by Nicola Pryce
I somehow rose, leaning on the table, staring back into Reverend Kemp’s compassionate eyes. ‘Thank you, Reverend Kemp . . . Mr Kemp . . . you’ve been very kind . . . and very attentive. Elm would be perfect . . . thank you.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Constance laid her mother’s maroon silk gown, a pair of her satin shoes, and a simple velvet cap on the bed. ‘That will look perfect, won’t it?’ she said, reaching for a large pair of scissors. ‘I think this is probably the only way, don’t you?’
We had washed and dried Lady Melville’s stiff body, dressing her thin grey hair, smoothing balm on her blue lips, and I nodded, smiling my encouragement. The fire was blazing, the clocks still silent, the only sound the snapping of Constance’s large scissors.
‘It’s more difficult than I thought,’ Connie whispered, and I leaned forward, holding the material taut. The back cut, she hesitated. ‘How are we going to do this? Perhaps, if you lift Mama’s arm, I can slip this sleeve on first. Can you bend it? Oh, good . . .’ We were wearing starched white aprons, our sleeves tucked to our elbows. ‘Now this arm . . . can you manage?’
We were both too scared to use force; Lady Melville’s cold body seemed too fragile to handle. The gown swamped her, the maroon suddenly too dark against her white face. ‘Perhaps we should roll her . . . first to you, then to me . . . only it’ll make it easier to tuck all this fabric under her? She’s as light as a sparrow – I don’t want to break any bones.’
The same awful thought had crossed my mind. ‘Maybe we should place the shroud under her at the same time?’ I unfolded the stiff white linen, the scent of almond oil mixing with rose water and lanolin. The procedure was new to both of us and taking much longer than we had expected.
‘We can tuck these sprigs of rosemary into the folds of her gown. I wish we had flowers . . . but these lavender bags will be perfect. I had no idea when I made them that I’d be using them for this.’ Her voice caught. ‘Shall I leave her hands as if in prayer?’ Hours of loving kindness, the last, most precious gift a daughter could give her mother. ‘Oh, Amelia! Her jaw’s dropping. Quick, pass me the rolled towel. We still need it. What if I tuck it under this lace? No one will see it, will they?’
‘No. No one will see. That’s perfect . . . she looks very peaceful.’
Connie stood back to survey our work. ‘She looks too waxen – she needs a dab of rouge. There. And now the cap. Can you hold her head while I slip it under?’
The cap strings tied, and her hair tidied, Lady Melville looked elegant and at peace. ‘The signs aren’t always bad,’ Connie whispered, smoothing the pillow. ‘Sometimes they foretell of fortune . . . sometimes they speak of great happiness. Like the swallows nesting against the east window this year.’ She smiled up at me.
‘Whole generations can pass without any swallows nesting against the east window but last year we had three nests. And each nest had two sets of fledglings. The nests are still intact and that foretells great happiness. The swallows came back just like Edmund came back. I should have recognized the sign . . . that he’d come back, and we’d all be happy again.’
She sounded suddenly bitter, not happy at all, and my chest tightened. ‘Connie, please don’t be angry with Edmund. He’s angry enough with himself.’
She picked up Lady Melville’s Bible. ‘I find it very hard not to be cross with him when he speaks so harshly to me.’
‘Connie, try not to be . . .’
‘I know I mustn’t be. I hate being so cross . . . but I can’t help it.’ The lion had entered her voice again.
‘Edmund sounds harsh, but he’s in a lot more pain than he wants us to know. He’s really struggling . . . he’s forgetting things and putting on a brave face.’
‘I know, and soon everyone else will know that, too. Reverend Kemp was obviously shocked but neither of them will say anything. And you’re right – of course, you’re right. It’s just that I’ve looked after Mama every single day since Edmund left – eight very painful years since he left for London . . . and, all that time, Mama’s only ever thought of him. Only of Edmund – I just didn’t count . . . and I didn’t mind because I, too, adored him. But what I find really hard is that within minutes of his return, they shut the door on me. They discussed the way I dressed, my demeanour, my relationship with the servants . . . and that most of my suitors would now withdraw because their sons could no longer expect the title. It was very hurtful.’
