The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  Charity smiled. ‘And we’d love to meet her.’

  Frederick Carew looked thrilled. ‘Would it be too much to ask…could Mother invite you both to stay? My sister’s desperate for company – five brothers and two nephews leave her longing for feminine society.’

  Charity smiled. She looked so beautiful. ‘I’m sure Father will consent.’ She sounded so happy. ‘Are there stars out tonight? Is it still a crescent moon?’

  ‘It’s waxing now. The sky’s full of stars, there are no clouds at all,’ replied Frederick.

  A lump formed in the back of my throat. ‘Lieutenant Carew, have you ever seen a red shooting star?’

  He laughed softly. ‘I think they’re very rare.’

  ‘Do sailors have a saying about them? Do they bring luck?’

  ‘Now there you have me, Miss Cavendish.’

  I fought back my tears. ‘Do you believe they’re Cupid’s arrows, sent from Venus?’

  He looked puzzled at the tears in my eyes. ‘I’d like to think so.’ His gaze turned to Charity. ‘I think Venus has a way of striking when we least expect it. It’s not up to us to question her powers.’ He smiled and my heart soared. If she loved him, I could part with her to such a man.

  I felt torn with anxiety. His talk of his sister, his invitation to visit – things were moving so fast and Charity must not get hurt. Major Trelawney was at the door, at any moment he would walk towards us. I had to tell Frederick the truth.

  ‘Lieutenant Carew,’ I whispered, ‘I’m not going to marry Viscount Vallenforth. I despise the man.’

  Frederick Carew’s smile turned mischievous. ‘Really, Miss Cavendish? Well, that is good news.’ His eyes returned to Charity. ‘Extremely good news. Ah, Major Trelawney, are we being summoned back inside?’

  When we returned to the drawing-room Mama was smiling. There was no doubt her match-making would bear fruit. Lieutenant Carew was eminently suitable and he was clearly smitten. She knew it would not be long before she heard from Lady Clarissa.

  I lay waiting for Charity, desperate to go over every detail. The night had been her triumph and there was so much to say. Frederick Carew could not take his eyes off her. I would describe the white lapels on his blue jacket, the brass buttons on his waistcoat, how he parted his hair, the scar he had on his hand. I would tell her everything so she could see him through my eyes. The candle guttered and went out. It was later than I thought.

  Slipping from the bed, I crossed to the washroom, trying the door to Charity’s room. She never locked her door. ‘Itty, it’s me.’ I said, pushing the handle harder. There was no answer.

  I went slowly back to bed, staring into the darkness. Surely I had not heard sobbing?

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Pendenning Hall

  Sunday 17th November 1793, 4:00 p.m.

  Of course he would not always be at church. He was a sailor; he went with the tide and returned with the wind. What else could I expect? I felt listless, agitated, unable to eat, wanting him in a way I found hard to understand.

  I stared out of the window. Charity and Mrs Jennings were talking to Mrs MacReal, staring into the pram, admiring little Charles. Sarah was holding up both her arms and I watched Charity bend to pick her up. I felt so empty. Did she not like Frederick Carew? I had tried to tell her how much I esteemed him, how I thought he would be a wonderful husband, but she seemed so sad, smiling and kissing my cheek but not seeking my company.

  I always sought sanctuary in the library but today the stuffy curtains and rows of books seemed dusty and oppressive, the wing-neck chair hard and uncomfortable. I rose quickly from the chair – of course! Mr Pelligrew had an eclectic taste, how silly of me not to think of it; there must be plenty of poetry books. I knew Arnaud’s verse by heart, but where did it come from? Bookshelves flanked both sides of the huge marble fireplace. There seemed no logic or order to the books, most of them dreary tomes, sermons, a few naval lists and plenty of maps. A good number were in Latin and I was surprised to see so many in French, but no poetry books.

  The marble fireplace was quite magnificent. Two goddesses held the mantle with the touch of their fingers and my thoughts raced. What did it feel like to stand naked, only the flimsiest of veils caressing your skin? Did women do that behind closed doors? I could feel myself blush and turned away. Suddenly I noticed a line running down the marble fireplace – it was a narrow door, almost undiscernible, but once noticed, very obvious. My curiosity sharpened; yet another of the servants’ entrances, how very clever. There must be a way to open it, a hidden catch somewhere in front of me.

