A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘I can’t stay, Edmund. I need to go home. Seth wants us to leave before the roads become impassable – he’s just told me the conditions would be best tomorrow. He’d like to leave before the snow melts.’

  ‘Of course, I can’t keep you, though I want you to stay more than anything.’ He took off his hat, pulling me slowly towards him, his jacket against my cloak. Resting his forehead against the top of my head, he breathed in the lilac essence I used in my hair. ‘Mel, would Lady Clarissa mind if Constance came back with you to Truro?’

  I felt uncomfortable in his arms, a sudden rise in my heartbeat. ‘No, of course not, Mother would be delighted to have her visit . . . but don’t you need her here?’

  He breathed deeply, smelling my hair. ‘I think it best, under the circumstances. We must separate her from that man.’

  A cold shard pierced my heart, he was using my pet name yet there was such authority in his voice. ‘But, is it really so terrible? Constance is seventeen and Adam is kind and respectable . . . I believe she really does love him . . . and you always said how much you admired him. Surely you can allow her to marry for love?’

  His lips began brushing my hair, tentative at first then growing firmer. ‘Of course, she must marry for love. But not Adam Kemp. I do like him, I’ve always liked him, but Mother was adamant she didn’t want Constance to marry him.’

  ‘Edmund . . . we were seventeen when we got engaged. I know it’s young but . . .’ My heart was pounding, a twist in my stomach.

  His voice softened, his breath on my face. ‘It’s not her age, Mel. Constance is the sister of a baronet and whoever she marries must enhance our family not disgrace it. I have to honour Mother’s wishes. I must do something right. I’ve failed her in just about everything else.’

  Rough cheeks, bristles where there had never been bristles, sideburns where there had always been smooth skin; no longer the youth I loved but a mature man with a man’s needs. His kisses were strengthening, growing more urgent.

  ‘Edmund . . . you never failed your mother.’

  ‘I did, Mel. I failed her in just about everything I did. Dr Trefusis said her heart weakened but we all know I caused her death – she died of a broken heart, of years of uncertainty and sorrow. I should have come sooner – just one month earlier and she wouldn’t have needed that potion. That’s the truth I have to live with.’ His voice was hoarse, filled with remorse. ‘And what if the rumours are true? What if our dearest Mrs Alston threw herself down the stairs because she thought she was responsible? Because no matter how innocently, she was the one who bought the poison and gave it to Mama? That’s what they’re saying.’

  The cold shard pierced me again. Constance had no reason to tell him. ‘It was an accident, Edmund. Mrs Alston was distressed . . . she was in a terrible panic. She caught her foot and tripped. She fell down the stairs and knocked her head. She was old and frail and she took such a blow. It was an accident.’

  His breathing became heavier. ‘Either way, I should have been here with her, and I need to make amends – for Connie’s sake, at least. She’s borne the burden of an impoverished house for too long. She wears aprons and carries trays – she fraternizes more with servants than her own class. She meets no one, at least no one of any worth.’ His lips pressed against my forehead. ‘It’s unfair, Mel; Connie needs to spread her wings. She needs to go to concerts and be introduced to suitable young men. Mama spoke of it. She was very concerned that Connie’s childhood infatuation with Adam Kemp might lead her to do something foolish.’

  My cheeks, he was kissing my cheeks. He would soon reach my lips. He was so physical, so strong, almost too fierce. I felt no responding desire, just a flash of terror.

  ‘It would be a pleasure to have her – Mother would love her to come and stay. We both would.’

  ‘I’ll come to Truro and visit you. I need to see a doctor – Connie seemed very taken with that Dr Bohenna, should I see him, do you think?’

  His lips were hovering over mine, slightly apart, the unfamiliar scent of tobacco on his breath. He lifted my chin, pulling my face to his. ‘No . . . not Dr Bohenna . . . Dr Nankivell has always been our doctor . . . and Cordelia’s brother’s coming back – he’s been in the navy. He’ll know everything there is to know about tropical diseases.’

  His lips remained open, poised, edging closer. ‘Back there . . . in the barn – do you remember the day we were in the hayloft and Francis came looking for us? We didn’t hear him climb the ladder and he caught us in the hay? Do you remember?’