‘Connie . . . they didn’t mean it unkindly . . .’
She shook her head, looking down at her mother. ‘I was listening at the door. What I heard was unkind and I can’t pretend otherwise. And I’m not speaking ill of the dead, I’m just telling you how I feel.’
I slipped my hand through her arm. ‘Then you must tell Edmund. You were always so close – tell him how you feel.’
‘I don’t know if that’s possible. I was nine when he left for London . . . he was seventeen. I hardly count that last Christmas – that awful time when Father said he was going to send them both to Sumatra – I hardly spoke to him. He had eyes and thoughts only for you.’
A knife sliced my heart. ‘It was a very difficult visit . . . he wasn’t himself.’
‘And he’s not himself now. I’ve adored Edmund all my life, and yet I see it now as nothing but childish adoration for an elder brother. We’re both so changed. He thinks me his adoring younger sister, but I have suffered too. He must understand I’ve shouldered rather a lot of responsibility for someone so young.’ She opened the Bible at the ribbon, glancing down at a marked passage. ‘Oh, this is rather apt.
‘Anyone who loves their brother and sister lives in the light, and there is nothing to make them stumble. But anyone who hates a brother and sister is in the darkness and walks in the darkness. St John.’
She closed the Bible, placing it carefully in her mother’s hands. ‘Mama loved her sister – she and Aunt Harriet were very close. She must have known she was dying and would soon be with Aunt Harriet. You know Mama blamed Francis for her death . . . she could never bring herself to forgive him?’
‘That was rather unkind. You can’t blame a child for his mother dying in childbirth.’
‘Mama nursed Aunt Harriet for three weeks before she died. She never spoke of it as I believe it was too painful.’ She stopped, suddenly staring at the bedside table. ‘Oh, goodness – Mama’s box. Quick, I need her keys . . .’ She rushed across the room, opening the top drawer of the dressing table, searching between the contents. ‘Here they are.’
Dashing back, she slid open the bottom drawer of the heavy oak wardrobe and lifted out a small wooden box. ‘She hid it beneath this blanket. Mama put everything of importance in here. I’ve watched her lock it so many times, but she never let me see what was inside.’ The inlaid box had a brass keyhole and Constance chose the biggest of the three keys.
‘Connie – shouldn’t you . . . wait?’
Her cheeks were flushed, sudden fear in her eyes. She glanced at the door, her fingers fumbling with the lock. ‘No. That’s just the point. I need to open it while there’s just the two of us. Woman to woman. We’re the guardians of this house. We keep its secrets. The men may own the bricks and mortar, but we women own its heart and soul.’
The lock clicked and she opened the lid, lifting out a pile of letters, and I ran to her, kneeling beside her as she laid them on the floor.
‘It’s her letters from Edmund . . . and these are from Father. Goodness, what’s this?’ She picked up a folded page, smoothing out the stiff creases. ‘It’s been torn out of a ledger . . . It looks like it’s from a church registry.’
I stared down at the meticulous writing. ‘It’s a registry of births.’
Only half the page was written on, each entry recorded in the same neat handwriting. Along the top was: Name of infant, Date of birth, Mother, Father, Address. Only half a page of entries, then the names stopped. ‘The first is dated 1755, the last 1772.’ We stared at the last entry.
Fra
ncis Selwyn Bainbridge, Born September 25th 1772 Mother: Harriet Elizabeth Bainbridge. Father: unknown. Pendowrick Hall.
Constance drew a sharp breath. ‘Father unknown?’
In clear, concise writing, Harriet Bainbridge’s secret was staring straight at us. ‘Your mother must have torn it out to protect her sister’s reputation.’
‘When Uncle William died Aunt Harriet came down from London to have the baby. It was the most natural thing to do – poor Aunt Harriet was only twenty-three. Mama was bereft when she died and took Francis in as family. Edmund was born three months later. But not to know the father?’
‘Your uncle must have died well before . . . or else he would be named on the register.’
‘I don’t know the exact date of his death. He was buried in London and we’ve never visited his grave. I can understand how petrified Mama must have been of any scandal.’
Across the room, the candle on Lady Melville’s bedside flickered strong and warm, the comforting yellow flame of a church candle. ‘Mama wanted this kept secret, Amelia, so we must honour her wishes. Here . . . it has to go.’
