by Nicola Pryce
‘No – there’s no one else. He was telling the truth. He was in a hurry – he changed into his uniform and rushed off just like he said he had. He wants to find the miniature as much as we do. He sent an express.’
‘To the tailor?’ Her hair was still pinned beneath her large hat, spray lingering on her thick leather jacket. She was so beautiful, those long dark lashes in her perfect oval face, her cheeks now full of colour.
‘Yes, we read it. He must have sent it straight away – that very night. He asked if the miniature was there and if so, could they send it to him. Oh, Rose, I’ve wronged him and I feel terrible.’
She was staring at the jacket still clutched in my hands. I wanted to put it to my lips, but I kept it pressed to my heart. ‘He left his jacket behind in his hurry . . . and just seeing it, just holding it . . . has brought him back to me. Over the years, I’d grown distant from him – I had no image of him – not in my hands, nor in my mind. I’d lost sight of him, and when he returned I was almost ready to let him go. There just wasn’t the same sense of love . . . but holding his jacket – holding this worn, familiar, rather messy jacket – brings back all my love for him. It’s so painful, so fierce. It’s come from nowhere and it’s making me remember how much I loved him . . . as if all my love has just come flooding back. He needs me, Rose. He loves me so much, and I love him. I won’t let them hang him – I won’t. Uncle Alex has to clear his name.’
She stared at the jacket. ‘You’ve been very angry with him and suddenly that anger’s lifted. It’s as if it’s freed you to love him again – like opening a floodgate that’s been holding back your love. I can understand it very well.’ She reached out, squeezing my wrist. ‘Amelia, I have to go above – they need my help. The tide’s turning and we must catch it. Stay below. Getting out to sea is going to be rough but it’ll be more comfortable once we point to Falmouth. We’ll get you home as quickly as we can.’
She stood up. ‘I’ve never met Edmund and I’m more than a little fond of Luke which makes this very hard. But love is love, Amelia, and once it has you in its grip there’s nothing you can do about it.’
James Polcarrow’s shout echoed down the hatch and a shadow crossed above me. The sails were rising, the boat beginning to tip, the sudden sideways lurch confirming we had slipped anchor. I needed to compose myself. The black cat with her huge green eyes was staring at me as I laid the jacket on the table. I remembered it so clearly; he was wearing it as he knelt beside me at the altar.
I smoothed it out. The back was scuffed, a small tear by the pocket. Suddenly, my heart jolted. A hard lump, definitely a hard lump. I turned it over, searching the pocket for what must be inside. It was empty. The lump was not in the pocket but lower down – somewhere between the fold of the back pleat and the pocket lining. There must be a hole in the pocket and I ran my fingers round it, turning it out as far as it would go. The top side of the pocket had become unstitched – there was a small gap, and I reached inside it, expecting the line of stitches to give way. They stayed secure, not opening under the pressure of my fingers. I examined it carefully – it had not become unstitched but had been deliberately unpicked and sewn again.
Squeezing my hand through the satin lining, I felt the smooth outline of a package and pulled it back through the gap, slightly tearing the lining. My name and address were on the front – Edmund’s writing, but it looked scrawled and written in haste. Four seals held the package closed, the red wax brittle, and I pulled off the string, slipping my finger beneath each seal in turn.
A letter was wrapped round something hard and my fingers fumbled as I unrolled the pages. I could hardly breathe, but found myself staring into the frightened eyes of a black-haired midshipman. I barely recognized him. He looked so gaunt and a shiver ran down my spine. He looked ill, thinner, his vulnerable eyes haunted and sad.
His writing was wild, untidy, the pages covered with blotches.
24 Hanover Square
London
July 10th 1793
My darling Amelia, my wife, my only love,
I am coming to you. Expect me within weeks – I need to leave London. I can’t stand this torment a moment longer. At first, I thought I was imagining it. I’m so used to Francis mocking me – he always has – but recently, there’s a new viciousness in him which scares me terribly. He watches me constantly. He copies me – all my mannerisms, even the way I wear my hair. He sits at the dining table and his eyes bore into mine, and I then I realize he’s copying me exactly – doing what I’m doing – tapping his fingertips, tossing his hair, smiling back at me, his grotesque leer stopping me from eating.
