The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  I gasped for breath but the more I struggled, the tighter she wrenched my gag, her wrists pulling the shawl into a knot. I tried rolling sideways but she pulled my head backwards, stretching my neck so I thought it would snap.

  ‘Sleepin’ peacefully, m’lady, and asks not to be disturbed. I’ll send word the moment she wakes.’ The respectful voice of the footman, Charity would know no difference. Augustine Roach was pulling my hair from its roots. I was choking, desperate to breathe. Charity must have gone. I could do nothing but stop struggling and lie limp.

  ‘That was very foolish,’ she hissed in my ear as she released the shawl. I gasped for breath, lying at her feet watching as she smoothed her skirts. ‘My brother’ll have to know ’bout this. Your tantrums aren’t makin’ this easy for me – I’ve an elixir to use, so bear that in mind, Miss Cavendish.’

  I threw myself onto my bed. The maid would hand the footman my tray and the footman would bring it in. No chance at all to alert Charity. I would have to break my solemn promise and leave without saying goodbye. Worse still, I would have to abandon Charity to a house with no Mrs Jennings. I could hardly bear it. ‘Use what you like,’ I said, dissolving into the tears I had been struggling so long to hold back.

  ‘I need the privy,’ I said, pushing aside my evening tray. I had not touched the lukewarm broth.

  Mrs Roach sniffed. ‘It’s where it’s always been,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders. I reached for my comb, looking back at my pale reflection. My eyes looked haunted, fearful; no sign of defiance, no trace of the carefree girl who loved to gallop. I had picked my cloak off the floor and hung it on the back of the washroom door, slipping my hatpin up my sleeve as I tidied away my bonnet. Down my bodice lay my compass and the silver-filigree glass holder. I would slip the comb up my sleeve and take the silver candlestick into the washroom. ‘Have you ordered hot water, or am I to wash in cold water from the jug?’

  ‘No hot water. You’ve requested none because you want to sleep.’

  ‘You will, at least, help me into my nightdress?’

  She looked up. In the candlelight her cheeks looked hollow. ‘Do it yourself. You just have to undo the ribbons… sometimes they’re buttons, sometimes clasps. Everyone else – and just about every man – knows how to undo stays, so its time you learnt.’ Years of anger and bitterness were etched across her face, each line vindictive, each crease clamping in the venom, the satisfaction of seeing others suffer.

  I glared at her, but my heart raced. The comb was cold against my skin. The silver candlestick steady in my hand. The only problem I faced was my lack of outdoor shoes, other than that, I was ready. I picked up my nightgown. ‘There may be ties round my back I can’t reach – and without your help it’ll take me forever. I’ll call you if I need you.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ she said, smiling through the darkness.

  I shut the door behind me. The key had been removed so I had no way of locking it. I grabbed my cloak, throwing it over my shoulders. There was enough light from the single candle to light the room. I would leave it burning, showing under the door to make her believe I was still undressing. I had been rehearsing the way in my mind, remembering it clearly – the third door after the second bend. Then two bends. I would trail my fingers along the wall – three doors, two bends, two flights of steps, then along the tiled corridor leading to the ironing room, the laundry and out to the stable yard.

  I took my hatpin and knelt by the hidden door. There was hardly any light, the door impossible to see. I ran my fingers over the embossed paper, feeling for the outline. I felt the tiny gap and followed it up to the top, pushing the hatpin against the latch. The hatpin jolted in my fingers and I pulled it out, frantically pushing it back into the tiny gap, sliding it upwards with greater pressure. The same solid resistance, the same lack of movement. I began to panic, digging my fingernails into the thick wallpaper, clawing at the locked catch.

  Behind me, the washroom door flung open. Augustine Roach was laughing, throwing back her head, the candlelight showing the crooked teeth crowding her mouth. ‘D’you think I didn’t know?’ her eyes filled with tears. ‘Lockin’ that door was the first thing my brother did! I’ve been watchin’ you collect your silver, believin’ you’re so clever. D’you really think my brother didn’t think of that?’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  She stood in the doorway watching my courage turn to fear. Tears of anger filled my eyes – fury, frustration, but mostly panic. I pushed past her, undoing my curtain ties, pulling them round the bed and threw myself on the eiderdown, staring up at the heavy brocade, for once grateful that the dusty curtains would give me privacy. In the morning I would insist on seeing Mother. I would scream from the window, break the glass if necessary.

