The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Think how you would feel if the enemy landed before you learn to defend yourselves. Attend, therefore, with alacrity, to the calls of your betters. They are the ones who will point you to what services you may, in your various situations, most effectively perform…’

  To my shame, I barely listened. I was wearing my blue organza, my straw bonnet framed with silk flowers and matching ribbons. I felt excited, restless, wanting to turn round and search the benches. It was as if I knew Captain Lefèvre was watching me, laughing at me from beneath his hooded eyes. I could almost feel his eyes burning my back.

  ‘We serve a monarch whom we love and a God whom we adore. We are not barbarians, blood-thirsty revolutionaries like the enemy we face. No. The laws we revere are our Father’s laws. The faith we follow teaches us to live in the bonds of charity and die with the knowledge of bliss beyond the grave. In the name of the Father and of…’

  He had finished. Father looked pleased, nodding to Sir Richard, leaning back to talk to the man sitting behind him. Parson Bettison stood patiently for Father to finish, waiting to lead the procession with his customary pomp. I took Major Trelawney’s proffered arm, following them down the aisle, glancing quickly down each row as we passed. I could not help myself. What had happened to me? Celia Cavendish, looking for a smuggler.

  He was standing on the end of the last pew, his hair tied neatly behind his back, a dark green jacket stretching across his shoulders. He looked impeccable, his cravat the finest silk, his cuffs Belgium lace. His cream waistcoat was silk, embroidered with silver thread, his boots highly polished. To be dressed so well could only draw attention and I looked stiffly ahead, prickles of fear running down my back. My heart was racing. He must not give me away. Please, please, do not look at me.

  Father slowed his pace, believing he ought to know the well-dressed stranger, giving him the slightest nod in case he did. Captain Lefèvre bowed in response and we passed within a foot of each other, my eyes fixed firmly on Father’s back.

  ‘Are you alright, Miss Cavendish? Only, you don’t look well…’

  ‘It’s just the heat, Major Trelawney – it’s very crowded. I just need some air.’ We reached the church porch. ‘I’m fine, honestly I am. Mrs Jennings’s just behind so do feel free to leave me – I know you’ve a lot of people you want to meet.’

  The wind was strong, blowing the trees, the sky so piercingly blue. Bright autumn sunlight flooded the churchyard, casting shadows across the grass. It was too windy for the birds and nothing to watch, just the dazed look on the people’s faces as they poured out of the church. I needed to compose myself so slipped my arm through Charity’s, pulling her aside. ‘Come, Itty – it’s horribly crowded. Let’s go for a walk. Are you coming, Mrs Jennings?’

  ‘Yes…but keep to the path, the ground’s still soggy.’ Mrs Jennings reached for Georgina, tucking her arm firmly through her own. ‘Wait, Celia, don’t rush – there’s no fire. Dignity, girls…goodness me, with everyone watching and you run off like racehorses!’

  It was so fresh, so wonderful to be in the open air. I loved this squat little church with its square tower and elaborate sundial. It was so peaceful, so rooted in time. Tombs went back for generations, the same names repeated, the quarrels long-forgotten. Goats bleated behind the hedgerow, oxen stared at us from across the farmyard. Cows were in the milking-shed, the smell of dung drifting from the fields. So rooted in time – all the hard-working people now resting in peace, their wars long over, their fear eased.

  We reached a fork. The inner path would lead us back to the church, the outer path would skirt the churchyard. In the distance, I heard a blackbird. ‘Did you hear that, Itty?’ I said, guiding her up the path towards the stile. ‘A blackbird’s sitting on the gate though he can barely balance in the wind. His feathers are being ruffled but he’s determined to sing.’

  I turned round in surprise. Two ladies were placing a bunch of wildflowers in a vase by a tomb. My surprise turned to pleasure. ‘My goodness, Itty, there’s Mrs Pengelly and Madame Merrick. That’s so lovely. Come, let me introduce you.’

  Charity pulled me back. ‘Mrs Pengelly, Lady Polcarrow’s mother? She must be so distraught…Have we heard any news?’

  I had spoken light-heartedly and realised my mistake. ‘Maybe there’s hope of their recovery.’

  Charity’s face lifted, ‘Let’s hope so. If they were dying, she’d be at their bedside, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Either way, it would be unpardonable not to ask after their welfare.’ Mrs Jennings had caught us up and was also watching them. ‘Charity will like Mrs Pengelly, won’t she, Mrs Jennings?’

