by Téa Cooper
‘And yet you stayed here with him, a murdering degenerate.’
‘What else could I do? A woman alone …’ her voice trailed off. ‘Jenifer saved my life, not once, not twice, more times than I care to remember. Every time he beat me, every time I lost my baby.’ Caroline’s hands covered her barren belly in a futile gesture of protection.
‘And you never thought to admit this. Have Jenifer’s name cleared. You let her live her life in exile, carrying the knowledge she was unfairly sentenced.’
Lady Methenwyck raised her head, her eyes sharp pinpricks in the dimly lit room. ‘She at least had a life to live. But for my ill-conceived actions she would have become just another sacrifice.’
Something akin to a growl slipped from Finneas’s lips. ‘Couldn’t you have done something for her, anything to make her life easier?’
Caroline squared her shoulders. ‘I did. I wrote to my brother, Richard.’
‘My father.’ The words slipped out reminding Rose that this woman, this woman whose story made her flesh crawl, was also her aunt.
‘Richard had travelled with the First Fleet to New South Wales. I wrote to him asking him to look out for Jenifer. Told him she was from Cornwall.’
‘And he took her to his bed, despite the fact he was a married man.’
‘Life in the early days of the colony was different. No one knew what lay in store.’
Finneas’s groan silenced Lady Methenwyck and the dawning realisation made Rose’s heart race. Julian, her brother, was no different to Lord Methenwyck. The glittering drop of blood in the corner of his mouth, the greed in his eyes when he’d stared at her. She could have become the girl on the stone, as easily as Mam might have, as Finneas’s mother had.
Rose stared at the hunched woman wringing and twisting the sodden handkerchief in her hands, hardly the picture of a woman who’d played God. Who’d cut out Mam’s heart yet at the same time saved her from a certain death.
‘I’ve spent a lifetime attempting to atone for my husband’s sins. I was young when I married him. I imagined myself in love. He cut such an arrogant, dashing figure astride his grey stallion. He wanted sons and I wanted nothing more than to provide them for him.
‘I failed and for that he could never forgive me.’ She raised her hands in some sort of futile gesture. ‘Time and time again, always at the same time of year, girls would vanish. Every Sabbat. Candlemas, Midsummer, the Spring and Autumn Equinoxes. I feared for you, Rose. So like my poor Jenifer.’
‘But Methenwyck is confined to his bed, as good as blind, unable to move …’ Finneas’s voice trailed off. He ran his fingers through his hair, closed his eyes as he accepted the reality. ‘And that is where Julian stepped in: heir not only to the lands and title, but also to Methenwyck’s diabolical perversions. If Methenwyck could no longer participate he could relish Julian’s firsthand accounts.’
‘At first I didn’t realise, didn’t understand why he would seem to recover, seem more alert, then I put it down to Julian’s appearance … until the day I tied the two together.’
‘And knew that Julian had stepped into his father’s boots.’
‘Not his father. His true father—your father, Rose—my brother was a good man.’
Rose raised an eyebrow. How could this woman excuse these men? ‘A good man would not bribe a woman with promises he couldn’t keep then take her child from her.’
‘A good man, who fell in love, made a mistake and thought he could have everything. It wasn’t so unusual in those days for a married man to take a woman from the lower classes while he was away. Many men in higher positions than Richard did just that. People whose English wives were more accommodating than Richard’s.’
‘So my mother’s sentencing was a hoax.’ She used the word with care. It brought back thoughts of Pa. She’d set out for England determined to upend the misconceptions about the mallangong; instead she’d stumbled upon a deliberately fabricated falsehood, more intricate than anything the Royal Society could lay at Pa’s feet.
Finneas gazed down at Rose. He’d expected her to be a sobbing mess—instead there was a fierce light in her eyes as though she now saw her way clear. Despite her ordeal in the barrow and Caroline’s dreadful confession she seemed to have recovered.
‘I intend to return to London and have my mother’s name cleared. If necessary I shall enlist Sir Joseph’s assistance.’
Caroline choked back a sob. ‘You can’t do that. What will happen to Methenwyck, and Julian?’
