A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  Every emotion I had tried to bury was flooding back – his smile, the shake of his black curls. His hand slipping into mine – the boy from my childhood who had stolen my heart, the not-so-shy youth who stole kisses as we gathered in the hay. The day he asked me to marry him, standing on the shore of the river below Trenwyn House, kissing the entwined grass ring so tenderly before placing it on my finger. The man I adored, telling me he was still alive. The man I had vowed to love until death did us part.

  I could hear Mother calling for the globe. My brothers’ latest whereabouts were chartered with silver pins, Edmund’s last battle marked by a black pin on the distant shores of Guadeloupe. Papa placed it in front of us and Mother spun it round, putting her finger straight on the tiny island.

  ‘Brazil’s not directly south . . . it’s here . . . a long way southwest of Guadeloupe. Heaven knows how many miles away.’

  Elizabeth traced the outline of Brazil. ‘It’s a vast coastline. São Luís isn’t marked on here, but I believe it is in the north . . . somewhere in this region. Trade with São Luís is a growing business – we’ve insured several ships from there. Cotton growers, mainly the Maranha Shipping Company. They ship their cotton to London and Liverpool – some of their ships come to Bristol. We cover the trade to Falmouth.’

  Luke walked stiffly from the fireplace and knelt by my side. He looked pale, his fingers loosening his white cravat. ‘I’ve heard Portuguese spoken in the seaman’s hostel behind the quay. Someone there might read Portuguese – I’ll leave you now and search the quays.’

  ‘His writing just stopped. Luke . . . he was so frail . . .’ The words caught in my throat. ‘What if he . . . ?’

  He handed me his starched white handkerchief. ‘We don’t know that, Amelia.’

  ‘He was in the middle of a sentence.’

  ‘We must get the letter translated. I’ll search the quays. If I’m not successful, your father and I will go to Falmouth.’

  He did not take my hand but bowed formally. Any other time, he would have taken my hand and put it to his lips. He would have turned at the door and smiled and I would have gazed back at him. ‘Lord Carew, Lady Clarissa, I’ll take my leave.’

  A thousand knives thrust deep into my heart. I was losing Edmund all over again, the old wounds opening up, the pain so raw I wanted to cry. I should never have stopped believing he was alive. I had abandoned him. I had given up hope when I should have stayed strong.

  ‘Amelia?’ Elizabeth’s voice drifted through the pain. ‘The lady I bought your gloves from had her daughter-in-law with her – she was helping in the shop. You know the leather shop on the quay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I managed to murmur.

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Oakley said she had come from Lisbon. She certainly looked Portuguese.’ Her heart-shaped smile was not lost on Mother. ‘Lady Clarissa, might Amelia and I take a walk to the quayside?’

  Papa stood to attention. ‘I’ll accompany you, my dears. I’ve been cooped up all day and need to stretch my legs.’ His frown deepened as he glanced at the letter. ‘It’s taken eighteen months to reach here – eighteen months.’

  The cold stung my cheeks and I drew my fur-lined hood over my bonnet, linking arms with Elizabeth, our hands thrust deep into our muffs. The streets looked gloomy in the fading light; lamps were being lit, everyone bending their heads against the wind that funnelled down the cobbles. The market square was deserted, the street sellers packing away their trolleys. Papa strode purposefully in front of us, giving a coin to each ragged child he saw picking through the discarded vegetables strewn on the pavement.

  Women were gathering hay blowing from the stables, their heads wrapped in thick woollen shawls. Voices rose from the inns, men stretching out their hands in front of burning fires. Papa’s boots thudded in front of us and we walked in silence, the masts of the ships now looming above us. We turned the bend, entering Quay Street, and I caught the familiar smell of rotting mud at low tide.

  Quay Street was the beating heart of Truro; it was where my friend Angelica Trevelyan lived, where Robert and Elizabeth Fox had a branch of their shipping business. It was where the Welsh Fleet brought coal in for the mines and shipped tin out to the smelters; tin, copper, smelted iron – the black blood that flowed through the city. He had survived that day; he had crawled from under the gunfire. He had escaped from the island.

