by Nicola Pryce
Tincture of Valerian Root for the Relief of Nervous Disorders: cut into pieces 6 ounces of wild valerian root, gathered in June and freshly dried. Bruise it by a few strokes in a mortar so that the pieces split but are not powdered and add a quart of strong white wine. Cork the bottle and let it stand for three weeks, shaking it every day, then press it and filter the tincture through paper.
THE LADY HERBALIST
Chapter Five
Town House, Truro
Sunday 31st December 1797, 11 a.m.
The footman bowed. ‘Mrs Sofia Oakley, m’lady.’
Despite walking in the biting cold, Sofia Oakley looked pale beneath her ruby-red bonnet. Her thick black hair was coiled in plaits, a slight frown touched her dark brows. She curtseyed in greeting, her brave smile suddenly filling the room with sadness: it was in the set of her shoulders, the proud but not arrogant tilt to her chin. Her curtsey was demure, elegant, but her downward glance was full of the same sorrow I had noticed the night before.
‘Mrs Oakley, how kind of you to come. Won’t you sit down?’ Mother must have seen her sadness too, the compassion in her voice making the young woman look up. ‘I believe you’ve recently arrived from Portugal? You must find the weather very cold.’
Sofia Oakley nodded. ‘A lot colder than I’m used to, Lady Clarissa.’ Her cloak was made of Truro’s best woollen serge and was rather too small for her, her gown of good quality silk, but faded with several tears carefully mended. The lace on her sleeves looked tired, her shoes scuffed. ‘You have a very beautiful room, Lady Clarissa – a very beautiful house.’ No smile, but a sweet inflection in her thick foreign accent.
‘Have you been to England before? Do, please come and sit by the fire.’ Mother nodded to the footman who stepped forward to take Sofia’s cloak. ‘Come and warm your hands.’
Sofia Oakley sat, demure and elegant, her back straight, her eyes sweeping over the wooden ark before fixing on her clasped hands. I handed her the small brown paper parcel we had tied with ribbon. ‘This is for your son, Mrs Oakley. It’s gingerbread. We thought he might come with you.’
Her dark eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind. My son has a troublesome cough and I thought it best if he stayed with his grandmother.’ She picked up what looked like a brand-new leather bag, opening it quickly. ‘I have your letter here, Miss Carew. I have written it out word for word – the Portuguese part, that is.’
Her glance held understanding, the compassion of a woman who knew my heart was hammering. She handed me both letters, and I gave the translated letter to Mother, gazing down at his writing, My beloved Amelia. The room was too hot, a terrible weight crushing my chest. His writing swam before my eyes, I will search out the swiftest ship. Where was he? Crossing some wide ocean, hauling up sails?
Mother’s gold clock chimed in its dome on the mantelpiece. Sofia Oakley was right, it was a beautiful room; two large sash windows at either end letting in the light, a vast marble fireplace in the centre, and a pianoforte in the corner. The pale green wallpaper was striped with gold, the chairs upholstered in matching gold silk. The delicate mahogany furniture had claw feet, a set of family portraits looking down from their ornate frames. Above the fireplace, my four eldest brothers showed off their shot pheasants, Frederick and I playing with dogs by their feet.
‘We’re very grateful. Amelia, my dear . . . ?’
I came to my senses. ‘Yes, Mrs Oakley, we’re very grateful.’ I picked up the sovereign I had ready. ‘For your kindness,’ I said, crossing the room to hand it to her.
Her hand shook, her stiff resolve fading as her voice quivered. ‘You’re too generous. Please, I cannot accept this.’
‘I believe you should,’ replied Mother softly. ‘You are widowed, Mrs Oakley? Forgive me, but I do not think you’re used to sewing gloves. Truro is a small town and proud parents like to talk of their sons’ successes. Mr Oakley was prosperous, I believe? He was a silk merchant?’
Sofia Oakley took the sovereign, clasping it against her trembling lips. Tears filled her eyes. ‘We were prosperous . . . we had a beautiful house, we had servants . . . my children had horses.’
