by Nicola Pryce
Philip Randall cleared his throat. ‘May I suggest—’
‘Dammit, man, I’m thinking.’
The room went silent; only the ticking of the clock and the pounding in my ears. I sat rigid, hardly daring to draw breath. If I had been alone, I would have put my head between my legs to stop the dizziness, but I was too scared even to swallow. Father returned to pour himself another drink and my heart froze. My bonnet was on the table by the window. Raising his glass, he downed the contents in one. ‘I believe this this might work in our favour – it may be just what we need.’ He walked back across the room and out of vision. ‘Why did Polcarrow pretend he was dying? That cock and bull story he concocted? He’s duped everyone – even Sir Richard and that idiot, Trelawney. Why pretend to everyone he was dying?’
‘I’m sorry – you’ve lost me, Sir Charles.’
‘Because he has a fast cutter at his disposal and needed to get to France, that’s why. Because the navy are searching for French spies and because he speaks fluent French and his wife’s a revolutionary peasant, that’s why.’ He drew breath. ‘James Polcarrow’s been away for over ten years and during that time he served on a French ship.’ His voice was getting louder, he was almost shouting. ‘Everyone knows that – but what they don’t know is that James Polcarrow’s a French spy. We’ve got all the evidence we need for his arrest.’
Philip Randall opened the door, no doubt to let the servants hear. His voice rose. ‘Indeed, Sir Charles, James Polcarrow’s a dangerous and vicious spy and must be stopped at all costs.’
‘I’ve been trying to warn the town and now, finally, maybe the people of Fosse will listen to me. James Polcarrow’s a traitor to his country. He runs a network of spies from his house. A tunnel links his study to the river – that’s how he brings spies in and out of the town.’ Father’s voice was getting progressively louder, high-pitched and shrill. ‘The captain of his cutter’s also a French spy. They operate out of a bay near Saint-Malo, the north coast of France from an abbey called Abbaye Beaufort. The spies dress as monks and James Polcarrow acts as a channel of communication. He uses ciphers, invisible ink, secret codes – anything he can to betray his country. He ferries spies backwards and forwards to France and passes information to the Irish so they can aid the French with their invasion. He’s a traitor to his country and must be stopped.’
‘Will you have him arrested, Sir Charles?’ The door closed again, their voices dropping to a whisper.
‘No, people will think I’ve a vested interest. Send two anonymous expresses – one to Sir Richard Goldsworthy and one to Major Trelawney. He’ll see to the arrests and Richard Goldsworthy to their conviction.’
‘Has Sir Richard already left?’
‘Yes. Send the express to the courts in Bodmin – the timing couldn’t be better. Sir Richard’s sitting in judgement. He’s got another week of trials before the assizes and this is just what he needs. His other cases are sedition and riot but a high-profile case of treason will get his message across. Two witnesses – that’s all we need.’
‘Sailors?’
‘Two sailors to swear they’ve sailed with James Polcarrow and his wife across the channel to Abbaye Beaufort in Brittany. Get them to say they thought they were just picking up brandy, lace…whatever. Tell them to swear they’ve brought people back to Fosse, dressed as monks. Got that? We’ll go over the details later, but pay what you need. And get testimony from the doctor who tended the Polcarrows – he’ll not lie on oath. It’s our duty to keep our shores safe. James Polcarrow and his wife must hang for treason.’
There was a sudden silence and my hands began trembling against the map of France lying open on my lap. It was too quiet, as if they had both frozen like statues, Father’s finger held against his lips, forbidding Philip Randall from speaking. ‘See to it, Phillip.’
‘I will, Sir Charles.’ There was something feigned about their speech and I strained my ears, expecting to hear steps coming in my direction. I heard them move but it was towards the door and I held my breath, willing the door to open. Father’s cane sliced the floor, his heavy footfall striding angrily away from me. The door opened and slammed and I felt the blood rush back to my heart. I knew I should grab my bonnet and run, but I could not move. Fear had turned me to stone.
