by Nicola Pryce
At 4 p.m. we pipe ‘unfurl awnings’ and the decks flood with sunshine in time for afternoon grog. The humidity and heat make for such thirst. Captain O— insists on the grog being more diluted than some, but he’s right. Salt beef and salt pork can dry your mouth in minutes, yet I’m pleased to say we’ve parted company with our weevils for a while. The ship has been freshly provisioned and the air of civility among the men is very pleasant. We’re surrounded by a constant stream of small craft with wiry-haired, bare-chested men shouting up at us to buy strings of beads and shells. Two weeks ago, I bought you the biggest, most exquisite shell I could see. They tell me when you put it to your ear, you can hear the sea, but I hear nothing but the sea!
My dearest love, I’ve written everything but what I want to write; that, I must keep to myself. Suffice to say, I do my utmost, just as every other man on this ship is doing his utmost. Captain O— knows he must keep us all busy. No one can admit their fear; we stand and fall as a ship’s company and I’m proud to play my part.
But at night, my dearest love, my thoughts return to you. To our walks through the meadows, to the way the ribbons on your bonnet flutter, to your smile. To the way you run so freely along the shore with bare feet. To the trees you taught me to climb. It seems there hasn’t been a day or night in my whole life that I haven’t held your image in my mind. I hold the exquisite shell to my heart, to my lips, to my heart again, and I ache with longing. One of the Tars has engraved it for you, and I can’t wait to give it to you.
The drum is sounding, and I must leave you. Post is being collected from all the ships – yesterday, I spent the whole day writing letters for the men and today we expect to receive new orders. I love you, my dearest Amelia. Love you with every ounce of my being. Soon we shall be together and I shall never leave your side. Never. Not even to go to Truro.
I remain,
Your loving fiancé,
Edmund
Chapter Seven
Town House, Truro
Tuesday 2nd January 1798, 9 a.m.
The wind was bitingly cold, the clouds a blanket of solid grey. With her boots resting on the foot-warmer, her head covered by the hood of her cloak, and her hands tucked firmly in her muff, Bethany looked warm, if not her usual cheerful self. The road was dry, the coach making good progress and I smiled with encouragement, wiping the misty window with my glove. The barren trees in the orchards were giving way to neatly furrowed fields, smoke rising from every chimney, the houses growing poorer as we headed north along the turnpike to Bodmin.
I knew what she was thinking – that they should have a town house in Truro and come for the Christmas season like the rest of us, that they should not bury themselves on the moor in winter. Constance never came to Truro because Lady Melville hardly ever left the house and I had seen neither of them since Uncle Alex had assured me of Edmund’s death. The grip on my heart tightened. Eighteenth months was too long an absence, I should have been more attentive, not put my own needs above theirs; stepping back, distancing myself from their pain as my pain began to heal. Now the pain felt raw again. I should never have abandoned Edmund, nor fallen so deeply in love with Luke.
‘There’s ice on the puddles,’ Bethany peered out of the other window, ‘and look at those red berries – that’s a sign of harsh weather to come. ’Tis no wonder there’s no rabbits – they’re all burrowed down deep.’
The gradient was growing steeper, the horses slowing as the rich vale gave way beneath us. The trees grew scarcer, the open moorland stretching ahead of us in all its empty vastness. Scattered hawthorns bent like hunched witches, tufts of grass blowing sideways in the icy wind. ‘There’s ice on the edge of the pond. I forget how barren it is up here – and how sheltered we are in Truro.’
Bethany smiled, but not with pleasure. ‘I don’t, Miss Amelia. I never forget how cold it is up here. Ye should be back by the fire. Dr Bohenna told me to keep ye warm and . . .’
The knife sliced deeper. ‘Don’t talk of him, Bethany. Not now.’
She rearranged the travelling rug, spreading it evenly over my knees. Her lips were pursed, her blonde hair curled in two plaits beneath her corduroy bonnet. Her complexion was always ruddy, but her plump cheeks looked drawn, as if she, too, had not slept. ‘Seth says he’ll stop at the Crossed Keys if ye’re cold, so I can get ye to a fire. ’Tis only half an hour to the inn, and an hour to Pendowrick after that. He says as long as we leave Pendowrick by three o’clock.’
