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The Gamekeeper
Chapter One
Lizzie Carthew hated traveling by train. The locomotives were so
dirty and noisy, the wooden carriages so frightening at speed. But
the railway system was able to take her from London to Plymouth much
quicker than any horse-drawn coach, so she tried to endure the
discomfort with stoicism.
She rose from her uncomfortable third-class seat as the South Devon Railway train slowed and clattered over a network of points approaching Plymouth’s Millbay station. A steam whistle tooted, weak and tinny.
From beyond the carriage window, a busy platform scene slid past her view. Individual images appeared from behind clouds of steam and smoke before they were quickly whipped aside. She briefly registered groups of people huddled together, drawing out their last conversations as one or other prepared to board a train. Then her attention was caught by a gaggle of soldiers in red uniform watched over by a sour-faced sergeant. She smiled when she espied a small boy in a sailor suit bowling a hoop amidst the throng. She lowered the sash window in the nearest door and coughed as a trail of smoke slid into the carriage. Sooty smuts landed on her coat. Before she could brush them aside, the carriage jolted and the train came to a noisy halt. Lizzie grabbed at the carriage door to steady herself. Outside, a lone country parson stood at the platform edge and stared in at her. A thin, grey-haired man, his shoulders were slumped if the world had passed him by and he was lost in the empty aftermath. He clasped a heavy bible in his right hand and held the flat brim of his hat with the other. Such sadness filled his eyes; sadness streaked with an air of intense loneliness. Lizzie’s mind jerked back to her father at his rectory in Kensington. The Reverend Carthew was not given to such lonely expressions because he considered self-pity a weakness. Lizzie recalled the terrifying dark look he had given her as she walked away from the rectory. She wondered if she would ever forget that look, the last sign of his intense disapproval of her. Would he ever relent and show some appreciation of his daughter? She doubted it. And if she could not attract approval or appreciation, how could she ever hope to find love? She leaned out in order to turn the handle, pushed open the door and placed one foot out onto the running board. Immediately, the parson released his hold on his hat, stepped closer to the carriage and offered Lizzie his free hand. “Please be careful, madam,” he said in a soft West-Country accent. “’Twould not do to fall and hurt yourself. Let me assist you.” Lizzie smiled to herself. Madam, he called her, as if she were a lady. Her father would find that ironic. He still referred to her as a child. A disobedient child. “I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you,” she replied. Ignoring her assurance, the parson took the valise from her while she stepped down to the platform. He placed it on the cold stone slabs and doffed his hat. “Is there someone here to meet you?” She shook her head. “No. I’m travelling alone.” “I do hope you haven’t far to go. You’ll find cabs waiting in the station forecourt.” “Thank you.” Lizzie picked up her valise and walked away. A cab? Was she made of money? She could not afford a cab because her father had refused to subsidise the cost of her journey. She would have to walk. Maybe a more loving father would have made sure she was provided with ample funds, but not the Reverend Carthew. Her father preached love, but he did not give it, and Lizzie had long since learned to do without his affection. Not that she didn’t still crave it. All her life she had yearned for that love, and now, in its continued absence, she was determined to find a different fulfillment. She would dedicate her life to caring for others. She walked out into the station forecourt and continued on, straight past the waiting hansom cabs. Tom Pendower shivered in the chill morning air that sat eerily still over the South Devon landscape. The most prominent sounds to reach his ears came from the clanking swingle-tree and the squealing axle bearings as the Trethurgy family landau rumbled over an uneven country road. He removed his hat in one sudden move and raked a hand nervously through his thick, straw-coloured mop. Odgers, the crusty old driver whose face might have been the model for a stone-carved gargoyle, cast him a wary glance. “Trouble, lad?” He pulled his clay pipe from between thin, purple lips and spat onto the dry earth below. “Nothing important.” Tom rammed his hat back onto his head with more force than necessary. How could he admit the truth to Jake Odgers, a man he barely knew? “So why the sour look on yer face?” Odgers grunted and focussed again on the winding road into Plymouth. He jammed his pipe back between his blackened teeth and sniffed loudly, as if expressing an opinion. Tom sighed deeply but made no reply. It was none of Odgers’ business. Instead, he nervously entwined, released and then re-entwined his fingers. Every moment of pleasure had its price, he reasoned, but sometimes only hindsight revealed the price was too high. If Brigadier Sir John Trethurgy were to find out what he had done, he would be lucky to escape a beating, possibly imprisonment. Not that Sir John was a bad employer, quite