by Nicola Pryce
The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, the chimes cutting through the awkward silence. Finally, I could bear it no longer.
‘Mother, may Constance and I visit Edmund at the Red Lion to check if he’s all right? Only I’d like to bring him back here to clear the air between us. It must come from us. He was embarrassed by his behaviour last night, and I’d hate there to be any bad feeling.’
Mother was writing at her desk; she looked up at me and smiled. ‘By all means. He is welcome here at any time, you know that, my dear. Both of you are extremely welcome.’ She smiled at Constance. ‘This is a very difficult time for all of you.’
Bethany joined us as we set off to cross the square, our cloaks wrapped firmly round us, our hoods pulled low against the bitter wind. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, ‘for being so understanding. I don’t know what I’d do without your family.’
A flock of gulls were flying in a wide circle above us, their plaintive cries fuelling my sense of unease. I had to convince Edmund that Mother had his best interests at heart, that he was safe and welcome in our house, that it would take time for him to recover and I would be at his side at all times. The Red Lion came into view and I breathed deeply. I had to make Edmund understand that I was not going to forsake him.
The door of the inn opened and a man bowed as he held it open. An elderly lady with several pelisses watched us from the bottom of the huge wooden staircase, her maid fussing over the last of her boxes. The landlord saw us from behind the bar and came rushing forward, wiping his hands on the vast white apron tied round his waist.
‘Forgive me . . . I didn’t see you there, m’ lady. It’s Miss Carew, I believe? How can I be of service?’ His bald head shone with sweat, his face flushed, his smile warm and genuine. If he was surprised to see me, he showed no sign, but stood, half-bowing, as I leaned nearer.
‘Could you tell Sir Edmund Melville that we are here? His sister and I would like a word with him.’ I spoke softly, not wanting Edmund’s name to be heard by the men at the nearby table.
The landlord shook his head, answering loudly. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him. He’s kept his room, but he’s gone fer a day or two. Took a bag but said he’d be back. He must’ve left shortly before nine.’
I felt my legs weaken. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘Said he was goin’ back home – up the moor. I know that, ’cos he told me if a man called Philip Daniel were to come here lookin’ fer him, I’m to tell him to stay in Truro . . . that Sir Edmund will be back. He doesn’t want them to keep missin’ each other.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
We stood on the pavement, both thinking the same thought. Constance voiced it first. ‘He’s returned home in case Philip Daniel’s gone there. We should have told him . . . we should have taken him to Mrs Fox . . . Amelia, we need to be with him when he finds out.’
We linked arms, walking slowly back home along the street. Bethany had remained by the corner shop and we returned to find her deep in conversation with Seth. Their words sounded urgent, her blonde hair swinging as she shook her head. Seth was not dressed in his livery but in a felt hat, a corduroy jacket and a large leather apron tied around his waist. His boots were soiled, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He saw us coming and stopped mid-sentence. Bethany swung round, anxiety in her eyes.
‘What is it?’ I asked. They did not answer but stood looking down at their feet. ‘Tell me, please.’
Bethany’s cheeks flushed. ‘Tell her, Seth. Tell her just as you told me.’
His blue eyes looked straight into mine. ‘I’m not one to meddle, Miss Carew. You know I don’t gossip or spread alarm.’
Something in his voice made my heart race. Something in his eyes. My trusted coachman had never looked at me like that before. ‘You’ve heard something? Seth, please tell me.’
He swallowed; when he spoke his voice was gruff. ‘Not heard but seen somethin’. I’d like to say I might be mistaken, only I know I’m not. I’ve been worried about one of the mare’s fetlocks . . . a farrier works at the Queen’s Head and I was talkin’ to him when the stagecoach left. A man was waitin’ in the overhang an’ I get a feelin’ with some men. It’s like ye know they don’t want to be seen. They act different, not pushin’ forward so they get the best seat, but waitin’ behind, gettin’ on the coach at the last minute.’
My heart began pounding. ‘Who was he?’
‘It was Sir Edmund, Miss Carew. Dressed plain – black overcoat, black breeches, boots, black leather gloves. He wore a large hat, bigger than mine, pulled low. His collar was pulled up an’ I’d not have noticed him, except fer the fact that he was actin’ like he didn’t want to be seen.’
