by Nicola Pryce
My mouth tasted of salt. Yes, I was following her, following her exactly.
‘Connections are what I’m talking about. As sister-in-law to Viscount Vallenforth, Charity has some value.’
‘Mama, how can you say that? Charity’s priceless…she’s so beautiful…so clever.’
‘She’s all but blind – she has little, if any, marriage hopes. You know that, Celia.’ She walked angrily across the room, almost throwing Saffron to his cushion. Reaching her desk, she snatched the second letter. ‘I’ve written to Lady Clarissa, explaining Charity’s blindness is due to a childhood illness and would have no effect on any child she may bear. No… hear me out. Your father’s offered a substantial dowry. Lord Carew knows your father’s well connected in Mr Pitt’s government and could be of great use. They also know your uncle’s Vice-Admiral and Governor of Dominica. Through our patronage, Lieutenant Carew could expect a glittering career…And, quite rightly, Lady Clarissa has instructed her son to pay his respects.’
I clamped the ring in my fallen hand. I knew to stand straight, shoulders back, chin held gracefully in the air. Mother held up the second letter. ‘And here’s Lieutenant Carew’s very prompt response – he clearly has manners and has done what his mother has asked. His ship, HMS Circe, is arriving in Fosse to await orders and he sees this as a perfect opportunity to call. I’ve asked him to dine with us on Friday.’
The salt in my mouth turned to nausea. This game of chess. My move. Her move. She was the knight, I was the pawn. She had no intention of freeing me from my engagement – she had not even spoken to Father. I felt furious, the strength of my anger hard to control. She was staring at me, expecting my defiance. I bit my lip – I must breathe, take a leaf from her book; icy-calm politeness was a potent tool. I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me plead. The rush of fury was abating, the giddiness passing.
I would never marry Viscount Vallenforth and I would certainly never abandon Charity to an ambitious family who saw attaching themselves to Viscount Vallenforth as worthwhile. I would wait. I slipped the hateful ring back on my finger, furious at the gloat in her eyes. I was biding my time – that was all. ‘Did Georgina tell you we met Mrs Pengelly and Madame Merrick after church yesterday?’
‘You shouldn’t have spoken to them.’
Of course Georgina had told her. She told her everything. ‘We passed within feet – I thought it rude not to acknowledge them.’
‘Well, you were wrong.’
‘There’s unrest and great poverty in the town. Major Trelawney thinks the town needs our patronage—’
‘I don’t care what that odious man thinks.’
‘Madame Merrick, for example, the dressmaker, her gowns are as good as any we can find in London.’
‘We don’t require her services. You can go now.’
I stood my ground. ‘Mama, I think Charity should have a new dress. If Lieutenant Carew’s to be snared, she needs to look beautiful.’
Mama flinched at my words but I could see her deliberating. ‘Perhaps Charity could do with a new gown.’ She picked Saffron up, rubbing her nose against her little squashed face, laughing with delight as her pink tongue licked her face. ‘I’ll think about it. Before you go…those are Mrs Pumfrey’s menu plans. They’re virtually unreadable. Cross out almond pudding and add venison and rib of beef. Tell her there’ll be one extra on Friday and I want sorbet. I don’t care if the ice-house’s empty. I want sorbet.’
I wrote as asked. Well, almost. We have another guest on Friday. I suggest venison, a rib of beef and sorbet not almond pudding. On another note, employ two more under-maids and make sure all the maids have at least three good meals a day. And issue them all with lanterns. I held out the paper, knowing she would not read it.
‘Give it to the footman.’
‘Can we go to Madame Merrick tomorrow, Mama? She won’t have much time if she’s to make Charity a new gown.’
‘Only if your father doesn’t need the carriage.’ She kissed Saffron and caught a glimpse of her reflection. A curl on her wig needed tweaking. Her lips needed attention. Perhaps a little more rouge.
The thought of going to Madame Merrick was enough to give me wings. I rushed down the staircase, past the alabaster urns, the marble plinths, the vast Chinese vases, racing past poor Atlas with the world on his back. My footsteps echoed across the polished floor. We were going to Madame Merrick. My heart was soaring. I had never expected Mama to agree. Hurrying across the hall, I had to wait for the footmen to open the door.
