The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘He’s been faithful, I can say that for him. He’s honest and he’ll do well. One day I’ll buy a horse from him – I’ll get Charles Cavendish and the whole bloody lot of them buyin’ horses from him.’ He was gathering up the letters, putting them in order, replacing them in the case. He slammed it shut. ‘What was that?’ The carriage swerved quickly to one side, then the other, sending me flying from my seat. I stifled my scream, lying limp on the floor. The carriage stopped and Philip Randall pulled down the window. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir – wild boars…runnin’ straight for us. Are you alright?’

  ‘No harm done. Where are we?’

  ‘Edge of the moor, near the toll-gate. We’ll see it over the next rise. I’m sorry ’bout the boars. They came straight at me.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll leave you here. Pull over, Walter, strip the wheels.’

  I lay hunched on the floor, my head inches from the heavy shoes of the woman who was trading my freedom for hers. The carriage jolted and came to standstill. Philip Randall opened the door and climbed down the steps. The air smelt of moorland, of wild thyme and heather. It was so bright, almost as light as day. Reaching forward, he put his hands under my armpits, pulling me roughly to the seat again. I let my head loll back, my arms go limp. Through my lashes, I saw him do up his jacket and stare across the moor. He would be gone soon but, already, Augustine Roach had her hand on the pistol. She would use it. That woman was capable of anything.

  Philip Randall walked to the rear of the carriage, untying his horse. ‘You’ve got the list of inns for the change of horses?’

  ‘Yes, sir – in the name of Warburton. We’ll not be traced. I’ll tell them at the toll we’re headin’ for Exeter.’

  ‘It’s a clear night, you’ll make good progress. If you rest, make sure it’s under cover of woodland. Keep the curtains drawn and don’t let anyone see inside. Your payment’s in the bag. The draft’s dated a week from now – that gives us time to hear back from the doctor. Sir Charles must know she’s arrived. After that, the money’s yours. Use it well.’

  ‘I will, sir. Opportunities like this don’t come often.’ His voice was hard, worlds apart from the gentle voice that had coaxed me to trust him.

  ‘And be good to my sister. Treat her well.’

  ‘I will, sir. I’ll make a rich woman of her.’

  ‘I believe you will.’ Grabbing the reins in one hand, Phillip Randall placed his foot in the stirrup, swinging his leg quickly over the saddle. ‘Get to Bristol as soon as you can.’ He turned his horse, urging him on.

  ‘I will, sir,’ Walter Trellisk called after him. He climbed the steps, his face full of concern. ‘Are ye alright, my dear? That jolt did yer no harm, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all – you’re kind to fret but I can take a few jolts.’ Her voice was soft, cajoling.

  ‘One day we’ll have a fine carriage,’ he replied, drawing the curtains and plunging us into darkness. He coughed slightly. ‘D’you need to stop at all?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ I heard a rattle and my heart froze. ‘Just get her chained.’ A heavy object landed on my lap and I opened my eyes, staring in horror. Through the darkness, I caught the gleam of cruelty in Augustine Roach’s eyes. ‘See, she’s awake. She may’ve fooled my brother, but she can’t fool me. Chain her, Walter.’

  Walter Trellisk pushed me roughly to one side, securing the chain round my ankles. It was cold and heavy, digging painfully into the skin above my shoes. But that was clearly not enough. Like a silver snake, he wound the chain round the metal beneath the seat, pulling it tight, bringing it back to my wrists, clamping two fetters firmly behind my bindings. He turned the key. I could smell oil on his belt – saddle oil.

  I had smelt that oil before. It was the same oil permeating the wood in the servant’s corridor. Not tobacco. It had been his belt pressing against the panels, his eyes peering through the holes to Father’s study – Phillip Randall’s spy, watching, listening, reporting back, waiting for his loyalty to be rewarded. I felt sickened, furious I had missed something so obvious. If I had recognised the oil, I would never have trusted him.

  ‘She’s goin’ nowhere,’ he said, looking at Augustine Roach with dog-like devotion.