I could hardly speak, my panic turning to fear. ‘Where was the stagecoach going?’
‘Bodmin.’
‘Sir Edmund’s gone to Pendowrick . . . he’s meeting someone there. That’s why he’s gone.’ My words sounded stilted, my head trying to make sense of it, my heart warning me otherwise. ‘He must have decided to take the stagecoach.’
Seth and Bethany looked at their feet; they would not contradict me, but Constance shook her head. ‘Even if the coach stopped for him to get off, he’d have to walk down the lane to Pendowrick. That’s two miles off the turnpike. He hasn’t had time to send word for someone to meet him – and why would he take the stagecoach when he has his own horse?’ Her voice strengthened, a note of steel entering her tone. ‘You’re absolutely sure it was Sir Edmund?’
‘I am, Miss Melville. As ye recall, I spent several days up at your house.’
‘Where is Sir Melville’s horse stabled?’
Seth held her gaze. ‘That’s where it don’t make sense. I was in the stable when he brought in his mare. He left the horse an’ then waited in the overhang.’ He paused, glancing back at me. ‘Sir Edmund had a bag with him, Miss Carew. I can swear he was on that coach, an’ it’s my belief he was expecting to stay a night or two.’
Bethany shook her head. ‘We’re not gossiping . . . honest we’re not. It’s just that . . .’
I felt winded, my senses reeling. ‘I know, you all heard what happened last night – it was very disturbing. It’s not something to spread around and I know you won’t . . . I’m very grateful you’ve told me. Seth, would you go to the Red Lion and see what instructions Sir Edmund left . . . and then go back to the Queen’s Head and enquire about the horse you saw him bring in.’
‘Straight away, Miss Carew.’
Bethany walked ahead, knowing we needed privacy. Constance gripped my arm, drawing me back. ‘You saw the rage in him last night, didn’t you, Amelia? I watched your face . . . I saw it in your eyes. You recoiled in horror, just like I did when I first saw it. It’s rage he can’t hide. It’s frightening . . . it’s why I’ve been holding back, but now you’ve seen it we can talk about it.’
Her words churned my stomach. Yes, I had seen rage, and I had seen hatred; I had seen the power behind those clenched fists. ‘Connie, do you think Captain de la Croix could be in danger?’
Her reply was instant. ‘You know he is.’
‘Then I have to go to Bodmin. I have to warn Pierre.’
Mother was still at her writing desk, the lace at her sleeves protected by bands of cotton. She had seen us hurrying across the square and put down her quill, carefully dusting her letter. ‘What is it, my dears?’
I shut the door behind us. ‘Mother, we must go to Bodmin. Straight away. We have to leave as soon as possible.’
Her eyebrows rose, her eyes immediately alert. ‘We? Why might that be?’
I had been trying to remain calm but voicing my fears brought tears to my eyes. ‘Edmund’s gone there, and I think he means harm to Captain de la Croix. I think he might challenge him to a duel or . . . or do something dreadful.’
‘You really believe so?’
‘Seth saw him get on the Bodmin coach. He had a bag with him . . . Seth only noticed him because he looked furtive,
as if he didn’t want to be seen.’
‘Seth is a very good judge of character. I trust him implicitly.’
‘So do I.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mother, Connie and I have both seen an anger in Edmund that frightens us.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, great anger. I saw it too. Anger, disappointment, even jealousy. All very natural emotions if you’ve spent the last three and a half years in dreadful circumstances and you witness your fellow men reaping huge rewards for what you consider an easier war.’ She drew out a clean sheet of paper, dipping her pen into the ink. ‘You believe Edmund sees Captain de la Croix as one of his captors and seeks revenge?’
‘I think that might well be the case.’
‘Then we have a duty to prevent it. We must warn Captain de la Croix that Edmund may seek him out and do something very foolish.’
She looked so calm. She had no idea of the urgency of the situation. ‘Mother, we need to leave now – that way, we’ll be right behind him. We can’t trust it to a letter. Can’t we just go? I need to explain everything to Captain de la Croix . . . the reasons behind what we fear.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Goodness me! I can’t suddenly pick up sticks and go with you to Bodmin. My ankle still keeps me at home . . . and your father’s been very unwell this morning. Besides, it would be foolish to take our coach as Edmund would recognize our crest and know you’ve hurtled after him.’
