by Nicola Pryce
A lifetime ago, Edmund and I had walked, hand in hand, through these graves, Edmund laughing at the tales attached to each of his forbears; we had seemed so far from death we hardly saw them as tombs, but now death felt horribly close. Constance hesitated, glancing across at two headstones half-covered in snow and set slightly apart from the rest. Mother and son, lying side by side: Harriet Mary Bainbridge née Cheyne 1748–1772 May she Rest in Peace, and Francis Selwyn Bainbridge 1772–1793 God rest his soul.
‘No one will hear her secret from me,’ I whispered.
She drew her cloak tighter, her eyes watering in the wind. ‘Edmund didn’t allow me to read the letters.’
Once again, it seemed I must come between them. ‘That’s understandable, Connie – they’re his letters to his mother.’
She clasped her hood as it caught the breeze. ‘Not his letters – Father’s letters to Mother. Edmund burned them – he said they were too full of malice and it was far better I didn’t read them. Now we’re about to condemn Mama to lie in eternal unrest in the arms of the husband she hated and she’ll never be free of him.’
The ground around the tomb was muddied with imprints of huge boots and signs of a recent heap of earth. Adam directed the coffin bearers to the foot of the wooden ramp and began securing three heavy straps around the coffin. He pulled them tightly. A dank stench rose from the tomb, catching me off guard. The rest of the mourners shuffled into a circle behind us, some bringing out handkerchiefs, others shifting to stand upwind of the tomb. Bethany was among them. Eternal unrest. She, too, had sensed the unrest in the house.
The straps in place, Edmund, Seth and another man mounted the steps on the opposite side of the tomb and began pulling on the leather, hauling the coffin up the wooden ramp, Adam’s soft instructions keeping them in time. ‘And pull. And pull.’ The coffin was heavy, and more men were needed. ‘You two – take the straps behind the others. Ready on my command.’
Two men stepped forward, gripping the straps, and Lady Melville’s coffin slid slowly up the side of the tomb. Halfway to the top, another two men climbed the steps to help take the weight – ten men in all, gripping the heavy ropes that straddled the open tomb, all of them gritting their teeth to allow Lady Melville a slow and dignified descent into the gaping tomb. Constance gripped her cloak and I searched Edmund’s face. He stood upright and proud, his mouth held tight, a stoical tilt to his chin, and I knew I must show the same courage.
The straps and ropes gently lowered into the grave, the men bowed, stepping carefully away to join the circle of mourners. Once again, Adam looked at Constance, his white bands blown by the wind. With one hand holding his hat, he held out the other, helping her up the makeshift wooden steps and I followed as Constance’s gloved hand gripped mine. Fresh earth had been placed above her father’s bones, a layer of sweet-smelling rushes, but the stench of death lingered. On the ground below, Reverend Kemp’s words blew in the wind. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into eternal life.
Bethany handed me the two baskets of herbs I had spent the morning gathering. I could find only a few and had dried them by the fire – snow-dusted stalks with just the faintest fragrance. Others had been gleaned from wardrobes or found hanging in closets – rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, lemon balm and thyme for healing. Taking each bunch in turn, Constance threw them on to her mother’s coffin and I reached into the basket, handing her the dish of dried rose petals I had taken from my room.
‘And rose petals for love,’ Connie said, a tear rolling down her cheek.
‘Amen.’ Reverend Kemp gently shut the Bible and we stood in silence, Edmund’s eyes pooling with tears. I slipped to his side, putting my arm through his. A fine tremor shook his sleeve, he seemed uncertain what to do, and I drew him closer, leading the way down the trampled path to the second sledge bearing Mrs Alston’s coffin.
‘It’s taken them all day to dig Mrs Alston’s grave – they had to thaw the ground with hot embers.’ He took a deep intake of breath, steadying his voice. ‘There’s something rather awful about a frozen grave. I wish it was otherwise. I wish it were spring or summer so I could send her to rest with the flowers she loved so much.’
