by Nicola Pryce
The young maid poured water into a basin and went to stoke the fire. I had not heard her light it. I’d thought I would never sleep but the mattress had been so comfortable and I felt refreshed. I slipped from the bed, splashing my face, my excitement mounting. Tilly helped me into my travelling skirt and I fastened the long row of buttons on my jacket. My hair would just have to do. Following Tilly’s silent footsteps down the elaborate wooden staircase, I joined the others in the hall.
James Polcarrow was almost unrecognizable. Gone was his immaculate jacket and perfectly pinned cravat, in their place a heavily oiled jacket and leather breeches, a large hat Iw and sturdy boots. Round his neck was a thick woollen scarf. ‘Excellent. I hope you slept well, Miss Carew?’
‘Yes, thank you, I did.’
Luke’s thick overcoat was buttoned to the neck, his familiar hat in his hand. He took my bag from Tilly, glancing at me more in hope than encouragement. James Polcarrow nodded. ‘All set? Come . . .’
A cart and horse were waiting on the moonlit drive, the air cold, a slight breeze against my cheeks. Rose slipped beside me on the wooden bench. ‘The wind’s still south-easterly,’ she said, lifting a basket onto her knees. ‘We’ll make good progress.’
Luke and James Polcarrow squeezed next to each other on the bench opposite and a burly red-haired man shut the door of the cart. Seth let go of the horse’s bridle and we started down the long drive. The gatehouse was open, the iron wheels ringing across the cobbles, jolting us from side to side as we approached the quay. L’Aigrette was moored along the harbour wall, her sleek black hull almost indistinguishable against the inky water.
Moonlight danced across the river mouth, flooding the ships’ masts. The air was biting, the wind gathering, and I gripped James Polcarrow’s hand as he helped me along the gangplank. It rose and fell beneath my feet and I lifted my skirt, Luke one step behind me. A burly man with thick-set shoulders and white hair helped me over the gunwale and on to the scrubbed deck. Already Luke looked pale.
He must have seen my concern. ‘No, honestly, I’ll be fine. They’ve given me ginger – I’ve a whole bag – and Lady Polcarrow’s brought peppermint leaves. I’ll be fine.’ He was wrapped up against the cold, the collar of his travelling coat pulled up, his hat pulled low. He looked up at the mast. ‘She’s a beautiful boat. Have you been on her before?’
‘Once, when they came to Mother’s concert. They anchored below Trenwyn House. They had another captain then – Captain Lefèvre – but we didn’t sail.’
The white-haired man spoke. ‘Do you require me to stay, Sir James?’
‘Yes, thank you, Jago. Just as well if we’re going on to Falmouth. Are we set?’
He nodded. He, too, was wearing a heavily oiled leather jacket, the same heavy boots, a thatch of white hair under his master’s hat. ‘Aye, set and ready to slip.’
To the east, a thin band of grey streaked the black sky. The town lay quiet, a group of men watching from the shadows on the quayside. Woodsmoke drifted on the air, the rumble of another cart. Lamps were swinging on the anchored ships, shouts rising from their decks. The turn of the tide; each ship getting ready to slip her moorings or heave up her anchor. James Polcarrow stood at the bow, peering across the water to the small gap between the cliffs. ‘It looks clear – we’ll get going straight away.’
‘Yes, Sir James. Will you take the helm?’
‘No, Lady Polcarrow will. We’ll make it out in this wind, but others can’t point so close – we can’t risk getting caught behind them.’ He ran down the deck. ‘Take her as close as you can, Rose.’ He turned to me. ‘There’s a stove below – you’ll be very warm.’
I drew my cloak around me. ‘I’m fine. I’d like to watch.’
Luke looked uneasy. ‘Can I help at all?’
James pointed to the rope securing us to the harbour wall. ‘On Rose’s command, release this end . . . and pull it in from here. Then coil it neatly.’ He smiled. ‘It’s always better to work a ship. It’s being a passenger that makes you ill.’
Rose held the helm, grasping the tiller in both hands. Looking across the river, she shouted her command. ‘Release the bow . . . we’re with the current. Hoist the jib to port.’
