by Nicola Pryce
‘Also?’
‘Emerson Polgas was there.’
‘Ah, yes. The affable Dr Polgas.’
‘Luke . . . Emerson Polgas is Cordelia’s brother . . . he’s family. It doesn’t mean—’
‘The job’s his, Amelia. I’m not going to apply for it . . . I’m going back to Falmouth. There’s much sickness there – a great need for medical provision.’
The horses began to slow, beginning the steady incline up onto the moor and he reached for the curtain. ‘I think we can risk opening these now, no one will see us.’
‘No . . . keep it shut. Please – just a little longer.’ He must not see the tear rolling down my cheek. He was to leave Truro. Of course he was. He would leave and I must never see him again.
I composed myself and pulled back the curtain, watching the wind blowing the gorse, rippling across the grass. Bands of heavy-bellied clouds blanketed the sky, the vast moor opening before us in muted colours. Luke had sat next to me on purpose, side by side, so we could avoid each other’s eyes.
He, too, was staring out of the window. ‘Edmund’s not alone in finding his return more difficult than he thought. I’ve seen several men retreat into corners and shake with fear – some show great aggression, as if it’s kill or be killed. Others turn to drink to dull their memories. I believe we can help him.’
He turned and our eyes locked. The kindness in his voice, his understanding, the compassion in his eyes; I fought the terrible yearning to slide my hand nearer his.
‘We?’ I whispered.
‘Yes, we. I’ll do everything in my power to bring Edmund back to full health. There are others we can call upon – men who’ve gone through the same living hell and who understand this period of adjustment.’
The coach was swaying, a gentle rhythm on the best of springs. Far superior to Papa’s carriage, the plush leather seats were ruby red, the matching silk curtains held back with plaited gold braid. The rails were brass, so, too, the door knobs. The dark wooden interior was polished and gleaming, beeswax candles standing ready to be lit in shining brass candlesticks. Even the carriage lanterns on either side were so clear, there looked to be no glass.
I stared at the barren landscape, at the desolate bleakness that stretched as far as I could see. And where thou art not, desolation. A tight band constricted my throat; I could neither breathe nor swallow. I did love Edmund. I did. Or at least, I could care for him.
I would honour him, be there for him, in sickness and in health; I would oversee his recovery and he would get well again. The youth who had raced across the moors and jumped the ditches was still there: the man I had vowed to love, who had stood tall, laughing back at me, his shirt billowing in the wind, was still there.
Luke turned and I forced myself to look at him. ‘You may be mistaken; Edmund might be angry but would he go so far as to seek out Captain de la Croix?’
I stared in surprise, I had not told him. ‘Luke, he’s already gone. He left this morning . . . we’re an hour and a half behind him. He has every chance of finding Pierre before we get there.’
His interlocked fingers tapped his against his mouth. ‘So that explains the rush. Where is Captain de la Croix lodging?’
‘With Mrs Hambley at 25 Bore Street. She runs a guesthouse, or rather she used to run a guesthouse but now she has two parole prisoners. It’s opposite the White Hart. We visited them before Christmas – Mother and I took Captain de la Croix a hamper.’
‘Did Edmund leave by coach or horse?’
I could not tell Luke about his horse – he would think so ill of him. ‘He took the nine o’clock coach from Truro this morning. It stops in India Queen to change horses – it’s very fast. It’s due in Bodmin just after two.’
His voice was strong, immediately reassuring. ‘There’s a lot we can do to calm Edmund’s state of mind. Our priority is to warn Captain Pierre – but after that, I’ll do everything in my power to help Edmund. From what you’ve told me, his instincts are gentle. He’s perplexed and he’s hurt, but he’s not ruthless. By the time he arrives in Bodmin, I feel certain his rage will have lessened and he’ll be himself again. I don’t believe there’ll be a duel, or one drop of spilt blood. You must trust the man you love.’
He glanced at his fob watch, his voice matter-of-fact, almost distant. ‘With luck, we’ll be no more than two hours to India Queen, then another two to Bodmin. I suggest we change horses.’
I matched his tone, forcing my words through my constricted throat. ‘I think that’s best.’ He did not look at me and I was grateful for that mercy. I, too, was staring out of my window. ‘Thank you for coming with me, Luke.’
