The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘I did not, sir.’

  ‘And when she was in the boat and you saw her from the shore. Did you see her clearly? Tell me, did she have chestnut-coloured hair?’

  ‘It was some distance, sir. The sun was in my eyes…I…’ He looked at Mr Wallis. ‘I cannot rightly say…she was wearing a ruby-red dress. I know she wore red…but I can’t swear as to the colour of her hair…’

  I had to get out. I had very little time. I tried to remember what Hannah had told me. Four o’clock? That was it. I began gathering up my skirt, trying not to draw attention to my sudden movement. ‘Hannah,’ I whispered, ‘it’s too hot…I need the privy and some air. You stay and watch – I’m going to want to know every detail…only I’ve got to go…’

  I began edging along the row of people, all of them angry with me for blocking their view. The crowd was so dense, almost solid, reluctantly parting to let me through. At the bottom of the steps I used all my strength to squeeze towards the door, tumbling out of it with a gasp of relief. The meat market was in full swing, glazed pigs’ eyes staring up at me from rows of severed heads. The smell was appalling and I raced to the gutter, retching behind the barrels spilling over with offal.

  The clock in the market square chimed quarter past three.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  I ran past the friary gate-house, past the guildhall, jumping the potholes in the road. Carts were coming both ways, a wagon of bricks blocking everyone. Celia Cavendish you did wilfully, grievously and, with malice aforethought, prejudice the safety of the state by passing and receiving information calculated to be injurious to your king and country. The words were ringing in my head. I stood no chance. Too many people knew it was me. Too many people could swear to my identity.

  I passed the Dog and could see the White Hart. I was nearly there. I would have just enough time to collect my things and buy my ticket…with malice aforethought you did correspond with the enemy…No-one would believe me. If I was innocent, I would have come straight back and told my parents. I stopped to catch my breath – they would think my warning to Sir James was intended to warn my lover. You will hang from the neck until you are dead.

  I ran down the path to the front door. It was shut. I knocked loudly, almost falling into the hall as Mr Hambley opened the door. ‘Ah, Miss Wells…is it over…? No, don’t tell me…’ She put her hands on her heart. ‘Oh poor Mrs Thomas… poor Mr Reith. Both found guilty?’

  ‘Oh, no…wonderful news…it’s not over yet…but Sir James’ case has been dismissed and Lady Polcarrow will be acquitted…It’s just I have to catch the coach—’

  ‘Ah, ye’re not leavin’ us, are you? Hannah will be that sad…Can I help ye…?’ she called after me as I raced up the stairs.

  I took off the hideous bonnet and opened the drawer, reaching for my bag of jewels. Running to the desk I grabbed a sheet of paper, dipping the pen in the ink, my writing a terrible scrawl. Dear Hannah, these are for you. Thank you for your kindness. I slipped some earrings from the pouch and left them with the bonnet. I had to hurry; I looked round the room a final time. On the wall there was an etching of a snipe; the timid bird that nested on higher ground. It had been there all the time yet I had been so blind. Already the coach was outside the inn, the horses waiting to be changed. I grabbed my money and Jacques’ bag and tore down the stairs.

  Mrs Hambley met me at the door. ‘This is all I could gather in time, take it…ye’ll be hungry…be safe, my love…come back an’ see us.’ She thrust a package into my hand and I reached forward, kissing her cheek. She was a dear, sweet lady and I would never forget her.

  Jacques’ bag was hidden under my cloak, my hood drawn down to cover my face. A stable lad was leading round fresh horses, another swilling heavily caked mud off the coach’s wheels. A small group of people gathered outside the door, portmanteaux and baskets ready to be loaded. I rushed past them, pushing my way to the huge oak bar. I had to find Arnaud.

  ‘One ticket for the Fosse coach,’ I shouted to the barman. It was ten to four.

  ‘Return or single? He was pouring a tankard of beer, watching the froth rise.

  ‘Single.’ Come on, come on. He seemed so slow. I handed him a guinea and scooped up the change, putting it in my purse without a second glance. Poor Matthew Reith, I still had no idea how much the coach cost. With the ticket firmly in my hand, I pushed past the crowded tables and out of the back door.

