A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Bottom of the servants’ steps.’

  ‘She must be all right if she screamed.’

  The maid shook her head. ‘No, Miss Carew, ’twas us that screamed. She’s not movin’.’

  Running along the servants’ corridor, we reached the spiralling steps. Halfway down, we could see Mrs Alston sprawled on the flagstones, her arms outstretched, her bony fingers trying to grip the floor. Blood was seeping from her nose and mouth. Seth was leaning over her, shaking her gently. ‘Wake up . . . wake up, Mrs Alston.’ He looked up. ‘She isn’t breathing. The maids found her. She’s banged her head . . .’

  No pulse throbbed at her thin wrist, none at her neck. Her glazed eyes stared sightlessly back at me, the blood at her mouth already congealed. I shook my head. ‘She’s been dead a while. Feel her . . . she’s as cold as stone. She must have tripped and fallen. Connie, I’m so sorry.’

  Connie sank to Mrs Alston’s side. ‘She never rushes . . . she always holds the rail. She’s been up and down these stairs since she was thirteen.’ She cradled the old woman in her arms, rocking her backwards and forwards. ‘She was more than a servant . . . she was our dear friend. She loved us . . . and served us so faithfully. She was my nurse . . . more than my nurse . . . she was like a mother to us.’ Tears streamed down her cheeks, her black curls soft around her shoulders.

  Mrs Alston was in her nightgown, her velvet housecoat tied at her waist. Her grey hair was loose, thick dark blood oozing through her white nightcap. ‘I’m so sorry, Connie.’

  The longcase clock in the hall chimed five. ‘We need to send for a doctor – to certify her death. I suppose it should be Dr Trefusis?’

  ‘If he can get here. The drifts will be treacherous.’

  Seth pointed to the folds of Mrs Alston’s nightdress. ‘There’s a tear in her hem – look, it’s ripped. She’d have caught her foot and fallen.’

  Constance looked up at the sea of shocked faces crowding around their housekeeper, her tears glistening in the candlelight. ‘Mrs Alston must have been coming from my mother’s room. She sometimes spends the whole night at her bedside.’

  An elderly woman stepped forward. ‘We’ll lay her on her bed, Miss Melville. We’ll wash her an’ do the necessary . . . an’ ye can come an’ see her when she’s tidy . . . Perhaps ye’d like some tea brought up?’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, some tea. I’ll take it in Lady Melville’s room. I need to be there when my mother wakes . . . she’ll need to know straight away.’

  I helped Constance up the spiral steps, stopping outside the studded oak door. ‘Shall I stay with you?’

  She wiped her tears, opening the door. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to tell her. But I’ll be all right. They were very close – Mrs Alston could read Mama like a book. She always knew what Mama was thinking . . . and what would make her comfortable.’

  I returned down the moonlit corridor yet, almost at once, another scream pierced the silence – a heartbreaking screech, followed by agonized wailing and I ran back, knowing to expect the worst.

  Red embers glowed in the fireplace, a lamp burning on the table. ‘Mama . . . Mama . . . come back. Please, please . . . come back.’ Constance cradled her mother in her arms, but even in the dull light, I saw Lady Melville’s ashen hue. Her lips were blue, her arms dangling limp in her daughter’s tight embrace. Spittle oozed from Lady Melville’s gaping mouth.

  She looked warmly dressed, her woollen bed jacket tied with ribbons, her open Bible on the cover next to her. Her hands were white, freezing cold, her eyes staring vacantly across the room. ‘Connie, she’s gone . . . she’s gone.’

  I put my arms round Constance’s heaving shoulders, the smell of almond oil mixing with the scent of lavender. ‘Do you think she died in pain?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, I don’t . . . she looks at ease.’

  ‘Was it her heart? Dr Bohenna said her heart was weak. He was so kind, but after that terrible tincture . . . I think we all knew she was dying.’

  At the mention of his name, I had to walk away. I had to throw a log on the fire, bring some warmth into the freezing room. Behind me, I heard Connie’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, dear God.’ She was standing stock still, staring at the candle. ‘She’s still here. She’s still with us.’

  A sudden chill made me shiver. ‘Connie, your mother’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘No . . . she’s here . . . she hasn’t passed. We must get Reverend Kemp.’ Her voice was strangely distant. ‘She’s here . . . with us, in this room.’