That was how he worked – getting others to kill for him. So much better if the state hung Sir James for treason. All he needed were two witnesses and enough suspicion and another court case would be avoided, Father’s name not even mentioned. I had to somehow warn Sir James. If Major Trelawney searched L’Aigrette, he would find all the evidence he needed.
A glimmer of light glinted across the white marble goddess – the briefest flash, vanishing almost as it appeared. I froze in terror. Something had caught the sun and reflected it back. A glass? A mirror? My heart seemed to stop. It could only be the reflection of a silver buckle. They had seen my bonnet and were still in the room.
Chapter Thirty
Father’s stick tapped the floor. I lay with my forehead buried in the cushion, my arms lying limp across the books. I could feel their eyes boring into me, imagine Philip Randall’s snake-eyes widening as he saw the books on my lap. I could smell the reek of tobacco, his stale sweat and foetid breath leaning over me. Until they woke me I must breathe slowly and deeply, hide the thumping of my heart.
I felt the atlas lift from my lap and jumped. ‘Oh, Mr Randall, you frightened me.’
‘So deeply asleep you didn’t hear us?’ Father sneered from the fireplace.
‘I’m sorry.’ I began gathering up my books, arranging them in a pile.
Phillip Randall grabbed the top one, turning the pages, his mouth tight with anger. ‘Interested in abbeys are you, Miss Cavendish?’ He looked at Father.
‘Not interested, scared…I’m petrified – all this talk of the French invading our shores. We could be taken from our beds and murdered in our sleep, just like France. There are spies out there, helping the French invade. I haven’t slept all night. I wish Captain Penrose could have stayed – I felt safe with him in the harbour.’ Father’s eyes were pin-prick cruel. Not just the greedy eyes I thought them, but cold and hard; the callous steel of a killer. ‘I’m frightened. I don’t like living so near the coast.’
‘Then it’s as well you’re not going to live by the coast when you’re married. Go back to the music room.’
‘Yes, Father.’ I started collecting up the books.
‘Leave those. Just go.’
I reached for my bonnet, putting it slowly on my head as if I had all the time in the world. At the terrace door, I turned and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Father, Georgina tells me I shouldn’t sit in that chair as I always fall asleep. I’m…I’m sorry to be so afraid. I promise I won’t scare the others with my fears.’
I walked slowly across the terrace. A buzzard was circling over the lake and I paused to watch, doing everything I would normally do. Any sign of hurry would be enough to alert them. I stood holding my bonnet, looking up at the huge bird, the sun making me squint. My mind was racing. I needed pen and paper. I had fifteen minutes before Charity finished her lesson and, any moment now, Georgina would leave Mother and come in search of me.
Not the music room. Not Mama’s withdrawing-room. I walked quickly along the back corridor, mounting the stairs. On the first floor I began to hurry. I could not risk my own room so where could I go? I had to stop trembling and think. Mrs Jennings’ room – no-one ever went there.
I rushed up the second set of steps, the third, hugging the wall, taking them two at a time. My shoes made no sound. I rarely ventured further than the nursery and never went to Mrs Jennings’ room, but I knew she never locked it. No one was about and I ran along the nursery corridor, almost sliding on the polished wood floor. The nursery door was closed, as was Mrs MacReal’s.
Mrs Jennings’ room was at the end of the corridor and I caught my breath, glancing over my shoulder as I tried the latch. The room was almost bare – just an iron b
ed, a tiny wardrobe, a small desk and chair. The carpet on the floor was threadbare, the curtains dull and faded. Her room in Richmond was just as unadorned and I felt a surge of regret. She had no miniatures, no precious china, only the necessities – her brush and comb, and a glass decanter by the bed.
On the desk lay her writing equipment with musical scores, piled high on either side. I grabbed a sheet of paper, holding it flat, dipping the pen into the inkstand. My fingers were trembling, the ink in danger of smudging.
Sir James, you are in grave danger. You are to be arrested as a French spy. Lady Polcarrow will also be arrested. L’Aigrette will be seized and you will be tried for treason.