  I began to feel calmer. She had taken me by surprise, that was all, tripping me up and suffocating me with the shawl. I was a match for her. I was strong enough. I just needed the advantage. The curtain ropes would do very well. I would tie her up and gag her, just like she had done to me. Tomorrow would be different.

  I could hear her moving about, her candle lighting up various parts of the room – my wardrobe, my desk, my dressing table. I could hear her pulling open drawers, shuffling through their contents and I leant slowly forward, peering through a small gap in the curtains. She was going through my jewellery, placing most of it in a small bag. I watched her lift my pearls to her neck, holding them against her grey dress, the pearls shimmering in the candlelight. Her face hardened, her mouth tightened. There was greed in the eyes that looked back from the mirror. Thrusting them into the bag, she reached for my cashmere stole and threw it round her shoulders. She settled back on the chaise longue, her hideous shoes dirtying the satin cover.

  My mind was now clear. I would take advantage of her while she slept. I would wait until I heard the sounds of heavy breathing. She had not drawn the curtains and long shafts of moonlight filled the room. It was stuffy behind the curtains, hot and uncomfortable. I lay in my gown, the silk crushed and ruined. The clock chimed eleven. I loved that clock, the delicate deep blue enamel with its intricate workings. It was French, signed, Orange a Versailles. I watched it for hours – the wheel clicking, the delicate pendulum suspended on silk. It had ticked away days that should have been lived and nights spent lying awake, dreaming of Arnaud. I wiped away my tears. Practicality, not sentimentality, was what was needed.

  I sat suddenly upright and strained my ears, my stomach tightening. Someone had opened the washroom door and footsteps were crossing the room. I pulled back the curtains. A man stood by the bed, reaching forward, forcing a rag over my mouth, pushing me back against the bedclothes. The rag was tight against my face, caustic, sharp, burning my nose, catching my throat, making my eyes water. I began writhing under the force, pulling away from the hand pressing so firmly against me, but I could feel my senses swimming, spiralling away from me.

  I was spinning, the bedposts whirling round me. I could hear distorted voices. ‘Take this rope – bind her feet while I gag her. Get her out those clothes and into these.’ The voices were coming and going. I was being pushed, pulled, twisted from side to side, the sharp, pungent smell burning my nostrils. ‘Get those buttons done and tie her hands.’

  ‘You’re right – she knew ’bout the door.’

  ‘She knows too much. Bitch has been spyin’ on us.’

  ‘I’ve got her jewellery.’

  ‘Good. Ah, you’re wakin’. I’m afraid there’ll be no more sleep for you, tonight.’ He began pulling me across the eiderdown, lifting me on his shoulder, thrusting me onto the chair by my desk. The room was spinning, the gag suffocating me. My hands were tied in front of me, my legs bound beneath my dress. ‘What we need is a farewell note – you’re elopin’, my dear, runnin’ away with one of your lovers you’ve been entertainin’ in your whores’ den.’ Philip Randall smiled at his sister and even through my blurred senses I saw the satisfaction in her returned smile. ‘You’re goin’ to write e
xactly what I say.’

  She slid a piece of paper on the desk in front of me and forced a pen into my bound hand. I shook my head, sending the pen flying across the floor. Philip Randall forced my hands back onto the desk, holding me tightly round the waist, his chin pressing against my neck. I could feel his stubble scratch my skin, his nose rubbing against my jaw, his foul breath loathsome against my skin. ‘Take the pen and write,’ he said as his sister forced the pen back between my fingers.

  I shook my head again, but Augustine Roach was ready, her bony fingers clamping over mine, her sharp nails digging into mine with enough force to draw blood. I was wrong. I was no match for her hatred. Suddenly I froze. Philip Randall had reached into his jacket and was holding a knife against my cheek. His grip tightened round my waist, his chin pressed harder against my face. ‘You’re wasting time – write. Don’t think I won’t slice this pretty cheek of yours. I would – easy. Just one slice and you’ll be left with a hideous scar.’

