by Sandra Heath
Three days out, the weather changed and the light breeze became a fierce gale, but to the Corinth’s advantage. The packet pitched like a cork when the storm first began, but then was driven swiftly before the wind, soon giving Rosalind cause to hope that the crossing would only take three weeks. But if the Corinth fared well out of the storm, others seemed less fortunate. One day, at about the point of no return in the crossing, the lookout sighted an overturned longboat, and the captain used his telescope to make out the name on its stern. It had come from the Queen of Falmouth, another packet that sailed regularly between America and Britain. There was great sadness on board the Corinth, for there was little doubt that the other packet had foundered in the storm.
Rosalind had swiftly discovered that she was not a good sailor, and had been unwell almost from the outset of the voyage. She remained in the cabin, feeling quite dreadful, but Hetty enjoyed the sea, and was often to be found on deck. Rosalind advised her not to spend so much time in the damp, cold air, but the maid found the temptation too great and, as the voyage entered its third week, began to pay the price of her foolhardiness. By the time the lookouts had begun to search ahead for the first glimpse of the English shore and Rosalind had at last found her sea legs, Hetty had to take to her bed with a high fever.
The maid was still very ill when the lighthouse at Lizard Point shone through the gloomy evening, and Rosalind was relieved to know that by dawn they’d be in sight of Falmouth, for Hetty was in need of a doctor.
The first gray fingers of dawn reached across the sky outside and the English shore slid swiftly by on the port side. At first it was all pale and indistinct, but gradually scenery could be made out, and the colors of autumn. The wind was still very fresh and strong, but there were no clouds in the sky now, and soon the sun rose brilliantly over the eastern skyline. It was the twenty-ninth of October, and the voyage had taken just over three weeks.
Rosalind dressed in readiness to disembark as the Corinth slid between the twin forts guarding the entrance to Falmouth’s anchorage, Carrick Roads. It was one of the finest natural harbors in the world, and a haven for many vessels, but although it was sheltered from the full force of the weather, the air was still fresh and cold. Rosalind chose warm clothes, a high-necked apricot wool gown with long sleeves, and over it she put a fur-trimmed brown velvet cloak with a hood. She did the best she could with her hair, pinning it into a reasonably adequate knot, and then she attended to Hetty, who was now far too ill to leave her bed.
Removing the maid’s voluminous nightgown, Rosalind managed to dress her in a loose-fitting blue chemise gown, then she plaited the long flaxen hair so that it would stay neat. Wrapping Hetty in her warmest cloak, Rosalind left her resting on the bed and went up to the deck to see how long it would be before they could go ashore.
The rattle of the anchor chain greeted her as she emerged from the hatchway, and the Corinth shuddered a little. The breeze snatched at Rosalind’s hood and blew playfully around her ankles as she went to stand by the rail for her first true look at England.
Carrick Roads ran more or less from south to north, a sheltered stretch of deep water that broke up inland into long creeks that fingered their way between wooded hills brilliant with the russets and golds of late October. Beyond the woods, rising in a glory of lingering purple heather and brilliant golden gorse, she could see open moorland rolling away into the heart of Cornwall.
Falmouth itself nestled against the foot of the western shore. It wasn’t a beautiful town, but its importance as a port was evident in the vast number of vessels lying at anchor all around. She saw the flags of many countries, from Russia and Iceland in the north, to Turkey and Portugal in the south. Two East Indiamen were moored side by side some two hundred yards offshore, and near them she could see a brigantine and a revenue cutter. Numerous schooners, yachts, and packets were elsewhere on the sunlit water, and a whaler was just weighing anchor in the lee of the town. She saw a squadron of navy vessels, the red ensign fluttering from their masts and sterns, and she recognized the name of one corvette for it had been involved in several incidents in the blockade of New York harbor.
As she gazed at the corvette, she wondered if war had broken out at home during the past few weeks. She wondered, too, what had happened when her flight had been discovered. She felt very guilty for having run away, but Philip was the most important person in her life now, and she needed to be with him.