No birdsong, no cattle lowing in the field beside us, no sound of sheep, just the icy wind and the fine white snow blowing across the frozen moor. I knew I must think of summer, of the smell of honeysuckle in the hedgerows, of the lambs that would be born. Of the calves we would raise, the laughter of our children. The house needed love, that was all. Edmund needed love. The swallows would return, I would plant a rose garden like the one at Trenwyn House and I would fill every room with bowls of rose petals.
‘We’ll make sure there are always flowers on Mrs Alston’s grave . . . and shells and heart-shaped pebbles . . . and everything else you used to run home to give her.’
He gripped my arm. ‘I couldn’t do this without you. I love you, Amelia. I don’t deserve you . . . but I love you so very desperately. I promise I will get better and I’ll make you so proud of me.’ He stopped, the long snake of mourners stopping behind us. His hat was drawn low, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The injury above his lip looked brutal in the daylight, his long sideburns hardly disguising the pitted red scars disfiguring his cheeks. A deep furrow lodged between his heavy black brows, a tightness round his mouth. A face with no laughter lines, no softening round the eyes. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words.
‘What is it?’ I whispered.
His chest rose and fell, his breathing faster. His hands began shaking, a look of panic in his face. ‘I can’t keep you against your will . . . You’re free to go. I can’t and won’t hold you to our engagement.’
My throat was dry, my words a whisper. Deep in my chest, my heart burst into a thousand fragments. ‘I know. It will be my choice to stay.’
‘You look cold, Amelia. It’s far too cold. We need to go in. We must get you to a fire.’ His hand pressed against his forehead. ‘We shouldn’t be out here in this weather.’
A knot twisted my stomach and I fought my tears. ‘Edmund . . . we’re here to bury Mrs Alston – we’re here because it’s her funeral . . . do you remember?’
He looked round at the watching faces, a flash of sudden panic. ‘Mrs Alston . . . yes, of course . . . Amelia, please help me . . . I don’t know what to do.’
I took his arm. He was so vulnerable, Constance was wrong to be angry. She must never let him hear what the servants were saying – that his beloved Mrs Alston had thrown herself down the stairs because she had bought the tincture from the rogue peddler. ‘Come, stay by my side. I’ll tell you what to say.’
He must never know that if he had come home just one month sooner, neither of them might have died.
Chapter Twenty-six
I left Edmund in his study, a cold towel pressed against his forehead. His headache had become blinding, a terrible nausea making it difficult for him to lift his head. He was asleep, a blanket keeping him warm, and I slipped on my cloak, opening the heavy back door.
The huge moon bathed the courtyard in silver light. The wind had dropped, the steady sound of icicles dripping from the eaves. A brazier was burning, lanterns hanging either side of the open barn doors. Instructions from the kitchen echoed across the well-trodden snow, a fiddler playing, the sound of voices drifting from inside the barn. Seth knocked out his pipe and came to my side.
‘The wind’s dropped, Miss Carew. It’s gettin’ warmer. I reckon we should leave tomorrow – leave too late an’ the roads will be awash. The snow will melt to a quagmire. We need to leave while the snow’s firm enough to take the wheels.’
‘Will the drifts be clear?’ As a child, I would have crossed every finger and tried to cross my toes.
He must have heard the hope in my voice. ‘I’ll get you home, Miss Amelia. I’ve had men workin’ on the dell – they’ve taken horses up an’ down all day and so long as we use the brakes, I reckon we�
��ll make it to the top. Once atop, there’s every chance of gettin’ back safe – if we take it slow. The post’s through from Bodmin to Truro so it’s just the first two miles to watch. I’d rather go while the snow’s firm – or we’ll have to wait.’
‘My parents have been told?’
He nodded. ‘They know ye’re safe. John rode the mare through the snow. He’s back now – that’s how I know about the post gettin’ through.’ He was hardly wrapped up against the weather, his head uncovered, his short grey hair bright in the moonlight, his smile lighting his face, and I had to turn away. He was my parents’ coachman. He would stay with them and I would no longer have him by my side.
