Portrait of a Girl (17 page)

Soon
spatters of rain intensified. The wind rose, and I pulled the hood of my cape well down over my head, pushing my hair beneath. As the storm properly broke, realisation of my own folly swept over me. Who would have thought though, that from such an over-quiet misty afternoon and evening, such a deluge could arise? And why hadn’t I waited until the morning before making my reckless journey to Tregonnis? Who or what did I expect to find there?

There
was only one answer. Rupert. Rupert — Rupert — I almost called his name aloud. Surely something of him — some sign of his presence, or that he had been there — must await me at the cottage?

I
pushed on, while the rain increased into torrential force. When I took the turn in the main lane leading round the base of Rosecarrion I was already soaked to the skin. The wind had become a savage elemental force whipping its fury against me, and as a tree crashed down ahead, my head rang with the mocking illusion of wild fiendish laughter — the triumphant screeching of the Three Maidens. Gasping for breath and trying to wipe the dripping water from my eyes, I clutched at the twisted trunk of a bush for support. The ground seemed to rock beneath my feet, and when I tried to move on I was helpless against the holocaust. How long it was before the storm gradually eased enabling me to continue, I had no idea. Thunder still rolled ominously through the air and my boots were ankle-deep in mud when at last I reached the gates of Tregonnis. Moonlight zig-zagged across the path, or where the path had once been.

I
blinked, screwed my eyes up, and looked again, hardly believing what I saw. An acrid bitter smell rose from the boggy earth. Rocks and stones were strewn about everywhere, and the building was just a hump of debris — no more. The outhouse — where I’d thought I could shelter if there was no one there and the door was locked against me — was merely a blackened pile of fallen granite and timber. The cottage too, — there was nothing; just nothing but charred relics of what once had been a dwelling.

I
rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was suffering from some strange hallucination, but the ravaged scene only appeared intensified. A feeling of weakness made me lean against a blackened stump of tree, and slowly the fit of trembling ceased. I knew I had to get away as soon as possible. Nothing remained there but desolation; I had either to find my way back to Tharne where some cottage might provide refuge until the morning — or take the turn along the main road to Kerrysmoor. Presumably someone was in residence there — if not Rupert or Lady Verne — servants who’d take me in. To wait longer in my wet and shivering state could be dangerous not only for myself, but for the child I was carrying.

So
I forced myself from the gate, and with my head bowed into my cape, made my way down the lane to the road. The rain slowly ceased at last, leaving the black and savage landscape washed to luminous sinister clarity from the moon which was now fully risen. Cold! everything appeared cold and clearly cut — black and lemon silver-white, as though a cruel giant hand had swept Nature free of growth and future life. A dead land. No bird even cried or flapped its wings from the beaten undergrowth. There was no sound but a dripping and murmuring of water trickling in streams and rivulets from the moor.

At
last in its darkened valley I saw the turreted shape of Kerrysmoor crouched beneath the hill. I stood for a few seconds to get my breath and gather more strength before taking the turn leading upwards to the house. As I walked up the avenue and joined the drive, I lifted my head and stared upwards, at the stretch of wild moorland rising from the back of the mansion, to its rugged summit where the vividly silhouetted shapes of the Three Maidens stood.

There
they were primeval, stark against the cold sky, emitting a malignant elemental force that to my heightened nerves heralded disaster. Long shadows streaked like clawing gigantic fingers down the slope. At the same time I heard an ominous rumble as though the earth itself was shuddering in response. Then, before I could force myself ahead, I saw it — a dot of black, with arms outspread to the moonlight. It wavered and jigged against the sky, before leaping and jumping downwards towards the house.

Terror
held me rooted where I was. I thought at first I must be in a nightmare or had lost my senses, as my fixed gaze detected another — either human being or some distorted creature of the night scrambling and crawling up the moor for combat or greeting. And as I watched, the trembling of the earth intensified. Horrified, I saw the great stones — the Three Maidens — move convulsively from their beds and with the crashing and roaring of Nature come rolling, tumbling down the moor, accompanied by great boulders and an eruption of earth and stones that claimed the dots of figures, bringing them in their landslide of destruction to the valley.

