by Nicola Pryce
‘But something kept niggling me, and I’ve been over and over his records, trying to discover what was keeping me awake. And then it struck me. Would a man in his position start a letter with your full address? Who writes the address of the recipient first? Surely not a sick man who can hardly walk, whose head is throbbing, who wants only to tell his beloved fiancée how much he loves her and how he’s coming back? And I think I’ve just proved my concern is a valid one.’
Sir James studied the letters. ‘Miss Carew received a letter that finished abruptly – just like this?’
‘Yes. And I believe it to be fabricated – an elaborate hoax. I believe we should mistrust the date, even the place. The fact it took eighteen months to arrive is not out of the question, but it does warrant caution. Edmund Melville would know to leave the West Indies before the hurricane months of August and September. Preferably he would leave in July – I wonder if he . . .’
Aunt Marie slipped to my side, tall, elegant, her exotic perfume too heavy for my reeling senses. Lady Polcarrow likewise stood by my side, her eyes seeking her husband’s. ‘Perhaps you could show the others your new urn on the terrace, James?’
Sir James smiled but remained looking at Uncle Alex. ‘It’s rather cold out there . . . and it’s not very well lit. Perhaps in the daylight, my love?’
Her hand gripped my shoulder. She swallowed, trying again. ‘Sir Alex hasn’t seen your new book on minerals yet. Perhaps you may like to take everyone to the library?’
Sir James smiled, indicating the fire. ‘I think they’d rather stay here. The fire’s out in the library and this one’s blazing.’
Lady Polcarrow’s voice took on a definite edge. ‘Captain de la Croix and Sir Alex will be very interested in your latest figurines, James. And so would Dr Bohenna. They will all be interested when you take them back into the dining room and show them.’
He smiled benignly, reaching for his brandy. ‘To be honest, they all look rather the same to me.’
‘James?’
He glanced up, suddenly aware of his wife’s blazing eyes. He looked surprised, as if he might have missed something. ‘Yes, my love?’
‘The dining room. Your china. Your books in the library.’
He stood straight, a sharp swallow, his hand immediately on Captain de la Croix’s shoulder. ‘Allow me to show you some ornaments crafted from my own china clay. Come, sir. Come, Alex . . . Luke . . . this way. I have a very interesting new book on minerals . . .’
Pierre de la Croix had been following the exchange between Sir James and Lady Polcarrow with growing concern. He stood stiffly, bowing abruptly, his petrified expression hard to hide. Sir James kept his hand on his shoulder, leading the men from the room. ‘You’re a frigate captain, sir?’ I heard him say. ‘You ran a tight ship, had men jumping to your command?’
‘Indeed, Sir James.’
I was holding back my tears, somehow managing to keep them from flowing. Sir James took hold of the door handle. ‘You’re not married, I believe, Captain de la Croix?’ he said as he shut the door.
Rose Polcarrow sighed. ‘Finally!’ she said, her arm slipping round my shoulders.
Aunt Marie waved her fan furiously. ‘What was he thinking – behaving as if he were addressing a court? My dearest love, I am so sorry. Your uncle adores you . . . he loves you like a daughter, but I think that clouds his judgement. For such a slight man, he can have the tread of an elephant. How could he spring that on you? It was ill thought out and very unkind. Rose – you should have insisted on the terrace. A stay outside in the freezing cold would have done him no harm at all!’
Tears began flowing down my cheeks. I had stared at that letter, never thinking it was false. Was it a lie? If so, what else had he fabricated to hide the truth?
Aunt Marie held me to her. ‘My poor darling. My poor, poor, darling girl. Weep. Let it all out. Don’t try to be brave.’ She turned to Rose. ‘My love . . . I need some brandy.’
I could hear myself howling, sobbing, as if a cork had been removed from a shaken bottle; like a pipe bursting, a torrent flowing from a blocked gutter. I could not help myself, the tears streaming down my face as I gulped for air. At last I stopped, my shoulders heaving.
‘Now, tell us, my love – tell us what you cannot tell the men – what you cannot even bear to think. We are women and we understand. What is it that you are hiding behind those sad eyes of yours? Because you are hiding something, my love, and it is tearing you apart.’