  A lamp burned in Mrs Oakley’s shop, lighting up the polished wooden counter and the glass-fronted cupboard behind it. Two women were sitting stitching in the lamp’s glow, their heads bent; one had grey streaks and wore a white mobcap, the other had thick black hair coiled neatly under a ruby-red bonnet.

  ‘There,’ whispered Elizabeth, peering through the tiny leaded panes. ‘I’m not wrong, am I? She does look Portuguese.’ Like all the Society of Friends, Elizabeth’s grey woollen cloak was lined in black satin. She wore no jewellery, no coloured silks, no lace or ribbons, nor did she need to; her beauty shone from within, her kindness and compassion matched only by her extraordinary intellect.

  The door opened to the sound of the jangling bell and both women looked up. A flash of anxiety crossed Mrs Oakley’s eyes and I withdrew my hands from my muff, showing her how well my new gloves fitted. They curtseyed deeply, Mrs Oakley with a twinge of pain, the younger lady with an air of sadness. ‘They fit perfectly,’ I assured them. ‘Quite the loveliest gloves I have.’

  They seemed to curtsey deeper and longer than usual, not daring to glance at Papa, who filled their shop with his great coat and fur hat. Most wives ushered their husbands next door to where Mr Oakley sewed saddle bags and travel cases.

  ‘What an honour, Miss Carew, Lord Carew . . . Mrs Fox.’

  The younger woman seemed rather fragile, her skin sallow beneath a crown of jet-black hair, a look of suffering in her dark eyes. Her gown was good quality silk but fraying at the hem, the lace at her sleeves greying. By her glance, I instantly thought her to be a woman who knew sorrow; someone who would understand if I cried in front of her.

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘Mrs Oakley, I remember you saying your daughter-in-law has recently arrived from Lisbon. May I ask if she can read? Only Miss Carew has a letter of great delicacy that we believe to be in Portuguese.’

  She had addressed the elder Mrs Oakley, but the younger woman nodded, her chin rising slightly. ‘I am Portuguese. I am educated, and I will gladly read your letter.’ Her voice was throaty, thickly accented, but her English was perfect. She did not smile, but held out her hand, taking the letter to the glow of the lamplight. From the corner of the room, the dark eyes of a child stared back at me. He looked poorly nourished with shadows under his eyes, his thin wrists protruding from beneath the sleeves of a fraying jacket.

  I gripped Elizabeth’s hand. I would not cry. Somehow, at some time, I would visit Edmund’s grave in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and bring back the cross that had hung above him. I would take it to his family seat and lay it next to his father, Sir Richard Melville, fifth baron of Pendowrick Hall. I would collect some earth from his grave and carry it home in a casket.

  Elizabeth’s hand tightened round mine. The young woman was taking her time, reading the letter carefully. She had extraordinarily high cheekbones, blood-red lips and heavy black brows. She was beautiful; mournful, but beautiful.

  ‘The letter is finished by one of the nuns. Miss Carew, may I suggest you sit down?’ She waited while Mrs Oakley drew up a chair for me. ‘The man writing the letter did not die . . . he was forcibly taken by Portuguese sailors. Irmã Marie says the Convento do Sagrado Coração de Jesus is frequently raided by ships searching for crew. Their convent is situated close to a beach and ships often anchor there in the sheltered water. The sailors row ashore and capture any man they can find. She says she watched them drag Senhor Melville across the sand and throw him into their boat together with the provisions they had plundered. She says they are powerless to stop them – they can only barricade themselves into a locked room and pray the lock holds.’


  The room was spinning. I heard the faint jangle of a bell, felt a blast of icy air. Luke stood in his heavy overcoat. ‘Oh, I see you’ve got here first . . . I’ve just been told a lady in this shop speaks Portuguese. Amelia, are you all right? Lord Carew, please, allow me . . .’

  I felt myself lifted in strong arms, heard the distant babble of concerned voices. I could say nothing, do nothing. I was falling – spiralling downwards, a deep, black void opening beneath me.

  Chapter Four

  Mother limped across the bedroom, leaning heavily on Bethany’s arm. She settled next to me with a wince of pain. ‘Good, you have a little more colour. Are you feeling any better?’ She lifted my chin and frowned. ‘No, I can see you’re not. I think we’ll use the draught Dr Bohenna prescribed. Bethany, be a dear and run and get it.’