  In the flickering light, Lady Melville’s cheeks were glistening. She looked to be crying. ‘Connie, those are your tears, not hers. She’s at rest . . .’

  There was terror in her eyes. ‘No, she’s not. She’s in this room . . . she’s with us. Burn some lavender – she hasn’t passed.’

  ‘Connie . . . she looks at peace.’

  Her eyes looked wild, her cheeks drained of colour. ‘She’s not at peace. Look. The flame’s blue.’

  I stared at the flickering flame with its streak of blue. ‘Candles do burn blue.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Bethany stood, wide-eyed with fear. ‘Ask them to bring up some lavender,’ I said, my heart thumping so fast I could barely breathe. ‘And send someone for Reverend Kemp. Tell them to hurry. And get some rosemary – if there isn’t any dried, get them to cut some stalks.’

  Constance backed away from her mother, reaching for the clock on the table. She opened the back, fumbling with the mechanism to stop it. She was breathing fast, glancing over her shoulder. ‘She’s here. She’s not at peace. Turn that mirror over.’ She reached up, lifting the heavy mirror from the wall. ‘No! Don’t look in it. We mustn’t see her.’

  ‘Connie . . . please . . .’

  ‘Do the hand mirror. Don’t look in it!’

  She stopped the pendulum of the wall clock and the room went eerily quiet. I needed to sit her down, reassure her, give her something for the shock, but her face held such terror. A cold breeze caressed my cheeks, the draught from the door, just an ordinary draught, but her wide eyes and shallow breathing made me rush to the dressing table and I grabbed the hand mirror, turning it over.

  ‘There – I’ve done it.’ My hands were shaking. I was never fanciful. Never. I needed to stay calm. A tray stood on the table and I tried to sound rational. ‘The tray’s been left – the junket hasn’t been tasted . . . Mrs Alston must have come up with the tray, seen your mother was in trouble, and rushed to get help . . . maybe she found Lady Melville dead.’

  Constance stared at the flame by her mother’s bed. ‘I know you think me foolish . . . but those of us who know the house know it speaks for those who can no longer speak. Not in words . . . but in signs. I’m born of this house, born of Melville blood. Men don’t see the signs, but we do. Generations of Melville women – real Melville women, not those marrying into the family – know and understand every nuance of this house. My aunt taught me the signs, and I will teach your daughters. And I will teach them that the signs are always true.’

  A cold shiver ran down my spine ‘Connie, please . . .’

  ‘I will teach them that a blue flame at death means your loved one hasn’t passed. That they are restless and asking for our help.’

  Shouts rang across the courtyard below. ‘Someone’s going for Reverend Kemp . . .’

  Bethany and another maid stood at the door, their cheeks flushed, their chests heaving. ‘The lavender, Miss Carew . . . and we’ve brought some rosemary.’

  She handed me the bunches and I dipped them into the fire, waving the pungent smoke into every corner of the room. Lady Melville’s Bible lay open on the bedsheets and Constance picked it up, slipping in the ribbon as she closed it. On the bedside table, the candle glowed bright yellow.

  ‘Perhaps Mama was just waiting to say goodbye. No one should die alone . . . perhaps she was just waiting.’ She put the Bible down and reached for a hairbrush, brushing her mother’s hair, rubbing my green s
alve on to Lady Melville’s blue lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘I always thought I’d be with her when she died. Dr Bohenna was so kind. He told me she was very ill, but I honestly thought she might get better.’

  The last of the lavender curled and sparked brightly in the fireplace. ‘Oh goodness, Connie . . . Edmund hasn’t heard the commotion. He must still be asleep.’ I covered my face, fighting my despair. ‘Connie, this will break him – I don’t think he’ll be able to bear this.’

  She laid her mother’s hands carefully under the eiderdown; her back was stiff, her mouth drawn tight. ‘It’s no use him crying after the event. He should have thought of that before he abandoned us.’ Her words cut like a knife – harsh words, spoken through gritted teeth. ‘He chose to join the navy . . . without saying goodbye . . . and his reported death – that’s what caused her illness. That’s what really killed her. She didn’t want to live . . . she suffered years of anxiety . . . years of heartbreak when he could have been here, giving her years of pleasure. It’s no use him crying now.’

