A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  Dr Nankivell glanced down at his list. ‘Thank you, Lady Clarissa. Your cook’s recommendations will be sent to the architect.’ He was our adored physician, present at my birth and those of my brothers, seeing us through our childhood illnesses with his gentle manners and secret bags of jelly drops. ‘Mrs Lilly, your brief was . . . ?’

  ‘The washrooms, Dr Nankivell. And I’m an expert in washrooms, so I’ve no reason to doubt my findings.’ She winked at Luke and my heart burned. Mary Lilly, with her dimpled smile and beautiful complexion, her poise and grace. An Irish runaway, a woman who had known poverty and want, now married to the richest industrialist in Truro. Mary Bohenna, working hard with her first husband in his apothecary shop, both dreaming of the day Luke would become a doctor.

  She held her report steady, her voice resolute. ‘I’d like to see bigger cauldrons, too – if there’s to be anything like enough hot water to wash the sheets. And a larger drying room with copper pipes the length and breadth of it, filled with hot water. More importantly, I’d like to see the provision of a room we could call the first stop.’

  ‘What a ridiculous name.’ Lady Polgas was back on form.

  ‘Well . . . we can hardly call it the delousing and vermin-catching room, now, can we? Give the poor souls some dignity. My suggestion is that everyone entering the infirmary should go to the first stop and we’ll take every stitch of clothing off them to be washed . . . they’ll be bathed and tended to, and we’ll supply them with fresh clothes while theirs are being laundered. I believe no one should be admitted to our infirmary without going first through the first stop – or we’ll have scabies and all sorts in the wards.’

  Any other time, Luke would be sitting next to me, leaning towards me, touching but not touching. He glanced at me as he spoke. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Behind us, the gold clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour and our eyes locked for the full twelve chimes.

  Mother nodded to the footman. ‘A dish of tea, Dr Nankivell? Or something a little stronger?’

  Dr Nankivell ran his fingers over his bushy sideburns. ‘Indeed, a dish of tea would be splendid, thank you, Lady Clarissa. Dr Bohenna and Miss Carew – will you report your findings together, or take it each in turn?’

  Lady Polgas’s chins were lost in their folds as she glared down the table. ‘I believe I am to speak next.’

  Dr Nankivell sighed. ‘So you are, Lady Polgas; my mistake. Your report is on the choice of matron?’

  Lady Polgas peered at her report through screwed-up eyes. ‘The matron will be the public face of our infirmary – one to set the standards we require.’ She abandoned the page as the writing eluded her without her glasses, raising her voice instead.

  ‘I’ve drafted the attributes I’m looking for in our matron. She must be well mannered and well bred . . . a strict disciplinarian because the servants will need to be watched. She will hold the keys at all times and will keep the domestic accounts clearly and concisely. She will live above the wards – which she must keep clean and tidy at all times – and she will have every other Sunday off. In short, we require a thoroughly respectable woman with the highest credentials and impeccable references. Obviously, I shall have to look outside Truro for such a woman. A distressed gentlewoman from Bath or London would be appropriate. Perhaps a governess—’

  Mother braved an interruption. ‘I believe there might be such a lady in Truro. Ah, thank you . . .’ She smiled at the line of maids bringing in the tea, taking a plate from the tray. ‘Some gingerbread, Lady Polgas, Major Trelawney . . . Dr Nankivell? I know you will, Dr Bohenna. I made it myself.’

  Luke smiled, but politely refused – Luke who ate gingerbread faster than Mother could make it.

  Lady Polgas’s first wince had been at the suggestion that someone from Truro might be eligible for the post of matron, her second, more violent wince, was for Mother’s baking habits. ‘I will advertise the post in the London papers,’ she said, shaking her head at the offending biscuits.

  Mother tried to conceal her smile. ‘The lady’s name is Mrs Sofia Oakley. She fits your criteria perfectly – she is a distressed gentlewoman and is highly intelligent. She arrived from Portugal two months ago – she’s Portuguese.’

  Lady Polgas snorted into her cup, almost spilling her tea. ‘A foreigner? Have you lost your mind, Clarissa?’

  Dr Nankivell nodded to the footman who poured him a large glass of brandy. ‘Perhaps, Dr Bohenna and Miss Carew, you should sit together, seeing as yours is a joint report?’ He swilled the brandy round the crystal glass. ‘You’ll join me in a glass, Henry?’

