by Jane Jackson
Jenefer’s legs gave way suddenly and she sank to the ground. ‘Maggie? What am I going to do?’
Chapter Eight
‘Hey! Anybody there?’ A male voice, breathless and frantic with anxiety, bellowed.
Raising her head, Jenefer saw her sister’s anguish turn to relief. ‘Jared!’ Betsy screamed. ‘Jared, we’re round at the back.’
Pounding footsteps came closer. Skidding round the corner in his heavy boots, Jared fell to his knees and grasped Betsy’s hands. ‘All right, are you? Not hurt?’ He gasped the words out, his chest heaving.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Betsy’s voice wobbled. ‘Oh Jared, thank heaven you’re here. Papa –’ she stopped, unable to finish.
Rising to his feet Jared turned to Jenefer who shook her head.
Maggie patted her arm. ‘C’mon miss, we’d best pick up they bundles.’ Treeve stumbled towards them wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
‘I’m sorry, miss. I got in, but I couldn’t wake’n. I reck’n he was already gone. I tried to pull’n out, but the smoke made me cough fit to burst me lungs. I dunnaw what ’appened then. Next thing I knew I was out ’ere.’
‘Miss Jenefer and me carried you out,’ Maggie told him. ‘Some great lump you are too.’
‘You did?’ Startled, Treeve looked from his wife to Jenefer and gestured helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’
What could she say? ‘You tried, Treeve. I’m grateful for that.’ She ached all over and was utterly exhausted. But sleep would be impossible. Which was just as well considering she no longer had a bed. Laughter swelled like a bubble in her chest and she started to shake. Tears burned the back of her eyes and she swallowed hard, fighting hysteria.
‘Miss?’ She forced herself to look up. Pushing the chair he had made for her sister, Jared paused beside her. ‘I’m taking Betsy back to my place. Mother’ll look after her.’
It was clear from his tone, his use of her sister’s name, and the set of his shoulders, that he was stating his intent, not asking permission. Jenefer stiffened. He had no right. Betsy was her sister, her family, not his.
‘You’re welcome too,’ he added.
She shook her head. ‘I can’t. Thank you. But there are – I have to –’
‘Maybe later then.’
‘Jen?’ Betsy lifted her hand and Jenefer grasped it. ‘I’ll stay if you want.’
‘No’ Jared and Jenefer spoke simultaneously as their eyes met over Betsy’s head. In that moment Jenefer knew her relationship with her sister had irrevocably changed. She hadn’t the energy to grieve for it, much less to engage in a fight she would surely lose.
‘No.’ What would be the point? What could you do? She managed to bite back the words before they reached her lips. None of this was Betsy’s fault. ‘If I know you’re safe then I won’t be worried about you.’
‘Don’t you fret, miss,’ Jared tried to reassure her. ‘Mother’ll see her right. Others’ll be here soon.’ Having got his way his manner was more conciliatory. Had he expected her to argue? They both wanted what was best for her sister and Betsy had made her choice. ‘Half the village will have heard by now I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll come back as soon as I’ve got Bets – your sister – settled.’
‘Thank you.’ Jenefer cleared her throat, trying to shift the choking lump. ‘Betsy, you’d better take your things with you.’
Jenefer walked ahead of them round to the front of the house. Clothes and bedding lay where they had been flung from the upstairs windows.
Picking up Betsy’s bundles Jenefer placed both on her sister’s knees, bent and kissed her cheek, then stepped back. ‘On your way then.’
With a nod Jared pushed the chair towards the gate and the track leading down to the village.
Jenefer picked up her own belongings and carried them out of range of flying sparks and falling debris towards the low hedge that bordered the garden and separated it from the track. The whole house was ablaze. Flames leaping out of the broken windows were hot on her face and the bright golden light cast long shadows. Jenefer clasped her upper arms and shivered as she watched her home burn.
After her mother’s death she had accepted betrothal to a man she didn’t love so she would be able to take care of Betsy. She had made herself to think of it not as a sacrifice but as a gift: gratitude for being well and whole and not disabled as her sister was. But by going with Jared Betsy had discarded that gift and made it worthless.
