The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Your brother or Mr Reith?’

  ‘Me brother, of course,’ she replied, laughing. ‘Mamm thinks he’s working down Falmouth Docks – unloading cargo. He’s unloading cargo, right enough, but not at the docks!’

  ‘You mean he’s…?’

  ‘The money he sends can’t be lawfully earned. Not that much. Ye see, we’ve all got secrets. We never look and we never see. We certainly never tell. Could be us one day – ye get my meaning?’

  The street was even busier than before, huge crowds standing round a lit fire, the smell of roasting meat wafting across the air. Musicians were playing by the roadside, a huge bare-chested man with a leopard skin round his shoulders juggling with lit torches. Flames were flying high in the air above him. ‘Don’t know why the circus players are here – it’s market day tomorrow but it’s not usually this busy. Here, don’t let’s be parted,’ she said, grabbing my arm. ‘Stick close and mind that purse I gave ye. There’s thieves and pocket-pinchers everywhere.’

  We pushed our way through the groups of men spilling from the taverns. Children played catch, women gossiped in huddles, nudging each other, throwing back their heads in sudden laughter. The steady stream of carts had lessened and only a few smart carriages were making their way slowly down the road. I turned round, looking quickly at a passing man. It was the briefest of glimpses but he looked familiar. It was Jacques, I was sure of it. I held Hannah back, searching the crowd, but he had rushed past so quickly and was out of sight. I was probably mistaken, the gathering dusk making it hard to see clearly.

  My heart was still racing from the sight of him, a prick of fear running down my spine. It would always be like this – if not Jacques, Arnaud. If not Father, Phillip Randall. My freedom was illusionary. I would always be looking over my shoulder, watching my step. My joy turned to anxiety. Walk with your head bowed. No straight back or haughty expression. I had so much to learn.

  At the door to the post office I pulled Hannah back. Marcus Babbinger was leaning against the counter, talking to a man emptying the post bag. Smoke from his pipe coiled around him and he looked in no hurry to go. ‘Is there…is there any one you’d trust with your life?’ I whispered.

  She nodded, understanding me at once, pulling me quickly back into the street and guiding me down a lane lined with blacksmiths. At the dip in the road we jumped the rivulet and started walking up a slight incline. The path widened to grass, the smell of dung strong and powerful. It was darker now, the light fading fast, only a few lanterns lighting the main street behind us. ‘Ye can trust Adam Tremayne.’

  ‘Is he your beau?’

  She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Do beaux come covered in pig-shit, Miss Wells?’ she answered in her cut-glass accent. ‘I rather think not…! Don’t ye tell him, mind – it’s what’s under the pig-shit what matters.’ We crossed a yard and she pushed open a stable door. A young man was shovelling muck, piling it high on a barrow, the muscles on his naked chest clearly visible through the dying light. ‘See what I mean?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve watched him at the pump, too.’

  A man with a shovel, a man diving for lobsters, we both had our secret dreams. He saw us and stopped, grabbing his shirt before coming towards us. He was tall, muscular with thick brown hair and gentle eyes. Yes, I could trust him.

  ‘Hannah! What a pleasure,’ he said, smiling from ear to ear, not even a glance in my direction. ‘This is a lovely surprise.’

  ‘No surprise,’ she replied coyly, ‘I’ve come on purpose. Miss Wells needs a letter delivering. Will ye do it?’

  ‘Of course,’ his voice was strong, seemingly educated. He looked intelligent, even dignified, standing there with muck streaking across his forehead, his boots ankle-deep in filth. ‘Miss Wells,’ he said, bowing in my direction.

  He had manners, too, and a nice smile. His eyes were honest, his attention immediately caught but without the slightest hint of self-interest or greed. Yes, I could trust him. ‘My letter’s to go to Mrs Jennings in Fosse. She must be handed it personally – don’t leave it with anyone else. You understand?’

  He nodded, his face serious. ‘I understand.’

  ‘No-one else must read it. If she’s not there, could you find where she is and find her? I’ve good money – very good money. I can pay you well for your service.’

