A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘You would have stood no chance in the dungeons. At least you were in the harbour.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what saved me. I watched every ship that came and went. After a year, I recognized the frequent traders and I was determined to board one. I’d all but given up hope, the repairs were finished, we’d built a vast wall round the fort and I thought we’d be moved to the dungeons. Then a small ship from Brazil arrived bringing, among other goods, the fiery drink, cachaça.’

  ‘Cachaça?’

  ‘A distilled spirit made from fermented sugarcane. It’s like drinking fire. Most of the cachaça was destined for the fort but our guards were not above a bit of private bartering.’

  Edmund pointed to the portrait of his grandmother, the fiery Spanish beauty whom he had adored. ‘I just needed to be in the right place at the right time – to look strong enough for them to want me. Grandmother’s Moorish blood acted in my favour. My skin had darkened, my hair as black as any slave’s. I knew not to look them in the eyes and the miracle happened – I was swapped for half a bottle of cachaça and forced down the hatch with a dozen other men. We were chained and cramped, but the ship was from São Luís, and I began to hope. Amelia, you cannot imagine that sense of hope.’

  ‘I can, Edmund.’ The clock on the desk chimed two. Outside, the snow was building on the mullion windows, the layers of white contrasting against the grey sky.

  ‘Each morning we were allowed on deck for a breath of fresh air. One day, a sail cut loose and I offered to climb the mast. They must have recognized a fellow sailor as one of them handed me a rope and I hauled in that sail with all my strength – desperate to show I knew what to do. After that, I was used as crew and I started to feel well again – the sea air, the smell of the salt. Even the food tasted good. I was so close to freedom, the expectation of escape almost overwhelming.’

  ‘You were heading south-east to Brazil. We traced it on the globe.’

  He nodded, drawing a deep breath. ‘Across the Caribbean Sea to the South Atlantic. We reached land and turned east, stopping along the coast to collect fresh food. At each stop, prisoners were bartered for provisions and I knew to work harder. My strength had returned . . . I became indispensable as crew and I was never chosen to be sold. We were so close to São Luís and the ships that traded with Britain, but illness struck – yellow fever, caught in the last harbour. All around me men began writhing in pain, vomiting black blood, the appalling stench as their bowels turned to water. I can still hear their cries of pain – when they went silent, we threw them overboard. I began to sicken and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I, too, met my watery grave. Sometimes, they don’t wait for death . . . they just throw the slaves overboard at the first sign of illness.’

  ‘That’s terrible. But you reached the Convent of the Sacred Heart.’

  ‘Yes. I heard a shout and saw white sand glimmering in a turquoise bay – like a glimpse of heaven. We were so close . . . so close. I was forced down the rope ladder – two members of the crew and five slaves, squeezing into a rowing boat – only two of us with enough strength to row. The Master was giving us a chance – the first glimmer of humanity after sixteen months of brutality.’ He winced, suddenly clutching his head.

  ‘What is it, Edmund?’

  His teeth clenched. ‘It passes. There – it’s going. But it leaves me with such a headache. I get flashes of intense light, then my vision blurs and nausea takes hold. I’m so sorry.’

  I helped him into the chair by the fire. ‘I’ve brought my herbs with me . . . I’ll bring you something – here, rest here.’

  His eyes remained shut; another wince, his scarred hands gripping his head. ‘It’ll pass. I’m so sorry. Just knowing you’re well . . . just seeing you is cure in itself. Amelia, you must see I’m not the man I was. I’m desperate to be well again . . . it’s taking its time, I’m not robust. But even if I was well, you must understand you’re under no obligation – you have to know that.’ He gripped his head tighter. ‘I can’t . . . and I won’t hold you to our commitment if it’s not what you want.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Connie was standing by the fire in the great hall and came swiftly to my side. ‘What’s wrong? Is he unwell?’

  ‘Yes, a sudden headache – he needs a cold compress . . . I’ve got something that will help – it’s in my medical box.’