  The courtyard was much bigger then I imagined; a forge was blazing, smoke and hammering filling the yard. Carriages were blocking the coach-house entrance, and vast stables stretched as far as the trees behind. Stable boys were running everywhere, tending horses, filling buckets from the pump. I looked quickly round. A line of packhorses were hitched together, huge barrels of manure strapped to either side. ‘Which is the Fosse coach?’ I called to a passing groom.

  ‘Leaving just now…if ye’d like to follow me…That’s the coachman’s whistle…ye’d best be quick.’

  From the corner of my eye I saw a familiar jacket and turned round. The man who had come to meet Jacques was standing by the door.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Six of us crammed inside the coach; four men, two women crowding together on the hard benches. The men had fallen asleep, their heads nodding with the movement of the wheels, their chins wobbling from side to side.

  The sky had darkened, dusk turning quickly to night. The lanterns were lit, glowing brightly on either side of the coach. I could see nothing through the window. The curtains were drawn, the journey seeming to take forever. I opened the cloth parcel and smiled. A chunk of bread, two slices of ham and a large slice of apple tart – just what I needed. I kept my cloak firmly round me, my hood covering my face. No-one must recognise me.

  We bumped over yet another bad patch in the road, the horses still racing, the appalling suspension throwing us from side to side. I was trying to remember every detail of the trial, going over in my head what Nathaniel Ellis had said. He was definitely telling the truth, everyone could see that. That was what Arnaud was trying to warn me. He had come to tell me my life would be in danger the moment Nathaniel took the stand. He knew Nathaniel was going to be a witness and wanted me to be safe. He had come back for me, just like he said he would.

  How long had we been going? We must be nearly there. The coach slowed, the wheels bumping over a cobbled road. The larger of my companions leant forward and pulled back the curtain. ‘Not long now,’ he said, straightening his hat and adjusting his cravat. I could smell the sea. We would soon be in Fosse.

  I could imagine Mother sitting by the fire in her drawing-room, waiting expectantly for news of the trial. Charity would be with Mrs Jennings, Georgina allowed up for another hour. Little Sarah and Charles would be fast asleep in the nursery. Father would return either tonight or tomorrow. He would be furious, his plans in ruin.

  Nathaniel had sworn on oath that Jacques had attacked him, yet Jacques claimed otherwise. The fight I witnessed was the clue to the whole thing. Jacques needed Nathaniel off the boat – he must have recognised him as a British sailor.

  We began descending the hill, the coach twisting round the bend, entering a narrow lane and I recognised the row of cottages I had seen before. The horses’ hooves clattered noisily down the deserted street, a whistle pierced the air. Dogs began barking and we turned through an arch. ‘Here we are…no harm done…’ The lights in the courtyard made a welcome sight. Men came running over to hold the horses, one quickly opening the door, another pulling down the steps.

  It must have been the landlord who rushed to greet us. A large man with a jovial face. ‘Welcome, welcome everyone… you’ve made good time. Good journey, was it? Come in… come in. Here, miss, I’ve got yer. There’s good ale to be had an’ plenty of it. Ah, Mr Mitchell, welcome back, sir. How was Bodmin? Need a lift anywhere, miss?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’ My hood was pulled low over my face, my cloak wrapped tightly around me. No-one knew who I was and that was how it
must stay. I ran across the courtyard and under the arch. The sea was beckoning, the salty air. It smelt so fresh and my heart began racing. I should be in time to return to my dressing room and prepare for supper. I should dress in my blue organza, sit stiffly with Mama, eat Madeira cake, play cards, drink sherry and plan my forthcoming wedding. Oh yes, I knew exactly what I should do.

  I clutched my compass to my heart, excitement making my body tingle. I was smiling. Smiling and smiling, no longer reining in, but free to gallop. Philip Randall and Sir Richard Goldsworthy could search all they like. Celia Cavendish would just disappear. No more locked doors. No windows to stare through. No pleading, no running, no looking over my shoulder. No more pretending, no more heartache. Matthew Reith and the Polcarrows would be told I hurried onto the Fosse coach; Mother believed Father to be scouring the land and Father thought me safely in a madhouse. No-one would dare tell him otherwise. They would take his money and tell him what he wanted to hear.

