The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘For goodness sake,’ snapped Mother, her face rigid with fury. ‘Get in the coach, Georgina. Mrs Jennings, hand the dog to Celia and get in. I don’t care if you don’t have your cloak. Charity, stop looking like you’re going to cry. Let’s get this farce over and done with.’

  I stood holding the whimpering dog, watching Georgina smoothing her skirts next to Mother. The baskets of bread were handed through the door, the steps pulled quickly up, and I stood watching the coach recede down the drive. Anxiety filled me. Father knew Georgina always got her way.

  I put Saffron’s soft little legs firmly on the gravel. She seemed bemused, looking up at me through her large, brown eyes. ‘Walk!’ I snapped, pushing her forward. She looked petrified, staring back at me, completely at a loss. ‘Go sniff the fountain, chase those sparrows.’ I began walking across the drive in the hope she might follow. There was something lying by the fountain – a small soft mound and I stifled my scream, beginning to run. She hurried behind me, her mouth open, intent on reaching it first. ‘No, leave it!’ I shouted.

  Tears blurred my eyes. My beautiful ring-neck dove lay limp and lifeless, her eyes fixed and dull. I stared in horror at her blood-soaked feathers. They knew. Dear God, they knew. Footsteps crunched behind me. Philip Randall grabbed Saffron by the scruff of her neck, her body dangling in the air. She looked terrified. ‘Sir Charles wants to see you.’

  I laid the dove gently on the rim of the fountain, this symbol of constancy and peace. Her mate would be watching from the ledge above, no doubt already pining. Philip Randall’s snake eyes were full of venom. I had always hated him, but now I was petrified of him. I walked towards the house, my legs turning to jelly. The dove’s neck had fallen to one side, just like poor poisoned Hercules, lying in Alice Polcarrow’s arms. My letter could not have reached Sir James. Neither Sir James nor…

  We entered the hall and Philip Randall threw Saffron to the floor, staring in disgust as she looked up and whimpered. ‘In the study,’ he said, pointing for me to go first. Walter Trellisk must have been caught when he tried to retrieve the note. Father had plenty of time to order the baking of the bread and set his plans in motion. He wanted me alone in the house, no-one else there. I heard the door slam, the lock turn.

  Father stood by his desk, his eyes blazing. I had expected fury, purple rage, but this silence seemed worse – like Mother’s icy-calm. Philip Randall stood behind me, unquestionably my gaoler. He was too close, too sure of himself. I could smell his foul sweat, his acrid breath. Father had my note in his hand and was holding it in front of him. ‘So you were asleep, were you? Heard nothing? Scared of the spies? Well, I’ve news for you, my dear. Walter Trellisk does not work for you – he works for me.’

  The room began spinning, the blood rushing from my head. Father saw my fear and smiled. Behind me, Phillip Randall laughed. ‘Made you feel you could trust him, did he? Gave you the look of one you could turn to?’ I felt dizzy, breathless. I needed air. I had been so stupid, so utterly foolish. Walter Trellisk had seemed so genuine, as if he really cared, but I had walked straight into Father’s trap.

  Father reread the note, scowling with distaste. ‘Who’d believe I’d a daughter who thinks nothing of alerting a known French spy? Is he your lover? The one you spend your nights with in the cottage?’ He was icy-calm, but his eyes were blazing. Pin-points and cruel. I forced back my tears, staring at the twitch in the corner of his mouth – it was unstoppable, like his power.

  ‘How dare you suggest such a thing!’ My heart was pounding. Lies – that was how he worked, silencing people through lies and innuendo.

  ‘Or perhaps he was just one of many? We know you sneak out at night to your whores’ den beneath the eaves,’ Philip Randall’s breath was hot against my neck.

  I swung round. ‘How dare you!’

  His eyes hardened. ‘You’re a traitor, Miss Cavendish – a traitor and a liar. You tried to warn a French spy so it’s right to assume you must be one of them.’ He grabbed my arm, jerking me towards him.