the reverse, but even he could not overlook such a serious matter. How could he fail to take action if he discovered his new young gamekeeper had bedded his headstrong daughter - and so soon after starting employment at Derrystone Hall? With his eyes squeezed shut, Tom pressed his fingers pincer-like into his temples and forced himself to concentrate on his dilemma. The guilt would surely fall upon him because Virginia Trethurgy would never admit she had openly seduced him, using all her exceptional wiles to attract him into her bed. He should have been strong enough to resist her ploys. If the truth came out, who would now believe his version of events? Maybe he would be hanged on a false charge of raping his employer’s daughter! He shivered at the thought. “Well?” Odgers spoke through the side of his mouth, his teeth still clamped about his pipe stem. “What’s makin’ ee so jumpy, lad?” Tom glanced again at the coachman. “’Tes nothing I’d want to bother you with, Mister Odgers.” “Really? ’Ave it your own way.” Odgers quashed the faintest trace of a grin and studied him suspiciously, head to one side like an inquisitive owl. A light mist added a chill to the spring day and yet a bead of sweat trickled down Tom’s cheek. He hurriedly brushed it aside. He could cope with Odgers’ suspicions, but what about Albert Trethurgy, his master’s son sitting alone inside the landau? Did he harbour suspicions about that disgraceful indiscretion? Was that why Albert had instructed him to put aside his game-keeping duties and take this uncomfortable ride to Plymouth? Tom glanced back at the landau hoods, fully raised to give Albert a measure of privacy. Did the young master plan a confrontation away from the confines of Derrystone Hall? How could he have been so foolish? He had lied about his age to secure the gamekeeper post and then, three days into the job, he had severely betrayed his master’s trust. Pray God his parents, back home on their farm in the parish of Tywardreath, never discovered he had dishonoured their family name. The landau lurched on along a narrow trail over Mutley Plain. Its springs complained loudly as the coach crossed a section of the Tavistock Road which had been raised at the time of the Turnpike Acts. Then it rumbled on over rough contours of soil now hardening after a long, wet winter. Tom steadied himself against the footboard while Odgers reined the horses back to a slow trot and puffed contentedly on his clay pipe. The early morning sunlight was, as yet, too weak to burn off the residue of a haze that still hung languidly over the distant hills of Dartmoor, now vague upon the horizon. Tom shivered and turned his attention down towards the Devon shoreline where a low carpet of sea fog rolled inland, gobbling up town buildings as well as ships at anchor, sucking them into its grey-white blanket. The coach rolled and rattled down the dirt road into the outskirts of Plymouth where an icy chillness still held the air in its tight grip, carried along with the fog that oozed through stinking streets and narrow alleyways. Coming to the High Street, Odgers carefully picked his way between deep potholes and a stream of swilled-out night sewage. With a confidence born out of long experience, he guided the coach skilfully through a narrow alleyway leading to the quay at Sutton Pool. Beside him, Tom wrapped his thick coat tighter about himself in an attempt to stop his teeth chattering. “This be the place.” Odgers drew the coach to a halt adjacent to a quayside shop, its narrow frontage hemmed in between a chandlery and a grimy tavern. The fog ran thicker now, swirling eerily around the ghostly shapes of ships lying alongside. The cloying dampness caught Tom’s throat and he coughed loudly. Albert Trethurgy swung open the landau door and stepped down onto the cobblestones, dressed as if for business in a black serge coat and stovepipe hat. Leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane, he hobbled a few yards towards the harbour wall until his lean figure was almost obscured by the fog. Then he turned back to face the coach. Bar an occasional wince, he bore a recent leg injury with stoicism and dignity. Tom allowed his gaze to follow Sir John’s son. Was it the delicate slenderness in Albert Trethurgy’s build that made him appear younger than his twenty three years? And was it the hardness of his own broad, muscular shoulders that had allowed Tom to pass himself off as equal to Albert’s age? He recalled his first meeting with the baronet, Brigadier Sir John Trethurgy, his prospective employer. “And how old are you?” Sir John had stood in front of his library fire, legs firmly apart and stubby thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets. He was drawn from amongst those men who had distinguished themselves in their chosen field but were deemed by convention not quite worthy of a peerage. Nevertheless, he held himself in an imperious stance. “Twenty-three next month, sir.” The lie added an extra two years to his true age. But would two fictional years be enough to secure the employment? “Twenty-three, eh?” The Brigadier eyed him thoughtfully. “We’ve never had a keeper so young on this estate. But Mister Pitt was Chancellor of the Exchequer at age twenty-three and Prime Minister at twenty-four. Are you as good a man as Mister Pitt, do you think?” “Reckon I