The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘In thirty years? I should say. I ran from school at fourteen, couldn’t wait to feel the waves beneath me. My father was a packet captain but it was always the navy for me. I’ve protected British interests all over the world – the Falkland Islands, the Indes, Newfoundland, Mediterranean. I’ve protected the colonies, chased every French ship I could find. I’ve been everywhere, seen more battles than you young ladies have had cups of tea – Valcour Island, Saratoga, Lisbon.’ He turned and smiled at me, swapping his teacup for a glass of brandy. ‘I’ve amassed enough prize money to buy a pile of stones and a large estate and I’ve a sister lining up every suitable bride she can find.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Trouble is…my legs turn to jelly every time I leave my ship – too much seawater in my blood. I’m frightened of the bulls in my fields and petrified by the geese in the orchards. But they’re nothing to the ladies in my sister’s drawing-room! They’re absolutely terrifying.’

  ‘Oh dear, Captain Penrose,’ I said laughing. ‘That won’t do.’ Somehow, I believed him.

  ‘Are you still under Admiral Howe’s command?’ Major Trelawney asked, also swapping his teacup for a glass of brandy.

  ‘Yes. We return to Falmouth then, I presume, it’ll be back to France. The Duc of Orleans has been guillotined and the siege of Dunkirk has failed. The last dispatch made grim reading – at least thirty-two siege guns seized at Hondschoote. There’s been a shameful retreat and heavy losses.’ He looked up, glancing across at Charity’s quick intake of breath. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t speak like this in front of you ladies. Forgive me – you see I’m a hopeless case.’

  Charity paled. ‘No, Captain Penrose, we need to know. We like to be informed – it’s not knowing that makes us so fearful. I know you mean to spare our feelings but being wrapped in cotton and kept in ignorance is a lot worse than knowing.’ She smiled, shrugging her shoulders. ‘And it’s particularly frustrating for me as I can’t read the newspapers. I have to rely on others to read them to me and if they only read me what they want me to hear, I’ll never be properly informed. Will we win this war, Captain Penrose? Are the French royalists capable of taking back control of their country?’

  Captain Penrose looked surprised. ‘Not on their own. Our problem is that we’ve been given orders to fight alongside their ships under Royalist command but we’d fare far better fighting under British command alone – British ships with British sailors.’

  Charity smiled. ‘Because you hate everything to do with the French and don’t believe they can be trusted?’

  Captain Penrose laughed and leant forward. ‘In a nutshell, yes – but putting aside my years of hatred, we know the Royalist ships can’t be trusted. They’re full of pressed recruits, all swearing allegiance to the Royalist cause but in the midst of battle…’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Suddenly they switch sides and show their true colours – all of them seething revolutionaries, ready to knife their officers in the back.’

  ‘That’s terrible! Enemy ships within your formation.’

  ‘Exactly so. Too many ships have turned sides in the midst of battle. The officers we can trust because they’re from landed families, but the crew?’ He shook his head. ‘They’re pressed into service and there’s no knowing their true leanings.’

  Father nodded to Lieutenant Saunders to refill his glass. ‘Shouldn’t trust a single one of them – officers included.’

  ‘Some more tea, Miss Charity?’ Major Trelawney stood poised, ready to refill Charity’s cup. Frederick held out his hand but did not take the saucer from her. Instead, he held her hand steadily in his own, supporting hers while the tea was poured. I saw her blush and I smiled at Major Trelawney who smiled back. My beautiful, timid sister was really quite remarkable. Intelligent and beautiful, she had all three men eating out of her hand.

  Lieutenant Carew spoke. ‘We believe our orders will return us to France. The French are equipping at L’Orient, Rochefort and Brest but we don’t know whether all the ships are manned or if they’re lying up as hulks. We need to know which ships are actually equipping.’

  I put down my cup. ‘Do they want us to think they’ve more ships than they really have?’

  ‘Yes – the old ruse – the Greeks did it, so did the Romans and I suppose we’ll do the same. Knowledge is power, Miss Cavendish.’

  A pang of fear shot through me. It was dangerous too, absolutely petrifying.

  Father drained his glass. ‘So what are you doing in Fosse if Lord Falmouth didn’t send you to take tea with my daughters?’

