth, but his pale grey eyes still showed some vitality. A sweet sickly smell permeated the bedroom.

  ‘Thank you for coming so promptly, Nick,’ Laurence greeted him breathlessly.

  Nick shook his weakened hand and sat carefully on the side of the bed. ‘This day has come all too soon, Laurence. I’m only glad I happen to be back in the neighbourhood and your groom was able to find me.’

  Laurence smiled at the young man of twenty-seven years whose height of six foot four inches and broad shoulders, knotted with taut muscle, gave him an advantage in the wrestling rings of Cornwall. His long sandy hair was tied back but still managed to look unruly; his clothes were of rough stout cloth, worn in a casual manner. His appearance might suggest a leaning towards slovenliness but there was nothing unguarded about Nick Nancarrow. He chose to shun the comforts of life and it showed in his hands; skilled at many jobs, they were coarse and tanned from continual outdoor life. His face was strong, confident and alert, etched with his lifelong belief that he was any man’s equal. It was a face that knew little of indecision; his deep blue eyes, set under a wide, determined brow, were quick to register distaste and annoyance and he had a ready temper to match. Laurence had never seen the younger man lower his square chin and at times he saw a haughtiness in Nick that reminded him of the very person he wanted to talk about now.

  ‘I knew you’d come to see me by and by but I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.’ He tapped his heaving chest by way of explanation, which made him cough. Nick waited patiently as Laurence wiped spittle from his mouth and took in several ragged breaths. ‘It’s about to give up on me, this old heart, and I have the weight of nearly five and sixty years upon me. Now before you say that you are sorry, I will tell you that I do not mind, in the least, the prospect of being with my dear wife again. But, Nick, it’s a great comfort to have you here. I have little time left and I cannot leave this mortal body without confessing to you that I have a great worry on my mind.’

  ‘Oh?’ Nick drew in his straight fair brows. ‘Is it something I can help with?’

  Laurence beckoned Nick closer. ‘I was hoping you would offer to help. I must tell you this quickly before one of the servants or the doctor returns. There are few people I trust as I do you and I believe you are the only one capable of what I have in mind…’ Laurence glanced at the door and took a laboured breath. ‘As you know, my dear wife and I were not blessed with children, but from my two late sisters I have a nephew and two nieces.

  ‘My sister Prudence married a Mr Kempthorne, a gentleman of small means at St Ives, and produced Edmund and Deborah. Edmund is a wastrel, he’s never worked for his own money and as and when he can get his hands on others’, he gambles it away. Deborah is as unworthy as her brother and has been left bitter by an unfortunate marriage. After her husband left her she reverted to her maiden name. You may remember Edmund and Deborah from the few occasions they were here when you were a boy.’

  Nick recalled the black-haired couple in their youth, the male a handsome beguiling wretch who cheated the local children out of their hard-earned pennies, the female a spiteful sour-faced individual who had looked down disparagingly on Nick.
‘And the other niece?’

  ‘Isabel.’ Laurence’s voice softened. ‘Isabel Hampton. She is the daughter of my sister Eliza, who made a good marriage into a wealthy Truro shipping family. Isabel is everything her cousins are not – sweet, kind, loyal and caring. She is much younger than Edmund and Deborah and rather immature for her age of twenty-one. She’s vulnerable, Nick, and I fear for her.’

  Nick had no difficulty in remembering Isabel Hampton. Although he had kept away from Trevennor House when it received visitors, he had not missed sight of the plain gawkish little girl who shared Laurence’s sharp features and grey eyes. Since those days he had heard she had turned out to be a simpering young fool.

  ‘Since my wife died I had planned to leave my estate equally between my nephew and nieces, but because of the Kempthornes’ behaviour I have changed my will entirely in Isabel’s favour. In six weeks’ time she is to be married to an upright young naval officer. At this moment he’s at sea, not due back until just before the wedding day. When I’m gone, Isabel will be a double heiress. She will be young, wealthy, vulnerable and unprotected.’

  Nick had no idea what Laurence was talking about. ‘Unprotected from what?’

  ‘From her cousins, Edmund and Deborah,’ Laurence answered in a whisper.

  ‘You’re afraid they’ll try to relieve her of her inheritance. Is that it?’

