by Nicola Pryce
I stared at the map again. Padstow was on the north coast, the nearest port to Ireland. I glanced at the clock – a quarter past eleven. ‘Do you feel like coming to buy a bonnet?’ I said as lightly as I could. ‘It’s just that I can’t borrow Hannah’s all the time.’
‘No, my dear, take Hannah with you. I’m quite content with my sewing.’
I shut the door and raced across the landing, picking up my cloak and borrowed hat. It was already half past eleven and the wagon could come at any moment. Two empty baskets lay on the dresser so I grabbed the nearest, walking quickly into the garden and down the path.
The street was full of packhorses laden with corn and furze. Carriages and several smart curricles rushed past at great speed, but none of them stopped at the White Hart. Travellers were waiting outside and men with carts stood, beer in hand, flirting with the wenches from the inn. It was so much colder than yesterday, the sky laden with ominous black clouds. I wrapped my cloak around me and pushed through the door.
The tobacco smoke was thick and choking. The fires had been lit and people stood warming their hands, calling for ale. My eyes were immediately drawn to a group of women surrounded by bags and baskets and I decided to join them. I sat facing the window. From there I had a good view of the street and a perfect view of Jacques.
He was sitting in exactly the same place, wearing the same clothes, carrying the same bag. The Truro coach had just arrived and he looked up, his ale poised in the air. He pulled out his watch and checked the time. He was trying to act normally – just the occasional look over his shoulder – but his eyes were watchful and I could tell he was nervous. The passengers dismounted and the driver whipped the reins, directing the horses through the arch. Once again the street was clear.
At once Jacques stiffened. A huge wagon with Yoxall painted down the side was lumbering down the street. It was heavily laden, the four horses straining to take its weight. Three men sat next to the driver, another four passengers sitting facing the rear – a woman with a child, an old man and a huge man with dark features and curly black hair.
Jacques stood up, staring through the window as the passengers alighted. The dark, curly-haired man had a bag in one hand, his coat over his other arm. He walked, not towards the door, but towards the window where he stood deliberating whether to come in or not. I watched them both carefully. They showed no sign of recognition; no nod, no smile, just blank faces looking past each other as if the other was not there. Suddenly Jacques turned for his coat and came brushing past me in his hurry to leave. As he flew past, I saw the button was missing from his top lapel.
My heart jumped. The same button had been missing on his jacket on the boat. It was too much of a coincidence. It must be their sign, their way of recognising each other. Jacques was halfway across the crowded inn and already disappearing through the door to the stables. The man from the wagon was at the front door, waiting his turn to enter. They were deliberately missing each other – one in, one out, no chance to be seen together, no way to be linked.
My mind was racing. It seemed so strange. Why wait all this time then leave so abruptly? I looked back at the bench. Jacques’ bag was still underneath the seat. I could see the strap poking out from the dark recess beneath the window. I felt suddenly breathless. This was not a meeting but an exchange and that bag contained information the Irish must never get.
I looked quickly round. Jacques was nowhere to be seen and I saw my chance. I hardly thought what I was doing. My heart was racing. Walking straight to the bench, I reached down, lifting the bag quickly onto my lap, hiding it under my cloak. Tightening my cloak, I walked slowly back to the women’s bench and picked up my basket. The women were chatting, thrusting a baby in my direction and I smiled at the baby, nodding at the mother.
The traveller went straight to the seat, settling himself down, holding up his hand to call for some beer. He was a big man, late thirties, with black curly hair. He had blue eyes and a larger than average nose. He leant back, taking in the room, his jovial smile not reaching his eyes. My eyes were drawn straight to his missing button. I was right.
His foot was trying to locate the bag. I saw a sudden look of concern cloud his face and from under the rim of my bonnet I watched his concern turn to panic. He started looking round, staring intently at everyone, judging the best time to search under the bench. I sat smiling at the baby, tickling his tummy, his delighted gurgles making everyone laugh. Across the room the man visibly paled, his eyes darting from person to person. The baby gurgled and squealed, bringing more laughter.