  Major Trelawney shot a sideways glance at Lady Polgas. ‘Indeed I will. Thank you.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Major Trelawney put down his empty glass, collecting his papers into a neat pile. ‘Have my seat, Luke. Please, I insist.’

  Luke’s voice was almost drowned by the scraping of chairs. ‘Are you all right, Amelia?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, are you?’

  I had been holding back my tears, but now I was in danger of crying. In front of everyone, I was going to cry. I could see him summoning every ounce of his courage, like the first time we had been alone on Christmas Eve and he had spoken words of such comfort. No one can replace Edmund, Miss Carew. He will always come first. If he returns, your happiness will make me happy. I gripped my hands beneath the table.

  Luke’s voice was getting stronger. ‘Recent findings from Stonehouse Hospital indicate the importance of good ventilation. So with this in mind, I’d like to see better air-flow through the building.’ He looked down at our list. ‘I whole-heartedly support the idea of the first stop, but I’d like to add another room – the consulting room needs to be separate from the post-mortem room.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Dr Nankivell smiled. ‘You don’t think being up a hill will be enough ventilation? The air will be fresh up there, away from the sewers and smells of the town.’

  Luke shook his head. ‘I believe we should increase the ventilation. Recent papers show that naval captains who ventilate their ships have a healthier crew and less disease. They position their sails to funnel the wind through the hatches to blow through the lower decks.’

  Lady Polgas looked up from examining her fingernails. ‘You’ve been in the navy, have you, Dr Bohenna?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘My son, Dr Emerson Polgas, has been a ship’s doctor for ten years – advising ships’ captains to do just that. First-hand knowledge cannot be bettered, don’t you think?’

  Luke’s smile was polite, if a little forced. ‘Miss Carew, would you like to mention the dispensary?’

  I nodded, smoothing out my papers. ‘The plans for the physic garden are perfectly adequate, but I suggest more fruit bushes as the ascorbic properties of soft fruit will benefit the patients.’ Luke was too close to me, the room too hot. ‘Our real concern is the provision of medicines – for those seen as outpatients. We’ve studied the reports from The Devon and Exeter Hospital and they show a clear need to distribute medicines from the hospital.’

  Days spent sitting at this table, our arms touching as we read the latest research. Side by side, eager, attentive, writing our report with a single mind: his eyes shining with plans for cleaner water, covered sewers, the possibility of adopting the vaccine against smallpox. His passionate belief that poverty and dirt were vectors for disease.

  ‘You were saying?’ he prompted.

  The list swam in my hands. ‘Perhaps, Dr Bohenna, could you . . .?’

  He took the sheet from me. ‘The number of patients attending The Devon Hospital has increased – 1,890 goitre and scorbutic disorders, 1,112 dropsies, colic and asthmas, 1,591 rheumatisms, 57 epilepsies and 360 paralytic disorders. Of course, they do have a much bigger hospital but nevertheless, that’s a huge provision.’ He handed me back the list.

  ‘There’s a further 3,115 bruises, fractures and dislocations, and 5,701 for ague, fevers, consumptions, cancers and inflammatory diseases. But it’s not the cons
ultations we’re concerned about – our fear is controlling the quality of the medicines the patients receive.’

  I wanted to run from the room. All our plans for his new practice, his desperate desire to be appointed as the infirmary physician: our love flowering from barren wasteland, the tender shoots he had nurtured with such patience. ‘The annual subscriptions won’t cover the cost of medicines and we believe this is a vital shortcoming. Poorer patients will always seek the cheapest provider.’

  ‘Are you suggesting a hospital apothecary?’

  Luke nodded. ‘Yes, Dr Nankivell. If our patients turn to rogue practitioners our cure rate will suffer. We must be seen to cure or at least ease our patients’ complaints.’

  Lady Polgas tapped her stubby fingers. ‘Your first husband was an apothecary, was he not, Mrs Lilly? That was your father, Dr Bohenna – is it that you have one of your friends in mind?’

  ‘No, Lady Polgas. I have no friend in mind.’

