The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  I glanced back at the room. I could wrench the cover from the bed – hang it from the window. I began pulling the heavy brocade, my cumbersome gown tripping me up. It needed all my strength but it was sliding from the bed, lying in a heap by the window. I would use the heavy oak chair to secure it, but I needed a slit big enough for the leg of the chair to fit through.

  His razor was on the washstand and I held it tightly, jabbing at the threads until they split and parted. The slash was five inches long – that would have to do. Any minute now, I would hear the key turn in the lock, yet the more I tried to hurry, the more my fingers fumbled. I squeezed the leg through the jagged cut and heaved the cover through the open window. I leaned out, willing the fabric not to tear, yet there it hung, the brocade grey against the limewashed walls.

  A movement in the shadows caught my eye. A man was standing in the courtyard staring up at me, the moonlight glinting on his glasses. ‘Stay where you are – I’ll come and get you.’

  I recognized him at once. ‘Is the coach ready to leave?’

  ‘Don’t use that – I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘No – get the coach. Wait for me round the front – if I don’t come, then by all means come and get me. It’s the third door on the right.’ I reached down, slipping off my satin shoe, throwing it on to the cobbles next to him. ‘Please – just get the coach…’

  Clasping my skirts, I ran to the door, holding my breath as I heard footsteps on the other side. He would be bending down, putting the wine and glasses on the floor. He would be reaching into his pocket for the key. I was far enough away for the door to be flung open, near enough to run straight through it. The key was turning, the door opening.

  ‘What the hell?’ He rushed to the window. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  He leaned out of the window and I ran through the door, slamming it shut behind me. The key was still in the lock and I turned it once, twice, his volley of oaths making me want to laugh. His fists pounded the door, his shouts growing fainter as I tore down the stairs, running for my life. Hands reached out to grab me, fresh oaths greeting the sharp stab of my elbows, but I did not care. I ran like I had never run, weaving my way through the drunken revellers, reaching the door. I pulled it open to a clatter of hooves.

  The coachman gripped my hands, pulling me next to him. He whipped the reins, urging the horses faster. My heart was racing. I had done it. I had outwitted Jacob Boswell. He would never, ever know. No one would ever know. It was thrilling, exhilarating, and I threw back my head, laughing like I had not laughed in a very long time. The key glinted in the moonlight as I held it up.

  Part of me wanted to keep it but I stood up, laughing as I hurled it deep into the river. ‘Take that, Jacob Boswell.’

  The horses’ hooves were pounding beneath me, the wind in my face. We were flying, fleeing through the night. It was the most exciting thing I had ever done. A hand reached up and pulled me down. Beneath his heavy hat, the coachman’s lips clamped tight. He cracked his whip harder and I wrapped my cloak around me. ‘I won’t fall,’ I shouted. ‘I’m perfectly used to sitting on the driver’s seat.’

  ‘All the same, I’d be happier with you in the coach,’ he shouted back.

  ‘I was never going to jump. You don’t jump from a window like that – you just make it look like you have.’ He could think what he liked, it did not matter. All that mattered was for me to get back to Molly. All the same, I did not want him to think me ungrateful. ‘It’s Mr Trevelyan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Henry Trevelyan.’

  ‘Take me back to the theatre please, Mr Trevelyan.’

  We must have gone half a mile, no more, and I turned in horror. He was pulling up the reins, slowing the horses to a walk. There were no trees or bushes, the long stretch of road bathed in moonlight, but we were definitely stopping. From the folds of his coat, he drew out a pistol. ‘Quick, get in the coach…forgive me if I don’t open the door.’ He was searching the shadows of the riverbank. ‘We’re coming to the worst of the ruts. They hide in the dense cover. Be quick – and close the curtains.’

  If his pistol frightened me, his words petrified me, and I slipped quickly to the ground. ‘Are we in danger?’

  He seemed to suppress a laugh. ‘Two o’clock in the morning …on the road from Malpas, and you ask if we’re in danger?’ This time it was a laugh, a definite shake of the head. ‘I’m not sure about you, Miss Lilly, but I consider it very dangerous. Keep the curtains closed – if you hear shots, get as low as you can. Don’t look out of the window.’

