Warleggan

  ‘What is wrong with your sister?’

  Parthesia got up. ‘Oh, sur, ’tis her knee! But an hour gone, sur, she was climbing the cobbles and it went just like it used to go afore ever you cured it, only worse she d’say! Fathur carre’d her indoors, sur, and she was that locked we could scarce bring her to a chair, sur. So Ma says, go ee to surgeon and see if he can right it.’

  Four or five minutes to ten. Sixty-odd minutes yet. Sawle on the way, a mile or so out, but that nothing on a horse. Time enough to discharge a last duty – if he wanted to, and if he could. He would greatly have preferred not. In the last week he had made a round of farewell visits, though no one else knew them as such. This call if answered . . .

  But this call if not answered? Peace of mind on his journey to Bath? The knee locked again. If his cure had been a temporary thing, it might mean . . . But his valise, packed and ready to go. He could not ride into Sawle with it.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said to Parthesia, who had been watching him, and called Bone aside.

  Bone knew everything that was planned. You could trust your confidences to him.

  ‘I’m going with the girl,’ Dwight said. ‘But I can’t take my bag or it will rouse comment. I want it at the gates of Killewarren by eleven o’clock. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Aye, sur, I’ll see for it.’

  ‘It’s some miles. Perhaps you can borrow a horse.’

  ‘Hatchard will lend me a pony if I say ’tis for you. I’ll go straight over now.’

  ‘Have a care at Killewarren. Don’t let yourself be seen before I come.’

  When Bone had gone, Dwight put on his cloak, his hat, stared a moment round the room, taking a last familiar look. Then he went out to join Parthesia. In another way this call was not unwelcome. It would pass the last dragging hour. The waiting was over.

  Parthesia rode before him. Her added weight was nothing. A little sprite of a girl, thin of body and small of bone. It was a clear cold night, moonless, with a freckle of stars misted by high herringbone cloud. He wondered if Ross was home yet. The run was expected. Going about his work late this afternoon he had noticed one or two signs which observed in innocence would have meant nothing, but, seen with an informed eye, meant business tonight. Near Sawle they passed two men on horses who drew well off the track to allow them to pass. Dwight wished them good night, but neither replied. Their faces were hidden in thick mufflers. He felt the little girl in front of him shiver as if she was afraid they were robbers. He was a little puzzled.

  In the Hoblyns’ cottage Jacka was waiting with an anxious scowl. Rosina was sitting on the edge of her chair, her face still white, though she said her leg was easier. In a breath she said she’d told them not to fetch him tonight, that she’d turned her leg on one of the cobbles and it had all gone tight, that she’d thought to send up for Charlie till she recollected Charlie was ill, that Parthesia had gone off unbeknown to her, that it was leaving off the bandages that had done it and she was sure by morning . . .

  Dwight put his fingers round her knee, feeling for the displacement he had found before, recognizing it again, but not certain how he had set it right. An experimental pressure had done it, some knack which, had he been able to repeat it in other cases, he would have soon perfected. But it was months now. His success had surprised him almost as much as it had anyone else. He asked her to bend her knee, but at present she could not. The joint or cartilage was right out of place. It might need fomentations and some days of manipulation. But he was leaving tonight. This was the last chance. He pressed hard with his fingers and felt her wince.

  ‘Did you say Charlie was ill?’ he asked, talking to distract her attention. ‘What is the matter with him?’

  ‘Oh, sur, you d’know that. ’Twas on account of you telling him to stay abed that he’s not helping wi’ the run tonight. He told me that only this morning.’

  Suddenly Dwight’s hands got in the right place. It was as if some memory clicked into place in his mind before anything clicked in the knee. Confidence and satisfaction. He moved his fingers, pressed. The girl cried out but, as once before, more from shock than from pain. The displacement was gone.

  Dwight released her and straightened up. ‘You have the bandage?’ he said to Mrs Hoblyn.

  ‘Yes, sur.’ She fled, squeezing past Jacka, who was standing in the doorway now.

  ‘You can stand up,’ Dwight said.