  My hands were shaking. He would do it, I knew he would. I grabbed the pen, holding it awkwardly in my bound hands. I could hardly write the words he hissed in my ear.

  Dear Mama, I leave because I cannot live without the man I love. I know the disgrace I am inflicting on our family but I fear I must put my own happiness first. Your daughter, Celia.

  It was my writing, my pen, my paper. There was nothing to show it had been written under duress. I felt myself jerked backwards, the rag once more forced against my nose but, this time, I was ready and held my breath. Even so, the acrid fumes were so pungent, so powerful, I felt my mind begin to swirl. If I struggled, they would keep the rag pressed across my face, if I shut my eyes and appeared senseless, they would think me harmless. I let myself go limp and my head loll to one side. I needed to breathe but, somehow, I held back, counting slowly, willing myself not to inhale. The rag was removed. ‘She’s out.’

  I kept my eyes shut. I could feel a rough cloak wrapped around me, Phillip Randall dragging me towards the washroom. At the servants’ door, he stopped to squeeze through the entrance before, once again, pulling me roughly behind him. Through barely open lids, I saw Augustine Roach following us, a candle in one hand, the tapestry bag containing her lace in the other. Father had thought of everything. The footmen would be replaced and Mother would never know anyone had been here.

  Two bends, two flights of steps. No sign of any maids. It must be nearly half past one and the household would be sleep ing. I saw the piles of laundry waiting to be delivered, the trolleys set for the morning. Philip Randall was cursing, dragging me behind him, his hands hooked under my shoulders, uncomfortably close to my breast. My stomach was turning with loathing. His hands began reaching beneath the rough cloak, fumbling with the ribbon on my stays. Vile, vile man. He did not believe I was asleep. He must think me awake.

  Augustine Roach coughed, seemingly to bring him to his senses. He slowly withdrew his hands, hauling me over his shoulder, twisting down the two flights of narrow stairs, walking quickly along the corridor, my head and arms banging limply against his shoulders. I felt sick with disgust – sick and petrified, knowing my only chance was to stay awake. I could smell the lye, the scrubbed tables. I could feel him bend down, swerving to avoid the sheets hanging from the wires above.

  He stopped by the door and I glimpsed my surroundings. Augustine Roach quietly shut the door behind us, checking to see if anyone was in the courtyard. Logs lay stacked in the woodshed; barrels piled high against the wall. She nodded and Philip Randall followed her into the shadows. Moonlight bathed the cobbles, lighting the water pump, the rows of buckets waiting in line but they kept to the shadows, skirting the buildings, out of sight of prying eyes.

  We passed the stables, the coach-house, creeping silently under the arch to the tradesmen’s drive. He shifted my position, my head jolting against his back, his hands now gripping my thighs beneath my dress. Foul, disgusting man. The rope binding my hands was too tight, the gag digging painfully into my mouth. I had to breathe through my nose, fighting the panic welling up inside me. Behind us, the house lay silent and undisturbed.

  ‘The coach’s behind those bushes. Walter’s got the wheels muffled. Everythin’s ready and I’ll explain as we go. I’m comin’ as far as the toll-gate. My horse’s tethered to the coach – your bags are on the back.’

  ‘And provisions?’

  ‘You’re well provided for – you won’t need to stop. Just the change of horses but Walter’ll see to that. You’ve done well, Augustine.’

  ‘The payment’s reward enough – it’s you who’s done well.’

  ‘I made the bastard double it. Here’s the coach. Walter, open the door.’

  ‘It’s open, sir – here, let me help. We’d best get goin’, the horses are edgy – an owl disturbed them.’ Another pair of hands grabbed me under the arms, Phillip Randall clutched my ankles.

  ‘Get goin’, I’ll pull up the steps – use the verge, then cut behind the cottages. Once we’re on the road, give them everythin’. It’s a bright night – the road is clearly visible.’

  ‘Perfect for a journey, sir.’ I was half flung, half pushed into the carriage, left lying slumped on the filthy floor. ‘Augustine, allow me to help you.’