‘But not in Portugal?’
‘In Mombasa – on the coast of East Africa. I was born there. My father traded in silk – he was Portuguese and mainly traded with Portugal, but when I met and married my English husband, they joined forces and started trading with Britain. They ran a successful business, but life is precarious, fever sweeps through towns leaving families bereft. I buried my parents and my brother . . . followed by my husband . . .’ She clasped her fist over her mouth. ‘Followed by my two youngest children.’
‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’
She squared her shoulders, straightening her back. ‘Thank you, Lady Clarissa. Please forgive me.’
‘You left Mombasa because you were alone?’
She nodded. ‘I watched my family die in turn – first a yellowing in the eyes, then a yellowing of the skin . . . then purple blotches . . . then the vile, black vomit. Their cries of pain will never leave me. I was gripped by the same fever and I could do nothing. I could barely lift my head and watched them taken out, one by one. I could not even bury them. Joe and I were the only ones to recover and at first I wished we hadn’t. I wanted us all to have died. Then I took root . . .’ She looked up.
‘I believe you mean you took stock?’
‘Yes, Miss Carew, I took stock – quite literally. My son and I were weak, but we were alive, and I knew we must come to England. My son needed a family – his family.’ She took a deep breath, bringing out her handkerchief. ‘We had money for the passage and enough silk for me to sell when we arrived. I knew we would be able to afford a comfortable house in Truro.’
She stood up, back straight, her chin lifting. ‘I must take my leave. Thank you for your kindness, Lady Clarissa.’ She curtseyed. ‘Miss Carew, I will tell no one about your letter, but I sincerely hope— I’m sorry, forgive me, I have no right to meddle in your affairs.’
Mother’s voice softened, hardly the voice of an earl’s daughter who expected to be obeyed. ‘Do stay, Mrs Oakley, and let Amelia ring for refreshments.’ She nodded and I pulled the velvet bell-pull. ‘Won’t you take a dish of tea and a slice of Madeira cake?’
Sofia’s eyes darted to the ark and I gestured she might like to take a closer look. ‘In my country, these would have been carved from ivory,’ she said, examining the delicate animals. Her voice turned wistful. ‘My son had a horse such as this. We all rode. The sand is so white it dazzles your eyes . . . the sea a rich turquoise. Our silk was the exact turquoise of the sea – just our silk, and no one else’s. My husband kept the ingredients of the die secret. Our silk was so beautiful, it was sought by princes and sultans.’
Mother wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Can we help you at all, Mrs Oakley?’
Sofia Oakley stood stiffly, too proud to accept charity. ‘Thank you, Lady Clarissa, but I don’t think so. Forgive me, but I must get back to my son. He is not well.’
Mother rose to accompany her. ‘Of course, but perhaps you may like to visit us again? I have such thirst for knowledge and I would very much like to hear about Mombasa . . . and your family. I have three sons in the navy and I follow their voyages with great interest. Perhaps you could bring your son to enjoy the ark, and you can tell me more . . . about what it’s like to live so far away?’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind. I hope the New Year sees your family safe and well.’
As they talked I rushed to Mother’s desk and reached for her pen and paper.
‘Mrs Oakley, may I suggest a tonic for your son’s cough? Mr Silo, the apothecary in the High Street, will make it up for you. I’ll write down what I suggest – it’s usually very effective, but if your son remains ill, please ask Dr Bohenna to visit you . . . and send his account to us.’
A tight band squeezed my chest. Just saying his name made it difficult to breathe.
For a troublesome cough. Ta
ke frequently a spoonful of barley water, sweetened with oil of newly drawn almonds, and mixed in a spoonful of maiden-hair.
THE LADY HERBALIST
Chapter Six
I needed to be alone. Pleading the desire for an early night, I sought refuge in my room. The terrible guilt had returned, gnawing my stomach as if it had claws. It was my fault Edmund joined the navy. My fault. I had written so glowingly of the day we spent on board HMS Circe with Frederick and Captain Penrose. I had praised them and the ship, emphasizing in no uncertain terms how brave and courageous I thought they were. Edmund was impressionable, I knew that. He must have thought I was telling him to be more like them – to be his own man, to shake off the terrible hold his father had on him.