  ‘Your maid’s taken it to your room. I’ve ordered some hot water for you . . . there’s a privy next door.’ She tucked her handkerchief down her bodice. ‘Amelia . . . you look rather pale. Are you all right?’

  She took my hand, leading me up the stone stairs and across the minstrels’ gallery. Love was unconditional; love was not asking the man you loved to say sorry. We were next to the portrait of the two boys holding their instruments; a lifetime ago, Edmund and I had stood on this very spot, laughing, as Edmund showed me how to hold his violin, his hands on mine as he swung the bow. Had he found me equally as changed?

  ‘It gets easier – it’s just the first time you see him,’ Constance whispered. ‘I read his medical report when he was asleep. The blow to his head was very severe . . . the cannon’s flash damaged his sight and his hearing. And he suffers terribly from night sweats—’ She stopped as a maid entered with a pile of linen and curtseyed.

  ‘Could you take a bowl of iced water and a soft towel to Sir Edmund in his study?’ I managed to ask. The maid curtseyed again and Connie lowered her voice.

  ‘Amelia, is he cross with me?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Below us, the lavender garden lay blanketed in snow, wheel tracks and footprints criss-crossing the courtyard, smoke rising from the dairy. Maids were bustling round the kitchen door, going in and out of the laundry room, and I forced back my tears. Everywhere were echoes of our happiness – Edmund and I running from Francis, hiding behind swathes of drying sheets in the laundry room, clamping our hands firmly against our mouths to stop us from laughing. We had been so young, so passionately in love.

  Connie opened the bedroom door to a blazing fire and the smell of beeswax – a dark room with a diamond-lattice ceiling, the elaborate plasterwork curling like straps around a profusion of leaves and vines. ‘This is Mama’s room,’ she said. ‘She’s going to move back in soon, so it’s been well aired.’

  A heavily draped bed stood with an oak chest at its foot and a set of carved steps on one side; the Melville marital bed, each new generation conceived and born beneath those heavy velvet hangings. ‘I can’t possibly take your mother’s room.’

  ‘No . . . honestly . . . you must. She’ll move back when you leave – she’s quite comfortable where she is.’ She saw me staring at the elaborate plasterwork. ‘Oak leaves for strength and power . . . vines for eternal love . . . swords for justice . . . and cornucopias for plenty – and, in here, that means children. Are you certain he wasn’t cross with me?’

  ‘You mean about the tray?’ I could not take my eyes off the bed.

  She nodded. ‘Edmund arrived without notice . . . and within minutes he told me I’d become like a housekeeper and should be stricter with the servants.’

  ‘Guilt often sounds like anger. He feels guilty for leaving us, Connie. He was always protective of you and he’s returned to find you in reduced circumstances. If it sounded like anger, I’m sure it was directed towards himself, not to you.’

  ‘He is cross with me. He spent yesterday afternoon alone with Mama and I listened at the door. They were discussing Father’s will and any suitors who might still be interested in me. Apparently, there were two wills, but Mr Elton noticed one outdated the other by a day. Mama had it there but she’s never shown it to me. Yet she showed it straight to Edmund. I heard her telling him about Adam. She said I had too much freedom and she was pleased he was back because he could keep an eye on me.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I heard them say I was likely to disgrace the family.’

  ‘How could you possibly disgrace the family?’

  ‘Mrs Alston tell
s her everything . . . or rather exaggerates everything. I’ve done nothing except talk to Adam after church. I’ve visited his school once . . . and, once, I walked up the lane with him. But that’s all. I’ve done nothing improper, yet Edmund looks at me in such a way.’

  ‘He’s nearly blind, Connie. He stares because he can’t see. He needs time . . . we all need time.’ She was seventeen, not twenty-five. Seventeen. A lifetime of difference. ‘Has Edmund told you anything about his time on the Portuguese ship?’

  She shook her black curls. ‘He can’t bring himself to talk about it . . . but the Admiralty report was in the drawer along with his medical report and I read that too. He was on the ship for sixteen months – they traded down the coast of Brazil, then picked up a cargo of cotton and sailed to Portugal. There, they loaded a cargo of salt and set sail for Sweden – apparently Mediterranean salt is very popular in Gothenburg because it’s much stronger. According to the report, Edmund never left the ship.’

