The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘What have you brought?’ I manage to ask.

  ‘A rather nice cheese, some newly baked oat cakes and some chicken roasted with rosemary…and a few unadulterated marrons glacés. Best of all, I’ve a very fine Chateau Margaux ’88 – I hope it’s not too shaken up. I’ve tried to keep it steady.’ He opened his leather bag and brought out a brown paper parcel, spreading the contents on the stones between us. ‘I’ve brought a knife and two glasses and I haven’t forgotten napkins, though I was in rather a hurry.’ He pulled the cork.

  I wanted to scream with the pain. Someone was tearing out my heart, ripping it from my chest. ‘Was it Abbey Beauport you took me to, Arnaud?’

  He paused, the beautiful fine stem glinting in his hand, ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘They’re on to you – Captain Penrose, Admiral Howe, the whole British navy. They know all about you. Why did you swim ashore? Did you suspect a trap?’

  He filled the glasses, handing me mine and leant slowly back, swilling his glass. His black eyes were watching me, guarded, like the first time we met. ‘It was the old signal – we’d changed it. And it was the wrong place – too far north.’ He put his glass to his lips, sipping slowly. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like that, Cécile. Normally they just row out to the boat with the documents hidden inside a brandy barrel.’

  ‘Like the one we took ashore?’ He nodded. ‘Well, you’ve got careless – they’re on to you and a good job, too. And I’m not Cécile, I’m Celia. And you’d no right taking me to so much danger and no right making advances to me.’ I bit into a piece of chicken. It tasted of the moors, of wild herbs. I thought of Perdue and how much she would love it.

  ‘I didn’t make advances. Believe me, Cécile, I wanted to, but how could I?’ His voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘I loved you long before we met. For so long, I could do nothing but watch you, drawn by the way your eyes kept searching. You looked so restless and I felt such sadness. It was as if your spirit was bursting to break free and I wanted to help you.’ He reached for my hands, pressing them to his lips. ‘There’s nothing contrived about falling in love, it just happens – the overwhelming desire to be with someone, to hold them.’

  ‘That’s enough. No more talk of love.’

  ‘I have to. I must speak. I love you, Celia. I adore you. I love every inch of your beautiful body, every thought in your extraordinary brain. I adored you from afar but when we met…when you flashed your haughty eyes at me across the deck, my adoration turned to the deepest love. And when I held you in my arms, when I kissed you, I knew that love would last for ever.’ He drew my hands to his lips, kissing each in turn.

  I wanted to cry. It was too painful to hear the words I had longed to hear. My heart was breaking. It was not meant to be like this. Never like this.

  ‘We’re one, Cécile, you know we are – our thoughts, our interests, everything. We talk without speaking, we watch, we remember every detail…we see what other people never see. Venus knew exactly what she was doing when she sent that arrow.’ His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. ‘I may be taking you to Bodmin but I’m coming back. Never, ever doubt I’m coming back.’

  His eyes burnt with the intensity of his passion and I stared back into those yearning eyes, all hope of future happiness draining from me. An empty void filled the space where my heart had once been. ‘Don’t ever come back,’ I said, pulling my hands sharply away. ‘You’ve broken my heart – and I’ll never forgive you…you should never have encouraged me.’ I fought back the tears blurring my eyes. In Pendenning I had hardened my heart; he was my enemy and I would never see him again. I could be angry, believe he had used me for his own ends, but staring back into those black eyes, I saw real pain. ‘Arnaud, don’t think…for one moment…that rescuing me from my father is enough to make me love you. I’ll always be grateful, always, but I can never love you. Not now, not ever. Not even when this war’s over.’

  ‘You can love me—’

  ‘No. Never!’ His insistence triggered my anger. ‘I can never love you – not now I know who you are. I’ve money and I’ve somewhere safe to go but if you follow me, I’ll have you arrested.’ My voice was steady, almost calm, certainly coming from every sense of duty, but also coming from my heart. I thought of Captain Penrose, Frederick Carew, the kind and dependable Major Trelawney – everyone put in jeopardy by this man’s actions. ‘How can you say we’re one? You put my country in peril…our brave soldiers…our wonderful navy, everything I hold dear. You put them all in peril.’ I looked away, hiding my tears.