  ‘Let me go!’ He loosened his grip and I pulled away. ‘What you accuse me of is outrageous. How dare you talk to me of whores’ dens!’ I was angry now, every bit as angry as Father. A red mist filled my head, a seething wave of anger sweeping through me. I could feel my cheeks burning, my eyes watering. But I needed to stay calm, think my way through this. The last thing I needed was to screech like an alley cat. I turned back to Father, calming my voice. ‘I’ve been so foolish, so very, very foolish. I only wrote to Sir James because I know he’s innocent. That night I went missing, I saw Viscount Vallenforth beat a young boy nearly to death and I was scared…’ Father was staring at me, his face full of hatred. ‘…I thought he’d do the same to me…I wasn’t thinking, I just panicked and ran. I took the path through the wood…I was frightened…I thought only to take refuge with the Polcarrows and beg you to release me from my engagement—’

  ‘You thought to take refuge with the Polcarrows?’ Father snorted in contempt.

  ‘At the time I thought I could never marry Viscount Vallenforth…but I was wrong – I can see that now. I thought only to stay at Polcarrow…but Sir James and Lady Polcarrow were leaving – some other business called them to Falmouth so I begged them to take me with them.’

  A flicker crossed his face. ‘What business?’ His eyes were steel – the eyes of a man who recognised fear.

  ‘They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I’ve no idea why they went.’ I looked down, unable to keep his gaze. It was a mistake. I should have stayed looking at him. He knew I was lying. He was playing me, cat and mouse.

  ‘And James Polcarrow agreed, of course.’

  ‘No, he was very angry and refused, but I managed to persuade Lady Polcarrow. She leant me a cloak and smuggled me aboard. I was completely hidden…no-one saw me and no-one could identify me – I promise you.’

  Father’s face turned so puce I thought he might choke. ‘You expect me to believe you sailed to Falmouth?’

  ‘It’s the truth, Father. I’m ashamed I even thought to do such an outrageous thing…but I was scared. I thought Viscount Vallenforth would whip me the way he did that boy. I was running in fear…thinking only of the whip.’

  ‘You expect us to believe that?’ Philip Randall took hold of my arm again.

  ‘I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my father,’ I shouted, angrily twisting my arm free. There was hatred in his eyes, no, not hatred, lust. He was enjoying watching me plead. I turned away, feeling totally repulsed. ‘I knew Arbella was in Falmouth—’

  ‘You knew what?’ Father’s fury erupted, his bulbous nose flaring like an angry bull, his skin purple, blotched with pockmarks. He rushed towards me, his hand in the air, and I flinched, waiting for him to strike.

  ‘Don’t hit me, please, I’m telling you the truth. Please, please, listen…let me explain. I’m not proud of what I did… but I’m telling you the truth because you need to understand why I wrote that note.’ He lowered his hand but stayed uncomfortably close. I could smell the lavender oil in his wig, tobacco on his breath. ‘In Falmouth, I thought I found Arbella. It was the right place and I found people with the right name—’

  ‘You knew where they were? This is outrageous – completely outrageous.’ Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  ‘I know how terrible it sounds…believe me, I know.’ I fell to my knees, tears running down my cheeks. ‘Please don’t tell Mama…please keep this our secret. I’ve learnt my lesson.’ I knew to beg for my life – make him believe I knew nothing about the poisoning. He was going to silence me – dear God, he would silence me, just like the others. I gripped my hands together. ‘…Sir James was determined I stay with his friends but I told him I’d found Arbella and sent him away.’

  ‘You expect me to believe this…?’

  ‘It’s the truth…the absolute truth…Arbella wasn’t there and I was frightened. I was alone in Falmouth…I had no money, no friends…I had to get home so I rushed back to Sir Ja
mes’ ship and demanded the captain bring me straight back.’ I caught my breath, looking up at Father. ‘The rest you know…’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘How I was locked in the cottage and had to wait until morning.’ Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision. ‘I only wrote to Sir James because he’d shown me such consideration.’

  Father stared down at me. ‘You stupid idiot. James Polcarrow’s a known French spy. He’s fooled you, just as he’s fooled everyone.’

  ‘No, that’s not true – he went to Falmouth, not France. The captain left him behind when he brought me back.’ Tears were streaming down my cheeks. This was no pretence, I was pleading, really pleading. I reached forward like the supplicant I was, my palms sinking into the soft pile of the carpet. I could smell vinegar seeping through his bandage and held my breath. I was petrified, utterly petrified. There was no knowing what he would do.

