The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  His face grew severe. He turned, staring at the distant turrets of Pendennis Castle standing stark against the Falmouth coastline. ‘There’s a rowing boat waiting for us when we dock. We’ll row round to the side of the castle – the climb will be steep but you’re less likely to be seen. When we get to the prison, I don’t want you to speak to Edgar.’

  I caught my breath. ‘Not speak to Edgar? You must allow me that!’

  ‘No, Miss Lilly. If Edgar knows you’re there, he’ll tell Luke and Mary.’

  The icy grip tightened its hold. I could hardly breathe. ‘Mr Trevelyan, I am not your prisoner – you cannot deny me my brother or my friends.’

  He drew me forward, staring down at the foam frothing against the bow. His voice was terse, for my ears only. ‘Miss Lilly, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. If you confirm the woman is the woman you saw in the Heron Inn, then I’m within my rights to detain her, but detaining her will lead us nowhere. Her associates will melt away – they’ll hardly come and claim her – and my arrest will be pointless. I’ll still have no idea where she lives, where she goes, or who she associates with.’

  My heart was thudding; I knew exactly what he was saying. Henry had sent Kitty his exact requirements – the same grey gown, the same brown wig. I was not dressed for my own disguise; I was dressed to be her. Those intelligent eyes held challenge, a look of conspiracy. ‘Molly and Kitty have no notion of my plan or they’d never have agreed to help – and if Edgar sees you he’ll tell Luke and Mary, who’d never permit it.’ He held my stare. ‘I’ll be right behind you but I’ll remain out of sight.’

  ‘Who is she, Henry?’

  ‘Martha Selwyn’s certainly not her real name. She buckled under pressure when I told her I’d seen her in the Heron Inn that night. I told her I was dressed as a coachman and saw her go upstairs with a man and she admitted being there – but she denies everything about the necklace and the Falmouth den. She says she’s never seen Edgar – certainly never goaded him into robbing coaches as a Frenchman.’

  ‘Lying toad.’

  ‘I said I didn’t believe her sudden conversion to Methodism and she broke down. I left her crying piteously, pleading for me to understand how hunger leaves people with very little choice. I’m not judging her, Miss Lilly, but I do need the truth.’

  My heart was hammering, leaping in my chest. ‘Where does she get the baskets?’

  ‘I don’t know. I had to leave to catch the tide.’ He was standing so close, his jacket brushing my shawl. His voice dropped. ‘I’m not forcing you into doing this, Miss Lilly. It’s entirely your choice but I need a good actress – someone who’s fearless and…and there aren’t very many of you about.’

  ‘I’ll need a mole above my lip and I’ll need to observe her movements – and listen to her speech. She mustn’t see me watch her.’

  ‘She’s in the cell next to Edgar’s. You can remain in the shadows – she won’t see you but you’ll see her.’

  There was something in the way he had laid out the food, something in his movements. The hairs on my arms rose, a shiver ran down my spine. ‘How do you know I’m a good actress – four very short lines at the very end of a play is hardly enough for you to judge.’

  I thought he would not answer. It was as if he was struggling to find the words. He stared ahead, the wind blowing the crests of the waves into a fine spray. ‘I saw all your plays, Miss Lilly – every single one of them.’

  I could not speak, a cold shiver taking hold. That first day, I had thought him familiar but I remembered him now; standing over a hamper, rubbing his hands in expectant pleasure. ‘You saw all my plays? How come you were at the school?’

  He tugged his collar against the wind. ‘My mother married one of the school governors – Reverend Penhaligan. They live in the rectory next to the school. We sat on the lawn with our hamper along with everyone else.’

  I could almost taste the gingerbread she had left on my pillow; a lonely child sitting on the branch of a tree in the moonlight, savouring every bite. Never once did I think it was one mother repaying the kindness of another.

  ‘And as for fearless…’ I heard him say. ‘How many times did you run away? Is it true you stood in the middle of the road when you saw Lord Falmouth’s coach and demand he take you home?’

  I could hardly breathe for the pain. ‘Three times,’ I managed to whisper. ‘And it wasn’t Lord Falmouth. It was Lord North.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Falmouth

  Saturday 13th August 1796, 6:00 p.m.

