A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  Edmund shrugged. ‘I was not immune to censure, even though I chose the basic cloth. Which is your command?’

  ‘I’m with the Channel Fleet under Admiral Lord Bidport – my ship’s HMS London. She’s a fine ship, though she’s getting on a bit and in need of repairs.’ He smiled at Constance, his boyish dimples creasing. ‘She’s a second-rate ship of the line – ninety-eight guns . . . and she’s seen us through a few tight spots, I can tell you.’

  Connie’s blush deepened. Her black hair was entwined in pearls, a silver pendant hanging round her neck. She smiled stiffly, her large brown eyes beneath her heavy dark brows plummeting to her hands on her lap. She remained by Mother’s side, hardly sipping her drink.

  Papa swilled the punch in his glass. ‘The Channel Fleet? Caught up in the mutiny, were you?’

  ‘I was. It was disgraceful, if a little frightening. It came from nowhere and took us all by surprise.’

  Edmund straightened, squaring his shoulders. ‘I read about it while I was in the hospital. They wanted better living conditions, more pay . . . better victualling . . . increased shore leave and compensation for sickness. Well, perhaps they should try prison hulks!’ He smiled and a rush of pride surged through me. ‘I understand they wanted certain officers removed – and I have to admit, I’d be with them in that!’ His laughter cut the ice, and I started to breathe. Perhaps seeing an old acquaintance was just what he needed.

  Emerson Polgas raised his glass. ‘To your safe return, Sir Edmund, and to your ten days of shore leave, George.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘As far as I’ve read, the mutineers weren’t complaining about flogging or impressment – just their conditions.’

  George Halliday nodded. ‘It was all about conditions and pay. They’re calling it the Breeze at Spithead, but it could have been far worse – it could have been a gale or a hurricane.’ He smiled at his joke, raising his glass. ‘Lord Howe smoothed the waters, and just as well.’

  Edmund was talking amicably but I could see the knuckles in his fists were still white. ‘But it sparked another mutiny – at Nore, I believe.’ He glanced at me through his heavy iron frames. ‘The one good thing about Stonehouse Hospital and the interminable waiting for doctors – present company excluded – is that you catch up very quickly with what’s been happening.’

  He seemed to be managing well; it was me who seemed more nervous.

  Papa shook his head. ‘Ah, but Nore was different. The mutineers were blockading the port of London and interrupting trade. Merchant vessels had every right to bring their cargo upriver to unload.’

  ‘Indeed, Lord Carew, and they were dealt with very swiftly. The Admiralty was right to make no further concessions. Many believe the mutineers were puppets of France – spies placed in the ships.’

  ‘Goodness, can that be true?’

  A blush deepened George Halliday’s cheeks. ‘It could well be true. Did you know we no longer ring five bells for the last dog watch? That was the signal to start the mutiny.’

  Constance’s eyes plummeted again. ‘No, I didn’t. How interesting.’

  I should have prevented this, both of them forced into polite conversation. Edmund and Constance were grieving their mother, both looking so fragile; Constance with her downcast eyes, Edmund trying to hide his panic. Mother glanced at the clock and put down her glass.

  ‘Shall we eat? Emerson, you must tell us all about this hospital of yours. The West Indies must seem a very long way away now.’

  I glanced at Edmund and my heart froze. Behind the glint of his glasses was a look I had never seen before. A hard, piercing look that made my blood run cold.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I could not eat. Candlelight flickered across the mahogany table, dancing on the silver tureens and gold rims on the plates. The huge centrepiece swelled with fruit and nuts, our crystal glasses matching the cut-glass bowls placed beside us to wash our fingers, Mother’s sapphires glinting at her ears. Papa sat back on his chair. I knew he wanted everything cleared away. He would rather be in his corduroy jacket and felt hat, drinking potato soup and eating hearty rabbit pie, but at least the claret was one of his favourites.

