by Nicola Pryce
Oh Amelia, he’s so changed. He’s kind and loving and everything that he was, but he’s so despondent. He told me he thought we were safe. He knew Father’s business was ruined but he believed the estate was financially sound. He arrived two hours after his letter and we didn’t have time to prepare. I was frightened to tell him we’d taken to the servants’ quarters. He went very quiet and I knew he was appalled. He spent hours at Father’s desk reading all the papers. I heard him pacing the floor, then he demanded all the rooms be aired and he sent Mrs Alston to the village for new servants.
He had not known of Father’s and Francis’s deaths until he arrived in London. The worst is he blames himself for Francis’s death. He believes he put Francis in danger. He went straight to Francis’s room and I heard the most heart-wrenching sobbing. He said he knew Francis was capable of recklessness and he blames himself entirely. He believes he should have insisted Francis stay in London and not see him off in Plymouth. He was holding Francis’s ring to his heart, sobbing piteously, then he saw me at the door and said Francis’s books must be taken to the study and his clothes given to charity – and Aunt Harriet’s portrait must be hung next to Mama’s.
Mama has made slight progress but Edmund sees only her frailty. He blames himself for her downward spiral of health and it’s prompted such remorse in him. He told me he was gullible and naive to join the navy. He can’t talk about the navy without a tightening of the mouth and rapid breathing. When he tries to explain, his hands begin to shake.
He must have suffered so much. He has manacle scars on his wrists and has difficulty hearing. The cannon’s flash has affected his vision. The doctor in the Admiralty says his hearing will probably never return, but his eyesight may be helped by dulling the light. He has spectacles with darker glass and he says since he’s been wearing them his headaches have lessened.
Edmund does nothing but blame himself for leaving but when he talks of you, my heart breaks. I had to tell him you’d visited us in our reduced circumstances and he looked broken, crying out as if in pain. I told him you saved Mama’s life – you and Dr Bohenna. He asked after you and I told him how beautiful you were and how kind, and how you understood, and he broke down into such a torrent of tears.
He says he’s frightened of you seeing him – that he’s not the youth he was. He keeps asking me details about you. How you wear your hair, how you smile, whether you might still love him, or at least give him a second chance. Then his hands shake. Always the same shaking when he tries to talk. It’s very frightening to watch such a strong man shake so violently.
He told Mama it was wrong to persist with your engagement – that he had little to offer you and he’s ashamed of our reduced circumstances. He has prize money due to him but it’ll be a while before the estate becomes profitable. Mama said he was being foolish – that he was to go straight to you and tell you everything, and his reply tore my heart.
He said, ‘She deserves better. I am only half the man I was.’
Edmund’s too ill to travel, yet my hope is that seeing you will remove the terrible anxiety which seems to consume him. I don’t ask this lightly, but dearest Amelia, please consider another visit – and soon, if you can.
Your affectionate friend,
Constance
Mother’s mouth tightened as she read the letter. ‘I’ll ask Dr Nankivell to attend to him – undulating fever is very common on return from the Tropics. It’s debilitating and unpleasant, but it doesn’t seem to threaten life.’
‘That’s not the reason Constance wants me to go.’ He was ill. He needed me. Not the man he was . . . frightened to see me. All these years he had been ill and alone and to come home to a mortgaged estate, his family in penury. I wanted to run from the room.
She shook her head, pointing to her foot. ‘I can’t come with you, my love – and neither can your father. He has pressing Militia business, but Dr Nankivell will visit.’ Her eyes softened. ‘This is no more than we expected. Edmund needs time to get the house and estate in order. Your father will lend him his prize ram and he’ll soon get a new flock established. There’s a dearth of wool now it’s all going for uniforms – the carpet manufacturer is crying out for more wool.’
I knelt by her side, taking her hands. Working hands that liked to gut fish and build treehouses; hands that had taught me to shoot a bow, hold a cricket bat, plant my herb garden. Not hands that stayed in beautiful drawing rooms, avoiding responsibility. ‘I must go, Mother, please. I’m twenty-five, I’m a mature woman and Bethany will accompany me – and Seth and the guards. Please let us meet in the privacy of Pendowrick, not under the watchful eyes of everyone in Truro.’
