by Nicola Pryce
Mr Burrows stood at the door, handing his hat and cane to the footman. His wig was grey, his thin face flushed. He had taken off his overcoat and stood in smart tweed breeches and jacket, a buttoned-up woollen waistcoat and a carefully pinned cravat. A pair of round glasses perched halfway down his nose, the eyes above them hardly frightening at all.
Mother, dressed in a conventional silk morning gown and demure headdress, smiled elegantly back at him. Introductions Ag dispensed with she said, ‘It’s very kind of you to come. How do you find Truro?’
‘Very handsome . . . there are some fine buildings. And I’ve been very well looked after in the Red Lion.’ His tone matched his clothes, educated and respectful, even a touch shy.
‘Splendid. My daughter has laid out her drawings on the table by the window. We thought the light would be best there.’
He went straight to my paintings and I could barely breathe, my heart pounding as he drew out a magnifying glass. He said nothing but slowly examined each drawing in turn, holding them to the window with fixed concentration. A frown creased his brow and Constance handed me a glass of lemonade. I could not drink it.
‘Are you familiar with any of the books we publish, Miss Carew?’ he said at last.
‘Yes, I am. By pure chance, we’ve just recently come across The Botanical Prints of Oriental Spices that you published some time ago. Didn’t we, Constance?’
He looked up. ‘The Botanical Prints of Oriental Spices?’
Constance nodded. ‘Yes, I believe you were commissioned by my uncle.’
His frown cleared. ‘Miss Melville? How remiss of me not to recognize the name. I remember your father and I was very sorry to hear of his death.’
‘You knew my father?’
‘Yes. It was Sir Richard who commissioned the work, not your uncle – the prints of oriental spices were collected and published at your father’s request. I remember it very well – indeed, it was my first day at work and no one forgets their first day. My father compiled the book and I had just joined the firm.’
He glanced out of the window. ‘I delivered the book on a snowy day not unlike the weather we’re having now. February, it was – because I joined the firm on my seventeenth birthday. I remember rushing through the snow desperate not to slip. Sir Richard was thrilled with the book and so was Mrs Bainbridge. They were going to the theatre and I think I made them late but they were enthralled with it – just as I hope you will be with yours, Miss Carew.’
He smiled at my sudden intake of breath, looking over his glasses to Mother. ‘I have rarely seen such accurate and exquisite drawings, Lady Clarissa. I propose we publish full-colour plates of all twenty. The writing will be interspersed between the sheets and I propose we interlace a fine layer of paper between each of the prints to protect them. I envisage a print run of five hundred. Do you have a title in mind for your work, Miss Carew?’
I stared at him, barely able to speak. ‘I thought perhaps we might call it The Lady Herbalist.’
‘Yes, I like that. I think that captures the essence of the book. I’ll need your manuscript and all your descriptions . . . the usage and your remedies, and so on.’ He seemed reluctant to leave the table, his eyes not leaving my drawings as a new tension entered his voice. ‘Have you asked any other publishers to consider these drawings, Lady Clarissa?’
Mother shook her head. ‘No, you are the first to see them, Mr Burrows. If you could send us your exact proposal and the sum you have in mind, my husband and I will give it careful consideration. Though I have to warn you my daughter’s drawings are already attracting considerable attention and we would prefer to print more than five hundred.’
‘Indeed, Lady Clarissa. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll send my proposal to start with a run of a thousand.’ He straightened, turning to me. ‘Miss Carew, may I congratulate you . . . seldom have I seen such exquisite work. It would be my honour to place your drawings where they can be seen and admired.’ His eyes darted to the table again as if reluctant to leave.
‘Splendid,’ said Mother, ‘we await your proposal.’ She smiled her most enchanting smile. ‘Now, how about some refreshment, Mr Burrows? Would you like a cup of hot chocolate?’
Mr Burrows backed slowly to the door, bowing stiffly. ‘Thank you, but no. Another time, Lady Clarissa. I have work to do – my proposal will follow shortly.’ Excitement shone in his eyes. ‘Believe me; I see a great future for this book.’
