The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘I’ve had the pleasure of Lord Edwin’s company – at the races.’

  Father clicked his fingers. Wine could never be poured quickly enough for him. ‘My brother-in-law has a nose for the horses – or maybe just the devil’s own luck. Well, here’s to your good health,’ he said, raising his glass and making short work of the contents.

  Major Trelawney held his glass to the candle to admire the beautiful engraving and my heart jolted. I was in the cabin, Arnaud Lefèvre handing me a glass of wine. Sir James was holding his to the light. Good wine requires good glasses, don’t you think? I looked up to see everyone staring at me. ‘I’m sorry…I didn’t hear your question.’

  ‘Do you enjoy riding, Miss Cavendish?’ repeated Sir Richard.

  ‘Very much, especially here in Cornwall. The park’s so beautiful and the air so fresh.’ I knew I was blushing. To be caught like that. To look such a fool.

  ‘Very fresh, but you know about that, don’t you, Major Trelawney?’ Sir Richard had turned his attention from me. He had ruthless eyes, terse, impatient actions. He seemed self-important, cruel, playing with me like a cat would play with a mouse.

  ‘There’s no finer air, Sir Richard,’ replied Major Trelawney. ‘Lady April, I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in Cornwall. Sir Charles tells me you intend to return to London after the wedding.’

  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and looked down. There had already been too much talk of my engagement, Mama going out of her way to stress her delight. ‘We must return to London before the roads become impassable. We came by ship, from Portsmouth, but we return by coach.’ She was answering Major Trelawney, but addressing Sir Richard. ‘It’s such an interminable journey. Cornwall’s so far from anywhere. You’re from London, Sir Richard? You’re in Parliament?’

  ‘My seat was East Grinstead but I left when I was called to the bar. I received silk in ’89 – the Western Circuit.’

  ‘And is there a Lady Goldsworthy?’ Mama’s coquettish tone made Charity stiffen.

  ‘My wife likes to know every detail,’ said Father, waving his fork at the footman. His mouth was full, his words hard to distinguish. ‘Mutton for Sir Richard and pass him the powdered rump – eat, gentlemen, I can’t be the only one trying this…what is it? Pigeon?’

  ‘I have no wife, as yet, Lady April. My job takes me away for long periods.’ Sir Richard shook his head at the dish the footman offered him. He was in his early forties, Mama’s age, yet seemed older, his hooked nose and persistent frown showing evident displeasure. Perhaps it was the sight of father’s plate piled high with food, or the knowledge there were poisonous mushrooms in the vicinity. ‘What about you, Major Trelawney? Are you a married man?’

  Major Trelawney smiled. ‘I am, Sir Richard…I’ve three fine sons – the youngest not quite seven.’

  ‘And your regiment?’

  ‘The thirty-second though I’m no longer in active service. Canon fire saw to that…but I’m grateful I can still serve my country. I believe the work I’m doing will prove vital.’ His soft Cornish accent was thick with pride.

  Father drained his glass, indicating for it to be refilled. ‘You’re here to visit every household and make a list. Is that right? A poll of eligible men, fit for military service – should the need arise?’

  Major Trelawney’s smile vanished, his handsome face turning serious. ‘The need’s already arisen, Sir Charles. The French have instigated a levée en masse and England needs to act quickly or we’ll be found wanting. France has mobilised the entire nation.’ The gravity in his voice sent a chill down my spine. Charity looked petrified.

  Even Mama looked shocked. ‘They’ve mobilised the entire nation?’

  ‘I’m sorry to scare you, Lady Cavendish, but every French person’s been requisitioned – even the sick aren’t exempt.’

  ‘Good God, man. Are they to fight from their sick beds?’

  ‘They’re to aid the cause, Sir Charles – the young unmarried men will be sent to battle, the married men will forge arms and transport supplies…the women will make tents and uniforms and serve in hospitals and the sick will roll bandages. The children will pick rags and the old have been instructed to preach the hatred of kings and the unity of the republic. There, I have it by heart!’

  ‘Dammed murdering barbarians,’ Father drained another glass of claret, his face getting redder by the minute. ‘So you’re preparing a force? How many?’