  Rosina flexed her knee carefully. Colour came and went in her face, and for a moment she looked as if she was going to cry.

  ‘’Tis all right again, maid?’ asked Jacka apprehensively from the doorway.

  She stood up. ‘Oh, sur, I’m that grateful. I was so afeared that ’twas gone for good. I – I can’t thank ee enough! ’Tis like a miracle.’

  With lessons to be learned. ‘I was overconfident,’ Dwight said. ‘I think you should wear a bandage always. Or for a year to begin, till the tendons knit together.’

  Mrs Hoblyn came scurrying back. Dwight bound the knee, telling Mrs Hoblyn to watch carefully. It would not do for this to happen again. He could not come one hundred and fifty miles even for Rosina. Time was getting on. It must be well after ten-thirty. Time to go. They could drive all night if necessary, or stop after putting a comfortable distance between themselves and Killewarren. Dr Dwight Enys and Miss Caroline Penvenen, travelling as friends.

  Jacka had brought out a bottle of rum, slopped some into a cup, and was pressing it on him. Dwight did not want it, but he knew this expressed the height of Jacka’s approval, so he sipped a little while they watched Rosina walking gingerly about the room. Dwight occupied his last moment or two telling Mrs Hoblyn what she must do and what she must not do if it ever happened again. Mrs Hoblyn didn’t make things any better by saying with shining eyes: ‘Why, sur; we should just make ’er sit quiet like till you came!’

  Sometimes a remark is like an insect’s sting which at first is scarcely felt but grows uncomfortable as time passes. What Rosina had said about Charlie Kempthorne had at first been barely noticed by Dwight, and his success with the displacement had swamped it. Anxious now to be off, he was at the outer door pursued by their gratitude before the poison began to work.

  As Jacka followed him out of the house, Dwight said: ‘What is this about Charlie being ill? Did he tell you he was ill? Did he say I told him he must not get up?’

  ‘Ais. Leastways, he telled them as wanted him t’elp with the run.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What happened?’

  Jacka peered at him. ‘’Twasn’t Charlie’s proper turn t’elp with the tub-carrying. They takes it turn an’ turn about, ye know. ’Twas Trencrom’s notion, to spread the risk an’ to spread the reward. Men’ll take a chance once in two months what they’ll not take every month. But yesterday eve, Joe Trelask breaks ’is leg at the mill. Falls down the ladder, they d’say—’

  ‘Yes. I know that. Go on.’

  ‘So Charlie Kempthorne were next on the list, an’ they sent round last night t’tell him to be ready. Then he says he’s some slight. ’Tis the fever, he says, an’ surgeon’s told him he mustn’t stir abroad on account of his lungs.’ Jacka Hoblyn’s frown was such as to penetrate the darkness. ‘Mean to say ’twas all make-believe?’

  ‘So far as my part in it goes.’

  ‘Well, the scaly little cheat! What’s he about to tell such a stramming great story, ’tis hard to guess his reasons . . .’

  ‘When is the wedding to be?’

  ‘Tomorrow two weeks.’

  ‘No doubt it was on account of that, Jacka. He was anxious to avoid the risk, perhaps anxious about his health too. It is a thing any man would do.’

  Jacka grunted and ran a thumbnail up and down between his front teeth. ‘Not any man by a long sight, surgeon. Not you, I’ll wager; not me. He’s no right or title to lie about’n. I’ll tax him with it first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Let it be,’ said Dwight quietly. ‘As you say, it is not our concern. Good night, Jacka.’


  ‘Good night, sur. And thank ee.’

  Dwight led his horse up the steep hill, Jacka watching him go. Charlie Kempthorne’s cottage was at the top of the hill, just out of sight of the Hoblyns. Dwight stopped in front of it, stared up at the window. There was a light in the upper room. Twenty minutes to eleven. He could be at Killewarren comfortably in twenty minutes – if he started now. But he must start at once. Caroline would already be putting on her cloak, perhaps was now sitting waiting in her bedroom ready to snuff out the candle and steal downstairs. Bone would be at the gates with his valise.