‘It’s just the shock.’
‘No it isn’t, my love. Tell us what is really in your heart.’
Chapter Forty-one
They each held a hand; Aunt Marie, with her long aristocratic fingers, Rose Polcarrow holding the other tightly in her lap. Neither would let go, both waiting until I found my voice.
It was more of a whisper. ‘Edmund lied to the innkeeper this morning. He told him he was going back to Pendowrick to meet a man who was looking for him. But for my coachman, I would believe Edmund to have gone home. But . . . instead, he left his horse in the stables of the Queen’s Head and took the stagecoach to Bodmin – I only know this because my coachman asked in the stables and they told him Edmund gave instructions to stable his horse under the name of Mr Owen. And that makes it so much worse.’
Aunt Marie drew a deep breath. ‘He did not lie to your face, but he went to considerable effort to conceal his true destination?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you believe you must protect him now because of the love you once bore him?’
‘Yes . . . I do.’
‘It was a very long time ago. You were so young. He swept you off your feet and you loved him with a passion. The first stirrings of a young woman’s heart can be very powerful – and the flowering of passion can be mistaken for true love.’
‘No, Aunt Marie, I really loved him . . . I vowed to love him. No one understood him like I did. It wasn’t just the stirrings of passion – it was so much more than that. It was as if I was sent to protect him. I had such strength – it was as if he needed my strength and together we were whole.’
Her voice softened, a sigh of resignation. ‘And after such a long time, the passion returned – you felt the same great stirring as before? He took you in his arms and when he kissed you again, the years disappeared? You melted with the same urgency and now you seek to defend him, just like before? Is that how it is, my love?’ She leaned forward, pressing my hand to her lips.
I needed to say it. I needed to speak my thoughts, like a boil to be lanced. ‘No . . . not at all. That’s how I wanted it to be . . . how I thought it would be. But it wasn’t like that. I’m trying so hard to love him, but there’s no draw, no sense of belonging or wanting. It isn’t his scars, I’m used to that and I don’t find them frightening. It’s just . . . I couldn’t let him kiss me – my whole body went cold. I felt so fearful.’
‘Of course you did, my love. After all these years – how can you just step back into loving him when you love Luke so much? You cannot kiss one man when you are so passionate about another.’
Rose Polcarrow’s eyes held mine – beautiful mesmerizing eyes, fringed with dark lashes. ‘Do you feel drawn to protect Edmund because you can’t desert him – that morally you can’t give up on him? Or do you fear he’ll turn on you? Is it physical fear you feel?’
‘I don’t think he’d ever hurt me, but he’s come back so angry . . . his rage flashes like a sheet of white fury across his face. His sister Constance has seen it – that’s why she asked to stay with us – but I can understand his anger. I understand how men need help when they return from war. His estate’s in ruin, he’s spent years away from his responsibilities and his mother has just died. I can understand his anger.’
Those bright eyes held mine. ‘Do you fear you can’t break your promise to him? That you’re bound to him?’
‘Yes. Well . . . probably. But I’ve lost my trust in him . . . and my fear is that all those lonely years of heartbreak spen
t grieving for him might have been better spent.’
I had said it; dear God, I had said it. ‘I’ve always defended Edmund against Mother’s censure – I’ve always hidden my hurt at his abrupt departure, but last night . . . well, it’s as though I’m finally seeing things clearly – as though I’ve been wearing blinkers all these years, that everything I believed of him was a lie . . . that he never really loved me. That all the love was on my side.’
Aunt Marie reached for her brandy. ‘He told you, to your face, that he didn’t love you?’
‘No . . . he’s very clear about his love – and how we’re to be together. And there’s definitely passion in him. In Pendowrick he wanted to kiss me – he was about to get very passionate but I couldn’t let him touch me. But it’s not about now . . . it’s really about what happened before he left.’
‘You have reason to doubt him before he left?’
