The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Yes, always, but then sometimes I don’t go to bed. I’m at my patients’ disposal, Miss Carew. Whole days can pass and I forget to eat. Mother has to drag me to the table.’

  Mary stooped to pick up a shell and we heard Amelia laugh. ‘Goodness, then we are honoured, Dr Bohenna.’

  ‘We must catch the tide back – we’ve four hours, I believe. That will make a very pleasant break.’

  With the others a little way ahead, Mary reached into her bag. ‘I’ve a letter for you from Edgar. He’s doing very well and I believe his dear soul is coming back to us. The day you left was the worst, honest to God, he did nothing but shake – shake and shake, and swear like you’d never believe – but since then he’s been as quiet as a lamb. He cries a lot, my love, and it breaks my heart to hear him. There’s so much sadness there – such pain and hurt and anger. He’s very bitter towards your father, though the truth is I believe your father was just doing what he thought was right. Or rather – doing what your dear mamma would have wanted him to do.’

  I put Edgar’s letter quickly down my bodice, helping Mary up the steps and on to the path. ‘Mamma always spoke of Edgar going to Oxford, but she would never have wanted me to go to that dreadful boarding school. She’d have hated the idea.’

  A puzzled frown creased Mary’s brow. ‘No, my love, your mother always intended you to go to that school. She often spoke of it. She wanted you to mix with the daughters of the gentry and learn their ways. You were to gain polish and be taken for a lady…she wanted you to make friends with girls like Miss Amelia Carew and be invited back to their grand houses.’ She looked up at the graceful façade of Trenwyn House and smiled. ‘Your dear father was just following her wishes.’

  A knife sliced my heart, the pain so severe, I wanted to scream. All these years, I had been so angry with Father. ‘Why didn’t he come to my plays, Mary? That would have made all the difference.’

  ‘Oh my dearest…Look at you, my love. Look in the mirror and who do you see? You’ve grown so like your dear mamma…and putting on your plays like you did?’ She slipped her arm through mine, her voice softening. ‘Angelica, the truth is your mother never wanted you to follow in her footsteps. She wanted better for you. Her life wasn’t easy – some would think the life of a stage actress is exciting and glamorous but the truth is your mother was ready to leave the stage. She was tired…she was…Well, she wanted stability, and your father offered her so much.’

  I could not speak, a gaping black void opening before me. I was tottering on the edge, about to lose my footing. ‘She was what? Mary…were you about to say she was with child?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! Whatever gave you that idea? I think perhaps it was because I told her how happy I was in Truro and how settled I’d become…and how parts of Cornwall reminded me of the cliffs back at home in Ireland. Your father visited our shop just before he left for London and I asked him to take a present and letter from me to Hermia. We told him to take the chance to visit the theatre and he stayed a month just to court her! Love can strike like that. He wouldn’t come home until she agreed to marry him.’

  ‘I know – she once told me Father had commissioned the painting just so he could talk to her while she posed for it.’

  ‘I think the reason your father didn’t go to your plays was because he couldn’t go, because he was too scared to go. He’d be in far too great a danger of letting down his guard – his sternness is his protection, Angelica. I think we both see that now.’

  ‘What about that woman – Lottie Lorrelli? Has she been found?’

  She paused, shaking her head. ‘Luke thought he saw her cross Market Square and tried to follow but I’m afraid he lost her. Henry’s keeping a watch for her at the castle.’

  I could hardly believe my ears. I felt suddenly furious. ‘You told Henry Trevelyan? Mary, he’ll warn her – he probably already has. We’ll never find her now – she’ll be long gone. Our only chance of freeing Edgar, and you told Henry Trevelyan?’

  She swung round, holding me back. ‘Why are you so against him, my love? Is it because he doesn’t do your bidding – or because he hasn’t fallen at your feet like every other man?’

  Her words were kindly said but fierce, none the less. I had been chastised like a child, a spoilt child. ‘No! Of course not. Anyway, he wouldn’t – he’s in love with a woman who won’t give him the time of day. And she’s right – he clearly can’t be trusted.’

