The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  I felt struck by the anger in her voice. No wonder they hated Father. I knew nothing of Father’s affairs, never questioned how he provided for us. He was a hard man, twenty years had taught me he was barely likable, but was he corrupt? Taking land through illegal practice? I gripped the rail, my sea sickness making it hard to talk. ‘I’d no idea…’

  Rose Polcarrow could sense my distress. She put her hand on my arm and squeezed it gently. ‘No, of course you didn’t, or else you’d never have come to us.’ Her smile was shy, yet defiant. ‘But I’m glad you did. That means a lot to me – not many of the gentry will accept me the way you have.’

  I took another deep breath and tried to return her smile. ‘They will…just give them time. Forgive me, but surely Robert Roskelly could not expect his sister to poison Sir James, just so her own son could inherit Polcarrow?’

  Her mouth hardened. ‘Robert Roskelly knows no bounds. He murdered James’ father – made it look like a riding accident. He had James transported for grievous bodily harm and attempted murder. James was only seventeen at the time and Alice had only just had her baby. But the baby was a boy and that was all that mattered. Robert Roskelly was named as guardian.’

  ‘And so he took over the estate?’

  She nodded. ‘For eleven years he’s done exactly what he wants – his hold over his sister’s absolute. I believe he thought she’d use that poison. Alice lives only for her son and we all know Robert Roskelly’s threats are real.’ She paused, a slight falter in her voice, ‘He wants Sir James dead – he always has. That’s why we have to find him and get him back to Bodmin. If we don’t, he’ll go abroad and change his name. We all know what he’s capable of doing.’

  Nausea gripped me. Father was in business with Robert Roskelly. His land deals were corrupt and illegal. No wonder there was such animosity between him and Sir James. She said no more but left me clutching the rail. Perhaps Father was corrupt. His business dealings had always been kept from us but I remembered the hushed whispers and quickly shut newspapers.

  Sir James had come up on deck and was on the helm, watching Rose make her way effortlessly down the swaying deck. He handed her the tiller and they sat looking up at the set of the sails. The beautiful Rose Pengelly, what an extraordinary woman. She seemed so free, so capable, controlling the boat as easily as any man. Her confidence seemed to accentuate my weakness, their obvious love making me feel so empty.

  I was meant to be the strong one, the one to champion Charity but, in reality, I was weak and foolish. Rose would have gone straight to her parents. She would never allow herself to be traded like chattel. I should have stayed, not run, certainly never left Charity. My nausea was now unbearable, the thought of Charity bringing tears to my eyes.

  ‘Hot peppermint might help – it’s good for calming the stomach. We’re just rounding the Dodman, so we’re halfway there.’ Captain Lefèvre was behind me, holding out a steaming china cup. ‘And with the wind behind us, it should get more comfortable.’ I had not seen him come. He seemed oblivious to the deck plunging beneath him, holding the cup as steadily as if he had been handing me tea in a drawing-room.

  The scent of strong mint rose from the delicate cup. It was Chinese, the rim gold, the exquisitely painted birds far too delicate for a heaving boat. Even through my nausea, I could appreciate its fine glaze. ‘Big ships are just about bearable but this’s terrible. I don’t feel safe.’

  ‘You are safe,’ he replied, ‘and with luck, you’ll be ashore before you feel worse.’

  He was staring at me and I realised, too late, that my hood had slipped. I pulled it closer. ‘Thank you.’ I took a sip of the peppermint. It was hot and strong.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ He stood with one foot on the deck, the other on the bulwark, smiling down on me.

  I shook my head. ‘Just get us there as quickly as you can.’

  Egrets: I had been trying to remember the name of the tall white birds by the river. Perhaps the peppermint was helping. If I stayed completely still, my sickness could be held at bay. I put my chin on my hands, watching our movement through the waves. The white crests rose and fell, and I followed the flashes of green light swirling through the water beside me – whole streams of brilliant green light, tumbling beneath the surface. It was mesmerising, almost soothing – like being rocked to sleep in a cradle.

  Only twice did I look away; once, when Captain Lefèvre hauled against a heavy rope, once, when he took control of the tiller. Somehow, I felt safer with him on the helm. He hardly seemed to hold it at all, his long fingers seeming only to rest against the highly polished wood. I shut my eyes, trying not to remember how effortlessly he had carried me up the ladder. How strong those arms were.