  His breath was pungent. I should not feel like this. I should be thrilling at his touch, wanting him to kiss me. ‘Yes, I remember.’ Under his satin waistcoat and breeches, I felt the muscles of a sailor – hard tight muscles full of power. His lips brushed mine and I tried not to recoil.

  ‘We’ll go back there. When I’m better, we’ll go back to the hayloft – just like before. Poor Francis.’

  ‘Why poor Francis?’

  His arms tightened, squeezing me to him. ‘He was in love with you. Everyone was in love with you and yet you chose me. I can’t tell you how that made me feel. It was like having wings . . . like I could conquer the world. The most beautiful, intelligent girl in the whole of Cornwall – in the whole world – choosing me when you could have chosen anyone.’

  The singing was reaching new heights, the brazier almost burnt out: the snow was glistening, a steady drip from the eaves; an enchanted night, yet I forced back my tears, turning my face from him.

  ‘Don’t cry, my love, please don’t cry.’ His whisper was urgent, full of tenderness. ‘I’ve frightened you . . . I’m so sorry . . . it’s too early – I’ve been a clumsy fool. It’s just I love you so much, and I’ve waited so long. I will get better and I’ll make you so proud of me. When that shipment arrives I’ll have the means to pay off our debts and I’ll give you everything I’ve ever promised you. That order was my order, Mel. My shipment.’

  I stared across the moonlit cobbles, tears stinging my eyes. His arms tightened round me. ‘Everything will be as it should be – I’ll trade in spice again. I’ll make us a fortune and we’ll fill this house with laughter, just like we said we would.’

  The door to the kitchen was ajar and I peered slowly round the door, desperate not to be seen with such red-rimmed eyes. Large stone jars, china tureens and jelly moulds stood in long rows on the shelves, a huge dresser at one end, a hearth with copper pans hanging from large hooks at the other. Plates piled high on the scrubbed pine table, the carcass of the goose stripped clean. The maids would soon be in to wash the dishes but for the moment, there was no one there and I seized my chance. A large kettle steamed on the griddle and I reached for a cloth, taking the handle in both hands.

  I had turned from him, rejected his kiss.

  He thought I could not see his tears as he walked slowly up to his room. He had tried to conceal his hurt with words of hope and promise, wishing me goodnight, but I had seen the desolation in his eyes, and at the turn of the stairs I had watched him reach for his handkerchief and bury his head in his hands.

  Rose petals calm the nerves, relieve insomnia, and can be used to overcome the physical fatigue of grief. Place half an ounce of rose petals in warm water and allow to steep for five minutes. Do not oversweeten as the flavour is mild.

  THE LADY HERBALIST

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Pendowrick, Bodmin Moor

  Thursday 8th February 1798, 8:30 a.m.

  No wind, clear skies, even a glimpse of the sun, and Seth was anxious to set off. Bethany rearranged the rugs on our knees and I pulled up the carriage window, waving to Edmund who stood watching us leave. Awkwardness lodged between us, his sudden shyness adding to the strange formality of our departure. He stood stiff-backed and stoical, telling us his darkened glasses protected his eyes from the glare of the snow, but I believed he was hiding his tears and felt torn with remorse.

  Eight men were to walk at our side, two men per wheel, ready to apply the
heavy brakes to stop the coach from rolling backwards. Frost had settled on the drifts, the ground crisp, the men’s boots crunching the snow and I crossed my fingers, glancing up at the heavily laden branches hanging above us. I was desperate to leave, and so was Constance. I could see it in the way she did not look back, her abrupt farewell to her brother as she took her seat in the coach.

  We pulled forward, starting slowly up the steep hill. The night had brought more frost; there was no sign of a melt, no ice on the road, just a firm grip beneath the wheels. The carriage stopped at the top and Seth shouted.

  ‘Thank you . . . that’ll do. We’ll be all right from here. No need to come any further.’

  The white moor glistened in the strengthening sun and we settled back, wrapped in our cloaks, the hot coals keeping our feet warm. A series of tracks showed carriages had already passed, and our progress became steady; no melt, no quagmires, no drifts, just the intensely blue sky and the vast snow-covered moor sparkling in the sun. Constance drew a deep breath.