  He smiled. ‘If you’re a friend of Hannah, then all the money I need is for the horse and something to eat. I can leave when I’m done – I’ve no more than an hour left to work.’

  Hannah smiled, taking some money out of the purse I held open for her. It was as if she had guessed I would not know how much a horse would cost to hire, or a pie and ale. She took hardly anything, two crowns, maybe three. ‘Adam Tremayne, ye’re as daft as ye’re sweet,’ she said, placing the coins in his filthy hand. ‘What’s to be done with ye? All heart and no sense – and don’t go getting pig-shit on that letter.’ She turned to leave, smiling back at him. ‘Ye’re a good man, though, and I’m that grateful.’

  A lost man, that was for certain. We walked back towards the main street. ‘That’s the debtor’s gaol,’ she said, pointing to the tall walls beside us. ‘Adam’s old man’s in there. He went bankrupt a year back. It wasn’t his fault – it was the greed of other people, but that’s all it takes. One lying toad and everything’s gone. Adam can’t get work now – not proper work. He stays for his mamm, but they’ll not give him work. The family’s ruined.’

  ‘That’s terrible. I like him, Hannah.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said, smiling that rogue smile. ‘Poor Mam, it’s going to break her heart when I marry him an’ not the ones she’s got lined up fer me!’ She laughed, linking her arm once more through mine. ‘And that’s after I tell her I’m goin’ to be an actress! Come, let’s see what that crowd’s all about. Something’s going on – the town’s too busy for just market day.’

  We pushed our way through the revellers, walking slowly back to the house. A loud bell jangled behind us and a man’s voice rose above the din. ‘Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye… tomorrow morning at the eighth hour of the twenty-third day of the eleventh month in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and ninety three, Robert Roskelly will be taken from Bodmin Gaol and transported through the streets to Five Ways Gibbet where he will be hung from the neck until he dies…’

  The crowd roared their approval, the band breaking into a lively jig. As people joined hands, ready to dance, Hannah drew me closer. ‘We’d best get home – it gets too rowdy when there’s a hanging.’ She kept my arm firmly through hers, almost dragging me through the jostling crowd.

  At the back door she paused. ‘Poor Mrs Thomas…I feel that sorry for her.’ She seemed shocked by my look of surprise. ‘Robert Roskelly’s Alice Polcarrow’s brother. I thought ye’d know that.’

  Her beautiful frown cleared. ‘Oh, I see – ye didn’t think we know who Mrs Thomas is.’

  Chapter Forty

  Bodmin

  Saturday 23rd November 1793, 7:15 a.m.

  If Alice Polcarrow had slept at all, it would be a miracle. I had spent the night disturbed by revellers, the early hours woken by the crowd gathering outside my window. Already people were lining the street, two or three deep, each wrapped in a heavy cloak. With baskets of food at their feet, they were all there to watch the hanging and I shivered at the thought. Poor Alice.

  A slight knock. ‘Do I wake ye, Miss Wells? Oh, I see ye’re up already.’

  ‘Has everyone come to watch? It’s so gruesome.’

  ‘’Tis good for business, the town makes money – the toll gates, the shopkeepers – everyone. Like I told ye, there’s not a room to be had for love nor money. Traders do better at a hanging than they do all month and farmers love a hanging – hogs get roasted, pies get eaten, beer gets drunk. Honest, it’s that busy for the town. If ye weren’t here, we’d have filled yer room double.’

  ‘It’s horrible – it’s just as bad as watching the guillotine. Is Mrs Thomas awake?’

  ‘She is,
poor lady. I’ve taken her some tea – here, drink yers. I shouldn’t wonder if ye didn’t sleep at all last night.’

  ‘Is Mrs Thomas watching?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘She’s the shutter back, just like ye have. She’s watching all right.’

  I tied the borrowed dressing gown round me, taking my tea with me as I slipped across the hall. Knocking on Alice’s door, I pushed it gently open. ‘Would you like company?’ I asked softly.

  She was standing by the window, wrapped in a blue silk housecoat, her thick hair falling round her shoulders. She had a brush in one hand, a miniature of a young boy in the other. She turned at my entrance and smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you slept either,’ she said.