‘I’ve always defended him rushing off like that . . . always found reasons to explain it, but I’m beginning to think Mother might be right. I think I’ve been burying my hurt all these years. I thought I was making too much of it, that I was being selfish. I told myself love was unconditional, that I must excuse him – but last night, he showed such insensitivity.’
‘What did he say?’
‘When he left for London I sent him a miniature portrait and he promised to return the favour. I reminded him the last time I saw him and he promised to sit for one. I know it sounds trivial but most sailors send their loved ones a token . . . a keepsake for them to hold.’
‘Of course they do! I still have Alex’s. A midshipman, just like Edmund.’
‘Well, he never sent it, and never mentioned it. But last night, I found out he had commissioned one – that he’d sat for one and even chosen its frame, but he never sent it to me.’
I could have said the house was on fire for their sudden reaction, both of them gasping in horror. Aunt Marie dropped my hand. ‘You are not serious? He sat for a miniature portrait and never sent it to you?’
‘I wouldn’t have known if George Halliday hadn’t mentioned it. And Edmund just shrugged it off. . . he said he didn’t think to look in his trunk when he collected his uniform, and that when he found it wasn’t there, he thought he hadn’t ordered it correctly.’
‘Nonsense! The man left for war without either sending his picture to his fiancée or leaving a forwarding address so it could reach you? That cannot be. Who is George Halliday?’
‘He’s a friend from childhood. I knew him better than Edmund but by chance they were both having their uniforms measured in London at the same time. George said Edmund had insisted on an encrusted frame . . . but he never sent it to me.’
Rose Polcarrow let go of my hand, walking swiftly to the silver tray to pour herself a brandy. She looked back, her eyes flashing – the eyes of Rose Pengelly, the shipbuilder’s daughter who kept every member of the Corporation under tight control; fiery Rose Pengelly with her chestnut hair and her unparalleled intelligence.
‘I understand how you feel, Amelia, and I’d feel the same. What you’re really saying is that either it was a genuine mistake and he really did forget it in the hurry of collecting his uniform – in which case he was hardly thinking of you and showing no regret at leaving you – or he sent it to someone else.’
To voice it like that. To bring it out into the open, it was as if I could breathe again, as if all the anger I was hiding had finally found its voice. ‘It’s not the only thing that makes me doubt him. He had my miniature with him on board ship . . . and if he really loved me . . . if he was planning to desert, then why didn’t he take it with him? Frederick wears Charity’s next to his heart at all times, so why didn’t Edmund? He left it behind and it was found with his possessions.’
Aunt Marie gulped the last dregs of her brandy. ‘Mon dieu, l’homme est un bâtard insensible. I know what my husband would think – that he left it behind to prove he wasn’t deserting – why else would he not have it on him?’
Rose was still frowning. ‘But if there was someone else? A maid? A married woman? Someone unsuitable. What if he joined the navy, planning to desert so he could be with her?’
‘Yes . . . what if he has been with another woman? I’m beginning to doubt everything he’s told me. Otherwise, why not tell me the portrait was with the artist?’
‘Which often happens.’
Their furious support was everything I needed. ‘If he had loved another woman, then I would have let him go. I’d have been heartbroken, of course, but I would have survived . . . it’s just the terrible thought that all those years of grieving might have been for nothing.’
Rose Polcarrow’s lips pursed. ‘I’d feel just the same, only a lot angrier. Would it help if we could prove there was no other woman – that he was just insensitive and rushed off with too much on his mind? Or, even better, that he’s a lying bastard and knows exactly where the miniature is?’
I smiled at her fury; her words and mine.
‘I feel bruised by him. I can’t explain it very well. I feel cold towards him . . . angry that he might have lied to me before he left.’
‘He had his uniform fitted in London and they sent his trunk to be collected?’ There was something in the lift of Rose’s voice, a sudden a glint in her eye. ‘I don’t expect you know which tailor he used, and where it was sent?’
‘It was Gieves in London. Frederick uses them. They sent it to Plymouth Dock.’
‘Excellent.’ Rose’s smile broadened. ‘You might not be aware of how tailors work, Amelia, because I can’t imagine it’s ever been an issue, but newly commissioned officers often can’t afford their uniforms – they pay by instalments. Either when they get paid, or when prize money begins to trickle through. You know this, don’t you, Marie?’