His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his tone formal. ‘I’m glad to be of assistance. It’s my pleasure to help you – while I remember, I’ve been to see young Joe Oakley. I think the wheeze will settle with tincture of opium. It’ll calm his spasms. I’ve prescribed it just at night – for the day I’ve suggested comfrey root and syrup of coltsfoot, and some hyssop to soothe his lungs.’
The road was flatter now and wider, the horses racing at full speed, hurtling across the windswept moor with every ounce of their strength. The vast moorland lay shrouded in mist: there were no trees, only hawthorns bent sideways by the prevailing wind. On a clear day we would have glimpsed a band of blue sea to the north, but not now. The land was indistinguishable from the sky, just brooding dampness, the grey mist pooling in the vales and obscuring the lakes.
Luke pulled down the window. ‘This is India Queen.’
The horses slowed to a walk and we turned into the courtyard of the inn. A dog barked, chickens scattering as our wheels rattled over the cobbles. Grooms put down their brushes and came rushing over to await their instructions. Seth opened the carriage door and pulled down the steps.
‘We’ll change horses,’ Luke told him as he helped me alight. ‘Insist on their four best – regardless of cost. I’ll see to the paperwork.’
‘Right away, Dr Bohenna.’
It was not his coach and Seth knew to leave the choice of fresh horses to Mary’s coachman. He looked round, smiling as the older coachman invited him to join him in his choice. Behind us, a booming voice greeted us from the inn.
‘Sir . . . ye’re very welcome. Come this way . . . some refreshment? I’m sure yer wife will want to freshen up and sit by the fire. This way, please.’ His florid face wore a genuine smile, his eyes jovial, his stained white apron covering his ample belly. ‘We’ll see you get the best horses we have. Oh, mind the hens – go away . . . shoo. This way, if ye please.’
‘The stagecoach to Bodmin left on time? When would that have been?’
‘The stroke of eleven thirty, sir; right on the chime.’ He looked at the large clock above the arch. ‘Should make good time, too. The road’s good. There’s nothin’ untoward as I’ve been told – an’ this mist’s liftin’. A jug of ale, sir? What can I get fer yer wife?’
‘A small glass of ale, thank you. And I’d like to freshen up,’ I replied.
An equally jovial woman, wearing the same welcoming smile and an equally stained apron, led me down a dark corridor to a wash room and I caught my reflection in the mirror. She reached for the enamel jug. ‘I’ll bring ye some hot water. Ye feel poorly, m’lady? ’Tis all that rattlin’ about. Some are very sick when they get off the coaches. I’m forever settling stomachs an’ easin’ achin’ bones. There, I’ll be back. Ye’ll soon feel better.’
We had made excellent time. Even with the stop, we could only be an hour behind the stagecoach. Through the open window, I heard Seth questioning one of the grooms.
‘Yes, sir, I recognize that description. Big hat, an’ black overcoat? Yes. No, he didn’t get off. Not fer nothin’. Stayed on the coach while we changed the horses.’
Chapter Thirty-six
The mist had lifted, a watery sun casting shadows across the moor. ‘That’s the last of the mines.’ I was counting down the chimneys on the engine houses and knew we were getting clos
e. ‘This is Five Ways crossroads.’
We started descending the vale, the gorse and bracken giving way to well-tended orchards and neatly ploughed fields – the verdant and abundant pastures that brought prosperity to Bodmin. The road began to widen, a few small cottages marking the outskirts of the town. An ox wagon lumbered in front of us and we slowed to a walk, the air taking on the smell of malt and woodsmoke.
‘I’ve asked them to stop just short of the inn, so we can alight without being seen.’ Luke sounded confident, but my heart was hammering.
A plume of smoke rose from a blacksmith’s chimney, the rhythmical banging of a hammer hitting an anvil. Shouts rang from a cooperage, men rolling barrels onto a waiting wagon, and I tried to stop the fear rising within me. Edmund could have got off the coach at India Queen. If his anger had abated, he would have turned back to Truro.
Luke flicked open his fob watch. ‘He’s had just over an hour to find Captain de la Croix, but duels require seconds and weapons – and they’re usually conducted at first light. If he’s after a fight, he’ll no doubt wait until nightfall.’