  Little Charles hurtled down the lawn far faster than was safe and Amelia swept him up, handing him straight to Luke. I watched Luke swing him round and emptiness swamped me. I was among the people I loved the most, yet I felt strangely lonely, my whole world turned upside down. Mary pursed her lips, her voice clipped. ‘Well, that’s a pity. A man like Henry Trevelyan should be snapped up. Let’s hope this woman sees some sense.’

  Lady Clarissa had also chosen to wear one of her least formal gowns. Having been away from her grandsons for five days, their many gifts still dangled on ribbons round her neck – apart from the hermit crab that had been put back in the water. The conversation was flowing, the time passing so quickly that Lord Carew remained at the table long after the food had been cleared. His face as ruddy as his felt cap, he beamed at Luke.

  ‘Persephone shows no signs of ill-health – but perhaps a medical opinion might not go amiss? Know anything about pigs, Dr Bohenna?’

  ‘Nothing you don’t already know,’ laughed Luke, pulling back Amelia’s chair to begin the tour of the garden. ‘I’m rather afraid of pigs – but I believe they’re highly intelligent animals that can be very loving.’

  The bushy white eyebrows rose. ‘Ah, well, there you have it. These black pigs from China are said to be particularly docile. We have it on good authority that they don’t like to roam and we’re confident they’ll make the perfect cottage pig. A man must be sure of his pig – for the safety of his children…and visiting doctors.’

  I was desperate to read Edgar’s letter, and with everyone leaning over the sty admiring Persephone’s healthy fat piglets, I seized the chance, remaining behind in the doorway of the nearby stable unable to wait any longer. I slipped the seal.

  Dearest Angelica,

  I need you to understand the remorse and loathing I feel for myself. That I have inflicted this pain on you and Father is unforgivable. I deserve your censure, yet at the depths of my sorrow, I cannot help but be grateful that for the first time in seven long years I am surrounded by the love and kind administrations of people whose goodness I can only hope to repay. Luke and Mary have brought such light to my darkness. They give me the will to conquer my demons; for let me assure you, they are indeed demons.

  I lack for nothing. Some days my head feels clear, other days my mind is filled with such torment. I dislike myself and I dislike what I am putting you and Father through, but believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to clear my name – no, not merely my name, our name. The name we should be proud to bear.

  I am not a thief. I am simply a misguided and foolish man. I should have had the courage to stand up to Father, but all that will change. I have written to him and explained everything and I await the consequences of his great anger.

  In the meantime, Henry remains a fair and just gaoler. His walks are doing me the power of good and our interesting discussions stretch long into the night. Oxford taught me nothing, yet Henry’s philosophizing and poetry speak deeply to my soul.

  Please believe me when I say I have every intention of fighting this evil. When I stand on that witness stand and take my oath, I will be upright and sober. I owe that to you, to Father, and to the memory of our beloved mother.

  I remain, your affectionate, if troubled, brother, Edgar

  I folded the letter, a slight tremor in my hands. The hatred he felt for himself was so visceral I had to force the tears from my eyes. I should have been there for him, understood him better. I was his older sister yet I had been too self-seeking, too full of my own resentments to pay heed t
o his. I should have taken more responsibility, stopped my headstrong ways: always doing what I liked, when I liked. Molly loved me, just as she had adored Mamma, but she would never think to stop me. Between Molly and Father I had been indulged more than was good for me.

  Mary came to my side and I blinked back my tears. ‘So Henry Trevelyan’s a bit of a philosopher, is he? And Edgar’s discovered poetry?’ I sounded harsh, but I could not help it. My heart was breaking.

  She nodded and we walked in step, following Amelia across the terrace to the conservatory where she was to show us her paintings. ‘Henry Trevelyan is a highly intelligent man. We’ve had some very lively discussions over supper – in fact, some very pleasant evenings.’

  My flash of envy turned to fury. ‘He did that to me – making friends, showing consideration and warmth, playing cricket and running around with the boys on his shoulder. He whirled Charles around, just like Luke – only it was sunny and he was in his shirtsleeves.’

  ‘You sound very bitter, Angelica.’

  ‘Lulling everyone into believing he has our good intentions at heart.’

  Amelia was laying her paintings carefully on the table, each one as intricate and exquisite as the others. She seemed shy at first but as their speechless admiration turned to loud praise she pulled open another drawer and brought out some more. Luke shook his head in wonder.