‘Your father won’t like it. The wind’s from the east. It’s too cold to travel. But if you must go . . .’
‘Thank you . . . We’ll set off at first light and we’ll be back before dark. Just like last time.’
Her hands gripped mine: frightened hands, holding mine as tightly as I held hers. ‘You don’t have to marry him,’ she said. There it was, back again – the same tone of criticism, the slight hardening of her voice.
I bit my lip and drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll tell Seth to be ready at first light.’
Tincture of Motherwort: an excellent remedy for calming a racing heart caused by the anxiety of loss. Five drops added to a cup of hot water can settle a troubled mind and bring back the restorative balm of untroubled sleep.
THE LADY HERBALIST
Chapter Eighteen
Bodmin Moor
Monday 5th February 1798, 11 a.m.
The carriage was getting colder, our foot-warmers and rugs poor defence against the icy air whistling in at the window. We had watched the sky darken, our anxiety growing as the first flurries of snow began coating the tufts of grass. Now the snow was building, driven horizontally by the biting wind. Bethany wiped the inside of the window.
‘It’s turning into a blizzard – I can see nothing but white.’ Her voice echoed my fear. ‘The snow against the window must be at least two inches deep. They won’t see to drive . . .’
The coach stopped and Seth knocked on the window, his hat and capes covered with snow. He opened the door to a flurry of flakes, slipping next to me as he shut the door against the howling wind. ‘It’s not abating – it’s getting worse. We’ve got another two miles to go or we could go two miles back to the inn – two miles either way.’ Snow clung to his bushy eyebrows and beard, an inch of white on his huge leather hat.
‘What do you think we should do?’
‘The inn’s at the top of the moor. If we go back, it’s open moorland – if we go on, we’ll get shelter in the dell. The snow’s buildin’ an’ there’ll be rifts – the way’s already obscured. One of us will need to ride ahead to be sure of the road. If we leave the road, we could overturn. I’ll unhitch the best horse and John will lead us.’
‘Is it safe, Seth?’
‘Safer than stayin’ here. And safe if we take it slow. I know these moors – lose sight of the road and we could get very lost.’
‘Tell the guards to join us in the carriage – they must be frozen.’
‘Thank ye, Miss Carew, but I’ll need their eyes. They’ll ride alongside me. They’ve good strong coats an’ there’ll be a fire to warm them when we arrive.’ He smiled at Bethany, who attempted a smile back. ‘I’m just concerned for yer comfort. We’ll get ye there – we have to. There’s no turnin’ back.’
We inched slowly forward, no milestones, no trees, no rocky outcrops, nothing to show us where we were. Just the driving snow and the whistle in the wind, and the slow rocking of the carriage. At last we heard shouts.
‘There’s a sign . . . Pendowrick. ’Tis the turning, and just in time.’
Through half-obscured windows we watched Seth walk slowly forward, prodding the snow with a stout stick. His hat and coat were almost indistinguishable against the whiteness, his words lost to the wind. ‘Four inches. More in places . . . Stay right behind . . . follow me exactly
. . . ’tis a ditch to both sides.’
He led the horses down the lane towards the shelter of some overhanging trees. Drifts were in danger of blocking our progress, the trees’ branches heavy above us, but familiar landmarks gradually began to appear – the iron gate to the orchard, the huge stone wall surrounding the estate. We rounded the bend to a vast expanse of white roof, the six tall chimneys lost in the swirling snow.
Bethany folded away the rugs with her gloved hands. ‘We’ll not get back today – but we’ve brought nothing with us.’
I tried to sound calm, but my heart was hammering. ‘I can borrow a nightdress from Miss Melville. It’ll only be for one night.’
Constance hurried us to the fire. Her black hair was newly washed and ornately dressed, held in place by a comb of pearls. Her gown was silk, her velvet shawl trimmed with fur, yet she had lost none of her pallor. Behind her smiles, her eyes with their dark lashes looked tired. ‘He’s in Father’s study going through the accounts. He’s summoned our attorney, Mr Elton . . . but with all this snow I doubt he’ll come. I can’t believe you crossed the moor in this blizzard. Your room will soon be ready . . . I’ve moved back to my old room, but Mama insists on staying where she is. It’s warm in there and Mrs Alston hasn’t so far to walk.’