One of the ship’s officers came to speak to her. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Carberry, but the customs boat is just coming alongside, and when they’ve finished, the captain says he’ll put the first available boat at your disposal so that you can take your maid ashore to a doctor.’
‘Thank you, I’m very grateful.’
‘Not at all, miss.’
‘I know we’ve only just arrived, but is there any way of knowing if war…?’
‘There’s no war as yet, miss – at least, not according to the master of the Tagus, the Portuguese merchantman lying just over there. He was rowed just past our bow a few minutes ago, and we called down to him for news. All seems to be still well over here, but there’s no way of knowing what may have happened on the other side of the Atlantic.’
‘No, I suppose there isn’t.’ She looked at the shore again. A few more incidents like that with the Tartarus at Norfolk, and anything could have happened.
It seemed to take the customs men an age to search the ship, and Rosalind remained on the deck for a while longer, just looking at the scene. She wondered if the Black Horse inn was visible on the shore, or if any of the vessels she could see at anchor belonged to Philip, but then the cool breeze began to make her feel a little cold and she returned to the cabin, where Hetty was sleeping restlessly on the bed, her cheeks still burning with fever.
At last it was time to go ashore, and the captain sent some sailors to carry the luggage to the waiting rowing boat, and to help with Hetty, for the maid was too weak and ill to walk unaided. Rosalind was very worried as the men carried Hetty down the rope ladder to the bobbing boat, then she was climbing down herself, shivering as the stream of cold air swept over her, lifting her hem to reveal her ankles. The boat shoved off and the two men at the oars began to row steadily toward the shore.
As they neared Falmouth, Rosalind saw how very old the town was. The buildings were rambling, with low roofs, and small mullioned windows, and those by the quayside seemed to have their foundations in the water itself. Soon she could hear sounds; the rattle of carts, the ring of iron-toed sea boots upon cobbles, and the clink-clink of pattens, for it had rained heavily the day before and there were many puddles. The customhouse was very busy, with a cluster of small vessels moored alongside, some of them coastal craft, others merely used to ply between the shore and the ships at anchor out on the water.
Seagulls rose in a screaming cloud from the quay as the rowing boat nudged the foot of some damp, seaweed-strewn stone steps. A nearby fishing vessel had just brought its catch ashore and the gulls were fighting for any scraps. The two sailors made the rowing boat fast and then carried Hetty carefully up the steps. As Rosalind hurried up behind them, she saw them hail an old man with a ponycart, which was led over immediately so that the sick maid could be laid gently inside. The luggage was then quickly carried up from the boat, and when it had been loaded on the cart next to Hetty, the old man asked Rosalind where she wished to be taken.
‘To the Black Horse, if you please.’
He was a grizzled former sailor, bearded and ruddy, and he gave her a toothless grin. ‘American, eh?’
‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously, not knowing quite what to expect.
‘I sailed out of Americky many a time. ’Tis a grand place.’
Relieved, she managed a smile. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Right, then – the Black Horse it is. Daniel Penruthin keeps the finest house in all Falmouth, so you’ll be well-looked-after there.’
Daniel Penruthin? The landlord who was an old friend of Phili
p’s?
Rosalind sat beside the old man, and the ponycart began to make its way along the quay before turning up into the town.
The streets were narrow and cobbled, and there were many alleys where the buildings seemed to crowd overhead, as if wishing to shut out the sunlight. It was a far cry from the spaciousness and grandeur of Washington. There were English voices all around, mostly with the same accent as the old man’s, which she guessed must be Cornish, but occasionally she heard a more refined tone that reminded her of Philip.
She saw a number of soldiers in red coats, as well as blue-uniformed naval officers, and was reminded that Britain was already at war, with Bonaparte’s France. There were anti-French placards on some walls, and caricatures of the emperor in a print-shop window, but nowhere did she detect any hostility toward her own nation.
There was congestion at a crossroads, and the ponycart had to halt for a few minutes. She heard a group of men talking on the corner nearby. They were discussing the loss of the Queen of Falmouth, for news of the sighting of the longboat had already spread through the town, as always happened when a ship was missing or lost.