  I, too, was staring at her smile of satisfaction, the terrible gleam in her eyes. I looked away, unable to stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. Walter Trellisk reached up to the luggage rack, took down a basket and started rummaging through its contents. He smiled shyly, proudly holding out a muslin bag tied with green ribbon. ‘Most of the food’s from the servants’ pantry but I got these ’specially for you.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Marrons glacés – they were made for Lady Cavendish but ye deserve them.’ He undid the ribbon. ‘They’ve got ginger and brandy in them.’ They took one each, smiling in delight as they licked the loose sugar off their fingers. ‘I’m goin’ to look after ye, I promise. From now on, Augustine, ye’ll only have the best.’

  Augustine Roach smiled. She was almost purring. ‘Get along with you, Walter Trellisk. Walk, don’t run. I’m sure that’s how you train your horses.’

  He smiled back, drooling under her sugary sweetness. ‘Ye could sit with me if ye like – after the toll-gate. We could watch the moon – catch the sunrise.’

  She giggled sweetly. ‘Perhaps I will, Walter Trellisk. Perhaps I will. Now get along with you.’

  The door slammed shut and the coach started forward, Augustine Roach immediately reaching back into the bag of marrons glacés. Stuffing two in her mouth, she laughed her cruel laugh. ‘I’m sorry you can’t join me,’ she mumbled, ‘they’re very good.’ She crammed two more into her already full mouth. ‘And it’s too bad you’re hungry, Mrs Morpass – but it’s how the poor feel, most of the time.’

  I turned away. The coach was gathering speed, hurtling us down the hill. We must be over the crest and nearing the toll-gate. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the glass vial, holding it in one hand as she grabbed the pistol in the other. ‘One sound, Mrs Morpass, and I’ll use these drops.’ She straightened the curtain, leaving no gaps. Another two marrons glacés were stuffed into her mouth. ‘No sound – not even the slightest movement.’ I slumped back on the bench and shut my eyes. ‘And my scissors can’t cut chain,’ she added.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The carriage slowed and stopped. The pistol was pointed at my chest, the top of the glass vial on the bench beside me. She was standing above me, hesitating, poised to drop the contents of the vial on my gag. Outside, a door slammed, a man coughed. Footsteps were approaching.

  ‘Been any robberies?’ shouted down Walter Trellisk.

  ‘None reported – a week since at Launceston but none tonight.’ More coughing, followed by a loud spit. ‘It’s too bright – they’ll not risk being seen. The weather’s with ye…’ Another cough. ‘’Tis a good night to travel. Where’re ye headin’?’

  ‘Plymouth. We’ve a mother to unite with her son.’

  The voice grew muffled, the sound of blowing into a handkerchief. ‘Two coaches have just passed for Bodmin and Falmouth but ye’re the only one headin’ east. Goin’ to Torpoint?’

  ‘Aye, with luck, we’ll cross in the mornin’.’

  ‘Does your lady need our rest room?’ I could hear the clinking of coins.

  ‘No – thank you. She’s impatient to see her son.’

  ‘Then I’d best not keep ye – safe journey.’

  The coach lurched forward and with it all hope of escape. I felt petrified, knowing my chance had passed. I could do nothing but sit and stare at the vial, willing Augustine Roach not to tip it onto my gag. She seemed to be swaying, uncertain what to do, not knowing whether to stand or sit. She fell back against the seat, reaching out for the empty bag, turning it upside down in the hope of one last marron glacé. She began giggling, her eyes quite glazed. ‘All gorn, nun leffed.’ Her words were slurred, her laugh filling the carriage. ‘Norra shingle one leffed.’ The c
arriage was throwing her from side to side. She looked bemused, surprised, her eyes trying to focus on me. ‘Gorr any moor? Jush one?’

  My heart leapt, the marrons glacés – ginger and brandy. I had laughed like that, slurred my words. I had seen green eyes in the darkness. I remember the mixture burning my throat; the feeling of floating, the weightlessness. She was yawning, her foul crooked teeth opening like a crocodile. Her eyes were closing, her jaw dropping. She would be asleep soon. Already her jowls were slackening, her mouth gaping. I had been right to trust Walter Trellisk. Arnaud Lefèvre was one step ahead.

  The road must have been good as the horses were racing but I could endure anything, everything – the tight gag, the chains, the terrible suspension. Every bump, every jolt, was bringing me closer to the man I loved. Augustine Roach was now fast asleep, her snores loud and steady. The vial had fallen by her side, the contents spilling on the bench. The pistol lay abandoned beside her. I could reach neither but lay trussed and cramped, my heart singing.