‘I don’t honestly know, nor do I care.’
He had to hand it to the girl—she lacked nothing, especially not courage. ‘We could of course facilitate the whole proceedings if you, Caroline, accompanied Rose to London.’ Now where had that come from? It was the perfect solution.
‘To London?’
‘Yes, to London. Rose cannot return to Wyck Hall. Surely you agree with me?’
‘I do. Yes, I do but …’
‘Caroline, it would give you the opportunity to present your case in the most favourable light and secure an Absolute Pardon for Jenifer. It’s for the best and the very least you can do. I shall go and have words with Bill and find out the next available seats on the mail coach.’
Leaving Caroline and Rose in the snug he strolled down the hallway to the taproom. He wanted seats this afternoon, if not sooner. The quicker Rose was out of Julian’s reach the happier he’d be. Once they’d left for London he’d return to Wyck Hall and take Julian and Methenwyck to task. They would stand trial. He might not be able to bring back his mother or the girls who had perished but it would be a fitting retribution, and if nothing else it would ensure Rose and Caroline’s safety.
‘Bill, any idea if there are seats on this afternoon’s mail coach?’
‘Give us a tick. Got a list here somewhere.’ He rummaged under the counter and pulled out a dog-eared piece of paper. ‘No one getting on ’ere, and four leaving. There’re carriage seats. Going back to London are you?’
‘Seems like the best idea. Book all four for me, please.’
‘Done.’
‘And would you ask Mrs Penhaligon if we could impose on her good nature and avail ourselves of some of her delicious pasties, some tea and some cider. Thank you.’
With a determined step he returned to the snug where he could have cut the atmosphere with a scalpel. Both Caroline and Rose were staring into space, lost in their thoughts. Rose chewing her lip as she always did when she was worried, Caroline wringing her sodden handkerchief.
‘I have booked four seats on this afternoon’s mail coach. Does that suit?’
Rose nodded, then a frown marred the smooth skin of her forehead.
‘It does, but I have to ask you to do one thing for me.’
Only one thing. He could think of many, many things he would ask her in a similar situation. ‘And what is that?’
‘My carpetbag. The mallangong and the sketchbook. I will need them before I see Sir Joseph and they are at Wyck Hall.’
She’d played right into his hands. Given him the perfect opportunity. ‘In that case I shall return to Wyck Hall and collect them. I shall bring your trunk and my bag as well. Caroline, you have everything you need?’
She nodded absently. ‘I have clothes in London. You’ll miss the coach. It leaves in two hours.’
‘I shall be right behind you. Take rooms at the London Inn at Exeter, and I’ll join you there.’ After he’d confronted Methenwyck and Julian. If it were the last thing he did he’d ensure these appalling revelries were brought to an end and the two of them faced justice. Rose had made no mention of anyone other than Julian. Perhaps the days of the hunting parties were over and only Methenwyck and his heir clung to the old traditions. ‘Now let’s see if we can find something to eat before I see you onto the coach.’
He stood up and opened the door just in time to help Mrs Penhaligon into the room with a tray laden with her mouth-watering pasties.
‘Here you are Mr Finneas, and I brought
a copy of the Cornwall Advertiser with me. Thought you might like something to read to pass the time, take it with you on the coach if you like.’
‘Would you like me to serve you, Caroline, Rose?’
‘Just tea for me.’ Caroline waved her hand at him. ‘But without the ladle of sugar this time.’
Rose stood and walked to his side. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea? No harm would come if we waited until tomorrow’s coach. I don’t want to go back to Wyck Hall but I’m happy to stay here.’
He had no intention of allowing that.
‘I can’t possibly leave Pa’s sketchbook. Perhaps I should come with you.’
‘Everything will be fine. You remember the New London Inn, don’t you? We stopped there on our way here.’ He put two pasties on a plate and handed it to her. ‘Why don’t you sit here at the table?’ He slid the tray across the table and the headline on the newspaper screamed at him: British Naturalist, Botanist and Patron of the Natural Sciences, Sir Joseph Banks dead.
A strangled gasp whistled between his lips and he folded the paper in half. The last thing Rose needed today.