She thrust the page into the blazing fire, the edges quickly catching, the names curling and twisting before succumbing to the flames. ‘Promise me you’ll never speak of it, Amelia?’
‘Speak of what?’ Edmund stood in the doorway.
Constance froze, staring at the black coils disappearing to ash in the grate. ‘It was nothing.’
Edmund stepped forward, shutting the door behind him. ‘That’s not true, Connie. You’ve just burned something.’ There was authority in his voice, a sense of command.
Constance turned to face him, staring straight into his eyes. ‘It was a letter . . . an unsent letter to Father. It was a very unhappy letter and it upset me to read it.’
To lie so blatantly and for me to just stand there. I could feel my cheeks burning and I turned to hide my sudden panic. Edmund’s voice softened. ‘What was it about?’
This time there was no hesitation. ‘Mama was asking Father for money.’
Firelight flickered across Edmund’s face. He looked strained, a sudden hardening of his mouth. ‘I think there was more to it than that. You’re protecting someone, aren’t you? Is it me you’re protecting, Connie?’ His chest rose and fell, the tremble back in his hands; there was vulnerability in his glance, a look of real pain. ‘What was the letter about?’
Constance squared her shoulders, a flicker of defiance before she lowered her eyes. ‘If you must know, Mama was begging Father not to allow you to join the ship.’ Her cheeks flushed as she took a sideways step to hide Lady Melville’s open box.
I was part of her lie, hiding the truth from Edmund. But why say that? How could she be so unkind? By the conviction in her voice, I knew Lady Melville must have sent such letters – begging her husband to let Edmund return to Pendowrick, but why hurt him like that?
Edmund’s shoulders stooped. Crossing the room, he bent to kiss Lady Melville’s cold cheek. ‘I wish you had sent that letter, Mother. You were right: I should never have gone.’ His voice was hoarse, tears in his eyes as he fought his quivering lips. ‘Mother looks so much younger . . . she looks at peace.’ A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Rest in peace, dearest Mother. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.’
I knew I must go to him. I stood by his side, his forced smile bringing tears to my eyes. ‘Have you done everything you need to do?’ he said softly. ‘Only they’ve got her coffin downstairs and I can ask them to bring it up. It’s very heavy but there are six of us. We’ll carry her down the grand staircase and leave her to rest in the parlour. I’ll set up an overnight vigil – the servants and estate workers will want to pay their last respects.’
He stood back, blowing his nose, straightening his shoulders. ‘Mrs Alston’s coffin will lie by her side. Reverend Kemp says we’ll bury Mother first, then we’ll lay Mrs Alston to rest at three o’clock tomorrow – as long as Dr Trefusis has signed the death certificates.’
Constance stayed firmly in front of her mother’s box. ‘Yes, we have. I’ll sew the shroud up when we close the coffin lid. I’ve had a note from Dr Trefusis to say he’ll be here this afternoon. He’s going to walk through the snow.’
‘That’s very good of him. I’ll get the coffin now.’ At the door Edmund paused, turning round as if in afterthought. ‘What else is in Mother’s box, Connie?’
Constance’s cheeks drained of all colour. ‘Only your letters to Mama . . . and a few from Father.’
‘Then, maybe I should take them?’ His quiet authority filled the room. It was not a question but a command and a cold hand clamped my heart. Constance stared back at him, trying to shrug it off, but he held out his hand, walking towards her. ‘The box, please, Connie.’
Bethany poured hot water into the basin, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Her usually plump red cheeks looked pale, her mobcap in need of pressing. She had been lent a clean apron, but her hair looked untidy, her dress crumpled. Both of us were grateful for an early night.
‘Were you looking for a special remedy?’ I asked as I dipped my hands into the basin.
She drew a sharp breath, her eyes widening. ‘No, Miss Amelia. I’ve not touched your herbal.’
I gripped the basin. I would have to give it back to Luke. I must not keep it. ‘Then one of the maids must have been tidying up – it’s been moved.’
Bethany clamped her fist against her mouth, her eyes like saucers. ‘Honest to God, Miss Amelia . . . things moving when they shouldn’t . . . doors opening . . . eyes watching all the time . . . and the thought of them two coffins.’