Another coach pulled up outside, the grooms rushing from the stables to change the horses. As the travellers dismounted, the women around me began gathering up their belongings and I stood holding the baby while everything was collected. The mother had a bag and another child so I nodded, indicating I would hold the baby a little longer. I knew not to look his way. From the corner of my eye, I saw his frantic searching, his head bobbing up and down as he looked under the seats.
I handed the woman her baby and waved her goodbye. The coach was crowded, a mountain of bags and baskets piling ever higher, acting as the perfect screen. I crossed behind it, walking slowly past the house and round the back path. No-one followed me. As I walked up the path it started to rain.
‘Just in time – that’s quite a downpour. Did ye find a bonnet, Miss Wells?’ Mrs Hambley asked as she closed the door.
‘No, I got a bit lost. Perhaps Hannah can join me next time.’
‘Don’t you go lettin’ Hannah nowhere near that shop,’ she laughed, ‘or ye’ll come back with all sorts of feathers and frills. Here, let me take yer cloak, and would ye like something to drink?’
‘No thank you,’ I said smiling. ‘And my cloak’s not wet at all.’
I walked quickly upstairs, shutting my door, going straight to the window to peer down. The coach had gone, the crowd dispersed, the street now empty. My whole body was tingling. I felt flushed with excitement, the danger more thrilling than I could ever imagine. My hands were shaking, my heart pounding but I had done it. I threw off my cloak and stared at the bag – at the indented holes spiralling in three lines round the base. If it was not exactly identical to Arnaud’s, it was from the same workshop.
I tipped the contents onto my bed. There was a quill, an ink pot, a small leather notebook. I grabbed the notebook and flicked through its pages, once, twice, my desperation rising. The pages were empty, completely unused. There was no writing at all – just 4:15 return coach written on the first page. I laid it carefully on the bed and picked up the ink pot, opening it carefully so not to spill it. It matched the writing and the tip of the quill. A rush of disappointment flooded through me. This was not correspondence at all – just the time of his return coach.
But they were clever, I knew that. I looked again, remembering the talk of secret codes, musical scores, invisible ink. Rushing to the window, I held up the pages, desperate to see a message written in lemon juice. There was nothing. I would try candlelight. Fumbling for the tinder box, I struck the flint, holding the candle as close to the pages as possible. I stared at the pages, holding them against the candle but still nothing. The pages were blank. Nor was there a secret compartment in the bag; a false bottom or a lining that could be torn from the side.
I put the contents carefully back in the bag and hung it behind my dressing gown. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘Is that you, Hannah?’
‘It is,’ she replied, panting heavily.
‘Do any coaches leave at four-fifteen?
‘Lord love ye, Miss Wells. Ye do want to leave. Just tell me where ye want to go and I’ll tell ye what coach to get.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m interested, that’s all.’
She looked as if she had heard it all before. ‘There’s nothing from the White Hart – not then. The Falmouth stagecoach leaves at two and the coach to Fosse is four. The wagons go back tomorrow an’ the Truro coach is six.’ She drew more breat
h, her hands on her hips. ‘There’s more from the Blue Hart but not around four. Launceston’s eight in the morning and three in the afternoon. Where d’you want to go? Honest, ye secret’s safe.’
I smiled, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Good, ’cos I came to tell ye I can get us in to the courts – it’s going to cost us and we’ve got to be quick. Honest to God, the bugger’s making a fortune. I usually get in for free but everyone’s clamourin’ at his door and he’s asking a shilling each. Can ye spare that?’
I rushed to the table and grabbed my purse. ‘You know I can. Pay whatever it takes. A shilling, whatever – we have to get in.’
Chapter Forty-four
Bodmin
Tuesday 26th November 1793, 9:00 a.m.
My nightmare was so vivid. We had been running, Charity laughing behind me. It was mischievous, happy laughter, me holding Charity by the hand, both of us running down the corridor, hiding from Georgina. Then it had gone dark. We were in a wood, a forest, the gnarled tree trunks twisting in front of me. I was still running but Charity’s hand was slipping from mine and I could not hold her. She was slipping further and further away. My feet were sinking and I do nothing but watch her disappear from view.