  For the first time in my life, I was free.

  The river lay to my left. It was not yet high tide. A breeze blew against my cheek. I could smell seaweed, cockles, wood smoke. The night was pitch black, the air damp and full of mist. Clouds hung heavy in the sky. There was no moon to light my path, no stars, only the soft glow of the oil lamp and the light filtering through the windows of the inn. I could hardly breathe for excitement. The thrill of the unknown, the danger drawing me now like it had done all my life. I was born for this, born to breathe the air, live on my wits.

  I raced along the road, hugging the river, the sound of waves lapping against the large wooden poles. Prosperous merchants’ houses with newly painted railings lay to my right, lanterns burning either side of their large front doors. I pulled my hood lower, covering my face, hurrying past them as fast as I could. Arnaud said he would come back for me. He had been trying to tell me.

  Cécile was the woman I wanted to be – brave, adventurous, able to do things for myself; waking to fresh coffee, breathing the salt-laden air. As Cécile, I would feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my cheek. The road narrowed, turning away from the river, winding between two opposing taverns. Both were crowded and I held my breath, picking my skirts up to stride the foul black water spilling from the sewer. It would be so easy. Celia Cavendish would simply disappear.

  I would haul up sails, navigate by the stars. I would swim in blue water and dive for lobsters. I would make bread from beer froth, cook fish on a bed of herbs. I would see birds I never thought to see. My smile broadened, my heart bursting. Every evening I would sit with the man I loved, watching the sun set over a red sea. Every night I would lie in his arms.

  I passed the Ship Inn, walking quickly in front of it, taking the alley down to Madame Merrick’s warehouse. I knew to approach it from the back – certainly not the front as Sir Richard’s spies might still be watching. I would keep to the shadows, slip silently along the edge of the buildings. Arnaud would be there, I knew he would.

  I made no noise, lifting my skirts, stepping over the piles of rubbish, edging my way carefully between the barrels. My eyes were accustomed to the dark, the end of the warehouse looming above me. I could see the chute, the huge pulley reaching out from the top. There must be a door. There must be. How else had Arnaud slipped so easily into Madame Merrick’s store room? I would feel for it with my hands, find some sort of irregularity, a hollow sound, something obvious but completely unseen.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  I ran my hands over the wood. The other three sides of the warehouse were made of brick, but this end wall was constructed of wood panels, three foot square, each one surrounded by a thicker plank. No-one was there, the cobbles deserted, just the sound of voices drifting across from the distant inn. Two night-watchmen were sitting by a burning brazier on the boatyard slipway. They were talking and I was sure they could neither see nor hear me.

  The panels were a perfect size for a door. I began tapping them quietly, working my way from side to side, knocking each in turn. On one side of the chute the wood sounded different, distinctly solid. On the other, definitely hollow. I stood back, knowing I was missing something. I had to think. Where would I hide a door? The chute was made of wooden planks, wide enough for the rolled sails to reach the ground from the third floor. The end of the chute was waist level, enabling the men to grasp the sails and load them onto a cart. It had to be there. My heart was racing. I would try that area again.

  My fingers trembled as a vertical plank behind the chute wobbled in my hand. It was definitely loose and I slid it slowly upwards. It jammed in my hands and I tried easing it carefully, lifting it over the horizontal plank above. Suddenly, I could make sense of it; one move upwards then one move sideways – just like my secret Chinese box I had been given as a child. The plank slid smoothly upwards and I put my hand in the gap, carefully pushing the panel. It slid easily to one side and a pitch black hole opened before me. All I had to do was balance my foot on the ledge and I would be through the gap.

  I stepped up, crowding into a space no bigger than a small cupboard. A set of narrow wooden steps hugged the side, going steeply up to the first floor and I turned round to slide the panel shut. It was completely dark, barely wide enough to climb the steps without snagging my cloak. My heart raced with excitement. At the top of the stairs a thin line of light showed beneath a closed door.