  ‘The captain kept them locked below decks for fear they’d jump ship?’

  She smoothed the white cotton nightdress on the hideous bed-quilt, re-tying the satin bow on the sleeve. ‘Apparently they do that a lot. The Admiralty questioned Edmund about it for five days – he had to give them details of every port the ship went to, and what the cargo was. The ship was called the Santa Theresa and it only called into Cork because of a heavy storm. Edmund dived from the deck as it was leaving because it was his only chance to get to England. Will this nightgown be warm enough, do you think? There’s a bed warmer in the bed.’

  The wood panelling in the room was blackened with age, a row of strait-laced women frozen in their frames, their tight mouths and clenched hands mirroring mine. A room full of heartache. ‘Yes, lovely, thank you. Perhaps Bethany might sleep in here with me?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get some more bedding sent up. Are you shocked I listen at doors and read confidential papers?’ She looked fearful, as if I, too, might scold her.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Last night I heard shouting in Edmund’s room. He didn’t see me, but I could see him pacing up and down, swinging round, no more than five strides at a time. Just pacing and turning, muttering something I couldn’t understand. Then he started shouting – horrible angry shouts – and I didn’t know what to do. He just kept pacing backwards and forwards, wringing his hands and shaking his head. He was sweating, his hair matted, then he stopped and began crying in great despair – he fell to his knees, pleading for his life. I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘He can’t have been awake.’

  ‘His eyes were wide open, but he didn’t see me. I helped him back to bed and he went straight to sleep. I stayed for a while and then went back to my room. He said nothing about it this morning, so perhaps he wasn’t awake?’

  There was no air in the room and I fought to breathe. ‘The report mentioned great brutality?’

  She nodded, her eyes bright with tears. ‘He won’t speak of it. He said what he witnessed ate into your soul like a canker, and that once seen it never leaves you. He said that no one should bear witness to such atrocities. Amelia, I’m so glad you’ve come . . . that we have you. I’ve always wanted you to be my sister . . . and now—’ She wiped her eyes, her voice breaking. ‘Edmund will be all right, won’t he? With your love and your kindness, and everything you know about herbs and medicine . . . He will get better, won’t he?’

  I held her to me, her body taut beneath her heavy shawl. ‘I just need a few minutes to freshen up and we’ll go and see Lady Melville. Edmund needs time and understanding . . . he needs rest and good food. If you could have a kettle of boiling water sent up to my room, I’ll make that draft for his pain.’

  I stared into the looking glass. The shock was passing. I needed to stay strong. I needed time, that was all. I had brought my medicine chest and I would make two infusions – willow bark and ginger for Edmund, lemon balm for me.

  Lemon balm: an invaluable herb used for settling stomach upsets caused by nervous tension or a broken heart. To make an infusion, seep a handful of dry or fresh leaves in boiling water and leave for five minutes. Strain through muslin. Take after meals, preferably while hot.

  THE LADY HERBALIST

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Pendowrick, Bodmin Moor

  Tuesday 6th February 1798, 4 a.m.

  Another chime of the clock, another hour spent lying awake. The lavender bags were ineffective against the musty bed hangings: the fire was out, the room icy cold. Bethany’s gentle breathing filled the silence and I needed fresher air. I slipped from the bed, opening the door to the corridor. Moonlight flooded through the tiny leaded panes and I stood staring at the huge moon shining on the Dutch gable above me. The vast barn lay bathed in soft silver light, moonlight glinting on the trees in the orchard and the church tower just beyond.

  It was almost as bright as day and I breathed deeply, trying to imagine how it could be once again with the barn full of calves, and laughter echoing from the milking parlour. Chickens would scratch the cobbles, geese grazing the orchard, our children running from their nurse to cradle newborn lambs in the warm straw. It was so achingly beautiful, and yet so achingly lonely.