  He held up his glass. ‘Emerson, I salute you. Physician-in-charge of Port Royal Hospital in Jamaica. To be responsible for the care of so many. Indeed, I salute you.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Carew, but sickness is sickness, wherever you are. One hospital is very much like another, though I have to say I’m grateful to see the back of tropical disease – for a while, at least. We’ve lost more men to disease than we have to war. Whole regiments, one after another. It’s not easy to witness, let alone treat.’

  ‘But quinine has made a difference?’

  ‘Yes, Amelia – quinine, bark, wine and laudanum all play their part. But there’s a dearth of provisions out there. Ships’ doctors need more than they can carry. They pack their chests at the onset of each voyage yet by the time they reach us, they need more. Supplies were hard to come by and I had doctor after doctor hoping to restock their chests.’

  I had hardly dared look at Edmund. Perhaps I was mistaken and the look I had seen earlier was just some distortion of his thick lenses. He was talking freely now, answering their questions, telling us about his capture, his harsh detention in the prison hulk and his subsequent escape. His voice faltered with the telling, his tone hesitant, growing stronger as he recognized the sympathy with which he was being heard, but I saw his hands clench beneath the table, the tapping of his heel as he spoke of the merchant ship, the interminable voyage down the coast of Brazil, the yellow fever he had suffered, and the clamping of chains as they forced him below deck in every harbour.

  Mother was more subdued than normal, her usual affability held in check. She became increasingly quiet, nodding in encouragement, smiling back at Edmund when he stumbled on his words. Maybe she was right to make him endure this; perhaps talking to like-minded people was all he needed. I tried to calm the beating of my heart; perhaps that look had been fear, not hatred.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Dr Polgas, please assure me this brain fever I suffer from will pass. I get blinding headaches and at times I’m very forgetful. It’s rather disorientating.’

  Emerson’s hooded eyes sharpened. ‘All symptoms I’ve seen before. Come and see me tomorrow, or at your convenience. I’d be delighted to examine you and tell you all I know.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’ Edmund’s smile ripped through me, giving me sudden hope. The more he talked, the more he seemed to relax.

  Constance must have felt it too. She smiled at Emerson Polgas. ‘I’m afraid you’re not quite finished with tropical illnesses, Dr Polgas. Dr Bohenna was right when he said your expertise will be needed.’

  He returned her smile. ‘These diseases can return with no warning. A person may be well and happily employed one minute, then shaking with fever the next. Returning soldiers and sailors can be affected for many years.’

  Edmund cleared his throat. ‘You’ve all been very kind. I believe you haven’t pressed me because you believe I don’t want to talk about my ordeal . . . but I only did my duty. We were all just doing our duty. I must have been thrown well clear. I managed to drag myself away but was captured. They held me in a prison hulk right below the fort – you can imagine the conditions were far from ideal . . .’

  He looked round at the sudden silence and I forced back my tears. Those were the exact same words he had used only an hour ago. He was about to tell us again how he managed to escape.

  Mother put down her napkin, indicating to the footmen to pull back our chairs.

  ‘Perhaps another time, Edmund, it’s getting rather late? We’ll leave you men to your brandy . . . join us when you’re ready.’

  Papa stood up, clearly thrown by Edmund’s lapse of memory. ‘I think we’ll join you now. No harm in drinking brandy in the drawing room. Come . . . let’s have no more talk of war.’

  I gripped Constance’s hand but as Edmund followed, I turned to slip my arm t
hrough his. His voice was a whisper. ‘I think that went very well, don’t you? Your parents are very kind . . . considering how they feel about my behaviour.’

  He had no idea at all. I wanted to run from the room, bend double and howl. Somehow, I had to smile back at him, stop myself from crying. ‘That was a kind offer from Dr Polgas.’

  ‘He seems very understanding. Do you think I might ask to go and see him? He wouldn’t think it too much of an imposition?’

  ‘No . . . I mean, yes . . . Please do. Go tomorrow.’

  Mother and George Halliday were standing by the fire, George admiring the three paintings of roses I had painted for Mother’s birthday. He leaned in closer.

  ‘Did you really paint these, Amelia? I have to say, they’re very good. You have such talent. I remember you painted me once – do you remember? My mother still has it – you showed such promise even at eleven!’