  Our pace slowed, the carriage coming to a silent stop. The door flung open and Arnaud Lefèvre stepped into the carriage, his eyes piercing mine through the darkness. He was dressed all in black, his hair tied neatly behind his neck. ‘Are you alright, Cécile? Not hurt at all?’ He was staring at me, his eyes searching mine, his fingers untying the gag clamping my mouth. Throwing it to the floor, he traced my lips with his fingers. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked again.

  ‘Just very thirsty.’ My lips did hurt, my mouth felt bruised, my tongue swollen and sore, but somehow it did not matter. Seeing him re-kindled every flame in my body. He was cutting through my bindings, his knife flashing in the moonlight. Behind him, Walter Trellisk handed him the key.

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Miss Cavendish. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I never guessed. You had me completely fooled.’

  Arnaud turned the key and started uncoiling the chain. ‘I hoped you might wonder about the marrons glacés but we’d no way of telling you. Everything happened so fast.’ He threw the chain to the floor and held both my hands. Putting them to his lips, he kissed them softly. His eyes were angry. ‘Your father’s an evil man – they all are.’ He turned round. Augustine Roach was hunched against the side of the carriage, her mouth wide open.

  ‘What will you do with her? Leave her here?’ I asked, taking my hands away.

  Stubble covered his chin. His shirt was freshly laundered, but his clothes were dusty, his black jacket and breeches merging into the night. His eyes hardened. ‘Walter’s being paid good money to deliver Mrs Morpass to the doctor. If she’s not delivered, your father will come looking for you. He needs to know you’re safely out of the way.’

  ‘You mean take her in my place?’ I must have sounded incredulous. Part of me was horrified, most of me thrilled.

  ‘Of course – her brother’s not expecting her back. She can scream all she likes that she’s not Mrs Morpass. It’s all in the letters and no-one will take the blind bit of notice. Let her suffer what she was prepared to inflict on you – for a while, at least.’ He handed me a flagon of beer and I drank it eagerly, wiping my mouth with my hand. My wrists were sore, red marks left from my bindings.

  ‘Chain her, just like she chained me,’ I said, reaching for her tapestry bag. ‘She stole my jewels.’ I rummaged through the bag, my fingers touching the pouch of money. ‘And I’ll take Father’s money, too. How much did Father pay?’

  ‘Thirty guineas and fifty for Walter…plus the horses. That’s a considerable sum – your father clearly wants you out of the way.’

  My hands were shaking. ‘Blood money – thirty pieces of silver, how apt.’ I reached forward, carefully picking up the pistol. It was the second time I had held a gun. ‘How long will she sleep?’

  Arnaud looked at the empty marrons glacés bag. ‘Twelve hours, maybe more.’

  I rubbed the marks on my wrists, looking at the scratches where her nails had dug into my hand. ‘Do exactly what she did to me,’ I said, watching him weave the chain round her feet. He secured it to the seat and clamped the fetters shut. I had no idea I could feel so angry.

  Arnaud handed Walter the key. ‘Can Walter have the pistol, Cécile, or do you think you might need it?’ There was regret in his voice, a hint of resignation.

  I handed over the pistol. ‘Thank you, Walter. I owe you so much and I’ll always be grateful. Promise me you’ll stay safe – don’t let Father find you.’ I stood back, watching him mount the carriage. In a moment, my dream would come true. I would be alone on the moor with the man I loved. I wrapped my cloak around me, watching the carriage make its way down the moonlit road. I had dreamt of this. I had imagined everything; the moon, the smell of the heather. Arnaud stood beside me, his arm sliding round my shoulder. ‘Where were they taking me?’

  Moonlight bathed the two of us. ‘Maddison’s Madhouse – Fishponds,’ he said softly. ‘It’s on the outskirts of Bristol.’

  ‘How long will it take them?’

  ‘Two days, maybe three – it’s well over a hundred miles. Walter’s been instructed to hire guards and a new driver at each inn. He’s to change names every time and they won’t stop until they get there.’ I shivered. I hated Father. I loathed Phillip Randall. I would never, ever let them near me again. Arnaud seemed to read my thoughts. ‘Matthew Reith’s got the reputation of being one of the best barristers in London. He knows his job. Don’t for one minute doubt he’ll let your father or Phillip Randall get away with their crimes.’ His arm tightened round my shoulder. ‘You’re free, dearest Cécile. Free from the lot of them.’