‘Papa is ill? You didn’t tell me. Is he very ill?’
‘Nothing that a few days’ rest won’t put right.’ She was busy writing, her pen scratching noisily over another sheet of paper.
‘May I go with Bethany? Please, Mother, I have to go.’
She sighed deeply, glancing up at me. ‘I’ve just written to Mary on the off chance that she might be able to take you in her coach. Edmund will not recognize it, nor has he ever met her. Bethany is needed here – and anyway, Edmund knows her, and Constance certainly can’t go.’ She returned to her writing. ‘Your only chance is if Mary is free. If she agrees, then you may go. Mrs Hambley in Bodmin will accommodate you – I’m sure Mary will find Mrs Hambley’s rooms very comfortable.’
I ran to kiss her. ‘Thank you, Mother . . . thank you so much. I’ll take the letter straight to Mary.’
Mother pulled off her cotton protectors, spreading the lace at her wrist. She pulled the bell rope with an elegant sweep of her hand. ‘No dear, go upstairs and prepare for your journey. Bethany will pack a small bag for you. Ah, thank you. See these letters are delivered – urgently, please.’ She handed her letters to the footman.
Through the open door, I saw Seth standing in the hall, the footman glaring at his mucky boots. One glance at his face and I knew the answer.
‘Sir Edmund ordered his horse to be saddled first thing an’ he left the inn just after eight thirty.’ He swallowed, lowering his voice. ‘But the horse was left at the Queen’s Head shortly after – that’s when I saw him. He left instructions to stable the horse until he returned.’
‘Thank you, Seth.’
His huge hands gripped the strap of his shoulder bag, his cheeks florid. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you, Miss Carew. Sir Edmund gave his name as Mr Owen – the horse is booked in under a Mr Owen from Falmouth.’
Mary Lilly sent word the coach would be at my disposal and I hurried to her house, carrying the small bag Bethany had packed for me. I felt winded, my unease growing. Not only had Edmund lied but he had gone to extraordinary lengths to hide his whereabouts.
I was wearing my blue velvet travelling gown which Edmund had not seen; my cloak was borrowed, my hood pulled low. I would warn Captain de la Croix and beg him not to rise to Edmund’s anger. I would explain everything. Behind me, the church clock struck ten; I was an hour behind the stagecoach.
The door opened and a flood of disappointment made me catch my breath. Mary Lilly was not waiting for me; there was no sign of her bag, her hat, nothing to show she was ready to travel, and I hurried across the panelled hall into her darkened drawing room. The drapes were closed, the fire roaring. Mary Lilly lay on the couch, a damp towel pressed to her forehead.
‘Mary, you’re not well?’
‘Amelia, my love . . . come in. No, I feel very unwell. A terrible pounding in my head, and flushes like I’ve never had before. My joints ache something terrible, but the coach is yours, my dear. I’ve told the coachman to get everything ready. Take a look through the window and see – only, don’t let in too much light, my dear.’
I peeped from behind the curtain. The coach was almost ready. ‘Mary, what have you taken? Some willow bark? What can I get you?’
‘Nothing, my love. I’ve called for Luke, and he’ll be here soon. I’ll await his instructions.’
My hopes were fading. Mother would never let me go alone. The front door banged, and footsteps came hurrying across the hall. Luke rushed to his mother’s side, lifting her wrist to feel her pulse. He had not seen me in the darkness and my heart leapt, scorching my chest.
‘Mother, this is all very sudden. Where’s the pain? Are you nauseous? Your pulse is normal – it’s regular and strong. It’s not racing and you’re not hot, so it’s not a fever.’ He turned round, his eyes flooding with love. ‘Amelia, I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t see you there. Have you given her something? She’s not feverish and her pulse is normal, only a little fast.’
My pulse was anything but normal; it was racing, my whole body aching.
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Mary lifted her blanket, sitting up slowly. ‘Though the headache is quite terrible. I’m quite well in myself, but not well enough to travel.’
