by Nicola Pryce
Constance glanced round the room, her mouth hardening. ‘Francis was given every opportunity to behave as a gentleman, yet he was murdered for debauchery. It’s horrible and I feel sick at the thought of it, but I can’t help thinking that it was always going to be like that – one day or another. Father made sure the men were hanged. Do your parents tell you everything, Amelia? Or do they keep things from you?’
‘No, they like me to be informed . . . but if it’s any consolation, they kept that from me. I had no idea of how Francis died.’
She put the pile of papers back into the trunk and lifted out a small painting wrapped in sacking. ‘Poor Aunt Harriet, it’s as well she never knew what her son became.’
She unfolded the cloth, handing me the portrait, and I looked into the laughing eyes of Lady Melville’s younger sister. A radiant woman smiled back at me, her dark hair spilling in abundance beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her cheeks were flushed, her full red lips slightly apart; there was a coquettish lift to her chin.
‘She was very beautiful. Why don’t you take it to your mother? There aren’t any other portraits of your aunt here, are there?’
Constance shook her head. ‘I can’t give it to Mama or she’ll know I’ve taken the key. I’m not allowed up here – or anywhere, for that matter. Look . . . there’s all sorts of other stuff . . . some books . . . Francis’s silver nutmeg grater.’ She reached beneath a pile of clothes, drawing her hands back in horror. ‘Oh . . . these are his boots – I can barely touch them. I should give all these clothes to Reverend Kemp for charity, but I can’t until Mama suggests it.’ She folded the clothes, reaching deep into the trunk. ‘These must be his father’s books. Two of them are in French. I suppose sea captains needed to speak French?’
She pulled out a clutch of leather-clad books, placing them on the floor beside her, and I pulled one from the pile, opening it with a rush of pleasure. ‘The Botanical Prints of Oriental Spices, published by Burrows and Burrows . . . Look, Connie, there’s an inscription on this first page. For Harriet, my dearest love. January 6th 1770.’
‘It must have been a present from Uncle William – he must have given it to her before he died.’
My heart burned, my mouth going dry. ‘Burrows and Burrows, the renowned London publishers.’
The prints were exquisite: page after page of delicately painted drawings – nutmeg, saffron, cardamom, ginger, cinnamon. I could hardly breathe. Constance took the book from my hands, putting everything back into the trunk. ‘I’m so glad I told you about the trial . . . it’s been a horrible secret to keep to myself. Come, it’s too cold, let’s get back to the fire . . . don’t forget to bring your casket.’
She shut the door and we returned to the relative warmth of the minstrels’ gallery. At the painting of the two youths, she stopped. ‘Have you noticed Francis’s eyes watch you wherever you are in the room? The painter caught them exactly. Francis was always watching, and Edmund always so loving. Edmund used to save bits of his meal for my kittens. He was as soft as butter, but I don’t need to tell you that.’
Edmund’s eyes looked back at mine: soft eyes, loving eyes. ‘No, you don’t.’
Her voice turned bitter. ‘Francis drowned them.’
‘What?’
‘My kittens. He denied it, but I knew it was him. I hated him from then on. I was nine years old and he drowned my kittens. I could never love him, and Mama never liked him. I think she blamed him for killing her beloved sister. Father was right to take him into our family, but Mama always resented him. She didn’t shed a single tear when he died and neither did I.’
I stared back at the watchful eyes of Francis Bainbridge. ‘Blaming Francis is very unfair. A lot of women die after childbirth . . .’
‘Ours has never been a happy house. I don’t know how much Edmund told you, but Father and Mama loathed each other. Father spent all his time in London and Mama buried herself here. That’s why Edmund loved you so much – you gave him such hope. He just wanted to be happy – we all did. We saw the love and laughter in your family and we were so envious. I still am, Amelia.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I want that so much. I want to live with shrieks of laughter. I want real love . . . I want warmth . . . huge family meals with pies and roast meat . . . and iced cream . . . and . . . I’m so sorry—’
She was sobbing, her body shaking. She had Edmund’s same sense of vulnerability and I held her to me, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘You can have all that, Connie, honestly you can. You just have to be very firm in accepting who you choose.’