  I began pressing the surrounding marble, sweeping my hands along the top, down the sides, determined to find the catch. Taking out my hair pin, I ran it down the narrow crack. No, it was more sophisticated than that. I stood back, grateful the footman could not see me. He would be laughing at my attempt. Perhaps it only opened from the inside? I stood back again. No, there would be a way of opening it, I just had to think. If it was not a latch, it would be a handle, but not one I would recognise.

  I looked again, my excitement growing. The bookcases reached to within a foot of the fireplace. Perhaps I should search for a book that looked different. I began running my hands across the spines, feeling the leather. A group of books caught my attention and I pulled, all four spines coming away as a single book. Just as I thought, behind them was a brass lever, well-polished and obviously well used. I pulled it and the tiny door clicked open.

  I felt completely elated, opening and shutting the hidden door. I would love to have met Mr Pelligrew. Even better, the shelf in front of me held a row of poetry books, two of them with the creased spine of a favourite book. I reached for one, glancing round at the sound of laughter filtering through the open door. The nursery group had reached the fountain, Mrs Jennings chasing Sarah round and round. I looked again. Georgina was striding towards them looking very cross. Mrs Jennings shook her head at her arrival and pointed her towards me in the library.

  She began hurrying back across the lawn, her scowl to be avoided at all cost. I pulled the secret lever and replaced the books. The tiny servants’ door lay open. Poor Georgina, it seemed I had at last found the perfect hiding place.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I was in the servants’ corridor, behind the fireplace. It smelt of soot but there was plenty of space so I stood to my full height, my eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness. Piles of firewood lay stacked against the wall, baskets of faggots, two brushes and a wooden pail tucked against the side. Large bellows hung from a hook and a pair of leather gloves lay neatly folded on an iron scuttle. Pools of light lit the corridor leading to the left.

  Above me a small grid was the main source of light, but further patches of light filtered through tiny eye-level holes drilled through the bookcase. I often hid from Georgina, diving behind curtains or hiding behind chairs, but this was disappearing at its very best. Picking up my skirts, I crept slowly towards the first hole and stared back into the library. Georgina was searching everywhere, scowling, stamping her foot, looking behind the curtains. She swiped her arm across the table, sending the books crashing to the floor and threw herself onto the chair, frowning back at the secretive smiles of the two Greek goddesses.

  She was clearly in no hurry to leave. I looked further to my left. The row of peep-holes led like tiny beacons to another pool of light further along the corridor. I could hear angry voices and knew they must be coming from Father’s study. I stood listening, catching almost nothing of the raised voices and decided to edge nearer. Somehow it seemed important to know who was so angry with Father.

  The narrow corridor widened to an alcove with light shining through a circle of tiny holes. I leant forward, putting my eye against one of them. Again, I was behind a bookcase, Father’s desk, just in front of me. I pressed closer against the panel. The wood felt smooth and I knew instantly I was not the first to stand there. I could smell polish, leather oil, the faint hint of tobacco – the scent of a man, lean
ing there, not once, but time and time again. Someone else was used to spying on Father.

  Father had his back to me, his bandaged leg resting on a stool. Gout always brought out his temper but it was the man opposite who must have unleashed his anger. ‘A misunderstanding – and that’s the end of it!’ Father shouted.

  The man looked furious. He was dressed with more expense than taste, his blue jacket too bright, the lace at his cuffs unnecessarily fussy. His waistcoat was too tight, his gold watch too obvious. ‘I must strongly protest, Sir Charles. Two weeks ago yer expressly told the Corporation we could buy that tenement and start clearin’ the area.’

  ‘And now I’ve changed my mind. You should’ve waited until you signed the deeds.’

  The man was clearly horrified. ‘But you gave us yer word. We’ve evicted everyone, removed half the rottin’ timbers.’ He wiped his handkerchief across his brow, his face livid. ‘We’ve spent money…and now yer tell me it’s not for sale?’