Without signing my name I folded it over, creasing it flat and addressed it to Lady Polcarrow. My hands were shaking so much I had difficulty scraping the flint across the tinder box. On the third stroke the flame caught and I lit the candle stub. The wax dripped onto the paper and I waited just long enough so my thumb would not scald. Straightening the paper, I replaced the quill exactly as I found it. Nothing looked different. The chair was back, the ink stand at the same slight angle. Only the faint smell of the candle, but that was already fading.
Hiding the note down my bodice, I kept close to the wall again, spiralling down the huge staircase, stopping only to walk slowly across the hall. The footman stood to attention, by his side a silver salver. Today’s post was piled high, ready to be sent, and I stared at the pile of letters, my panic rising. How stupid even to contemplate putting my letter with the others. I turned slowly round, trying to think.
I would never find the maid, but the coachman? He seemed attentive in a way that was not familiar; there was kindness in his eyes almost as if he understood my clipped wings and gilded cage. He had already taken one parcel for me, so would not think it strange if I asked another favour. I crossed the hall, retracing my steps, knowing Mother would be watching from her window.
The courtyard was full of activity. A man wearing a leather apron stood shouting orders. There were oxen yoked to carts, mules laden with baskets. Men were unloading logs, rolling barrels, carrying sacks of vegetables to the kitchen. The sun was shining onto the cobbles, turning the stones a golden yellow. Two men were drawing water from the pump, two maids watching them through the grilles of the laundry. The coach-house doors were shut and my panic rose. I looked round and smiled with relief. The coachman was walking towards me, removing his cap.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ I said as he bowed.
‘Walter Trellisk, m’lady.’
I stalled, still wondering if I could trust him. ‘I see the swallows have gone.’
‘Well gone – autumn’s nearly over, though ye wouldn’t know in this heat.’
‘Cornwall’s quite extraordinary, we don’t have such changeable weather in Richmond – not that you notice, anyway.’ He must have known I was not there to exchange polite conversation about the weather. He was wearing his leather apron and holding an oiled cloth. He must have been busy but he stood patiently squinting into the sun. ‘I’ve a letter I’d like you to take to Lady Polcarrow. She’s recovering from her illness and I want to send her my well-wishes, but…’ I paused, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘…I’m in a difficult position because my father’s no friend of the Polcarrows and I don’t want to incur his displeasure.’
He looked up with the same pride of service I had seen in his face before. ‘Would be a pleasure, m’lady. I understand what ye’re sayin’ and ye can be sure yer Father’ll not know.’ I smiled and would have reached for the letter, but he quickly shook his head. ‘Ye’re being watched, Miss Cavendish, so I’ll shake me head, like this, as if yer askin’ if there be meres for ridin’. When ye leave the courtyard, look for a drain pipe with a copper cover an’ leave yer letter under there. I’ll deliver it as soon as can be.’ He bowed politely and I turned away.
Mother was watching the front, Phillip Randall the back. My prison doors were firmly closing. I had done everything in my power to warn James Polcarrow but was it enough? I walked slowly back to the house, fighting my tears. I was not a fool; I knew exactly what I had done. By warning one, another might go free.
I was not a traitor to my country but neither was I a traitor to my heart.
Charity wrapped her shawl around her. The window was open, the sound of owls hooting across the night’s sky. Below us the park lay bathed in silver light, the folly eerie and ghostly in the moonlight. It seemed so peaceful.
‘It’s so still. Is the moon full?’ she asked.
‘So full you can see its face – it’s almost as light as day. There are deer by the obelisk and rabbits darting everywhere. If we wait, the badgers may appear.’
‘Will they be in Falmouth? Or do you think they’ve set sail for France?’
‘It would be a beautiful night to sail.’
‘You like him, don’t you, Cici? We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?’
I reached for her hand. ‘I like him very much…and I like the sound of his family. We’re definitely doing the right thing.’
‘But what if his family don’t accept me? What if they realise my blindness is worse than they thought and forbid him ever to see me again?’
I hugged her to me. ‘Frederick Carew’s far too well connected to need money or patronage. He’s one of the lucky few who can marry for love.’
‘His mother probably only sent him out of politeness. She probably doesn’t want anything to do with us. Not really.’