can’t claim to be so clever, sir. But I know me job.” A brief glint of good humour sparkled in Sir John’s eyes. “A wise reply. Young Mister Pitt had a good clear head but I wonder if he had the ability to protect my property from poachers and thieves. Have you the experience we need here, young Pendower?” “I reckon so, sir. Me father taught me well on our farm.” “Ah, yes. Down west, isn’t it?” Sir John pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “Yes, sir. Tregelly Farm near Tywardreath.” Tom pronounced the parish name Tower-dreth in the Cornish manner. It was in his mind to add that he had grown up with a natural feel for animals and a deep love for his home on the Cornish south coast. But modesty curbed his reply. “Been working the land and tending animals since I first learned to walk.” The Brigadier adopted a puzzled frown. “So why did you leave Tregelly Farm?” “Got an older brother, sir. He’ll inherit father’s land and I’ll have to make me own way in the world. Determined to make a success of me life.” Tom held his head high. Would his honest aspirations be enough to swamp the earlier lie? The old soldier paused and his age-encrusted face broadened into a warm smile. “Good. I like the look of you. Serve me well and you’ll not regret it. I’m putting my trust in you.” Tom remembered those words as he clambered down from the coach’s high seat, keeping his eyes focussed on the quay’s shiny-damp cobbles. The coldness in the sea fog quickly began to penetrate through his clothing and he slapped his arms about his upper body to keep warm. “Come here, Thomas.” Albert Trethurgy’s mellow voice held no obvious trace of animosity. Was that a good sign? “Sir?” Tom took a step closer to his master’s son. Albert glanced at his fob watch before pulling a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and handing it to Tom. “Take this list. I have some business with our bankers. While I’m gone, I want you to get all these provisions from the shop and load them into the coach. They know me well enough here. Tell them I’ll settle the account at the end of the month as usual.” Tom studied the list of groceries before giving the young master a puzzled look. “You want us to wait here for you, sir? Till you get back?” Albert limped along the uneven quay, still leaning heavily on his cane, and pointed towards an alley of tenement buildings. He called back over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you later at the Seafarer’s Mission. Odgers knows the place. Wait for me there.” Tom frowned. Why did the young master, now disappearing into the enveloping fog, need all these provisions when his father had an army of servants to deal with such matters back at Derrystone Hall? And what business could Albert Trethurgy, well used to the trappings of wealth, have at a Seafarer’s Mission? He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. “You know what this is all about, Mister Odgers?” With his earlier unease slowly dissipating, Tom looked up at the coachman who was slouched forward on the driving bench. “Reckon I do, lad. And ee’ll find out about it directly.” The last word came out as drekkly in Odgers’ thick Cornish accent. He sniffed and turned away. “Meantime, just do what ee’s told.” Tom shrugged. If Odgers, taciturn at the best of times, wanted to be reticent about this matter, so be it. He ordered the groceries, stacked them inside the landau and climbed back up to where the coachman patiently waited on top. With barely a word, Odgers set the horses trotting slowly through the narrow lanes. The wheels rattled noisily along the cobbles, the sounds echoing back from the dank, fog-shrouded buildings. Tom was again shivering when they came to a halt alongside a grimy tenement building in Docks Alley. “There it be.” Odgers gestured with his pipe stem towards a flight of steps leading down to a basement door. A faded sign proclaimed: The Docks Alley Mission for the Families of Seafaring Men. “Should we go in?” “We wuz told to wait ’ere.” Odgers pulled his pipe from his mouth and studied it reflectively. “Don’t like waitin’ in this place, though. Shivers me belly right proper. There’s some ’ere would steal yer ’orse the moment yer back’s turned.” A group of ragged children emerged from the surrounding gloom like cautious wild animals inspecting a possible prey. They gathered around the coach, eyeing the two men warily and muttering in low, desultory tones. Petty thieves, every one of them, Tom guessed, and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. Slowly the ragged urchins began to disperse from the scene, their interest in the landau coach waning with each minute of inactivity. Tom said nothing but kept a close eye on them until they had melted back into the misty lairs from where they had come. The last child vanished like a ghost just as the door of The Old Ram, a dilapidated inn directly opposite the mission, opened with a creaking lurch. A babble of voices escaped into the limp air and two men staggered out, holding each other for support. One was young, seemingly still in his early twenties, coarse and thin with sharp facial features and matted black hair. The other man, a generation older, was heavily built with a paunchy belly that fell forward over his belt. His leathery face was deeply creased and his tanned head almost bald. The two men staggered noisily