Her mouth trembled, a fresh burst of tears. ‘No, I can’t. Believe me, I can’t. Mama will see to that.’
‘I’m sure that’s not right. Lady Melville loves you. She’ll want you to be happy. She’ll only agree to your marriage if you find someone you can love . . .’
She stared back at me. ‘But I love Adam Kemp . . . I love him . . . so very much, and he loves me.’
‘Adam Kemp? Reverend Kemp’s son?’ Connie nodded, hardly able to speak. ‘He’s come home? Yes, I suppose he must have. Connie, are you sure?’
She reached for her handkerchief. ‘I’m very sure. He’s been back a year now, helping his father with the parish. He’s started a school . . . he’s such a good man . . . he’s honest and upright and everyone loves him.’
‘Well then . . . that’s wonderful.’
Her back stiffened, her chin lifted. ‘Mama’s forbidden me to see him. She says he’s not good enough for me. He’s a mere curate, the son of a vicar, and I’m forbidden even to speak his name. So you can see why I need Edmund to come home.’
I pulled the blanket over my knees, watching the gathering twilight. The sky was darkening, the horizon lost to a thickening grey mist. We would soon begin our descent from the moor and reach Truro just in time for the church bells to chime five. Bethany remained grim-faced and silent, glaring at the small wooden box on my lap as if it held poison. She must know it contained Edmund’s belongings.
My hands were numb from clasping it so tightly. Through the ebony wood, the carefully inscribed words seemed to burn my hands. Where thou art not, desolation. Burning my hands and searing my heart. I should have waited longer, held on to my conviction that Edmund was not dead. I should never have believed Uncle Alex; never have loved again.
Chapter Ten
Town House, Truro
Friday 5th January 1798, 5 a.m.
I awoke in tears, my cheeks wet, my heart thumping. I had been doubled-up both from the pain of loss and the pain of running. We were on the moor, my hair streaming against my shoulders, my white muslin gown swirling in the wind. Edmund was running ahead of me, young, lithe, jumping the ditches, looking round, his long black hair a mass of curls under his corduroy hat. The distance between us was growing. I was running to catch him, but I could not reach him. Every time I stopped for breath he seemed further ahead, growing more and more distant.
I had been shouting, urging him to wait, to let me catch up with him, but my words were lost to the wind. He kept turning round, smiling; he was leaving me behind, knowing I could not follow him. Young, strong, looking back at me as I fought to catch my breath, smiling, but not stopping. Not stopping. Not turning back, but leaving me doubled-up and screaming, sobs racking my chest.
I crossed the room, pouring water from the jug, splashing my face with cold water. My heart was thumping, my breathing rapid. I had seen him as plainly as if we had turned back the clocks and had just turned nineteen. They had come down to Cornwall for Christmas – our nineteenth birthdays – and I had been sick with love for him, desperate we had to part again.
Yet, I was right to fear. The feeling of foreboding that would not leave me as I watched their carriage disappear from sight had been well founded: it was to be the last time I saw him. The room was freezing, the fire burnt out and I reached for my dressing gown, wrapping it around me before my tears took hold.
Stay away from the window. I dipped my quill into the silver inkstand as Bet
hany knocked on the door. I knew it was Bethany, not because it was her distinctive soft tap, but because she had knocked on my door at exactly two o’clock for the last two months. She peered tentatively into the room.
‘He’s coming,’ she whispered, just as she had whispered on every other occasion.
I remained looking down at my writing. ‘I’m very busy, Bethany . . . perhaps it’s best if you don’t disturb me in future. Dr Bohenna is here to see to Mother’s foot.’ I started writing again, keeping my head bent so she could not see my tears. She shut the door and I covered my face. Stay away from the window.