  ‘Miss Carew, the detail is quite extraordinary – they are so lifelike I want to pick them from the page.’

  ‘I’ve another seven to paint then I’ll have completed our twenty-seven most used herbs. I’m painting them in every stage of their growth. Here are the seeds…and here are the flowers. I come back to the paintings and add each stage during the growing season.’ She blushed, suddenly aware of how close they were leaning.

  Luke straightened and smiled, opening the leather bag that was slung across his shoulders. ‘I’ve brought you a book, Miss Carew. Please keep it for as long as you like – that is if it’s of any use to you. It’s my father’s Compendium of Herbs. It’s rather old now and very well thumbed…some of the pages are coming loose but I wondered if it might be of interest?’ He sounded hesitant, holding it shyly. ‘Of course you must have plenty of other books but his notes are interspersed among the pages – they’re his remedies and tinctures, which you might find interesting. This, for instance, is the mouth rinse I’m going to prepare with your vervain.’

  Amelia took the book, smiling down at a black-and-white etching with the cramped writing down one side. ‘It’s lovely, thank you, Dr Bohenna. I’ll certainly enjoy reading this.’

  The stable-yard clock struck twelve and Lady Clarissa looked up in surprise. ‘Goodness, this morning has gone very quickly and we still have so much to show you.’

  Smiling as she named each plant, we followed her slowly through the shrubbery and down to the walled garden, the gravel sparkling despite the dull day. Young William walked proudly by Luke’s side, telling him he was going to be a doctor when he grew up. Yet despite the warmth and love surrounding me, I felt strangely chilled. I had lost all sense of joy, my stomach churning with constant nerves, my listlessness hard to contain.

  Moses had left a small wooden box of eggs and three jars of honey on the seat outside his hut. The stone jars had pieces of garden twine tied in a bow around them and Amelia whispered, ‘They’re a present for you from Moses, Mrs Bohenna. I hope he comes out but he’s very reclusive. He’ll be watching, so you must take them or he’ll be very upset.’

  Mary was thrilled. ‘Well of course, I will. It’s very kind of him. It’s a lovely present, and I must thank him for going to so much trouble – tying such pretty bows and making them look so lovely.’ She stepped forward, knocking gently on his door, opening it a tiny bit. Moses stood blinking in the light. ‘I’m thrilled and honoured to have such a present,’ she said, more with gestures than with speech. She pointed to the garden. ‘Will you not show us round, Mr Moses? My son’s a doctor and very grateful for the herbs you’ve wrapped so nicely for him.’

  She stepped away, Moses smiling and twisting his hat in his hands. He began shuffling towards the plants with his sideways gait, Mary talking happily, smiling back, asking him questions he could neither hear nor answer. At the end of the last row he stooped to cut her some lavender, holding it out for her with his lopsided smile.

  ‘Thank you, Moses. They smell wonderful. I’ll dry the flowers and make lavender bags to hang among my clothes.’

  Luke frowned and stepped forward, miming a sore back. ‘Are you in pain, Moses – perhaps a touch of rheumatism? Would it be helpful if I took a look at you?’

  Moses glanced round, his face filling with panic. He started jerking violently, his head wobbling and he hurried back to the safety of his closed door. Luke looked stricken. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, Miss Carew. The last thing I wanted to do was to frighten him – but he looked in pain. It was thoughtless of me.’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘It’s not your fault. He’s very shy and runs at the slightest fear. But I think you’re right – perhaps you should see him professionally. Give me a little time and I’ll try to persuade him.’

  The plants, eggs and honey stowed in the waiting boat, Mary stood with her arms full of flowers, watching the sky darken beneath a band of black clouds. The garden had weaved its magic and they were clearly not ready to leave. Luke bowed from the deck, waving as he repeated his heartfelt thanks. The boatman pulled the ropes and the boat drifted slowly on the outgoing tide. I wanted to go with them but waved goodbye, Lady Clarissa shouting from the jetty that they must come back as often as they liked.