‘Would ye like some more tea? Ye haven’t drunk the last lot.’
I was calling her name. Then I saw Father. He was standing by the gallows, laughing, holding his hands on his belly. Someone was to be hung. I was screaming but no sound came. I was trying to run but my legs would not move.
‘There now, drink this…are ye alright, Miss Wells?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone nine and ye’re not alright. Ever since ye’ve got here ye’ve had sad eyes.’
Sad eyes, broken heart. My future was turned on its head. I thought always to protect Charity, keep her safe. As a child I promised never to leave her, yet, not once, but twice, I had left with no word. I tried to calm my terrible fear. Charity had Mrs Jennings and Frederick; they would never let Mother make her marry Viscount Vallenforth. But what if Mrs Jennings had been unsuccessful? What if I had not done enough to secure Charity’s happiness?
‘This is lovely…’ I said, sipping my tea. I began to think rationally. Charity was strong and resilient; my timid little sister was no longer a child. She had stood up to Mother with the courage of a lion. She was intelligent and beautiful and would be loved wherever she went. The familiar pain shot through me – it was I who had no-one.
‘When I’m an actress and needs be sad, I’ll think on ye. I’ll act all brave and happy, but me eyes will look sad.’ She smiled. ‘Mamm tells me ye’re after a new bonnet – well, I know just the place. Ye’ll want feathers an’ frills an’ why not a robin like the one ye keep watching?’
‘You can’t put a robin on a bonnet!’
‘Yes ye can. Ye can do anything ye want. Ye can put a whole nest on if ye like.’
‘I’m not in the mood for shopping.’ I was thinking of another actress, every bit as convincing as Hannah would be. One that could curtsey with the grace of a duchess, incline her long neck at just the right angle. Madame Merrick had learnt her trade well, so too, had Arnaud. Both of them fooling me so entirely; they must have watched the émigrés, copying them exactly. ‘Why don’t I keep your hideous bonnet and you buy yourself a new one? I can give you my money…put anything you like on it…apples, pears, I know you like fruit.’
‘No, I couldn’t…wouldn’t be right, me having all the fun an’ ye so sad.’
‘No, honestly, I’d rather wear your bonnet to court – it’ll keep me well hidden.’
She nodded, her eyes full of compassion. ‘Ye really don’t want to be seen, do ye? Well, ye can have me old bonnet with pleasure but…if ye’ll not come shoppin’ then, at least, let me sort yer hair.’
I joined Alice in the parlour, my freshly washed hair catching me off guard. Hannah had cut and dressed it in a new style and I kept glancing at my reflection. Curls framed my face, bobbing around me, anything but curtailed. It made me feel lighter, brighter. Alice had immediately liked it and so did I.
‘And Hannah’s going to buy me a new dress. There’s a shop selling handed-down dresses – like the ones we give away. I thought maids kept them to wear for best but they don’t, they sell them and keep the money.’
‘Of course they do, my dear. The money’s far more important to them. Come, read this to me, the print’s too small and I’ve left my magnifier upstairs.’
I spread the newspaper flat on the table. It was another stormy day, the sky still ominously black. Hardly any light was coming through the window and I needed the candle. I caught a headline on the first page. ‘Did you read this? The French Law of Suspects? Any known or suspected enemy of the Revolution will be arrested.’
‘How dredful! Matthew says the Revolution’s just a transfer of power into the hands of the greedy. The peasants thought they’d have a better life but they’re worse off. He says the slaughter will go on.’
‘All avowed enemies, or likely enemies’ I read the paragraphs that followed. ‘It seems everyone must fear for their lives.’
‘It’s quite unimaginable. I fear for the young Dauphin – it must be petrifying. But, tell me…are the court cases listed?’
‘Bodmin Courts, Wednesday 27th November…non-repair of highways…misdemeanour…non-repair of highways…misdemeanour…stealing goods…There’s nothing about Sir James.’
‘Then it won’t be tomorrow. Is there anything under the social pages?’