  He was trying to lighten the solemnity in the room, the terrible compassion we all felt for Edmund. ‘Of course I remember – actually, I was quite pleased with the result, considering you couldn’t sit still!’

  George smiled, turning to Edmund. ‘Was your miniature as good as mine? I have to say I was pleasantly surprised with the end result. He had very little time to capture our likeness, but he managed very well. Of course, all he had to do was get the face right – the uniform was already copied from the catalogue.’ He smiled at Constance. ‘Did Edmund tell you we had to choose our jackets from a very elaborate catalogue? The choice was far greater than I imagined. I think we were both a little overwhelmed.’

  I hardly heard him. Edmund had his back to me, carefully choosing a bonbon from a silver dish. ‘Unfortunately my miniature didn’t arrive in time.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame. Mine was in my trunk and very nicely framed. It was you who chose the frame, Edmund. You, who held back on fancy frills and velvet trims but insisted on an encrusted frame!’

  I could not look at Mother, nor Papa, nor Constance. I felt winded, unable to breathe. Not a glimmer from Edmund, no sign he had been insensitive, that he understood how much it would have meant for me to have his portrait. Just the careful deliberation of which bonbon to choose. It felt like treachery, the sharp, sudden pain of being stabbed in the back. All these years of having no record of what he looked like – nothing to hold to my heart during the long tear-soaked nights of his absence. I had to fight to breathe.

  George Halliday was smiling. ‘I suppose they must rush them a bit, though I have to say mine was excellent.’

  Mother and Connie came instinctively to my side, sitting next to me on the chaise longue and I straightened my back, trying to look unconcerned. I had to understand. I had to let this pass. Above all, I had to stop myself from crying.

  He caught the sudden silence in the room, everyone’s averted gaze, and must have realized his mistake. He came swiftly to my side, kneeling on one knee as he reached for my hand. ‘Amelia, forgive me. It was a thoughtless oversight. I was in such a terrible rush – the ship was only docked for one night and I thought I was going to miss it. I waited so long for Francis, I hardly had time to change, let alone check the contents of my chest. The portrait slipped my mind – completely slipped my mind until I was on board ship. When I found it wasn’t in the trunk, I assumed he hadn’t finished it in time . . . then I thought perhaps I hadn’t ordered it correctly.’

  Papa refilled his brandy, casting an anxious glance at Mother. ‘Thoughtless, certainly, but not a crime. I’m afraid young men don’t understand the ways of women . . . It takes a lifetime, old boy. You’ll learn.’

  Mother was less forgiving. ‘Thoughtless, yes, but not a crime. Just a serious case of misjudgement.’

  This time I was waiting for it and there it was, the flash of hatred in his eyes, a fleeting look of loathing before he looked down in penance. I thought the ground would swallow me, a terrible giddiness taking hold. He hated Mother, plain and simple; he could not stand the sight of her.

  Emerson Polgas sought distance by the window. Picking up one of my bone animals, he held it to the candle. ‘This is exquisite . . . an ark filled with animals. What a beautiful piece of work. Are these carved from bone? They are quite extraordinary.’

  Glad for the change of subject, Papa boomed across the room. ‘Yes, incredible, aren’t they? Captain Pierre de la Croix made it for Amelia’s birthday. It’s not quite complete . . . he says there’s a couple of giraffes missing, or some such creatures.’

  George Halliday joined Emerson by the ark, likewise picking up an animal. ‘I believe these French fancies are highly sought after, but this is particularly magnificent. Who is Captain de la Croix? I presume he’s a prisoner on parole – with enough time on his hands and mutton in his belly to whittle the day away making these exquisite animals?’

  ‘Yes . . . in Bodmin along with two hundred others, I’m told.’

  ‘Do you think he could make me a model of HMS London? That would be rather splendid. Could you ask him for me?’

  Papa did not see Mother’s warning shake of her head, nor my frantic stare. ‘Certainly . . . he’s a good chap is Pierre. We’ve all grown very fond of him. Frederick’s ship – you know, HMS Circe – captured his ship off Guadeloupe. The crew were ill and Admiral Penrose set them all ashore – but brought Pierre de la Croix back along with his ship.’