He wasn’t quick enough. She was onto him faster than the shot he’d like to put in Julian’s head.
‘Give it to me.’ She slumped down in the chair and pushed away the plate of pasties, her eyes scanning the small smudged print.
‘What is it?’ Caroline peeled herself out of the chair and peered over his shoulder. ‘I see. That’s going to impede your plans somewhat.’ He’d swear he saw a glimmer of relief in her eyes. ‘Perhaps returning to London is not the most appropriate course of action.’
‘Of course it is.’ Rose stood. ‘I’m not giving up now, not even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees to the king himself. I will get Pa’s work recognised and I will have Mam’s name cleared.’ Her eyes flashed, no longer the lovely warm walnut colour but the obsidian black of her brother’s.
‘I’m not certain this is the best option, Finneas.’
‘Caroline, you gave your word. Are you going to renege on it? Don’t you think you owe Rose, and Jenifer, your support?’ She’d be on that coach if he had to tie her up and carry her.
‘I hear you, Finneas.’ With a sigh Caroline sank into the chair again. ‘You can trust me.’
Could he? He hoped so.
Julian threw Finneas a lazy glance from his spot in front of the fire, legs stretched out as though he hadn’t a care in the world. The old man lay propped in his bed, a fanatical light flickering in his clouded eyes.
Finneas stood, every muscle tensed, back to the door, preventing Julian from leaving. ‘I want to speak to you.’
‘The floor is yours.’ Julian gestured expansively.
‘I found Rose in the barrow.’
‘Ah, my little sister … been wandering, has she? Dangerous place to be, that barrow. You know the local rumours.’
‘And I also know they are based in fact. What were you thinking of?’
‘Me? What’s it to do with me? I haven’t been anywhere near the place—ask Mrs Pascoe, she served us dinner. Ask Father.’
Methenwyck inclined his head, his chin lolling against his chest. Julian rose, walked to the bed and lifted the old man and brought a glass to his lips. A curiously caring gesture.
Grasping the chance Finneas searched the room, his eyes alighting on the puddled cloak beneath the heavy curtains. He stepped forward and grabbed it from the floor. The stale smell of bats and blood billowed as he shook it out. ‘This, look at this.’ His fingers grasped the dried bloodstain tarnishing the heavy wool and thrust it under Julian’s nose.
‘A spot of blood, shot a deer on the way here. With no hunting parties anymore, the animals are like vermin. Perhaps we should go out tonight and see what we can bag, just like old times.’
‘I’ve never had anything to do with the hunting parties as you well know.’ Hated them in fact; hated the way the poor defenceless animals were run down, loathed the thought there might be more to the rumours he’d refused to acknowledge. He’d hidden behind science and a lack of proof. He was no better than Caroline turning a blind eye, ignoring the truth. ‘It’s not deer you hunted but girls, poor defenceless girls snatched from their homes, their families.’
‘For God’s sake man. Don’t give me that holier-than-thou look. You knew what was going on and have done for as long as I have. That you chose not to follow the old ways is your decision but it is not for you to criticise. Just girls. No one cares, no one misses them. They have their moment in the limelight, that’s all they want.’
‘Good sport,’ Methenwyck lisped his approval, his usual pallor replaced by a flush of blood to his cheeks.
‘You perverted, murdering bastards.’ He wanted nothing more than to take the old man by the throat and choke the last remaining gleam of life from his withered body and then beat Julian into a senseless pulp. Not kill him. Oh no. He wanted him to stand in front of a jury and take the full weight of the law, as Jenifer had done. ‘First you take my mother, then the woman I love.’ His words brought him up short. The woman I love. Yes, he did love Rose but sentiments like that didn’t belong in front of these two depraved excuses for men. He would not sully Rose by letting her name pass his lips in their presence.
‘A pretty turn of events. Isn’t that some form of incest, falling in love with your sister? I wouldn’t have expected it of a man of science.’
Finneas didn’t dignify Julian’s ludicrous remark with a response. ‘Caroline has returned to London. She intends to clear Jenifer Trevan’s name and explain her responsibility in Jenifer’s entrapment and the reasons for it.’
