A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Splendid,’ came Mother’s joyous reply. ‘But maybe we should make some Turkish delight, instead? Yes, I think we’ll make that. And then, boys, you can teach Uncle Emerson how to slide down the banisters. I think Uncle Emerson would like that very much.’ We heard footsteps, then a call across the hall. ‘Connie, my love?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Clarissa?’

  ‘I’d like you to get ready to receive some visitors, my dear. I have invited two eminently suitable men for your approval – or disapproval – as the case may be. They’ll be here soon. One might be a bit old, I grant you, but the other has a lot of rather splendid qualities and I believe he may make a very suitable match. No pressure, of course, but seeing you are going to inherit the house and estate . . . I feel a certain obligation to your dear mother. You understand, don’t you, my dear?’

  The door closed and we made no move, Luke’s arms staying tightly around me. ‘Thank heavens for Pilchards,’ he whispered, ‘and your wonderfully eccentric parents, who do nothing but think of ways to throw us together.’ His lips brushed my hair, kissing my forehead. ‘Amelia, it’s too soon . . . I understand that. I can wait as long as you need.’ He kissed my forehead again and I thought my heart would burst. I was in the arms of the man I was meant to be with, fate had decreed that many years ago, and I lifted my chin, looking deeply into the eyes of the man I adored.

  ‘No, Luke,’ I whispered. ‘It’s not too soon. It’s not too soon at . . .’

  Our lips touched and a flame burned my heart, the intensity of my love making my eyes water. Luke Bohenna, the kindest, most compassionate man I knew, with his serious studying and his wicked sense of humour. How I loved him. How I adored him.

  His voice was hoarse, wrung with emotion. ‘Dearest Amelia, will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

  I reached up to kiss his lips. ‘I’d love to Luke. There’s nothing I’d love more.’

  He began fumbling in his jacket, first the right pocket, then the left, then the inside lining. ‘Ah! That’s a bit of a nuisance,’ he whispered. ‘I may just have to run home . . .’

  ‘No,’ I whispered back. ‘Don’t leave . . . not now we’re finally alone.’

  We started laughing, softly at first, then louder, the two of us doubling up out of sheer joy. He drew me to him, holding me like he would never let me go. His lips brushed my hair. ‘You haven’t asked me about Joe’s rash?’ he whispered.

  ‘Do you think it looked like Mrs Templeton’s? And Mrs Jennings’s? It follows the same treatment and it’s the exact same timing.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I thought – the rash isn’t contagious but it imitates a fever. It flares for two days and then it fades. Do you think it could be a reaction to the laudanum tincture? What is it? Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Look,’ I whispered, peering from behind the red damask curtain at the two men hurrying across the square; both were tall and slender, one with white hair beneath his tall hat, the other with rather distinctive red hair. Both were wearing dark black jackets and breeches, both with high foreheads and kind eyes. They stopped to adjust their neckties, which were still slightly askew. ‘Mother’s invited Reverend Kemp and Adam for tea. I hope Connie chooses to marry one of them – preferably the younger, although I believe she loves the elder just as much. Shall we go and greet them?’

  He closed the gap in the curtain, his smile filled with the mischief I loved so well.

  ‘Maybe not . . . quite . . .yet . . . perhaps we may in a little while?’ His lips closed over mine. ‘Perhaps in . . . a . . . very . . . long . . . while.’

  There is no herb, no balm, no decoction, no sedative, no purgative, nor hypnotic so effective for those who grieve than the passage of time and the tender shoots of a new beginning. With compassion, and the understanding of a true mind, broken hearts can once more beat in unison, nurtured and healed by the power of enduring love.

  THE LADY HERBALIST

  Acknowledgements

  I loved writing this book, but part of what I enjoy most about writing is the people I meet and the discussions that follow. My thanks to the archivists in the Cornwall Record Office, now housed in the fabulous Kresen Kernow, for unearthing the infirmary records, doctors’ bills, and apothecary recipes which form the background to the book. My thanks as well to Dr Kenneth George, distinguished oceanographer, poet and linguist, for his advice about the integrity of Cornish place names.

  This is my fifth book and each time I feel honoured to have such a wonderful team behind me. My thanks to my agent Teresa Chris for her unstinting support and my editor Susannah Hamilton at Atlantic Books whose deft pen and sure hand has made this the book it is. Thank you also to Poppy Mostyn-Owen, Sophie Walker and Kate Straker, among so many, and to my copy-editor, Alison Tulett for her eagle eyes.

  My thanks, as always, to my husband, Damian, and to you, the reader: thank you for reading my book. For the history and inspiration behind my stories please visit my website – www.nicolapryce.co.uk or join me on Facebook, Nicola Pryce-Author. I’d love to hear from you.