It was over three years since I had been to Pendowrick, and never in the winter. The last time I made this journey was to attend Sir Richard Melville’s funeral and the interment of his nephew, Francis Bainbridge. A double loss for the family, yet there had been little grief among the mourners following the coffins.
‘Thank you for coming with me,’ I whispered.
Bethany rubbed her hands and blew into her gloves. ‘Course I’d come with you – like I’ll ever leave you.’ She looked up and smiled and I caught the fear in her eyes.
The familiar treetops of the coombe came into sight and we began winding down the narrow road, the wind lessening as the stone walls of the estate began to line our route. Trees in the orchard became visible through an iron gateway and as we rounded the bend the tops of six tall chimneys stood stark against the overcast sky. The road became cobbled, the horses’ hooves louder, the clatter of the wheels announcing our arrival.
Bethany gazed through the gatehouse to the ancient house with its curling Dutch gables and mullion windows. Catching her breath, she pulled her cloak tighter, staring at the pointed arches and the vast Tudor window. I knew she found it foreboding and even I had to take a deep breath. The house looked brooding, sinister, and I tried to suppress the shiver running down my back. Framed by the heavy grey sky, the stonework looked dark and severe, the only welcoming sign a small plume of smoke drifting from one of the elaborate brick chimneys.
Seth slipped off the driver’s seat to the cobbles, the waxed capes on his travelling coat flapping as he crossed his arms and slapped his shoulders. His face was florid, his breath filling the air as he shouted instructions. The second coachman, likewise, rubbed his arms, the footmen stamping their feet and breathing into their gloves. One of them opened the door and pulled down the steps.
‘Thank you. I hope you’re not too cold?’
‘No, Miss Carew – not cold at all,’ he said through chattering teeth.
‘They’ll find you a fire and something to eat.’ I glanced up. The door to the house had been thrown open and Constance was running down the path.
‘Amelia? My goodness, it is you. Quick, let’s get you inside.’
She linked her arm through mine, hurrying me down the path and through the heavily studded oak door. She was not dressed for visitors: her black hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her velvet cap looked faded and worn, and I tried to hide my shock. She was dressed like a housekeeper, her thick woollen gown dusty at the hem, her woven shawl frayed at one end.
Her smile vanished. ‘What brings you here? What’s happened?’
‘I didn’t tell you I was coming because I knew you’d only worry. I wanted to be with you when I told you . . .’
She stood stock still, her dark eyes piercing mine. ‘Told me what?’
‘Edmund didn’t die that day. Somehow he escaped . . . but he was very ill and taken by a Portuguese trading ship—’ My voice caught at her sudden sob. ‘Connie, we don’t know if he’s still alive . . . but we do know he survived the skirmish and escaped from Guadeloupe. That he didn’t die.’
Her hand tightened round my elbow. She had grown taller, changing from the willowy girl I remembered to a woman with large, wistful eyes. She was seventeen, the same age I had been when Edmund and I had become betrothed, yet she looked so young. A single log burned in the grate of the huge fireplace and she hurried me past it, twisting up a set of circular stone steps to a tiny room with an equally dismal fire.
‘How do you know?’ she whispered.
&
nbsp; I reached into my bag, handing her the letter. ‘This came a few days ago . . . and this is the translation because part of it’s written in Portuguese.’ I held my hands to the fire, taking off neither my gloves nor my cloak. ‘It’s dated eighteen months ago . . . and he was very weak. That’s all we’ve got, Connie.’
She looked up, and in that instant I saw Edmund looking at me – his thick shock of black hair, his high cheekbones, his dark eyelashes and heavy brows. I saw the hope in his eyes and my stomach twisted. I had forgotten what he looked like; I had not held his image in my mind for so long, yet there he was: his face in her face – a boy of seventeen, looking up at me, a ring pressing against his lips, my hand pressing against his lips, my lips pressing against his lips.
The pain was unbearable. I had to sit down, cover my face with my hands.