  The wig felt too hot, too tight, my dreary bonnet pulled so low down my forehead I could hardly see. The wind was lessening but even so, I tied the heavy ribbons tighter. The gangplank had no rail and Henry held out his hand, holding my elbow to stop me slipping on the wet wood. A long line of men with barrows began pushing towards us and we squeezed our way through the gaps. ‘The boat’s down the next alley. I’ll row us round.’

  I kept my eyes down, nodding in agreement. The alley was dark and stank of urine and I lifted the hem of my skirt to keep it from the filth. A set of worn steps led down to the water, three rowing boats pulling softly against their ropes. A boy sat on the top step with a fishing line and jumped up as Henry whistled. He opened a door behind him and held up two oars, adoration in his eyes as he staggered back. ‘Safe as anythin’.’

  ‘Thank you, Seth – you’re a good boy.’ He put a coin in the boy’s hand and helped me down the steps, waiting until I was safely settled before sitting on the seat. The boy handed him the rope and helped push us away and we glided through the tangle of entwined ropes, weaving between the anchored hulls and out of the harbour. Henry’s rowing was fast, his arms heaving against the growing swell as we approached open water.

  ‘We’ll skirt these rocks then cut back in. At least there’s no rain – and the wind’s dropping.’

  He had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and I looked away, staring along the jagged rocks of the peninsula. People were walking up to the castle and I turned to watch the seagulls swooping round a fishing boat, the ships taking down their sails, anywhere but at Henry Trevelyan. His clasped wrists were almost touching my knees. Mrs Penhaligan’s son; the pain was almost unbearable.

  I remembered him now. He had been thinner, lankier, a youth not a man. We had bumped into each other. He was carrying a hamper and stood back to let me pass. He had looked down but I glanced back to thank him and our eyes had caught. I had thought how kind he looked, his shy smile making me smile back. He was rowing fast, hauling us through the water with obvious ease. The wind was ruffling his hair and I forced myself to look away. He was watching me. ‘You’re my eyes – let me know if I get too close to the rocks.’

  The sea smelled so salty, the air so fresh, and I stared at the waves frothing around the jagged outcrop. ‘I can’t see why people row backwards. What’s the point? It’s ridiculous not being able to see where you’re going.’

  There was no joy in his smile, a catch to his voice. ‘A lot of people can’t see where they’re going.’ The cliffs towered above us, dark and foreboding. Guillemots called from the crevices, seagulls circling above us. Waves splashed the bow, the spray stinging my lips, but we were making progress, pulling along the headland in the heavy swell. A small beach was just visible beneath the jagged cliff and he glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said, swinging the boat round, and we drifted silently into the sheltered water. In the shadow of the cliff, I could just make out a set of roughly hewn steps.

  He took off his boots, leaving them behind as he slipped from the side. The water reached to his thighs and he grimaced from the cold, pulling the boat quickly towards the beach. The hull scraped soft sand and he stopped. ‘I think that’s as far as I can pull you.’ He held up his arms to lift me to dry land.

  He had stared at me from his filthy window. He had loved Mamma. He had watched every one of my plays and his mother had shown me such kindness. He
spoke to me as an equal, treated me as intelligent, yet he was my brother’s gaoler. ‘I can jump from here.’

  He pursed his lips, shaking his head. ‘You could but your shoes will stay wet until you return to Truro – I have a change of clothes. You’ll stay wet. Let me help you, Miss Lilly.’

  He was staring up at me, stubble shadowing his chin. His glasses were covered with spray and he slipped them off, wiping them on his shirt. His eyes were blue like the sea, his brows brown like his hair. He was no longer sunburned but looked paler, freckles dusting his nose and forehead. He gripped the side of the boat. ‘Please, Miss Lilly – you mustn’t get your shoes wet.’

  I put my hands on his shoulders, letting him hold me, and he swung me round. His arms were stronger than I had imagined, swinging me effortlessly in the air, holding me against him, and I put my arms around his neck, allowing myself to be carried.

  He put me down on dry ground. ‘I’ll hide the oars – the steps are steep, take great care.’