  Mr Randall glowered across the desk from his seat beside Father. ‘Another bidder, a higher offer.’

  ‘Then we’ll match it. This’s good land we’re talkin’ about – prime waterfront position.’

  Father waved his hand in the air. ‘Too late. The land’s already sold.’

  I watched the man rise angrily from his chair, his face purple with rage. Mr Randall saw him to the door, a self-congratulatory flicker crossing his eyes. He removed his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. I had underestimated this man’s influence. He wielded such power; for seven years he had taken charge of the estate and his word must be law.

  The door closed and Father removed his wig, flinging it on the desk to scratch his bald head. Without his wig he seemed older, almost insignificant, except for the power in his voice. Philip Randall unrolled a series of carefully drawn plans, spreading them across the desk and the two of them studied them carefully.

  ‘Who is Alexander Pendarvis?’ Father winced, shifting his leg on the stool. ‘Bloody foot – pass me some brandy.’ He reached forward, retrieving his snuff box, taking a pinch before grabbing the proffered glass. ‘The man must be a complete idiot, offering us all this!’

  ‘A fool an’ his money are easily parted,’ replied Phillip Randal. ‘He’s Sir Alexander Pendarvis, a retired admiral, to be precise. He wants to build a house where he can gaze out to sea – reckons the view will be like a ship. I’ve checked the naval list an’ he’s genuine. He’s seen action, but he’s wounded an’ out to grass…yet he yearns for the sea.’

  ‘Wealthy?’

  ‘More money than sense – he’s got a charity named after him.’

  ‘That’s no use. He’ll be an abolitionist, some bloody Quaker. I don’t want a damned do-gooder – I want a vote I can count on.’

  ‘He’s promised you his vote. More to the point, he’s promised this row of cottages.’ He pointed to the desk. ‘These are the plans, they’re for the top road leadin’ out of town…an’ he’s plans drawn up for an alms-house. Here. Both the cottages and the alms-house will bear your name an’ his donation will remain anonymous. He clearly wants that land.’

  ‘Ten cottages and an alms-house for ten – I must appear generous.’

  Philip Randall helped himself to a glass of brandy, raising the crystal glass in mock salute. He was a sallow man, dense eyebrows, thin lips. His shirt was silk, his embroidered waistcoat fastened with mother-of-pearl buttons but his hands were rough, stained with tobacco. His body looked taut, his movements firm, like when he lashed his whip at people too weak to run away.

  ‘I was expectin’ that. It’s already done. Here, written clearly …ten cottages…an’ the provision for ten in the alms-house. The timing’s perfect. Those last evictions caused trouble and that major isn’t helpin’. The Corporation won’t like it but they know we’ll rack up their rents if they complain.’

  Father hardly glanced at the drawings. ‘What’s happening with the Polcarrow attorney?’

  ‘He’s goin’ ahead. He’s filed to attest the leases at the next assizes – Polcarrow against St Austell Trading. He’s declared the leases illegal. Claims the land was never negotiable, his point of law; Robert Roskelly failed in his fiduciary duty. In other words, he didn’t act in the best interests of his nephew.’

  ‘I know very well what it means. Buy his silence – everyone has a price.’

  ‘Not this one. Matthew Reith’s a life-long friend of James Polcarrow. His father’s Sir George Reith, the attorney who got Sir James pardoned.’

  ‘Then disgrace him. Stir something up. Get him ridiculed.’

  The confined space, the darkness, the stale air seemed to press against me, making me breathless. I rested my head against my hands, breathing deeply, a horrible sense of betrayal turning my stomach. Rose Polcarrow was right. Father was corrupt, a bully, renegading on agreements, prepared to conjure up false accusations and slander.

  Phillip Randall lit his pipe, sucking at the glowing bowl, breathing the smoke across the desk. I could smell the fumes through the peep-holes and my heart jolted. It was the same tobacco permeating the wood around me. Did he stand here, spying on Father? I looked back through the holes. He must know everything. He was so assured, so much at ease, even his look held contempt. ‘Polcarrow will be out of the way soon,’ he muttered, clamping his pipe between his tobacco-stained teeth, ‘It can’t be much longer.’