His letters lay beside me and I picked up the first one he had sent from the ship. His writing was cramped, written in haste.
HMS F—
August 4th 1793
My dearest love,
I write with shaking hands, the enormity of my decision filling me with sudden fear. You who have three brothers in the navy must understand the desire I have to serve my country. I have been offered a chance I cannot refuse – to escape the confines of London, a city I hate. I’m twenty, entirely my father’s puppet, and, for once, I have a chance to be myself.
I’ve been assured this war will be short-lived – that our tour of duty will be no more than six months. We’re to blockade the French ports and I shall return in the New Year with stories to entertain you by the fire.
I write crouched on a tiny bunk, the stench of the bilges and the swell of the waves already making me queasy. We are anchored in Cawsand Bay and sail within the hour; the ferryman who brought me to the ship awaits this letter and will see that it is posted.
Yet my heart beats so. I leave Father with Francis and I see no good arising from their close affection. They are too alike in character. Francis insisted on accompanying me to Plymouth Dock but it soon became apparent he came for his own pleasure, not to see me off. I waited a full two hours for him this morning. He nearly missed my departure but turned up at the quayside just as the ferryman was leaving. He looked disreputable and I felt such anger. He didn’t return to the inn last night and laughed at my censure, telling me I was dour, that I lacked manliness and I should become a priest. My last glimpse of England, and my own cousin laughing at me with such scorn!
Forgive my scribbled writing. I waited too long for Francis and Captain Owen is expecting me to report for duty in ten minutes. From now on, my letters will be censored – I won’t be able to tell you where I am or with whom we sail. Nor can I tell you the name of my commander-in-chief.
I love you, dearest, dearest Amelia. Think of me when the moon shines brightly. Know that I shall be staring up at the very same moon, aching to be beside you.
I remain,
Your loving fiancé,
Midshipman Edmund Melville
The fire was dying in the grate and I tightened my dressing gown round me. Wiping my tears, I unfolded his next letter. It was dated four months later.
HMS F–
December 1st 1793
My dearest love,
I can only hope this letter reaches you. I’ve been told that I must write four letters for every one that arrives and I pray mine are reaching you. I haven’t received any letters from you as yet, but I’m informed they can take up to six months to find us.
I’m getting used to life on board. The terrible seasickness has passed, and I find I can embrace my duties with greater relish. I’ve become used to wiping my fork before I eat and plunging it through the tablecloth to clean between the prongs. And they are right – fourteen inches is quite sufficient for an exhausted Midshipman to sleep in.
I’m now proficient in the bosun’s calls and pipes. I know how to call an order – to hoist, to haul, to let go and belay. I can call for attention and pipe still to salute a passing ship. Captain O— is a strict disciplinarian and for that I’m grateful. The Tars like discipline; it stops bullying and keeps a tight ship. I haven’t witnessed the brutal punishments I expected to witness, perhaps it’s because we’re only a small sloop and not a frigate, yet I wonder if Captain O— knows I’m so disliked? I fear my lack of practical skills and future title are held against me. The other midshipmen either are twice my age or have been ship’s boys for eight or more years and I’ve yet to prove my worth – that I’m not some soft-bellied aristocrat who has bought his rank.
I write in the knowledge I can post this letter from the port of L. and it will not be censored. Amelia, I beg you keep this to yourself, but the lock of my sea chest has been forced and each time I return to it, I find something else has been taken. I’ve lost several shirts, my embroidered waistcoat and two of my silk cravats. A pair of breeches are missing and all the tea and sugar I brought with me has gone. My gold watch, my silver compass and a considerable amount of money have also gone missing. There’s a lieutenant I trust and when I told him, he begged me to consider very carefully before I reported it to Captain O—. He left me in no doubt that my complaint would do me more harm than good. Therefore, I must remain silent and hope they’ll return my belongings. I believe they’re testing me, and if I can only get through this trial of birth, life aboard ship will become more bearable.