  Bethany curtseyed, her eyes wide with fright. I was never ill, I never fainted; I was in a daze, that was all. Four years of imagining how I would fly round the house with wings, how I would laugh and sing, dance with Bethany until we were giddy. Eighteen months ago, Edmund had been alive. But he was weak. He had barely been able to leave his bed.

  For the first time in my life, I did not want Mother to sit on my bed. I did not want to hear the slight censure in her tone, or watch the fleeting disapproval in her glance, the tightening of her mouth at the thought of Edmund and his haste to join the navy. She reached for my hand and felt for the pulse racing at my wrist. ‘Your father says the convoys leave the West Indies before the hurricane months of August and September, and Elizabeth says the insurance rates double after July; therefore, we believe the ship must have sailed south. Journeys on merchant ships can take a year . . . eighteen months . . . even two years.’

  Sobs caught my throat. ‘He was so weak.’ Mother folded her arms round me, the scent of rose water and lemon lanolin taking me back to my childhood. ‘I should have waited longer. I should never have deserted him. I’ve been dancing at balls . . . laughing . . . singing, and all this time Edmund has been suffering.’ I felt as cold as ice.

  She tucked away a tear-soaked curl. ‘Luke’s prescribed you a draught, my dearest.’

  Bethany’s red-rimmed eyes avoided mine. She must have seen me shiver because she added another log to the already blazing fire. Pulling the eiderdown round me, Mother handed me a glass of amber liquid. ‘Drink this, my dear. Would you like Bethany to sleep in your room?’

  I shook my head, sipping the fiery liquid.

  ‘In that case, we’ll leave the bell by your bed. Ring it the moment you want company.’

  She spoke softly, kissing my forehead, but I knew what she was thinking. He should have discussed joining the navy before he left. Mother would never forgive Edmund for that, and Frederick would never forgive him for not sending me a keepsake – a token, or a miniature portrait for me to remember him by.

  Mother was about to snuff out the candle. ‘Let it burn,’ I whispered.

  She knew my intention full well. ‘No, my love, I insist you sleep.’ Her abundant grey hair fell about her shoulders, her richly embroidered shawl the work of my hands. Always a red flannel nightdress in winter, a white cotton and lace one in summer. Her bejewelled Chinese slipper sparkled in the candlelight, the bandage on her ankle white against the red nightdress. The colour of blood. Edmund must have crawled away under the cannon fire. He would have been badly injured. He would have been so weak.

  ‘Lady Melville and Constance must be told,’ I whispered. ‘I must go to them.’

  ‘Hush now . . . try to sleep. Sofia Oakley has kindly offered to write out a translation. She’s coming first thing tomorrow and we can send them a copy.’

  Bethany helped Mother back to her room and I waited for them to think I was asleep. A red glow flickered in the fireplace and I slipped silently from my bed, opening the top right-hand drawer of my dressing table. The silk pouch felt painfully familiar and I knelt by the fire, taking out his first letter. I knew it by heart but I needed to see his writing.

  24, Hanover Square

  London

  April 20th 1790

  My Dearest Amelia,

  Four long months in London and already I’m sick for home. I ache for the wind to howl through my casement – for the smell of the moor, the tang of salt in the air. I long for the sound of the cattle, the sheep bleating, the incessant clucking of hens. I miss the chatter of the milkmaids, the first streaks of dawn lighting the purple heather. I miss everything about Pendowrick, but that’s nothing to how much I miss you.

  Father has introduced us to his business associates and I truly believe his motive for bringing us here is not to put us to work but to show us his true nature – a nature I’m beginning to find not to my liking. Francis and I are paraded round town, following in his wake like wide-eyed puppies. I believe Father finds our country manners amusing and though Francis does his best to please, I find London society shallow and insincere.

  Perhaps once we’ve been truly put to work I might feel better but in the meantime, I will endeavour to learn everything there is to know about spice. Father has given us both a silver nutmeg; it’s finely engraved and has space for a whole nutmeg and a small grater. Apparently, we’re to take them with us to his gambling parties – to grate fresh nutmeg into our punch.