I splashed my face, dabbing my cheeks with the towel. ‘Bethany, no one’s watching.’
Even as I said it, I could feel their eyes boring into my back – rows of Melville women with their suffocating white ruffs and tight smiles, their hooded eyes and thin white hands gripping their prayer books. Each of them trapped in their elaborate wooden frames, each with their own hidden wooden boxes – the keepers of secrets, the guardians of the house. Well, I was one of them now with my promise to Constance that I would keep her aunt’s secret.
‘All old houses creak. It’s just the floorboards and the wind blowing the doors shut.’ My throat was so tight I could hardly swallow. Why had Constance been so hurtful? Why punish Edmund when he was already punishing himself?
‘Miss Carew . . . they say Sir Edmund never sleeps in his bed. They say he don’t close his curtains at night . . . that he sleeps on the floor beneath his open window . . . that he pleads all night for his life . . . and in the morning he cowers under his blanket till he knows he’s safe.’
My chest tightened. ‘Bethany, that’s enough. I’ll not have you repeat servant gossip.’
My curt rebuke must have stung her. I should never have spoken so sharply. She looked struck, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry – I thought ye might like to know. ’Twasn’t easy sayin’ it because I knew ’twould make ye upset.’
I looked back at the portraits, each of them staring back at me with their knowing looks – the guardians of the house with their secretive eyes, hidden signs and sayings. Had they, too, leaned clutching the basin like this, their hearts breaking?
Bring back the swallows, I pleaded to them through silent eyes. Please, please. Bring back the swallows.
Chapter Twenty-five
Pendowrick Church, Bodmin Moor
Wednesday 7th February 1798, 3 p.m.
Ahoar frost clung to the trees spiking the branches above us. The church bell was tolling, the north wind stinging my cheeks. No longer in the shelter of the church, it bit suddenly deeper, ruffling the fur on my hood. Constance gripped her heavy black cloak, her cheeks red with cold, and we bent our heads against the icy wind.
The path was too treacherous to carry the coffins so they had pulled them from the house on wooden sledges. Adam had chosen the five strongest men and we stood watching them lift Lady Melville’s coffin from the sledge onto their shoulders. Effort
racked their faces, the muscles in their arms shaking. Until this point we had not been able to see the open tomb but now it stood gaping in front of us, a scaffold of steps on one side, a makeshift wooden ramp on the other. At her sudden intake of breath, I slipped my hand from my muff, taking hold of Constance’s arm.
‘Do you think Lady Clarissa would mind if I came back to Truro with you?’ she whispered.
My heart lifted. The tension between Edmund and Constance had been building all day – not in words, but in their averted glances and terse, if polite, nods and shrugs. ‘No, of course not, Mother would love you to come . . . and so would I.’
The coffin steady, Edmund nodded to Reverend Kemp and we began following them up the churchyard, the snow crunching beneath my borrowed boots. A narrow path had been cleared and we snaked in a long line, the bank of snow obscuring the names on the graves on either side. From beneath his large black hat, Adam Kemp glanced at Constance and I gripped her arm, more for support than for comfort. The love in his eyes tore my heart, a surge of emptiness flooding through me.
All night I had lain awake. Love was selfless. Love was compassionate. Love was loving the whole man. Love was taking the good with the bad. In sickness and in health. Until death do us part. Love was being loyal to your oath, not stepping away when you were needed most. Love was understanding another’s needs, being strong for them. Love was not abandoning a man who no longer looked at you with the same devotion, who could no longer laugh, and who lay awake each night tormented by his private demons.
Very few had been invited to attend the service, merely the house and estate servants and a handful from the village. Reverend Kemp was treading carefully, leaning heavily on his stout stick. Adam was just behind him, carrying the large church Bible; the rest of the small congregation fell in step behind them, all of us hunching against the wind. We followed the elm coffin with its elaborate brass handles to the higher ground where generations of the Melville family had been laid to rest. Huge stone tombs began to line our way, some with iron railings, some with names of infants, many with second or third wives – each successive Lady Melville recorded by a portrait in the house and an inscription on a tomb under her husband’s name.