  ‘As many as we can muster. First we must repair the batteries and build the redoubts, then we must train men to take charge of our coastal defences. Major Bassett’s establishing a corps of Fencibles and I’m setting up the Volunteer Forces. Helston and Hillidon are already established.’

  ‘We’re an island nation. We have defences.’

  ‘We may have them, but most are woefully neglected – some batteries are even derelict. Our coast’s exposed and vulnerable to attack.’

  ‘Then use the local militia, for God’s sake. We don’t pay them to stand idle. Get them to man the defences.’

  A flash of irritation crossed Major Trelawney’s face. He took a deep breath. ‘The regular militia are over-stretched and needed where they can do the most good – in Ireland or France. They can’t be everywhere and we believe local volunteers should fill the gaps. My job’s to muster a strong well-armed, well-drilled body of men capable of defending this coast.’

  ‘Do you really expect us to sleep better at night, knowing half the estate’s armed with rifles?’ Mama’s icy-politeness cut through the air. ‘Handing out arms seems rather foolish, Major Trelawney. The Radicals will be first in the queue, rubbing their hands in glee, unable to believe their good fortune.’

  ‘I believe it’s time to allow the people of our country some responsibility. If a man has the safety of his wife and family at stake, I believe he’ll defend his country to the last.’

  ‘Defend his country?’ Mama sniffed. ‘Arm the people and there’ll be anarchy and revolution, just like France.’ She fanned herself furiously, ‘Thank goodness we shall be in London.’

  ‘Your talk of arms is frightening my wife.’ Father’s words were slurred and sweat covered his brows. There was gravy on his waistcoat. At any moment he would belch and Mama would stare at him with loathing. ‘Your work’ll be wasted, I can tell you now.’ His wig moved as he scratched his head. ‘An armed citizenry is downright dangerous – they’re damned Jacobins, the lot of them.’ He slumped back in his chair, scowling at Major Trelawney.

  ‘Cornishmen aren’t Jacobins, they’re just poor. There’s no employment and prices are rising. All they want is a fair wage, food on their table, clothes for their children. They’ve no appetite for revolution – they’re as appalled as anyone at the butchery in France.’

  Mama turned her back on him, smiling quickly at Sir Richard. ‘Mr Windham’s assured me poor Louis Charles will soon be released. He’s told me the Comte de Provence has a very large army and we’re going to his aid. That’s where we should be sending our arms – to the Vendée. Don’t you agree, Sir Richard?’

  Sir Richard leant back, his meal discarded. ‘The monarchy must be restored, but the old regime?’ He shook his head, his lips pursed. ‘France’s grown too powerful. There’s little support for the old regime – especially in the circles I frequent.’

  ‘But Mr Windham’s adamant…The Comte de Provence is the king’s brother! He’s already being called regent. We must come to his aid.’

  ‘The savagery must stop, but I do not believe restoring the old regime would serve England…and England’s interests must take priority.’ Sir Richard’s tone had sharpened, his look of displeasure deepening. ‘The old regime’s long been our enemy.’

  Major Trelawney leant forward. ‘I take it you mean support the Duc d’Orléans?’

  ‘If the Duc d’Orléans is spared then I believe we should support him. He’s a personal friend of the Prince of Wales and our spies tell us he’s open to certain reforms.’

  Major Trelawney nodd
ed. ‘A constitutional government? Is that feasible?’

  ‘Why not?’ Sir Richard wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘A constitutional government under a Bourbon king must be the way forward – anything else and our interests will remain threatened.’

  The room was hot and stuffy, the talk of war taking away my appetite. Charity had hardly touched her food. The war had previously felt so remote, everyone promising it would be soon over, but Major Trelawney and Sir Richard seemed so well informed and their words quite terrifying.

  The dining room was one of the largest downstairs rooms, certainly the most ornate. Painted cherubs looked down at us from the plastered ceiling, turquoise and gold stripes covered the walls. The sideboard was Chinese, the table and chairs Chippendale, the fireplace Adam. The Pelligrew family were watching us from their huge gold frames. They did not look amused. Neither did Mama. Major Trelawney was addressing her and her dislike of him was becoming obvious.