across the narrow street. Tom eyed them carefully. They were railway navvies, for sure. Each wore moleskin trousers, a velveteen square-tailed coat, canvas shirt, rainbow waistcoat, hobnail boots and a white felt hat …. almost a navvy uniform. He had seen their likes when the Cornwall Railway pushed its way through the green countryside near St Austell, scarring the landscape as it crawled unrelentingly westward. The older man belched loudly as they came near the coach, his heavy nostrils drawn back as if he were ready for a fight. He grabbed at his companion to steady himself and bellowed in a broad North-country accent: “Will that bastard, Cruikshanks, give us a drink, dos’t think, Willie?” The younger man’s gaze darted rapidly from place to place without seeming to settle. “Dunno. But maybe we should just go home, da. Ma will be wonderin’ what’s keepin’ us.” Both men stumbled, recovered, and lurched to a halt in front of the coach. Still holding on to one another, they stared up at the driving bench. “And just what’ve we got here, Willie? Just look at those two flunkeys on their fine coach.” The older man gave a drunken parody of a bow. “Have you come to take us home, lads?” He laughed loudly while the younger man held back, a worried frown creasing his face. “Good day to you, sir,” Tom replied curtly before turning his head away. He hoped the navvies would walk on by but the older man seemed determined to stay. “Will you come to the inn and have a pot with me son an’ meself? Surely such men as you can afford to stand a round.” Tom gave Odgers a quick glance, sensing trouble. He waved casually to the two men. “Can’t take any ale while we’re on the master’s business.” The older man grabbed hold of the nearest horse’s bridle and bared his darkly-stained teeth. He lowered his voice menacingly. “You wouldn’t be insultin’ a couple of working men by refusing to drink with us, would you?” Tom flinched. “Take it easy, da. Come away, now. We don’t want no trouble.” The younger man reached out a steadying hand towards his father but the older man pushed him aside and let out a harsh grunt. He staggered and then grabbed again at the bridle. The horse whinnied and jerked its head, its breath condensing in the cold air, but the navvy held on. “Come on, fine gentlemen. Just come and have a drink with us.” The older man ground his teeth together into a threatening grin. “No, thank you.” Tom moved his hand slowly towards a leather horsewhip lying on the seat between Odgers and himself. He sensed impending trouble and was ready to protect himself. The older man swung unsteadily on his heels, released his grip on the bridle and leaned heavily upon his son. “It seems to me, Willie, these fine gentlemen don’t want to mix with the likes of us. What do you think we should do about it?” “Let’s just go home, da. Come on now.” His father pivoted round again towards the coach, wobbling unsteadily. “No. I think we should teach them a bit of a lesson.” He suddenly lurched forward, grabbed at the reins and pulled hard, jerking Odgers from his seat. The old coachman released the reins before he would fall and then slumped back onto the driving bench, surprise filling his face. “Enough of that!” Tom grasped the whip tightly and leapt to the ground. But he stumbled as his feet crashed down on the cobbled lane, his left ankle twisted and the leg crumpled beneath him. The horsewhip hit against the coach and fell from his grasp. Dust rose about him as he scrambled to regain his footing, a sharp pain ran through his ankle and he fell again, face-down on the road. “So, you’re not so clever by half, eh?” The older man lumbered menacingly towards him. As Tom pushed himself up from the ground, the navvy bent down and grasped his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll teach you a lesson after all.” “Stop that!” A woman’s voice suddenly split the air nearby, closely followed by a loud, ear-piercing whip-crack. “What the hell!” The navvy scowled, released his fist from Tom’s shoulder and turned towards the voice. Tom slumped to his knees. With pain jagging through his ankle, he grabbed at the coach wheel and tried to heave himself up. Whoever the woman was, she had intervened none too soon, but he was still unable to protect himself. “Stand back or you’ll feel this whip across your back!” The woman’s threat echoed sharply through the fog-filled alley. Her voice was commanding, as if she knew her station to be well above the navvy. Levering himself agonisingly to his feet, Tom turned his head to face her, expecting to see a heavily-built harridan. Instead, he was confronted by a petite young woman standing purposefully erect just a few yards away. She held the horsewhip threateningly in one outstretched hand. A valise sat on the cobbles beside her. “Damn bitch!” The older man raised his fist as he roared at her and took a single step in her direction. But the younger man was quick to intervene. “No! Leave her be, da.” He stumbled forward and grabbed at his father’s arm, dragging him back from the conflict. “You can’t hit a young gentlewoman like her. How about we get another drink at The Old Ram?” “That bitch…” “Never mind, da.” He heaved his father round to face him and patted a hand lightly against his chest.” We’ll have another pot of ale. I’ll pay for it. How about that?” The father grunted and swivelled