‘How is Lady Melville?’
She shrugged, tears pooling in her eyes. ‘I’d like to say better, but she’s very tired today. She really rallied when Edmund arrived. She became quite her old self, but I think all the excitement must have set her back. Her aches have returned and she’s not very well.’
A huge log burned in the Tudor fireplace, yet it felt so cold. Above us, the leaded panes in the ancient window formed a black grille against the white snow behind. Constance glanced towards the door. ‘I’ll arrange for your servants to sleep in the old dairy – I’ll ask for fires to be lit in all the rooms . . . we’ve plenty of food.’ She clenched her fist against her chin. ‘Shall I take you to him? Only, he won’t have heard you arrive.’ Again, a furtive glance towards the door. ‘Amelia, he doesn’t know I wrote to you – did I do right to call for you?’
I could not calm the thudding in my chest. I felt sick with nerves. ‘Yes, of course . . . I’ll go straight to him – I know where the study is.’
Icy air brushed my cheeks, a cold draught following me down the ancient stone flags – the old screens passage between the great hall and the east wing. We had run down this passage with such abandon, holding hands, laughing, diving under the stone arch so Edmund could press me against the wall and kiss me, far too much in love to care if we were caught.
I wrapped my cloak tighter. The door to the study was open, the room dimly lit. This was my future. My decision. No longer a girl with wings on her feet but a woman who had betrayed a man’s love.
Snow was building against the leaded windows, the room in half-darkness. Edmund was sitting at the large desk surrounded by a mound of papers. He had his back to me, and my heart jolted in sudden fear. His familiar long black curls were cut short, a pair of broad shoulders filling every inch of a well-tailored jacket. He was holding a letter to the candlelight, bringing it nearer and further from his eyes, as if having difficulty reading it, and I tried to calm my growing panic.
It looked like a stranger’s back. A stranger’s shoulders. A stranger’s hand reaching for a magnifier. I could not enter but stood silently watching. Glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls, heavy oak furniture where it had stood for hundreds of years. Two high-back chairs sat either side of the fireplace, two knights in armour defending the Melville family crest. Firelight flickered across the ornate plasterwork, portraits of long-deceased relatives looking out from their heavy gold frames.
The stranger ran his hand through his hair and sudden fire burned my heart. The sweep of his hand, the slight toss to his head; if I was right, he would put down the letter and hold his hands against his lips as if in prayer. He would tap his fingers three times, then rest his chin on his interlocked hands. I had watched him do that too many times to count – smiling up at me through his wave of black curls.
One tap. Two taps. Three taps, his chin rested on his interlocked hands and the years stripped away. I stepped forward.
‘Connie, this letter was never opened. It’s addressed to me – it must have arrived after Father died . . . could you help me with it? I can’t make out the writing.’ His voice was deeper, hoarser, but the same soft accent I loved so well.
He swung round and I stared into the face of the man I had last seen as a girl of nineteen. Weather-beaten, scarred, with dark sideburns and heavy black brows. A man’s face, square-chinned, thickly stubbled, a scar disfiguring his upper lip, yet his eyes looked lost – vulnerable eyes, filling with tears. ‘Amelia? Amelia?’
He pushed back his chair, falling to his knees, his thick, callused hands reaching for mine. He held them tightly, pressing them against his forehead as if in supplication. ‘You’ve come . . . Oh, Amelia . . . you’re here?’
His hands were shaking, tears in his eyes, and I knelt on the cold flagstones, trying to glimpse the joyous youth who had kissed me so passionately. Two huge black pupils tried to focus on my face.
‘Use your magnifier,’ I whispered.
He reached to his desk and held the brass-handled magnifier to my face, his voice hoarse. ‘You’re even more beautiful than in my dreams . . . I’m not dreaming, am I? It really is you?’
‘Constance wrote telling me that you were too ill to travel . . . and I couldn’t wait. I had to come.’