  ‘Lights ahoy,’ shouted the man called Jacques. He was leaning on the bowsprit, straining his eyes across the black sea, ‘Falmouth in sight – Pendennis Castle right on the nose.’

  Chapter Six

  Falmouth

  Thursday 7th November 1793, 11:00 p.m.

  Shouts echoed across the water. ‘There’s fighting on the quayside – stay close to me, Miss Cavendish. Don’t let them see you.’ Sir James manoeuvred the rowing boat along the harbour wall. Above us, the new moon showed briefly through the racing clouds. We were in the inner harbour sheltered from the wind. Rose reached for a large iron hook hanging next to some steps and secured the rope with a deft knot, tugging to see if it held. ‘Take care, Celia, the steps will be slippery.’ I stared up at the quay above us; the fight was in full swing and once up those steps, we would be in the midst of it.

  ‘Falmouth!’ muttered Sir James behind me. ‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you. I’ll go first.’ I clasped the wet rung with one hand, my skirt with the other, following him up the worn steps with Rose close behind me. The quayside was heaving, encircling bystanders goading the fighters on, their shouts rising with every fresh blow. Men watched from behind the brazier, their faces lit by the burning coals. Others spilled from the tavern, the crowd thickening as we watched; everyone looked roughly dressed and unkempt. No lamps lit the harbour wall, only the two braziers and a soft glow coming through the leaded windows of the tavern behind. I drew my cloak around me. ‘Keep to the back,’ urged Sir James.

  The circle parted as the two fighters lurched forward; shoulders interlocked, their fists pounding the life out of the other. The stronger of the two seemed unstoppable. Sensing his advantage he redoubled his efforts, his increasingly furious blows meeting their target with ease. The weaker man’s eyes were too swollen to see. He staggered aimlessly about, his legs collapsing beneath him, his body falling in a crumpled heap. Blood from his broken nose dripped onto the cobbles by my feet.

  ‘This way.’ Sir James seemed so calm, ushering us forward with hardly a look. I followed him, running quickly along the quayside, skirting the backs of the yelling crowd. Behind us, I heard a large splash, followed by a howl of laughter and my stomach sickened – the man had no chance. He could not move, let alone swim.

  The alley we were in was no wider than two men, the walls close together. We were going steeply uphill, the cobbles rough and uneven. It was very dark, the oil lamps too few and far between, their light barely penetrating the darkness. I could make out archways with steps leading from them and wooden crates stacked against the wall. Men were leaning against the crates, their shoulders hunched, legs sprawling across our path. Drunk or asleep, they looked like lifeless mounds of filthy clothing. It was reeking, foul and I put my hand over my mouth, trying not to breathe.

  The alley gave way to a street just as badly lit and uneven, but wider, with taller buildings overhanging both sides. The buildings were crammed with sailors toppling drunkenly out of the doors. I could hear laughter, shouting, the sound of brawling. Men were weaving their way down the cobbles and I watched in horror as two men used the wall as a latrine, not ten feet away. I was too shocked to hear what Sir James was saying. He was staring at me, his brows drawn tightly. ‘Where are we to take you, Miss Cav
endish?’ he repeated.

  ‘Upper Street.’

  ‘This is Upper Street. I hope to God it’s the other end. What number?’

  It was the question I had been dreading… we’ve got respectable lodgings in Falmouth, in Upper Street, with Mrs Trewhella… that was all Arbella had written – she had not said the number. Somehow I envisioned we would find it easily. ‘I’m sorry…I don’t know exactly. They’re staying with Mrs Trewhella.’

  Sir James looked furious and with good reason. I was delaying him. They were here to find Robert Roskelly, not play nursemaid to me. He turned in exasperation to Rose. ‘Wait here, both of you – I’ll have to ask.’ He crossed the street, walking quickly through the door of the nearest tavern.

  Rose put her hand on my arm, ‘Someone will know where Mrs Trewhella lives. Don’t mind James, he’s in a hurry, that’s all. We’ve got to catch Robert Roskelly off guard and we mustn’t make ourselves obvious.’

  I smiled back, but my fear was rising. I had always been shielded from the streets, conveyed everywhere in a sedan chair or carriage. I had never seen anywhere like this, nor felt so unsafe. Falmouth was a horrible place and Arbella must hate it. A crowd had already started to gather. Rose was attracting no attention, her slim body easily disguised by the jacket and breeches, but I was clearly an object of interest. Men began leering, coming towards me. They were laughing, spitting on the street, wiping their hands across their mouths ‘He’s coming back,’ whispered Rose.