When she had believed herself responsible for both her father and her sister the burden had weighed heavily. Now in the space of a few hours everything had changed. Her father was surely dead and Betsy was moving into the Sweets’ cottage to be looked after by Inez.
She couldn’t blame her sister. Betsy loved Jared and he loved her. They wanted so much to be married. And now there was nothing – and no one – to prevent it.
For the first time in her life Jenefer was alone. Instead of feeling free she felt totally lost.
‘Here they are,’ Maggie said beside her. ‘Come to gawp.’
Glancing round Jenefer saw villagers arriving and was touched to see how many carried buckets. But the fire was unstoppable. It would burn until there was nothing left for it to feed on. Unable to get near, they congregated near the hedge talking in lowered voices.
‘What are they waiting for?’
‘Whatever’s left, miss. I’d better tell Treeve to put a padlock on the barn door else they’ll be in there. If it isn’t nailed down, they’ll have it.’
‘Miss Trevanion.’
Jenefer turned around. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs as Devlin Varcoe strode across the grass towards her. Seeing him reminded her suddenly that she was clad only in her night attire. Automatically she reached up to the single untidy braid hanging over her shoulder.
In the firelight she saw her hand was streaked with soot and dried tears. Her face must look even worse. Shame and self-consciousness dewed her skin with perspiration as she tucked the bed-gown more tightly into its sash then folded her arms.
How could she even think of her appearance while her father lay trapped inside the burning house? Please let him have passed away without ever waking up. That he might have come round and found himself alone, surrounded by flames and unable to see a way out – she blocked the thought, unable to bear it. What was she to do? Where could she go? She would manage. She had no choice. Sucking in a shaky breath she drew herself up. She was Colonel Trevanion’s elder daughter and would – must – conduct herself accordingly.
Behind Devlin she glimpsed Willie Grose standing apart from the crowd. He was staring towards them, his face contorted with naked malice. Despite the shocks she had already suffered it gave her an unpleasant jolt. But before she had time to wonder what she could have done to warrant such enmity Devlin reached her.
‘I passed Jared and your sister on the track. I’m sorry about your father.’
She forgot about Willie Grose. ‘Thank you.’
‘What happened? How did the fire start?’
‘Spilt brandy and a smashed lantern.’ She drew a steadying breath. ‘I heard a noise then Maggie shouting. Two tinners had broken in. They threatened me with a pistol and demanded money and gemstones.’ She looked up, saw him frowning, and was suddenly overwhelmed by anger at everything that had happened that evening.
‘They were very specific, Mr Varcoe. Someone must have told them what to look for.’ In the light from the flames she saw his eyes narrow.
‘All thieves demand money and jewellery.’
‘But they didn’t ask for jewellery. They asked for gemstones. When I told them there weren’t any they accused me of lying and said my father had brought them back from India. How would they know that, Mr Varcoe, unless someone had told them?’
He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Clearly someone had told them. But it wasn’t me, Miss Trevanion.’
‘I never said –’
‘You didn’t need to. Your meaning was plain enough. But you’ve had
a shock so I won’t take your accusation personally.’
Glad he could not see the flush she could feel burning her face, Jenefer looked down and moved one foot away from the sharp stone pressing through her slipper.
‘A word of advice.’ He glanced round before turning back to her and lowering his voice. ‘It might be wiser not to tell anyone about the break-in or that tinners were responsible.’
Her head flew up. ‘Oh, really? That’s your advice, is it? I should just allow people to believe my father started the fire? Because that’s what the gossips will say.’ She ticked off points on trembling fingers. ‘He was drunk, he knocked over a candle, and it served him right.’ She held herself again, her arms pressed tight against her body. ‘But that isn’t the way it happened and I won’t allow his name to be smeared.’ She couldn’t control the tremors that were making her teeth chatter. ‘Besides, as I shot one of them –’
‘You what?’