The Black Horse was a large hostelry in the very heart of the town, and was obviously an important establishment, judging by the stagecoaches and general bustle in its vicinity. It was a tall building, with a galleried courtyard in the middle, which the ponycart had to wait to enter because a stagecoach was just departing.
Rosalind stared up at the stagecoach in utter amazement, for there were at least eight outside passengers clinging to their seats on the top. There were four inside passengers as well, and the vehicle swayed alarmingly as it negotiated the turn into the steep road that led up out of the town. Several small dogs barked excitedly, dashing after the coach until the coachman’s whip flicked in their direction, and they fell back.
The old man urged the ponycart into the crowded yard, where two more stagecoaches were waiting. There was no sunlight because the inn was so tall all around, and Rosalind looked up at the galleries. A maid was hanging sheets out over one of the rails and a waiter was shouting down an order to one of his fellows by the tap-room door. A bell rang as the ticket clerk leaned out of his little wooden office to announce the imminent departure of the Bodmin stage, and the team of the vehicle concerned tossed their heads expectantly as the passengers began to climb on board.
A fine private carriage drove in as the ponycart drew to a standstill in a relatively quiet corner, and a fashionable lady and gentleman alighted, for the Black Horse was considered to be suitable for all walks of life. The old man called to two porters to assist him with Hetty and the luggage, and Rosalind followed them through a low doorway that led into a whitewashed entrance hall with a gleaming red-tiled floor. Hetty was placed on a high-backed settle against the wall, and Rosalind sat with her, watching the lady and gentleman who’d just arrived. They were talking to a tall, white-aproned man whose confident demeanor suggested that in all probability he was Daniel Penruthin.
The trunks and valises were placed beside the settle, and Rosalind gave the old man some coins for his trouble. They were American coins, for she hadn’t had time to change them, but he didn’t seem to mind, for it was simple enough to go to the customhouse.
When he’d gone, Rosalind looked around again, waiting for the landlord to finish speaking to the lady and gentleman. The entrance hall was long, and a number of doors opened off it, one of them into the dining-room, from where an endless stream of waiters passed to and fro. A staircase rose at the far end of the hall, and she could just make out a paneled landing on the floor above. The smell of cooking hung in the warm air, and a fire crackled in the hearth opposite the settle. Next to the fire there were several tables on which stood jugs of clean hot water, bowls, and piles of freshly laundered towels, for the use of guests arriving after long journeys.
A boy who cleaned boots hurried past, and then a barber went quickly to the staircase, followed by his assistant with a bowl of hot water and a razor. Porters struggled in with other people’s luggage, and a departing gentleman grumbled under his breath that the place was becoming far too noisy for one to hear one’s own thoughts. Rosalind almost had to agree with him, for somewhere on one of the floors above a woman was singing. She had a beautiful trained voice and was going through her scales, but it wasn’t long before the sound became tiresome.
It was all quite chaotic, and very alien to one who was used to the peace and quiet of a vast Washington mansion. She suddenly felt very lonely and far away from home, and she quickly took off her glove in order to look at Philip’s signet ring. She’d be with him again soon, and then everything would be all right.
The lady and gentleman finished their conversation with the landlord, who called a porter to escort them up to the room that had been reserved for them. Then he turned and approached the settle. He was a big man, with a raw-boned, rosy face and dark eyes. His starched apron crackled as he moved, and his boots squeaked a little. He wore a clean white shirt, a long brown waistcoat, and leather breeches, and his glance went quickly to Hetty’s flushed face.
He bowed to Rosalind. ‘May I be of assistance, madam?’
‘I hope so. Are you the landlord?’
‘I am, madam. Daniel Penruthin, your servant.’ He bowed again.
‘I’d like rooms, please, for myself and my maid, preferably adjoining. And then I’d like a doctor to attend my maid, for she has a fever.’
‘Certainly, madam, my son Samuel will go for Dr Trenance straightaway, and I have the very rooms at the side of the inn, they’re not only next to each other, but have a connecting door.’
‘That sounds excellent. Thank you.’