Rivers
ran; the far wall of Kerrysmoor collapsed. Above the thundering and screaming of rocks and debris, I seemed to hear a frail human crying for help.

Why
I thought of Rupert I don’t know. But suddenly, with terrifying certainty — a knowledge far beyond human sense or reasoning, I knew he was there — dying maybe, and needing me. I ran then, rushed with an energy I’d not known I possessed — stumbling, crawling, getting to my feet again, and going ahead, climbing over mounds of mud, forcing myself against the angry streams of stones, shale and wrenched undergrowth, to the great wall of erupted moor where any victims of the avalanche must be. Sometimes I had to sink breathless to the boggy ground, clearing my eyes of dust and mud. Once I glanced back and saw the creeping filth claiming the near wall and roof of Kerrysmoor — an immense tide of hungry destruction.

I
went on again, pulling myself up by any projecting root of tree or rock available, and at last, beyond the barrier came to a pit already half-filled with still slipping boulders. I slid some yards down, and then saw them — the Three Maidens. One was half upright, the other two sucked to the ground, almost submerged by rubble. The largest lay over the dot of a victim — a human figure with gaping mouth in its distorted face, entangled in reddened debris. I could have vomited, but forced myself to look away.

And
then I had the worst shock of all. Only a few yards ahead was the body of a man lying flat on his back, with a stream of blood coursing from his head. A rock lay over one leg which was twisted at a distorted angle from the knee. Despite the fitful wan scene which at times flared still from flashes of receding lightning blending with the moon’s glow, the features were clear and could have been those of some legendary knight resurrected from his tomb. The rest of his form was caked with thick mud.

Rupert.

I knelt down, whispering and crying his name, pressing my face to his own cold wounded countenance. He didn’t stir; only a flicker of an eye-lid gave an indication at all that he still lived.

Despair
filled me. I had to get help somehow. But from where? The part of Kerrysmoor facing the moor was gone, submerged by the elemental upheaval. Tregonnis was empty and a ruin. The farm? But God alone knew what had happened to that, and it was some distance off. I searched the landscape wildly, then turned my eyes again to the victims, recalling that there were two. The other — a woman — was obviously dead, completely crushed by the great stones on top of her. Her eyes were blank, wild and staring; a claw-like hand, greenish-white, was clutched round the handle of a knife, reddened by blood. Lady Verne.

I
put my hands to my eyes, struggling to keep control of my nerves, and then, after getting to my feet, started running, slipping, sliding, crawling, jumping, sometimes slithering in streams of earth, until I came to a mound of bricks, mortar and granite that had once been the whole back portion of Kerrysmoor.

Somehow
I found my way to a winding lane of slush that had been the road. Driven by an urgency stronger than exhaustion, fear or limitation of my own strength I pressed on, and eventually saw a small crowd of rescuers plodding to the scene of the disaster.

‘
He’s there—’ I managed to gasp before I collapsed, ‘injured under a rock — the Three Maidens — and her, Lady Verne. Save him — save Rupert—’

I
could continue no more. Suddenly the whole world seemed to fade into darkness; there was a roaring in my ears, and I fell, mercifully into unconsciousness.

*

When I came to myself I was lying on a sofa in the housekeeper’s parlour at Kerrysmoor. A small group of locals were standing in the hall, near the door which opened to a path leading to a side drive. I could feel the sting of something warm in my throat, and saw Mrs Treen carrying a flask and glass to the table.

It
took me some moments to recall what had happened, and when I remembered, I sat up and cried shrilly, ‘Rupert? — Mr Verne — have you — have they found him?’

Mrs
Treen took me by the shoulders and forced me to lie back. ‘The Master’s badly hurt,’ she told me, ‘but still alive, thank the good Lord.’

