by Nicola Pryce
‘It might. He’s installed a bell to ring so we can come the moment the flower opens. I’ve promised to draw it – I’ve everything ready.’ There were new smile lines by her eyes, a definite lifting of her chin, even laughter in her whisper: ‘What with Papa waiting for Persephone and Mr Maddox with his night-flowering cereus, we can hardly sleep at night.’
Footmen carried in my luggage, and the young maid who had accompanied us was holding a steaming pitcher. Amelia smiled. ‘Mother won’t take too long to change. Ask Bethany if there’s anything more you need.’
Our rooms had an adjoining door and I looked round, taking in the Chinese wallpaper, the delicately engraved animal paws on the legs of the table and chairs, the embroidered silk birds with long tail feathers hanging round the bed. A desk was neatly laid with paper and quills, a huge vase of roses sitting on the table. Removing my bonnet, I washed my face and hands, smiling at Bethany as she unpacked my valises. There was a knock on the door and Charity Carew stood in the doorway.
‘Is that you, Miss Lilly? We’ve been so looking forward to your visit.’ Blinded by a childhood illness, Charity Carew tapped her lacquered stick in front of her. She had the looks of an angel and the intelligence of the sharpest attorney. She seemed to remember everything. Her blonde hair fell in soft curls round her face. ‘I hope you like the roses – after so much rain we thought they might spoil.’
Amelia came to her side, leading her across the room to join me at the window. ‘Some of Charity’s China roses are very rare – they’ve come all the way from Bengal.’
Charity smiled. ‘We’re expecting two more plants any day now – from Kew Gardens…some of Mr Slater’s new Crimson Roses. There’s been a real scramble for them but I believe they’ve put two aside for us.’ She had a beautiful voice, as cut-glass and chiselled as Amelia’s. She, too, was an earl’s granddaughter, every inch of her refined and elegant. She had captured Frederick’s heart with her beauty and quiet humour, but it was her knowledge of animal husbandry that I most admired. She could remember every detail – the pedigree lines for each of Lord Carew’s cattle, the exact yield each of the milkers gave.
‘Who’s Persephone?’ I asked.
‘She’s our large black sow – she’s farrowing. She has the sweetest nature and we all adore her. I’m surprised Lord Carew hasn’t ordered her inside.’
Amelia smiled. ‘There’s plenty of room in the scullery – how is she?’
‘Definitely nesting – she’s rearranging her bedding and banking up the straw so the signs are all there. We usually reckon on three months, three weeks and three days which takes her to tomorrow but that might not be the case with a China cross-breed.’
‘She’s Papa’s beloved black sow from China – he crossed her with Solomon,’ Amelia explained.
A bell sounded and Lady Clarissa’s laughter rang up the stairs. Amelia squeezed Charity’s arm. ‘The sea’s so blue, Itty – and Frederick’s out there – just beyond the horizon. He’s probably gazing across the ocean this very minute, counting down the hours until he sees you.’
Charity clasped her silver locket to her heart. ‘Eighteen months is a very long time.’
‘But he’s coming home…’
At the foot of the stairs, I glimpsed the elaborate table with its huge silver tureens and my heart sank. Two footmen were standing by the door, others waiting behind the chairs. Amelia saw me stiffen.
‘Don’t be frightened, Angelica. Sir Alex’s reputation may be a bit gruff but under that stern exterior, he’s as soft as butter.’
Sir Alexander Pendarvis, stern faced yet smiling, knighted for exceptional gallantry, stood by the French window, his travelling clothes immaculate. He bowed at our approach. ‘Ah, my dears – the Three Graces could not look more lovely.’
Chapter Ten
I was sitting on Lord Carew’s right, an honour not lost on me. George Godwin was on my other side, the light luncheon turning out to be a huge rump of beef, piles of roasted potatoes, and asparagus grown and cut by Lady Clarissa. The plates were cleared, the raspberry sorbet tasting as delicious as it looked.
‘So, you’re to go to Bodmin first, then up the North Road? Good Heavens, you’ll be away for months.’ Lord Carew leaned back in his chair. He was strong for sixty-one, his ruddy cheeks aglow with good health. His red felt cap was pulled low over his bald head, his white side whiskers almost meeting under his chin. Bushy white eyebrows joined forces across his brow. ‘Why up there?’