  Captain Penrose hid his dislike of Father very effectively. ‘Surveillance, Sir Charles. We’ve been keeping a close watch until the batteries are manned.’

  ‘And are they now manned? That was quick – I thought you said they were in a terrible state, Major Trelawney?’

  Major Trelawney frowned. ‘They’ll not be fully operational for at least two weeks, but we’ve managed as best we can. A watch is now in place.’

  ‘For French ships? Do you really fear an invasion?’ If Father did not exactly sneer, his dismissive tone was enough to make Major Trelawney’s mouth tighten.

  ‘From tomorrow, all ships will need to signal.’

  ‘And has everyone been informed?’

  ‘All naval ships and any vessels with legitimate business have been informed. The Revenue will intercede and chase any ships not displaying the correct naval signal.’

  ‘That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’ scoffed Father.

  Major Trelawney glanced at Captain Penrose, their unspoken thought hanging in the air. ‘I’d say not – far from it. Until the canons are in place, the men have orders to fire a musket over any vessel not displaying the signal. Two unanswered musket shots will result in the fires being lit. The beacons are already in place. Those are Lord Falmouth’s orders, not mine.’

  ‘Good God, man,’ Father’s flushed face paled considerably. ‘I thought you said you were just preparing. That sounds like you’re expecting an invasion.’

  ‘Not an invasion, Sir Charles,’ replied Captain Penrose

  ‘What then?’

  Captain Penrose was no longer smiling. His voice hardened. ‘We have it on good authority that French spies are operating from Fosse. We’re watching certain establishments and it’s only a matter of time before we catch them.’

  ‘Here in Fosse? Surely not?’

  ‘Fosse, Polperro or Mevagissy. They’re hiding in the coves and wooded creeks – using the mists and fog to smuggle their people in and out. They know the coast like the back of their hand and have somehow managed to slip through our blockades and avoid our nets.’ He finished his brandy. ‘So far, they’ve had the devil’s own luck, but we’ll get them. The Revenue’s watching, we’re watching and traps have been set. Major Trelawney’s men are on twenty-four-hour watch along the coast and I’ve got men positioned all over the harbour. We’ll catch them – anytime now, their luck’ll run out.’

  The frangipane cake turned to salt in my mouth. I thought I would be sick. ‘What makes you think they’re French spies?’ I managed to ask.

  ‘Not think, Miss Cavendish, know. They’ve been followed at a distance and were nearly caught but slipped away – by a breath. As I said, they’ve the devil’s own luck. They operate out of an abbey in Brittany, Abbaye Beauport, to be exact. It’s near Saint-Malo, but there’s no knowing who are the spies and who the monks. They dress alike, all hooded and bearded, skulking around, pretending to tend their bees – but they’re wasps, the lot of them.’

  I gripped my hands under the table. Charity’s voice sounded far away. ‘These spies – are they sending information back to France or bringing it from France?’

  ‘Both, Miss Charity – but what’s most important is we believe they send information to the Irish. They want Britain to split their resources, fight on two sides. They intend to use the Irish’s dislike of the English to land their troops in Ireland. The United Irishmen make powerful allies – they’re sympathetic to the Catholic faith and
hate the English.’

  The room was too warm, the blood rushing from my head. I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘Could they not just be rescuing émigrés? I believe people are still risking their lives to save others from the guillotine.’ But even as I spoke, I knew the answer – émigrés only had to register, spies must be bundled ashore before daybreak, rowed to secret coves where men with covered wagons waited to transport them to a safe-house. My chest was rising and falling, my head spinning. I would have to get out before I fainted.

  ‘They are spies, Miss Cavendish,’ someone was replying – Major Trelawney, I think. ‘They’re very clever. They use all sorts of ciphers – musical scores that can’t be played – poetry that barely scans. They use invisible ink made from freshly squeezed lemons and dress just like you and me. They blend in with the crowds and seem to slip through walls, vanish into thin air. That’s why they’re so hard to catch, but we’ll get them, I promise.’