‘I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.’
He smothered an oath. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘No! I don’t think so. I hope not. I’m sure I didn’t. He dropped the lantern as he fell. It smashed and that was what started the fire. His friend dragged him out. There was blood all down his sleeve. A lot of blood. It was dripping –’
‘Then you probably just winged him,’ Devlin broke in as she shuddered. ‘Do you have any relations nearby?’
Still fighting vivid memories Jenefer shook her head.
‘What about Erisey?’
She stiffened and her chin rose as she repeated what Martin had told her the last time she had seen him. ‘Mr Erisey is abroad at present, in America. He’s part of a diplomatic mission, something to do with a treaty granting British vessels the status of most-favoured nation.’
‘Taking long enough, isn’t it? He’s been gone months,’ Devlin remarked, his speculative gaze bringing another wave of heat to her face.
‘Apparently,’ she replied, her wretchedness increasing, ‘there were problems about American sailors not being guaranteed protection against the press gangs.’ She had gleaned this information, not from Martin, who had warned her he would have little spare time in which to write, but from the Sherborne Mercury. She saw no reason to mention either fact to Devlin Varcoe. ‘I expect him back any day now.’
‘Well, until he does turn up, does he have any family who might be willing to take you in?’
‘There is only his father. But he’s a widower and spends much of his time in London. In any case I could not impose on a virtual stranger.’ Mortified by his questions, she was humiliated by the knowledge that despite being betrothed she had no protector and no one to whom she could turn for aid or advice. Angry and hurt, she felt very much alone. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Pride drew her up. ‘You need not concern yourself on my account, Mr Varcoe.’
His mouth tightened and she saw a muscle jump in his jaw. ‘By Christ, you’re hard to help,’ he growled.
‘I don’t recall asking you for help. In any case, I will not leave here until my father’s – until my father is found.’
‘For God’s sake!’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘That fire could smoulder for days. When it stops burning what’s left will be unsafe. It might be a week or more before his remains can be recovered. What were you planning to do? Sleep on straw in the stable?’
She turned away, looking at the blaze rather than at him. He saw too much, knew too much. It was none of his business. From the corner of her eye she saw Maggie and Treeve coming towards her. Heads bent, they appeared to be arguing.
‘Look,’ Devlin gazed past her. ‘I’ve got a place in the village – I don’t mean the workshop or my loft,’ he said as her head jerked up. ‘It’s a cottage I’m rebuilding. It’s watertight and the roof is sound. You can stay there if you want.’ He nodded at Treeve and Maggie. ‘With a bit of help you could make it liveable.’
‘Wish we could stay, miss,’ Treeve’s voice was hoarse from coughing. ‘But now master’s gone – and no money – well, we can’t live on fresh air. We’ll go downlong to brother’s farm at Marazion.’
‘Yes, of course.’ How many more losses was she to suffer this night?
Maggie folded her arms. ‘We aren’t going nowhere till I seen miss got a safe place to lay ’er ’ead.’ She glared at her husband daring him to argue then turned back to Jenefer. ‘If I had my way I’d stay here along wi’ you. But –’ she shrugged helplessly.
‘It’s all right, Maggie.’ It wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right. But it was important not to make Maggie feel any worse. Good manners demanded she put others’ wellbeing before her own.
Jenefer couldn’t remember a time when Maggie hadn’t been part of the household, part of her life. None of this was Maggie’s fault any more than it was Betsy’s. Her life was disintegrating and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
There was a fist-sized lump in her chest and she pressed the heel of her hand against it. Her eyes stung. But she couldn’t break down. Not here, not now, and especially not in front of Devlin Varcoe.
An image of her mother’s face sprang vividly into her mind, delicate brows arched in reproof. A lady does not indulge in emotional displays. Such behaviour is common.
‘Of course you must go.’ She touched Maggie’s shoulder. ‘There’ll be work for Treeve on the farm and you’ll have somewhere to live.’
‘Yes, but what about you, miss?’