The ship turned slowly from the harbour wall, pulled by the steady flow beneath us. James and Jago uncoiled the rope and the small sail filled. ‘Now the foresail.’ Working in unison they pulled the ropes and the sail unfurled, flapping as if out of control. It filled and we pointed across the river to Porthruan.
‘Release the stern,’ shouted Rose. ‘That’s you, Luke. Let the rope go, then bring it in on the other side. That’s it.’ Her laughter echoed down the ship. ‘Well done – we’re away. We’ll make a sailor of you yet!’
We were pointing close to the wind, the swell increasing, the bow rising and falling. Pushed by the immense force beneath us, pulled by the sails, we were gathering speed, slipping silently out into the black sea, the first ship to get away. The wind was freshening, the waves building. The clock struck five and Rose waited until the last chime was carried by the wind.
‘Ready about,’ she called. ‘Take the sail to starboard and hoist the mainsail.’
The sails filled, a sudden surge pulling us forward. James and Jago heaved against the ropes and the mainsail lifted, unfurling into a graceful arch. The ship leaned sideways, slicing the waves, and Rose wedged her foot against the seat beside her. The wind blew against her cheeks as her eyes searched the darkness.
‘It’s a lee shore so we’ll have to keep well clear of the rocks before we tack. Then it’s straight to Plymouth.’
Above us, braziers were burning on cliffs, the outlines of soldiers staring down from the battlements – the improved fortifications that Major Trelawney had worked so hard to rebuild. They were watching us, recording every ship that came and left. French spies had used these harbours before, and Major Trelawney was not the only one who thought they would return. James dipped a lantern as a signal, swinging it three times to the left, and I pulled my hood tighter.
The wind was fiercer now we were out of the harbour, cutting like ice, making me catch my breath. The swell was growing, the bow dipping deeper beneath the waves. Luke slipped to my side and we stared down at the white froth swirling around us. He was so close, his jacket against my cloak. ‘Do you feel all right?’ I said.
‘Surprisingly so.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Are you cold? Shall we go below?’
‘No, let’s stay on deck . . .’ I wanted to be with him. I was aching to be with him. ‘Luke, you know you told me to trust the man I loved?’
He nodded, his cheeks now full of colour, the wind whipping his hair beneath his hat. His voice sounded forced. ‘Yes, but it’s important to understand that you might question that trust . . . there’s a lot we can do for Edmund. We haven’t heard his side of the story yet . . .’
‘Luke, I can’t desert him . . . I must see he gets the best representation.’
He drew me away from the drenching spray. ‘I know. He must have acted under the severest provocation. Here, don’t get wet . . . or we’ll freeze to death.’
I wanted the spray on my face; I wanted to breathe the air. ‘Luke?’ He was staring out to sea, gripping the polished rail, and I slipped my hand closer. ‘I haven’t lost trust in the man I love – I trust and love him more than ever. It’s Edmund I’ve lost trust in.’
He turned and my heart burned with such ferocity. I saw the love in his eyes, his desperate attempt to keep his mouth steady. His hand grasped mine and we stood staring at the white foam breaking from the crests, the fine spray wetting our cheeks. I could see him fighting his emotion. I wanted to turn to him, to rest my head against his chest. I wanted him to hold me.
His voice was strained, a sudden sharpness. ‘We don’t know anything for certain. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation. Don’t judge him . . . we cannot know the stress . . . the situation he might have found himself in.’ He took his hand from mine. ‘Why are we ru
shing to Plymouth, Amelia?’
‘Edmund sat for a miniature and never sent it to me. Rose thinks it might have been kept as surety, but there’s just a small chance he might have sent it to someone else. He dismissed it so lightly and I need to know why.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sure it’s the former. He could never love another woman – not when he had you.’
The love in his eyes made my heart burn. I had loved him from first sight – from our first tentative conversations, from his visits to my herb garden. His insistence I knew more about herbs than I was telling people, his determination to have my opinion heard. He had drawn me out, inch by inch, day by day, week by week, until I had laughed and danced again and wrote long essays on how hospitals should grow ascorbic fruit and plant their own physic gardens. He had called me Lady Herbalist, insisted I compiled my paintings into a book.
I had to fight the deep ache in my heart. ‘Our mothers knew what they were doing – throwing us together like this – but it’s so cruel. I was better when I couldn’t see you . . . or touch you. To put you through this – to just abandon you like . . .’