I hardly saw him leave. Never in a million years had I expected anyone to publish my prints. I turned to see Constance sit down: just one glance at her face and I rushed to her side.
‘Connie . . . are you all right?’ She looked ill, as if she might faint. ‘Connie, what can I get you?’
‘I’m so happy for you . . . I think I’m just a bit hot.’
Mother opened the sash window and Connie breathed the cool air. ‘What is it?’ I whispered.
She waited for Mother to cross the room to pull the bell rope. ‘You heard what he said – Father and Aunt Harriet were together in London. They were going to the theatre.’
‘She lived in London . . . she was his sister-in-law.’
‘But they were together – going to the theatre together. Amelia, none of us knows when my uncle died – not the exact date. We just assumed it was after Francis was conceived, but it must have been well before. Otherwise the register wouldn’t say father unknown.’
I sat next to her. ‘Oh, my goodness, Connie.’
Her eyes were wide with shock, the colour still drained from her face. ‘But he wasn’t unknown, was he? They all knew who the father was.’
‘Connie . . .’
‘Father commissioned that book – it was his writing in the front. You saw it . . . For Harriet, my dearest love. Now I think about it, the writing looked familiar . . . Amelia, they were lovers – while Mama was down in Cornwall they were in London. Mama miscarried her first child and that’s how he treated her?’
Mother held out a glass of lemonade. ‘Has the air helped, my dear? No, obviously not. You still look rather unwell.’ She pulled down the sash. ‘Perhaps you should lie down for a while? You look very shaken.’
‘A sudden giddiness, that’s all, Lady Clarissa, but the air’s helped. Would you mind very much if Amelia and I took a short walk round the square? I’m so sorry to cause you such concern.’
A firm believer in fresh air and exercise, Mother nodded. ‘Of course not. A brisk walk always does one good.’ Her eyes followed us to the door. ‘Wrap up warmly, though – the sun may be shining but there is still ice in that wind.’
There was no one by the church railings and we linked arms, crossing the square to the privacy of the side entrance and the stone seat in the porch. ‘We’re out of sight – lean forward, put your head between your knees. Take some deep breaths.’
Constance held her bonnet and bent forward, her head on her knees. ‘It’s passing. I feel better now. They were lovers, I know they were – Mama’s own sister. No wonder Mama hated Francis – that marked passage in her Bible was about her sister. Amelia, just imagine being betrayed by the people you love the most. That must be why she hated Father – she couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive them.’
‘Maybe Sir Richard only paid for the book . . .’ Even as I said it, I knew Constance must be right.
‘It was Father’s writing. Why didn’t I see it before? And Mother must have known. She removed the page from the register to protect us – not her sister.’ She straightened, taking a deep breath. ‘Francis was our half-brother. That’s why he looked so like us. We shared all four grandparents.’
Guilt sliced my heart. Edmund must have found out too – of course he could not wait another six months. He wanted to get away from them. He’d discovered the truth and could not tell me. No wonder he was envious of the close relationship Francis had with his father. He had taken all he could of their mocking taunts: Francis, the son of the woman Sir Richard adored, Edmund the son of a woman he barely tolera
ted.
‘It makes sense now. The signs are never wrong.’ Constance stared into the distance, her eyes widening. ‘The night Francis died, I heard the water in the parlour.’
‘Connie . . . there’s no water in the parlour.’
‘There was. And it’s not in the parlour, it’s under the floor. A leat runs under the house – a brick tunnel used in Tudor times to flush the garderobes. It’s still there but it’s dry. That night, I heard it in full stream.’
A shiver ran down my spine. ‘It must have been raining very hard.’
‘No, it was a hot day when I heard the water. They say you hear it when a son of the house dies in violent circumstances. It’s since the Civil War. The house was being searched by Parliamentarians – the heir of Pendowrick was hiding in the tunnel and he nearly escaped. The soldiers were leaving, but one of them had been sweet-talking a maid and she glanced down at the flagstones. They found him and dragged him off. Days later, he was hung, drawn and quartered.’
Her mouth tightened. ‘When Edmund’s letter arrived and we knew he was safe, I was so relieved. After the water, I was convinced he was dead. But then I decided the water I heard must have been for Francis because he’d been brought up as a son of the house. But it makes sense now because he was a son.’ She caught her breath. ‘Those crows are watching us – they’re just like Francis and Father.’
