by Nicola Pryce
‘It’s going to be tight. These lanes can hardly take a carriage.’
Pierre eased his shoulders. ‘This has been a most comfortable journey. And very quick.’
Men were hurrying along the quayside, a strong smell of grilled fish filling the carriage. Moonlight glinted on the black river, the masts of the ships rising above us. We pulled slowly up the hill, heading for the lamps burning against the vast redbrick house with its eight sash windows and large portico – Admiral House, my godfather’s new house in Fosse. An arch led round to the stables but we remained on the road. The doorman stepped forward and I pulled down the window.
‘Will you tell Lady Pendarvis that Miss Carew is here?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Lady Pendarvis and Sir Alexander Pendarvis have just this minute left to spend the evening with Sir James and Lady Polcarrow . . . at Polcarrow.’
‘Thank you. We’ll go straight there.’
Light from the lamps filled the carriage and Pierre de la Croix shifted stiffly. ‘But we will disturb their evening. This is very awkward.’
‘Not at all,’ I reassured him. ‘Sir James Polcarrow may look very stern but we know him well and he’ll welcome us – as will Lady Polcarrow. They’ll understand.’
He shifted his position, reaching for the leather satchel. ‘I am in your most kind hands, Miss Carew. But now we have stopped, I can take this opportunity to ease my rhumatisme.’ He rummaged inside his bag and drew out a small brown bottle. ‘Mrs Hambley kindly bought this for me. The doctor came to our door and she tells me she got the last bottle. Imagine . . . a London doctor in Bodmin. We are lucky, are we not?’
I reached forward, my hand knocking Luke’s as we rushed to stop him.
‘Pierre, stop! May I see that?’ Luke took the bottle and held it to the light of the lamp. ‘J. Reynold, chemist and druggist from Richmond, London, wishes to inform the nobility, gentry and public that all medicines, elixirs and lozenges are prepared . . .’
‘Luke – that’s the same label . . . it’s the same bottle.’
‘Have you had any of this yet, Pierre ?’ I caught the fear in his voice.
‘Non – not yet. I’ve just got it. It is for the aches and pains of rhumatisme. The doctor told Mrs Hambley it would be particularly effective for the stiffness I have.’
‘He would . . . but it means nothing. This concoction is particularly effective for everything and everyone – including horses. You mustn’t take it. The man’s a quack . . . a charlatan. May I take it with me to test? We need evidence of the harm these concoctions do. I’ll write you a proper prescription – one that will help you, not poison you.’
‘Of course, but Mrs Hambley was adamant he was a proper physician . . .’
‘Did she say what he looked like?’
‘An old man, with long white hairs. A beard, she said, and gloves with the tips of his fingers missing. He was very knowledgeable about sailors and the illnesses they face.’
Luke slipped the bottle into his pocket. ‘Very knowledgeable. That’s how he’s so successful in selling his concoctions.’
A large gatehouse with heavy locked gates loomed in front of us. Luke pulled down the window and a gatekeeper in red livery stepped forward. ‘I am Dr Bohenna and Miss Carew is a good friend of Sir James and Lady Polcarrow. We wish to speak with Miss Carew’s godfather, Sir Alexander, who we believe is dining here.’
The gatekeeper opened the heavy gates to a line of lanterns leading up the long drive. Dark and forbidding in the winter evening, the lamps cast eerie shadows on the closely clipped privet, but last summer the drive had been filled with bleating sheep and we had been greeted with the laughter of two young girls chasing puppies down the grass, Lady Polcarrow hurtling after them, her skirts gripped above her knees as she called them back.
More of a castle than a house, the crenellations, tall turrets and pointed arched windows rose in front of us. Stone steps led up to the ancient oak door, two lamps burning on either side. A groom ran to attend us and I stood on the steps, breathing in the scent of jasmine and woodsmoke, but, most especially, the smell of the sea.
Below us, rooftops glinted silver, the new street lamps casting a soft yellow glow. Moonlight shimmered on the black water, lights shining in Porthruan on the other side of the river. Lanterns swung on anchored ships and I breathed deeply, relishing the fresh breeze that caressed my cheeks. I could hear the jangle of rigging, the sound of a fiddle. Pierre stood by my side, also breathing deeply, smelling the salt, no doubt feeling the lure of the ocean.