  Mrs Jennings’ face was full of compassion. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t trespass on her grief.’

  We stood watching them arrange the flowers. I had only been twice to their dressmaking shop, both times with cousin Arbella and Mrs Jennings. Madame Merrick was the proprietor and Mrs Pengelly one of her best seamstresses. Madame Merrick always dressed exquisitely. Today she was wearing a shimmering green silk gown with a large matching hat. She had extraordinary hauteur and composure and I was desperate for Itty to meet her. ‘You’ve got to meet Madame Merrick, Itty,’ I whispered. ‘Honestly, she’s quite remarkable…you like her, don’t you, Mrs Jennings? Or is it just her punch you like?’

  ‘Really, Celia! Yes, I admire Madame Merrick considerably, but not for her punch. She’s the best dressmaker I’ve come across and the shrewdest woman I’ve ever met.’ Mrs Jennings smoothed her black silk skirt, drawing her shawl firmly around her. She always wore the same – black silk on Sundays, black taffeta for visits and afternoon tea, black worsted wool on every other occasion. Her only brooch was a dark amethyst, set in silver, the ribbons on her bonnet always a matching purple – silk on Sundays, satin for visits and tea parties. Somewhere in her late thirties, her hair was still brown, her figure quite beautiful, her face often filled with compassion. In repose, it became etched with sadness. I knew she liked both Mrs Pengelly and Madame Merrick and would be delighted to renew their acquaintance.

  They saw us approaching and curtseyed, Madame Merrick with the grace of a duchess, Mrs Pengelly with a flash of pain.

  ‘This is my sister, Miss Charity Cavendish…Mrs Jennings you know, of course, and this is my younger sister, Georgina.’

  ‘Miss Cavendish, this is such an honour,’ replied Mrs Pengelly, her tiny frame dwarfed by her taller companion.

  ‘We’ve come to enquire after Lady Polcarrow. We’ve heard the terrible news.’

  Mrs Pengelly looked down, wringing her hands. She was as timid as she looked fragile, her face still beautiful beneath her plain grey bonnet. ‘We must pray for their recovery… but there are signs of improvement – so I believe.’

  Mrs Jennings and Charity smiled, voicing their delight. Did Mrs Pengelly know Sir James and Rose were only pretending to be ill? Or had they kept the truth even from her – for the safety of young Francis? The thought that Robert Roskelly could be so evil to tell his sister to poison Sir James or never see her son again was still too terrible to contemplate. The wind was blowing our skirts, tugging our shawls; wisps of grey hair were escaping from under Mrs Pengelly’s bonnet. She smiled up at me and I smiled back. Madame Merrick was as immaculate as ever. ‘I’m wearing your gown, you notice, Madame Merrick – it’s become my favourite – I never seem to wear any other.’

  She dropped another curtsey, her proud head bowing with modesty, her movements smooth and unassuming. ‘Material that fine is always a pleasure to sew and seeing you wearing it makes it all the more pleasurable.’

  ‘We must come and visit your shop again, Madame Merrick. I did so enjoy our visits. And Charity needs a new gown, don’t you, Charity? You missed out last time so it’s only fair. Don’t you think so, Mrs Jennings?’

  Charity’s face lit up. ‘Do you think we could we ask Mama, Mrs Jennings?’

  Mrs Jennings was clearly not going to be hard to persuade, ‘Well…perhaps we should – why not? You could do with anoth
er gown.’

  Georgina was staring at us in sulky silence. As usual, she would need to be appeased but Madame Merrick was already looking at her as if she knew Mama’s eyes were watching. ‘Perhaps Miss Georgina should have some new ribbons?’ she said softly. ‘I believe I have some very fine silk to match that beautiful dress – perhaps a little pocket for you to carry… with a pearl button?’

  Georgina had the grace to nod and Madame Merrick turned to Charity. ‘As it happens, I have recently acquired some very fine fabric, quite as lovely as your sister’s organza.’ She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, a slight flicker of a smile, ‘or maybe even finer. I have peach and apricot…both, I believe, are colours you should wear.’

  Charity blushed. I loved to see her as the centre of attention but I knew she hated it as she always shied away from fuss. I put my arm through hers, smiling my delight. From the corner of my eye a flash of green caught my attention and I turned in surprise, my heart leaping. Arnaud Lefèvre was walking round the bend, not thirty yards from us, and our eyes locked. He stopped, standing rooted to the spot, the wind blowing the lace at his cuffs, the leaves swirling past him from the tree behind us. He looked so handsome, every inch the gentleman and a thrill of excitement passed through me.