He turned, beckoning to a waiter. ‘This lady and her maid will be taking the double rooms, so see to it that the fires are made up well.’
‘Yes, Mr Penruthin.’ The waiter hurried away.
The landlord returned his attention to Rosalind. ‘May I ask how long you will be requiring the rooms?’
‘I don’t really know. I’ve just arrived from Washington, and am on my way to London, but with my maid being ill …’
‘I quite understand, madam. Be assured that the Black Horse will make you very welcome. Forgive me for asking, but have you just come in on the Corinth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it true that a longboat from the Queen of Falmouth was sighted?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
He lowered his eyes sadly. ‘We can only hope she hasn’t been lost, but we must fear the worst.’ His glance suddenly fell upon her signet ring, and he looked swiftly at her. ‘You wouldn’t be Miss Carberry, by any chance?’
‘Why, yes, but how—’
‘That’s Lord Southvale’s ring, madam. I’d know it anywhere. I have the honor to be a good acquaintance of his, and he stayed here when he returned from Washington a month or so back. He dined privately with my wife and me, as always he does, and he told us all about you, Miss Carberry. Oh, he was a different man from the one who’d sailed from here back in the early summer, much happier by far, and it made us so glad to see him so improved. It was all on account of you, Miss Carberry; he made that plain enough.’
She flushed with sudden pleasure, and her sense of isolation began to fade a little. ‘Thank you for saying so, Mr Penruthin.’
‘Not at all, Miss Carberry. Now you’re doubly welcome at the Black Horse; indeed, there could be few persons more welcome here than the future Lady Southvale.’
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
The singing from somewhere above became suddenly louder than ever, as the unseen woman broke into a full-throated aria, ending on a heart-stopping high note that Rosalind was sure would shatter every windowpane in the building.
The landlord raised his eyes heavenward. ‘That’s Signora Segati, an opera singer from La Scala in Milan. She’s resting here after her voyage from Italy and will soon go to London to sing at the Italian Opera House.’
He made it sound as i
f it wouldn’t be soon enough as far as he was concerned. Rosalind smiled a little. ‘She has a very, er, powerful voice.’
‘She has indeed. We’ve been having Mr Mozart with our breakfast, Mr Handel with our luncheon, and Mr Purcell with our dinner for nearly a week now, but I understand it’s only to go on for a day or so more. Speaking of meals, have you eaten this morning?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘I’ll see to it that a good breakfast is served in your room, Miss Carberry, for I doubt if you’ll wish to eat in our very crowded dining-room, not after just coming ashore, anyway.’
‘I’d prefer to eat in my room, yes.’
‘I’ll take you up there right now, and carry your maid myself, then I’ll see to it that Samuel goes immediately for Dr Trenance.’
He turned to Hetty, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all, and as Rosalind followed him up the staircase, Hetty’s illness was suddenly the only blot on her horizon, for she was confident she’d done the right thing in coming here to England.
But as she was going to learn to her cost, this new confidence was very misplaced.
8
The two adjoining rooms were plainly but comfortably furnished. They were on the first floor, their narrow mullioned windows overlooking a dark alley at the side of the inn, so that there wasn’t a great deal of sunlight penetrating the panes. Their walls were paneled in dark oak, and faded blue velvet hung at the windows and on the four-poster bed in the larger room. Well-worn rugs were scattered on the polished wooden floors, and fires crackled pleasantly in the hearths, the flame light flickering over everything. There was a scent of herbs from several little posies that had been pinned beneath the mantelpieces. It was a pleasant scent, fresh and clean.
Mr Penruthin laid Hetty carefully on the bed in the smaller room and then hurried away to send for the doctor and to have breakfast brought up for Rosalind. Some porters brought the luggage in, setting it on the floor in Rosalind’s room, and she quickly unpacked the maid’s nightgown, going to take Hetty’s blue chemise gown off again and make her as comfortable as possible in her night things. She managed to get the maid into the bed, tucking her in carefully, and then looked anxiously at her, hoping that the doctor would be able to help. Oh, please, don’t let anything happen to Hetty.