  I crept silently up the stairs and opened the latch. It was a long, thin room, no more than six foot wide. Bookcases and cupboards lined the wall. There was small bed, a table with two chairs and a desk covered in papers. Two candles were burning in silver candlesticks. Arnaud was bending over a large basin of water, shaving soap on his face, a razor in his hand. He looked up and smiled, his wet hair falling forward, his chest stripped to the waist. ‘You’re early,’ he said, wiping his face with a towel and grabbing his shirt.

  ‘I couldn’t wait a moment longer.’ My heart was leaping, jumping, pounding in my chest. He was walking towards me, smiling, buttoning up his shirt.

  ‘I was going to come and meet you. You’ve made good time. I thought I’d at least ten more minutes!’ He held out his hands, our fingers touching, entwining. ‘I’m only just ahead of you.’ He clasped my hands quickly behind my back, drawing me against him, his lips poised against mine. ‘Am I forgiven?’ he whispered.

  ‘I suppose you must be,’ I whispered back. ‘My reputation’s in tatters, my countrymen want to hang me and I’m not going anywhere near Pendenning. You’ve rather left me with no choice.’

  ‘Good,’ he replied, his lips brushing mine. ‘Never oppose the gods, everyone knows that.’ His kisses travelled across my face, my eyelids, my ears, down my throat. I was smiling, laughing, reaching up with my own willing lips. This was my new home, these arms, this man. This was where I belonged. He let go of my hands, his arms closing round me, crushing me to him, kissing me hungrily and I let go all my upbringing; kissing him back, matching his passion, his unquenched desire. ‘When did you know?’ he whispered, kissing my ear.

  My body burnt at his touch. ‘Nathaniel’s evidence…’ I managed to whisper. ‘Did you suspect him…of being in… the navy?’

  ‘Not at first, but…as we got going I spotted the way he did things…’ He was kissing my throat, my neck. ‘He obviously knew his stuff – did things just like a naval man. Jacques must have suspected him, too. I’m sorry, have I covered you with shaving soap?’

  I reached forward, brushing the almond soap from his ear. ‘I’ve got something you might want,’ I said. ‘I saw Jacques – he was in Bodmin.’

  ‘You saw Jacques?’ The smile fell from his lips. He went rigid, his eyes at once wary. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Three days ago.’ I slipped the cloak from my shoulders, pulling the leather bag quickly over my head. ‘He left this under the bench in the window of the White Hart. A man off the Padstow wagon was meant to pick it up but I intercepted it. At the time it seemed the right thing to do…but there’s nothing in it. It’s empty.’
I held the bag for him to take.

  He looked inside. ‘It’s not empty, Cécile…the Irish need this very badly – it’s the new code. With this the Irish will be able to read any letters or plans they intercept – without it, they won’t be able to decipher the messages…’ His voice hardened. ‘Did you see who was meant to pick it up?’

  ‘A big man, late thirties, black curly hair, blue eyes, larger than average nose.’ I shut my eyes trying to remember every detail. ‘He held his beer in his left hand and had the top button on his jacket missing…but he’s still in Bodmin. I saw him, just as the coach left. He was outside the inn.’

  Arnaud smiled. ‘So we might be in time to get it back to him.’ He shook the contents of the bag onto the table and picked up the quill. ‘The code’s in here,’ he said, ‘hidden down the hollow.’ He reached for a beautifully engraved box on the table and lifted out a pair of tweezers. Holding the quill to the candlelight, he carefully eased out a finely rolled piece of paper from inside the hollow.

  ‘I never thought to look there,’ I said, watching him unroll the slip of paper. ‘I checked the pages for invisible ink but never thought anything would be in there.’

  He held up the tiny roll of paper and reached for the notebook, opening it at the first page. ‘These numbers…here, these ones which look like a time – four-fifteen – that’s where you start. I’ll show you how it works.’ He reached across for another pen, dipping it in the ink, copying the long line of letters in the same order. ‘Twenty-six jumbled letters…the four corresponds to the vowels, the fifteen to the consonants. Start with the vowels…go along the line and take the fourth vowel. That becomes A so write that down and cross it out…then count the next four, that becomes E…always start where you’ve crossed off. Do you see?’

  I nodded, leaning over his shoulder, watching him start on the fifteenth consonant. ‘So that’s B. It’s very clever. Are the codes changed often?’