  Chapter Seven

  Perren Place, Pydar Street, Truro

  Sunday 31st July 1796, 3:00 a.m.

  Ineeded to work out what to do. He knew my identity and was going to demand money – no doubt a substantial amount. I would put it under Edgar’s expenses. I would be settling this account anyway, so I would add his demands to that. Forging Father’s signature was never a problem, but how much would be reasonable?

  We were crossing the new bridge and nearly home. There had been no shots, no one intent on robbing us. Henry Trevelyan must have shown me the pistol solely to instil fear. I would not let him intimidate me, nor would I pay him more than twenty guineas. Twenty guineas must be enough.

  The courtyard lay in darkness, the empty stables uncannily quiet. He jumped from the driver’s seat and opened the door and I ignored his proffered hand, staring across the unlit cobbles. No lamps awaited our arrival, the kitchen was in darkness. Molly must be asleep. Henry Trevelyan secured the horses and drew off his leather gloves.

  ‘Put this journey on to Mr Lilly’s account – I presume it’s Mr Lilly paying you, not Sir Jacob?’

  He took off his hat, running his hand through his short hair. ‘I’ve received no payment, Miss Lilly, though plenty’s been promised.’ His voice was soft, cynical, but not unkind. His accent was local, educated, his tone gentle. ‘In over three weeks, I’ve not seen a penny.’ He had long, tapering fingers, his nails well-cut. He had shaved since the morning, his high cheek bones more prominent without the dark stubble. ‘Horses are expensive, they require food and attention, and stabling doesn’t come cheap. I may go hungry, but horses can’t pull coaches on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Send me your bill in the morning – I’ll see it gets paid.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lilly. May I see you safely through your door?’ He must have seen me glance towards the larder window. He seemed amused, his smile catching me off guard. ‘Or are you going to climb through the window, in which case, may I give you a helping hand?’

  I did not smile back. ‘It depends on whether the back door’s locked.’

  I heard his soft laughter – if I used the window, I would have it boarded up straight away. He would come back and rob us. No matter how genteel he seemed, when I left, Molly would be in danger. We reached the back door and I tried the handle, relief flooding through me as it turned and opened. Molly was asleep in her rocking chair and jolted awake.

  ‘Oh, dear Lord…Angelica…where’ve you been?’ She struggled up, all elbows and fluster. ‘I’ve been in such a state …not knowin’ where ye’d gone…or when ye’d be back…’ She looked pale, her mobcap pushed to one side, her frizzy grey hair framing her face. ‘Onlookers told me ye’d gone with Edgar but honest to God, what time d’you call this?’ Across the darkness, the kitchen clock chimed three.

  ‘We went for a ride in the moonlight. The coach got stuck in a rut and I lost my shoe…we had supper in the inn and now I’m back.’

  ‘Kitty told me everything. Honest to God, did they know ’twas you?’ She was struggling with the tinderbox, trying to strike the flint, and I took it from her, the room filling with flickering light.

  ‘No, of course not. They thought I was Flora – the actress. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, no harm done.’ From the doorway, I heard a cough. The coachman was standing on the mat, his arms folded.

  Molly turned even more ashen. ‘But he knows ye’re not.’

  I pulled off the h
eavy wig, teasing my hair from its vice-like grip. ‘He’s hungry.’ I pointed him to a chair at the table. ‘Edgar’s late with his account – I believe he needs feeding.’

  Molly stared across the kitchen ‘Sit ye down…there’s plenty fer ye – just give me a minute.’

  Henry Trevelyan smiled, drawing out my chair, and I sat stiffly, watching Molly place a plate and mug on the table in front of him. She went to the larder, returning with plates piled high with cold chicken and ham, under her arm, a large loaf of bread. She went back for a knife, cutting thick slices of ham and great chunks of bread, and stood back, putting it safely out of reach.

  ‘There’s no point – he’s got a pistol under his jacket.’

  She sank down in her chair, her eyes wide with fright.