  But what was he doing here? This part of the churchyard was furthest from the lynch gate; it was hardly ever used, the path overgrown with weeds. We had come upon Mrs Pengelly and Madame Merrick by chance but no-one else had come this way. Surely he had not thought to follow me? No. If he had followed us, he would have taken the same path we had chosen. Was this chance – an unintended meeting or was he expecting only Madame Merrick and Mrs Pengelly? He seemed to recover and nodded politely, turning quickly away. He had clearly come to meet Madame Merrick.

  Madame Merrick, for her part, seemed hardly to notice, inclining her long neck to hear Georgina’s exact requirements. I felt suddenly breathless, shock making me want to gasp. I had been blind; surely I had been so blind? Madame Merrick was no ordinary dressmaker – her straight back, her effortless curtsy, her flawless deportment had all been drilled into her from birth. All Sir Richard’s talk of France and still I had not guessed – Madame Merrick was an aristocrat, an émigré. She must be. I felt thrilled, excited, as if somehow it mattered. I tried to keep the excitement from my voice. ‘We’ll try very hard to persuade Mama to let us visit you.’

  ‘Or I could come to you, Miss Cavendish. I can bring as much material as I can up to the Hall…’

  I was barely listening. My heart was leaping. Nothing was as it seemed. Surely Arnaud Lefèvre had the same arch to his neck, the same elegant, long fingers? He was refined and educated, those clothes more suitable to a grand house than a ship. How blind could I be? I felt breathless again; Arnaud Lefèvre was not after brandy – he was no common smuggler. He risked his life to save others. He took me to France only because another man’s life had depended on him. I suddenly felt so happy. He was in league with Madame Merrick, he must be. He was brave, courageous, honourable – as good as his word.

  He had almost reached the bend and I stood watching his retreating back, a terrible sense of loss ripping my heart. I had dismissed his advances, been so aloof. He knew me to be engaged and now he was leaving and I may never see him again. I slipped my fingers quickly through the ribbons of my bonnet. The silk slid easily through my hands, the wind catching it in an instance, ‘Oh, no! Help…my bonnet!’I shouted.

  He turned and saw my straw hat flying towards him, the blue ribbons streaming in the wind behind. Jumping quickly, he caught it in his outstretched hand and started walking back, holding the bonnet in the air like a trophy. I stared back at him. He was smiling, his glance conspiratorial, his eyes full of laughter. ‘Your bonnet, I believe, madame.’

  I smiled back. In the sunlight his eyes were intensely blue, fringed by long black lashes. His chin was closely shaven, his hair held neatly back. I could almost smell the almond soap. ‘Thank you, Mr…?’

  He bowed a low bow. ‘Captain Arnaud Lefèvre and very glad to be of service.’

  I wanted to smile, laugh. No, worse than that, I wanted him to sweep me up in his arms and carry me away. ‘Are you French, sir?’ I managed to say.

  He seemed to hesitate. ‘No, I’m from Jersey.’

  Madame Merrick was watching us through those hooded lids, Mrs Pengelly was smiling broadly. ‘We’ve Captain Lefèvre to thank for all Madame Merrick’s fine silks. We don’t know how he manages to find them with all the blockages but they really are quite the loveliest. He’s master of Sir James’ cutter – a boat my husband built.’

  I felt so alive, every pulse in my body pounding. ‘Is that so?’ I replied. ‘Then we’ll definitely have to avail ourselves of your spoils, Captain Lefèvre. We can’t have you going to so much trouble for nothing, can we?’ I held out my hand but Arnaud seemed reluctant to give me back my hat. I put out both my hands and took the bonnet, my heart jolting in pleasure as our hands touched.

  ‘Tie the ribbons tightly this time, Miss Cavendish,’ he said, slowly relinquishing the bonnet.

  I wanted him to tie them for me. For a brief, glorious second, I imagined him stepping forward, standing closer, his fingers brushing my neck. I felt so giddy, so wonderfully light-hearted. My stomach was fluttering. ‘I’m sorry to cut short our conversation but I’m afraid Father will be waiting,’ I said, tying my own ribbons, ‘and we’d better not keep him any longer. Goodbye, Mrs Pengelly, Madame Merrick. I hope we see you again soon.’ I glanced at Arnaud Lefèvre. ‘Good day, captain.’