‘Itty, it’s so unfair. I wish you could see how his eyes soften when he looks at you. He can barely tear them away. Just for one amazing moment I wish you could see him.’
She squeezed my hand. ‘I don’t need to.’
She sat bathed by the light of the moon, her heart winging over the water, following the wake of an armed naval frigate. My heart lay shattered and broken, too heavy to skim the waves behind a small unarmed cutter. Two boats slicing through the sea, foam breaking over their bows, their sails arching gracefully against the moonlit sky: two men, intent on serving their country, each keeping his course, one man gripping a huge polished wheel, the other with his hand resting lightly on the tiller. The same moon would be shining down on them, the same wind blowing the lapels on their jackets, ruffling their hair.
It was too painful to contemplate.
Chapter Thirty-one
Pendenning Hall
Thursday 21st November 1793, 12:00 p.m.
We had been summoned to meet in the hall. We were to wear our bonnets and bring our parasols. We definitely needed gloves.
‘What’s this all about, Mrs Jennings?’ asked Charity.
‘Sir Charles thinks Lady April should be seen distributing alms. He believes it will enhance your family’s reputation as caring for the sick and destitute.’ She looked as shocked as I felt.
‘But Mama never gives alms, and it’s only twelve o’clock – she doesn’t get dressed for another two hours. I can’t believe she’s agreed to it.’
Mrs Jennings seemed more flustered than usual. ‘Yes… well…there’s always a first time.’ She straightened Charity’s bonnet and touched her cheek. ‘Don’t breathe deeply…and if you’re near anyone who coughs, hold your herbs to your nose…and don’t enter any of the cottages. Try and distribute the loaves from the coach and don’t touch any one. There’s fever out there and heaven knows what else beside.’
‘Who’s going?’
‘I’m not sure. Ah, there you are, Georgina, you do look lovely. Wrap that cloak around you…it may be sunny but don’t be fooled; it’s nearly the end of November.’ She was fussing like a mother hen. Outside, the coach had drawn up, the footmen loading two large baskets of loaves onto the back rails. Two other footmen stood holding smaller baskets of freshly baked bread and it was obvious the cooks had been up all night. ‘Have you got your vinaigrettes, girls? Here comes Lady April.’
Mother swept down the stairs in her green and red travelling gown, her tall hat and a large v
eil covering most of her face. Saffron lay in one arm, a velvet muff hanging from the other. She stood scowling on the doorstep, incandescent with rage. I raised my eyebrows at Mrs Jennings and took Charity’s arm, pulling her back as Georgina barged in front.
Mother stood at the carriage steps, angrily beckoning Mrs Jennings. She handed her Saffron. ‘Keep her warm. I’ll not take her anywhere near such filth. Sir Charles may not care one jot for the health of his wife and family, but I’ll not put my dog in danger.’
Mrs Jennings smiled. ‘Am I to stay behind, Lady April?’
‘No, you’re to go,’ shouted a voice from behind. Mr Randall was standing at the door, feet apart, hands resting on his hips. A look of thunder darkened his face and I knew something was wrong – he sounded too authoritative, too sure of himself.
Mother bristled, delighted to vent her fury. ‘It is not up to you, Mr Randall, who goes and who stays. Mrs Jennings will remain and take care of my dog.’
‘It’s not up to me – I’m just the messenger, but Sir Charles believes Mrs Jennings should hand out the bread on your behalf and there’s only room for four of you with all those baskets.’
Sudden dread filled my stomach and I tried to quell my fear. Walter Trellisk was staring straight ahead and something in the set of his shoulders increased my uneasiness. ‘Georgina should stay behind,’ I said, stepping in front of her. ‘She’s too young to be exposed to fever.’ I began mounting the carriage but she pulled me back, pinching me painfully below my elbow.
‘No, Mama promised me, didn’t you, Mama? You said I could come. It’s not fair, Celia always gets to go everywhere and do everything. She’s so selfish – she never lets me have any fun.’ She pulled me back, pinching me harder, almost ripping my shawl.