‘No travelling at all.’ Luke reached for his bag, fumbling with the catch.
She rested her fingers on her forehead, her white hair elegantly tied in a loose bun. ‘Can you stay, or are you busy with patients?’
Luke smiled. ‘It’s Sunday. I’ve some notes to write – but I can stay and work here.’
‘Well then, that’s very fortunate.’ She stood up, walking across the room, opening the curtains. In the courtyard behind, the coach stood ready to leave, the four grey mares throwing back their heads in anticipation. ‘That means you can take my place. Just to Bodmin, my love. Only Amelia needs to go . . . and quickly, too. So if you hurry and change you should be off within, what shall we say, ten minutes?’
His eyes caught mine – dependable, loving eyes; ones I knew I could trust. His voice was firm, no hint of hesitation. ‘Ten minutes it is, then.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Mary’s coachman was ready, but there were four other men waiting by the coach. Seth nodded, taking my bag, holding open the door so I could climb the steps. Mother’s three footmen wore no livery, each dressed in thick leather coats, warm hats and scarfs, each, no doubt, with a pistol concealed beneath the heavy folds of his coat.
Mary stood by the kitchen door, handing Luke a small bag as he passed. He nodded to the coachmen, smiling at the footman to pull up the steps. Taking the seat beside me, he knocked the roof with his knuckles. We heard the crack of the whip, felt the sudden lurch, and I reached up, closing the curtain against prying eyes. Luke did likewise and we jolted forward, in what could only be considered unseemly intimacy.
His smile was rueful, apologetic. ‘Most parents do their utmost to prevent this sort of thing. Our mothers, it seems, have gone to extraordinary lengths to throw us together.’
I had to turn away. He had dropped everything to come with me. ‘It’s only your mother,’ I whispered. ‘Mother hoped Mary would come with me.’
He unfolded a letter. ‘I’m afraid it’s both of them. This urgent letter from your mother informed me Mary was unwell and needed me immediately.’
The writing was definitely Mother’s. I could see the word ‘immediately’ underlined and panic seized me. ‘Oh, goodness. Luke . . . you know what this means?’
He shook his head, his smile ripping through me. ‘No, what does it mean?’
‘It means Mother must think ther
e’s going to be bloodshed.’
He put the letter back in his jacket pocket. ‘Why are we going to Bodmin, Amelia?’
Seeing him, being so close to him, the love in his eyes, knowing that he was willing to drop everything and come with me. He looked paler, thinner, the sadness in his smile tearing my heart. I stared ahead, the wheels ringing across the cobbles.
‘We need to warn Pierre de la Croix that Edmund knows he patrolled the waters around Guadeloupe. Last night, Papa told our guests about our friendship with Pierre and Edmund showed such anger. It was horrible . . . it made my blood turn cold.’ I needed to take a deep breath, stop my lips from quivering. ‘Luke, he’s changed so much. One moment he’s polite and loving, the next a coldness seems to sweep through him . . . and an anger that makes him turn away and clench his fists.’
His voice was gentle. ‘Anger, jealousy, the desire for revenge – they’re all natural emotions if you’ve been cruelly imprisoned or spent years in harrowing circumstances.’
‘You’ve been talking to Mother?’
He nodded, leaning back against the soft leather upholstery of his stepfather’s carriage. ‘Lady Clarissa asked me what they could expect and how they could help Edmund. And I told her there’s growing evidence that some prisoners who witness great atrocities – or who’ve been subjected to such things themselves – can’t simply return to the lives they once lived. They see others living in prosperity or reaping huge rewards for what they consider an easier war and their resentment builds. Many may never speak of what they went through. They want to free themselves from the memories, or they keep it to themselves, knowing they should feel grateful they’ve returned home and are no longer living in torment. But hidden emotions can often surface.’
He looked pale, he was thinner; he had not been eating.
‘I saw that last night.’ I was fighting back my tears. ‘We put Edmund through a terrible ordeal – George Halliday was with him when they were measured for their uniform. They were equal then – idealistic young midshipmen – but now George is a lieutenant and has amassed huge prize money and Edmund faces a bankrupt estate. Also . . .’ It was too hard to continue.