  ‘Good prize money then for them. Though unfortunate for Captain de la Croix.’

  ‘Indeed, George. But Pierre has a certain charm about him. A certain resignation. He stayed with us in Trenwyn House for a short while and we got to know him. Now he’s in Bodmin making these rather lovely fancies. I believe he teaches French . . . and epée fencing. You’d like him. But for the war—’ He stopped as Edmund’s strangled sob filled the room.

  His fists were clenched, his face white. ‘You’ve . . . befriended . . . a French captain from Guadeloupe?’

  ‘Merely doing our duty to Frederick’s prisoner, old chap. Frederick took his parole.’

  In the silence I could hear my heart thumping. Edmund remained thunderstruck. ‘A man who patrolled the very harbour where you knew I’d fallen? A man responsible for attacking the troops I was sent to protect?’ His shoulders began shaking, the tremor back in his hands.

  Mother’s eyes filled with compassion. ‘He’s a prisoner, Edmund. He’s given his parole – he can no longer hurt you.’

  Edmund tried to steady his voice. ‘I understand . . . of course, I understand. Only in my prison I didn’t have the luxury of eating meat and whittling away the day carving bones. They didn’t afford me the privilege of choosing to teach English or cricket. Perhaps I should have offered lessons . . . maybe that’s where I went wrong? Forgive me, but I must leave.’

  Clutching his head between his hands, he rushed to the door and I ran after him, fighting back my tears. He thought we had betrayed him, and in a way we had. He was not ready for this, I should have warned him about Pierre de la Croix. The very mention of our friendship with someone he regarded as his enemy was clearly more than he could take.

  The front door was open, Edmund striding away, and I ran after him into the moonlit square.

  ‘Edmund, stop. Don’t leave like this.’

  His face was livid, the look of cold hatred back in his eyes.

  ‘I can’t do this. I can’t pretend everything’s all right. Leave me . . . please. None of you understand.’

  ‘I’m so sorry that happened . . . it must be a terrible shock – I do understand . . . honestly, I do. Tonight’s socializing was too soon for you – we should have waited. Edmund, with Dr Polgas’s help you will get better. Let me help you.’

  ‘By accepting presents from a man who might have killed me?’ He swung away from me, hugging his shoulders in the freezing night air. A few people had stopped and turned, but mostly the square was deserted, the footmen watching us from inside the hall.

  We stood in silence, his shoulders heaving. There was such anger in him, such rage. ‘No, it’s me that sh
ould apologize,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve behaved despicably. I’ll write to your parents in the morning and apologize for my outburst.’

  ‘They understand. Believe me, they understand.’

  His voice softened. ‘It’s just so hard to contain the fear . . . it’s like a wave that comes from nowhere and it leaves me so scared. My head’s clearing now. I’ll be all right. Goodnight, my dearest love.’ He sounded calmer but his hands were still shaking. ‘Go inside. The last thing I need is for you to be ill. I love you, Amelia. I just wish your parents didn’t hold such a low opinion of me – but they’re right to be like that. I would be just as protective of any daughter of mine.’

  ‘They’ll come round. They understand, honestly they do.’

  He shook his head, his look of resignation flooding me with sadness. ‘How can they understand when they didn’t even let me tell them what happened? Your mother stopped me from speaking – they just don’t want to know.’

  I froze, but not from the cold. If this was my future, then I must make a choice. A vulnerable youth, now a vulnerable, confused man. I would not abandon him; already I had hidden my knowledge about his shipment, but if our future was to have any meaning, it had to be based on honesty. I had to speak plainly, summon every ounce of courage, start the way I meant to continue.

  ‘You did tell them, Edmund. You told them everything . . . but you forgot that you had.’

  His cry tore my heart, his hands gripping his head as he staggered blindly across the square and I ran to the footmen, calling out through a wave of despair. ‘Go with him . . . see he gets safely back to the Red Lion. Help him . . . please. Make sure he comes to no harm.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Town House, Truro

  Sunday 11th February 1798, 9 a.m.