Two crows were inching towards us, huge black birds with piercing eyes. Their feathers shimmered in the sun, strong, powerful, and I fought my fear. Connie’s quiet conviction, her belief that the sound of water made sense; she was living with ghosts, her world inhabited by signs and omens. No wonder Edmund thought she should get away from the house.
Her voice was cold. ‘Francis was no brother to me. He once dunked me in a horse trough just to ruin my new shoes. I tried to dry them but Mama was furious. She said I had ruined them with no thought to the cost, and I was too scared to tell her what he had done. And Francis just watched . . . with that sly smirk of his. He’s no brother to me.’
We needed time before we returned to the house and sat watching people hurrying down the High Street towards the quay. Eventually, I spoke. ‘The ships must be arriving. Do you feel strong enough to go down to the wharf? We could see if Elizabeth is at home?’
Connie got to her feet, her head high as she walked defiantly past the watching crows. ‘Yes, I’m all right now. It’s just good to know the truth. Do you mean Elizabeth Fox? I’d love to see her. We can tell her your wonderful news. Wasn’t your mother marvellous? One thousand copies. And they’re to pay you. I can hardly take it in.’
Mother was looking out of the window and we waved as we passed, pointing in the direction of the wharf so she knew where we were going. Constance looked stronger, the colour back in her cheeks and we walked in step, joining the steady stream of people heading down Quay Street. The tide would be in, the water high – the same river that curved in a bay below my herb garden in Trenwyn House.
A sudden weight crushed my chest. Someone would have to oversee the growing and distribution of my herbs. All deliveries to the apothecaries must be maintained; I had to keep my promise to supply the new infirmary. Panic ripped through me, a sense of betrayal. I did not dabble in herbs – I lived and breathed them. Edmund must understand that. Every herb had been planted for him, each painted with only him in mind, my heart in every brushstroke, but what if he did not approve of the book? What if he did not let me continue?
I had to stop, pretend to admire a bonnet in a shop window. ‘That’s very pretty,’ I said, trying to fight my sudden panic.
I hardly saw the woman leaving the shop and almost bumped into her. She had extraordinarily high cheekbones and blood-red lips, her thick black hair coiled beneath her ruby-red bonnet.
‘I’m so sorry— Oh, it’s you, Miss Carew. Good morning,’ she said in her thick Portuguese accent.
‘Mrs Oakley . . . what a lovely coincidence. May I introduce my friend, Miss Melville?’
She curtseyed deeply. She was wearing the same silk gown she had worn before, but the cuffs of her sleeves had been replaced with fresh white lace. Her heavy cloak seemed to swamp her, but her eyes looked bright, her olive complexion less sallow. She seemed suddenly shy. ‘I’m just delivering some gloves . . .’
‘Are you well? How is Joe?’
Her smile faded, a sudden frown across her high forehead. ‘My son’s still troubled by his cough. It’s a bit better, but sometimes it can be quite severe.’ She twisted her gloved hands. ‘Though your tincture brings him great relief.’
She turned quickly, her frown deepening to concern. Joe was hurtling down the street, weaving his way between the groups of people. He was running fast, cap in hand, and he doubled up when he reached us. Trying to catch his breath, I heard a wheeze in his gasp, saw a blueness to his lips.
‘Mama . . . I’ve just . . .’ He gulped for air, his small chest rising and falling.
‘Take your time, Joe. Steady your breathing. Only speak when you’re ready.’
Joseph Oakley’s huge eyes stared at his mother. He looked gaunt and thin, a definite blue tinge to his lips. ‘I’ve just seen Mr Daniel . . . as plain as anything.’ He gulped for air. ‘He was walking down the quayside . . . and I tried to follow . . . but he was walking too fast . . . I couldn’t keep up . . . and I lost him in the crowd.’ His voice was rasping, his words coming in snatches. ‘Honest to God . . . it was him, plain as day.’