  The sails unfurled, catching the wind, and she drew out a letter. ‘Mrs Bohenna was kind enough to bring me this letter from Frederick. They’ve had quite enough of Falmouth and are coming home. They arrive tomorrow.’ The boys danced round in pleasure and she handed the letter to Amelia. ‘But that’s not all. They are bringing with them Capitaine Pierre de La Croix – the captain of the ship they took as prize. He’s given Frederick his parole.’

  ‘Real parole?’

  ‘Yes, boys. Real parole. He’s an officer so he’s sworn an oath not to escape or aid the enemy in any way. He’s not to be imprisoned but will be housed in Bodmin under the strictest conditions. Until he goes to Bodmin, he’s to remain with Frederick. Imagine – we’re to have our very own French capitaine en parole.’

  Young William beamed. ‘Will he play cricket with us?’

  Lady Clarissa took the letter back from Amelia. ‘Indeed he must. If he doesn’t already know the rules, we will take it upon ourselves to teach him. If the French played cricket, there would have been no need for their revolution. A duke can be bowled out by his servant, an earl caught by his footman. There is no rank on the cricket pitch – always remember that. Liberté, égalité et fraternité is the very essence of cricket.’

  The unseasonal bite to the wind blighted Lord Carew’s happiness at Frederick’s homecoming; he stood watching the heavy clouds in mounting dismay. ‘Another week of sun and the fields might have had a chance to dry – we might even have saved a remnant of the wheat…but if these clouds persist there’ll be flooding. And sodden fields mean no sowing of the turnips or potatoes. Everything we plant will wither.’ He paced the room like a caged bear. ‘The last thing we need is sodden fields. We need to get the ground prepared and the winter wheat established.’

  Lady Clarissa handed him his brandy but turned abruptly. ‘Goodness, who can that be?’ Someone was banging loudly on the front door, footsteps rushing across the hall. Almost immediately the footman opened the door. ‘An express, my lady.’

  Lady Clarissa clutched the back of the chair. ‘From the Admiralty?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, my lady. Looks like it’s from Truro.’

  She took the letter, her face flooding with relief. ‘It’s not even for us – it’s for you, Angelica. I am sorry, my dears, but every time an express is delivered I think the worst. Frederick may be safely home, but his br
other is still at sea.’

  It was my turn to stare at the letter. I did not recognize the writing and tore the seal, surprised when a sample of material fell to the floor. I picked it up. It was heavily spun silk, emblazoned with pink flowers that were really quite hideous. In horror, I read the hastily scribbled letter.

  Dear Miss Lilly,

  I’m writing this letter on behalf of Molly. She hopes your well, but begs your asistance. Tomorrow, at ten o’clock, Mr Sewell of Sewell and Sons is to come to mesure for new drapes. He says Lady Boswell has choosen this very fine material and has requested he starts before her return. He is to mesure all the downstairs rooms and Molly is besides herself with despair. He won’t hear no for an answer. She has no way to refuse his request, yet believes you will not approve and will be very angry. Please advise her as to what she must do.

  Yours in haste,

  Mrs Edison

  Beside it, written in her best writing:

  Please come,

  Molly

  Fury blazed in my cheeks, my anger so great I could hardly read the words.

  ‘How dare she? Poor Molly’s distraught.’ I handed the letter to Lady Clarissa, holding up the hideous material as if it was a rag infected with plague. ‘She’s right about me being angry. It’s bad enough her having the affront to change the curtains, but with this? It’s…it’s like the material for some boudoir…some scurrilous bawdy house.’

  Amelia and Lady Clarissa read the letter, their eyes wide with shock. ‘Oh my dearest love, though it pains me greatly we may have to consider the possibility that Lady Boswell is now married to your father.’

  ‘Oh, dear God.’ They led me to the chair, kneeling by my side, and I fought the dizziness sweeping through me. Father had not received my letter, or if he had, it had arrived too late. Lady Boswell was strengthening her hold, declaring war with her terrible effrontery. ‘How dare she show so little regard for my feelings?’ I took the letter, rereading it with pursed lips. ‘The letter says Lady Boswell, not Mrs Lilly – that at least is something! If his instructions come from Lady Boswell, then I’ve every right to delay the measurements. I need to see them – but what if they’re signed by Mrs Lilly?’