Sir Alex looked up from his sorbet. ‘Norman Cross is the site we’ve chosen. It has the clearest advantage – a good water supply and good road access. More importantly, it’s sufficiently far from the sea to deter escape.’ He was a slight man, wearing a simple grey wig tied in a black bow at his neck. Though he was clearly dressed for travel, his well-cut jacket was of exceptional quality. I tried to smile but his eyes seemed to pin me as he spoke. It was as if he was not looking at me, but into me. ‘We’ve four thousand prisoners expected from the West Indies, Miss Lilly, and nowhere to put them. As it is, our prisons are crammed to over-capacity. If this prison isn’t built by December, disease will spread and many will die.’
‘What about the new prison on the moor? Is that to go ahead, Sir Alex?’ asked Charity.
‘Indeed, it has to – but it’s to be built of stone and that will take too long. The prison at Norman Cross will be built of wood. Five hundred carpenters are lined up, ready to start.’
Lord Carew swirled his claret. ‘Falmouth certainly can’t take any more.’
Lady Clarissa had changed into a green silk dress; her shoulder-length grey hair was swept back in a large coil and held in place by an emerald clasp. She had pearls at her neck, an emerald ring glinting on one finger. Behind one ear was a pink rose, a hermit shell wound around one of her fingers. Pinned to her bodice was a small bunch of lavender. ‘What bothers me is that so many of the prisoners are merchant seamen. They have their wives and families with them – they’re good seafaring men, devoted to traditional values. Their ships don’t stand a chance against our cannons.’
‘Very few shots are fired, my dear. No one’s going to risk losing either the cargo or the ship. Merchant ships are expected to surrender – the victor takes the ship and impounds the cargo. It’s the rules of warfare.’ The affection in Lord Carew’s voice was obvious. He smiled lovingly at his wife. ‘They take our supplies and we take theirs. Blockades only work if supply ships are prevented from getting through. How else did we seize the French colonies?’
Sir Alex shook his head. ‘You’re right, though – families shouldn’t be held as prisoners. We’ve a clear list of who to send back – chaplains, priests, surgeons, pursers, school masters…all women and children. But wives simply won’t leave their husbands – whether from Spain or from the Indies, from Norway, Sweden, France, it’s always the same – merchant seamen’s families live on board and they’ve nowhere else to go.’
‘I hear the number of prisoners is nearing eleven thousand.’
‘And rising daily, Charity. The Transport Board can barely keep abreast of the lists. Many prisoners remain unaccounted for – held offshore in stinking hulks.’ He took an appreciative sip of his claret. ‘We need the new prisons today, let alone by Christmas.’
I had been following the conversation in growing alarm. ‘But won’t it be over by Christmas, Sir Alex?’
‘We’d all like to believe that, Miss Lilly – but not to build the prisons on that premise would be reprehensible. Towns like Falmouth can barely cope. Provisions are in short supply and the sheer numbers of French prisoners makes for fierce discontent. Yet the rules of warfare must be adhered to – every French prisoner has the right to receive full rations.’
‘My friend, Elizabeth Fox, says it’s getting worse…but it’s hardly surprising. Amidst such starvation there’s real anger. Men see provisions pouring into the prisons while their own families starve.’
Lord Carew nodded. ‘And she’s right, Amelia. Mrs Fox
must have been referring to the ship that arrived five weeks ago. Stuffed to the gunwales, it was, with American wheat – like manna from heaven – yet they had to anchor in the Sound while Captain Fenshaw made the quayside safe. Even as it lay to anchor, he had to post guards to protect it. Some brandy, Alexander?’ Sir Alexander Pendarvis shook his head. ‘That cargo was subsidized by the importer at four pounds three shillings. That’s last year’s price. Yet even as the women held out their bowls, there were profiteers haggling on the quayside, determined to seize the cargo.’
‘You’ve lost another harvest, William?’
‘One scorched summer followed by two rain-lashed harvests. The conditions for sowing were bad from the start – the crops never stood a chance. Now we’ve lost what there was – all of us, not just my land. There’s nothing to salvage – no oats, no wheat. My turnips and potato fields never stood a chance.’ He drained his glass, wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘I’ve got land under water and fields too heavy to harrow.’