  But this monstrous suspicion grown in his mind was something which overrode his obligations to himself and to her. If he had not fancied the ride to Bath with the thought of Rosina lame again and unvisited, how much less could he face it with this problem unresolved. Five minutes would not make him late. In five minutes he could be sure.

  Chapter Ten

  Ray Penvenen’s habits were sufficiently set to make his movements predictable at most hours of the day or night; but tonight, his last night here, he was perversely late going to bed. Old-maidish mannerisms had grown on him, and final preparations for going took the form of innumerable scribbled notes to be left with this servant and with that to remind them of their duties. Caroline stood it until half-past ten and then said:

  ‘You are working overlate tonight, Uncle. There’s all tomorrow morning to spend before we leave, and it would be the greatest pity if you found no way of spending it. Are you coming to bed?’

  He looked first at the clock and then at her over his glasses. ‘I have a little more to do, Caroline. An estate in the country is not like a London house, it cannot be locked up and left unoccupied. It must continue to be – looked to or it will run into chaos.’

  ‘And are not Garth and the other men you employ capable of doing this? I should have thought so – or you would not employ them.’

  ‘Oh, they know what to do within their limitations. But they lack initiative and, since we shall be away a month, it is necessary to supply it. For instance . . .’ He went on to explain some of the decisions which might need to be made. Since she had asked, he supposed her to be interested in the answer; but once or twice he caught her eyes straying, and they were straying in the direction of the clock. ‘Why do you inquire?’ he ended quite suddenly, breaking off in the middle.

  Her eyes came quickly back. ‘Why? Shouldn’t I be interested? It’s not unladylike, I suppose? But I am also interested in your health. I don’t think you have been looking so well of late, and it would be a woeful pity to wear yourself out with the effort of making ready to take a holiday.’

  He looked at her suspiciously, but his suspicion was only of sarcasm not of deeper motive. When he saw no hint of mockery in her eyes, he patted her hand and said: ‘There, there, I shall not be above half an hour more. Go to bed if you are tired, my dear. I am grateful to you for your solicitude.’

  She turned away to hide her frustration, and for the next ten minutes pottered about the room on one pretext or another. But still he remained seated, making no move to go. At length she came back to the desk and said:

  ‘Well, if you will not leave I must, for my eyes will not stay open. You’ll come now?’

  ‘Almost finished. Good night, Caroline.’

  He put up his forehead to be kissed, and she brushed her lips perfunctorily over it, forgetting in her anxiety that this was her leave-taking of him, certainly for many months, perhaps for ever.

  Out on the landing above the hall she remembered, but now it was too late. Her shadow kept her company along the corridor to her bedroom, preceding her like a welcoming innkeeper. In the bedroom she lit a candle and stared at her cloak, her hat, her scarf, her gloves, all waiting. Her bags were downstairs and in the coach, as also was Horace. She pulled the bell twice to show that she wanted her maid Eleanor.

  When the girl came, she said: ‘My uncle is late tonight. We shall have to delay a little while. Tell Baker, will you . . . Are the other servants abed?’

  ‘All but Thomas, miss. ’E be waiting for the master, to put out the lights and bar the doors, miss. He be grumbling, Baker say, at being kept abroad so late.’

  Caroline bit her lip. ‘Tell Baker to make no move until he has gone. It would be a great disaster if Thomas saw the horses being harnessed.’

  ‘Very good, miss . . . Will that be all?’

  ‘No. Make a move as if you were going to bed. If you can, slip out of the house unnoticed and sit in the coach. Thomas otherwise may wonder why you are hanging about. Also I’m afraid Horace will get terrified in the dark. And he yaps loud when frightened. Stay there until I come.’

  ‘Very good, miss. I’ll go fetch my bonnet and cloak.’

  ‘But careful! Don’t let anyone see you.’

  When Eleanor had left, Caroline paced up and down the bedroom a half-dozen times, still biting her lip. Then she abruptly took up her outdoor things, glanced round to see that nothing was left which should not have been left, propped the letter for her uncle more prominently on her dressing-table, and snuffed out the candle and left the room.