  His voice was fading one moment, getting louder the next. I heard him through a blur of dizziness. I had seen everything, everything – the spyholes at Madame Merrick’s, him vanishing into thin air, his sudden change of clothes. I put my handkerchief to my face, wincing from pain.

  ‘Miss Cavendish, you look unwell.’

  ‘It’s just rather hot…and it’s a ship. Ships always make me feel queasy.’ I tried to laugh, to control the pain shooting through me. What a fool I was. What a brazen, stupid fool. He was using me for information. I wanted to put my hands over my face and howl. ‘Perhaps, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get some air.’

  Father heaved himself upright. ‘We must leave – we’ve delayed you long enough. You’ve a ship to get ready and you must be wishing us away.’

  Captain Penrose helped Father to his cane. ‘Not at all. I’ve enjoyed your company, Sir Charles, and that of your daughters. Tell me, Miss Charity, do all women like to be informed? Is it just possible that someone in my sister’s drawing-room could be as interested as you?’

  Frederick Carew drew back her chair and she smiled at both in turn. ‘Yes, Captain Penrose,’ she replied. ‘You must trust your sister to select someone who shares your interests. It may not be considered seemly for women to think too deeply but, believe me, we do.’

  Major Trelawney took hold of my arm, guiding me up the stairs and through the hatch. Once on deck, I gulped the salt-laden air, fighting back my tears. Lieutenant Carew was talking to Charity, asking whether his mother might invite her to stay. I should have been graciously thanking my hosts. I hoped I was walking with the dignity I needed, holding my head high, looking back to smile my appreciation, but all I knew was that my heart was breaking, the pain so intense I wanted to scream.

  ‘Well, that went well enough,’ said Father, settling himself in the coach. Major Trelawney bowed and slammed the door. Around us, people were cheering. Enough rubble had been cleared away and we drew slowly across the crowded quayside, Charity waving from the window, smiling, knowing to give the people our attention. Word must have got round that Father was to build the cottages, but I could not face any more lies.

  I closed my eyes, forcing down the pain. Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Pendenning Hall

  Wednesday 20th November 1793, 12:00 p.m.

  The park was bathed in watery sunshine, the tips of the trees red against the green of the pasture. Sunlight glinted on the lake. There were moorhens, mallards, even some visiting geese but I hardly saw them; my head throbbed through lack of sleep. The same thoughts kept spinning round my mind. If I told Major Trelawney my reputation would be ruined, if I did not, my silence would make me a traitor. I had saved the life of a French spy. I had aided and abetted. I knew everything about them – the boat they sailed, their signals, the coves they used. I knew their names, their faces. One word from me and their whole operation would be exposed.

  Yet even through the stabs of treachery, my heart burnt with longing. What if I warned him? Gave him a chance to leave and never come back? A knife twisted inside me, ripping me open, the pain so severe I thought I would be sick. Why could I not hate him the way I should? Why was my mind so clear, but my heart so weak? I needed more time – that was all.

  No, time would not heal. I loved Arnaud so completely. With him, I was the person I should have been, the person I wanted to be, without him, the future seemed desolate. Had he been using me? Telling me he loved me because I was useful to him? I closed my eyes, the knife ripping me apart. Cynical manipulation – was that what it was? Or had fate brought us together, Venus doing her worst?

  He felt part of me. I thought like him, laughed like him, anticipated his actions. I understood how his mind worked. From the very start, I knew him to be watchful, those dark-lashed eyes so quick and observant. When he told me he had a secret my heart had jumped. I felt so alive, as if living and breathing for the very first time; the thrill of the unknown, the hint of danger, the anticipation of risk sending shivers down my spine. I wanted that. How I wanted that.

  I could not hate him, I admired him too much. In France he would be held in great awe, a man risking so much for the country he adored. I forced back my tears. Traitor – me, not him. I was the traitor. It was not him I hated, but me. I would soon forget the clothes he wore, his elegance, his humour. The way he cooked. How he wore a large white apron to shield his clothes. I would forget the way he adored Perdue, how he smiled, how the sea’s reflection would turn his eyes an intense blue. How the wind ruffled his hair. I would forget the way he gazed at me, how he held me, the taste of his lips. I would soon stem the rush of pleasure every time I thought of him.