  ‘His glasses come from Venice. They wear them there because the sunlight on the lagoon is so bright it hurts their eyes, but I think on days like this we could all do with a pair.’

  Seth did not stop but kept up a slow pace, the rhythmical jolting lulling Bethany to sleep. Constance opened her embroidered purse and brought out a letter. ‘Edmund gave me this to give to your mother. He wants her to find me a suitable husband.’

  I smiled in what I hoped looked like encouragement. ‘Mother’s very good at that sort of thing. A lot of her friends ask her for introductions. Edmund says he wants you to go to concerts and maybe a few balls.’

  She put the letter away, her mouth tightening. ‘So soon? Am I not allowed to grieve? I’m sorry, Amelia, it’s just my brother has very decided opinions.’

  This time my smile was heartfelt. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere either and Mother certainly won’t make you.’

  The hours passed, each of us lost to our own thoughts. I had turned from his kiss, shown him coldness, not love, and now he would be alone in that austere house, left to grieve by himself. It seemed so cruel. He did not deserve that. The carriage began its slow descent, a row of tall chimneys showing red against the bright blue sky.

  I had never been so glad to see the rooftops of Truro.

  Mother could read me like a book and I knew not to look at her. I avoided Papa’s gaze, too, embracing them back, rushing Constance to the fire, telling them everything about the journey – the two deaths, the funerals and the feast; telling them nothing about how my heart was breaking. Papa stood in his beloved felt hat, his large farmer’s hands grasping Connie’s. ‘My dear Miss Melville, your misfortune is indeed our gain. You must stay as long as you like.’

  Mother put down her new lorgnettes, a slight shake to her head. She refolded Edmund’s letter. ‘You’re in mourning, for goodness’ sake. Concerts and balls can wait . . . and so can any thought of marriage. He suggests new gowns, would you consider some new mourning gowns, my dearest? Only, Amelia has one she can lend you . . . ?’ She looked up at Connie’s tentative nod. ‘Excellent, we shall arrange that. And shall we learn to speak Italian, only there’s an Italian Count in town and he’s offering to give me lessons?’

  Papa beamed with pleasure. ‘And I can explain my new breeding programme to you, my dear. Those moors of yours are all very well in the summer, but in the winter?’ He shook his head. ‘Sheep have to be hardy up there, don’t they? Poor creatures buried up there in all that snow.’

  Mother was wearing her bright red Chinese gown. It flowed long and loose, the huge sleeves hanging down either side of her. Her hair was softly coiled, her turban glinting with coloured glass. ‘Do you like baking, Constance? I do hope you do.’

  Light streamed through the huge sash windows, the black-and-white marble floor glinting in the sun. Everywhere light and air, and love, my unconventional parents wrapping Constance in their warm affection. I had to excuse myself, run upstairs to my room.

  I knew Mother would follow. She limped across the floor, standing behind me as I stared into my dressing table mirror. ‘I’m glad you brought Constance back with you.’

  ‘She wanted to come. She asked if she could come first, then Edmund asked me if we wouldn’t mind having her to stay.’ She was looking at the faded red leather cover of Luke’s father’s herbal and I knew I must answer her unspoken question. ‘I’m going to give it back to Luke. I can’t keep it now.’

  ‘Mr Burrows, the publisher, left his card yesterday. He’s staying at the Red Lion. Now you’re back, I’ll send him word that you can see him.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t go through with it, Mother. Not now.’

  ‘You can, my dear, and you must.’ Her voice took on the tone of my childhood, kind but firm.

  ‘What if he likes them and does want to publish them? Luke can’t give it to me as a present – not now . . . anyway . . . I’ve decided against it. I don’t want my prints to be published.’

  Her mouth tightened, her chin dipping as her eyes searched my face. ‘You have to show them to him, Amelia. He’s made a long journey and it would be an appalling lack of manners to turn him away. If he wants to publish them, then you must accept graciously.’

  Tears stung my eyes. ‘Mother, that was all before. It’s different now . . . and it’s not what I want.’