  Laurence gazed at Nick sombrely. ‘I’m very much afraid of more than that, Nick. Thanks to Edmund’s wanton manner of living, he and Deborah are almost destitute. They are here constantly begging for money. The last time Edmund was here he demanded five hundred guineas on the strength of what he thought he had coming to him when I die. We quarrelled, and foolishly I informed him that I am leaving everything to Isabel and he and his sister will not receive a penny. Both of them have always been jealous of Isabel’s closeness to me and Edmund made threats against her. I am worried that he and Deborah may go as far as to try to murder her.’

  It sounded absurd. Laurence Trevennor wasn’t usually given to wild fancies but being so close to death perhaps his mind was wandering and imagining things. Nick pressed a reassuring hand on Laurence’s shoulder and looked away lest his face give away his thoughts. He poured a glass of water from the china jug on the bedside cabinet. When he tried to hand it to Laurence, it was waved away. Laurence was not fooled.

  ‘I am serious, Nick,’ he said, his breathing growing more laboured. With a trembling hand he pressed a cloth over the beads of sweat that had formed on his brow. ‘I ask you to take me seriously. If Isabel were to die before her marriage, Edmund and Deborah, as her next of kin, would inherit everything – her wealth and mine. I believe they are unscrupulous enough to stop at nothing to get what they want.’

  Nick nodded apologetically and put the glass down. ‘Very well, what do you want me to do about it, Laurence?’

  Laurence sank back on his pillows, visibly relieved. ‘I’ve sent for Isabel and she will be on her way here now. I have ordered the servants not to inform Edmund and Deborah of my illness, but with my end so near they are bound to find out. Isabel has been staying with the Antiss family on their Comprigney estate, half a mile out of Truro, and will probably be travelling here in their coach with their daughter, Phoebe, who goes everywhere with Isabel. What I want you to do, Nick, is to leave here and meet the coach. I have very little time left to me and I do not want her to arrive here after I am gone because she would refuse to leave until after my funeral. I want you to tell her exactly what I have told you, then I want you to put her under your protection until her wedding day. After that she should be quite safe in the hands of her husband.’

  ‘You know I’ll gladly do anything you ask of me, Laurence,’ Nick said, ‘but why do you think I’m best suited to this task?’

  ‘You have the intelligence and common sense, Nick Nancarrow,’ Laurence said, ‘and the sort of cunning that might be needed to keep Isabel safe for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Have I, indeed?’ Nick returned wryly. ‘And what do you imagine I shall do with the young lady to keep her safe?’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you,’ Laurence said, waving a shaky hand. ‘I’m sorry to have to burden you, Nick… Isabel’s fiancé has only two somewhat batty elderly aunts. I would have asked Sir Robert Antiss but he is a rather foolish man and could easily fall for Edmund’s silver tongue. Moreover, Phoebe has taken a fancy to him.’

  ‘Say no more, Laurence. Leave it to me. You have done much for me over the years, think of it as a favour being returned. But tell me, why should your niece, Miss Hampton, believe a word I say to her? How can I convince her that I have come to her at your wish?’

  Laurence showed no concern on these points. ‘I’ve spoken of you many times to Isabel and she knows that I trust you completely. I grant you she may take a little persuading to believe that her life may be in danger.’ Laurence pointed to a drawer at the top of the bedside cabinet. ‘In there is a ring that belonged to my dear wife. Isabel has one identical to it which I gave her on her twenty-first birthday. She knows I would not part with her aunt’s ring lightly. Show it to her and remind her that I consider you to be one of my closest friends, that I trust you as I trusted your father before you. Take out the ring, Nick, and the pouch of money beside it. You may have need of it.’

  Nick lifted out the ring, fashioned in a gold circle of two clasped hands. He placed it in the palm of his big rough hand and turned it over slowly with his fingertip. ‘I’ll do what I can for your niece, Laurence,’ he promised solemnly.

  The bedroom door handle turned and Nick had just enough time to slip the ring into his breeches pocket, the pouch of money into his jacket. The doctor, the curate and Laurence’s housekeeper entered. Nick stood up and as they joined him round the bedside, Laurence coughed, took a deep shuddering breath, smiled to himself, and died.

  Nick stayed for a respectful ten minutes before leaving. He was walking back through the village deep in thought and grief when a man ran up to him and thumped a hand down on his shoulder.