‘
Hurt
? Of course. I know that. Where
is
he?’

‘
In the study. Washed and clean as possible,’ she answered. ‘The doctor will be here soon as somethin’ can get going along the lane — no more than a mud track it is now, and as for the house—’ she threw up her hands — ‘just half of it left, if that.’

‘
And her ladyship?’ Even in such terrible circumstances I could not keep the bitterness out of my voice.

‘
She’s — she’s beyond what this world can do to her any more,’ the woman answered. ‘They’ve put her in the back parlour, poor thing. You saw her though, didn’ you?’

I
nodded, feeling a sudden shame at my own hardness. But the knife clenched in the thin hand, and the expression of the face — how could I feel pity for Lady Verne when it had obviously been her intention to harm Rupert?

All
other thoughts were swept away as I remembered how still he’d lain in the moonlight — how ravaged as though dead.

‘
I’d like to see Mr Verne,’ I said, ‘please let me.’

The
housekeeper shook her head. ‘No one’ll see Master Verne until the doctor’s been.
No
one. He’s in a coma of sorts, and anyway what right have you?’

‘
It’s not a matter of
right
. It’s — I
found
him. I was
there
.’

‘
Well, I hope you’re not going to be difficult,’ Mrs Treen said severely. ‘I’m housekeeper here, and in charge. When the doctor comes we’ll see. But everyone’s had a shock remember — I’m not feeling too good myself. No one is. Fanny, that new housemaid swooned and had hysterics — and William, the footman, slipped in the rubble and broke his leg. So it’s up to you, including all the rest, to act as normal as possible without argument. It’s a mercy any of this place is left, but we’ve the kitchens, the dining room and the front parlour, and the main staircase is left — at the bottom; some bedrooms too. How many no one knows yet, nor how any roof or walls stayed. Cornish granite though — that’s what my da always said, you can’t beat Cornish granite for putting up a fight against storm—’

She
babbled on as though she’d never stop talking; I guessed it was shock; no one else could get a word in until the doctor arrived, and then, when she’d taken him to where Rupert lay, she returned, and suddenly collapsed by the fire place, her skin turned a ghastly green colour, with her eyes closed. One of the rescuers, a man I knew by sight, who’d worked in the grounds, rushed to her aid, and heaved her into a chair. I grabbed the flask from the table, and he forced a drink on her; she revived, made a feeble effort to push him away, and muttered, ‘Don’t fuss me up. I’m all right. And look at you — all mud and dirty marks on the floor—’

He
smiled grimly, and replaced the brandy. Tiredness claimed me again. I slumped back on the sofa, and gradually warmth from the fire soothed me once more into a half state of consciousness. I was aware of movement, of comings and goings, the murmur of voices, but until the arrival of the doctor nothing seemed to matter. All I wanted was to rest and drift into forgetfulness.

The
rest of the night passed like a jumbled half-dream. When morning came Mrs Treen had recovered sufficiently to give orders to the bewildered and shocked staff. Breakfast was served in the kitchen, and attempts made to clean up what remained at Kerrysmoor. Rupert, I learned, had had his leg straightened and dressed, and his wound attended to. The doctor had said that later he’d have to see a specialist from Truro about the leg, but so far as he himself could judge, no irretrievable damage had been done.

How
wrong they were.

When
at last I was allowed to see him, it appeared at first he was his old self. A bed had been made comfortable for him in the study, and he was lying half-propped up with the injured limb bandaged and stiff before him, a bandage over his temple. He smiled, as after a light knock, I entered. There was a glow in his yellow-gold eyes that told me all was well between us.

‘
Oh Rupert—’ I cried, running towards him, ‘you’re better — you’ll be all right. I thought at first you were — you’d died.’

‘
Died
?’ He gave a short laugh which held also a wince of pain. ‘It takes more than a thunderstorm to kill a hardened adventurer like me. Don’t look so shocked, Melissa—’