  ‘I may carry a pistol, but I’ve never shot anyone.’ Henry Trevelyan reached inside his jacket, holding it out for Molly to take. ‘Here, please…take it. I’d never shoot anyone who makes such fine food, but if I could have it back when I leave?’ Molly put the pistol to one side and he started eating, smiling his delight. ‘This pickle’s really very good.’ He sounded wistful, even a little sad, and my fear subsided. He was just a hungry man, praising Molly’s pickle. Not frightening at all.

  Molly jumped up at the sight of his empty plate. ‘There’s plenty more – come, eat up.’

  Mamma’s Sunday baskets lay ready on the sideboard, each brimming with vegetables, eggs and cheese. Mamma never forgot her lowly beginnings or passed a beggar without sending food back, and we carried on taking her baskets to the poorest families in our parish. But we never went inside. Mamma used to. She used to cram into their damp rooms, listening to their heartbreak, trying to do everything she could to alleviate their suffering. Until she caught a fever from the child she had held with such compassion.

  Burning up, sweating, covered in huge red blisters; crying out in her agony, her throat so swollen she could not speak. They had kept me from her because I, too, might die. I never saw her again, never heard her laugh, no more to blush at her gentle teasing. Storm clouds had gathered at her funeral, the rain lashing the streets with such ferocity as if furious she had been taken from us. The dull ache was returning. I had to turn away.

  A fourteen-year-old girl inconsolable with grief; no flowers to throw into the dripping black hole that would engulf her mamma for ever. No flowers. Father, fighting the wind with his umbrella; Edgar, pale under his huge coat and sodden hat; Molly and I, clinging to each other, hardly able to stand for grief. No flowers. We had forgotten them in our pain at seeing the black horses with their tall feathers pull up outside our house; seeing her coffin placed on to the wagon, the terrible tolling of the church bell.

  No flowers to take with her – Mamma, who loved flowers so much, who had always placed flowers in her house. But for the kindness of a woman and a youth sheltering under a tree; a wet hand in a soaking sleeve reaching out to give me his rain-drenched posy. ‘Please, take these…’

  I had to keep my face turned away. Molly had picked up one of the baskets and was handing it to Henry. ‘Take this basket, Mr Trevelyan…no, honest, I’ll soon fill another – there’s plenty in there to keep ye goin’.’

  Why so sad? Why now? I had seen those baskets every week for seven years and never felt the same pain. Henry handed back the basket, smiling and shaking his head. ‘No, thank you, Molly – you’ve been more than generous…Well, maybe just this jar of pickle?’ I wanted to cry, watching his polite manners, the charm with which he spoke to Molly. Mamma would be so ashamed of Edgar.

  ‘Did you watch the play, Molly?’ I heard him ask.

  ‘Ooh, I did! I loved it. How I laughed! Honest to God, I never knew ’twere Miss Lilly – I never knew…’

  ‘I did…’ He looked up, his blue eyes catching mine through his glasses. ‘It was just at the very end. Am I right, Miss Lilly?’

  I did not answer. He was too at ease, his feet firmly under my kitchen table, smiling at Molly who was clearly smitten.

  ‘What were ye readin’? Earlier – out the back? I saw ye had a book. Ye’re not like most coachmen, if ye don’t mind me sayin’. Ye’re a gentleman, Mr Trevelyan – ye’ve got learnin’ written all over ye…’

  ‘Ah, my book…’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Do you like poetry, Molly?’

  ‘How much does my brother owe you?’ I snapped. He needed to go. I knew people like him. One moment they were your friend, the next they were wheedling out your secrets, telling tales to the paper, profiting through your own gullibility. We were two women alone, in a house full of money; there were valuable paintings, silverware, not to mention jewellery. ‘I’m sure we can come to some agreement – please add extra for the inconvenience of bringing me home and I’ll see you’re paid promptly.’

  He opened his book. ‘I’ve been keeping a daily tally. Three weeks at a guinea a week.’ He handed me a bill of expenses. ‘The extras are for stabling and food, and I paid a farrier for two new shoes.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You need to add tonight’s charge.’

  He stood up, pushing his chair neatly under the table and reached for his pistol. ‘There’s no charge for tonight.’ He stood by the door, throwing the jar of pickle high in the air, catching it expertly. ‘I’ve been more than compensated. And far better I drove you home than you stole my coach and horses.’