Charity nodded. ‘Our fattening stock has been commandeered by the navy. It’s right our men get good food but it’s no wonder there’s severe discontent. Women need to feed their families. Their children are weak, yet they hear the French prisoners carve intricate trinkets from their meat bones and sell them at a high price.’
Sir Alex refused more claret, thanking the footman with a gracious smile. The more I saw of him, the more I warmed to him. He treated Amelia and Charity with such respect, even talking to me as if he was talking to an important member of the Admiralty. His eyes were piercing because he was interested in what I was saying, not looking over my shoulder wanting to talk to someone more important. His reputation was legendary – knighted for valour, for actions over and above the call of duty. He had swum to a sinking ship with a lifeline, saving the lives of everyone on board.
He spoke softly, answering Charity’s question. ‘Indeed. We must ask why the French are in no hurry to get their men back: putting ever increasing obstacles in my way, blocking every attempt I make to instigate an exchange. Every prisoner swop I have tried to negotiate has ended in failure.’
‘It’s as if they want them to remain here.’
‘I believe they do – and why not? Six days a week on a quart of beer, one and a half pounds of bread, three-quarters of a pound of fresh beef and, let’s not forget, half a pint of dried peas on four days? Not to mention four ounces of butter and six ounces of cheese on Fridays! It’s a crippling food bill. I believe it’s most certainly in their interest to keep as many prisoners as they can on British soil.’
‘You believe it’s a tactic to weaken our already weakened economy – to instigate unrest, even riots, to force us to make peace?’
‘You have it in a nutshell, Charity. And it’s working. Without question we should give the prisoners their full rations – absolutely – it’s our duty as a civilized nation, yet we have bread riots and the cost of food is rising by the day. Britain cannot afford this war.’
‘Are they doing the same for our prisoners?’ Amelia’s voice rang with pain.
Sir Alex’s face fell. ‘In truth, Amelia, I cannot reassure you. I’ve clear evidence their treatment falls well short of our expectations.’
Three large windows opened on to the vast terrace with its intricately sculptured urns spilling over with flowers. A soft breeze blew through the open doors, filling the room with the scent of the garden. The room felt homely for all its grandeur, the portraits of the family looking lovingly down on us. The biggest painting was my favourite: Lord Carew had his arm round Lady Clarissa, both of them sporting large straw hats. Their five sons were so alike; the eldest four standing either side of their parents, smiling and holding up fishing rods, while Frederick and Amelia knelt on the ground, playing with a puppy. Lord Carew had a shotgun slung over his shoulder; there was a brace of pheasants in the foreground, the house in the distance, and I felt a pang of emptiness – a terrible longing I found hard to control.
Love oozed from every object in the room – Amelia’s paintings, a bird mosaic crafted from shells picked up from the beach. Pebbles with holes in them, displayed as proudly as the best family silver. Lord Carew’s huge leather trumpet which he used to bellow orders, his marching grandsons kept in line, his plantsmen and gardeners directed to position trees from the house. No wonder Amelia had only stayed at the school for one term. I, too, would never want to leave this place.
George Godwin glanced at Amelia and my heart burned; both of us were outsiders, the mantle of this extraordinary family warming our souls. I could understand his desperate desire to belong, how empty he would feel on the long ride home. Lord Carew smiled at his wife. ‘You’re staying very quiet, Mr Godwin.’
George Godwin almost gulped his wine, a slight sheen on his forehead as he cleared his throat. ‘I believe the prisoners have settled in very well. They’ve access to fresh air—’
‘And the attention of a barber. No razors?’
‘No razors, no twine, no knives. Their hammocks are hung from hooks.’
Lord Carew seemed pleased. ‘Splendid. So all is resolved in Pendennis?’
A slight tremor made George’s crystal glass sparkle. He seemed undecided whether to speak. ‘It’s…it’s still not to my satisfaction…the situation worsens by the day. Captain Fenshaw is doing all he can but the truth is I’ve drafted a three-page letter of protest to Lord Falmouth.’
‘A letter of protest! Good God, man!’
George Godwin could barely keep his hands steady. ‘I haven’t sent it…I’d very much appreciate it if you’d read it, Lord Carew. I’d value your opinion.’