  ‘I love you all the more for that,’ he whispered.

  ‘No, Arnaud…stop! Stop talking about love. You’re my enemy, fighting a violent cause in a disgusting and barbaric manner.’ I pulled my cloak around me, shivering more from horror than cold. We were poles apart – not wrong time, wrong place, but wrong politics; a gulf so wide it was almost laughable. ‘Find a woman who wants to see the heads of the aristocracy roll. Find someone who likes slaughter, someone who wants to support your blood-steeped tyranny. I hate your cause and don’t ever, ever doubt I’ll have you arrested.’

  ‘I’ve never lied to you, Cécile.’

  Never lied but never told the truth. ‘Everything about you is a lie.’ My voice was clipped with anger. ‘The glasses, the fine wine – most likely plundered from some great house. Leave me, Arnaud, and never come back. Take your web of spies out of our country and never come back. I mean what I say – if I see any of you, I’ll have you arrested.

  He emptied the dregs of his glass to the ground. ‘They’re long gone.’ He folded the brown paper into a parcel, bundling the remains of the meal into his bag. Only the wine remained – red wine, the colour of blood, of revolution, of young men dying for the sake of their country. Dawn was already breaking, red sky in the morning, a sailor’s warning. I remembered my uncle’s other favourite saying, between the devil and the deep blue sea. Why had I not heeded the warning?

  He strapped up his bag. The leather was sturdy, indented holes spiralling in three lines around the base, the buckle tarnished. ‘There’s less than half a mile to go and it’s too light to risk being seen together. I’ll follow at a distance,’ he said softly. ‘At the fork in the road, leave your mare tethered to the post. Just outside the town there’s a well with trees nearby. Hide in the trees until you see the Fosse coach – it’s due at The White Hart at seven – then go to the London Inn and ask for Matthew Reith. Tell him you came by coach. It leaves from the Ferry Inn.’ He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked quickly to the horses, cupping his hands for me to mount.

  I slid easily into the saddle and took the reins, the lump in my throat almost choking me. ‘Goodbye, Arnaud,’ I managed to say. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful. Without you, I might have spent my whole life in Maddison’s Madhouse.’

  He looked up and I caught my breath. His eyes held such anguish, so full of love it wrenched my heart. ‘There’s no without you, Cécile,’ he said. ‘Adieu, my dearest love, we only part to meet again.’

  I turned the mare, kicking her with more force than necessary. Tears blurred my eyes. Damn Arnaud Lefèvre. Damn him, damn him. I knew those words by heart.

  Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

  Adieu, not goodbye. I would never, ever be free of him, always looking over my shoulder, searching the crowds, every day petrified I would see him again. Every night, wishing I had.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Bodmin

  Friday 22 November 1793, 7:15 a.m.

  The coach came thundering past. The driver’s capes were flapping, the horses foaming at the mouth. Dust and chickens went flying. It was packed, people crammed against each other, more passengers clinging to the back; the whole thing in danger of toppling over. A group of people gathered by the well and a queue had formed to draw water. It seemed so early yet already the street was busy. A long town, I could see that – one long, continuous street with lanes
leading down on either side.

  I wrapped my cloak around me, joining the steady stream of carts and wagons pressing together down the narrow road. A huge church stood on my right, no spire, slates missing and a tall chimney towered above me. I could smell fresh malt, wood smoke, the dung from the stables behind the brewery. The town was in a vale, a hill on both sides, a stream running in a ditch beside the road. Some of the houses looked newly built, some in desperate need of repair. It seemed so strange walking by myself, no-one looking at me and thinking it was odd.

  The road narrowed, the houses pressing together and blocking out the light. The coach was making its way slowly in front of me, the coach driver waving his arms at the people in his way. Shops were already open, barrows being unloaded and stalls erected on the street. Every other building seemed to be an inn or guesthouse with signs hanging from the doors – room available, no vacancies. Even the coffee houses were opening. The window in the bakery was full of bread and boys were running down the street, carrying baskets on their heads.