  ‘I’d like to prove your husband right, Lady April – about the waste of my time – but I fear not. My instructions are to make a list of every man willing or able to serve…’

  ‘Every man?’ she said, not looking at him.

  ‘Between the ages of fifteen and sixty—’

  ‘Good God!’ Father spluttered into his glass. ‘You’re going to call every man to do his duty?’

  ‘No, Sir Charles…it’s merely a list of vital information which the government can call upon. In the future there may be ballots – or, indeed, compulsion…but, for the moment, I’m to record everyone and their occupations.’

  ‘You’re not expecting the gentry to go on your list?’

  ‘Everyone’s to go on my list – even unbaptised infants. I need to record every horse and wagon, all livestock – dead or alive, every boat and barge. I’m to check the barns and record the produce. I need a list of all bakers and millers. I need to know where the mills and the wells are…’

  ‘Good God, man. You’ll be here for ever!’

  ‘If I may trespass on your hospitality for just a few days longer. My men are hard at work – the fort will soon be habitable.’

  Mama waved her hand for the plates to be removed. Father and Major Trelawney had eaten well, Sir Richard less so. She kept her back turned on Major Trelawney. ‘I hope you’ve saved a little room for the trifle, or the almond pudding – perhaps these sweetmeats? What can we offer you, Sir Richard?’ Her lips squeezed into a teasing pout. ‘My husband tells me you’re a magistrate.’

  ‘A stipendiary magistrate,’ said Father, pulling the bowl of trifle towards him, ‘from the Home Office. He’s got sweeping powers, my dear, so we’d best be careful.’

  Sir Richard took one mouthful and pushed his almond pudding aside, reaching instead for his gold toothpick. ‘I’m from Bow Street. Yet more government business, I’m afraid. My office is to regulate all foreigners entering our country. Every foreigner – including the Irish – needs to register with the appropriate officials and sign a declaration of arrival at their port of entry.’

  ‘But surely, Sir Richard, you don’t intend to treat émigrés like criminals? Some of them are very distinguished – the Marquis de Chavannes, for instance, Chevalier de Anselme. They’ve been brutally treated and have lost everything. They need our help.’

  ‘We need tighter control. Émigrés are still free to enter but they must register and obtain their declaration form. No-one’s exempt. All householders housing émigrés must supply details and anyone making enquiries about foreigners seeking nationalisation must register the enquiry with the Alien Office.’

  Major Trelawney nodded. ‘It’s well overdue. Our borders need protection and travel must be curtailed.’

  Sir Richard nodded. ‘I’m here to instruct local mayors and magistrates. They need to know it’s their duty to fine or imprison anyone without an official declaration. These French need watching and it’s my job to watch them.’

  Sir Richard had been wrong to push his plate aside after just one mouthful. Mama was no fool. Refusing her food was his way of snubbing her. She nodded to the footman, taking Saffron back in her arms. ‘Gentlemen, forgive me. This talk of politics has quite exhausted me. We’ll leave you men to your port. Come, girls, let the men finish their talk of business.’ The footmen pulled back our chairs. Major Trelawney rose stiffly to his feet. He looked deeply troubled.

  ‘Lady April, it’s you who must forgive me. I’m sorry about my talk of war. I thought you were interested. There’s so much more we could have discussed.’

  I held my breath, expecting Mama to say her favourite words – I doubt that. Instead she managed a smile. ‘Will you be coming to church tomorrow, gentlemen?’

  ‘Indeed, Lady April…that would be delightful,’ they replied, almost in unison.

  ‘Excellent. Well, gentlemen, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She left with a flutter of smiles. I took Charity’s arm, both of us curtseying as we left the room. We were free, spared from having to perform the music we had been practising all day. Charity squeezed my arm and I tried not to smile.

  We both knew Mama would be heading for one of her headaches.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pendenning

  Sunday 10th November 1793, 1:30 p.m.