  I could not move; my heart was racing as I stared back at her furious face. The fire was blazing yet I felt so cold. They were her words, not mine. Her thoughts, not mine. Guilt twisted my stomach – her thoughts, not mine.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  We laid Lady Melville flat, placing a roll of cloth beneath her chin, hiding it beneath the lace of her bed jacket. Constance rearranged her mother’s nightcap and added more balm to her lips. ‘I’ll prepare her properly when I’m dressed.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ I whispered. They had gone for Edmund and we could hear him rushing down the corridor. He stood in the doorway, his hair ruffled, dark stubble covering his chin.

  ‘No . . . no.’ He ran to the bed, pulling back the covers, reaching for Lady Melville’s hands. His cry was hoarse, violent, filling the room with searing pain. ‘No . . . no . . . please no.’ He clasped his mother’s thin hands to his lips, his shoulders heaving beneath his white nightshirt. ‘Don’t leave us . . . not now . . . not now. Don’t leave us.’

  He tried to gain control, wiping the tears from his cheeks. ‘Someone better go for Mrs Alston. Does she know? The poor woman will be devastated.’ He stood up, tucking his mother’s hands beneath the cover, bending down to kiss her waxen cheek. ‘Mrs Alston will want to prepare Mother for her coffin.’ His voice broke. ‘The last service of a faithful servant.’

  My heart ripped with pain – his beloved nurse; always stopping on his return to pick her a bunch of wild flowers, always stooping for a shell from the beach, or a stone in the shape of a heart. His beloved nurse whom he loved so very dearly.

  ‘Edmund.’ He did not hear me. ‘Edmund? Mrs Alston’s had a fall. We think she rushed out of the room . . . we believe she was running to get help for your mother. She must have been distraught . . . she caught her foot in her hem and fell down the stairs.’

  ‘You’ve sent for a doctor? I’ll go and see her.’

  Our silence made him look up, his large black pupils seeking reassurance. I could hardly speak. ‘It was a very bad fall . . . she knocked her head. She couldn’t call for help . . . she was found this morning by the maids.’

  His cry wrenched my heart. ‘Not Mrs Alston . . . no. Not her as well?’

  Voices rose from the courtyard below, the sound of men stamping snow off their boots, and I caught the steel in Constance’s voice.

  ‘I’ve sent for Reverend Kemp.’

  Edmund swung round, fumbling for a handkerchief. ‘What? But you’re not dressed – none of us are. You can’t be seen like this – Amelia certainly can’t be seen like this. Intruding on us so early . . . I’m not ready for company . . . I need time to . . .’

  Constance was staring at the candle burning by her mother’s side and I thought I might faint. The yellow flame was wavering again, a slight flicker of blue. ‘Mama needs them. Now.’

  ‘Connie, are you out of your mind?’ He stared at her in horror, his trembling hands gripping his handkerchief. People were walking up the spiral steps, footsteps along the corridor. Reverend Kemp and his son stood at the door, bowing respectfully, both tall and slender, both with high foreheads and kind eyes. They were breathing heavily, their neckties slightly askew.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sir Edmund, Miss Melville. This is very sad indeed.’

  Constance stepped forward. ‘Thank you for coming.’ Reverend Kemp’s white hair caught the firelight. He was slightly stooped, his movements stiff. Adam Kemp stood shyly in the doorway, the warmth in his hazel eyes exactly how I remembered them. Eight years on, he had the same bright auburn hair and freckled complexion, but maturity suited him. His years of study gave him stature; he looked approachable and kind, and I caught my breath. His furrowed brow reminded me of Luke. His years of study. The kindness in his eyes.

  He must have seen the tears welling in my own. ‘This is very hard for you, Miss Carew. I’m Adam Kemp – curate for my father.’

  ‘We’ve met before . . . I remember you.’ I could say nothing more. Edmund’s frown had deepened.

  ‘If you could wait outside for a moment . . . my sister and Miss Carew are not dressed for visitors . . . this is all very sudden and very raw. If you’ll excuse us . . . join us afterwards. Downstairs. When we are ready we can discuss the funeral.’

  He held out his arm for Constance, who took it with downcast eyes. She walked demurely by his side – a mouse, turned lion, turned mouse again. It seemed I had a lot to learn about my future sister-in-law. I followed behind them and we parted company, but at the door to her room, I heard Edmund’s furious whisper.