  Are you well, my dearest love? Your seventeenth birthday seems such a long time ago. Even with the spring sunshine, I wish I was back with you, watching the firelight flicker across your face as you open your presents.

  You alone are all I live for. I’ll do my duty here to Father. I’ll obey him as he has so ordered, but on the stroke of my twenty-first birthday, I’ll leave London and return like he has promised. We’ll be married by your brother and I shall never leave your side. I’ll become eccentric like your father and you can wear garlands in your hair and roam barefoot across our pastures like your mother. Pendowrick will be a haven of love and our children’s laughter will ring from every room.

  Believe me, I’m counting down the days. Until then,

  I remain,

  Your loving fiancé that adores you, Edmund

  I added another log to the fire, watching the red embers sparkle. I had waited five months for his next letter, racing down the stairs at the sound of each post; twenty whole weeks of wondering what could be stopping him from writing.

  24, Hanover Square

  London

  September 21st 1790

  My dearest, true love,

  How your letters burn my hands and how I crush them to my lips. Every night when Father finishes ranting, when we nod to the servants to take him to his bed, I take your letters and hold them to my heart. Only then do I feel at peace.

  Francis doesn’t find it quite so objectionable that Father is a drunken sop, but I find it embarrassing and I long to leave London. I long to breathe our fresh Cornish air and hold you in my arms. Christmas will soon be here. The first day I’m back we shall run to the clifftop where last we kissed. I do nothing but picture it – your hair will be blowing in the wind, your cheeks glowing, and I will fold you in my arms and hold you so tightly that you’ll fear I’ll never let go.

  I love you every moment of every long day, and every chime of every wakeful night. Yesterday, I was reading Hamlet and found the exact words to describe how I feel.

  ‘For where thou art, there is the world itself, And where thou art not, desolation.’

  I remain your loving fiancé, Edmund

  I reached for his third letter and the familiar knife stabbed my stomach. Edmund had not come home for Christmas, nor for my eighteenth birthday.

  24, Hanover Square

  London

  February 1st 1791

  My dearest, truest love,

  I write with shaking hands, my frustration making it hard to hold the quill. Father has no intention of allowing us back this year: not for last Christmas, nor for this summer, and every time I plead with him his rage seems to worsen. I believe he keeps me here to punish Mother – that he plays us like paw
ns in some revengeful game of his.

  Dearest Amelia, Father has debts the likes of which could endanger Pendowrick. The London house is mortgaged and many of the servants have been dismissed. He has all but stopped trading – but that’s probably for the best. His foolishness knows no limit. He’s paid no insurance and his most recent cargos have been lost at considerable cost to the business. Two shiploads have been spoiled, the spices unusable, and one shipload has sunk. With no insurance.

  I believe Father to be very rash – a drunken gambler whose recklessness teeters on the edge of insanity. I’ve taken over trading and put myself in charge of the next three shipments. Father has been the target of a malevolent fraud. Francis is kinder about Father than I am but I find I cannot respect either. I’ve collated the damage done by this fraud and it is indeed serious. Francis believes we should bring a court case against the man Father accuses of being fraudulent. He’s a servant of the East India Company in Sumatra, who we’ve since found out is a notorious fraudster. I’ve written to him demanding he sends the shipment we ordered or we shall take legal action. I just hope that brings resolution.

  Please say nothing about this to your family. How are you? I long for your news. Please write, my darling. Please write or I’ll imagine you’ve forgotten all about me. Just a quick letter to act as balm to my aching heart.

  I remain your loving fiancé, Edmund

  I could hardly read through my tears. I had written, written and written and received so few replies. Mother was wrong, letters did get lost. I could feel my heart rate beginning to slow, a comforting warmth taking hold, and I gathered up the letters, making my way carefully back to bed. Light flickered in the grate, shadows dancing across the ceiling, and I lay listening to the sound of the crackling wood. My bed was soft, the eiderdown warm, and I reached under my pillow like I did every night. Luke’s book was where it always lay, the worn cover comfortingly familiar. I held it to my heart, curling round it as my sobs took hold – his father’s herbal, the most precious gift Luke had to give me.