A ditch of clear water ran along the pavement, the first of the fine double-fronted houses with their elegant front doors and iron railings, and I wrapped my cloak tightly around me, pulling the hood over my bonnet. We were entering the west of the town, the church and law courts were to the east, so we would avoid the congestion in the centre. The coach stopped and Seth drew down the steps. A short distance up the road, the sign of the White Hart swung from its chains.
‘He might be watching the house from the inn. We need to go round the back so he can’t see us – there’s a lane to the side of her house.’
Luke nodded, taking the bags, and we walked quickly, our steps in time. Not too fast, or we would draw attention to ourselves, but purposefully as if we were in a hurry to get to our lodgings. The shrubs in the front garden came into view, followed by the old stone house with its slate roof and path leading to a gleaming black door. A wrought-iron gate led to the garden behind, but we used neither. I slipped my hand through Luke’s arm, leading him down the narrow lane and in through the wooden back gate to her immaculate garden. Well-tended vegetable beds stood in regimental rows, a brick path leading us through fruit trees and past the most elaborate chicken coop I had ever seen.
A huge ginger tomcat watched our approach, scowling at us as we knocked on the back door. ‘That’s Gustave,’ I whispered. ‘He’s actually very sweet.’
Luke’s smile was instant, a lift to his eyebrow. ‘If you say so!’
I smiled back. ‘No, he is. Honestly. Mrs Hambley won’t tell us why she calls him Gustave, or how she even knows the name. She gets very giggly and blushes . . . Mother thinks—’
The door opened to a short, round-faced lady, almost as broad as she was tall. Under her white mobcap, her hair was streaked with grey, her cheeks aglow with good health. One look at us and her hands flew to her bosom. ‘Dear Lord, Miss Carew! What a surprise. No . . . no. Don’t tell me. I can see it in yer faces. So much in love ye’ve run away together. Dear Lord, what am I to do? Keep ye hidden? Ye want me to hide ye fer a while, is that it?’
She threw out her arms, gathering us into her kitchen. ‘Ye were right to come here. I won’t say a word . . . but ye’ll have to tell yer mother. She’ll come round to the idea, honest she will . . . If there’s one lady with love an’ compassion oozing out of her soul, it’s Lady Clarissa.’
No amount of protestations could stem her delight. Forcing us through the door, she glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘Well, ye’re not the first, an’ ye won’t be the last. God knows, everyone is welcome. Ye seem a very nice man, sir . . . a gentleman. Very genteel. Very kind eyes. Lady Clarissa will give in, honest she will – but ye must tell her ye’re safe.’
‘No . . . Mrs Hambley, it’s nothing like that. This is Dr Bohenna . . . Mother would be with us if she could, but she can’t . . . and nor could Dr Bohenna’s mother. We’re here on urgent business. Is Captain de la Croix at home? Has he had a visitor?’
Her puzzled eyes looked at each of us in turn. ‘Well, that’s a shame.’
‘Shame we’ve just missed him? Shame about what . . . ? He’s had a visitor, hasn’t he? Is he all right?’
She shook her head, reaching to fill the heavy kettle. Luke held it for her, and her smile broadened. ‘No, Miss Carew. It’s just a shame ye’re not eloping.’ Her eyes filled with mischief. ‘Doctor, ye say? Well, are ye hungry, Dr Bohenna? No . . . don’t tell me, let me guess. Buttered buns? Or lardy cake? I’ve got both . . . Perhaps I should just give ye everything I’ve got. Ye both look half-starved. Both of ye so gaunt an’ in need of a good meal. Miss Carew, I hardly recognized ye, ye’ve grown so thin.’
Luke shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everything you’ve got sounds rather perfect.’
Mrs Hambley blushed, her happy giggle filling the room. ‘There now, that’s what I thought. Ye need feeding up.’
I tried again. ‘Is Captain de la Croix here? Only it’s very urgent.’
She looked reluctantly away from Luke. ‘Yes, Miss Carew, go on through to the parlour, he’ll be that glad to see ye. He’s upstairs with those old bones of his. Perhaps ye’d like to freshen up first, an’ I’ll make ye some tea?’
The parlour was warm, the fire casting a red glow across the lime-washed walls. The rug was a mix of assorted colours, plump cushions neatly placed on the high-back chairs, but I did not sit. I went straight to the small leaded window, watching the inn from behind the floral curtains. There was no sign of our coach, just two horses drinking from the trough. Luke stood by the fire and our eyes caught.