  ‘No, and it’s not even my brother they’re hanging. I can’t imagine how you must feel. Can I be of any comfort to you?’

  She continued brushing her hair, the early sunlight catching the copper streaks, making them glow. ‘Not really, but you can keep me company if you like – I’m always glad of company…but as to comfort…’ She turned round, staring down the street at the sound of cheering. ‘There can be no comfort until he’s dead.’ Her words sliced through the air like ice. ‘For my sake and the sake of my son, hanging’s too good for him – I hope he suffers. Are you shocked?’

  I stood beside her, putting my hand on hers, lifting the miniature portrait to the light. ‘Your son’s a lovely boy. I saw him that night in the stable. No, I’m not shocked. Was your brother cruel to you?’

  She nodded, her lips pursed. ‘I hope you never know such cruelty, Miss Cavendish, though I rather suspect you might. Have you run from Viscount Vallenforth? If that’s the case, then you have my full support. Run for your life, escape cruelty by every means. Once they have you, they feed on your fear, delighting in every fresh quiver, every jump, every false hope they raise.’ Her voice was hard, cold, her words ringing more true than she could possibly imagine.

  ‘My brother was a cruel and ambitious man – he still is. I was seventeen when he thrust me like a tasty morsel on a plate in front of Sir Francis Polcarrow. Francis was thirty years my senior, a man of influence and power – a man who’d never remarried, despite every attempt from the high and lowly. But somehow I caught his eye.’ She stopped, her face softening to a radiant smile, ‘Me, simple Alice Roskelly, daughter of a penniless squire, too full of drink to see to his estates…kind, gentle Alice Roskelly, too naive and trusting to imagine her brother’s cruelty.’

  Her words puzzled me. ‘Didn’t you like Sir Francis?’

  ‘Like him? I adored him. My only wish was to please him. I loved everything about him – his manner to me, his sense of justice, his compassion for those with nothing. He had suffered so long from his wife’s death and I was his new solace. We loved each other…so deeply. People thought me too young but our age meant nothing. My son was born only ten months later.’ Her eyes narrowed, her mouth clamping hard with hatred.

  ‘I’m sorry…it must have been so awful for you—’

  ‘My brother murdered him, Celia, in cold blood. He made it out to be a riding accident – claimed Francis had misjudged a low branch when he galloped under it and I never, ever guessed. Francis was a powerful rider but I just accepted the evidence – believed what he said. In truth, it was my brother who swung the log that killed him.’ Her voice hardened. ‘After he murdered Francis he set up another deception. He lured James down an alley and had him attacked. Again he got away with twisting the truth, he said James had attacked him and laid charges of grievous bodily harm and attempted murder against him. Again his deception worked and James was transported but thankfully not hung. Robert took over the estate and I had absolutely no idea of his evil. But now… now his crime’s come to light and he’s going to hang for it.’

  A chill passed over me. Father and Robert Roskelly were good company for each other. Alice Polcarrow stared at the miniature in her hands.

  ‘I had just over a year with my dearest Francis, then twelve long years living under the constant threat of cruelty. Robert took everything from me – everything. If I complained, he would threaten to hurt my son, or, worse still, would threaten to have him taken from me. I lived in fear…slept in fear, keeping my son in my room for as long as I could. I jumped at my own shadow, every day watching my brother grow in influence.’ She held the miniature to the light, her son’s eyes gazing back at her. ‘But until my son came of age, he was his guardian – just one word about not being a fit mother and who knows where I’d be.’

  She would be in Maddison’s madhouse – that was where she would be. Along with every other woman who tried to cross the path of a greedy, ambitious man. ‘He’ll be gone soon,’ I whispered. ‘Not long now and you’ll be free of him.’

  Her laugh was brittle. ‘Last night I didn’t sleep because I was scared he would escape again. Can you imagine that? Only when I hear the crowd roar will I be free from him, no longer living under his constant shadow. My dreams are full of terrible dread – dread that he’ll escape and come back for me. He thinks he owns me. He killed my dog and threatened my child and truly believed I would poison James – that’s how certain he is of his power over me.’