  The way was overgrown, Henry turning round, helping me over the boulders when the path disappeared. It was clearly never used, the spreading thorns catching my hem, the gnarled roots nearly tripping me up. The clouds were thinning, watery sun shimmering across the sea, but we were deep in shade, climbing steeply to the battlements above. A turret stood proud of the fortifications, the path cutting deeper into an overhanging crevice.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked and I nodded, following him through a narrow gap hidden behind a rock. Through the darkness, I saw a grilled gate.

  ‘It’s a tunnel to the inner gatehouse.’ He reached into his jacket for a set of heavy keys. ‘They dug this during the siege – and they nearly succeeded.’

  ‘To bring provisions in?’

  ‘No, it was the Parliamentary forces trying to dig their way in.’ The lock was stiff and took some turning and he ushered me forward, picking up the lantern that hung by the grille. He reached into his pocket, striking his tinderbox and the candle caught, the light reflecting in his glasses.

  ‘It’s very steep and it’s wet and slippery. Will you be all right?’

  I nodded, our shadows dancing against the glistening wall. The cave smelled dank and sudden cold penetrated my clothes. He saw me shiver and stripped off his jacket, but I shook my head. ‘You’ll get dripped on from above.’

  ‘I don’t mind. My cloak is thick enough.’

  The passage was roughly hewn, narrowing considerably as we climbed the steep steps. Henry held the lantern high. Water was oozing from the rock face, the steps black, uneven, and I lifted my hem. At a sharp turn he stopped and took my elbow, helping me across a jagged rock as sharp as a knife.

  ‘The bats might stir in this next bit,’ he whispered. ‘You’re not afraid of bats, are you, Miss Lilly?’

  ‘Not at all – I love bats,’ I lied.

  A heavily grilled gate loomed ahead of us and Henry handed me the lantern, reaching once more for his keys. His gaoler’s keys. ‘There are only two sets of keys to this tunnel. I have one and Captain Fenshaw has the other. We’ll come out at the turret we saw from below. This last bit was only dug recently but it’s going to be sealed. The whole tunnel’s going to be filled.’

  He locked the heavy grille, ushering me up narrow spiral steps to another thickly grilled gate. He unlocked it, blew out the candle and left the lantern on a hook. ‘We’ll make it look like we’ve come along the walls.’ The stone corridor ended in an arch and I could see the battlements above. Henry took my arm, opening a heavy wooden door, and I saw the entrance to the turret. Two soldiers were sitting on benches and eased themselves upright, nodding and smiling as Henry addressed them.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen. All quiet, I hope?’

  I pulled my hood low over my bonnet. The soldiers were smiling at me with obvious pleasure. ‘All quiet, Mr Trevelyan. Miss Martha, what brings you this way? No baskets with ye, tonight?’

  I smiled but looked down, struggling to remember how the woman had spoken but Henry ushered me forward.

  ‘I’m just showing Miss Selwyn the fortifications. As you were.’

  The turret door opened to glorious sunshine. We were in the inner field, soldiers sitting on the grass by their cannons, the sheep watching us, and I breathed deep for courage. The heavy portcullis and intricate Tudor crest loomed in front of me, the two guards standing to attention. I did not look up: the rancid smell had set my heart racing.

  ‘Does anyone know she’s already here?’ I whispered.

  ‘No. The inner guards were helping George Godwin and the outside guards were unloading the straw. It was a lucky coincidence. I managed to bring her in without anyone thinking it was an arrest. Only Captain Fenshaw knows she’s been arrested. I left him in charge of them both – no one else goes into my rooms, except George now and then.’

  I kept my hood pulled over my bonnet, smiling at the guards, shrugging my shoulders at their obvious disappointment. George Godwin’s door was shut, and more guards struggled to their feet as we passed. Each guard had hoped for something.

  At the door of his gaol, Henry paused. ‘You can change your mind, Miss Lilly. You can walk away from this.’

  ‘I’m not afraid – I’m prepared to do anything to prove my brother’s innocence. I’m here for him. Only him.’

  He heard the iron in my voice and his mouth hardened. ‘Once inside, slip to the left. There’s a screen you can hide behind. I’ll cause a diversion.’