  I turned round, twisting in my satin shoes. This was the tenth time I had passed that statue. The sun was hot, the blue sky stretching endlessly above me with no sign of clouds. Through the open door I heard Charity singing. She sounded so happy, her voice winging its way from the house, like Hope escaping Pandora’s jar.

  I forced back my tears. He had not lied to me – I had known not to delve too deeply. The desperate need to hold each other – that was real. He had not forced himself on me – I had willingly accepted his advances, even sought them, drawn by those hooded, secretive eyes, the windows to his soul. I had loved what I saw. Loved his kisses, the way he held me.

  I took a deep breath. Always reining in when I wanted to gallop. This was no different. I was born to restraint and constraint; a daughter’s duty, family bonds clamping me as firmly as any shackle. If I was French I could adore him, being English I must hate him – the accident of birth, the intrusion of politics. That was all.

  I had not thought to bring my parasol. The sun was burning my arms, my bonnet insufficient to shield my face. I needed to go inside, but I could not face the others. Mrs Jennings would see my tears and Charity would sense my unhappiness. I would seek solace in the library and search the books. Perhaps it was not the same abbey – there must be any number of abbeys along that coast. Yet even as I made my way across the terrace and looked through the library window, I knew I could not hide from the truth.

  I stepped into the silent library. The footman did not see me enter but stood to attention on the other side of the door. I was quite alone, unwatched and free, for once, able to swirl round and touch my toes. I did neither, but removed my bonnet, shut the terrace door and went quickly to the shelves, knowing there was an atlas and several religious tomes, all of them in French. I was bound to find something about Abbaye Beaufort.

  A few books looked promising and I flicked quickly through them, mostly putting them back, but reaching down for an atlas, I caught sight of a large brown leather book with faded-gold lettering – Les Éléments de l’Histoire…Abbé de Vallemont. It was well used and my heart began racing – it definitely looked hopeful. Balancing three more books in a pile, I topped them with the huge atlas and tucked them under my chin.

  The large wing-neck chair could easily accommodate me with all my books, so I settled
down, plumping up a cushion behind me. The clock in the large glass dome had just struck one and Charity would sing for another hour. Even Georgina would not pester me – she would still be upstairs, watching Mother dress. I opened the atlas, turning over the pages, searching south-east by south from Fosse. Exactly twelve hours there and twelve hours back.

  ‘Leave us, damn you. Wait outside.’ Father’s stick banged the marble floor and I froze in fear. ‘Shut the door.’ I heard laboured breathing, a man blowing his nose. Every instinct told me to rise and make my presence known, but one glance at my books and I turned to stone. They might not stay long, a quick bark of instructions, then back to the hall. If I stayed completely still, I might not be seen. I thought I could risk it – the chair was wide enough to hide me and even Georgina never saw me. ‘Well, have you got them?’

  ‘It’s bad news, Sir Charles. The certificates are in Polcarrow’s hands. He’s got everythin’.’ Philip Randall’s high-pitched whisper carried across the room.

  ‘He can’t have.’

  ‘He’s been in Falmouth. The bastard tricked us – all that time pretendin’ to be dying, he’s been in Falmouth, searchin’ for Robert. Alice Polcarrow told him everythin’ – squealed like a bloody pig, handed him her brother straight on a plate.’

  ‘Damn the bitch.’ Father was pacing backwards and forwards, turning on his heels. My heart was thumping, the drumming in my ears making it hard to hear.

  ‘Polcarrow took the bloody lot – the forged papers, everythin’. The constable was with him…they had Robert cornered and secured before he could escape. Matthew Reith was there too – Robert stood no chance. He’s back in Bodmin.’

  ‘Christ. They’ll use this against us – Polcarrow’s got all the evidence he needs. He’ll ruin me. Damn Roskelly.’ They were speaking in low whispers, restraining themselves so the footman could not hear but Father’s voice had been rising and he checked himself, walking to the cabinet to pour himself a large drink. I held my breath, watching his reflection in the window, his hands shaking as he poured the brandy. Wiping his handkerchief across his brow, he strode back, out of my line of vision and I breathed again, willing them to leave. Another drink, or a move towards the table, and they could see my reflection.