‘For goodness sake, a woman cannot give evidence against her husband, everyone knows that.’
‘But she can against her ward.’
Snarling with fury Julian leapt forward. ‘I’ll see you in hell.’
A strangled gargle came from the bed and Finneas turned to see Methenwyck blue-faced and gasping. All compassion leached from him, and for a moment he stood while the old man’s eyes bulged. So easy to let him die, rid the earth of this vile man but he wanted him alive, alive to be shamed for the evil he’d perpetrated.
He raced forward, slipped his hands under the old man’s armpits and heaved him up then leant him forward and thumped him on the back. His eyes glazed then with a monstrous heave he sucked in a mouthful of air through his withered lips.
‘Perhaps you should ride to Bodmin and call the constabulary to arrest Lord Methenwyck. I’m sure they’d be tripping over themselves to accommodate your nonsense.’
Finneas lowered the old man back onto his pillows and took stock. He hadn’t given much thought to what he would say or how he would deal with the pair of them. Perhaps Julian was nothing more than a puppet led by his greed and blinded by his lust for the Methenwyck inheritance. God would have his revenge on Methenwyck soon enough, or maybe he already had—condemned him to a life in a body that was no more than a shell, unable to care for himself.
A cold blast of air from the window brought him back from his reverie. Julian sat back in the chair, a twisted smirk on his face as he swirled his brandy and the old man lay, eyes closed as though exhausted. What he wouldn’t give for a bolt of lightning to strike them both down. Methenwyck wasn’t going anywhere and he doubted Julian would leave him; he had too much to lose.
He snatched up Julian’s cloak and strode towards the door. He’d promised Rose he’d get her carpetbag and sketchbook. It would give him a moment to clear his head and think.
‘Run out of vitriol, little brother? Too much the carer, too much the healer?’ Julian stood and sauntered towards him blocking his path to the door. ‘Perhaps I should teach you the old ways, more than you’d ever learn from those cadavers you enjoy.’
He didn’t remember raising his fist, nor how the blood appeared, pouring from Julian’s face in a torrent. He waited until his brother slumped to the floor then stepped over his prostrate form and strode from the room.
Twenty-five
/>
Wollombi, New South Wales 1908
‘Gayadin, do you think your Jane was my grandmother?’ Tamsin tested the words. My grandmother. She’d never called anyone grandmother, or grandfather, come to think of it.
‘I know, not think. In your eyes, in your voice. I hear my Jane. You mallangong girl, too.’ She pointed to her foot and she uncurled her toes and looked again. ‘Jane’s baby—she not mallangong girl. She a water rat—she run away across the sea, say poor Mr Kelly let the flood take my Jane.’
It all made sense. No one had ever said she was especially like Mother—maybe genetic traits skipped a generation or two. Of course they did. Mother hadn’t inherited funny feet. The memory made her cold. How she hated her feet. Always trying to hide them, especially at school; always terrified the girls would see them, tease her, make her even more different. Those times were best forgotten. ‘When did Mr Kelly die?’
‘By and by. Mrs Quinleaven, she alone long time.’
Sitting here beside the brook with the birds flitting across the water and the dragonflies hovering she was more at peace than she’d been for a long time. She could almost feel Rose’s arms tight around her, holding her close. Something she’d never known from Mother, or Father. How she wanted to be hugged tight, to know she wasn’t alone. Why didn’t she know more about her family? Why had Mother and Father shunned them? Buried themselves in their missionary work, taking care of others instead of their closest family. Had Mr Kelly ever known he had a granddaughter?
‘So what you going to do? That house.’ Gayadin tipped her head across the brook. ‘That house be yours by rights. Not that rushing woman.’
Tamsin sat up as the implication hit her. Never mind the house. If she was Mr Kelly’s granddaughter would the sketchbook belong to her?
Heavens above—the perfect way to foil Shaw Everdene and Mrs Rushworth. Serve them right. Both of them. She slipped on her boots and retied the laces then stood up. ‘Gayadin, I’ve got to go.’
‘Where you go? You stay here. Look after your family.’