  Always the same snub, everyone wanting to remind Luke and Mary of their humble beginnings. If not Lady Polgas, then other members of her circle. Fire flamed my cheeks; he did not deserve that. My voice cut across the room. ‘Quack doctors have been sighted . . . horse doctors peddling their remedies on the streets. I’ve recently come across one.’

  Dr Nankivell’s face fell. ‘Where was this, Miss Carew?’

  ‘Up on the moors . . . but I believe he was travelling to Truro.’

  Luke drew a deep breath. ‘Miss Carew wrote asking me to see the lady in question. She had consumed half a bottle of the peddled elixir.’

  ‘And you have reason to be worried?’

  ‘Every reason.’

  ‘I believe you may speak freely, Dr Bohenna. No names, of course, but if I’m to draft more posters and write to the newspapers, I need evidence that these elixirs are harmful. Rose water doesn’t harm. It won’t cure, but it does no harm – even the occasional purgative can be beneficial.’

  Luke shook his head. ‘This was no senna leaf concoction, Dr Nankivell. The lady had extensive bruising on her hands and abdomen and blistering on her lips. There was a fine blue tinge to those lips. She complained of stomach cramps and loss of appetite. Her urine was the colour of mud.’

  Lady Polgas flicked open her fan. ‘Well, I’m sure! Please remember there are those of us in this—’

  Dr Nankivell raised his eyes, clasping his hand as if in prayer. ‘You believe it contained mercury?’

  ‘Or lead. I didn’t see the colour of the elixir. The label claimed it to be from London – dispensed by a physician called Dr Lovelace from St Bartholomew’s Hospital. There was no such doctor by that name while I was there.’

  I fought to breathe. ‘The mixture was very dark – almost black. I threw it in the fire, along with the bottle.’

  Dr Nankivell nodded. ‘A wise precaution, Miss Carew.’

  ‘No, it was foolish – I should have kept it for you to test . . . I’m so sorry, I didn’t think.’ Tears pooled in my eyes. Mercury. Or lead. Edmund should have come home sooner. He had wasted precious time waiting to hear if I was free to love him – three whole weeks’ delay. A delay that might have cost his mother her life.

  Luke handed me his starched white handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to shock you. I thought you realized it was likely to be . . .’

  ‘Yes, I did realize. It’s just . . .’

  Major Trelawney stood stiffly to attention. ‘Allow me to help, Miss Carew. You don’t look very well—’

  The sound of frantic knocking at the front door made him stop. Footsteps were rushing across the hall. A footman opened the door.

  ‘I beg yer pardon, but there’s been an accident, Dr Bohenna. You’re needed on the wharf. A man’s been crushed . . . They want you to come quickly.’

  Luke reached for his bag. ‘I’m coming. Forgive me, I must go.’

  Dr Nankivell began collecting up his papers. ‘Of course. I’ll follow directly.’

  From down the table, Lady Polgas’s voice cut like a knife. ‘There’s still one outstanding matter to discuss: the appointment of the physician in charge of the infirmary.’

  Dr Nankivell’s eyes followed Luke across the square. ‘Indeed. A formality, I believe.’

  Lady Polgas’s voice was like steel. ‘Dr Bohenna is a surgeon as well as a physician, is he? He knows about crush injuries and amputations? He’s been physician-in-charge of a naval hospital for seven years – on board a ship of the line for three years before that?’

  Dr Nankivell fastened the buckle on his bag, pushing his glasses further up his nose. ‘No, but he is a first-class doctor of integrity with first-class qualifications behind him.’

  Lady Polgas’s large bosom rested on the table, her outstretched arm sliding a closely written page along the polished surface. ‘This is my son’s application for the position of Physician to the Infirmary. His references are extensive: his first-class qualifications, his excellent record of service, his promotions, his recommendations. Let me see, now . . . surgeon’s qualifications . . . physician’s qualifications . . . first-hand knowledge as physician-in-charge of Port Royal Hospital in Jamaica.’

  Dr Nankivell stared at the sheet of paper. ‘Your son has returned to Truro?’

  Lady Polgas looked like a cat gluttoned with cream. ‘He’ll be here within the month. A doctor of his experience is exactly what our infirmary needs – but, what’s more to the point, he’s a man of considerable social standing.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  We stood under the porch, Major Trelawney wearing his warm cape and black busby, me in my fur-lined cloak and muff. The sky was a brilliant blue, bright sunlight flooding the church tower, glinting on the clock face.