I stopped. The page opposite contained the social calendar for Truro and my eyes were drawn to the first entry. It is with regret that owing to the sudden illness of Miss Celia Cavendish, Lady April Cavendish announces the postponement of her daughter’s wedding to Viscount Vallenforth. I stared at those three lines without a quiver of remorse. Mother would be in such turmoil and I felt not the slightest sympathy. There was another entry, further down the page. Lady Carew is to host another splendid concert in aid of the new hospital. As patroness to the Hospital Charity Commission, this will be her third concert and, if the last two are anything to go by, expectations are high. Tickets are all sold.
‘Does it mention James at all?’
I looked back at the Bodmin page. ‘Nothing about Sir James…it’s mainly about the ball tonight at Priory House. There’s a long list of people expected to attend…Sir William Molesworth…Lord Camelford…Colonel William Morshead…Oh, look! Sir Richard Goldsworthy’s to be the guest of honour.’
Alice jumped to her feet. ‘They’re closing ranks round Sir Richard – not one of them’s sympathetic to James.’
I nodded but my hands were shaking. Father’s name was next on the list. He was in Bodmin.
Alice turned sharply, looking out of the window. ‘Wasn’t that Matthew? He said he wouldn’t come today.’ Our eyes caught.
‘He must have news.’
Chapter Forty-five
Matthew Reith looked tired, even gaunter, his hair slightly dishevelled. There was mud on his shoes and dust on his travelling coat. He held out his hands to Alice, taking hers gently in his as he led her back to the chair. ‘It’s tomorrow. I’ve just got back from Falmouth and found a note on my desk.’
‘Tomorrow…? It isn’t listed.’
‘No…they think to catch me off guard, but, legally, it’s within the time frame. I’ve been given the list of jurymen and will go over their names very carefully. If I can’t prove any patronage, I’ll have to approve them.’ He sounded as tense as he looked. ‘Ah, thank you, Hannah,’ he said, handing her his coat.
‘There’s whortleberry cake comin’. Ye’re needs must eat, Mr Reith. Ye look that tired and ye need yer strength.’
He smiled back at her, ‘I won’t say no, Hannah.’
Alice had paled. ‘Falmouth?’
‘I went last night. I had to. What a journey! The roads are in a terrible state but we’re back, thank God, and I’ve brought the witnesse
s.’
‘Have you got everyone you need? Are you…are you… hopeful?’ She reached for her handkerchief, her beautiful eyes filled with tears.
Anxiety flashed across his face. ‘Yes, and so must you be. I’ll just keep going until I prove their witnesses are false. I’m known as The Terrier – I’ll keep snapping at their heels until they trip! And they will trip, Alice, I promise you.’ His love for his friend was driving him, but it was obvious his admiration for Alice was the spur.
‘And I am to stand?’ Alice said, looking into his eyes.
‘If you feel you can.’
‘I can, Matthew. Don’t think, for one minute, I’m not prepared to tell the world about my brother’s ill-doings. And Jenna, will she stand?’
He nodded. ‘There’ll be two cases. My intention is to get James cleared so Lady Polcarrow’s case will be a swift, almost cursory affair – if one’s not guilty, then neither’s the other.’ He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘The prosecuting counsel’s John Wallis. I’ve come across him before and I must warn you, he can be very rude. Remember, don’t take it personally. Rise above his taunts and answer everything in a level-headed, quiet and dignified manner.’
Alice nodded. ‘Will I go first?’
‘No, I’ll call you only if I have to. I don’t know who the prosecution are bringing as witnesses but I know they’re calling Dr Trefusis.
‘Oh, Matthew, I’m so scared.’
He took her hand back in his. ‘The trial’s scheduled for two o’clock. I want you to get to the courts for half past one. Go to the ante-chamber, round the back, and my clerk will see you settled. You’ll sit at the front with the other witnesses.’
‘And Celia?’
He looked at me, the softness draining from his eyes. ‘Miss Cavendish can sit where she likes. I’m not calling you, Miss Cavendish. Your father’s to sit on the prosecution bench.’