He threw his arms back, his chin held high, fighting for breath. His heavy jacket seemed to restrict him, his woollen scarf too tight. Sofia Oakley pulled away his scarf, hurrying to undo his buttons.
‘Purse your lips as if you’re going to whistle,’ I said quickly. ‘Make an “O”, like this. Force your breath in slowly through your lips. Don’t gasp, just force your breath slowly in and out. Does that help?’ He nodded. ‘Good. Don’t try to talk.’
Sofia Oakley watched her son’s lips change from blue to pink and tears welled in her eyes. She loosened his collar. ‘You saw Mr Daniel? Joe, are you certain? Mr Philip Daniel was getting off a ship . . . here, in Truro? Perhaps he’s trying to find us?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not getting off the ship, though I suspect he might have . . . he was walking along the quayside. Honest . . . as plain as anything. Only his beard was clean shaven and he looked . . . you know . . . richer.’ He drew a wheezy breath. ‘His clothes were fancier – not like the old ones he wore on the ship.’
‘Who is Mr Daniel?’ I asked.
‘A passenger with us – he was already on the ship when we embarked. We joined him in Mombasa.’
‘He must be looking for you. Did you give him your address in Truro?’
‘No . . . we hardly spoke. He kept himself to himself. Sometimes he helped sail the ship but he never ate with us. Maybe he got our address from the East India Company – or the insurance company?’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘No, that can’t be. If he was getting off a ship, he’s probably come from Falmouth.’
‘Was he in the rowing boat with you – or was he one of the men they kept on the ship?’
‘Neither – he stayed behind in Lisbon. He had a fierce argument with Captain Banyan, his spices were spoiling and he was adamant we had to leave. The shipment was already late because we’d suffered terrible storms and he was under pressure to fulfil his contract. It was because of him we sailed but he stayed in Lisbon. He never came back to the ship.’
‘He stayed behind, yet his spices remained on the ship? Why would he do that?’
She reached for her handkerchief, giving it to Joe. ‘Captain Banyan said Mr Daniel sent a message to sail without him – that he was staying behind to broker more deals.’
Joe’s huge black eyes blinked back at her. ‘I lost him in Prince’s Street. He was carrying a large bag and walking very fast.’
I felt suddenly hopeful. ‘Whatever his actions, it’s wonderful he’s in Truro. It’s just what you need, Mrs Oakley. He’ll be able to verify who you a
re . . . he can sign an affidavit swearing to your presence on the ship, then you can claim your insurance and . . . well . . . Mr Daniel knew about your silks, didn’t he? He must have seen them in the hold?’
Sofia Oakley nodded. ‘He will know me, and he’ll certainly be able to verify my cargo of silks . . . but don’t you see? I mustn’t raise my hopes.’
‘Why not?’ He’s the one man who can identify you. He can tell the insurance company you are who you say you are.’
‘But Mrs Fox explained it very clearly – ships that sail without an escort fall foul of their contracts and that stops the insurance being valid. She doesn’t know if it is the case . . . she was just telling me what usually happens. So the truth is, even if we do find Mr Philip Daniel there’s very little chance the cargo will be insured.’
Constance had been silent, her brows creased in concentration. ‘Amelia, I recognize that name – where have I heard it before?’ She tapped her mouth with her gloved hand. ‘Wait, I remember – Edmund’s letter . . . the letter about his shipment.’ The colour drained from her face. ‘It was signed by Philip Daniel.’
My heart jolted. ‘Mrs Oakley, you said Mr Philip Daniel was a spice merchant?’
‘Yes . . . from Sumatra. His spices were spoiling and he was insistent he got them to Bristol.’ She took hold of her son’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry, but I better get Joe out of this cold air. Forgive me if I leave you – I must get Joe warm. Good day, Miss Carew, Miss Melville.’
She curtseyed and we stood staring after her. There’s very little chance the cargo will be insured. Unease was turning to dread: this was Edmund’s shipment, all his hopes pinned on securing a good sale, his pride, his ability to free his family’s estate from debt. Even his belief in himself.
‘Oh, Connie . . .’ I whispered. ‘We need to speak to Elizabeth.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Elizabeth Fox closed the door to her drawing room, ushering us straight to the fireside.