A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘My fiancé, Edmund, has taken the news rather badly. I think he believes you might have been part of the capture – and subsequent deaths – of the men he was meant to protect.’

  A sad shrug to his shoulders. ‘I see. He considers me his direct enemy. I was not part of the attack but, yes, I was part of the fleet. Certainly I was there. I sailed frequent into the port and I knew all the frigate captains.’ His heavy brows creased. ‘Tell me, when was your fiancé imprisoned?’

  ‘In April ’ninety-four. Just under four years ago.’

  Lines etched his face, a furrow crossed his forehead.

  ‘Then I’m afraid he is right to consider me responsible. I was certainly there. Until my capture in May ’ninety-six, that was my patrol area. We were instructed to take back the island – attack any British ship sailing in those waters. My orders were to see off all enemy ships, because, of course, we were determined not to let Guadeloupe back into British hands.’ He returned his cup to his saucer, his abundant black hair falling forward. ‘And I am very sorry to confirm that there was indeed great brutality on the island. The new governor used his power with no mercy – everyone feared his guillotine. I say this not to upset you but because I understand why your fiancé would bear me no goodwill.’

  ‘Thank you . . . I’m so sorry this has happened.’

  ‘Non, non, this is the sad consequence of war. I am very aware of the conditions on the island . . . I know they are far from what they should be. I never saw them for myself because I never delivered any prisoners to the fort, but I know the dungeons are squalid and rife with disease, and I would not wish that on anyone. I understand what you are saying – that I must not meet Sir Edmund. I see it in your face. When war becomes personal, it is not good.’

  Tears pooled in my eyes. ‘No, it is not good, Captain de la Croix. Last night Edmund showed great anger when he found out about you and—’

  ‘You fear he will come here and seek me out? To revenge his fallen shipmates? Why else would you rush to my side with a doctor in attendance? You fear bloodshed, Miss Carew. I see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid I do. I believe he may do something very rash. He left first thing this morning, which is why I’m so fearful. He’s here in Bodmin, and I think it only a matter of time before we hear his knock on the door. And it scares me, Captain de la Croix.’

  Luke rose from his chair, peering from behind the curtain at the commotion going on outside. ‘There’s a coach leaving – it’s crowded . . . but no sign of Edmund.’

  ‘Your fiancé must be a brave man, Miss Carew, if a little – how do you say – disturbed? To survive imprisonment means he is strong and courageous, and to escape is héroïque. Indeed, I salute him. But I cannot hide from him. Nor can I deny where I was and what I did. Your brother captured my ship – both he and Admiral Penrose are very fine sailors. And I salute them, too.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘My men were very ill, we had suffered la typhoïde and we were weakened, but it could have gone both ways. I could have taken your brother’s ship . . . HMS Circe could this very moment be sailing under a French flag. It is war . . . it is what we are sent to do. Our orders are to capture or be captured.’

  He clasped his broad hands as if in prayer. ‘I never expected such clemency from your family. It is the truest example of humanity. These are harrowing times – we sit drinking tea and I forever thank my God that I have been delivered into such kind hands, but we both know your brothers remain in peril. We cannot deny that.’

  No, we could not deny that. Tears pooled in my eyes. ‘And I would hope that if they are captured . . . that they might receive the same humanity.’

  ‘I hope so, too. But I cannot defend the conditions in Guadeloupe. If Sir Edmund has been treated so harshly, and he sees me amongst such kindness and générosité of the soul, then I believe he would find it quite intolerable.’

  ‘Could you say you weren’t there . . . ?’ Even as I said the words, I knew it to be impossible.

  He shook his head, another shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Non, Miss Carew. He only needs to speak to any one of the other parole prisoners. He will ask who knows me, and they will tell him what they know. My record can be read . . . I cannot live a lie. I cannot deny where I was – nor can I hide from Sir Edmund. If he wishes me harm, then I must wait for him to find me. I can promise you I will not – how do you say? – retaliate with undue force, but if he wishes me harm, I must be able to defend myself.’

  ‘Of course you must, Captain de la Croix. But I believe Sir Edmund does wish you harm, and it’s too frightening to contemplate.’