It was a beautiful day, the sun brilliant in the sky above. I would go riding but, first, I would arrange for the carriage. I loved Madame Merrick’s fabrics, the huge warehouse, the bustle of the town. My silence had bought this treat. On Friday I would tell Father the engagement was over, Lieutenant Carew could scuttle back to his ambitious mother and Charity would be safe.
I skipped down the steps of the terrace, weaving between the box hedges, passing under the arch to the stables. The tower of the coach-house rose high above me, the clock-face gleaming in the sun. Father’s carriage was newly washed, the wheels free of mud. I looked about for the coachman, expecting him to be not far away. He was nowhere to be seen. I would go instead to the stables and tell the groom to saddle my mare.
I crossed the courtyard. It was strangely quiet, no sign of grooms, certainly no stable boys. ‘Good day, m’lady. Can I be of service?’
A man in his late thirties was standing behind me. He took off his hat, holding it in both hands. His freshly washed hair was tied neatly behind his neck. He looked wholesome, honest, his face browned by the sun. He was wearing a small leather apron, a leather belt; a bucket of water was on the cobbles in front of him. I was sure I had never seen him before. ‘I want my groom,’ I said. ‘The one I ride with. I think his name’s John.’
He twisted the hat in his hands. ‘John’s been dismissed, m’lady.’
‘Dismissed?’ A cold grip clutched my heart. ‘Then find his replacement,’ I managed to say.
He could barely look at me, his eyes darting nervously around him. ‘I wish I could, m’lady, but he’s not been replaced.’ A flash of sympathy crossed his eyes, ‘There’s no grooms…not no more…because there’s no horses. All the ridin’ mares are returned to the farms…there’s just the carriage horses, an’ Mr Randall’s stallion…an’ the old nag that pulls the cart – just the six. All the others are back on the farms.’
I spun round, walking quickly to the stable. The first six stalls were empty, newly scrubbed, the bridles and saddles missing from their hooks. ‘No riding at all?’ I felt breathless, suffocated, the walls of my prison closing in on me. ‘Where’s the coachman?’
‘I’ve taken his place, m’ lady.’ He was a small man, undernourished, with callused hands and bowed legs. Without his hat, he squinted into the sun. ‘I’m that sorry about yer mare – she was a real beauty, quite the nicest chestnut I’ve seen.’
‘Yes, well. It can’t be helped.’ I wish he had not been so kind. Tears stung my eyes, I wanted to cry. The doors were shutting, the locks turning. I stared through blurred eyes at Father’s coach. ‘We need the carriage for tomorrow. Is it free at one o’clock?’
‘I believe so, m’ lady.’
‘Then I’d be grateful if you could take us to the dressmaker in Fosse. You’ll need to wait an hour or more.’
‘Pleasure, m’lady.’ He was smiling, his face full of pride. He had nice eyes, deferential, kind. He seemed calm, pleasant, no signs of cruelty. He was sure to be good with horses.
‘I’d like you to take a message to Madame Merrick. Tell her we’re coming at half past one and I don’t want other people there.’
‘I’ll send a boy, straightaway. An’ I’m sorry about the ridin’, m’lady. Wish it was otherwise.’
I was still reeling. This was no chess game and Mama was no fool – she knew I had run away. I felt increasingly petrified, knowing her next move would be to search my room. Perhaps she had already sear
ched my room while we had been at church. The coachman picked up his bucket. ‘One moment…’ I said. ‘I’ve an alteration that Madame Merrick might as well do for tomorrow. Tell the boy I’ve a parcel for him to take – I’ll get a maid to bring it down.’
I knew to walk slowly across the terrace. Mama would be watching from her window. Georgina would be watching from the school room. I would walk calmly up to my room, wrap the cloak in my torn shawl and address the bundle to Mrs Pengelly. It was the best I could think to do.
Charity slipped into my bed, pulling the bedclothes round us, her beautiful face full of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’ll be kind? Is there any chance he might be nice?’
‘If he’s not kind, you’re not to marry him.’
‘Is Mama making him come? Cici, be honest. Is it for money? Is he poor? Are they buying me a husband?’ She looked so vulnerable, her hair curled in silk strips, her lace night-cap flopping over her face.