His hand reached out, warm, comforting, filling me with such pain. ‘You haven’t abandoned me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Love is love, Amelia. It’s too powerful a force to resist . . . and if two men love one woman, then someone will get hurt. You need time . . . to know in your heart which one of us you will choose. I don’t feel abandoned – I know it’s tearing you apart.’
‘It’s like a knife, constantly stabbing me. I expected to love him again. I thought I would . . . I keep telling myself I want to love him, and I’m trying to love him, but by loving him, I can’t love you, and that’s far worse. It’s impossible.’
He clasped my hand. ‘Edmund’s been to hell and back . . . and his story must be heard.’ He pressed my gloved hand to his lips. ‘I love you, Amelia. I adore everything about you . . . and I will do so until my dying breath . . . but whatever you decide . . . I will honour your decision. Last night, I lay awake tormented by such hope. I’ve never wished ill on another man, especially one you hold so dear, but I lay there thinking such ill of him, wanting him to—’ He bit his lip.
The wind was whipping our clothes, the deck plunging beneath us, and I buried my face in my hands. He cleared his throat. ‘I believe men don’t change in essence – but when they suffer great hardship? Who knows how we ourselves would react under circumstances that push us to the limit? I believe you must trust in your love for him, because I don’t believe you capable of misjudging a man’s character. You need time . . . we need time. ’
He handed me his handkerchief and I was glad of the spray on my face. Glad for the excuse to wipe my eyes. Behind us, a shout rang across the deck.
‘Ready to go about. We’re two miles off shore and that’s enough to clear Lantivet Rock. I’m turning east. Full east – 90 degrees on the compass. Luke and Amelia, come back here, or you’ll go overboard. I want you here, in the cockpit, or down—’ The wind was whistling, the waves splashing, Rose’s last words lost to the wind.
‘Ready,’ James and Jago shouted back. They held their ropes, listening for her command. She waited for us to be wedged safely beside her and shouted.
‘Going full east.’
James and Jago hauled the sails to the other side where the wind caught them, filling them like wings. We were flying now, ploughing the waves, the crests breaking over the bow, a steady stream of white froth washing over the lower deck. They pulled the sails taught and I gripped the rail, Rose holding her course, her leather gloves gripping the tiller, her thick oiled breeches taking the spray.
‘Three hours, at this speed,’ she said as James came to sit beside us.
His cheeks were flushed, his large hat with its turned-up brow framing his face. ‘How about some breakfast?’ He turned to Jago. ‘Is it my turn or yours to make the coffee?’
Jago’s response was instant. ‘It’s yer turn, Sir James, but stay where ye are. I’ve got it ready. There’s coffee an’ ham buns. And plenty of it, so I hope ye’re hungry.’
We were pointing east, the grey streaks of dawn turning pink, lighting the sky ahead. The stars were fading, the moonlight less intense. A faint shadow of land rose to our left and James pointed to some lights just visible through the swell. ‘That’s the entrance to Polperro harbour – we’re making excellent progress. I’ll get us some blankets. The moment you feel too cold, you’re to go below. I’ll not have anyone on my ship incapacitated from cold.’
For the effective cure of motion sickness, whether it be in a carriage or on the sea: add a full half-teaspoon of freshly grated ginger, or two teaspoons of dry powdered ginger, to a cup of newly boiled water. Add a pinch of sugar to taste and the top two leaves of a fresh sprig of peppermint. Leave to infuse, then strain through muslin and drink whilst warm.
The chewing of raw ginger, though efficacious to some, is found unpleasant by most, and therefore it is not recommended.
THE LADY HERBALIST
Chapter Forty-three
The distinctive chapel on Rame Head was to our left and I grasped the seat. The swell was strengthening, huge white crests blowing foam across the sea. The wind had freshened, the bowsprit plunging deeper beneath the waves. James gripped the tiller.
‘That’s the entrance to Plymouth Sound. We’ll turn to port . . . take care, the wind will be behind us and the current’s strong.’
We had watched dawn breaking, now a glimmer of wintry sun. Clouds scudded before us, the bitter cold biting my cheeks, but it was bright, the visibility good, the bay opening out like arms welcoming us to safety.