his gaze from his son to the coach and back. Slowly, his eyes began to glaze over as if the effect of previous drinking was belatedly taking effect. “Aye, maybe we’ll do that, Willie. A pot of ale. These bastards ain’t worth the trouble of me givin’ them a hidin’.” “That’s right, da. Come away now. Eh?” Willie strung his arm about his father’s shoulders and guided him firmly back across the street. Tom held his breath until the inn door slammed shut behind them and a strange silence fell across the foggy alley. Then he allowed himself a long sigh of relief. “I think we owe you our thanks, miss.” Another sharp pain shot through his ankle joint as he turned to face the young woman with a grimace. She was a pretty young thing, not the sort he would expect to face up to a drunken navvy. She lowered the whip and eyed him with concern. “Are you badly hurt? You haven’t broken something, have you?” “Nothing that won’t mend quickly enough.” He hobbled towards her and studied her slim, elfin figure more closely. Seemingly younger than himself, she was dressed in a smart brown coat that scuffed the dirt at her feet as she moved. She had pale but silk-like skin and golden hair tied back in a neat bun. Her bonnet lay upended on the ground nearby. Her clear blue eyes seemed to be watching him with more than just friendly concern, as if she really cared about whether he had been injured. For the briefest of moments a spasm of pleasure ran through him but then another jolt of pain hit his ankle. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” With the whip now tucked beneath her arm, she bent to regain her bonnet before settling it back onto her head. “Just a sprain,” he gasped and stifled another groan. “Were you really going to use that whip?” She laughed and handed it to him, her teeth showing gleaming white between her full lips. “I would have whipped the hide off him if I only knew how to do it. I was quite astonished when it cracked like it did. Did I really do that?” “You did. Proper job, it was. Maybe we should make sure those two don’t try to get back at you, Miss …?” “Elizabeth Carthew. And you don’t need to worry about me.” She pushed a stray straggle of golden hair from her forehead, picked up her valise and nodded towards the steps leading down to the Mission. “This is where I’m going. I’m supposed to meet a man here called Preacher Cruikshanks. And another man called Mister Trethurgy. You’re not…?” “No. I’m Tom Pendower. I .…” He paused at the sound of footsteps nearby and then a voice he instantly recognised. “What’s going on here? What have you been up to, Thomas?” Albert Trethurgy hobbled along the narrow lane. He banged his cane loudly against the cobbles as if to draw attention to himself. “’Tes just a spot of bother, sir.” Tom faced his master’s son with a grimace and gestured towards the inn. “A couple of drunken navigators got a bit uppity with us. But this lady came to our aid.” Albert limped closer. “Navvies, you say? And a sturdy man like you needed the help of a young woman?” Tom nodded sadly. He winced as another stab of pain shot through his ankle. “Yes, sir. Actually, I think Miss Carthew did a proper job of things in the circumstances. She .…” “Miss Carthew?” Albert slowed to halt in front of her and doffed his hat. “You’re Miss Carthew? The new assistant for Preacher Cruikshanks?” The young woman drew back her long, slender neck and fixed her powerful gaze on the master’s son. “Yes. And you are…?” “Albert Trethurgy. My family sponsors the mission. My mother told me of your arrival this morning and asked me to meet you.” He gestured to the landau. “I thought to bring fresh food supplies at the same time.” The young woman quickly wiped another loose strand of hair from her brow. “I’m sure that will be very useful. Now, can we go inside and meet the preacher?” Albert adopted a stiff, formal reply. “Most certainly, Miss Carthew. And afterwards we shall escort you to your lodgings. You have lodgings arranged?” “No, of course not. I’ve only just arrived here in Plymouth.” She squared her shoulders, staring indignantly at Albert. “I thought you might be able to tell me about suitable lodgings. Haven’t you .… or Preacher Cruikshanks… organised something for me?” A perplexed look spread across Albert’s face, as if he was caught unawares. “Well … we’ll need to ask the preacher what he’s managed to find. I’m sure he .…” But, before he could continue, the young woman pushed past him. “I sincerely hope he has arranged something appropriate. And I don’t need you to chaperone me, Mister Trethurgy. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way about. Thank you.” “But, Miss Carthew .…” She halted at the top of the stone steps. “Did you hear what I said? I can find my own way.” Pausing, she turned to Tom and grinned. “And you’d better teach your servant how to use his horsewhip.” A flush of embarrassment warmed Tom’s cheeks. She was undoubtedly very pretty, but he would have to keep her at arm’s length to avoid her sharp tongue. Besides, he had already been lured into the arms and bed of Virginia Trethurgy. For both their sakes, he should rightly avoid close contact with Miss Carthew in future. However attractive he might find her. Leaving Odgers to guard the coach, he followed his master’s son into the mission.
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