I blew out my candle, my heart in turmoil. It would be so cruel to tell her the Carews were only interested in her because they believed she would be Viscount Vallenforth’s sister-in law. Viscount Vallenforth still thought us engaged and no doubt word had spread. ‘Mama says he’s family – and families help each other. He’s a young naval officer and we’ve got the connections he needs. He needs patronage – you need a husband. It could work very well.’ I hoped I sounded encouraging. ‘If he’s worth his salt, he’ll snap you up.’
For a moment she was silent. ‘I’ve always dreaded growing up. I don’t want us to part.’
I pulled her closer. ‘We must stay firm…we must insist they find us husbands we like.’
She nodded. ‘Anyway, I don’t suppose Madame Merrick can make a dress in four days. I’ll have to wear my green dress – would that look alright?’
‘I think Madame Merrick can do anything.’
‘Mrs Jennings likes her and Mrs Pengelly. Do you think Sir James and Lady Polcarrow will get better? Only yesterday, at dinner, Father said they were dying.’
Charity was set to chatter. I loved it when Charity slept in my bed, but tonight I wanted to be alone. I had not told her the mares had been returned, nor had I the heart to tell her my marriage to Viscount Vallenforth had obviously sparked Lady Clarissa’s interest. I felt so angry. We were chattel, nothing but chattel. I must not let Charity hear me cry. The room was stuffy, the bed curtains oppressive. I wanted to throw open the window and listen to the owls.
I closed my eyes. The wind was blowing our clothes, ruffling our hair. I was running, glancing over my shoulder, knowing he would spin me in his arms when he caught me. My hair was loose around my shoulders, my hat long blown away. Soon he would catch me. He would spin me round and hold me in his arms. Soon he would kiss me.
Chapter Nineteen
Pendenning
Tuesday 12th November, 1793
The carriage was newly polished, the four greys immaculately groomed. They stood shaking their manes, their hooves shining with fresh oil. We were ready to go, our skirts spread out around us. I glanced out of the window and my heart sank. Philip Randall was striding towards us, his cane tucked angrily beneath his arm. Dressed in a great coat and gloves, he swung himself alongside the coachman, shouting a string of orders.
Charity heard his voice. ‘I’m afraid we’ve company,’ I said with distaste.
It was overcast, dull, the sky a dark grey. I thought it might rain but the ground was hard. Horned cattle looked up as we passed, sheep ignored us. At the gate-house a small boy took off his hat and tugged his forelock. We reached the river and the tide was out. The coachman urged the horses across the ford, the wheels splashing noisily through the water and I leant against the window, searching the muddy banks. I could see the birds – egrets, curlews, sandpipers. Last night I had felt like crying, but this morning my heart was singing. Arnaud Lefèvre must think he had a chance of winning my hand. Why else would he be so bold?
We turned the bend, descending the first of the narrow streets dropping steeply to the harbour’s edge. I was hoping to see Lieutenant Carew’s ship lying at anchor but, for the moment, we had no view. On either side, rows of houses huddled together, clinging precariously to the cliff. Shoulder to shoulder, they bore the ravages of wind and sea, the thick stone walls, the small leaded windows somehow defying the strength of the westerly gales. A sewer ran in the front of the houses. It was black with filth, the smell so appalling I had to hold my vinaigrette up to my nose.
In London we never drew unwanted attention, but in Fosse we were like a magnet for hostile stares. People spat as we passed or turned their backs in sullen silence. The coach slowed to a walking pace, crawling to a stop, and I pressed my cheek against the window, trying to see what was causing the delay. ‘It’s so crowded,’ I said. ‘There’s a cart in front – the man’s trying to back up but the oxen won’t move.’
Mrs Jennings had seen the expressions on the faces of the people passing. ‘Draw the curtain, Celia. Don’t let them see you.’