Chapter Eleven
Lord Carew looked distinctly annoyed. ‘There’s nothing you can tell Lord Falmouth that we don’t already know.’
George Godwin’s mouth twitched. He took a gulp of wine and squared his shoulders. ‘If I may…Sir, Pendennis Castle is a complete shambles. There’s woeful lack of supervision – if any. Our fortifications are nothing but crumbling batteries housing ineffective cannons. The biggest natural harbour in the south coast – the first port of call for ships crossing the oceans – and every ship that seeks shelter is exposed to danger.’
Sir Alex Pendarvis stared back across the table. ‘We are all too well aware of this, Mr Godwin.’
Beads of sweat dotted George Godwin’s brow. ‘I have to speak plainly – to speak the truth. I have prize money arriving weekly, the vaults are filled to capacity, and every wagon I send to London requires guards to march alongside it. The wagons are slow and need guarding day and night – each guard needs to be armed. Captain Fenshaw gives me his best men for the wagons, but each time that depletes our numbers back at the castle. Those that are left are, well, they’re none of them fit – they’re either too ill or too old.’
Lord Carew’s bushy white eyebrows contracted. His voice softened. ‘There’s no need for your letter, George – Lord Falmouth’s fully aware of the situation. Captain Fenshaw’s doing his utmost under very difficult circumstances. We’ve made a splendid appointment – Captain Melvill is to take position as Lieutenant Governor very shortly. He’s a well-respected, thoroughly experienced Army officer and his priority will be to raise a volunteer artillery. I can guarantee he’ll tighten up the garrison and these concerns you quite rightly raise will be addressed. Not long now, George. Lord Falmouth appreciates how hard this is for you.’
George glanced at the open door, lowering his voice. ‘A Company of Invalids has no place defending Pendennis Castle. You must understand, I can’t stand by without voicing my concern.’ He cast an agonizing look at Amelia. ‘Habitual drunkenness…a long absent captain…command devolved to a man of uncertain health. I wish it was otherwise but Captain Fenshaw commands little respect – his orders are often disregarded by the men.’ He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘The state of the Company is not just lapse, it’s defective. An attack on Falmouth would meet no resistance – those cannons are too heavy to be manned by men invalide
d out of service. Most are too drunk or disabled to follow orders. They’re old…they have little or no strength…’
Sir Alex folded his napkin, placing it on the table. ‘We’re well aware of the picture you paint. I’m also well aware that my prisoners have added to your workload. Nothing is how we want it to be. The strain on everyone is telling and you have every right to voice your concern. Indeed, I applaud you. It takes a brave man to speak up like you have, but everyone’s hands are tied. There are no rabbits to pull from hats. Mustering volunteers takes time. The agent I have appointed in my absence will take care of everything to do with the prisoners. He’ll take full responsibility for their welfare and security. They are under his jurisdiction – his total command.’
George nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir Alex.’
Lord Carew got to his feet as Sir Alex rose. ‘Captain Philip Melvill will soon have the garrison swept clean and the batteries rebuilt. In a few months, Pendennis Castle will be impenetrable, but in the meantime, your job must be to hold the fort.’
George Godwin rose, pulling back Lady Clarissa’s chair. ‘I hope that goes without saying. I’ll defend Pendennis if I’m the last man standing – but can I expect Captain Melvill soon?’
A look passed between Sir Alex and Lord Carew. ‘Four weeks, maybe more. By the first week of September, if all goes well.’
‘Four weeks! Sir, I beg you to advance his arrival.’
Lord Carew stood stony-faced. ‘He’s coming as fast as his business commitments will allow. He’s a very busy man – highly sought after – and we’re lucky he’s chosen us at all. He could have the pick of commands. You must hold the fort, Mr Godwin, and there will be adequate recompense for your troubles. By all means send your letter, but my advice is that the less this gets out, the better for us all.’
Amelia grabbed my elbow, pulling me through a rose-covered arch. Behind us, Sir Alex was taking his leave, promising to send Lady Clarissa’s best wishes to his wife. ‘Quick, Angelica – down here.’ She led me into the newly planted rhododendron walk. ‘Poor George – that was very brave of him.’ She glanced back. ‘But it will have done him no favours with Sir Alex.’