Another image grew stronger: another man – the man I now loved, kneeling at my feet, reaching into his pocket, his blue eyes filled with tenderness. I saw his familiar deep furrows, his brown hair worn short, his freshly shaven chin, and his cheeks slightly flushed. I could not breathe. Seeing Constance had brought everything back, as if Edmund was there in the room and if I turned my head I might see him.
Tears splashed Constance’s cheeks. ‘I can hardly take this in. He must be alive . . . they wouldn’t have taken him if they thought him too weak. Voyages take years . . . if he escaped before, he’ll escape again.’ She looked too thin, her slender fingers fumbling to find her handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not dressed for company . . . you must think me very wretched. I’ve been sorting the stores – the pickles. We have so little company that I’ve become quite a housekeeper.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘Mama will be very happy to see you – this news might be all she needs to get well again.’
‘Is it her rheumatism?’
‘At first it was just her joints, but she’s developed a persistent cough. She barely eats. You know how she is – since Edmund’s death, she’s lost all joy. Mrs Alston does her best to tempt her, but Mama won’t touch meat and . . .’ She looked up and Edmund’s eyes pierced mine. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you.’
I was back in the spring of 1789, a girl of sixteen. The sun had shone, the sky intensely blue, the moor a mass of purple heather and white cattle. As family friends we had been invited to visit Pendowrick. Edmund had been waiting up the lane for our carriage and had jumped down from the wall, running beside our coach, skipping sideways, smiling up at me, and I had pulled down the window, leaning out, holding on to my bonnet, laughing back at him, giddy with happiness. The exuberance of youth, Papa had said as Edmund bent double at the gatehouse, too breathless to greet us.
We were so young, yet my heart had been bursting with love. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart. We did not need words, both of us thinking with one mind. Rise up my love, my fair one, and come away. Edmund had taken me by the hand, whirling me through the ancient house, dipping under the stone arches, smiling down from the minstrels’ gallery, and Constance had run behind us, somehow willing to share her adored elder brother with me. She had been eight, a silent girl with hoops and kittens and a small pony called Milor. We were only sixteen, yet I knew our love was real.
Connie wiped her eyes. ‘We’ll go to Mama now . . . Will you stay the night? Only if you stay we must prepare you a room and something to eat. Your servants must be fed.’
‘Please, no fuss. Just a fire and something for them to eat – I don’t want to impose on you. We’ll leave at three – no later.’
She kept hold of the letters, leading me through a small door and down a narrow corridor into what I knew was the servants’ wing. Edmund had never taken me there, even after we returned for a second visit – both of us now seventeen. Our parents could no longer dismiss our love as infatuation and the discussions between them had turned serious.
We had stayed in the east wing, in rooms with dark wooden panelling and carved mullion windows, dining formally in the great hall with its ornate plasterwork and vast Tudor window. Constance had sat beside me, bright-eyed and smiling. There are five hundred and seventy-six panes of glass – she had whispered – I know that because I’ve counted them all.
I had smiled back at her, but my heart was breaking. Edmund and I had both smiled, accepting the terms of our engagement with fortitude, if not with relish. What else could we do? Eldest sons of the noble Melville family had to wait until their twenty-first birthday for their allowance and any thought of embarking on marriage. Like all the other heirs to the title and estate, Edmund would prove no exception. After all, four years was not such a long time, he would finish his education in London and learn the family business and frequent visits must suffice. Pendowrick Manor had stood for three hundred years; another four years would pass very quickly.
Constance rested her hand against the heavy oak door. ‘Amelia . . . please don’t be shocked. Mama’s not dressed – in fact, she hardly ever leaves her bed now. Would you give me a minute and I’ll prepare her for your visit?’
She knocked loudly, pushing open the studded arched door. ‘Mama,’ she whispered, ‘Amelia Carew has come to see us.’ She turned to me. ‘I won’t be long.’
She closed the door and I gazed through the small leaded window to the garden below. It was almost unrecognizable from my previous visits. Instead of neat roses and box hedges filled with lavender, hens were pecking at long, woody stalks, scratching in bare patches of earth. An upturned stool lay on its side, an abandoned wooden pail flung beside it. Grass was growing through the gravel paths, the enclosing wall dotted with dark patches of moss. Through the open gate, I saw weeds growing in the cobbled courtyard and the huge barn doors firmly closed.