  ‘It’s taking too long. I thought you said the dog died straight away.’

  The blood rushed from my head. I began shaking, gasping for breath. Falling to my knees, I gulped the confined air. Murderers. They were both murderers, prepared to poison an innocent man. I thought I would scream. My legs were shaking, my hands trembling.

  A footman entered and I took a deep breath. It was not a visitor, but an express, carried in on a silver salver. Father grabbed the letter and broke the seal, his face darkening as he read the contents. He waited for the footman to close the door.

  ‘Damn it – Roskelly’s been found. They’re bringing him back to Bodmin. Damn it. Get to Falmouth. Find his share certificates. For God’s sake, don’t come back without them – if the shares go to the boy, he’ll own half the company.’

  Philip Randall reached for his jacket, buttoning it quickly. ‘Who found him?’

  Father crumpled the letter in his fist. ‘Doesn’t say. Damn him, he should’ve sailed days ago.’

  ‘He was waitin’ to see if he was to take the boy.’

  ‘Dammed idiot – he should’ve sailed the moment he knew the Polcarrows were sick. We’d have sorted the boy out – go at once, leave now.’

  Phillip Randall nodded. ‘I’ll be quick.’ He pointed to the parchment with a seal on the bottom of it. ‘That contract’s ready to sign. You’d best get on with it.’

  Father leant forward, his chin resting on his interlocked fingers. ‘How much commission is Alexander Pendarvis paying you? You must be a rich man by now.’

  Phillip Randal straightened his cravat. ‘No commission, Sir Charles. I work only for you.’ His crocodile smile revealed his brown teeth; lying, murderous thieves the two of them.

  Father seemed satisfied. ‘When you’ve got the shares, draw up a bill of sale. Forge Roskelly’s signature and date it two months before he was imprisoned. We’ll take half and half.’

  The crocodile smile broadened. ‘Thank you, Sir Charles, that’s very generous.’

  ‘I want that clay and so do you. Damn the man – he’d better not talk.’

  Philip Randall picked up a leather bag and walked across the room. At the door he paused. ‘Might I suggest you write to Viscount Vallenforth and bring the weddin’ forward? Tell him you’ve to return to London.’

  Father grabbed his wig. ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do. And I’ll chase up Lieutenant Carew – Lord Carew’s more powerful than I realised. I need both weddings.’

  The library looked empty. I shut the tiny door and ran to the chair, desperate Georgina might still be around. She must never
know what I witnessed. Nobody must ever know. I was shaking, the tremor in my legs making my skirt quiver. Names jumbled in my mind. Not accusations, but names of business contacts, suddenly missing and never found. I tried to think but my mind was blank. Rumours of business contacts never seen again, vanishing without trace. My mouth was dry, my stomach sick with fear.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear. Georgina said she’d already looked in here. Are you alright? Celia, you look very pale.’ Mrs Jennings knelt by my side, her hand going straight to my forehead. ‘You’re sweating…do you feel unwell?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Charity knelt by my other side, taking my hand.

  ‘A bad dream,’ I said, trying to laugh. ‘I must’ve fallen asleep. I was being chased – I was running and running but my legs weren’t moving. I was stuck in the ground.’

  Charity put my hand to her lips. ‘I’ll stay with you tonight. That way, if the dream comes back, I’ll be there for you.’

  This dream would never go away. Behind us, angry footsteps came to an abrupt stop. ‘So, here you all are. Well, that’s not very nice – running away and hiding from me. Mama will be very cross. She wants you, Celia – you’re in trouble. And she wants you, too, Charity. Not you, Mrs Jennings.’

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Charity.

  ‘In her drawing-room. You better hurry – you’ve kept her waiting and she’s furious.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Itook Charity’s arm, rushing down the corridor. Tonight, I would tell her everything – the poisoning, L’Aigrette, about Arnaud and how much I loved him. The footman opened the door. I was still trembling as we curtseyed. Mama was standing by the window, frowning down at the groundsmen raking the gravel. Saffron was on his cushion.