From the age of two, he had taken me wherever I wanted to go: letting me take the reins up and down the long drive, stopping to build bonfires, eating imaginary food off bark plates. He had helped me run away more times than I could remember. Sometimes Frederick and I would kidnap him; often we would use his coach as our ship. Latterly, he would load it up with my herbs and take them all over Cornwall.
He pointed to the open barn door. ‘Miss Melville’s done her mother proud – her and Reverend Kemp. She wanted to say goodbye properly . . . with a proper wake as befitting the custom of the house. Reverend Kemp’s roasted her a huge ham an’ the biggest goose I’ve ever seen. Said it was his oldest gander – said the bugger had been biting him!’ He laughed. ‘Well, the bugger bit him once too often, an’ we’re to benefit. Are ye to join us, Miss Amelia?’
There was tenderness in his voice, a touch of sadness; a burly man, with the softest of hearts and I put out my arm like I had done at countless harvest suppers. ‘Will you be my escort?’
‘Would be my honour, Miss Carew.’
A long trestle table had been laid, lamps burning from hooks, the white linen tablecloth overlaid with trails of ivy. Knives and forks were set, three large earthenware bowls overflowing with boiled potatoes and parsnips. There must have been twenty-five or more crammed along the benches, sitting in solemn reverence as Reverend Kemp held up his knife to slice the huge roast goose. Fat splashed on to his apron and he looked at Adam, indicating to stop playing his fiddle and help me to my seat.
Adam had taken off his heavy black coat and was wearing a fine tweed waistcoat, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his cleric bands swapped for a white cravat. His red hair was ruffled, swaying in time to the lament he was playing. He saw me and nodded, putting down his fiddle, leading me to the head of the table. ‘Will Sir Edmund be joining us?’
‘I’m afraid not. His headache has worsened.’
Eyes turned, everyone rising to their feet in respectful silence. I smiled back at them, raising my voice. ‘I’m afraid Sir Edmund isn’t well enough to join us, but he wants you all to enjoy the evening. Please, sit . . . I believe we have Reverend Kemp to thank for this funeral feast?’
He stood to say grace and as the Amen echoed to the rafters, a woman in a white apron started handing out bread from a huge basket. Another woman was refilling cups from a pewter jug and I had to look twice. Constance came to my side, putting down the jug, smiling to the man next to me as he shifted down the bench to make room.
‘Edmund wouldn’t permit me to feed everyone in the house, so I arranged for our funeral dinner to be in the barn. I won’t send people away hungry. They’ve worked very hard for us and they deserve to be thanked.’ She spoke so quietly, I could hardly hear her.
‘Of course,’ I whispered back.
‘I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want Edmund to forbid it. I know he’ll be cross, but I’m prepared to shoulder his displeasure.’
She got up to help serve the goose, but Adam put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll help Father. You sit down – you must be tired.’ His smile lit his face, the warmth of his affection burning his eyes. Lanterns hung from the heavy oak beams, two cats watching us from the top of a stack of straw. Behind us, horses nuzzled bags of hay in their wooden stalls, everyone rosy-cheeked from the biting wind, ready to do justice to the golden-crusted goose and the huge loin of ham.
‘Reverend Kemp likes cooking,’ Constance said, watching the old man place slice after slice onto a silver platter. ‘He’s been a widower for twenty years – Adam likes to cook, too. He made the bread.’
The affection between the two men was obvious. Adam started handing round the goose, laughing with the men as he served them, asking the blacksmith to carve the ham, another to follow him with the boiled potatoes. Halfway down the bench, Bethany made room for Seth, smiling as his great bulk squeezed beside her. ‘Is Adam the only son?’
Constance’s eyes had never left him. ‘Yes. That’s why he came back from Oxford. He was offered another living, but his heart’s here. He won’t leave his father . . . and his school is doing well. It’s getting a very good reputation.’
‘I remember him telling me he liked collecting minerals.’
She nodded, looking up at Adam who stood behind us. ‘You have a very fine collection of minerals, don’t you, Adam? Come . . . it’s your turn to sit down. I’ll take round the next platter.’