My head was speaking, but my heart would not listen. Rushing to the window, I concealed myself behind the pine shutter and peered tentatively down. A group of people were standing hunched by the church railings, bracing themselves against the icy cold. A woman with a heavy basket was scurrying across the square.
Luke was wearing his overcoat, his familiar warm hat pulled low over his forehead and my ache worsened. I could not see his face, just the bag he was carrying and his well-polished boots, but there was a new stoop to his shoulders, a sadness in the dip of his head. Dearest Luke, just one month later – just one week later, just one day later.
My heart hammered. If we had been married, everything would be different.
He glanced up and my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. He looked gaunter, his cheeks strained, his sudden smile full of sadness. I could not bear to see the anguish in his eyes. Luke Bohenna, the man I admired so deeply, who had brought me such joy. The man I now adored. Our eyes locked and by his stiff bow I knew he was holding himself in check.
The miniature portrait I had sent Edmund lay on my desk. I had posed for it with such exuberance, choosing my gown carefully – Edmund’s favourite, the one I had been wearing when he had stolen his first kiss. I hardly recognized the girl in the dotted muslin with her scooped neck threaded with lilac ribbon and her straw bonnet trimmed with pink roses. I looked so happy, so young and carefree, my sparkling eyes brimming with love.
A sudden lurch in my stomach, the same twinge of resentment. I had so wanted Edmund to send me a miniature in return. If only he had. If only he had, I could have kept his image fresh in my mind and would never have forsaken him – not if I had remembered the vulnerability in his eyes, held his sweet smile to my heart.
Our letters lay intertwined, each an extension of the other. My last letter to him lay open on my desk and I picked it up, reading through blurred eyes. I had encouraged him to join the navy . . . yet why had he not written to tell me of his plans? Why just leave me like that?
Trenwyn House
June 21st 1793
My dearest Edmund,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I suspect that’s not the case.
Frederick is home, and I can’t begin to tell you how handsome he looks in his new uniform. He is now fully commissioned as Lieutenant – but you already know that because he told me you had dinner together when he was in London. He tells me you look pale, and that London is doing you no favours. You must stay well, my love – we have only six months to wait. Six long months, Edmund, my dearest love. Yet, how am I to endure another six months – especially as you do not write as often as you promised me you would?
Yesterday, we had a tour of Frederick’s new ship and I couldn’t have been more proud of him. He has joined Captain Penrose on HMS Circe. Captain Penrose has a fierce reputation, but actually, I found him rather shy and really rather endearing. He’s from Truro, and would you believe it, went to Truro Grammar School with Henry Trelawney? Major Trelawney was there, too, and we had a splendid time.
I think you must realize I’m rather in love with Major Trelawney. He is the kindest man I know, but you needn’t be too alarmed as he is happily married with three very fine sons. Even so, it might be just as well if you were to hurry home.
Mother has invited Major Trelawney to join her fundraising circle for the new infirmary. He was wearing his red uniform and looked very splendid. But the ship! My goodness, I can’t tell you how proud it made me feel. I think, above all, I love the navy best. They are all Cornishmen on Frederick’s ship, and the officers were so smart, the Tars standing to attention as we made our way along the scrubbed deck. Everything gleamed – the brass shining in the sun. She’s a thirty-four gun, sixth-rate frigate, and I wish you’d seen Frederick’s face. He was beaming from ear to ear and allowed us to hold the wheel. I even got to ring the ship’s bell. It was a glorious day. Absolutely glorious.
We’re to host another concert to raise money for the infirmary. I have two new Beethoven pieces to learn and I’m going to sing ‘The Countess’s Aria’ from The Marriage of Figaro. I know Mozart is your favourite so I’m learning everything I can with you in mind. When we’re married, I shall give concerts from the minstrels’ gallery which I believe would suit me very well. I’d much prefer it if our guests couldn’t watch me while I play.
Six months – however am I going to last six months?