Aunt Marie nodded, her voice also lifting. ‘I know what you’re going to suggest, Rose, my dear, and it is definitely worth a chance.’
I must have looked blank, staring back at them with their conspiratorial glances.
Aunt Marie patted my hand. ‘It is always better to know than to suspect. Suspicion is one thing, proof is quite another. What Rose means, my dear, is that naval outfitters often keep back items – watches, clothes, anything of value – until the last bill is paid. They hold the articles as surety and keep them in safe boxes . . . often in vaults. They also keep meticulous records.’
‘They might have the miniature?’
Aunt Marie nodded. ‘Sir Richard Melville was a gambler – a profligate man with no morals. A midshipman’s sea trunk is very costly, and yes, I think they might very well be holding back the miniature as surety, and Edmund may be too embarrassed by his lack of funds to tell you. Either that or they might have the forwarding address to where it was sent. One very quick visit to Plymouth Dock, and your mind will be put at rest.’
‘But it won’t be a quick visit, Aunt Marie. I can’t go to Plymouth Dock just like that. I’ll have to go all the way back to Bodmin and then take the turnpike, and it’s not our carriage, it’s Mrs Lilly’s . . . I have to return it. And I’d never be allowed to go all the way from Truro when I get back. Mother gives me a lot of freedom but she’d never sanction that – especially in winter. What if we write to the tailor?’
Rose Polcarrow stood by the French window, pulling back the heavy drapes. Opening the latch, she stepped on to the terrace and a blast of salty air filled the room. Framed in the moonlight, her chin held high, she sniffed the air like Captain de la Croix had done. ‘Perfect,’ she called back. ‘We shall sail there. The wind’s south-easterly. It’s a steady breeze and absolutely perfect. It will be cold, but it’ll be quick. I’ll have you back in no time.’
She left the curtains undrawn, moonlight drenching the terrace, flooding the balustrade in silver light. Her smile was radiant, and I found myself smiling back.
‘You’re not going to ask Sir James to sail me to Plymouth?’
Her smile broadened, a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘No, Am
elia. I’m going to sail you to Plymouth. L’Aigrette is my boat; my father built her for me. Well, not exactly for me, he built her for the revenue but she was stolen and James found her and gave her to me as a wedding present. She’s the fastest cutter there is, and she’s mine – but I believe James may be persuaded to come with us.’
I caught her mischief, her energy; it was as if I had come alive again. I could feel the blood pumping in my veins, the air in my lungs. In order to believe in Edmund, I needed the truth.
‘But Mother will be worried. I can’t go without telling her.’
Rose’s eyes were alight. ‘Then send your carriage back with a letter – after Plymouth Dock, we can sail to Falmouth, and upriver to Truro. You’ll be just behind the coach, but at least she’ll know who you’re with. James always has business in Truro. My mother can stay with the girls. They love how she spoils them – they’ll hardly miss us.’
She reached for the bell-pull, smiling at the footman. ‘Tell Sir James he can return now,’ she said. ‘It’ll mean an early start. We’ve missed this tide, but it turns again at five. If the wind holds – and I think it will – I can get you to dock in four hours. That gives you two hours to find the outfitter before we head to Falmouth. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds perfect. Thank you.’
We were still smiling when the men entered. Just one glance at his wife and James Polcarrow’s handsome face relaxed.
‘James, Miss Carew would like to go to Plymouth. There’s something she needs to do . . . and as we’re so close, it seems a shame not to take her.’
His smile broadened. ‘I take it we’re to catch the early tide?’
Chapter Forty-two
Polcarrow, Fosse
Monday 12th February 1798, 4:30 a.m.
I woke to Rose’s soft whisper. ‘Here’s some hot water. There’s food on the boat so we’ll go straight to the harbour. Everything’s ready.’ Candlelight flickered across her face and I had to look twice. Her hair was swept back, concealed beneath a large cap; she was wearing a jacket and breeches, a pair of men’s boots. ‘Luke is with James. This is Tilly – she’ll help you get ready.’