I hope this reaches you in time for Christmas. Happy Birthday, my darling. I so wish I were with you. I am three weeks away from my twenty-first birthday and as soon as I have served the minimum term, I shall return and we can be married.
Our ship was in sight of the capture of two French vessels, so I have a small share of prize money to look forward to. Another month, two at the most, and I’ll seek to relinquish my position.
I miss you too much and I miss Cornwall so very dreadfully, yet I believe some good has come from this. Serving alongside such courageous men who have so little makes me realize how much I have, and how I took it all for granted. If I must lose some of my possessions to prove I’m worthy of the ship, then I’m prepared to do so.
I love you, my darling Amelia. Perhaps your godfather might find a way of ensuring your letters reach me?
Goodbye, my dearest love,
Edmund
A soft knock, and I hid the letters beneath my bedcover. Mother peered round the door. ‘May we talk?’
‘Of course, come in.’
I helped her across the room and we sat on my bed. ‘Must you really go, my dearest? Won’t a letter suffice?’
I shook my head. ‘I have to show them the letter in person. Lady Melville hasn’t been strong for some time, and it would be unkind to let Constance bear this news alone.’
She reached for my hand, her tone wavering. ‘It’s the practicalities that are the problem, my dearest. My foot stops me from accompanying you and your father has an important meeting that he must attend – they’re appointing the new Lord Lieutenant and he cannot leave Truro. Perhaps in a week?’
‘They have to know as soon as possible. It can’t wait a week. Please, Mother . . . I often take the carriage by myself. Seth will take me – there’ll be two coachmen, two footmen, and Bethany will be with me at all times. If we leave at first light, I can show Lady Melville and Constance the letter and we’ll come straight home. It’s six miles there and six miles back. It’s a good road and there’s been no rain – you’ve never stopped me going places before.’
Her grey hair shimmered in the candlelight. ‘It’s whether you’re strong enough, that’s really my concern.’
I nodded, summoning every ounce of pretence. ‘I am strong enough, and I’ll be so much happier when they know.’
Her sigh tore my heart. ‘Your father will issue the pistols,’ she said.
Kissing her cheek, I tried to smile. ‘Thank you . . . It’s just for the day. We’ll come straight home. And we won’t need pistols.’
The clock chimed ten, the candlelight flickering across his cramped writing and I reached for another candle, placing the new wick to the guttering flame. His letter had not
reached me for Christmas, nor for my twenty-first birthday: it had taken three months, the next had taken four. I picked up his last letter, written the night before his fateful mission.
HMS F—
March 30th 1794
My dearest love,
How can I describe the beauty of this place? Mango swamps and palm-fringed beaches, the sand so white it’s almost blinding. The sea is intensely blue and so clear I can see huge shells on the seafloor and the ripples of the sand. There are brightly coloured fish the like of which I’ve never seen before – whole shoals of them nibbling the hull as I bend to watch.
The fleet lays to anchor. No man must sleep on shore and Captain O— is adamant no man must sleep on deck. After the burning heat of day, the dew of the evening falls so heavily and the damp air inevitably brings fever. Yet it is hard to resist the lure of the moonlight. The night air is filled with the heady scent of exotic night-blooms drifting from the land and I sit imagining you’re next to me, that we’re alone, like the last evening we spent in Pendowrick when the moon shone so brightly and we watched the sun rise, too much in love to go our separate ways.
Captain O— runs the ship with clockwork precision. At six o’clock, we pipe ‘spread awnings’ and those on watch hoist the huge canvases to give much needed shade. The fierce rays of this tropical sun burn like fire, shrinking the planking, rendering the pitch soft and sticky. Yet that does not stop the work – each day the decks are swabbed and scrubbed, the brass work polished with brick dust and rags. Then at 11.30 the Watch shouts ‘clear deck and up spirits’ and the officer of the Watch serves grog – always from an open deck, never, ever, below decks in case of fire.