  There were no pavements, the street was in a terrible mess. Cobbles were missing, slabs broken, great potholes filled with mud and I was grateful for my ugly shoes – you would need stout leather to walk this street. Planks and poles were everywhere, huge piles of bricks, ropes, buckets and ladders waiting to trip the unwary. I made my way down the street, the sound of hammering echoing behind me.

  The street widened with broad grass verges stretching in front of the houses. Tethered goats stood bleating, chickens pecked the dirt. The houses started to look smarter, new iron railings keeping everyone at bay. I walked past the brightly painted doors with their gleaming brass plaques – physician, attorney, printer and bookbinder. I read each in turn. This is what you did when you were free – you walked, you breathed, you joined the throng. How very different it could have been. I would never, ever take my freedom lightly.

  The coach stopped outside a large inn. I could see the sign, the White Hart, hanging from the wall. The passengers began dismounting, spilling out, some being greeted, others marching quickly down the road. I stopped a woman with a small child. ‘Where’s the London Inn?’ I asked. She nodded her head back the way I had come and I turned to retrace my steps.

  To my right was a huge guildhall, further uphill I saw the law court. Men in wigs were already rushing along the street, clerks running after them carrying books and papers. I would need a new name, but not Miss Smith. I looked up. The London Inn crowded above me, the name of the proprietor proudly displayed, George Wells. That would do. It was an old building and had obviously seen better days.

  ‘There’s no work,’ shouted a man in a large apron, his hands full of pewter tankards.

  ‘I’m not after work, I’m after Mr Reith.’ I stopped. His eyes had narrowed, sharpening considerably at the sound of my voice. ‘I needs must speak with him,’ I added.

  ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ I hoped I sounded like the maids in Pendenning though I was not so convinced I did. He looked too interested and I sniffed, wiping my hand across my face. ‘Can’t wait all day – what’s his room?’

  ‘He don’t like callers. I needs yer name, else I can’t tell him ye’re here.’

  ‘Tell him Miss Wells wants him.’ His eyes were too bright, too calculating. It was as if he was rubbing his hands with expectation, but he only nodded, beckoning me to follow him up the dark steps winding upwards from the heavily beamed hall. The place stank of pig fat, stale tobacco; the wood was black, the plaster in the walls crumbling in places. On the first floor he stopped outside a large door, two smaller doors on either side. He knocked loudly.

  ‘Who is it?’ called a voice.

  ‘A woman wants yer – Miss Wells. Shall I tell ’er to come back?’

  The door opened. ‘Miss Wells?’ Matthew Reith was fully dressed in a smart black jacket and breeches and a simple white cravat. His brown hair was greying at the temples, his eyes piercingly intelligent. He was tall, rather too thin, with a slight stoop to his shoulders and no laughter lines. He stood staring at me, at once curious. ‘Miss Wells? You’ve two minutes to state your business. Thank you, Jonah.’ He opened the door, shutting it quickly behind me.

  In front of me stood a desk piled high with papers and books. More books lay on the floor, periodicals stacked against a chair. In the grate a fire burnt, on the desk the last inch of a candle. He had been working – probably since the early hours. I walked straight to the desk and picked up his quill, writing quickly on a discarded piece of paper. He followed closely behind me, clearly surprised by the liberty I was taking.

  I am Miss Celia Cavendish and your walls have ears. He read the note over my shoulder, obviously taken aback. I added linen cupboards both sides and turned and smiled. ‘I’m from St Kew,’ I said. ‘You know, along the River Amble to the Camel Estuary? Major Trelawney’s talked of your goodness, sir, and I’m hopin’ you’ll find me somewhere to stay.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ He was looking over my shoulder, suddenly conscious of the holes in the beams, the cracks in the wall.

  ‘I’m a seamstress – lookin’ for work, like everyone else. I can pay, mind. I’ve enough to last a week. I’ve run away and no-one knows I’m here.’ I put the paper to the candle, watching the flame take hold, throwing it quickly into the fire.