  He unlocked the door. ‘Is everything as it should be?’ He left the door ajar, walking into the room, and I saw Edgar’s cell was unlocked. Captain Fenshaw and Edgar were playing cards at a table, the soft glow of the candle lighting their faces. My brother looked relaxed, even happy, smiling up at Henry as he stood by the open grille.

  ‘You’ve come at just the right time, Henry. My winnings have turned to losses. I’m down to five almonds where once I was the proud owner of three oranges and two lemons. Luke will scold me and tell me I’ll come down with scrofula!’

  Captain Fenshaw laughed, easing himself upright. ‘Well, you’re in luck – I’ll swap them back for the almonds. Dr Bohenna has me on ginger and turmeric and says lemons and oranges make my joints worse. We’ve spent a very pleasant day, Henry. Have you been successful?’

  ‘Not as successful as I would have liked – oh…’ He tripped on the rug, bumping into the table leg, knocking the candle to the ground and I slipped quickly through the door behind the wooden screen and held my breath. They had not heard me.

  ‘No harm done. Here, let me relight it.’ Defuse light shone through the barred window, and I peered from behind the thin join in the screen watching Captain Fenshaw strike the tinderbox. His actions were stiff, his fingers clumsy.

  ‘I’ll catch a breath of air and have something to eat – I’ve promised to stand guard with Mr Godwin tonight.’

  ‘You work too hard, Andrew.’

  Captain Fenshaw did up his top button with the same painful movements. ‘Needs must, I’m afraid. We’ve sickness among the men and Mr Godwin’s wagon’s not yet back. Everyone’s pressed, though I do agree, some work harder than others.’ He smiled and bowed. ‘Goodnight, Mr Ellis. I’ve enjoyed our day together.’

  Edgar stood up and tears sprung to my eyes. He looked taller, more upright, no longer shaking, no high-pitched laughter. He bowed back, and I caught a glimpse of my brother of old.

  Captain Fenshaw stopped at the grille of the other cell. ‘Goodnight, Miss Selwyn,’ he said with the same polite bow.

  ‘Goodnight, Captain Fenshaw,’ came the soft reply. My heart jumped. I did not recognize her voice.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Henry pulled his chair against Martha’s locked grille. ‘Come forward please, Miss Selwyn. Bring your chair nearer so we can speak without shouting.’ His voice was kind. ‘I’m not judging you. I believe you’ve done nothing wrong – I think you’re being used by someone and I need your help.’

  Martha remained lying on her bed, her silenc
e filling the cellar.

  Henry reached for his notebook. ‘For the last three weeks you’ve brought two baskets full of provisions – every Tuesday afternoon and every Saturday evening, to be precise. You carry these baskets up the hill for an undisclosed benefactor and you give the contents to the French prisoners. I believe you’re to bring two more baskets again tonight – is that correct?’

  The silence continued and Henry’s pen remained poised above the pages of his notebook. ‘I need to know who gives you these baskets, and why? If you give me their names and addresses I’ll be able to let you go. Without those names and addresses, you’ll stay and face the direst of consequence. The charge against you is serious. You’ve been arrested for aiding and abetting a known criminal.’

  ‘I didn’t…I told ye…I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.’ ‘I need the facts, that’s all. Who gives you the baskets, Miss Selwyn? We know they’re not from members of the chapel as you first told me. I need to know who these people are and why you bring their baskets?’ He looked down at his notebook. ‘You can expect very little mercy if you remain so resolutely quiet. Silence condemns a prisoner as surely as lies. The truth, please, Miss Selwyn. Bring your chair to the grille and tell me the truth.’

  I peered through the tiny gap, listening to her chair scrape across the flagstones. The candle caught her face and my heart thudded. It was her. Not just her dark eyes and wide mouth and the jut of her chin, the mole above her lip, but the way she tossed her head. Her voice was trembling, full of resentment; a deep voice I would have to catch exactly.

  ‘I don’t know who sends the baskets, and that’s God’s honest truth. I’ve nothin’…nothin’ at all. I’m dirt poor…I was given these clothes an’ told to take the baskets an’ I get a shillin’ fer my trouble. That might be nothin’ to ye, but it’s life an’ death to me. It’s an honest job.’

  ‘Who hands you the baskets? I need a full description.’