We followed the footman across the polished flagstones, past the heavily engraved staircase with its elaborate swirls of animals and birds. An ancient stone house, not dissimilar to Pendowrick, yet here there was such warmth – a fire roaring in the huge fireplace, a portrait of a smiling woman with a basket of flowers and a spaniel at her feet.
Heavy beams criss-crossed the ceiling above us, portraits of ennobled ancestors watching us as we walked down the corridor – a longcase clock with a painted face and shining brass hands, a Chinese vase, a bowl of rose petals, and a child’s abacus. The footman announced us and we heard cries of pleasure.
Lady Polcarrow rose from her chair. ‘Miss Carew, this is a lovely surprise.’ Her ivory silk gown shimmered in the firelight, the lace at her elbows falling in an elegant fan. She looked more beautiful than ever, her chestnut hair glowing red in the candlelight, loosely coiled and held in place beneath a wreath of silk roses. ‘Dr Bohenna – this is an honour . . . I thought you never left your patients?’ She smiled her devastating smile, her fiercely intelligent eyes now resting on Pierre.
‘Lady Polcarrow, please forgive us . . . I hate intruding on you like this. May I introduce Captain de la Croix?’
Pierre bowed deeply. ‘It is my honour, Lady Polcarrow.’
Across the room, I caught my godfather’s eye. Sir Alexander Pendarvis stood stiffly, waiting for Sir James to greet us. James Polcarrow stepped forward, bowing to Captain de la Croix. ‘You are very welcome, Captain de la Croix.’ He turned, his stern face breaking into a radiant smile. ‘And you are always welcome, Miss Carew . . . Dr Bohenna, I’m delighted to see you. Please, come to the fire. This is an unexpected pleasure.’
We had charged uninvited into their house but I knew their welcome was genuine. Sir James wore his dark hair short, his straight nose and square jaw as chiselled as the Roman bust we had just passed in his hall. A man in his prime, tall, assured, a wealthy landowner and Member of Parliament, a passionate advocate for the abolition of slavery and the adoring father of three daughters.
‘If Mother knew we were here, she would send her regards,’ I said, smiling back into his extraordinary blue eyes.
‘And are we not to tell her?’ He looked amused, glancing at his wife with a rise of both eyebrows.
I shrugged. ‘She thinks we’re in Bodmin . . . but she was very particular Dr Bohenna came with me.’ Another raise of his dark brows, another smile at his wife.
Uncle Alex stepped forward, grasping the handle of his ebony cane. He kissed my cheek, bowing to Luke and Captain Pierre. ‘Captain de la Croix, I presume Miss Carew has brought you here for my protection?’
‘Uncle Alex—’
He held up his hand. ‘Amelia, my dear, no explanation is necessary. I’ve long been anxious that Sir Edmund might react badly to the knowledge Captain de la Croix is a friend of your family. I can guess why you’re here. You wish to afford Captain de la Croix my protection because you believe Edmund might seek him out?’
I nodded, and Lady Pendarvis rose from her chair, tall, elegant, a sapphire brooch glinting in her turban. Her blue silk rustled as she held out her hands. ‘Dearest Amelia, it is lovely to see you, and Capitaine de la Croix is indeed welcome to stay with us for as long as need be.’
She stood impassive as her compatriot bowed, her extraordinary hooded eyes under their perfect half-circle eyebrows pinning Captain de la Croix as I knew they would. In her late fifties, her coiled hair
was still luxurious, no hint of grey, her movements retaining the grace of a woman half her age. ‘Perhaps, you will be able to persuade me that my brothers’ exile from their homeland and the ruin of their estates has made for a better society? That your Corsican upstart has the interest of his country at heart – not just greed and self-aggrandisement?’ Her French accent had lessened after more than thirty years of marriage but was still discernible, especially when she was angry.
Pierre’s dark hair fell forward as he bowed again. ‘I am a simple sailor, Lady Pendarvis. I do my best for my country, but whether I can persuade you the blood that has been spilled is worth it will remain to be seen.’
Uncle Alex was watching me. ‘Captain de la Croix, you are welcome to my protection, as would be any parole prisoner who faced the same circumstances. The Admiralty has strict laws governing prisonniers en liberté conditionnelle and they must be heeded. But as it happens I have something in mind that will adhere to these strict regulations yet go some way to alleviate the situation we find ourselves in.’