  His smile ripped through me and I closed the door behind him, drawing across the locks and turning the heavy key. Yes, I would have stolen his coach, and yes, I would have driven his horses very fast.

  ‘Oh, bless his soul…he’s left his book.’ Molly eased herself forward, picking up the small leather-bound book. She smiled, handing it to me. ‘Go after him, love…take it to him.’ I shook my head. He had left it on purpose, no doubt expecting me to follow him. He would make his demands out of Molly’s hearing.

  I stared down at the worn leather cover, the faded gold lettering The Love Poems of John Donne.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ I said. ‘Wake me at nine. I’m packed and ready to go. You give it back.’

  First thing tomorrow, I would add twenty pounds to his account and send a runner to the inn. Father always left money in his safe so I could pay him promptly. I would arrange for the larder window to be nailed shut, and for nightwatchmen to patrol the house and garden. Molly and Grace must be kept safe.

  I stopped on the bend in the stairs, looking up at Mamma’s portrait: Hermia, adored by the Prince of Wales, captured by Angelica Kauffman in her most famous role. All my life, I had gazed at this portrait, imagining what it must feel like to pose for such a famous painter. She looked so radiant, her long white gown and abundant black hair cascading under a wreath of flowers; the acclaimed beauty that had lords throwing roses at her feet.

  Mamma standing next to me, both of us smiling, her laughter making me giggle. Of course, you’re named after her… she would whisper. She’s a very fine painter and one day, you’re going to be a very fine lady. The fortune teller told me that… Then her voice would turn wistful. I have my memories and I have you and Edgar. It’s your futures that matter.

  Molly slipped her arm through mine, both of us staring up at Mamma. ‘Mary Bohenna was looking the loveliest I’ve ever seen – quite the lady…And so was Mr Luke – Doctor Luke, I should say. London’s done them proud. I remember when Mary first came to Truro – if Mary hadn’t married Mr Bohenna, yer father would never have met yer mother. Bless her heart. And now, she wants to find Luke a good wife…’

  The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow and I forced back my tears. ‘They’ve taken lodgings in Falmouth.’

  She squeezed my arm. ‘Honest to God, Angelica, I never thought ’twas you.’

  I wanted to howl with the pain. ‘Molly…how did Edgar behave tonight?’

  She swallowed, her slight hesitation making me think she would lie. ‘Well…seein’ as how ye’ve asked.’ Her voice sounded husky. ‘He didn’t seem himself…not like the boy of old. He was happy,
mind, very happy. But it didn’t seem natural – like he was with the fairies, or pixilated, or some such thing.’

  ‘Did Lord Entworth see him like that?’

  This time there was definite hesitation, a false cheeriness to her voice. ‘No, love…not at all. They were in different parts of the theatre – Lord Entworth couldn’t possibly have seen him.’

  I turned at the top of the stairs. ‘Why have you only prepared eight baskets? Why not ten?’

  She coughed, bringing out her handkerchief. ‘It’s what Mr Lilly said.’

  ‘Father?’ I could hardly believe it.

  ‘Well, ’twas Lady Boswell – she told me, but yer father didn’t stop her. He nodded…so it must be what he wants.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I’m to cut down to eight baskets this week, then stop at five. Lady Boswell says I’ve been a deal too generous an’ it’s costin’ Mr Lilly a fortune.’

  Anger surged through me – seething anger, flaming my neck, my cheeks, setting fire to my face. The top of my arm still hurt where Jacob Boswell had gripped it, a bruise forming on my wrist.

  ‘Do twelve baskets, Molly, and soup by the side door every day. Lady Boswell is not mistress of this house. Not yet, at least.’

  Chapter Eight

  On the road to Falmouth

  Sunday 31st July 1796, 11:00 a.m.

  The sun broke through the clouds, dispelling Molly’s fears, and she smiled back at us. My luggage firmly stowed, the two footmen jumped on to the back. Amelia’s maid, Bethany, settled herself on the seat beside the driver and Amelia reached for my hand.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve got you for a whole two months.’ The dimples on her cheeks deepened. ‘Mother’s determined one of us will marry and as it’s not going to be me, I’m afraid it has to be you!’