Nothing else changes. Papa is to commission a new rhododendron walk and has drawn up plans for a variety of trees to be planted – mainly oak – and Mother is planning more hothouses and a shrubbery with mirror pieces and shells in the gravel so it shines at night. Dearest love, I can’t wait to show you my collection of rose prints. We shall grow more roses at Pendowrick – I shall design a whole new garden with a host of arches and pergolas just like we have in Trenwyn.
Charles has taken up his duties as rector and Papa is thrilled that William is showing an interest in farming. My two nephews bring us great joy. Mother is teaching Young William to row and I’m teaching him to climb trees. It’s all very splendid, apart from the only thing that matters – you are not here.
Do write, my sweetest love, or I shall go mad with worry. Write and tell me all about your acquisitions of nutmeg and cinnamon. How is trading at the moment? Are you beginning to turn a profit? Please tell me. Please tell me all you do. I don’t want to be a silent wife who knows nothing about her husband’s affairs. I want to be part of everything about you. Everything.
Six months. Six long months.
Your ever-loving,
Amelia
This time it was barely a knock. Mother limped across the room with one arm through Bethany’s, the other leaning on her Chinese lacquered cane. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ she said, sitting down at my desk, leaving Bethany in no doubt that she was to close the door behind her.
Her arched eyebrows rose above her straight nose, a glint of iron in her expression as she took my hand. ‘Luke has just left. I did ask him to stay but he was extremely reluctant – adamant, in fact. The poor man looks terrible.’
‘Mother . . . please . . .’
‘Even if Edmund does return, he would expect you to be married by now. You were seventeen when you got engaged – and that’s a very long time ago. You’ve not seen him for six years and not many loves can withstand that sort of pressure. He would not have expected you to wait so long – you had clear confirmation of his death, and Luke Bohenna deserves—’
‘Mother . . . please . . .’
She picked up the miniature portrait. ‘Look at you, my love – so very young, in love with the idea of being in love. You were a girl, he was a boy, a mere youth . . . a very charming but idealistic youth who, in our opinion, treated you rather badly.’
‘You were seventeen when you became engaged to Papa.’
‘Yes, but your father was much older – Edmund was too young. It’s long been my regret we agreed to your engagement. We should have made you wait to get engaged until after he returned from London. He was clearly not ready for marriage – leaving like that without a backward glance. He has no hold over you, Amelia . . . you have no reason to believe your betrothal should be honoured.’
‘But I do . . . Mother, I promised him . . .’
‘I think he’s forfeited any promise you might have made. He should have consulted us before joining his ship. If any of your broth
ers had been in his position I would have insisted they discussed it first with the family. His action went against the spirit of your engagement and, as such, I believe you are released from it.’
‘Mother, please . . .’
‘I know your argument – he was offered the position as a favour to his father . . . an opportunity many young men would jump at, and yes, had he been a third or fourth son we would have regarded it as fortuitous, but a man set to inherit a title and estate had no reason to accept the offer. He had a secure future – land, responsibilities, a political career should he so wish. He had no reason to become a midshipman. He should have let someone else benefit from the patronage he was offered.’
‘Mother, please don’t—’
An edge of steel entered her tone. ‘He had clear obligations, which he chose to forget.’
‘He thought it would only be for a short time . . .’
‘Idealistic nonsense . . . believing he could choose to sail round the Mediterranean for six months and come home when it pleased him.’
‘Mother . . . please, I was just as angry. When I heard, I was furious . . . really hurt . . . I cried for months, asking myself why he just left like that? But . . . I believe his health was suffering. You remember the Christmas when they came down for my nineteenth birthday and you thought he looked thin and unhappy?’
‘When Sir Melville was thinking of sending them to Sumatra? Yes, I remember it well.’
‘I told him his father had too strong a hold on him and that he should try to break free from his influence.’
‘But he was going to be free of him. He was going to return to Pendowrick and run the estate.’