  Luke came to my side. ‘Captain de la Croix, we can’t risk Edmund doing anything foolish – for his sake as much as for yours. He needs time for his anger to abate – I believe any sight he has of you will fuel that anger. He must not find you.’

  ‘I cannot hide. That is asking too much.’

  ‘But we can’t ensure your safety while you’re here.’ Luke paused, a tone of hope entering his voice. ‘For Amelia’s peace of mind, may I suggest we take you to Sir Alexander Pendarvis? He holds overall responsibility for all the French prisoners in Cornwall. I believe we should ask his advice.’

  ‘Go to Sir Alexander – to his house?’

  ‘Yes. He’s Amelia’s godfather and I believe he would want us to take you to him. Otherwise, the consequences could be very grave – for you and for Sir Edmund. We need to protect both of you – but we can only do it if you never meet. Would you agree to come?’

  Captain de la Croix nodded, his mouth set firm. ‘I consider that . . . very sensible. Thank you, Dr Bohenna.’

  Mrs Hambley stood in the doorway, her large white apron dusted with flour. ‘Some more tea for you all?’ Her face fell. ‘What is it, my dears? Did ye not like the lardy cake?’

  Luke picked up the tray, handing it to her. ‘No, Mrs Hambley, we loved it, thank you. The tea was very welcome . . . and your lardy cake was particularly delicious, but I’m afraid we can’t stay.’

  ‘Why, bless ye, are ye up an’ off again?’

  ‘I’m afraid we are. We must leave right away. Captain de la Croix must pack a bag and come with us.’

  Her plump cheeks dimpled. ‘Oh, no, Doctor. Captain de la Croix can’t leave. He’s only allowed one mile out of town. Up to the milepost an’ back. He can’t go with you or he’ll be shot for trying to escape. An’ we can’t have that!’

  ‘Captain de la Croix will be safe with us, Mrs Hambley, I promise. We have a carriage and we must leave straight away – if we get stopped, we’ll say we’re acting under Sir Alexander Pendarvis’ instructions. The captain can’t stay here, he’s in too much danger. And if we go anywhere else, he will be shot and we’ll be accused of helping a French prisoner to escape. This way, he’ll be safe.’ Luke turned to me. ‘How long will it take us to get to Fosse?’

  My heart burned, my whole chest on fire. There was such love in his eyes, and I had to turn away. ‘No more than two and a half hours – it’s about fourteen miles.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The clock on the wall chimed four, the daylight already fading. Mrs Hambley stood at the door listening to Luke’s instructions.

  ‘If you could send your maid to the White Hart – ask her to find Mr Tomkins and a man called Seth. They’re our coach drivers. Ask her to tell them to harness new horses and bring the coach back to where they dropped us off as soon as they can. Tell her to be quick, but not to look as if she’s hurrying . . . just as if she’s passing the time of day. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes . . . Mr Tomkins . . . Seth . . . the coach as soon as they can, where they dropped you. I’ll tell her this instant. Only to look like she’s passing the time of day.’ She stopped, shaking her head. ‘That won’t do at all. No. I’ll tell her we’ll do the usual. If it’s to Fosse ye’re going, then that’s to the east. A carriage that sets off to the west, then turns of a sudden an’ heads
east draws too much attention. No, we’ll do the usual.’

  Luke smiled. ‘And that is?’

  ‘We’ll put a hat against the chair so when anyone looks through the window they’ll think Captain de la Croix is still here. Ye needs go back out the garden, turn right an’ follow the lane past the old debtors’ gaol . . . then past the court. Then wait under the tree by the church. That way, ye can’t be seen. The carriage leaves with its curtains closed, ye get in, and no one sees ye.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’

  She reached forward, adjusting Luke’s cravat. ‘More times than ye can imagine, Dr Bohenna. I’ll get the hat. An’ if anyone does come knockin’ at the door, I’ll tell him Captain de la Croix has gone up to Five Ways fer a walk.’

  ‘Will she be safe?’ I whispered as her sturdy footsteps rang down the hall.

  ‘Edmund might force his way in and search the house, but he won’t risk hurting her.’