  ‘How could you let Adam Kemp see you in your nightclothes like that? Have you no shame?’

  ‘I couldn’t face this without you,’ Edmund whispered as we walked into the great hall. He pulled out my chair and we sat at the long refectory table, Edmund in the heavy oak carving chair, Adam and his father on either side. Constance was next to Reverend Kemp and I sat next to Adam, listening but hardly hearing. Constance had also drawn me aside with the same heartfelt whisper.

  Even if the snow cleared, I could not leave them now. I would write to Mother and Seth could send one of the grooms. The wind had dropped, the first glimmers of a watery sun – a single horseman might just get through.

  ‘They’ll have it built by this afternoon. There’s plenty of oak, but there’s some elm too – it’s left over from Sir Richard’s coffin. Lady Melville ordered extra and told them to put it to one side.’

  Edmund nodded. ‘I’d like them to use the elm – to match Father’s coffin. Mother must have had that in mind.’

  ‘I believe they’ve also got some of the same grips they used for Sir Richard . . .’ Reverend Kemp paused. Edmund had risen from his seat and was facing the fire. ‘The coffin will be lined with green velvet – just like Sir Richard’s, if that’s to your taste. We can get the breastplate engraved by tomorrow at the latest.’ He glanced at his son, who nodded in agreement.

  ‘Mrs Alston’s coffin will be oak. It’s going to take some effort to dig her grave because the ground’s frozen solid, but it will be done.’ His voice was soft, his eyes resting on Constance. ‘Miss Melville, are you sure you want the funeral to be the day after tomorrow? You don’t want to invite friends, perhaps wait for the snow to melt?’

  Constance had been listening quietly and shook her head, her dark hair still loose around her shoulders. ‘Mama has very few friends – and certainly none around here. The village people must come, of course, but without Mrs Alston . . .’ Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘We need to keep everything simple.’

  ‘I’ll help find someone to provide food . . . and some beer . . . to do what’s needed.’ Adam glanced over his shoulder at her brother’s back. ‘I understand this is very difficult for you.’

  Edmund was smartly dressed, his clothes impeccable, but his hair was ruffled, his hands clasping and unclasping by his side. He resumed his place at the head of the table, resting his forehead against his interlocke
d fingers. ‘My sister’s right. My mother withdrew from society . . . you know our circumstances . . . you understand how difficult it would be for us to host a lavish funeral on people who . . . who allowed my mother . . .’

  Reverend Kemp coughed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, there’s no need to prolong this agony. I’d like the funeral tomorrow.’

  A glance passed between father and son; a hesitancy in Reverend Kemp’s reply. ‘Very well. If you think that isn’t too soon.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Mother will be laid to rest in Father’s tomb?’

  Reverend Kemp paused, his quill poised above the notes he was taking. He had a fine bone structure, bushy white eyebrows and long tapering fingers. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘When we have to use a tomb again – within a fairly short period of time – it is sometimes necessary to remove the old coffin . . . only the coffin, mind you . . . in order to allow enough space for the new one.’

  Constance covered her face with her hands, leaning forward on her elbows. ‘Remove Father’s coffin?’

  Adam Kemp’s eyes filled with pain. He was so like Luke it hurt to breathe. ‘Usually just the lid but if the sides haven’t rotted down sufficiently, then they’ll have to be taken out . . . very carefully, of course. New earth will be placed over your father’s bones and a layer of rushes – and rosemary or anything else you’d like to put in. I’ll see to it personally. The lid will be replaced, and the tomb will only be re-opened when we place your mother’s coffin inside. The old coffin pieces will be burned, and the ashes placed back into the tomb. I’ll supervise the whole proceedings.’

  Edmund pressed his fingers against his temples, his hands trembling. ‘That seems very straightforward. But we need to decide what wood to use for my mother’s coffin. My preference is elm. Do the carpenters have sufficient elm?’

  He looked up in the ensuing silence, glancing at me with obvious confusion and I saw the fright in his eyes – a wounded, scared man who did not know what he had said wrong. I gripped my hands under the table, trying to breathe. It was as if I was suffocating – as if nails were banging into my coffin, clamping the coffin lid shut.