It’s as if he’s turning into me – his clothes, the way he wears his hat, the way he holds his cane. I turn round to find he’s walking behind me, copying the way I walk. And all the time there’s evil in his eyes, as if he knows he’s scaring me. I can see he enjoys it and takes pleasure in my fear. He’s making me doubt myself – I can tell that’s his intention. And it’s working. I can’t eat. I barely sleep. I don’t want to leave my room. Last week, it got worse. I went back to the office and all my accounts had lines drawn straight through them. Right through all my careful lists of which spices to buy, from where, from whom – everything had been defaced and it must have been him.
Who else would do it? I couldn’t take them to Father because I knew Francis would deny it and one of the clerks would be dismissed with dishonour. They are good men and they need their jobs and Francis knew I’d say nothing.
He has Father’s ear, he manipulates him, but Father thinks the world of him. He does everything Francis tells him. Francis plies him with drink – I even think he puts laudanum in his brandy. He takes him to brothels and I can say and do nothing. They taunt me so constantly.
But that’s nothing to what I’ve found out. My dearest Amelia, Francis has been taking your letters before they get to me. I wait for them, I long for them, but he must have been paying the footman. I realize that now. I saw him hand a letter to Francis and I never thought it might be yours. More and more, I began to think you weren’t writing to me. And then yesterday, with Father’s head laying on the dining table, he quoted my letter back to me word for word – the exact words I’d written to you. My loving words but with such hatred in his voice.
He was mocking me, and I just stared at him in terror. He’d taken my letter from the tray before it could be posted and I believe he has done that many times. He was looking at me with such hatred – such a cold, white, furious hatred – and my bowels just turned to water.
That’s how scared I was. He takes the letters I write to you. I don’t know which ones you’ve received, if any. Then he said, ‘I’m writing to her. She lives for my letters. Perhaps you should know it’s me she loves, not you. She’s always loved me. We used to kiss in the barn when you weren’t looking – deep, throaty kisses and I knew she wanted more. She used to beg me for more, and I’ll give her more, too. I’ve a lot more to give her than you have. Do you even like women, or is it men you prefer?’
I took to my room. Amelia. I know that was weak, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t believe him – not for one second – but his voice and his spiteful face so full of loathing stayed with me. He said it with such a smile – an evil smile – and I feared for my sanity. I hate him, Amelia. I’ve always hated him, but now he knows I do, and I don’t feel safe. That’s why I must come to you. I’ll tell your parents everything, and I’ll beg them to let us marry. We’ll stay with them until I’m twenty-one, and then my allowance will start, and I’ll not be beholden to my father. Expect me soon – within the week, if I’m lucky. I need your strength, my darling Amelia. You’re my rock. I need you so very desperately.
I turned the page, my hands shaking. The next section was written in different ink, dated three days later.
July 13th
My dearest Amelia, I have carried this letter with me, and as yet I’ve had no chance to post it. He follows me everywhere. I can’t leave the h
ouse without him by my side. If I go to post this, he’ll grab my wrist and force it from me. I can’t trust any of the servants, not now. I’m like a prisoner, his cruel smile always mocking me, his spiteful comments drawing laughter from Father. Yesterday he locked me in my room, and I didn’t even bang on the door, I just stayed there without food. And then he came. He just unlocked the door and strode in, locking it behind him. He was smiling that horrible taunting grin, opening every drawer, tipping the contents on to the floor, and I couldn’t stop him. I just stood and watched. He had a huge whip in his hand, and he kept slicing the air with it – so close to my face, I could feel the draught on my cheek. He said, ‘You’re not writing Amelia another whinging letter, are you?’
He emptied my ink on to the carpet, and he laughed because I had soiled my trousers again. That’s how terrified he’s made me. And he loves that. He kept saying, ‘You’re not man enough for Amelia – she needs a real man. One who knows just how to please her. And I do.’
I gripped the table, fighting my nausea. The petrified eyes in the miniature were staring back at me. I turned the page. The ink was the same, but the writing almost impossible to read.