He was wearing his grey wig, his fine-boned chin closely shaven, his cravat pinned with a silver pin. He was always elegant, always immaculately dressed, his jacket well tailored, his waistcoat beautifully embroidered; his polished left black boot matching the ebony peg beneath the buckles of his right knee. Only his eyes looked shrewder, a hardness in them I rarely saw.
‘I need to engage an agent to report to the French prisoners’ board – someone who writes his findings in French but who speaks good English. I need to document the monthly numbers – the general health of the prisoners and the conditions within which they’re kept. We’re to document everything – the food they’re given, the state of their clothes, their hammocks, their access to exercise and so forth, and I’ve had you in mind for this position for quite a while.’
‘Sir Alexander, I am honoured, but—’
‘This is a genuine post, Captain de la Croix, and you are amply qualified to take it. We are all aware of the reason you’re here, but it’s not the reason I offer you this post.’ He turned to me. ‘My fears are grounded, are they, Amelia?’
I nodded. ‘Edmund found out about Pierre last night . . . he was really angry. It frightened me . . . and this morning I found out he’d taken the stagecoach to Bodmin . . . and I was scared he might do something foolish. Please don’t think ill of Edmund – he needs time and help . . . he’s come back to find a man he considers a direct enemy is our friend and he’s hurt. It must have been a terrible shock . . .’
Normally when Uncle Alex looked at me his grey eyes softened, but they held firm, the steel in them remaining. ‘I’ve been rereading his Admiralty report.’
‘And does it mention anger?’
His mouth tightened. ‘Among other things.’
I felt cold to the bone. Lady Polcarrow must have seen me shiver. ‘Amelia, please, take off your cloak and come nearer the fire.’ She pulled the bell-pull, standing by her husband, tall, willowy, the circlet of silk flowers in her hair making her look like a Greek goddess. ‘Henderson will show you where you can freshen up. Take your time, we’re in no hurry, but I hope you’re hungry. We’ve got roast pork tonight with apple dumplings and Sir James’ favourite pudding – Mrs Munroe’s sent us up a whortleberry pie and that’s never to be missed. Make yourselves comfortable, all of you, please, and join us when you’re ready.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
A chandelier hung from the heavily beamed ceiling, further candles grouped around the room. The room was bright, the yellow drapes at the windows bringing cheer to the surroundings; the fire was roaring, a set of colourful tapestries hanging on the wall, and an elegant china vase standing waist-height on the floor. Behind me, fine china ornaments crafted out of Sir James’ clay stood proudly displayed in a glass-fronted cabinet.
A portrait hung above the fireplace filling the room with beauty – Rose Pengelly, holding a red rose in her hand: the fiery shipbuilder’s daughter who had captured Sir James’ heart so completely. She held it still, only more so; I could see it in his smile, in the hand he rested on her arm, the adoration in his eyes every time he looked at her.
He had carved the huge leg of pork with seamless ease, the piled-high tureen of roast potatoes was now empty, every last carrot and parsnip enjoyed. The Staffordshire plates were cleared away and a huge whortleberry pie now demanded our attention. Silver candlesticks glinted on the table, the soft light flickering across our faces. Steering the conversation away from war, Lady Polcarrow asked for news of my nephews and we talked of Lady Pendarvis’s new grandson, of Lady Polcarrow’s three daughters.
I smiled back at them, hoping they would not see my heart was breaking. Both kept glancing at me: Lady Polcarrow with her intelligent eyes in their thick black lashes; Aunt Marie, with her hooded lids and her uncanny ability to know just what I was thinking. They loved Luke: I could see concern deep in their eyes, their gentle hints that he was not looking well. They had pressed him to eat, their glances aching with unspoken questions.
Uncle Alex turned to Pierre. ‘You’re looking well, Captain de la Croix. Mrs Hambley is obviously looking after you.’
‘Thank you, Sir Alex, she is too good a cook.’ He smiled from under his black curls, ‘My waist, it has increased.’
‘As agent, you’ll accompany me on my visits and your reports will be sent directly to the French authorities. I won’t censor them. Our prison in Norman Cross is, I believe, quite exemplary – a first-class example of how to maintain a man’s dignity whilst denying him his freedom, but you will also see conditions that fall short of satisfactory. There are nearly twenty-two thousand of you now – entire families from merchant ships, many from Africa, even India. Most speak no English and you must be their voice. My job is to see each prisoner treated fairly, yet even as we speak the numbers rise.’