  Tiredness had stopped Lady Melville from joining us at dinner: her joints were paining her, yet she dismissed my concern, saying a good night’s sleep was all she needed. The three of us had dined formally in the great hall, the crossed swords hanging on the walls above us. Medieval armour had glinted in the firelight, Edmund making every effort to be cheerful but I knew his headache was troubling him and I had filled the awkward silences with talk of my family.

  He had sat upright and formal and I had spoken too fast, needing to hide my stab of disappointment. He had used the word dabble and that had cut me like a knife. It’s wonderful you dabble in herbs, Amelia. We must enlarge the herb garden here in Pendowrick. I knew he meant well. Of course he meant well, but ‘dabble’ had sounded too dismissive a word.

  Constance had talked of their father’s death – of how Sir Richard had brought Francis’s coffin down from Plymouth, and how five days later he had collapsed and died. A dissecting aneurysm, the coroner had said, a swelling in the main artery leading from the heart. Edmund had sat stern-faced and grim, listening in silence as Connie explained that their father’s death had only been a matter of time. But though we said nothing, we were all thinking the same: that the stress of Francis’s murder had most likely caused a rise in Sir Richard’s blood pressure, and the consequent bursting of the artery.

  Edmund had fumbled as he tried to cut his meal. He had not drunk his claret. He had sat at the head of the long refectory table with both of us on either side and had barely eaten. I knew what he was thinking – that he should have prevented Francis’s death. It had been hard to watch his anguish – his shallow breathing, his constant swallowing, the tremor in his hands. The new maid had cleared away the plates and Edmund had brought out the letter he had been trying to read earlier. He had handed it to Connie with a slight wince.

  ‘How long has this been here?’

  Connie had looked surprised. ‘I’ve not seen it before . . . where was it?’

  ‘In the top drawer of Father’s desk. Could you read it to me please?’

  ‘I don’t have the keys to Father’s desk . . . Mama keeps them. Everything that comes gets locked away . . . in your boxes . . . or Father’s desk.’

  It was good to breathe the air of the corridor. Bethany turned on her chaise longue and resumed her gentle breathing. Last night, I had seen her wipe away her tears and asked her why she was crying.

  ‘Mrs Alston scolded me for crossing myself. But I had to. Honest to God, this house is haunted . . . doors creak with no one behind them . . . footsteps with no one there . . . eyes watching from every corner. The house is restless – surely you can feel it?’

  Yes, I could. The house was crying out for love, as surely as its owners.

  The letter was from the nephew of the man w
ho had cheated Sir Richard – he was replying to Edmund’s demand that they send the shipment. Family illness and deaths had interrupted trading but they had re-established their business and he was honouring their contract. He himself would accompany the ordered shipment and would inform Sir Richard when it arrived in Bristol. Further shipments would follow, as of the new contract.

  Edmund had gripped the table. ‘They’re honouring their contract – keeping to the agreement?’ He had smiled, reaching out his hand to take mine. ‘He’s answered the letter I wrote . . . my order – the one Francis was so dismissive about? Oh, Amelia . . . Connie, read it again. Perhaps this is the turning point . . . my chance to clear our debts. I can get the estate stocked again. Maybe I should continue to trade? He sounds honest, doesn’t he?’

  The house was waking, light shining through the kitchen windows; someone was hanging a lamp beside the back door. I turned abruptly. A scream was piercing the silence, echoing across the stillness from the servants’ quarters. I knelt on the window seat, staring down at the kitchen. Another scream, louder and longer.

  Bethany rushed to my side. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘There’s a lantern – someone’s running along the top corridor.’

  ‘Miss Melville . . . Miss Melville.’ We could hear frantic knocking and ran straight to Constance’s room. A maid was holding a lamp, her face ashen. ‘It’s Mrs Alston . . . she’s had a fall.’ Her eyes were wide with fright. ‘She’s covered in blood and she’s not movin’.’

  The door opened and Constance stood pale in the candlelight.

  ‘It’s Mrs Alston, Miss Melville – she’s had a fall.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Connie wrapped her housecoat around her. ‘Is she all right?’