Constance joined me at the window, her voice echoing my sadness. ‘The horses have all gone . . . In fact, we’ve very few animals left. Most of the servants have gone to Sir Charles Montford’s new house and estate – he poached them all and who can blame them?’ Her voice caught. ‘It’s not like how it was, Amelia. We live very simply now . . .’ Tears glistened on her dark lashes. ‘That letter brings us such hope. Edmund must be alive . . . he has to be alive.’
She was too thin, her cheeks sallow, her hair simply dressed, as if she had had no help with the pinning of her clasps. ‘Who oversees the estate?’
‘Our steward, Mr Elton. He gives Mama an allowance but it’s a pittance. The house and estate are entailed to my first-born son. He will inherit the land and title. He’ll be the sixth baron, but until he reaches twenty-one, the estate will remain in trust. My husband, whoever he will be, and Mr Elton will act in his interest and I’ll have no say in the matter whatsoever.’ She twisted the tip of her shawl round her finger, bringing it to her mouth. ‘We need . . . or rather I need, Edmund to come home.’
It was bitterness in her voice, not wistfulness. A definite note of defiance.
‘You must have several suitors?’
Her mouth tightened. ‘Oh, yes . . . more than you can imagine! They’re coming out of the woodwork, scurrying round the house with Mr Elton like swarms of death-watch beetles. Some are from London, some from Devon, and there’s one from Wiltshire. There’s nothing like a title and an estate to draw them in – and I’m to be bought along with the house.’
‘Connie, don’t say that.’
‘Not speak the truth? There’s plenty of new money out there, and plenty wanting to raise their status by marrying the heir to a bankrupt baronetcy, even if they do have to part with a large settlement. Some marry for love, others for expedience. When they visit, I pretend I have a headache and that suits them very well. The last person they want to see is me.’
‘But Connie, you must see them. You can’t let Mr Elton decide like that. You must choose who you marry. You belong to one of the oldest families in Cornwall – you’ve a pedigree stretching back to Henry VIII . . . their son will bear a noble name.’
She shrugged her shoulders, gazing out of the window to the church just visible beyond the orchard.
‘I’ve been told very little. What I’ve gleaned is all from listening at doors. I haven’t been allowed to see Father’s will . . .’ She wound the edge of her shawl round her finger, once again drawing it to her mouth. ‘When Mr Elton showed Mama the will, I heard her cry out. They had a terrible row. When he left she refused to let me see it. I don’t know if it was because Father left us so poor. But there we have it. My son’s to inherit the title, and they’ll decide who I marry.’
The severity in her voice, the hurt, the twisting of her finger; she was holding back her anger. ‘Connie, they can’t just discount your wishes.’
‘They can, and they do. Come, Mama will be ready now.’ Her smile was forced, her voice just as tense. ‘I’m afraid you’ll see an enormous change in her.’
The passions have a greater influence on health than most people are aware of. The slow and lasting passions, such as grief and hopeless love, can bring on chronic diseases.
THE LADY HERBALIST
Chapter Eight
Lady Melville sat by the fire with a rug on her lap; the room was stuffy and overcrowded, the furniture too large for the room. A huge bed took up most of the space, heavy curtains swamping the small leaded window. The room was dark, no lanterns lit, just the glow of the fire lighting her pale face, and I curtseyed deeply, hoping the dull light would hide my shock. She seemed twenty years older, as fragile as a sparrow, her cheeks sunken, her hair completely grey.
‘Lady Melville, please forgive my unplanned visit.’
Her thin hands plucked at her handkerchief, her eyes glistening with tears. She reached for her Bible and put it to her lips. ‘You believe he is still alive?’
Constance pointed to a chair on the other side of the fireplace and I sat down, grateful for some warmth. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’
‘He is alive, I know it.’ Her words were spoken with such force she started coughing, a fierce racking cough that shook her thin frame. She lay back against the high-back chair, her eyes closed, and in the flicker of the flames, I saw a bluish tinge to her lips. Dark rings circled her eyes, a web of thin red veins on both her cheeks. Bruises covered the back of her hands, a dusky hue to her fingernails. Her grey hair was thinning, bald in patches.