James Polcarrow sat elegantly in his high-back chair, swilling his claret, his dark brows creasing. ‘Still no successful exchanges?’
Sir Alex shook his head. ‘All my attempts to exchange have fallen on deaf ears – all of them. It’s long been my opinion France doesn’t want her prisoners back. Every day the cost to our government rises – money we can ill afford. The longer they keep them here, and the more we capture, the emptier our coffers become. I’m told it’s running to nearly £300,000 a year – money we could otherwise spend on ships and provisions.’
Pierre de la Croix gave a sad nod of agreement, consternation in his dark eyes. ‘A truth I would like to deny, Sir Alexander, but we, too, believe we are not wanted back in France. It will be my pleasure to act as your agent. You look after us very well – better, I have to say, than the treatment Sir Edmund Melville received. He has every right to detest the sight of me. The conditions in his dungeon were . . . far from satisfactory.’
I had to speak for Edmund, I needed them to know how much he had suffered. ‘He wasn’t in the dungeons, Captain de la Croix – he was in the prison hulk beneath the fort. But you’re right, his conditions were brutal. He was frequently beaten . . . he was half-starved, forced to repair the battery and the defences. They worked him like a slave. But that’s what saved him. He was able to watch the ships – he must have seen your ship, Captain de la Croix. He watched every ship enter and leave the harbour and he took his chance when he could. And thank goodness he did.’
I looked up at the sudden clash of Pierre’s fork on his plate. He was staring at me, his eyes puzzled. ‘Prison hulk . . . in the harbour?’
‘Yes, directly below the fort. It’s a despicable practice. It’s to stop our ships from attacking.’
Uncle Alex leaned forward, taking a nut from the centrepiece. ‘It’s more and more apparent that the names of prisoners in hulks are not getting recorded. The poor men die nameless. Hulks are rancid and foul and the men not expected to live, so why bother with lists? We have many examples of men imprisoned where we have no records.’
‘Forgive me, Sir Alex . . . Miss Carew, but there was no prison hu
lk under the walls of the fort. There are sharp rocks there – but besides that, Guadeloupe did not have a prison hulk. Never. Not while I was there.’
‘They did, Captain de la Croix. Edmund was imprisoned there for a whole year.’
His voice was soft, yet insistent. ‘No, Miss Carew, not in Guadeloupe. I swear to you. There was no prison hulk in ’ninety-three, ’ninety-four, ’ninety-five . . . or the first half of ’ninety-six. I know that for absolute certain.’
His eyes held mine, like shards piercing my heart, and I stared back, trying to breathe. ‘There was . . . perhaps you just didn’t see it?’
The fire crackled, the room suddenly silent, but for the terrible thumping of my heart.
Captain de la Croix looked Uncle Alex straight in the eye. ‘Non. I swear, I do not lie. There was no prison hulk in the harbour – just the dungeons in the fort.’
‘Are you quite certain? We have names of the prisoners inside the fort, but we have none for the hulk.’
The captain’s reply was instant, spoken with absolute conviction. ‘Because there was none.’
I could hardly hear Luke for the pounding in my ears. ‘Perhaps Sir Edmund was confused? Perhaps without realizing it, he was taken to another island?’
I fought to breathe. ‘No, Luke, he definitely said it was Guadeloupe. It’s in all his records.’
Pierre de la Croix shook his head. ‘Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but one of us is not speaking the truth, and I know it is not me.’
I thought I might be sick, the room was too hot, no air to breathe. ‘There’ll be a reason . . .’ I was gripped by panic. He had lied to the innkeeper, he had stabled his horse under a false name, he had gone to significant lengths to hide his whereabouts. I tried to sound strong, but I could only whisper. ‘There must have been a prison hulk . . . Edmund would not lie.’
Uncle Alex’s voice sounded distant. ‘Amelia, I’m not happy with this. Far from it. Captain de la Croix has no reason to lie. There are no records of a prison hulk, though one was suspected in Martinique. You said Edmund showed great anger? Setting off as fast as he could after he heard about a frigate captain who’d served in Guadeloupe? He saddled his horse and rushed to Bodmin?’