  ‘Was certain but not any more,’ I replied firmly. ‘He’s no hold over you now.’ The crowd stirred, straining their necks, looking expectantly along the street. From our window we could see the distant crossroads and a ladder placed against the gallows. Three men were climbing slowly up it, edging their way across the triangular frame, tying a large rope round one of the beams. I looked away, the sound of a slow drum suddenly making my heart thump. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s on the wagon,’ she said slowly. ‘Matthew explained it all to me yesterday. They’ll take him from the gaol, down round the church, then through the town for everyone to get their full. He’ll be handed drinks but mainly he’ll be pelted with rotten fruit. The drummer walks by the side of the cart. He’ll drum the whole way – it means they’ve started.’

  ‘It’s a horrible sound.’

  ‘I’ve waited long enough to hear it. You don’t like Matthew very much, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know him. My first impression is that he’s very severe, but that’s not a bad thing. I think I was a bit rude to him and I must apologise because he left me money for my letter. I’ve written to Mother telling her I’m safe and well and coming home soon. She’ll be furious but I’ve done it before, several times – that’s why they need to marry me off. Before anyone hears of my little adventures.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Matthew may think you’re empty-headed and bored, but I’m not so convinced. You’ve shrewd eyes, Celia. There’s nothing empty-headed about you at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling back. ‘And if we’re talking shrewd eyes, then yes, I do see a lot of things. You know Matthew Reith’s in love with you, don’t you?’

  A blush spread across her cheeks. ‘Celia, really. He’s just a good friend…there’s nothing between us. He’s still grieving for his wife.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Two years ago. She died of fever – he has two young daughters.’ Her hands were trembling.

  ‘And he’s left London to start again in Cornwall?’ I said softly. ‘He may still be grieving but his daughters need a mother and your son needs a father – and he admires you, anyone can see that.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  I put my hand on hers. She felt cold, fragile, her courage hiding her desperate need. ‘Yes I do,’ I whispered.

  The drumming grew louder, the jeers beginning to turn frantic. From our vantage point we could see the cart move slowly up the street. Men in black sashes walked in front, gesturing to the crowd to keep back. To no avail, it seemed. The crowd kept pressing forward, elbowing each other to get a better view. Pie-sellers stopped selling, turning to watch, and pedlars put down their wares, resting their arms on their barrows. Even the children stopped running and stood shaking their fists at the approaching cart.

  Ali
ce Polcarrow’s eyes hardened. Robert Roskelly sat hunched on one side, his handcuffed hands desperately fending off the torrent of rotten fruit landing on his blue jacket. The once-immaculate lace at his neck, the frills at his wrists stained purple-red. People had come for miles to make sport of a hanging. He may be loathsome but the brutality of the crowd left me reeling and I shivered in horror.

  The cart stopped outside the White Hart and a jug of ale was handed to him through the rails. As Robert Roskelly gulped it down, Alice drew me quietly away. ‘I’ve seen enough,’ she said, taking hold of my arm and leading me back to her table and chairs. She sat down, all colour drained from her face.

  Never had time stood so still, every minute lasting an eternity, every drum beat making my heart thump. The cart passed more slowly than ever, the crowd surging behind it, working their way slowly to the field where the five roads crossed. The old gibbet, Hannah had called it, positioned high on the hill with a good view of the gaol on one side, the town on the other. It could be seen from miles and miles, the men left hanging in irons, pecked by birds long after their lingering death. But Robert Roskelly was lucky. Times had moved on – he had the gallows and a cart. The horse would be whipped and the cart would jerk quickly away.

  An uncanny silence fell and Alice Polcarrow reached for my hand. It felt almost unreal, an eerie quiet after all the shouting. Robert Roskelly would be standing under the gallows, his wig thrown to the crowd. The noose would be round his neck, the last prayer being slowly recited. Alice’s grip was like iron, her eyes tightly shut. A pulse throbbed at her neck, a fast pulse that matched my own. Then we heard it – the sudden cheer, the thunderous roar echoing from the crossroads and across the town.

  ‘It’s done,’ she said, letting go of my hand.

  Chapter Forty-one