  ‘There now. A breath of fresh air will do you the power of good.’ Mother was clearly itching to join us, but she accepted Mary’s arm with a stiff smile, nodding to Henry Trelawney as he pointed me forward. Bethany followed in her new Christmas bonnet and matching woollen gloves.

  Under Major Trelawney’s firm command, the volunteer troops had been mustered and trained. Our towns were safer, the threat of invasion carefully monitored, all thanks to the unassuming man by my side. ‘Where shall we go, Miss Carew? Shall we go shopping or shall we go to the library? I’m yours to command.’ His smile was as anxious as Mother’s had been, concern clouding his handsome face. ‘Or to the wharf?’

  ‘Shall we see if Elizabeth Fox is at home?’

  He seemed relieved. ‘Splendid. Always a pleasure to watch the ships.’

  ‘Walking is the best exercise for those who are able to bear it and riding for those who are not. When the weather is fair, the open air contributes much to the benefit of exercise. I’m quoting from my herbal, Major Trelawney. There’s a section on how to try to avoid illness.’

  He normally walked stiffly, helped by the use of his cane, yet today he seemed to be moving more freely. He answered my unspoken question. ‘I must say that willow bark you suggested is certainly helping.’

  The sudden good weather had brought everyone out; the streets were busy, people hurrying past. Carriages were rattling along the cobbles, a post coach sounding its horn. We reached the junction of Quay Street and joined a crowd forming behind a wagon laden with barrels. Street vendors staggered behind barrows stacked high with sacks of corn and crates of chickens stood in rows on the roadside. Beside us, a line of carts were piled with potatoes and turnips.

  As we streamed through the narrow gap to the wharf, the jostling grew severe. ‘Are you all right? I’m sorry about that. Here . . . over here.’ Major Trelawney shepherded me through the crowd and we stood watching the ships moored against the quay. Tall pulleys towered above us, loud shouts echoing across the cobbles – it was the height of the tide, every ship disgorging its contents, re-provisioning and re-loading in their strictly allotted time.

  Among the crowds, I caught sight of a pretty white bonnet and a plain grey gown. ‘There’s Mrs Fox and her husband . . . over there by that large scho
oner.’

  Major Trelawney’s grip tightened. He steered me round pens crammed with pigs, drawing me swiftly from under the swing of a large pulley. Elizabeth Fox saw us approaching and interrupted her husband with a tap on his arm. He looked up, gave a nod of his head, and returned to the ship’s master and the large book balanced on a hogshead between them. Elizabeth ran quickly towards us, her heart-shaped mouth breaking into a dimpled smile.

  ‘How lovely to see you, Amelia . . . Major Trelawney. Are you out for a walk?’ She took my arm, weaving us through a pile of sacks, dodging round a pack of mules to the relative quiet of a pie-seller. A strong smell of cabbage wafted from a large cooking pot beside us.

  ‘You’re obviously very busy . . .’ A note of anxiety crept in Major Trelawney’s voice, as if asking Elizabeth for help. Her eyes sharpened.

  ‘Never too busy for either of you – the cargo’s nearly unloaded and with very little damage. We were worried on account of the storms, but the ship put in to Ireland. What would we do without Ireland?’

  Major Trelawney shook his head. ‘Ireland? Conspirators, the lot of them. We might have forestalled that last invasion, but they’ll try again. The French fleet may be scattered, but the threat remains. You’d better check your ship for stowaways.’

  ‘Really, Major Trelawney!’

  ‘No, really, Mrs Fox. The French are determined to invade us through Ireland – there’ll be another attempt. It’s just a matter of time. Keep a close watch for spies – both Irish and French.’

  She nodded, immediately serious. ‘I’ll have the ship searched. Will you join us for some tea in Harbour House?’

  ‘Another time . . . perhaps I should leave you two together. It was a good meeting, wasn’t it, Miss Carew?’ He bowed to each of us in turn, no doubt relieved to hand me over to Elizabeth.

  She took one look at my tears. ‘Luke couldn’t save him. He wasn’t from our ship, thank the Lord, but there was nothing Luke could do – except give the poor man comfort as he died. They say the rope was frayed. We need to address this . . . all pulleys should use chains. Oh come, my dearest, don’t cry.’