‘Mrs Hambley was once very good to Charity’s sister, Celia, and we’ve got to know her very well. She doesn’t mean to be so familiar . . . it’s just her way. Please don’t mind—’
I turned at the sound of footsteps. Pierre de la Croix ducked under the lintel and stood bowing in the doorway, his black hair falling across his forehead. His dark brows lifted, the lines on his face creasing into a welcoming smile. ‘Miss Carew, Dr Bohenna, what a lovely surprise.’
In Mrs Hambley’s care, his cheeks were fuller, the blue jacket of his French uniform buttoned neatly across his slightly broader stomach. Hints of grey framed his face, his black hair tied in a bow behind his neck. Only his stiffness remained, and his charming manners. ‘I am overjoyed to see you.’ His eyes sparkled, looking from one of us to the other, as if expecting some news, and I walked quickly towards him, holding out my hand for him to kiss.
‘I’m afraid we’re here under rather difficult circumstances – no . . . no one’s ill. But there’s something we need to discuss.’
‘Of course, shall we sit? Dr Bohenna, they have let you leave your patients?’ His English, with its heavy French accent, was improving by the day. ‘Mrs Hambley says she will bring us some tea. If you make yourselves comfortable, I shall help her with the tray.’
‘No . . . no, I can manage. Captain de la Croix, ye spoil me!’ Mrs Hambley squeezed sideways through the door. ‘Carrying an’ fetching fer me all the time – an’ making me such a lovely chicken coop. Honest to God, I’m the envy of the town.’ She smiled broadly, placing the laden tray on the table between the windows. ‘But perhaps a few more logs on the fire? There now.’ She surveyed the four plates piled high with food. ‘I’ll go an’ get the rest. Then I’ll make up yer rooms. Ye are staying, I hope, only the inn’s a rowdy place an’ ye’ll get no sleep?’
I glanced at the carriage clock above the fireplace. Half past three. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hambley, that would be very kind – we’d like that, if it’s not too much bother?’
Luke raised his eyebrows, rubbing his hands together. ‘This is an absolute feast.’
‘Well, now . . . see what I’ll make ye for supper. We’ll have rabbit pie. There now . . . that’s settled. I’ll get Susan to make up yer rooms an’ I’ll get going with that pie.’
I poured the tea into her best china cups and handed them roun
d. With the warmth of the fire and the glow of Mrs Hambley’s welcome, I suddenly realized how hungry I was, and I helped Luke and Captain de la Croix sample something from each of the piled plates. Now we were here, my fears were beginning to subside.
‘You’ve had no visitor this afternoon – a tall young man with short dark hair . . . wearing a thick overcoat and a large hat?’
‘Non, Miss Carew. I finished the hen house and went straight upstairs. I’ve been in my room . . . I’ve finished nearly the last of the animals for your ark. Thank you for your kind letter, but it is my pleasure. Your family have been so good to me –
I would not be here with Mrs Hambley, if you had not arranged it.’
He put another log on the fire, wincing slightly as he bent down, smiling at Luke’s obvious concern. ‘Nothing to worry about, Dr Bohenna – just an old sailor’s rhumatisme. We get wet, and we stay wet. Damp clothes, damp bed – et voilà, stiff joints!’ He sat back on his chair. ‘Who am I to expect, this visitor?’
I put down my teacup. ‘This is very difficult . . . for me, at least. On my birthday, I had the very good fortune of hearing that my fiancé . . . who we all believed was dead . . . had escaped his captivity and has since returned.’
His dark eyes shot straight at Luke. ‘I am so pleased. What wonderful news.’
‘Yes, it is.’ My heart was thumping, the fire too hot. ‘But his return sees him a troubled man. His imprisonment was exceptionally harsh and his subsequent escape led him to further brutality. He is struggling . . .’
‘I believe many are troubled. It is troubling times.’ His voice was warm, filled with compassion. ‘You are fearful, Miss Carew. I see a change in you, a sadness in your eyes. Tell me what you want of me. Am I to understand I am never to contact your family again?’
‘It is not our wish . . . but it might be a necessity. But if it were only that I’d have written to you before I came. The problem we face is that my fiancé, Sir Edmund Melville, was imprisoned in Guadeloupe for a year before he escaped, and I believe that your ship patrolled the seas around the island.’ The tight band round my throat was back, choking my words.