  The two coaches waited on the drive – the first, very splendid, hired from Truro for the duration of our stay, the second, far less grand, much older, with suspension that had probably seen better days. It had been Mr Pelligrew’s coach, which we had acquired along with everything else.

  Father looked furious, stabbing the floor with his cane, his face as red as the coachman’s livery. ‘Lady April’s headache shows no sign of improving. She regrets she’s too unwell to accompany us and sends her apologies. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Shall we go?’ Sir Richard was pacing the drive, Major Trelawney entertaining us with stories of his children. I could tell Mrs Jennings liked him.

  ‘Papa, can I travel with you in the big coach? Mama did say I could. She promised me I could go with her and I’m wearing my best ribbons.’ Georgina’s well-practised tears filled her eyes, her mouth trembling in its heartbroken pout.

  Father’s face softened. ‘Major Trelawney, could I ask you to accompany the ladies? Now I think about it, vagrants have set up camp in the woods and it’s not such a bad idea. My steward’s dealing with them but we can’t be too careful.’ Major Trelawney smiled, walking with us to the second coach. How very clever of Mama. A military escort. No chance of escape.

  The Cornish weather never ceased to amaze me. It was always so variable, changing day to day, even hour to hour. Yesterday had been so wet, yet driving the three miles to church, the sun was shining, the sky a beautiful azure blue. We climbed the hill, surprised at the strength of the wind. It was so sheltered in the vale, yet on the top of the hill the branches of the trees were swirling ferociously.

  ‘It’s really windy, Charity. The field’s been ploughed and men are sowing corn but it’s blowing all over the place and the seagulls are swooping down, getting buffeted by the wind.’

  ‘I’m surprised they don’t wait until the wind drops.’

  Major Trelawney smiled. ‘I agree, Miss Charity, but they probably think yesterday’s rain will help set the seed. It’s winter wheat and I’m surprised by that. Does wheat do well here, do you know?’

  Charity and I had no idea but Mrs Jennings had obviously heard talk. She leant forward, smiling politely. ‘I believe not. The harvest’s been very bad and bread is scarce. You seem to know a lot about farming, Major Trelawney. Is it your interest?’

  ‘My brother and I have land near St Kew – along the River Amble to the Camel Estuary.

  ‘And do you grow wheat?’

  ‘Wheat, barley, corn – we’re fortunate the land’s good for both crops and grazing. We’ve sheep and more cattle then we’re used to. Demand’s rising. The navy’s devouring everything we can send and where we used to send our calves to Somerset for fattening, we’re keeping more and driving the
m to Plymouth.’ He smiled, his handsome face alight with passion.

  ‘Do you ever feel torn between your land and your regiment, Major Trelawney?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a military man and proud of my achievements but, yes, as I grow older, I feel the draw of the land. I find myself wishing for peace and prosperity.’

  Father’s coach was pulling well ahead, the scarlet coats of the footmen still visible on the back. His horses were strong and lively, our horses, by comparison, seemed tired and overworked. The road was widening, the verges full of ripening blackberries; the square tower of Porthruan church just visible ahead. A grassy track joined us from the right and we pulled slowly to a stop. Father and Sir Richard were waiting impatiently, Georgina all smiles and happiness. Father and Sir Richard turned to go but Major Trelawney offered us both an arm. Mrs Jennings grabbed Georgina’s hand. We had kept Parson Bettison waiting for fifteen minutes. Last week it had been thirty.

  Father insisted on writing Parson Bettison’s address and today it seemed to go on forever. ‘Timely preparation, both on this earth and for where we are to follow,’ the parson shouted. ‘Duty, the path of obedience. Your God sees your every move. You must give allegiance to your betters so that the enemy, when they come bearing down on you, will not kill your children and burn your houses. Be ready, so that the enemy, when they come rushing through your doors, can be repelled with force…’

  Vaulted timbers arched above us like the ribs of a ship. I held Charity’s hand. I could tell she was scared. The church was crowded, bursting at the seams. The men looked stirred, ready for action, the women weeping, the children growing more petrified by the minute. If father wished to frighten everyone, he had certainly succeeded.