  He stepped away but I stayed on my knees, my head bowed. This changed everything. I would have to leave tonight, take my jewels, anything I could sell. This time I would be prepared. I would use the servants’ stairs, take the tradesmen’s road and make my way to Bodmin. I would walk all the way, if need be. I would find Matthew Reith and offer myself as a witness for James Polcarrow. I would tell him everything. ‘Father, please, please, don’t tell Mama. If Viscount Vallenforth finds out, I’ll be ruined.’

  ‘Get up,’ replied Father. He was back at his desk, straightening his chair, picking up his quill, dipping it in the ink. ‘James Polcarrow’s a spy and you tried to warn him – that makes you culpable and it’s my duty to have you watched. Mr Randall, take my daughter to her room. Lock the door and bring me back the key.’

  ‘Father, please…I’m so sorry – I should never have written that letter. I was so sure…’

  ‘Not another word. Get out.’ He began writing, his pen scratching across the paper. I felt my arm grabbed from behind, Philip Randall’s bony fingers gripping me too harshly, lifting me to my feet with unnecessary force. He was pushing me to the door, his fingers sinking into my arm and I winced with pain but would not plead – that would give him too much satisfaction. He pressed harder, edging me quickly through the door, thrusting me in front of him as we left the study.

  Half pushing, half pulling, he forced me across the hall, almost dragging me up the stairs. There was no-one there, no-one to see me, not even Georgina – Father had seen to that. Outside my room two men stood to attention and I stopped at the sight of them, pulling back against Phillip Randall’s fierce grip. ‘Are they to be my gaolers?’

  ‘Get in,’ he said, pushing me roughly through the door. The door locked behind me and I leant against it, my heart hammering, my breath coming so fast I could hardly breathe. I pulled up my sleeve and stared at the large red mark already forming.

  I looked up. Something was different. A strong smell of camphor filled the room. A bag lay on the floor next to the chaise longue and I could hear rustling in the washroom. The door opened and a woman stood glaring at me – a thin woman with pinched cheeks and a drawn, grey face.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, her thin lips barely moving. ‘I’m Mrs Roach. Mrs Augustine Roach. I’m your new companion.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  There was something familiar about her sinewy frame, the gleeful cruelty in her eyes. Deep lines radiated from her mouth, puckering in disapproval. I sensed the thrill of her power, her delight I had been brought so low. Her mousey-brown hair, tied tightly beneath her cotton mob cap, was streaked with grey, her dress dull worsted wool, as worn by most of the townswomen. ‘My gaoler, you mean,’ I said, brushing past her, trying the door to Charity’s room. ‘Am I to stay locked in for ever?’

  She stood behind me, watching my efforts. ‘That’s not the best of starts, Miss Cavendish. If we’re to pass the time together, you’d do better keepin’ a civil tongue in your head. D’you think my brother hasn’t ordered that door locked?’

  Her brother, of course, who else would Phillip Randall choose? Fear twisted my stomach, filling me with dread. I let my cloak fall from my shoulders – she would have to pick it up – and crossed to the mirror, removing my diamond hat pin, throwing my bonnet to the chair, dropping my gloves to the carpet. Outside, the park looked deserted, no groundsmen, no gardeners, just the soft sun lighting the grass, the blue lake reflecting the azure sky. To be confined on such a day.

  One glance at my writing table and my fury rose. ‘Where are my pens and paper?’

  She sniffed, glaring at my discarded clothes. ‘There’s to be no writin’ notes. D’you think my brother didn’t think of that?’

  ‘Where’s my sketch pad and chalks?’

  ‘Put away.’

  ‘And has your brother removed my embroidery in case I stab you with my needle?’

  ‘You’ve yer book to read.’

  Panic rose inside me. I had no way to signal, no way to write. Surely they could not keep me long like this – surely Charity would try the door and hear me. I would shout to her, tell her to get Mother to intervene. I took my cashmere shawl and wrapped it round my shoulders, sitting bolt upright by the window, desperate for the coach to return. From my window, I could see only a small section of the drive sweeping across the park and knew I would have to watch carefully for their return.

  Augustine Roach stepped over my cloak and reached for a large tapestry bag, pulling out threads and bobbins. Sitting herself on a hard, upright chair by the door, she began making lace, her fingers flying over the cushion she placed on her lap. I stared at the open page of my book, not reading a word, my gloves still lying on the floor. Her fingers flew. Horrible bony fingers darting across her lap, like a witch conjuring a spell.