  ‘Nick, ’tis good to see you again. Just got back, have ’ee? We must meet up in the Leg of Mutton later.’

  Nick gripped the other man’s arm firmly. ‘’Tis good to see you again too, Jimmy.’ Jimmy Rowe was a boyhood friend who now worked as a shepherd for Laurence Trevennor. ‘How’s the family?’ Nick was anxious to be on his way but he could not leave his friend without a few words of greeting.

  They’m all right,’ Jimmy replied, becoming a little serious at Nick’s solemn face. ‘Marion’s expecting our third any day now. I’ve come down on behalf of the other shepherds to ask after Mr Trevennor.’

  ‘I’ve just left there,’ Nick replied gravely.

  Jimmy Rowe’s wide, ruddy-complexioned face fell at Nick’s tone. He saw the curtains were pulled across at the tall windows of Trevennor House.

  ‘Oh no,’ he groaned and Nick put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not yet, not Mr Trevennor. He wasn’t that old, not really. What are we going to do without him?’

  ‘It was very peaceful, about fifteen minutes ago. I’m sorry, Jimmy, but I have to be on my way. There’s something I must do.’

  Jimmy frowned and looked at Nick curiously. He waited for an explanation but none was forthcoming. Nick bade him farewell and hurried on his way. There was no time to waste.

  A short time later he came across the wrecked coach.

  * * *

  There was no need to disturb the bodies. There was no doubt they were all dead. The coachman, a brawny, red-faced man with whom Nick had occasionally downed tankards of ale in the local inns, had received a broken neck. The guard’s head was crushed. Both men had been robbed of nearly all their clothes and boots. The looter had not had time to disturb the women’s clothing before Nick’s arrival had made him flee. An overweight gentlewoman, whom he could just recognize as Phoebe Antiss, lay horribly mutilated under the coach. Nick felt a pang of compassion for a servant girl in dark dreary clothes lying at a twisted angle with one of the h
eavy back wheels flattening her face. For the strong work-toughened man it was not a hard task to lift the wheel and edge it slowly away from its resting place. He took care not to survey the damage inflicted on the human flesh as he let the wheel drop with a thud. Rubbing his hands on the rough cloth of his jacket he walked briskly to what had to be Isabel Hampton’s body.

  She lay crumpled face down and Nick looked down on her with no emotion. So this was the woman whom Laurence Trevennor had cared so much about. The woman he had wanted to leave his grand house and fortune to and whom he had believed to be in mortal danger. With the evidence of the pile of rocks at the bend in the road it was clearly not a coincidence that the uncle and niece had died on the same day.

  He had had no firm thoughts in his mind as to what he would say to Miss Isabel Hampton. But with her dead at his feet it was no longer important; no matter how wicked they might be, Edmund and Deborah Kempthorne would inherit Laurence Trevennor’s small fortune after all.

  Nick decided to return to Trevennor House with the news of the accident and to return the gold ring Laurence had given him; he did not want to be accused of stealing it. But before moving away he bent down to the body, curious to see what Isabel had looked like.

  His eyes travelled downwards from her shoulders, taking in the rips made in her dark blue travelling coat by vicious gorse spines. On the outside of her blood-stained gauntlet glove was a duplicate of the ring tucked inside his pocket. Her striped, pale blue dress and yellow, richly embroidered petticoat were thrown up above her knees, revealing long shapely legs in flesh-coloured stockings, which despite his gruesome perusal Nick admired. Sweeping his gaze back to her head, where a high curled wig of white human hair sat askew, he grasped her shoulder and pulled her round none too gently. His heart gave a queer thump as her body spun round with his hand, sat bolt upright and blinked at him out of huge terrified eyes.

  ‘You’re alive!’ came his horrified reaction and he almost pushed her away from him. His innermost thoughts observed Isabel Hampton as a remarkably ugly woman. First glance showed her features had not changed, but Laurence’s had been vole-like and kindly; here were signs of one used to winning arguments and issuing orders and her grey eyes possessed a startling clarity and directness. There was nothing delicate or feminine about her, and to Nick’s mind, with her white-powdered and rouged face, she looked more like a harlot than the young lady of Laurence’s deep affections. Her chin was quivering and, terrified by Nick’s presence, she began to scream shrilly over and over again.