‘Miss Trevanion can use my cottage in Hawkins’ Ope for as long as she needs it,’ Devlin said.
Maggie’s eyes widened then she beamed. ‘Why, that’s some good of you, Mr Varcoe. Worried sick I was ’bout what miss would do. But that’s ‘andsome. I go that way sometimes. Be lovely it will once ’tis finished. I heard you ’ad a range put in.’
Jenefer knew about the range. She had overheard Rose, who came every Monday to do the laundry, telling Maggie about it. Nothing happened in the village without someone seeing. The brief ironic twist of Devlin’s mouth told her he was thinking the same, and the awareness of something shared kindled a tiny glow inside her.
‘There’s no furniture,’ he warned.
‘Don’t you worry ‘bout that,’ Maggie was brisk. ‘There’s a great pile of stuff in the barn. Some of it ‘ave been there years. Master wouldn’t throw nothing away. Said you never knew when there might be a use for it. God rest the poor soul.’ She tucked her arm through Jenefer’s and drew her gently away. ‘C’mon, my bird. Let’s go and see what us can find. Treeve, you get the cart out and harness up the cob. Got a lantern out there, ’ave you?’
‘Miss Trevanion.’
Glancing over her shoulder Jenefer saw Devlin watching her.
‘You needn’t fear anyone will bother you.’
Not trusting her voice, Jenefer gave a quick nod. She knew she should be grateful. In fact she was terrified. She had never lived alone. But as of this moment all she possessed of her former life were two knotted sheets containing her clothes and some bed linen, and a small wooden box that held a few pieces of jewellery, some of it her own, the rest inherited from her mother.
She had nowhere else to go. Jared’s suggestion had been kindly meant but was impractical. There would only just be room at the Sweets’ for Betsy.
She had to accept Devlin Varcoe’s offer. Beggars could not be choosers. People would talk. Not if she paid rent. With what? She would sell her jewellery. Regret stabbed, sharp and painful, but she ignored it. It was the only way. If only – things were different? But they weren’t. Her father had employed the Varcoes. To be in debt to a smuggler was unthinkable. He was what he was. And she … was engaged to be married.
But the fire had altered everything. Betsy would marry Jared and no longer needed a home with her and Martin. What had not changed was that Martin’s proposal had been a generous offer made in good faith. He was far from home, his work vital to England’s security and trade. For her to break their engagement would expose him to rumo
ur and gossip. Unpleasant for any man, but doubly so for someone blameless and whose career depended upon a spotless reputation. How could she justify such an act? And anyway what would it gain her? Devlin Varcoe?
Her heart leapt and fluttered and she tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. She should decline his cottage. And go where?
He was watching her. She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’
Wrapped in her coverlet Tamara sat on the window seat in her bedroom and hugged her knees as she watched the flames and the bobbing lanterns of villagers still making their way along the track to join others clustered in front of the burning house. She knew a few would be there to offer help, others simply to watch, but most in case there might be any pickings.
She was desperately tired. She had always taken sleep for granted, drifting off within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, waking seven or eight hours later refreshed and ready for the day. But that had been … before.
For almost two weeks she had made herself to do all the things she had always done. Each morning she greeted her parents with a smile and asked if they had any errands for her. She commiserated with her mother over the little catastrophes that were a daily occurrence: a pulled thread in her kerchief, the wind rattling the window, Sally being late with the coffee. To distract them from her lack of appetite she told them bits of village news. But she never mentioned Devlin. She did not dare. And as soon as breakfast was over she escaped.
Each night she prayed it would get easier. But it didn’t. If anyone found out they would say she deserved to suffer. That what she had done was a sin. But she would never believe that. Love was not sinful, and she had loved Devlin. Loved him still, fool that she was.
She wondered how much longer she could maintain her pretence. But she had no choice. Give the village gossip to chew on? Allow them to see how badly he’d hurt her? Put up with gloating sympathy because she, who knew herself different, was no better than half a dozen other village girls: just another of Devlin Varcoe’s cast-offs? Never.