Chapter Forty-six
July 14th
Amelia. I have such reason to fear. Last night I went downstairs. It was late, and I thought no one was up but the door to Father’s study was open and I stared through the smallest crack. Father was slumped on his desk with Francis beside him, holding open a large book. He pulled Father’s head up, forcing Father to look at him, and as Father’s head lolled back against the chair I saw such terror in his eyes.
Francis was mocking him, just like he mocked me – holding open the book and whispering so cruelly. ‘I’m your eldest son, for God’s sake. I need recompense. I need provision. I’m not prepared to stay quiet any longer. I’m nearly twenty-one and I need recognition. You need to pay for the terrible ill you did my mother. You used her. You used that poor woman and if you don’t change this will, I’ll expose you – I’ll tell everyone that while Lady Melville was about to give birth to your son, her sister, only three months earlier, had given birth to his elder brother.
Yes, Amelia – my brother. I can hardly take it in, but I know it to be true. We’ve always looked like brothers. There’s very little difference between us except Francis is stronger, and Father didn’t deny it. He just shook his head. He sounded so pitiful, crying as he answered. ‘I’ve given you an allowance – more than I can afford. You’re bankrupting me. I won’t change my will. I can’t do that to my wife, or my children.’ I thought Francis was going to kill him. ‘Your children?’ he mocked. ‘I’m your eldest child.’ And he grabbed him by the collar, shaking him violently, and then Father just picked up the pen and wrote on the will. I didn’t see what he wrote but I saw the gluttonous smile on Francis’s face as he stood over him. His tongue ran over his lips, his eyes pinpoint cruel.
I watched Father hand it over for his approval and Francis just stood there reading it. Then he walked to the safe and turned the lock, but he didn’t give the key back to Father. He put it in his own pocket. I could barely walk, but somehow I staggered back up the stairs. I wanted to lock my door, but the key was missing. I just lay there, thinking he’d come in. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke there was a shadow by my bed, a man standing beside me, but the shadow looked wrong and I saw Francis holding a pillow. It was poised above my head and I just stared at it, knowing that at any moment he could bring it down against my face and I would stand no chance against his strength.
Then I saw his face. There was murder in it. He was smiling that grotesque smile and then he walked away – he just walked away – but at the door he turned and laughed. ‘You didn’t want this pillow, did you?’ he said, and I just lay there. I couldn’t breathe. Amelia, I was so petrified, I think I passed out.
This morning I knew I had to summon up my courage and talk to Father. I had seen his fear and knew I must go to him. I was terrified but I went early and locked the door behind me. Father was surprised to see me, but I just walked up to his bed and came straight out with it. ‘You’ve acknowledged Francis as your son?’ And he answered, ‘Yes, but he’s not my heir. You are.’ And I just stood there. ‘You’ve just signed our death warrants,’ I said. ‘Now Francis will kill both Connie and me. He’s evil. He’s always been evil. I saw what he did to you last night, and I woke to see him holding a pillow above my head. It won’t be that, though – it’ll be poison. He’ll get me first, and then he’ll go down to Cornwall and poison Connie.’
Father just gripped me to him. ‘I’ll write another will,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll call for my attorney and I’ll get him to keep it safe – it’ll be dated after the one I wrote last night so it will be my last, valid, will. I’ll say Francis is not my son . . . I’ll leave him an allowance as my nephew . . . I’ll get my attorney to sign it and keep it under lock and key. Only Francis must never know I’ve changed it. Never tell him.’ He was shaking, looking over his shoulder at the door.
Yet even in my terrible anxiety, I understood what my father clearly didn’t. ‘But he must know,’ I cried. ‘That’s just the point. He must know he’s not to inherit after our deaths . . . because if he doesn’t know that he’ll kill me, and he’ll kill Connie. He has to know there’s no benefit to killing us. He has to understand that he has no claim to your estate. What proof does he have that you’re his father?’