Rose held the telescope to her eye and pointed across the sound. ‘There’s the citadel . . . that’s Drake’s Island. Looks like twenty or more ships anchored.’ She swung the telescope to her left. ‘That’s Cawsand and Kingsand . . . there’s another ten ships in the bay – maybe more. The fleet must be gathering.’
She handed me the telescope and I focused on the huge ships of the line, the sailors scrubbing the decks, the ensigns flying in the wind.
James strained against the force. ‘Ease out the sails. We’ll stay clear of these rocks then cut through to the Hamoaze.’ Jago released the ropes, tying them tightly as the wind whistled through the rigging. ‘Rose, can you take the tiller?’ She nodded, swapping places with him. ‘Head as far into the bay as you can then point to wind. We’ll stand by, ready to take down the mainsail.’
We were flying, skimming across the bay. Rose pointed to wind and James and Jago eased down the sail. With the mainsail furled, the pace slowed and we skirted Drake’s Island, weaving our way through the towering hulls of the anchored ships, slipping close enough to see the cannons behind the gun ports, smell the tar and pitch on the newly caulked decks. Smoke billowed from the land, the sound of banging, a host of small crafts rowing close to the shore. The citadel rose above us, yet more smoke rising, yet more ships anchored as we steered towards the river.
James Polcarrow had one foot on the deck, the other balanced on the bulwark. He looked so at ease, pointing the way for Rose to steer. ‘Dock’s further up. We’ll anchor in Millfield Creek – off Stonehouse Pool. A walkway will take you along the river to Plymouth Dock. Starboard a bit, Rose; these rapids always cause turbulence. Aim between that lugger and the brig. We’ll go in under foresail.’
In the lee of the land, the wind dropped. Jago was on the bow, leaning close to the bowsprit, standing ready to drop the anchor. I heard a loud splash and he called out the depth. ‘That’ll do nicely.’
The anchor held firm and L’Aigrette swung round, pulling gently against her rope. Mud fringed the edge of the creek, several boats lying half-submerged along the shore. The tide was not yet at its height but the river was busy, a myriad of small boats rowing to and from the anchored ships.
Luke emerged from the hatchway carrying a tray of steaming mugs. He handed them round and we clasped them in our frozen hands. ‘You didn’t tell me ther
e was a cat on board!’ he said, looking back at the hatchway and the sleek black cat that had followed him up.
Jago’s bushy white sideburns almost met beneath his chin. His weather-beaten face creased in a smile. ‘That’s Purdue. She’s the real master of this ship.’
James reached into his pocket. ‘I’ve got a letter of introduction here – Sir Alex wants me to go to the Stonehouse Hospital and make some discreet enquiries.’ He looked up. I could not help my sudden gasp – I felt fearful, as if they had only brought me so they could find evidence against Edmund – as if I had given them an excuse to come looking for something that would convict him.
He must have seen my concern. ‘Amelia, please be assured, I’m not condemning Sir Edmund in any way – I believe a man to be innocent until proven guilty.’
He had taken off his oiled-leather coat and was wearing a thick woollen jacket, working men’s breeches, a white-cotton shirt and a red scarf round his neck. His boots were wet, his gloves soaked. He peeled them off.
‘As it happens, I understand provocation very well . . . I myself have been the recipient of great cruelty. I’ve been impressed, flogged and kept in irons, but very few know that about me.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘I, too, was kept below deck in port . . . for nearly two years. I know how it affects a man’s soul. I may not be in the navy, but I have seen good men pushed to the limit of their endurance. And so has your godfather . . . but if we’re to defend Edmund, if Sir Alex has to stand up in a court martial and defend his character, as well as any actions he may have taken, then we must all of us understand why a kind, gentle man who couldn’t even kill a chicken – a first-born son with an estate to inherit – joined the navy and then deserted his ship.’
There was always compassion in James Polcarrow’s eyes, but none more so than now. I had heard his story, of course I had. How he had been kept prisoner on a French ship, chained and kept below decks in harbours. Perhaps that was why I held on with such hope to my belief that Edmund would emerge from this ordeal like James Polcarrow. That he would prove honourable, restore his estate, be compassionate and love his family, and serve his community as well as Sir James did.