  ‘You have references – an employer’s letter?’

  ‘No, sir, only my word.’

  ‘Then you stand no chance of getting a job.’ He reached for more paper. ‘The place is crawling with people seeking work. I don’t know who Major Trelawney is, but you can try Mrs Pomeroy round Back Street – tell her I sent you. But I think you’ve been very foolish – you’ll get no position without a reference.’ He began writing on the paper:

  25 Bore Street. Don’t use the front door. Tell Mrs Hambley I sent you. Alice Polcarrow is there – under the name of Mrs Thomas.

  He put the paper to the candle, his eyes meeting mine. I could see I had shaken him, but the one thing I had learnt was that walls had ears. He walked me to the door. ‘That’s all the time I can spare. Good day, Miss Wells.’

  I ran quickly down the stairs. Just as I thought – no sign of the man he called Jonah. At the door, a woman was sweeping the floor. ‘Where’s Back Street?’ I asked.

  She stared at me in disbelief. ‘Round the back.’

  I would have to hurry if I was not to be followed. Slipping into the street I dodged a cart and joined my step with a group of people making their way towards the coffee shop. Everywhere was busy, the noise of the building work almost deafening. I glanced round, relieved to see no sign of Jonah. ‘Where’s Bore Street?’ I asked a young boy. He pointed towards the White Hart and, once again, I began to retrace my steps, searching everywhere for the numbers of the houses.

  Number twenty-five was an old stone house with a slate roof. The house was set back from the road with shrubs down each side and an iron gate leading up to the painted front door. Another gate led down a small passage at the side. Three large windows looked out from the first floor, two from the ground floor. It looked clean and tidy, certainly well cared for and my relief was heartfelt. I nearly walked up the path but stopped in time.

  A little further down the street a small lane ran to the right and I walked quickly along it, following the muddy path back to the garden gate. It seemed more of a farm than a garden. There were pigs in a sty, geese in a pen and rows and rows of neatly tended vegetables. It looked so welcoming. There were still apples on the trees, chickens scratching in the dirt by the water butt.

  Sounds drifted through the open kitchen window, pans were clattering, a girl laughing. The door burst open and a young maid seemed to tumble out, a wooden bucket clutched in each hand. ‘Can I help ye?’ she said, straightening her back, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Mr Reith sent me. He says you’ve a spare room. I’m a friend of Mrs Thomas.’

  Another woman put her head round the door. She was sm
iling, tying her white mob cap over her unruly curls. She must have been about my age, her smile as sensual as a temptress, her blonde hair refusing to be tamed. ‘Ye’d best come in then,’ she said. ‘Mary, take towels to the top room. I’ll get the water on.’ Her eyes were an azure blue, her nose freckled by the sun, her mischief at once apparent. ‘Ye’re very welcome, miss,’ she said, holding out her hand, indicating I was to go through before her.

  ‘Miss Wells,’ I replied.

  She smiled. ‘That’ll do, at least ’tis not Miss Smith. I’m Hannah and me mamm’s Sarah Hambley. She’s at chapel so ye’ve come just the right time. No bag, Miss Wells?’

  ‘My bag was stolen from the coach…I’ve come from St Ives – I’m a seamstress.’

  Her smile broadened, her eyes danced, no young man would be safe from her. Even I was falling for her charms. ‘No ye ain’t, Miss Wells, ye’re a fine-born lady and ye’ve run from home. Not that it matters – ye’re safe here, that’s what counts. Ye needs tell us nothing. Mrs Thomas isn’t up yet – she keeps later hours so ye can bathe and rest first.’

  I followed her into the warm kitchen and climbed the stairs behind her, the smell of baking filled the house. ‘There’s no need for water, Hannah – I think I’ll just sleep.’

  She opened the door of a large bedroom, crossing it quickly to close the pine shutters. ‘I’ll bring ye a nightdress,’ she said. ‘I’ll not be long.’

  A beautiful patchwork quilt covered the bed; the mattress was soft and inviting. I laid my head on the pillow. ‘Thank you. It’s just that I’m rather—’