  The moor was so vast, so silent; just silver grassland stretching for miles and miles. Deer stood grazing by a shimmering lake, in the distance huge boulders reached black against the pale night sky. The cool air smelt fresh, the scent of herbs mixing with the damp earth. I felt strangely lightheaded, almost intoxicated, breathing in the heady mix of danger and relief. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ I said, gazing round me.

  ‘See the ring round the moon?’ he whispered, ‘It’s going to get colder.’ He bent down, swinging his bag over his shoulder. ‘There are two horses in that copse over there. Where are we going, Cécile – L’Aigrette or Bodmin?’

  I wanted to cry. How could he ask that? His hand slipped slowly into mine, pulling me gently behind him as we crossed the rough grass. They had changed my shoes and clothes. I wore stout leather, a foul woollen dress. My shawl was black and coarse – similar to the one I had worn before. I held his hand, following behind those broad shoulders, those arms that belonged around me. I loved him so much it hurt, hated him in equal measure, the pain of longing so severe I thought I would cry.

  Two horses were tied to a tree – a chestnut mare and a grey gelding. As we approached they shook their heads, whinnying their pleasure at our arrival. It was dark beneath the trees. Shafts of moonlight filtered through the branches, landing like stars on the ground beneath us. It was like my dreams – two horses and vast open space, the freedom of being with the man I loved. My emptiness felt almost overwhelming.

  ‘Bodmin’s ten miles west from here,’ he said, tightening the stirrups. ‘James Polcarrow was arrested moments after I received Walter’s warning. Rose as well. They’re in Bodmin gaol and Matthew Reith’s preparing their defence.’ He put his arms round me, pulling me to him and I leant against his jacket, unable to stop myself. ‘He’s taken rooms at the London Inn – that’s your starting point.’ His lips brushed my hair, his chest rising and falling beneath my outstretched palms. ‘No-one will recognise you if you keep your hood up.’

  ‘Does Matthew Reith know you’ve singled him out to be my champion?’

  I knew he was smiling, ‘Not exactly,’ he whispered.

  The night was so bright, the horses impatient to be off. I had not ridden for what seemed an age. ‘Let’s gallop,’ I whispered back.

  His lips brushed my forehead. ‘From now on, my dearest Cécile, you can gallop all you like.’
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  Chapter Thirty-six

  The stones in the road glinted in the moonlight. We slowed our pace, walking side by side as if we had done it all our lives. My mare was strong, sure-footed, easy to handle, the two hired horses content in the knowledge they were returning home. Arnaud could ride – no doubt about it. He looked as comfortable in the saddle as he did on the foaming deck, his hands holding the reins so lightly, his back held straight. I could not speak, but breathed in every moment, wanting the night to go on for ever. This was how it was meant to be, the moon witnessing our stolen kisses, the heather a soft bed beneath us.

  The road cut down to a vale, leaving the wild heathland with its barren rocks and boggy swamps. Windswept bushes gave way to straighter trees, rough moorland changing to farmed pasture. Hedges began to line our path, fences to keep the sheep from straying. There were no houses, just a vast patchwork of silver fields with moonlit ditches and owls hooting from the distant trees. We crossed a hump-backed bridge, winding along a brook thick with bulrushes. Somehow I managed to keep my tears from falling.

  To our right, a ruined shepherd’s hut stood bathed in light, the tumbledown stones sufficient to act as a seat. Arnaud pulled on his reins. ‘Shall we stop?’ he asked. ‘I’ve some food and a bottle of wine.’

  I nodded, turning my mare towards the stones, slipping from the saddle to hitch the reins to a nearby tree. Fine dew covered the grass, long threads of silver cobwebs carpeting the ground around us. The moon had lost none of its brilliance but the new day was already breaking. I could not look up. I did not want to see Venus gloating or the pink streaks of dawn stretching across the night sky.

  Arnaud took off his jacket and spread it across the stones, his white shirt gleaming in the moonlight. He put his hand on my arm. ‘Look, there…in the grass. A female snipe. Can you see her long beak?’ I could see nothing at first, only shadows but, suddenly, a large bird darted out. ‘I’m surprised she’s down here and not up in the boggy marshland. They nest on the ground and feed up on the moor. It’s much safer up there…fewer foxes. They’re very shy birds, oh, she’s gone.’ He smiled and the pain inside me became almost unbearable.