She was wearing a black silk gown with long sleeves. Flushed like the rest of us, she looked poised and dignified, yet gracious and charitable, and my respect for her deepened. So, too, my respect for the cook. I thought I would only eat sparingly but just one bite and I knew I would finish my plate. There was much appreciation in the faces around me, such companionship and friendship, everyone raising their glasses to commemorate the lives of their mistress and the formidable woman who had run the house with clockwork precision – Mrs Alston, beloved and feared in equal measure.
When the last of the apple pie had been cleared away, Adam reached for his fiddle and began playing a hymn. At once, a man’s rich voice started singing, others joining in, their voices growing stronger, rising in volume. The barn’s rafters formed an arch above us as grand as any church and my heart swelled with sudden, inexplicable certainty. The swallows would come back to the east window. There would be happiness again in the house. Happiness and love.
No one sang like that in our church, but as the drinks were refilled and the benches pushed back, the volume increased. Reverend Kemp had brought a handful of hymn books, but everyone knew the words, their voices soaring, echoing round the oak rafters; each one of us happy and sad at the same time; each singing hymns for those we had lost, and for those we could never bear to lose.
A movement by the door made me turn round. Edmund was standing in the shadows watching us. He stood back, quickly hiding from sight and I knew I must go to him.
‘Who organized this?’ His voice sounded strangled.
‘Constance didn’t want anyone to go hungry. She was worried she wouldn’t be able to manage without Annie . . . and you forbade her the house.’
‘Only because I didn’t want to put any extra strain on my servants who are without their housekeeper. How have they managed a funeral feast?’
‘Reverend Kemp offered to help . . . he likes cooking – he and Adam both do. They roasted the meats in the vicarage and brought them over.’ My mouth was dry, a terrible pounding in my chest.
‘On the same sledge we carried Mother and Mrs Alston to their graves?’ He sounded distant, his hat pulled low, his black coat concealing him in the darkness.
I stood watching the gathering through his eyes – Adam and Constance at one end of the long table, Reverend Kemp in his splattered apron at the other. Adam had put down his fiddle and was singing Psalm 23, Constance standing by his side, their voices rising in perfect harmony, two rows of tearful eyes watching them. ‘You were in such pain, Edmund . . . you were feeling sick . . . so I greeted them for you. Constance never intended—’
He grasped his head between his hands. ‘I should be at the head of that table. I should be there, thanking everyone for their help . . . not cowering in the shadows, too frightened to step forward.’ He gripped his shoulders as if hugging himself. ‘But I can’t . . . I want to be there, I want it so badly, but m
y body won’t let me. I see their faces and I freeze. I lose my words – my whole reason. I just freeze . . . you’ve noticed it, I know you have.’ He looked up, his huge black pupils lost in the darkness.
‘Come with me now,’ I whispered. ‘Come and join them for a few minutes. I’ll be right beside you. I’ll hold your arm. Just thank them for coming and then wish them all goodnight.’
Sweat glimmered on his upper lip, sheer panic in his voice. ‘I can’t, Mel. I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t . . . Please don’t make me.’ His tremor was back, his hands trembling against his face.
‘Then we’ll go back to the house and sit by the fire. Or would you prefer to retire to your room?’ I reached for my cloak, which I had left hanging at the door.
‘I just need to breathe the night air.’ He gripped my hand and we stood in the moonlight, the singing drifting through the open door behind us. He seemed to grow calmer. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that.’
‘I’ll help you, Edmund.’
‘You have no idea how much just having you here means to me. I can’t imagine how I would have got through all this without you.’ He looked up at the huge moon shining above us. ‘My one symbol of hope . . . a constant beacon telling me not to give up. It’s our moon, Mel . . . I promise I’ll do everything I can to get better . . . to make you proud of me again.’
Three years of staring up at the moon, hoping and praying for his safe return, six months of turning from it because it was too painful even to even glimpse it: a whole year of sending out new shoots, feeling renewal and happiness through the love for another man. It felt like treachery, the worse kind of disloyalty.