  The clock chimed three. Three hours! I must have missed their return. My heart jolted in sudden realization – visiting the cottages would have involved going through the south gate. They would have returned by way of the stables. I had been such a fool, staring at the small length of drive for nearly three hours. In the distance a cart caught my attention and I looked again. It was a shabby donkey-cart, driven by the hunched figure of an old man. Jolting uncomfortably inside the cart was a lady wrapped in a black shawl and black bonnet, by her side a small portmanteau.

  I stood up, pressing against the window. They were a long way away but I knew the bonnet would be trimmed with purple ribbon, the bag crammed full of closely written music. She was such a familiar figure, I recognised her at once, but in a donkey-cart? ‘What’s happened?’ I shouted. ‘What’s father done to Mrs Jennings?’

  The witch fingers flew. She did not even look up. ‘Your Father’s done nothin’ – it’s what she’s done you should be askin’. Two days past, a large sum of money went missin’ from Sir Charles’ desk. My brother’s been lookin’ for the thief and this mornin’ he found the money alongside several bits of silver – under the mattress in Mrs Jennin’s’ room. Thieves are hung, I believe, Miss Cavendish.’

  ‘What?’ I had to sit down, press my fingers against my forehead.

  ‘She’ll deny it, of course – throw herself at Sir Charles’ feet. I can just see her, can’t you? All her righteous, ladylike manners, that uppity, better-than-the rest-of-us, snooty composure vanishin’ as she begged for her life. Beggin’ my brother on those precious knees of hers. She should’ve been less the lady and a bit more the maid.’

  ‘She is a lady. And she’s innocent.’ I had to stop myself from rushing over and hitting this foul-mouthed women with her vile talk and evil heart. Never before had I felt capable of violence, but as I watched the creases tighten round those puckered lips, the fingers jab at the bobbins, I felt capable of anything. ‘Mother will believe her,’ I said. But would she? The only thing that could save Mrs Jennings was Mother’s fear of scandal. Even Father would not risk such public exposure, not with the legal case he was facing. I tried to breathe, think rationally. ‘She was in a donkey cart. She’s been dismissed, not arrested.’

  ‘My brother’ll give her a chance �
�� considerin’ the unlocked door, but she’s out, you can be sure of that. Mrs Precious is now playin’ a very different tune.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it, considering you’ve been cooped up with me in this room.’

  ‘I know all me brother’s business. We’re very close, you know. Since my poor husband died, he’s been very good to me.’

  I stared at the empty drive, the dust long settled. Offer your services to Mrs Pengelly, I willed, shutting my eyes. The clock chimed four, disturbing my thoughts. ‘Am I to starve today?’

  ‘The cook’ll bring you broth at five. Your Father’s given your message to Lady April that you’re not to be disturbed as your headache’s taken away your appetite and you’ve no want of dinner.’ They had thought of everything. This was no angry ‘sending to my room’ like a child, this had been carefully planned. Even if Charity came to my room, she would not see the gaolers for what they were. She would see only a blur of uniform, the familiar sight of footmen waiting to convey my messages, jump to my command.

  The relentless threading continued; the lace now the size of a collar. My mind was clearing. I would need my hatpin to release the latch of the servants’ door. I knew where to place it and exactly how to open it. It would be tonight, when Augustine Roach was asleep. I glanced at my desk – the silver inkpot was still there, so too the silver candle-holder by my bed. There was the filigree-silver glass stand, my silver-handled comb. She might wake if I searched for my jewellery, so I would take only the diamond earrings I was wearing and my silver compass, hidden under my pillow. My heart lurched in pain. I would sell it.

  Outside my door I heard footsteps and the gentle knock I had been waiting for. I leapt from my chair, pushing past Mrs Roach but she was too quick for me. I tripped and fell over her outstretched foot, tumbling headlong to the floor, my wrists taking the full force of my fall. Immediately she leapt on me, pinning me down by the weight of her body, her knees digging painfully into my back. She was every bit as strong as her brother, pulling my shawl tightly over my mouth, crushing my lips against my teeth, gagging me so I could hardly breathe.