  Pierre de la Croix stood in the doorway, a bag in his hand. ‘I am ready to leave.’

  Luke nodded. ‘Good. We’re going to meet the coach by the church.’

  Mrs Hambley plumped up the cushions on the chairs. ‘Come then.’ With open arms, she ushered us down the corridor. ‘I’ll light the lantern after ye’re gone an’ I’ll bring in another tea tray. They can watch as long as they like, but they’ll never guess he’s not in. Ye’ll be halfway to Fosse before they even think to knock.’

  The warm kitchen smelled of fresh bread; the signs of baking, a huge rolling pin laying next to a ball of newly made pastry. On the window sill outside, Gustave flicked his tail. Mrs Hambley dusted the flour from her apron and reached for a woollen cloak. ‘Cover ye uniform, Pierre. Don’t give them even the smallest glimpse. Here. Wear this. I know ye’ll be back. I won’t worry at all.’ She swallowed hard. ‘There, that’s Susan now. Did ye find them all right?’

  A young girl with flushed cheeks and a freckled complexion nodded from the doorway. ‘Mr Tomkins says twenty minutes an’ he’ll pick ye up at the church.’

  Mrs Hambley smoothed the thick black cloak over Pierre’s broad shoulders, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. ‘I’ve put a little somethin’ in fer yer journey and the medicine for that stiff old back of yers. Go now. Walk slow, mind. Ye’re out for a little air, that’s all.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll not worry at all.’

  We walked slowly down the back lane, trying to look unconcerned, Luke smiling, pointing out where the path was damp. We passed the almshouses with their tiny leaded windows, untidy gardens and empty pigsties, crossing the road to avoid the stench of the sewer running from the debtors’ gaol. The light was fading, glimpses of the main street showing it was still busy; carts were passing, people wrapped up against the cold evening air.

  ‘Down here.’ Pierre de la Croix knew exactly where to take us.

  The church bell struck the half-hour. The law courts were ahead of us, the lamps of the guildhall being lit, a woman throwing slops into the gutter. Under the overhang of a row of columns, men stood in groups, wearing the blue uniform we were so desperate to keep hidden.

  ‘We’ll go down Back Street, so they won’t see me,’ Pierre said, pointing us down a dark alley in front of the London Inn.

  The church with its ruined steeple lay just in front of us, the large cedar tree perfect for concealment. Beneath it, the earth was wet, and we stood watching the road, the lowest branches hiding us from sight. We heard the rumble of wheels and waited for them to stop, stepping straight from the woody dampness into the smell of beeswax. Settling ourselves in the darkened carriage, Seth pulled up the steps.

  ‘We reckon just over two an’ a half hours, Dr Bohenna. The horses are fresh and the men rested and fed. By the look of it, there’ll be a moon to guide us – we should be in Fosse by seven. When we’re clear of the town, we’ll light the lamps.’

  He closed the door and Pierre de la Croix’s voice came softly through the darkness. ‘I am very grateful, Miss Carew. I appreciate your kindness – your concern for me. I have no desire to confront your fiancé.’

  I smiled, but I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. Edmund had planned every detail – lying to the innkeeper, leaving his horse in another stable under a false name. ‘You gave my brother your parole, Captain de la Croix – and you’ve become our friend. I’ll not see one hair on your head harmed. My fiancé is not himself . . . he’s troubled . . . he forgets things. His anger will abate, but he needs time. Your welfare is our prime concern.’

  The coach picked up speed and Luke lifted the edge of the curtain, peering through a small gap. ‘We’re clear of the town but I think we’ll leave the curtains drawn.’ He settled back against the plush seat. ‘Are you quite comfortable, Captain de la Croix? Are you warm enough? There are blankets I can reach. My mother believes in blankets but my stepfather believes brandy warms him better. In fact . . .’ He leaned forward, reaching under the seat. I heard a key turn, a bottle being drawn out. ‘This rather fine French cognac has very warming properties.’

  Captain de la Croix sighed deeply. ‘Your stepfather is not only a wise man, but he has perfect taste. Maybe I am a bit cold?’

  I knew Luke would be smiling. ‘I think we’re all a little cold.’