  ‘Amelia, you must go ahead – not just for Luke but for all the physicians and apothecaries who will use your paintings to distinguish one herb from another. Let alone all the women and mothers of children who will read every word and follow your recipes. And if you won’t do it for them, then you must simply do it to show everyone what a woman is capable of doing. Don’t hide your light . . . let it shine.’

  ‘You haven’t asked me anything about Edmund,’ I whispered.

  ‘I don’t need to, my love. It’s in your eyes, your brave smile, the falseness of your laughter.’

  ‘I just need more time.’

  Her voice softened, her hand on my shoulder. ‘To do the right thing? To marry him because you believe you must?’

  ‘I don’t believe I must . . . I just must. Mother, Edmund’s come back a broken man – he’s suffered unimaginable hardship. He’s thrown into blind panics . . . he gets confused, he can’t sleep at night for terrors. The man I love is still there . . . shaking and vulnerable. He freezes in company . . . he forgets where he is. He’s been the subject of great brutality and he needs help to know he’s safe . . . that he’s loved. That everything he’s gone through has ended. Only his love for me kept him going . . . and now he needs me more than ever.’

  ‘Of course he does, and you must help him recover, but you don’t have to marry him.’

  ‘What if it was Frederick? What if Frederick returned broken and vulnerable and Charity decided he wasn’t the man he had been . . . that she no longer loved him? Can you imagine how Frederick would feel? You think it was just a youthful infatuation, but it wasn’t. I loved Edmund with all my heart and he loved me. I vowed to love him and you don’t just abandon a man because his suffering has changed him . . . you love him because his suffering has changed him, and he needs your help.’

  She held my gaze in the mirror, her hand tightening on my shoulder. ‘My dearest, you think I don’t understand but I do. It is the suffering to come that worries me – the inevitable years of pain. Years of watching the light leave your eyes and your laughter become stilted.’

  ‘I love him. I’ll always love him.’

  ‘I know, my love. That’s what I mean. But it’s Edmund you’re planning to marry.’

  Pain ripped through me. ‘Don’t . . . please don’t. I was talking about Edmund – you know I was.’

  She took the faded book from my hand, opening the page to Luke’s father’s cramped writing, his remedies and wise advice written sideways against the printed words, other pages inserted, stuck in with glue. ‘I shall send word to Mr Burrows that you are free to see him tomorrow at eleven, and to save yo
u any embarrassment with Luke, your father and I will pay any publishing expenses. But you must have your work published for Luke’s sake.’

  In the silence, I fought to breathe. Already I felt different, a terrible loneliness nestling in my heart. Sun was streaming through the huge casement window, the sky outside a glorious blue, but all joy had left me. In a moment the gold clock on my mantelpiece would chime two o’clock – every day from now on, I would have to endure the sound of the clock chiming two.

  It began to strike, and I looked away. Mother reached for her handkerchief, her voice breaking. ‘My foot has almost healed. I have just one more appointment and then I believe I can remove these heavy bandages. Luke won’t come to the house again unless you invite him.’

  The door closed behind her and I threw myself on my bed. The whole way back from Pendowrick I had tried to shake off the gnawing in my stomach. Still it gnawed me, just as I know it had gnawed at Constance. I could not name it before, but now I could.

  It was resentment I was feeling: resentment holding me back.

  Edmund had not apologized for rushing to join the ship, nor had he asked me to forgive his haste. He had excused his behaviour as weak and foolish and I had been too afraid to say what I really felt. I should have spoken out, cleared the air between us. He had only six months to wait – only six months before we could be married. No matter how controlling his father had been, he should have waited those six months.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Town House, Truro

  Friday 9th February 1798, 11 a.m.

  A good night’s sleep showed in Constance’s face; the shadows under her eyes had lifted, her newly washed hair dancing in curls around her shoulders. Mother had lent her a dark burgundy shawl and black pearl-drop earrings which swung as she talked. ‘That must be him now,’ she said, peering out of the window.

  A gentleman in a heavy overcoat and tall hat was hurrying across the cobbles. Mother put down her pen, getting up from her writing desk. ‘And right on time, too.’