We eased slowly forward, gradually pushing our way down the narrow lane. Through a small gap in the curtain, I watched this unfamiliar world where men and women could go as they please. The women had baskets on their heads, the men great bundles of firewood balanced on their backs. A pack of heavily laden mules were trying to squeeze past us, the mule leader cursing and shouting. There were children in rags, dogs sniffing at rubbish. One man looked like a peddler, another a pie seller, but most seemed to be labourers or fishermen. The younger men had rope keeping their breeches from falling, patches of canvas on the elbows of their jackets. The older men had stooped backs, weathered faces. They looked gaunt, joyless, all of them scowling as they stood in the sewer to let us pass.
At the turn in the road, we could hear shouting, cheering, the beat of a drum. Charity looked up. ‘That’s a regimental fife,’ she said. ‘It must be Major Trelawney.’
I pulled back the curtain. ‘It is…I can see him. He’s recruiting – there are posters everywhere.’
The town square was heaving. Major Trelawney was standing on a cart, fully dressed with bearskin and sword. Six soldiers stood in front of him, facing the crowd, their brick-red coats and white sashes dazzling the onlookers despite the grey day. One soldier was playing the fife, one banging a drum, the others standing stiffly to attention. Our coach had reached a standstill, hemmed in on all sides, but no-one jostled us. All eyes were staring at Major Trelawney. The music had stopped and he raised his hands. To no avail, it seemed. He reached for a long, thin pipe and blew it. Immediately, the crowd stopped and listened.
‘You ask how much you should give? Well, let me tell you.’ His voice was strong, full of authority and I opened the window so Charity could hear. ‘I urge you to give as much as you can. Times are hard, I know. You may not have a lot to give, but I urge you to give what you can. To muster a force we need money to pay the company.’ He held up a large leather-bound book. ‘I’ve opened a book of subscriptions. Place your name here and pledge as much as you can, so everyone will know you’ve helped defend your country.’
Charity leant back from the window. ‘He’s a good way of talking, don’t you think, Mrs Jennings?’
‘He’s a clever man. He’s got just the right mix of authority and compassion. I like him, he makes me feel safe.’
Major Trelawney put the book down. ‘The money you raise will pay for clothing and training. It’ll pay for arms and ammunition. Helson’s mustered a company of sixty privates – they’re to have one drummer and one piper. Hillidon are raising a company of one hundred men – they’re to have two drummers, two pipers. What will Fosse raise? Here, let me show you this…’ He held up a letter, waving it high above his head. ‘These are my orders. They state quite clearly, that where batteries are to be erected, an allowance of one shilling a week will be given to every man who enrols into such a corps. I have it in writing. One shilling a week.’
A huge cheer drowned his last words: those jeering moments before looked plai
nly astonished. They began pushing forward, elbowing themselves to the front of the queue. Major Trelawney was finding it hard to be heard. He had both hands in the air, ‘Hear me out. Your enthusiasm does you credit…but hear me out. We must be vigilant, keep watch at all times. Our coast is threatened and we want strong, able-bodied men to man the batteries. The guns are heavy. It’s demanding work. You’ll train for three hours a week. You’ll be drilled, marched. Discipline will be tight.’
Again, the men started cheering, pushing forward towards Major Trelawney who tried to shout louder. ‘But first we need funds…we need your subscription…we need…’ He seemed to sense the time for talking was over and nodded to the piper. A shrill fife soared through the air. The drum followed and the soldiers started marching on the spot. With whoops of delight the crowd started marching in time to the drum, two small boys jumping quickly into the cart next to Major Trelawney. They looked so proud, their chins held high, their dirty faces aglow with excitement.
Our carriage pulled forward. It would not do to get stuck behind this marching rabble. As it was, we were already late for Madame Merrick.
It was hard to know which jumble of buildings was which. The different businesses merged together in the vast warehouse, overlapping one another, towering above us. We stood in the courtyard looking through an arch, Pengelly Boat Yard written above us in bold paint. Hammering filled the air. I could hear men shouting, the rattle of heavy chains, the creak of the pulley as newly planked wood was hoisted in the air. Smoke from the forge filled my nostrils. It was noisy, smelly and I stood breathing in the acrid air, envying their sense of purpose.
The boat yard’s office was on the ground floor and could only be reached through the arch. They had no windows looking out to this side. On the first floor, Madame Merrick had vast windows stretching the whole length of the building and I could see her looking down, watching us through her lorgnettes. The door opened and a thin girl stood nervously on the top step.