  I lifted the edge of my curtain. Dusk was settling, black clouds streaking across a pink sky. Luke handed me a glass and the fiery liquid burned my tongue. Mr Tomkins urged the horses forward, giving them full rein and the pace quickened. It was as if they had been waiting for his signal to give him every ounce of their strength.

  The moor lay before us in all its vastness, the air fresh, carrying the scent of bracken and damp vegetation. I had never been across the moor by night and as it stretched out like some ethereal wilderness, I breathed deeply, my courage returning. Bethany would have us believe it was the home of ghosts and goblins, every moon shadow hiding a restless soul, and perhaps she was right. It looked like a different world, the moon bright, the turnpike winding into the distance like a silver snake. Clumps of trees and rocky black outcrops stood silhouetted against the grey sky, moonlight dancing on the lakes, shimmering across the vast swathes of grass.

  Pierre’s head rested against the window; his eyes were closed, his body swaying to the rhythm of the coach.

  ‘Edmund frightened me last night,’ I whispered.

  ‘I can understand that. I was there, I saw what happened.’

  My heart jolted. ‘You were in the square?’

  His laugh was rueful. ‘Sometimes I find myself passing your house at night.’

  A tight band constricted my throat. ‘Your house is in Pydar Street . . . it’s the other direction. No one crosses the square unless they’re going to church.’

  ‘Maybe I wasn’t passing your house. Maybe I was standing in the freezing cold, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.’

  I was glad of the darkness, grateful he could not see the tears pooling in my eyes. ‘That’s rather foolish, Luke. You’ll catch cold. Patients don’t want their doctors to get ill.’

  His sigh was gentle. ‘Then I’ll stop doing it. I’ll go straight home to Mother’s roaring fire instead.’ He slid his hand across the bench, our fingers touching as he offered me his handkerchief.

  And where thou art not, desolation.

  His voice was stronger now. ‘I think we should start Edmund on dandelion root tincture. Melancholy encompasses grief, sorrow, and fear, but it’s just as likely to trigger anger and the desire for revenge. It’s a vicious circle – nervousness and a sense of being overwhelmed leads to lack of sleep, which in turn causes great agitation – leading to anxiety and nervous exhaustion. Thoughts get distorted, nightmares become a pattern, and that, in turn, gives rise to increased fear and a further rise in tension.’

  He had read my mind; well, almost. ‘What about skullcap? Your father swore by skullcap.’

  ‘Skullcap tea at night. Or maybe we should start him straight on tincture of St John’s wort? Two to three drops daily for three weeks and we shou
ld see a difference.’

  ‘Thank you for coming with me, Luke.’

  His hand rested on the seat between us, waiting for me to return his handkerchief. I dabbed my eyes, battling my tears. St John’s wort needed to be freshly harvested, the tincture made only from flowers and buds picked in June. There was passion flower, too. And we could try lavender.

  Captain de la Croix was breathing steadily, the carriage dark, and I slipped off my glove, sliding my hand slowly towards Luke’s waiting fingers. I could not help myself, the yearning to touch him was overwhelming, too powerful to resist. Luke’s hand closed over mine and a familiar warmth flooded my heart.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I whispered, the pain so intense I could hardly breathe. I waited, the pain growing worse, ripping my heart as Luke drew his hand away.

  ‘I will be,’ he whispered. ‘And I believe Edmund will be too.’

  Tincture of St John’s wort: for melancholy, and for the nervous exhaustion of heartbreak. For desolation and sorrow. For a sense of overriding fear, envy and anger.

  Flowers of St John’s wort must be harvested in full bloom, either in late June or early July. Once harvested, chop, crush and bruise the flowers until the juices run red. Pack the crushed flowers into a jar, then add brandy to cover the entirety. Seal well and turn daily for six weeks until the mixture becomes blood red in colour. Strain through a muslin cloth and keep the tincture in a sealed bottle.

  THE LADY HERBALIST

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Fosse. 7:30 p.m.

  We entered Fosse with its narrow main street, the shutters in the long row of houses closed against the cold night air and came to a stop, the lamps casting pools of light against the cottages on either side. Luke pulled down the window and peered out.