He stood up. ‘Your parents are here?’ He glanced at the door, sudden panic in his voice.
‘No, just my maid – and my two coach drivers, and two guards.’
He ran his hand through his hair, the same shy smile though not the same black curls. ‘Then I better watch my step. I presume they’re all carrying pistols?’
His familiar gestures, his playful teasing that my parents were over-protective. The years were stripping back: under the shaking hesitancy, the youth I remembered was beginning to surface.
‘Mother would have come only she’s broken a bone in her foot. It’s mending well but it’s left her housebound. She hates it.’
‘She must do. Lady Clarissa was never one to sit still. Are your parents well?’
‘Very well. My nephews keep Mother busy . . . She’s on several charity commissions and Papa’s Lord Lieutenant of Cornwall. He’s responsible for mustering and equipping all the volunteer forces. My brother William helps – he’s Lieutenant of Division – and Charles is now Rector of Feock . . . but you already know that. Frederick’s wife, Charity, has just had another baby so I’m now the adoring aunt of seven nephews.’
I was talking too quickly, trying to hide my shock. I must not stare, yet I needed to look at him.
‘How splendid. Seven nephews. May I take your cloak?’
He must have seen me hesitate, a new strength to his voice. ‘Amelia, look at me. Take your time . . . look and you’ll see I’m not the youth I was. Every day I write to you, my letters all the same – that I will not hold you to our engagement, that you’re free of all obligations . . . that I’m not the man you deserve. Only I can’t bring myself to post them. I crumple them up and throw them on the fire.’
He was standing under the portrait of his father, Sir Richard Melville, fifth baron of Pendowrick, and I stared up at the exact same tilt of his square chin, the same thick black hair, the same heavy brows, and terrible disappointment ripped through me. I could not help it. ‘You’ve grown so like your father. It could be you up there. The likeness is uncanny.’
He stared back at his father. ‘In looks, yes. The Melville likeness has always been strong – I’ve my grandmother to thank for that.’ He glanced up at the portrait of a black-haired Spanish beauty with olive skin and dark brooding looks. ‘We’ve her Moorish blood in our veins – but I’m as different from Father as I could ever wish to be.’ His prominent Adam’s apple caught his cravat. ‘I’ve no desire to be
likened to Father.’
‘I’m sorry – it was unkind of me.’
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘You’re not unkind. It’s just I shudder at the comparison. In London I saw him for what he really was . . . a brute, a drunkard, a philanderer who put his family in great jeopardy. Amelia . . . I tried to reason with him, but he was too strong for me. He was cruel. I believe he kept me in London to punish Mother.’ His touch on my arm was gentle. ‘Come and sit by the fire.’
And to punish us, I thought but did not say.
He led me to one of the high-back chairs and slipped to the floor by my feet, hugging his knees in their fine beige trousers. His boots were highly polished, reflecting the firelight, his dark blue jacket and perfectly tailored cream waistcoat doing little to conceal the expanse of his chest. He was every inch a baronet, yet with a weather-beaten complexion and the physique of a sailor.
‘No doubt you’ve been given strict orders to return before dusk?’ He laughed softly and I slipped down to the rug beside him, side by side, like we used to sit – behind trees, behind bushes, behind hay carts, anywhere so we could hold hands and plan our future. His hand reached out, tentatively taking mine, a rough callused hand, at odds with his fine clothes.
‘Do you know it’s snowing?’ I whispered.
His shoulder was against mine, so achingly familiar and yet the shoulder of a stranger. ‘I’m sorry, Amelia, could you speak a little louder – my hearing isn’t what it was.’
‘It’s snowing. More than just a few flakes – there’s a blizzard outside! It came from nowhere and we were lucky to get here. The road was all but obscured, and the drifts are mounting – we won’t make it back to Truro today.’
‘Really?’ He laughed again, squeezing my hand. ‘A blizzard to the rescue. Only you could arrange that. Only you. May I?’ I nodded and he kissed the back of my hand, a terrible ache filling my heart. He had not looked up at the window, not even a glance. He had taken my word for it because he could not see it for himself.