  The door slammed and I felt myself pulled onto the seat and propped roughly against the side. Old leather. Dusty curtains. No springs. My mind was racing. Philip Randall was going to leave us at the toll-gate. I would be alone with Augustine Roach. In her bag were scissors. I would use them to cut through my bindings. The carriage lurched forward, the wheels muffled by strong leather. As I thought, no suspension, the carriage rocking at the slightest dip, jolting us from side to side. Augustine Roach sat opposite me, Phillip Randall by her side. Next to me was a small leather case – brass clasps, no initials.

  ‘We won’t use the lantern – I don’t want us seen and there’s enough light from the moon.’ Philip Randall reached over, taking the bag onto his lap. ‘It’s very straightforward,’ he said, undoing the clasp. ‘The letters are in order. This one’s for Dr Joseph Cox – owner of Fishponds. It’s the letter of introduction so make sure you give it only to him. You’re a long standin’ friend of the family – you’ve been her confidante since early childhood and you’re heartbroken it’s come to this. Her name’s Eleanor Morpass, wife of a strugglin’ clergyman. She’s become totally unmanageable, rantin’ and ravin’, insisting she’s someone else.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Friday 22nd November 1793, 2:00 a.m.

  I wanted to scream. I needed to fight my panic, stop the urge to struggle free. The coach was racing, hurtling along the drive. Even if I did manage to prise open the door, I would not be able to run. I would injure myself for nothing.

  ‘These letters are from the physicians who’ve been attendin’ her. This one’s from Dr Hunter – he’s an eminent doctor, registered with the Royal College of Physicians. And this letter’s from Dr Bentley, a country doctor practicin’ outside Taunton. Both tell of Mrs Morpass’ developin’ madness…’

  ‘She’s from Taunton?’

  ‘Her husband’s a curate on the Somerset levels. He’s been told by the parish that her behaviour can no longer be tolerated. She’s developed carnal cravin’s…she removes her clothes…dances naked in the moonlight.’ I could hear the lust in Philip Randall’s voice. ‘She frightens the servants, makes advances on the men. They’re petrified of her rantin’…and she scares the villagers. She denies her name, her marriage. She denies everythin’ – says it’s a conspiracy to silence her. The woman’s quite mad.’

  ‘You wrote the letters?’

  ‘No, Sir Charles did. He knows Dr Hunter well. He’s on the Commission for Visitin’ Madhouses. It’s worked before – no-one studies the signatures.’ I could not breathe. Dear God, Father had done this before. Mrs White. Mrs Pelligrew. One had gone mad with grief, the other rehoused at his own expense. I had to stay calm. At the toll-gate I would leap from the carriage, if only I could open the door.<
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  Philip Randall reached towards me, his hands diving beneath my skirt. As if checking my bindings, he began stroking my calf, reaching upwards to caress my knee. I lay limp before him, stifling my loathing. I was denying him the pleasure of watching my terror, but my panic was rising. My compass was in my garter, inches from his hand. If he found it, read those words and saw the engraving, he would guess. I felt sick with fear.

  Slowly he withdrew his hand, reaching instead to his jacket pocket. ‘Put this in your bag. She’s out, but when she wakes use five or six drops – that should be enough.’ Mrs Roach took the vial and he reached into the bag again, this time bringing out a pistol. ‘Remember how to use this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Cock it at the first sign of danger. There may be highwaymen – she may get lively. Threaten her with the gun when you use the drops. Keep her asleep – if she soils herself, so much the better.’

  Mrs Roach took the pistol, placing it carefully by her side. ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘Here.’ He lifted out a package. ‘Don’t sell the jewellery ’til you get to Ireland. It’s less likely to be traced.’

  ‘We’ll leave for Ireland the next day. Will you visit us, Brother?’ She held out her bony fingers, taking the package firmly in her hands, stuffing it in the tapestry bag, along with the glass vial.

  ‘In a year or two. You don’t have to leave, Augustine. You know that.’

  ‘Stay ’til you find a wife and be treated like a servant – by a woman who’d hate me? I’ll not do that. Walter Trellisk has a way with horses and I feel sure he’ll make his name. My payment’s good but together our money’ll count for more. There’s money to be made in Ireland – he’ll get the best stock, breed the finest horses.’ She sniffed, her mouth clamping tight, her nose puckering into its accustomed distaste. ‘I’ve no great likin’ for him but he suits my needs. He’ll breed horses an’ make money – I’ll have a house and servants.’