  Sir James pushed his way through the watching men, and grabbed my arm. His eyes were blazing, ‘It’s number fifty-five. She runs a boarding house, but I warn you – it’s the wrong end of town.’ He ran quickly up some steps to an even narrower street, and I followed as fast as I could. Rose kept close behind me and when he stopped, we stared in equal horror. ‘As I said – wrong end of town.’

  Dismay filled me. I could not imagine how Arbella must have felt being brought to such a place. It was a tall house, the eight windows and front door in desperate need of repair. Every sill was rotting, the paint peeling, dark patches of mould growing thickly down either side of the portico. It was eleven o’clock but lights were burning in two of the rooms upstairs and a light showed behind the shutters on the ground floor. For that, at least, I should be grateful. I saw the look that passed between Sir James and Rose and tried to hide my fear. ‘When did you receive your information? Who gave it to you?’ His voice was polite, but terse.

  ‘Arbella…when she left.’

  ‘But that’s nearly three months ago! They’ll be long gone. Miss Cavendish, this farce must end. I’m not leaving you here. I suggest I take you to a friend of mine. He’s a packet captain and lives in a good neighbourhood – his wife will take you in.’ His hand tightened on my arm. ‘I’m not prepared to leave you unaccompanied in an inn and you can’t stay with us – we’re dressed to merge with the crowds, but you’ll be a target for thieves.’

  Everything was going so horribly wrong. I forced back my tears, desperate to find Arbella. ‘Sir James, please…I know what you say is right but let me at least just see if they’re still there. If they are, then I won’t be alone and if they’re not, then I’d be more than grateful for your friend’s hospitality. Perhaps they need money – perhaps my coming is just what they need.’

  Sir James seemed to soften. ‘If they’re still here, then you’re right, they must be desperate. Perhaps your diamonds can help them!’ His concern seemed genuine, his sudden smile full of compassion. I had heard talk of his generosity, his desire to see his workers well housed and I smiled back, but my heart was hammering. If he was to knock on that door, Arbella would never come forward – she would hide and refuse to see us.

  ‘I promised Arbella I wouldn’t tell anyone…if you ask for them, they’ll hide and pretend they’re not in. Could I knock on the door by myself? Would you watch me from over there?’ I turned, pointing to the shadows of the opposite doorway.

  Sir James clearly did not like my suggestion but turned, drawing Rose with him as he crossed the road. They remained swallowed by the darkness and I grabbed the brass knocker. It was green and rough. Within minutes, a woman stood scowling at me from under a filthy mob cap.

  ‘Yer business? Don’t know what time ye’d call this, but I’d call it late.’ She was a large woman, untidy, about forty, with greying blonde hair, and two teeth missing. The light from her candle showed thick stains down her apron. She glowered at me, staring at my hood. ‘Show yerself – ye’ve no business hiding yer face once ye’ve knocked on my door.’ I let my hood slip to my shoulders. I was wearing my riding hat and must have looked a sight; my dress wet and filthy, my hat pinned so securely in place.

  ‘I would like to speak to Mr and Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Smith?’ She was looking over my shoulder, searching the street, ‘Ye by yourself? A friend or somethin’?’ She was obviously protecting them, keeping them safe and I felt immediately grateful, heartened by her concern. I nodded quickly, angry with myself for judging her so fiercely.

  ‘Yes, I’ve no-one with me. I’m her cousin – she told me where to find her.’

  ‘Quite alone?’ I nodded again and she turned. ‘Well, ye’d better come in.’ Her thick Cornish accent was hard to understand, her words whistling through the gaps in her missing teeth. Excitement made me almost lose my fear. I would soon be with my dearest cousin and meet her new husband. I hoped I liked him, but even so, what sort of man would bring his new wife to such a place?

  I turned quickly, smiling back into the dark recess of the opposite doorway. It seemed so ill-mannered to leave Sir James and Rose without thanking them properly but at least my smile would show them I had found Arbella. Mrs Trewhella was well ahead of me and I hastened to follow her down the dingy corridor. Her candle sent shadows across the ceiling and I could see large patches of brown mould encircling huge cracks in the plaster. It smelt damp and musty ‘Wait in here,’ she said, ‘while I see if they be awake.’