  Her shadow was sulking in its corner. As she moved along the passage, it jumped quickly to follow at her heels. The light was still under the door of the big drawing-room. She hesitated and then slipped into the maid’s cupboard on the other side of the landing. Just room for her among the brushes and the dusters, but she was afraid to move lest something should topple over.

  So she stayed another ten minutes, stiff and cramped, the door sufficiently ajar to see the lighted angle of drawing-room door. It must be close on eleven by now.

  Mr Penvenen came out. He was carrying a candle, and a leather case under his arm. The room beyond was now in darkness. He closed the door after him and walked to the candlelamp in the corner and put it out. Then he came straight across to the cupboard where Caroline was standing.

  Hypnotized, like a child caught in a terrible dream, she watched him walk towards her. Then the door slammed shut in her face and she heard his slippers creaking away . . .

  In total darkness she let out a slow breath, began to count, determined not to move too soon. At five hundred she lifted the latch and looked out. The landing was in darkness.

  Knowing she might yet bump into Thomas on his rounds, she crept along the corridor to the stairs and stole down them. They had never creaked so much before. Once down, she made for the servants’ quarters, which directly adjoined the stables. There was a light in the kitchen and the door was ajar. Baker, her coachman, sat before a low fire in his shirt sleeves and stockinged feet, sharpening a piece of wood. He looked sleepy and ready for bed. If it was assumed, he was acting well.

  He got up sharply when she came in. She put a finger to her lips, breathless in spite of herself. These last minutes were minutes of unexpected tension.

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘Gone up, miss, three minutes since. I doubt ’e’ll be down again.’

  ‘Wait another five, then get the horses.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘I’ll go straight out to the coach. Eleanor is already there. We’ll wait for you to come.’

  ‘Very good, miss.’

  As she turned to go out of the kitchen she looked up at the clock. It was five minutes after eleven. Dwight would be waiting.

  Lottie Kempthorne wakened almost as soon as the cold night air fanned her face. She did not move but saw her father quite close to her at the window, peering out.

  She heard his lowered voice. ‘’Tis just a fever and I thought to send for ee, surgeon, but then I thought to wait till cocklight afore I give ee the trouble. Maybe tomorrow if you was passing this way—’

  A voice outside said: ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘I b’lieve it has been brought to an intermission, an’ by tomorrow—’

  ‘Let me in. I want to speak to you.’

  When grumbling to himself her father shut the window and began to pull on his breeches, Lottie sti
ll did not stir. She had learned that she must take no heed of her father’s comings and goings, and a question now would be likely to earn her a growl and a cuff. So she lay comfortable enough on the thin hard bed, listening to May’s quiet breathing beside her.

  Father went down, taking the candle and she heard him unbar the door below. (Most people in Sawle never locked their doors day or night, but Charlie was an exception.) She heard him talking to the man who came in, and presently sat up, scratching herself in the darkness. She wondered what Dr Enys could possibly be wanting calling so very late and speaking in such a strange voice. Dr Enys had been so kind to her and usually he was very gentle. Perhaps something terrible had happened.

  Her curiosity would let her rest no longer, and she slid out of bed and crept shivering to the trap door which led down to the room below. She lifted it a couple of inches and peered down.

  Her father was being examined; he was in a chair, hedging and protesting while Dr Enys stood over him, his face white and hard. The first words that came up to her were:

  ‘You have no fever, man, as you well know. Nor have you had any. Why did you tell people that story?’

  ‘Maybe ’tis not fever to you, surgeon; but three hours gone I was sweaten like a weed. An’ what with Lottie just free of the pox . . . And see now! Feel my ’and. If that edn clammy . . .’

  But the face of Dr Enys, kind Dr Enys, did not change. ‘This is an excuse, isn’t it, Kempthorne, this sham illness – thought up to avoid any part in the tub-carrying tonight? Why did you want to have no part in it?’

  Lottie’s father, whom Lottie loved, licked his lips and began to button his shirt. ‘I was all of a shrim. First it comed on me back like cold water, like ice. Then—’

  ‘For two years or more there’s been an informer about, carrying tales for gold. You know that, don’t you, Charlie?’