  I slipped my arm through Charity’s – not to help her, but to have her support. I could barely breathe. My head was spinning, my heart turning cartwheels. I had to stop myself from smiling. Everything had changed. Three things were certain: Arnaud Lefèvre was no smuggler, he was certainly no common sailor and he was not from Jersey.

  The carriage jolted us from side to side. I was deep in thought, my fingers playing with the beading on my bag. Of course he was an émigré – it was obvious he was born to quality. His taste was perfect. I sat hugging my secret, almost too excited to breathe. I had helped save the life of a man fleeing the guillotine. How incredible, how completely thrilling. I had to look out of the window to hide my excitement.

  Charity and Major Trelawney were deep in discussion. ‘We grow barley because barley bread’s cheaper than wheaten bread, but we use it as fodder as well – for weaning the cattle and, of course, it’s used for malting.’

  ‘Do you make cream?’

  ‘Only enough for our farm – the boys love it but we’re quite some distance from the market and it doesn’t travel. It spoils too soon.’

  ‘Do you grow turnips and rotate your fields?’

  ‘You know a lot about farming, Miss Charity,’ he replied, smiling. ‘Two years for the corn, a year for manured turnips, four years for dressed grass. My father learnt it from his father and my grandfather before him. What on earth—?’ The carriage slammed to a halt. Someone was shouting, yelling orders. Major Trelawney pulled down the window and frowned. He opened the door and lowered himself without the aid of steps.

  ‘There’s quite a crowd,’ I told Charity. ‘They’re in rags. They look filthy.’

  The colour drained from her face. ‘Are they vagabonds?’

  ‘I think they must be. They look starved to death.’ I stared in horror. Philip Randall had his whip held high in the air. Two baskets, piled high with blackberries, stood in front of him, the crowd slowly backing away from them. Children were clinging to their mothers’ skirts. They were caked with mud; poor sparrow-framed children, their hollow eyes full of terror. A man was on his knees, begging Philip Randall to stop. Two other men stepped forward, trying to plead.

  Mr Randall’s whip slashed the air. ‘Get off this land before I whip the lot of you.’ He was taunting them, walking slowly forward, one hand on his hip, the other ready to lash.

  Major Trelawney stormed to his side. ‘I beg you, sir, have some pity.
These people are starving.’

  ‘They’re stealin’ and should be hanged – the lot of them.’

  Father leant from his carriage, his face purple with rage. ‘Do whatever you need, Mr Randall. Just get them off my land.’ He pointed to the baskets. ‘We’ll take those. You can get back in now, Major Trelawney, our way’s been cleared.’

  Father’s carriage pulled ahead of us. The footman let down the steps and Major Trelawney swung himself into the carriage. He tried to smile but the fury in his face was hard to hide. Behind us, we heard the baskets being strapped to the back and I let go of Charity’s hand. I would describe everything to her later but, for now, none of us could speak.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pendenning

  Monday 11th November 1793, 1:30 p.m.

  The footman bowed politely. ‘Lady April will see you now.’

  I had been waiting for over an hour, sitting on the tapestry chair outside Mama’s drawing-room. No one had gone in or out, so I knew she had kept me waiting. She was standing by the window, sunlight streaming onto a letter in her hand.

  ‘You’ve reconsidered, I presume?’

  My mouth went dry. ‘No, I’ve not reconsidered.’ I held out the ring, walking slowly towards her. ‘I’m not going to marry Viscount Vallenforth.’

  She ignored my outstretched hand, looking instead at the letter she waved in front of me. ‘I’ve been sent two letters – one from Lady Clarissa, the other from her son, Lieutenant Frederick Carew. They arrived together, though they were posted several days apart. Lady Clarissa’s a cousin of my brother’s wife – she’s practically family. I knew her as a child though, after her marriage, our paths no longer crossed.’

  I took a deep breath, trying to fight my panic.

  ‘With your marriage imminent, I wrote to Lady Clarissa reminding her of our family connection. She has five sons and a daughter – Lieutenant Carew is the fifth son and therefore has no great marriage expectations.’ Her eyes pierced me like daggers. ‘There are not many mothers who would seek to marry their daughter to a fifth son, even though his father does own vast estates. Are you following me, Celia?’