  The candles must have been tallow as the room stank of burning fat and I caught my breath, hardly wanting to enter. Two men sat staring at me through thick tobacco smoke, both hunched over clay pipes, the smoke rising in thick coils around them. Mrs Trewhella watched me from the door. ‘Which Mr an’ Mrs Smith? We’ve got two. Yesterday we had three.’

  My heart jolted, the rancid air beginning to choke me. I tried to keep calm, think her words through, but my head was spinning. This must be a place known to eloping lovers. They would book themselves in as Mr and Mrs Smith with no questions asked. They would pay for their anonymity with foul, stinking rooms, but they would never be traced. ‘Mr Morcum and Mrs Arbella Smith,’ I replied, trying to hide my rising panic. Mrs Trewhella remained staring at me, her eyes flicking from my face to my hat. My hair must look a mess, but surely she need not stare so openly? I cleared my throat, my voice thin and strained. ‘Mrs Arbella Smith is very beautiful…she has hair the colour of gold.’

  Mrs Trewhella sniffed. ‘Ye may know what gold looks like, m’lady, but the likes of us never see gold. Wouldn’t know gold if ’twas handed us on a plate.’ She was staring at my hat and I suddenly remembered my hatpin. The shaft was gold, the head encrusted with diamonds. It had been my birthday present.

  ‘But you must know who I mean. She’s very beautiful, with blonde hair…about my height…blue eyes—’

  ‘Oh, we know who ye mean, don’t we, Mrs Trewhella?’ The man rose from his chair. He began knocking his pipe against the fireplace, glowering at me. ‘The rich bitch who refused to stay – said we weren’t good enough. Left without paying even though we’d kept them our best room.’ He began filling the bowl of his pipe, re-lighting it with a taper from the candle, sucking at it until the tobacco sparked. Thick smoke curled from his mouth. ‘Falmouth be rowdy on a Friday – especially late like this. She’s best to stay, don’t ye think, Mrs Trewhella?’

  The woman was blocking my exit, her husband edging slowly nearer. I had to get out. Both had their lips
pursed and evil in their eyes. ‘As it happens, I’m not alone,’ I said, fighting the rise in my voice. ‘I’ve perfectly good lodgings and there are three men waiting for me outside. I’ve been sent here as a trap. I was to lure my cousin out, but I see we’ve wasted our time. Let me pass.’ I caught their glance, my heart pounding. There was less certainty in the way they looked at me. I must keep my nerve; they would have to let me out.

  The man’s clothes stank of sweat, his breath of rum and decay. He was stocky, powerful, the kind of man to win any quayside fight. ‘Then, I’ll ’ave to see ye back to yer friends, won’t I? Wouldn’t want a lady going unaccompanied – not round here.’ He began leading me down the dismal hall, one hand on my elbow, the other pushing against my back. As the door opened, I peered desperately into the shadows of the opposite doorway. Sir James and Rose must have gone. There was no-one there, just shouts echoing down the alley and shuffled footsteps of a man too drunk to know where he was going.

  Mr Trewhella’s grip tightened. Forcing my arm behind my back, he began pushing me across the street, his hips pressing roughly against my skirt. ‘Perhaps yer friends are waitin’ over here?’ He jerked me so violently I almost fell, his foetid breath making my stomach turn. A blade was pressed against my throat. ‘That fancy tart owes us money.’

  I could barely breathe. ‘How much?’

  ‘Everythin’ ye’ve got, ye stupid bitch – the whole bleedin’ lot.’

  My legs were shaking. I was trying to think. He could have my hatpin, my earrings, but if he got hold of Viscount Vallenforth’s ring, my life would be over. ‘I’ve nothing else… only my hat pin…you can have my hat, too.’ My jewellery was down my bodice, not two inches from his knife.

  ‘The likes of ye always have more.’

  At once I remembered the purse. ‘Alright…alright…you can have everything. I have got money…a whole purse full of gold sovereigns…you can have them all…and the hatpin. Just let go.’ I began undoing the top of my riding jacket, my fingers shaking so fiercely, I could hardly grip the buttons. ‘You can have the lot.’ The purse was heavy in my hand and I gripped it tightly. ‘There,’ I shouted, throwing it deep into the shadows behind him.