He was crying, sobbing, his eyes pleading. – ‘There’s no proof,’ he whispered, ‘nothing at all. No one knows, not even your mother. There’s no proof whatsoever. Edmund, I promise. Francis wheedled the truth out of me six years ago and I’ve given him a vast allowance ever since. He’s ruining me.’
Then he put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. ‘I want you safe, Edmund. I want you away from him. I want you where he can’t get you. He needs to think you’re far away. You must join the navy and you must hurry. We’ll take up Captain Owen’s offer, but it will be you that goes, not Francis. We’ll get everything ready – but we have to hurry. The ship leaves on August 4th. You’ve got three weeks. Three weeks and you’ll be away from him. After six months, resign your commission – do anything you want, but stay away from Francis. Go home and marry Amelia and take her somewhere safe. Promise me you’ll stay away from Pendowrick? Send me word where you are but keep changing your name. Use the word glorious in each letter and I’ll know it’s you. I’ll sort something. I can’t have him keeping this hold over me.’
The boat was rising, falling, plunging up and down, a slight roll as the bow sliced the water. Timbers were creaking, the cutlery jangling on the brass hooks in the galley. Glancing through the hatchway, I saw the sails hauled tight, the sky a brilliant blue. The cat was still staring at me, the table sloping at a definite angle. I turned the page.
The ink had changed, the writing neater and more compact.
Dearest Amelia, I’ve just sat for a miniature portrait. The artist is employed by the tailors and he assures me it will be ready before I go. He had a number of portraits with the uniform already painted, so I chose the one most like my uniform and he only needs to paint my face. George Halliday was there, and it was wonderful to talk to him of home. He said he’d seen you about six months ago and said you were looking well. He helped me chose my uniform, but I wasn’t at all interested because I’m not going to wear it for long. He was so excited to be joining his ship – he was so proud, and I tried to pretend I was, too.
I left Francis in the office and hurried out of the back door and every moment during the fitting, all I could think was that Francis might have followed me and was spying on me like he always does. I kept looking out of the window – I even thought I’d seen him – but that’s how scared I’ve become. He was back in the office when I returned so it can’t have been him. It’s vital he doesn’t know. He mustn’t stop me going.
It was only afterwards I realized I should have given this letter to George – I had it with me but
I’m not thinking the way I should think any more. I jump at the slightest shadow. I shall join the ship and after a short while, I’ll resign my commission, just as Father has instructed – and I’ll come straight to you. You can help me decide what to do, but I can’t be with Francis a moment longer.
When we got back, Father said it had been a glorious day and I knew that was a sign that his attorney had been, and I started laughing – terrible nervous laughter like a madman in Bedlam – and Francis started laughing too. ‘Yes, it’s been a glorious day,’ he mocked, and he just kept laughing long after I had stopped. And now, it’s just struck me. What if he knows? What if it really was him I saw from the tailor? What if he overheard my conversation with Father?
I won’t post this letter until I get the portrait. He’ll have it ready when I go for my next fitting. I’ve ordered most of the shirts from the shelves but the uniform needs to be fitted. I leave for Plymouth in two weeks and they are adamant they’ll have everything done in time. Once I’m safely on board, Father will tell Francis about the new will – and that it is with the attorney for safe keeping. He will know it post-dates the one in the safe and he’ll have no access to it. Francis is not to be acknowledged as a son, but he can expect a generous allowance. I don’t believe Father will change his mind, I believe he means it. I can sense a new coldness between them now and though he smiles and laughs at Francis’s mockery, I no longer find it hurtful.
With no chance of him inheriting the title and estate, there’s no reason for him to kill me or Connie, but I have to get away because just the sight of him makes my heart pound and I fear for my mental well-being.
I’ll wait until the last moment to pack my belongings. The trunk is being sent from Gieves to their shop for collection in Plymouth Dock. I’ll take as many silver ornaments with me and as much money as I can because I’ll need money if I’m to resign my commission and find my way back. I love you, my darling. I’m a shadow of my former self but the moment I see you again I will blossom. You are my rock – I draw my strength from your laughter, from your smile, from all the love you have not just for me, but for everyone; for the whole of humanity, for every servant and estate worker who you stop and talk to – they all love you, but only a fraction of how much I adore you.